The Blackbirds (45 page)

Ericka eased into her car, turned on her bright lights so they would smack Indigo's father in the middle of his head. She wanted to temporarily blind him. Ericka put her roadster in reverse, but didn't actually move for a moment. She let her car idle and let him suffer another eternity.

Two minutes passed before she backed out in the wide street.

Indigo's father didn't hesitate. He backed his car out, sped away, not turning on his headlights until he left the prestigious and historical community. He turned his lights on at the last moment, as if he didn't want to be seen too close to where he had dampened his cock.

He abdicated his throne-away-from-home without saying a word.

Someone started their car and pulled away without turning their lights on. Ericka looked to see who had seen them, to see which neighbor had witnessed her with a gun on a man.

The car slowed down. It had out-of-state tags. Florida plates. A Hertz rental car. Ericka held the gun low, moved it behind her back. The car stopped and the window went down.

Ericka saw who had been watching her, and she froze.

It was Indigo's mother.

The spy was Mrs. Chimamandanata Abdulrahaman.

Indigo's mother had been there the entire time. Ericka assumed she had seen it all.

Ericka walked to the rental car, took slow steps, afraid, speechless. The anger on Indigo's mother's face, her disgust, it was silent but deafening. Nothing was said for a moment.

Indigo's mother's luxurious hair was pulled back into a warrior's ponytail.

Ericka said, “I swear to you, Mrs. Abdulrahaman, I just found out about this. I came to see Mrs. Stockwell regarding another issue, a family issue, came unannounced and . . . I had no idea.”

Indigo's mother looked like she had been insulted like never before, but she nodded.

Ericka said, “It's over.”

Voice heavy, cracking, laced with rage, she asked, “Is it? Is it over?”

“He knows not to come back.”

“He has been here many times. I can prove that.”

“Whether I am here or not, he will not come back.”

“Does she know not to invite him back? Does the woman inside that house know?”

“She knows.”

“I saw you run him out of your mother's home. I heard you tell him to leave and never come back. But the question is, will he listen to you, or will he return if your mother calls?”

“How long have you been out here?”

“I was right behind you when you arrived. You turned left into the neighborhood seconds before I did. I recognized your car, saw your face. I slowed when I saw you in front of me.”

“You saw the whole thing, you heard me, so you know where I stand.”

“I almost went to the door after you had gone inside, but I turned back around, and I prayed. I am no longer a teenager in Lagos. I had to ask myself if I wanted to lose all I have built in one foolish night.”

“I encouraged him to leave.”

“Do not prevaricate. Do not become a sycophant. Do not tell me what you think I want to hear. I already know the truth. I know more of the truth than anyone can even imagine.”

“I am not lying. I am not part of this conspiracy.”

“When I return home, when he returns home, he will know that I know he was here. We will have a very intimate discussion. Now I should leave before I do something unwise. I fought for him when I was young and foolish. When you start off fighting for a man, you will always find yourself fighting to keep that man. I have had my last fight. I am done fighting.”

She put the car in drive, but didn't move. She was boiling. Ericka saw her struggling with what to do, if she should drive away. God and Satan battled. Mrs. Abdulrahaman threw the car in park, pushed the door open hard, then jumped out. She wore yoga pants and a UCLA hoodie, no earrings, no makeup, no jewelry, the barebones accoutrements a woman wore when she was going to pull out hair and raise panties in victory. Gun in hand, Ericka moved out of her way, but followed Mrs. Abdulrahaman as she marched down the driveway toward Mrs. Stockwell's home, followed her as she opened the door and walked inside the home her husband had just exited.

Mrs. Abdulrahaman stood in the foyer of her rival uninvited.

Ericka pointed. “She's in the formal dining room.”

“Do not interfere.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Mrs. Stockwell jerked when she looked up and saw Indigo's mother, was shocked out of her moment, pulled from the past to the present, realized her state of dress, and tried to cover herself.

The bell always rang the loudest in your own home.

Eyes red and puffy, Mrs. Stockwell was as panic-stricken as Indigo's father had been.

That too had caught Mrs. Abdulrahaman off guard.

Seeing Mrs. Stockwell crying had surprised her, but it didn't stop her.

It enraged her.

Ericka knew Indigo's mother assumed Mrs. Stockwell was crying over Indigo's father.

Mrs. Abdulrahaman barked, “‘If a man is found lying with the wife of another man, both of them shall die, the man who lay with the woman, and the woman. So you shall purge the evil from Israel.' The same goes if a woman is found with
my
husband. Do not play with your life again.”

Scared shitless, Mrs. Stockwell sat up straight, defensive and defenseless.

“You have been warned,
Caledonia
Betty Stockwell. With your daughter as my witness, you have been warned. Do not take yourself to an early grave over him.”

Indigo's mother splayed her fingers and said things in Yorùbá, wicked things that did not need a translator. The expression on her face, the motions of her hands, it was pent-up rage unleashed.

Mrs. Stockwell held her kimono to cover her breasts, and she nodded once, as if nodding twice would have been an insult to the slightly younger woman who had stormed her castle.

Nostrils flared, Indigo's mother walked out of the home. She exited like a lady. She did not run. She did not flip things over. She did not look back, not even a glance. She exited not like she had been run off, but would gladly turn around if Mrs. Stockwell said one thing to challenge her. Mrs. Stockwell exhaled and knew she should be grateful. She knew that if something that was going to chop off her head only knocked off her cap, she should be grateful.

Mrs. Stockwell trembled. She had been scared straight.

Ericka followed Mrs. Abdulrahaman back outside, trailed her down the driveway and past the spot where her foolish husband had parked earlier. Mrs. Abdulrahaman eased into her rental.

Ericka stood at the door, made eye contact with Indigo's mother, didn't know what to say.

“Mrs. Stockwell should be thankful you are her daughter. I like you. You are a wonderful person. She should be very thankful I see you as a daughter. Tonight I will not destroy a village due to the imprudence of idiots. But if it is not over, I will return to see her, and I will be prepared.”

“I know. If it's not over, you should return to see her.”

“And Caledonia Stockwell will rue the day she ever heard my name.”

“Do whatever you have to do. It will be grown folks' business from here on out.”

“Tell her to remember what her God has said. ‘Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled, for God will judge the sexually immoral and adulterous.'”

“I will remind her.”

“‘But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.' That is in the Bible your mother carries day and night.”

“I will remind her of that as well.”

“And even if she does not fear her God, she needs to be terrified of me.”

“Okay.”

“My husband thought he was so smart. He bought a second phone and kept it hidden in the trunk of his car. It was underneath the spare tire. It took time to figure that out, but I found that phone. Late the other night, I was in the garage and heard it ringing. He was sleeping, the phone I knew of on the charger in the house, yet I heard a phone ringing. He had forgotten to turn it off. I found it right before he left for his pretend business trip. That second phone was how he communicated with your mother. When I get home, he will lie, but it will be in vain because I will send his text messages to my wireless printer and show him his own words.”

Ericka nodded.

She took a deep breath. “Ericka, I'm sorry you had to witness this.”

“I'm sorry you have to go through this.”

“But at the same time I am glad you happened to be here. They should be glad.”

“I'm sorry my mother has done this to you.”

“You deserve a better mother.”

“She is the one God gave me.”

“Do not tell my daughter. If she is to know, it must come from me.”

“I won't tell her.”

“
Od'aro,
Ericka.
Od'aro
.”

“Good night.”

Mrs. Abdulrahaman drove away, the same as Nagode Allah Abdulrahaman had done, only she didn't speed away. She didn't leave like she was afraid. She left like she was a queen.

She had also had a weapon. When Mrs. Abdulrahaman had opened her door to get out, the light had illuminated the interior, and Ericka had seen it on the rental car's passenger's seat.

She had brought a weapon and binoculars.

They sat next to two cellular phones.

The streets were so quiet Ericka imagined she could hear her body turning on itself, feeding on itself. Sirens were in the distance, on the streets that bordered the enclosed community, but the zone of estates was as peaceful as the roads down in Palos Verdes.

Ericka went back inside Mrs. Stockwell's domain. She walked across the floors, back to the massive dining room. She put the gun on the dining room table, made it
clunk
on the glass.

Mrs. Stockwell looked up at her, broken down.

Indigo's mother had come and gone, as her husband had come and gone, only with Mrs. Abdulrahaman there had been a curt hurricane in this space. The moment the storm had ended, Mrs. Stockwell had gone back to reading the chapters written from Dr. Debra's memory. She had returned to her life, to her world, to her past. She had gone back to reading as if nothing else mattered. So many tears marred the pages.

Too many chickens had come home to roost. Too many at once.

Ericka lowered her head, ran her hands where there used to be hair, remembered when her hair was long, down her back, so pretty, and men gave her so much attention.

She went across the room, picked up Mrs. Stockwell's worn Bible.

It was the same Bible her mother had struck her with when she was a child.

She took it to the table where her mother sat in tears, her body quaking.

Mrs. Stockwell raised her eyes, cringed, waited to feel Ericka's wrath, lowered her head as if she expected some form of flagellation. Mrs.
Stockwell cried like a broken child. She cried like she had suffered from bad love, bad men, and a bad marriage, cried like she had tolerated a horrible daughter, cried like she had suffered PTSD after PTSD, and this was how she acted out when she was afraid, lonely, and swimming in pain so severe nothing written between the pages of the Bible could comfort her. This was how she medicated her misery. She regressed to being Caledonia.

Ericka asked, “So who's the tragic mullato now?”

Ericka put the Bible on the table in front of Mrs. Stockwell, tapped the cover three times, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, then she backed away. Ericka took slow steps backward until she bumped into a wall, then turned and walked toward the front door. She made sure the lock was on, made sure no boogeymen or angry wife could enter without knocking, and she pulled the heavy door made of exotic wood and engraved glass closed behind her.

She knew that she would never see that house again.

She knew that she would never see Mrs. Stockwell again.

She was okay with that.

Ericka slipped inside her roadster.

Head throbbing, and as Mr. Nagode Allah Abdulrahaman had done, as Mrs. Chimamandanata Abdulrahaman had done not long after him, Ericka drove away.

Ten minutes later Ericka Stockwell pulled up into Baldwin Hills, parked going uphill in front of Mr. Jones's cluster of town houses.

She sat outside in the desert air, in the drought. Wanting to go in. Wanting to be with him. Knowing it was time to leave this behind and move forward.

She loved Mr. Jones, but her life was complicated, and would be more complicated tomorrow. She was no longer sure if she wanted to drag anyone down that road with her again. Her birthday was next. It would be soon, but not soon enough. She didn't think she would be present for the occasion. She knew she wouldn't be. Cancer was back, and it was angry.

Her phone rang. She jumped, heart racing, scared. It was Destiny. Something was wrong. Ericka didn't know if Indigo's father had been busted, or if something had happened to one of the Blackbirds. Ericka answered the phone in a hurry, answered in a stiff tone of worry.

Even now she was more worried about her friends than she was herself.

Laughing, Destiny asked, “Ericka? Why are you not home, young lady?”

“You're drunk. I can tell. I'm on the way back. I'll come over and bring a barf bag.”

“Sorry. No room in the inn at the moment. I have already notified Indigo and Kwanzaa.”

“What's going on?”

“Dubois is over here getting on my nerves.”

“Should I come by and cock block so the guy you despise will get the hint and leave?”

“We're just kicking it. We went dancing on Sunset, got sweaty, had fun, and now I guess we don't want the night to end, so I invited him to come in and chill so we can keep on talking.”

“Thought you were not interested in him other than for public kissing and castration.”

“His kisses keep coming at me like a drone attack in Northwest Pakistan. Only the bombs as kisses. His kisses
are the bomb
, Ericka. Every time I turn around he's trying to put his stupid tongue in my mouth.”

“You like it.”

“He's getting on my nerves. How many times is he going to kiss me in one night? At the comedy club, in the parking lot, in line at the Club, on the dance floor, before we had a drink, while we had drinks, while we rode back here in the Uber, on the stairs, in my living room.”

“An Uber came to our area at night?”

“I know, right? I will have to borrow Indigo's Rubicon or the BMW to drop him off in the Uber zone.”

“Where is your guest sleeping?”

“That Morehouse jerk is sleeping on the sofa. Away from my lips.”

“Both pair.”

“Away from all of my lips.”

“Where are your lips sleeping?”

“They won't be on the sofa next to his lip kisser.”

“He likes you and is not scared to let you know he likes you.”

“We had so much fun. He took me out on a date like I was a normal girl.”

“Destiny, once again, as I have told you countless times, you are normal.”

“He's not ashamed of me. His mother knows who I am. She has no issue with me. She actually hugged me tonight, and her son's not embarrassed that I am sort of an ex-con.”

“You're not an ex-con. You didn't go to the big girl's Hoosegow. It's not on your record.”

“So if Dubois Junior plays it right and stops talking so much, he
might get lucky and get an upgrade from the sofa to first class, but it will be a bumpy ride, a real bumpy ride.”

“Two drinks, after you've had two drinks, you have no morals.”

“It's calculated. If I hook up with him again, good or bad, I get this one-off off my record. And maybe he'll be better at it now that he's ten years older and has that ATL experience.”

“So slutty of you to consider sleeping with him again so you don't seem like a slut.”

“You smoke Kush, then sneak and get freak nasty with my dad.”

“Your dad is the freak, not me. I started it, but he took it to another level.”

“That's plain nasty. You and my dad together, that is almost like
Game of Thrones
–level incest.”

“You're still a slut and don't ever mention incest when you refer to me and Mr. Jones.”

“Incestuous person. No wonder you are a schoolteacher. All of you are perverts.”

“Slutty birthday girl.”

“It's my birthday. No woman is a slut on her birthday. A birthday is a slut-free day. As a matter of fact, no Blackbird can be considered a slut on any of the Blackbirds' birthdays. From now on we get
four
slut-free days a year. We need to have a meeting and make that a proclamation, and then we find cute dudes and give them keys to the titties. Get it?
Titties.
Like keys to the city. I think I will have to give Dubois a key to the titties tonight. Two keys. And one to the clittie. He might not need a key. I think the brother knows how to use his tongue to pick a lock. He might not be from ATL, but he's trying to go down south.”

“Destiny Jones, you are wasted.”

“Let me get my titties and clittie back to Dubois. I'm going to challenge him to strip Scrabble, and we might do the Hokey-Pokey.”

“Don't forget to close the windows before you start riding his beard or fracking.”

“Oh, wait. The reason I called. Condoms? Where do you keep your condoms?”

“I don't have any. Indigo has some. Look in her bottom drawer, left side, in a tea can.”

“Why don't you have condoms? Don't you use condoms? Are you not protected?”

“Bye, Destiny. Stop slurring your words. Go turn your friend into your lover.”

“You're gross. You'd better not give my dad the Kwanzaas.”

“You are so tipsy right now. Go shower, get naked, and yield to temptation.”

“I'm going to borrow your Scrabble board. You know, the one you borrowed from me about a year ago and never brought back, just like you did about twenty of my novels.”

“I hope you wake up in your right mind and are able to study tomorrow.”

“It's my birthday. I had an
unbelievable
birthday. I am so happy tonight.”

“Yeah, you did. And yes, you are.”

“See you in the morning. And not before the morning.”

Ericka paused. “Destiny, let me tell you something.”

“Why so serious?”

“Listen. You won't see me in the morning. So let me tell you how I feel.”

“Okay.”

“You are a powerful young woman. You are a fire. Fire scares many. They sent you away, deprived you of light and oxygen. They made it hard for you to breathe, to live, then disgraced you. Tonight you showed them all. You stopped buying what they had peddled to the public. You rejected their lies, their revisionist history, and you did it in their damn faces, not from behind a keyboard, not from behind a screen name. You are amazing. Stay amazing, okay?”

“Thanks, Ericka.”

“You are a deep, spiritual, beautiful, intelligent woman. You are a true Blackbird.”

“Are you about to ask me to marry you?”

“Stop being silly.”

“You'll have to ask my father first. After you dump him, of course.”

“Stop it.”

“Hey, don't make me get emotional right now, okay?”

“Just remember, you don't have to have a pretty past to have a beautiful future.”

“From private school to Hoosegow to USC. People know I'm not the best of people.”

“But you're one of the best people I know, that's what matters to me. Listen to me. It's been a rough road, but you're a Blackbird, and you're with the guy who gave us that name. That's your kismet. He's your destiny. You went separate ways, and maybe now you're back on track.”

“You're messing up the sexy mood.”

“Now, books before babies, so don't forget the condom.”

“Condoms.”

Ericka laughed and shook her head. “Slut.”

“Don't hate. I just hope it lasts longer than the first time we did it in his mom's bed.”

“I hope it's not that messy.”

“Blackbird out.”

“Blackbird out.”

They hung up and Ericka stared at the townhomes again. She knew Mr. Jones was sleeping. A coyote trotted toward Kenneth Hahn Park, someone's cat in its teeth. The cat was alive five minutes ago. Death had claimed its prize. Ericka was over thirty, but time had flown by, as if it had been only five minutes, and once again the coyote was coming after her.

Ericka called Kwanzaa, hoped she was home, available to sit up and talk, but Kwanzaa was downtown in the Arts District for the night. It was quality-time-with-the-new boyfriend night for her. Ericka left Kwanzaa a message and told her the same thing she had told Destiny, that she was wonderful, that she was remarkable. She called Indigo and left her a similar message.

Ericka smiled.

Her Blackbirds were something else.

They were all something special.

There was something about each one she wished was a part of her own DNA.

Knowing them had given her life.

She had gone from just being alive to living.

Ericka whispered, “I've had fun. I've sky-dived. I've snorkeled. I've protested. I've danced like it didn't matter. I didn't learn to drive a motorcycle, but I rode on the back of one every chance I could get. I have three friends who will bungee-cord jump without me and miss me, and when someone misses you, you will never die. I met the love of my life and had a chance to be with him. And for a while, I was sexy. No regrets. No regrets. There will be no funeral. No one will look down on me when there is nothing left worth seeing. I'll be cremated. No one gets to see me dead. Not the Blackbirds. Not my students. Not the other teachers. They will remember me alive. They won't forget me like Seneca Village.”

Ericka wiped salty water away from her eyes, water that would never make flowers grow.

“I've traveled. I have BFFs. I've faced my biggest fears. I've lived alone. I'm independent. I made the first move on a man I wanted to be with. I've challenged myself. I've gotten fit.”

At some point what nature gave, nature reclaimed, the coyote its proxy. Cancer was a coyote too. Cancer was nothing but nature's nasty proxy.

She whispered, “I don't want to die. I don't fucking want to die.”

She turned the radio on. By the time Jim Croce had sung “Operator,” her storm had passed. Ericka pulled it together and drove away, decided not to see Mr. Jones ever again.

A happy ending was determined by when a story ended. Any tale that went on too long took the risk of undoing happiness. A happy ending was all about timing. About knowing when to leave the stage.

Leave while they were applauding.

Leave them wanting more.

Leaving now would be as close to a happy ending as the journey would become.

She would go to her apartment, collect Hemingway and drive away, far away. She would drive through the night, and then see the sun come alive one more time.