The Coldest Winter Ever (35 page)

Panic racked my body when I hit the landing approaching the last flight of stairs. I was staring down at Lauren, who was standing at the front door, paying what appeared to be a delivery man. There must’ve been twenty medium-sized boxes covering the foyer floor.

“Are you going somewhere?” Lauren asked.

“Yeah, back to the church.” Without saying anything Lauren’s eyes dropped down to my Nike bag. “Oh yeah, I didn’t get a chance to see my mother yesterday. She was pretty upset so I’m going to see her right after the benefit finishes.”

“Oh,” she said suspiciously. “Well, can you help me out with these boxes before you leave? They’re Doc’s medical supplies.”

With my hands full I looked at all twenty or so boxes. I was hoping when Lauren saw in my face that I really didn’t want to do it she would say never mind. But she didn’t. I was leery about acting different than normal. So I agreed to help.

“Come on. Put all that stuff down. Four hands will be better than two.” I kept checking the clock as we moved the boxes the short distance from the foyer through the big wooden doors into the office. The final destination was the supply closet. No matter what, I kept sweating. Even my palms were sweating now. My heart was pounding
so fast I swore Lauren could hear it. I reassured myself I was being ridiculous.

As soon as we finished I picked up all my stuff. As casually as I could I said, “Alright Lauren. I’ll see you either late tonight or tomorrow morning.”

“Sure, thanks,” she said. “See you.”

Outside, the cabdriver asked, “Where are you headed to?”

For seconds, nothing would come out of my mouth. I did not know. “To a hotel,” I finally said.

“What hotel?”

“The Marriott in New Jersey, right over the bridge and off the highway.”

“In Jersey?” he repeated. “That’s gonna cost you thirty-five dollars.”

“No problem.” But he still didn’t move the cab. I reached into my pocket and gave him one of my twenties to get him to start driving. As I looked to my right I saw Lauren’s face disappear as the window curtain being held by her hand dropped back into place. We pulled off.

When I opened the file tucked inside the
New York Times,
the first thing that fell out were old newspaper clippings. The first article I picked up had a picture of my father and our house in Long Island. The second paragraph mentioned me by name as well as my mother. “Fucking bitch Souljah,” I mumbled. She knew who I was all along. But the fact of the matter is I got the last laugh. She would never be able to prove I took that money. She had too many people collecting it and no system to account for who had what. As I checked further into the file, there were letters in opened envelopes and loose papers. Some letters were from Midnight to Souljah. The papers were copies of letters from Souljah to Midnight. There would be no more secrets. I was going to look through everything and read every word. Most importantly, I would soon discover, I hoped, where Midnight lays his head at night.

“We need a major credit card to secure your registration, ma’am,” the lady at the desk said.

“You don’t take cash?”

“Yes, if you would like to pay cash that will be fine. It’ll be two hundred dollars for the room and a twenty-dollar refundable deposit for the phone.”

Happy to shut the snotty receptionist up, I unzipped my Coach
bag and reached in for my roll of twenties. Instead, I pulled out two bottles of Wet’n’Wild lip gloss and a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie. I stood staring at my own hand as if I had six fingers. The picture frame froze. Everything in front of my eyes stuck in the same motionless position. Lauren, described by her sister as “the trickster,” had switched her red leather Coach bag with mine.

As I squatted down to check the bag, not because I had hopes that it was mine, but out of disbelief, I flipped it over and emptied its contents onto the hotel carpet. There was nothing of value in the bag. The inside stunk from the odor of two bottles of rubbing alcohol she had in there. She must of thrown these in at the last moment so I wouldn’t notice the weight change. As every muscle in my body collapsed from the sheer stress of the situation, my butt hit the floor. The voice of the hotel woman was flying over the counter and dropping down onto my ears.

“Excuse me miss, do you want the room?”

“I’ll be back,” I called to her. I used my hands to sweep all the junk, except the crumbs, back into the bag. I walked away in slow motion, lifting my Nike bag off the bellhop’s trolley.

I found myself seated in the hotel bar. I didn’t have no thoughts ’cause my brain was shut down or frozen or something. I didn’t even know what city I was in. I was able to hold off the waiter who at first was pressuring me to buy a drink. I told him I was waiting for my boyfriend who had a room in the hotel but was running late. After one hour, that excuse was exhausted so I gathered my bags and walked out the front door of the hotel.

The hotel was situated right off the highway. I could hear the cars passing behind the wooded area that separated the hotel from everything else. As I stepped out into the street I looked to my left and saw nothing but trees. About a half-mile up there was a traffic light. Complete silence. To my right there were more woods, no stores, pay phones, no sign that people even lived there.

As the winter chill cut through my light red leather jacket I clapped my hands together to keep them from stiffening. When you have someplace to live you don’t think about the weather too much. Facing the reality that I had nowhere to go I realized that it was me versus nature tonight. As I thought of every person I had ever known, my list of who could help me out added up to almost nothing. I had a brainstorm and ran back inside the hotel. I sat in the telephone booth and tried desperately to remember Sterling’s phone number.
Calm down, don’t panic,
I told myself.
You know what Daddy says.
But it was useless.

When I relaxed enough to recall the number, I dialed it and got the stinking operator’s voice. “This number has been changed to a nonpublished number.” In a rage I kicked the folding telephone booth door and injured my own toe.

In the hotel bathroom I removed my red skirt, white shirt, and stockings. Pulling my jeans, Polo shirt, and Clarks out of the Nike bag, I got dressed to be more comfortable for the unknown. Leaning against the mirror I realized that not only was my diamond jewelry that
Daddy gave me and all my money gone, but so was my box cutter. I felt naked without a weapon. I was taught that a girl should always have a razor, switchblade, box cutter, needle, mace, or a burner for her defense. Remembering a Brooklyn specialty, I pulled out a pair of socks from my Nike bag and headed out the door.

Across the street where the woods lined the outside of the highway, I filled my extra pair of socks with big, sharp rocks. Squatting down, digging in the dirt separating the rocks, the voice in my head said,
This is it.
Packing the socks in my pocketbook I headed back to the hotel bar. There was no plan. Everything was spontaneous. I didn’t know what to do now, but I would know when the time was right.

In all the movies I had ever seen, the bartender is always the one with all the information. So I ordered a ginger ale to purchase the right to sit on the bar stool and talk to him.

“Do you live here?” I asked him.

“Sure do.”

“It seems like a small place, I’m from the city.”

“It’s a great town, Teaneck. We’re part of Bergen County, the third richest county in the country.”

“Is that right?” I acted casual, unimpressed.

“We’ve got great shopping malls just a short way down the highway. That’s where all the restaurants are, too. You like dancing? There’s a few clubs out here, but mostly people party at the bar scenes.”

“Do you have homeless people?” I asked him.

“What?” he responded, a little puzzled.

“Ordinary question for a New Yorker,” I smiled.

“Our homeless live better than I do, and I work! When you live in a town where people have money there’s a lot of charity. Practically any church could point ya in the right direction. Hey! You’re the most glamorous homeless person I ever saw,” the baby-faced white boy said.

We laughed. He was just passing the time, but I was taking in everything that surrounded me. Every customer was important. I watched the opening and closing of the cash register, and the woman playing the jukebox. There was an elderly woman who entered the bar forty-five minutes later. She caught my interest. She was wearing a Versace blouse, ugly, but expensive earrings, and some fine slacks. As she sat down at the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary she fumbled with her wallet and accidentally dropped some loose twenty-dollar bills on the bar top. When she gathered them up to put them back inside, I
saw about seven different credit cards. Her hands kept moving like she had that shaking disease. It only took seconds to catch the pile of diamonds on her wedding finger. The slim driving shoes by Gucci with the leather patch at the heel were being wasted on her old feet. I tried to guess what she had in the Nordstrom’s shopping bag underneath the tissue paper.

“I guess your boyfriend’s a real jerk,” the waiter said to me. “It’s either that, or he’s some kind of NBA player. You know they stay here sometimes. What kind of guy other than a superstar could leave a beautiful girl like you in the bar alone?”

“Alright, alright, don’t tell everyone,” I teased him, gathering my stuff and waving goodbye.

It was only twenty minutes later that the old lady came out into the parking lot. When she saw me emerge from behind the side wall she was startled and placed her wrinkled hand over her heart.

“I’m sorry,” I said in my most pleasant voice. “It’s just me, from the bar.”

“Oh not to worry,” she chuckled nervously. As she clutched her bag, zigzagging in between this car and that car, I walked behind her. She was chatting about the cold weather and how she always misplaces her car when she parks.

“I do that, too,” I told her.

“But a young girl like you shouldn’t have a memory problem.”

When she reached the Jaguar parked right beside the shrubbery, I laughed.

“What a coincidence, that’s my car right beside yours.” We both turned our back to one another. Me to get my keys out, her to place the keys which were already in her hand, in the lock. In a split second she didn’t know what hit her. It was my stone-filled sock up against her head. She withered like a flower and fell to the ground. I had two hundred in cash, one credit card—the American Express gold card—two diamond rings, and those Gucci shoes. I was on my way. Lucky for me I was smart enough to leave her car and that Nordstrom bag right there. I didn’t run or nothing. I just walked up the pathway alongside the woods. The bartender had told me how to get to the bus.

On the highway route, I discharged at the Holiday Inn. It was sixty dollars for the night, which was more reasonable for me at this time. After a long, hot shower I sat on the bed with the pillows behind
me. For some reason I couldn’t settle. I could not sleep. I pulled out those letters. I would read them all. I would find out Midnight’s address. Maybe I would go wherever he was. He was the only link to my past. The only free person I could trust right now.

May 1993

Dear Bilal,

When I first saw you in the library at Columbia University I assumed you were a student. I’m sure you didn’t notice me. There were many reasons why I noticed you. One, you were reading Hadith. Secondly, you just had a powerful presence. Now this may sound odd but I watch everything and everybody very closely. It’s my way of learning to understand life and people. Most of the brothers at the Columbia campus have no presence at all. In fact, it’s as if they made a conscious effort to reduce themselves so no one would find them offensive, too black or too strong. Even the brothers who are not introverted are not like men. They are like children or caricatures. They play games they should have left behind many years ago, and find it extremely difficult to focus on anything that is not of a required academic nature. So there you were, mature, black, and yes, beautiful.

I didn’t disturb you because you seemed perfect as you were, uninterrupted. I knew if I did not stop to say what’s up or to introduce myself, I might not ever see you again. After all, I am not a Columbia student and am only on the campus once a week. But still, I let it go.

After not seeing you for a couple of weeks, I was surprised to notice you heading toward me with Phil, the Columbia student and volunteer in the children’s program where I teach. When finally he introduced us, it seemed that we barely said peace to one another, yet we looked into each other’s eyes, forgetting to drop hands from our initial shake.

I’d be lying if I said I was surprised when Phil asked me if he could pass you my phone number. Before giving it to him I asked him your age. He said you were twenty-two. He volunteered that you were not a student, just a friend of his from Brooklyn. When I asked him what you do he fumbled around for a few seconds, then said that you were a mechanic.

If I came off cool when you called, my voice hid my real feelings. Inside I felt everything shift. On a usual day I am so unimpressed with everything and everybody. It seems every word shared between a man and a woman has already been said and nothing could be done that I didn’t already see. And nobody means what they say anyway. So it didn’t really matter. Yet as we
talked, I felt my breathing intensify, a sign that I’m still alive and capable of feeling.

I felt you watching as I taught my students on the day we agreed to go out after class and you arrived early. At the cafe, after debating with you about whether there is hope for a new uprising among today’s youth, the thing that stood out most in my mind were your hands. On one side they were dark and strong, long and thick. On the other side they were soft with deep colored lines. Your nails were clean, I’d even go so far as to say they were manicured as I noticed their dull shine.

When I asked you one on one what you do for a living, you responded with the same silence that Phil had. Seconds later you said you were a businessman. When I pressed, you said you owned a car service in Brooklyn. It probably was the way that you walked, like you owned all of Manhattan, or the way that you talk in a masculine slow yet steady way, or maybe it’s the way you place your hand in the middle of my back as I’m walking through a door that you’re holding. So I figured an auto mechanic and a businessman with a car service were not so far apart. Besides, you even gave me your business card.