Cheaters (17 page)

When the waitress left, Craig tried to lighten up the air at our table. “Damn, where are you going to put all of that?”

“These hips, thighs, and butt don’t come from nowhere.”

“I know that’s right.”

The tone in his voice told me that he still had hopes that he could conquer the unconquerable, if only for one night.

My voice had hope too. I asked, “Where’s the ladies’ room?”

His shoulders relaxed. He pointed toward the front door.

I scooted out of the booth, said, “Have to go potty. I’ll be back in a few.”

I did a slow stroll, let mystery and arousal lead the sensual sway in my hips. Glanced back long enough to see Craig lusting at the roll of my forward motions. He’d been stirred and was fiendin’ for a chance to quench my sexual appetite. Maybe just to satisfy his own. Saw his dreamy eyes on my erotic hairdo that rang of a new wildness, on my colorful sarong that sang a song of a new me, on the butterfly that wanted to fly genteelly and free in a warm and gentle breeze.

He smiled at me. Lusted at everything physical. Ignored the most important parts of me. Disrespected the essence of me.

The nerve of that bastard. First he was dissing me and telling me that he didn’t feel me anymore, which meant the thrill was gone. Now his eyes said he wanted to rock me all night long.

I smiled too. But mine was different. Mine was a frown turned upside down. A serious mask blanketing my disgust. My smiling face showed no traces of the evil that was lurking within.

He finally turned his head away.

The bathroom was on my right.

I faked right, ducked around a waitress, made a smooth left, and cruised my body toward the front door.

Again I peeped back, made sure Craig didn’t see my deft move.

Outside, I gritted my teeth and dragged my spare house key down the passenger side of his brand-new Maxima, dug so deep sparks flew every whichaway. Since he was sandwiched between two trucks, and I was on the passenger side, he probably wouldn’t notice the damage until he made it back to the base. But if he noticed the artwork, who gives a damn. He couldn’t feel me, but he’d sure as hell feel this. I pranced back and forth five or six times, went from headlight to taillight, peeled off gray paint down to the metal, scraped his car to the bone, tried to make it bleed like a ruptured heart.

I strolled to my little red car and went on with my life.

That would have to be my closure. And whoever said don’t repay evil with evil can kiss my black ass. I don’t feed hungry enemies, and I don’t give them water when they’re thirsty.

Damn damn damn damn damn.

When I pulled off Diamond Bar into my home sweet home, I gripped my steering wheel and gritted my teeth. Thaiheed was waiting in his truck, blocking my damn garage.

We exchanged cold-blooded stares. I ran over the speed bumps, stopped next to his ride. He gave a weak hand wave. A chill made me consider driving off.

He broke the silence. “Where’ve you been?”

“You mind moving?”

“Where’ve you been?”

I blew my horn and screamed, “Dammit, move!”

The bastard took his time. I ran my hand across my hair, over the dried sweat I had just earned dealing with Craig. I grumbled, “I don’t need this shit.”

Thaiheed moved to an open visitor spot. I parked, slammed my door, then marched over to cut him off. He wasn’t welcome here.

“How long you been here?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Haven’t you heard of calling first?”

“I did call.”

“Evidently I wasn’t here. So what are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer.”

“If I didn’t answer, I didn’t want to be bothered.”

“You said you were sick. I wanted to be sure you were okay.”

“I didn’t say I was sick, I said I had cramps.”

“Sick, cramps”—he threw his hands up—“what’s the difference?”

“Look, if you call and I’m not here, that’s not an invitation to come over and check on me. Don’t
ever
do that again.”

“Where were you all this time?”

“I’ve been where I’ve been.”

The sun had set, so it was cooler, but my ‘tude was afire. My sarong was soggy, sticking to my butt, thong was drenched in sweat, still trying to cut me in half.

Thaiheed looked me up and down.

I gave him a shot of sarcasm. “Satisfied?”

With a sternness he said, “Let’s go inside.”

“For what?”

“I want to check your panties.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want to see what’s in your panties.”

I stepped back. “You’re tripping; it’s time for you to go.”

He asked, “Where’d you go? You didn’t eat but half of your breakfast. I’ve been here since you ran out of BC Café.”

“Thaiheed.” I ran my fingers through my hair. I said, “Cut to the chase. All month I called your job, and they said you haven’t had to work a weekend in a long time.”

“Who did you talk to?”

I didn’t buy into that setup for a brand new lie. I replied, “So, you were at work?”

He shrugged. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

“Thaiheed, you know and I know that you’ve been tipping to see your other female friends.”

“I’m not seeing anybody else.”

I smirked. “Peaches.”

“What?”

“So, partner, who is Peaches? And I’m not talking about Peaches and Herb.”

Thaiheed’s face was silent and unmoving. Fucking incredible. He was busted and still wouldn’t admit it. I’d just learned something else: never confess. Even if they have a

bloody glove, ugly-ass shoes, and forty sets of fingerprints, never confess.

“Anything else?” I asked.

No answer.

I walked away.

“Chanté,” he said over and over.

I slowed to a stop. “Thaiheed, instead of worrying about checking my panties, check yourself.”

A thousand times he said, “Chanté—”

“
What what what?
Why do you keep calling my damn name?”

His eyes darkened, jaw squared up. It startled me, I think I shrieked with my mouth closed. But that off-center expression he had, it disappeared so fast I knew I had to imagine it.

“Don’t do this, okay?” he said. “Think about it. After all I do for you, do you think I’d be with somebody else, huh?”

“Thai, you must think I’m half blind, crazy, or just plain stupid. I know what’s up, you know what’s up.”

“There is nothing between me and Peaches.”

I gave up a harsh laugh. “Oh, now you remember Peaches.”

“She’s just a friend of a friend. Ain’t nothing to her.”

“Tell Nina I said hello,” I said. “Ask her how she enjoyed kicking it with you at the World Famous Town House.”

His walking rhythm changed, sounded like he stumbled on his anger from defeat at the hands of a neophyte in this arena.

I held on to my burned-out pace and strolled away. No sashay or sway, just a plain old I’m-tired-of-your-lies walk. Too tired to have an attitude, too exhausted to have a meaningless fight, too nonchalant to grieve over another dead-end relationship.

He was moving up behind me. Hard steps that scared me. My body wanted to become tense because something told me he was getting ready to grab a handful of my hair and hit me in the back of my head. I kept on moving toward my door. Step by step, I moved in the direction of safety. He was right behind me. Getting closer. So close that I felt the wind from his indignant breath.

He stopped marching.

I stopped sweating.

I glanced his way long enough to see his gray eyes were soft, peaceful, very apologetic.

He said, “I care about you. I’ve done a lot for you. Whenever you needed something, wasn’t I right here for you? Is this the appreciation I get for being in love with you?”

I clapped three times. “Bravo.”

I resumed my soulless strut.

His tone changed. Turned vile. He snapped out a few more unkind things, made a few more quick and hostile steps in my direction.

I didn’t know if I should shriek for help now, or just be quiet so I didn’t disturb my neighbors, and just bleed and wait for the paramedics to strap what was left of me to a gurney.

A car came into the complex, passed right by me. I waved at the neighbor. That was when Thaiheed stopped following me. I started back breathing and double-timed to my front door.

Inside, I peeped through the Venetian blinds. He was leaving. Not a happy camper.

Craig. Thaiheed. I was two for two in their arena. Not a bad day in a fool’s paradise. Not a bad day at all.

I showered, lay across the bed on top of my goose-down comforter, naked, television on ESPN, volume on mute, radio on low, watching the ceiling fan, following the rotating blades.

Womanizer.

That single word flashed in my head. I jumped up off the bed, covered my breasts to keep them from bouncing, ran up to my loft, grabbed a dictionary. First I looked for the word. The folks at
Webster’s
had Don Juan, philanderer, Casanova, swinger, seducer, and other sweet-sounding, complimentary terms as synonyms for a slutty-ass brother.

Fair was fair, so I hunted for what a bold and audacious sister might be called, a
manizer.
It didn’t exist. Whore, prostitute, tramp, Jezebel, bimbo, hooker—plus a few others that pissed me off to no end—jumped from the pages.

I read the inside cover, sighed with pity. “A man wrote this damn book. They can dish the shit out, but they can’t take it.”

By Monday Toyomi had made about a hundred vulgar phone calls. I didn’t respond to her madness. Tuesday she e-mailed me pages of vulgarities. I blocked her e-mail address. Wednesday, via snail mail, I got a box with cards, pictures, pieces of poetry, and all the letters that I’d ever given her, ripped to shreds.

Thursday was quiet.

Friday was tame too.

It looked like she’d come to her senses and grown up.

Until I made it home from work.

I trudged up the stairs around eight-thirty, running late because I had to take my rental car back and pick up my repaired Mustang from the dealer. Shaking my head because my deductible set me back five hundred dollars. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw a bright red message painted on my door.

A thousand curses flowed from my mouth like lava from a volcano. I changed into Levi’s, no shirt. Darkness found me sweating, scrubbing my front door.

My middle-aged, thrice-divorced neighbor, Rebecca, came out in her terry-cloth housecoat, snooping, struggling not to laugh. She has streaks of gray hair, long neck, medium frame. Her head had a peanut shape, sort of like women from Somalia.

Rebecca said, “Stephan, I saw it all. Toyota zoomed up—”

“Toyomi.”

“Whatever. She parked under your window this afternoon.”

I mumbled, “She knew I was at work.”

“Toyota banged on the door for five minutes.”

Rebecca saw everything when she glued herself to either the peephole or her patio window, whichever offered the best view.

I asked, “You say anything to her?”

“Heck, no.” Rebecca chuckled. “She ain’t right in the head. Stephan, what did you do to that girl?”

“Nothing,” I said.

Rebecca huffed. “You must’ve done a whole lot of nothing.”

My shoulders ached from scrubbing.

Soap and water didn’t remove the paint.

Rebecca continued her cackling, this being the most she’d ever talked to me in the last six months, probably the most excitement her eccentric, agoraphobic ass has had since she helped Moses part the Red Sea.

Rebecca blabbered, “…was hitting the door so hard I thought, Lawd have mercy, it’s the big earthquake! Because my oak china cabinet was shaking and just a rattling, so I knew it had to be the big earthquake, and I fell on my knees and started praying—”

“Rebecca,” I politely interrupted, “you have paint remover?”

“Let me see. Back in a second.”

Soap and water didn’t work on oil-based paint. I checked my watch, it was after nine. HomeBase on Rio Rancho had closed.

My stairs vibrated as somebody charged up. My heart beat strong. I jerked around, ready to throw down and defend myself.

It was Darnell and Jake.

“You ain’t ready?” Jake frowned, then stepped back and let me see his new golden outfit. A thigh-length dashiki and matching kente pants. Roman sandals. He boasted, “Who the man?”

“You the man,” I replied, then asked, “Where’d you get that?”

“Charlotte bought it at Kongo Square in Leimert Park.”

“You’re ready to rule,” I said, then wiped my face with the back of my hand. “Give me a few minutes so I can shower.”

“You haven’t showered?” That was Darnell. He was dressed in suspenders, pinstripe suit, starched white shirt, red tie.

All the time I was trying to block my door, but the writing was too large to hide.

My homies looked at each other, then at me.

Darnell read, “Dog ass nigga…”

They looked at each other. Then at me.

My neighbor’s door opened. All of us jumped. Rebecca saw my homeboys, lost her smile, touched her undone hair, stepped out long enough to hand me a small can of paint remover.

I said, “Thanks, Rebecca.”

Rebecca scurried back into her place.

Darnell said, “What is up with your door?”

One of my shortcomings was refusing to admit when I’d been fucked over. I hated putting dents in my armor, especially in front of my boys. But it was too late to cover this one up.

I stepped to the side. “Read ‘em and weep.”

They read the writing, then grinned.

Darnell shook his head and whistled. “Which one?”

Jake said, “Man, you
know
who did this without asking.”

They cackled like hyenas on nitrous oxide.

“Not just a regular nigga,” Darnell barked, stomped his feet, snapped his suspenders, his tie flapping every which-a-way, “but a
dog ass
nigga.”

Jake laughed so hard he almost coughed up a lung.