Cheaters (48 page)

He screamed, “You’re crazy.”

“You think I’m crazy? Step back out, I’ll show you crazy.”

“I’m bleeding. I need an ambulance. Chanté, please.”

“Nobody hits me. Fool, don’t you know I’m from Chicago?”

Finally he managed to wrestle the door closed.

I went into his kitchen, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, poured a glass of bottled water, pulled a chair up to

the hall that faced his bathroom, sat down and thought of how in the hell I was going to get out of his place.

He cracked the bathroom door.

I slung a knife at him.

He ducked and slammed the door. “C’mon now, I’m bleeding.”

Knifes were stacked at my feet, one in my hand. My hair was all over the place. Eyes darker than a quarter past midnight. Every time he opened the bathroom door, I charged and did a Zorro move, made the air
swoosh
and
swish.
He slammed the door, whined and begged for me to let him come out.

That was where I left his punk ass.

By four a.m., we were leaving the emergency room at Queen of Angels. I’d paged Tammy 9-1-1 and she’d come down from Hollywood and rescued me from the streets of San Dimas. She’d just gotten out of rehearsal, still had on a pair of black nylon sweats. Now, thanks to me, both of us were up all night. Before she carted me to the hospital, I had gone home and taken off my ripped-up sweatsuit, put on something decent, changed to jeans and a light blue blouse.

I apologized to Tammy forty-eleven times. Tonight would be the opening of her play, and I was giving her grief and stress, the kind that could steal all of her creative energy.

She patted my hand. “Shush. You’re going to be fine.”

“Does my eye look bad?”

“It doesn’t look as bad as you make it sound. A little Fashion Fair will make you look good as new.”

My black beeper was vibrating nonstop.

I said, “That jerk is still calling me.”

We stopped by a pay phone after I picked up my prescription at Sav-On. Thaiheed cursed me out. I told him that I had talked to an attorney, had my ripped-up clothes bagged and tagged, taken pictures of my face, and had been to the hospital. So far the only true part was the hospital. Other than being pissed off to my highest degree of pisstivity, nothing was wrong with me.

“I’m standing outside the police station getting ready to file assault and attempted rape charges.”

“What?”

“‘What’ ain’t what I said.”

“Things got out of hand. I’d been drinking, you’d been drinking.”

“No, you got out of hand. Who gave you the right to grab on me like you owned me? What part of
no
didn’t you understand?”

“I apologize. You right, you right. I shouldn’t have—”

“Now, that’s a better attitude.” I touched my face. “I’m going to show the police what you did. Nobody touches my face.”

“Why’re you going to the police?” he said. The nervousness in his voice let me know who was in charge. “This is between me and you, right?”

“You hit me. I’m filing charges.”

“Why you want to do that? We can sit down—”

“Keep away from me,” I warned. “I want you to pay me for my clothes. Today. Right now. I went to the emergency room and they looked at my face. I could’ve lost my eye. How am I supposed to go to work looking like this, like a damned raccoon and have everybody asking me questions? I want the five hundred for the doctor’s bill too. I want it now.”

“What about my hand? I had to wrap my hand up and drive myself over to Pomona Medical Center and get seven stitches. You broke half of my African statues.”

“Go to the swap meet and get some more.”

“Blood’s all in my carpet and on my furniture.”

“Whoopty-doo.”

“Who’s going to pay for that?”

“You.”

“Chanté.” He groaned. “Come on. Be reasonable.”

“That’s more reasonable than going to jail, don’t you think?”

“All right, all right.”

“I’m coming to get it now. Have it ready.”

We drove to his place. Tammy went to his front door while I waited in the car. He wrote a check for fifteen hundred dollars, just like that. He begged Tammy to convince me that it wouldn’t be necessary to go to the police.

“Bastard,” I said.

Tammy hadn’t said too much since she’d picked me up. She whispered, “Keep your hand off your eye.”

“How did he look?”

“Scared as hell. You messed him up
real
bad. His place looks like a tornado came through holding hands with an earthquake. But he’ll survive.”

“If he’s still breathing, it wasn’t bad enough.”

When I made it home from the FAA on Wednesday evening, Dawn had on ragged socks and her housecoat. A shower cap was on her head, and she was in the kitchen rubbing ice on her face. She’d called me at work and told me that our weekday plans had been modified. A couple of her friends were coming along as well.

I asked Dawn, “What are we doing tonight?”

“We’re hanging out with my friends. Is that a problem?”

“No, I just want to know how to dress.”

“Jeans and a nice shirt.”

“California casual.”

“Dress like we’re going to a movie. Be comfortable in case we decide to go to Santa Monica and walk the promenade.”

“Santa Monica on a weeknight?”

“It’s not against the law, is it?”

“Not at all. It’s just a long drive.”

“Hurry and get ready.”

“Where are my—”

“Your jean shirts are in the walk-in closet.”

“When did you—”

“I picked them up from the laundry yesterday.”

“How—”

“Thirty-eight dollars for all of your clothes.”

“Thanks.”

“Hurry, Darnell. My friends’ll be here by seven. I want you ready then.”

“What friends?”

“Just be ready.”

The surprise friend was Charlotte. She showed up right at seven with a date. A doctor. Tall, nerdy-looking. Smiling like he was happy to be with her.

Everybody was in jeans. Charlotte had on a nice, colorful blouse. Charlotte’s date had on a plain-wrapped, pink polo shirt. I had on a jean button-down collar.

Dawn came out in a dress, the colors of sunrise and sunset in the material. It was tight, showed her figure. Her dark hair was down, thick and long, in a straight style. Makeup done perfectly.

Charlotte playfully remarked, “Miss Thang, I didn’t know that you were going to outdress us.”

I said, “Thought you were wearing jeans.”

“I never said that.”

We were all in the living room. Laughter bubbled up. Jovial sounds that echoed with the facade of happiness. Two different brands of perfume. Two fragrances of cologne. The odor was so thick a match could set the air on fire. Dawn put on her real estate hat, that proud homeowner smile, and gave our guests a tour of the house. I tagged along and tried not to yawn.

When Charlotte’s date stepped into the bathroom, she separated from the pack and asked me, “Have you heard from him?”

Him
meant Jake. Her eyes misted when she spoke of him. She didn’t want to say his name. I shook my head. “Have you?”

“Flowers and phone calls.”

We said nothing for a moment. She looked sad, confused.

I asked, “Are you going to see him?”

She shook her head. “The good thing about this is that everybody knows. That forces me to be accountable for my actions. He has to be accountable for his.”

“Yeah, everybody does know.”

She had a hard time saying it, but she did. “Dawn turned me on to an attorney. One of the guys you went to law school with. I didn’t want to come to you because—”

“I understand.”

“I had him served papers. They served him at the fire department.”

“Wow.”

“I didn’t want to do it that way, but he was never at home when the process server went by.”

“Everybody’s going to know.”

“Everybody needs to know. I’ve filed a restraining order.”

Dawn and the date walked up. Charlotte threw on a Miss America smile, and we changed the conversation. Her nerdy friend saw my degrees on the wall, and we talked about what schools we had “matriculated” from. We’d surpassed the level of graduation and were in the realm of matriculation. Word by word, we drifted back into the land of the superficial.

Charlotte perked up and said, “Nice crib-ola, peeps, but we better get on the road or we’re going to miss the beginning.”

I asked, “What time does the movie start?”

The nerd said, “What movie?”

I said, “We’re going to a movie, right?”

Charlotte smiled. “We’re going to opening night at a play.”

My heart sped up. “Really? What play?”

Charlotte held onto the nerd’s arm and laughed. “Don’t tell me that Dawn changed the plans and didn’t tell you?”

Dawn joked, “He never asks anything. Darnell walks around with a blindfold on, seeing what he wants to see.”

I asked, “What’s the name of the play?”

Dawn smiled. “
Who Will Be There for Us.
It’s at the Hudson. On Santa Monica near Highland. It’s the one that the sista who’s in the orange juice commercial is in.”

Silence.

She held on to her false grin and came to my side, spoke with bogus cheer. “Didn’t I tell you?”

I shook my head. “No, sweetheart, you didn’t.”

Dawn added, “She’s a friend of Darnell’s. What’s her name, sweetheart?”

Our eyes locked.

I pushed my lips up into a smile. “Tammy.”

She asked, “Do you already know the way to the theater, or will you need a Thomas Guide?”

“I’m quite sure you have the directions.”

She kissed me in front of everybody. I smiled in front of everybody. Once again we were the happy buppies. But when we made it to the car, we’d talk with tongues of fire.

Outside, Charlotte and her nerd were heading for their Mercedes when Dawn said, “Charlotte, why don’t you and your friend ride in my Range Rover with me and Darnell?”

Charlotte said they didn’t mind driving, but Dawn insisted they ride with us. Charlotte gave in without a word. That way I couldn’t say anything, at least she hoped I wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t. She knew me too well. With Charlotte’s date being there, they couldn’t talk about Jake, either.

Somewhere between here and there, Dawn said, “Why’re you so quiet all of a sudden, sweetheart?”

“Just listening to the music.”

“Radio’s not on.”

“Music inside my head.”

Charlotte and her friend laughed.

My insides were hot, but Hollywood was much cooler, following the typical pattern of the desert climate. Thong bikini days and light jacket nights.

We parked on a side street in a three-dollar lot. At least fifty people were in line to get tickets. Some were dressed up, some were dressed down, some were hardly dressed at all.

As we passed by the crowd and made our way to Will Call, I saw Chanté walking into the theater. Her casual suit set looked so tame: a white sheer silk blouse and matching wide-leg drawstring pants. She gave a quick wave, lowered her face, checked her watch, and moved on. The way she checked her watch made me think she did that just to break eye contact.

It felt like I was in the middle of a conspiracy.

We reached the marquee with the pictures of actors and actresses in the play. Dawn’s eyes went straight to Tammy Barrett’s head shot. My wife made some unidentifiable noise. Like something a creature made right before it attacked.

She said, “Her initials are TB. Like the disease.”

“Don’t be tacky.”

She took my hand. “Damn, it was just a joke. Her bio says she just finished a McDonald’s commercial. She’s done a lot.”

“Yeah, it says she has.”

“And she’s still struggling, I bet. This place is nice, quaint, but it’s not exactly Broadway. Not even close.”

Dawn wouldn’t let go of her criticism. She added, “Most people in this profession aren’t realistic. They look for a lump sum instead of working on a true career.”

“Sort of like writers, huh?”

The house lights flicked on and off, letting everybody know the show was about to start. We filed into an L-shaped theater that was big enough to hold ninety-nine people. It was intimate. So small that everyone could see everyone. No way to hide. Not from anybody in the audience. Not from anyone on the stage.

Dawn said, “The stage is bare. What, no budget?”

“You have to use your imagination.”

“This will be interesting.”

“Just like I do when I’m writing. You have to open your mind and imagine something that’s not there.”

“Like some people do in a marriage.”

“Yeah. Like in a marriage.”

“I was hoping you would disagree.”

A spotlight hit the center stage, and a comedian came out and opened the show. Jokes about entertainers, weaves, Jheri curls.

Ten minutes later, the comic had loosened up the crowd, and he left to a huge applause.

It was dark. A total eclipse of the sun.

Then a light, like a single star shining down.

Her voice came first. Then others blended in. Melodic, chanting out some spiritual chords, asking for help from above.

Laughter, street sounds, subtle changes in the lights.

Tammy was the first person to enter the stage, dressed as a homeless character. Gloves with the fingers cut out, ripped polyester pants under a tattered dress, one threeinch high heel and one tennis shoe.

The audience fell under her spell, her magic.

Dawn held my hand tighter, leaned her body into mine.

Tammy’s ridiculous walk and belligerent attitude had the audience rolling already. She hadn’t said a word. She rushed to the edge of the stage and broke the fourth wall by getting in a woman’s face and asking, “What y’all laughing at?”

It took the laughter a couple of minutes to die, because whenever it would diminish, Tammy spiced up the sarcasm by cutting her eyes at somebody else. She got in Chanté’s face, was nose to nose with her friend, and did the same.

The laughter was reborn.

The place was small. The lights weren’t that low. I know Tammy saw me. Dawn had made sure we had front-row seats, center stage.

Intermission came an hour later. Chanté glanced our way, saw me, but stayed in her seat, almost as if she didn’t want to cross paths with anyone who knew Stephan. Dawn led the group back out to the lobby, where people were standing around, chattering about the play, reading the actors’ bios.