Friends and Lovers (18 page)

Turbulence was no joke, and we had everybody strapped down to their seats. Me and Chiquita were seated in the last row, closest to the tail of the plane. I was reading a
Black Hair
magazine, asking Chiquita what she thought about this style or that style because I was tired of my bun and had been seriously thinking about redoing my do, maybe something short, maybe tresses.

Chiquita was looking at my pictures of Leonard and Debra’s wedding. I’d brought two rolls to show off. Other attendants were on the opposite side, riding out the storm too. Chiquita was smiling, oohing, and sighing like she was longing for that broom-jumping day to roll into her life.

Debra’s wedding was the bomb. That miracle worker pulled the whole thing off in less than six weeks. And I know why she rushed too. If I had’ve been waiting that long to make love, as soon as he asked, me and my man would’ve been on the freeway zooming at warp speed to Vegas, with a mattress tied to one of our backs.

You know I was maid of honor, because I’ve got it like that, and Tyrel was the best-looking best man I’d ever seen. Those bowlegs and dimples looked damn good in a tuxedo.

Chiquita said, “This was beautiful.”

Chiquita’s a sister in her mid-twenties, slim and trim, has Mexican brown skin and short, texturized hair. She
spoke in her soft, sexy Southern accent and said, “Sister, sister. These pictures are
too
nice. Real nice.”

“Cost a grip,” I said. I put on another coat of wine-colored lipstick—deep shades looked good with my skin tone. Chiquita wore dark rose, pretty much the same hue Debra always wore. Lavenders and berries looked good on their medium and light skin.

She asked, “Who’s the cute brother with the dreadlocks?”

“Debra’s cousin. He’s the photographer.”

“So she had the hook-up.”

“If you wanna call what Bobby gave a hook-up.”

I told her that Debra and Leonard didn’t sleep together until they were married. That was why they broke out running for the nearest hotel as soon as they said the I-do’s.

Chiquita said, “For real?”

I nodded.

Chiquita said, “No fingerprints on her window.”

I said, “What was that?”

“I read this book, it said a woman should think of her virginity like it’s a window. And every time you sleep with a guy, it’s like letting him put his fingerprints on your window. Staining your glass.” She was at the window seat and started dabbing her fingers on the glass, made it look nastier than before. “The way you talk about Tyrel, I know you’re getting your window smudged on a regular basis.”

We laughed. Soft, cute, professional, sisterly laughs.

Chiquita said, “You should come down to San Diego next week and hang out.”

“No can do. Tyrel bought us tickets to the BWL.”

“What’s that?”

“Black Women Lawyers. It’s one of those black-tie social events that bring out the black bourgeois. Single sisters and browsing brothers. A night of mingling and macking.”

“Sounds like where I need to be.”

“Ask your man to take you.”

“If it’s gonna be a room filled with single black lawyers,
why would I bring Raymond? Don’t take sand to the beach.”

Chiquita looked at a picture of me and Tyrel. Best man and maid of honor. She said, “And this is Tyrel?”

I scratched my breast. My nipple hurt. I said, “That’s my boo. Look at that dimple. I call it Shelby’s Cavern.”

“That’s cute.” She twisted her lips and said,
“Mmmmm.”

I laughed. I said, “What was that
mmmmm
all about?”

She flipped through a few more pictures. “Now, Shelby—”

I sang, “Uh-huh.”

“You said all y’all met at the same time.”

I smiled. “Uh-huh.”

“And Leonard and your friend Debra are married already?”

I hesitated and said a curt, “Uh-huh.”

“And you’re playing house and shacking.”

I checked to see if anybody could hear Miss Mouth telling all of my business. If anybody did hear, either they didn’t care or they were pretending not to hear. My hand drifted up to my mouth, slid to my pearl earrings, twisted the hair at the nape of my neck, pulled at that part of my bun. Pulling tension like you wouldn’t believe.

I did a silent countdown before I said, “Me and Tyrel have been living together for three months.”

“Well, if you’re good enough to sleep with, you should be good enough to marry. He ever talk about it?”

I stopped smiling. “Chiquita, you want me to go off on you?”

She said, “Well, sounds like you should’ve hooked up with Leonard instead of with Tyrel.”

Now, I’ll have to be honest, that “A man won’t buy the cow when he can get the milk for free” phrase my momma used to say has popped into my head one, maybe two
million
times since I canceled my lease, let my emotions be my guide, gave up my freedom, and moved in with him. But thinking about it hadn’t made
me feel the least unhappy. Until now. I glanced at Chiquita and shook my head. Some sisters hate to see another sister happy.

Who in the hell said I wanted to get married any-damn-way? What me and Tyrel have works. We’re in love. We’ve got a whole lot of lust, but the love is magnified by the lust. And the eroticism is increased by the feeling. I love everything about him. The way he sits around and reads, the way he dresses when he leaves for work, the way he smells, the way his sweat tastes after we’ve worked out. I felt stronger about him when I watched him speak at the youth center in Watts. Listening to how much he cared about the future of people he didn’t know took my emotions over the edge. I love everything about that man. Everything. Inside and out, head to toe and in between.

I was just about to ask Chiquita why was she in my personal life, ask her if she knew where in the hell her man was, that Raymond she always complained about and could
never
catch up with for more than two minutes at a time. But I didn’t go there.

One of us was saved from my thoughts when the call button dinged two times. That gave me a reason to get up and take my fake-ass smile for a stroll. A few people were sneezing, coughing. Germs for days. Then somebody’s two-year-old rug rat had a temper tantrum and flung a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle doll across the aisle. It smacked me upside my damn head. I stopped walking for a second. Long enough for the brat’s parents to see I wasn’t in the mood. I thought about calling the FAA on his preschool ass, but I kept moving toward whoever had beeped me.

It was a caramel-coated brother in a dark green business suit. Short hair, faded on the sides. The way his knees were crammed into the seat in front of him, he looked tall. Needed to shave. It was his third time beeping. The first time was for a pillow and a blanket. The second time he just stared at me and said he forgot why he’d had me walk down the aisle.

He said, “I was hoping you’d be the one to come.”

I smiled that fake smile. It might’ve been his cologne, some Drakkar or Hugo or something, that had made me sick from the get-go. The closer I got to him, the worse I felt.

I held my distance from what he reeked, tried to bend without sticking my butt in anybody’s face, breathed through my mouth and said, “And what can I do for you?”

“My name is Richard Vaughn.”

He held a business card out toward me. I didn’t take it. I’d been through this routine too many times to care.

He said, “I live in San Diego.”

“Good for you.”

“I own a flower shop. Have you heard of Flowers by Richard?”

“Good for you, no I haven’t, and what did you need?”

He stared with his mouth open. Either his tongue was tied or he was trying to show me he had teeth.

I said, “Did you need something?”

“I was wondering if we could meet for drinks.”

I sighed out some worthless air. I said, “Mr. Vaughn?”

“Call me Richard.”

“Mr. Vaughn, please stay in your seat, keep your seat belt fastened, don’t buzz unless it’s urgent. We’ll be serving you shortly, as soon as the plane settles. Have a nice flight.”

I headed back to my seat. My shoes were killing me.

Then I was rocked by another shot of turbulence. I’d been on gentler roller coasters at Six Flags. Felt queasy beyond belief. Somebody had on Chanel No. 5, and it was turning the hell out of my stomach. I belched and felt my insides bubble and rise. A little nasty stuff came up to my throat, but I’d be damned if I’d toss my cookies and embarrass myself.

It felt like the wings were about to get ripped off the plane. A quick image of crashed airplanes flashed through my mind. I pretended I wasn’t scared, so the passengers who had stayed awake for this midnight run would remain calm, then held on to the seats to keep from getting my butt tossed into a fat man’s lap. A woman on my left was holding a Star of David close to
her leather skin and praying. An Iranian passenger on my right couldn’t find the barf bag in time and tossed his cookies all over the Mexican woman next to him. Her face scrunched, she gagged, then did the same right back at him. They’d bonded through misery. With the plane’s recirculated air, we’d be inhaling and smelling puke for the next hour and a half.

When everybody was settled, I headed to the back to get ready to serve the cardboard-tasting food.

Chiquita had her Walkman’s headphones on and was still looking at the pictures. She touched my hand when I passed by.

She took the earphones off and said, “You okay?”

I shrugged, rubbed my breasts. My bra, or the East Coast water I’d bathed with, or the different kind of lotion I was using, something was irritating the heck out of my damn breasts. I was having a sensitive day and the material was rubbing my nipples raw.

Chiquita repeated, “Shelby, you okay?”

“Nauseated.”

She raised a brow, “Nauseated?”

I made a face and said, “Not that.”

She tilted her head, made a silly expression of doubt.

I said, “I had some airline food. Sick as hell all last night. Spent half the night in the bathroom reading
Good Hair.
“

She gave me a few antacids. She said, “Try drinking a 7
UP
. Or get some crackers and bread.”

“Another one of your Southern remedies?”

“It works.”

I grabbed my purse and went into the lavatory.

I sat there and felt damn dizzy. Woozy and winded. Felt the plane dip and rise. Damn air pockets. Thought I heard somebody cough and sneeze. Maybe I was catching an international germ the contagious passengers had lugged aboard. I wouldn’t doubt it because day before yesterday I barely ran four miles at the hotel before I was exhausted. I thought I wasn’t motivated. By mile two I was breathing like a heathen, sweating buckets, and it felt like I’d run a marathon. I’d been taking echinacea,
valerian, kyloic, double doses of 500mg vitamin C. but I guess the viruses had been taking their vitamins too.

I opened my purse, shifted through panty shields, bills, and birth control pills—I call them poppa-stoppas—and took out my menstrual calendar. Looked at the no-fun and tampon-filled days I had circled. Counted. My last period was twenty days ago. No big deal. I might not get a visit from the cramp man for a while. My cycle was so irregular, had ranged from thirty to fifty days between my periods. The last time Miss Flow showed up was forty days, before that my “friend” didn’t come around for forty-five days. Five of the last eight months I’ve barely spotted.

My head did feel a little warm. The glands in my throat felt swollen. I thought I had a touch of the flu. A stomach virus. I felt my body rejecting some kind of poison, probably the vegetarian airline food I’d swiped for myself yesterday had been laced with pork. I gagged and threw up a little, but it didn’t help. I ended up choking and dry-heaving so hard I thought I was about to lose a lung. Somebody shook the handle on the door. A big-ass sign said
OCCUPIED
, but somebody didn’t get the point. Then another one of the flight attendants called my name and asked if I was all right. I fanned my face and told her I’d be out in a minute. My Band-Aid kit was in the bottom of my bag. I took out four, put two in the shape of an X over each nipple. That felt better already. I dabbed the sweat from my forehead and neck, brushed my teeth, rinsed, but I still smelled those passengers’ vomit floating around in my nostrils.

I reached in my pocket to get my lipstick and felt a folded-up piece of paper. I took it out and unfolded it.

It was a handwritten note from Tyrel. He always slipped notes in my pocket and purse. A dose of his sweetness made me feel better.

Then another wave of queasiness rolled in. My nose held the wrong aromas too long. Just like some days I still smelled Nancy’s cheap perfume from way back when, it wouldn’t go away.

The flight leveled out.

After the soda and crackers, my insides settled a little.

I smiled and pushed that food ‘n’ drink cart up and down the walkway, fed the strangers who were still awake, watched Richard Vaughn watch me work. Then collected trash and served more drinks. Trust me, this job ain’t all that. I passed by the evil screaming child who was throwing toys every whichaway. The rug rat’s parents held the monster when they saw me coming.

Before I knew it, the time had come to prepare for landing.

When I made it back to my seat, Chiquita had her head back, blanket in her lap, Walkman on, eyes closed.

Her perfume came across loud and clear. I hadn’t smelled it all flight, but now it reeked like hell. It was the same rose and mimosa scent I had on, but it suddenly smelled harsh.

I glanced at the window next to her. It was smeared and scratched. I wondered how many men had touched it, left their fingerprints, and moved on. Then I thought about that foul comment Debra had made about my coochie being worn down like Pico Boulevard. She was joking, probably wouldn’t remember it if I threw it in her face, but I’ll never forget that. Now I can’t even drive near Pico Boulevard without getting upset.