Hold Me in Contempt (21 page)

“But what I saw in there was that you believe you have a problem, so I have to support you,” I said. “Guess that's why I came. I didn't want you to be out here by yourself—not if you didn't want to be. You wouldn't let me go through this by myself.”

Kent gave me one of his bear hugs. As he held my head on his chest, I could tell maybe one or two tears had fallen from his eyes, and I also knew they'd be gone by the time he let me go.

He whispered, “I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. But I think if I figure this shit out, I can understand a bunch of other things. That's all. I've gotta start somewhere. We both gotta.”

And then against everything I thought I knew about Kent, he let me go in time to see one of his tears. One innocent and strange-looking droplet decorated the outside of his left eye. If it had been black, it would have looked like a gang murderer's tattoo.

Before I could figure out why he wanted me to see his tears, I asked, “Do you think I drink too much? Is that why you invited me here?”

“No. This was about me.”

“Kenton, please! You weren't really even supposed to have a guest here tonight. I saw the sign on the door saying no guests allowed. And who in their right mind would want me there to hear all that crazy shit? Just stop it. Did you invite me here to see all of this stuff because you secretly think I drink too much and you want me to get on the self-help bandwagon, too?”

“Do you think you drink too much?” he shot back, sounding rehearsed.

“Don't answer my question with a question,” I said. “Because there's a reason I asked. The other night at the house, you said ‘we' have our drugs of choice. You didn't say ‘people.' You said, ‘we.' You included me.”

“Fine, Kim. I'm not around you enough to say. But sometimes, when I am around you, the way you drink and the way you act, it reminds me of Dad. Would you say he has a problem with alcohol? That he's a drunk?”

I took a few steps away from Kent. Rubbed my palms together.

“I'm not like him,” I said. “I just asked if you thought
I
had a problem.”

“Yes.” Kent's response was swift. Planned. We weren't touching, but I felt him exhale.

I took the hit to the chin and stood firm. “That's all you had to say,” I said, and then I popped out a smile. “I'm fine. See? I heard you and I'm fine.”

“You plan to do anything about it?”

“Well, I'll push back. I'm a big girl. I can take your criticism,” I said playfully. “I don't think you mean any harm, so I'll back up. And you know, to prove to you that I don't have an addiction to alcohol, I won't be defensive, as Jake pointed out in there. I'll just listen and back up.” I grinned.

“Shit! You got it. That's some kind of change from how you came at me at the crib. Right?”

I perked up again and served another smile, this one with teeth and gums. I wanted to look like the perfect pupil or someone who was a believer. I was ready for the conversation to end. I didn't want to go deeper. Be pushed deeper by Kent and his suggestions. When I agreed to come, I knew that was as far as I'd go. On the other side of me agreeing to stop drinking for a little while, hearing myself agree in front of Kent, was the empty bottle of Jameson falling out of my trash bag at the incinerator the night before. The old judge from up the hallway with his gray toupee and arthritic limp bending over to pick it up even after I told him to leave it alone. Him doing it anyway and looking at me oddly. Judging me with his old-fart ass. Like there was something odd about a woman finishing a bottle of Jameson. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind. But I settled on an exaggerated eye roll that stopped at my nude navel. That was when I felt the wind whipping through the hallway, hardening my nipples. And they were bare too. Somehow, I'd forgotten to put on my shirt when I'd taken out the bag of glass. I cursed the old judge out for looking at my nipples. And inside the apartment there was no relief. After I got myself calm from the incident in the hallway, I rocked myself to sleep and met in my dreams what was becoming a recurring theme—Kim 2 and me in that car headed into New York at sunrise. Only in the dreams everything was furry. I was in the driver's seat instead of sleeping. Kim 2 was awake. I was screaming. She was covering her ears. Trying to grab the steering wheel.

“I understand if that's all you want to share right now. Maybe you'll share more with me later?” Kent said distantly before adjusting his motorcycle helmet under his arm to let me know he was ready to go too. He looked into my eyes. “I love you, Sis.” He turned away.

Chapter 9

I
was sitting in the backseat of the dollar cab for ten minutes before I realized it was the same Indian driver who had taken me to King's house. When Kent pulled off on his motorcycle, the cab showed up seemingly from nowhere. I told him my address after he'd started driving.

“I know you,” I said just a few blocks from my house.

“Yes, miss. I am Baboo.”

I sat back perplexed for a minute, deciphering the pattern in his colorful, gold-tubed turban that made him look too regal to be sitting in the front seat of a squalid New York City dollar cab. There was no permit posted on the dashboard. Just little bottles of dried-out air freshener and pictures of a little boy and woman with long black hair taped to the glove compartment. What sounded like Indian pop music played a little too loudly on the radio.

“You know him?” I asked vaguely, looking out the window.

“Yes.”

“Really?” I sniggered, uncomfortable but sort of charmed at the thought that maybe King had sent Baboo to come get me. Then I asked, “Did he send you there tonight? To get me?”

Baboo nodded.

“Okay. So he knows where I was tonight? Where I am?” Suddenly, every image I saw outside the window in the night looked like a spy, someone watching my movements. I didn't know if I should feel stalked, but mostly I was intrigued. Who was this man of such mystery and power? I felt myself blush, my chest heat up. It was the unmistakable feeling of being made special.

Baboo didn't answer my other questions.

“Okay, you can't say anything, I guess. Makes sense.” I watched spies outside watching me. Wondered where King was in the crowd crossing the street. The car beside us? I turned to look for the silver Bentley. “Well, you can tell him that I don't need any cab rides from him. And I don't need you following me around. That's actually kind of creepy. You got that?”

He nodded again but I could tell he was smiling.

“Yes. You tell him all of that. And make sure you add that I'm very sorry but I'm not interested in him.” I poked my nose into the air like a woman who was offended. King had called and texted me a few times. I didn't respond. I'd meant what I'd said to Tamika. Our night together was all that, but it was just a night. Just a one-night swirl. I mean, what else could it be? I deleted his number, erased my call log and his messages.

“Yes. Will do,” Baboo said.

The car stopped outside my apartment.

Pier, the doorman, approached the car to open my door. I looked up at the building, so many flights up to my floor, to my dark apartment, curtains drawn and no one inside. I remembered King's kisses up my spine.

“No!” I said impulsively, holding the car door closed before Pier got his gloved hand on the handle. “Wait one minute!”

Baboo turned to me.

“Can you contact him?” I asked quickly. “Can you—do you know where he is?”

“Whatever you like, miss. We go. Baboo can do it.”

Pier watched me, waiting in his white shirt and black vest from the other side of the window, like I was a fish in an aquarium.

“You getting out?” he mouthed.

I shook my head no and waved good-bye as my tattered chariot started rolling away before making a wide and illegal U-turn to head to Brooklyn.

Sitting in the backseat, I felt exhilarated, like I was sneaking out of the house with fast-ass Melissa Montgomery, doing exactly the opposite of what I'd just promised myself. I covered my mouth and chuckled in a way that I hadn't in so long. What was I doing messing with that white boy again?

As Baboo talked on the phone, I heard him call out “Queen,” and I wondered how many times he'd done this same thing for another woman King found interesting or had invited to his home after meeting her at Damaged Goods. I told myself this was nothing. Just some fun. Something to do to get myself off the couch and away from thoughts about Paul and work, Ronald with Kim 2, Kent and my parents.

“Sooo . . .  ​remember those famous last words?” I whispered into the phone to Tamika after Baboo informed me of King's instructions to bring me back to the Clocktower.

“Biiiiittttccch!” Tamika shot back theatrically. “Shut the front fucking door!”

“No, I can't close the door because I'm about to walk into it!” I cracked.

“I knew it! I told you your ass would be back swirlin',” Tamika teased. “Pink diznic got you sprung!”

“I ain't sprung. Just bored. Need a little excitement, like you said.”

“Tell me about it, girl. I'm over here looking for some new-new online. Blackfolksmeet.com is like a prison hookup site right about now. I could use a little David Beckham of my own.”

“You're an ass.”

“Yes, but I'm also honest,” she said. “But be safe and savor every detail, so I can get a full report in the morning. Okay? And don't forget to wrap it up. Last thing we need is some curly-head baby fucking up our Afro family pictures.”

I laughed so hard, it turned to a deep chortle that made Baboo look at me over his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah,” Tamika started again. “And ask Jungle Fever about Vonn—that dude Monique was fucking with. I've been calling you. She asked me to have you ask your friend if he's heard from Vonn.”

“Why?”

“She said he disappeared. He was supposed to show up at her house that night before you came to my job I think,” she explained. “He never showed up. Ain't answer his phone. Typical nigga shit. But then when she checked, like, two days later, the phone was disconnected.”

“That just sounds mad random. I'm sure it's nothing for her to worry about.” I remembered the guy with the baby face walking into the bar when I was talking to King. How he looked at me. Him sitting in the backseat of the Bentley.

“Oh, I know that. Shit, I told Monique that Vonn ain't want no more of that old wrinkled pussy. Fool had to change his number to escape.”

I chatted with Tamika the rest of the way to Brooklyn to calm my nerves and stop myself from thinking.

When we got to King's place, both Baboo and the doorman at the Clocktower rushed to help me out of the cab. Each took one of my hands and smiled meekly without looking into my eyes, nearly bowing his head to me as he pulled me from the car like a royal thing. I felt like the moon was shining down from the sky on me alone.

I forced Baboo to accept the cash in my wallet before the doorman, who'd introduced himself as Frantz, insisted I take his elbow to be led into the building.

“Will you be needing any help upstairs?” Frantz asked with high spirits, as if we'd taken part in this routine for a very long time.

“I think I'm fine,” I said. “Wait, isn't King here?”

“No, miss. Mr. McDonnell sent word that he will be here shortly. He has advised me to allow you into his home.”

Frantz pressed the button to call the elevator for me and asked again if I needed his assistance.

I refused and headed to the far corner of the elevator, where I watched the door slowly close out Frantz and the lobby.

As the elevator ascended, I tried to think of every reason I had to turn around and go back to my place. Every reason why what I was doing was wrong and maybe even reckless. Random sex with a random man was just wrong for me—no matter how bored I was, no matter how pissed off I was, no matter how hurt and lonely I was. What was the point?

My cell phone buzzed. There was a text message from a number with no name that I'd later lock in for good.

917-555-1212: I see you made it home, Queen. I'm finishing up some work. Try not to have too much fun without me. See you in a few. Relax. I'm rushing home to be with you.

The elevator opened with me feeling like King was reading my mind. I even looked up to make sure there wasn't a camera spying down on me.

I stepped out and stood there for a minute, looking at my cavernous surroundings. From floor to ceiling and wall to wall, the space felt more magnificent than a home. More like a museum.

I tried to look casual, walking around touching things with open, anxious palms. I felt like Little Orphan Annie entering Daddy Warbucks's estate.

For a few days I'd been trying to remember why the last name Frantz had used to refer to King in the lobby that first night I'd visited sounded so familiar and stayed in my brain even though I was halfway out of it. I'd heard it so many times, but I couldn't place it until Frantz had said it again downstairs. Then it all came back to be. There was this documentary I'd watched on the History Channel in March when I was home sick in bed with a cold the day of the St. Patrick's Day parade. I remembered that day because Paul called me early in the morning all worked up about Chief Elliot arresting some Irish gang members who'd actually tried to buy enough dye to dump into the Hudson River to turn it green for the day. After getting off the phone with him, I couldn't sleep, so I turned on the History Channel to see that they were featuring a documentary on Irish families of New York. It sounded like great sleeping material, but I got caught up in it because the narrator kept saying one of the family's names the way Robin Leach would have on that old television show
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
—“the McDonnells of New York.”