Liar's Game (14 page)

Never should’ve left New York. My home was in my blood. Missed my old buddies. Missed partying on Wednesdays at Twirl. Or at Magnum. Fridays at Shine. Being on the list and squeezing behind the velvet rope at Cheetah on Mondays. Friends and fun down on West Fourteenth Street at Nell’s.

Claudio popped into my mind. My throat tightened. So many old feelings that I couldn’t escape. That had to be the way my momma felt for my daddy all those years, the love that wore down her gentle heart.

Vince’s imprint was deep inside me. He was in me, moving back and forth, his voice more romantic than a Brian McKnight song. Pissing me off because I had let him get this close to me.

On the first floor, I stopped the elevator and grabbed my mail. Junk from Anna’s Linens, Good Guys, coupons from Ralph’s and Lucky’s. I had a letter from my landlord. And a very thick, heavy letter from the IRS.

Yes, like Momma told me, bad news did come in threes.

I crashed on the peach sofa, slid my
Heart and Soul
and
Black Enterprise
magazines to the side. The letter from my shyster landlord was on legal paper, thanking me for being a wonderful tenant and reminding me to pack up and move on in thirty days, less if I could.

The thick letter from the IRS watched me. It was smirking.

Fingertips sweating, I ripped the edges of the letter, peeped inside like it might be a letter bomb. It was worse than a bomb. It was a damn extortion notice.

The bastards said that now that I was out of bankruptcy, even though I’d listed them as a creditor two years ago, my debt was too new and bankruptcy couldn’t dissolve that debt. Long story short, with the penalties and interest that I wasn’t interested in, my debt had damn near doubled. Now I owed Uncle Sambo more than three thousand dollars. And they politely threatened to put a levy on my wages, salary, and other income. If they froze my checking account, I’d be up shit creek.

With my desk fees, I was over five thousand dollars in the red.

An explosion went off inside my head.

The Pentagon was paying two hundred dollars for two-dollar hammers, NASA paid six hundred for toilet seats, and Uncle Sambo was acting like a Billy Bad Ass and coming after me.

A picture of Vince was on the end table.

I turned that image facedown, made him dead to me, sat fidgeting, glowering at that IRS letter, rocking, scraping the Black Opal enamel off my short nails, giving up a this-ain’t-funny laugh.

Then I picked up Vince’s picture. Grunted and threw it at the wall so hard it exploded. I shrieked, covered my eyes, hid my face as hundreds of fragments bounced across the carpet. My heart was pounding inside my ears while I crunched over the glass, yanked his smiling face out of the mangled frame, tore it into pieces, made it another one of life’s puzzles.

I turned the stove on high, dropped the pieces of the photo onto the burner, let them burst into flames and die by fire.

In his rugged voice, Harmonica told me, “You done the right thing.”

“Sure don’t feel that way.”

“Everything will come to pass.”

Harmonica was on my sofa. He grunted the way old men do when they get up off a sofa a foot too low. After he was on his feet, he straightened out his dark, baggy slacks, did the same to the white shirt he wore underneath his red sweater, then made his way down my narrow hallway and stopped in front of the pictures of my momma and daddy. He always did that when he came by my place. Went to look at his friends.

Harmonica rocked for a moment, then his voice softened up. “Lord knows I miss y’all. Miss all the cussin’. Miss the fun. All of us’ll be together again. Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise, we’ll be together. Y’all kiss Edna for me. Kiss her a hundred times a day till I get there.”

Edna was Womack’s mother. There was always one who set the standard. Always a woman that a man would never be able to live without.

I nodded. “Rosa Lee coming?”

Womack shook his head.

He was in my bay window, looking down at the courtyard. Something was troubling him. His arms were folded and he wasn’t moving. Womack usually ran his mouth more than an ADD kid on caffeine.

I asked Harmonica, “The walk won’t be too hard on you?”

“Son,” Harmonica said, waving me off, “I started working in the country when I was eight years old. If you could walk, you could work. When you stopped workin’, you was on your deathbed.”

They had come by my apartment, not because of my state of affairs with Dana, but because of the state of affairs of our world.

Harmonica had to go to the bathroom before we made that two-block walk into the heart of culture. He called back, “I’m gonna need more toilet paper than what you got on the roll.”

“Under the cabinet.”

I went to the bay window and stood next to my best friend.

I said, “Tracy Chapman or Whoopie Goldberg?”

He tightened his face like he was having a root canal with no anesthesia. “Black Man Negro, you done lost your mind.”

I patted his shoulder. “Now that I have your attention, what’s up?”

Womack told me the abridged version. While he vented, there was a knock on my door. Soft taps, like they came from a feminine hand.

It was Juanita. She had on a green and gold Kente outfit, her hair underneath a matching head wrap.

She asked, “Are you attending the rally?”

“We’re coming down.”

“If we don’t stand for something, we’ll fall for anything.”

On that note, she headed down the stairs.

I went back to the window and stood next to Womack.

Juanita was going door to door, spreading the word. A second later, I heard footsteps going down the stairs. Naiomi came out of the building in jeans and a cutoff Bob Marley T-shirt, her golden braids tied below her neck. Silver rings were in her nose, belly button, and left eyebrow.

She and Juanita headed toward the mouth of the park.

I asked Womack, “You think Rosa Lee’s messing around?”

“The signs are there.”

“What signs?”

“She’s bought a few new things.”

“Well, like?”

“New sexy underwear.”

“So?”

“New perfume. Changed her hairdo.”

“That don’t mean nothing.”

“Twice this week she packed for the gym, and when she got back, she left her gym bag on the service porch.”

I said, “Okay, and . . . ?”

“She sweats buckets, so I was gonna throw her gym clothes in the washer before they started to sour and stink up the place.”

In his eyes a storm was coming on. I said, “Uh-huh.”

“She didn’t have any wet clothes.”

“You sure?”

“Nothing was damp. Not a corner of a towel, not a damn thing.” He sighed, then picked at his cuticles. His fingernails were dirty, hands callused from a life of work. “Her stuff was still neatly folded. I sniffed the crotch.”

“Whatever turns you on.”

“Shut up, fool. Her draws were still Downy fresh. I ran my hand through her hair. The roots were as dry as Arizona in July. Kissed her neck before she ran and showered. No salt.”

I digested his words. Years back, I’d run to him with a similar conversation. I put it out there: “So what do you think?”

“Like Poppa said, I’d be the last to know.”

First I shook my head, telling him, telling myself, that Rosa Lee wasn’t that type of woman. Then I said, “Maybe she was in the sauna.”

“Dry towels, remember?” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “It wouldn’t’ve been so bad, but she came in acting like she was tired from doing aerobics. She took a shower, fed the baby, the whole nine.”

Womack went back to the window, stared down on the street.

 

We left my apartment, walked shoulder to shoulder up Edgehill. Harmonica liked going up that street because all of the trees have purple leaves. We were heading for a protest. Lately it seemed like there was one pretty much every weekend. One week it was Tyisha Miller being gunned down by Riverside P.D., then a few days later, a homeless sister, Margaret Mitchell, was killed by LAPD. It used to be black men; now it was open season on sisters as well.

A couple of hundred people were in the area.

I saw Dana in the thick of the crowd, a few people over from Naiomi and Juanita, up front facing the stage listening to the speaker. She had on jeans and a rainbow-colored tam, standing next to her buddy, Gerri. Dana was nodding her head, clapping her hands whenever a key point was hit, very involved in every word.

A thousand righteous words and two lengthy applauses went by.

Harmonica said, “Thangs don’t never change. Different faces, but thangs never change. It was Medgar Evers back in my day. I’ve seent so many Medgars in my time.”

My eyes went to Womack. Still quiet. Listening to the speech while his mind was brewing in thoughts of anxiety.

When the speech was done, Dana saw me. There was an awkward moment, but I went over. Gerri was holding hands with her young trophy man. Jefferson had on Kani jeans, matching sweatshirt, accessorized down to the boots.

He offered a cool and quick handshake. “Long time no see.”

He handed me a flier advertising his group. Dangerous Lyrics was performing at a club in Westwood, opening for a rap group. Considering why we were down here, all due to a tragedy, I thought his timing was tacky, opportunistic.

But I was trying to be opportunistic too.

I said, “I’ll try and check it out.”

Dana moved away from them. I stepped with her, stopped in front of the Chinese laundry near Vision Theater. Coldness covered her face when we were away from the crowd, away from her friends. In her eyes I saw the electrical discharge of danger and anger.

Her breath chilled me when she said, “I’ll get my stuff next Friday.”

She walked away before I could answer.

When I walked away, I didn’t look back.

Gerri asked, “You okay?”

My lips went up into a smile. “I’m fine.”

Jefferson was holding Gerri’s hand, had her close. They were so touchy-feely, which, considering my state of mind, was inconsiderate.

I went down on Melrose Boulevard and ate at Georgia’s restaurant with Gerri and her beau. All evening they talked about the rap group. No space for one-on-one girl talk with Gerri. All Jefferson’s talk was about the group and the studio, stuff that was way over my head: digital recording studios, mackies, mixers, DBX compressors.

In the backseat of Jefferson’s Ford Expedition, I was forced to listen to his group’s song “Kick the Bytch in the Azz” at least six times straight. Not exactly my cup of tea, but Gerri was ecstatic. Talking about what type of video the group should do, who should do the lead on what songs.

Gerri said, “Butter is pretty good with the lyrics, can dance a bit, but Big Leggs should be the lead on this cut. Butter should fill in the rap part. Chocolate Star should lead the other song you’re working on.”

“Butter wrote most of the songs.”

“There’s a difference between a songwriter and a singer. Everybody has to recognize their limitations. You have to go with the winner. Butter ain’t the one. If you’re going to be in charge of the group, then be in charge of the group. Ain’t that right, Dana?”

“Sho’ you right.”

Seeing her making those kinds of starry-eyed plans with her man, having the kind of hopes that led to a windfall, reminded me of who I used to be way back when. I’ve left that hustle behind.

I’d hoped this was a regular hang-out, eat thing, but Gerri put the issue out there: “Dana, I told Jefferson how you used to do stuff in entertainment, the promotions gig, and we were wondering if you would be interested in doing some promo stuff with the group.”

I told them no. That was the kind of life that put pressure on relationships and very little money in your pocket. Gerri pressed the issue. Again, I told her no. I’d get a job selling Slurpees at 7-Eleven before I tossed my hat back in that arena.

Gerri was disappointed, but I stuck to my guns.

Jefferson had to meet with the girls in the group at the studio. New material, new song, yada, whatever. Gerri’s kids were at her ex’s in-law’s house, so she was tipping off to her late-night paper route.

I drove home. All alone with nobody but me. Felt so heartbroken, disappointed in myself because I didn’t see the signs of Vince’s other life. But I don’t think there were any. Guess I’d been a classic woman, you know, looking for signs of other women. The typical stuff. Phone numbers. Late night calls. Missing hours that he couldn’t explain. There was none of that bullshit. Hunting for things in his present, not worried about his past.

Eleven years ago. Time flies, but the feelings remain.

I was about to turn sweet sixteen. Our phone rang and Daddy was on the other end. Damn near shocked us into Stroke City. I guess after being MIA for eight years, that good old guilty feeling got heavy enough to make him pick up the phone and call the family he had left behind.

He said he had to come up to New York in a week or so, was going to take care of some business in Brooklyn, then head to Long Island and visit some old friends by the Green Acres Mall.

He wanted to know if I wanted to visit him for my birthday, go to Disney World, and then fly back up to JFK together. He thought that it was time I finally met my half-brothers and half-sisters.

I didn’t think much of the promise—my own defense mechanism—but when the airplane tickets showed up in our mailbox, I started smiling, telling all my friends I was going to see my daddy, and packing all of my good stuff: best drawers, jeans I bought across the street from the Apollo, my gazelle shades I got from a hustler on Times Square, hair done all up in finger waves. I don’t know if I was more excited about going to see him or just thrilled to be going anywhere. Plus, I’d never been on a plane. So the whole trip my insides were rumbling with fear at being so high in the sky, and my skin was jumping with electricity, anticipating seeing Daddy.