Naughtier than Nice (5 page)

Stressed, I turned my cellular on, my heart beating too fast. No one had called me. I exhaled. I double-checked. The borrowed trench coat and high-priced boots were back in my gym bag.

I sped and pulled up in front of Frankie's house in old Ladera. I was going to sneak the gym bag inside but decided to do that later this week. The boots were fine, but the trench coat would need to be dry cleaned first. Might have to dry clean it two or three times. I'd have to sneak it in another time.

After I parked in front, I took in the neighborhood.

A heaviness rose from within.

I felt the pangs of guilt. But I felt guilty for not feeling as guilty as I wanted to feel. I needed to feel vindicated in some immoral, perverted fashion. I didn't want this to be my life.

What Blue had done could be undone.

What I had done in response could never be undone.

The drama with Monica's mother never seemed to end.

Knowing that Blue had taken the possibility of my being a mother away from me, it was as if my insides had been carved out, like I had been given an involuntary hysterectomy. That one act hurt me more than anything disrespectful Angela had ever done. I was angry at Blue and had no love for Angela. That was my mental hurricane. It returned, pulled me back into the storm. I took deep breaths, thought of Beale, of our passion, and smiled. It was enough to move me back into the eye of the storm, enough to allow me to
return to being calm enough to shake off the negative energy that tried to cling to me.

When I opened my car door, I noticed a car I didn't recognize parked across the street from Frankie's, in front of the home facing hers. It was a two-door muscle car, the kind Franklin restored, the kind that Frankie had gotten hooked on after she started seeing that married asshole. Whoever it was saw me, and opened their car door, like they'd been waiting on me. Mace was on my keychain and I held it at my side, ready to raise and spray. A woman got out of the car.

European bloodline. Good posture. Wide smile.

She said, “Good evening.”

Once I realized she wasn't black or Latina, my body relaxed and I responded with concern, “Everything okay?”

Amazing how we were conditioned. A person saw another's highly favored epidermis and relaxed as if she couldn't be a clear and present danger. I regarded her as if she were Little Red Riding Hood and she was indeed lost in the wrong neighborhood. Her hair was Bonnie Raitt red, but when she stepped closer, the streetlights revealed her keen brows were dark. She wore worn white sweats and worn Nikes.

She said, “These are very nice homes.”

I grinned and had to bite my tongue to keep from saying something snarky. People like her were always surprised to see a mostly African American neighborhood in America that didn't look like a war zone. Nobody was hanging out on corners; no loud music was blasting to disturb the calm.

She asked, “You're from here?”

“From LA? Yeah. You?”

“I was born in Intercourse, Pennsylvania.”

“That place is real?”

“It's real.”

“Saw the name on
The Cleveland Show
and on
Ellen
.”

“It's a respectable place with honest and dedicated people. My relatives work at the Military Edged Weaponry Museum.”

I looked to my left when someone came running up the street. It was another white chick, one who was blond and in her teens. She ran track at a private school in Brentwood. Her Swedish mother had married a brother and moved into the area last year. She was a regular Forrest Gump and ran like the wind, her ponytail long, below the middle of her back. She had headphones on, her big dog at her side trying to keep up with her pace. There were plastic bags in her hand so she could scoop after her companion pooped. As she passed the redhead, the blond spoke, did that same thing that black people in odd environments do.

The jogging girl tried to stop to have a conversation.

She asked the stranger, “New to the neighborhood? I've seen you parked over there quite a few times.”

The other woman said, “I'm looking for a home.”

“To rent or buy?”

The teenager's dog wanted to keep going, so after a couple of seconds of being tugged, she resumed her fast-paced run. The redhead eased back inside of her muscle car.

Her muscle car had two doors, so that told me she didn't have a family, didn't have kids. Needed four doors for kids.

And not many mothers would rock a car like that.

When she pulled away I saw that her car had Texas license plates, but that didn't stick in my mind. What was humorous and made me shake my head was that the girl who had been running had seen me many times over the last few years and had never once said hello or waved a greeting in my direction.

I had always felt like that girl looked down on me the way some of the EBTers—people who used WIC and EBT to get by—
disrespected the immigrant Vietnamese women who squatted at their toes to give them pedicures. EBTers had an air of superiority and acted like they had royal blood, like they were the queens when they had a little change in their pockets.

Everyone needs to feel superior to someone.

I used my key and went inside Frankie's two-level crib. I turned the beeping alarm off.

Frankie called out, “Tommie McBroom?”

“It's me. Put your gun away, Quick Draw McGraw. I see Baba Looey is already here.”

Livvy called out, “You're late.”

“Was busy.”

“Blue was putting a pole in the hole?”

“You got jokes.”

Frankie snapped. “Be quiet, both of you.”

I turned the alarm back on, set it on
STAY
, the way Frankie kept it when she was home.

Livvy was lounging in sweats, socks and trainers off. She was on the L-shaped sofa, empty plate in front of her, glass of Argentine wine in her hand. I kicked my trainers off, went across the cool room to the kitchen, made myself a plate of grilled white corn, asparagus, sweet potatoes, salad, grilled salmon, and baked chicken, then sat between her and Frankie. While I ate, I held my plate in my lap, then leaned back against Frankie while I put my feet across Livvy's thighs. I was starved. Beyond hungry. Nervous hunger.

I told Livvy, “Nice bracelet on your right ankle.”

“A bracelet on an ankle is called an anklet, like a bracelet around your neck is called a necklace. Pretty clever, huh?”

“Whatever. That anklet is new?”

“Bought it when I was in Paris with Tony.”

“Tony bought it for you?”

“Bought it for myself. Is there an issue?”

“You know, on the right ankle it means you're married but available, still looking, and you're still down for whatever.”

“Does it?”

“Swingers wear those; that's what I heard. Yours has an Eiffel Tower on it. That's a sexual position, you know that?”

“Tommie, I wear it because it makes me feel pretty.”

“On the left ankle it means you're not available.”

Frankie snapped, “Don't come in here talking about nothing but the show. One more word about a damn anklet and I will go Huck on you two. Now shut up, McBitches.”

Simultaneously, we showed Frankie our stiff middle fingers.

We fell into fan mode, talked to the television, high-fived each other, oohed and ahhed. When there was a commercial break, Livvy picked up her cellular to call Tony. Frankie paused the show and left to go potty. I took my empty plate to the kitchen, rinsed it off, and put it in the dishwasher. Had a surreal sensation regarding Beale Streets. Imagined I felt him draining out of me. But it was nothing. I touched my neck, expected to feel the pearl necklace he had created, but there was nothing. Nothing to worry about. I called Blue from Frankie's house phone, did that to create the illusion that I had been with my sisters since I'd left home angry; had a jovial tone to maintain the illusion we had fostered, then asked him to take the turkey bacon out of the freezer so I could make that for breakfast in the morning.

I asked, “Who is that I hear talking in the background?”

“Tony's on Skype with Livvy. I see you on his oversize and overpriced iPhone.”

“Hey, don't knock the iPhone. That's putting food on our table.”

Nervous that Livvy would say something to Tony, and Tony would mention it to Blue, and then Blue would ask about my missing hour, I waved at Livvy's phone as she passed by.

I said, “Thought you were going to write until you went to bed.”

“I was. Then the doorbell rang and Tony was here holding a six-pack of Corona.”

“I see. Well, that was the coincidence of all coincidences.”

“I live in a House of Estrogen. You and Monica wear me down with that female energy. I need some man time.”

“Sorry to interrupt the bromance. I hear Livvy in the other room laughing and talking to her husband.”

“They act like newlyweds. I guess Paris was their second second honeymoon.”

“Must be nice to be that happy after being together for over ten years. She's thirty-five and has been with Tony since she was twenty-two, I think. When she was my age they had been married for years. I can't even remember them not being married. I can't remember her life before Tony.”

He asked, “How soon before you get back home?”

“Don't wait up.”

Blue said, “Wake me when you get in.”

“Just get your sleep. We'll add this to the long list of unresolved things to talk about.”

I ended the call, took a few breaths, felt Beale inside of me, went back to the sofa with my sisters.

Livvy asked me, “How are things with Blue?”

“Perfect. Everything okay over in the Barrera household?”

“Everything is great.”

Frankie asked, “How was that trip to Paris?”

“After Tony's medical convention ended, we had fun. You see the pictures I posted?”

“Did he put some salsa in that taco and finally knock you up?”

Livvy laughed. “Do you see how much wine I'm drinking?”

Frankie asked, “When y'all going to make that blacktino baby so it can go through some of the racism that you and Tony have had to put up with since y'all decided to defect on y'all's cultures?”

Livvy gave Frankie two middle fingers, then looked at me as she laughed, said, “You go first, Tommie. Have that baby. I need to focus on getting this business going. This spa is my newborn.”

Frankie's phone blew up, “Always and Forever” ringtone, and that killed that conversation.

She grabbed her phone and answered like a whip, “Stop calling this number.”

Livvy asked, “Is that that Franklin Carruthers?”

Frankie hung up the phone and nodded.

I asked, “When did that cheating . . . when did he start back up calling?”

“I can handle it.”

Livvy asked, “Did he ever stop?”

Frankie snapped, “I can handle it.”

She was rattled. An emotional mess. Destroyed hopes swam in her eyes.

Frankie massaged her temples. Livvy and I moved closer to her, waited, watched her.

After a few ragged breaths Frankie said, “We were all supposed to be in the islands this week.”

I massaged her foot. “We can get through this.”

Livvy rubbed Frankie's shoulders, said, “I know this isn't an easy week for any of us, Frankie.”

Once upon a time, after Tony had strayed, it had been Frankie and I trying to console Livvy.

I felt the betrayal Franklin had brought into our world; it resonated. The negative emotion was so powerful that I felt what Blue would feel. I felt the anxiety that I had felt because Blue had exercised his rights as a wise yet paranoid man. I remembered the angst in Beale Streets's voice and eyes.

Thirty seconds later my older sister's phone rang again. “Always and Forever” ringtone.

Livvy grabbed the phone and answered, “Motherfucker, stop calling my sister.”

I cosigned with a harsh bark: “Don't you get it? You are persona non grata, asshole.”

Frankie growled and grabbed the phone, hung up on Franklin, and cursed, now too upset to watch television.

Livvy wiped tears from her eyes.

I wiped a whole set of tears from my eyes too.

“Franklin had my nose and soul wide open. Never had been that happy. I had a nice diamond ring and a box of chocolate-covered deception to go with a mountain of lies. His wife received the same.”

I said, “All that deception, all of this stalking, and he has a wife overseas in the military?”

“I even had my chocolate star bleached, because he asked me to.”

Livvy snapped, “You did what to your which, Frankie?”

She realized what she'd said, grunted, gave a fake smile. “Sure is nice weather outside tonight.”

I said, “You don't say you bleached your booty hole, then go on talking about the weather.”

Livvy laughed. “It's not a
hole
, Tommie. It's a
valve
.”

“Not the way she uses it.”

Frankie snapped, “Go to hell, Tommie.”

Livvy said, “We will revisit the anal bleaching, Frankie.”

I said, “And no, I do not need to see it, but you can Instagram a picture.”

Frankie cringed. “He had me good. He was trying to get me pregnant. So glad it didn't happen. I'd be pregnant with the baby of a man who is married to a deranged bitch in the military.”

“I've been the fool before. And this too shall pass, just like my humiliation did.”

“Shut up, Livvy. This is my two-minute pity party. You had yours a long time ago.”

“Can't believe you went to someone else's spa and paid for them to bleach your valve.”

I sang, “Frankie, since you bleached your booty valve, when you poot, does it smell like Clorox?”

We laughed until our bellies ached, then we had to sip wine and calm down.

It gradually evolved from hard laughter to extreme silence.

Frankie stared at her three-bedroom home, her once-again bachelorette pad. Her glower became a scowl, a glare of disdain, until her bottom lip trembled. She took another handful of deep breaths.

We tried to console her, but that was like staring into the abyss.

Frankie shouted, “My hair. My goddamn hair.”

Livvy asked, “What about your hair?”

“He's in my dreadlocks.”

I asked, “Franklin is in your hair?”

“I can feel him in my dreadlocks. His smell is in my dreadlocks. We're connected.”

I said, “I'll wash your locks for you.”

Big sister said, “He has dreadlocks. I have dreadlocks. People still look at my hair and associate me with him. To them I'm still part of
Frankie and Frankie
. We're going to do one better.”

Frankie went to the bedroom and came back with two pairs of scissors and a garbage can.

She said, “Cut him out of my hair.”

I said, “You'll look like you have cancer.”

“Then cut it all except for the new growth.”

Livvy shook her head. “Then you will look like a lesbian.”

“
Cut my goddamn dreadlocks, McBitches.
”