The Blackbirds (12 page)

Ericka laughed. “Baseball cap? Did he at least take his socks and boots off?”

“I was waiting for him to yell for me to
giddyap
. Or say,
Hi-ho, Silver.”

“A man should never say
ho
while he's having sex. Not even if he's with one.”

“Good point. Even a ho wants to be treated like a lady.”

“So, now that it's up and working properly, does your jockey know how to ride?”

“It's not like that hour-and-a-half session his friend Eddie puts down on Nancy.”

“Hold up, Destiny. Y'all not swapping partners, are you?”

“Hearing Eddie banging Nancy in the next room does put fantasies of Eddie in my head. I hear him and it makes me wonder what it would be like to have a bedroom bully for a few nights.”

“The penis is boasting, the vagina is boasting, the meeting point is on the bed. When the two organs meet in a sexspree, one will bow for the other. You're making bruh bow down.”

“For once, I'm winning when I wish I were losing.”

“You might be with the wrong friend.”

“Eddie is twenty, dropped out of community college, and lives with his grandmother. He smiles but doesn't talk around me. I guess I intimidate him too. I've caught him looking at my ass more than once. He doesn't leer, but he has looked at my bottom one time too many.”

“He's fantasizing.”

“Of course.”

“You're with the right guy, but you might be with the wrong body.”

“Eddie is a bodybuilder. He's a gym rat. He's not working and not looking for a job.”

“So, being in bed with Hakeem, I'm confused. Good or bad?”

“It isn't like making love next to a lake on a purple blanket, but Hakeem can get the job done. Once he gets it to stay hard, I get on top to make it happen. I saw a woman on
Masters of Sex
and she had a problem with her lover, and that was what the doctor told her to do, to get on top and take control, let him get used to being where it's warm. Still, I need to open up.”

“How so?”

“He keeps asking me to do some freaky things. When I'm totally comfortable, maybe I will. Will be nice to have somebody to get into some real kinky things with. I want to get one of those naughty nun outfits and play make-believe. Or dress up like Nyota Uhura from
Star Trek
and let him put on a Spider-Man costume and cosplay in the bedroom.”

“Your voice is trembling. You're scared. Nothing scares you, and you're scared.”

“If I didn't like him, it wouldn't matter. He likes my mind, breasts, booty, and body; I know that for sure. I'm still trying to figure out what real love is. Is it a mushy feeling? Is it someone being in your corner, no matter what? I know I like him and maybe I am sort of recklessly in love with him, at least a little bit, because I loaned him some money to buy a new mattress.”

“You loaned him money?”

“He had to pay his property taxes, car note, mortgage payment, and his homeowners' association dues had a special assessment attached, so he was short on the money to get a new mattress while it was still on sale. It's a nice pillow top. He's going to pay me back within three months.”

“Never loan anyone more money than you can stand to lose.”

“I know. I'd never loan my rent money to anyone. I'm fiscally responsible.”

“How much are you out of pocket?”

“Five hundred.”

“Jesus.”

“Hakeem had taken me to all those dinners. He'd dropped a lot of coins.”

“So what? That's what a man does when he's courting a woman. He doesn't get a rebate. A woman isn't supposed to give a man her money
and
give him sex. Have you gone mad?”

“Don't tell Kwanzaa and Indigo. And we need these rules posted on a wall somewhere.”

“You gave him cash? Did he sign something acknowledging the loan?”

“Used my credit card. Put his mattress on my Visa.”

“Will he pay back the interest as well?”

“Hadn't thought about that.”

“He has to pay you back the interest too, else you're paying part of his obligation.”

“As long as he pays what he owes, I'm cool.”

“And that includes the interest. Otherwise you will be paying to loan him money. It doesn't work that way. He should be obligated for every dime.”

“I will remind him.”

“Don't get screwed, then screwed on a personal loan. And do not do any more personal loans. When you two are at least engaged, if it gets to that, then it's cool. No ring, no loans. And even when you have a ring, keep the paper trail for the loan, in case the marriage does not come to fruition. I'm telling you the things Kwanzaa wishes she had done. She loaned Brixton money too. No, she's not going to admit it, and you better not repeat it. He got in her hole, then left her in the hole. She paid for this and that over six years, and will not recover one thin dime.”

“Ericka, I will make a point of mentioning that to Hakeem, and will follow your advice.”

Ericka exhaled. “He knows you as Kismet. How do you see it going when you tell him the truth?”

“He's really into me. He sends texts throughout the day.”

“And at some point you have to tell him your real name. And if the relationship gets serious, he will need to know your real history, because it will come up at some point. Not everything dead stays buried. Certain things need to be revealed before things get too serious.”

“It won't be easy, but I will tell him what happened to me, and that
which I did in return. I don't want to come off sounding like a victim. I was victimized, but I stood up for myself.”

“And then? You think he's going to be cool with it?”

“In my mind, I see him take my hand, be understanding, start to cry if I start to cry. I see him holding me and telling me that what matters is who I am now, not what happened then.”

Ericka nodded. “That would be beautiful. To be loved unconditionally would be beautiful.”

Destiny wiped tears away from her eyes. “Then part of this nightmare will be over.”

“I want you to get married, have kids I can terrorize, have a chance at normalcy.”

“We can all be normal in our own, unique, nonconforming ways.”

Ericka shook her head. “It's too late for me. I have to accept that.”

“Your mother, don't let her mess up your life. Maybe you can adopt.”

“I wouldn't adopt a kid knowing my mother would demand to be part of the kid's world.”

“She's been on her own all of her life.”

“So have I. So have I. Even when I was married, I was still on my own.”

“My mom and dad are great separately, but horrible together. I used to want them back together, but now I see that is not the way it should be.”

“I'd take that over what I have. Your dad is an awesome man, Destiny.”

“Too bad our parents aren't like Indigo's parents.”

“Rich?”

“No, I mean all over each other like they are still high school sweethearts. Look at her dad. Dancing with her mom, laughing, kissing her like they are the only people in the world.”

“Yeah, I guess that is too bad. Would make things easier for all of us.”

“Right now, I wish everyone was happy enough to sing every word they said.”

“Because you're happy. You want the world to feel your natural high, be happy by osmosis.”

“Yeah. I guess so. Had never thought about that. Songs sound better and colors seem brighter these days, and the smog and humidity from that storm in Mexico aren't bothering me.”

“From these eyes, everything is in black and white. My mother left my soul uneasy.”

“I'm sorry. Indigo was just trying to do what she thought was the right thing.”

“Mrs. Stockwell makes me want to put a bullet through my right temple, but not until after I have put one in hers.”

“Don't ever joke like that.”

“She made me kill my baby.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that, Ericka. I really am.”

“And my child would be an adult. Having birthday parties.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me, dammit.”

“What do you want?”

“Wipe your eyes.”

“Okay.”

“Wipe them again.”

“Okay.”

“Put on a smile.”

“Okay.”

“A bigger smile.”

“Okay.”

“Not that big.”

“Okay.”

“We're going to be okay, Ericka.”

“Okay.”

“Don't go back down Memory Lane.”

“Some devils carry Bibles and quote scripture.”

“Stop it.”

“Okay.”

Silence rested between them for a moment.

Ericka said, “I would have been a great mother.”

“Ericka?”

“I'm done.”

Ericka wiped tears from her eyes. Without looking, Destiny reached for Ericka's hand. Ericka gave it to her. They held on to each other. They kept each other from falling.

*   *   *

Just then they spotted another handsome man coming up the driveway.

The young man was twenty-four, built like LeBron James, and seven feet tall.

Ericka said, “Indigo's basketball player. Yaba the Laker is in the house.”

“Good thing he didn't bump heads with Olamilekan.”

Indigo hurried to him gave him a hug. In his large hands was another sizeable present.

Ericka asked, “Wonder if he will take it upstairs and lock the door for ten minutes.”

“If he does carry it up there, I'll bet it's a hand job as a thank-you.”

“I'll bet he's a two-hander.”

“Two hands and two feet. You could probably climb his cock like a coconut tree.”

“You could probably put your phone on the end and use it for a selfie stick.”

“And we'd look like we were in the next room.”

They cackled, laughing, joking, teasing, not serious about Indigo's sexual habits.

Not long after, another handsome brother made an appearance.

It was Leonard Dubois Jr.

He brought Indigo a gift card, was introduced to everyone there, but was very excited to meet Yaba the Laker, especially since he happened to be wearing Idowu Yaba's Lakers jersey, the real deal, not a knock-off. They got along swimmingly, became new best friends as they chatted with Indigo.

Destiny avoided her first-time lover, wished the man she was seeing
now was there, wished Hakeem Mitchell was with her the way Yaba the Laker was with Indigo.

Yaba got in the pool with Indigo and they played around awhile. Many times Dubois looked at Destiny, and Destiny looked at him. He stared at Destiny almost as many times as Ericka stared at Mr. Jones, as many times as Mr. Jones glanced toward Ericka.

Yaba the Laker followed Indigo up the stairs to her apartment, his present in his hands.

Chimamandanata watched her daughter, lips tight, arms folded, shaking her head.

At 9:34
P.M
. they were in short skirts and high heels, drinks in hand, braless breasts doing jumping jacks as they bounced and sang “Happy Birthday” to Indigo during a Badu concert. Ten minutes later Ericka, Kwanzaa, and Indigo had once again given Destiny their cell phones, then posed in their classic
Charlie's Angels
position. She had taken photos for them all evening.

Someone offered to take a picture of the Blackbirds.

Destiny said, “I'm fine being behind the camera. I'm the official group photographer.”

Indigo's phone began blowing up. Her father called from his phone. Her mother called from her phone. Her mother was home, but her father wasn't. He had stepped out to run an errand. Relatives called from Nigeria. And Olamilekan Babangida called. His call was twenty minutes off, but still that call made Indigo's night. She spoke to him for twenty seconds, if that, and then the called dropped. Indigo tried to call him back, but there was no answer.

She yelled, “The reception is bad in here.”

Kwanzaa yelled back, “My service is great. My phone has more bars than a jail cell.”

“Let me use your phone.”

She did that to see if he was screening his calls.

Indigo tried Olamilekan again and again and again.

Each time the call went to voice mail.

She took a half dozen selfies, her cleavage popping, and sent them to
Olamilekan. She wanted him to see her dressed in the
sexylicious
outfit and shoes he had given her. This was what he was missing. The same photos she had sent to Olamilekan, she also sent to Yaba the Laker. Two seconds later, Idowu Yaba called, and that call expanded Indigo's joy.

If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with.

While she talked to Idowu Yaba, her phone beeped; it was Olamilekan's number.

Indigo didn't answer. Then Kwanzaa's phone rang, again Olamilekan's number.

Indigo told Kwanzaa to answer, and if it was a woman to curse her out in Spanish and hang up. But if it was Olamilekan, tell him that Indigo was disappointed and now she was on another call with someone who cared enough to remember to call at the proper time, and she was occupied and would call him back whenever she was once again available. Indigo continued her conversation with Yaba the Laker. She laughed, spoke in a strong Nigerian dialect, and hoped her words burned Olamilekan's ears. She wished Yaba had arrived at her party earlier, before Olamilekan. She needed Mr. Babangida to see and understand she had many options.

That had actually been her plan, but it hadn't worked out that way.

At two in the morning, they were just getting back from the Badu performance. They had ridden in Indigo's new Rubicon. They had taken the doors and the roof off the Jeep, and Destiny had driven while Indigo wore a birthday tiara and became the singing front-seat passenger. When they made it back home, they were all dog tired but energized.

Indigo showered, changed, and without informing the Blackbirds of her after-party plans, had left again within minutes. When she heard the security gate
clack-clack-whirr
open, Ericka went to her window. She wasn't concerned. The gate across the driveway only opened either by remote or when someone was being buzzed in, the same for the gate at the walkway.

Indigo was leaving in the Rubicon. Had to be a birthday booty call.

Ericka went to her kitchen table. Many pamphlets on cancers were next to her laptop. Websites for herbalists who offered miracle diets, supplements, and cures were there as well.

For a moment her body felt off, had a wave of exhaustion, and she felt afraid.

She went to her bedroom, to her closet, and reached into the back, pulled out her Remington 870 Express Shotgun, the shotgun she had named Hemingway.

Ericka looked at Hemingway for a moment, then she put her shotgun back in its hiding place. That would be her last resort. But she hoped it would never come to that. She hoped she never had to pull the trigger on that shotgun. She convinced herself that she would if she had to.

The wave of weakness went away as fast as it had come.

So did her fear.

She told herself that she was fine, that she was just tired from working and keeping up with three younger women who had endless energy. She paused to count the number of hours she had slept each night, and realized she had slept only around thirty hours in the last seven days. They had had fun and time had zoomed by, each day more exciting than the one before. Last week, they had partied at the BET Experience. Indigo's parents had gifted her and the Blackbirds with a $4,000 Diamond Package: orchestra seating, red-carpet experience, only VIP for Indigo.

Ericka yawned and stretched, tired and running on fumes but unable to close her eyes.

She convinced herself all she needed was a good night's sleep.

She was fine. The invisible demon that had lived inside her had been defeated.

She was in remission and it was time to move away from the fear.

She went back to the kitchen table, collected all the pamphlets, put them in the trash.

Soon she would do the same with the shotgun.

Ericka sipped infused water flavored with strawberry, lemon, and basil. She reorganized books featuring places she wanted to travel. Eritrea. Russia. Iceland. Canada. Japan. Egypt. Rwanda. Oman. Morocco. Ecuador. Denmark. Italy. Croatia. Kenya. Ethiopia. Yemen.

She wanted to visit all those places. She told herself that one day she would.

*   *   *

Not long after, Destiny's colorful CBR revved to life and the wrought-iron gate whirred open. Since the garages were in the back, they had to drive by the front doors of the apartments to come and go, and none of them could leave or arrive without being heard by the others.

Ericka assumed Destiny had become Kismet Kellogg and was creeping to see her mystery man in Culver City. She was long overdue and Ericka was happy for her.

Five minutes passed.

She assumed that Kwanzaa had weakened and called Marcus Brixton because her car started up, the gate whirred once again, and that Blackbird sped out onto Crenshaw Boulevard.

The Blackbirds were gone and that made her feel so damn alone.

Ericka picked up her phone, first with the intention of searching for Dr. Debra Dubois, but instead she looked at recent text messages from her ex-husband, invitations to reconcile.

She was tempted to call him even though it was late.

Out of loneliness. Out of anger.

But as she was about to text her ex, the security gate whirred open.

It was Kwanzaa, back ten minutes after she had left.

Ericka sent her a text and asked what that was all about.

She responded that it was a tampon run.

Ericka Stockwell stayed home, looking out the window, Mr. Jones on her mind.

She thought about Destiny's father. She always thought about Destiny's father.

Mr. Jones. Mr. Keith Jones.
Keith
.

Ex-husband of Mrs. Carmen Jones.

She thought about how he had felt inside her.

How he had given her a full-body orgasm.

She had spoken in tongues, lost control in a wonderful way.

She had almost raised her hand when Destiny asked about older men, but the Blackbirds would have asked questions and she never would have been able to face Destiny.

As Ericka thought about that night, she became aroused; she quivered.

She thought about the oversize sofa in his town home. That was where she really wanted to be, next to him, with him, underneath him, on that sofa. She wanted to feel that again.

But that intimacy never should've happened and couldn't happen again. It was too weird. The tool that had been used to create Destiny had been inside her. It had become awkward to have Destiny as a friend, and that memory, that unexpected moment, as the secret of all secrets.

Ericka remembered how her Bible-thumping mother would always
chant scriptures at night, trying to pray away the flaming demons that exacerbated her womanly desires.

After Ericka had been pregnant, her mother forced her to get on her knees in order to
pray away the sinful urges that should not be acted upon outside the blessed institution of marriage.

Her mother had made her chant scriptures and pray for healing together.

Ericka gazed at the worn Bible on her dresser, wished it would speak to her.

If it would not speak, she spoke, hoping it would at least listen.

She apologized for the things she had said to her mother.

She had only one request, and it had been the same prayer for as long as she could remember. She begged she didn't become her mother. She would kill herself. She wondered what had happened to that smiling, fun-seeking Caledonia Koepling to make her become the hateful Betty Stockwell she was today. Ericka wondered if that was her own fate as well.

Ericka thought more about Mr. Jones.

She thought about that night, on his sofa, smoking medicinal weed, kissing.

Then losing control.

She remembered the shock she felt when he slid inside her.

She had been so wet, so open, so ready.

Still there had been a sweet sting. There had been more to him than she had imagined.

Mr. Jones had been sultry, rumbling, back-arching thunder, a storm unleashed. Ericka's dress was up around her waist, panties pulled to the side, Mr. Jones's pants unzipped and at his waist, the way people were when sex was sudden, unexpected, unplanned, out of control. He had entered her and made skin slap. She had straddled him and he had given her rugged strokes.

He had never seen this side of her.

She had never witnessed that side of him.

He created a tempest inside her.

She saw dancing lights behind her closed eyes when she had moved
against him. He was a hurricane. Her moans were elongated flames in the air as orgasms came in powerful waves. He had withdrawn, gone down on his knees, and blessed her sex with his tongue. That night had brought her two years of celibacy to an unexpected end. She came, trembling, cheeks tight, legs straining, her face etched with desperation and pain, her hand clamped on her sin eater's head, praising his tongue, dampening his mouth, writing her name on his face.

She came wanting love.

Then they had rested on the sofa, cuddled, smoking weed as the aura waned. After two years of celibacy, she was surprised she hadn't blacked out from feeling so good. To be fair, after a few minutes had passed, without a conversation, without cleaning him, she stroked him, fellated with passion, tasted him, tasted herself on him, made him jerk, curse, and call God.

He shot an inordinate amount of semen a good five feet in the air while lying on his back. He was a fountain. She didn't know a man could skeet like that, had never seen her ex-husband skeet more than a few inches. After Mr. Jones had cleaned up, after she had gone to the bathroom and washed herself, after resting another two hours, the third time, she rode him, felt him when he grew, felt his explosion, felt him fill her up, then river out of her again, and she wanted it to go on until time ran out of time.

Ericka had been with Destiny's father.

Destiny never noticed the guilt in her eyes.

Ericka couldn't get Mr. Jones off her mind or out of her heart.

She stripped down to her panties and bra, took photos of the curve of her bottom from a side angle, of her breasts from the same angle, of her areolas, then added them to a text to Mr. Jones. Asked him if he had company, and if not, if he wanted company for a couple of hours. Told him she missed him. Wanted to be with him again. Then was too scared to press
SEND
. Too scared to put her feelings and desires out there.

Her nipples were stiff. The itch was strong. The celibacy clock had been reset.

She crawled into bed, Mr. Jones on her mind, touched herself awhile.
Fantasized. Climaxed. Panting, recovering, she saw that the window was open, wondered who had heard.

She closed the window. Turned the ceiling fan on high. Fantasized again. Reached heaven again. Remained restless. She ate slices of a mango, then broke out her stash of Kush.

As Nina Simone played on Pandora, Ericka smoked a little White Widow, took four puffs, and fantasized about being on that sofa and climaxed again and again and again.

Once she started, she could touch herself for hours.

She showered, the water turned cold. Then she snacked on a bag of low-calorie baked potato chips. She lay back, crunching, chewing, swallowing, crunching, chewing, swallowing, floating, floating, floating. She wanted to puff until her room had a cloud of marijuana covering her home the way smog blanketed the city, but she didn't, not tonight. She flipped her pillow from the warm side to the cool over and over.

She was a restless Blackbird who wanted to fly away from all she knew.