The Blackbirds (35 page)

Kwanzaa arrived at work at six in the morning to find Marcus Brixton already there, parked, waiting. As soon as she pulled into an empty space, Marcus jumped out of his Maserati and hurried toward her.

Kwanzaa was dressed in Starbucks black from head to toe, the weave removed, now in her natural hair phase.

Marcus wore a light gray suit, a conservative, colorful tie, and his eyeglasses.

He also held a dozen red roses. She had expected him to arrive with a loaded gun.

Opening and closing his free hand, in Spanish Marcus said, “Kwanzaa, we need to talk.”

In Spanish she replied, “Did I know you were coming to my job? Did we schedule a meeting? Did your attorney call my attorney and pencil you in and you assumed you had been inked in for a conference?”

“You won't take my calls. You won't respond to my messages.”

“Why would I? My attorney is very competent and articulate.”

“Kwanzaa, just give me a couple of minutes. Let's sit down and talk.”

Kwanzaa looked into Marcus's eyes, in his pretty brown, soul-stealing eyes. She gazed into a well that held six years of memories.

He said, “Oh. Yeah. The roses are for you.”

Kwanzaa took the roses, and a small memory-based smile rose on her face.

Marcus smiled, his smile the anxious smile of hope.

He said, “I've missed you. I miss all we had. I miss all we were building.”

“Give me a moment, Marcus. Morning is the busy time and you know people are always complaining about the service here, but let me see if I can start a few minutes later so you don't come here and make me lose my job.”

He stood and waited. Kwanzaa was back in five minutes, her green Starbucks apron around her waist, her signal to him to make this quick because she had to get to work.

Marcus said, “Your hair looks nice.”

“I really should not talk to you without my attorney present.”

Marcus sang the same song he had now sung on countless messages. The Chilean had been a mistake. He missed Kwanzaa. They had had a solid six years, and he had made but one misstep. He told her that being a Christian was about forgiving. He had fallen short. He needed forgiveness and wanted to win her love back. He said that even Jesus had a period of his life that was not recorded, and he assumed that even the child of God had done things, human things, and made errors on his way to wisdom. Marcus said he had come into the era of his life where he made mistakes. And now he was on the other side of those foolish days. Marcus said that now he was a man. A real man. But a man was nothing without a woman. Marcus said he was the kind of man who needed a woman like Kwanzaa at his side.

He said she was brilliant. Sophisticated. Classy.

She was a woman who had, well,
Je ne sais quois
.

Marcus gave Kwanzaa never-ending praise, and said she was the best of the best of the best. He told her that he would do whatever it took to get her back. He wanted her to go away with him, for a weekend, to Napa Valley. Or finally take her to Paris, when she had a break. He would take her anywhere in the world.

He wanted to work things out. He wanted her to be engaged to him again.

She let him finish his flattering, wheedling talk; she let the cajolery die down.

She wondered if Marcus, if Olamilekan, if all men used the same Internet site to buy the Easter speeches they gave once they had fucked up a good thing and wanted to come back home.

She knew Marcus wanted this to end for him as it had between Indigo and Olamilekan.

But he would not be allowed to open any gate, be it metaphorical or real.

She knew why he had come to her running, and now on bended knee.

He wanted her to drop the lawsuit.

In response to all Marcus offered, Kwanzaa said, “Don't make me vomit in my mouth.”

“I'm serious, Kwanzaa. I love you. I'm here begging you for another chance.”

“I have to get to work. I don't make four hundred an hour, but it's honest work.”

“You told me you loved me.”

“Just because I used to love you, don't mean I always will. I'm not Whitney Houston.”

She told him to tell his sweet mother she sent her blessings.

She said, “Don't come back to my job. Don't keep blowing up my phone. This is a legal matter. Therefore, you know better than to talk to me and not to my attorney through yours.”

“We don't need attorneys between us.”

“We needed a condom between us. That was my first mistake.”

“We can come to an agreement without using an attorney.”

“So what do we need, an arbitrator? Judge Judy? Jerry Springer?”

“We can come to an agreement without clogging the court system or using some other form of mediation.”

“I had hoped the next time I saw you face-to-face, Marcus, we'd be in court. I've always wanted to be in front of a judge with you, but I had assumed it would be for marriage, not for what feels like a divorce. You know what you did to me. You know the lies you told and to whom.”

He told her the lawsuit would never stick. She did not know the power she was up against. With a big smile, and in perfect Spanish, she told him to fuck off in Chlamydia-ville.

“Sure you want to take this route?”

“Oh yeah.”

“You had me served at my job.”

“Hope that didn't ruin your chance to ever become partner.”

“A million dollars? For a curable infection? No permanent harm was done.”

“I could cross that part out and write one billion. A woman's health is priceless.”

“You'll never win.”

“I don't have to win. You gave me an STD, then lied to your mother, and lied to everyone. A member of a prestigious law firm gave his fiancée an STD. I wasn't a side chick. I wasn't a girlfriend. Being engaged implied commitment. You fucked a client. You used your prestigious law office as a casting couch. You're educated and know about STDs, HIV, AIDS. You engaged in behavior that was potentially dangerous to your health, then knowingly engaged in sex with me without either informing me or using protection. I am a responsible woman, a former military brat, a woman who is in college, a woman who was with you for six years, and not until the second year we were together did we consummate the relationship. We did not have sex for a year. That speaks to my character. We didn't have sex for the first year, and not until the third year, after you put a ring on my finger, did we have unprotected sex. You were my future husband before I put my health on the line.”

“You can't prove any of that.”

“I can prove every word.”

“How?”

“I will use your words to make my case.”

“Is that right?”

“I will open my phone records and have yours subpoenaed.”

He laughed a bluffer's laugh that had to have been learned at Harvard.

Kwanzaa smiled. “Enjoy that laugh. When we're in court and they are reading how you begged me to make love to you for a year, and how you told me you loved me, and how you had lied about cheating, then confessed about sleeping with your Chilean client, all done by texting because you didn't have the nerve to see me face-to-face. Bitch-ass
coward. Six years of phone records will show I have done nothing inappropriate. Every woman I work with or have befriended can be called as a character witness. So, be ready to open up your life. Be ready to see your name and your law firm's name in legal documents, in the news, online, everywhere.”

“A million dollars?”

“I should double that number.”

“Do you really think you're in the catbird seat? You won't win.”

“I don't have to win for you to lose, Marcus. We will call the Chilean to the stand and your business will be put on record. Did she think sleeping with you gave her a better chance at winning her case? Makes me wonder what you said in your position of authority to get her naked. We'll get to the truth. It will be real funny when it comes out that she had been lied to, that she was told I was the one cheating on you, that it was my fault she was given an STD.”

He chuckled, shifted, paused before he asked, “What are you talking about?”

“I talked to her, Marcus. Well, my attorney has talked to her. That's why she's not returning your calls anymore. We have the same attorney. She is suing your ass too.”

His nostrils flared. “Shit.”

“Yeah, playboy. Shit. You lied to me and you lied to her, the same way you lied to your mother. How could you lie on me? How could you assassinate my character with your mother? You told your entire family a lie. How dare you put this bull on me? How dare you.”

“Don't do this, Kwanzaa.”

“Write a check and walk away, and no, we will not kiss and say good-bye.”

“A million dollars?”

“Destiny Jones's mother is representing me. She's not a cheap date.”

“You've pulled attorney Carmen Jones back into the game.”

“Yeah, that ruthless bitch. Isn't that what you used to call her? You said she was a ruthless bitch, and her daughter was just like her. We all need ruthless bitches as our friends, Marcus.”

He took a breath, said, “Ten thousand.”

“That's not even a decent counter offer. Six years, Marcus. Three years engaged. One year shy of being common law. Two years shy of being at the altar. Four years shy of having our first child. Six years shy of having our second. You made promises and we made plans.”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Sixty-five thousand.”

“Three hundred thousand.”

“That's not how you negotiate.”

“Three hundred and twenty-five thousand.”

“Okay, stop.”

“Three hundred and seventy-five thousand.”

Marcus paused. “Are you really going to do this to me?”

“Now you're the one wounded?”

“Are you?”

“
Hashtag,
I kept the text messages.
Hashtag
admissible in court.
Hashtag
your mother will be able to read the truth about her son.
Hashtag
the black chick wasn't the slut.
Hashtag
let social media be the judge.
Hashtag
will get very interesting at your law firm.
Hashtag
disbarred.”

He nodded. “I will need a confidentiality agreement.”

“Sure. You will be able to pay, rise in your career, keep your pretty face on billboards, be the bridge between two marginalized communities, work tirelessly on immigration and pointlessly for reparation, run for Congress, run for mayor, run for governor, run for Senate; you can do all the things you told me you wanted to do, and that confidentiality agreement will ensure that the contract runs in both directions. It will never be talked about again. Dollars make it vanish.”

“Jesus. Three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Plus legal fees.”

“This is blackmail. You're extorting me.”

“Well, let's just put the case on the dockets, then break out the medical records and messages, and see how a judge feels. Get ready to join the long list of nasty jocks and celebrities who have been sued for being trifling and disgusting, like you. Maybe they will give you a plaque.”

“You've always been a smart woman.”

“Smart where it matters most.”

“I guess we should celebrate your victory.”

“When the money is delivered, then we can find a bar and do penicillin shots together.”

“That's a lot of money. I will have to pay it in installments.”

“Missed payments will be subject to late fees, penalties, and interest, as you will be denying me the luxury of that which I am entitled. A missed payment will also end the confidentiality agreement on your end without terminating an agreement in the other direction.”

Marcus paused. “Let's not do this. I still love you, Kwanzaa.”

“I love you too, Marcus. I love the spirit of the promises we made to each other.”

“If we love each other, then this is fixable. Couples have problems. Let's not do this.”

“It's too late to not do this because this is being done.”

He nodded. “Too bad this didn't work out.”

“Yeah. Too bad you got busted. Too bad I was freed from a six-year lie.”

“I'm not a bad guy. You know me better than anyone, Kwanzaa.”

“I disagree.”

“I made a mistake.”

“Was the mistake the infidelity, or getting caught, or infecting me?”

“I was weak and had a lapse in judgment.”

“You're an attorney, Marcus. You're going to have to become a better liar if you're going to swim with the sharks and become a politician. You can't even cheat effectively. You're weak. Barely got out of Harvard. Barely passed the bar. Get out of the lying business while you can.”

“So what now?”

“Glad you asked.”

Kwanzaa dialed a number and handed Marcus the phone.

He asked, “The Chilean?”

“Carmen Jones, esquire. Let's keep the legal ball rolling.”

Marcus started a conversation with attorney Carmen Jones, with Destiny's mother.

As a homeless Rastafarian pushed a shopping cart overloaded with
plastic bottles across the parking lot of the strip mall en route to the nearest recycling center, Marcus ended the call, head down, defeated, seething, upset.

He told Kwanzaa that he wanted the engagement ring returned. He said that if they had no chance of being together, he wanted the ring back.

She laughed harder. “Sue me for the ring and see how that works out.”

“Be fair.”

“You're going to ask for my ring back, so you can pawn it, then use the money to pay me part of what you have agreed to pay me? That's cold. It's not until you break up with someone that you get to really see what they are. Love puts on blinders. I cried over you so many nights.”