The Meltdown (22 page)

“And how are you faring without your grandmother, Jayd?” Dr. Whitmore asks, shining his tiny light in my eyes. He’s looking for more than my emotions with the shiny tool. I don’t need a mini flashlight to see that Dr. Whitmore misses Mama. They have lunch at least once a week and see each other regularly for spiritual business, working on remedies and ridding negative energy from their individual clients.

“I miss her and Netta, but I’m glad she’s enjoying her trip. She deserves it,” I say, looking at the wall where a picture of Mama in all white hangs with the other photos. He and Mama go way back. My instincts tell me that they were more than friends back in the day.

“How’s your sleep?” he asks, tilting my chin up and taking a closer look.

No sense in lying about it when he might be able to help. “Not so good lately,” I say. He directs me to stick out my tongue. Nickey looks at us more curious than ever. She doesn’t have to talk to communicate with me. As caul babies, we have our own unique language.

“Did you finish the last round of herbs I prescribed for your sleepwalking incident back in February?”

Dr. Whitmore knows as well as anyone I hate taking the meds he prescribes for my issues. I didn’t finish the round because I’ve been feeling better, but I know I should always follow his directions to the letter.

“No, sir,” I say. He looks at me, disappointed. Without further inspection, he packs up a bag of goodies for me to take.

“Call me if you need anything else. And, Jayd, please be mindful of your sleep. You know as well as I do there are real enemies just waiting for the opportune moment to take over your dreams again,” he says, bending down and softly pinching Nickey’s right cheek. They look at each other as if they’ve met before: knowing both of them, they probably have. “It would be a shame if you lost your gift of sight before you had time to master it. Think of all the people you could help with your blessing.”

Dr. Whitmore’s warning scares me into submission. “I will finish this round, Doctor. I promise.”

Dr. Whitmore smiles as he opens the door for us. “Don’t promise me a damn thing, Jayd,” he says, standing up as I gather the baby’s things and my own. With the diaper bag, stroller, and car seat, carrying Nickey around must be heavier than toting three adults. “Promise yourself that you’ll put your health first. You’ll do none of us any good if you suffer another breakdown.” Feeling crazy is worse than menstrual cramps, and they make me feel like I want to die. No matter what’s in this paper bag, I’m going to tolerate it. The alternative is a line I don’t want to ever cross again.

The thick aftertaste of the bitter herbs I swallowed three hours ago creeps up my throat, causing me to belch loudly. I turn my head into my elbow and narrowly avoid spreading my gaseous air over my client’s hair. That would ruin the mango-scented finishing cream I just smoothed all over Miller’s braids. He’s a new client, who doesn’t say much and pays in singles. I don’t know what he does, but Shawntrese recommended him, so I know he’s okay.

“Excuse me,” I say, undraping the brown towel from around his shoulders.

He looks in the large hand mirror, pleased with the results. “You’re excused.”

Miller hands me exactly forty one-dollar bills. My guess is he’s a busboy and lives off his under-the-table earnings, which is why he can’t afford to tip me. But I’m not tripping. I understand being that tight on cash. I haven’t been grocery shopping at all this week and can’t wait for the block party that’s already going on. I told my crew about it, and they’re probably already enjoying the festivities. A sistah like me can’t afford to pass up cash. Surprisingly, the holiday hasn’t stopped me from having a very busy morning.

“Enjoy your day,” I say, opening the front door for my last client of the day.

“I will. My mom and I are going to watch the fireworks at the Queen Mary,” he says, slowly walking down the stairs.

That explains his quiet demeanor: Miller has
mama’s boy
written all over his thin frame.

“Have fun,” I say after him. I close the door and head to the bathroom to shower and get dressed as quickly as I can. I’m hungry and I know the food’s ready. I can practically smell it from Compton I’m so excited. I just hope my uncles keep themselves in check. Every year, one of them seems to go too far, but we’re not the only family on the block with embarrassing relatives. It’s always a crapshoot to see who’ll go off the deep end every holiday. Hopefully, this year we won’t win that title.

The closer I get to Mama’s block, the louder my stomach growls. Granted, I don’t eat all of the dishes that’ll be served at each house, but there are still a few neighbors who make the best potato salad, baked beans, and chicken hot links I’ve ever tasted. I used to be the girl cleaning chitlins—the most disturbing kitchen job I’ve ever been forced into. I’m so glad Mama gave up pork when I was ten years old. However, it is the smell of the boiled and fried pig intestines that welcomes me home.

“There goes my baby,”
my ringtone sings, indicating a call from my man. I park around the corner from my grandparents’ block and answer his call.

“I didn’t think I’d hear from you again so soon,” I say, turning the engine off and opening the door. It’s too hot to sit in the car without air.

“I was a little thrown off by our last conversation, Lady J, but I missed my baby,” Jeremy says, melting my heart. He can be so sweet. “Have you seen her lately?”

“No, I haven’t. But when you see her, please tell her to holla at me,” I say, making us both laugh. It’s been too long since we’ve shared a light moment. Our conversations are too strained and quick to establish a comfortable flow and this time’s no different.

“You’re a little crazy, but it’s kind of sexy, so all is forgiven,” Jeremy says.

I know he’s only partially joking. I admit I’m a lot to handle, but I’m worth it. His life’s not so easy, either.

“I love you, too.” I imagine Jeremy bending his tall frame down to meet my lips, taking me in his strong, toned arms, forcing me on my tiptoes. Voluntarily, I surrender to his embrace. What I wouldn’t give to see his deep blue eyes, to run my fingers though his sun-kissed curls that complement his olive complexion. Damn, I miss my man.

“I’m sorry I can’t talk for long, but I’ll be home soon, Jayd. We have a lot of time to make up for.”

He’s got that right. The summer will practically be over by the time he gets back from Europe.

“I hope so, baby. Bye and be good,” I say.

“Tell everyone I said hi,” Jeremy says before disconnecting the call.

I guess it’s time to party whether I’m feeling festive or not.

I lock the car door and head down Caldwell Street. As I turn the corner, I notice Rah, Nigel, and Mickey kicking it
with my uncle Bryan and cousin Jay. I should be able to slip these pills into Mickey’s purse when she’s not looking without having to travel to her side of town to do it. I’m tired and need to catch up on sleep after I throw down on some bar-beque. Dr. Whitmore’s herbs may taste like death, but they get the job done.

“Damn, girl. We thought you were working in the fields as long as it took you to get here,” Bryan says, talking shit as usual.

“I get paid for my hustle, Mr. James,” I say to my favorite uncle. I hug my friends and give my cousin dap before claiming the ready-made plate on the long foldout table with matching chairs.

“I got all you favorites,” Rah says, making sure I know he’s the one who made my plate. He knows me so well.

The neighbors are enjoying the vibe and every family’s got a job to do. The Webbs up the block are the deejays. The Baxters across the street are holding down the drinks—alcoholic and non—and all of the yards have folding tables and chairs for plenty of cross-family socializing.

“Thank you,” I say. I haven’t talked to Rah about the dream I had with Sandy straddling a stranger, but I think I should let him know in private. I pull back the aluminum foil covering the paper plate and dig in with the plastic fork also provided.

“Hey, Jayd. Your boy’s here,” Bryan says, pointing at Mr. Adewale walking up the block.

I look up to see an unexpected guest coming our way, not that I’m disappointed. Since when did my uncle Bryan and Mr. Adewale become boys? I know they occasionally ball together, but them hanging out is a bit much.

Too bad Mama’s not here for the festivities. She usually makes a slamming peach cobbler for the annual event. I miss
her cooking and so does everyone else on Gunlock today. Nothing’s the same without my grandmother’s special touch.

“What’s our teacher doing here?” Mickey asks, feeding Nickey a bottle and rocking her to sleep.

I’m glad to see she can be a good mother when she wants to be. Hopefully Dr. Whitmore’s meds will help her demeanor improve permanently.

“He’s only your teacher during school hours. Right now he’s the fool who owes me twenty dollars for whipping his ass on the court last night,” Bryan says, greeting Mr. Adewale. I suddenly have the urge to check my breath. This potato salad is scrumptious, but the onions are a bit much.

“Hey, everyone,” Mr. A says. My friends and I say hi and continue eating. “And you can’t have what you didn’t earn, man.”

It’s weird seeing him interact with someone his own age for a change. Mr. Adewale’s just a regular guy: fine, but still regular.

“Always talking but never walking,” my uncle says, pointing to the backyard where the netless basketball rim is hanging above the garage door. My uncles wore that thing out years ago, and it’s never been replaced. “First to twenty-one, double or nothing.”

“Bet,” Mr. A says, following my uncle to the back.

No matter how old they get, boys will be boys. Nigel and Rah would love to get in on the action, but food comes first and we’re all digging in.

“This chicken is banging,” Nigel says, licking barbeque sauce from his fingers. Rah nods his head in agreement and so do I. There’s nothing like home cooking.

It’s still early in the afternoon, and so far it looks like everyone’s enjoying the party. This is one of those holidays where everyone comes back to the block to catch up on the
latest news, visit old friends, and see the new babies, like Nickey.

“Mickey, why don’t you take Nickey down to Tre’s house?” I say, looking at his sister Brandy’s growing baby bump as she and her friends play dominoes on their front lawn. They’ve seen a lot of tragedy in their small family: First their mother died and then their little brother, Tre. Hopefully her baby will bring some joy to their household and maybe Tre’s daughter will, too. “His sisters know the baby’s his by now, I’m sure.” We don’t need our own news channel in Compton if we need to get the word out. Our CNN is via hair salons, barbershops, and the corner store.

“Because I don’t want to,” Mickey says, sucking her teeth at the idea. Nigel and Rah keep silent even if I know they feel the same way I do. “And besides, me and Brandy got into it a couple of years ago in junior high, and I still can’t stand the bitch.”

“Mickey, that’s so juvenile I can’t even comment,” I say, placing my empty plate in the large trash bag next to the table and wiping my hands on a wet nap. There’s no being cute while throwing down around here. “I’ll take her, then,” I say, rolling my eyes at my girl, who returns the favor. She has to know she’s wrong for keeping Tre’s sisters from his only child that we know of. After he died saving Nigel’s life from getting shot by Mickey’s ex-man, the least she could do is be apologetic about the shit, but not Mickey. She’s a gangsta girl until the very end.

“Good looking, Jayd,” Nigel says. “Tre was a good brotha.”

Rah nods his head in agreement, and Mickey feels out of the loop. I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks her behavior’s immature.

I take Nickey’s stroller by the curved handles and make my way down the packed block, waving to our neighbors
along the way. Nickey is a cute baby and garners me lots of attention when we’re together, just like Rahima. I’m going to have to take both my goddaughters to the mall and get some serious love. When Nickey and I hung out yesterday, so many people stopped to comment on her beauty.

“Hey, Jayd. Who’s the baby?” Brandy asks, rubbing her swollen belly like she’s ready to pop. She’s due any day now. It’ll be nice for Nickey to have a cousin to grow up with like Jay and I. We were very close.

“She’s your niece,” I say, positioning the baby for Brandy to see. Maybe she can recognize family features Mickey and I can’t. Nickey looks just like her mama to me. “Nickey Shan-tae. Say hi to your auntie.”

“Oh,” Brandy says, looking at Nickey. I can see her older sister inside the house talking on her cell. “Who’s the mama?” she asks, knowing it’s not me. Everyone knows Mama would kill me before she allowed me to get pregnant at such a young age.

“Mickey,” I say, surprised she hasn’t heard the latest news. Or maybe she has and she’s feigning ignorance to be mean.

“Well, we can’t help take care of no more babies. We got enough of our own.” Damn, I didn’t even say anything about all that. “Besides, Tre ain’t here to vouch for her, so she ain’t no kin of mine.”

I look at her three friends, each focused on the dominoes in their hands. This heffa’s really going to sit here and pretend like Nickey’s not a part of her family. Trifling people get on my damned nerves.

“I thought you’d want to meet her, especially since Tre’s gone,” I say, giving Brandy a chance to redeem herself, but she’s unrelenting in her cold attitude.

“Whatever, Jayd,” Brandy says, taking a drag from her cigarette. This broad should be arrested for smoking while pregnant.
“As many niggas as Mickey runs through, it’s no telling who the baby daddy is.”

Without another word, I turn the stroller around and head back down the street. I don’t know what to say. Unfortunately, Brandy’s telling the truth about Mickey’s promiscuity, but her way of going about it is all wrong. Visiting Tre’s house was definitely a mistake. Brandy and I have never been cool, but we’ve never had beef, either, until now. I wish Mickey would beat her ass again for that ignorant shit.

“Let’s get some lemon pound cake from Mrs. Pritchard’s house,” I say, but Nickey’s knocked out. I wish I could fall asleep that easily. Bryan and Mr. A must be done with their game, and from the looks of the money exchanging hands, I’d have to say Bryan won even if Mr. A’s smiling like he’s the victor.