The Next Best Thing (22 page)

Because he was a big man who was hard to find clothes for, Uncle Woody was buried in the same black pinstriped suit he always wore for every special occasion. The funeral was hard on everybody, but Daddy was especially distraught. He wept softly the entire time, and was so overcome with emotion that he was unable to eulogize Woody when it was his turn to do so.

A couple of days before the funeral, Daddy went ahead and let Uncle Woody's Louisiana relatives have all of his personal effects, and they came through and picked the place clean, as vultures tend to do. And guess what? Not one of them managed to make it to the funeral service.

The coolness of Uncle Woody's cheek brought tears to my eyes as I bent down to kiss him good-bye.

Not only was he Daddy's friend but he was also a friend to the entire family, giving of himself without a second thought. Uncle Woody loved his Johnny Walker Red, but he was never mean when he was drunk, as Daddy can sometimes be. He weighed over three-hundred pounds and was always breathing heavily, but he loved us kids so much, that he always took time out from the get-togethers to connect with us by tossing a ball around, throwing a Frisbee, and stuff like that.

The after-funeral repast was held at my parents' house, and as soon as we walked through the door, Daddy poured himself a tall glass of Uncle Woody's favorite drink, which was Jack Daniel's with a splash of Coke.

With a houseful of company, Daddy took his drink and the plate of food that Mama had fixed him, and closed himself off in my old bedroom, which he had turned into a private study on the same day I had left for college.

“I sure hate to see him like that,” I told Mama, helping myself to a slice of double fudge chocolate cake.

“If you think that's bad, you should see how he is when there's nobody here but us,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Baby, I know how you are, always wanting to do something special for people, but I really don't think your Daddy's going to be in the mood for a birthday party this year.”

I chose not to tell my mother that plans for this party had been in the works for the past few months. In fact, I had already contracted with Donna Samuels, my favorite floral designer, to transform my condo into an elegant party atmosphere, and the only thing left to do was finalize the menu with Nelson, which I would do later on this week at the menu tasting.

So, I hated to do it, but for the first time since I was a teenager, I looked my mother in the eyes, and lied with a straight face.

“Believe me, I'm not planning a party for Daddy this year,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back. “I should be back to work by then, and I'll probably be busy that day anyway.”

“Well good, because Cedric is just not going to be up to celebrating,” Mama said, using a dish towel to wipe down the kitchen counter. “You keep that money you would have spent on a party and do something nice for yourself, for a change.”

Little did she know that it was too late. The birthday boat had already set sail, and unlike Mama, I was sure that a party in Daddy's honor was exactly what he needed to help lift his spirits.

A few days after Uncle Woody's funeral, Nelson came over to my place around 7 p.m. with a notebook in hand, looking quite serious.

“You ready to see what I came up with?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, leading the way to my kitchen table. “Let's see what you got.”

I know I said I would let Nelson do his thing with the menu, but the control freak came out in me, and I had to have
some
input. We butted heads, going back and forth for nearly three hours, and this is the menu that Nelson and I finally decided to go with.

 

S
TARTERS

C
RISPY CRAB CAKES WITH
O
LD
B
AY REMOULADE

A
RUGULA AND WALNUT SALAD WITH BERRY VINAIGRETTE

M
AIN
C
OURSE

P
RIME RIB

P
OACHED LOBSTER IN A WHITE-WINE SAUCE

W
HITE-CHEDDAR MASHED POTATOES

G
RILLED ASPARAGUS

O
VEN-ROASTED TOMATOES WITH FRESH HERBS

D
INNER ROLLS

D
ESSERT

S
EVEN-LAYER RED VELVET CAKE

M
ANGO-LIME TARTS

P
RALINE BREAD PUDDING

 

It will be a sit-down dinner for fifty people, and we are going to have a dessert buffet. Simple yet tasteful, and not too far out of Daddy's comfort zone.

“So,” I said to Nelson. “Now that the menu is out of the way, how much are you going to charge me to do the catering?”

“I'll tell you what—if your dad and his guests hate the food, then you don't have to pay me anything. If they love it, you owe me fifteen hundred.”

“That's all?”

“That's it.”

“And you're that confident in your skills?”

“Yes ma'am,” he said with a cocky swagger. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“Well alright then!” I said, shaking his hand to seal the deal. “But I'm counting on you, Nelson. It's all on you, man!”

“Don't worry, Tori. I got you!”

I was hoping that those wouldn't be famous last words, when I got a phone call from Simone.

“Where are you?” Simone asked, with what sounded like a whole lot of commotion in the background.

“I'm just finishing up a menu consultation,” I said.

“With that neighbor friend of yours?”

“Yes…” I said, looking at Nelson, who was looking at me. “Why, what's going on with you?”

“Hello! You said you were going to swing by and hang out with us tonight.”

“Oh! I totally forgot,” I said, slapping my forehead with my palm. “Alright, I'm on my way. You need me to bring anything?”

“Just your smiling face,” Simone said. “Oh, and bring your friend, too. I think it's time I checked him out.”

I hung up the phone, still looking at Nelson.

“What?” he asked, suspiciously.

“My girlfriend just invited the two of us to her place for a little kick back.”

“Nadia, from upstairs?”

“No, her name is Simone,” I said. “She's heard me speak of you on a couple of occasions, and she wants to meet you.”

“Oh, I get it!” he smiled. “She wants to look me over to see if I'm worthy of her stamp of approval, right?”

“Get over yourself!” I laughed. “My friends' approval is only required when I'm dating someone, and since we aren't dating, just consider it a platonic invitation to hang out.”

“Alright, I'm game. I'm always up for meeting new people.”

 

Poetry nights at Simone and Rasheed's never fail to be interesting. There is always plenty of hummus and pita bread, fruit platters, vegetable trays, organic wine, ginger beer, and stimulating conversation to go around.

The smell of Nag Champa incense hung thick in the air as an eclectic group of creative types came together to share thoughts, ideas, and their respective arts. Among them were actors, writers, poets, visual artists, scholars, dancers, singers, musicians, and intellectuals.

When Nelson and I arrived at Simone and Rasheed's modest split-level bungalow, the lighting was so low that it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, and make out that Simone was standing beneath the massive black-and-white photograph of a stoic Billie Holiday that I had given her for her birthday a few years ago.

There were two-dozen or so people seated on the floor and wherever else they could find a spot to sit; all enraptured with one of Simone's signature poems. Rasheed strummed a soft melody on his acoustic guitar, while his woman delivered a dramatic performance piece with much sass and animation.

“I imagine myself in the depths of hell, trapped deep inside a miry pit. I look up, see a woman's outstretched hand, and take it. The woman is strong. She pulls me up and out of the pit with ease. She helps me to settle my feet on solid ground. I dust myself off and I look into the woman's face to thank her. I smile. This woman is not only strong; she is beautiful, radiant, and righteous. I smile because I recognize her. The woman is me.”

Finger snaps, whoops, and lit lighters go up around the room.

“Alright, girl!” I applauded Simone as she came over to greet us. “Save yourself!”

“I'm so glad you made it,” Simone said, giving me a hug.

“Me too,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. “Simone Benson, this is my friend Nelson Tate. Nelson, this is my sister Simone.”

Simone and Nelson hit it off instantly. They got to talking about everything from making your own turkey sausage to the benefits of juicing. The two of them were so far off into their own little world, that they didn't even notice when I left them to go mingle with some of the other guests.

“How's it going, Rasheed?” I asked, walking up on him having what looked to be an intimate conversation with a pretty, heavyset sister in a burnt-orange sundress.

“Hey Tori,” Rasheed said, removing his hand from the small of Ms. Orange's back long enough to give me a hug. “What's up, girl?”

“Not much,” I said, waiting to be formally introduced to the heifer he was so obviously flirting with. But Rasheed didn't make the effort. Instead, he allowed himself to be led away by another female admirer, who insisted that he serenade her with a rendition of “Cry” by Lyfe Jennings.

Rasheed's flirting doesn't mean anything, huh?

I just hope for Simone's sake that her trust in Rasheed hasn't been misplaced, because she is the last person in the world I want to experience the pain that I have been through.

“Hey, that girl in the orange dress, what's her name again?” I asked Simone as we assembled more veggie trays in the kitchen.

“Oh, Delilah? Yeah, she's cool. She's playing the lead in Rasheed's play.”

“Well earlier tonight, I saw Rasheed giving Delilah the kind of backrub that should only be reserved for you,” I said. “What's up with that?”

Simone laughed at me. “Tori, as long as you've known Rasheed, you should know by now that my man is just a harmless flirt. He doesn't mean anything by it.”

“I'm just saying, speaking from experience, you might want to keep an eye on that.”

“Well, I appreciate the concern, but I trust my man. And even though it turned out that you could not trust Roland, please don't come in here placing your negativity on my relationship, okay?”

Now I totally understand why some women hesitate to tell their girlfriends that their man may be up to no good. You always look like the villain, even though all you've done is express concern.

“Okay. You know what? My bad. Case closed,” I said, chopping a celery stalk into one-inch pieces.

“Thank you!” Simone said, spooning hummus into a decorative bowl. “Now, tell me about you and Nelson.”

I shrugged. “Not much to tell.”

“I'm not buying that. He's here with you tonight, isn't he?”

“Just as a friend,” I said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“That's how it usually starts,” Simone teased. “Rasheed and I were friends for about a year before we decided to cut out all the bullshit and become exclusive.”

“Well, I wouldn't go placing any bets on this one,” I said, chewing on a miniature carrot. “Nelson and I are just friends and I'm pretty sure it's going to stay that way.”

“So what's keeping it from going any further?” Simone asked.

I relayed the story of Nelson screaming out Kara's name while we were having sex.

“Ooh!” Simone winced. “Now that could be a problem.”

“I know, right? And how do you compete with a ghost?” I asked. “Especially one who is this perfect angel in his eyes. Seriously, if the woman had any flaws, it would have been something sappy like she loved him too much.”

“Hmmm…” Simone said. “I wonder what Fatima would say about this situation?”

“Well this is one time I don't mind you discussing my business with her, because I would really like to know how to handle—” I stopped myself when Nelson walked into the kitchen.

“There you are,” he said to me. “We're just about to start a Scrabble tournament—you play?”

“Do I play?” I asked, incredulous. “Simone, you better let him know who the reigning champion is around here.”

“Tori's a beast when it comes to Scrabble,” Simone told Nelson. “I'm telling you, the girl can kick some serious butt.”

“Oh yeah?” Nelson said. “Well, I'm about to change all that.”

“Yeah, we'll see about that,” I said, letting Nelson lead me back into the living room, hoping he had not overheard enough to know that he had been the topic of discussion.

 

An hour later, I was systematically destroying the competition at Scrabble, while Nelson participated in a lively discussion on the state of Black America.

Everybody laughed until they cried when Nelson did a dead-on impersonation of Bill Cosby. “Stop calling each other niggas and learn how to read and write!” He rolled his eyes, did the Jell-O Pudding face, and continued, “Never mind my past indiscretions, and all the rumors you may have heard about me, y'all niggas need to get your shit together in a major way!”

“God bless Bill Cosby!” I said. “Somebody needed to stand up and say it.”

My comment turned the heat up on the debate, and as Nelson valiantly defended my viewpoint, Simone nudged me and whispered, “I don't care what you say. I think we have ourselves a winner!”

 

Nelson and I left Simone's a little after midnight. He parked his Escalade in the parking garage of our building, and we walked over to the Cheesecake Factory where we had dessert out on the patio.

“Now this really reminds me of New Orleans,” Nelson said, as a parade of horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped past the restaurant.

“It seems like you have a thing for New Orleans,” I said, savoring my Godiva Chocolate cheesecake. “Have you been down there since Hurricane Katrina hit?”

“Oh yeah, no doubt. As a matter of fact, I had just gotten back from New Orleans that day we ran into each other at Home Depot. I spent two weeks down there helping my Aunt Edna get her restaurant up and running again.”

“So how is it going down there?”

“Slow! I mean, it is ridiculous that most of those neighborhoods are still the same mess they were right after the storm first hit,” he said with a bitter edge in his voice. “And those FEMA trailer parks—man! On the outside looking in, they look like hell on earth; I can only imagine what it's like to actually have to
live
in that type of environment.”

“That's a damn shame.” I shook my head. “It just seems to me that what's happening down there is criminal on so many levels.”

“Yeah, you're right…” Nelson agreed, quickly wiping away a tear that had suddenly sprung to his eye. “I'm sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “It just makes me so mad to see all those kids living like—man, they just deserve so much better than that.”

Nelson's anger about the plight of New Orleans was so palpable, and his passion so strong, that tears unexpectedly sprung to my eyes, as well.

I wrapped my arms around Nelson and rubbed his back with long, gentle strokes.

It is so refreshing to see a man passionate about something besides sports and sex. I felt Nelson's pain, though. The situation in New Orleans just goes to show that freedom ain't as free as we thought it was. If you have money in this country, then you have value. You matter when a natural disaster comes along. If you happen to be poor, then oh well! You're just ass out.