When All Hell Breaks Loose (11 page)

“Well, then. Don’t go blaming her for your anger, because your idea of a family is what you saw on television. Louise did what she thought was right and proper and keeping her from that might have done more damage to our family than good. We just happen to be on the shit-receiving end of the stick. Hell, I miss her just as much, but your mama loves you and she shows that by sending you cards and gifts when she knows you don’t even open them.”

I sit embarrassed. Pops always defends her, no matter what, and I can never find it in myself to really get to the heart of the issue with him and yell at the top of my lungs how fucked up it was growing up without her.

My mother and father were both extremely involved jazz musicians back in the day. They met at a music festival in Monaco. Pops
finished high school and did one year at Juilliard. My mother dropped out of high school after winning a talent show when she was sixteen. Her parents moved her from Houston to New York to do amateur night at the Apollo and although she won two shows back to back, no immediate music career came out of it. She worked part-time as a housekeeper and made the other half of her money as a singer.

My mother, Louise Angelina Alston, became a very popular vocalist who performed with Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Charles Mingus, and even Benny Goodman before she was twenty years old. These connections came about when she was in Monaco attending a music festival with some of her singer friends, hoping to pick up a record deal. Pops had a gig playing keys for a small group that Miles Davis and drummer Roy Haynes had put together. Pops had met Miles at a rehearsal one night, and from there he played keys with the group for two and a half years. At the end of the second year they went to Monaco, Pops was looking to start his own band. He formed the Alston Jazz Quartet, and my mother auditioned and was the chosen vocalist. Back then, Sarah Vaughan, Betty Carter, Ella Fitzgerald, and other female singers were on the rise and my mother never seemed to be able to penetrate the market in the United States as a recognized jazz singer. She had a sound that floated between the operatic soul-filled Sarah and the high-spirited Ella. Unfortunately, America was already full of Sarahs and Ellas. Plus, my mother was young and nobody wanted to deal with a teenage jazz singer. Respect in the jazz scene came with age and experience, neither of which my mother had. I suppose that’s why she never could get her big break here.

I vaguely remember hearing Mom sing in rehearsals. I was three or four then. She had a voice that could make a man break down to his knees and beg for more. Her singing voice was slow, full of raw soul, and very mellow, but crystal clear. I mean glass-breaking clear. And when she hit those soprano highs like Sarah, everyone in the room would go to shouting and hollering like they were in church. She and Pops used to take me to some of their gigs at the clubs and I sometimes still dream about the smoky rooms full of dark, sweat-lined
faces. It’s funny, because when she talked, her voice was raspy and low like she was hoarse. Real jazz musicians couldn’t get enough of her, and sometimes she did a gig every night for weeks on end. She recorded a few songs, but they were never released in the States and were never enough to get her name in the mainstream.

When Louise became pregnant with me, she was twenty-five and Pops was twenty-nine, but they kept traveling and performing until it was time for me to enter school.

Before then, Mom would take me everywhere with her. Even though I was Pops’s “Little Man,” Louise hardly let me out of her sight. She would talk to me all the time about anything and everything I asked her about. We would sit at this one particular park in Brooklyn and she would push me on the swings while I asked her a million questions at a time and she answered them one by one. Once Shreese was born and it was about time for me to start school, Pops wanted to move to a city where jazz wasn’t prominent, and that was located far enough from the cities that were, like Kansas City, New Orleans, Chicago, and New York. After consideration and debating, we all moved to Dallas. This gave our parents the opportunity to concentrate on raising me and my sister. However, Mom still managed to name me and Shreese after two of her favorite performers. My middle name, Louis, is for Louis Armstrong, and Shreese’s first name is actually Nina, for Nina Simone. Only Louise called her Nina, but me and Pops always called her Shreese.

We were happy in Dallas back then. We were a family. Dad began substitute teaching at a nearby grade school and Mom was a cashier at Joske’s. In the evenings, when they came home, Mom would sit me down at my drum set and Shreese would play the keys with Pops, and we would play jazz tunes together. Mom seemed happy with us. Seemed. That’s why I can’t comprehend why she left.

When it started, no one saw it coming. At first, she started taking trips to and from France. She had gigs there, and Pops was understanding. Because of her traveling out of the United States so much, he began teaching full-time. I remember, three nights before my eighth birthday, Pops had put me and Shreese to bed. It was a Friday
night and I was still up, lying in my bed like a convict sentenced. I hated going to bed and would sometimes lie awake hours before drifting off to sleep. The phone rang and Pops picked up the line in the hallway. A few minutes later, I could hear him shouting into the phone. I’d never heard him sound so angry. The last thing I remember him saying was, “I hope you and that drum-playing, backbiting Lester have a good life!” He slammed the phone down and I jumped under my bedcovers. It scared me to hear Pops yell like that. It was the one night in my life that I remembered wetting the bed. The next day, Pops got up and went through the usual routine with us. He put our clothes on us, fixed breakfast, and took us to school. I knew something was wrong. Pops’s eyes were red and sleepy as if he had been up all night. He had that look on his caramel-colored face that made you understand that no questions were to be asked.

When my birthday rolled around, my mom called. I was excited and glad to hear from her. Her voice sounded like the first warm, sunny day after a long winter. I wanted to tell her I heard Pops shout at somebody the other night and ask her who it was and why was he shouting, but I didn’t want to ask over the phone. I asked her when she was coming back, and there was a long silence. When she began talking again, her voice was quivering. I became nervous and scared. The emotions that my parents had been displaying made me uncomfortable. She told me that she would see me at Christmas, and that was it. We saw her at Christmas for the next five years. The last time I saw her, I was thirteen and Shreese was ten. Pops never dated again, nor did he bring any other woman into our house. He stopped playing his piano, I quit playing the drums, and Shreese started going to church every chance she got, praying to God to send our mother back.

I don’t know … sometimes I think that because I got my degree and I ain’t slangin’ drugs or laid up with children all over the city calling me Daddy, all the hurt and damage I felt as boy just aren’t there. But every time I come across a situation where a mother is not in her child’s everyday life or am faced with my own personal dilemma with my mother, I just want to start running. Running so
fast, until the wind can no longer get to my lungs quick enough to keep me standing. I want to punch somebody and then go to sleep and never wake up, because sometimes it hurts that much.

I’m angry at my mother and I would love to have her at my wedding, singing to me and Adrian. I want her to meet Adrian and love her the same way I do. I want my mother to be living in the same house with Pops, because that’s where she belongs. I want her to call me and hassle me about not coming to see her or call her, even though only a week has passed by. The exact way Tim’s mother does him sometimes. That’s what mothers are supposed to do. I’m not asking for too much, and I think what my mother did was unfair, selfish, and fucked-up. Real fucked-up.

B
aby, take the popcorn out of the microwave and hurry up, the movie is about to start.”

Adrian is laughing at me because I’m trying to carry this hot-ass bag of popcorn and two Cokes.

She’s lying on the couch like a princess, wearing a Victoria’s Secret shorts-and-tank set. The burgundy colors against her skin excite me when I look at her.
The Usual Suspects
is in the VCR and it has already started playing. I climb onto the couch and almost drop the bag of popcorn.

“Ouch!” I drop the bag on the coffee table.

“Greg, you should have poured it in a bowl.” She giggles.

“I should have let you get it, that’s what I should’ve done,” I say as I shake my burning fingers in the air.

Adrian grabs a pillow and rests it comfortably between my legs before laying her head on it. We watch the movie and when it’s over, we climb into bed exhausted.

Even though Adrian has a silk head rag on her freshly permed do,
she still looks good. I stroke her arms and hips as we lie together. She smells good and I’m glad we are able to share moments like these.

That’s where most women tend to go wrong, if you ask me. Some women can’t just lie in bed with a man and enjoy the moment. They start twisting and turning like something’s wrong with them; then, when you ask them are they okay, they lie and say yes, knowing good and well that something is on their mind. Then they wait until sleep has a brother by his neck and they start talking and asking all kinds of what-if questions. That really gets on my nerves. My last serious commitment was with this aerobics instructor named Jamie. She was fine, beautiful, and we had a lot of common interests. The only problem was that she asked so many questions, I thought I was auditioning for her love! We would lie in bed and she would question me to sleep. I would wake up answering her shit. Finally, one day, I asked her why’d she ask me so many questions, and her response was “To see where your head is at.” Now, don’t get me wrong, but if you want to see where my head is at, asking me a thousand questions a day isn’t going to get it. Half the time I was lying to her, anyway.

See, I’m a man of quiet action. Adrian seemed to pick up on that immediately. She doesn’t hardly ask me anything and when she does, they are questions I don’t feel threatened by answering. She’s a woman who knows her man. Sometimes, I get thrown off because she doesn’t ask a lot of questions, but it’s cool because I’ve had my share of nosey sisters.

“Greg, don’t forget we’re having dinner at my parents’ house tomorrow,” Adrian whispers, interrupting my thoughts.

“Okay.” I pull her closer to me and kiss her neck. I forgot all about tomorrow’s trip to the Jenkinses’ home. Now, this is what I am not looking forward to. I love Adrian’s parents and they seem to like me, but her family strikes me as kind of odd.

The best way I can put it is, they seem somewhat sheltered. Compared to my family, anyway. Her parents don’t say much, but when they do, the comments are off the wall. If I wasn’t Adrian’s fiancé, the perfect word for her folks would be “slow.”

R
uford and Joyce Jenkins greeted us at the door, both smiling like we were holding winning Lotto tickets. Ruford immediately stuck out his right hand. “Gregory, son! It’s good to see you again! Come on in!”

“Same here, same here,” I say, smiling.

“Oh, Gregory, how are you?” Mrs. Jenkins grabs me and kisses me on both cheeks. “I’m cooking something good for you today.”

“Fine, Mrs. Jenkins,” I respond. “Thanks for taking the time out to cook, you really shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, it’s nothing for the man who’s going to be our son-in-law!”

“Well, y’all come on inside, out of the heat.” Mr. Jenkins steps back inside the house and we follow. The house smells good. Whatever Adrian’s mother has prepared, I’m ready to eat it.

We sit in the living room letting the cool of the house surround us. As soon as I see the big-screen television settled quietly in the corner, I think about the Dallas Cowboys and Denver Broncos football game I’m missing.

“So, are the wedding plans going okay?” Joyce asks. She walks
into the kitchen, which is open to the living room. She’s a tall woman with big hips. Her hair is pulled back in a single braid decorated with a handmade barrette. She has a cigarette lit in an ashtray near the stove.

“Mom, they’re going fine,” Adrian snaps. “We’ve got everything covered.”

I look at her and she isn’t smiling. Adrian never enjoys coming over to her parents’ home. She thinks they have always been a bit overbearing, but I think they’re cool. Joyce doesn’t seem to notice Adrian’s cranky behavior. She looks at me with a porcelain grin on her face as she stirs whatever she has brewing in the pot.

“Your sister told me you two were having problems finding a photographer,” Joyce says. “Adrian, I told you Mr. Henderson two blocks over can do just a good a job for half the money you’re talking about spending.”

“Mr. Henderson fell asleep at Arlette’s wedding and missed the kiss! How can you expect me to want to use that man?” Adrian barks. She shakes her head unbelievingly and huffs.

“We’re still looking, though,” I cover as I rub my woman’s shoulders. She’s uptight every time we come over here. “Thanks for the reference.”

“Adrian, have you found a dress yet?” Mr. Jenkins asks.

“So far, I’ve found one, but I’m still looking to make sure it’s what I want to wear.”

“Well, make sure it’s angel white with a long train,” Joyce says. “I’ll die if you walk down that aisle without a long train. The ladies at the lodge are looking forward to being there.”

Adrian lets out a long sigh as she gets up and walks to the back of the house. I want to go and check on her, but something keeps my ass glued to the sofa.

“We are so proud of Adrian. She’s come a long way,” her father responds. He has a toothpick in his mouth that moves up and down when he talks. Mr. Jenkins is tall and I can’t imagine why Adrian isn’t taller than five seven. Both of her parents look like basketball players. I know her mother played in a league some years ago, but her father never played any sports from what she’s told me.

“The good Lord knows we have always wanted what’s best for her,” Joyce adds. She comes into the living room and sits on the side of the recliner next to her husband. “Sometimes, I just didn’t know about that girl.”