5 Minutes and 42 Seconds (9 page)

“I know you,” I said and looked at him for the first time since he'd sat down. His brown eyes calling my name. He kissed me. And I believed.

We did it twice. After the first time, I tried to talk to him, but he told me to shut up and wait in the other room until he was ready to go again. After the second time he escorted me to the door and told me never to come back. Said nothing was ever supposed to happen inside his home, and he started picking all the red roses in front of the house. I tried to give him my card, but he was too busy picking roses to notice. I sat it down at his doorstep, then went home and waited by the phone for him to call.

Two weeks later he called. He said he didn't want to come over my house, because it was mine, but that he owned an apartment that had just been made available. He said he wanted me to move in there. Rent-free. On one condition. He said that I had to belong to him. I asked him what he
meant and he just repeated what he'd just said. I said, “Yes, Fashad. I will belong to you.”

Fashad's been good to me. The apartment is in a nice neighborhood. Close enough to the hood to hear gunshots and know I could get the details on the news at eleven. Far enough not to have to worry about seeing any of my neighbors on it. From the outside it might look like I'm his man-whore, but it's not like that. I love Fashad. He might not know it, but he loves me too. He was using my name to pick up dudes, so I must have been on his mind, even after all those years. His house might not be a prison, but it is a trap. Down-low niggas aren't there because they aren't gay they're there because they're trapped in the lives they're
supposed
to live. Fashad will be different. Someday soon my love will set him free.

G
et your asses up.
It's time for school,” I say, knocking on the boys' doors in my yellow housecoat from the Home Shopping Network.

“Momma, we don't want to go to school,” said JD.

“What?” I asked, stepping into his room with a belligerent look on my face, my fist balled up like the red Power Ranger's on his wall.

“We don't want to go to school, Momma,” he timidly repeated.

“They ain't learnin' us nothing,” added his brother from the room across the hall.

“It's they
isn't,”
I responded, correcting my son. “They
isn't
teaching you all nothing—and they teaching you, you just ain't listening. If you was goin' to the school back in the projects with all them reckless Negroes, then maybe you could say that, but I know them white folks ain't lettin'
they kids go to no school where they ain't teaching the kids nothing.”

“But, Momma, I just wanna play basketball,” said JD, now sitting up in his bed and looking me directly in the eye.

“Yeah, Momma, we just wanna play basketball,” Taj mimicked from the other room.

“Dammit, y'all goin' to school, and I don't want to hear no more bullshit,” I yelled, flipping on the light switch as I walked out of the bedroom.

“Why, Momma? Why we gotta go to school?”

The first response that came to mind was “Just because.” It was like the drill with the trumpet, or staying married. It was what people did to keep things in place. To maintain order. But what was the point of maintaining order? Where was the benefit, and who did it belong to? What was the emotional cost? And who paid it?

I paused and thought:
They for damn sure don't have the brains to be doctors. They really don't teach basketball at school, and they ain't never going to learn how to rap livin' in the white folks' neighborhood. Livin' with the white folks ain't teachin' them nothing about the streets, and they daddy ain't going to teach them. I don't want them getting caught up in no mess no way. It seem like basketball might be the only chance they got to be SOMETHING more. How they sposed to make something of theyselves, cooped up in that school all day?

The mother in me wanted to pass them a basketball and tell them to go practice, pass, shoot, and dribble until their little hearts were content. The housewife in me was tired. The time the kids spent at school was the only time I had to myself. I felt selfish for a moment, but remembered my pas
tor saying the Bible said kids were supposed to go to school and wives were supposed to stay at home.

“You got to go to school, 'cause I said so.”

JD didn't move, and I didn't hear any footsteps from Taj's room.

“Do I have to get a switch and whoop your little asses?” I yelled.

They got up.

I knocked on Dream's door without bothering to try and open it, because I knew it was locked.

“Dream.”

“What?” asked Dream in a tone that would have set me off had it come from anyone else. But with Dream this was the way we always spoke to each other.

“It's time for you to get up and go to work.”

“I ain't goin',” said Dream.

“Yes you is,” I said, waiting for Dream to give the obligatory “No I ain't.” It didn't come. Twenty years of going back and forth like such, twenty years of loving and hating each other all at once, twenty years of yelling and screaming—arguing instead of saying “I love you.” Now Dream had the nerve to be silent, as if the discussion was over, as if I wasn't worth arguing with. First Fashad, now Dream—after all I'd sacrificed. I remembered how Fashad stopped arguing, then drifted away, when
she
interfered. I wasn't going to let any
he, she,
or
they
come between me and my daughter.

“Open up this goddamn door!” I yelled, my voice even louder than when I yelled at the boys, the rasp in my voice more violent than I'd ever remembered it being.

Dream did not respond.

I stood, paralyzed by my daughter's betrayal, in front of my bedroom door, the remnants of the life I'd created for the two of us slipping away. I was about to give in, to give up hope, but decided to fight back instead. I was going to hold this family together, whether it wanted to be held together or not. And if that meant leveling the house in the process, so be it. I found Fashad's hammer in the bright-red toolbox I'd bought him for our one-year anniversary—way back when I thought he was the kind of man who cared enough about his home to fix the things that were broken.

I stormed back up the stairs, grasping the hammer, my eyes wide with loneliness and desperation, my teeth clenched and ready for battle. Taj and JD's mouths opened when they saw me, and they began pleading their cases in terror.

“Momma, don't!” yelled JD.

“We gettin' ready as fast as we can, Momma,” said Taj, tripping over himself, trying to run back into his bedroom.

I ignored them both as I made my way to Dream's door and banged on it with the hammer. “Open up this goddamn door right muthafuckin' now,” I said, sweating profusely, my breath bated from running down the stairs to find the hammer.

Dream remained silent.

Venting every bit of loneliness and frustration I'd ever felt and never voiced, I again banged the hammer against the door.

Dream screamed.

Taj cried.

I grunted.

And JD stared like he was watching a movie.

I banged the hammer against the door
again.

Taj screamed.

JD cried, “Don't hurt her!”

Dream moaned.

I grunted.

I banged the hammer against the door. Again.

JD screamed, “Please, Momma!”

Taj plugged his ears.

Dream opened the door.

Taj and JD closed their eyes, plugged their ears, and hoped against hope that no one would get hurt.

Seeing them, I finally dropped the hammer and gazed at the scene—the mangled door, the hammer, my children screaming and moaning in fear. This was what my family had become. Ashamed, I snapped back into reality and fell to my knees in regret.

“Why you always blowin' shit out of proportion?” asked Dream, not showing the slightest bit of emotion. I sighed. The anger had left and once again I felt unloved.

I stood and stared at my daughter spitefully. “Stupid girl,” I said, still out of breath from slamming the hammer against the door, discreetly attempting to wipe tears from my cheeks because they embarrassed me.

Dream rolled her eyes and adjusted her blue beehive, as if the chaos had displaced it.

I barged into the room and sat down on my daughter's bed. “Sit down. Me and you are 'bout to have a talk,” I announced.

Dream stood silent, arms folded in defiance.

“Fine. Don't sit. I don't care. We still gonna have a talk.”

Dream began picking up the products in her makeup kit that I had accidentally knocked over. She sighed indignantly, picking them up especially slowly, pretending to be unfazed by anything I had said.

“So, you ain't goin' to work, huh?” I asked.

Dream waited a few seconds, trying to decide whether or not to respond. She decided the silent treatment would make her appear to be timid and girlish. I could see the rage in her eyes contemplating yelling and acting a fool, but she saw me cut my eyes at her and thought better of it.

Slowly she walked back to her baby-blue canopy bed, sat down, and crossed her legs like a businesswoman meeting another businesswoman for lunch. “No, I'm not,” she said, almost in a whisper, trying to make me feel like I was the crazy one and she was Miss Calm, Cool, and Collected.

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, rolling my eyes at my daughter's attempt to be anything more than the silly child she was.

“So what do you plan on doing with your life?” I asked, my voice mockingly cordial and upper-crust, mimicking my daughter's new sense of self. “How are you going to get a job without any credentials?”

Dream glared at me with disgust. “I don't need no job.
You
ain't got no job.”

Incensed, I dropped the act. “No, I don't, but there's a big difference between me and your little dumb ass that you can't understand: I have a husband.”

Dream smugly cut her eyes at me, then smiled slyly, acting as if she knew something I didn't.

“Don't look at me like that!” I commanded. “You think you somethin' else now that some nigga wants the puss.”

Dream's eyelids shot open, exposing her big brown irises as her jaw dropped.

“I wasn't born yesterday. You been tryin' to hide that shit, but I been livin' too long not to notice,” I said, and as I began to pace around the room, the anger in my voice rose exponentially.

“I hear you creepin' around the house at one and two o'clock in the morning. I see how you be spending forty-five minutes on your hair to go to the store. Store, my ass! I see how you don't eat but half your food at dinner.” I paused to let her squirm. “Are you tryin' to lose weight for your little boyfriend, Dream?” I taunted.

“So?” said Dream, and she folded her arms in front of her stomach, where she must've lost five, six pounds.

“So,” I said, mocking my daughter's calm voice once more. “You think this nigga gonna take care of you? You think this nigga gonna put you in a house like Fashad did me? You think this nigga gonna buy you diamonds and have every bitch in the city hating you?”

The look on her face said it all. No longer was she the diva with a man she just knew was the best of the best. She was a confused, inexperienced little girl who didn't know what love looked like.

“You ain't even got to answer. I know you do. 'Cause you're dumb,” I said, poking Dream on the side of her head with my index finger.

She knew I was right. She didn't say one word.

“So tell me about this nigga.”

Dream smacked her tongue and looked away, angry at me for bringing her little secret out in the open.

“You don't even have to tell me about him. I'm going to tell
you
about him,” I said and sat down beside my daughter, since I was much calmer now.

“He's a fine lil wannabe thug, ain't he? Probably slang him a lil something every now and then. And he got a big dick, don't he, Dream? Have you makin' booty calls.”

Dream smiled, but I could tell she didn't mean to.

“Yeah, I know. He probably said he loved you. Probably told you he got plans that you and him gonna get away and have a life together.”

Dream stopped smiling, because that part hit too close to home.

“Well, let me tell you what you don't know, Dream: this nigga ain't got no plans. Stupid girl. He gonna use you. He gonna say,
‘Baby,
can you pay my phone bill until I get up enough money to get my phone turned back on? You know I'm coming up on some money real soon.
Baby,
can you loan me some money till my money come in?
Baby,
can I drive your car till my money come and I get my own?
Baby,
don't worry, my money is comin' real soon.
Baby baby baby.'”

Dream turned away from me and I knew I'd hit the nail on the head.

I turned Dream around and held her shoulders in place, to make sure she would always remember the words that were about to come from my lips.

“Dream, this nigga ain't got no money, ain't never gonna have no money, and if he did, he wouldn't be fuckin' with you.”

A tear stained with the day before's makeup fell onto my hand. I reached for her when I realized how harsh I'd been. I wanted to console my daughter, but my voice broke, and Dream knocked my hand away. She threw herself on the bed and hid her head underneath the pillow. The pillow stifled the sound, but I could still hear her sobbing. It only strengthened my resolve.

“Stupid girl,” I said. “You don't want to go to work, that's your choice. I can't force you to do nothin', but I ain't havin' nobody's silly ho layin' up in my house. You want to be with this nigga so bad, take your shit and go be with him. You want to live here, breakfast is on the table.” Before I shut the broken door, I looked back at my daughter and grimaced once more at the pain I'd caused. I thought about apologizing, but remembered I'd only said what I said for Dream's own good, and was content.

I picked up the hammer and walked back down the stairs. I peeked out the window and saw the boys walking to the bus, dressed in matching Pelle Pelle outfits I'd neglected to iron. In the soap operas, the mothers always stay at the window to bid their children farewell. I always stayed, but only to make sure they really did get on the bus. The boys looked back and saw me. Normally they both waved, but that day they didn't.

The electric-blue private school bus had already glided down the street, past the mansions on either side, but I continued to look out the window at the spot my children had occupied moments before. I stared off into the distance. There were so many worlds out there. So many people doing so many things. But from my view, from my window in my
house, which wasn't really a home, I could see none of them. I'd been told not to leave the house, and I obeyed. Suddenly, the walls seemed to be closing in on me. I felt as if I were suffocating. I had no choice now—I had to either step into another world or be crushed when mine collapsed.

The cold, hard cement of my driveway sent shocks through my body. The garden had grass, the house had carpet, but the cement was bare, harsh. This was the world everyone else lived in. I wondered how people could stand it. I wondered if I could.

When I reached the edge of the lawn, I looked back on my house. I'd spent my last life hoping for all that I had in this one, but now I yearned for the living involved with hoping. There was something about being satisfied that was so unsatisfying. I wanted adventure. I wanted another life. A life without ungrateful kids and a philandering husband. A life without
her.
I looked down the road and saw the only people I'd seen besides my best friend, my family, and Smokey, since Smokey gave me the trumpet: the workers who weren't really workers. I looked back at my house, the house that wasn't really a home. Then back to the workers who weren't really workers. For the first time in a long time I knew I had a choice. I remembered when my mother had the choice of helping me and Dream, or moving to New York. I thought about all the pain it caused us, then turned around and walked back to the house to do another load of laundry.