Going Broke (24 page)

Sabrina Colten was as sweet as she could be. After spending time with her, I saw that she was no one to fear. We weren't alone. Her mother and mother-in-law were both sitting at the kitchen table giving their old-time recipe instructions. Two out of her five sisters were also present, and though they were twice my age, they looked like they were clueless about cooking.

Tremel's three aunts on his father's side were burning right alongside his mother. She really didn't need me to do anything; I think it was her way of breaking the tension.

It was obvious that Tremel's father's sisters thought that they were master chefs. So by talking to me every once in a while, Mrs. Colten didn't have to pay them any mind. Along with asking me about myself, she'd throw in a “Baby, pass me the salt,” or “Sweetie, let me get some sugar,” or “Do you see that spoon I left over there?” every time her sisters-in-law got on her nerves.

I heard the front door open and close many times, but if someone didn't come into the kitchen, I wasn't going to meet them. It was my golden rule. I found comfort in the family members I had already met.

Before long, I was walking through the garden with the grandmothers. They loved me already. Mrs. Colten, Tremel's paternal grandmother, was eighty-one, and Mrs. Hall, Tremel's maternal grandmother, was seventy-nine. However, they both had a lot of spunk in them. There must have been something in the Ohio River. As we strolled, they talked about Tremel being such a mischievous child. In his younger days, he was always playing tricks on people and starting up some form of trouble.

Everyone in Tremel's family was shocked that God would give such a sweet singing voice to such a little clown. No one even knew that Tremel's li'l bad butt could sing until he was ten years old and was in the Sunday school Christmas play. When he opened his mouth to sing “Silent Night,” the church folks were on fire. The boy had them shouting like the pastor had just delivered the Word three times over.

Once we were back inside, it was almost time to eat. Tremel's mother issued me the task of walking through the house to count how many people were present. She instructed me to open any and every closed door so that she'd have an accurate headcount. The older people were watching football in the family room. I counted fourteen folks there. Eight teenage boys were in a bedroom flipping back and forth from the football game to BET videos. In the kitchen, there were eleven people including myself. In a bedroom down the hall, I found ten children playing, and I ran into seven teenage girls upstairs.

I saw a closed door at the end of the upstairs hall and sashayed toward it. I knocked on it twice, before I tried to turn the knob. It was locked, so I shrugged my shoulders and turned to leave.

Less than a foot away, I heard the lock click. “You need something?” I heard a man ask.

I turned to say no but ended up not being able to say anything at all—the man I was staring at was Norman Hall, better known as the cameraman. I was frozen, and when his eyes focused in on who I really was, his face reddened with anger.

It took him one step to get into my face. He grabbed me by the neck and pulled me into the room. “What the fuck are you trying to do to me?”

Before I could say a word, his hand squeezed even tighter around my throat. “Don't you think sending those fuckin' pictures did enough? What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

I couldn't talk; I couldn't even breathe. I was losing oxygen, and he didn't give a damn. I reached for his hand and tried pulling it away, but I couldn't. I shook my head from side to side. My eyes were pleading with his, but it didn't matter. I had never been so afraid of anyone in my entire life, and in a split second things got worse.

There was a knock on the door. “Uncle Norm.” I heard Tremel's voice outside the door. “Uncle Norm, you in there?”

I wanted to scream for help, but I couldn't. And even if I could, I'd have a lot more explaining to do.

Norman's eyes got even wider, like they'd pop out and roll to the ground. “Gimme a minute,” he yelled, then held his finger to his mouth and pushed me inside the closet.

Through the vent, I watched Norman's shoes trail back to the door.

“Hey, what's up, Mel?” he said as he opened the door. “How you doing? When did you get here?”

I saw the bottom of Mel's jeans move closer to Norman. They hugged quickly.

“Me and my girl flew up from Miami last night,” Tremel said.

“All right. Good to see you again, man. Damn, you're pretty buffed. You still lifting?” Norman asked.

“Yeah, I've been doing a little something.”

“So how are things with your music?”

“Well, I finished my demo. I've been sending it out to different labels, but getting in there is a bitch.” He paused. “My girl has been helping me get in contact with the right people. Hopefully by the time we get back home, we'll have some good news.”

“So what's up with you and Aunt Sheila?—Mom said you're staying here for a while?”

“Yeah, for about a week. I'll be in an apartment soon. Sheila is trippin' over some stuff she heard and saw. She kicked me out. Came home and my shit was on the lawn.”

Tremel laughed. “Told your ass to settle down. You better start listening to your nephew, boy.”

I heard them slap hands then watched Mel's jeans disappear past the door.

“I'll see you downstairs. They told me to tell you that the food is almost ready.”

“All right. Give me a minute, I'll be down there.” He closed and locked the door and made his way over to the closet. “You need to get your ass out,” he whispered and pointed at the window.

I spat out, “I'm Tremel's girlfriend,” before he reached for my neck again.

“What?”

“I'm his girlfriend. We came from Miami together.”

“Ah shit. You?”

“Yes, me.” I pushed my way past him and kept my voice down. “I didn't come here to start any trouble. I had no clue that you'd be here, so don't put your damn hands on me again.” I marched towards the door.

“What's your price tonight, bitch?” He laughed. “Wait until I tell him.”

I abandoned the doorknob and walked back over to him. “Please don't do that.”

“Fuck you,” he said with an evil laugh. “My wife is staring at pictures of me fucking you, won't let me see my kids, and she's filing for a goddamn divorce because of you, and you think I'm not going to tell him?”

“Please don't say anything. I don't even work for the Elite anymore.”

“That's all right. You used to, and that's all that matters.”

“What can I do to make you shut up?”

He groped himself through his pants. “I'm sure something will come up.”

My head swung from left to right. “No, I'm not doing that. I'll pay you.”

“How much?”

“Anything.” I was willing to do anything except sleep with him again. “I'll write you a check. Just please don't mention what happened.”

“You sure you don't want this dick?” He pressed himself up against me.

I pushed him away. “How much should I write the check out for?”

Looking down at me he said, “Well, your pussy was fat and good as fuck, so it's probably been selling well. I think you can afford ten grand.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” I wasn't whispering anymore. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Mel!” he yelled. “Hey, Mel! Come here.”

“Okay.” I swiftly placed my hand over his mouth. “Okay. Okay. I'll write you out a check for ten thousand.” I was nervous. “This is a deal, right?”

“Money talks.” He offered me his hand as a signature to our contract.

We shook on it.

“Thank you.”

“Bullshit walks,” he said. “Don't walk out of Cleveland with my money.”

“The rich would have to eat money if the poor
did not provide food.”

—Russian Proverb

Bank Statement # 15

 

 

 

O
ut of all the families in the world—in America, in Cleveland—Norman had to belong to this one. He was Tremel's mother's baby brother. I couldn't get my head right. The house quickly became a maze; getting to the stairway was nearly impossible. Though I could see it, I just couldn't get there. I was freaking out. I remembered how to walk, one foot in front of the other. Soon I was skipping down the steps like I had just seen a mouse.

My stomach muscles tightened, when I heard Mrs. Colten's voice.

“What's the headcount, sugar?”

“I—” I couldn't remember. “I counted fifty-seven.” I made up a number and prayed that I was close.

She rounded up the bunch. “All right, everybody. Let's meet in the dining room.”

I followed her down the hall to the large dining room. It seemed built just to host this occasion. Draped in white linen, the long, rectangular table could seat twenty people, and four round banquet-sized tables would hold eight each. The room was dressed with festive fall colors: orange, brown, yellow, and green. Artificial cornucopias adorned the round tables, but the main table had two fruit baskets on it. The sterling silver utensils and place settings were perfect, even at the kids' table.

When everyone was in their seats, Mrs. Colten, her daughters, and I rolled three long carts to the room from the kitchen and arranged the Thanksgiving buffet alongside the wall.

Smelling the apple, cherry, and sweet potato pies, the children dashed toward the cart.

“Uh-huh, no, sir. Y'all know we don't do it like that.” Grandpa Colten clapped his hand. “Go sit down.”

They obeyed his command and took their seats.

He struggled to stand, and when he did, the room fell silent.

“Everyone stand, please. Hold hands and let's say grace.”

I was at the main table, next to Mel. We held hands, then I bowed my head and reached for Paula's hand, his sister, now standing to my right.

Grandpa Colten began his prayer. “Father God, we come before You today thanking You for the many blessings that You've given us. Lord, we thank You for yet another day. Heavenly Father, we thank You for allowing our family to be together one more Thanksgiving Day. Lord, we're thankful for the clothes on our backs, shoes on our feet, food to eat, and a roof over our heads.”

He took a deep breath. “Jesus, we come before Your throne this afternoon to say thank you, thank you for dying on Calvary's tree. Oh Lord, You thought it not robbery to hang Your head and die for sinners like us, and we thank You today. Jesus, for You I live, and soon, Lord, soon for You I'll lay down my life.”

He breathed deeply again. “Thank you, Lord, for life, strength, and good health today. Without You we'd be a bunch of nobodies, and we wanna thank You, Father.” He paused. “Oh Lord, bless our homes, bless our family, bless the food which we are about to partake. Bless it Lord. May it do our bodies good. Bless the hands that labored so that our bellies can get fat.”

The kids giggled.

“And Lord, when this life is over, give us a home in Your kingdom. In Jesus' name I pray.”

We all closed the prayer together. “Amen.”

Grandpa Colten cleared his throat and spoke once again in his deep voice. “Look at the food. Look at the meat . . . my Lord, it smells good. C'mon, kids, let's eat.”

The children cheered and rallied around him, and surprisingly, they let him be first in line.

My heart was still racing, but I had forgotten why, until Norman walked into the dining room.

He stared at me and suddenly winked.

I looked away.

Mrs. Colten walked over and greeted him with a hug. “I thought you were dead up there.”

She was just talking, but oh, how I wished that it was so.

“No, I had some calls to make.” He glanced over the room. “I had some things I had to line up.” He walked over to his mother, Grandma Hall, and started a conversation.

As good as the food looked and smelled, I had no appetite. If I could have requested one thing to eat, it would have been invisible ink. As long as Norman was in the room, I didn't want to be there.

Tremel was talking to me, and I didn't have a clue about what he was saying. All I could think about was how unbelievable this whole thing was—Norman and I were in the same house for Thanksgiving.

“Uncle Norm,” Mel shouted above the noise and gestured for Norman to come our way.

I turned to him sharply. “What are you doing?”

“I want you to meet my uncle,” he said with a smile. “Don't tell me you're still scared.”

“No, but I've just met so many people, I can't remember any names.” I tried to sound upbeat. “You have a huge family. Give me a minute. We're here until Sunday.”

It was too late. Norman was already walking toward us with a stupid grin from ear to ear.

Mel stood, and they slapped hands again.

I pretended to be looking elsewhere, while they talked about the football game. Moments later, Norman initiated the introduction. “This must be the young lady you were telling me about?”

“Yes, this is Sarai.” Tremel looked down at me and rubbed my arm. “Sarai, this is my Uncle Norman.”

I turned around in my seat and offered him a half-smile. “Hello.”

“Sarai, huh?” He reached his hand out to me.

“Yes.” I wanted to slap his hand, but I took it.

“Man, you look like someone I know,” he said.

“Oh really?” I couldn't read his expressions. I didn't know what he was going to say next.

“Yeah”—He kissed my knuckles—“but you're a lot better-looking.”

Mel grabbed my hand from his uncle's. “All right, all right. Enough of that,” he joked. “You're in a world of trouble, as it is.”

“You know how I do it.” Norman laughed and walked away.

 

 

I used my time during dinner to get to know Mel's siblings. They were all very smart, laid-back, friendly, and polite. I felt as though I was having dinner with Sandra, Denise, Theo, Vanessa, and Rudy. They made me feel welcome, not like the outsider I thought I'd be.

I managed to eat a full plate of food. I figured that if I didn't eat, Mrs. Colten might be offended.

I kept a watchful eye on Norman, because he was throwing back drinks quickly. I was concerned about him turning into a babbling idiot.

 

 

After dinner, the banquet tables were folded down and the stereo turned on. It was dance party time, and the children were first on the floor. And whom did they take with them?—Grandpa Colten.

Keith Colten, eighty-five years old, had been a church deacon and trustee for forty-seven years. Tremel had talked about him so much that meeting him felt weird. It was like I had met him months ago. It seemed we all had gone bass fishing in Lake Eerie together. I imagined him reading stories from the books of the Bible, and I pictured him teaching Tremel how to ride a bike.

Grandpa Colten was stepping big on the floor with his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a sight to see. All eyes were on him as the music played.

We all laughed, clapped, screamed, and then panicked when we realized that after ten minutes of dancing, Grandpa wasn't showing us a new move. His eyes protruded from his skull. He grabbed his chest and fell to his knees, then forward to the ground. The house was in hysteria. Anyone that had breath in their body was screaming.

I couldn't recall who, but someone had enough sense to call 911. The paramedics were there quickly, and as they left with the patient in the ambulance, we all followed in our crowded cars. We forgot anything rational and burst through red lights, expecting traffic to adjust to our situation.

The Colten and Hall families filled the emergency area and were relocated to a private waiting room. There were about twenty chairs in the room, magazines, and a television tuned to Cartoon Network, but even the kids weren't interested. They wanted to know what happened to Granddaddy.

Tremel sat next to me in a chair and buried his head in his hands, while I rubbed his back.

Hour after hour went by. Sometimes we laughed, but the majority of the time, we just stared blankly at something, anything.

Finally the doctor walked into the room, wearing a neutral face. He closed the door behind him. “Hello.” He took a seat next to Mr. Colten and addressed us as a group. “I know that this is a hard time for you all since it's Thanksgiving Day, but any other day this would've been just as terrible. You have my sympathy.”

We all held our breath; no one was sure what type of sympathy he was offering.

“I wanted to let you know exactly what took place. His heart's arteries were blocked, and Mr. Colten suffered a massive heart attack.”

There were sighs and cries all through the room.

“We performed heart surgery and sewed in a new piece of blood vessel to bridge over, or by-pass the obstruction. We fixed the immediate problem, but there were other arteries that were leading to a blockage, so we fixed them as well. We repaired three arteries altogether, so what we performed is what is called a triple bypass.” He took a deep breath. “His age plays a major part on how, or if he'll pull through this.” He paused. “The next seventy-two hours are extremely critical. He is currently in ICU. In the morning, you will be able to see him two at a time, but as for tonight, let's limit it to just two members of his immediate family.”

Tremel's father and Grandma Colten followed the doctor.

A few minutes later, Tremel got restless and sprung from his seat and out the door. I was right behind him, and so was his mother.

His face was flooded with tears. He started punching the air with his fist and let out a few loud grunts.

His mother gazed at me, gesturing for me to take control. I guess I had to. He wasn't her little boy anymore; he was my man.

I walked up behind him. “Baby, I'm sorry.” I ran my hand slowly over his head and then his back. “I'm here for you.”

He didn't say a word, but I felt him trembling underneath my fingertips.

“All we can do now is pray. That's what he'd want us to do.”

He looked at me as though I was right.

I gave him a little smile. “Mel, let's pray for him.”

He slowly turned to me, grabbed both my hands, and right in the middle of the hallway of Saint Michael's Hospital, we silently asked God to restore the same health and strength that Grandpa Colten was so thankful for just hours earlier in his prayer.

 

 

When other family members left to drive home, Tremel didn't. He refused to leave the waiting room, stating that someone should stay.

It took his mother and me an hour to convince him that there was nothing he could do by sitting there.

At 1:00 in the morning, we were finally on our way back to the hotel.

We took a shower together, and as much as I admired his beautiful, brown body, I couldn't expect him to be aware of my desires.

I pulled the towel from his hand and bathed him just like a servant did to her king. I lathered him from head to toe, and he never said a word. All he had to do was stand still. He was my emperor, and I was willing to humble myself before him.

I moved the cloth over his chest, felt his heart beating, and wondered what my life would be like had I not fallen victim to Conrad's sweet talk. I still wouldn't have a job, but I would've taken something, anything, even if I had to leave my apartment and get something meager Down South. I would do anything to change the decisions I'd made.

Two good things came out of my time in the Elite: daddy's care and the money being sent to Savion to help with his illness. However, the worst thing that could ever happen, Norman being Mel's uncle, meant the road my life had taken was making a U-turn and headed to the truth.

I thought of many ways to avoid giving Norman money. The only way around it was to tell Mel about everything before his uncle did. If I told him about Norman, then I'd have to tell him about Julian, Doctor Baker, the pastors, and the lawyer. I was now faced with making a decision to lose or to keep the one thing that made sense to me.

I joined Tremel in bed, where he didn't talk much. His mind was still at Saint Michael's. He was thinking of a man he loved and was afraid to lose.

And so was I.

This night there was a different kind of moaning and groaning. It was all done in our hearts. We both longed for the betterment of something we believed in and loved. His situation was out of his hands, but I had the ability to change what I was going through.

 

 

We were at the hospital early the next morning. As soon as it was visiting time, Tremel and I were standing by his grandfather's bedside. Liquid-filled tubes and wires ran back and forth from Grandpa's body to the machines nearby. Tremel was better composed, though melancholy, not a tear in sight.

With his eyes closed, head upright, and hose coming out of his mouth, Grandpa Colten was laying there so still, it seemed like his spirit had left the building.

Mel said into his ear, “Want to hear a song?” His hand moved over Grandpa's snow-white mane. “What about your favorite hymn, Pops?” He grabbed his stiff hand. “How about a little ‘Precious Lord'?” He chuckled and then cleared his throat.

“Precious Lord, take my hand. Lead me on, let me stand. I'm tired, I'm weak, I'm 'lone. Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light. Take my hand, precious Lord. Lead me home.” Tremel sang three verses of the song and had nurses, doctors, patients, and visitors all tearing up and amazed.