“Good,” Pamela said. “Come on in.”
As Patrick entered the house, he glanced at Pamela. She was shorter, darker, and sturdier than Lauren was, flyaway gray hairs waving above her cornrows. She wore a pair of jeans, a Howard sweatshirt, and some brown slippers.
“Hello,” Patrick said.
Pamela nodded.
Lauren reached out to hug Pamela. “It’s good to see you, Mama.”
Pamela rolled her eyes and gave her a quick hug. “How was your trip?”
“Quiet, for the most part,” Lauren said.
“I don’t believe that,” Pamela said. “Nothing is quiet if you’re involved.”
She has that right,
Patrick thought.
They trailed Pamela through a narrow hallway and past a sitting room where a short sofa faced a flat-screen TV on a stand.
“You bought a TV, Mama,” Lauren said.
“Obviously,” Pamela said.
Patrick appraised the house, noting the Berber carpet, the crystal doorknobs, and a ceramic tile kitchen floor.
There’s not much I could do here because Lauren’s father has beaten me to it. Her daddy was a craftsman, not a handyman.
Pamela led them upstairs and paused in front of the first door. “I have to get up at four.” She sighed. “Which is in about two hours since
some
people don’t know how to visit at a decent hour.”
“Don’t you want to see the wedding?” Lauren asked. “I can show it to you on my phone.”
“I already watched it on
Entertainment Tonight,
” Pamela said. “You looked . . .”
“Nice,” Lauren said quickly. “I looked nice, right?”
“That’s not what I was going to say,” Pamela said.
“I know,” Lauren said. “Well, how
did
I look?”
“Well, if you know, you tell me what I was thinking.” Pamela folded her arms against her chest.
“You thought I looked . . . stunning,” Lauren said.
“I was stunned, all right,” Pamela said. “Coveralls? Really? And baggy ones at that. You weren’t wearing them. They were wearing you. At least you didn’t wear white.”
“Mama,” Lauren said, her eyes dropping.
“You couldn’t wear white, right?” Pamela said. “What color was that? Tan? First tan bride I’ve ever seen.”
Lauren sighed and opened the door. “When do you get off tomorrow?”
“You should know my schedule by now,” Pamela said. “It hasn’t changed in twenty-three years.”
“Can’t you get off early?” Lauren asked. “We want to treat you to dinner.”
“I can meet you at Popeyes around five,” Pamela said.
“Not Popeyes,” Lauren said.
“I happen to like Popeyes,” Pamela said. “I always know what I’m getting at Popeyes. The menu may change here and there, but it’s mostly the same day after day after day. No surprises at Popeyes. Unlike
this.
”
Lauren nodded. “This is a good surprise, isn’t it?”
“There are no good surprises at two in the morning, Lauren,” Pamela said. She looked up at Patrick. “You
are
going to say more than hello, aren’t you? Feel free to join the conversation.”
“I’m just minding my manners, Pamela,” Patrick said.
“Minding your tongue is more like it,” Pamela said. “I don’t blame you a bit. Good night.” She turned, walked down the hallway to the next door on the right, opened it, stepped inside, and shut it behind her.
Lauren turned on a light inside their room. “Except for the TV, not much has changed since I lived here.” She bit her lip. “Especially in here. Wow, Mama. You had fourteen years to clean it out. Why didn’t you?”
“Because it’s
your
room,” Pamela said through the wall.
“If
you
want it clean,
you
have to clean it.”
There are some seriously thin walls in this house,
Patrick thought.
It’s as if Pamela is inside the room with us.
“But it’s
your
house,” Lauren said.
“This was never my house,” Pamela said. “This is your daddy’s house. And I didn’t have a thing to do with that room, Patrick. That was all Lauren’s doing.”
I have gone back in time to the nineteen nineties,
Patrick thought.
Posters of the Fugees, Boyz II Men, Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, Monica, Puff Daddy, Tupac, Sir Mix-A-Lot, Will Smith, and Run-DMC completely covered the wall next to her bed. Posters for
Men in Black, The Color Purple, Pretty Woman,
and
The Matrix
crowded the ceiling.
Lauren sat on the edge of the bed. “I had the biggest crushes on Richard Gere and Keanu Reeves back then.”
Patrick put the tool bag on top of a simple white desk. “Interesting,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to whisper,” Lauren said. “She can hear you. You heard that, Mama?”
“Yes,” Pamela said. “But I
don’t
want to hear it. I want to sleep.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “My mama hasn’t changed much either. Except for the gray hair. When did you stop dyeing it?”
“I do dye it,” Pamela said. “I’ve just been a little too busy working. You know what work is, right? Something you do every day and need a good night’s sleep to do well?”
“It doesn’t take that long to dye your hair, Mama,” Lauren said. “And anyway, gray looks good on you.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Pamela said, “and I am
not
going to talk to you through the wall all night, so hush.”
“We used to talk through this wall all the time,” Lauren said.
“Look,” Pamela said, “I am getting up to work in two hours. I do not want to kill anyone tomorrow or in the next five minutes.”
“Good night, Mama,” Lauren said.
“Good night, Lauren,” Pamela said. “And no fornicating in there.”
Lauren’s mouth dropped open.
“Mama!”
“It’s not going to happen,” Pamela said. “It’s too late for any of that. You probably already got some today anyway. Isn’t that right, Patrick?”
I’m glad that wall is there so she can’t see me blush.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Y’all go to sleep,” Pamela said. “I want to hear some serious snoring, okay?”
“Yes, Mama,” Lauren said.
After disrobing and snuggling for a few minutes in Lauren’s double bed, Patrick felt Lauren’s hand moving down his stomach.
He grabbed her wrist.
“You can’t stop me,” Lauren whispered.
Patrick shook his head. “Please don’t,” he whispered. “I can’t help myself,” Lauren whispered.
“If I have to come in there,” Pamela said through the wall.
Lauren’s hand vanished. She put her lips to Patrick’s right ear. “After she leaves in the morning then.”
“What if I call in sick?” Pamela asked.
Lauren turned to the wall. “Will you?”
“No,” Pamela said.
“She’ll be gone by five,” Lauren said. “I can wait until then.”
“Such disrespect,” Pamela said.
Lauren sat up. “Okay, Mama. We’ll fornicate when we get back to Brooklyn.”
“That’s better,” Pamela said. “Good night. For the
last
time.”
Lauren slipped out of bed, went to her desk, and pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil. She wrote hurriedly and handed the paper to Patrick.
I will tease you all day tomorrow. And remember our rule.
“Here?” he mouthed.
Lauren nodded, writing, “Rest your tongue.”
Patrick shook his head. He took the pencil and wrote, “You told your mama you wouldn’t.”
Lauren smiled. “Mama won’t be here to know,” she mouthed.
“What are you two plotting in there?” Pamela asked.
Lauren returned to bed. “Mama, please. We’re trying to get some sleep. We’ve had a long day.”
“Uh-huh,” Pamela said. “I hear paper crinkling. Are you two passing notes?”
Paper-thin walls,
Patrick thought.
So thin you can hear paper crinkling.
“You don’t want us whispering,” Lauren said.
“Plotting, always plotting,” Pamela said. “
Please
go to sleep.”
“I’m trying,” Lauren said, “but you keep talking to me.”
“Oh, hush,” Pamela said. “Kiss him and go to sleep.”
Lauren kissed Patrick’s cheek. “Good night,” she whispered, and in a few minutes, she was purring.
Patrick looked up and focused on the movie posters above him.
Here I am, snuggling with a very pretty woman, and I’m caught in some sort of Pamela-Lauren matrix, with Pamela maybe six inches away from us behind that wall.
He closed his eyes.
I hope I can out-sleep Lauren.
He sighed softly.
It won’t matter. She’s an actress. She can fake being asleep better than I can.
I had better rest my tongue.
59
L
auren waited as long as she could with her eyes closed, but Patrick didn’t wake up by eleven a.m. She slipped out of bed, checked her mama’s room and found it empty, brushed her teeth, returned to bed, sneaked under the covers, and found that Patrick was already erect.
She threw back the covers and stared at his face.
He’s still asleep, and yet he’s hard as a rock! Who’s he dreaming about? Forget that rule!
She shook him violently. “Wake up!”
Patrick opened his eyes. “Is it time to get up?”
“You’re already up,” Lauren said. “Literally.”
Patrick looked down. “Oh.” He yawned. “I told you that sometimes happens.”
“Who were you dreaming about?” Lauren asked.
“I wasn’t dreaming,” Patrick said. He pointed at his fading erection. “I wake up that way whenever it gets cold. You stole most of the covers last night.” He swung his legs to the edge of the bed. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Lauren shook her head. “Not so fast.” She straddled him. “I have to have you.”
“And I have to pee,” Patrick said.
She looked down at his deflated penis. “Where did it go?”
“It’s cold in here,” Patrick said. “And I
really
have to pee. That Frappuccino I drank on the train is screaming to get out.”
“When you get back, then.”
Patrick shook his head. “I intend to respect your mama’s wishes.” He cradled her face with his hands. “I cannot afford to have your mama angry at me. Ever.”
“She was only cranky because she was tired,” Lauren said.
“Really?” Patrick asked.
“She’s kind of cranky a lot,” Lauren said.
“I have to keep making good impressions,” Patrick said. “And I can’t make good impressions if I go against her wishes.”
“How will she know?” Lauren asked.
“She’ll ask me, and I’ll tell her,” Patrick said. “I won’t lie to you, and I won’t lie to her.”
Lauren poked out her lower lip. “But I want you to make rapid impressions inside me right now.”
“I promise that I will make countless impressions inside of you when we get back home.” Patrick held on to Lauren’s thighs and stood.
“Countless?” Lauren said.
“Countless.” He turned and set her on the bed. “Now, where’s the bathroom?”
After showering together and dressing in jeans, boots, and sweaters, Lauren and Patrick walked half a mile to Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue and entered the MLK Deli, where they ordered bacon, egg, and cheese wraps and coffee for a late brunch. No one looked their way or spoke to them as they waited in line.
This is strange,
Lauren thought.
Surely someone here should recognize me.
After she paid, the cashier smiled, winked, and said, “Welcome back, Lauren.”
Hmm,
Lauren thought.
Maybe they are all just being polite.
“It’s good to be back.”
They ate their wraps as they walked up Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue and looked through the barred windows at City Beats, the shoe store next to African Queen Braids.
“I used to get a crab platter from Aabee Seafood and just walk up and down this street eating fresh crab and talking to people,” Lauren said. “Now everyone has bars on their windows and stays inside.” She looked across the street. “The Pizza Place is gone? Man, this street has changed. Jamaicans made great pizza for a decent price over there.”
They finished their brunch and continued to Styles Unlimited, a hair salon.
I know
someone
in here will know me.
Lauren thought.
They have to.
As soon as she entered the salon, a slim black woman with blond hair, black pants, black shoes, and a black top ran up to her. “I heard you were coming!” she shouted. “Let me see that ring!”
Lauren looked on the wall next to the entrance and saw her ancient head shot, dust coating the glass.
This is more like it, though they need to dust off that thing.
“Hi, Trula.” She showed Trula her ring.
Trula looked up at Patrick. “Hey.”
Patrick nodded.
“What do I call you now, Lauren?” Trula asked.
“You
know
me, Trula,” Lauren said. “Just call me Lauren.”
Trula looked up at Patrick again. “Not Mrs. Esposito?”
Patrick shrugged.
“Just Lauren,” Lauren said. She sat in the first chair. “So, what’s been going on?”
Trula moved behind Lauren. “You got a lot of time?”
“I know I haven’t been here in years, Trula,” Lauren said. “Just give me a condensed version.”
“I wasn’t talking about that,” Trula said. She roughly finger combed Lauren’s hair. “I’m talking about
this.
You want us to do something about
this,
don’t you?”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Lauren asked.
The taller, plumper black woman who was fixing a little girl’s braids in the next chair looked over at Lauren. “Just everything.” She smiled. “Hey, Lauren.”
“Hey, Wanda,” Lauren said. “You’re still here, too?”
Wanda shrugged. “Where else am I gonna go?” She chuckled. “And your hair does need help. Aren’t there any salons in Brooklyn?”
“I don’t need a salon,” Lauren said. “I’ve gone natural. It’s supposed to look a little wild.”
Wanda chuckled. “You can still do
something
with it. Damn.”
Lauren laughed. “Okay, Wanda.” She smiled at Patrick. “Is it okay if I get my hair done? We have plenty of time before we meet Mama for dinner.”
“It’s okay,” Patrick said.
“These ladies aren’t cheap,” Lauren said.
“Just easy,” Trula said. “I mean,
Wanda’s
easy. I require some dinner and some dessert first.”
“Hush,” Wanda said.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Lauren smiled at Patrick. “Ladies, this is my husband, Patrick. Patrick, that’s Wanda, who did my hair for many years, and this is Trula, who I went to school with.”
“A hundred years ago,” Trula said. “We
know
who he is, Lauren. He’s on the TV all the time.”
“I didn’t think he was some random guy you picked up on the street,” Wanda said.
“At least not on this street,” Trula said. “He definitely isn’t from around here.” She squinted at him. “You’re from New York, and you don’t speak?”
“Hello,” Patrick said.
“He speaks,” Wanda said.
Oh, how I have missed this place!
Lauren thought.
This place speaks “home” to my soul. It doesn’t matter who you are when you walk in here because you’re family—and you’re also fair game for anything anyone says about you.
Lauren squinted at Patrick. “You need a haircut.”
“Send him next door to Pro Cut,” Trula said. “They aren’t busy right now.”
“I don’t want him out of my sight,” Lauren said. “One of you can cut him, can’t you?”
Wanda turned her chair around, and the little girl smiled at herself in the mirror. “I can cut him,” Wanda said.
The little girl slid off the chair, handed Wanda a one-dollar bill, collected a backpack, and left the salon.
“Can you believe that child?” Wanda said. “Every single day she comes in and tells me, ‘I need some maintenance. ’ She can’t be older than five. I didn’t know that word when I was five.”
“She’s smart, though,” Trula said. “A dollar a day for maintenance is a lot less than redoing her whole head every two weeks.”
Wanda removed the booster seat from her chair. “Have a seat, Patrick.”
Patrick sat.
Wanda wrapped a cape around him and tied it loosely at his neck. “You got some thick hair. I could probably dread it.”
“Over my dead body,” Lauren said.
“Yeah,” Wanda said, forcefully turning Patrick’s head back and forth. “You really can’t run your fingers through dreaded hair. And some white men look so foolish in dreads.”
“I’ll say,” Trula said.
Wanda fluffed Patrick’s hair with one hand. “You want a shave, too?”
“No,” Lauren said. “I like his beard.”
Wanda rolled her eyes. “At least let me even it up. It doesn’t grow the same all over. That okay with you?”
“Sure,” Patrick said.
Wanda shook her head. “I was
talking
to Lauren.”
“Oh,” Patrick said.
“No offense, Patrick,” Wanda said, “but even though it’s on your face, it’s
her
hair. You understand?”
“I think so,” Patrick said.
Wanda laughed. “It doesn’t matter what you think about your hair from now on. You know that, right?”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Patrick said.
“Just don’t take too much off,” Lauren said. “It’s cold in Brooklyn, and Patrick is my blanket.”
“It’s cold here, too,” Wanda said. “Glad that snow missed us.” Wanda began combing through Patrick’s hair.
“Patrick,” Trula said, fluttering a cape around Lauren,
“you ain’t the first white man Wanda’s had in that chair.”
“Trula, why you acting up for company?” Wanda asked.
“His name was Albert, and we weren’t open at the time,” Trula said. “Wanda was, though.”
“I hope you disinfected your chair afterward,” Lauren said.
“That was a long time ago,” Wanda said. “Least I’ve had someone in the past ten years, Trula.”
“Oh, hush,” Trula said. She began gently brushing Lauren’s hair. “I’m still waiting for Mr. Right.”
“Ain’t no Mr. Right gonna come through that door,” Wanda said. “The best you’ll ever get is Mr. Right Once in a While.”
“I told you to hush,” Trula said. She faced Lauren and put her hands on the arms of the chair. “So Chazz is gay.”
Nice transition.
Lauren nodded. “I’d like to think he’s more bisexual than gay, but . . .”
“Bisexual, gay, it don’t matter,” Trula said. “The man is confused. You’re lucky to be rid of him. Did he give you any signs?”
“Yes,” Lauren said, “but I missed them all.”
“He is an actor, after all,” Trula said. She leaned close to Lauren’s ear. “Your man is fine, girl.”
“I know.”
“Does he have a brother?” Trula whispered.
“Nope,” Lauren said.
“A cousin?” Trula whispered.
“I don’t know,” Lauren said.
“Find out,” Trula said.
“Patrick,” Lauren said, “do you have any cousins?”
“Not that I know of,” Patrick said.
“Figures,” Trula said, frowning. She pulled the brush across the left side of Lauren’s head.
“Ow,” Lauren said.
“You got a nest up here, girl,” Trula said. “We might find a few eggs, too. Well, would you look at that? My first cell phone. It still has that long-ass antenna, too. I wondered where I had lost it. And look—the battery’s still good. Not like cell phone batteries today.”
“It’s not
that
bad,” Lauren said.
“Yeah, it is,” Trula said. She left the brush clinging to the side of Lauren’s head. “It’s trying to eat my brush now.”
“Right,” Lauren said.
“Girl, it’s amazing I can get this brush through any part of your head, all that work you’ve been doing,” Trula said. “Work is bad for your hair.”
“No it isn’t,” Lauren said. “And I intend to keep doing it.”
“Invest in some wigs, then,” Trula said. “You know, for when you go out.”
“I’d rather stay in with Patrick,” Lauren said.
“He must be pretty good,” Trula whispered.
“He is,” Lauren whispered.
“How good?” Trula whispered.
“Good good,” Lauren said. “The best.”
Trula sighed. “Figures.” She worked the brush free. “When’d you figure out Chazz was gay?”
“Honestly, I didn’t know until I caught him with his pants down,” Lauren said.
“Eww,” Wanda said. “Were they down around his ankles?”
Lauren nodded.
“Why don’t men just take their pants all the way off?” Wanda asked. “Leaving them on makes them waddle like penguins.” She smiled at Patrick. “You take them all the way off, don’t you?”
Patrick nodded.
“I am so glad she found you,” Wanda said.
“I’m glad, too,” Patrick said.
Wanda began tidying and edging up Patrick’s beard. “I don’t know how you can stand all those reporters, Patrick. I know I would be cussing them out.”
“I feel like doing it sometimes,” Patrick said.
Trula looked toward the front window. “I don’t see any reporters out there now.”
“They know better than to come to Congress Heights,” Wanda said. “Y’all might actually have a stress-free day, and you had to come to the hood to get it.”
“It’s a shame you have to go away from your home to get some peace,” Trula said.
“It’ll calm down now that we’re married,” Lauren said. “There’s not much drama in marriage, at least not to them. We’re officially boring now.”
“Until you have a baby,” Trula said. “You two are having children, right?”
“Yes,” Lauren said.
“Well, when you do,” Trula said, “
please
don’t do any baby bump pictures. If you do, I will lose all respect for you.”
“I won’t,” Lauren said.
“And don’t wear any of those tight-ass dresses when you’re pregnant,” Trula said. “All them actresses trying to make pregnancy sexy. It ain’t. I know.”
“Yeah?” Lauren said. “You have kids?”
“Two,” Trula said. “Latanna and Latasia. I have twin girls.”
“Oh, show me pictures,” Lauren said.
“You only gotta show her one,” Wanda said.
“Hush,” Trula said, turning the chair toward the mirror where a series of pictures was taped along the edges. “There they are.”
“Oh, they are so precious,” Lauren said. “How old are they?”
“Twelve, and driving me insane,” Trula said.
Do I ask about the daddy?
Lauren thought.
Better not.
“They’re gorgeous.”