The phone rang.
I said, “I’ll get it.”
“It’s either Gerri or Womack.”
We were supposed to hook up with Womack and Rosa Lee in a little bit, then a late-late social-thang dinner with Gerri and Jefferson. We were being social butterflies all day today.
Water dripping off my body, soap sliding from my breasts. When I stepped on the gray carpet in the hallway, I stroked my bare feet with smooth catlike motions and dried off the water I’d picked up from the bathroom floor. Vince peeped out, checked out the show I was putting on. I purred, made a sound that let him know that I always landed on my feet.
“Hurry, Dana.”
I held my soapy breasts to keep them from bouncing and hurting, did a tiptoe-run by all of my black-and-white pictures from Harlem, squeaking like a teenage girl all the way to the bedroom. The phone hummed for the third time.
The sun was MIA for the night, so it was dark outside. A light was on in the bedroom, horizontal blinds slightly open. Just in case the freaks had come out at night, I grabbed the phone and sat on the floor.
I chuckled out a pleasant “Hello.”
“Yes.” The woman paused. “May I speak with Calvary?”
“I’m sorry. You have the wrong—”
“I meant Vincent Calvary Browne,” she said, then caught herself. “Is this the correct phone number? This is the number that was on the check I received.”
She had a sterile way of talking that I couldn’t place. Add that to the mention of the word check, and my mind went into bill collector mode, especially since she’d said Vince’s entire name like she was reading it from something.
She went on, “I’m sorry to disturb you. Your accent threw me.”
“No problem. May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Malaika Quinones.”
My heart dropped to the center of the earth.
In my mind I saw her. Saw her body wrapped all around Vince’s body. Her cream complexion waiting to get stirred by his coffee. Heard his voice telling her how much he loved her. Heard her phony-ass moans.
In the background, wherever she was, I heard children playing. A television sounded like it was on a kiddie channel, could’ve been a video.
I said, “Sorry, you have the wrong number.”
Softly and ever so sweetly, I hung up the damn phone.
Correct me if I’m wrong. We’d talked about him not sending any more checks until everything was straightened out. I guess my words went unheard. Either that or I wasn’t as important as I thought.
My eyes went to the closet. I stared at the wooden sliding door like I could see through it, like I could see the black tape on the top shelf.
Malaika naked, touching her own breasts, waiting for Vince.
In front of me were the pictures from Vince’s old life, standing in front of mine like a solid family tree, my own photo in the shadow. My hand was led by my heart, eased my picture in front.
The argument next door rose in volume. Somebody got their emotional shout on, somebody countered in a sharp pitch, then the ruckus died down.
The phone rang again. I picked the receiver up before the first ring finished, then hung up in the face of whoever was calling. Waited a few seconds. Picked the receiver back up. Got a dial tone. Dialed 72#, followed by my pager number—forwarded all calls to my service.
With that, I headed back to the bathroom, leaned against the counter, droplets of water still dripping from my body to the peach marble.
That was wrong. What I just did was wrong.
When Vince got out, he asked, “Was that Womack or Gerri?”
I kept my lips tight and shook my head.
The phone hummed once. Seconds later, my pager vibrated.
Every day I’ve passed by his closet and hoped that black tape on the top shelf would poof, be gone. Hoped that he’d realize that he’d forgot about it, see it right there and toss it. Or burn it. That hadn’t happened.
Her fire waiting for Vince’s hardness to spread her wide open. It wasn’t a fistful of love like the black Kennedy tape that everybody and their momma had a copy of, wasn’t as weird as that Pamela Lee tape, Vince wasn’t steering a boat with his penis or nothing like that, but seeing your man booty naked on top of another woman, whether she was his wife or not, well, it was more than enough for my eyes to bear.
Yep, I was angry. Should’ve went off on Vince.
But the end of that tape, what happened after that twenty minutes of groaning and moaning was done, that’s what I remembered the most.
For now, my size-eight foot was on the neck of that monster.
Vince stood behind me, patted my backside, asked, “You okay?”
I smiled. Kissed him.
Vince put on his black jeans, an acetate/Lycra muscle shirt under his leather jacket. I put on dark stretch jeans, black top, soft leather jacket, braids pulled back and tied down.
Malaika’s voice was swimming laps inside my brain, bugging the hell out of me because her voice seemed so familiar. Maybe from hearing it on the tape, but then again, she wasn’t regular talking like she was on the phone.
Lips got lined and war paint colored in, things I can do even with a distracted mind, eyes done to make me look mischievous and mysterious. Southern Exposure. Smells too good to be true. I dabbed the brew on my pulse points, loved the aroma because it was light as a feather.
Once again Vince read through my mood and asked, “You okay?”
Again I smiled.
As we were unlocking our door, the landlord’s door flew open.
Naiomi backed out, snapping, “I can’t believe you did that.”
Her woman’s voice pursued her: “Address me with respect, please.”
“You were talking to her in my face. What kind of respect—”
Naiomi closed her door on those words. Then she saw us standing there looking stupid and awkward, our eyes wide open. Her face jumped. We shifted. Naiomi spoke like she was humiliated, then shuffled down the stairs so fast her golden braids and tight skirt became an orange blur.
By the time we made it to the courtyard, Naiomi’s golden Jeep was zooming west up Stocker, bouncing over the deep dips.
We walked at a decent pace up the pine-tree-lined Degnan. It was Sunday night, cruise night on Crenshaw, and LAPD were out in full force, motorcycles and squad cars all over the joint. The boulevard was crazy and neighborhood traffic was bumper to bumper, a nation of hip-hoppers riding with their tops down and music up, creating atmospheric chaos. A mirror of the turmoil that was a pool of acid inside me.
I said, “A full moon.”
“Means it’s gonna be a romantic night.”
“Drama. It means drama.”
Womack and Rosa Lee had already shown up and had saved us seats outside of 5th Street Dick’s, right next to the rows of tables filled with dominoes and chess players. Barbecue smoke was in the air, no doubt drifting from Phillip’s BBQ around the corner.
Womack’s Jheri-Kurl was pulled back into a ponytail; he wore white Fila tennis shoes that made his feet look like boats, black jeans tight enough to show the outline of his family jewels, and a burnt-orange rayon shirt underneath his Levi’s jacket. Something about him, his color, that wavy do on his head, was more Belize than plain old African American. He was outdated but in a cool kinda way. Sorta like Billy Dee Williams.
Rosa Lee’s reddish brown skin glowed with her yellow blouse; her black skirt showed off her cute little figure and those robust calves. Full bottom lip, thin top lip, kind of a big forehead, keen eyes. Her funky ’fro made her look stunning. Her keys were in front of her, a red leather thingee that had mace on the ring. Gerri had a gun. I had a stun gun under the front seat of my car. Rosa Lee had mace. This drive-by society has turned women into urban warriors.
Rosa Lee stood and hugged Vince. Hugged me just as long. Her first words were flattering, “You look nice. And your perfume, that smells so good.”
“Vince bought it for me. It’s Terry Ellis’s line.”
“Who?”
“One of the girls from En Vogue.”
“It smells sophisticated. Sensual. Gonna have to get me some of that.”
Womack hugged me too. Threw a few compliments my way.
Rosa Lee jumped right back in. “Now, let me see that ring. Wow.”
I smiled, stared at that promise of forever.
A minute later we had 7-Up cakes and Kenyan coffee at our table, friendly words waltzing in the winds.
I said, “If you don’t mind a sister being honest, Rosa Lee—”
She waved her hand. “Go right ahead.”
“—but you don’t look like you have four kids.”
She made a funny face. “Let me guess. You thought my uterus would be hanging out like a slip that’s three sizes too big?”
Rosa Lee was so chatty tonight. That day we’d met at church, homegirl was weird, as distant as the Milky Way. I didn’t understand her new spunky disposition, made me think she was a bit schizo in the membrane. Then, in the middle of my next breath it dawned on me why she was so free. Because Vince’s lies were out in the open. Because they knew I knew.
I told Rosa Lee, “We’re meeting my buddy Gerri and her boyfriend for dinner in Hollywood. Why don’t you come and hang out with us?”
She answered, “Rain check. Have to get the kids from Harmonica. Always have to get back before it’s too late. We haven’t been in a club in eons.”
Womack’s fingers were tapping along with the Coltrane-style jazz, but his big brown eyes were on a fresh batch of chatty sisters who were passing by Melissa’s Bridal and Formal. Young sisters in high and ugly Herman Munster-style tennis shoes, sporting acres of cleavage and butts.
My attention went to Rosa Lee. Her radar was on; she’d noticed. A subtle frown came over her face, then a curt smile.
She said, “Womack? We’re over here, honey.”
Womack’s focus came back, first to his wife, then to the rest of us.
My pager hummed.
Oh, Malaika, what the fuck is going on?
I tried to keep myself in the here and now, told Rosa Lee something I already knew to start a conversation. “You’re a schoolteacher.”
“Yep. Middle school.”
“How you like it?”
“Let me tell you about last week.” She leaned in like she was about to tell a fantastic story. “I have this student, she’s black, twelve years old, almost six feet tall, and her breasts look better than mine ever will.”
Everybody laughed.
“The girl never does any work, and I was going to write a referral and send her to the office, you know, not participating, whatever, because I’d had it up to my eyes with her attitude. But when I got to her desk, she had her makeup case—”
I said, “A makeup case?”
“Yes, she did. I looked inside the makeup case—”
Vince added, “Uh-huh.”
“She had a pack of condoms.”
Womack asked, “What brand?”
“That’s not the point.” Rosa Lee waved him away. “She was twelve, and she had condoms. An open pack, not a new pack, and a couple were missing. That sent a nippy feeling up my back.”
With wide eyes I asked, “What you do?”
“I scowled down at the condoms. Shot daggers at her. She looked at me. I said, ‘You have condoms at school.’ She nodded at me like I was the town idiot, perked up, picked one up, extended it toward me, and had the nerve to say, ‘You need one, Mrs. Womack? Take it. You might get lucky.’ ”
I wailed, “No shit?”
By then everybody at our table was howling.
“All of you, stop laughing,” Rosa Lee said, but she was cracking up too. “That was somebody’s daughter. A twelve-year-old child. Womack, stop laughing and spitting; cover your mouth before I get cooties.”
Vince said, “You said the little freak had body.”
“That’s irrelevant. She was twelve. Her mind was less than that. Yes, with her big boobs and long hair, she could pass for high school, maybe even college. All I could do was look at her and see her in the backseat of somebody’s ride, trying to be a woman before she could spell the word. Acting like she’s grown, getting knocked up, then spending the rest of her life living down a bad decision just like—”
Rosa Lee stopped laughing. So did Womack. Exasperation was in his eyes. Uneasiness came off Vince, I smelled it. He eased back. Rosa Lee shifted, like she was catapulting her mind away from a bad memory.
Boy, oh, boy. The mood had definitely changed.
“No more talk about school or children,” Rosa Lee announced, and ran her fingers through her wild hair.
Vince nudged her playfully. “No problem, schoolteacher. We can talk about the time LAPD beat down people at a poetry reading right here in Leimert Park, causing yet another mini-riot.”
Rosa Lee smiled a bit. “Don’t start with that. Don’t upset me.”
Vince joked on, “Or about our favorite African American congressmen selling out and taking away the free parking. White people getting business permits in black neighborhoods easier than black people.”
Rosa Lee said, “That’s because, even with all this, we have no power. We have no power because we have no community. We put on Stepin Fetchit smiles and pretend to support each other, but we don’t.”
Vince said, “Some of us do.”
Rosa retorted, “Not enough. Like I said, no community.”
I leaned forward. “What do you mean, no community?”
“Look around. Little by little our culture has been amputated. You have a Chinese laundry on this corner. Another Asian business across the street selling black hair products. Non-black people own and operate every gas station in the neighborhood. And over half of the so-called soul food restaurants in the area have Mexicans doing all the cooking. And to further my argument, Compton, Watts, Lynwood, all of that is mostly Hispanic. We’re a vanishing minority.”
Vince said, “Well, the truth be told, all of this used to be owned by white folks.”
“Right, and we always settle for leftovers from other people’s plates. Our problem, in my opinion, is that we’ve been so busy trying to get integrated and be like white people that we forgot to keep on being black people. No, we don’t have a community. No structure. No goals.