Man Curse (12 page)

Chapter 15

“I
'll put this old token here to symbolize you coming back.” Sean's words were the musical soundtrack to his methodic, sexy motions, placing an old New York City token on a mahogany mantelpiece. It sat atop a candle and a small bowl with scented oil. “There's power in this.”

“What is that, voodoo or something? What are you, Haitian?” I sarcastically quipped, reaching for a glass of wine while eyeing the tiny Haitian flag sticking up from the soil of a potted plant. “Are you about to start chanting?”

“Nah, I'm just gonna place this here to make sure you come back. It's symbolic,” he said, staring at the dull coin's positioning. “I do this with Haitian pride.”

“You always do.” I giggled. “
Sak pase
?”

“
N'ap boule
,” he replied, grabbing my hand, pulling me close, and kissing me.

I
'd learned a lot from Sean during the six weeks of random dates after work. This was my first visit to his apartment in Flatbush, Brooklyn. Above the mantelpiece at his home were posters of Bob Marley, Wyclef Jean, and Marcus Garvey. Seashells were strewn out on windowsills, next to fresh green plants towering like trees, while a creeping vine crawled across the floor. His office was on the left side of the living room, featuring a carefully built L-shaped Ikea desk. Above it, countless books stacked up, touching the ceiling. Old magazines sat in a mile-high pile crowding the floor. His desk was meticulously neat. Scant items atop it seemed strategically positioned at ninety-degree angles. A yellow No. 2 pencil positioned bone straight, next to a small reporter's notepad, was placed in the center of the desk. To the left, in a corner, was a coffee cup filled with black ballpoint Bic pens. In the opposite corner was a bottle of hand sanitizer. As Sean squirted a few drops and rubbed his hands, I watched a black piece of lint bounce down a wall.

“Yeah, I'm a neat freak,” he said, grabbing an old newspaper, rolling it up, and smashing what I thought was lint, crawling toward the floor. “My work space has to be in order before I can create. Before I write, I clean like Arm and Hammer. It clears my thoughts.”

“So . . .” My words trailed off as I stared at the mangled insect carcass. “Is that an isolated roach problem?”

“Yes! Damn roaches,” he muttered, using a tissue to wipe bug blood off the white paint. “Fucking building is full of them, so even if I keep my place neat, the neighbors' dirt issues invade my space. And the landlords don't care.”

I watched another crawl up the wall. He grabbed a shoe and smashed it twice, screaming, “Fucker!”

“Why don't you move?” I said, turning up my nose. “That's one thing I don't do: roaches.”

His eyes furrowed like a madman's.

“This place is rent stabilized. I've been paying the same price for five years,” he said, cleaning up the mashed insect with a paper towel. Remnants of roach legs imprinted the wall. “If I move, I'll be raped.”

“I guess you get what you pay for. Cheap rent. Mad roaches.”

He looked at me and sucked his teeth. “You know what? You've got a roach on your shoulder.”

I jumped up and nearly fell off the couch, rushing to brush my shoulders as fast as I could. I spun around, looking back and forth, a shrill, squeaky scream came from my throat.

“Sike!” Sean cackled like a warlock. “Gotcha! Smart-ass . . .”

“Oh, you think you're funny,” I said, plopping back down onto the couch. “I bet you'll find it funny when I don't come back.”

“Oh, you'll be back,” he said, yanking me up out of my seat. “It's just a matter of time.”

“Yeah?” I asked, a seductive few inches from his ear. “How do you know?”

“Because I cast the spell already. The token is on the mantelpiece. It's done.”

“I thought you said that wasn't voodoo.”

“It's not voodoo. It's my magic. A little special thing I do.”

He bent over and kissed me.

“Call me when you get home, beautiful,” he said, walking to the closet and grabbing my jacket. “Call me when you're coming back.”

I floated back to Jersey, drunk from punch mixed with Sean's euphoric lips, tasting of sweet dreams.

After an hour's ride, I stepped off the train into suburbia. Looking for an available cab to ride home, I spotted a familiar vehicle. Green. Tinted. Shiny rims. Spotless tires. Hyundai. The window rolled down, and a small, tiny head popped out.

“Hey, pretty lady.”

“Dexter?” I winced, face twisted into confusion. “Hey . . .”

“How was your day?”

“Um, good. What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was thinking about you. Hadn't heard back. Did you get my messages?”

“You called?”

I knew Dexter had been trying to contact me. And I was consistent in not calling back. Disinterested in talking to him, I'd left Maryland behind with no interest of ever returning. He must have broken up with his side chick because lately his calls had been constant, every other day, painful reminders of an ugly past I didn't want to relive.

“You know I called. But it kept going to voice mail. You know I don't leave messages.” He smiled a half grin. “I even called a few weeks ago to wish you a happy Valentine's Day. You know that's your favorite holiday.”

“I do not. I hate V-Day.”

“Whatever. Lemme give you a ride home.”

“Oh, I was gonna take a cab.”

“Meena. I drove all the way from Baltimore to see you. You really think I'll let you take a nasty cab? Come on, I wanna show you my new sound system. Plus, we need to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“About us, Meena. Don't tell me you got all industry on me now,” he said, stroking his chin.

“Industry?”

“Industry. That's what you call it, right? When people who work in the entertainment biz forget where they come from. Act all stuck-up. Don't wanna be down with the people they came up with. You used to always talk about that. You forgot?”

I couldn't believe this was happening to me. “Okay, come on.”

As I stepped into Dexter's car, a chill flooded through my body. He blasted his music at full volume, nodding his head to the Nas blasting from floor to ceiling. “You hear that bass, Meena?” He shouted over the beat. “That's some real shit. And it didn't come cheap.”

Riding with Dexter was like walking in time backward toward blind, young days of dysfunction. I felt like a new woman working at
Buzz.
Independent. Confident. Sophisticated. On it. But with Dex, I was feeling a familiar tension. Anxiety. Always a word away from an argument or a scream at the top of the lungs.

“He reminds me of your father.” I would hear my mother's words during Dexter's worst outbursts. She'd be chopping up carrots for a cake, glancing up at me with a concerned half smile, mixed with worry.

“Really?” I asked, anxious to know the genetics of it all. “How?”

“Just that cocky, short-guy complex. Your father was like that.”

“Well, is that a good thing? My dad was abusive, right?”

“I just said he reminds me of your father. That's all. He's not your daddy. And you said he treats you well, right?”

“Yeah, I love him.”

“Okay, then. My experience is not yours. Hand me some more carrots, Meena. I got to make two cakes for the potluck at work.”

And that's all she'd ever say to me about Dexter. “He reminds me of your father . . .”

Dex turned onto my block. Pine trees covered the streetlights and a dark, eerie, eleven o'clock black coated the walkways. It was the end of March. But the shadow of winter's chill still floated through the air blocking heat from the sun.

“I just want us to get back together,” he said. “That's all.”

“Dex, I told you we can't get back together. All we do is fight.”

“Yeah, well, all couples fight. We can work it out.”

“We've tried to work it out so many times. It always ends in screaming.”

“Yeah, but I love you.”

“I know you do.”

“Do you love me?” he asked, looking sideways, studying my response. “I know you still do.”

“Dex,” I began, “I . . .”

“Just say it.”

Glancing at his eyes and his forehead, I saw a tiny speck of sweat formulate, and his eye seemed to jump. He put his hand on my arm, making me freeze.

“You're scaring me, Dex.”

“I'm scaring you? Why?”

“Well, you come here unannounced. You meet me at the train station. You don't know when I'm coming, so you just wait. How long were you there?”

“Only an hour or so. But I know what time you get off work. And since I missed your birthday last month, I just wanted to do something with you.”

“How do you know what time I get off work?” I asked, knowing we hadn't spoken in weeks.

“Your mom,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I called earlier and she told me.”

I could hear his words in the background of my momentary daydream. An out-of-body moment recollecting the call I'd taken from Dex on my birthday. I accidentally dialed his number, drunk and high that night off some brownies cooked with weed Meredith had gotten from Brooklyn, to celebrate. He called me back. And we ended up talking on the phone for two hours. Like old times. Laughing and gossiping. The way it was when we first met. Before the fights. Before the angry emotional outbursts. The call ended when his phone rang at 2 a.m. He clicked over. Kept me on hold for sixty seconds too long. And I hung up. Knowing what a call at that time of night meant. When I sobered up and woke the next morning, I regretted every second; he spent the next few days buzzing and beeping me. Calling the house phone. Talking to my mother. Blowing me up despite my ignoring the calls. As if we were back together. As if I'd forgotten why we broke up. And here he was. Stalking. Again.

“You didn't know what time I was getting home. So this is crazy, Dex.” I crossed my arms and stared out the window. “You drive up from Baltimore and wait somewhere for me? You just sit and wait for an hour? What the fuck?”

“Well, I came from Maryland and I stopped in Philly to see my dad. And when I leave here I'ma sleep there and go back. I came to tell you I'll be moving to Philly and staying with him. I'll be close. Only an hour and a half away. Not two and a half like Maryland. So we can see each other.”

“We're not together anymore, Dex!”

“But, Meena . . .” he whined, glossy-eyed. “Come on, we can be. If you just try. I can't let you go.” His eyes began tearing up as he inched closer, grabbing my arm.

“Let me go!” I yelled, yanking away from his grip and jumping out of the car. “What the fuck?”

By then he'd pulled up in front of my house. There were no lights on. The porch was twenty meters away. I thought about sprinting to freedom but knew that Dexter's ex-soldier calves, bulging atop his cross-trainer Nikes, might catch up to my heels. I grabbed my scarf and wrapped it around my face. Arms crossed. I looked up and down the street at utter emptiness. Like a horror movie, like a scene from
A Nightmare on Elm Street
.
My worst fear flashed through my brain: chased by a serial killer and no one to hear the screams but me, dying to the bloodcurdling echo of my own voice in the distance.

I knew by now that Mom was probably dozing to the evening news. So when I got out of the car, I did the safest thing I could think of, which was to stand in the middle of the street, under a lamp. Its brightness glared, stretching my shadow long and dramatic, like the moment.

“Why are you standing there, Meena?” Dex asked with a sinister smile. “Aren't you cold? Why don't you go in the house?”

“Because I don't feel like it. I feel better standing here in the middle of the street under the lamp, where I'm safe. Where people can see and hear me if something should happen.”

“And what's gonna happen to you?”

“I don't know. Hopefully nothing as long as I stand in this spotlight.”

“I'm not gonna hurt you, Meena. I love you.”

“Well, you're scaring me. And if you love me, you'll drive off, go home, and leave me alone.”

“I'm not leaving, Meena.”

“Well, I'm not going in the house then, and you don't love me.”

“I do love you.”

“Well, then leave.”

“I'm not leaving. I wanna talk to you.”

“Leave, Dex. You wanna talk on your own terms. This shit here is spooky,” I said, crossing the street. “And you don't care. That's some selfish shit.”

“Where are you going now?”

“To stand in the light in front of my neighbor's house. They're awake. I can see lights on and the TV playing.”

“I can't believe you're acting like this.”

“Leave, Dex. You're scaring me.”

“Meena . . .”

“If you love me, you'll leave.”

“I do love you.”

“So leave and stop scaring me.”

“Meena, come on.”

“
Leave
. How many times is that now?”

“I just—”

“Leave!” I screamed it down the street. Icicles shivered from the limbs of tree branches as dogs barked and the squeak of my neighbor's screen door crept open. A little girl poked her head out.

Dex and I turned to see the baby standing there under the porch light. Slippers on. Head full of barrettes. A Barbie doll in hand.

He sucked his teeth and turned on the ignition. Placing his hands on the steering wheel, Dex exhaled a long, hard huff before screeching off. I waited ten minutes in the street, anticipating his return, fingers numb, white air blowing from my lips, staring at that little girl. Feigning a smile, I waved. She looked back, bewildered, combing doll hair with a perplexed smile on her face.