CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hot Trimz had only been open a few months. Some of the barbers from Stylez across the street didn't like the booth rent arrangement and launched their own shop, taking up the space next to the Hoosier Pete convenience mart. They constantly handed out postcards to the Hoosier Pete regulars and had an ongoing special of a ten dollar haircut to any customer before 1 pm. An Obama '08 plackard hung alongside other signs: "Walkins welcome." "Multicultural." "Stylists Wanted." Several outdated issues of XXL, Vibe, and Scoop, the newspaper for the local night scene for black folks, lay scattered along the benches. The Commodores' "Lady" played in the background.
A white linoleum-tiled floor
lined the thin strip of a shop, black mats beneath each station.
The unsturdy benches were flush against the wall, hard on the ass
and back. Three barbershop hairstyle guides were on display on the
walls. From the beauty salon on the other half of the shop, female
stylists talked crazy to the barbers over the dividing
wall.
"Bunny!" Davion "D" Perkins, an
earpiece always on his ear, said.
"I told you not to call me that,"
a female voice cried from the other side of the dividing
wall.
"Grow up, D," Old School said in
a tone of mock chivalry.
"Ain't that the pot calling the
kettle negro?" she said.
"Old School, handle that," D
said. "You ain't got your girl in check."
D had fast eyes and missed
nothing. In a black vest over a white T-shirt, a casual display of
his former athletic build, he swept the hair from around his
station.
"Look at Old School. He like a
little kid, hiding his hair under his chair."
"Look here, when you got it going
on like me, you forget little details like a little
hair."
"Yeah, you know all about a
little hair." D went ahead and swept under Old School's
chair.
"Why they call you 'Bunny'?" Old
School asked.
"Uh oh, hurry up, here she
comes," D said.
Before she could come around the
corner, a cowbell clanged against the front door as it opened. A
darkskinned woman, her skin made darker against her
sunflower-yellow dress, walked in. Her swollen breasts and plunging
cleavage made Old School lower his glasses. No more than twenty
years old, she towed a wailing four year-old.
"Boy, sit down and be still." She
plopped him down in D's chair. "Up here looking crazy."
"We all big boys in here," D
said, draping a drop cloth around the boy's chest. Then he clicked
on a set of clippers and waved them about to let the boy get used
to the noise. The child continued to bellow, inconsolable. His
attention shifting from D to Old School, back to his mother. The
boy's tiny hands rose and made grasping motions toward
her.
"He just cutting you up." The
woman crossed her arms in a practiced pose of defiance, daring
someone to cross her.
"Get your hair fresh to match
your outfit," Old School said.
"Want to check out these keys?" D
pulled a jangling mass out of his pocket. The boy paused
mid-bellow, an uncertain air as he studied the keys. "You got them
boys. Go to that escalade out there."
"Let him push buttons," Old
School said.
The child burst into a renewed
fit of tears, squirming out of the raised perch as the clippers
neared his curly, light brown locks.
"Put some muscle in it. He'll be
all right." His mother sucked her teeth in impatience.
"You got this, D." Old School
tip-toed away from her to ease back into his chair. He flipped open
the latest issue of Scoop and pretended to read.
"I know he ain't stronger than
you. Just rip him."
"He keeps moving around and I
don't want to nick him," D said.
"Hold him down. Who's the
adult?"
"I ain't trying to lay hands on
someone else's kids."
The show went on for a few more
minutes, D angling clippers at the boy's head, each time as if
considering the best attack approach. His mother clucked, sucked
her teeth, checked her watch, and muttered loud enough for all to
hear about how real men could handle a crying boy. The cowbell
clanked again – D made a note to get a real chime – as King strode
in. Prez followed behind him scratching his arm, in a skittish
manner as if ready to break out in a full sprint at the next low
sound. The boy stopped crying.
In his late forties, not a speck
of gray on his head or in his beard, and wearing a black lab
half-coat, Old School slapped the seat of his chair. Prez wandered
into his chair, first checking to see if anyone else stirred for
it, and chewed on his lower lip as he eyed the line of King's hair.
Old School wrapped the paper neck cuff around Prez, then his huge
arms draped the cloth around him in a flourish. Turning up his nose
after catching a whiff of Prez's funk, he leaned the young man's
head back over the sink and began washing his hair first. "What we
need today?"
Prez's eyes caught King's, almost
seeking permission to answer – if he were sure at all.
"Let's just bald him up. Go clean
all the way around and start fresh," King said.
"Change the hair, change the
image," Old School said.
It had already been a long day.
King and Prez had played basketball for a few hours. It had been a
while since King had been on a court. Too long. His legs lacked the
grace and coordination which made the game come alive for him so
long ago, like he had to learn to run all over again. Not that it
mattered as Prez huffed and puffed before the score reached 2-2,
having no wind and nothing close to stamina in his rubbery legs.
Their game was complete slop, spending more time chasing down
errant rebounds than playing. Despite his wheezing and slow gait,
Prez continued to ball, jogging around the half-court, amiably
hounding King and calling it defense. No one joined in their game,
sensing that the game wasn't the point. There was the sense of
intruding on something personal.
Though his muscles ached and his
sweat reeked of toxins seeking release and his stomach roiled with
sickness, Prez knew he'd be fighting against his own body for a
while. Callused, scarred, and stiff, his hand felt foreign. His
breath came in hard rasps, the threat of erupting into a fit of
coughs with each struggling wheeze. The game slowly came back to
him through a thick fog of muscle memory, as if he played on
someone else's legs.
"How does it feel?" King asked as
they collapsed against the pole. His eyes closed as he let fatigue
wash over him, his sweat trickled down him, and his muscles
throbbed with deep ache. Not painful, but more in a
good-to-be-alive sort of way. For all of his running around, King
was never truly with anyone. Never invested himself into anyone.
Never gave or sacrificed much of himself. It was safer that way, he
didn't have to risk much of himself. Sure, he opened himself up to
a core few – Wayne, Lott, Lady G – but after that, everyone was
kept at a distance. Even Pastor Winburn. After a few moments, he
realized Prez hadn't said anything and he opened his eyes. Prez
wept to himself.
"I forgot about this," Prez
said.
"About what?"
"I don't know. All of this. Life.
I took it all for granted."
"So what do you want to do
next?"
"Live. But…" Prez trailed
off.
"But what?" King knew the answer
but he waited for Prez to find the words.
"I don't know where to
start."
"Make a list of what you want out
of life. Nothing ridiculous."
To be healthy again. Car.
Relationship. Family. Friends. Forgiveness. King made him write
them down, something tangible that he could come back to when he
needed reminding. King suggested he might want to begin with
finding a job. He helped Prez make a résumé. The next step was for
him to polish his look and present himself as professionally as
possible. They both hoped for a break, just an opportunity, for a
second chance.
"Either I'm getting slower or you
getting faster," Old School said as D brushed his face with a
powder-laced brush. Rubbed "botanical oils and razor relief lotion"
on his head.
"You slow." D collected ten
dollars from the mother.
"You don't miss
nothing."
"You make me scared to get
old."
"Have a good day, you hear?" Old
School called after the girl. She glanced at King and smiled, not
that he noticed.
For his part, King battled
against a sense of personal failure. Not that he'd been entrusted
with Prez or that he really knew the boy, but he felt like he'd let
him down. The community bulletin board enraptured his attention. In
God's Hands child care. Lawn Service. Insurance. House cleaners.
The community reached out and helped its own. He had been so
concerned about the big battles he forgot about the everyday ones;
the people around and closest to him. King had failed Prez once and
he wouldn't fail him again.
King handed Old School a twenty
and didn't wait for change. Prez got up and offered Old School a
fist to bump.
"I don't have time for all that
snapping and slapping," Old School said. "Just shake my
hand."
The bell clanged again. Detective
Cantrell Williams held the door open for the young woman and son to
exit. He'd have probably tipped his hat to them if he wore one.
Even if he wasn't known, the room would have made him as a cop.
Stiff, straight-backed walk. His stare imposed, a challenge to any
who saw him. He locked onto King immediately, who nodded toward D's
office. D returned an approving nod. The two closed the door behind
them, King planted himself behind D's desk.
"Your boy's late," Cantrell
started.
"Yeah, Lott runs that
way."
"Well I ain't got all
day."
"You heard my pitch or you
wouldn't be here. If I'm going to have the major players come to
the table for a sit down, I'm going to need police support. Or
noninvolvement, as the case may be."
King understood his burgeoning
rep. His name rang out on the streets in ways his father's never
did. However, he also understood the ways of power. Cops had real
power. They controlled where and how open the gangs operated. They
could put anyone in jail at any time. Yet they rarely arrested the
leaders. Perhaps it was a matter of better the devils they knew as
opposed to an unstable and unpredictable leader or, worse, a power
vacuum.
"You make some folks… nervous."
Cantrell leaned in. The close feel of the room gave the
conversation the feel of an interrogation.
"So?" King said, unintimidated.
He had been brought down for questioning enough times. Suspicion of
battery. Questioned about assaults. Rumors of him brandishing a
weapon in public. But there were never any complaining witnesses.
Only his name coming up, in vague, and soon forgotten,
accounts.
"You ain't hearing me. Some in
the department think you trying to do their job. Some think you
trying to get dirt on them. Either way, you making enemies you
don't have to make."
"That's why I reached out to
you."
"Me, huh?"
"Yeah, you seem like a brotha I
could trust. Could work with."
"You mean a brotha you could
work." Cantrell eased back in his seat.
The two squared off, neither
quite understanding how they came to this point. Distrust was part
of the game, the latent defensive hostility that comes with folks
always being out to get each other. They sparked each other,
hackles bristling, despite wanting the same thing. King decided on
a measured step backwards.
"You see that boy in there?" King nodded
towards Prez.
"The raggedy dope fiend? Looks kinda
rough."
"Looked rougher a few days ago
when he was dryheaving all over my living room."
"What about him?"
"I brought him around a few
months back. He was supposed to stay with a friend of mine and his
feet barely hit the sidewalk when he fell in with Green and Night
all caught up in the rippin' and runnin' of the street."
"Seems like the life caught up
with him."
"It catches up to all of us.
Chewed him up, got involved with that glass dick, next thing you
know, I'm scraping him up out an alley."
"So?"
"So? So I failed that
boy."
"You ain't responsible for
decisions he made," Cantrell said.
"True. But we all in this
together. He do his thing, but we don't have to let there be a
'thing' for him to get into. We have to look out for one
another."
"What you want from
me?"
"A light, and I mean light,
police presence. You at the table, strictly as a
representative."
"By light you mean out of sight
but nearby."
"Parlay or not, stuff could still
jump off with the wrong spark or if a knucklehead gets carried
away."
"You dream big, King. I'll give
you that."
"Someone's got to keep
dreaming."
Cocooned in a scarlet sweater, Esther Baron
stood on the front steps of her apartment building. Her thin
running blood left her easily chilled. She used to live up in the
suburban wasteland of Fishers, too north of Indianapolis with its
cookie-cutter strip malls, chain restaurants, and monolithic
culture. She thought it too far removed from the heart of the city,
convicted that in her heart, she, too, was fleeing from "darker
elements" as her father euphemistically put it. Irvington was much
closer to her liking and personality. Ten minutes from Outreach
Inc., near downtown, and one of the city's art districts, the
neighborhood had history and personality.
Wayne pulled up in one of the
Outreach Inc. vans. Kay poked his head out the window, tongue
wagging as he took in the day in healthy gulps.
"Good morning, Sir Kay." Esther
petted him through the window. Grabbing each side of his scruffy
face, she let him lick her. When she opened the door, he hopped
into the back and laid down in the back seat.
"Sir? He won't know what to do
with such treatment," Wayne said.
"He seems like a sir. See the way
he gave up his seat for a lady?"
"Chivalry isn't dead."
"I know. Just like I noticed you
didn't question me calling myself a lady."
"I'm a gentleman and a
scholar."
"Outreach OK with you having him
in the car?"
"They got no problem whatsoever…
once I promised to detail it afterward. Plus, we're on an errand of
mercy."
"Where are we heading?" Esther
noticed them going the opposite way on Rural from the Outreach Inc.
house.
"Breton Court."
"Breton? I hear that area's pretty
rough."
"It can be, but mostly things get
exaggerated." Wayne made sure to keep his eyes on the road and not
meet hers.
"You have any clients over
there?"
"Hmm. I think I got nearly a
dozen fellas fresh out of juvenile wandering around over
there."
"So it might not be so
exaggerated." Esther let a thin smile cross her lips. She didn't
need him trying to manage her fears.
"You got a point." Wayne noticed
that he sat a little taller in his seat around her. None of his
slouch-behind-the-wheel-in-a-gangsta-lean stuff. The way he spoke,
formalized wasn't quite the right word. Nor would he say
"whitened." But being around her made him very aware of how he
spoke and behaved.
"And Kay is joining
us?"
"I'm dropping him off."
"Dog sitter?"
"Sort of. King was talking to me
about the latest kid Big Momma done took in." There, he made a
point of sounding more like him. He spared a glance to see if she
noticed. Or took offense. Then he silently cursed at himself for
not being able to relax around her. "Anyway, little boy they call
Mad Had."
"What a horrible
nickname."
"Out here isn't exactly built as
a self-esteem booster."
"I see."
"Mad Had was a crack baby.
Doesn't speak a lot. King got to thinking that maybe a dog might
open him up some."
"Animal therapy. I've read about
that.
Of course
you have, Wayne thought.
They rode for a while in silence
as Wayne hopped on I-65 N to take him to the west side. He fumbled
at the radio tuning it into the Tom Joyner Morning Show before
thinking that maybe Esther was more of a Bob and Tom Show girl. He
flipped the stations, getting a curious glance from her.
"It's OK, you can listen to what
you want."
"Passenger's prerogative. 'What
thing is it which women most desire?'"
"That from a poem?"
"I don't know. I think I read it
somewhere."
"Their will," Esther said with a
calm resolve. Her eyes were bright and large and had a way of
unsettling him whenever they fixed themselves fully on
him.
"What?"
"Their will. Women want what they
want."
Wayne didn't expect any answer,
much less this one. He took a tentative step out on a limb to feel
out her thoughts more. "Makes women sound kinda… vain." He tried to
sound sensitive. Who the hell was he turning into?
"A lot are."
"So you didn't roll out the
feminist side of the bed this morning."
"I certainly slept under those
covers. I'm just saying when it gets down to it, women want their
way. Sounds very feminist to me. Don't act like men are so deep. As
long as she's young, pretty, and high-class, you'll chase her to
the ends of the earth and let her have her way."
"Ah, see there, you wrong. With
age comes discretion and wisdom. 'With those whose beauty is inside
comes security and character.'"
"And those of… 'low degree'?"
Esther wondered where those words came from. She became all too
aware of their easy banter, as if reciting lines from a familiar
script.
"Humility and
gentility."
"You one of those 'beauty is on
the inside' guys?"
"I guess I just know beauty when
I see it. Even when many miss it when it's obvious."
"I see." Esther Baron smiled more
fully, then self-conscious of it, turned away when it didn't leave
her face.
The west side saddened Wayne as
they exited on 38th Street and passed the Lafayette Square Mall and
a series of increasingly vacant strip malls. More businesses had
"For Lease" signs on them than not. A Texas Steakhouse had closed;
a sign promising that a new Mexican restaurant was "Coming Soon"
draped like a sash across it. The Krispy Kreme was boarded up. As
was the O'Charley's. Red Lobster was still packing them in
though.
Esther couldn't remember the last
time she was on the west side. Maybe to go to the Indianapolis 500.
Or picnic at Eagle Creek Park. She mentioned that to Wayne, but he
grew uncomfortable at the mention of the park and changed the topic
back to Breton Court.
"Not so bad," Esther said as they
slowed over the speed bumps.
"Like every other apartment
complex. Townhouses, technically. There's Mad Had now."
Mad Had curled up on the step
outside of Big Momma's condo. Ensconced in a lawn chair, she took
in the business of the neighborhood. She grinned at Wayne's
approach, him with that cute little white girl at his side. The
girl was short, not overweight, but thick. Had an awkward walk
about her that brought to mind the image of a shuffling mushroom.
But Wayne had his chest all puffed out, that dog of his on a leash
like they were a couple out for a late morning stroll.
"How you doing, Big
Momma?"
"I'm doing fine, baby." She
pronounced "baby" as if she was talking to her grandson. "And how
are you this morning, miss lady?"
"I'm doing OK." Esther stifled
the need to curtsey.
Mad Had sucked his thumb in
silence, his dead eyes tracking their movements.
"What brings you out this way?
King's not around. Some hush-hush foolishness he's up
to."
"I'm not here to see King. Got
someone who wanted to say 'hi' to Had." Wayne tugged at the leash
to draw Kay's attention to the boy. The dog trotted up to him gave
him a sniff, then licked him like he was the last bit of gravy on a
plate. Mad Had raised up, grasping the rott around his neck as if
holding a life preserver.
And laughed.
"Lord, look at them," Big Momma
said. "Ain't they a sight."
Mad Had stretched his legs along
the ground. Kay rested his head on the boy's thigh as he was
petted.
"I thought it might be a good
idea to let Kay stay
here for a while. Between Outreach and King,
I don't get to spend as much time at home as I'd like."
"I don't have time to take care
of no dog," Big Momma said.
"He's a good dog," Esther
answered. "Knows how to treat a lady."
"Maybe me and Had can take care
of him. Would you like that, Had?" Wayne asked. "I can check in on
them. Visit my boys."
"It's your responsibility." Big
Momma tried to sound firm, but her heart wasn't in it. It was the
first time she'd seen Had light up with any spark of real
life.
Tenth and Rural was the place hookers went
when they were too old, too strung out, had the bug, or otherwise
were unable to compete with the ladies working downtown. With no
structure or support, they forged a life for themselves among the
discarded and forgotten. The place had a way of weighing down on a
body. It seeped into your bones and gnawed at your soul. Plenty of
homeless folk milled around, especially after the government shut
down Central State in the 1980s. Flowers, stuffed animals, and
candles formed an altar of remembrance, circling a tree in front of
the house of Conant Walker, six year-old murder victim.
In a white tank top which went
over one shoulder and stretched over a blue halter top over a
cut-off blue jean skirt, Rhianna stood on the corner smoking a
square as if waiting on the bus.
"What's up, Rhianna?" Lott sidled
next to her.
"I'm standing here going over my
list of reasons I shouldn't kill myself and can only come up with
three reasons and one of them involves a stuffed French toast
breakfast I'd promised myself for later in the week. Which only
means that next week I'll still have to re-evaluate."
"Still hustling then."
"We all hustle. But not full-time
though. Just to feed the kids when my man don't help out. I got
regulars who I go with."
"Rellik's your pimp?"
"Nah, I just have to play by his
rules." She blew smoke out the side of her mouth, away from Lott.
"I ain't like the hos in it to feed a habit. I don't mess with no
drugs. Don't mess with no pimps. I just clear things with Rellik's
crew."
"Listen, I need you to get word
to someone."
"What I look like, a messenger
service?"
"Girl, you know and I know ain't
fewer people tighter on the vine than you." Some folks went places
others couldn't go and heard things most people couldn't. Or
shouldn't. Murder, gossip, or drug news. Even more so than the
ghetto telegraph of stoop to barbershop.
"Service ain't free. A girl's
gotta earn."
"I didn't ask for a freebie."
Lott pulled out his wallet, careful not to let Rhianna see how much
remained in it. She was still one of his people, but he knew his
people. Money had a way of making even friends a mark to run game
on.
"Options always open. For
you."
"Yeah." Lott shifted an awkward
pause. "I'm putting word on the wire for a meeting. Done got a hold
of Rellik. Need to get up with this dude Colvin."
"Look at you… carrying King's
water an' all. Getting all the players to the table is
he?"
"Something like that."
"What about Dred?"
The name shot through him like a
bullet through the spine. Caught him short, an anxious skip of
unfinished business to his heart. "If he around, he
knows."
"Ears everywhere. So no insult
not to invite him direct. Others though might not be more
sensitive."
"Who?"
"Naptown Red." Rhianna tapped off
the ash of her cigarette.
"Who?"
"Bit player."
"So why invite him?"
"Just saying. Niggas like to get
their ego stroked."
"Rellik. Dred. Colvin. Respect
due the real players." Lott handed her a fifty dollar bill. "This
do?"
"They'll know before your head
hits the pillow." Rhianna blew out another stream. "Or Lady
G's."
Broad Ripple nestled toward the near
north-east part of Indianapolis. The White River wound along its
north side; the ever-crowded thoroughfare of Keystone Avenue pulsed
along its east; Kessler Boulevard meandered along its south; and
the officious Meridian Street stood rigid guard at the west.
Originally founded to be a separate village from Indianapolis
proper, Broad Ripple was the result of a merger between two rival
communities: Broad Ripple and Wellington, each vying for expansion.
Indianapolis residents built their summer homes in Broad Ripple to
retreat from the inner city. It even had its own amusement park
built to rival Coney Island's, though it burned to the ground two
years after its construction. A park resided there now. The quaint
little homestead now sported specialty stores, nightclubs, ducks
along the river, and the Monon Trail walkway.
Merle loved the old houses in
Broad Ripple. If Lockerbie Square was the neo-conservative hippie
of the arts community, Broad Ripple was its patchoulismelling
cousin. Over-priced old neighborhoods existed in their own pocket
universe, and as the times changed, so did the street names.
Bellfontaine no longer existed: above Kessler Boulevard it was
Cornell; below it was Guilford. So 5424 Bellfontaine was
practically a rumor. A house with no street. A dwelling in the
shadow of a dead street. An obvious place for her to
live.
A two-story Tudor-style house,
its high-pitched roof held a lone arched window, an unblinking
Cyclopean eye blinded by the pulled curtains. In fact, the
vinecovered windows all had their blinds drawn so that the windows
appeared tinted black. Far away from the road, it was the discreet
kind of house that one drove by a hundred times without ever truly
noticing.
Merle rang the
doorbell.
A well-preserved forty-something
year-old answered the door. All sultry-eyed and smoldering saunter,
she held a glass of red wine in her right hand as she held the door
open with her back. Morgana.
"Look what the cat pissed on and
left on my yard," she said.
"Fountains. I love the
fountains," Merle said.
"You never cease to amuse,"
Morgana noted. They all had familiar, if not quite familial, roles.
Morgana was an instigator, though between her digging comments, she
drank her wine under a smile. Pure malice danced in her eyes. At
the best of times, she was prone to bouts of darkness, but she
seemed withdrawn, either by nature or by choice. "I see you found
me."
"Just had to know which bell to
ring."
"On a street that doesn't
exist."
"Maybe you should try a different
glamour spell," Merle said. "Or maybe you simply tired of playing
at goddess-hood."
"One does not turn one's back on
what one is," Morgana said.
"Only you, princess, still
consider us even close to gods. We never were. We were ideas. When
people cease believing in gods, the gods die. When they cease to
believe in ideas…" Merle said.
"They cease to dream."
"They cease to exist."
"And we're still here." She set
her chalice down on a table he couldn't spy within the foyer. She
guarded her home and her secrets and wasn't going to let him nose
around any more than she had to.
"Your son seeks you."
"Our dance is almost
over."
"He says you have one last lesson to teach
him."
"Does he now? An ambitious little
scrapling. I have more than a few tricks left in me."
"He thinks it's almost
time."
"What do you think, mad
mage?"
"I think…" Merle adjusted the fit
of his aluminum cap. "You are harder to get rid of than most
things. The hardiest of cockroaches."
"Sadly, I know you mean that as a
compliment." Morgana's eyes never left Merle. Secrets within
agendas within schemes. The woman was maddening and fascinating.
And had a way of stirring up old feelings.
"It's not in my best interest to
be rude."
"Ruthless, but not rude. You
don't have me fooled, mage. I did learn one lesson while under
your… tutelage."
"What was that?"
"Never teach your student all of
your tricks."
"And you do have many…
students."
"Is that a hint of jealousy I
hear? Don't worry, mad one, you will always have a special place in
my heart."
"And I shiver at the thought of
what a cold, dark place that is. What about Dred?"
"Leave my son to me. You've done
your duty. Consider me warned."
"The least I could do. For old
times' sake."
Now that Mountain Jack's had closed down,
Rick's Boatyard was King's favorite restaurant. Tucked away on the
west side, it overlooked Eagle Creek Reservoir itself, on the other
side of I-465, a man-made boundary that separated Breton Court and
the apartments and neighborhoods surrounding it from the
neighborhoods that bled into the suburbs. A chalkboard proclaimed
the day's special: the chef's soup of seafood and andouille gumbo,
a main course of South African lobster tails, with Mojitos as the
featured drink. The clink of silverware and the thick murmur of
pleasant conversation speaking above the easy-listening jazz coming
from the speakers filled the air as a live band warmed up, playing
some lukewarm Kenny G impersonation.
The ceiling recalled the inside
of a lighthouse. Fish and flatscreen televisions, each like prize
catches, were mounted on the walls alongside New Orleans jazz scene
paintings and hanging ferns. Sails created canopies for the booth.
The evening proved too cool to sit out on the deck but they could
still see the waves of the reservoir. Ominous and calm, deep and
mysterious. The perfect place for a romantic dinner. Just King and
Lady G.
And Prez.
A blue dress, a silky number with
a plunging neckline, stopped high on Lady G's thigh. She had
borrowed a pair of evening gloves from Big Momma that ran to her
elbow, which she decided finished her elegant look. King wanted to
take her someplace special, he said, and she wanted to dress the
part. Though he lived on his accrued Social Security benefits from
his mother's passing, he wanted to be the man, the knight, she
deserved. She wanted to play the sophisticate yet she felt so young
and inexperienced around him. She rummaged through Big Momma's
closet forever, eventually finding herself in the low-ceilinged
attic which housed artifacts from her aunties. Outfits dating back
decades. She searched through every box until she found the perfect
dress. No relationships happened by accident. She couldn't shake
the nagging feeling that there was something degrading about the
whole thing. That sense that she was little more than arm candy. So
very devastated, an emotional cripple in many ways, she scrambled
to be good enough for him, to please him. And part of her struggled
with the notion that she wasn't with him, but rather with the idea
of him.
She sighed, too loud, drawing the
attention of both King and Prez. She decided that her mood was
probably put off because King decided to bring his newest puppy
along with them.
Not quite hidden behind a menu
with the words "Fresh Jazz, Live Seafood" splayed across its front,
Prez stared at the array of silverware before him. The letters in
gold script on his black hoodie read Light Fingered Brigade. He
wondered why he got followed in stores.
"Start from the outside in," King
said.
"What?"
"As they bring you out dishes,
salad and appetizers and stuff, use the forks starting on the
outside."
"Can't just use one fork through
the whole meal? Seems awful wasteful," Prez said.
"White folks got too much time
and too much kitchen help to worry about that," Lady G
said.
"Just a different way of doing
things is all." He resented the unspoken implication that he was
trying to turn the two of them white.
Though pissed that King had
brought his latest special project along with them, Lady G couldn't
stay mad at him. He was so good with Prez, almost like a father.
Probably doing what Pastor Winburn did with him years ago. She
always gave into King's wants and requests. Partly because she
wanted to please him, partly because everything he did seemed so…
important. King was large, not just physically imposing, but his
life seemed lived on such a grand stage. His every action and
decision seemed to carry such weight. It was intimidating. Timid
and hard-headed, yet boisterous and fierce-sounding, she was still
the shy little girl whose time was better spent in a book. And she
resented the flash of sentiment that perhaps she was every bit the
special project to King that Prez was.
"You sure I'm not intruding?"
Prez asked.
Yes,
Lady G thought. "Naw. King too scared to be alone with
me."
"It's cool." Though pleased that
Lady G acquiesced to letting him bring Prez along, King knew he
might have been pushing things a bit. A hard, impenetrable man who
would die for those he loved, inside he was still the frightened
boy fearing the monsters that came for him in the night. "I just
wanted to take two people I care about out for a nice evening. It's
all about possibilities, you know."
"Yeah." Prez's eyes glazed over,
not knowing what King went on about. The food felt good in his
belly though.
The dinner passed uneventfully.
King and Prez talked of the Pacers' penchant for big white farmboy
acquisitions, and the holes of the Colts' defensive line. They
talked about the best places to eat ribs. They talked about school
and passed knowing glances at women, King's arched eyebrow asking
to Prez's shake of disapproval as waitresses walked by. Nothing too
deep, though the conversation about school was cut short by Prez as
it veered too close to thinking about the future and making plans.
No, tonight was about being: being still, being present, and being
with each other.
Back at Breton Court, Prez ducked
immediately into King's place. King walked Lady G over to Big
Momma's place.
"Sorry about that. Just thought
with him having no place to go, it would be a bad idea to leave him
by himself," King said.
"I don't care that he came along,
it's just…" Lady G hated to sound pathetic and needy. Like a girl.
"I just thought it was going to be only us."
"I thought I could do both: be
with you and help him along."
"I'm not some item you can just
multi-task to check off your 'to do' list."
No competition, no domination,
they held on to each other, rushed into each other. What one had to
give the other was pleased to take, like sweet-tasting fruit. But
too much of even the best fruit spoiled one's diet.
"It's just… there's so much work
to be done. Not enough time to do it all. Not enough workers. Not
enough people care. And as much as I want you beside me, it's also
dangerous. So I want to keep you as far from it as
possible."
"There you go again. Trying to
determine folks' business. Who elected you our Black
Messiah?"
"What?" King thought he'd opened
up and poured out his romantic soul. He didn't expect the sharp
sting of words.
"You don't get to decide that for
me. It's my decision to make. I'm tired of the men in my life
trying to tell me what's best for me."
"Is that what's bothering
you?"
"I said it, didn't I?" She held a
steady gaze behind a deceptive mien. He made her see old things
with new eyes. He gave her confidence, shared her secrets and felt
loved. He helped her define herself. King was the one person who
accepted her. Who knew her. Who had been real with her. She
couldn't hide from him.
"You just seemed off is all. A
little preoccupied," King said finally.
"Just a lot going on. Life with
you is hectic. Still getting used to it is all."
"All right then." He read her
face like emotional tea leaves. Whatever he saw there he decided
not to press the matter.
She kissed him, which lately she
did more often, when he asked too many questions, camouflaging her
discomfort in an expression of love.