“Speaking of siblings, there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about Robert.”
“You and me both.” I study his face, trying to see if he’s being sincere. “Do you remember the night of the party?”
“At the Crystal Ballroom?”
“Yeah.”
“You and Robert turned out the Soul Train line.”
We both laugh. Then the laughter subsides, and I get serious. “Craig, that night Robert told me he was going to make something right, but I never had a chance to ask him what he was talking about. You have any idea what he meant by that?”
He squints and scratches his head, then sits next to me. A guy wearing sagging jeans and a white wife-beater, covered in tattoos and dragging a pit bull by a leash, walks by. He and Craig exchange nods. Then Craig turns toward me. “He said he was going to make things right?”
“Yes. That’s what he said.”
“Regina, there was a lot happening back then. Stuff Robert was involved with, and not all of it was good.”
His words steal the air from my lungs. I want to tell him to take back what he said. I want to slap the smirk off his handsome face. But I’m a grown woman, not a high school girl. I grit my teeth.
“Are you okay? You’re shaking,” he says. He drapes his palm over my forearm, and I snatch my arm away.
He stands and walks to the rail. Leaning on it, he says, “Damn, I’m sorry. I meant no shade. I’m being real.”
I get up and dust off my pants, chest out, ready to defend Robert. “What do you mean it wasn’t all good?”
“Calm down, Regina. You were a teenager back in the day. You didn’t know everything that was going on, and rightly so. Robert got in over his head with some things.”
“Like what?”
“Gambling.”
“What kind of gambling?”
“Robert was under investigation for placing bets on his own games. And he was spending a lot of his time off in Vegas. Word on the street was that some reporter trying to make a name for himself was going to break the story after the first of the year. I don’t know if you know this, but the week he was here, there was a jewelry store heist. The owner was killed. Rumor has it Robert was involved in some way—a way that would have lined his pockets with enough money to pay off his gambling debts. There was talk that he had cut a deal with the cops and that he was going to snitch on the robbers. That might be why he was killed.”
“Why didn’t my mother and I know anything about this? I don’t believe it. Why would the mayor give him the key to the city? There was a parade and everything for him. He was a hero.”
“Regina, your brother was like me. He knew how to keep things on the down-low. He knew how to hide stuff. He didn’t want to hurt your mother. I’m not saying he was a bad guy. He wasn’t all good, and he wasn’t all bad. No one is. Nobody’s perfect.”
Tears stream down my face, and I turn away from him. He comes up behind me. “Regina, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to ruin your image of Robert.”
I turn and face him, my eyes fierce. “You can’t ruin the image I have of Robert. You can’t tarnish the memories I have of him. He was more than a brother. He taught me my ABCs, how to read, count, tie my shoes, ride a bike, swim. He looked out for me. We shared our dreams, our fears, our innermost feelings. He was my hero, and I don’t care what anybody says about him. That’s my truth.”
We stare at each other in silence, until he breaks it. “I see why he loved you so much.”
“The guys who were involved in the robbery, are they still around?”
“I think I heard they got busted, but I’m not sure. Why?” he says, brows knitted.
“No reason,” I say, averting my eyes.
“Regina, don’t go poking around, girl. Leave well enough alone.”
“Don’t worry about me, Craig. I got this.”
Chapter 15
Gretchen
The garage door squeaking closed puts a smile on my face. Lance is on his way to school, and I’m still in bed. I reach into my nightstand drawer for the photo of Robert I printed yesterday, after Lance and I came back from dinner. I’m determined to transport. That’s what I call it now—becoming Robert, experiencing Robert. Both times it happened when I looked at his picture, so I’m hoping that’s the key.
I study the photo. He’s wearing a black tuxedo, and he’s at a party. I snipped it from Regina’s Instagram page. Based on my timeline, I believe this was his birthday party—the day he died. I can see partygoers in the background. He’s smiling broadly, his straight, white teeth glistening. But when I look into his eyes, I see something else. I see secrets.
I see … oh … uh … OMG, it’s happening. It’s happening again. Oh my god. I hold on to the edge of the bed, bracing myself. My body shivers, twists, and jerks. I’m scared. What’s happening to me? I’m changing. I look around, gasping for air. The room is spinning. I’m going to throw up. I’m … I’m. It hurts. My eyes blink rapidly, and I focus on the spinning ceiling that’s collapsing on me. I raise my arms to keep it from squashing me, but it’s too forceful. It presses on my chest, cutting off my breath, sending me through the mattress, the bedsprings. They pierce my insides, but I feel nothing. I melt into the carpet, the floor, through the cracks, and my body takes form—six feet of steel muscle.
******
“Robert.”
In the Crystal Ballroom at the Dancing Hills Hotel, I smile when Regina calls me. I love the way she says my name. Some folk like to call me Bob or Bobby, but she sticks to Robert. We’re about to dance down the Soul Train line at my twenty-fourth birthday party. She looks so pretty in the purple silk dress I bought her. It has a slit up the side, not too high, just right for a sixteen-year-old. I can’t believe she wears a size one. I didn’t even know they made clothes that small. I think about how I let her splurge at the mall the day after Christmas. It felt good buying her clothes, seeing her happy. She nearly went crazy when I let her pick out some jewelry. She chose a gold necklace with hearts on it and a matching bracelet. They both look pretty on her. She told me she’d never take them off.
I remember when our father died. I had gotten to spend nine years with him. All I can think about was that Regina would never get to know him. At that moment, I appointed myself as her father.
“Robert, are you ready? Ma’s almost to the end.” She tugs on my tuxedo jacket.
“Of course I’m ready. We’ve practiced enough.”
We laugh at our mother doing the cabbage patch. I’ve been laughing a lot tonight, but inside I’m boiling. I have a rage inside that’s taken everything in me to keep contained. I’ve been weighing my options, my next steps. My mother is on top of the universe, and the news I have is going to crush her soul. It might even destroy her.
“Come on, Robert. It’s our turn.”
Regina and I go to the head of the line, and we bring down the house. She’s so light, I’m able to flip and toss her around like a rag doll. At the end of our dance, we collapse onto the floor, laughing our heads off. She looks at me, and my heart melts. I never thought I could love someone as much as I love her. I’m going to make things right. I have no choice. I tell Regina how much she means to me, but before I can get up from the floor, Lorraine marches toward me. Damn.
“Bobby, we need to talk.”
I stand, brush myself off, and grit my teeth. I look around at my family and friends, wondering what the hell she’s doing here and how she got past security. My eyes lock with my stepfather Curt’s. He looks away, like he can feel something is about to go down.
“What are you doing here, Lorraine?”
She plants her hands on her wide hips and moves her head from side to side. Wearing my football jersey and a pair of ripped jeans, she looks like she’s ready for a fight. But the last thing I want to do is embarrass my family or myself.
“Now’s not the time or the place,” I say.
“Okay, I’ll have my say right here in front of everyone.”
/> My mother looks my way, concerned. I shake my head and wave, letting her know everything is okay. Then Lorraine grabs my hand and drags me into the hallway.
“There’s an empty room over there,” I say, jerking out of her grasp.
We go to the smaller room, and as soon as we get in there she jumps into my arms. I push her off me, and she stumbles backward and falls on her butt. “What’s wrong with you? In case you don’t remember, we’re through,” I say.
She jumps up. “Bobby, we’ll never be through, because I’m carrying our child.”
“First of all, I don’t believe you’re even pregnant, and if you are, the baby isn’t mine.”
“Then who’s is it?” Her green eyes widen, and she runs her hand through her long, sandy-brown hair. She was the prettiest girl in high school, but after we graduated, I quickly learned that inside she was ugly as hell. Word got to me quick that she was sleeping with half the football team and that I was the only one stupid enough to have taken her seriously. Once I got drafted, she was all over me, wanting to have sex without protection, but I never went for it. So how in the hell is she carrying my baby? She claims the rubber broke, but that’s a lie. “Lorraine, I don’t know who the father is.”
She points her finger in my face. I’m so pissed, I could bite it. But I maintain my cool. “You think you’re all that because you’re in the NFL making a lot of paper. You think you’re gonna knock me up and not have to take care of this baby. Well, you’d better think again.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t make threats—I make promises.”
“I’m out of here. And if you don’t leave the premises, I’m going to have security escort you out.” I leave her and return to the party. I nearly collide head on with my stepfather. “Watch out, Curt.”
“Hey, Robert. Is everything okay? What’s up with Lorraine?”
I glare at him and brush past, then look over my shoulder. He’s still standing there with his mouth open. My mother walks up to him and pulls him onto the dance floor, full of people getting their groove on.
In desperate need of a drink, I go to the bar. I wink at Regina, who’s dancing with her classmate, David. She seems to be having a good time. She’s a born actress.
I turn toward the bartender, a wiry, bug-eyed guy with a potbelly. He looks like everything he’s ever eaten has gone straight to his stomach and no place else. He hands me my favorite drink—vodka on ice. “You havin’ fun?” he says.
“I’m trying.”
His face lights up, and he says, “I’m one of your biggest fans.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
He wipes down the bar, then says, “Do you know who Marlin Briscoe is?”
I look at him like he’s crazy. “That’s like asking me if I know who Dr. Martin Luther King is. Of course I know who Marlin Briscoe is. He was the first black quarterback to start an American Football League game, in 1968. Ironically, the same year Dr. King was killed.”
“You’re right.”
“Sure I’m right. And since then there’ve been fourteen, and I make fifteen.”
He passes his hand over his clean-shaven face. “You know your history. I think you’re the best, Robert. I know Matt Simmons wasn’t happy about being replaced. Hell, he’s gettin’ old, and his arm isn’t what it used to be. Matt’s been a problem for the Enforcers from day one. The coach loves him though. I believe that’s why he’s cut him so much slack over the years. The women, fights, drinking. If he’d been black, his ass would have been fired a long time ago.”
“Hey, don’t count him out. He still has some juice, and he’s still on the team. I’m cool with him. I agree, Matt is like a son to the coach, but in the football jungle, the owner rules. He’s the lion—he calls the shots. It’s all about the bottom line. And the owner wanted me.”
“You’re right about that.” He knits his bushy brows, and his gaze drifts toward the Ballroom entrance.
My eyes double in size when I see a couple of uninvited thugs. “Okay, that’s it,” I say, heading toward the lobby, ready to fire security. The thugs follow me.
“Hey, Robert, let us have your autograph,” the taller one says. I keep moving, but they catch up to me and hem me in. “I said, let us have your autograph.”
“Dude, this is a private function. You can’t break your way in.”
They laugh, and the tall one says, “Like you broke into old man Schwartz’s place? When you gonna give us our cut?”
I start to slug him, but a camera flash stops me. “No photos,” the thugs say. A phone rings, and I look around, but I can’t find it. The ringing crescendos.
******
I’m in bed, bleary-eyed, gasping, wheezing, my ears ringing. Then I realize it’s my phone. I reach toward the nightstand for it, fumbling, barely able to see. It falls to the floor. I throw off the covers and swing my legs out of the bed. I start to get up, but the transport I experienced knocks me down. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I press on my chest, trying to slow the rhythm. I was Robert again. The party, dancing, Lorraine—it’s all coming back. I force myself up and rush to my office.
I jump in front of the computer, open a Word doc, and type everything I experienced, bullet pointing the highlights. I print it and snatch it from the floor.
I was angry—no, I was rageful about something.
Whatever it was would have destroyed my mother.
I had to make something right.
Lorraine was claiming to be pregnant with my child,
but it wasn’t my child. She threatened me.
I don’t like my stepfather, Curt.
I may have been involved in the jewelry store heist.
Two thugs asked for their cut.
The ringing phone brought me back. The phone. Someone called. I rush back upstairs to the bedroom and grab my phone from the floor, hoping that whoever it was left a voicemail. Gretchen, this is Jocelyn. I hope you’re having a good Wednesday. If you are, I hate that I’m spoiling it. Unfortunately, Lillian Brown booked a pilot and won’t be available anymore for the shoot days. Yikes. I know. I hate it too. We still have Vanessa and the other three actresses. I’ve already called Vanessa’s agent to tell her we’re definitely interested in her and that everything is a formality at this point. Call me if you need to talk.
“Damn. I liked her. Oh, well.” I close my voicemail, and the phone rings again.
“Hello.”
“Is this Gretchen Holloway?”
“Yes. Who’s asking?”
“This is Regina Wilson.”
My stomach turns a thousand cartwheels. “Regina, wow. How are you? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
“I’m okay. I wanted to know if you’re available to talk—in person.”
Energy surges through me. “I am. Where do you live? I can come to you.”
“I live in Culver City.”
“No problem. What time do you want to meet?”
“Can you meet me at 11:00 a.m.?”
I glance at the clock. It’s 9:00 a.m. “Yes, I can. Hey, I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. Actually, I’m just getting up. I’m a fiend for breakfast, specifically for blueberry pancakes with banana slices on top.”
Silence.
“Regina, are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here,” she says, her voice warbling. “There’s an IHOP on Sepulveda.”
“I’ll see you there at 11:00 a.m.”
“See you.” The phone goes dead and I’m in shock, wondering if she’s had a change of heart. Whatever’s going on, I’ve been given a second chance, and I don’t want to blow it.
******
I pull into the IHOP parking lot, my eyes darting, wondering if Regina’s already here. I’m a little late. Well, I’m very late, by about forty minutes. L.A. traffic sucks. I texted her to tell her I was trapped on the freeway, but she didn’t respond. I hope she hasn’t backed out of our meeting. Peering in the rearview mirror, I brush back my bangs,
tighten my ponytail, and grab my purse. I get out of the car, stretching my neck, gazing at the clear, blue sky. It’s hard to believe that two days ago we were experiencing floods of biblical proportions. Though I heard it didn’t rain at all in Culver City.
I thrust my keys into the pocket of my Patriots hoodie. Sometimes I feel like a walking billboard for my favorite team. I can’t help myself. We have seven games left in the season. So far, seven wins and two losses. On February 4, 2018, I hope to be in Minnesota with my father, watching the Patriots play in Super Bowl LII. I shelve thoughts of the game as I enter the restaurant.
I scan the lobby filled with people, but no Regina. The aroma of freshly cooked pancakes makes my mouth water. I walk toward the hostess desk, and a woman with a mole-peppered face greets me with a smile. Before I say anything, I hear my name.
“Gretchen.”
I look toward the dining area at Regina, beckoning for me to join her at a booth near the window. The pretty purple dress she’s wearing makes me flash back to the purple dress I bought her, the one she wore to my party. Then I head her way, filled with jitters. I don’t know why she makes me nervous. I fix my gaze on her welcoming smile and sit across from her.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Did you receive my text?”
“Yeah. I understand.”
“L.A. traffic is horrible,” we say in unison.
We can’t help but laugh. It feels good to laugh. The waitress approaches, and Regina gestures for me to order.
“I’ll have double blueberry pancakes with a glass of orange juice. Can you please put banana slices on top of the pancakes?”
The waitress nods and then looks at Regina.
“I’ll have an omelet and toast with water.”
“Will that be all?”
The Truth About Gretchen Page 12
