Hold Me in Contempt

by Wendy Williams

  “I don’t work here,” he said.

  “But you were in the kitchen, right?”

  “Oh. That.” He looked away. “I just help out sometimes.”

  “Oh. Well, what do you do?” I asked, and felt a foot in my mouth. While asking those kinds of questions was acceptable in most circles I moved in, I knew there, in Damaged Goods, it probably seemed more like sizing someone up or being nosy. And what did it matter anyway?

  “I do many different things,” he said so coolly that if my eyes were closed I might’ve thought he was a brother. He wrapped his arm around the back of his head to tend to an itch, and there, on the inside of his biceps, was the Black Power fist tattooed in red ink.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be all up in your business. I was just making small talk, I guess.”

  “No hesitation,” he responded. “I get it.” He grinned.

  “What? You get what?” I smiled back and felt my eyes flirting, and I didn’t look away this time.

  “You’re sizing me up,” he said, and we laughed again.

  “No! I’m not!”

  “It’s cool. That’s how women like you do.” His eyes were flirting then.

  “Women like me?”

  “Sisters. Black women.”

  “Ohhh! Now I see. You’re claiming you know something about black women? About sisters?” I took a full sip of my drink, leaving the ice cubes lonely in the glass again. Without even asking, Iesha came over quickly to pour another glass.

  “I know a lot about black women. Probably more than you.” He nodded at Iesha, and she winked back.

  “Humm,” I let out. “How is that?”

  “How do you think?”

  “So, you’re one of those white men who dates black women?”

  “Exclusively.”

  I rolled my eyes the way black women do when white men make declarations like that. It brought up cellular memories of rape on plantations, images of white men prodding the wide hips and bouncy buttocks of Sara Baartman, “the Hottentot Venus,” on display in London, of white men sleeping with black women to “see what it’s like,” anger at a widely held belief that black women were more sexually driven and promiscuous than any other women on the planet, dirty, dick-sucking bitches . . .  ​and a bunch of stuff our fathers whispered in our ears about why we “bet not eva bring no white boy home!”

  “Guess you’re one of those ‘once you go black, you never go back’ folks,” I said cynically.

  “Not exactly. More like, I ain’t go no other way. I’ve only dated black women. It’s what I like.” He leaned toward me, and the tickling that was still playing at my ear shot down my back and split my ass cheeks. “And I like what I like.”

  Somehow that new double got back into my hands and I downed it like it was water. I wanted something stiff inside of me. My ass cheeks spread out on the stool, and I felt King look before placing his hand on the small, innocent, but suggestive space between my back and my buttocks.

  “Let’s get Queen some water,” he said to Iesha.

  “Water?” I looked at him. “What, you think I’m drunk?”

  “No. Not at all, Queen. I just want to keep you sober.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m about to beat your ass back there on one of those pool tables,” he said, pointing to the table the old-timers had abandoned.

  “Now, that might be a little hard for you to do. I’m not bragging, but my brother and I were the reigning champions of the Harlem Kids Pool Tournament for five years in a row. You don’t want none of this!” the Jameson in me said.

  The cute guy Monique had hooked up with the night before walked into the bar and up to us with his hands in his pockets and a slight look of worry on his face.

  “Yo, let me holler at you,” he said stiffly, showing his deep dimples though he wasn’t smiling at all.

  King didn’t turn around. He rolled his lower lip into his mouth and held it with his teeth.

  There was a palpable tension between the two men and I tried to cut it with a smile at the guy, but he kept his eyes on King’s back.

  “I got that,” he added vaguely. “Holler at me.”

  “Holler at Truth,” King answered tersely. “I ain’t on.”

  “Come on, my nigga. Ain’t shit. I got it.” He reached out to put his hand on King’s shoulder but stopped himself. “Come on, yo. Don’t be like—”

  King turned swiftly. “D-Black, I just told you to holler at Truth. You don’t want this.”

  An hour and two more doubles later, I was at the pool table, losing and laughing. Martini glasses filled with green potion and red cherries and platters of fried shrimp were floating around a bar that was nearly packed. Women in Timberland boots and men with gold grills and fresh Caesar cuts lined the bar. Most people who walked in looked over at King and me, and some waved or nodded at King, but no one really came over except the waitress, who kept our drinks filled and whispered in King’s ear for responses he gave with a pointed finger and serious tone.

  “You’re a pretty popular guy for someone who doesn’t work here,” I said as King set up a shot.

  “You’re a pretty horrible pool player for someone who was champion of the pool association,” he retorted, leaning against the table for a masterful play that made it clear he was no stranger to backroom pool.

  “I bluffed,” I admitted, smiling.

  “I figured.”

  We hadn’t really shared much in the way of revealing conversation in the hours we’d been chatting. It was more small talk and stares along body parts. I didn’t mind the surface chitchat though. It was nice not to be known. He never asked my name again or what I did. And that cut me away from my life for a little while. It also stopped me from thinking much of anything about him beyond what I saw.

  I paced the table to see if I had a shot, but the only angle I could find would require that I jump up on the green felt.

  “Let me help you,” King advised, seeing my trouble. He took my hand and pulled me to the far left corner of the table. “You see that?” He stood behind me so close and whispered in my ear. “Right up the middle. Set up just for you.”

  “Yeah,” I said, all dreamy.

  “Bend over,” he commanded, and immediately my brain went to Monique’s Flower Press practice with Brother to the Night. Just then I wanted to know what the move was and imagined King in it. I exhaled before I realized that I’d already assumed the appointed position and King was standing behind me with his hands gripping my waist. “Arch your back.”

  “What?” I asked, pulling myself out of my daze. “Why do I need to do that? This is—”

  “Just do it,” King ordered, his tone sharp. “You’ll see.”

  “Okay,” I said, dipping into the green with the stick in my hand.

  “Now hold that thing close to you.”

  Somehow King was standing straight now, but it sounded like his lips were on my ear and his baritone caressed me from lobe to nipple. The cotton crotch in my panties was damp against my skin. I blamed the Jameson and decided I’d need to leave in a bit.

  When the stick hit the ball, it rolled into the hole like water down a drain. I almost jumped up to give King five but tried to keep my cool.

  “Good job,” he said, smacking my ass.

  I jumped to turn and ask him what he thought he was doing touching me in that way, but the way he stepped back with his feet apart and his chest forward, I felt like maybe it was okay.

  “So, what are we playing for?” he asked.

  “I don’t gamble.”

  “That’s too bad. I have the grand prize if you want it,” he said.

  “You’re a great flirt, but I’m not here for all of that. I just needed to unwind. Been having the worst week ever. Work. Family. Drama—”

  King cut me off: “I’m not your man, Queen. I’m not here to hear about your bad times. I want to make good times with you.”

  “Why?” I asked, implying a clear distinction betw
een me and the women who were clearly waiting on standby at the bar, watching us play.

  “I like your style. Your attitude. Ain’t no other bitch in here got shit on you, Queen,” he said, nodding toward the gawking lineup. “Bad thing is, you don’t know it. Good thing is, I’m going to show you.”

  I laughed nervously before saying, “I don’t need you to show me anything. I know I’m beautiful.”

  “Do you? Do you really?” he asked, and I couldn’t say anything. He walked around the table for his shot. “ ’Cause I’m looking at you and I know some nigga got you fucked up. And I’m not having that. You know, the best thing about me and you—about the difference in your black skin and my white skin? I can see your beauty more than you ever will. I can tell you everything about it. Because I watch it. Because I don’t have it.”

  I was rendered speechless. I watched him move, his white skin glowing softly under the pool-table lights.

  “So you want to help me see my beauty?” I asked, as if it was impossible.

  “If you let me.”

  Two guys I hadn’t seen before walked into the bar, and all eyes except King’s transferred to them. One of the women at the bar whispered to the woman beside her, who turned to get a look before peeking back at King and returning a whisper.

  The men, one as big as Kent and the other a little shorter but just as wide, said something to Iesha and then headed toward King.

  King put his stick down and told me to wait for a second.

  He stopped them just feet from the table, where I could hear dribbles of words and see that their conversation was less than friendly.

  I tried to play cool but stepped a little and closer to them so I could get some words.

  “Tell that nigga what I said,” King directed. “Ain’t shit matter but that. Truth know.”

  “Man, fuck. Nigga D-Black ain’t about to let that shit ride,” one of the guys said.

  “Trim that fat, then,” King said, and their voices went so low as I struggled to hear.

  I was practically in the huddle with them when King turned to me.

  “Sweetheart, can you wait here for me for a minute?” he asked. “I got some folks outside I need to holler at.”

  “Oh, that’s fine,” I said. “I’ll practice my new shot.”

  “Aigght.”

  When King and the two guys walked out I was left standing before the stares of the women at the bar. If my Harlem upbringing hadn’t made me bulletproof against eye shoots, I might’ve taken some serious hits, but I shrugged and reminded myself that I was on their turf down in Brooklyn. ADA or not, Brooklyn girls didn’t play, and I didn’t want them to think I was there for a fight.

  I broke the standoff by pretending to look for something in my purse. I pulled out my cell phone to see that I’d missed three back-to-back calls from Kent and a text asking me to call him back ASAP. I knew he was calling about his alleged fiancée and I didn’t feel like lumping his drama onto my own, so I responded with a short text telling him I was stressed and I’d call him back later.

  As soon as my response went through, the phone rang again with Kent’s name on the screen. I sent him to voice mail, but he called right back.

  “What do you want?” I answered harshly, pressing my ear to the receiver. “I told you I’m busy. I don’t have time to hear about your Latin prostitute, Kent.”

  “It’s about Mommy,” he said gravely. “I need you to get home. To come home right now.”

  “What? What is it?” I asked, my heart jumping into speed with scenarios of my mother being found dead or near dead. Because that was always a thought. Always the possibility. Just waiting for a conclusion. “I’m out, you know, so if it’s not anything really bad, just tell me.”

  “Kim, we need you to come home.”

  “I’m having a fucked-up day. I can’t do this here,” I blurted out, feeling my heart swell in the mystery of worry. Right then, I wished I wasn’t in the strange bar with the strange man, doing whatever I was doing. “If she’s dead—if that’s it, then—”

  “She ain’t dead,” Kent said. “But she been here. Daddy has proof.”

  “She’s been there? Mommy’s been there?”

  “Yes. Come home.”

  When I exited Damaged Goods, I nearly walked right past the silver Bentley. My gut in knots as it usually was where my mother was concerned, I saw the car but also didn’t see it, or maybe I didn’t care that I was seeing it. I just needed to get home. To my real home. I was relieved to know my mother wasn’t dead, but the paradox was that she still wasn’t alive. She was the shadow she’d always been. Always would be. What I chased. What I ignored. What I couldn’t hold.

  Lost in my thoughts, I found myself standing in the street right in front of the Bentley. I reached out to hail one of the dollar taxis waiting at the corner.

  “Queen! Where you going?”

  I turned as if it was a shock to find anyone else outside in the world as I was rushing to another disappointment.

  When I answered him, King was opening the back door of the Bentley to get out. Just before he closed the door, I got a glimpse of the guy with the dimples sitting in the car. In the few seconds it took for King to get on his feet and close the door, I read the panic on the guy’s face.

  “I have to go,” I explained to King.

  “But I thought we were finishing our game,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, it’s an emergency.”

  He stepped closer to me and searched my face.

  “You need anything?” he asked, the way Kent or Tyree would, and I knew instantly that by “anything” he meant a wide range of things.

  “No. It’s nothing like that. It’s just my mother,” I let out. “It’s family. That kind of thing.”

  “I understand. You need a ride? I can get you anywhere you—”

  “No. It’s fine. I can get home.”

  “You know I got you,” King said, wiping a tear I couldn’t keep in my eyes.

  “It’s fine. Really. Nothing new.”

  He pulled me out into the street, and I swear he hardly lifted his hand before a dingy dollar cab stopped right where we were standing.

  He opened the back door to let me in and requested my cell phone so he could add his number.

  “You call me if you need anything,” he said firmly in a way that somehow made me feel protected. “Doesn’t matter what it is. How late it is. You understand me, Queen?”

  “Yes. I do,” I said, getting into the cab.

  He shared words with the driver about making sure I got to where I was going safely and closed the door. As we pulled away, I watched him out the window.

  Behind him, the doors of the Bentley opened, and the two men who’d walked into the bar got out.

  Chapter 7

  It was late by the time I made it up to Harlem. I found Kent and my father in the backyard in the dark. My father was sitting on the ground beside the rusty metal doors closed over the cellar. He had a drill in his hand. Kent was standing over him holding a flashlight, complaining that my father should let him work the drill and take the flashlight.

  “What are you guys doing back here?” I asked.

  “Hey, babygirl,” my father said, looking up at me. “Your brother tell you your ma been here?” Both of my parents were first-generation New Yorkers whose parents left the Deep South looking for whatever work would take them off plantations that still meant a death sentence for blacks years after slavery ended. My father’s parents were from Mississippi, and while they made a home in Harlem, they moved onto a street that primarily housed people from their hometown, so they still lived and spoke in old ways and passed that down to my father. Kent and I used to joke that in one sentence my father could switch from New York City slick to country-​boy genteel.

  “Yes, Daddy. That’s why I’m here,” I answered him, getting down on my knees to kiss him on the cheek as I’d been trained to do.

  “Guess I shouldn’t have asked that. You don’t come
uptown and see about your pa no way. Too busy I know,” he complained, looking at me through blue eyes that had once been brown, pushed into early cataracts due to his drinking. His sobriety plan had never included his drinking. His standard nightly routine since he’d returned home to us without our mother was stopping at the liquor store on the corner to buy a fifth of whatever was cheapest and fall asleep in bed in his work clothes with his bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag on the nightstand. Some nights he’d sob aloud and call my mother’s name. That was when Kent would sneak out and come back with Baggies and vials and cash and candy stashed in his pockets.

  “Daddy, don’t start with that, please,” I begged. “I can’t today. I really can’t.”

  He shrugged and went back to drilling.

  “So, what happened?” I asked. “How do y’all know she’s been here?”

  “Daddy set a trap,” Kent answered, gliding the light over a sand walkway leading from the gate on the side of the brownstone to the cellar doors.

  “Duke and Mrs. Amelia on the corner said they saw her over here a month ago. Then Lil Richard, the one work over in the auto body, said he saw her walking up the driveway a week ago,” my father explained, pulling a screw out of the door.

  “A week ago? But no one told me,” I said. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “I wanted to tell you,” Kent said, “but Dad said to wait.”

  “I didn’t want you to get worked up. Get your hopes up about your ma,” my father replied. “You know how you get. Got that job. Need to focus.”

  “How I get?”

  Kent and my father looked at each other.

  “I just figured it’d be better if we knew something before we went and broadcast it, getting folks upset,” he went on. “So I set these traps. Let me know if she’s really been around here.”

  “The sand was my idea,” Kent divulged, widening his eyes at my father.

  “But these could be anyone’s footprints.” I pointed to the trail that had two sets of prints—mine and a much smaller pair.

  “Ain’t nobody coming back here,” my father said. “And, plus, I got me some proof.” He pulled another screw from the door and stood to let Kent pull the door off the hinges. He pointed down the steps.