by Deidre Berry
“That’s the same thing my parents told me. But at the same time, they’re happy I’m staying over there because they wanted to keep the house in the family, anyway.”
“If my money wasn’t so funny, I would buy this place myself,” Yvette said, looking around.
Ten days after my big breakup with Nelson, and my condo is officially on the market. The realtor at Remax said that the building is located in one of the most desirable areas of the city, and he assured me that it would sell within sixty days.
That’s fine and dandy. But I don’t want to stay in this building two more weeks, let alone two months.
Just the other day, I passed Nelson in the lobby on my way to the parking garage, and I might as well have been invisible. He didn’t speak or acknowledge me in any way. What are we, in junior high school? He can’t at least be civil about this whole thing?
I know Roland answering the door to my condo as if he still lived there looked bad, but Nelson’s refusal to hear me out leads me to believe that he is using this situation as an easy out. Clearly, the two of us getting together was just too much for the poor guy and this is a convenient excuse for him to push me away, crawl back in his shell, and go back to being the lonely widower.
While waiting for my condo to sell, I am staying at Uncle Woody’s old house, which he left to my father in his will.
Several hours later, Yvette rode with me as I drove over to my new place with the moving company van following behind us. Junior was already at the house, and was Chief Operating Officer of moving. His duties were to make sure that the movers placed the furniture where I had specified, and that the boxes marked “kitchen” were actually put in the kitchen, and so forth.
It took less than fifteen minutes to get from my old place to the new one, located in the historic Brookside area. The two-story limestone house has an old-fashioned charm. It has four large, airy bedrooms with oversized windows, two-and-a-half bathrooms, French doors, a formal dining room, and antique oak floors. The backyard is a secluded one-and-a-half-acre lot populated with towering walnut and apple trees, and even a huge vegetable garden with its own automatic watering system.
It’s one of those neighborhoods where the kids are all grown up, and have left behind their elderly parents.
I haven’t met all of the neighbors yet, but I have known Mrs. Clarkson, who lives next door, for years. She is a kind, bible-toting, God-fearing woman who lives alone with her two perpetually barking Chihuahuas.
I had barely pulled into the driveway before Yvette shouted, “Who the hell is that?” practically breaking her neck to get a good look at Larry, my other next-door neighbor, who was pulling into his driveway at the same time. Larry is a fine, bald brother the color of Hershey’s Special Dark chocolate. He waved at us as he got out of his car, and headed inside.
“I don’t know much about him except that his name is Larry, and he’s a forty-two-year-old bachelor who bought his property at auction a year and a half ago,” I said. “And he is also off limits to you.”
“Why are you cock-blocking?”
“Because I moved over here to get away from drama,” I said. “And if you two get involved and it doesn’t work out, I’ll be stuck in the middle of that shit, and I’m not having it.”
“Not necessarily…” Yvette pouted.
“Forget about it, Yvette. Besides, you have Daniel, remember?” I said, reminding her of the white guy she met at Club Heifers a few months ago, and has been dating ever since.
“Yeah, but it’s always good to have a spare around, just in case.”
“Now there you go with the next best thing syndrome,” I said, shaking my head in dismay. “Daniel is a good man who adores you, helps pay your bills, and has added your ass as an additional card holder on his American Express card. You would be crazy to mess that up for some knucklehead who probably doesn’t have anything to offer except a big dick, and a smile.”
“Girl, I’m just joking around. I may have a weakness for dark chocolate, but Dan is the man! I’m telling you, if things keep going like they’ve been going, I see us getting married.”
“For real? It’s that serious?”
“It’s that serious,” Yvette said emphatically. “And that myth about white men being less endowed? Not true…”
I looked over at Yvette, and we shared a good, long laugh before getting out of my Navigator, and getting down to the business of moving me in to start my new life.
45
I had just left from meeting with the KC Jazz Coalition’s board of directors, when I got a call from Nadia saying that she had returned from Miami.
“Why the hell did you have to go and move?” she asked, as if I had moved just to upset her.
“You know why,” I said.
“Well, can you come over to my place as soon as possible?” she asked. “I really need to talk to you.”
I headed over to Regency Park Place, wondering what was so important that Nadia couldn’t talk to me about it over the phone. When I got to the building, I parked in the visitors parking area, surprised that though I had moved less than two weeks ago, it no longer felt like home.
Before taking the elevator up to Nadia’s floor, I stopped and checked my mailbox, which was full despite the fact that I had gone to the post office last week and filled out a change of address form.
The mail consisted of my Bank of America Visa bill, a new Essence Magazine, and a letter of acknowledgment from a vendor to whom I had sent an information package regarding Tori Carter Creations.
Moving hasn’t affected by new business at all. I had to backtrack and have business cards and stationery printed up again, but that’s about it.
I knocked on Nadia’s door, and when she opened it I was surprised at what I saw. Nadia looked pale and drawn. She was dressed way down, in jeans and a thin aqua T-shirt, that accentuated her noticeably larger boobs. Her makeup was minimal, and her hair was gathered into a ponytail, which was very un-characteristic of her.
“You traveled looking like this?” I asked, having a seat on her French provincial sofa. “Something is definitely wrong.”
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out, appearing to be on the verge of tears.
“What!”
“I told Terrell and his exact words were, ‘So, what do you want me to do about it?’ Then the pissy bastard hung up on me! I don’t need him. He can’t fuck worth a damn anyway.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah girl,” she said. “I told you, them steroids got him all fucked up. Calling him a minute man would be giving him too much praise.”
“No, I mean are you sure you’re really pregnant?”
Nadia looked as if I just sucker-punched her with a right hook. “Well, let’s see: I haven’t had a period in almost three months, and I took two First Response pregnancy tests which were both positive. So yes, I really am pregnant.” Then she started to cry.
“Don’t do that,” I said. “Everything is going to be alright.”
“I can’t believe you’re second-guessing me,” she sobbed. “The one person in this world I thought I could turn to…”
“Girl, you know I’m here for you,” I said, pulling her into a comforting hug. “Sorry to offend you, but I just had to ask because I know how we women sometimes play those fake pregnancy games in hopes of keeping a man.”
“Well this ain’t 1995 and this ain’t a game,” Nadia said. “My main concern right now is finding out whose baby this is.”
“Nadia! I thought you said it was Terrell’s.”
“No, I said I told Terrell I was pregnant. He knows all about Byron, and those are the only two candidates, so it’s not like I’m gonna have to keep going on the Maury Povich show, or anything.”
Nadia started crying even harder, which frustrated me because I couldn’t think of a thing to say that would be comforting, so I decided to try a little humor.
“Nadia, can I ask you a question?”
“What?” she snif
fed, then blew her nose.
“Are you gonna be able to breastfeed with those things?” I asked.
Nadia looked down at her newly acquired boobs. She stared back and forth from the left one to the right for a minute, and then laughed until she cried some more.
I don’t care how much a man may consider himself a failure, I believe in him, for he can change the thing that is wrong in his life anytime he is prepared and ready to do it.—Preston Bradley
FRIDAY
It’s showtime.
After tons of hard work and laying the groundwork, the annual fundraiser for the KC Jazz Coalition is happening tonight. I have so much riding on the line that it’s scary. My reputation, pride, and the future of TCC all rest on the success or failure of this one event.
The client is the KC Jazz Coalition, and the venue is the Kansas City Jazz Museum. The tickets are 150 dollars, which will get you access to an open bar, and all the gourmet food you can eat from various specialty food stations around the event site.
I also have an all-star lineup of living jazz legends scheduled to perform tonight. I’m talking about living legends like Ida Macbeth, Wynton Marsalis, Chuck Mangione, Angela Hagenbach, and Bobby Watson.
What I am most proud of, and what will probably bring in the most money, is the Casino room, which we are setting up with roulette, craps, blackjack, and poker tables. Guests will also be given door prizes, goodie bags, and the chance to bid on memorabilia such as Charlie Parker’s saxophone, and Dizzy Gillespie’s trumpet.
Besides Junior, I cannot afford to put anyone else on the payroll right now, so for this event I am the florist, set designer, lighting technician, and whatever else that needs to be done.
Thankfully, I was able to secure sponsors for every aspect of the event, and we have an army of volunteers who will be helping us out. Still, I expect an uphill battle, because volunteers are more likely to end up spectators at the event, rather than actually working hard.
So, in the wee hours of the morning, Junior and I prayed together, and then headed down to the historic 18th & Vine jazz district to set up shop. There is so much that has to be done that it will literally be a race against the clock.
46
Two hours into the event and I could not have been more pleased. The weather was perfect, and crowd turnout was better than expected.
The guests all seemed to be having a grand time, and Sasha had already pulled me aside to say that she and the rest of the board of directors were happy with the job I’ve done.
Wynton Marsalis was onstage performing, and I was inwardly congratulating myself on a job well done when I saw Simone and Fatima coming towards me, holding hands. I inhaled so sharply that air got caught in my windpipe, and I started to choke.
“You alright, Tori?” Simone asked, not looking the least bit uncomfortable to be lovingly holding the hand of another woman.
“Simone, Fatima,” I said, trying to recover. “What are you two up to?”
“Just out enjoying this beautiful event that you put together,” said Fatima. “Bravo, sister!”
“Thank you.” I smiled, even though I felt nauseous. “Simone, can I talk to you for a quick sec?”
“Sure—” Simone said, probably getting whiplash from how fast I pulled her away from Fatima for a private conversation.
“Okay, I know you look up to her and everything, but damn!” I said. “Is this who’s been rocking your world since you broke up with Rasheed?”
Simone nodded yes, and grinned. “I can’t even begin to tell you how happy she makes me.” She gushed like a twelve-year-old.
I was in shock. I had so many questions, like: when, where, how, and most of all why?
“So is Fatima like, your woman now or what?” I asked, confused about how these things work. “Have you completely switched over to women, or is this something you’re doing just to see how well you like it?”
“Sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, Tori, but I refuse to put labels on it,” Simone answered. “Just know that Fatima and I care a great deal for each other, and it is an honest, healthy relationship.”
Well alrighty then! You think you know somebody for thirteen years, and they turn out to be an undercover carpet muncher. Don’t get me wrong; I am far from being homophobic. It’s just that seeing the longtime sister-friend I thought I knew so well, all huggy-kissy with the woman who is supposed to be her mentor, is—it’s weird, it’s wrong, and it’s just nasty, okay?
I didn’t have much else to say to either one of them after that.
“Well, if you two will excuse me, I have to go get the silent auction started,” I said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
The evening was winding down, when I saw Mr. Nelson Tate in my peripheral vision. He was standing by the gourmet dessert station talking to a statuesque model-type with a short, chic bob, and cheekbones to die for. She was gorgeous, and I was jealous as hell because the two of them looked quite comfortable and familiar with each other, just like all the other happy couples milling around the venue.
I still cared for Nelson. It had been almost three months since we’d spoken, and part of me felt I should go talk to him to see where his head was at.
However, the Carter pride reared its stubborn head and reminded me that I left the ball in his court.
So fuck him.
Nelson and I briefly made eye contact, but as soon as we did, I turned on my heel and walked in the opposite direction.
Overall, the fundraiser was a huge success.
More that 5,000 guests attended, and over $750,000 was raised for the Jazz Coalition.
Cha-ching!
After tearing down the event space and overseeing the cleanup, Junior and I unwound with a couple of cocktails at Chuck & Taylor’s, a bar near the Jazz Museum.
“You did good, kid,” I told Junior as the two of us settled in at a small table. “But what did you think?”
“It was cool,” he said. “I actually liked it so much that it really didn’t even feel like work—well, except for cleaning up.”
“Well that’s part of it, and that’s why you get the big bucks,” I said, handing him a check for two-thousand dollars.
Junior’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Ah yeah, this is it right here!” Junior said. “Me and you are gonna be business partners for life.”
“Slow your roll,” I said. “Maybe one day I’ll make you a partner, but this was just your first event, Junior. You still have a lot of growing to do in this business.”
“I know. And I’m gonna make you proud of me, too,” he said, sincerely. “Watch and see.”
“I got faith in you, baby boy,” I said, clinking my glass of Long Island iced tea against his bottle of Corona.
“I ran into Nelson tonight,” said Junior. “Did you see him?”
“Yeah, I saw him…” I shrugged as if I couldn’t care less.
“So what’s up with you two? Y’all cool?”
It felt weird at first, but I opened up and had my first real heart-to-heart talk with Junior.
I told him all about my relationship with Nelson. Well, not everything! Then how Roland came along and messed it all up. Junior seemed to be truly sympathetic, and I realized that he can be a good listener when he wants to be.
With Tori Carter Creations’ first successful event under my belt, it was nearly two in the morning when I finally made it home. The first thing I did was chain the door, bolt the deadlock, and set the alarm on the home security system.
Paranoia runs high when you are alone at night. Especially when you’re relatively new to a neighborhood, where as far as you know, Freddie Krueger could be living next door.
And since most violent crimes occur between ten at night and five in the morning, creaking floorboards and the other noises a house makes when it “settles” for the night, are amplified a thousand times, and are automatically converted into some sinister reason to get up out of bed and investigate—with a butcher knife and baseball bat
in hand.
That is exactly the type of paranoia I was feeling when I heard knocking noises, and it was well past what Mama calls “visiting hours.”
Then I reminded myself that it was probably just Uncle Woody’s ghost haunting the house.
At least once a day since I moved in here, I get the eerie sensation that I am not alone.
You know that feeling you get that someone has just walked into the room and is standing over your shoulder? That happens a lot. And even though Woody was a kind, friendly person, I still haven’t slept in the master bedroom where he died. You never know what might piss off a ghost. Instead, I have been camping out in the living room at night, enjoying my new cushy chaise lounge that feels like one big ol’ pillow.
I heard the knocking noise again, and that time I went to the front window, pulled the white lace curtain back and saw Nelson standing on the front porch.
How in the hell did he find out where I live?
“Can I come in?” he asked when he saw me looking out the window.
I let the curtain fall without answering. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be bothered with his ass. After all, his mistrust and wrong assumptions were the reason why we broke up in the first place.
I mulled it over a minute or two, and finally decided to open the door. “Yes, may I help you?” I asked, as if he were some strange door-to-door salesman.
“Hey Tori,” he said, looking as spiffy as always, in Seven jeans, a white Claudio St. James shirt, and YSL shoes. “Can I come in and talk to you for a minute?”
“About what?” I asked tersely.
“About us.”
“I wasn’t aware that there was such a thing.”
“I expected you to give me a hard time,” Nelson said. “But just hear me out, okay?”
“I’m listening…” I said, crossing my arms.
“Well, I had a long talk with your brother tonight, and after he explained everything to me, I just wanted to come over here and apologize for not taking your word in that situation that happened with Roland.”
