Love in a Carry-On Bag

by Johnson, Sadeqa

  After her father’s departure, Erica’s mother didn’t leave the house for days. She sat crossed legged in her queen-sized bed, in that same blue nightgown, chain-smoking menthol cigarettes, her dingy bedroom covered in a constant film of smoke. She was drunk all the time. It took Erica a week before she found all the secret locations where her mother kept her stash: in the wedges of the sofa, between the top mattress and box spring, behind a picture frame on the mantel, on the bookshelf covered by a book, or under music sheets in the piano stool. On the tenth day, when the gown was soiled and her mother had begun to smell like spoiled squash, eight-year-old Jazmine ran the bath until it was brimming with soapy water, and Erica summoned up her strongest voice.

  “Ma, go get in the tub.”

  Their mother mumbled something incoherent, so Erica and Jazmine flipped back the crusty comforter and pulled her from the bed. Between her pillow and the wooden bed frame was another bottle, and while Jazmine watched over her mother in the tub, Erica went to the kitchen and poured what was left of it down the drain. After washing and braiding her mother’s hair, Erica changed the linen, aired out the room, and then fixed egg sandwiches and fried bologna for dinner. They ate on T.V. trays in front of the set.

  As the weeks drifted on, her mother slept later and later. It became Erica’s job to wake and dress her sister for school. Most days when the girls returned home, their mother was either in the bed where they had left her or gone. If she was out, there was no telling when she’d return, because she never left notes and they didn’t have a telephone. It could be an hour or days, and that scared Erica just as much as the mice hiding in the dark crevices of their home.

  Her mother owed everybody money. Since the telephone was disconnected, men often came banging on their front door, unannounced to collect her debt. When this happened Erica and Jazmine ran what they called “code badman,” a system they devised to keep the visitors from knowing that they were home alone. Whenever the bell rang, the girls would creep into the basement and see who it was through a small floor window. They wouldn’t dare move until it was clear that the person was gone. It was always a man looking for her mother, and once Erica heard a guy threatening her through the mail slot, calling her a bitch and shouting that if she didn’t have his money when he came next week, “I’m a slice that pretty little face.”

  Petrified, Erica disconnected the doorbell, and later threw up in her sleep. Nights alone were unnerving. Jazmine would sleep in Erica’s bed, with the television playing all night long. Most times their stomachs were empty.

  As an adult searching for forgiveness, Erica came to the conclusion that her mother couldn’t help who she was. Gweny had come from a long line of poor women, who raised their children as single parents, and chased away the Section 8 blues with twenty-four-ounce cans of malt liquor, Newport cigarettes and prescription pills. None of the women in her mother’s family worked. Instead they found clever ways to live off of the government. They soothed themselves with soap operas, artery-clogging foods, street drugs and number-running, while passing their dysfunctional baton down to their daughters, much like wealthy families willed trust funds. At an early age, Erica decided she wouldn’t continue the legacy, and her father’s mother, Grandma Queeny, was the person who co-signed that determination.

  Grandma Queeny could have easily turned her back on the girls when her son left. But she picked them up every weekend, making sure they had dance lessons, God, and home-cooked meals. Once a month, she took the girls to the Newark Museum for culture, and taught them how to make a way, “even when you feel like you’re surrounded by dead end streets.” She died when Erica was a senior in high school, bequeathing the girls her house and money for college. Erica was left in charge again.

  “Peanuts or pretzels?” the airline attendant broke into Erica’s thoughts. She was on her flight back from Los Angeles and accepted the pretzels, hoping that it was something she could keep in her stomach. Everything she tried to eat over the past five days just sat stubbornly on her belly, and she had run out of Rolaids. The trip to Los Angeles had been a disaster, certainly not worth the fiasco with Warren. His words, “I can’t do this anymore” and “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” permeated her every turn.

  Warren was what she needed, why couldn’t he see that? She was so sorry. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him. Things had gotten out of hand, and perhaps she had taken him for granted, but she never wanted this. Warren was her sun, soil, hydration and vegetation. Her body was retaliating by refusing to operate without him. Not being able to hold her food down was only half of it. She wasn’t sleeping and the back of her neck was stiff. Five days was the longest they had ever spent without talking, and the mental distance was nauseating. She missed his voice, wanted him to comfort her and tell her things would be all right. While in Los Angeles she had worked up the nerve to call him from her hotel room, but when he didn’t pick up she couldn’t explain her hopelessness to his answering machine, and killed the line.

  Harriet Lake had needed constant hand-holding, making Erica feel more like a babysitter than a powerhouse publicist. To make matters worse, Harriet lost the Image Award when she was expected to be a shoe-in. After the defeat she reverted to Ms. Impossible Bitch, barking orders and nit-picking at everything: the towncar smelled smoky and she was allergic; room service didn’t come when she called so Erica had to complain to the manager; her dress was too tight so Erica had to find a local seamstress. But the soot to fill her lungs was when Harriet demanded that she escort her to the Beverly Center to find a birthday present for her daughter. It was the last day of the trip and Erica’s patience had puttered out, so she told Harriet, “Go ahead, I’ll be waiting right here in the car.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Harriet called Claire hysterical, complaining that Erica had left.

  Claire called Erica livid. “I told you to make her happy. Where is your focus?” and rattled off ways to rectify the situation but Erica was too pissed to take any of Claire’s suggestions. Furious, she stormed into the mall, where she found Harriet having an ice cream.

  “Oh, there you are, dear,” Harriet said, and asked if she wanted a cone. It took all of Erica’s strength not to smash the bowl in Harriet’s face, and then dump the creamy mess in her blue-black hair.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Stormy Me

  Several weeks worth of clothes were piled in a heap on the bedroom floor. The kitchen sink overflowed with takeout containers and dirty coffee mugs. Loose papers were scattered about, and she must have tracked in something from outside because her bare feet kept sticking to the wood floor. But Erica had no intention of cleaning. Getting dressed for work took all the energy she could muster. That Monday morning, she slipped into the first thing she came across—black cargo pants and a faded v-neck. Not quite Monday morning work attire, but she dressed. Erica fixed her hair in a bun and stuffed a bottle of aspirin in her jacket pocket. On the five block walk to the train station, Erica gnawed at the skin on the inside of her jaw, begging for the physical pain to cancel out her internal suffering. She felt like a bicycle tire with a slow leak.

  The train clanked into the subway station, and Erica battled for standing room. In the reflection of the train window, Erica recognized that she was the poster of misery. She hadn’t slept more than two hours at a time for six days, and her skin had sprouted a blotchy pimple on her jaw bone just left of her chin. Even her dark sunglasses couldn’t masquerade her gloom as she rocked with the train, staring at nothing. Every movement was robotic: get off train, cross the street, spin with the momentum of the office’s revolving door, morph from weepy mess into a no nonsense publicist who ate difficult reviewers for dinner. But this time, she hadn’t transformed once her feet stepped on the marbled lobby floor. It was a first.

  “’Morning, Iris,” she greeted the fourth floor receptionist, and shuffled down the hall. In the publicity department, Erica had to step over the large boxes of books lining both sides of the fl
oor to get inside her office. She quietly cursed the assistants for not putting the books in the storage room. Gloom circled her movements, and by the time she got settled behind her desk, she wasn’t surprised to see that depression had hitched a ride. She could feel it clinging to the gray walls, lounging on her bookshelves, swimming in the lake shown in the photograph, and attaching itself to the headlines in the Daily News that she had stretched across her desk. Erica could have been mistaken for a woman in an anti-depressant commercial. Perhaps that was what she needed: a little blue pill to make it all go away.

  The telephone rang. It was the bail bondsman reminding her that her mother had court the next morning. Thanking him, Erica promised that she would have her mother there on time and jotted down the address. After hanging up, she swore again because now she had to take a personal day. Her mother couldn’t be trusted to go to court alone, and Erica wasn’t going to be stuck with the bill if she didn’t show. While typing the e-mail request to Claire, her assistant, Prudence, knocked and entered.

  “Sorry about the boxes, we’re working on finding a place for them now.” She looked Erica up and down. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, why?” Erica wiped her hands on her pants.

  “You look a little, I don’t know, not like yourself,” said Prudence. Erica assured her that she was fine.

  “Well, here’s the Jarvis update. Don’t forget he’s coming in to meet with you and Claire in an hour.” Prudence gave her a thick file and took her leave.

  Erica had forgotten about the meeting, but as she flipped through the pages, her fingertips started to lose their numbness, and a surge of energy slowly entered her body. Jarvis’ story was one that had excited her when the sales teams presented the book at the spring conference. Most of the books Erica worked on were chosen for her because she could handle high-profile authors, or had key relationships with media outlets that wouldn’t give ordinary books a play. Titles that she personally salivated over didn’t cross her lap often, especially those authored by an African-American.

  LaVal Jarvis grew up on the south side of Chicago. His mother was a heroin addict, and at the age of five he witnessed his father stab her seventeen times, killing her at a bus stop. His father was arrested for the murder, and LaVal became a ward of the court. He began selling drugs around age 10, and by fifteen he headed the largest fraction of the Billy Goat gang in Chicago. A jealous rival snitched, resulting in his arrest. In his memoir, 365 Degrees of Change: My Life on and After the Streets, Jarvis explained how being mentored by strong men during that two-year sentence at a juvenile detention center saved his life. Once released, Jarvis abandoned his control of the streets and moved to Dayton, Ohio, with an older cousin. There he received his GED, went to college and graduate school, receiving his law degree earlier this year. Claire had kept her in the loop while the project was developing and now it was finally on her desk, providing a much-needed distraction.

  “Erica, reception just called. LaVal Jarvis is in the lobby. Want me to get him?” Prudence offered.

  “I’ll walk over. Confirm that Claire is ready for the meeting.”

  Erica opened her top drawer but realized that she hadn’t replaced her hand mirror. Instantly, she thought of Warren and abruptly jumped out of her chair before a new flood of emotions could catch her. While hurrying down the hall, she moved a few bobby pins around to tighten her makeshift bun.

  In the reception area, LaVal was sitting with his legs crossed, flipping through the fall catalog. They had met last week at Hunter College, and just like then, he was suited up. LaVal was a good-looking man, muscular and tall, with skin the color of sand and penny-sized dimples. When he moved, it was with enough swagger to establish street creditability, peppered with just the right mix of charisma that put white folks at ease. But even under his expensive cologne, Erica could sense a grittiness about him that she wasn’t sure she trusted.

  “It’s good to see you again.” She extended her hand.

  LaVal eyed her a second too long, and then replied, “Likewise.”

  While walking down the hall, they made small talk about his flight and the weather in Chicago. Once they arrived in Claire’s office, Claire hugged and gushed over LaVal like she was his professional mother. It was her way, and explained why everyone was comfortable in Claire’s presence.

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she held him at arm’s length. As usual she was impeccably dressed, wearing a bone suit and snakeskin pumps. Erica was pitifully underdressed, and quickly found her seat, hoping that the wrinkles in her shirt went unnoticed.

  Claire gestured for LaVal to sit, and the show began. “We’re all so excited to have the opportunity to work on a book with such emotional depth. Your story is phenomenal.”

  LaVal gave her a schoolboy’s blush. “I just hope the public likes it.”

  “They’ll love it,” she continued, lathering him with charm. Karen entered holding a stack of papers and, on Claire’s nod, handed a stapled pack to each of them.

  “We’ve outlined your publicity campaign from start to finish. I wanted you to have every bit of your publicity tour in one place so that there are no surprises.”

  Erica took her copy already knowing the contents because she had written it.

  “Eight cities in ten days?” LaVal looked up.

  “It’s important to keep you moving so that we can create buzz and momentum,” Claire smiled, and then walked him through each page, illustrating how she hoped the campaign would play out. She was so awesome on her feet that Erica got lost watching her in action. That was how she aspired to be.

  “Well, I really appreciate all of your hard work,” said LaVal, and Claire stood clasping both of his hands with hers.

  “Our best work is yet to come.”

  The two hugged again, and Erica offered to show LaVal out.

  “So you’re my publicist?” he asked, once they fell in step.

  “Yes, I’ll be managing your campaign.”

  “Well, I think we need to get to know each other a little better before I entrust my whole writing career to your hands. How’s lunch?”

  Erica wasn’t in the mood. “I’m out of the office tomorrow,” she pressed the button for the elevator while glancing down at her feet. How could she have come to work in her old ballerina flats?

  “Then Wednesday,” he said, sounding like a man who was used to women giving him what he wanted. Without waiting for a response he stepped into the elevator.

  Erica moped back through the halls, and just as she was about to turn into her office, Karen told her that Claire wanted her again. An instant nervousness flitted through her. The meeting was no doubt about Harriet. She could feel butterflies flapping their wings in her stomach. She should have stopped at the bathroom.

  Claire was ending a call when she entered, and Erica sat waiting anxiously, like a child summoned to the principal’s office after a schoolyard fight.

  “You know about the call from Harriet.” Claire rested her weight on her fingertips, letting her words take effect. “She said you were neglectful and difficult to work with in Los Angeles. She didn’t call Genève so we got lucky, but what happened?”

  “She was just impossible.” Erica shifted under the microscope.

  “But you knew that going in. What made this trip different?”

  Erica was tempted to let loose her personal problems and sob on Claire’s shoulders, but this wasn’t the time. She also didn’t want Claire to think that she was taking advantage because of the intimacy that they shared in Atlanta.

  “My mother’s been ill,” the lie left her tongue before she could think it through, “and I’ve just been worried. I put in for a personal day tomorrow so that I can take her to an appointment. I hope that’s okay.” Erica raised her chin, to Claire’s sympathetic eyes.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No, tomorrow off is enough.”

  “Are you sure that’s the only thing wrong?” Claire’s eyes swept over her att
ire but Erica rolled back her shoulders and pretended not to notice. She wanted out of the hot seat and fast.

  “That’s it. It won’t happen again. I’ll send Harriet flowers and a little note before I leave today.”

  “Now you’re thinking,” Claire continued to study Erica, and then added, “Edie is out, and you’re up to bat. We need your A game, kiddo.”

  Erica nodded her head, and assured Claire that she would have it, but on the inside she didn’t feel so confident.

  Work was suffering and she couldn’t believe she had lied to Claire. But if she didn’t take her mother to court then she wouldn’t go. Being the responsible one was wearing Erica thin. Pamper the authors at work, manage up to Claire, manage down to Prudence, manage the expectations of the editors because their books were sure to flop, stay numb towards dad, send money to Jazmine, bail mom from the slammer. When did she get a break? For what felt like her entire life, she was jammed taking care of everybody. And now, in the midst of her heart vomiting all over her chest, she was still the go-to seamstress stitching up everyone’s problems.

  Erica returned to her office to grab her coat, and left for lunch with a cloudy head. Warren was the first man she had truly loved. Those puppy-eyed relationships in high school and college never panned out because Erica wouldn’t allow them. She had only one goal in mind—to be successful. There was no future in birthing babies by different daddies, and trumping up a fake disability so the government would take care of her with low income housing. The below poverty check each month was not good enough for Erica, and her focal point never wavered.