Love in a Carry-On Bag

by Johnson, Sadeqa

  Warren was the first man who pried her open without permission, kissed away her shame, and dismissed that which she deemed ugly. The connection between them was fierce, and she felt revered by his attention and care. He was her best friend, that person she could call and tell that one quick thing. She missed him. A fresh batch of tears gathered as she tore through the revolving doors, and with each step she tried keeping her emotions behind her fogging sunglasses. But like everything else in her world, it proved impossible.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  On With It

  A lump the size of a child’s fist had been pressed against Warren’s chest for the past three days, and he had done everything he could to distract himself from the breakup with Erica. He took on a difficult project at work, and went to Sweet Melodies on Tuesday. He went again on Wednesday and played even though it was amateur night. That morning he reorganized his record collection and cut back the leaves of his houseplants for a little natural therapy, but nothing worked. The mass stayed, and despite his best efforts, their break-up scene waltzed through his head more times than he wanted to admit.

  When Erica proposed the Monday night getaway Warren had agreed, even though it meant missing yet another gig at Sweet Melodies, simply because she had asked him to. With everything going on, he never got to tell her about Shar’s boys and what he had overheard at the church. Besides, he had missed her, and he would have gone if only for the pleasure of smelling her hair. Warren went with the hope of rekindling that spontaneous urgency that made being together necessary. Leaving Philadelphia was a knee-jerk reaction to her deception. Erica knew about the trip to Los Angeles and she should have told him right away, instead of hiding behind her creation of a romantic fantasy in which to deposit her bad news. What upset him more was her not being there for him. The red-eye to D.C. was bullshit. With Erica’s track record something would have come up and she would’ve missed the plane, and even with that he still loved her.

  The revelation made him pause, before slipping a 12-year-old bottle of Glenlivet from a brown paper bag. Ilsa, his cleaning lady, had come for her weekly visit and his apartment smelled like orange Pledge. He hoped that a spotless house and single malt scotch would make him forget his troubles. If only momentarily.

  His keys dropped in the basket on the kitchen counter followed by his money clip, wallet and the ring with the two diamond stud that his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday. In the top right cabinet, he reached for the brandy snifter. It was next to Erica’s favorite cobalt wine glass that they had picked up at a street fair. Originally they had bought two glasses, but once they got home Erica started dancing with a music video, accidentally knocking one to the floor. Warren pushed the remaining glass to the back of the cabinet until it was out of sight, cursing the memory.

  When he was honest he had to admit that he had never devoted himself to a woman the way he had Erica. Not his high school crush or his college sweetheart. The wounded look she threw at him just before he closed the hotel’s door was what seemed to torture him most, because he had seen the essence of it before. He called it her love burdened look, because in her eyes was a tender ache that magnified her raw feelings, stripping away all the shields that she usually placed to protect her soul. Hurting Erica was the last thing he wanted, but he was at his wits end from trying to make them work. His whole life seemed to be malfunctioning, and it was wearing him thin, like tattered soles on a pair of old shoes.

  Cracking the bottle, he coated two ounces of the butterscotch colored mixture into his glass, nosed it with a swirl, and then sipped. In his kitchen, Warren longed for the old Erica whose appetite was greater than his, and who would go out on the weekends in a simple ponytail without make-up. He missed the girl who tried to outdrink him at the bar, and later let him love her in the backseat of his car.

  With his glass in hand, he walked into the living room. He hadn’t watched a single basketball game that week, and was not in the mood to play his trumpet, so he opted to listen to music instead. A female saxophone player named Tia Fuller sat in with his band last week, and she played with such depth that Warren bought her CD on the spot. He was rewinding the second cut of the album when his home line rang. The caller-ID read unavailable, but his instinct told him to answer.

  “Salam.”

  “Hello?”

  “Salam, brother.”

  “Billie?” Warren put his snifter down on the coaster.

  “Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice,” she said.

  “What’s going on?” Warren pressed pause on the music. He couldn’t remember the last time they had actually spoken. Billie had been on location for over a year working on a documentary about the dangers involved crossing the Sahara desert.

  “Ready for Saturday? I’m so bummed I’m not going to be able to make it back because of our deadline to finish shooting. The producer has already threatened to pull the plug because we’re behind three weeks. Dad understood but I still feel badly.”

  Warren wondered if she knew about the boys. He had so much to ask her, but she cut into his thoughts, “I have some big news. I was going to wait until I saw you but I don’t know when that will be. I’m heading to Spain next Wednesday to start some editing.”

  “You don’t let any grass grow under your feet,” Warren said, borrowing one of their mother’s favorite lines, and Billie laughed out loud.

  “I’m engaged.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It can’t be that hard to believe with all of my fine qualities,” she joked, but it was really only a modest tease. Billie was smart, good-looking and free-spirited. A killer combination that would make any man fall fast and hard. “His name is Enrique. He was the Boom Operator on the film.”

  “Well I hope he’s a good man. You know mom always put me in charge of keeping you safe.”

  “Yes, and I’m so happy. I don’t know when we’ll marry but…we’re expecting a baby in six months.” Her voice rose with excitement.

  “I’m going to be an uncle?”

  “It’ll slow me down a little. Okay, a lot. But I’m ready for the change.”

  “Are you coming home to have it? When will I see you?”

  “We’re thinking about coming back. I want the baby to have dual citizenship. Enrique is from Spain, so I think that’s where we’ll settle. He lives right along the coast.”

  The conversation continued quickly. Billie caught him up on all of the details of the film—the actors, the hassles with the crew. Billie was the same fast-talking girl, jumping from one idea to the next. Warren could barely keep up. Before he knew it, her calling card had run down to one minute. He hadn’t gotten a word in edgewise and he wanted to tell her about Erica and ask her what she knew about Shar’s sons.

  “Give Erica my love. I’ll call again soon. Take care of Dad,” she said right before the line went dead.

  He was going to be some little person’s uncle, and with that he held up his glass, and toasted to their health. Finally there was something lovely to contemplate.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  There’s No Place Like Home

  It wasn’t often that Erica returned to the house where she grew up, but every time she did, Monroe Street seemed smaller. Erica guessed it was her father who had kept up with the payments on the property. Otherwise, Erica was sure they would have been forced out a long time ago. The once desirable area had suffered when the middle class fled for the surrounding suburbs. The house located directly across the street had been abandoned because of fire. Planks of fat wood had nailed it shut. Ms. Frances, the neighborhood gossip who lived next door, had died a few years ago and left the house to her son Nelson, who was in and out of jail. The roof of her house sagged so far to one side, it looked as if the whole house was about to cave. Erica remembered the countless times Ms. Frances dished on her family, pegging Erica as the girl who would just end up pregnant. How ironic that now, Ms. Frances’ house took first place in being the worst eyesore in th
e neighborhood.

  The shrubs in front of her mother’s house were overgrown, but the small patch of lawn looked good for this time of year. Erica slowly walked up the steps, instinctively avoiding the third one with the loose brick.

  “Ma,” she called through the mail slot, then banged on the door with her fist. The bell hadn’t worked since she disconnected it when she was ten years old. She heard bedroom slippers scuffling toward the door. Two locks were released before her mother slid back the metal chain.

  “Slim?” her mother mumbled, casting her eyes on the mosaic vestibule floor. Her ear-length hair that used to be full of luster and weight stood lifeless and transparent. A cigarette burned in one hand, while the other held up the stretched-out scrubs that served as pajama pants. The white T-shirt she wore hung past her waist, and her braless breasts shifted from one side to the other. Why wasn’t she dressed and ready to go? Erica bit back her attitude as her mother moved to let her in.

  Their living room always felt masculine, with wooden mini blinds and mahogany crown molding. Grammar-school pictures of Erica and her sister sat on the mantelpiece, and dusty sheet music was opened on the piano rack, though Erica knew no one had played since she had moved out. After tapping a few keys, she headed to the sofa. The only songs she could remember how to play were “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and a few bars from “Für Elise.”

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” Erica reached for the table lamp with golden tassels hanging from the shade like fancy earrings. In the light she gasped; her mother’s face was swollen and bruised as if someone had kicked her with steel toe shoes.

  “What happened to you?”

  The green plastic cup her mother now clutched found her lips. Erica watched as she gulped with thirst.

  “I fell.” Fuzz clung to her upper lip, which was bloated like mushrooms and caked with dried blood. Her left eye had a purplish ring around it and was slightly closed.

  She was definitely lying. “Somebody hit you?”

  “Can’t go nowhere lookin’ like this.” Her mother tipped her cup to her mouth again.

  “Well, I don’t have ten thousand dollars to give the courts, so you’re going,” Erica snatched the cup of beer from her mother’s hand and poured it down the kitchen sink, despite her mother’s protests. Erica’s heart thumped wildly against her blouse. Part of her wanted to know who, where, and what regarding the bruises, but most of her didn’t. This wasn’t the first time she saw her mother black-and-blue and Erica wouldn’t be sucked into playing detective today. Her task was to get her mother to court. She couldn’t shift her eye from the objective.

  A roach scurrying across the kitchen counter made Erica jump. She wanted to smash the bug dead, but lost her chance as it ran for a crack in the wall. The yellow paint that had been so bright in her childhood had dulled and was covered with a slimy film of grime and dust. Erica was tempted to sneak up to her old bedroom and reminisce, but she had to get them moving.

  Back in the living room, her mother sat on the arm of the peach floral sofa that needed to be reupholstered. A rust-colored stain had bled through two of the burgundy flowers, and the cushions were worn thin.

  “What if they keep me?” Her voice was meek.

  “Don’t do this to me, Ma. The bondsman said you just had to show up and they would drop the charges.” Erica crossed her arms, realizing that she hadn’t even removed her coat.

  “I can’t stay here no more. I need a vacation.” Her mother sounded exasperated.

  Erica opened her mouth, tempted to counter with, “your whole life is a vacation, you don’t work, what is it that you do all day exactly,” but she stopped the sass from rolling off her tongue. This wasn’t the time and they needed to go.

  “Things bad ’round here now.” Her mother’s eye jumped, and tears dribbled. “Gunshots as common as flies on shit. Can’t hardly walk to the store no more.”

  Erica helped her mother to her feet, trying not to look at her, but the desperation in her mother’s eyes couldn’t be missed. Then her tongue betrayed her as it always did when her mother’s problems were shoved into her lap. She didn’t know what possessed her to say it. Perhaps misery really did love company.

  “Get dressed and pack a small bag, Ma. After court, you can stay a few days with me.”

  “Oh, Slim, thank you.” She moved towards Erica for a hug, but Erica stopped her.

  “The conditions are no drinking. This is a dry trip,” she warned.

  “Whatever you want,” Gweny hopped up with new energy. “Whatever you want.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Mommy Dearest

  When the prosecutor dropped the charges, Erica’s mother reacted as if she had just beaten a murder rap, throwing her hands in the air crying and thanking Jesus.

  “I told you all you had to do was show up,” Erica said, as she helped Gweny with her jacket and purse. After signing a few papers they were free to go, and headed out to the street. Bonnie hadn’t shown, and Erica was happy when the judge issued a bench warrant for her arrest. Maybe if Bonnie was behind bars, her mother could get her act together. All she could do was hope.

  Penn Station Newark was only a few blocks from the courthouse, but her mother insisted that she couldn’t walk, so Erica hailed a taxicab.

  “I sure appreciate it. My knees won’t make it that far,” she cranked the cab door closed behind her, and Erica wanted her mother to stop acting old and disabled. Something was always bothering her. If it weren’t her knees it was arthritis, a bad shoulder or sore back. Was she ever just all right? Erica had to dig way back into her childhood just for a glimpse of her mother pain free.

  When they reached the train station, Erica stopped at the deli kiosk and bought them both Pepsi-Colas. When she was younger, her mother would tell her that the soda was the next best thing to a beer, and as she watched her twist the cap and take a long slurp, Erica wondered if she remembered sending her on the countless trips for the replacement beverage.

  “This feels like a real vacation.” Sunglasses were perched on her nose, and covered the majority of her marks and welts. Her mother attempted to blend some lipstick on her twisted lip, but it did not mask the left leaning sag to her mouth when she spoke. Seeing it shot a pang through Erica. Turning away, she studied the pigeons snacking on crumbs. After standing on the platform for five minutes, a train slowed into the station. Passengers were scarce in the middle of the day, and they had no problem getting seats next to each other. Her mother spent the thirty-minute ride looking out the window.

  In New York, they caught the subway to Harlem. Erica strained to lug her mother’s postage stamp canvas bag.

  “I haven’t been up here in a long time,” her mother said, stopping at the top landing of the subway stairs winded and breathing hard. She leaned against the rail for support, fumbling in her pocketbook for a cigarette.

  “When’re you going to quit?” Erica watched two teenaged girls passing in high-heeled boots swing their asses hard, searching for some attention from the three boys holding up the corner.

  “One thing at a time, Slim.” She cupped her palms and lit. After a few drags, they were on the move again. As they passed Sylvia’s Soul Food restaurant, Erica offered to get her mother a plate but she declined.

  “My arthritis is flaring up. I just wanna get to your house and get out of these clothes.”

  She was dressed neatly in a pair of wool straight-leg slacks and matching flats. Her leather coat had large silver buckles that were out of style, but still looked decent for its age. Erica wore dark jeans and her leather jacket. A chilling breeze picked up and she ducked her head and placed her hands in her pockets. A thick piece of paper was crumbled against the seam, and she pulled it out. Warren’s unused ticket from the Nets game. She crushed the ticket with her palm and let it fall to the ground. The wind lifted it across Lenox Avenue.

  “Come on Ma, I’m cold.” Erica snapped.

  “I’m walkin’ as fast as I can,” she huffed at Erica’s mood
swing.

  After a block, Erica relaxed and started giving her mom a neighborhood tour, pointing out where she dropped her laundry, ordered take-out and rented movies. It was only the second or third time her mother had been to visit and Erica was proud to show her that she was doing just fine.

  The street where Erica lived was called Astor Row, a historical landmark in Harlem. The houses were set back from the curb, with front yards and wide wooden porches that gave the street a Savannah, Georgia, feel. But Erica’s building was the orphan of the block. It explained how she could afford to live in New York City without a roommate.

  “What’s going on in the front yard?” her mother stopped at the wrought iron fence enclosing the property, gesturing toward the porcelain bathroom sink filled with wilted flowers. A bicycle sat to the left, and a front basket was filled with dying mums and hanging ivy. Behind the bike was a pasted together scarecrow that resembled a painted mummy with a dingy straw hat holding a tarnished tray with bird seeds.

  “My landlady is from England. This is her version of garden art.”

  “Your porch looks worse than Ms. Frances’.” Her mother leaned against Erica’s arm as she climbed the slanted stairs.

  “Rent is cheap, and she says the porch is under construction.” After more breaks on each landing, they reached her fourth-floor apartment.

  “Girl, you don’t have to worry about me going back down those steps the whole time I’m here.” Her mother followed her down the short hall, and when Erica opened her front door, she wished she had tidied up before inviting company.

  She hadn’t remembered the ransacked appearance of her place until then, and the dishes in the sink now gave off a vinegary smell.

  “Cleaning lady ain’t been here,” her mother dabbed at her forehead, pushing her bangs into a hair comb at the top of her head. “Got a beer?”

  Erica shot her a look, but her mother pretended not to see as she walked into the kitchen nook opening each cabinet until she had found a vintage bottle of merlot Erica had long forgotten.