Love in a Carry-On Bag

by Johnson, Sadeqa

  “Just a little to celebrate.” Her mother held the bottle toward Erica.

  “It wasn’t a trial, Ma.”

  “I’m not in jail,” she smiled, and Erica saw that she still had all of her teeth. Okay, she thought, uncorking the wine, feeling she could use a drink herself. Leaving the bottle on the counter to breathe, she changed into a pair of yoga pants. When she returned to the kitchen, her mother had filled both wine glasses to the brim. Erica burst out laughing.

  “You’re only supposed to fill the glass halfway.”

  “Why? Then you just gotta keep coming back.” Her mother swigged the merlot like it was malt liquor. Erica shook her head. This was her mother, and even though her mother annoyed her most of the time, Erica felt comforted having her near, like everything was almost alright.

  “I’m glad you came.”

  “Thanks, Slim. That means a lot,” her mother said, coming in for one of her bone crushing hugs. Erica surprised herself when she allowed it.

  “There is nothing in the refrigerator but condiments, so I can order us something,” Erica rummaged through her junk drawer for takeout menus.

  “Whatever you want is fine.” Her mother went into the bathroom, and when she came out she was wearing her panties and a stretched-out bra. Her breasts drooped to the rolls on her stomach. Spider veins crept around her jelly-like thighs and her belly hung over her waist in two chunky ripples. She had aged since the last time they had spent quality time together, but when was that? Erica couldn’t remember because her weekends had been so consumed with Warren that she had little time for anything or anyone else.

  Without overthinking it, she picked up the telephone and ordered burgers from Jimbo’s, a diner-like restaurant a few blocks away whose number she had on speed dial. When she hung up, her mother walked over holding up a pair of nylon shorts that she found in the bedroom.

  “Can I wear these?”

  They were Warren’s.

  “No. Why are you going through my things?” Erica pried the shorts from her mother’s hand and carried them back into her room.

  “I was just tryin’ to find something with some rubber in the waist,” she defended herself, but Erica didn’t hear her because she was searching the room for anything else that belonged to him. Just touching the shorts reopened the badly stitched wound, and when she looked around his imprints were everywhere. Had she not noticed it before? A dress sock was on the floor and the sheets hanging off her bed were the ones he’d slept on last. His copy of Black Enterprise was face down on top of the dresser, as was his favorite pen. Warren always left a pair of black slacks and a buttoned down shirt in her closet. In her top drawer were a pair of underwear and a bottle of cologne. Erica wanted all of him gone.

  After yanking the sheets from the bed, she went around grabbing everything that said Warren and stuffed them in the sheets. The teddy bear that he had won for her at Six Flags, the watch he gave her for her birthday, the pink and red roses that she had dried marking their one year anniversary, their photo album—all of it she rolled into the sheets. Sweat dotted her forehead and her hair was sticking to her face.

  “What’s wrong with you?” her mother watched.

  “You want to leave some damn body,” Erica mumbled to herself, then started stomping the linen into a ball.

  “Erica.”

  “Nothing, Ma.” She kicked the bundle aside and pushed past her mother to the kitchen.

  “I’m your mother, girl. Don’t tell me nothing.” She followed.

  “Warren left me.” She picked up the wineglass and started guzzling like her mother had. She didn’t stop until she had licked down the last drop. A fiery sensation passed through her chest as she closed her eyes, hating that she was handling her crisis just as her mother would, throwing back drinks. She was supposed to be the strong one.

  After a few moments, her mother placed her robust arms around Erica’s body, and for the second time that day she didn’t resist her mother’s affection. Instead she collapsed, and rested her face in the sweet-smelling place between her mother’s breasts.

  “Life’s filled with disappointments Slim, and I know I might be responsible for most of yours, but you going to be all right. I can promise you that,” her mother said, rocking Erica in her arms after so many years of neglect.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Friday Night Fever

  Four days had passed since Warren left Erica. It was Friday night and in less than twelve hours his father would marry Shar, within a year of his mother’s death. His sister Billie was engaged and pregnant, and wouldn’t be coming home for the nuptials. James was hugged up with a lady friend. Spider, the band’s pianist, wasn’t answering his phone. Warren slogged through his condo feeling restless and agitated, searching for something mindless to do.

  Growing up with a father who served in the military had made Warren orderly almost to compulsion, and when he pulled open the doors on his walk-in closet, it was as if he had stepped into a section of a men’s department store. On the right, his suits were lined in a row with the sleeves folded forward. The dress shirts were color coordinated, shoes stacked with tree horns, and T-shirts and shorts folded with crisp edges. Warren’s wardrobe was larger than most women’s, and he rummaged through the neat racks with the intent to purge. He started with removing dressy pieces to donate to Career Gear, an organization that gave the suits to men in need. Warren had already pulled eight suits and heaped them into a pile when his fingers closed in on the sleeve of a navy Brooks Brothers suit.

  It was arguably his best suit. The one he wore to job interviews, important dinners and his cousin Grace’s wedding. It was also the suit he wore when he laid his mother to rest. He remembered selecting the suit because she always said that it was bad luck to buy new clothes for a funeral. Warren ran his fingers over the lapel, recalling the Sunday morning last spring when his father summoned him abruptly to the family house in northwest D.C.

  His mother hadn’t been feeling well. She’d been nursing a persistent cough for weeks. Warren had noticed the rattle and rasp during their biweekly phone calls. Erica was at his place, and convinced him to stop for cornbread and a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup from Devon and Blakely.

  “Let’s get those purple tulips too,” she said when they passed a small Mexican woman selling flowers out of a white plastic bucket.

  His mother was in bed when they arrived. The room smelled like bacon. On the nightstand was a pitcher of water, an empty plate, a roll of Ritz crackers with a jar of peanut butter, and a half emptied coffee mug. On the floor was an extra blanket, a jar of Vick’s Vapor Rub and a stack of newspapers. From the looks of things it seemed that she was spending a lot of time in bed, and Warren grew concerned that she wasn’t moving around enough. After kisses and hugs, Erica jumped in, telling his mother about a book that she was planning to send her. The ladies kept up a constant chatter while Erica fluffed her pillows and straightened the blankets and sheets.

  “I can’t wait to read it,” his mother smiled broadly, which made Warren grin because he loved that his mother loved Erica.

  “You bring your horn, baby?” his mother asked as Erica carried the flowers to the window seat overlooking Colorado Avenue.

  “Play ‘Favorite Things’ for me, that song always…” she started hacking and her eyes popped like they were trying to escape from the sockets. Erica rushed over and poured her a fresh glass of ice cold water.

  “Ma, you sure you okay?” Concern was etched into his forehead, but his mother took a few sips and then waved him on.

  “Your father took me to see Betty Carter at the Village Vanguard in New York and, man, she tore that song to pieces. Play it for me, sweetie, so I can reminisce.” She nestled her head into the pillow with her eyes closed. Warren unfastened his horn, pressed it to his lips and settled into the longer version of the song, the rendition that John Coltrane played in 1965 at the Newport Jazz Festival with McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones. Three minutes into the
piece Warren was lost beneath the cadence and cords, and changed keys to give the tempo a chilling effect. Traditionally, the piece is played slowly, but Warren pushed it, making the beat lively and danceable. When he finished he was out of breath and his T-shirt was soaked through.

  His mother clapped with glee. “Music just makes me feel better. I don’t care what anybody says. Don’t you ever stop playing, you hear me? Never,” she leaned forward, and in the next moment she started choking.

  “Mama, I think you better go to the doctor.”

  “Your father took me yesterday and everything was fine. Stop worrying, son,” she took a deep breath and then settled back on the pillows. “Erica, take Warren downstairs and feed him some of that soup. I’m not going to be able to eat it all. You two go on now. Let me rest,” she smiled.

  Warren kissed her cheek and followed Erica out of the bedroom and down the back steps to the kitchen. As always, the room smelled like warmed cinnamon and he couldn’t figure out how that could be since his mother surely hadn’t cooked anything all week. The 13-inch television that was sandwiched between the cherry cabinet and formica countertop was tuned into Bob Schiffer’s show Face the Nation. Warren recognized the theme music as he handed Erica the remote and a spoon for her lunch.

  “I’m going to talk to my dad real quick. Make yourself comfortable,” he rubbed the back of her neck and then headed to his father’s study, on the other side of the house.

  Out of habit, Warren ran his fingers across his mother’s piano before turning the corner and tapping on his father’s door. “Sir.”

  “Son.” His father looked up from the National Geographic magazine he was reading. His pipe and a tin of tobacco sat on the desk amid a stack of loose papers. A framed family photo, taken when Warren was twelve, sat appropriately in the right corner. The study had been the setting for several serious conversations with his father growing up; “the talk” about sex and girls, warnings on drugs and alcohol, why certain friends weren’t welcome in their home, Warren’s college choices, and the list went on. There was always a pipe, a brush brass zippo lighter with a soaring eagle, and a tin of tobacco. But Warren had never been offered a smoke. That day was no exception.

  “Your mother has lung cancer,” his father said without fanfare. He was not one to beat around, preferring to head right for the heart.

  By accident, Warren bit his tongue and a small trickle of blood salted his mouth. “What does that mean?”

  “Well,” his father said, dabbing at the sweat forming on his forehead with a handkerchief. “They’ve given her a few weeks to live. Actually, they’ve suggested hospice.”

  “Hospice? What about treatment?”

  “The cancer has already metastasized into her brain. Chemo and radiation might give her a few more months.”

  “So let’s fight.”

  His father dropped his head in his hands and pushed his tight curls back over his head. “She refused to go to the doctors for so long. You know your mother, insisting that it was nothing and she could cure herself with oils and herbs. Now it’s too late. It’s just too late,” he answered, and when Warren looked up at his father it appeared that he was aging right before his eyes.

  Erica took the next day off from work and stayed with Warren when he couldn’t get out of bed. Nine days later his mother had passed on.

  While pictures were pulled, programs stapled, flowers selected, and food ordered for the repast, Warren concentrated on the song he would play to honor his mother. The choir wanted him to play “Eye on the Sparrow,” but Warren decided on “Precious Lord Take My Hand” and asked Miss Rita, the church pianist, to accompany him on organ. “Precious Lord” had been his mother’s favorite church hymn, and Warren watched videos of Mahalia Jackson and Aretha Franklin singing the song so that he could get it just right. There had been nothing pleasant about the funeral. Not one memorable thing about Pastor Davis’ sermon. He disliked walking in the processional with piteous glances being cast on his family. Didn’t like the laying on hands that people felt compelled to do as they passed his pew. The smell of so many flowers made his stomach churn and the Extra Strength Tylenol did nothing to relieve the ache in his head. Warren felt wretched down to his bones.

  But at the very moment that Warren thought he couldn’t take one more second of funk, Pastor Davis called him to the pulpit for his musical intersession. And Warren didn’t just play “Precious Lord,” he made his trumpet sing “Precious Lord.” Shoulders started swaying and the congregation was moved to Amen, Hallelujah and Thank you, Jesus. By the second verse, Sister Clementine caught the Holy Spirit and had to be hugged and held by her teenage son. Warren played, feeling ordained, and understood for the first time what John Coltrane meant when he declared that, through his music, he had heard the voice of God.

  When he finished, Warren didn’t bow or even acknowledge the applause and calls on the Lord as he walked down the three steps from the pulpit. All he saw was Erica, sitting in the front pew. Falling into the seat next to her, she clutched his hand so tightly that it felt as if she was trying to extract all of his pain, like a presser would fruit for its juices. She squashed and squeezed, transferring his feelings into her body so that just for a time he could feel free. That’s how Erica was or who she used to be, and it was going to be pure punishment for him to get used to his life without her.

  Damn her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jumping the Broom

  Tardiness was never an issue for Warren. He learned from his father the habit of arriving early: fifteen minutes prior to an event, twenty for work, and one hour if he were going to perform. For the wedding he arrived at Tabernacle Baptist church with thirty minutes to spare, but spent ten of those behind the wheel of his car scratching his foot. On the drive over his left toes started itching, all of them. As soon as he pulled into the parking lot, he removed his sock and raked his fingernails over the skin. Warren had had athlete’s foot before, and hoped he hadn’t caught something from the rental shoes his father insisted he wear. He found an old tube of hand cream in his glove compartment and slathered what he could squeeze across his toes. His skin still stung with irritation, but it would have to do.

  Warren put his shoe back on and got out of the car. His truck had been washed and waxed two days ago, and before trudging across the lot he checked his reflection in the shiny paint. As if the itching wasn’t enough, the black and white shoes were cutting into the sides of his ankles, and the heel rubbed with each step. The day was going to be a long one.

  Two women walking in front of Warren commented on the loveliness of the church. He had to agree. Tabernacle’s church was a building of beauty, with early century stone walls, ten-foot stained glass windows, a bell tower that still rang on the hour, enclosed in a steeple that could be seen for at least a mile in all four directions. Today, satiny calla lilies chased roses along the metal railings, which fanned to either side of the wide stairs. Oversized wreaths filled with blood orchids hung from each of the double doors, and something smelled plumy.

  Warren’s father, Maynard, greeted guests at the top landing. The two men were identically dressed in black, three-button notch-lapel tuxedos, with white shirts and trimmings.

  “Son,” his father embraced him while patting him on the back, and Warren caught a whiff of his spiced cologne. A smile as thick as a stack of pancakes played on his father’s face as he looked Warren in the eyes.

  “Thanks for standing with me today. It means the world to me,” and then his father did something he had never done before. He kissed Warren’s cheek and whispered, “I know how you felt about your mother, and I loved her too. But I can’t stop living, I have to move on.” He patted Warren’s cheek, and turned his attention to three women dressed in wide-brimmed hats. Before Warren could recover from the comment, his father was gesturing for him to show the women to their pews.

  Monkey-faced Sister Clara linked arms with Warren, and he cringed when she tried to explain.

  �
��Warren, baby, I been meaning to call you. ’Bout the other day…” she started, but Warren cut her off.

  “Enjoy the service.” He left her standing at the last pew, despite the available seating up front.

  As he walked to the back of the chapel, his seething subsided when he spied his great-Aunt Maggie, being pushed in her wheelchair by an aid from her nursing home. Warren kissed her forehead and offered to escort her down the aisle. The crowd then started pouring in, family members, distinguished members of the military, and friends of the family. After what felt like an hour of walking back and forth, his feet started itching again, and he was just about to duck away for a scratch when Blanche walked through the church doors. He had forgotten that his father invited her. She was wearing a turquoise scoop-neck dress that pressed her small breasts into buxomly cleavage. Her soft hair was gathered in a side bun, and a handbag with a chain-link strap hung from her arm.

  “Hey, you.” Warren took her hand.

  Her face gushed pink. “I thought I was going to be late.” She leaned in, kissing him on the chin.

  The organist began a new selection while Warren escorted her to her seat.

  “Where’s Erica?” Blanche asked, sliding into the pew.

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “At the reception,” Blanche assured him. Warren nodded, walking towards the vestibule, where his father was waiting.

  “It’s showtime, Son,” he said, pinning a maroon gardenia to Warren’s lapel.

  They walked up the side aisle to the front of the church, past the stained glass windows depicting the birth of Christ. Once they were standing in front of the pulpit, his father nodded to the organist and the processional music began. Shar’s younger sister, Bethany, who was both hippy and busty, made her way down the aisle dressed in a wine colored dress that bunched at the waist. Bernard, the older son, carried the broom, followed by Jared, clumping along with the ring pillow. Both boys were dressed in white, and looked uncomfortable in such fancy clothing.