by Hannovah
“So therefore the uncontested divorce,” I ventured. “You felt guilty.” Perhaps, I had judged Joanne prematurely; maybe it was not only about the green card. My bad.
Brandon broke his silence. “Your father Harris didn’t raise you like that, man. I’m disappointed. But,” he suddenly backed off, “you went through a lot. I can’t judge you. It’s the one in the kitchen who feels the heat.”
Joshua nodded and leaned back in the chair, and a faraway look took over his face. Then, like someone in a trance, he said, “I really need Jo in my life. I can’t function without her.”
Personally, I thought he could find someone better, but I understood his pain. I was racking my brains to come up with the right thing to say when suddenly he stood bolt upright, just like I’ve seen him do before. It seemed like some bright idea had just hit him. I thought that this was not going to be good.
He waved a finger, “I will get her back. I will.” He shook Brandon’s hand and hugged me. “Thanks for listening. I’ll see you later.”
Joshua left our home with a little pep in his step, and I wished him luck.
Friday morning, Brandon and I were preparing to go to the courthouse because one of our tenants had been delinquent on the rent payment, and Brandon does not play when it comes to his money. He acts quickly because, as he says, “If they are in arrears for one month, then they certainly can’t pay two.” He had already posted a Pay Rent or Quit notice on the tenant’s door, and had gotten no response, so now he was about to take the next step: filing an eviction complaint with the Court. Being off from work, I decided to go along for the ride and learn a little bit about the eviction process. Who knows if one day I may have to do the whole procedure by myself?
I often assisted him with paper work, you know, typing leases, doing background checks, sending out notices, writing up court documents, advertising, accounts, etcetera. And Brandon scheduled me to accompany him on inspections, minor repairs, and showings, especially if the tenant or potential tenant was a woman. He found out early in the rental business, that he had better take another female along with him for these trips. A beautiful young woman had come to rent from us one time, and had not qualified financially, but she had talked a good talk and her so-called previous landlord (I now think it was her friend or relative) had vouched for her timely payments. Well, when Brandon went to collect his second month’s rent, she greeted him at the door, dressed in a G-string only. He said that after he took a good look and asked her for the rent, she simply smiled and hooked her thong to one side. Poor Brandon said he high-tailed it out of there so fast, she probably thought he was gay.
He said that he can’t pay his bills with pussy; the banks don’t accept that. And on top of that, he could be accused of something that he did not do.
That woman was our first eviction.
From then on Brandon decided to have tenants pay rent at his P.O. Box, and that he would take me along as much as possible when he was dealing face to face with female tenants.
So here we were, this Friday morning, getting ready for court. As usual, Brandon was already dressed before I was, and he sat waiting, folder in hand, in the living room while I darted around, trying on different accessories. I’m not a vain person, but I do need to keep a certain standard of appearance, because I know my luck; the very day that I decide to look sloppy is the day that I will be seen by my dean, my students, or possibly Michael Douglas himself.
“I’m coming,” I shouted to Brandon from the bedroom.
“Take your time,” he shouted back, “and hurry up.”
I laughed.
I thought I heard someone shut a car door outside, and it sounded close by, like if it was in our driveway.
“Aay-aay,” Brandon said, sounding surprised.
I was trying to process whatever it was that was taking place when I heard our front door click and squeak open.
“Jesus Christ!” Brandon said to someone. “What happened to you, boy?”
I was ready to go now, and curious as hell to know what was going on out there. I met Brandon at the open door.
A young familiar looking man was approaching our threshold and he was limping along, taking short steps with his bow legs. His left hand braced his left hip and he swung his right arm to help propel his body forward. His face was swollen and puffy, and it resembled the cellulite on the back of my mother’s legs and butt.
“Josh, is that you?” Just as I asked the question, I noticed his old white Camry in our driveway. “Oh God.”
Joshua did not answer, but he tried to smile as Brandon helped him up the one-step threshold, analyzing him from head to toe.
CHAPTER SIX
“Boy, it looks like you got a good ass-whipping.”
That was Brandon’s comment after he closed our front door.
“Umm-hmm,” Joshua groaned.
Our adopted son eased himself onto the sofa and looked down to the floor and then up at Brandon, saying, “I messed up.”
Well, we weren’t going anywhere now – not with Joshua looking and sounding the way he did. For sure he had been in a brawl, and probably came out the loser.
I doubted very much that it was Joanne who beat him up like this. He was a gentleman, yes, and would never hit a woman, but I don’t think he would allow her to go that far.
Brandon laid aside the court folder and took a seat on our love-chair.
“Joshua Browning,” I said. “What happened to you?”
“I was in a fight last night . . . at Joanne’s house.”
“With Joanne?”
“Um-hmm.”
Brandon and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same thing, but I was quicker with the question. “She did this to you?”
“No. Her boyfriend . . . I think.”
Anger began to well up in my chest, and I started to breathe heavily. I mean, she has a boyfriend already? Brandon noticed my growing vexation and patted me on my shoulder, trying to calm me down before I blew a fuse in my brain. Why was this bothering me? I guess Joshua was like a son of mine, that’s why.
“I only wanted to talk with her,” Joshua lamented. “And now I might be in big trouble.”
“Really? What kind of trouble?”
“When you’re drunk you do stupid things,” he said, shaking his head.
“Oh God. Joshua, what happened?” I sat down on the arm of Brandon’s chair.
My husband glanced at his watch and then he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms and crossing his legs like he was about to watch a movie. All he was missing was his bag of popcorn.
Joshua said, “I was missing Jo so much that I started drinking last night. A lot. That was all I could do at the time.” He shook his head again. “Then I decided to go visit her.”
I knew where this was going. Drunk. And Joanne. Not good.
He continued. “I didn’t call or nothing, I just showed up. And when I got to the townhouse, I realized she had a man there – a tall African-American dude – the type I know she likes. Man, I tell you, I started to boil up inside. And all I knew is that I wanted that guy to leave. I asked her who he was, and she said that he was a friend from church, and asked me what I wanted. I said that I wanted the guy to leave. She said no, he’s not going anywhere. But I really wanted him gone, and since Joanne wasn’t getting rid of him, I ordered him to leave.”
“He didn’t, did he?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“No. He said he would leave when Joanne told him to leave. Well I went up to his face and told him to get out of my effing house so I can talk to my wife.”
My husband and I were glued to the saga.
“Well, he yelled back, telling me she ain’t my wife and he will leave when he was damn good and ready. I said ‘you’re leaving now,’ and I pushed him hard with both hands.”
“Oh Lord!” I gasped, and placed my hands over my mouth.
Brandon asked, “So, what did he do?”
“He shouted out ‘em eff’ and pus
hed me back.”
Now Brandon shook his head, disappointed with the whole thing.
“Well the pushing turned into kicking and punching and wrestling. We broke one of Jo’s lamps and a plant pot in the process, and the next thing I knew, I ended up on the sofa with the guy on top of me, and Jo trying to separate us. She was begging us to stop or she’ll call the police, and the guy was cussing the whole time. I guess I must have sobered up quickly because I suddenly realized that he was way bigger than me. I told him sorry, and he got off of me, and I left.”
Brandon and I were in disbelief. We stared at our son whom we knew to be of noble and peaceful character – a model citizen – not a fighter. In the twenty-seven years that he had been on this Earth we had never heard of him getting into altercations.
Hoping that he was sober enough to make the right decision, I asked, “So you went to your apartment and slept it off?”
“No.”
“Looord,” Brandon said, throwing his hands in the air and letting them fall back into his lap. “What else happened?”
“I did go back to my apartment, and when I got there I was so hurt inside and out that I needed a drink. One mind told me to drink plenty water to sober up; another told me that the alcohol would be better; so I went with the alcohol. I was feeling sorry for myself, and wondered why she didn’t ask him to leave; why was I the one she wanted to leave. It’s like she preferred him over me – her own husband. I figured that if I could just speak with her, it would be all right.”
He looked up to the ceiling. “So I called her about thirty minutes later to tell her that I was on my way back, with my gun.”
“Gun!” Brandon and I said in unison.
I reached for my husband’s arm to help me handle this drama, and I began to wonder if we were harboring a fugitive. But Brandon was as calm as our back yard swimming pool.
Joshua continued. “I really wanted to talk to Joanne alone. I told her to make sure the man was gone before I got there. When I got there, she refused to open the door. I banged on the door, shouting, ‘Joanne! Joanne! Open up! I need to talk to you!’ and each time she shouted back, ‘No! Just go! Don’t make me have to call the police!’ I kept asking her if the guy was still in there, but she never gave me an answer to that. I was imagining all kinds of things about her and the guy, and that was getting me really mad. I don’t want him messing with my wife. So you know what I did?” Joshua took a deep breath.
Mentally, I braced myself for whatever. Brandon, the rock, still appeared composed.
“Like a fool, I started to kick the door in. But it wouldn’t budge. So I picked up one of the big rocks from the landscaping and smashed open the living room window. Then I climbed inside.”
Brandon sighed and shook his head. My eyes danced in my head and then I eased down onto the love seat next to him.
“By this time, Joanne had dialed 911,” Joshua said. “I searched for the guy, but he wasn’t there. When I heard her on the phone with the operator, I got scared and left. And yes, I went home and slept.” A few seconds of silence passed by and then he shared, “But this morning, I wonder if I might be in big trouble. Ray, do you think I should call Joanne?”
Brandon pondered for a moment and then sighed, “Hmmm. Leave her alone. Stay sober and cool, and if the authorities should come looking for you, man-up and take responsibility.” He gave Joshua a moment to absorb the advice, and then said, “Try to get Joanne out of your system. I know that you’re lonely, and it could be depressing, but you will find the right woman. Every bread has its cheese.”
My husband’s saying brought a smile to Joshua’s face. Then fatherly-like, Brandon leaned over and rubbed Joshua’s back.
I was concerned for his health. “Josh, maybe you should go to the doctor to see if you’re okay.”
“I’m good.” He forced a half-smile. “No broken bones.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Oh, I would know.” He attempted to stretch, but groaned in agony. “That guy beat me up real good. If I was sober, he didn’t stand a chance. You know, I was trained to fight?”
We laughed at his attempt to redeem himself.
Still, half-smiling, he said, “I’m not going to class or work today. I might as well just rest this off.”
Since I did not succeed in persuading him to get medical help, I did the best next thing. “How about some Tylenol, or an ice-pack, or something?”
“All of the above, thank you,” he replied.
While the men chatted I packed a little medicine basket for Joshua and, returning, placed it next to his car keys so he wouldn’t forget it. I really wanted to cheer him, so I asked, “How about some breakfast?”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“I have freshly baked, home-made, blueberry muffins.”
Joshua’s puffy eyes tried to open wide, and he answered, “Well, in that case, I’m hungry.” And he rubbed his tummy for added effect.
Still in pain, he hobbled over to the breakfast table while I reheated the meal, and Brandon set the table and poured orange juice into three glasses. Brandon and I had had breakfast about an hour before, but of course, we still had room for seconds.
“Better belly bust, than good food waste,” Brandon said as he took a seat.
We chuckled at the comment.
As we ate, Joshua moaned, “Ahhh! Ohhh!”
I wasn’t sure if he was in pain from trying to chew with swollen jaws or if he was enjoying the food. But when he licked his engorged lips, I was sure it was the latter.
“Edna, this is real good,” he said.
“Thank you. Thank you.” I loved the compliment.
Looking over to me he teased, “I don’t need a doctor because if I went to him, this is exactly what he would prescribe.”
We laughed.
Then Brandon looked him in his eyes and said, “Stay focused on school, Josh. Believe it or not, it is a good distraction from your problems. And whenever you’re feeling lonely just come over here and hang with us old folks.”
“Yes,” I encouraged. “You and Brandon could start back with the music. Remember how you played the steel-pan while Brandon played the guitar? You all could get that groove back. Soon it will be Fourth of July and while we’re not doing anything special that day, we could get together and have a beach-gathering or something.”
Brandon added, “And don’t forget that we’re planning a Quadruple Seven party after the holiday.”
The fourth of July fell on a Wednesday that year, which was not the best day of the week for a party. So, we planned a party for Saturday, the seventh day of the seventh month of 2007 at seven o’clock. Hell-lo!
“Will Stephen and Maxwell be there?” Joshua asked, finishing up his juice.
“Stephen is still on tour with his band and would not be back in time, but Maxwell and his girlfriend will be with us as usual,” I answered.
Brandon suddenly remembered our business at hand and reminded me that we had to get going. We said our goodbyes to Joshua and encouraged him to keep his chin up, and out of the way of punches.
Joshua became scarce for some days that followed. He was out of town on a class project in Daytona, the nation’s most famous car racing city, and while there, he stayed with a military buddy in Sanford, a half-hour drive going west on I-4.
Although he was out of sight, he still called us to keep in touch and promised to join us at the beach for the holiday.
Fourth of July was only a day away and we were making our plans, anticipating a splendid day at the beach with friends and family. I was on the phone discussing with a couple of friends about who would bring what to the fiesta, when I was alerted to an incoming call. It was Joshua, so I took the call.
“I can’t make it for tomorrow,” he said.
“Okay. We’ll miss you, but I understand, work before pleasure.”
“Yeah. And I met someone in Orlando,” he announced, sounding happy. “A Canadian-American girl, like yourself. We�
��ll be spending the holiday together.”
“Hmmm. Well good for you.”
“But I’ll see y’all soon. I’ll be there for the party on Saturday.”
We said our goodbyes, and while I was mildly disappointed that Joshua was not going to be with us for the holiday, I was happy that he was getting his groove back. Meeting a nice girl could be just what he needed, especially if she was not looking for a way to stay in the United States.
Haulover Beach was already crawling with people. We got there around eleven that holiday morning, and it was beautiful. I mean not just the weather; there was a sweet feeling of fellowship, and happiness, and family in the air. Our younger son, Maxwell, his girlfriend, Lia, as well as a few island friends with their young children showed up as planned, and for the first time, everyone brought along the food they had promised to bring.
Stephen, our older son, was on tour with his rock band, Burning Bush, and could not make it. But we were all so happy to see Maxwell, and my friends commented on how he looked like his dad more than ever. In truth, he was a young replica of his father.
Maxwell’s girlfriend, Lia, an exotic mix of Asian and Spanish, laid her already tan body out on an extra-long beach towel to soak in the overhead sun: just like the majority of us light-skinned folks out here were doing. I got to thinking about how some dark-skinned people bleach their skin with chemicals – like Michael Jackson, or avoid the sunlight as much as possible. We are trying to darken up while the others are trying to lighten up. Ahh . . . it seems like nobody is satisfied with the body God gave them.
Brandon sat next to me and wore sunglasses. And those glasses bothered me though; they gave him too much protection . . . from me, that is. He was probably ogling all the fine females who were strutting by, and since I could not see his eyes, I had no way of knowing, and no evidence to accuse him with.
“Do you have to wear so dark a pair of shades?” I quipped. “You look like an FBI agent or something.”
