by Tracy Brown
“I got the money from an old account I had set up years ago and forgotten about,” Camille lied, regurgitating the story Celia had told her to give people.
Misa knew it was a lie, but didn’t bother to push it. After all, she was just happy to be going home. The specifics didn’t matter much. She stared out the window at the snow on the ground and realized that she hadn’t even known that snow had fallen during the past few days. It had seemed as if time had stopped, as if her whole world had stopped spinning the moment Louis had told her that Shane had been abused.
“Mama, tell me again how Shane was when you saw him,” she said softly.
Lily smiled and detailed her visit with her grandson days prior. As the three women drove toward Long Island, where Misa had agreed to stay with her mother in an effort to avoid all the media on Staten Island, they all wondered what the future held. For now, they tried to make Misa’s first day home as pleasant as possible.
U-Turns
Frankie climbed out of his car and shut the door, pressing the lock button on his key ring. He pulled the hood of his black jacket closer to his face as the January wind whipped around him. Gillian joined him and together they walked over to a long black limousine. Frankie opened the door and helped his mother, Mary, out. Side by side the trio neared Steven’s casket, which was perched above the hole in the ground where his body would rest for eternity.
The small gathering of funeral-goers included Tremaine, Baron’s mother Celia, and a young lady named Angelle who did big, illicit prescription drug business with the Nobles syndicate. Only a handful of Frankie’s goons made up the rest of the crowd that gathered together around the hole in the ground as the wind whistled eerily through the naked trees. Conspicuously—and understandably—absent were Camille and her family. The press arrived and stood at a respectful distance, snapping pictures of the mourners as they gathered around and listened to the preacher saying things about Steven that weren’t even true. He hadn’t actually been a loving and devoted son, since neither Frankie nor Steven had interacted much with their mother since becoming adults.
Mary Bingham had been so broken down, so destroyed by the abuse her husband had dished out that she was a shell of her former self. It had been hard to watch her shrinking into herself whenever they visited her, so her sons had stayed away. Even now, as Frankie looked at her—all frail and bony underneath the full-length mink coat he’d given her years ago—he shook his head.
Gillian squeezed his hand, her Isotoner gloves warming his hand as she did so. He caught her eye and winked at her to let her know that he was okay.
When the minister was finally done bullshitting, Frankie took his mother by the arm and led her over to Steven’s casket. Her legs shook from a combination of the biting wind and the fact that she was approaching her baby’s gravesite. Her knees buckled and Frankie reached and caught her before she hit the ground.
Gillian gasped and rushed over to help Mrs. Bingham get her bearings. A heart-wrenching wail escaped the old woman’s lips and Gillian looked to Frankie to see how he would react. She could tell that he was trying to be strong as his mother collapsed into his arms, her tears staining his coat. He held her as she sobbed into his chest.
“I’m so sorry … Steven! Oh God! I’m so sorry … Steeeeven!” Mrs. Bingham was distraught.
Frankie frowned hearing his mother’s words and tried his best to quiet her. He was aware that the photographers were clamoring closer in an effort to get the money shot and he shielded his weeping mother from them as best he could.
“Ma … come on. It’s not your fault.” He held her close to him, realizing then how skinny she was, how weak. He recalled the blows his father dealt her and realized the damage that had been done to her. He fought the urge to cry as he spoke to his mother.
“He’s at peace, now, Ma.” Frankie’s voice cracked, but he didn’t let a tear fall.
His mother’s sobs began to lessen.
“He’s at peace now.” Frankie rubbed her back, held her up. He led her over to the casket and together they stood there looking down at Steven’s coffin.
Mary held on to Frankie, leaned on him. She thought of her youngest son lying dead in the box before her; pictured him as a baby running around in his footy pajamas with a pacifier in his mouth. A sad smile appeared on her face as she thought of Steven that way—young, innocent, pure. She thought of the way he had looked in his coffin earlier that day, before they’d closed it at his funeral service. His body was bigger, his face had matured and hardened, his facial hair had grown in. But he was still her baby, had always been her baby. Now her baby was dead. Mary Bingham squeezed her eyes closed, the cold winter wind flogging her body like a cat-o’-nine-tails.
Slowly, painfully it seemed, she reached forward and set a single white rose on top of her child’s casket. Her fingers lingered there for several moments, all was silent except for the clicking of the photographers’ cameras. Frankie didn’t say a word as he watched her fingers dance across the surface of Steven’s casket, her eyes brimming with tears. Seconds felt like hours as she stood there this way. In a voice as gentle as a whisper, she spoke at last.
“It should have been me.”
She seemed to take in a deep breath, then let it out. Finally, she took her hand away and held it close to her heart as she turned and walked back to the car, nestled in Frankie’s arms.
Gillian followed them, her hands tucked into the pockets of her lynx coat. She watched as Frankie assisted his mother into the limousine alongside Celia. When they climbed back into Frankie’s black Escalade, Gillian looked at him. Emotionless, he started the car and put it in drive.
“Frankie—”
Slamming on the brake, he held his hand up. “I don’t want to talk right now,” he said, sternly, not even looking in her direction.
Gillian shut her mouth and silently they drove back to his mother’s apartment in Flatbush.
Just then, her cell phone vibrated and she saw Saadiq’s number flash across the screen. She turned her phone off and looked at Frankie, dazed and driving with his eyes focused intently on the road ahead. She wondered how long they could truly last if he continued to shut himself off this way. She wanted to talk about what was going on, while Frankie seemed intent on avoiding that at all costs. When they pulled up to Mary’s apartment, Frankie started to get out of the truck, but Gillian reached over and stopped him, holding him by the arm.
“Frankie,” she said again.
This time he looked at her with a pained expression on his face.
“I just wanted to tell you that I love you.” She smiled faintly. “And everything is gonna be all right.”
Frankie sighed and shook his head. He wished he was as sure as she was.
* * *
Toya jumped for some strange reason when she heard her doorbell ring. She clutched her chest as she felt her heartbeat quicken. Her father’s reappearance in her life had her on edge more than she cared to admit. Camille was out on Long Island with her mother and sister while Dominique was becoming a ghetto version of Nancy Drew in search of her missing child. Toya had been enjoying a rare night at home without any interruptions.
As she neared her front door, she breathed somewhat easier as she realized that it was only Russell, her pesky, terribly ugly neighbor from across the street. This was the first time she was actually relieved to see him. Even a visit from this monster was better than another visit from her father.
She opened the door and greeted Russell. “Yes?”
He smiled, his face not looking any better despite his sunny disposition. “I understand that you’re a real estate agent,” he said, getting right to the point. Toya had slammed her door in his face on more than one occasion, so he knew he had to talk fast if he expected to get anywhere with her. “I’m tired of renting the house across the street. I’m looking to buy a house of my own in this area. I was hoping you could take me around and show me what’s available.”
Toya frowned and shifted h
er weight as she looked at him. “Wait a minute. You rent the house across the street? You don’t own it?”
Russell nodded, not understanding her change in demeanor. “I rent right now, ma’am. But I’m interested in buying a house.”
She smirked and folded her arms across her chest. This amateur was renting while she had been a homeowner for years, and he’d had the nerve to continuously harass her for a date. Just as she had suspected all along—based solely on his hideous facial features—he was beneath her.
“I’m very expensive,” she said, hoping to dissuade him. “And don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ ”
He fought the urge to smile. He was trying to get his mack on and Toya was a tough nut to crack.
“Okay, well … I’m sure I can afford you,” he said. The look on her face told him that she was about to go for his jugular vein, so he immediately corrected himself. “Your fee as a real estate agent, I mean. I’m a fireman, great salary, no kids.” He hoped she was happy to hear that. “I make good money, and I have a nice amount saved. I just wanted to know if you’re interested in doing business with me.”
She raised an eyebrow. He was talking money now, speaking her language.
“Okay. Come into my office when you have a chance and we’ll see what you’re working with.”
Russell loved the sound of that. She reached over to her purse lying nearby and handed him her business card. He read it aloud: “Toya Blake, Independent Real Estate Agent.”
“Very good,” she said sarcastically. “You can read. Have a nice day.”
She shut the door in his face and still Russell’s smile didn’t fade one bit. He had made progress this time. At last, he had her attention.
* * *
It was Octavia’s seventh night away from home and by now Dominique was a big bundle of nerves. Her child hadn’t been to school, hadn’t contacted any of her friends (or so they claimed), and hadn’t so much as texted Dominique to say that she was alive. Dominique had taken time off from work, determined to stay close to home in case Octavia came back.
She had been hitting the bar in her expansive living room pretty hard on this Friday night, having nearly downed an entire bottle of Grey Goose as she sat alone listening to WBLS FM. Her doorbell chimed and she set her glass down on the coffee table. Her feet snug in a pair of fuzzy socks, she shuffled across her hardwood floors toward her front door clad in a lavender pair of Juicy sweats.
She glanced at her high-tech security system and saw that it was Archie, the guy she got her high-grade marijuana from. He stood just over six feet tall with a slim build and a rugged sex appeal. His brown skin and pearly white teeth gleamed on the screen and she unlocked the door and ushered him inside. Usually, she met Archie in the lobby of her Upper East Side condominium. But tonight she was too afraid to be away from the phone, too paranoid that she might miss Octavia’s one attempt to call home. So, for the first time, she invited her Dominican friend to come upstairs to sell her some hydro.
As he stepped into her huge apartment, his eyes widened. “Daaaaaamn,” he muttered. He looked around at the sheer size of her home and was amazed. An apartment this large in Manhattan was a true rarity—and carried a huge price tag. He looked at Dominique, his eyes wide with surprise.
She smiled at him, aware that her home was a treasure. Archie glanced around at all the furnishings, the art on the walls, the elegant décor, and he was impressed. Dominique had been his customer for years, even though he lived in burgeoning Harlem and she lived in this upper-crust part of town. She didn’t spend much money when she called him, but she had a beautiful face and an awe-inspiring ass, so it was worth the trip each time he came to service her. As he stood in her living room now, he couldn’t disguise his amazement upon seeing her home for the first time.
His accent was thick as he addressed her. “You have a beautiful home. I knew this was a nice building, but I had no idea it was this nice.”
She thanked him and tried to maintain a smile. Her mind wasn’t on prime real estate, though. She was worried sick about Octavia. “Let me get the money.” She walked over to the sofa where her purse lay.
Archie strolled over to her entertainment center, and saw pictures of Dominique and a little girl who looked like a younger version of her. “This is your beautiful daughter, I presume.”
Dominique looked up and nodded. “Yeah. She’s the reason I couldn’t meet you downstairs this time. I’m waiting to hear from her.” Dominique sifted through her purse for her wallet.
Archie smirked. “What, she’s out past her curfew or something?”
She shook her head. “No. She ran away.”
Archie was surprised. “What?”
Dominique’s face was dismayed as she nodded slowly. “Days ago, and I’m gonna have a heart attack from worrying about her.” She finally fished her wallet out of her purse and flipped through it for a hundred-dollar bill.
Archie held his hand up to stop her. “Wait a minute. How old is she?”
Dominique’s arms fell to her side. “Fourteen.” She slumped down on the recliner, the Grey Goose finally starting to feel like it was taking effect.
Archie walked toward her, genuine concern marking his face. “My God!”
She held her head in her hands and blew her breath out in exasperation. “I have no idea where she is.”
Archie didn’t know what to say. He was a man of few words anyway. But when it came to kids in danger—especially precious daughters—the rage he felt was hard for him to express.
She made eye contact with him. “Do you have any kids?”
He nodded. “I do. But not here. Back at home.” His brow furrowed. “I’m so sorry to hear about your daughter.” He handed her the weed and she handed him the cash. He put the money in his pocket and looked at her. Still he didn’t move. He frowned. “If you don’t mind … why she run away from all this?”
He looked around at the lavish surroundings. Archie had known Dominique for years, ever since she’d started getting her hair done at his aunt’s hair salon uptown. Each weekend, he and his family hustled their various products out of that shop and Dominique had caught his eye whenever she came in to get a relaxer or a wash and set. From his aunt, he’d learned that she worked in the music business, though she wasn’t boastful about it. She always kept to herself and never gave any play to the men who vied for her attention—at least not from what Archie had witnessed. He had assumed that she had a man, but looking around he saw no sign of one.
Dominique shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she answered. “I came home the other night and found a note. Haven’t heard from her since.”
He shook his head, hoping that the young girl was okay. “Wow.”
She noticed that Archie was still standing there despite the fact that she had already paid him. Politely, she gestured toward the sofa. “You can have a seat if you want, Archie. Have a drink if you want.”
He looked around warily. “I don’t want your man to come home and get the wrong idea.”
She laughed at that. “My man isn’t coming home for two more months,” she said.
Archie seemed surprised yet again. “He’s locked up?” Dominique didn’t seem like the type to deal with a street nigga.
“Yup.” Dominique nodded. “Finishing up the last few weeks of a three-year bid.” Dominique looked him in the eye. “He was selling coke.”
“Okay,” he said. He sat down on the sofa, thinking that her man was a damn fool for going to jail for that long with a woman like this at home. Archie himself had numerous run-ins with the law in his past. But those days were long behind him. These days, he hustled smart and flew below the radar. He and his family had been in the game for years and learned to play it well. Marijuana, after all, was a far lesser evil than whatever he assumed Dominique’s man had been peddling.
She walked over to the bar and got him a glass. She dished some ice cubes from the bucket into his glass and then looked at him. “What’ll it be?” she as
ked, gesturing at the bar.
Archie could tell she was feeling whatever she was sipping on, only because she was being far more outgoing tonight than she had ever been before. “How about some Absolut?”
“Okay.” Dominique brought him the entire bottle along with the glass. She reached into the mini-fridge behind the bar and handed him two small bottles of cranberry and orange juice.
Archie smiled. “Thank you.”
Dominique settled back into her seat on the recliner and sipped her drink. She noticed that he chose the cranberry juice. “So, your children … do you have boys or girls?” she asked.
“Oh, I have just one. A daughter. She’s seven.” Archie smiled as he thought of her. “I just traveled back to visit her this past summer.”
Dominique nodded. She thought that was nice—a father who cared for his daughter so much that it lit up his face. She had been blessed to have that. Unfortunately, Octavia hadn’t and Dominique couldn’t help wondering if that was what she was rebelling against.
“I go there to see her. But then it’s hard to come back here. I miss home. But the money is here, ya know?”
Dominique nodded.
Archie sipped his drink. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a spare bag of weed and held it up. “You wanna smoke now?”
She nodded, and handed him a Dutch Masters cigar from the drawer of the end table. Archie proceeded to roll up a perfectly packed blunt as Dominique watched.
“What’s it like where you’re from?” she asked, eager to take her mind off her troubles. Imagining a place like the Dominican Republic was a very welcome distraction.
Archie smiled, showing all his pearly whites, and regaled her with stories of his island culture. He was animated as he spoke, clearly in love with the place he still called home despite the fact that he’d been in America for more than ten years.
They smoked the blunt until it was gone as they talked. Soon, they’d shared many laughs, various stories and several drinks. Without noticing it, so much time had passed with them talking this way that it was after midnight.
