by Tracy Brown
“I have to go.”
“Your daughter needs you?” Archie asked, noticing her glancing at her cell phone.
She smirked. She knew this would be her last time seeing him, so she took in all of his features. His cocoa-brown skin, smooth as a candy bar, yet so weathered from his lifestyle as a hustler; his hair, coarse, long, and neat smelling like Moroccan spices; his eyes as bright as flames. She shook her head. Damn!
“I have to go.”
He frowned, a little bit confused. But he nodded and stood up, offered a smile. She looked at his luscious lips, his pearl-white teeth, and couldn’t resist the urge to kiss him. Then she turned and walked to the door. Archie followed, opened it for her just as she reached for the knob, and he pulled her close for one more kiss.
“See you soon,” Archie said.
She waved over her shoulder and scampered off toward her car, eager to put some space between the two of them. She realized she was looking for something more than he was willing to offer her, and for once in her life she wasn’t willing to settle for less than she deserved. Archie was a beautiful man, handsome, exotic, and his sex rendered her speechless. But he was too vague, too unavailable, too much of a puzzle for her to piece together at a time in her life when she was longing for stability. Maybe what she needed was some time to be alone without the distraction of a man.
She drove away, and didn’t look back. As she reached the corner and turned right, she let out a deep breath and turned the radio up loud. She didn’t wallow in it this time the way she had when she walked away from Jamel. That time she had felt like she’d made a terrible mistake, and that he owed her an explanation, some kind of apology. She had loved Jamel. With Archie, it was different, and she recognized the difference between love and lust. Archie—well, she had mostly loved his sex.
She smiled as she thought of it that way and wondered how long it would be before she found the man who could balance out her odd blend of street and class.
“How ’bout a round of applause…” She sang along to Rihanna as she kept searching.
* * *
Toya signed for the package and thanked the UPS guy. As he retreated toward his truck, she glanced across the street and saw Russell standing on the porch of his house across the street. He waved at her and she waved back, shutting the door before he felt encouraged to come over. Her mother was still visiting and she was in no mood to hear her criticism.
The package was from someone named Pat Rushen from Cobble Hill. Stepping into her living room, Toya tore at the packaging and pulled out a box with her name scrawled across it in her father’s chicken-scratch handwriting.
Jeanie stepped into the room and noticed her daughter looking like she’d seen a ghost. Toya glanced at her mother and frowned. “It’s from him. This is his handwriting,” she said, knowing that her mother would figure out who she was speaking of. “There’s a note here, let me read it.”
Toya sat down and her mother sat beside her, both of them anxious to read what was written in fancy lettering on a piece of tan stationery. Toya read the note aloud.
“My name is Pat and I was a friend of your father’s. We never met, but I feel like I know you. Nate spoke of you often and he was overjoyed when you had lunch with him. He told me about his past struggles with drugs and all of that. He had gotten clean long before we met. The Nate I knew was very different from the person he described to me from his past and I’m sure you have a lot of bad memories because of that. But if it means anything to you, your father was a changed man before he died. He had made his peace with God and I pray that you made peace with your father, as well.
“Before he died, he gave me this box and asked me to send it to you if anything ever happened to him. I stuck it up in the top of the closet and forgot about it. I was holding out hope that he would find a bone marrow donor and be given a second chance. But God had other plans. Here is the box your father wanted you to have. I understand how it feels to lose a parent. If you ever need to talk or want to meet me, my number is below. My deepest condolences to you and your family.” The note was signed simply “Pat,” with her telephone number listed beneath it.
Jeanie looked at Toya and saw her struggling with her emotions. “I wonder what’s inside,” she said. She didn’t tell her daughter that she also wondered who the mystery woman had been in Nate’s life. Their marriage had been over for years, but Nate had been Jeanie’s first love. Her heart still held a special place for him despite all the madness.
Toya didn’t waste any time tearing into the box, pulling back tissue paper to reveal a bunch of old records. “These are his old forty-fives that he used to play.” James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Sam Cooke, Al Green, and old Motown records were scattered throughout the box. Toya smiled and handed them to her mother, certain that Sweets must have a dozen memories attached to each song.
Jeanie beamed as she flipped through the records. Toya reached back into the box and pulled out a manila envelope full of old pictures—photos of her father with his hair conked, his shoulders broad and his face full of pride. He was smiling in every one, so handsome that Toya could see instantly why her mother had fallen so hard. Jeanie set the records aside and began looking at the pictures Toya handed to her. She laughed out loud when she came across one of Nate carrying her across the finish line during a sack race at one of his friends’ barbecues. She remembered it like it was yesterday. Those had been the early days when things were happy in their marriage. Jeanie wiped a tear that fell from her eye and didn’t care that Toya had noticed.
Toya didn’t say anything. She understood what her mother must be feeling. Talking about Michael with her friends had opened up a cache of emotions. She had secretly been wondering what might have been and she saw no need to judge her mother for having similar thoughts of her own husband.
Toya peeked inside the box and retrieved the last of its contents—a heavy white envelope that looked worn and used. She opened it up and frowned.
Inside the envelope was a bunch of paperwork regarding the purchase of a house in their old Brooklyn neighborhood and it appeared that Nate was the buyer. Looking closer at the papers, she recognized the address and held her hand over her mouth in shock.
“He was in the process of buying the house we grew up in.” Toya felt tears threatening to plunge forth and she fought them back.
“Oh my God,” Jeanie sighed. “I can’t believe it.”
Toya couldn’t believe it either. After all the years of abuse and torment, Nate had not only turned his life around and sought his family’s forgiveness, but it appeared that he was trying to buy back their family home as some sort of apology. She shook her head in disbelief and looked at her mother.
“You think this is why he wanted to have dinner with the whole family on Sunday? To tell us about this?”
Jeanie shook her head. “I guess now we’ll never know.”
Toya stared at the papers in her hands and felt a surge of so many emotions. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for her father’s soul. She hadn’t forgiven him while he was alive. But seeing the human side of the monster she had grown up in fear of had softened her somewhat. Despite his flaws, she felt he deserved to rest in peace. Maybe people could change after all.
* * *
“We need to talk.”
Frankie looked at Gillian and wondered what could possibly be going on inside that pretty little head of hers to make her utter those dreaded words no man ever wanted to hear. He chewed his breakfast and took her all in. Her hair was braided into a single plait down her back and she wore a simple navy blue dress and diamond stud earrings. Even as modest as she looked, she could still make heads turn.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
The two of them were seated at Against Da Grill, a popular restaurant on Staten Island, where they were enjoying a rare meal together. These days, Frankie had become so consumed by the upcoming trial, the end of his marriage, and the task of cleaning up Baron’s messes that
he rarely had time to sit still for long.
The first day of testimony in Misa’s murder trial was scheduled to begin that afternoon and the couple had arrived in Staten Island early, as much for ADG’s delicious pancakes as for the opportunity to slip into the courtroom undetected.
Gillian sipped her tea and set the mug back down on the saucer. “What’s going on with you?” she asked.
Frankie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Lately, you’re working harder than ever. I’ve watched you for the past few weeks rushing off from one thing to the next—things you know you could give to me or to Tremaine to do. And I think you’re running from something. I’m not sure what it is, but there’s definitely something on your mind that has you so antsy.”
Frankie chewed his turkey bacon and looked at Gillian. He cracked a smile. “You think you know me or something?” he joked.
She smiled back. “I do know you. I know there’s something you’re not telling me, and we talked about this. So spill it.”
Frankie shrugged, scanned the room, and nodded in greeting in the direction of one of his cronies walking in. Turning his attention back to Gillian, he sighed.
“You want the truth?”
Gillian nodded.
He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and looked her in the eye.
“I’m thinking about this baby,” he said.
Gillian tried to keep her game face on, but the mere mention of the child Camille was carrying made her green with envy.
“Wondering how it’s gonna feel to be a father.” He shook his head as if still in disbelief. “And how it’s gonna affect me and you.”
She was surprised to hear him say that. “It won’t affect us,” she said.
He nodded. “Yes, it will. Camille is having my baby. No matter what, she’s going to be a part of my life forever now. I’ll always have to interact with her, and you’ll be forced to deal with that.”
Gillian knew he was right. “I trust you,” she said. “I think you’ll handle the situation just fine. I’m sure it won’t be easy, but that’s nothing to stress about.” She stroked Frankie’s hand across the table. “I’m in this for the long haul,” she said. “Camille’s not gonna come between us. And neither will the baby.”
Frankie hoped that was true. “I still don’t know how to feel about the whole thing. I just feel … scared.”
“Scared of what?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I never wanted kids.”
“Why not?”
He stared at her, wishing he could express what he was feeling in words. “Too much responsibility,” he said at last. “What if I don’t do enough of something or if I do too much of something else? What if I fuck the kid up for life?”
Gillian wanted to laugh, but she could see that Frankie wasn’t playing. “You’re not gonna do that.”
“How do you know? There’s no way to know that for sure.” Frankie wondered if his parents had been aware of the irreversible damage that was done to their children. “I think about my father and how he was…” Frankie stared at the table absentmindedly. “I wonder sometimes if I’ll be too hard on my kid like that. Or will I be too demanding? I feel like maybe I’m not built for this. But I can’t back out now, because it’s not my decision to make. Just like everything else in my life, this is being forced on me.”
Gillian understood where he was coming from. She knew that he was just beginning to peel back the layers of abuse he’d suffered as a child at the hands of his father. Steven’s death had forced him to take a long hard look at what had happened to them as kids. Having a baby of his own on the way made it more imperative that he come to terms with it.
“So that’s what’s been on your mind?” she asked.
Frankie nodded. “That,” he said, “plus the trial, the divorce, and business. That’s enough to keep anybody stressed out.”
Gillian sipped her tea again and looked at Frankie. “Okay,” she said. “But just talk to me when something’s on your mind. I don’t want us to get in the habit of keeping problems to ourselves.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Won’t happen again.” They continued their meal, talking about the trial and what to expect. Then a familiar voice interrupted their conversation.
“I thought they had a strict no animal policy in here!”
Frankie turned around to see who it was and a big smile spread across his face when he saw Born.
“Wow!” Frankie stood up and greeted his friend whom he hadn’t seen in months. Born had once been in the drug game and had done business with Frankie extensively over the years. These days, he had gone legit, managing an up-and-coming rapper’s career. Born greeted Gillian and she smiled. Frankie was clearly happy to see him. “Born, what’s good?”
“Ain’t shit. Just came up in here to get my breakfast before I take DJ to Sony. They want to talk shop with him, see if they can offer him something worthwhile.”
DJ was the son of Born’s deceased best friend, Dorian. When Dorian was killed by DJ’s mother in a jealous rage, Born had taken the young man under his wing and become a father figure to him. These days, he was trying to steer the promising young MC toward a great career.
Frankie smiled. “That’s a good look.”
Born nodded. “Speaking of a good look,” he said, smiling broadly, “I was in Pathmark the other day and I saw Camille. I didn’t know you two were having a baby. Congratulations!” Born had heard all about Steven’s murder and had been following the case in the newspapers just like everyone else on Staten Island. But apparently, he hadn’t heard that Frankie and Camille had called it quits.
Frankie smiled, glanced uneasily at Gillian, and saw that she was occupying herself with her tea bag, pretending not to hear. “Thanks,” he said.
“Yo, this is your first kid, right?” Born asked.
Frankie nodded.
“That’s big! Camille looks so beautiful, too. Pregnancy definitely agrees with her. She’s glowing, her face is all full. She was telling me about her cravings for peanut butter and bananas.” Born laughed, assuming that Frankie was well aware of the foods his wife was craving during her pregnancy. “I bet she got you running to the store at all hours of the night for that shit.”
Frankie stood there feeling terrible. Not only was he struggling to find the words to explain that he had left his pregnant wife, but he was having a hard time digesting the fact that Born knew more about what Camille was experiencing than he did.
Gillian stirred her tea and wished she could disappear.
Frankie looked at his friend. “Me and Camille split up,” he said, his voice low. “We’re getting a divorce.”
Born looked shocked. He looked at Frankie, confused, then looked at Gillian, and it all made sense. “Ohhhhhh,” he said. “Damn, son. I’m sorry to hear that.”
Frankie nodded, thanked Born for his condolences on the demise of his marriage.
Born glanced at Gillian and saw how uneasy she looked. He thought about it then. He and his girlfriend Jada had attended the surprise birthday party Frankie had thrown for Camille the previous summer. At the party, Jada and her friend Sunny noticed how intimately Frankie and Gillian were behaving, and Jada had mentioned it to Born afterward. Looking at Gillian now, he surmised that she had succeeded in breaking up Frankie’s marriage. Camille had always been so sweet and Born felt sorry for her now, pregnant and abandoned.
Frankie stood there awkwardly and summoned the waitress over for his bill. Born, too, felt uncomfortable about the situation, and he stuck his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. “Well, I’m gonna go on over here and order my food,” he said, gesturing toward the counter. He looked down at Gillian. “Nice seeing you again,” he said. Gillian smiled and nodded at him. He shook Frankie’s hand and gave him a man hug. “Keep in touch, son,” Born said.
If Frankie had been white he would have been red in the face. “No doubt,” he said. He watched Born go over to the counter to
place his order. Frankie paid the bill, left a ten-dollar bill on the table as a tip, and exited the restaurant with Gillian hot on his heels.
Testimony
Misa sat nervously at the defense table tapping her pencil against the legal pad her attorney had given her to scribble notes on. The prosecution had just finished calling a forensics expert who refuted Misa’s claim that Steven had lunged at her before she started firing. The expert had testified that the first bullet had hit Steven at an angle that suggested he had been standing still. The trajectory of that bullet would have been curved if he had been in motion at the time of the shooting, according to forensic science. Misa couldn’t argue with that and was wondering how her attorney was planning to do so.
Teresa stood up and approached the witness stand. She greeted the forensics expert and smiled. “Mr. Kaufman, your testimony indicates that it would have been impossible for the deceased to have been in motion at the moment that the first bullet entered his body. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the witness answered. “That’s correct.”
“What position would he have been in?”
The witness seemed befuddled by the question. “You’re asking what position he was standing in at the moment of impact?”
“Yes,” Teresa confirmed.
The witness began to sweat a little. “We can’t determine the exact position that he was standing in at the moment of impact.”
Teresa frowned. “You just testified with absolute certainty that the bullet couldn’t have hit Mr. Bingham while he was in motion. Yet, you can’t describe for us what position he was standing in at the moment of impact?”
The witness stammered for several moments before regaining his composure. “Science tells us that the bullet would have entered the body on a curved path had the victim been in motion. The first bullet took a straight path to suggest that both the victim and his assailant were standing still at the time.”
