Heaven Right Here

by Lutishia Lovely

  “To heaven right here!” Stacy and Frieda echoed.

  “Heaben here!” Darius Jr. shouted.

  It seemed no one wanted to be left out of paradise.

  63

  Talk to Me

  A month ago she’d been happy. Now Hope lay spread-eagled in the middle of her king-sized bed with two pillows under her and one on the side, trying to find comfort. There was none around. She turned to her side slightly and grimaced. One of her children was bearing down on her lower intestine, the other on her bladder. There was a constant ache in the small of her back, and she had to pee every five minutes. There was a reason she had wanted children, and Hope vaguely remembered that at one time she had actually prayed to get pregnant. Now she was starting to believe Frieda was right, that anyone wanting another human growing “on top of her pussy” was out of their blankety-blank mind.

  Hope plumped the pillows behind her and tried to raise herself to a sitting position. The babies really began acting a fool then. One of them kicked her on her side, and the other one (or was it the same baby but now using its hand?) was making an imprint on the top of her stomach. And she had to pee … again.

  Huffing, Hope threw back the covers and marched to the master bathroom. She was almost there when the phone rang. Thinking it was her mother, who she’d called earlier, she rushed back to the phone, grabbed it, and made a beeline for the restroom.

  “Mama?”

  “No, baby, it’s me.”

  Hope rolled her eyes. “What?”

  Cy paused, and then said, “How are you feeling, baby?”

  “How do you think I’m feeling!” Hope yelled. “I’m feeling like a stuffed potato—which I can’t eat, by the way, because starch gives me gas. My back is throbbing, and I’ve spent most of the morning on the stool. How is your fucking day?”

  Cy pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it like he would a foreign object. Who was he talking to? Surely not his loving, positive-minded, Christian wife. Using the F-word? This must be her evil twin.

  “Uh, look, baby, I can see I caught you at a bad time.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Click.

  Cy frowned and hit the redial button. He got voice mail. “Hope, I’m worried about you. Call me back and let me know you’re okay and if you want me to bring you anything. Matter of fact, I can cancel my last two appointments and come home early if you want. Call me. I love you.” Cy ended the call and speed dialed another.

  “Hey, father-to-be. What’s going on?”

  “That’s what I called to find out.”

  “Hold on a minute, man.” Derrick motioned his assistant to leave the office and to close the door behind him. “Okay, talk to me.”

  “Hope just cursed me out.”

  “Who?”

  “Hope.”

  “That’s what I thought you said.”

  “Man, I don’t know what happened. When I left her this morning, she was fine. Up until last month she was fine. Now I don’t know who I’m going to wake up to in the morning.”

  Derrick chuckled under his breath.

  Not far enough under. Cy grew rigid. “You’ll understand if I fail to see the humor in this situation.”

  “It’s called pregnancy, bro. Nobody schooled you on the multiple personalities a woman can take on when they’re expecting? When Vivian was pregnant with our son, I spent several nights in the guest room.”

  “Really? It got that bad?”

  “Worse, but that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  “All I know is she’s driving me crazy. In and out of bed all night long. I barely get any sleep. Crazy mood swings, running me to the store every other hour as her taste buds swing between craving sugar and sweet. And why isn’t it ever something we have in the fridge? We haven’t had sex for weeks, she keeps threatening to move her mom in, and she’s harping on me every day to finish the house before the kids come. I’m tired of it!”

  Derrick leaned back in his leather chair. “So what I hear you saying is you’ve never felt more blessed in your life and you never thought you could love someone as much as your wife. That about right?”

  Cy smiled into the phone. “That’s exactly what you heard, my brother. I’m blessed beyond measure, and the woman who is carrying my son and my daughter? I love her more than life itself.”

  64

  Runaway Child

  Melody was still pouting, much as she had been for the past two months, going on three. This act alone used to be enough to melt any amount of anger her mother had against her. But not this time. Even her father, normally putty in her hands, had turned a deaf ear to her pleas not to be shipped off to another school in another state. In what she’d hoped would be a turning point, she’d pseudo run away from home the week after Bernadette had delivered the decision that she would be attending a Christian, girls-only school. “Pseudo” because she’d actually only gone over to Natasha’s house and refused to answer her cell phone.

  Things had turned, all right. When she’d arrived at school the following Monday, she was summoned to the office and met by a police officer and a social worker.

  “You’ve been listed as a runaway, and we’re taking you in,” the officer had said as she’d led a tearful Melody out of the office.

  When Melody had jerked her arm away in an act of defiance, the officer had turned her around and had her handcuffed before Melody even saw silver. When they reached the police department, they took off the cuffs and allowed Melody her one phone call. Of course it was to none other than Bernadette Anderson.

  “Mom.” Melody didn’t have to fake the tears. “I—I—I’m at the police department. They’re saying I’m a runaway!”

  “Isn’t that what you are? After being a liar and a whore?”

  The caustic comment had taken Melody’s breath away. Her mother was showing a tough side the daughter had never known existed.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. If you come and get me, I promise I’ll do right. Go to Louisiana, whatever you want. But please come and get me. I’m scared.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, let me think about it. Now put the officer on the phone.”

  Melody’s hand trembled as she called out to the policewoman. “Excuse me. My mother wants to talk to you.”

  The officer gave Melody a stern look. She shuffled a few papers around and took so long Melody began to doubt if she’d take the call. “Excuse me?” Melody said timidly.

  “I heard you!” The officer marched over and snatched the phone away. “Officer Ladd here.” She shot another withering glance at Melody, who scuttled over to a bench in the waiting area.

  “I know you can’t talk, but I just want to thank you.” Bernadette fought to stay composed. “This hurts me more than it hurts her.”

  “I understand.”

  “Your mother raised you right, Becky. All those years she and I worked together … I know it was God that had me run into her in the store this weekend. I’m in your debt.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Anderson.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. Please take care of my baby while she’s in there. She’s done wrong, but deep down she’s a good kid. You’ll keep her a few hours?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, God bless you, child.”

  “Right, I’ll keep you posted.”

  From the time Bernadette and Clyde had picked up their daughter from the downtown juvenile center, Melody had been reserved yet respectful. The only thing she maintained of her old, spoiled, selfish self was the pout and the absolute belief that she was the victim and the one who’d been wronged.

  Melody threw down the magazine she’d only been pretending to read, snatched the earbuds out of her ear, and jumped off the bed.

  “It ain’t fair! I don’t want to leave California,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  She continued talking to herself as she pulled her phone from her backpack and angrily punched buttons.
“If I’ve got to go through this bullshit, I’m not going to be the only one who suffers.”

  65

  Good Lovin’

  “Hope!” Frieda threw her purse on the living room couch and headed to the master suite. “I know you’ve got your lazy self in bed even though it’s five o’clock. Get your butt—ow!”

  Hope’s timing was perfect. The pillow she’d thrown as Frieda came around the corner from the sitting area had hit Frieda squarely in the face.

  “You’d better be glad you’re my cousin and I love you. Otherwise I’d kick your—”

  “Yeah, whatever. Go get those SunChips on the counter for me. And there’s some dip in the refrigerator. Please.”

  Frieda crossed her arms. “I thought the doctor said to watch your food intake. That’s part of the reason you’re miserable.”

  “No, I’m miserable because, as you’d say, I have two people sitting on my pussy. Now go!”

  Frieda was stunned and then let out a whoop of laughter. “Oh—my—God! Did I just hear Miss Church Girl use the P-word?” She turned to exit the room. “There’s hope for you yet, girl,” she threw back over her shoulder.

  Hope knew Frieda was trying to be helpful, but no matter what anybody around her did these days, it pissed her off. Yet no one but her knew the real reason: she’d snuck onto Cy’s e-mail account and saw that Millicent still e-mailed him. The mail seemed innocuous enough. Most referenced Jack or their ministry or the house or Darfur. But why did she have to keep e-mailing her husband? True, they’d broken bread and had a kumbaya moment, but so what? The warm fuzzy of that evening was long gone. Why couldn’t she just leave Cy alone?

  “What, are you hurting?”

  Frieda came around the corner with a tray containing a large bowl of cut vegetables, a small plate of chips, and the dip Hope had asked for.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Well, let your face know because you’re looking evil as hell. What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  Frieda sat on the couch with the tray between them. She reached for a celery stick and dipped it in the creamy blue cheese. “So tell me about nothing.”

  Before she knew what was happening, the tears came, as did the news she hadn’t shared with anyone else. “It’s Millicent,” Hope said wetly and reached for a chip. “Like I said, nothing at all.”

  Frieda left the room and came back later with her arms full. “Here,” she said, putting down chips, cookies, a liter of 7UP, and a tin of leftover baked chicken.

  “I’ve got to go, so here’s a spread for when you get hungry. But just so you know, it’s not the food you’re craving. You need some good loving.” She went on before Hope could interrupt. “Don’t even try to protest. Just give Cy some tonight. It will make you both feel better and keep me from having to put my foot in your stuff the next time you hit me.”

  Frieda bent down and hugged her cousin. When she left, the smell of Frieda’s Prada perfume wasn’t the only thing she’d left behind. So was the feel-good vibe yet no-nonsense energy with which she had filled the room. Hope reached for a chip and a piece of chicken. She felt better already.

  Cy reached for his briefcase. He was going home. Nothing in life was more important to him than Hope and how she was feeling. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for her right now, emotionally as well as physically. Before they’d gotten off the phone, Derrick had suggested Cy go online and purchase a couple books on pregnancy so he’d be able to empathize with his wife’s roller-coaster mood swings. He’d done that, as well as called his favorite LA chef and ordered a gourmet meal for two that would be delivered later that night. There was just one call and stop he needed to make before going home and doing whatever it took to make the mother of his children feel better.

  He was just reaching for his office phone when it rang. “Taylor,” he said.

  “Hey, Cy.”

  “Millicent, I was just getting ready to call you. I’m going to have to cancel our meeting today.”

  “Oh, no, I’m already en route.”

  “It can’t be helped. Hope needs me.”

  There was a slight pause on the other end. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing a little TLC won’t take care of.”

  “You’re a good man, Cy Taylor. But I’m sure Hope knows that. Of course you’re going to cancel on me and take care of your wife. And that’s how it should be. When would you like to reschedule?”

  “I’ll call and let you know.”

  The house was quiet. Cy stepped into the living room and placed the packages on the sofa. Bypassing the master suite, he walked into the guest room, stripped, and stepped into the shower. Afterward, he walked back into the living room, took the gifts out of their noisy packages, and went into the master suite.

  Hope was sleeping, curled into a fetal position on her side. Her arm lay protectively around her stomach, as though holding the babies as she rested. Conversations with Carla was muted on the television, and various baby books were splayed across the covers. Cy stood silently a moment, in his glorious nakedness, staring down at his wife.

  He walked over to the nightstand and picked up a tray of uneaten food. Once he’d come back from placing it in the kitchen, he opened the first box. It was a glimmering tennis bracelet of yellow, pink, and white diamonds totaling seven karats. Then he sat and waited. Within minutes, Hope shifted and moved her arm to the side. Cy smiled and eased the bracelet on her arm. She frowned, and her eyes fluttered, but she didn’t wake up.

  Next, he placed the outfits he’d purchased from Nordstroms on the chest at the bench at the foot of the bed, and he placed the large vase of perfectly grown bird-of-paradise on the dresser directly opposite the bed. After him, they’d be the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes. Or maybe the bracelet, he thought, smiling.

  He eased into bed next to her and cuddled spoon style, placing his arm under hers and around her growing belly. He planted kisses along her shoulder and at the nape of her neck. “I love you,” he whispered.

  Not quite an hour later, Hope stirred. Unconsciously she rubbed her booty against Cy’s hardness. She placed her hand on top of his and nestled deeper into the pillow. And then her eyes flew open, and she looked down at the hand she held.

  What is Cy doing home at this hour? He had meetings. Oh, my gosh, what’s wrong?

  She struggled to turn over her growing body. When she did, two dark brown eyes shining with emotion stared at her.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  “Cy, what are you doing here?”

  “I live here, remember?”

  “But it’s early, you have meetings—”

  “Had meetings. But I decided another meeting was more important.” Cy tweaked Hope’s nipple to show just what type of meeting he had in mind. “You were sleeping soundly; do you feel rested?”

  Hope reached for pillows to put under her back. Cy was right there, helping, holding. “I do. Frieda came over. You know she’s good for changing a mood. And then I took a long shower. There’s still a little throbbing in my lower back, but the hot water helped a lot.”

  “Hmmm. I just showered too.” Cy reached over and gently lapped Hope’s nipple with his tongue. He fully expected her to rebuff his advances, as she had for the past two months, but he wanted her to know she was still his sole desire.

  To his surprise and delight, Hope took his hand and placed it at the apex of anticipation. She opened her legs, and he quickly eased a finger along already wet folds. His moan was involuntary and genuine as he enveloped Hope in a lingering kiss.

  But his lips didn’t stay there long. He positioned Hope in a comfortable position, almost sitting up, and gently spread her legs. And then he began a journey from her upper lips to her lower ones.

  “But wait, Cy. I want to pleasure you too,” Hope protested.

  “Later,” Cy breathed. “Right now, it’s all about you.”

  Cy took a long time bathing Hope’s body with his tongue and talking sof
tly to his children as he planted kisses along Hope’s stomach—and on the foot that made an imprint on that stomach.

  “Ooh!” Hope exclaimed.

  “Is that for what the baby is doing, or for me?” Cy asked.

  “Both,” was Hope’s breathless reply.

  Cy spread her legs farther. Hope eased her body down to a more reclined position for easier access. She was rewarded with a warm, wet tongue separating her feminine folds and probing her love button. Her writhing, grinding body told him she was close to release. He intensified the thrusting with his tongue and let his fingers join in the symphony.

  Hope’s orgasm was violent, shattering her sanity and ripping a yell from her throat. She began to cry and reach for the man who’d given her the type of pain release a pill couldn’t duplicate. She was glad she’d followed Frieda’s advice. Cy, coming home early, had obviously followed someone’s advice too. Maybe God’s? she thought.

  “My turn,” she whispered as she eased into a kneeling position, straddled Cy’s legs, and took his large, hard manhood into her hands. She began slowly, lovingly returning the favor, trying to lavish her eternal love from tip to base. She got as much pleasure from giving as receiving; she’d forgotten how much she loved satisfying her man. And she forgot something else too—the remembered joys of pleasure made her forget all about her back pain.

  66

  Another Beat-Down

  Shabach and his crew sat around the studio, heads bobbing in unison as they listened to the track play through the speakers.

  “Beat-down, beat-down for the devil,

  Got a fist for the mist who is always causing trouble,

  Got a … beat-down, beat-down for the devil … yo!

  No, no, no, no, no, no mo’—Go!”

  “Man, that track is screamin’!” the producer yelled, jumping up from his chair and playing an air guitar. The other men in the studio nodded their agreement while the engineer kept playing with the knobs on the board.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, pump that bass,” Shabach instructed. “I like that.”

  He was the most subdued in the group, sitting back in a black, leather recliner with a hood pulled over the Braves baseball cap he wore over dark shades. A toothpick dangled at the side of his mouth as he studiously listened, barely moving. Every now and then he’d point a finger, emphasizing a key or tempo change, and then sit back in the recliner. He was pleased with the remix and could already hear it jamming in clubs across America.