Between Brothers

by C. Kelly Robinson

  “O. J., baby, I don’t understand why you would let that rattle you,” Carla soothed. “Maybe it’s not the Lord’s will for you to attend seminary. Look at my daddy—he has a degree from a Bible college, but no highfalutin seminary degrees. Think about the people who really value those things.”

  O. J. leaned against his oak dresser and ran a hand over his wavy mane of tightly pressed hair. “I hear ya.”

  She stood and walked over to him. “Sure, other pastors and maybe some people in the professional community are impressed by letters after your name, but the real church folk, the ones working blue-collar jobs and paying your salary with their tithes, all they want is a good leader who can whip up some good preaching. You know I’m right, and you’ve got those qualities hands down.”

  Meeting Carla’s luminous, trusting eyes, O. J. almost forgot she was three years his senior. She had been a senior at Highland when he first started attending Light of Tabernacle. As Pastor Grier slowly took O. J. under his wing, O. J. logged many hours at the Grier household. This had given him the chance to work his platonic charms on Mrs. Grier and his worldly wiles on the preacher’s daughter. For once O. J. had fallen into a relationship with very little planning or scheming. A natural chemistry between him and Carla had quickly turned into something requiring physical expression. That expression first took place one late night in O. J.’s freshman dorm room, shortly after he preached his first sermon at Light.

  Because Pastor Grier had been aware of O. J.’s doggish reputation, O. J. and Carla had agreed they could not carry on a formal relationship. They had to be “secret lovers,” as Atlantic Starr would say. Pastor Grier may not have believed his daughter to be pure as driven snow, but he certainly would not have appreciated O. J.’s role in her defilement. Even today they were more likely to rendezvous at local hotels, fearing that her neighbors in Northeast D.C. might put out the word, or that Highland students who noticed Carla’s frequent presence at O. J.’s might start wagging their tongues. That was why O. J. had been surprised to see Carla today.

  Putting the letter aside, he drank in her beauty: the conservative cut of her dark brown curls, her rosy acorn complexion, her full, pouty lips. This woman was special. Most of the sisters in his life glazed over with boredom when he brought up his interest in seminary. Most just wanted to screw; it was like they could care less about his goals and ambitions. Granted, he never took the time to ask them about theirs, but that wasn’t his job. The guys who wanted steady girlfriends could do all the right things and ask all the right questions; that wasn’t part of O. J.’s game. O. J. Peters was about getting his first. But Carla was different. Unlike most, she wasn’t just turned on by his charisma and charm; she wanted to nurture it, make him a better man.

  “Carla, you don’t have to play cheerleader with me. I’ll be okay. This is just another sign that my career will be what I make it. It may not be God’s will for me to go to seminary, or even be a preacher, but I’m a performer before I’m anything else. And ain’t no better place for a performer than the black church! So that means I will preach, because I say so. Besides, it ain’t like I can do much else.”

  Carla touched a hand to her chest. “Step away from me before the lightning strikes you, brother!” She shot him an inviting look and slid onto the plaid comforter covering his queen-sized bed.

  Grinning, O. J. slid across the room and deposited himself on the bed next to her. “Sister, I’ve been believin’ that for years, and aside from the color of my skin, do I look singed to you?” He turned toward her and cupped her smiling face in his right hand. “Carla, your father was the first to tell me—preaching is a business, just like any other. We manage people’s emotions about God. Now, I believe in a higher power, always have. But I learned a long time ago there’s no rhyme or reason to how he works, no clear method of living that satisfies him. My job as a preacher ain’t to live a Puritan’s lifestyle. I just live my life and do what comes natural. Church is showtime. The rest is real life.”

  Carla leaned within an inch of O. J.’s warm face. “So exactly what is your job? To just tell people what they want to hear?”

  Brushing her face with his free hand, O. J. smiled. “Carla, how many pastors have been run out when they tried to break the mold, reinvent the wheel? The key to a secure ministry is keepin’ your people happy. You’re right about the seminary. There’ll always be churches that’ll take me as long as I can move ’em to jumping and shouting. And with a fine sister such as you by my side someday, there’s no tellin’ what I can accomplish.”

  A look of pleasant surprise on her face, Carla slid back from O. J., observing him as if for the first time. “What exactly are you saying, Rev. Peters?”

  “Just that once I get out of Highland and get established at my daddy’s church, I think we should talk about making this thing official. Maybe even take a walk down the aisle.”

  “Oscar Peters! Do you hear yourself?”

  “Hey, I’m not talkin’ about throwing out my little black book just yet, Carla, but once you and I can be free of your father’s restrictions, I think we should see where this thing might lead.”

  Carla leaned in again and whispered into his ear. “You may not realize it, but you’re not as crazy as I might have thought. Once you deal with Ms. Keesa Bishop, we can have that conversation.”

  The warmth that had filled O. J.’s body seeped from him like water through a hose. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  A knowing look in her eyes, Carla placed a finger on his lips. “You don’t owe me any explanations, baby. We were never exclusive, and even my father knows of your reputation about town. Just don’t play me for a fool.”

  “But Carla—”

  “O. J., you know when it comes to you my motto is Just Be Good to Me. I don’t care about your other girls, long as you treat me right when I come around. I’m just telling you not to talk about taking things to another level before you clean house. I don’t even want to know the dirty details. I’ll know you’ve reformed when the tongues stop wagging. In the meantime, though, you have my support, in every way possible.”

  The sensation of her tongue against his cheek silenced O. J.’s response. He swept her up and firmly set her medium-sized, hippy frame close to the headboard of the bed. A creature of habit, he instinctively groped the overhead shelf for SWV’s It’s About Time CD, which he put on with fevered speed. He knew none of the guys were home now; he had heard Brandon revving up his Altima a few minutes ago. Coko, Taj, and Lelee began to serenade them with the harmonies of “Weak,” and O. J. decided to take Carla’s assurances at face value and seize the moment. As they began their heated dance, he looked on the overhead shelf to check the framed picture he’d taken of his father and Pastor Grier last year. He sighed with additional pleasure as he noted that it still lay facedown; he’d knocked it over before his encounter last night with that Michelle girl.

  “O. J., what are you doing? I need you . . .” Carla’s breathless gasp sounded like air being let out of a balloon.

  Grinning as endorphins flooded his brain, O. J. hiked up Carla’s skirt and positioned himself atop her. It was time to put the holy hammer down, like only he could.

  CHAPTER 17

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  BEAUTY AND THE SAINT

  Friday night, and the jammed maze that was the streets of Georgetown was as obnoxious as ever. Weaving and bobbing through the sea of diverse students, young professionals, and hapless tourists that thronged the sidewalk leading to Gino’s Pizzeria, Brandon loosely shifted his swaggering frame to and fro. The restaurant was just a few steps away, and he wanted to be a gentleman and reach the front door before Monica and Tara. Pausing to let a tight-lipped white couple in matching preppy gear make their exit, he swung around and held open the oak door. “Ladies, after you, please.”

  Monica was dressed in a snug knee-length denim skirt, appropriate for the spring weather that had descended on D.C., and a long-sleeved silk top that teased with the
promise of her bosom. The sly smile she slipped him as she whispered a “Thanks” made him hope it was all for him.

  Tara, dressed in a flattering sky blue jean outfit, followed closely behind. Her mouth was wide open as she cracked up at one of Bobby’s outrageous jokes. Brandon had to admire his cousin; regardless of the results, Bobby knew how to turn on the charm.

  “After you, man, you need to catch up to your date.” The curl of Bobby’s mouth was offset slightly by a glint of concern in his eyes. Brandon sensed Bobby was still trying to pin down what was going through his head.

  When Bobby had picked him up, he’d eyed Brandon like a store owner glaring at a potential shoplifter. “Brandon, you sure you’re straight? You look kinda funny. And what in God’s name is that in your ear?”

  Brandon had tugged at the shiny new diamond stud in his left lobe before responding with a slight drawl. He’d gotten the piercing at Crystal City Mall the day before, with some playful urging from Larry and Terence. “An impulse buy, my brother. Don’t worry about me, I’m all right. Everything’s cool.” He’d stretched the word out like a man dreading the bartender’s last call.

  Bobby clearly hadn’t been convinced, but he didn’t push it. By the time they arrived at Monica and Tara’s apartment, Brandon had steered his cousin onto a new subject. He didn’t feel like telling Bobby why he was tipsy.

  Now that they’d arrived at the restaurant, Brandon shot through the door and around the ladies, barreling his way through the thick crowd in the dimly lit lobby. As he made his way, he could feel edgy glances from several college-age and young-adult patrons as he went—all Anglo-Saxons of stature equal to or smaller than his. He reached the wooden lectern manned by a reed-thin blond hostess. “Ma’am, table for four please. Bailey.”

  Noting the shortness of her tone as she grudgingly added his name to the list, Brandon shook his head. Here he was again, giving his hard-earned dollars, or at least his parents’ hard-earned dollars, to people who didn’t really want to serve him in the first place.

  As he wound back to join his party near the front door, he paused to consider the overwhelming calm that lay over him like a warm blanket. He hadn’t expected to get so anxious about this date, had figured he’d take it in stride and not worry about the outcome. Unfortunately that had been easier said than done. Around five-thirty, two hours before Bobby was supposed to pick him up, his head had filled with the same old worries. Would he be witty enough to hold Monica’s interest? Would he come off as too stiff amid the hubbub of Georgetown? Would the subject of past loves come up, revealing that he had none worth discussing—Brandy, as always, was off the table—and would that turn Monica off as quickly as he feared?

  Then there had been the ultimate nightmare that kept him up the night before. He wasn’t sure how many Highland guys or brothers in D.C. Monica had dated, but he knew they were lurking out there somewhere, and he didn’t want to run into any of them tonight. That could only lead to trouble—verbal penis wars, perhaps, or even worse, discussions with Monica about her past lovers. Brandon really didn’t think he wanted to hear about which brothers had done what in bed, who had been the best, or any other particulars. Considering his commitment to a life of celibacy until he walked the aisle, how could he compete with Don Juans who treated sex like a toy, instead of part of a lifelong commitment? No, if Monica insisted on a Mandingo who would serve her every lusty longing, they would be sorely mismatched, at least until he’d put a ring on her finger. What was the point of going out with her, then?

  That puzzle had driven him to the corner store for a six-pack of Seagram’s peach-wine coolers. He’d never drunk before, but his rowdy partners in high school had always mocked coolers as the drink of choice for alcoholic virgins, so he’d figured them to be a safe bet. But was it wise to drink five of them in one hour? He wasn’t so sure.

  Tipsy or not, Brandon felt ready to do battle tonight. Sure, he’d been thrown off guard when he first glimpsed the earring this morning, but now he didn’t really care. He viewed it as a badge of his new attitude. And he knew he was looking and smelling good; he’d bought his snappy leather vest, Colours cologne, and baggy Bachrach’s slacks with Larry’s help, and he liked the effect. He realized this was the first time he’d been on a date wearing anything other than Dockers and baby powder.

  Back at the bar, the two couples lingered over soft drinks. A half hour later Bobby noted that several parties who had come in after them were already being seated. As was his normal custom in such situations, Bobby decided to clown.

  From the bar, Brandon could hear Bobby’s verbal assault on the little white hostess. “Ma’am, we have sat by patiently and watched you seat couple after couple who came in after we did. Is this how you treat all your black customers? Let me see the manager!”

  Five seconds later the little blonde was scrambling to gather their four menus. As she whipped her trembling, squared shoulders up the central staircase, Brandon and Monica struggled to maintain their composure. Brandon could just imagine the racial epithets the hostess was storing up for her friends that night. Those darn niggers . . .

  “That is such a damn shame,” Tara said breathlessly as she took a seat across from Bobby. “And everyone swears racism is dead. Treatment like that just makes no sense in the nineties.”

  “Happens every day in every part of this great nation,” Bobby quipped in a disinterested tone. “Just part of the informal tax that comes with bein’ black in America. All you can do is laugh and have fun with it; otherwise you lose your mind.”

  Enchanting Brandon with her accent, a mixture of the Bronx and Park Avenue, Monica wasn’t ready to let the subject die. “Did you all hear about that lawsuit filed against the Burger Outlet over on Wisconsin Avenue?”

  Brandon had heard about the incident. A Highland student had slapped a hostess there after the lady allegedly used the N-word in response to the sister’s complaints about being passed over for seating. The Sentinel staff was covering the case closely, but most students had not found it to be shocking, given similar incidents in their own hometowns and other areas of D.C.

  “Ridiculous, ain’t it,” Brandon said, chuckling. “I think that sister will be gettin’ paid if she holds out.”

  “She should, if there’s any truth to what she’s saying,” Tara replied. “Who do these hostesses think they are, anyway? If they were superior to anybody, they wouldn’t need to be working as a name-taker in the first place, now, would they?”

  As Bobby and Monica cracked up, Brandon shook his head, a lazy smile flowing across his face. “You know what, though, as my friend Rush Limbaugh would say, we all face discrimination in one setting or another, regardless of our race or sex. Old Rush could say he gets pushed back in line at some restaurants by hostesses who don’t think he needs to be stuffin’ his fat face. He’d probably say he deals with it without whining, which is conservatives’ code word for standing up for yourself. But you know, he might have a point.”

  “Exactly how do you mean he might have a point?” The taunting look in Monica’s eyes and the tilt of her head told Brandon he was on controversial ground. From the protection of his mildly drunken stupor, he decided this was just fine with him.

  “Ah, Monica, I’m just saying that we need to spend more time changing those things we can change instead of fretting over culturally embedded racism that may never be overcome. For example, the Ellis Center that I’m working to help save.” Brandon hoped he wasn’t sounding too self-congratulatory. Especially after that incident with his car outside Sarah’s Soul Food. He’d convinced himself the whole thing had been a prank, probably perpetrated by one of Pooh Riley’s older brothers. Those little punks, all of them gangbangers, resented his attempts to help Pooh break free of their influence. “Ellis Center makes a direct contribution to the community’s welfare,” he continued. “Keeping Ellis afloat means there will be more college-educated youth like us who can face racism and succeed anyway. I think that’s more important than compla
ining about the fact that the racism is there, ’cause it sure doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.”

  “My cousin, the wise sage.” Bobby clasped his hands together in front of him, closed his eyes, and bowed his head in Brandon’s direction. Tara and Monica chuckled as their waiter, a surfer-dude type, approached and took their drink and appetizer orders.

  Once the appetizers came and they dug into the cheese sticks, toasted ravioli, and potato skins, Monica flashed an intrigued look at Brandon. “So, Brandon, what other suggestions have you got to save the black community from itself?”

  Brandon leaned forward, taking a liberal view of the woman in front of him. Monica was every bit as beautiful as he had always idealized her to be, and there was a heat generating between them that he’d never felt with a first date. On the drive to Georgetown and during the wait at the bar, he and Monica had dispensed with a lot of the small talk that characterized most first dates. This was going all too well.

  Twenty minutes later, as their pizza arrived, they were comparing their favorite music artists. “I don’t care what anybody says,” Brandon slurred through his winecooler haze, “the DeBarge family is the Jackson family with more talent and less business savvy. It’s a shame, I tell you. El, Bobby, and Chico should all be major stars, not to mention Bunny, who was a hot little babe back in the day. That family’s living proof that success in the music biz ain’t about talent. It’s about who you know, who can market you the best. It’s all just one big game. And the DeBarges have always had inept management.”

  Monica was enjoying Brandon’s embarrassing candor. “DeBarge is your favorite musical act of the eighties? Are you for real? All the choices you have from that era?