“I know,” Tasha said. “It’s cool.”
“No, I didn’t mean that in a good way. It’s wrong. You can’t move your family here.”
Toni looked at her mother.
“Well, we’re not gonna live here. Not for long.” Tasha pulled a hot pink chinchilla jacket she’d worn to a Foxy Brown party from the closet. “Just until we find another place.”
“All four of you?” Troy asked.
“It’s not that small, ladies. Not for Tribeca. Look, you have to trust me. When I was in the bathroom with Tamia I realized that this is just what we need as a family to keep it interesting. Jersey is boring. Jersey is country. Jersey is like…like a pasture where rich people go to die. New York keeps you young. It keeps you hot. It keeps you sexy.” Tasha had the coat on now and she danced around to Foxy Brown music in her head.
“I don’t think babies are supposed to be sexy,” Troy said, trying unsuccessfully to hand Toni over to Tasha. “Did you go to the bathroom on yourself?” She looked at the little girl as she patted her soggy diaper. Toni smiled.
“Oh, God.” Tasha grimaced. “Someone change her.”
An hour later, after Troy left to meet with the Virtuous Women uptown, Tamia, Tasha, and Toni went down to Chinatown for a steamer of pork dumplings at Joe’s Ginger. Though Tamia wanted to continue to debate Tasha about her ridiculous move back into the city, she knew better than to push her friend. She and Troy had seen their prying in Tasha’s life blow up in their innocent faces so many times that they’d learned to simply ask Tasha the important questions and move on. Tasha was born stubborn and made self-centered, and no amount of meddling was going to change that. Besides, this was the one time when Tamia actually thought her wild friend had a point. While there were lots of positives to leaving the city, what was left behind turned to negatives she knew made her friend lonely and bored. With her friends far away and her man, at times, farther away, the big house and babies were bound to drive Tasha crazy after a while. Now, here was crazy in front of her, trying to teach a two-year-old to use chopsticks.
“Do you know about the Afrocentric community?” Tamia asked, grabbing a chopstick from Toni before she jabbed her mother in the eye.
“The what? Is that one of those new neighborhoods in downtown Brooklyn? You know I’m not moving my babies there.”
“No, crazy.” Tamia laughed and imagined what kind of tirade Malik would go on had he heard her friend’s response. He’d probably send her a whole box of books. “I said ‘Afrocentric,’ as in African-centered culture and tradition, history…”
Tasha looked at Tamia blankly.
“You know…the stuff we learned in school…in our history class. I know you know…because we took that class together.”
Tasha was still looking.
“Oh yeah,” she finally said, but her eyes were still blank. “I remember.”
“No, you don’t. You’re lying.” Flabbergasted, Tamia laughed again.
“Okay, I don’t. Whatever.” Tasha shrugged her shoulders and broke up a noodle for Toni. “Why? Why are you asking me this? And is there a quiz afterward? Because I paid for my grade in that class…. I’m just gonna be honest.”
“No, Tash. There’s no quiz. I was just thinking about this case I’m working on. Well, I guess it’s not just a case. I’ve become kind of involved in this place and I was thinking maybe—”
As Tamia said much about nothing and it seemed she was never getting to a point, Toni and Tasha looked at her in the way friends look at other friends who are newly in love and thus stuck in the labyrinth of their own desires. This, of course, was exactly what the mother and daughter thought they were looking at.
“I’m sorry,” Tasha interrupted. “Is there a man involved in this? Because you just look like…there’s a man involved.”
“No,” Tamia lied. “Look, I have to get out of here. I need to stop by the office on my way home.”
“Work, work, and work,” Tasha said.
“A sister has to work hard for the money.” Tamia slid a twenty onto the table and signaled for the waitress, saying, “I need a box.”
“Keep the twenty and leave the dumplings,” Tasha said, pulling Tamia’s bowl toward her.
“You sure have an appetite,” Tamia said. “What about your ever-going Halle Berry plan?”17
“That’s on hold right now,” Tasha said quickly, looking away from Tamia.
“Cool. I love you two,” Tamia said before kissing Tasha and then Toni goodbye and walking out of the dark restaurant.
“And we love you back,” Tasha said. She turned to Toni and grinned. “And Auntie Tamia will have to love less of us after Mommy’s operation. Won’t she, Toni?”
Toni, seemingly indifferent to her mother’s plans, reached for a piece of noodle on her plate and stuffed it into her mouth.
“Much less,” Tasha confirmed for herself. “That’s what full-body liposuction is all about…much less.” She looked at Toni. “Now let Mommy get one of her last good meals in before Dr. Miller makes her all perfect again. Your daddy is gonna love this surprise.”
The BAP Declaration of Independence
We, the Black American Princesses of the universe, do hereby hold these truths to be self-evident—that black women are created to be fabulous, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable powers, that among these are intelligence, strength, beauty, and courage.
Henceforth, each sovereign BAP shall remain in charge of her own destiny, in tune with her true spirit, and empowered by her God-given strength.
She shall honor her Declaration of Independence by following these basic rules:
1. Always know the way home and have a way to get there.
2. Never let anyone extract you from the love and support of your family and friends.
3. Have a passport and a nice set of luggage.
4. Have a relationship with your Creator; when all else fails you, that’s what will keep you alive.
5. Have secret “get up and go” cash that will last a year; make sure there’s enough to support your children.
6. Protect and honor your mother at all costs.
7. If you’re sick, see a doctor; worry about the bill later.
8. Learn how to do a breast exam.
9. Use condoms—always.
10. Get your education; your grandmother was right.
11. Have at least one girlfriend who knows your secrets.
12. Don’t settle for seconds. He’s not going to leave her.
13. If he hits you, leave and never return.
14. If you hit him, leave and get some help.
15. Even if you don’t own a gun, know how to use one.
16. Pack light and never stay where you’re not wanted.
17. If he has bad credit, don’t let him use yours.
18. Get a professional massage at a real spa.
19. If you need therapy, go and keep going.
20. Buy an expensive candle and burn it.
21. Write down your master plan.
22. Have a great resume, amazing cover letter, and three wonderful references.
23. Have a savings account.
24. Plan to retire, or you won’t.
25. Know how to pleasure yourself—yes, in bed.
26. Let it all go.
27. Establish friendships with a doctor, lawyer, and politician.
28. Get and cherish a mentor.
29. Be nice to your hair; it’s beautiful the way it is.
30. Write a kind letter to yourself, about yourself, and believe every good word.
After successfully conducting her third meeting of the Virtuous Women, Troy was finding her bearings. Instead of taking over everything and remaining in charge of most of the club like Myrtle did, she confided in the sisters that she knew she had weaknesses and couldn’t do it all on her own. While a few sisters said it was poor taste for a First Lady to admit she needed
help, others found Troy’s style refreshing and provided a hand when and where needed. They took turns leading prayer, allowed others to make suggestions about events, and put all talk about the incubus and succubus on hold. The biggest achievement the women made was a formal recommendation to the pastor that the president of their organization be allowed to sit on the altar on the fifth Sundays when the mass women’s choir sang. They thought it was a good petition, as it didn’t require too much shifting, at first.
“Do you want me to wait outside?” Kiona asked, walking out of the church library with Troy. After the meeting, Troy invited Kiona to a special treat in the city to thank her for her support.
“Sure, I just need to hand over the petition to Pastor Hall!” Troy said, holding the paper, which carried the signatures of all of the organization’s members.
“You mean your boo?”
Kiona and Troy embraced as they chuckled.
“He’s that too….”
Troy left Kiona and walked to Kyle’s office, where she was sure he was either editing his sermon for an upcoming guest visit to a church in Staten Island or playing computer solitaire, which he did from time to time to clear his head. While they hadn’t talked much about her new position, she knew he’d gotten lots of compliments from the church and sometimes she saw him walking very slowly past the open door of the library where the Virtuous Women met. She felt him reaching to hold her hand more than once as they stood in line after service to receive members and visitors, and once or twice, he’d turned to her and said, “This is my First Lady. She leads the top women’s organization at the church.”
Troy winked at Saptosa, Kyle’s assistant, as she made her way past her desk.
“Oh, First Lady!” Saptosa said. “I was hoping you’d come by.”
“Well…I’m happy you’re happy.” Troy smiled, noticing that Saptosa seemed a bit too elated to see her. It was far from uncommon for her to visit Kyle’s office before she left for the day. And each time she did this, she saw Saptosa’s friendly, yet busy smile. Something was very different.
“Is he in?”
“He sure is. Go right on in.”
Malik was placing a daisy in the fold of Tamia’s ear. Though she was busy saying how crazy he was for doing it, complaining that the stem was wet, she really liked the attention and how the activity itself forced Malik to lock his eyes on her face. In most of their conversations he’d been the militant man, the book reader, the cultural critic, but now, as they sat on the patio of a coffee shop, going over the specifics of his work with the Freedom Project, he was softening in a way that made her unintentionally lean into him.
“You should wear that in your hair for the rest of the day,” Malik said.
“A daisy? In my hair? To the office? Are you kidding me?” Tamia laughed. “I’m on company time, and if I want to remain on company time, it would be best if I don’t convince my employers that I’m crazy.”
“Crazy for wearing a daisy in your hair?”
“Yes!” Tamia exclaimed. “Unlike you, I can’t wear dashikis and cowrie shells to work. We have rules, standards.”
“I think one of those standards should be that you’re crazy if you don’t wear a daisy in your hair,” Malik said, snatching a daisy from another table and putting it in the fold of his ear. Both he and Tamia laughed.
“Always the rebel,” Tamia said as if she’d known Malik and his ways for years. And she felt that way. “So, tell me, rebel, how did you get mixed up in this situation?”
“Well—”
“And, before you start with your ‘I did it; I’m guilty’ revolutionary rap, I have to tell you, I’ve been watching you these past few weeks and it doesn’t seem like you would do that. The way you are with those kids, with the other people at the center, I just don’t believe it.”
Malik looked down at the table and folded his hands humbly before him.
“When Simeon came to me, he was homeless and hungry, robbing people on the street,” he said. “He tried to stick me up, but all I had to offer was the cowrie shells in my pocket and a chew stick.”
“No wallet?” Tamia asked.
“I don’t need a piece of animal skin and some cards to remind me of who I am and how I fit into the world,” Malik answered. “Anyway, Simeon was sure I was lying. He felt my pockets himself and then he tried to hit me with a gun. I grabbed his arm and asked him a question.”
“What?”
“I asked him if he was hungry. If he wanted something to eat,” Malik said. “And then he called me every name in the book and accused me of being gay. I snatched his gun and repeated my question. Three hours later, we were in the basement of the Freedom Project cleaning out a space where he could sleep.”
“Did you tell him he’d have to work and that you wouldn’t pay him?” Tamia asked, nervous about the answer, as she was now wrestling with the idea of purposefully losing Malik’s case.
“He’s a man. And men need to work for the things they have—that’s the only way they can appreciate it.”
“What did you say? What did you tell him?”
“Three hots and a cot. He could live in the basement of the project as long as he helped out during the day—cleaning and helping keep the place nice,” Malik explained. “He could take classes with the other boys and as soon as he found somewhere else to go, he could leave.”
“So, you never told Simeon he had to stay at the Freedom Project or forced him to do anything he didn’t want to do?”
“Never.”
There are few things that could prepare a wife for the psychological shock and awe of seeing another grown woman sitting in her husband’s lap. Auntie, grandmama, mother, sister, cousin who just got her legs cut off in a street fight—it doesn’t matter who or why, the situation is bound to break the bride down in some way she didn’t think was possible. And while Myrtle wasn’t exactly sitting in Kyle’s lap when Troy came pushing in the door, she may as well have been. Her rump was beside his on the couch that Troy had designated for her dreams of Kyle, his arm was around her shoulder, and her hands were clasped in his crotch…right in his crotch.
“Why does she hate me?” she cried into his lap, seeking comfort. Next, in the schedule in Myrtle’s mind, she was to collapse in a fit of sadness, bury her head there, and cry until Kyle lifted her. Then she’d lock eyes with him and go for a kiss. The plan was to make Troy look crazy and irrational, while she was the victim in need of Kyle’s support.
Troy heard Myrtle’s cries before Myrtle and Kyle realized she was standing there. She quickly rationalized that she could kill someone and Myrtle could be her first victim. Any fantasies she’d had about Myrtle being her friend were erased in that instant. Troy was silly, but she wasn’t slow. She knew seduction when she saw it and this woman was putting the moves on her husband.
“Hate is a strong wor—Oh, Troy!” Kyle looked to Troy and inched away from Myrtle a bit before she sat up.
“What’s this? What’s going on?” Troy stood before the pair on the couch, her arms crossed over her chest. Myrtle didn’t even acknowledge her. She looked off toward the window in a show of anger.
“Sister Glover just came in for some counsel,” Kyle tried.
“She’s taken everything from me. I put everything I had into that organization and she just…ran me off!” Myrtle began crying again, but this time she managed to keep her hands and face away from Kyle’s lap.
“Ran you off? I—” Troy couldn’t believe how helpless Myrtle was acting. She was a witch on Rollerblades most days and now she was playing lamb.
“Honey, why don’t you come and sit down so we can talk about this? See if you two can come to a compromise?” Kyle pointed to a chair beside the couch, but Troy just stood there.
“We already talked about it, honey.” Troy cut her eyes at him. “Why revisit it? The Virtuous Women voted on it three weeks ago.”
“See? She hates me. And I didn’t even do anything
. I’m just a good Christian woman, trying to be a better—”
“Troy, please.” Kyle cut Myrtle off as he tried to show uneasiness in his eyes. Myrtle had been in his office for over an hour talking about her relationships with the trustees and leaders of the church before she’d brought up the situation with Troy.
“Fine. I’ll sit down,” Troy said, walking past the seat and heading to the small space left on the couch on Kyle’s right. When she sat down, Myrtle rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. “So?”
“See what I’m talking about? She has an attitude,” Myrtle pointed out.
“Hold on, ladies. Let’s back up and try to come to a compromise,” Kyle stressed. “Now what happened, from your point of view, Sister Glover?”
“Well, you know how I am, how I like to help people with their spiritual guidance,” she said tearfully, wiping her eyes with a beat-up handkerchief. Kyle nodded as Troy frowned at the show. “Well, I’ve been doing that all along with Sister…Hall…since she came to this church and then all of a sudden she just says it wasn’t fast enough—”
“I never—”
“And I wasn’t a good enough teacher—”
“I never said that—”
“Hold on, Troy,” Kyle put his hand up.
“I mean,” Myrtle went on, “what did she expect? I can’t turn a sinner into a saint overnight.”
“A sinner? I got your sinner, you—”
“Troy!” Kyle stopped her.
“When she came to this church she was of the world, you know, and I was trying my best to pull her heart closer to Jesus. I swear I was! But then she let the evils of pride and power get in the way of her growth and—I’m just so worried about her.”
Troy’s stomach turned as she listened to Myrtle’s desperate emotional rant, which sounded oddly dated and somewhat Old English in tone. “Is she serious?” she kept thinking.
Playing Hard To Get Page 15
