Diamond Life

by Aliya S. King

  Corrine took in more deep breaths and then started walking slowly.

  “No, Lily. I don’t know. Let’s go home.”

  Corrine and Lily limped toward the train without saying a word. Lily felt a warm sensation pulsing through her body. He was there. He was looking for her. She smiled and turned to Corrine.

  “He was looking for me,” Lily said, still smiling hard.

  Corrine looked at Lily.

  “Would you give him more than two dates to prove himself worthy?”

  Lily looked away. “No. I wouldn’t go out without him at all. But the attention’s nice. He’s cute.”

  Corrine threw an arm around Lily’s shoulders as they walked down the subway steps.

  “You’re special,” Corrine said. “Rappers don’t do special.”

  “Is that what we’re calling it now? Special?”

  “Isn’t it true?”

  Lily chuckled.

  “Indeed.”

  Birdie ran up the steps of the brownstone and checked the time on his phone. Two minutes. He opened the door, stopped to stomp the snow off his boots, and then ran into the living room.

  “Take your boots off before you come in—”

  “Go online,” said Birdie. “It should be up now.”

  Alex scrambled to open her laptop and began tapping on the keyboard. She clicked on an icon with her husband’s photo. And there was Birdie, his face close up in the screen, rapping along to his first single.

  “Look at you!” said Alex, beaming. “I love this video.”

  The chorus to the song came on and Birdie grabbed Alex and spun her around the room. They both danced and sang along to the song until it went off and another video came on. Breathless, they both flopped onto the sofa.

  “Aren’t you excited?” asked Alex. “This is huge!”

  Birdie shrugged.

  “They would premiere it on New Year’s Eve, when no one’s online. It’s not gonna get any traffic.”

  “Oh, come on, we’re online!”

  “That’s because we never go anywhere on New Year’s Eve.”

  Alex leaned over and kissed Birdie on the cheek.

  “You are all the party I need. Want some more chips?”

  Birdie nodded and Alex climbed over his legs to get to the kitchen. Birdie’s hands shot out and he palmed her ass, giving it a tight squeeze.

  No matter how many times Birdie saw his wife’s butt—firm, high, tight, round, and perfect—he had to touch it. If she got up from the sofa to take her empty ice cream bowl into the kitchen, he’d reach up and feel it without thinking twice about it. Sometimes he wouldn’t bother to take his eyes off CNN. Alex often joked that he didn’t even realize he was doing it half the time. His hand would dart out before his brain could register.

  But sometimes, when she was angry or upset or stressed out over a story, he knew better than to grope her. On these occasions, he had to settle for just staring at it for as long as he could see it. More often that not, she’d turn her head to catch him staring and they’d both laugh out loud.

  “Would you have dated me if I had a flat butt?” Alex asked, a bowl of popcorn in her hand. Birdie looked up at his wife, drinking her in. She was wearing his very favorite outfit, a plain white tank top and an old pair of Birdie’s basketball shorts. Birdie preferred that combination over anything Victoria’s Secret could whip up. And he knew whenever he came home and saw Alex in uniform, they were going to have a good night.

  Alex sat down next to Bird, and he threw an arm around her neck and pulled her in close.

  “No,” Birdie said, kissing his wife on the cheek. “I would have never taken it there with you if you had a flat butt.”

  “So my cute little face, my bright and vibrant personality, my friendly nature—”

  Bird shook his head vigorously and closed the laptop.

  “All of the above plus a flat ass equals no.”

  Alex sat up and adjusted her position on the couch.

  “Why’d you do that? The Trip & Step video was on.”

  “They’re an embarrassment to hip-hop,” Birdie said, his face a scowl.

  Alex smiled.

  “I like them. You, my friend, are just getting old.”

  Alex opened the laptop and Birdie moved her hands and closed it shut again.

  “Are you kidding me?” Birdie asked. “They’re horrible. They talk about—”

  Alex held up a hand. “I know, I know, Birdie. They talk about the same stuff on every song. They’re not lyrical. They make up dances to go with their songs. But so what? The kids like it. Why are you hating?”

  Birdie gave Alex a look. She exhaled heavily, got off the sofa, and placed a quarter into the Hateration Jar. Some households had a jar for cursing. Birdie had one for using the word hater. Instead of coming back to the sofa, Alex began gathering papers and her laptop.

  “You’re lucky I’m on deadline,” Alex said. “I can’t deal with you and your old-man issues.”

  “What’s the schedule this week?” Birdie asked.

  Alex let out a heavy sigh.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “If you don’t tell me when you’re . . . you know . . . doing your thing . . .”

  Alex pulled out a sheet of paper.

  “This week is showtime. Again. Fertility peaks day after tomorrow.”

  “So we should be doing it, like, now.”

  Alex nodded.

  “And every day this week.”

  “I think I can manage that,” said Birdie, smiling.

  Alex looked down at the floor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This is just not the way I pictured getting pregnant. I mean, I have to check the color and consistency of my vaginal discharge on a daily basis.”

  Birdie swallowed hard to keep from scrunching up his face.

  “I did not need to hear that.”

  Alex shrugged and began walking out of the living room.

  “Wait, before you go . . . I wanna run some album covers by you.”

  Birdie sat up straight on the couch and reached for color photocopies of mock album covers. After getting signed by rapper-producer Jake Giles in a seven-figure record deal, Birdie’s ten years as an underground sensation were coming to an abrupt close. He’d refused to stray too far from his roots as a backpack rapper—his album was equal parts aspirational and inspirational. But he was still about to enter a whole new world.

  “Okay, so you know who Ennio Morricone is?” Birdie asked his wife, gesturing for her to sit next to him.

  “No, never heard of him.”

  “He’s a composer for spaghetti westerns. He did the music for Clint Eastwood’s Fistful of Dollars.”

  “Is that where you got the name for your song?”

  “Yup. Check this out.”

  Birdie took out a copy of a movie poster featuring a sepia-toned photo of Clint Eastwood holding a rifle. He felt a chill go through him as he held the paper in his hand.

  “This is my album cover.”

  Bird stood up and turned around to face Alex. “Can’t you see me redoing this photo for my album cover?”

  “I could. It’s hot.”

  “And that’s my title too—A Fistful of Dollars.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s bad enough that you chose that title for the first single. Can’t make that the album title. That’s so corny. Money references? Really?”

  “Well, shit, I do want a fist full of dollars. What’s wrong with that?”

  Alex shrugged. “Nothing. I just worry about what kind of message you’re sending.”

  The doorbell rang and Alex threw on a robe and went to the door. She came back lugging a heavy cardboard box.

  “It’s for you,” said Alex.

  Alex sliced the box open, and Birdie let out a low whistle. There were ten pairs of Air Jordan sneakers, all brand-new and wrapped in plastic. A note was nestled inside. Birdie plucked
it out and began to read:

  Wishing you much success. Sincerely, your friends at Nike.

  It was the sixth time in a month that Birdie had received an enormous care package from a valuable company. There was Moet & Chandon, Ciroc (and every other conceivable brand of champagne), limited-edition leather coats emblazoned with his initials, boxes and boxes of clothes from lines not yet released. And now, yet another box of pristine white sneakers.

  “I can’t keep all these!” Birdie said. “Help me box them up.”

  They began to box up the sneakers and labeled them with the addresses of Birdie’s cousins across the country.

  “So you really don’t like Fistful of Dollars as the album title?” Birdie asked, tearing off a piece of tape with his teeth.

  Alex shook her head and labeled a box with a black Sharpie.

  “No. It’s not who you are.”

  “But I signed a deal for a million dollars,” Birdie said. “A meeeelion dollars.”

  “I know, Bird.”

  “And as soon as word go out on the blogs, people had a fit,” said Birdie. “Calling me a sellout, saying Jake was stupid for offering me so much money.”

  Bird shrugged his shoulders.

  “We’re selling this brownstone, we’re getting the hell out of Brooklyn, and my daughter’s going to private school. This baby I’m putting in your belly tonight? He will grow up in the ’burbs. And I don’t give a damn about what people say. I want a fistful of dollars in my hands at all times. And I’m not ashamed of that.”

  “Speaking of moving out of Brooklyn . . .” Alex said. She stood up and looked down at the floor. Bird threw up his hands.

  “Don’t start, Alex. I’m not living damn near Bushwick so you can feel connected to the ’hood.”

  “Okay. Hear me out . . .”

  Bird shook his head. Any time Alex started out with the words hear me out, he knew he was in trouble.

  “Nah. I’m not hearing anything.”

  “Excuse me! Marriage is a partnership, remember?”

  “We are not living here,” Birdie said. “Period. We don’t have to sell the house. I know your dad bought it for you and blah blah blah. So we’ll rent it out. But I’m not living—”

  “What do you mean ‘blah blah blah’?”

  Bird put one hand behind his head and blew a quick breath out of his mouth.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Did you forget that my dad left me the house . . . in his will?”

  Birdie blinked. “No, I did not forget. And I know that’s a sensitive—”

  “And did you forget that my dad died right after we got married and he wasn’t even there.”

  “Alex, of course, I didn’t for—”

  “And now you want me to just sell the house he left me?”

  There was a deeper reason for Alex’s hostility and Birdie knew it. He decided to just rip apart the scab and deal with it.

  “Things were weird . . .” Birdie began, knowing Alex would run with it.

  “That’s an understatement,” Alex spat. “You cheated on me. ”

  “I know,” said Bird. “So when you decided to give me another chance I didn’t want to waste any time.”

  The previous year had been a tough one for Birdie and Alex. Vibe hired Alex to write a story on women married to rappers and, as always, she got in too deep, forging relationships with the women and sympathizing with their plights. At the same time, she was ghostwriting a memoir for Cleopatra Wright, a video model who had messed around with half of the music industry—including, Alex found out later, her own boyfriend. It all came out, as these things always do, and Alex was two seconds away from calling off the wedding and walking away from Birdie forever. When he convinced her to stay, he didn’t want to waste any time.

  So running down to city hall on a Friday afternoon last year felt right. With Tweet standing between them, holding their simple silver rings, and his lawyer standing right in front of all three of them. Right before the judge started the ceremony, Alex whispered to Bird, “Should we wait and at least do this with my dad?” Bird had told her it was okay. He’d understand. And they would still have the big ceremony in Atlanta later.

  Alex’s father didn’t understand. He was pissed off. And then, a week later, he died. So he died pissed off. An only child, Alex wasn’t in touch with any of her cousins or aunts and uncles. So Birdie knew he’d been wrong to marry her without her father being there—or at least having his blessing. But everything was all mixed up and complicated then. He felt like he needed to marry her right that second. But she was devastated when she realized that they would never be able to make it right with her dad. Now that she was digging her heels in and prepping for another epic argument about moving, Bird had to step lightly but stay on task.

  “Did you like the house in Jersey?”

  “You know I did. It’s beautiful. But it’s so cliché. You sign a record deal and we move out to the ’burbs . . .”

  Alex shuddered and then wrinkled her nose.

  “It’s so corny.”

  Bird thought back to his communication classes. Use “I” statements. Rephrase questions.

  “I think you could be happy in the house in Jersey. Do you?”

  “I guess so.”

  Bird chose that moment to clinch the deal. He wrapped Alex up in his arms and kissed her neck.

  “Alex, home is wherever we lay our heads.”

  “I’m scared, Bird.”

  “Of what.”

  “Scared of you changing,” said Alex. “Becoming more like the people I interview . . .”

  “Like who?”

  “Like Jake and Z . . . all the rappers on your new label.”

  “Can I be successful? Can I go from rapping to running a record label like Jake?”

  “Of course! I want you to!”

  “But you want me to still be regular. Which, to me, means poor.”

  “Not poor. Just not too rich.”

  “You sound insane.”

  “Are you going to keep your same friends?”

  “Alex, I’ve been friends with Travis, Daryl, and Corey since I was ten years old.”

  Alex shook her head slowly. “Famous people always end up with a whole different crew,” said Alex. “Always.”

  “Okay. So you think I’m gonna ditch all my friends. What else?”

  “I’ve seen how money and fame change things. Look at this stuff,” Alex said, sweeping her hands across the room. “You can afford to buy all this out of your own pocket, but you get it all for free.”

  “You know I don’t keep this stuff,” said Birdie. “I like spending my own money.”

  Alex sighed.

  “I just know that for ten years you had a small but dedicated group of people who loved your music. You made enough to support us—”

  “Barely.”

  “The point is, you did. And I could dip into Joe’s Pub on a Sunday night and close my eyes and pretend like you were frees-tyling just for me.”

  “Half the time I was freestyling just for you.”

  “Just promise you won’t change.”

  “Of course, I’ll change. I hope I will. But only for the better.”

  “No platinum medallions, no drugs, no Bentleys, no MTV Cribs looking through our refrigerator, no reality shows . . .”

  “Wait,” said Birdie. “They’re already talking about a deal for a ten-episode reality show leading up to my album release date.”

  Alex shook her head hard.

  “Uh-uh. No way.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else, your majesty?”

  Alex looked up at Bird. He steeled himself.

  “No groupies.”

  “Mr. Washington, come inside please.”

  Years before, when Bird would stand in line at Bank of America, waiting to deposit one of Alex’s freelance checks, he would always wonder why he never saw people going into the back area of the bank, marked with a sign that it was for priv
ate banking customers. Was there some kind of separate entrance? The day he got his advance, he finally found out. There was a side entrance, right from the parking lot. He’d never noticed the nondescript, unmarked door. Inside the tiny waiting area were two leather armchairs and a table in between, stacked with the day’s newspapers.

  “How can I help you today, Mr. Washington?”

  The chick had legs for days but no ass. Bird instantly dismissed her from the list of Women He Would Cheat on His Wife with If for Some Reason He Had to Cheat.

  “I just want to see my statements for this month. For all accounts.”

  The woman with the flat ass began tapping her keys.

  “Including your investment accounts?”

  “Everything.”

  She tapped her mouse and pages began chugging out of her printer.

  “Also. I have a secondary account in my wife’s name, opened it this year. A thousand dollars is transferred from my main account into her account each month.”

  “There is twelve thousand dollars in that account.”

  He sighed and nodded his head. Alex had not spent a single cent of Birdie’s newfound wealth. Ever since he’d signed the record deal and started getting large amounts of money wired into accounts as opposed to getting tens and twenties from a concert promoter in a back room, things had changed.

  Alex did not want to spend Bird’s money. And it was perplexing. They’d gone over the budget with a financial planner, and a thousand dollars had been on the low end of what she could spend. That included getting her hair done every Friday, something she’d said for years she wanted to do. She could do a weekly manicure and pedicure for her and Tweet. There was money each month for her cell phone bill, internet access, daily Starbucks run, clothes shopping, and date night (which could be a trip to Miami if she so chose).

  But she’d never spent a dime. She was still using the money she earned from writing to pay for all of the above and Bird could not understand why. When he got home from the bank, the cleaning service he’d hired was filing out of the front door of the brownstone.

  “Leaving already?”

  “Sir, the wife says no need. Last week, same thing.”

  “Next week will be different.”

  “No different. Some women with no job want to clean house with no help.”