“We can talk about that later. I gotta go.”
“What are you doin’ tonight?”
“I’ll probably be with Tasha.”
“Well, I gotta work tomorrow. You wanna go down to the Compound tomorrow night?”
“That’s what’s up. I’ll hit you back later.”
Tirrell jumped back in the car. He reached over and stroked Tasha’s cheek.
“So, what movie do you wanna go see?”
Tasha turned to him. “I thought you didn’t wanna see a movie.”
He leaned over and kissed her softly. “I’ll do whatever you want to do, baby.”
Tasha smiled, threw the car in drive, and took off.
Once inside the theater lobby, Tirrell headed to the restroom while Tasha went to the concession stand for refreshments. A good-looking man in line next to her winked and smiled. She blushed and stepped up to the counter. After paying for popcorn and sodas she stuffed her change into the pocket of her form-hugging jeans and turned to see that the man was still eyeing her. He made a move toward her.
“You need some help with all that?”
“Naw, she don’t need your damn help!”
Both Tasha and the man turned to see Tirrell approach.
“My bad, dude.”
Tirrell scoffed and picked up the sodas.
“What the hell was that?” he asked as they walked off.
“It was nothing.”
“Did you know that punk?”
“No.”
“Then why was he all over you?”
“Will you calm down? He was not all over me. He was just offering to give me a hand.”
“He wanted to give you somethin’ all right, but it wasn’t his damn hand.”
Tirrell bounded up the stairs of the auditorium to find seats. Tasha’s whispered appeals for him to slow down were barely audible over the clamor of coming attractions flashing across the screen.
They settled in and Tirrell watched out of the corner of his eye to see if Tasha had any reaction to the man from the concession counter coming in shortly after them.
Tasha cut her eyes toward him. “What?”
Tirrell sneered and shoveled a handful of popcorn in his mouth. It wasn’t as if he had a right to be jealous. He wondered why Tasha still tolerated him. She was smart and attractive. It was obvious that she could’ve had her pick of any man, and she picked him. She’d told him on more than one occasion that she loved him. He’d said the words once too when experiencing a particularly earth-shattering orgasm; he regretted those words as soon as they escaped his lips. He wasn’t sure that he was capable of the love she wanted and knew that, in the almost three years since they first met, hope may have been the only reason she was still holding on.
3
It was easy for Tirrell to shake free of Tasha the next morning. She not only had her regular Saturday clients, but all those she rescheduled the day before. She would undoubtedly be busy long into the night. She dropped him off at the closest MARTA rail line on her way to the salon.
“Will I see you later?”
“I’ll call you.”
That was code for “don’t count on it.”
The train was running behind schedule, but when it pulled up to the platform it was empty. He rode to the Inman Park station and opted to walk the few blocks to his grandmother’s house rather than catch the connecting bus.
As he approached, he noticed his grandmother’s car parked in the drive on the side of the house. He used his key, and tried to tiptoe in just like he’d done as a teen after he’d run the street all night. Betty’s seniority allowed her the luxury of weekends off. It was seven o’clock in the morning and she was already up eating a grapefruit and dry toast, drinking coffee, and poring over the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
She peered over the metal rims of her glasses and chuckled. “I thought you were gonna be here when I got home from work last night.”
“Mornin’, Noonie.”
“Good morning to you too. You want some breakfast, or did you eat at Tasha’s?”
“You got any cereal?”
“I stopped by the store on my way home and got all your favorites.”
Tirrell wrapped his arms around his grandmother, squeezed, and sucked her cheek. “You’re the best!”
She pulled away laughing. “Go on now. Slobbering all over me.”
Tirrell went to drop his duffel bag off in his old bedroom. Everything was as it had been—right down to his posters of Halle Berry, Ciara, and Beyoncé plastered on the walls.
With a few upgrades the structurally sound single-story three-bedroom brick-front house had been standing for forty years. The roof replacement and updated plumbing, and the new living room furniture and kitchen appliances had all been purchased courtesy of the insurance policy left by his grandfather, Curtis Sr., who passed away eight years earlier from prostate cancer.
Tirrell couldn’t help smiling as he passed through the only real home he’d ever known. Like the house, Betty Ellis was a constant in his life, and that was reassuring.
Tirrell bounced into the kitchen like a little kid without a care in the world. He poured himself a large bowl of Cheerios and sat down facing his grandmother at the dining table. She’d polished off the grapefruit and was chewing on a chocolate Moon Pie. Tirrell laughed. Betty laid the newspaper down and looked at him.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. How can you eat a Moon Pie right after you ate a grapefruit? That’s just nasty.”
“Hey, you eat what you want for breakfast, and I’ll eat what I want.”
“Moonie.”
She cut him a look. They laughed.
“Are you and Tasha gonna hang out again today?”
“Naw, she’s gotta work.”
“So, what are you gonna do all day?”
“Not much ’til Marquis gets off work. Then we’ll probably do somethin’.”
“When did you see Marquis?”
“Yesterday, after we left the hotel.”
“You could go see Marquis, but you can’t give your brother a call.”
Tirrell opted not to raise an argument and kept eating.
“I wish you’d let me call Kevin and tell him you’re home. Why wait?”
“You still cookin’ tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll see him then.”
Betty huffed. Tirrell finished his cereal and got up from the table.
“You still goin’ to church with me in the morning?”
“We’ll see.”
“Tirrell Ellis.”
“Yeah, I guess I can, since you asked so nice.”
“Boy, don’t be smart.”
“What you doin’ today?”
“Anne and me are gonna go to the mall and then we’re goin’ to the grocery store. Do you need me to pick you up anything special?”
“No. I’m good.”
The telephone mounted on the wall in the kitchen rang. Tirrell started to answer, but thought that it might be his estranged brother. He picked it up and handed it to Betty. She frowned before taking it.
“Hello . . . Oh hey, baby. How are you?”
“Is that Kevin?” Tirrell whispered anxiously.
Betty nodded. He put his index finger to his lips, silently begging her not to tell him that he was there. She shook her head, waved him off, and continued her conversation.
“No, I’m still here . . . . I’m goin’ shoppin’ with Anne. She’s drivin’. I don’t trust that old car of mine. Are you all comin’ to church in the mornin’? No, I’m ridin’ with Anne, but you can give me a lift home after.” She looked at Tirrell and winked. “Tell Pat I’m cookin’ so you all can just come right on over here after service. How’s my great gran’baby? Does he still have a cold?”
Tirrell shook his head, not wanting to challenge her in regard to the forced reunion she’d planned. He peered out the side window in the dining room toward the parked Grand Am. He was certain he could fix whatever th
e problem was. As his grandmother conversed on the telephone, he made his way into the living room and scanned the framed family photographs arrayed on the walls and tables. There were pictures of Betty and Curtis Sr. over the course of their marriage, and to him she was still as beautiful at sixty-four as she had been at forty, or even younger. He examined pictures of his father with Kevin’s mother, and others of the entire family. There were shots of Kevin with his wife and son, and even some of him. Tirrell smiled sadly when he spied his framed portrait in his Army dress prominently showcased on the credenza next to that of his grandfather in uniform from his service time in Vietnam. He sighed, taking into account that there wasn’t one picture of his mother with him or his father. It was a glaring reminder that even though he carried the surname, his mother was the interloper who threatened to tear away the fabric of the family.
Betty disconnected from her call.
“What’s wrong with the car?” he asked.
“Kevin said it sounded like something with the transmission,” she responded, pushing away from the table. “He said I shouldn’t waste any more money tryin’ to fix it.”
“So, why doesn’t Mr. Big Shot lawyer buy you another one?”
Betty shot Tirrell a look.
“I’ll take a look at it.”
“Don’t go to any trouble, baby. Today it’s the transmission. Before that it was somethin’ tickin’ in some belt or chain or whatnot. Who knows what’s next. I’ll just ride MARTA, or catch a ride ’til I decide if I’m gonna invest in a new one.”
“Where’re the keys?”
“Tirrell, you don’t have to—”
“I just wanna look at it.”
“All right, go look on the bureau in my room.”
“You got any old rags?”
Betty went into the kitchen and came back out with a few old towels she’d recently washed that were used for dusting. He took the towels, collected the keys, and stepped outside.
The check engine light came on as soon as he started it. He raised the hood to check all the fluid levels and hoses for leaks or corrosion. Whether he’d be able to do anything or not at that moment, he was glad that he had the skills to offer his grandmother the service. There would be a real sense of accomplishment if he could actually get the car running properly. He soon realized that it would take tools he didn’t have at his disposal to fully analyze and diagnose the issues.
After Betty left with Marquis’s mother he went into the kitchen and confiscated one of her favored Moon Pies to snack on. He called another of his associates, one he knew had a car. It didn’t take much convincing for him to agree to swing by and pick Tirrell up.
Tirrell was bowled over when he looked out his window and saw a shiny black Escalade, riding on twenty-four-inch chrome wheels, pull up to the curb. The hard, pounding bass was so loud the windows on the house shook, and you could scarcely make out that someone was rapping beneath the beat. He spied his friend Bobby seated and grinning like the Cheshire cat behind the wheel. The medium-brown-skinned thirty-year-old man stood five foot nine, with a stocky, muscular build and clean-shaven head. Originally from New York, when he spoke you could still hear traces of the Bronx in his inflection.
Betty never cared for Bobby. She frequently warned Tirrell that he was a bad influence, and cautioned him to keep his distance. Tirrell dared not invite him into her house, and he knew that she wouldn’t be happy to see him parked on the street disturbing the neighborhood. He grabbed his wallet, keys, and cell phone and rushed out to meet him.
“Damn, man,” Tirrell said. “Last time I saw you, you was drivin’ a hoopty.”
“Last time I saw you, you was wearin’ a uniform. What happened? Did they kick yo’ ass out?”
Tirrell didn’t comment. It would have been funnier if it weren’t true. “What did you do, rob a bank?”
“No, are you crazy?”
Tirrell looked around, examining the electronics inside the cabin. “Shit, you ballin’ out of control!”
“All in a day’s work, my nigga. All in a day’s work.”
One blunt, three beers, and a half bottle of Patrón later, Tirrell and Bobby were pulling into Crawl’s Service and Repair.
“Yo, Markie-Mark, let’s go,” Tirrell slurred.
Marquis came out of the garage accompanied by a couple of his coworkers. He was incensed by Tirrell’s drunken display, and the earsplitting entrance of the Escalade. Marquis only stomached Bobby because of Tirrell. In recent months Bobby’s rumored rise in the Atlanta drug trade had become more fact than fiction. Marquis did little to cover his disdain.
“Man, what the fuck are you doin’ here? And why are you with this clown?”
“Clown!” Bobby shouted over the thump of the music. “Doughboy, you better watch who you callin’ a clown.”
“Will you turn that shit down,” Marquis demanded.
Bobby reluctantly complied.
“Marquis, let’s ride, man,” Tirrell injected.
“T, it’s only four o’clock,” Marquis replied. “I don’t get off ’til five-thirty. I thought you and me were gonna hang out tonight.”
“Change of plans, big man,” Bobby said. “We’re all goin’ to the Compound tonight.”
“T, c’mon man,” Marquis pleaded.
Tirrell rubbed the delirium from his eyes. “Why don’t we just come back by your place later and pick you up on the way?”
Marquis shook his head. “Naw, man. Y’all go ’head. I’ll catch up with you later, T.”
“C’mon, Markie-Mark. Don’t be like that, man.”
“Man, fuck him,” Bobby spat. “If he wanna stand there actin’ like a li’l bitch, let him.”
Bobby revved the engine and sped off.
Tirrell felt bad watching Marquis from the side-view mirror as the Escalade screamed off the lot and he disappeared in the distance. The look in his eyes conveyed that he was betrayed by Tirrell’s cavalier attitude. Bobby wasn’t making it any easier.
“Your li’l girlfriend seemed upset.”
Tirrell sighed and lay back on the headrest, allowing the overpowering bass to drown out Bobby’s scathing cynicism and his childhood friend’s disapproval of his choice of running buddies.
One o’clock the next afternoon Tirrell awoke naked in a strange bed with an equally bare blonde sprawled across his chest.
“Damn,” he spat under his breath, attempting to lift his head from the pillow. His eyes squinted against the sun beaming through the vertical blinds. His head felt as if it had been pounded into the pavement repeatedly. He could taste the sour breath in his mouth coating his tongue like peanut butter. He eased the weight of the woman’s body up and slid from beneath her. Getting out of bed he stumbled over shoes, clothes, and empty bottles and stubbed his toe on the leg of an end table—Sleeping Beauty didn’t stir.
“I gotta get outta here.”
Dressing quickly, he tiptoed out of the room, carrying his Timberlands. He surveyed the room and remembered it was Bobby’s place. There was the unmistakable odor of cannabis in the air, mingled with traces of sandalwood. Empty champagne flutes lay amid the residue of cocaine in the center of a glass table in front of a contemporary leather sofa. Loud snores could be heard coming from a room at the opposite end of the apartment. Curiosity led him to peer inside. He spied Bobby curled up between a brunette and a redhead, all fast asleep.
Tirrell glanced at his wristwatch and realized that the promise he’d made to attend Sunday service with his grandmother had been broken. He hoped he could make it back to the house before any of the rest of the family. He quietly headed for the exit and locked the door behind him.
Once outside, he established his bearings and found the MARTA station a block away from Bobby’s apartment. En route he checked the missed calls on his cell phone: two from Betty—two from Tasha—and, unexpectedly, one from Marquis. There would be much contrition before the sun set.
While waiting on the platform, he pulled a cigarette from the top pocket
of the multicolored striped shirt he wore over a wife-beater T-shirt. He patted at the pockets of his jeans for a light. He felt his wallet in the back pocket—something he hadn’t checked before leaving Bobby’s place. Removing a lighter from his pocket, he also found a small plastic pouch, full of the white powdered substance that had contributed to his partial memory lapse. His eyes darted around to see if anyone was watching, and he stuffed the sack back into his pocket and lit the cigarette.
He’d started smoking cigarettes in high school. Betty caught him once and demanded her husband’s discipline. Curtis Sr. only applied a stern rebuke, which did nothing to deter the recalcitrant teen. Beer soon became Tirrell’s libation of choice as he opted to liberate them frequently from his grandfather’s stash. Other than the occasional joint, he’d also known people who snorted cocaine, but never imagined himself with a taste for that particular high. Clearly, his interests were changing; and so too was he.
4
MARTA services were slower on Sunday than any other day of the week. It took Tirrell over an hour to get back to Eastland Avenue. As he rounded the corner at the end of the block, he spotted his brother’s silver Ford Explorer sitting in front of the house; Tasha’s car was parked behind it. He wanted to run back in the direction of the train station, but figured that Betty had already divulged the fact that he was back. He would have to face his brother eventually; it may as well be right now.
The storm door creaked as he opened it. What would sneaking in accomplish? They were all seated around the dining table when he walked in. Exuberant chatter and the passing of serving bowls ceased as reproachful stares zeroed in on him. A lump formed in his throat. Who was going to fire the first shot? This moment felt like a very high-stakes chess game where the wrong move would render one’s opponent defenseless and the king susceptible to capture.
“Uncle Tirrell,” shouted a gleeful six-year-old with big brown eyes. The small boy jumped from his chair and ran to the door.
Tirrell swept his nephew in his arms and kissed him on the cheek. He seemed the only one, other than Betty, willing to accept him as a real part of the Ellis clan. His nephew’s unconditional move put the rest of them in check.
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