The Eleventh Commandment

by Lutishia Lovely

  He did all of those things: arrived at the Four Seasons, checked flights, packed his bags, and left the hotel.

  And then he went back to Malibu.

  29

  Family Affairs

  Cordella stood in front of her stove stirring a pot of chicken, onions, garlic, and tomatoes, and given the fact that she’d been cooking since the age of nine, the worry lines on her face had nothing to do with whether the chirmole would thicken properly or her roti bread would taste good. No, after what she’d done two days ago, she was wondering how long she’d have money to put food on the table. Gabriel had assured her that her job was secure, but Cordella knew better than to take Frieda lightly. She’d worked for women like her before: without conscience and calculating, and married to the money instead of the man. In fact, it was going up against such a woman that got her fired from her last job. But this isn’t the same. Mr. Livingston is not like Mr. Worth. When she’d told the sixty-two-year-old Mr. Worth about his thirty-seven-year-old wife’s romps with the pool guy, he’d thanked her by giving her a nod and a severance check. She’d made a vow then to never ever again get involved in her employer’s shenanigans. So what are you doing here again, girl? “Doing the right thing, that’s what!” Cordella mumbled under her breath, angrily jerking open the oven and removing the warm, soft bread. For this staunchly religious woman, it was the Christian thing to do. “God don’t like ugly and neither do I!”

  “Ma, what you talking ’bout?” Clark strolled into the compact kitchen and hugged his mother from behind. When talking among each other, their lyrical island accent became even more pronounced. “You go crazy talking to yourself now?”

  Cordella tried to swat his hand with the large stirring spoon as he reached around her for a piece of roti. “I go crazy with sinners like you, placing your business where it don’t belong!”

  “C’mon now, Ma!” Clark raised his hands in mock surrender. “Sinners need love too. And we need to eat!” Again, Clark reached for the roti bread. “I’m hungry!”

  “So it’s true. You’re sleeping with her.”

  “No.” The look that scampered across Clark’s face told her otherwise, reminding Cordella of the time when she found the candy that then six-year-old Clark said he didn’t steal hidden under his mattress.

  “What’s done in darkness comes to light,” she warned.

  “Ma, we’re just friends. She asked me about a computer program and I came over to help her with it. That’s all.”

  “You aren’t a computer programmer and have no business being friends with a married woman. I’m not playing with you, son.” The ladle now served as a pointer as Cordella’s eyes narrowed. “Your relationship with that woman is not right.” A warm feeling swept over Cordella, something that often happened when situations were being seen with her third eye. There was more wrong with Frieda’s marriage than the cavorting happening with her son. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she was sure of it. Mr. Livingston was a good man. Whatever shenanigans Mrs. Livingston was up to—and she’d bet her rosary of her childhood faith that there were some—the doctor didn’t deserve them. And whatever those shenanigans, she didn’t want them to involve her son. “I don’t want you to talk to that woman,” she finished. “And don’t come over to my workplace again.”

  Later that evening, Cordella sat in front of her television, thankful that her daughter and two grandchildren were still at the county fair, and that Clark was spending the night with his cousin. Peace and quiet was rare in the Pratt household, even rarer these days in Cordella’s spirit. First there was her daughter, Shelly, and her two grandchildren. They’d been back in her household for over a year and while she loved them, she was also frustrated. Like Clark, Shelly had left the faith of her childhood and—as much as Cordella had warned her against it—was making the same mistakes that she’d made. “That’s why you’re struggling, Shelly,” she whispered, having been unable to stop the habit that began being raised as an only child by a doting yet strict grandmother—talking to herself. “You’re going down the same path that I did, the one I told you led to hard times and plenty tears.” She looked beyond the muted television, tuned to a talk show that she rarely watched, and into the eyes of her daughter’s father, an older gentlemen Cordella had known since childhood, who married her when she was seventeen and died of leukemia shortly after Shelly was born. Like Gabriel, Peyton was a good man, a provider, a no-nonsense man who lived by the word of God. True, she had not loved him, but at such a young age, what would she know of that? He was kind, and gentle, and though he’d been gone almost thirty years, she still missed him every day. The smile on her face shifted as she thought about another man, the man whose spitting image she saw almost every day. As he grew older, the striking resemblance caused her to almost hate her son, and even now their uncannily similar personalities and dispositions created an intense resentment. Clark’s father was a player too, with no moral compass to direct him back to the small yet comfortable Long Island home that Peyton had left Cordella in his will—the home she lost when Clark’s father used it as collateral for a gambling debt—right before he ran off with the mother of Clark’s half-sister, the one who to this day he’d never met. She’d fled all the way across the country to try and escape the pain that betrayal caused. She had left her children with an aunt in Queens until she’d landed a job as the house manager for a wealthy European family. Eventually she secured enough money for a one-bedroom apartment in Inglewood and bus fare for her children and a cousin who’d escorted and then lived with them until Shelly was old enough to watch herself and her younger brother while Cordella worked.

  “Those were hard years,” Cordella said, with a casual glance toward the television. Her brow creased as she saw an older, well-dressed woman talking to a woman who was several decades younger. The older woman looked to be in her seventies, was wearing a hat that fifty-eight-year-old Cordella would wear in a heartbeat (she always was an old soul—most people who saw her thought she was older). Somehow the woman had a look that made you think you could trust her on sight. Cordella reached for the remote and unmuted the sound.

  “. . . the older women to teach the younger ones,” the woman wearing the hat was saying. “My family has been involved in this conference for many years. I was honored when your mother-in-law, Mrs. Montgomery, invited me to teach a session.”

  “What’s the name of your session, Gram—oops.” The woman chuckled as she looked into the camera before returning her attention to the elder sistah. “I mean, Mama Max.” Again, she turned to the camera. “No matter how much the prompter says Mrs. Brook or Mama Max, y’all, she’s been Gram for all of my twenty-plus years.” The woman shrugged. “So forgive me, and bear with me.” Turning once more to the older woman, she continued. “Mama Max, what will you be teaching us at this year’s Sanctity of Sisterhood Summit, themed The Woman I Am?”

  The woman called Mama Max sat back. “Well . . . they say that experience is the best teacher. But I say learning from somebody else’s mistakes is easier. So I’m calling my session ‘My Error, Your Education.’ I want y’all young women to learn from some of the women in the Bible, women on TV, women in your neighborhood, or even in your home. I want to try and help some of my sisters learn and to avoid diving head first into pain when they can go around it. And I want to see the younger generation of women start acting like they’ve got some sense, stop showing their privates in public and wearing in broad open daylight what I wouldn’t even dare try on behind closed doors.” She leaned toward the host. “Truth is some of those clothes look so tight I probably couldn’t get them past my knees, but that’s beside the point!”

  The host laughed. The guest’s eyes twinkled. Cordella turned up the volume. Now that’s a lady with some sense.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Maxine Brook, for joining me today.” The host turned from her guest and looked directly into the camera. Cordella felt a twinge, as though the pretty young woman was looking directly at her.


  “Please join me, my grandmother, and hundreds of other worthy women for the Sanctity of Sisterhood’s autumn event. Again, the theme is The Woman I Am and will be hosted by one of Los Angeles’s fine first ladies, Vivian Montgomery, and somebody you may have heard of... the award-winning television host, Carla Chapman. And speaking of Carla, she’ll take back the reins of her show on Monday. I’ve had a fantastic time guest hosting this week, and remember, you can see me Wednesday nights on Bravo. KP and His Princess airs at nine p.m. Eastern, eight p.m. Central. Until then, I’m Princess Petersen wishing you a great weekend. Bye, everybody.”

  Cordella walked from the living room into her daughter’s bedroom, where the laptop was stored. Upon hearing the name Carla Chapman her enthusiasm had waned a bit. Everyone in the country had heard about her scandal, how she’d cheated on her pastor husband and was now married to the man with whom she’d had the affair. It was one of the reasons Cordella didn’t like those highfalutin megachurches, why after going from Catholicism to Christianity she’d been more than happy to make her church home at the Lord Jesus Christ Presbyterian Church in south Los Angeles. A small and close-knit congregation whose pastor seemed old enough to have known Kunta Kinte. This was fine with Cordella. If the plumbing wasn’t working there were no worries about trying to plug up drains. Stopping when she reached Shelly and the kids’ bedroom, she hesitated. Do I really want to invite Shelly to listen to a bunch of rich, designer-wearing women who were probably more concerned with wearing the right style than getting folks saved? But then she thought about the godly older woman who was going to be at the event. “What was her name? Mama something-or-other.” Cordella turned on the computer and clicked on a search engine. She was determined to find out more.

  And she did. By the time Shelly and her children returned home Cordella had not only reviewed the SOS Web site and the conference coming to LA, she’d registered both her daughter and herself to attend. Maxine Brook was the name of the older woman she’d seen on television, the woman whose spirit somewhat reminded Cordella of the grandmother who’d raised her. My Error, Your Education, Cordella thought as she turned back the covers and climbed into bed. And then something happened that caused Cordella to freeze—half lying down and half sitting up. Her employer’s wife’s face swam into her consciousness. “There’s no way someone like Mrs. Livingston would darken a church door,” she mumbled, having regained her movement and settling beneath the sheet. “But she’s still Your child, Lord, and somebody’s daughter. So while I try and help mine, please send somebody to help her.”

  30

  Freaks and Peeks

  Frieda was hoping someone would help her all right. That’s why she’d gotten up bright and early, gathered what she needed for this appointment, and been out of the house before eight a.m. Now here she sat, about a half block from her destination, a nondescript brick building just off Wilshire Boulevard in West Los Angeles. She pulled her Lexus SUV into the CVS parking lot and after quickly donning a shoulder-length wig, head scarf, and oversized shades, clicked the lock, looked around, and hurried toward OGT, the Office for Genetic Testing. One thing she appreciated about this particular setup was that the DNA tests could be performed in complete confidentiality and anonymity. She’d provide the samples; they’d tell her if they were a match. Twenty-four hours. That’s how long she had to wait to decide her next course of action regarding Gabriel, Clark, and that nosy-ass Cordella. One day and she’d know what she needed to do, and where she needed to go.

  Frieda entered the office and punched the buzzer, as she’d been instructed during her inquiry calls.

  “Hello!” said a cheery voice through the intercom. “Is this Mrs. Maguire?”

  “Uh, yes.” Had the situation not been so serious, Frieda would have laughed. Not only did she feel like a bad imitation of Jackie O, but when they’d requested her name for the appointment, she’d said the first thing that came into her head. The name came to mind because at that very moment Tom Cruise had been talking to Cuba Gooding Jr. on her television screen, professing his love for black people and yelling about dollar bills.

  “Come right in, Mrs. Maguire.”

  Frieda heard the door to the inner office click, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

  Fifteen minutes later she was back in her car: scarf gone, wig off, oversized shades replaced with more sensible D & Gs. The small plastic bag containing Gabriel’s hair had been left at the center. “Damn, I’m glad that’s over,” she said aloud, starting her car and blasting Rihanna as she prepared to head east on Wilshire Boulevard on her way to La Brea Avenue. She was rocking out with her girl, ready to smoke a blunt and then have Clark help relieve her tension. Her hands-free beeped. She looked at the caller ID: Gabriel. No way was she answering that call. She knew what it was about. The inner-city assistance planning luncheon happening today. The one his mother had invited her to. The one she’d miss because she needed some charity herself—about nine thick inches worth, to be exact. Thinking about what awaited her in the hood, Frieda eased out of the parking lot and hit speed dial. She’d talked to Clark last night and told him she’d call when she was on her way. She wanted to make sure he was at his cousin’s house. As amped up as she was feeling, she wouldn’t mind if the cousin was there too. She’d always wanted to get her freak on where three wasn’t a crowd. Maybe today would be that day. Her, Clark, and that fine-ass Spencer. The thought turned her on so much that she punched the gas and ran her car through the yellow light.

  While Frieda was dreaming of a ménage à trois, private investigator Wagner was taking notes . . . and pictures. Sure that her car was well down the street, he got out of his black Honda, walked the short distance to the tan brick building, and went inside.

  A plume of smoke rose above Clark’s head as he blew out a hit of marijuana or, as he called it, the mighty gunja. He wasn’t a Rasta, but like many of his peers he smoked these “special cigarettes” every single day. Following the “puff, puff, pass” rule, he took another long drag and passed the blunt over to his cousin. “Here, Spence,” he managed to utter, while holding the smoke in his chest.

  Spencer took the joint, his head bobbing to the latest Ziggy Marley release. He took a hit off the blunt, closed his eyes as he released the smoke, and then took another hit. “Can’t believe your girl,” he eked out, passing the cigarette back to Clark.

  “I knew that bitch was a freak.” Clark frowned, even as his manhood twitched at the recent memory of him and Frieda engaging in wild, loud sex, made all the more titillating by the fact that his cousin had been within earshot. “You can’t trust a woman like that. She acted like she was joking, but if I’d allowed it she would have done us both.”

  “Wow.” Spencer shook his head. “I didn’t know that you were feeling her like this, man, all possessive like she’s your woman and shit.”

  Clark’s eyes slid in Spencer’s direction. “Well, she is. I’ve got that woman doing whatever I tell her. She’ll even leave her husband if I want her too.”

  “Word?”

  “Yeah,” Clark said, though he honestly didn’t believe it. Frieda was married to the doctor’s dollar bills and truth be told, Clark’s lifestyle had also improved courtesy of Mr. M.D. “She’ll do anything for me.”

  “What about Auntie Cordella? I thought she was riding you about hanging out with her employer.”

  Clark shook his head. “Moms is trippin’ for real. I just hope she doesn’t do something stupid and mess up this mad game I’ve got going here. She got fired from her last job for doing the same bullshit she’s threatening to do now.”

  “She’s planning to tell on you and your girl?”

  “Man, I don’t know what she’s going to do. I told her to chill on that fixation, that me and Frieda together was all in her head. But Frieda said she’s still acting funny and now ... so is her husband.”

  “Dang, Frieda is gangsta; she don’t like people in her business. Auntie Cordella probably acting all judgmental too? I kno
w homegirl is probably not too happy about that.”

  Clark rose from the couch, stretched his six-foot-plus frame and walked toward the window. “If Ma ever decides to act on her suspicions, I have a feeling that my girl Frieda is getting ready to be unhappy about a lot of things.”

  31

  And You Must Be . . .

  “Hope, focus! Concentrate on your abs!” Yvette clapped her hands for emphasis, letting her uninvolved client know that she meant business. They’d been in the workout room at Hope’s home for thirty minutes. Yvette felt that only half that time had truly been productive.

  “Maybe I should end this for today,” Hope said, reaching for her water and uncapping the bottle. “My mind is just not here.”

  Yvette’s face showed concerned. “This isn’t like you, Hope. You’re one of the most positive, always upbeat people I know. What’s the matter? Are you feeling all right?”

  “Physically, I’m fine.” Without warning, she felt her eyes moisten and quickly batted away the threat of tears. Ever since a woman named Trisha Underwood had gotten all up in her marital business, she’d been moody and on edge. It hadn’t helped that Cy was out of town more these days, seriously interrupting her flow of love. It’s a good thing my baby is coming home tonight. “But I’ve got a lot on my mind.” She took off her weight bands, a signal that their session was over. “Sorry to waste your time, girl. Give Millicent my extra minutes.”

  “Your neighbor won’t be using extra minutes any time soon.”

  The tone in Yvette’s voice immediately got Hope’s attention. “What’s going on with Millicent?”