Her dark skin was rough and ashy. The braided twists of her hair were coming loose at the ends. Slay slowed his trot, moved beside her, bent down over her. It felt as if he were peering at her in a coffin.
“Mama,” he called out. She didn’t stir. He touched her shoulder and she jumped. “Mama?”
She grumbled and looked up at him.
“Mama,” he repeated.
“Georgie, baby, that you?” she asked, her voice distorted by her heavy tongue inching in the gaps where her teeth used to be.
“Nah, Mama, it’s me.”
“Georgie, baby, pleeease. I been waitin’ on you.”
“It’s me, Mama.”
“You get it, Georgie, baby? Please tell me you got it, Georgie, baby. I cain’t hole on much more. Come on, Georgie, baby, give it to me…”
“He’s gone, Mama, it’s me,” Slay said softly.
Nancy seemed to realize where she was. She looked around and crinkled her forehead. “Tole this fool my husband was gone and I needed help,” she said. She grabbed ahold of the Ziploc. “Offered him my fish…offered him my wet tongue and these juicy-fruit lips…” She was speaking of the one-named youngster—Larry—who conducted his business behind the courts. Larry was nowhere to be seen now.
“He hurt you, Mama?” Slay asked.
Nancy nodded her head. “Punched me in the mouth and tole me to get on.”
“Again,” Slay sighed. He hated this cycle. His hands were tied behind his back because he didn’t like to acknowledge the place his mother was in, and if he came back here and got revenge off that poor sucker Larry who held down this plot of land like he was Donald Trump, then Slay would be admitting something he didn’t even like to acknowledge in the solitude of his thoughts—his beautiful mother was a junkie. Slay looked around, over his shoulders. The night was still and quiet. They were alone. “Come on, Mama,” he said, placing his hands under her arms for support. “We need to get you home and cleaned up.”
“What about my goldfishy?” Nancy asked.
“He’s gone,” Slay said. “I’ll get you another one, but you got to promise to keep him in the tank.”
Earlier, Cydney had a difficult time getting up for work. She’d thought a steaming-hot shower would loosen the tension in her shoulders but the water just seemed to bounce off her skin. She’d spent the night reworking the last pages of a paper for her Critical Thought class; then, unable to sleep, she combed through her dozens of movie videos searching for something to settle her down and possibly ease her into the bliss of her dreams. She picked While You Were Sleeping, ironically enough, always having loved the wonder of the romantic comedy. She wondered if she, like Sandra Bullock in the movie, would ever get her Mr. Right.
Unfortunately, the movie made her even wider awake. She thought about her girlfriends from the old neighborhood. Chamique, Wanda and Miah. She wondered how many children they each had by now. She was glad, despite how hard it was, that she finally had the chance to pursue her college degree. She’d quickly stopped thinking of the old days. That life was firmly behind her. Her new life was college, the magazine, her new girlfriends Faith and Victoria. Changes for the better.
She’d ended up calling Slay, catching him on his cell phone, some girl in the background talking all loud to let whoever was calling know that she had him for the night.
“Cyd-a-knee,” Shammond had said, slurring his words. “I was thinking about you.”
Cydney was surprised to hear her brother sounding drunk. He despised alcohol and drugs. “Hey.”
“I wanted to call you but I got tied up.” He giggled like a fool into the phone. “Wanted to let you know there’s going to be a memorial for George this weekend at the funeral home.”
“Chapman’s?”
“Come on, Cyd-a-knee. You know ain’t nobody else to fix up niggas around here but Chapman.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“I’m handling all the arrangements—getting him cremated.”
“Cremated?”
“Yeah,” Shammond said. “It’ll be nice.”
“What about his other children and his ex-wife, they in on it?”
“Sheeit,” Slay said, “they could care less. I did talk to his one daughter, though. She wanted to know if he had a policy or anything.”
“Did he?”
“Got some associates of mine looking into all that,” Slay said.
Cydney never liked to think about that portion of Slay’s life, the portion where he had associates available to him. “Saturday?” she said.
“Yeah, around noon.” He giggled again.
“You been drinking, Shammond?”
“Little.”
“Why? Thought you didn’t drink.”
“Taking my mind off things, is all,” he said. His mama, broken, beaten, addicted to that shit.
“Saturday,” Cydney said. “Okay, I’ll be there. Bye.”
“Hey, yo, holeup,” he cut in. “What were you calling for?”
“Just couldn’t sleep,” she told him.
“Ahhh, you learning to lean on me again, that’s good.”
She smirked. Was it? “Bye.”
“Right, right…and wear something nice to the memorial.”
Now, at the Elizabeth Arden fragrance counter for work, Cydney was fighting the ill effects of that sleepless night. She yawned into her heavily scented wrist between stopping potential consumers so she could spray their wrists and make them smell like her own. She was dealing with such a woman now, an older white woman who appeared to have benefited from quite a bit of plastic surgery. The woman wore expensive sunglasses and an elegant scarf.
“This is devilish, sugar,” the woman said. “What is it called again?”
“Green tea…” Cydney’s voice trailed off as she noticed a familiar face in the distance. She always caught a sense when he was near. He stood by a rack of jewelry, waiting for this woman to leave so he could come forward. He smiled when Cydney’s eyes caught a glimpse of him. Cydney looked away, gave her attention to the starlet in front of her. “Smells wonderful on your skin, too,” Cydney told her. Then she whispered conspiratorially, “You know, every perfume isn’t for every woman. It has to blend correctly with the natural oils and scent of the person. I’ve got a feeling, though, that everything smells good on you.”
The woman nodded in agreement. “I do have a devilish relationship with fragrance. I’ll definitely take this.”
Cydney smiled. The commission from this sale was a week’s worth of cable.
Cydney processed the sale, plus a few other accessories the woman noticed on her way to the checkout counter, and looked up as Stephon approached. She didn’t want to see him but had to admit he looked mighty fine in that pink-striped shirt with the white collar, his tie loosened, his coat hanging cockily over his shoulder. His hair was cut low, his beard looking as if he’d recently had it touched up and trimmed, forming a perfect black border around the jawline of his face.
She looked down as he neared her, fumbled with a calculator, tallying her commission thus far today. She could feel his shadow looming over her. Then his voice lowered upon her. “Hello, Cydney.” It was so rich with feeling, so hefty in its masculinity. Cydney lost her place on the calculator keys, closed her eyes to gather her calm. “Cydney,” Stephon repeated. She slammed her fingers into the calculator, pushed it aside and looked up at him. His even-teethed, perfectly white smile made her abandon her attempt to ignore him further.
“What are you doing here, Stephon?” she asked, her heart pressing against her chest where she secretly wished his hands were.
“I left the office and decided to take a drive down this way. I wanted to see if you had done that restaurant review yet for Cush.”
“My deadline is weeks away,” Cydney said.
“You get off soon, don’t you?” Stephon asked.
“Yes, but I’m dead tired. I’ve got to get myself some sleep.”
“No classes tonight?”
&nbs
p; “No,” she said, “and I think you know that. Don’t you have every detail surrounding my life filed in your PalmPilot?”
He laughed. “What do you say we go check out Cush together?”
“I told you, I’m bone tired. And I also told you we had to stop doing this.”
“I didn’t ask that we do our usual,” he defended, his arms outstretched, pleading his case. “You’re my drug, Cydney. You have to let me ease off of you. A meal, that’s it. I promise.”
“I don’t know, Stephon. This doesn’t make it any easier.”
He batted his eyes. “One meal, that’s it. Please, Cydney.”
She glanced at her watch. “I’ll be done in about twenty minutes, okay?”
Stephon clasped his hands together. “I’ll go look around while I wait.” He started to move away, then turned back. “Where is the intimate apparel in here?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
Cydney didn’t miss a beat. “Your wife’s a what—large? I believe that section is upstairs. I’m not sure, though. The petites—where I get my things—that’s on the next level to the right after you get off the escalator. Check next to there.”
Stephon looked at her, smiled. She looked down, fumbled with the calculator again.
CHAPTER 5
The restaurant was full once again, a cause of celebration for Desmond. Even though this had become the norm, Desmond always worried about the day it wouldn’t be the norm. The day he would find himself, sleeves rolled up, walking around from one empty table to the next adjusting the flower centerpieces and pulling wrinkles from the table linens to keep his body and mind occupied. Conventional wisdom said that no business stayed hot from its birth onward, but his parents’ restaurants had, and it would leave serious discord in Desmond’s stomach if his couldn’t match that success. It wasn’t something he needed to do, or simply wanted to do, it was something he had to do. Drive, ambition, those were admirable qualities, but for Desmond this was something far greater. This was about leaving his father speechless and in awe.
Desmond walked toward the front of the restaurant, stopping to shake a few hands as he traveled through the maze of aisles. Karen was still acting funny toward him, still cool. It was high time he thawed her a bit, let her know she was important to him, professionally, and remind her that she did have that big diamond rock on her ring finger since it appeared she didn’t remember.
Karen was on the phone when he reached her, appointment book opened, pencil in hand. She turned slightly as Desmond approached, gave him a bit of shoulder.
“Yes, seven-thirty is fine,” she said in that voice that was so sexy. “We look forward to serving you, Mrs. Buchanan. Goodbye.” She hung up and took her time writing down the Buchanans’ reservation, spending more time with each letter than a calligraphist.
“Why are you so upset with me?” Desmond asked.
Karen didn’t look up, but answered, “Not upset with you, you’re a grown man, entitled to do as you please. I have no claims to you and if you want to go around—” She caught herself. “I’m not upset with you, Desmond.”
Desmond put his hand to her wrist, stopped her furious writing. “The only way I’ll know what’s bothering you is if you come out and say it. I thought we were close.”
Karen looked up, those eyes boring into him. “We are.”
“Then?”
“It’s just that I don’t get you sometimes,” she said.
“How so?”
“You’re contradictory.”
Desmond crinkled his forehead. “Me?”
Karen closed her reservations book, placed the pencil against the catch plate of the hostess podium. “The times you’ve talked about your family, it has become obvious to me that you adore them, yet you’ve made it clear that the last thing in the world you wanted to do was run their chain of restaurants.”
“That’s correct,” Desmond said, “and I didn’t. So where’s the contradiction?”
“But you still chose to follow behind them into the business. Maybe not the family business, but you’re in the business.”
“I grew up around restaurants,” Desmond defended. “It’s in my blood. I just said I didn’t want to find myself as district manager of the Ruckers’ chain.”
Karen shook off his answer. “What about that woman, Nora, who came with your family on opening night?”
Desmond grunted. That’s what this was all about. Now they were getting to the heart of the matter.
Karen dodged his look of judgment. “I asked your sister about her. You were engaged to marry, but you broke off the marriage.”
“I know this,” Desmond said. “I’m the one who did it.”
“You know that woman still loves you…anyone could see it in her eyes. I looked in yours and all I could gather was a twinge of regret. Yet, you took her home with you.” Desmond’s gaze shifted to his feet. Karen softened her voice. “I think very highly of you, Desmond. I have no qualms about admitting that my husband is less than perfect and that I sometimes think about…” Her voice dissipated as Desmond looked up again. “Sometimes I think about how different my life would be if I had married someone with a stronger purpose, someone like you. In many ways, me coming to work, flirting with you, makes going home more bearable.”
“I didn’t know your marriage—”
She shook him off. “I hate to think that the man I think so highly of would cause the kind of harm that I know you’ve caused that Nora woman. You were the typical guy when you took her home that night, and I like to think that you aren’t typical.”
Desmond eyed her, his expression serious. “I try not to be.”
“Have you ever been in love?” Karen asked him.
“I don’t even like to think about that question,” Desmond said. He shifted his weight from left leg to right, wrung his hands.
“Too many of our men have that same problem,” Karen said sadly. “And too many of our women suffer because of it. It’ll hit you one day, Desmond. When it does, do what feels right in your heart—because I know you have a good heart—and you’ll never go wrong.”
“The talk shows condemn thinking with just your heart,” Desmond said. “Sometimes you have to use your head.”
“What you have to do is make sure your heart and mind are on one accord, that they’re both clear—like they say at the end of church service. In your heart you knew you would never marry Nora, I bet. I also would wager my salary—” she smiled to let him know she meant figuratively “—that you knew it in your mind before you even proposed.”
Desmond nodded. Karen was alright. Where was she when he was growing up?
“Turn left up here,” Cydney said.
Stephon put on his blinker, made the turn, slowed about halfway up the block. “Goodness!”
“What is it?”
“I’d heard horror stories about Asbury Park, but this is incredible. Who would dare open up a business around here? Nothing but junkies, dealers, whores and burnt-out buildings.”
Cydney said nothing. By condemning the city, Stephon was condemning her. The harshness of his tone, the disgust in his voice made leaving this married man alone a more doable task. She could just picture him with the same upturned nose, the same judgment in his voice, looking at her with disgust. But she’d never give him the opportunity; she’d never let him know that this city of nothing but junkies, dealers, whores and burnt-out buildings had spawned her.
“You believe this,” he continued as they passed a young girl with red boots up above her knees, a jean skirt with the hemline up above the top of the boots. “She’s peddling her ass in broad daylight.”
“She’s trying to survive,” Cydney shot back.
Stephon smiled. “Well, that’s mighty Democratic of you, Cydney. The Republicans will be very upset to have lost you, but they’ll recover. I suppose you’d probably like me to offer that young lady a job, something in…customer service.” He chuckled. Cydney didn’t.
Republican, was that how he saw h
er?
“Cush is up there on the right” was all Cydney could say.
Stephon curbed his car, moved the transmission arm to Park, but sat with the engine running. “You think my car will be safe here?”
Cydney shrugged. “We’ll see when we come back out.” She unbuckled her seat belt and waited for him to open her door. He didn’t seem certain of his next move. “Stephon, I’m waiting.”
He came back from a million miles away, tried to smile with comfort. “Yes, let’s go and see what Mr. Desmond Rucker has for us here.”
Cush had a deep burgundy awning, an elaborate sign with the cursive Cush insignia that could be lighted at night. A thick carpet, the color of the awning, led up the small slope of sidewalk directly to the front door. The door was some rich heavy wood with a polished brass handle and had a menu screwed to the frame and enclosed in sturdy plastic casing. To the left of the entrance was a little window with a picture of Desmond Rucker and a second picture of his staff displayed like jewelry in some fine jeweler’s storefront.
Stephon stopped and looked at the picture. Cydney did as well.
“That’s Desmond Rucker?” Cydney said.
Stephon wheeled toward her. “Yes, it is.” He clenched his teeth and made his jaw muscles bulge. “Why?”
“Surprised to see he’s so young,” she said. “I was expecting a much older man.”
“You know that cliché about wine getting better over time,” Stephon said. He pulled at his necktie, tightened it. He was a handsome, influential man. Just over forty years of age. He wasn’t in his late twenties like Desmond and Cydney, though. Looking at how Cydney looked at the picture of Desmond Rucker, Stephon was happy his instincts had forced him to come with her.
“You ready to go in?” Cydney asked.
Stephon hesitated. “Yes, I’m ready.” Cydney moved to open the door. Stephon rushed across her. “Let me get that for you,” he said.
Desmond Rucker was standing by the entrance podium engaged in a deep conversation with the hostess. His head was down, looked as if he’d just been scolded. Cydney could feel her pulse in her fingertips as she got a good look at him. He was fine with a capital F. She immediately regretted the decision to come with Stephon.
Apple Brown Betty Page 6
