Apple Brown Betty

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  Desmond took that sip of his drink, actually gulping down the rest of it in one shot. He wiped his mouth with the back side of his hand and moved to the front of the room, directly by the stage. The entire room seemed to perk up. The DJ replaced the revved-up Whitney Houston cut with what he billed “a hot one from Shakira.” Desmond nodded his head to the syncopated rhythm, adrenaline shooting through him because of the three drinks he’d downed and the performance he’d come for.

  Jacinta came on, spotlighted in the center of the stage, her hair pulled back, dressed in a brassiere with tassels swinging. Desmond’s eyes started at her feet and worked their way up. He very much liked what he saw. A strong urge started to pull at him in that place where men’s urges began and ended.

  Jacinta held to the pole and shimmied around it with the grace and poise of a figure skater or a ballerina. She kicked her legs up, presumably to show her flexibility, and then fell into a split. Two men on the other side of the room who looked as if they were a couple of drinks away from needing CPR applauded Jacinta’s moves. She moved in their direction to take advantage of their adoration, and to fill her collection plate.

  The Shakira cut ended and an even faster one took its place. On cue Jacinta sped up her moves, thrashing her head and body furiously, that long tail of hair flapping like a “just married” stringer on a car bumper. She moved back to the side of the stage where Desmond sat. He pursed his lips and held a breath in his chest. Jacinta reached behind her and pulled the Velcro bra strap loose. She deftly covered her bosom with her hands as the material fell in a heap on the floor. Desmond released that breath, licked his lips. Jacinta moved over to him.

  “Back again,” Jacinta said.

  Desmond’s eyes hunched. “You remember me?”

  “Of course,” she said, winking.

  “How?” Desmond wanted to know. “So many come through here?”

  “Majority of ’em horny neighborhood guys or the suit-and-tie types headed home to their wives. They’re hard to differentiate. You, you’re neither.”

  “You’re pretty smart, Jacinta.”

  “Why?” she asked, making her voice extra sweet and sexy. “Because I used differentiate correctly in a sentence? What’s your name, cutie?”

  “Desmond.”

  She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear, “Life is a stage, Desmond. Everyone is a performer on that stage. Nobody is as they appear.”

  It took Desmond a moment to recover, her hot breath lingering on his earlobe even after she’d moved back to a more appropriate separating distance. “What happened to that accent you had the other day?” he said after a while.

  “Part of the performance,” Jacinta admitted. “See, I told you.”

  “So, you’re a philosopher now?” Desmond asked her, smiling.

  “How many people from your real life know you’re in here today, Desmond? That this is your second time here in a week?”

  Desmond was rendered speechless. He thought about the wrinkle that would form on his father’s nose if his father knew he was here. The I-told-you-so look in his father’s eyes. I told you that you couldn’t measure up to me, son.

  Jacinta smiled, took Desmond’s money and wiggled on across the stage.

  “What did you say to me?” Slay said, gripping hard to Cydney’s bag, leaning into her with a scowl on his face.

  “None of your business,” she repeated. “Who I spend my time with is of no concern to you.”

  Slay grinded his teeth, looked around him. “You lucky we all out in the open.”

  “You’re luckier than I am,” Cydney responded. She held out her hand. “You can give me my bag now.”

  Slay looked at the bag—from CVS. “Let’s see what kind of freaky shit you planning,” he said, opening the bag. His brow furrowed when he saw the contents: a pack of black pens, pack of white lined paper and a Skor candy bar. He looked up at Cydney.

  She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “You can have the candy bar if it’s that important to you.”

  He pushed the bag into her hand and this time she took it. “This ain’t no game, sis.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Cydney agreed, “and I think it is best you realize and recognize that. I’m done being your chess piece, Slay.”

  “Don’t call me Slay,” he said, dropping his head, defeated.

  “Why not? That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  He looked up. “Not with you, Cydney.”

  Cydney sighed, shook her head. “You’re just not good for me now.”

  Slay nodded. The toughness he always projected was gone. His shoulders sagged, his eyes narrowed, not from anger, but to keep him from getting emotional. “You probably right,” he said. “Cydney Williams has always been about something. No use in Shammond Slay pulling her down, keeping her from getting all her goals and shit.”

  The difference in their last names had been a source of angst for him for a long time.

  “Pop G would have adopted you, too,” Cydney said, “but everything was so confusing then. He didn’t know if they were going to let you out of juvie or what. It looked like that place was going to be your home away from home. Look at how many times you were sent down. He didn’t know if you were ever coming home for good and what you’d be like if you did.”

  Slay forced a smile. “Right, right.”

  “We’re still brother and sister. I just need some time to get my life in order. You should do the same,” Cydney said.

  “I won’t bother you again, Cydney. You should check in on Mama every now and then, she ain’t gonna be around forever.” He balled a fist and placed it over his heart and moved around Cydney to walk to his car.

  “I’m always going to love you,” Cydney called to him as he walked down the sidewalk. And despite everything, she would. Truth be told, Shammond was just a damaged soul, same as she was.

  Slay didn’t respond. He kept his slow bop toward his car. This GQ Smooth dude was the source of all this heartache. Cydney was different than she’d ever been. Slay didn’t have any beef with her, but GQ Smooth, that was his newest enemy. That dude had managed to come in and take one of the only good things this world ever gave Slay. For that, GQ Smooth, would pay, in full.

  Desmond moved from Hot Tails with a new lease on life. When you started getting mother wit from women who made their money being coy with their breasts it was definitely time to reevaluate the route you traveled. Jacinta, the go-go Aristotle, had hit him over the head. Her words echoed in his ears like the baseline from that Shakira song.

  Life is a stage. Everyone is a performer on that stage.

  Desmond gripped his keys and pressed the keyless entry button for his truck as he crossed the street. It chirp-chirped like a bird. He looked up at the sky absent of sun as a light breeze from the nearby ocean swept across his face. He got in his truck, turned the ignition, but sat thinking instead of pulling away.

  Life is a stage. Everyone is a performer on that stage.

  Why? Why was it so difficult to let down our guards and allow people to see inside our hearts and souls? Desmond looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Jacinta had him talking to himself. “I’m a son, a brother, an entrepreneur,” he said. “I’m a decent, proud black man. I’ve never put my hands on a woman with any intent other than tenderness and caring. I’ve never abused drugs. I’m a careful lover, always use condoms. I’m a romantic. I love women…” He sat back against the plush leather of the truck’s interior, closed his eyes and sighed.

  He thought about his parents, married all these years. As far as he knew, his father had been faithful the entire time, his mother the same. Desmond wondered if there was any hope of the same for him. He thought about Miss Wonderful, Cydney Williams. She’d come into his restaurant with two other beautiful women, and yet, all he could see, all he desired, was Cydney. She was his hope.

  Desmond opened his eyes and looked across the road at the sexy, curvy silhouette of the Hot Tails sign. In there, right now, Jacinta was in
the back room fitting her bodacious body into some awe-inspiring outfit. In a short while she’d be back onstage again, gyrating to a club tune. Desmond smiled and fished in his pocket for his cell phone. He had to try his hope again. Hopefully, this time, Miss Wonderful would pick up the other line.

  Slay got in his loaner Camry and watched Cydney climb the steps to her apartment. He felt the urge to cry but opened the flip of his cell phone to attend to some business—moneymaking always chased away the fiercest blues. He scrolled through his address book, stopping on J. He selected the option and waited.

  It rang three or four times before a soft voice picked up. “Hello.” There was loud music in the background and Slay could tell she had the phone cupped to keep out as much of the noise as possible.

  “Hola, Hah-seen-ta,” he said. “I was going to leave you a voice mail message.”

  “Slay,” she said.

  “How did I do with your name, my español any better?”

  “Getting there,” she acknowledged.

  “You working?”

  “Always,” she said. “I just finished my set, preparing for my next one as we speak.”

  “You killing ’em today, or what?”

  “You got something for me, or what?” she shot back.

  “You can’t even have a word wit’ a nigga for a minute. All business and shit.”

  “Cash rules everything around me,” she responded.

  Slay laughed. “Cream, dollar dollar bill, y’all. That was the shit, wasn’t it? What’s going on with Wu Tang now?”

  “I look like Ol’ Dirty Bastard or something, Slay?”

  “You look like new clean pussy, baby, you know that,” Slay told her. He thought the comment clever and quick-witted. She seemed unmoved.

  “You got something for me?”

  Slay shook his head, this was not a good day on the female front. “Dude named William Jeffries, esquire.”

  “A lawyer…great,” she said, sighing.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I’m just not looking forward to this guy.”

  “His pockets are deep,” Slay told her.

  “Is that a fact,” she said. “Good. At the Berkeley?”

  “Always. You know I take care of my ladies.”

  “Don’t front on me, Slay. I don’t like how that sounds. I’m not one of your ladies.”

  “I try to broker a good situation,” Slay corrected. “That better?”

  “Much.”

  “Same deal as usual. His room is registered to Gabriel Cohen. Your money will be waiting for you at the desk, wrapped up with a bow and the whole nine.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you again,” she told him.

  Slay smiled. “Right, right.” He closed the flip and pocketed his cell phone. He looked up at Cydney’s apartment, toward her window. This was one time moneymaking had failed to chase those fierce blues away. A knot sat heavy in his stomach. He shook his head and pulled from the lot.

  Cydney rushed down the hall to the bathroom, used the toilet, missed the flush but didn’t turn back, and ran her hands under the water spigot. She wiped her wet hands dry on the extra-long shirt she wore and grabbed a two-liter bottle of Coke from the refrigerator. She scooted across the carpet and plopped down on the couch. A commercial for Tide laundry detergent ran its course and then a silky-smooth woman’s voice came on.

  We now return to Lifetime’s A Vision of Murder: The Story of Donielle.

  Cydney closed her eyes and took a breath to steady her heartbeat. She was proud to have accomplished so much in the short ninety-second span the advertisers gave her. Cydney pulled the coffee table closer to the couch, a bowl of microwave popcorn—mixed with a bit of butter and a touch of sugar—within reach. She sat crossed-legged, her caramel-colored legs smooth beneath her after a nice shave and the pampering of an earlier bath.

  The scene on screen moved to a bar. Then a woman in a tight pink top fell on the floor, choking. Maria Conchita Alonso knelt over the woman, screaming for someone to help. Cydney leaned in, her heart beating fast and in tune with the dramatic music from the movie score.

  The phone rang.

  Cydney jumped.

  She looked across the room toward the kitchen, the phone on the counter, then back at the television. The phone rang a second time. Cydney huffed and got up. She walked across the floor, looking back with every step. She reached the kitchen island and pulled the cordless from the cradle.

  “Hello.”

  “Miss Wonderful, I caught you this time.”

  It was good to hear his voice but his timing sucked the big one. “Desmond.”

  “You don’t sound that excited to hear from me,” he said.

  Cydney turned from the view of the television screen. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was watching a movie.”

  “Oh, I can call you back, then.”

  “No—” she looked back at the television as if it were a dying loved one “—no. I’d rather talk with you.”

  “What were you watching?”

  “A movie on Lifetime.”

  “Ooohhhh,” Desmond said. “The shattered network.”

  Cydney blinked, eased into a seat far from the trappings of the television. “Come again?”

  “Lifetime,” Desmond said. “I call it the shattered network.”

  “And why’s that?” Cydney asked, interested.

  “Every other movie on there has shattered in the title. Shattered Souls. Shattered Lives. Shattered Lovers. That and betrayal,” Desmond said. “Betrayal of Trust. Shattered Betrayal.”

  Cydney laughed. “You’re a fool.”

  “Go grab your TV Guide and look over the next week’s programming,” Desmond said. “You’ll see.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Rucker. So how goes life?”

  Desmond sat back in his truck, surprised at how easy it was to talk to this ray of hope. “Life goes well…now.”

  “I received your message last evening,” Cydney said. “It was nice.”

  “So much I want to tell you,” Desmond said. He stopped and laughed to himself. “I didn’t mean to tell it all on your voice mail, though.”

  “It was cute.”

  “Uh-oh, cute isn’t good for a grown man.”

  “Cute is veeerrry good for a grown man, who told you otherwise?”

  “Oh, is it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Cydney Williams?”

  She loved the way he said her name, even more so than when Stephon said it. “Yes.”

  “I would love to see you today,” Desmond said. “Would that be a problem?”

  “You’re not bogged down running that fabulous restaurant of yours?”

  “I told you, Sunday is my free day.”

  “So what did you have in mind for me?” Cydney asked.

  “Fly by the seat of my pants,” Desmond said. “I’m sure when I see you—if I’m blessed enough to—that I’ll come up with something.”

  “You’re quite persuasive, Mr. Rucker.”

  “At this moment I truly hope so, Miss Williams.”

  “You know where the Monmouth Mall is?” Cydney asked.

  “But of course.”

  “I have to return something at Macy’s. I can meet you there in two hours.”

  “Consider it done,” Desmond said.

  “What will you have on?” Cydney asked.

  Desmond looked down at himself. “I’ve got on a mustard turtleneck and black pleated pants. Why?”

  “Just gauging what I should wear,” Cydney said. “I’ll see you in two hours. You can meet me at the food court.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, Miss Wonderful.”

  Cydney eased the tongue that had crept from the corner of her mouth back in, wiped that lip-cracking smile off her face. “Feeling’s mutual.”

  An hour and forty-five minutes later Cydney was in Macy’s. She walked over to the men’s cologne section and placed two bottles of Alfred Dunhill’s Desire on the cou
nter. She handed the cashier, who she didn’t recognize, her receipt.

  “Return?” the lady asked, and then looking closer at the receipt. “You work here?”

  Cydney nodded. “Part-time.”

  The woman smiled. “The employee discount is nice. I took the job to save my husband money. I was always in here buying something.”

  Cydney smiled politely. She was on the clock and wanted to get this transaction completed so she’d be on time for Desmond.

  “Do you want a store credit or a refund?” the lady asked her.

  Cydney considered the bottles of cologne. Early Christmas gifts she’d picked up for Stephon and Slay. “I’ll take the refund.”

  The woman stepped away and returned a short while later with a refund receipt for Cydney to sign. Cydney hurriedly signed, took her money, thanked the woman and rushed toward the food court.

  Cydney caught a glimpse of Desmond as soon as she made the turn around the bend that led to the food court. He caught her at the same time. Man, they had a connection between them. Desmond’s eyes brightened and he started in Cydney’s direction. She slowed what had been a half trot to a slow sashay. He was wearing the heck out of those clothes, she noticed, his broad shoulders filling out his black leather jacket, his stride confident and sexy.

  When they reached each other he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. “You look wonderful, Cydney Williams.”

  What, no lips this time?

  “Thanks,” she said. She scanned him, head to toe. “You look good, too.”

  He nodded toward the table closest to them. “I took the liberty of grabbing lemonade for you. I’m not hungry just yet, I really just wanted to see you, but if you want to grab something to eat now that’s cool. I’m not skimping on you, either. I plan on taking you to a real restaurant later.”

  Cydney crinkled her nose. “I ate my fill of popcorn.”

  Desmond smiled. “That’s right. I took you from your movie. I apologize.”

  Cydney looked up at him. “Words are cheap. Make it up to me.”

  Desmond rubbed his hands together. “You are so right,” he said, taking her arm and wrapping it in his own. “Let’s go. I’ll bring you back for your car later.” He stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t you have something you needed to do here?”