And then she noticed it. His name shouldn’t have been Blue; it should have been Brown. He was the same color as everything around him. “No, thank you,” she said to his offer of beer. “Mr. Blue, I apologize for disturbing you so late.”
“Ah, it’s not late,” he said. “It’s not even midnight.” Then he screamed, “Would you guys turn that noise down? We got company.” But the chaos continued as if he hadn’t spoken. He looked back at Sheridan and grinned again. “Sorry.”
Sheridan didn’t return his smile. “I drove Déjà home tonight because she missed the last bus.”
His face stiffened when he turned to Déjà. “How’d you do that?”
Déjà flipped open the top of a soda can and shrugged.
He turned back to Sheridan. “Thank you. I know it was a long ride, because Déjà told me you guys live in one of those fancy homes near Ladera.”
“Mr. Blue, when I came home, I found Déjà with my son.” A baby’s wail came from the back. She paused and looked at Déjà. She leaned against the counter separating the living room from the kitchen. Sheridan was surprised; Déjà looked amused. “They were in…well, let’s just say I was upset.”
“Oh, yeah,” Harold glanced at Déjà, who rolled her eyes.
“Yes. And I’m concerned because not only does Christopher have a curfew, but they were in the house with his sister. This kind of behavior is unacceptable to me, as I’m sure it is to you.”
Harold shrugged. “What were they doing? A little kissing? A little making out?”
Sheridan took a breath. “That may have been the beginning.”
Harold chuckled. “That’s no big deal. Chris is your oldest, right?” Before she could answer, he said, “You haven’t been through the hormonal teenage years. So let me tell you, that’s normal. They’re just kids being kids.”
What kind of parent are you? “I don’t allow that kind of behavior in my house, Mr. Blue.”
“Oh, now I get it,” he said. “You have a little one.” He paused and looked at his daughter. “Déjà, from now on, you and Chris should hang out here. Don’t be going over there, making out with that little girl in the house.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
He smiled at Sheridan as if he’d solved the problem.
Sheridan exclaimed, “Mr. Blue—”
“Please call me Harold.”
Sheridan had to fight to keep her voice down. “The problem is not just my daughter being in the house. The problem is that…” She paused and swallowed, taking a moment to pray that what she was about to say wasn’t true. “They were almost having sex.”
Harold frowned as if he didn’t understand her words. “What’s the problem?” He turned to Déjà. “Chris isn’t forcing you to do anything, is he?”
“No, Daddy.”
He looked at Sheridan. “So, it looks like it’s consensual.”
She wanted to tell Harold Blue that there was no such thing as consensual sex between an eighteen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old minor, but she stayed silent. He took a puff on his cigarette, and then said to Déjà, “And if you do anything you’ll use protection, right? With all those diseases out there.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He might as well have driven a stake through her heart.
“Look, Ms. Hart,” he continued, “I have seven daughters who I raised mostly by myself.”
Obviously.
“Déjà is the youngest, and she’s done well. She graduated from high school, and she’s the first one to do that before she had a baby. But I ain’t complaining about the others. They’re good kids too. They all got little ones, but their babies’ daddies are doing the thing and taking care of their children.”
It was shock that kept her silent.
“Anyway,” he continued, explaining real life to Sheridan, “Chris has a good head on his shoulders. And the best thing is”—he paused and winked—“he can’t get pregnant.”
“Mr. Blue…” And then Sheridan stopped. How could she explain what she wanted for her son? How could she tell him her son wasn’t going to be anybody’s baby’s daddy? “Good night, Mr. Blue.”
He stood. “Hey, don’t worry, little lady,” he said as he followed Sheridan. “I know these kids will be responsible.”
Sheridan climbed into her car and wondered if Mr. Blue or his daughter could spell responsible. She started her SUV and then floored the accelerator. Still she didn’t get away fast enough.
It wasn’t until she was on the freeway that she realized how hard her heart was pounding.
“Don’t worry, little lady.” She heard Mr. Blue’s raspy voice. “Don’t worry,” she said aloud. She couldn’t do anything else. The man didn’t care what was going on with Christopher and his daughter. It didn’t matter to him. Christopher was probably the best thing ever to happen to that entire family—even if he was only sixteen.
Sheridan made up her mind. She didn’t care if she had to lock Christopher inside his room like it was a high-security prison if it would keep him away from Déjà and the rest of the Blue crew.
Sheridan looked at the clock, and then took the SUV to eighty. She had to get home. She had a son she needed to talk to, a son she needed to save.
It was after midnight, but Sheridan didn’t care. She marched into the house, up the stairs, and straight to Christopher’s room. Without her perfunctory knock, she swung his door open, and turned on the overhead light.
He stirred before she called him and he sat up.
He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. “Mom, is Déjà all right?”
She wanted to shake this alien until he returned her son. “She’s fine.” He sighed as if he was relieved, and Sheridan wondered what he thought. Wondered if he imagined his mother taking Déjà for a long ride and then returning alone. She wished she’d thought of that.
As he turned to lie back down, Sheridan said, “We need to talk.”
He yawned.
“Christopher, I cannot tell you how disappointed I am.”
“I don’t know why, Mom. I was just waiting for you. I didn’t know you were going to be so late.”
She paused, unable to understand his nonchalance. She’d caught him, in her house, on top of a girl who was almost naked. Months ago, he would have been trembling at the thought of what his parents would do. But tonight he looked like he didn’t care.
And then she thought of Brock. In the hallway. With her and Christopher.
She pushed that memory to the back of her mind. “What was Déjà doing here anyway? You’re not supposed to have company on a school night.”
“She was helping me with my trigonometry homework.”
If she weren’t fuming, she would have laughed. She doubted if Déjà could add three numbers together.
He continued to plead his case. “And what could I do? She was stranded.”
“It doesn’t matter. Christopher, you are continually breaking the rules, and this is not acceptable.”
“Why are you hassling me, Mom?” When he raised his voice, Sheridan raised her eyebrows. “You keep stressing me.”
“Christopher, you have lost your mind. I’m stressing you?”
“Yeah. And I don’t know why,” he said more slowly, as if that would help his mother understand. “My grades are good; I don’t get in trouble. I do everything you want me to do. And I’m nothing like that jerk you married.”
It was a reflex, the way her hand pulled back. The way she used her body to increase the force. The way her palm hit him, leaving her hand stinging. Leaving an imprint of five fingers on his face.
“Don’t you ever talk to me like that again,” she said. Her teeth were so tightly clenched it almost hurt to speak. “And don’t you ever say anything like that about your father.”
His wide eyes filled with tears as he held his cheek. “Mom…”
“Don’t say another word. Just listen.” She pointed her finger in his face. “You are not to see Déjà. Not inside this house, not outside, not
in Los Angeles, Inglewood, or Pomona. Not on the basketball court or on the golf course. If you see her walking down the street, you are to run the other way. You are not to see her anywhere on this earth, do you understand me?”
He nodded slowly.
“And if I find out that you have defied me—and you know I will find out—you will pay, Christopher. Don’t test me. I’m serious. You…will…pay.”
She stared at him, cementing her message, and then stomped from his room.
It wasn’t until she was in her bedroom that her tears came. She laid her head on her pillow. First she’d lost Quentin. Then she’d had the news of her father’s illness. Now she was sure she was on the verge of losing her son. And if she lost Christopher, there would be no one to blame but herself.
Chapter Thirty-six
“Well,” Beatrice began in her calm, cautious way, “you did the right thing. Maybe Quentin needs to talk to Chris too.”
Although they were speaking on the phone, Sheridan nodded, grateful for her mother. This conversation was so different from the one she’d had with Kamora. When she told her best friend about Déjà and the Blue crew, Kamora had hollered with laughter. Sheridan could imagine Kamora in her office, buckled over.
Kamora could barely speak the way she gasped for air. “Stop it, girl,” she repeated, as if Sheridan’s life were a sketch on Comedy Central.
But her mother didn’t find the situation as humorous, and Beatrice was doing something she didn’t often do: she was offering advice.
“I don’t think it’s serious, Sheridan,” Beatrice continued. “This is the first time you’ve had any real problems with Chris, and we know the reason.”
Sheridan closed her eyes. She wondered if silence was as bad as lying. She knew that her mother was talking about Quentin. But this time Sheridan couldn’t blame her son’s behavior on his father alone.
“Have you thought about counseling?”
Sheridan opened her eyes and tilted her head. “No, not really, but that may be a good idea, Mom.” Maybe she didn’t need to be seeing Pastor Ford alone. Maybe she needed to take Christopher and Tori with her.
Beatrice continued. “You and the children have been through so much. It may help to get guidance from a Christian counselor. Give you all a chance to talk through your feelings. And counseling could help Quentin too.”
A car door slammed, and Sheridan peeked through her curtains. Her eyes widened. She jumped away from the window. “Mom, I have to go,” she said.
“Okay, sweetheart.”
Sheridan hung up. Her hands shook as she paced in the entryway. She looked down at her jeans and adjusted the collar of her shirt.
Get it together, Sheridan.
She had to show him. Show him that she was just fine. Show him that their time together had meant as little to her as it had meant to him.
The bell chimed, and she took a deep breath. When she opened the door, her face stretched with surprise, as if she hadn’t just scoped him walking up to her front door. “Brock. Nice to see you.” But her tone belied the flutters that made her feel faint. It had been five days, and he looked as good to her now as he had when he took her hand, kissed her lips, and led her to paradise.
His lips spread into his lopsided smile as he handed her a package. “Delivery for you.”
Her inside flutters turned to churning. He wasn’t even there to see her, just there to make a delivery. Her heart cried, but she kept her emotions inside.
She took her tone from casual to professional. “Thank you very much.” Even her fake smile was gone. “Is there something I need to sign?”
His smile was gone too. “Listen, Sheridan, I’m sorry I haven’t called, but…”
She held up her hand, stopping him. “No explanations necessary. I understand what last week was about.”
He frowned.
She continued, “We were just kickin’ it, right?” It didn’t even sound right to her, the way she said it. But she wasn’t going to stand there and be on the wrong side of joy. He was going to feel some of her pain.
“Is that what it was?”
“Yeah. It didn’t mean anything.” She reached for the package. “Is there something for me to sign?” she repeated.
He handed her the blue box. “Too bad,” he said with narrowed eyes. “Because the time I spent with you…it meant a lot to me.”
Now her insides rumbled.
“I came over to tell you that. And to apologize for not calling. But when I left you Saturday, my cell was blowing up. My grandmother had been hit by a car, and I stayed with her at Cedars the entire time. She just went home yesterday.”
Sheridan gasped.
“I haven’t even been to work, Sheridan.” He paused. “I came here looking for a friend, but I guess I came to the wrong place.”
“Brock. I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t. But I don’t want your sympathy. After all, I was just someone you were kickin’ it with.” He turned and trotted to his car.
Everything inside her dropped to the bottom. She closed the door when he sped away, leaving a trail of smoke from the exhaust pipe.
“It meant a lot to me.”
“It meant a lot to me too, Brock.” She wondered just how high she could lift her legs—to kick herself.
She glanced down at the box he’d given her, turning it every way, searching for the label. She frowned. There was no label. She sat on the couch and when she lifted the cover, she gasped.
She raised the porcelain flower basket from the box. Red, pink, and white roses sat on top of a ceramic basket. Sheridan lifted the roses, and soft music filled the room.
Tears came to her eyes as she let the music box complete the stanza of “Zoom.” She replaced the top and noticed the card.
S, I had a wonderful time. I hope you had a chance to fly away…even if it was just for one night. B
She lifted the top again and let the chimes from her favorite song play out. And then she read the card again. Then played the music; then read the card. And all the time wondered how she could ever convince Brock Goodman to give her another chance.
Sheridan checked the locks on the door and then turned off the lights. She paused outside her bedroom. The lights were still on in Tori’s and Christopher’s bedrooms.
She was still concerned about Déjà, but she knew there was nothing more she could do. Without prompting, Christopher had promised her yesterday and again today that he wouldn’t see Déjà anymore. She’d have to go with that. For now.
Sheridan stepped into her bedroom and saw the music box lying in the center of her bed. She picked up the porcelain piece and removed the top, as she’d done every hour since Brock gave it to her that afternoon.
And again, she read the card.
She took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
Maybe he won’t answer, she thought when his line began to ring. By the fourth ring, she was sorry she’d had that thought; she did want to speak to him. On the fifth ring she imagined him sitting, looking at the caller ID. With the sixth ring, she made a promise to hang up if it rang one more time. On the eighth ring, he answered.
“Brock, this is Sheridan.”
“Yes?”
“How are you?” she asked, knowing that was the dumbest question, since she’d just seen him hours before.
“Fine.”
“Were you busy?”
“No.”
She sighed. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Should I?”
“Yes. Because I called to tell you I shouldn’t have said those things.”
“What things?”
“I shouldn’t have said that our time together didn’t mean anything to me.”
He stayed silent.
“Brock, please. I’m sorry.”
She sighed when she heard his chuckle. “That’s what I was waiting to hear.”
She pouted. “You knew I didn’t mean what I said?”
“Not r
ight away. At first I was stunned. But when I drove away, I began to think about what you said. No way were you just kicking it. So I figured I had to decipher your coded message. Figure out what you were really upset about. Because with women, the problem is never what they say it is.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, and after thinking about it for two minutes, I figured you were upset because I hadn’t called you. So, was I close?”
She sank under the covers at his psychoanalysis. “You should think about changing careers,” she said lightly. Then she added, “I’m so sorry about your grandmother. How’s she doing?”
“She’s blessed, and she’s told every doctor and nurse in that place. Only her ankle was broken, so she’s able to get around a bit with a walker. She’s a diabetic with high blood pressure. That’s why they kept her in the hospital so long.”
“I wish you’d called me. I would have been there for you.”
“You were with me. In my mind.”
She fingered the porcelain box resting on the nightstand. “I love the music box. Thank you.”
“I saw a catalogue in the flower shop, and when I found out I could customize the music, I had to get it. It was delivered today, and I couldn’t wait to get it to you…and to see you.”
She paused. “I have…” She stopped.
“Tell me what you were going to say.”
“I have a hard time believing your words.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
She could tell he was amused, but she wasn’t, as thoughts of Quentin passed through her. “No, I just wonder how you could say all of that when we’ve only known each other a few weeks.”
“I was thinking the same thing. But one of the best lines I’ve ever heard is, ‘A heart does what it wants to do,’ so I’ve given up trying to figure out why I can’t get you out of my head. I’m not analyzing it, just going to go with it.”
“Is that what you want to do? Just go with this?”
“Yeah. As long as you don’t say any more crazy things.”
She almost smiled, then said, “Brock, what does a man like you want with me?”
“That’s what I was wondering.”
Grown Folks Business Page 27
