Crazy Love
Page 5
“It’s like that? Dang! So…is he a seven-incher?” Her eyes widened at Tameeka’s smirk. “Bigger? Wow!”
“You know what? Your ass is getting too damn nosy!” she said, then playfully stuck her tongue out at Stacie before turning toward the window to hide the blush that was a sure giveaway of her true feelings for Tyrell. No man had ever treated her as well as he did; Tyrell gave her a sense of peacefulness.
“Humph! He must be a six-incher. Otherwise you wouldn’t have the ’tude,” Stacie snickered.
“Whatever!” Tameeka grinned and kept her secret to herself.
“So where’s the brother setting down his briefcase?” she asked. Tameeka strained to hear the question. The thrrruuump pow, thrrruuump pow, thrrruuump pow sound had returned. She shook her head and glanced at her friend, amazed that the ear-splitting noise didn’t bother her. She was still driving along and humming to one of the songs on the radio.
“He doesn’t have a briefcase. He drives a bus…a city bus. He works for the City of Atlanta.”
“That’s interesting,” Stacie said. Then continued to hum along with the music.
Tameeka bristled, then asked loudly, “What’s so interesting about that?” She had turned in her seat, cocked her head to the side and glared at her friend.
“It’s just interesting, that’s all,” Stacie answered, then pulled her eyes away from the road to smile weakly at her friend. “Look at you. You own your own business. A thriving business, no less. You got a phat ride,” she said. “And you’re the smartest person I know. Whassup with a bus driver? How come you can’t find a man at all the Chamber of Commerce meetings you go to?”
Tameeka rolled her eyes. The men she met at those meetings all wanted petite women with long, flowing hair and slamming bodies. “He’s a good man,” Tameeka said, and let the matter drop. “We should double-date. Me and Tyrell and you and Crawford. That’ll be cool. Hanging out with an NBA player.”
Stacie hadn’t told Tameeka about Crawford kicking her out of his hotel room; the embarrassment and hurt was too fresh.
“Stacie?” Tameeka called softly when her grandmother’s and Stacie’s mother’s apartment building came into view.
“I’m okay,” Stacie answered, reassuring her friend.
“You’re sure?”
Stacie turned a bright smile on her friend and nodded. “I am.”
Tameeka eyed her skeptically. “Well…”
“Trust me, I am,” Stacie said.
Tameeka gave Stacie’s hand a comforting squeeze. Growing up, Stacie hardly talked about her father, but when she did it was with a bitterness that left Tameeka wondering what he had done to her friend. Whatever he did made Stacie fearful every time she went home. Even from the grave he’s still hurting her, she thought, and shook her head.
Stacie pulled her Lexus into the parking lot and stopped in front of the prison-looking apartments. They were shaped like giant refrigerator boxes; three levels, tall and muddy brown-colored, they were configured into a giant U. In the middle of it all were broken-down picnic tables and naked trees. That’s where she and Tameeka had spent summer days playing hopscotch, jump rope and kick ball. Each apartment had a patio, which was really just a piece of cement about the size of a slice of bread, barely big enough to hold a barbecue grill and chaise lounge.
Auburn Heights was just like any other project in the ghetto: women were grandmothers by the time they were thirty, a gold tooth was a fashion accessory and work was harder to come by than a thirty-year-old virgin.
Stacie was halfway out of her car when she remembered where she was. She shook her head and screwed her face up into a frown. The world ran differently in Auburn Heights. There were four classes of citizens: those who sold drugs, those who bought them, those who died either selling or using and those whose daily existence was making themselves invisible to the first three. Egos were galaxy-size; honor was thick and the rules changed on a daily basis.
Stacie surveyed a group of young men and her lips turned up in a smile when she saw a familiar face, her cousin Pimp. She asked Tameeka for money, then ran over and was pulled into a bear hug, which ended with her sticking a fifty-dollar bill in Pimp’s pocket. Her car was safe. But that didn’t stop her from activating the alarm. Not that that even mattered nowadays; nobody even blinked at a car’s hysterical shriek. It was about as common as a baby crying.
“Call me at my mom’s when you’re ready to roll,” Stacie said as she headed toward her mother’s apartment and Tameeka walked in the opposite direction to her grandmother’s place.
Stacie walked up the steps to her mother’s garden-level apartment, shaking her head at the garbage strewn across the neighbor’s yard. Old newspapers, crumpled soda cans and torn candy bar wrappers dotted the postage-stamp-size yard. Then she surveyed her mother’s yard. It was a miniparadise. Two rose bushes framed her front door, the little bit of grass, too small to be called a lawn, was lush and green. Two little frogs sat on the top step. They croaked every time somebody came to the front door.
She pushed open her mother’s front door and was struck by three things: the sour smell of cooked cabbage, the stench of baby poop and the cloying scent of floral perfume.
“Aw shit!” Stacie groaned, and resisted the urge to cover her nose. She should be used to the smells, but they only seemed to get worse with every visit. Closing the door behind her, she maneuvered her way between a green velvet sectional with overstuffed pillows, a black lacquer coffee table and a twenty-seven-inch TV to the windows, which she raised, hoping for some fresh air.
Turning away from the window, her big toe connected with a hard object and a string of expletives escaped her lips. She reached down to stroke her injured foot and that’s when she saw her niece’s wooden building block. Her sister, Nevia, had never been a very good housekeeper. Twenty-six years old, Nevia had lived harder than a Snoop Doggy Dogg groupie. At one time, drugs, prostitution and shoplifting were her lifestyle. After a ninety-day stint in the Fulton County jail, she reevaluated her life and decided that she could do better. She had gone back to school sacrificing nights and weekends for a medical assistant certificate.
Stacie plucked up the block along with other toys that littered the floor and turned to her sister’s bedroom door, ready to give her a piece of her mind, but got a pleasant surprise instead. Standing at the threshold was her two-year-old niece, CoCo. She had waddled up to the threshold of her bedroom door and stopped; she rarely ventured from her safety zone.
She gave a wickedly delicious laugh like only a two-year-old can, peeked over her shoulder and, knowing an opportunity when she saw one, began to make her way to her aunt. She had her bottle, or her “ba ba,” as she called it, clutched to her chest as if it was a foot-long piece of chocolate.
Stacie bent down and plucked her niece up, showering her face and rounded belly with butterfly kisses. CoCo giggled joyously and grabbed hold of the attention the same way a drowning man would a life preserver. Stacie’s nose didn’t miss the undeniable pungent smell of baby poop clinging to her niece. She needed a diaper change.
With CoCo in her arms, Stacie strolled into her sister’s room and stopped dead in her tracks. She screwed her face up in disgust. The room was a pigsty. Empty fast-food containers littered the floor, a pile of dirty diapers lay in the corner and the bed was heaped with clothes, dirty glasses and wrinkled newspapers. Nausea rose in her throat and threatened to explode through her lips. She covered her mouth as she inched into the room and rooted through the pile of junk for clean diapers and a reasonably clean towel. As soon as she found both, she raced out of the bedroom.
“Damn. Your momma’s a freakin’ pig,” she said to CoCo, who was oblivious to the mess. She was used to it and besides, she was too young to know that anything was wrong.
Just as Stacie laid CoCo on the couch, her mother stepped into the living room. She was wiping her hands with a dishrag. “Hey, baby, I didn’t hear you come in.” She kissed Stacie on the cheek, then playful
ly poked her granddaughter in the stomach and was rewarded with a wide grin. “Hey, cutie,” she clucked. She glanced over at her daughter’s open door and her eyes clouded over. CoCo was momentarily forgotten as she walked to her baby daughter’s door and peeked in. She shuddered, then firmly shut the door behind her. “I can’t stand to look at it,” she said, then sat down next to Stacie.
At forty-five, Gladys could easily pass for someone ten years her junior. She was a beautiful lady. Her skin was the color of an eggplant and just as smooth. Her hair was pulled back and coiled into a tight bun, and on the rare times when she let it down, it kissed the middle of her back. Years of power mall walking kept her in excellent shape.
“Momma! Why don’t you make her clean up?” Stacie protested. Although she and her sister were close, she had no problem voicing her complaints about Nevia. Stacie placed the towel on the couch and laid CoCo on top of it. With the efficiency of someone who had diapered hundreds of babies, she had CoCo’s diaper off and a clean one on her in thirty seconds flat.
Her mother shrugged. “She’ll clean up when she gets a chance. She’s busy at the hospital. People don’t stop getting sick, you know. Besides, it’s not that big of a deal. I’m just so proud of her, she’s thinking about going to nursing school. Did she tell you?”
Stacie shook her head. “That’s wonderful, Momma. I think she’ll make a good nurse.”
Her mother nodded in agreement, then asked, “Have you read any of those books yet?”
“Oh crap! Sorry, I meant to say no. I’ve been busy,” Stacie whined, reverting to her preteen years. “I don’t have the time.”
Her mother looked at her and rolled her eyes before she walked out of the living room and returned with a book in her hand. “Here, read this,” she said, handing it to Stacie.
Stacie read the title out loud, “Hurston, Novels and Stories.”
“It’s a collection of all her works,” her mother said.
“I guess it helps having a mother who’s a teacher,” Stacie teased. “I’ll read it,” she promised. “Where are my other nieces?” she asked, as the apartment was surprisingly quiet without the kids.
Her sister had three babies. Designer babies, is what Stacie and Tameeka called them. CoCo, the middle baby, was black and Hispanic. Three-year-old Chloe, the oldest, was Japanese and black. Lastly there was Connie. At six months old, she looked like an angel. She was black and Italian. The fathers were picked for their good looks and not necessarily their dick or wallet size.
“She has them. She said something about taking Chloe and Connie to see their fathers. CoCo was napping when she left, so I told her to let her sleep. So what’s going on at the law firm?” she asked; she loved hearing Stacie’s stories about the people at her job.
“Same old, same old,” Stacie answered vaguely as she played with CoCo.
“Have you been promoted yet?” she asked, and Stacie shook her head. “Well, they should, you practically run the office,” she said. “How long have you been there?”
Stacie shrugged. “About eight years. But I’ve been having problems.”
“What kind of problems?” Gladys asked, concerned.
“They’ve been watching me. I’ve been getting to work—”
At that moment Nevia strolled into the house and Stacie’s mouth gaped open. While Stacie had gotten her looks from her father, Nevia had inherited their mother’s eggplant coloring, sheath of long glossy hair and even after three kids, her body was still tight. She had no problem with showing it to everyone and anyone. The denim shorts she had on barely covered her rear end, her buttocks peeking out like two ripe peaches. The white halter top was nothing more than two handkerchiefs sewn together with string drawn through. It barely covered her breasts. Chloe was at her side and Connie was sleeping in the stroller.
“Damn, girl,” Stacie said. “Do you have to go outside like that? Momma, look what she’s wearing.” Stacie turned to her mother and pointed at her sister.
Gladys simply nodded her head. She and Nevia had argued so much about her choice of clothing that she was tired of it.
“Momma’s okay with what I wear,” Nevia said, and pranced into the room. “You’re just jealous because your old ass can’t wear something like this.”
“Nevia!” Gladys warned. She didn’t allow cursing in her home.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Nevia said, feigning remorse. “I see you’re still driving that old as—” she shot a look at her mother. “I mean, that old piece of junk around.”
“Excuse you,” Stacie said. Her sister was unbelievable. “So what are you rolling in now? Last I heard, you and the city bus drivers were on a first-name basis.”
“That’s about to change,” Nevia answered mysteriously. Then in a spiteful move, she lifted CoCo from Stacie’s leg and set her on the floor. But CoCo toddled back over to her aunt and pulled herself up on the couch and into Stacie’s lap. Despite herself, Stacie stuck her tongue out at her sister.
“What have you gotten yourself into now?” Gladys asked, warily eyeing her daughter.
“Nuthin’,” Nevia lied, then began talking really fast, which instantly tipped Gladys off that she was lying. She listened anyway, nodding her head when it seemed appropriate. “Last week, I went over to CoCo’s daddy’s house. Carlos had some family visiting from Puerto Rico and they wanted to go car shopping, and I hung out with them. So when we got there, I started looking at the cars. Then his uncle offered to buy me a little Honda Accord, wasn’t that nice? He’s the nicest man I know. The car should be here tomorrow, they have to finish the paperwork and stuff,” she finished, and let out a deep breath as her gaze bounced from her mother to her sister.
“Well—er—that’s nice, Nevia,” Gladys stuttered, stunned by the news.
Stacie shot her mother an incredulous look that said: If you’re not going to ask her, I will. “Let me get this straight. Carlos’s uncle, a man you just met, bought you a car, for no reason at all, other than the fact you thought it looked nice? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Nevia nodded. “Yep, that’s what I’m telling you,” she said, and inwardly cursed herself. She had to go ahead and blab about the car while Stacie was there. She knew that her sister would grill her like Judge Mathis. “It happens all the time. Some cultures are just more generous than others. Whenever I go over to Carlos’s house, his mother always cooks for me and CoCo and she sends us home with a plate. Doesn’t she, Momma?” She turned wide eyes on her mother, who was watching her with pinched lips.
“Hold up, a car is a lot different from dinner,” Stacie snapped. “And a heck of a lot more expensive, more like fifteen thousand more. And you didn’t have to do anything for it?” Stacie questioned. “He just gave you the car—free and clear?”
“No, I didn’t have to do anything for it,” she answered. Then, to avoid her sister’s accusing eyes, Nevia bent down and peered in Connie’s face; who was still peacefully sleeping in the stroller.
“You don’t even have a driver’s license,” Stacie pointed out. “How do you plan on driving it?”
Nevia sighed and pulled herself upright and faced her sister. “Manny, that’s Carlos’s uncle, plans on teaching me. He said that he’ll take me out for as long as it takes for me to learn to drive. Isn’t that sweet?” she asked.
A sudden thought struck Stacie. “Does Carlos know who bought you the car? Or have you even told him about it?” she asked. She knew the answer as soon as Nevia began moving her lips and nothing came out. Her sister had never been good at coming up with a lie at the spur of the moment. Then Nevia suddenly found her voice.
“He’s okay with it,” she said. “I told you, his family is very generous and he wants to make sure that his daughter is taken care of.”
Stacie knew Carlos; he’d shoot you first and ask questions later. His boys called him Fierce for both his temper and his quickness with a gun.
Nevia reached over and plucked CoCo off Stacie’s leg, causing her daughter to howl. Hu
rt flashed across Nevia’s face and she swallowed a lump of jealousy, then cut her eyes at her sister. Things always came easy to Stacie; she got the best grades in high school, men constantly flocked to her and she got the tight job at a law firm. Now she got my daughter, Nevia thought.
Nevia dropped CoCo back onto her aunt’s legs. Her howls stopped and she began gurgling happily. Nevia angrily smacked her teeth, grabbed Connie and Chloe and flounced off to her bedroom, where she slammed the door, rattling several knickknacks on the shelves hanging outside her room.
With her sister out of the room, Stacie angrily rounded on her mother. “Momma! Why didn’t you say something to her? You know that man didn’t just buy the car out of the goodness of his heart.”
“Maybe he did,” Gladys argued weakly. “There are some good people out there, Stacie,” she insisted.
“Yeah, there are. But not buy-a-stranger-a-car good people,” she said, and dropped her voice lower. “Come on, Momma, what do you think Nevia had to do to get that car?” she asked, as she anxiously looked at her niece.
“Stacie! What are you saying about your sister? She wouldn’t do anything like that! The old Nevia would, but not now, not now,” she said, vigorously shaking her head. “Your sister has changed,” she insisted.
“I don’t know, Momma…” Stacie said, shaking her head, hoping that her sister wasn’t backsliding into the life she had left, where drugs and money ruled and bodies were disposable commodities. What the hell did Nevia have to do to get that car? Stacie wondered. The phone rang and she stretched over and brought the receiver to her ear. She blanched when she heard the familiar voice. “Nevia!” she yelled. “It’s Carlos!”
8
Putting Life on Cruise Control Is the Only Way to Go
Who the hell is Mohammad?” Tyrell repeated. He had sprung out of bed.
“Nobody,” Tameeka stuttered. The flush of her orgasm cooled down to a clammy veil.
“So you just call out any dude’s name?”