by Nikki Turner
“What makes you think that you know what’s in my eyes?”
“I can hear it in your voice. Plus, your mute button must be broke, and Phoebe can’t whisper worth shit.”
“No, you got ears the size of an elephant, that’s all.”
“That’s not all I got that’s like an elephant, but that’s another story. Now who do I need to fuck up for my good friend?”
“Nobody,” she answered. “I just had a really horrible day.”
“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”
“I don’t want to get more worked up than I already am. Shit has just been fucked up ever since they executed Dave last night. It was awful.”
“I know. I heard them talking about it on the news,” Bam said.
“I was there.”
“You were what?” he said, not believing what he had heard.
“I was there,” she repeated. “I watched it all go down, and I haven’t been able to sleep since,” she confessed. “But that wasn’t the half of it. This morning the people from the prison called to tell me that since I was listed as Dave’s next of kin, I would have to come and get his body if I wanted to give him a proper burial.”
“You gotta go get the body?” Bam questioned, surprised.
“Yes. And I don’t have any money for a funeral. Then to top it off,” she continued, “that mother of his…I don’t even want to talk about it.”
Bam let out a small chuckle. “What she do now?”
“Why you laughing?”
“Because Ms. Davis is a fool, and I don’t even want to imagine what her latest stunt might be.”
Her sister handed her some juice, and Isis took a sip before continuing. “Don’t you know that she had a fat-ass insurance policy on Dave, and she could give a flying fuck how he gets buried?”
“Is that all?” Bam said consolingly. “Fuck her. Don’t let her miserable ass get to you. She ain’t never gave a fuck about nobody but herself.”
“I know, but how could a mother literally leave her son for dead?”
“I’m telling you, it’s not even worth the stress trying to figure the old bitch out. Just tell me: How much do you need to send my man off in style?”
“Me and my sister are supposed to meet with the man at the funeral home tomorrow. I won’t know until then.”
“Well, let me know as soon as you know. Whatever it is, I got it. It’s gonna be okay,” Bam assured her. “Now how about I carry you out to dinner tonight?”
“I’m going to have to pass on dinner,” she said. “But I know Dave would’ve been pleased to know that one of his old friends came through for him.”
Bam brushed off her comment. “Well, call me tomorrow and let me know how much it is.”
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks a bunch. I’ll call you then.”
As soon as Isis put the phone down, Phoebe looked at her sister and said, “He gonna pay for it, ain’t he?”
A look of relief appeared over Isis’s face. “Yes,” she said, nodding her head. “How did you know?”
“Because that nigga has been in love with you from day one. He’s always wanted to find a way to get next to you, even before Dave.” Phoebe paused for a moment and then mumbled under her breath, “I guess he’s finally figured out a way how.”
Chapter 3
R. I. P.
Bam came through with the money needed for the funeral just as he promised, and it could never be said that Isis did not put Dave away in style. Although Isis had never planned a funeral before, she made do with the information learned from her Aunt Samantha, who’d practically raised her after her mother was sent to prison for killing her father.
Always dripping in fabulousity and ultraglamorous, Samantha stood five feet nine inches and was model thin. She wore only the best push-up bras that money could buy to make the small breasts God probably considered a blessing look like a B cup. Dressed, as always, as if going to a Vogue photo spread, she was at the funeral in a fierce black dress that complemented her small waist. Her long black hair was always kept up to par, and she was never caught without her makeup. Samantha was blessed with the beautiful eyes that Isis and Sandy shared, but the difference was that Samantha was never without long false eyelashes to enhance them.
After the funeral, Isis was walking out of the funeral home toward the limo when, out of nowhere, she was greeted by an unwelcome guest whom she saw walking from a red limo.
“Let me ask you one question.” Ms. Davis approached, wearing candy-apple red from head to toe. The two-piece skirt set was matched by stockings and pumps that were both the same shade of red. She was wearing a big-brimmed red hat with a lace veil, with red-and-white drop earrings, a red pearl necklace, and a wristful of gaudy red bracelets.
Before Isis could regain her composure, or her vision, from the shock of Ms. Davis having taken things too far both by showing up for the funeral and by sporting such a hideous coordinated ensemble, Dave’s mother was in her face, nose to nose, as if they were professional boxers posing for a pay-per-view fight advertisement.
“How da fuck you gonna have a motherfucking funeral for my son,” Ms. Davis said to Isis, “and not invite his momma, bitch?” She was moving her shoulders and neck from side to side like she was doing a stiff version of that dance, the snake.
It took everything in Isis’s power not to dropkick the woman. She answered with all the decorum she could muster. “Ms. Davis, you don’t send invites to a funeral.” Isis flashed a fake smile. “And besides, I thought you didn’t care if he was left in a cardboard box. Why should I go out of my way to make sure you were here to see that he wasn’t?” Isis had no intention of punking out to Ms. Davis ever again.
“It don’t make no motherfucking difference what I said, you little bitch. I am still his mother!”
Isis’s face twisted ever so slightly. She wasn’t going to be called a bitch too many more times by this hag. “Surely a real mother would have never collected the insurance money from her son’s death and not taken care of the burial of her son, would she?” Isis took a step back so she wouldn’t be in arm’s reach of Ms. Davis before continuing. “Not any mother that was worth a damn anyway.”
“Listen, you little bitch! I will beat yo’ young ass.”
“Whatever, lady.” Isis brushed off the threat. “Don’t come at me sideways just because you feel guilty that you’ve always been a piss-poor mother to your offspring.”
Aunt Samantha wasn’t far away and had overheard the conversation. Samantha, who was a little taller than Isis and about the same height as Ms. Davis—but much prettier—got right into Ms. Davis’s face. “My niece ain’t gon’ be called nan nother bitch from yo’ stank ass.” Samantha, like always, wanted to protect Isis from the unnecessary madness around her. “You want to put your hands on someone, honey, take it up with me.”
Ms. Davis looked Samantha up and down, observing every inch and detail, right down to her bone structure. “You must be crazy if you think I am going to stand here and fight a man.”
That statement got Isis worked up. “Oh, no you didn’t,” Isis said to Ms. Davis before hauling off and spitting at her. The spit landed right on her red pointed toe pumps. “Don’t you ever call my Aunt Samantha a man.”
Ms. Davis put her hands on her hips. “Shit, why not? Sa man tha. Mantha. Man! Take away the ‘Sa’ and the ‘tha’ and what you got? Man. The only somebody who might not be able to tell that your aunt Samantha is a man is Eddie Murphy.”
Aunt Samantha was actually Isis’s mother’s only brother—Sam Jones. He was living proof that God sometimes makes mistakes, just like the rest of us, because God had definitely given Sam the wrong body at birth. Sam had been getting shots to make her butt bigger and rounder and was taking the necessary steps to get a full sex change. For over twenty years, Sam had been dressing in drag, living the life of a woman.
When Isis’s mother had gone to prison, Sam had been forced to take on the responsibility of caring for his niece. His crazy, r
eckless lifestyle, the unprotected sex with various men, the casual drugging and drinking—all were reduced to a minimum when Isis had come to live with him. Isis was probably the best thing that had ever happened to Sam, because the AIDS epidemic swept through the gay community during that time. Most of Sam’s friends didn’t have a lifesaver like Isis to pull them away from the unhealthy lifestyle that they were living. Unfortunately, many of them battled the deadly disease to a losing end.
Missing her original target, Isis spat at Ms. Davis again, this time making her mark. Ms. Davis was caught off guard but still managed to swing and hit Isis with an open-handed smack to the face. That was the beginning of the end.
Aunt Samantha balled up her manicured fist and commenced to whip up on Ms. Davis as if the woman was a bitch who had just tried to steal her man. A few people were watching from inside the funeral home, but no one dared to break it up.
After a couple of well-placed blows by Samantha, Ms. Davis hit the ground. She should’ve stayed on her feet, because Samantha used her fall as an opportunity to stomp a young mudhole in her ungrateful butt. The only thing that made Samantha stop was looking down and noticing that she’d run her panty hose to the point that they were starting to look like large-holed fishnet stockings.
After leaving the imprint of her pointed-toe pump on Ms. Davis’s behind, Samantha warned, “Think about that the next time you want to call my child a bitch,” and followed that with another kick. “Bitch!”
Ms. Davis was balled up in a fetal position, afraid to move, afraid that another blow was on its way, when Samantha stepped over her to get to Isis and give her a hug. “I’m sorry, honey,” Aunt Samantha said, “but don’t let this affect today any more than it already has.”
“I won’t,” Isis assured Samantha. “You always told me that sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” They pulled themselves together and made their way to the burial ground to finish what they had intended to do from the start: put David in the ground in style.
Chapter 4
Sick as a Dog
Isis was eating breakfast at her favorite diner when her phone vibrated. Normally she turned the phone off when she was in a restaurant so that she could enjoy her food in peace and not distract other patrons from their dining with a one-sided phone conversation. She thought about just letting it go to voicemail, but when she looked down at the caller ID, she was glad that she hadn’t; it was Phoebe calling.
Phoebe was in Texas trying out for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, which had been a dream of hers since she was a little girl. The Cowboys had been her father’s favorite football team, and once he passed away, she had become even more determined to make the squad.
“Hey, sister,” Isis answered. “How is everything?”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you at the funeral,” Phoebe told her sister, sadness dripping from her voice. “I feel like I let you down. I really wanted to stay and help with everything going on with you right now.”
“I know, sis, but I really want you to do great at your tryouts. You know this has been your dream since we were young.”
“I know. But there are so many girls here to try out. I don’t know if I’ll make it anyway,” Phoebe said.
“Sure, you are going to make it. You were the head cheerleader in high school and led your squad to three straight championships. You’re a natural.” Isis tried to increase her sister’s confidence. “How many black chicks are there?”
“Probably.” She hesitated, “about ten.”
“Okay—they gotta have at least two black girls on the team, so you should be a lock. Plus, you got the looks and the talent. Besides, they gotta add some flavor, in my opinion.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing. You’re incredibly beautiful, you have a cute figure, you’re model thin, and in shape, plus you can dance your ass off.”
“That’s sweet of you to say, but you’re my sister,” Phoebe said. “Will they see that?”
“Sister, please. You are cuter than any cheerleader I ever seen, and you know that I’ve seen some cheerleaders in my day with all those football games that Daddy took me to. Gurl, I need to be down there in Texas judging y’all.”
“You right,” Phoebe said with a slight chuckle. “I guess you would know.” But Isis could hear a little hurt in her voice. “Sister, I’ve always been jealous of the relationship that you and Dad shared. He was your full-time dad and only a when-I-see-you dad for me, which was only when he had to stop by to drop off money or get a quickie with Brenda. That’s all Brenda cared about. She didn’t give a damn about Dad having a father–daughter relationship with me. Sure, sometimes he would stay a little while, but I never got to go out to eat with him or to the movies or go to the park or football games.”
Isis had never known that her sister felt that way. Though they’d formed a bond as strong as any blood sisters could, Phoebe had never talked much about her feelings toward their father.
Phoebe continued, “Then when Sandy killed him, my chances of us ever having a deeper relationship were killed right along with him.”
“Sister, I’m sorry that you didn’t have a closer relationship with our father, but we both suffered great losses when he died,” Isis said. “I lost both of my parents on that day.”
Sandy had received a thirty-year prison sentence for the killing. Isis had never understood how her mother could have done something so horrific, and so she had never forgiven Sandy or ever visited her in prison. As far as Isis was concerned, her mother had died on that day as well.
“I’m sorry for peeling the scab off old wounds,” Phoebe said. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Sister, you have nothing to apologize for. You should always feel free to share how you feel with me. If you can’t be honest with me, then who can you be honest with? Your mother?”
“Yeah, right.” Phoebe chuckled. She was closer to Isis than she was her mother, a fact that wasn’t lost on Brenda. “Did you call in to work today?”
“Yes, but I have to bring a doctor’s note. I know they are sick of me. Last week it was the funeral, and now this shit.”
“You’ll be okay. You just gotta take care of yourself, and pneumonia ain’t nothing to be taken lightly,” Phoebe cautioned.
“I know; it’s just hard to lie around all day,” Isis said, knowing that she should have her butt at home in bed. But she was finally regaining her full appetite, and she couldn’t stand any more of the soup Aunt Samantha had been bringing her. Cooking had never been Aunt Samantha’s strong suit, but Lord knows she tried.
Just then a loud voice in the background warned Phoebe and the other participants: “Warm-up in five minutes, ladies.”
“Sister, I gotta go. I need to make one more call before warm-up,” Phoebe said.
Isis started coughing. “Okay. Good luck, sister,” she said between sniffs and coughs before hanging up the phone. She knew that she should have kept her tail at home.
Isis left the restaurant and went home. For the next hour or so, she lay in bed, blowing her nose and flipping through TV channels, until her phone rang.
“Hey, Boo, I heard you were sick.” It was Bam.
“Yes, I’m sick as a dog,” Isis said, coughing.
“Well, if you need a nurse, then you are in luck, because I know a good one.”
“I do too, but you do know that I am not only a member of the Broke-Ass Friends Club but also the president?”
Bam chuckled on Isis’s play on the words of one of Biggie’s old joints. “Shit, the emergency room don’t refuse no one.”
“I’ve already been there.”
“What did they do?”
She hit the mute button to blow her nose and then returned to the phone. “Nothing much. I got pneumonia. Hold on.” She sneezed and wiped her nose. “But I’ll be okay.”
“I know you will, because I am on my way over there with tea, juice, crackers, soup, and some other goodies.”
“No, I’m good.” Although she tried to control the next round of coughing, it blasted out anyway. “You’ve done enough already.”
“No you’re not. That cough right there is why I am on the way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She tried to stop him. “No. I look a mess.”
“I know you’re beautiful, but you can’t be glamorous and sick at the same time. Not even Naomi Campbell can do that. And for real, Shorty, I done seen you dolled up; I know how you do yours,” he told her. “I’ll be there in eight minutes. Gotta go.”
Although she was weak, Isis managed to wash her face and brush her teeth and hair so she could be a little more presentable. She didn’t want to be seen in a vulnerable state by Bam, but once he arrived, she liked the idea of having him there to take care of her. She dozed off a few times, and each time she woke up, he was right there. He would make quick runs to handle his business, but he was so fast about it that she would never even have known that he’d been gone if he hadn’t told her.
“I know your being here is cutting into the other things you need to be doing. You’ve been great. You can go take care of the streets now,” Isis suggested to him as he sat on the side of the bed feeding her chicken noodle soup. She felt bad that Dave’s boy was taking care of her the way he would have.
“It’s not an inconvenience at all. Actually, it’s kind of convenient in its own way.”
“Really? You aren’t just saying that, are you?”
“Nope, it’s real talk. See, I’ve been staying out in the country with my aunt, but I’m about to get my own place.”
“For real?” she asked. “Out here? In the city?”
“Naw, in the country. See, I don’t be trying to fuck with these niggas for real. You know, they see a nigga getting money and they want to run up in they spot. They feel like they should reap the benefits of another man’s labor.”
