Baby Brother's Blues

by Pearl Cleage

  36

  Three days after Mamie Robinson’s visit to Precious Hargrove, Lee walked into the same office with a fat folder marked CONFIDENTIAL that contained the report she’d concocted and enough supporting documents not only to discredit Mamie Robinson, but to paint a picture of the Robinson family as a multigenerational crime wave. It wasn’t hard to do. Mamie and her daughter had each been arrested for prostitution, passing bad checks, and various other ridiculously inept con games that always cost more in jail time than they ever paid off.

  The husband and father of the household was in prison for life after stalking and killing a drug partner who tried to cut him out of a deal that went from bad to worse. Of the five sons he had with Mamie, two were in the same prison where he was housed, serving time for murder and minor drug trafficking. Two others had been killed by rivals several years before and Kentavious had been killed and mutilated in the same streets his father had been running all his life.

  Before he died, Lee’s report said, Kentavious, at fifteen, had already been to juvenile twice, dropped out of school, impregnated his fourteen-year-old neighbor, and begun a brief career as a small-time marijuana merchant. His mother’s assertion that he was basically a good boy, Kilgore’s report stated, was based on nothing more than grief and a mother’s desire to generate sympathy and perhaps money in the wake of her son’s death.

  Precious listened to Lee while she looked through the xeroxed mug shots and long rap sheets that defined the state’s interaction with the Robinsons. The two boys who were still serving time in the same prison as their father gazed defiantly out from their photos. Even in profile, they managed to convey their suicidal fearlessness. Their father, a long scar across his cheek and a dazed look in his eye, just looked tired.

  “It didn’t seem like a con,” Precious said, looking at Mamie Robinson’s rap sheet. Soliciting, shoplifting, stolen credit cards. “She seemed like a mother with nothing left to lose.”

  “That’s all part of it,” Lee said. “You’re a well-known public figure now, Senator. People are going to come at you more and more with all kinds of schemes.”

  Precious closed the folder. She didn’t need any more evidence that this was not a family you wanted moving in next door. “But do you think there’s any truth at all to what she said about police officers protecting the dealers?”

  Lee shook her head thoughtfully. “I didn’t find any evidence of that.”

  Precious sat back with a sigh. “I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Searching for the right words, Precious shrugged her shoulders. “I’d hate to think we’ve got dirty cops to deal with, but the truth is, I pride myself on being able to read people. I’m usually pretty good at recognizing when somebody’s lying to me.”

  Not as good as you think you are, Lee thought. “These people are pros, Senator.”

  “I know, and I appreciate what you did,” Precious said. “It’s just that a politician isn’t much good without a working bullshit detector. I hate to think Mrs. Robinson got past me.”

  “I understand. Do you want me to talk to her?”

  Precious shook her head. “No, I’ll call her myself.”

  Things had gone exactly as Lee had hoped they would. No candidate with any sense wants to emerge as the champion of people everybody wishes would just go away.

  “I think the thing that really got to me about her story,” Precious was saying, “is that I remember when my son was fifteen.”

  “These kids are nothing like your son,” Lee said. “They’ve grown up with a level of violence most people can’t even imagine, or don’t want to. I saw it all when I walked a beat, day after day. I’ve seen what it does to them. They grow up mad and mean and ready to do whatever it takes to stay alive.”

  Precious was watching Lee closely. “We can’t blame them for that, can we?”

  Sure we can, Lee wanted to say. Ask my dope-fiend parents. Ask my crackhead cousin. They’re the ones making the bad decisions, ignoring the consequences, saggin’ and shufflin’ their way to oblivion. Precious sounded to Lee like those bourgie Negroes who romanticize and rationalize the worst of the race’s behavior as long as they don’t have to get too close to it.

  “I’m sorry, Senator. I don’t mean to be talking out of school here.”

  Precious smiled a little. “I’m asking.”

  “The thing is, by the time most of these guys are the age Kentavious was when he died, they’re already headed for the morgue or the penitentiary, which gives them just enough time to have a couple of babies by a couple of girls as clueless as they are.”

  The contempt Lee felt for the people she was describing came through clearly in her tone.

  “You’re not very optimistic, are you?” Precious said.

  “I’ve seen what these guys can do to a neighborhood,” Lee said. “The truth is, Senator, one more gone doesn’t strike me as much of a tragedy.” From the look on Precious’s face, Lee realized suddenly that she had gone too far.

  “I appreciate your candor,” Precious said, standing up. Lee rose as well. “And I appreciate all your hard work.”

  “I hope I didn’t offend you,” Lee said. “Cynicism is the curse of the beat cop.”

  “You’re not a beat cop anymore, Captain Kilgore,” Precious said. “And you didn’t offend me.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” Lee said. “And please don’t hesitate to call on me again if you need me.”

  “I will.”

  “I can show myself out.”

  Precious closed the door behind Lee, wondering what it was that left her feeling that perhaps Mrs. Robinson wasn’t the only one trying to con her. She sat down, picked up the phone, and dialed Blue Hamilton’s private number.

  37

  Blue had been trying to catch up with Aretha ever since he got back from the beach. When he looked out of the car window and saw her working in her garden, he leaned forward and spoke to General behind the wheel.

  “Pull over at the house, will you?”

  The house, in this case, was not the one he shared with Regina, but the apartment he’d had when they met and that he still maintained exclusively for his own use. In the perfectly maintained four-unit building with the blue front door, Aretha kept her studio upstairs across the hall from Blue’s place. Zora lived downstairs on one side across from the guest suite that was always ready to receive short- or long-term residents seeking the privacy and safety that West End could offer.

  General glanced at the clock as he eased the big Lincoln over to the curb. They hadn’t had lunch and it was almost four o’clock. His stomach growled loud enough for Blue to hear it.

  “Do you want me to wait for you?”

  “Give me an hour,” Blue said, as if he hadn’t heard the rumbling. His meeting with Precious Hargrove had run long. It was almost dinnertime.

  “I’ll be back at five,” General said, with visions of a trip to the Beautiful Restaurant for some short ribs already dancing in his head. His stomach growled again as he stepped out of the car to open Blue’s door. Aretha spotted them and waved.

  “Fine,” Blue said, waving back and heading in her direction. He heard the car pull off and chuckled to himself. General was getting ready to put a serious hurtin’ on some lucky restaurant’s afternoon menu.

  “Hey, you!” Aretha said, pulling off her gloves and leaning over to kiss Blue’s cheek. “Welcome back!”

  “I’ve got something for you upstairs,” he said. “How much more do you have to do?”

  “I can finish up tomorrow,” she said immediately. Aretha didn’t see as much of Blue now that they had each married and moved into their own proper houses. Those moments were precious when both found themselves at the same place with time to visit. Aretha linked her arm through Blue’s and grinned at her godfather. “I’m all yours.”

  “Well, I’m a lucky man indeed,” he said, opening the blue door with a flourish so she could en
ter.

  At the top of the stairs, she stood aside as he opened the door to his apartment and switched on the light. A fully stocked bar, black leather couches, and an entertainment center housing a blinking array of the latest audio and visual electronic equipment made this the quintessential male lair. Blue opened the floor-to-ceiling drapes and the late-afternoon sunshine filled the room, making it instantly more visitor-friendly. Aretha flopped down in a soft leather chair that cradled her like a protective mother’s arms.

  “Do you want a Coke or something?” Blue said.

  He had met Aretha when she was seventeen and her aunt Ava had asked him to keep an eye on her as a naïve young girl from her tiny hometown, alone in the big city. Even though she was now a twenty-four-year-old wife and mother, he never offered her anything stronger than apple cider.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “What did you bring me?”

  Blue walked behind the bar, opened an unseen drawer, and took out a small something wrapped in pale violet tissue paper.

  “I’m really just the deliveryman,” he said, walking over to Aretha and putting the package gently into her outstretched hand. “Regina thought I’d probably see you before she did.”

  Aretha peeled back the tissue paper and revealed a perfectly formed seashell in a shade of orange so vivid it looked like someone other than God had painted it.

  “It’s beautiful!” She touched it gently. “Is it real?”

  Blue nodded. “I’ve never seen one this color. Regina hadn’t either.”

  Aretha laid it back carefully in its tissue-paper nest, but continued to admire it. As a painter, she had spent years considering colors, and this was no ordinary orange. It practically glowed.

  “There are lots of colors we haven’t seen in the ocean,” she said, “because nobody’s ever been down far enough. It’s like those transparent squids that they discovered a couple of years ago. Nobody even knew they were down there.”

  “Probably looked right through them,” Blue said, teasing her.

  “Make fun of me all you want,” she said. “This shell is special. Tell Regina I said thank you.”

  “Why don’t you tell her yourself? She’d love to see you.”

  Aretha sighed. “I’ve been missing her, too. Things have just been kind of crazy at my house the last few months.”

  The darkening of Blue’s eyes was almost imperceptible. “Last time I saw Joyce Ann out with her grandmother, she didn’t look crazy to me.”

  “All two-year-olds are crazy!” Aretha laughed. “They just learn to hide it from outsiders.”

  “How’s Kwame?”

  The tiniest pause before she answered was not lost on Blue. “He’s fine. Busy all the time.”

  “Well, he did a great job on the project he just finished for me. You tell him next time he’s looking for work, I’ve always got a place for him.”

  In that way, Blue let her know that if any of that craziness she was talking about had a basis in financial stress, she could rest assured her husband would always be gainfully employed.

  “I told you he was a genius.”

  “So you’ve got a beautiful, sane child, a genius for a husband, friends who send you miracles from the sea, and a godfather who can’t imagine his life without you.” Blue’s eyes were dark pools, but his smile was warm and curious. “Where’s the crazy part?”

  “Maybe it’s all in my head,” she said, with a wobbly little smile.

  Blue nodded. “That’s possible, but I don’t think so.” He was looking at her calmly from the other end of the sofa. “Do you?”

  Aretha sat back and let out the air in her lungs with a soft sigh. She turned her head to look at him without lifting it from the leather. “Kwame wants to move to midtown.”

  Blue’s expression didn’t change. “What do you want?”

  The question was so simple and straightforward, but it went directly to the heart of the matter and sat there, waiting for an answer.

  “I want peace in my house,” she said, surprising herself with the answer. She knew peace didn’t have anything to do with place. Peace was a state of mind. She sat up, leaned toward him, and tried to explain. “I love living in West End, you know that. I’ve never been anything but safe and happy here.” She felt disloyal even thinking about moving. “But I’m tired of arguing about it all the time. Maybe it’s time for me to compromise a little, you know?”

  “Compromise is fine,” he said. “Just don’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “But isn’t that the essence of marriage? That give-and-take?”

  “I’m the wrong one to ask.”

  “Why?” she said, settling back into the chair’s cozy leather embrace again. “You’ve been married four times!”

  He laughed. “That should disqualify me as an expert witness.”

  “Well, what do you and Regina do when you have an argument?”

  Blue’s eyes twinkled in a way that had to be seen to be believed. “We don’t argue.”

  Aretha raised her eyebrows. “Never?”

  Blue shook his head. “Never.”

  “Did you argue with your other wives?”

  “I don’t argue.”

  Aretha wondered if that was why they had left him. Maybe what they needed was a good shouting match every now and then to clear the air.

  “You’re no help,” she said.

  “Because I don’t argue?”

  “Because you won’t tell me what I ought to do.”

  “Nobody knows what you need but you,” Blue said. “Not much I can do about that.”

  And that, she thought, was the whole problem. What do I need? “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything you can stand to have me answer.”

  “Do you ever miss singing?”

  He smiled slowly. “I still sing.”

  “I mean, doing it full-time, every day. Traveling around, doing shows. Living your life as an artist instead of… what you’re doing now.”

  “It was time for me to leave that life.”

  “Do you ever regret it?”

  “I never regret anything.”

  The idea of living a life so fully integrated that second-guessing and the remorse that comes from twenty-twenty hindsight were nonexistent filled her with such longing that she could hardly keep from crying. But Blue was watching her and the last thing she wanted to do was burst into tears.

  “What time is it?” she said, glad her voice didn’t tremble.

  “Almost five,” Blue said without looking at his watch.

  Aretha stood up, glad for a reason to escape before she said too much. “I’ve got to pick up Joyce Ann at Montessori. Can we continue this another time?”

  “Of course.” He picked up the shell in its violet nest. “Don’t forget this.”

  She curled the paper back around it gently as he walked her to the door.

  “Aretha,” he said, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I want you to understand something.”

  “Yes?” Was he going to break down and give her some advice after all?

  “What we’ve done here in West End doesn’t mean you have to stay here. All it means is that if you do choose to live here, you’ll always be safe.”

  “I know,” she said, hugging him good-bye. “Thank you.”

  “Thank me by not being such a stranger.”

  “I promise,” Aretha said, taking the stairs on the run. “Love you!”

  Blue walked over to the window. General was back, leaning against the car smoking a cigarette. He tipped his hat to Aretha, who greeted him with a friendly wave and headed off down the street. Watching her, Blue knew she would be moving soon. He also knew this would be the first of a series of compromises if she and Kwame were going to stay together. Marriage was such a strange and complicated institution and it took a special kind of feeling deep in the hearts of both people taking the vows to make it work. He hoped his goddaughter and her husband had that kind of love to sustain them. In the meantime
, Blue decided it couldn’t hurt to stay close to Kwame.

  38

  Lee refused to give Bob a key to her condo, so when he came to visit, he had to be present himself at the desk downstairs to be announced, then take the elevator up to her floor, knock on the door, and wait until she let him in. Even if he had a key, he thought, today probably wouldn’t have been the best day to use it. He wouldn’t have risked sticking his head in the door and getting it blown off for his trouble. Lee was still angry about the way he had snapped at her the other day when he saw that kid’s mother on the six o’clock news talking crazy. Bob had no reason to suspect Lee wasn’t on top of things. Since the funeral, everything had been quiet. Whatever Lee had done, they were back to business as usual.

  Once he cooled off, his plan had been to give her some space so she could, too. He was almost ready to make contact when she called him at the office, something she did rarely, and told him she’d like to see him that evening at seven o’clock at her place to discuss some business.

  “Certainly,” he said, aware that anyone in his office might be eavesdropping. “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing substantive,” she said. “Just a communications oversight.”

  Oh, hell, he thought. This is some more of her feminist shit. Some more of her “you will respect me as a woman and a police officer” crap.

  “Fine,” Bob said. “I’ll see you at seven.”

  He had a full day of meetings and a ten o’clock flight to Seattle later that night. The prospect of a confrontation with Lee before he left did not appeal to him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see her. He would have welcomed a preflight quickie, even if she didn’t put on the uniform for him. But a discussion of a communications oversight was probably not going to wind up in the bedroom. On the other hand, with Lee, you could never tell. His luggage was already in the car and he definitely had time if she was so inclined.

  The longer he thought about the possibility, the more excited he got. By six-thirty, he was hopeful enough of a positive outcome to their meeting that he stopped at the flower shop on the ground floor of his building and bought a dozen yellow roses. When he rang the bell at seven sharp, Lee opened the door and looked at him with undisguised antipathy. The flowers she ignored completely.