by Dr. Xyz
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eli looked at the clock. It was 5:30 in the morning. He pulled back the curtain and saw the sun rise up into the sky to start a brand-new day. Today was his boy’s show. He reached out and grabbed the Bible off his nightstand. He turned to the twenty-third Psalms and pulled out the meticulously folded news article he’d placed there for safe keeping. In the center of the first page of the entertainment section of the Amsterdam News, was a picture of Tarik. Since he got the flyer a week ago, an article about Tarik appeared in the weekly newspaper.
For the thousandth time he read it. He’d memorized almost every word. The journalist had given many details of Tarik’s career. He particularly beamed with pride when his boy was described as a “genius poet/songwriter.” What really made Eli happy, was that an itinerary of his show dates revealed he’d be performing in Prospect Park. It was only a short cab ride away. He was elated. Nothing in this world would keep him from attending the event today.
Slowly rising from bed, Eli prayed his frail health would hold out. He didn’t have to speak to Tarik. He just wanted to see him. He was so proud of this young man. Ophelia and the man who had adopted Tarik had obviously done a wonderful job raising him. He no longer regretted signing the papers that officially cut him out of his only child’s life.
Trying to look as presentable as possible, he decided to trim his scraggly gray beard. Completely bald, he’d lost his hair when he participated in an AIDS drug trial while in jail. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. A gaunt, scary face stared back. When Eli entered prison over five years ago, the scaled tipped in at 165 pounds. For a six-foot-two man he was thin then. This week, he weighed a whopping 130 pounds. The disease had reduced him to skin, brittle bones, and according to his last round of tests, a blood profile so abnormal it was damn near incompatible with life.
After five years of fighting infections, the tuberculosis that refused to respond to standard treatment, and the anti-viral meds and their crippling side effects, Eli was nearing the end of the battle. This time, he would not emerge the victor.
Brushing his teeth, a comforting thought visited him and temporarily pushed aside the curtain of gloom that so often darkened his waking moments. There was one thing he had done right. Heroin no longer ruled his life. Didn’t even need the methadone either. Life and the hope he would one day see his Ophelia and Eli, was enough high for him.
He was close to completing the yellow rose painting he had started in prison. Another few sessions and he’d be through. When he’d arrived at Hilton Arms, an abandoned building the city rehabilitated for residents suffering with AIDS, he planned to one day present it to Ophelia. It was his way of expressing both his gratitude for raising their son and apologizing for his utter failure as a husband and father.
Suspecting there was a slim possibility he’d run into her at the concert, he thought about bringing it with him. He looked over at the painting. Unfinished. He frowned. He couldn’t give it to Ophelia in that condition. His inability to complete tasks was one of the main reasons their relationship suffered.
No, today he was just going to see his son perform. Hopefully, one day soon, he’d finish the painting and have an opportunity to meet with her. Realistically, as he assessed his declining energy, the odds were against him. More than likely he’d have to give Ophelia her finished painting when they met on the other side. He smiled. He could almost see glimpses of the “light” some mornings. It was probably his eyes deteriorating, but he spiritually understood it to be divine illumination. One day soon this light would bathe and cleanse him before he reached the other side. The thought calmed him and gave him strength for his day’s journey.
The meals on wheels lady dropped off his nourishment for the day. He was not hungry, as usual, but today he forced the food down. He needed fuel for the long journey ahead. This was probably his last trip alone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Prospect Park was a beautifully landscaped area located in the heart of Brooklyn. Generations of African-Americans, Latinos and the new crop of gentrifying whites had visited over the years to swing in the swings, play basketball and listen to some of the best music in New York City. For the summer, there was no better place to be.
The place was packed. Surveying the huge crowd of over ten thousand people, Carlos was glad he invited record company executives to the park’s annual Fourth of July festival. It was a natural choice to display Tarik’s talents at the outdoor amphitheater. His brother had headlined the event for the past two years. Tarik knew what people liked and the crowds loved him for it.
It had been a steamy, hot day that, thanks to a brief shower, had finally decided to cool down. Folks arrived more than anxious for a good time and a slammin’ show. Vendors sold everything from incense to Jamaican jerk chicken. Early summer breezes carried the smell of food from all over the world. The unmistakable aroma of ganja weed was so strong most of the crowd enjoyed a mellow contact high.
The sounds of wild fireworks, cherry bombs and other incendiary items popping and crackling added to the festive atmosphere. Families, friends, and lovers sat on wooden chairs, the grass or each other. At twilight, it was time for the show to begin. An expectant hush fell over the crowd.
In the small dressing room behind the amphitheater stage, Tarik and his entourage formed a circle. Always apprehensive before a big concert, Tarik’s heart pounded with anticipation. Small droplets of sweat beaded up along his hairline, waiting for the signal to slide down his forehead.
Trying his damn best to kill the colony of butterflies attacking his stomach, Tarik led his fellow musicians in a moment of prayerful silence. It was a ritual that helped him merge with the creative universe. It mellowed him out and prepared him for the job he’d been summoned to do.
The drummer, percussionist, bassist, lead guitarist and three “healthy-looking” sisters who looked like they belonged in the front pew of a gospel choir, were the first to appear on stage. While waiting for Tarik, they performed a sound check.
Back in the dressing room, Sherry gave Tarik the pep talk he had grown to depend on before his concerts, “Now, baby, look me in the eyes and say, ‘I was born to do this.’”
Tarik looked at his wife adoringly and repeated, “I was born to do this.”
Sherry hugged him and whispered in his ear, “Then go out there and do what you supposed to DO!” Seconds later, warm, robust applause greeted Tarik as he joined his band on stage.
Seated at the keyboards, Tarik dropped his head in a meditative pose. He entered the zone where his hands and instrument reached union. Not classically trained, Pops had taught him just enough piano for him to develop an inimitable style of his own. The solo piece hinted of jazz, blues and classical music weaved with rhythm and blues basics. There was literally something for everybody’s listening pleasure in his music.
Increasing the tempo, the other members of his band joined in. In a perfectly planned moment of crescendo, Tarik and his background vocalists burst out in an ecstatic, joyful blend of harmonies that rocked the crowd into a mad frenzy.
Sitting next to Carlos in the front row was Jeff Moses, president of Mo-Sound Records. Jeff was a well-respected, powerful player in the music industry. His label was a major company known for standing behind its artists. Carlos knew, if Jeff liked what he heard, Mo-Sound would be the best place to park his brother’s awesome talent.
“I told you he was bad,” Carlos yelled into his ear.
Jeff, a short, well-built Black man, who spoke with a booming commanding voice, said, “From what I’ve heard, he’s sold over fifty-thousand CDs.”
“For the record, Jeff, if you factor in the internet downloads, the number is closer to two hundred and fifty thou’, but then, who’s counting?”
“Very impressive; very impressive. Call me Monday and let’s set up that showcase for the suits and get this show on the road. If I have anything to do with it, and I do, you can consider Mo-Sound your partner!”
Carl
os worked hard to suppress a strong desire to jump up and down and spin cartwheels all through the park’s lawn. Happy could not describe the joy he was feeling. He and Tarik had worked long and hard to hear those words. And now it was happening.
He could not wait to share the news with Tarik and the love of his life, Nicola. After the party at his mother’s house, he was going to kidnap her and take her to one of the finest hotels in the city. This was turning out to be the best night of his life.
Turning around and surveying the crowd, he tried to single out Jonathan and Nicola. So absorbed with details of the con- cert for most of the day, it finally dawned on him that he hadn’t seen them that entire evening. A seed of concern the size of a golf ball slowly began to expand inside of him. Where were they? Was she all right? Had she changed her mind about coming? He pulled out his cell phone and checked for calls. None from either of them. Trying not to appear anxious around Jeff, he forced his eyes and attention to focus on the show.
Nicola and Jonathan stood in the back of the crowd. The little detour to his aunt’s house cost them two hours. They arrived too late to get a seat. Why had he mentioned to Nicola that his house would be empty and that everybody would be at the concert? And why did he go against his wisest judgment and bring her home?
Nicola had insisted it was all innocent. She suggested she could help with last minute details of the after-party. Surely his mother needed assistance. Jonathan agreed that his mom had mentioned she’d wished she had an extra person’s help with setting up for the occasion. Why not Nicola?
But honestly, the only help he needed was “help” getting his dick sucked and licked as many times as the temptress could handle. Thankfully, there was no one home but the catering crew. Jonathan literally dragged Nicola upstairs to his room. She unabashedly repeated her earlier performance. When he came, it was better than the first time.
Tarik was onstage performing an up-tempo dance number. Jonathan and Nicola rocked back and forth with the enthusiastic crowd. All was going fine until Nicola deliberately moved her French-manicured hand across his crotch. Jonathan’s attention instantly shifted from the stage ahead to the growing bulge inside his pants. Shocked, he could not help but enjoy the sen- sation and the naughtiness of what she was doing in public. It gave him a rush that caused his intimate flesh to expand and greet her hand properly.
“Jonathan!” Ophelia appeared out of nowhere and scared him so, he almost fainted. Nicola, always cool, always in control, slithered away from him.
“Ma…Mother…Mama Ophelia…uh…uh…it’s…it’s good to see you.” Jonathan’s deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression was evident for miles around. Certain his mother had caught him and Nicola in the act, he nervously proceeded with the introductions. “This is Nicola. Carlos’s…uh…Carlos’s girlfriend. That’s right. This is Carlos’s girlfriend.”
“I know who she is. Carlos described you…uh…perfectly. You are beautiful.”
“Why, thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Singleton.”
“I’d love to chat but, I’ve got to deliver this first-aid kit. Can you believe it? They were short a person on the emergency health team. I volunteered at the last moment. Oh well…better to do that than have the concert cancelled. Well, I’m off. Hope to see you at the after-party, Nicola.”
“I wouldn’t think of missing it.”
“See you, Jonathan.”
Ophelia walked away in a trance of disbelief. Was that woman feeling up my baby’s crotch? Was that real?
It was such an absurd thought. Ophelia shook her head and dismissed it immediately. Not her baby. Jonathan was too pure. He wouldn’t let someone do that to him; especially not his brother’s girlfriend. No…it was dark…her mind was playing tricks with her eyes…and besides, she was long overdue for a trip to the eye doctor. No, it did not happen.
But why was Jonathan so nervous? The possibility was so disturbing, Ophelia made a mental note to keep her “mama” eyes on Nicola at the after-party.
As soon as his mother was out of earshot distance, Jonathan turned on Nicola.
“Look, you can’t be doing to me what you’re doing, and where you’re doing it!”
Nicola smiled devilishly up at him and playfully squeezed his cheeks. “You are so delightful when you’re mad.”
“Nicola!”
“My fine, tall drink of comfort, why do you insist on confusing me?”
Puzzled by her line of reasoning, Jonathan inquired, “I…I confuse you? How so?”
“Why, it seems like you were enjoying the whole affair.” Batting double-thick, natural eyelashes, she looked up at Jonathan in teasing fashion, and added, “How’s a poor girl ’s’pozed to know when to do ‘what’ and where to do ‘what’ and when and with whom to do ‘what,’ hmmm?”
Even more confused than before, Jonathan reluctantly replied, “Never mind; never mind.” He slowly began to realize two things. He absolutely enjoyed this woman and the things she did to his body. But he could forget about ever being able to control her behavior. Hell, he really didn’t want to anyway. An uncontrolled Nicola was far more pleasurable.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Eli couldn’t believe his luck. He had a great spot at the concert, away from the main crowd but close enough that the binoculars he brought along helped him get a good view of the stage. And he liked what he saw through the lenses. His boy was talented. The article had not used enough superlatives in describing what he brought to the stage. He enjoyed himself immensely as his son effortlessly entertained the crowd. Eli even managed to put two of his boniest fingers together and snap them to the rhythm of his son’s music.
After sixty minutes of performing to the crowd, Tarik introduced his last song of the evening. It was a tribute to his wife and son. Hearing the news about Tarik’s son for the first time, confirming that he was a grandfather, Eli wept. He would never get a chance to meet either his son or his grandbaby. He’d given up that privilege many years ago. A view with binoculars was all he could hope for. It was all he deserved.
Momentarily feeling sorry for himself, he barely noticed that the young man standing next to him had passed out. His body jerked in a typical seizure pattern. Eli yelled for help as he tried to keep the man from banging his head on the ground. As the seizure subsided, the man stopped shaking. A group of curious lookie-loos gathered around Eli and the sick man, all yelling various incorrect remedies that promised speedy recovery.
The medics responded seconds later. Ophelia, a member of the team, took control of the crowd and pushed them away to make room. Two emergency technicians prepped the man for transport to the hospital.
Trying to get information, Ophelia, questioned the crowd. “Did anyone see what happened?”
Eli spoke up…he was so excited he at first didn’t realize it was Ophelia. “Miss, I was standing right next to him…and he… he…” Ophelia turned around and looked dead at him. He knew instantly who those dark-brown eyes belonged to. “Miss…Miss Ophelia?”
Ophelia looked at the frail man before her. She knew what she didn’t want to know. This was Eli. And just like the first day she had met him at that Hampton University Sweethearts Ball, her heart danced and twitched. It was the tiniest part of her heart that had refused to let the love they once shared die. “Eli…is that you?”
He smiled. “It’s me. Old Eli. Yes, I saw what happened.” He explained how he had suddenly noticed the man lying on the ground. Ophelia passed the info on to the technicians who were now putting the man in the back of ambulance. With lights flashing and the siren loudly booming, they drove off.
“It’s good to see you,” commented Eli. He immediately admired how attractive Ophelia still looked. She was close to fifty…but yet she appeared much younger.
“Yeah…Eli, what the hell happened to you?”
“Still shooting from the hip?” Ophelia hadn’t changed a bit, thought Eli. She never was one for beating around the bush. But this time he was in control. He didn’t want t
o talk about his health or lack of. He ignored her. “Tarik was wonderful up there. I’m so glad I came. And seeing you, too…what a treat.”
He needed his cane to walk. It was time to go. “Well, it looks like Tarik’s concert is about over. That’s all I came here for. Just to see him. So I must leave you now.” He had held up for as long as he could. The strength he’d felt earlier was rapidly leaving him. The shock of seeing Ophelia had drained his battery. He fell back on the bench.
Ophelia rushed toward him to help. “Are you all right?”
He motioned for her to stay back. “No, I’m okay. Just a little winded. You could help and get me a cab though.”
She did that. Helped him into the taxi as well, as he obviously could not do it himself.
Once inside, wanting to shake Ophelia’s hand, Eli extended his almost pencil-thin arm. “Well, Mrs.…it’s still Singleton… isn’t it?”
Ophelia gasped to herself as she shook the hand that was attached to an all but wasted body. She could not help but compare it to how Eli used to be when they were both young and he was her handsome, robust lover. She heard herself answer, “Yes, no, well, it’s Singleton but I’m…I’m a widow…he passed a year ago.”
“Sorry to hear that, Ophelia…well.”
The Pakistani cabbie interrupted, “Where to, Mister?”
“Hilton Arms corner of Monroe and Franklin.”
Ophelia almost collapsed. She knew then exactly what was wrong with her ex-husband. Only AIDS patients lived at the Arms. She had trained nurse case-managers for their program. Ophelia also knew that its tenants usually were in the end stages of the disease. Eli was dying.
With the same solemnity that one closes a casket, Ophelia slammed the door shut. Trying to sound strong and virile, but failing at both, Eli called out as the cab pulled away. “Good seeing you, Ophelia.” As the taxi faded from sight, Ophelia, shaking her head in disbelief the entire way, headed back to the stage.
