Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do

by Pearl Cleage

  “I'm off tonight,” she said. “I got a private party to do later.”

  “Then go on to the party and don't tell anyone that you came here. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “You gonna take care of it, Mr. Blue?”

  “I'm going to take care of it.”

  The way he said it would have been chilling if he had been talking about anybody but DooDoo and King James. I wanted somebody to take care of them, and Blue was that somebody.

  Brandi was gazing at him with a mixture of real gratitude and unabashed hero worship, which made her look about ten years old under all that makeup. “Everybody told me you were the man, Mr. Blue. That's what they said.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Well, thank God there are still some damn men around.’ That's what I said!”

  And even though directness wasn't her specialty, she hit that nail on the head. I couldn't have said it better myself.

  44

  PEOPLE WHO VISIT ATLANTA AND think they've been in Georgia are fooling themselves. Macon is less than two hours away, but as we left the city lights behind us and hit the part of the interstate that's still pine woods on both sides of the road, I had that little shiver that I always have driving through the rural south. There are so many bodies buried in these woods, these rivers, these ponds. So many restless spirits looking for some peace.

  “What are you going to do when we get there?” I asked.

  Brandi had called to let Madonna know we were coming.

  “I'm going to ask her what happened and find out what she wants.”

  Beth's warnings about hustlers and con artists were still ringing in my ears. “What do you think she wants?”

  “Protection.”

  “Can you protect her?”

  He glanced over at me like the question surprised him. “That's my job, remember?”

  “So how are you going to protect her.”

  “That's not what you want to ask me,” Blue said, easing around a giant truck that had to be doing seventy-five.

  “It's not?”

  “That's a detail question, and you know I can handle those details alone.”

  He was right. I didn't really want to know the details. What was I trying to ask him? I tried again.

  “How about, what am I going to do when we get there?”

  “You don't have to do anything.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “I don't know.”

  “I don't know either.”

  “You will by the time we get there.”

  We rode along in silence for a minute. There was no doubt that this was Son's child. That much was certain. The only thing that was uncertain was Beth's role. Did she know it? Did she send thugs to terrorize her grandson's mother? And if she did, why?

  “I need to know why Beth did this.”

  “Don't you mean if?”

  I looked at him, but he didn't take his eyes off the dark highway. “Why would Brandi lie?”

  “Why does anybody lie?”

  That was an easy one. I had done a lot of lying during my dope-fiend days, and even though at the time I always had a thousand reasons for all the stupid stuff I did, once I really thought about it, they all boiled down to one thing: fear.

  “Because they're afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “It doesn't matter. Pain, embarrassment, being broke, being left …” I could have added my own all-time favorite, fear of running out of cocaine, but I think he got the idea.

  “What's Beth Davis afraid of?”

  “Nothing.”

  He smiled then. “Everybody's afraid of something.”

  “Well, if she's afraid of anything it would be … loss of control.”

  He nodded. “That's a big one all right.”

  Maybe the biggest. And losing control of the myth of the perfect son she'd spent a lifetime and a career building up? Sending DooDoo to threaten somebody was probably just the tip of the iceberg. I remembered her weeping reaction to the video of Son she saw at Morehouse. I had felt sorry for her, woman to woman. Had she been playing me for a fool all the time?

  “What are you afraid of?” Blue said, pulling off the interstate at the second exit for Macon and taking a left at the Burger King.

  I thought about it for a minute. “Having to quit working for Beth before I make enough to save my house.” I had told him all about the weasel, of course, and he had offered me the money immediately, but I couldn't take it. Part of the lesson I'm supposed to be learning is how to be a grown-up. Being rescued by my blue-eyed knight in shining armor was pretty romantic, but it wasn't going to make me any stronger. Besides, Aunt Abbie had been very clear that I was supposed to be the shero, not the damsel in distress.

  “Why would you have to quit?”

  I was surprised he had to ask. “I can't work for somebody who's sending DooDoo out to scare people into doing what she wants them to do,” I said. “How can I write a speech to make people love and trust her when I know she's not who they think she is at all?”

  “Then who is she?”

  I shook my head as he pulled up in front of a small frame house on a narrow street where the hardworking residents still found time to grow pots of geraniums on the front porch. “I don't know anymore.”

  Blue turned off the car. “Maybe that's what you're here to find out.”

  45

  MADONNA'S MOTHER OPENED the door about two inches and peeked out. Her eyes were suspicious.

  “Mrs. Little?” Blue said. “It's Blue Hamilton from Atlanta.”

  She opened the door a little wider, and her eyes flickered over me.

  “I've got Ms. Burns with me. Madonna is expecting us.”

  She opened the door reluctantly and stepped aside to let us in. She was a pretty woman whose looks probably hadn't taken her as far as she'd hoped they would. Since there was no one person to blame for the strange twist of fate that plopped her down in Macon, Georgia, to find her destiny, she generalized her disappointment and blamed everybody.

  “She's putting the baby to bed,” she said. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Thanks.”

  She led us into the living room, and I sat down on the couch. Blue took a chair, and Mrs. Little stood in the doorway watching us. The mantel and several end tables were filled with framed pictures of Madonna growing up. She had been a beautiful baby, rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed. Ifthe photos on display were any indication, she had skipped any adolescent awkwardness and been an equally beautiful teenager. There were pictures of her in leotards at the bar and in costume for what looked like ballet recitals. Looking at that little girl in the pink satin ballet slippers, I'll bet you a five-dollar lap dance never entered her mind. It didn't strike me until later that there were no pictures of Madonna with her son.

  I felt Mrs. Little's eyes on me, and I offered her a smile. She didn't return it.

  “You work for Beth Davis?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Well, she should be ashamed of herself. Her and her precious son—rest in peace—have been nothing but trouble for my girl since day one. I told her that, but she didn't listen, and now, look at this—” She gestured helplessly at Blue. “Look at who I've got sitting in my living room. You think this ain't gonna be trouble?”

  Blue's voice was very gentle. “Mrs. Little, there's already trouble. That's why your daughter called me.”

  She snorted at that and rolled her eyes. “Madonna didn't call you. That other one, that Brandi, with her fast ass, that's who called you.”

  Mrs. Little was very agitated. I could see why. Unknown hoodlums had chased her daughter home, and then we show up at the front door, offering assistance. I glanced over at Blue. We had arrived in a black Lincoln, and Blue was dressed in his usual dark suit. Just his presence clearly made her very nervous.

  “I see.” Blue stood up slowly. “If your daughter doesn't want my help—”

  “I do want your help!” M
adonna walked up behind her mother. “I need your help. I apologize for my mom—”

  “You ain't got to apologize for me,” Mrs. Little said, stalking out of the room, her interim hostess duties complete. “This is your business, not mine.”

  Madonna's photographs didn't do her justice. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, she was undeniably beautiful. Her hair was pulled back in a giant afro puff, and her honeycolored skin glowed. Her big brown eyes carried a deep sadness. She looked after her mother but didn't try to stop her, then turned back to us apologetically.

  “I'm sorry,” she said again. “It's been hard on her.” She extended her hand to Blue. “I'm Madonna Little, Mr. Hamilton. Thank you for coming all this way. I just didn't know who else to call.”

  “This is Regina Davis,” Blue said.

  Madonna turned to me. “You work for her?”

  I nodded, feeling more ashamed every time somebody asked me the question. We shook hands, but she looked a little uncertain about my role. No more uncertain than I was. We all sat down. On the wall behind Madonna's head was a framed color photograph of her sixor sevenyear-old self in a little yellow ballet tutu with a buttercup bonnet tied under her chin. How had she ended up stripping for a living?

  “Why don't you tell us what happened?” Blue said when she didn't seem to know where to begin.

  Madonna's eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Tell me about DooDoo.”

  “Okay,” Madonna took a deep breath. “Tuesday night, I was home with my son.”

  I had handed Beth that address on Monday after she wept for me at Morehouse. She hadn't wasted any time moving on it.

  “It was after eleven because the news was on and I wasn't expecting anybody, so I looked out and it was DooDoo and one of those guys who hangs around with him. I was surprised, but I know him from before when I was still dancing, and I thought he might be looking for Brandi for a party or something, so I opened the door.”

  How many terrible moments for women begin with the words “so I opened the door”? We ought to make that a rule: Whatever you do, don't open the damn door! But she did.

  “So they came in and DooDoo said I was …” she hesitated.

  “Take your time,” Blue said.

  “Should I say what he said?”

  “If you can remember it.”

  “He said … he said I was fucking things up big time, and he was there to see what we could do about it. I told him I didn't know what he was talking about, and he handed me this picture of me and Junior. …” Her voice was trembling. “And a note.” She stopped again.

  “Go on.”

  “I told him I didn't know anything about it, and he told me if I didn't leave town and stay gone until he decided I could come back, I'd be sorry.”

  Blue's face was a mask. “Did he say anything else?”

  She whispered the words. “He said first he was gonna cut my face and then he was gonna cut my throat.”

  I caught my breath. Jesus!

  “We left that night and came here.”

  “How do you know Beth Davis sent him?” I said.

  She turned toward me for the first time. “She hates me.”

  “Enough to threaten your life?”

  “She already threatened to take my kid.”

  “When?”

  “Right after Son died. I knew she didn't know about me or Sonny Jr. Son kept saying he was gonna tell her, but he never did. I think he was afraid of what she might say, me being a dancer when he met me and all, but after he died like that, I thought she'd want to know that he had left a son. That she had a grandson.”

  She clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap. “So I wrote her a letter and sent her a picture of me and Son and Junior and told her to meet me at the mall if she wanted to talk. I thought that would be a neutral space, you know?”

  Blue and I both nodded.

  “So she came and we sat right there on one of those benches outside the Gap, and she told me I was lying and there was too much at stake for her to let me and … and some brat mess up her plans. She told me if I ever contacted her again, she would get the state to take my baby away for being an unfit mother.” Madonna looked at me.

  “Son used to try to tell me how hard it was to talk to her, but I never got it. I had just seen the tapes, you know? You love her on those tapes; she seems so nice, like you could tell her anything and she would under stand. But the woman who was talking to me, the real one?” She shook her head like the distance between one Beth and the other was too much to fathom. “So she handed me an envelope with some money in it. She said it was twenty grand and told me to keep my mouth shut or she'd send somebody around to shut it for me.”

  She looked at Blue. “I told her I didn't want her money and handed it back, but that's how I know it was her. That's the same amount DooDoo left with me the other night.”

  She stood up and walked over to a small desk in the corner, took out a thick white envelope, and handed it to Blue. “It's all there. I don't want money. I never asked for it, and I'm not takin' it.”

  “What do you want?” Blue said quietly.

  Madonna sat back down. “Look, I don't know who sent her that picture or the note either. I don't care anything about politics, and I'll figure out a way to take care of me and my son without her money. I just want her to leave me alone. I'll die if they take my son, Mr. Hamilton. I've done some things I'm not proud of, but I'm a good mother. Even my mom will tell you that.” She stopped and took a breath to calm herself a little, but when she spoke her voice shook a little bit. “I don't want DooDoo knocking on my door. I don't want him to come back and cut me.”

  The muscles in Blue's cheek rippled slightly. He stood up, walked over, and took her hand. “You don't have to worry about him anymore,” he said. “I'll take care of it.”

  She looked at him. “Can you?”

  He nodded. “Can you stay here a little while longer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Brandi will call you in a few days, and everything will be fine.”

  “Then I can go back to my house?”

  “You can go anywhere you want to go,” Blue said. “And I'm sorry for your troubles and your loss.”

  She stood up without letting go of his hand. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  I stood up, too. Blue looked at me and said to Madonna, “I'm going to say good night to your mother and let you and Gina talk for a minute. Would that be all right?”

  She looked as startled as I felt. We looked at each other, mutually confused. Flora had said he always had a plan, and I guess he had one now. Only problem was he forgot to let me and Madonna in on it.

  “My mom's probably in the kitchen.”

  “I'll be right back,” Blue said, and walked out of the room in search of Mrs. Little.

  Alone with Madonna, I had no idea what to say. She didn't either, so we just smiled at each other and sat back down. I figured I was safe with a topic every young mother can embrace.

  “You have a beautiful boy,” I said, wondering why there were no pictures of him on display.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Neither one of his grandmothers have much use for him. My mom's ashamed of me for having him without a husband, and his other grandmother … Well, it's their loss, that's what I think.”

  “His father must have been very proud of him.”

  “He was,” she said, sounding a little defensive. “I don't care what Beth Davis says, Son loved his child!”

  “I knew Son,” I said. “We were friends a long time ago. I know how much being a good father would have meant to him.”

  “He was a good father. The best. I used to tease him sometimes about spoiling Junior, and he'd just laugh and say a whole lot of little black boys grow up mean because their daddies didn't know how to love them, but that wasn't going to happen to our son.” She looked at me. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”


  “He called me,” she said softly, and I knew immediately what she meant. I knew where he was calling from for her to ask permission to speak about it.

  “Everything was crazy, and he knew he wasn't going to make it, but he wanted me to promise to tell his son how much his daddy loved him.” Her voice was calm now, and she looked me in the eye without blinking. “And I told him I would. That's why I can't take her money. There ain't enough money in the world for me to pretend his daddy ain't his daddy.”

  She stood up and walked over to the mantel and adjusted a picture of herself in a high school cap and gown. “Will you help me?”

  “Just tell me how,” I said.

  Her hands kept busy straightening things that didn't need to be straightened. “Beth Davis keeps giving interviews saying how the worst part of losing her son was that he didn't leave any grandchildren for her to love. She went on and on about it on television a couple of weeks ago, like she didn't even know Junior was alive.”

  She turned back to me. “He's too little to see it now, but what's my son gonna think when he gets old enough to know that's his grandmother talking about how he doesn't exist?”

  I had seen the interview she was talking about. Beth had said that her work was even more important to her since Son's death because by helping somebody else's grandbabies, she could honor those children her son never had a chance to father. It sounds corny to hear me say it secondhand, but when she said it to the interviewer, it was very moving. But if that was your grandmother talking, it would be pretty confusing to say the least.

  “She doesn't really consult me on personal matters,” I said, sounding inappropriately businesslike all of a sudden. “I don't know what I can do.”

  “You could give her something though, right?”

  “Like what?” Where was Blue? I was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. We were there to guarantee her safety, and we had done that. Well, he had done that. What had I done?

  Madonna walked over to the closet and took out a small blue Gap bag. “Before I asked her to come to the mall, I told her I'd bring some pictures and tapes and stuff so she would know I wasn't lying or anything.” She handed me the bag, and inside were two small photo albums and two videotapes. “But she wouldn't even take it. She said she wasn't interested in seeing anything I had to show or hearing anything I had to say, and then she got up and walked away.”