5 Minutes and 42 Seconds

by Timothy Williams

  “He’s a fine lil wannabe thug, ain’t he? Probably slang him a lil something every now and then. And he got a big dick, don’t he, Dream? Have you makin’ booty calls.”

  Dream smiled, but I could tell she didn’t mean to.

  “Yeah, I know. He probably said he loved you. Probably told you he got plans that you and him gonna get away and have a life together.”

  Dream stopped smiling, because that part hit too close to home.

  “Well, let me tell you what you don’t know, Dream: this nigga ain’t got no plans. Stupid girl. He gonna use you. He gonna say, ‘Baby, can you pay my phone bill until I get up enough money to get my phone turned back on? You know I’m coming up on some money real soon. Baby, can you loan me some money till my money come in? Baby, can I drive your car till my money come and I get my own? Baby, don’t worry, my money is comin’ real soon. Baby baby baby.’”

  Dream turned away from me and I knew I’d hit the nail on the head.

  I turned Dream around and held her shoulders in place, to make sure she would always remember the words that were about to come from my lips.

  “Dream, this nigga ain’t got no money, ain’t never gonna have no money, and if he did, he wouldn’t be fuckin’ with you.”

  A tear stained with the day before’s makeup fell onto my hand. I reached for her when I realized how harsh I’d been. I wanted to console my daughter, but my voice broke, and Dream knocked my hand away. She threw herself on the bed and hid her head underneath the pillow. The pillow stifled the sound, but I could still hear her sobbing. It only strengthened my resolve.

  “Stupid girl,” I said. “You don’t want to go to work, that’s your choice. I can’t force you to do nothin’, but I ain’t havin’ nobody’s silly ho layin’ up in my house. You want to be with this nigga so bad, take your shit and go be with him. You want to live here, breakfast is on the table.” Before I shut the broken door, I looked back at my daughter and grimaced once more at the pain I’d caused. I thought about apologizing, but remembered I’d only said what I said for Dream’s own good, and was content.

  I picked up the hammer and walked back down the stairs. I peeked out the window and saw the boys walking to the bus, dressed in matching Pelle Pelle outfits I’d neglected to iron. In the soap operas, the mothers always stay at the window to bid their children farewell. I always stayed, but only to make sure they really did get on the bus. The boys looked back and saw me. Normally they both waved, but that day they didn’t.

  The electric-blue private school bus had already glided down the street, past the mansions on either side, but I continued to look out the window at the spot my children had occupied moments before. I stared off into the distance. There were so many worlds out there. So many people doing so many things. But from my view, from my window in my house, which wasn’t really a home, I could see none of them. I’d been told not to leave the house, and I obeyed. Suddenly, the walls seemed to be closing in on me. I felt as if I were suffocating. I had no choice now—I had to either step into another world or be crushed when mine collapsed.

  The cold, hard cement of my driveway sent shocks through my body. The garden had grass, the house had carpet, but the cement was bare, harsh. This was the world everyone else lived in. I wondered how people could stand it. I wondered if I could.

  When I reached the edge of the lawn, I looked back on my house. I’d spent my last life hoping for all that I had in this one, but now I yearned for the living involved with hoping. There was something about being satisfied that was so unsatisfying. I wanted adventure. I wanted another life. A life without ungrateful kids and a philandering husband. A life without her. I looked down the road and saw the only people I’d seen besides my best friend, my family, and Smokey, since Smokey gave me the trumpet: the workers who weren’t really workers. I looked back at my house, the house that wasn’t really a home. Then back to the workers who weren’t really workers. For the first time in a long time I knew I had a choice. I remembered when my mother had the choice of helping me and Dream, or moving to New York. I thought about all the pain it caused us, then turned around and walked back to the house to do another load of laundry.

  On my way in I’d stepped on the beautiful white roses the gardener planted the day before and cursed. I took a moment to pray that they would grow correctly anyway and make my house look more like the beautiful home I’d dreamt of. Just as I opened my eyes, the center door of the three-car garage flew open and Dream pulled out of the driveway. I looked at my daughter blankly, trying to observe instead of judge, hoping to see some kind of understanding, some kind of appreciation. My daughter looked back with nothing but resentment.

  As Dream drove away, I flashed back to our argument earlier and knew Dream was going to see her man instead of going to work. Dream was pulling away from me. Soon my daughter would be as distant as Fashad, maybe more. In that moment I decided I’d done all a mother was required to do for that child. Dream was grown now. Old enough to buy, cook, and eat her own food, no matter how bad it tasted. Old enough to wash her own sheets, make her own bed, and lay in it.

  I looked back down at the flowers. For twenty years I’d been wishing without hoping, praying but never really expecting anything or anyone to truly please me. It had been twenty years and roses, whether white or red, paled in comparison to a good dream.

  I looked back at the house, then at the workers. I caught a reflection of myself in the rearview mirror of the Escalade that belonged to my husband, who could barely be bothered even to come home, and I wondered why I was the one maintaining the order of things. Fashad’s money had paid for a lot, but I doubted any of it came close to equaling what I’d paid emotionally. I stared at my reflection, then caressed my face the way I wanted my husband to. They’ll never make a vibrator that can do that. I paused to notice how much I resembled my mother, a woman who had options, and the courage to choose herself. I looked at the house once more, then the workers. I flashed back to the first time my mother showed up at my apartment after kicking me out and moving to New York. It took a while, but I eventually forgave her, then understood and respected her. Now I would emulate her.

  A delivery van pulled up as if on cue and I remembered the wig I’d purchased a few days earlier. I went after the box like a twelve-year-old opening a Christmas present she’d been shaking for two weeks. These days wigs were essential for me, but it wasn’t always so. Before I left home to visit my mother and came back to a house without roses, I took perfect care of my hair. I guess I still wanted Fashad to notice; but now that I knew how things stood, what was the point? With wigs, I didn’t have to waste time or get my hopes up.

  I held that wig in the air as if it were worth a million dollars. I had visions of it making me look as strong, independent, and feisty as Erica Kane. I dreamed of the adventure that awaited me, the excitement, the love, the fulfillment. This wig would be different. This wig wasn’t for Fashad; it was for Cameisha. I placed it atop my head and breathed the first breath of what would be a new lifetime.

  I strolled over to the workers without taking my eyes off of them. They saw me stare and were justifiably panicked—the pep in my step was not just that of a woman after something, but of a woman who was willing to do anything to get it. Either that or they thought I was a fool for walking barefoot down the street wearing a platinum-blond wig and a yellow housecoat.

  “Get down,” I said when I reached the two men.

  “Excuse me?” said one of them.

  “Get down,” I repeated, flicking the hair from my face and purposefully tilting my head to the left to bring out my good side, as if the cameras were about to pan in for a close-up.

  “Ma’am, we are on official business. We can’t just—”

  “I’ll tell you everything you want to know about my husband,” I said, interrupting him.

  The men looked at me, then looked at each other. They started down the pole.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me,”
I said, breathing into the words the way Erica Kane does when the dramatic music starts to play.

  “You’re cops. Everyone knows it. I said I want to help you put my husband behind bars.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re just working on this here light. We don’t know nothin’ about no cops,” said one worker.

  The other cop looked me in the eye, and I made a point of staring right back. I smiled mischievously as he climbed down and said, “Keep talking.”

  SMOKEY

  What!” Smokey yelled into the receiver and groggily looked at his clock. It was eight o’clock in the morning, and Smokey didn’t usually get up until one.

  “Why you answer it like that, Smokey?” said a sad voice he couldn’t make out. He started to ask who it was, but figured it had to be Dream because of the whining.

  “You knew it was me,” she continued.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I just woke up. My bad, baby.”

  “Why you always be callin’ me that?”

  “Callin’ you what?”

  “Baby.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t call me that no more, Smokey.”

  “All right, whatever, sweetheart.” Smokey rolled his eyes. It had been three weeks now since they’d met and he’d hatched his plan. The agony of having to put up with her was becoming unbearable.

  “I’m comin’ over,” said Dream.

  Shit, thought Smokey. The last thing he needed was Dream coming over and pressuring him for sex. Dream was one of those girls who were so ugly they could only get guys to mind-fuck them. Smokey could always get it up for a mind-fuck; fucking Dream for real, however, was not an option. Smokey hid his condoms under the mattress, then thought Dream would probably want it raw-dog anyway, and took them back out.

  “Smokey, you heard me?” asked Dream. “I said I’m coming over.”

  “Why you ain’t goin’ to work?”

  “I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”

  Dream hung up.

  He cursed as he dragged himself out of bed to throw on the clothes he was wearing last night. When the phone rang. Smokey groaned, thinking it was Dream calling with more nonsense. “Hello,” he said, trying not to sound too exasperated. Much to Smokey’s surprise, it was Bill.

  “The shit’s going down today. Meet me at the café around four. Don’t be late,” he declared in one breath before promptly hanging up.

  A butterfly fluttered in Smokey’s stomach. He felt like a gladiator entering the ring after countless weeks of practice. A song had been on his mind since the week before, and he danced over to the closet, singing the hook to what he was sure would be his first single.

  We rich

  We rich

  Ooooooh we so rich

  We got so much money

  And our pockets are not funny…

  As soon as he threw on the throwback jersey there was a knock on the door.

  Smokey peeked through the peephole and saw Dream’s blue beehive wobbling in the wind like a puppet. Normally he didn’t care what he looked like when she saw him, but today he took a glance in the mirror before he let her in. It was game time.

  As soon as he opened the door Dream threw herself into his arms. Smokey started to back away because she was crying and emotions had always been contagious for Smokey. But today was important. He had to suck it up. He squeezed her tighter.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” asked Smokey, massaging the small of her back.

  Dream tried to speak but couldn’t finish without sobbing.

  He shushed her gently as if he loved her, then guided her to the couch on which he’d fucked someone else the night before.

  “Calm down. Tell me what happened,” said Smokey as they sat.

  “She said that you don’t love me. She said that you gonna leave me. She said that you ain’t never gonna have no money.”

  “Who?” asked Smokey, trying to muffle his shock.

  “Momma.”

  Smokey got angry, not just because Cameisha was talking shit, but because Dream wasn’t supposed to tell anybody. He wanted to throw her out like the two-day-old pizza sitting on his living room table but he couldn’t. He was a gladiator with a hitch in his sword, and couldn’t change it now that he was in the ring.

  “What the fuck, Dream!” yelled Smokey. He pounded his fist into the couch before getting up and pacing, arms folded, teeth clenched in anger.

  “Baby, what? What’s wrong? What? What did I do?” asked Dream.

  Smokey almost slapped her, but pointed his finger in her face instead. Then yelled, “You said you wasn’t gonna tell nobody!”

  “I didn’t. She found out on her own,” she said, sounding like a little girl being interrogated by a parent.

  “You said you was going to be careful.”

  “I was.”

  Smokey continued to pace in front of the black leather couch, thinking, What now?

  “I didn’t tell her it was you,” said Dream, trying to get him to sit back down on the couch. “Why does it matter, anyway, Smokey?” she continued once he shrugged her away.

  Smokey was a little relieved to hear that Cameisha didn’t know he was the man Dream was involved with, but it was still a bad situation. Now that Cameisha knew a man was in the picture, Fashad would know as well. When the money disappeared, they’d grill Dream. She’d break. They’d come after him.

  “Dammit, Dream!” he said, feeling discouraged. “I told you nobody could know about us.”

  “Why can’t nobody know about us?”

  Smokey glared but kept his silence.

  “Momma says she know why,” said Dream timidly.

  Smokey continued to ignore her. He thought about breaking into the house and taking the suitcase, leaving, and never coming back. It sounded like a good idea until he remembered Bill and the deal. Besides, what was the point of being a baller if nobody knew he was a baller? Gladiators fight to the death. If he left he wouldn’t be a gladiator, he would be a thief—there was no glory in that. For Smokey this wasn’t just about money, it was about being somebody, letting himself and everybody else know he was something more than Fashad’s bitch. Dream was the only vehicle he had.

  “You hear me?” asked Dream.

  “What?” asked Smokey, awakening from his trance and once again paying her all the attention she’d ever wanted, and never got.

  “I said Momma say she know why you don’t be wantin’ nobody to know. She said it’s ’cause you usin’ me.”

  “You believe her. Is that how it is?” He wanted to teach her another lesson by turning the tables, but the moment called for delicacy. “You don’t believe I love you?” he asked, pretending to be hurt.

  She turned her head and took a deep breath. Tilting her head downward, revealing the Dream of old, she spoke softly. “No.”

  “No, what? No, you don’t believe I love you, or no, you don’t don’t believe I love you?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean…I love you, Smokey,” said Dream “But…” she continued.

  “But what? No ‘buts.’ Is you is or is you isn’t my baby?”

  “I’m is, but…I mean, why you want me, Smokey?”

  “What you mean?” Smokey knew exactly what she meant. He was a little relieved she asked. A fat, ugly girl like Dream thinking she was worthy of him would have been an insult.

  “Why you fuckin’ with me, Smokey?”

  “Because I love you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re smart, because you’re beautiful…” said Smokey as if he were reading the compliments from a list.

  Dream interrupted him. “See, Smokey? That’s why I be thinkin’ you lyin’.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not. I ain’t smart, and I ain’t beautiful.”

  “Yes you is,” said Smokey. “I don’t want to hear you talking crazy like that.”

  “Okay, but I ain’t as pretty as these other hos I see runnin’ around here. I see how they be lookin’ at you, Sm
okey. Why you ain’t with them?”

  Like a gladiator, Smokey knew the time was right to jab his opponent.

  “Because they ain’t got what you got. They can’t do what you do.”

  “What I got, Smokey? What can I do? You want your hair did?” asked Dream, smiling for the first time since she’d appeared on his doorstep. Smokey smiled as well, not just because he was a little amused by her sarcasm, but because he was elated by the perfect setup.

  “You got loyalty. I know you would do anything for me. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed her with as much passion as he could muster. Before he could draw his lips back she suddenly pinned him down on the couch and kissed him again. Then again. Then again. He knocked over a half-drunken can of Bud, trying to make her stop. Finally he put his index finger between her lips and his.

  “What, Smokey? I want you to make love to me. I need you so much.”

  “I will, but first I want something from you,” said Smokey.

  “Anything, Smokey, anything you want.”

  “I want you to belong to me.”

  “What?”

  “Say it,” commanded Smokey. “Say you belong to me.”

  “I belong to you.”

  “You going to do anything I need you to do for me, ain’t you?”

  “Oooooh yes, Smokey. Yes, I am yours,” said Dream, panting like a sex fiend.

  He patted her on the butt twice and told her to get up.

  She looked at him in a confusion that was tinged with insult. Smokey looked back at her sternly, silently reminding her of her vow. Dream got up. Smokey stood up and adjusted his clothes, then sat back down, thus giving Dream permission to do the same.

  “It’s time,” said Smokey.

  “Time for what?”

  “Remember when I told you we was gonna go away together.”

  “Yeah,” said Dream, the excitement growing in her voice like a crescendo.

  “It’s time.”

  “Oh my God, Smokey. Is we gonna get married?” asked Dream.