When I finally opened my eyes and looked at the place on the wall he’d hit, there was a smudged bloodstain looking back at me.
Fifteen
I’d just pulled on my sweatpants when I heard the front door open.
“Eric?” I called and peeked around the door.
“Yeah,” he barked and started toward his bedroom.
“Where you been?” I asked as I shot out of the room, stopping him in his tracks. He just stared at me. He was pulling air through his nose like a bull.
“What’s wrong with you?” My voice softened. He looked so upset.
“Nothing. I’m a’ight.” he mumbled and stepped around me. I let him go.
“Well, where you been?” I gently inquired again.
“I went to the park to play ball,” he said before shutting the door to his room.
I just shook my head. Mothering was such hard work; you had to know when to push and when to pull back. This was a time I had to pull back. I could fuss at him about his responsibility later on.
“Well, I’m headed out to the grocery store.”
I waited for a response, but none came.
I moved back into my bedroom, opened the closet door, and looked down at the one pair of sneakers I owned. The white was gray with age and dirt, so I opted for a worn pair of pink and yellow striped flip-flops. “I’m just going to the grocery store,” I told myself as I pulled my hair into a tight ponytail.
Always look your best. You never know who you might meet. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head.
“Shut up,” I mumbled to the air. “At least I have on clean underwear.”
“What the hell!” Eric bellowed through the wall.
My heart jumped, and I rushed from the bedroom in a panic. “What’s wrong?” I was yelling when we nearly collided in the living room. I was clutching my chest and Eric was clutching the filthy sheet.
“Ma, this sheet is gross. It’s covered with all kinds of sh—I mean, gunk.”
I looked him squarely in the eye. “Yeah, it is. Maybe next time you’ll do what you’re suppose to do,” I said and snatched my pocketbook off the table and waltzed out the door.
Sixteen
I couldn’t believe Noah left me sleeping on the bathroom floor. What kind of friend was he? Now my damn neck was all stiff. I actually woke up with my lips pressed against the toilet bowl—Yuck!
God himself only knew what it was I’d been dreaming about. I have to leave that chronic alone.
Once I’d brushed the toilet out of my mouth, showered, and slipped into some tight dark blue Calvins, a white linen halter, and red stiletto slides, I was almost ready to hit the streets.
I was meeting Crystal and Geneva for lunch.
I had to touch up the dark circles under my eyes with some concealer and of course decide what it was I was going to do with this hair of mine. It was time for a new weave. But I didn’t have five hundred dollars. And as I said before, my male money pots were drying up faster than the Sahara after a sun shower.
I walked into my room and dug through some boxes in search of one of my wigs. Pulling out an all-time favorite, I moved back into the bathroom where the light was best and fit it on.
“Perfect!”
Once out of the bathroom, I stopped at Noah’s bedroom door.
“Noah?” I called and knocked softly on the door. “Noah?” I jiggled the knob but the door was locked. “Noah!” I screamed and gave the door one good kick.
“What, bitch!”
“Oh, so you’re awake.”
“Now I am. What do you want?”
“Why is the door locked?” I asked and jiggled the knob again.
“ ’Cause I locked it. Now go away. I’m very tired.”
“I’m on my way up to the city.”
“So, go the fuck on already.”
“Did you forget that you’re supposed to be coming too?”
“What?”
“Crystal is having us all over for lunch today.”
“Damn, that’s today?”
“Did I stutter?”
“Look, don’t be working my last nerve early in the morning, Miss Thang.”
“Early? It’s eleven o’clock.”
“What? Oh, shit, I’ll be there later. You go on ahead.”
Once downstairs, I thought about coffee. But the coffee machine looked so complicated. I just stood there and stared at the sleek black plastic and pristine clean glass. I am so not domesticated. I thought that maybe I’ll go back upstairs and have Noah do it for me. I would get cussed out, but in the end he would do it.
I looked at the clock. I could skip the coffee; in another hour it’d be time for lunch.
As I turned to move into the living room, I passed the wall phone, hesitated, and then decided yeah, I was going to go on ahead and call this Negro for the umpteenth time.
I’d called Mr. Abimbola exactly five times. The first three times I got his voice mail but opted not to leave a message. The fourth time I was able to snag him, and we had a delightful conversation—he spoke mostly about what he owned and what else he wanted to acquire before he turned fifty, but more important, what it was he would and could do for me if I’d just give him the chance!
He currently had a loft in Chelsea and a house in West Chester, Pennsylvania, and of course he had a spread in his hometown of Lagos, Nigeria, and an apartment in his home away from home, London.
He’d gone to school in Texas and earned a business degree from Texas State.
“And what kind of business are you in?” I’d asked. He’d just chuckled and said, “Well, let’s just say I’m in the import and export business.”
I didn’t venture to ask what his product was, but I had a general idea that whatever it was he was importing and exporting, the government hadn’t placed its stamp of approval on it.
I’d been holding off giving him my number, but seeing that my other prospects were steadily fading, I thought it was time to reel in someone new. And besides, Mr. Abimbola seemed to be meeting all of my criteria: rich, rich, and possibly stinking filthy rich!
I lifted the receiver and dialed.
You have reached Abimbola. I am unable to take this call. Please leave your name and number after the tone.
I began in my sexiest voice: “Abimbola, this is Chevy. I hope you’re well. Would love to see you. You can call me at . . .”
I double-checked to make sure my Nokia was charged up, dropped it back down into my Coach bag, and stepped out the door and into the beautiful May morning.
Strolling up Stuyvesant Avenue toward Fulton Street, I took the time to really admire the majestic brownstone and limestone homes and thought about what a great investment Noah had made.
Ten years ago no one wanted to live in Bedford Stuyvesant. Crack addicts, pimps, pushers, and prostitutes owned the corners on Fulton Street, as well as the park. The district school, Boys and Girls High, was one of the worst high schools in the city.
Back then brownstones here sold for a smile and a song, but now white people had taken an interest in the neighborhood, white people and the upper-crust blacks who had been priced out of Harlem.
They were all here now.
Noah purchased his brownstone for just $130,000. That was back in 1995. He’d spent another $80,000 renovating it, and now it was worth just under a million dollars.
Damn.
I remember when he started looking for a house. We were both living in Chelsea then. He was just a salesman for Barneys and I was working for the Carlton Hotel as a reservations agent. He had some money put away. Me, I had nothing, but I had good credit back then.
“We can do this together.” He’d beamed when we sat down to pore over the real estate section of the Daily News.
I didn’t mind going to the open houses with him. I enjoyed seeing how people live, but really and truly, I didn’t have any interest in owning property. Didn’t think it was important. Of course, now that I know better my credit is fucked up and I can’t afford the price
s.
I rounded the corner and descended the steps of the Utica Avenue train station.
In less than forty minutes, I was strolling down Broadway. It was just a little after noon and my stomach was growling. But I’d been standing in front of this window for at least ten minutes, staring at the sexiest stilettos I’d seen in a long time.
The toe of the shoe was so pointy, I could stab someone with it. The heel was long and as slender as a cigarette, and the straps laced up to the knee!
I was in love!
But I didn’t have any money for shoes. Not today. But they wouldn’t be here next week. I knew they wouldn’t, and this ain’t the type of store that deals in layaway.
I walked away and then came back. My mouth was salivating. My heart was pumping blood to my brain so fast, I felt faint.
I pressed my forehead against the window and stared.
The saleswoman inside was laughing at me. Pointing me out to her coworkers.
I walked away and then I came back again.
Fuck it. I went in.
They were even more beautiful on my feet. Shit, I had to have these shoes. I needed these shoes. These shoes wanted to come home with me.
Okay, okay, let’s see, I got $120 on me, I got about $60 left on my credit card . . . is it hot in here or is it me? Concentrate! Okay, that’s cool. Oh, the tax. Shit!
Think, think.
MasterCard should allow me to go over my limit by a couple of dollars. Well, wait a minute now. Did I even pay them last month?
Fuck it. A try beats a give-up any day of the week.
“They look beautiful on you,” the svelte woman with the dark hair, green eyes, and Italian accent said.
“Yes, they do, don’t they,” I agreed as I twisted my foot this way and that in the mirror to catch all angles.
“Would you like to wear them out, or should I wrap them up for you?”
“Wrap them up!”
I handed over all the cash in my wallet, the change at the bottom of my purse, a mint—oops, I took that back—and finally I slid my MasterCard across the counter.
The saleswoman picked up the card, studied it for a moment, and then looked up at me. We both took a deep breath, and I thought she was saying a Hail Mary in her head right along with me as she swiped the card through the machine.
Green numbers rolled across the screen and then the word CONNECTING.
The woman and I exchanged looks and I fought the urge to cross my fingers, eyes, and toes.
CONNECTING
CONNECTING
CONNECTING
I think I’m going to go mad.
PROCESSING
Okay, okay, here we go.
I had the bag in my hands. If the right response didn’t come up, I could always make a break for it. There was a security guard at the door, but he was overweight and by the time I hit the corner he’d just be stepping over the threshold.
But then there was Miss Italiano. She looked like a jogger. Probably one of those marathon bitches. She might be able to catch me. But could she fight?
I sized her up.
PROCESSING
What’s taking so damn long? And why is she looking at me like that? Why isn’t the air-conditioning on? It’s like a hundred fucking degrees in here.
PROCESSING
Oh, God, please. Please let me have these shoes. If you let me have them, I’ll—
APPROVED
“Yeah!” I squealed.
Seventeen
I was talking to my neighbor when Chevy came up behind me and placed her hands over my eyes.
“Guess who?” she said in her best child voice.
“Chevy,” I said dryly.
The neighbor threw an amused look at Chevy, said goodbye, and moved away from us.
I turned around and my eyes fell on someone who barely resembled Chevy. I squinted and would have second-guessed myself, but then I saw the shopping bag in her hand. That was a dead giveaway. It was Chevy.
Today she wore a wet and wavy platinum blond wig that hung in long, synthetic goldilock tresses down her back. I could barely keep my mouth closed. The wig did nothing for her dark brown complexion, which was getting closer to mahogany with every sunny day. And if the hair wasn’t ridiculous enough, the pink lipstick was a little too pink for her. Okay, a lot too pink.
Chevy was excellent at putting an outfit together, but some days she was really bad with cosmetics. Okay, most days.
“You look like a clown,” I blurted out.
“Oh, so you’re jealous as usual,” she said and did a little spin for me. “Don’t hate me.”
“Did you hear me say you look like a clown?” I asked as she strolled off toward my apartment building.
“I thought we might walk over to Merchants and have some drinks,” I said, halting her in her tracks.
“I thought we were hanging out at your house.” Chevy swung around and batted her fake eyelashes at me.
I knew what that meant. It meant she didn’t have a dime to her name. Chevy never gave up an opportunity to be out and to be seen.
“Yeah, that was the plan, but I changed my mind,” I said coolly.
Chevy looked down at her watch. “Well, I can just stay for one drink,” she said and her voice wavered a bit.
“You don’t have any money, do you, Chevy?” I shook my head and eyed the bag she was carrying.
“Oh, this—I’m returning this.” She chuckled and swung the bag behind her back. “It’s just that my money is a little funny right now.”
“No, your money is hilarious all of the time.”
Once upstairs, I ordered up some Italian food and called the liquor store and had them send up three bottles of Moët.
When the food and champagne arrived, Chevy pulled the bottles from the bags, and her eyes lit up. “Oooh, Moët—white label, but still not bad. What are we celebrating?”
“Life,” I chirped happily.
Normally I drank champagne only on special occasions, but more and more I was coming to realize that every day I opened my eyes was a special occasion.
“Okay,” Chevy said, already working at getting one of the bottles uncorked.
What happened earlier in the day was still weighing heavily on my mind, and every time I walked past the wall Eric had hit I started to shake. To think that he had even considered hitting me really messed with my mind, and, try as I might, I couldn’t shake the last vision I had of him, wild eyed and crazed.
“Chevy, I’ve got to tell you something.”
Chevy was reaching into the cabinet, retrieving two champagne glasses. “All right,” she mumbled absentmindedly as she held the glasses up to the light to check for spots.
The thing about confiding in Chevy was that half the time she barely heard what it was you were saying, unless of course it directly affected her and had nothing to do with how much she owed you emotionally or financially.
So I guess she was a good person to get stuff off your chest with, if you didn’t require any constructive input or a timely resolution to your problem.
I went ahead and shared with her what went down between Eric and me earlier that afternoon. I told her how it was wrenching at my insides and how I hoped this wasn’t a preamble to violence against women.
Chevy must have been somewhat listening between the moments she alternated popping grapes into her mouth and sipping champagne, because one of her eyebrows climbed when I mentioned the violence against women part, which was followed by a long sucking sound, a typical Caribbean indication of disgust. Although Chevy didn’t advertise her Caribbean background, she was a full-blooded Antiguan and had the papers to prove it.
Just as I finished my story, the buzzer sounded.
“That’s probably Geneva,” I said and pressed the button. “Yes.”
The doorman’s voice crackled back, “Ms. Atkins, Mr. Bodison is here for you.”
“Thank you, send him up, please,” I said and moved back into the kitchen to finish spooning the gn
occhi into the bowl.
A few seconds later there was a soft knocking at the door and Chevy moved to answer it. She peered through the peephole. “Oh, it’s my roomie.”
“Your what?” I asked.
She swung the door open and in walked Noah, dressed in a powder blue linen shirt and faded blue jeans.
I blinked. “Roomie?” I said stupidly.
Noah walked over to me and gave me a big hug. It seemed like we hadn’t seen each other in ages.
It was as if the two men I loved the most in my life were the ones I saw the least. I hugged him back as hard as I could and planted a big wet kiss on his face.
“I missed you!”
“Missed you too, baby,” he said, giving me one last squeeze before breaking our embrace.
“You look good.” I beamed.
“You look better,” he said and gave me a sly once-over.
“Well, thank you,” I said and reached for my glass of champagne. “Now what’s all this roomie stuff?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Noah’s eyes popped with surprise as he stepped around me to examine the eats.
“You two are living together now?” I managed to choke out as I swallowed.
“Yep,” Chevy said and took a seat at the table.
“Against my will, of course. You know I would never allow Ms. Drama to move into my space.”
“Since when?” I asked, turning to Noah.
“Well, let’s see, she’s been there since I was in London. That was two weeks ago—I came back yesterday, so I guess she’s been squatting for about fifteen days.”
I turned back to Chevy. “You got evicted again?”
“You know that place was much too small for me. And anyway, my lease was up.”
“You got evicted again,” Noah and I said blandly.
“Whatever,” Chevy breathed, waving her hand at us.
The intercom blared again.
“Yeah?” Chevy pressed the button and asked.
“It’s me,” Geneva’s voice came back.
“Who, the doorman?” Chevy covered her mouth and snickered.
“Stop acting like a child,” I warned.
“I don’t know where he’s at. It’s Geneva—let me up.”
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