“Crying in the dark,” Honey said.
“Wasn’t crying, Mama.”
“I know a li’l something about crying in the dark.” Honey sighed, took a seat at the foot of Lark’s bed.
Lark wanted to roll over, show Honey her back. She had the desire, but lacked the strength to do that one simple thing.
“I’m really sorry about your friend.”
“Kenya. Her name’s Kenya.” Angry.
“Kenya. I’m sorry about Kenya.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Honey grunted, sat silent.
“Shut the door on your way out,” Lark said. “Please.”
Threw that please on at the end, as Honey would say.
Honey stood, moved over to the door, shut it.
To Lark’s dismay, her mother shut herself in the room, hadn’t left. “I don’t feel like talking,” Lark said.
“Listen, then.”
Honey moved back to the bed, sat next to Lark instead of at the foot. Lark found the strength, rolled over, gave her back to Honey. Honey’s voice was soft, insistent. Softer than Lark had ever remembered. She had to struggle to hear her mother. Not that she actually cared about what Honey had to say. It didn’t matter.
“Never really had a friend like that. Like you and Kenya. Met your daddy when we were both so young. We’re all each other has ever known. I’m his only real friend. He’s mine.”
“With friends like that…” Lark began.
“Who needs enemies,” Honey finished. “You’re upset. I’ll humor you.”
Lark wasn’t gonna say it.
“We were good friends,” Honey said. “Way back when.”
“Before me,” Lark said. It hurt to say it. But she knew it was true.
“You’re right,” Honey said.
Lark bit her lip. The conversation was done as far as she was concerned.
“You wondered if I was in college when I got pregnant with you?” Honey waited for Lark to respond. It didn’t happen. “Well, I was. Rider University. Your dad was at Montclair State.”
Her dad? In college? That was a revelation for Lark.
But she didn’t dare respond.
This conversation was over.
“He had this beat-up Buick. I believe it was a Century. He’d come see me every weekend. Send me letters every day. To this day, I don’t know how he did it, but there’d be a letter in my box at school every day.”
Her voice dripped honey.
Lark wasn’t moved.
Her dad had gone from Hallmark to Hennessy.
“He wanted to work on Wall Street. A broker or something. I wanted to be a psychologist. I was always interested in how the mind works.”
How different might life have been?
Maybe they’d have a house instead of living in the projects.
“Sorry I messed it all up for you guys,” Lark said. “You both had to drop out and forego your dreams.”
“Your dad didn’t drop out.”
“What?”
“He graduated.”
“What? How? I mean…” Lark was beyond confused.
She couldn’t help it. She turned over, faced her mother.
Honey’s smile was sad and warm at the same time.
“He graduated. I dropped out to have you. We got married. He made me promise to go back once you hit school age.”
“Daddy has a degree?”
Lark still couldn’t wrap her mind around that.
Her father’s best friend had been his hands for as long as she could remember. Construction, masonry, carpentry. She’d never seen him in a suit except for when Nana died. When Pop-Pop passed he’d worn slacks and a plaid shirt. She couldn’t imagine him behind a desk, his fingers hovering over a keyboard.
“He tried for work. But he had a difficult time finding it in his field. So he just…worked. Did whatever he could to support us. At first he still looked. Then he gave up. Work was work. But I tell you, a part of your father died when he gave up.”
“And you?” Lark asked.
“Work was work,” Honey said.
“So you got stuck raising me and never went back to school?”
“I raised you.”
Lark snorted. “I scarred you so badly you didn’t even have any more kids. Not that I would suggest you did.”
You weren’t any good with the one you had.
A thought in Lark’s head, left unspoken.
“Couldn’t,” Honey said. “Had complications with your birth.”
“What?”
Honey smiled. Sad and warm. “I got my baby, but there’d be no others.”
Lark thought, What a sad and sorry life.
“Life’s gonna be sad at times,” Honey said. “Don’t feel sorry for me. That’s not why I’m telling you all of this.”
Oops. Had Lark spoken out loud?
“Why are you telling me all of this then, Mama?”
“Your father and I haven’t dealt with the bumps in the road as well as I would’ve liked. You don’t have to make the same mistake. I want you to go off to school and do all the great things I know you’re capable of doing.”
Lark hunched her eyes in surprise.
Honey was talking clearly, grammatically correct and with a warmth Lark had never known. Lark had thought her mother had interrupted her sleep, broke off her dream about Kenya. But that must not have happened. Obviously, she was dreaming now.
Lark pinched herself.
Damn!
Honey laughed. “You’re awake, child.”
Child. Not chile.
Damn!
“I don’t understand,” Lark said.
“I love you.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“You’ve…you’ve never…”
“Told you that before? Yeah. Shame on me.”
Tears.
Big, fat tears.
In Honey’s eyes.
Honey sniffed. “When you love someone, you should do the best by them. I haven’t, and I’m sorry for it. Your father hasn’t. I won’t even say we’ve tried. We’ve made so many mistakes.” Honey reached forward, touched Lark’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you for getting accepted to college. For figuring out how to pay for it on your own. Your father and I have a couple dollars saved up for you that we didn’t tell you about.”
“How much?” More and more revelations. Lark wasn’t sure her heart was strong enough for all of this.
“You won’t have to work. Except on your papers and classwork.”
Tears.
Big, fat tears.
In Lark’s eyes.
“Don’t want to go…without Kenya,” Lark said.
“Go in her honor.”
It hit Lark immediately.
In Kenya’s honor.
“That’s a great idea, Lark.”
“Yeah? You mean it?”
Carolina’s voice was strong and excited through the phone line. “Yes. I mean it. The Deltas are a sisterhood of action. We were planning a concert anyway; always do to open the school year. We’ll dedicate some of the proceeds to help Kenya’s family with their medical bills. It’ll be lovely, and for a good cause. We have to get her better, her bills paid, and here in school where she belongs. With her sisters.”
“True dat.” Lark felt her old self resurfacing.
She’d watch CSI today.
Eat, listen to some music, take a shower.
“I’ll handle everything,” Carolina said.
“Thank you so much.”
“And you think you can get Fiasco to perform?”
“Spoke to Kenya’s brother, and he talked to Fiasco. It’s a go.”
“That’s great. I like his music.”
“He’s beefing with Yung Chit now. That should be interesting, them on the same stage.”
“Not at the same time,” Carolina said. “We’ll keep that from happening.”
“Be like a Delta and an Ah-ka sharing makeup.”
<
br /> Carolina growled like a cat.
They both laughed.
“So how’s our girl doing?” Carolina asked.
“Better,” Lark said.
Both Kenya and herself.
Chapter 17
Kenya
“A benefit concert?”
“Yup.”
“Whose idea is this?”
“Mine, Ken,” Lark says. “You don’t like it?”
“I’m a megalomaniac,” I say. “’Course I like it.”
Lark laughs. “You’ve been reading the dictionary Fiasco left you, huh, Ken?”
“One of the aides sits with me, reads it. I’m not quite strong enough to hold the book.”
“What’s his name?” Lark asks without missing a beat.
“Why it got to be a he?”
“What’s his name, Ken?”
“I hate you.”
“You love me, Ken. What’s his name?”
“Terrence. You happy?”
“Black boy?”
“Yeah.”
“Cute as 106 & Park Terrence?”
“Cuter.”
“Only you, Ken. Only you.”
“I’m very sexy on a bedpan.” I laugh.
Laugh to keep from crying.
Lark’s a friend.
Check that, my best friend.
She knows me inside and out.
“You holding up okay, Ken?”
I bite my lip. “These four walls are driving me crazy. And I keep thinking about…school.”
“JaMarcus?”
“Whatever, girl. I ain’t thinking about that boy.”
“You’re better than me. Six-two—”
“Six-four,” I cut in.
“Well, excuse me, Miss I-Ain’t-Thinking-About-That-Boy.”
Again, I laugh. Lark is medicine.
Better than Percoset, Vicodin, codeine.
I tell her so.
The accident has made me more willing to tell those I love that I love them.
“I love you, too, Ken,” Lark says.
“Donnell’s coming to see me today,” I whisper.
Lark’s eyes widen. “Shut up!”
I nod. “Yup.”
“You finally approved his visit?”
“Yes.”
“I need to go. Don’t want you to see me boo-hooing.”
“Yeah, you should go.”
“You kicking me out, Ken?”
“Yes, ma’am. Don’t want you to see me boo-hooing, either.”
“Kenya?”
I open my eyes.
Dayum!
I fell asleep after Lark’s visit. Didn’t mean to do that, but these medicines are kicking my ass. Now I’m upset at myself. I didn’t get a chance to prepare.
“Donnell,” I say.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve had better days.”
He nods, frowns.
“How is your mother?” I ask.
“Doing well. Taking therapy. Speech, physical, occupational. I was joking with her yesterday, told her she spent so much time down in the rehab’s gym she was gonna come out looking like Nelly.”
“50 Cent,” I say.
“Reggie Bush.”
“Flo Rida.”
Donnell purses his lips. “How you get me talking about all these buff dudes?”
Buff?
Donnell’s got the soul of a forty-year-old, I swear.
I love that about him, though.
He’s solid.
“Speaking of buff,” I say, “you’re looking pretty good yourself. Been working out?”
“I’m allergic to the gym.”
“What about your push-ups, sit-ups, crunches?”
“Yeah. I still do ’em.”
“Two hundred of each every day, right?”
“Most.”
We’ll do anything to avoid the real issue. Donnell’s forehead is creased with lines. The flesh around his eyes is puffy. Eyes aren’t quite as clear as usual. Lips look dry.
“For real, though,” I say. “How have you been holding up?”
He shrugs as an answer.
“I’m sorry I’ve kept you from seeing me.”
He nods. “I’ve been worried about you. Eric’s kept me up to speed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool.”
He says cool the way I spell it in my text messages.
Kewl.
“How did we get here?” I ask. It isn’t the first time I’ve asked this question.
“I don’t know, Kenya. But I don’t like it.” He sighs, places a vase of flowers I hadn’t seen in his hands on the desk next to my bed. I’ve gotten flowers from so many people. But these mean the most to me. Even more than the arrangement my mother brought me.
“Ooh. You got me flowers.”
Modest, he doesn’t respond.
“What are they?”
“What?”
“The flowers. They’re beautiful. What are they?”
He flips up a card at the edge of the bouquet. “Fields of Europe. Lilies, daisy poms, button poms, waxflower and salal.” He looks up at me. A tight smile on his face.
“They’re very thoughtful.”
“That they are.”
“Your mother really is doing okay?”
“It’s a process. She’s doing fine, Kenya.”
“I miss you calling me YaYa.”
“That so, Kenya?”
I want to ask him again how we got here.
“You ready for school?” I ask instead.
“Not much for me to do. I’m staying here, commuting.”
“Don’t know how long I’m gonna be in here.”
“Yeah.”
“I was accepted at Rutgers, too,” I say.
Feeling him out.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” I say.
“Have you?”
I smile. Mine is tight like Donnell’s. “There’s nothing much else to do in here.”
“You can smell your flowers.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, Kenya.”
I bat my eyes. “Can’t I get one YaYa from you?”
“I don’t think so, Kenya.”
There’s an edge to his voice I can’t figure out.
I don’t want to figure it out, either.
“I’m tired of water. Can you get me a soda?”
“Where from?”
“Vending machine at the end of the hall, I believe.”
“Do anything to get me to spend money on you, huh, Kenya?”
I smile. “Just practice. Get used to it.”
Instead of the return smile I expect, he swallows, digs in his pocket for change, then turns and leaves the room.
What’s wrong?
Is he not getting my signals?
Why is this going so wrong?
Does he not understand that I’m trying to put the past behind us? That I’m looking forward, instead of over my shoulder? That Melyssa Bryan is in my rearview mirror?
“Sprite.”
“I missed you.” My voice is cheery, sweet.
“Wasn’t gone but a minute,” he says.
He won’t play along. “Wipe the can off,” I say. “Hold it up to my mouth.”
He does, but his mouth is so tight. Deep lines form around his lips. So much for this gesture bringing us closer. I take a sip. “Thanks. Can you wipe my mouth?”
He does. With a napkin.
“Could have used your lips,” I say.
“Don’t know where they’ve been, Kenya.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What crawled up your butt and died?”
He sighs, rubs his head, his eyes. “I’m tired, Kenya.”
I will not be getting a YaYa.
“I know about tired. Pain, too.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t’ve come, Kenya.”
“Must you keep calling me that?”
He knits his brows
. “What? That’s your name.”
“Okay, Donnell. Don’t say I didn’t try.”
“You have,” he says. “I have. I guess it’s just not meant to be.”
I will not cry.
“You can go,” I say.
“Okay.”
“I really hate you right now, Donnell.”
His face falls. For a second I think he’s about to salvage this get-together. “I love you, Kenya,” he says. “And always will. I hope you remember that.”
That sounds so final.
So done.
So over.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I say.
His eyes are ruined by the crease lines at their corners.
He nods, leaves without another word.
I snatch the card off of the flowers, ready to rip it up into the tiniest of pieces and rain them on the floor. But I stop. And everything comes into focus.
The flowers aren’t from Donnell.
They’re from JaMarcus.
With a message. Waiting for you in Georgia, my peach.
Dayum!
Chapter 18
Fiasco
Fiasco bounced on his heels backstage, energized. He could feel the flow of blood in his veins. He hadn’t felt this kind of energy in a while. It wasn’t that large of a club, but it was packed. It was smoky like most of ’em: too dark, hot, the usual. But there was a certain kind of energy in the crowd tonight that hadn’t been present in any of the other cities. Katrina had done some real damage to Louisiana, for sure, but the old girl still had some life in her legs. And so did Fiasco.
The DJ started cutting in with a KRS-One sample. “Let us skip back to what they called hip-hop.”
Fiasco bounded from backstage, mic in his hand.
“How many of y’all love that real hip-hop?”
A roar from the crowd.
But not cheers.
Boos.
Fiasco worked through it. “They saying hip-hop is dead. Are we dead?”
Beer cups, some of them empty, some not, rained down on him.
Plus boos that were building in a crescendo, getting louder and louder.
“Hip-hop ain’t dead. Close. But she’s still breathing. Ain’t that right.”
The DJ was still cutting the KRS-One loop. “Let us skip back to what they called hip-hop.”
It started so low Fiasco couldn’t make it out at first. A low chant that built quickly, just as the boos from the crowd had. It was like a forest fire, roaring out of control in a matter of seconds.
Yung Chit, Yung Chit, Yung Chit.
Dirty South Page 17
