Looker

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  The death of the late councilman’s wife was reported throughout the city. So many calls came in to Catch One that management recorded an outgoing message: “In spite of the tragic circumstances that have befallen Miss Zara, she has insisted on going on with tonight’s midnight performance. The show will be dedicated to Miss Zara’s late mother, Mrs. Selma Fant.”

  That Miss Zara was onstage performing some six hours after discovering her mother’s death perplexed some, while others understood. Her strength in the face of so grave a tragedy was heard in song after song, and many in the overflow crowd were profoundly moved.

  Omar thought about his own mother and the schism that existed between them, two stubborn souls forever estranged by the pain they both shared and, perhaps, both inflicted.

  But seeing her at the cemetery brought forth a new sadness that had little to do with what he felt he had suffered at the hands of her evangelical denunciations and rejection. The once stalwart and unforgiving wall of a woman had been diminished by time and God knows what else. She was a mere shadow of her holier-than-thou former self, prostrated before her own mother’s grave, weakened by tears and perhaps decisions she might have regretted, regret that could never return loved ones to the barely living.

  Grammy.

  The sudden thought of his grandmother sent a pang through him that threatened to make him hate anew, and so he put Grammy out of his mind so that he could remove his mother from that place where no child should ever place a mother. He felt sorry for her, which means he thought about her. And he wondered if she ever thought about him.

  To know what it’s like

  To hold Stardust in your hand

  To see in the night

  when the moonlight says you can

  To know a mother’s love.

  There were tears all around him and yet he could not cry. He did not have the capacity to completely feel sorry for himself, at least not to the point of tears.

  But he felt Miss Zara, up on that stage, singing her heart out. What he and she shared as too-soon-

  weaned-off offspring could not be understood by anyone who had not been there.

  It was an emptiness, an emptiness that could not even be bettered by the man sitting next to him, who he also did not have. He was motherless and not loved by the one and only man he truly loved; not loved the way he wanted to be, needed to be.

  Brando.

  As Miss Zara closed her show with her signature song, “I Who Have Nothing,” she, too, thought about all that she had lost and who she was, orphaned and unreconciled.

  But she refused to suffer long. Mourn, yes, but suffer? She made the choice. She chose life over death, and she would be stronger for it, better for it, because she still had something great and wonderful. She had Eli.

  She looked over at him in the wings. They shared that secret smile that only they understood.

  She was not without family. Family is not always biological. Family is about who loves you and who you love in return. Somewhere in the Bible it is written that you leave your mother and father and go with your mate, and you create a new family.

  “It is not I who have nothing. It is I who have everything.”

  The crowd shot to their feet and exploded with cheers and applause, saluting her brilliant finale. And she stood there, taking it all in, gratefully, looking from them to the heavens, tears streaking her face as she reached up to God, thanking him for the lessons and strength.

  The crowd stomped and bombarded the stage with tens and twenties that descended around her like New Year’s Eve confetti. She thanked them graciously and gratefully with arms raised with a humility that only true royals understand.

  She then extended her right hand to the wings and urged shy Eli out on the stage. With a little boy’s smile, he obliged. The spotlight followed as she met him halfway. Then she kissed him and hugged him and let the world know that this was her strength.

  “God is love!” she declared. “And love is for everyone!”

  The roar of the crowd approved mightily.

  Omar was caught up like everyone else. He was up on his feet, flailing his arms, calling Miss Zara’s name, dancing quick church steps that came out of nowhere. He was feeling it stronger than ever before. “God is love!” he kept hearing, the chant growing stronger. “God is love!” He joined in, chanting loudly and freely. “And love is for everyone!” There was no holding back now. “Love is for everyone! This was the moment; nothing else mattered. “Love is for everyone!” he said and praised, filled with the glorious fury. So he turned to Brando and started to tell him.

  But Brando was still seated, submerged in this human sea, shaking and trembling with the manifestation that all that surrounded him made it so clear what he did not have. Love is for everyone, Brando’s heart was telling him. Love is for everyone…but me.

  He was crying as Omar had never seen him cry before, and Omar, panicked, reached for him. But Brando pulled away, stood up quickly, then fought his way through the joy-filled crowd.

  Omar rushed right after him, worried and determined, but Brando’s pain was too mighty. Omar lost sight of him until he saw his figure dash through the neon-lit exit.

  The mist in the air caused the club’s moonlit parking lot to sparkle. Brando burst from the club. His sobbing had now become wails, and the wall of the building he leaned against seemed barely able to hold him up.

  Moments later, Omar came through the doorway, perplexed and worried. Frantically, he looked around for Brando, who was nowhere in sight. Then he heard the sound of the crying. He found Brando sobbing against the back wall of the building. He rushed to him, grabbed him, and forced him to look at him, but Brando could barely lift up his head.

  Brando then suddenly buried his face in his best friend’s chest and held him so tightly that neither could breathe.

  Somehow in the downpour of sorrow and tears, Brando confessed the truth about what happened with Collier. He cried about being on the outside looking in. He cried for the chance to feel love as he’d never felt it before, with its entire maddening and magnificent all.

  And while Brando cried questioningly in Omar’s arms, Omar opened his resolute heart and then said, “Close your eyes and listen.”

  And then he said it. Omar said it. For the first time in his life he spoke the searing thought that had enraptured him with torture for years.

  “I love you, Brando,” he said. “I love you.”

  Brando looked up from the fog of his tears and his sorrow. He saw in his best friend’s eyes what was always there. And he, strangely, inexplicably, began to feel something that he could not explain but that for some reason needed no explanation. It was as if a long-ignored thorn had been pulled from his aching heart, and the pain was slowly subsiding.

  “I’ve always loved you, Brando.”

  And suddenly, Brando had no trouble saying it, too. It burst out of him, flowed out of him, like the new tears that began to stream his face. “I love you, too…I love you, too.

  He grabbed Omar’s face and kissed him so hard that they almost tumbled, but they caught each other, held each other, saved each other. They laughed, wildly, and they kissed as if there was no tomorrow.

  The full moon smiled down on them approvingly.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  It was First Sunday’s second service and everyone could tell that there was something different about Brando. Actually, many of his fellow congregants had been bearing witness to the steady transformation that began somewhere around the trial of Jeanette Bell and steadily escalated. The nice-enough guy with the decent-enough heart seemed no longer right there in the middle. Brando Heywood seemed caught up in something wonderful and lilting that perhaps he could not even explain.

  At the First Sunday’s second service, seated in his usual aisle-end place in the third pew, he could feel his spirit rising as it had never risen before, and his heart was singing in the gospel name a wild and raucous melody he did not recognize, singing loudly from an inner
flame, singing for the goodness and the glory of this new and wondrous feeling, created by a God who gave this gift of pleasure, spirit, and commitment freely and abundantly.

  Inside his mind, inside his heart, he twisted and turned until he could hold it back no more.

  He suddenly found himself shimmying. And then, as if possessed by something heavenly, he threw back his head and threw it forward. Tambourines and voices sounded all around him.

  And then it happened. For the first time in his life, in all the wonderful years of his churchgoing life, he was shouting! And when it did happen, it did not even frighten him as he thought it would if he had not been so caught up, if he was his former practical, lucid, standing-on-the-sidelines self. He found himself shouting, shouting, and shouting, for the very first time in his life.

  And the congregation, surprised and pleased, let out with a chorus of “Amen’s,” for they knew what he now knew, that he was finally, truly, and totally in love.

  Dee arrived at the landfill a few minutes before sunset. Incinerated trash of all kinds filled the rude ground cavities, while scattered heaps of fresh rubble waited to be burned. Inside the black plastic bag she lugged over her shoulder like a derelict Santa were all of the titles—Hot Rod, Black and Huge, Dickalicious, Ruffneck Workout, Mo’ Betta’ Black Booty; altogether more than two dozen DVDs and videos—the whole of the late Selma Fant’s well worn treasure, including the illicit tapes of Brando and Collier.

  The flames were immediate and aggressive, encouraged by a generous gasoline soaking. Coal-black smoke billowed in a twist toward the orange sky. She stood back and watched this part of Selma Fant’s history disappear into the air, and she was both sad and glad. Selma had already lost so much, and drank herself to death out of guilt and unhappiness. An autopsy determined that she died of acute alcohol poisoning. It was time to let the soul of Selma Fant rest, finally, free of further scandal, scorn, and ridicule. After all, in spite of it all, in spite of the fact that she was a lonely old woman who drank herself to death, she was still the councilman’s wife. That should count for something. Her only child cried over her passing. That should count for much. The time had come for Selma Fant to enjoy a dignity in death that she did not fully know in life.

  Dee thought about her ex-husband, Kevin. She pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed his number.

  Epilogue

  The Lucy Florence Coffeehouse is still going as strong as ever on Degnan Boulevard, as strong as the drums that beat in Leimert Park each and every Sunday afternoon. However, Brando and Omar have expanded their horizons, and they now freely act upon their culinary inquisitiveness. Their Sunday brunch ritual now explores the vast Southern California terrain—Malibu, Santa Monica, Marina Del Rey, Beverly Hills, Beachwood Canyon, Long Beach—where they explore a new and different eatery to surprise their Sabbath palate.

  Still, Lucy Florence holds a very special place in their hearts, and they have decided that this Sunday will be their first Sunday back since Jeanette Bell’s trial, since the death of Selma Fant, since what happened between them happened.

  Brando sold his house on Don Pedro Drive—an inexplicable feeling of discomfort had replaced the serenity—and moved in with Omar. They are a committed couple now. Lovers. Friends and lovers. Partners in a monogamous relationship. From Omar, Brando learned to fully enjoy the passions of life. From Brando, Omar learned to channel his passions more productively.

  Omar even goes to church these days, Brando’s church, First AME, not because he has been struck with a sudden epiphany, but because this is where his man is on Sunday mornings. And maybe the stirring of the music has done it for him, the tambourines, the hand clapping, and the hugging. It all feels so good, maybe better, because there’s a room full of people singing and clapping in harmonious happiness, carrying on like family.

  Omar still has not reconciled with his mother, but all things in time.

  Their lives are full now, Brando and Omar, and they are happy—grateful for the journey, the education, the stirring, and most of all, the love, a love no longer hidden but clear, visible, and free.

  Vanessa Ellerbee can certainly see it from her booth in the corner at the coffeehouse where she and William have just brunched fillingly on the twins’ Cajun omelet and sweet potato pie. She can see it as clear as day, the perfectly matched male couple stepping inside the door of Lucy Florence, greeted by a smiling wide-eyed twin, scolded for their absence, led to their regular table as if time had stood still.

  Only half mad at them, Vanessa cannot help herself. She pats William gently on the hand and excuses herself. She gets up and makes her way over to the table where Brando and Omar have been seated.

  “For awhile I thought you disappeared off the face of the earth.” She pouts with a smile.

  “Vanessa Ellerbee,” Brando says slowly and warmly, standing to give her a hug. “How have you been?”

  “Relieved now. You’re alive.”

  “You remember Omar,” Brando says.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Hello, Vanessa,” Omar says, beginning to stand.

  “Please. Don’t get up,” she protests gleefully.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to the John,” Omar continues knowingly. “Give you two a moment to catch up. Be right back, baby,” he says to Brando. With loving eyes, Brando watches him cross the room.

  “God, how long has it been?” Vanessa pulls his focus.

  “Who knows?” he answers, gesturing her to the chair across from him. She sits.

  “Actually since the little get-together at your place.”

  “But that didn’t really happen, did it?” he reminds her.

  “No it didn’t.”

  “We missed Lucy Florence.”

  “Lucy Florence missed you.”

  “It’s good to be back again. It’s more appreciated.”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t your lover.” She smirks with a raised eyebrow.

  “That was before we knew better.” He smirks back.

  “So what are we supposed to do now, handsome Bran? I mean, William and I?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

  Slowly, seductively, she leans over and kisses him, holding his face gently in her hand. He smiles through the kiss, and then she does, too. Even slower than the kiss, she pulls back from him, to get a full view of his handsome face, so that he can get a full view of her beauty.

  “The thrills you’ll be missing,” she says naughtily, “the thrills you almost had.”

  “I’m not sure they’re thrills that I wanted.”

  “That’s the problem. You’re not sure.”

  “I’m as sure as anybody can be in life, Vanessa. That’s the real thrill of it all. And I’m in love. That I’m sure of.”

  “Well,” she huffs. “Listen, I should go. I think I’m in somebody’s seat. It’s been great seeing you again, Brando.”

  “Same here, Vanessa. Oh, and please give William my best.”

  “I will. He’ll be glad you offered it.”

  She gets up and heads back toward her table; the stride in her step is sauntering; the church curls bounce ever so gently, in near slow motion. She arrives at her husband’s questioning eyes.

  She sits next to him and whispers in his ear. With his lobe at her lips he looks up slowly, across the room, at the table where Brando is studying the menu, where Brando’s man rejoins him, where they smile at each other like two men in love.

  The twins notice and slightly nod to each other. Drums begin faintly in the distance.

  A whimsical sadness sparkles in William’s eyes; in Vanessa’s eyes, a fleeting regret, a smile that lives wounded but valiant on the fantasy of what could have been, what still could be, when fools, filled with desire, find a wee bit of hope to cling hopelessly to. After all, this is L.A., the city of angels, the city of infinite possibilities, where all one has to do is keep on…looking.

  About the Author

  Stanley Bennett Clay has received
three NAACP Theatre awards for writing, directing, and coproducing the critically acclaimed play Ritual, as well as a Pan African Film Festival Jury Award for the film adaptation. The author of Diva and In Search of Pretty Young Black Men, he lives in Los Angeles.