“And y’all got here at the right time. The crowds usually don’t show up till one or two.”
“Oh, good.” I glanced at Junior, who was giving the man … well, it could best be described as an evil eye. I never saw him wear a scornful face like it before.
“Is that gonna be cash or credit?” he asked.
“Credit.” As I went into my pocket, he turned to Junior. “So, little man, what’s yo’ name?”
Junior was stone-faced and silent. Hmm … did he not like being called “little man,” which is similar to Li’l Brotha Man, the title his daddy christened him with?
“What’s ya name?” the man repeated.
He still wouldn’t answer. In fact, he wouldn’t even look at him.
I palmed his shoulder. “The man asked you a question.”
“Oh,” he feigned. He shifted his body in the man’s direction, but his head didn’t move with it. “My mommy and daddy told me to never talk to strangers.”
The cashier and I nodded at each other.
“It’s okay. He might be a stranger but you’re not alone.”
Junior peered at me. “Junior,” he coughed, still not looking at him.
“Ah. I’m a Junior, too. My first name is Tazmaine. Folks call me Taz. How ’bout you?”
No answer, again.
“Junior, the man asked you what was your first name.”
“Oh,” he feigned again. “I … I don’t wanna say.”
That was a switch: the kid who is so proud of his name, who delights in not just saying it but spelling it for anyone who’ll listen, not wanting to disclose it?
I was a little embarrassed by his behavior. “I’m sorry. He must be a little tired.”
“ ’Sa’ight.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take that.”
I looked down; I still hadn’t given him the credit card. “Oh, sorry.”
“No prob.”
While we waited for the confirmation, he continued to make small talk. Junior huffed.
“Hope to see ya again … real soon.” He winked, handing me the bag.
“You keep having sales like this and you will,” I assured him.
“Ha, don’tcha worry—we will,” he promised. “Oh …” He came from around the counter and handed me a card from his back pants pocket. “Whenever ya come back and need some help, just ask for Taz.”
I took the card. “Well, thank you, Taz. You have a nice day.”
Junior tugged on my arm.
“You, too.” He watched us leave with his hands folded across his broad chest and a grin just as broad on his face.
When we were outside, I confronted Junior. “Is there something wrong?”
He frowned. “I don’t like that man.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Why? He didn’t do or say anything bad to you.”
He shrugged. “I still don’t like him.”
Hmm … could Junior sense when someone was trying to get next to me in that way? Maybe he recognized the way his daddy looks at me in Taz’s eyes. Or it could’ve been Taz’s body language. Or how Taz said what he said. Whatever it was, that friendly, affable aura that is very much a part of his personality disappeared, and he became cold and curt. Pooquie has reacted in the same way a few times when he peeped someone checking me out. It appears that even when it comes to the green-eyed monster, Junior’s a chip off the old brick wall. Wait till Pooquie hears this …
Junior’s sour mood was erased when we browsed through Toyland and stopped in McDonald’s for a Big Mac. Then came the highlight of the day: after dropping off our packages at the apartment, we hopped the bus to the Billie Holiday Theater to see The Wiz. After he’d watched a young-adult Michael Jackson in the film version, I thought Junior would love seeing it performed live, and he did. We were in the second row in the center section, so he had a perfect view. The whipped cream on his slice of sweet-potato pie, though, was meeting the actors and getting their autographs. Of course, Junior was most interested in Tyrrone Weatherly—the actor who, like Michael, portrayed the Scarecrow.
And when Junior was being tickled by Dorothy (who couldn’t get over how cute he was), Tyrrone let me know that he was interested in me.
“Would you like my autograph?” Tyrrone asked.
“Uh, no, that’s all right.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping to sign my real name and include my phone number with it.”
I blushed. Junior wasn’t the only one being tickled. “Hmm … I wonder how many other people you’ve said that to.”
“The truth?”
“Yes, the truth.”
“Quite a few.”
I laughed.
“Hey, but that’s only because I’ve had the honor of being in the presence of so many fine spe-ci-mens.”
“While playing this role or during your career?”
“This role is my career, so far; this is my first professional gig.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Just graduated from SUNY Binghamton last year. Been in this production since November.”
“Well, you were quite good.”
“You enjoyed my performance?”
“Very much.”
“Does that mean you do want my autograph?”
I giggled.
“Believe me, I never dress like this, I never wear makeup, and I do have real hair, even nappier than this stuff,” he explained, pulling on the straw attached to a large black Kangol cap. His face had brushes of yellow across it, and a few glittery silver stars dotted his cheeks. And the costume—a checkered tan corduroy vest, a mustard-colored sweatshirt, tattered light blue jeans, and a stained pair of Timbs (this was definitely the hip-hop version of the show; instead of the traditional pumps, Dorothy clicked her heels three times with some red jelly-heeled shoes)—made him look more like a hobo on the Bowery than a stick man in a corn patch. Four things that couldn’t be disguised: the gorgeous chocolate complexion; those big, expressive light brown eyes; that sexy, poked-out bottom lip; and that round bootay (like me, he’s a slender guy with a big seat). “You’ve just caught me at a bad time.”
“I could take the autograph but not the number. My boyfriend wouldn’t like it.”
“Well, this ain’t about what he likes; this is about what you want. And he’s not the one I want to give it to.”
“I know that. But as intriguing as you are, I couldn’t.”
He threw his hands up, as if to surrender. “Ah. A’ight. I don’t need a house to fall on me, like the Wicked Bitch of the West.”
I chuckled.
He lightly slapped his forehead. “The Scarecrow has a brain”—that hand found its way to his chest—“but his heart is once again broken.”
He’s a charmer, ain’t he?
I smiled. “You’re a very talented man. And funny. I bet you’re gonna go far.”
“With you? Ha, one of these days I surely hope to!”
We both laughed on that one.
Junior rushed back up to us. “Mr. Scarecrow, can I have a picture with me, you, and Mitch-hull, pleeze?”
Tyrrone peered at me. “Mr. Scarecrow would love that very much.” I don’t know how Junior missed that glare; I guess he was so excited it went right past him.
Dorothy was enlisted to snap the shot. Tyrrone and I sat down in the first row while Junior stood between us. Tyrrone allowed his arm to reach across my seat, pulling me closer.
After we cheezed it, he and I stood—and his hand somehow managed to make its way across my ass.
He bent down toward Junior. “Well, it was great meeting you, Junior. I’m glad you had a great time.”
“Thank you. I did!”
“You be a good—oh, sorry—jood little boy, okay?” Ha, Junior made another convert.
Junior nodded. “I will.”
Tyrrone zeroed in on me. “Mitchell …” He held out his hand. I shook it. “It was great meeting you, too. I hope you enjoyed … the company.”
I nodded. “Y
es, I did. Very much, thank you.”
“You two have a jood night.” He pinched Junior’s left cheek. As he walked away, he gave me a once-over that gave me chills.
When we got back to the house, the phone was ringing. Junior raced to answer it.
“Hell-oh? Hi, Daddy! … I’m jood, how are you? … That’s jood. Ooh, Daddy, guess where Mitch-hull took me? … To see The Wiz! … It was better than the movie. And the man who played the Scarecrow, he was better than Michael Jackson. He gave me his autograph, and he took a picture with me and Mitch-hull. I had such a jood time … uh-huh … uh-huh … okay, I will … I don’t know … okay … okay … Daddy? … I miss you … okay … I will … I love you, too … okay, here’s Mitch-hull … bye bye.” He handed me the phone.
“Junior, get your bag and make sure you’ve packed everything. Then wash up for dinner.”
“Okay.” He skipped off.
I sat on the couch. “Hi, Pooquie,” I puffed.
“Hay, Baby. What’s up?”
“You, that’s what’s up. How are you?”
“I’m jood. You?”
“I can’t complain.”
“Uh-huh. He wore you out, didn’t he?”
“You know it. If it ain’t one Rivers man wearin’ me out, it’s another.”
He chuckled. “And ya know it.”
“Where are you?”
“On tha set.”
“Clemmy let you use her phone again?”
“Nah, Malice.”
“Malice? The rapper?”
“Yeah. One of his boyz is in tha flick, so he dropped by.”
“Ah. So, how was the last twenty-four hours?”
“Jood.”
“What happened with that scene?”
“I got tha job done.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. They had that stunt guy rehearse it wit’ me. He showed me a better way ta stand and crunch when I swing. I got it right on tha next take.”
“Oh, that’s great. I’m so proud of you.”
I could feel the glow. “Thanks.”
“What else y’all been doin’ today?”
“Court action.”
“The real easy part.”
“Ya know it, Baby. Now I know how brothas in tha NBA feel. Ha, ev’ry time I score a basket, I can just hear that cha-ching.”
“Well, I know you’re havin’ fun, Pooquie, but remember not to let it all go to your head.”
“Whatcha mean?”
“Don’t start to get a big head.”
“Ha, I already got one of those!”
“You are just so nasty.”
“Yo, I was talkin’ ’bout my dome,” he snickered.
“Sure you were,” I groaned.
“Uh … was I really soundin’ like I’m gettin’ a big head?”
“A little.”
“Even a little is too much, Baby. Whenever you see it or hear it in me, you make sure you bring me back down, a’ight?”
“I will.”
“So, you ’bout ta take him back Uptown?”
“Yup, right after we eat.”
“What you cook?”
“I made some baked chicken, peas and rice, and broccoli.”
“His new fav’rite vegetable, thanks ta you.”
I beamed. “All I have to do is heat up his plate.”
“Sounds jood. Wish I was there ta chow down on it—and then chow down on you.”
“You will be soon.”
“Yeah. Well, they only gave us five minutes. I gotta jet.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks for calling, Pooquie. I love you.” I gave him a smack.
He smacked me back. “I love you, too, Little Bit. I’ll call ya tomorrow nite at yo’ mom’s.”
“Okay. Bye.”
“Bye, Baby.”
I hung up the phone. I had taken our food out before we left for the show so we could nuke it when we got back. I put Junior’s in the microwave first and, after heating it for two minutes, placed it on the dining-room table along with a glass of apple juice.
“Junior?” I called.
There was no answer.
“Junior, come and eat.”
Still no answer.
Thinking he was in the bathroom, I made my way up the hall; the door was open and the light out.
I entered the bedroom and there he was, asleep on his back. It figures he passed out—he did get up earlier than I did, we did have a full day, and he didn’t take an afternoon nap.
I took off his sneakers and covered him up with the comforter. I kissed his forehead. I’d just have to be a little late to Gene’s bash.
11
WE’VE GOT TO STOP MEETING LIKE THIS
“So … Mama Bear was finally able to pry herself away from Baby Bear, huh?”
I arrived at Gene’s two hours late. Of course he wasn’t pleased, but there really was no need for me to show up at eight, the time he expected me to. The festivities didn’t get under way until ten, and most folk wouldn’t be arriving until around midnight (the Children always have to make an entrance). There was nothing to clean—Gene hires a “day maid” (a beefy brutha named Kelvin who wears next to nothing and I’m sure gets more than a monetary tip for his services) to come in twice a month to sweep, scour, scrub, and simonize the apartment (as he has often testified: “I only get on my hands and knees to do one thing—and it does not involve ammonia or Comet”). And there was nothing to prepare—the party was being catered (a soul-food spot in Harlem called Shortening Bread) and B.D. made both the strawberry cheesecake and the double-layer coconut birthday cake.
But judging from the face he wore when he let me in, you’d think I’d shown up two hours after the party ended.
“Don’t look so gloomy,” I consoled, taking off my coat. “Domestic duty called.”
“Uh-huh.” He embraced me. He was wearing a Versace ensemble—dark blue slacks and sky blue silk shirt. He was steppin’ in some black patent leather Kenneth Coles.
“Don’t be mad because nobody wants to play house with your bitter ass!” said B.D., waltzing up the hall.
Gene rolled his eyes. “If you weren’t one of my very best friends, I’d tell you where to go. But since you are, I’ll just let you guess.”
As Gene breezed off with my coat, B.D. stuck his tongue out at him.
He hugged me. “Honey, I am so glad you’re here. I am not a grounds-keeper and I refuse to move any of those dead animals out of the parlor.”
I chuckled. “So how are you?”
“I’m quite fabulous, as you can see.” I could—he was giving much fever in a silky dark olive Moshood suit with black dress sandals. And the face was beaten: the eyebrows were plucked, the eyelashes combed, and the strawberry blush made his very light plump cheeks red, à la Saint Nick. “And I understand you’ve been a fabulously bad boy.”
“Huh?”
He pulled us toward the kitchen. “I heard about the spin you took on the dance floor last week.”
“All I did was dance.”
“Uh-huh. All you did was dance for not one, not two, not three, but—”
“Four hours straight,” Gene enunciated with him as he emptied ice from their trays into both a large bucket and a white Styrofoam cooler.
“Uh-huh, with some strange man who, according to my sources, was quite a sight.”
“You’d think they were conjoined twins the way their hips were glued to each other,” added Gene.
I shrugged. “I was just having fun.”
B.D. wasn’t buying it. “Gyratin’ with one man for two hundred and forty consecutive minutes without an intermission?”
Gene peered at him, floored.
“Yes, I do know how to tell time and add, thank you very much.”
“Wonders never cease,” snapped Gene.
B.D. rolled his eyes. “An-ty-way … dahling, you weren’t just having fun—you were having a fiesta.”
I defended myself. “It’s not like I went after him; he started dancin
g with me.”
“And from all press reports, you did very little to stop him.”
“Well, Montee was—is a great dancer.”
“Montee, huh? Why do I get the feeling that is his nickname …?”
They both glared at me.
I confirmed his suspicion. “Yes. His first name is Montgomery.”
They nodded at each other in unison. “Mmm-hmm.”
“It was just one night. I’ll never see him again.” I didn’t tell Gene about our chance encounter on Wednesday—and given the third degree I was receiving, I didn’t intend to.
“You may never see him again, but he will show up in another form. They always do, hon. Remember: It knows everybody’s name.”
So I am learning.
I had to change this subject. “Where’s Babyface?”
“He’s setting up the back rooms,” Gene answered.
“I’ll see if he needs help.”
As I walked out, B.D. opened then closed one of the cabinet drawers in frustration. “Chile, I wish you would get some silverware up in this place.” He had apparently forgotten where he was. A spatula is Gene’s only kitchen utensil—and it, like the whipped cream, is in the bedroom (“It’s used for mashing and flipping pancakes—but not the ones you cook on the stove”).
“Bitch, you ain’t the Galloping Gourmet. But you do bear a striking resemblance to Miss Julia Child,” Gene bellowed as I headed up the hall.
Babyface was in Gene’s entertainment room, inserting blue bulbs in the track lights. While folks did their rump shakin’ to house music in another room, they could do their slow jammin’ in this one (I made the tapes for this). He had on the same outfit as B.D. (it complemented his chestnut-colored skin); he opted for black casual shoes instead of sandals. His dark brown, just-above-the-waist locks were tied back near the base with a black scarf.
“Hi, mister.”
“Hey, Mitch.”
He came down off the ladder (which he didn’t really need; he clocks in at six feet five inches). We embraced and kissed.
“How are you?” he queried.
“I’m jood. Can’t complain. How about you?”
“Same. How’s Raheim?” He climbed back up on the second step.
“Fine. It’s been a tense week for him, this being his first film and all, but he’ll get through it.”
“Ah. And how are you dealing with it?”
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