Dawn countered, “If you’d come to bed instead of typing on that damn computer all night, you’d be a father by now.”
Samantha said, “I’m all against the wall and worn out. I used to be able to play hours on end. I must be getting old.”
Dawn smiled. “We used to close out every party we went to.”
I said, “I know that’s right. Party all night, hit Fatburgers, then make it home just in time to go to church.”
Samantha laughed. “Is this what being thirty does to you?”
Dawn asked, “You have any kids, Samantha?”
“Thirty with no babies.”
“Just like me and Darnell. I’m damn near thirty-two and no heirs. If I have to wait until I’m thirty-five, I’ll be in that high-risk category, and that won’t be cool. Not at all.”
Darnell sighed. “Don’t depress Samantha, sweetheart.”
I was picking up bits of chastisement from my friends, but Samantha didn’t know them well enough to know that Dawn was dead serious.
Samantha laughed. “I’m cool. That’s why I stopped my biological clock at twenty-five. I’m in no hurry to give up my freedom.”
As she was talking, Dawn went after her husband. Darnell scooted away from her. She slid after him and started tickling him. Darnell’s damn ticklish. She climbed on top of him and kissed his face. Even though they fought, they had years of something that I envied.
Samantha was watching them, smiling, then looking at me.
Her eyes were gleaming for affection.
Six months ago I met her on Pico at Roscoe’s Chicken ‘n Waffles. The place was crowded; both of us were alone; our eyes had mutual interest, some curiosity, so I asked her if she wanted to share a table. She smiled, said sure, we did, and we talked nonstop. That communication drew me to her. Very articulate, well read, up on all the political activities in the neighborhood. Neither of us wanted to end the conversation. More like she didn’t want to stop talking. Women always make it easy for a brotha. All that crap about running your mouth and macking harder than Max Julien ain’t the move. The secret of conversation is to get a woman to talk, then listen and absorb. They’ll tell you who did ‘em wrong, what they want, raise their eyes to yours in a soft and tender way that asks if you can meet those demands. All a brotha has to do is pay attention, nod his head a time or two and, when she’s through, let her know that whatever the last man did, he’d never do that.
Minutes later me and Darnell were in the locker room, butt naked on opposite sides of the communal shower. A couple of other guys, one white and the other Asian, were in there too, but they weren’t talking much. I rinsed the liquid soap off my body and stood underneath the waterfall of cool and cleansing water.
I asked, “When you gonna have some more of that story for me to read?”
“The next day or so. I’m only getting to write a paragraph here and there because work has had me tied down. And the moment I get home, Dawn starts whining for attention.”
“Women will suck the life out of you.”
“I know that’s right. Giving a woman the attention she wants is another full-time job. But work is taking up most of my time. I’m getting ready for a hearing against Northwest out in Palm Springs. Plus I’m doing some unlawful detainers for a friend of a friend who’s trying to evict some tenants out in Rialto. The tenants haven’t paid a dime in rent in over a year.”
“Don’t wear yourself out. Finish that book. That could be a million dollars you sitting on.”
Darnell smiled at my encouragement, then asked, “You talked to Jake?”
I said, “Yeah.”
Jake is another one of our running buddies. He’s a fireman out in L.A., near my folks’ house.
That was when I remembered and told Darnell about the ski trip. On Valentine’s Day Jake and his fiancée are hitting the local slopes and had extended an invitation for all of us to tag along. I would’ve told Darnell sooner, but I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Samantha. If I was kicking it with her this weekend, I’d have to kick it with Toyomi next weekend. But if I finally catch up with Brittany, never know what I might do.
Darnell said they had plans for Valentine’s Day. He was taking Dawn an hour across the Pacific Ocean to experience a few golden sunsets at Catalina Island. Their romantic weekend, the glass-bottom boat ride there and back, the five-star hotel room and champagne brunch, were already hooked up.
He asked, “Jake tell you those dreams were back?”
I let some water run over my face, into my mouth, then spat it out. I didn’t want to get into talking about Jake’s dreams. They were too eerie, so demented it made my flesh crawl just thinking about them.
I changed the subject, asked what him and Dawn were getting into today.
Darnell replied, “We’re going to catch a couple of movies at the AMC on Fullerton Road. What you doing?”
I turned my shower off, grabbed my green towel. “Trying to get rid of Samantha.”
He laughed a bit.
I shook my head, said, “When she comes out here, it’s hard to get her ass to go back home.”
“That girl likes you, that’s all.”
“I like her too.”
“Yeah, but if you’re seeing eight or nine other women, how will you ever know if that relationship has potential? You have to focus on one. They start to cancel each other after a while.”
I ignored his calm expression of righteousness. “I know she’s going to try and stay until Sunday night or early Monday morning, so I’ll tell her I’m going up to see my momma. That way I can just follow her home, then bounce over to see my folks before I come back out this way.”
Darnell chuckled.
I said, “What’s funny?”
“You got your game laid out. You’ve got a backup plan for your backup plan. If I had your hand, I’d throw mine in.”
I laughed. “If you got Dawn, you’ve got the best hand.”
“Grass is always greener.”
I said, “Not when you’re taking care of your own lawn.”
“With all the lawns you’re tending to with that weed-wacker of yours, how would you know?”
I laughed and finished drying off. After I got dressed I used the pay phone hidden in the locker room to make a few phone calls. Had to check a few traps. It took me twenty minutes to get Toyomi to cool off, but when I told her about the ski trip for Valentine’s Day, everything smoothed out. Pretty much. She was still filled with disappointment. She’d get over it as soon as she saw me.
We stopped by Mimi’s restaurant in Industry for coffee and lunch. Two hours after that I was following Samantha up the 10 freeway into the heart of Los Angeles. We dropped her car off, then rode deeper into territory that owned cool breeze after cool breeze. She wore shades she’d bought in Venice Beach for five bucks, a leather backpack-style purse, sandals, no bra, a Bob Marley T-shirt over a
short red dress, no panties. We hung out on the promenade in Santa Monica, drove the coast north toward Malibu. Rode until the sun was setting, then parked, bad sex in the car. Samantha was moving her backside round and round, up and down, right on Pacific Coast Highway, with traffic whizzing by.
We ate seafood dinners at Gladstone’s. Walked out into the darkness and let the sand rise up in between our toes.
Back at her place, we oiled each other down, massaged each other while the soulful voice of Rachelle Ferrell lulled us.
As I slept, I drifted back to my childhood.
Smelled Daddy’s cologne.
His cigar.
Heard a dollar’s worth of lies jingling.
Felt that chill again.
Sorta missed my old man.
Sorta.
Wondered if there was a heaven for him.
A little boy cried out, “
Daddy.
”
That rudeness was right outside my condo, at three in the morning. The child sounded like a fire engine and probably woke up the city of Diamond Bar.
“Daaadeee, Daaadeee…”
It was a little girl’s voice that time. It was faint, like a cry in the wind.
Michael quit dipping and probing, stopped chanting how good my love was, quit moving his hips like he was shuddering on the inside. I think he’d stopped before I had heard the cries.
I was about twelve strokes from a nuclear orgasm when I realized the crumb snatchers were on my front porch.
“Daaaadeeee, daaaadeeee, daaaadeeeeeeee…”
My hips screeched to a halt. The cloud I was on evaporated, and I lost the buzz I had from the chablis I had sipped on while we partied in downtown L.A. at Little J’s.
He pushed up on his elbows and snarled, “Shit.”
I opened my eyes.
His were already open. Wide open, just like his mouth.
He stared through the candlelit room toward my front door. Toward the voices who were howling woeful noises for their daddy.
The sensation of being kicked off a mile-high cliff toward jagged rocks raced through my body, put a choke hold on my soul. I gasped so hard I thought I was about to suffocate myself.
Through candlelight, the aroma of black love incense, and Etta James singing a sultry song about burning down the cornfield, I stared into his eyes.
He panted. Blinked. Trembled. Didn’t get off me. Or all the way out of me. But it would’ve been impossible for him to wiggle over an inch because my fear had me clinging to him.
“Michael, who in the hell is that….”
“I—I—I…”
I knew one thing for damn sure: Those rugrats sure in hell weren’t mine. First off, I’m a sista. Mostly. My grandma was Native American, and everybody else was full-blooded Negro, so yadda yadda yadda I’m a sista. So the crumb snatchers had to be screaming for the cocoa butter-complexioned naked man who was on top of my naked body, the one who was going to love me until the new sun shattered the old darkness.
The girl squealed,
“Daaaa-deeee, come home, please.”
They were knocking at my door and ringing my bell. A cavalry was out there.
A sista cried out,
“Michael Clifton Davidson.”
Hell, no.
I panted, fought the dizziness, said, “Michael, who is at my door and calling out your name like they’ve lost their mind?”
The woman must’ve heard me, because she raised her voice.
“It’s your wife, Michael. And your children. Sidney, Rachel, and Jordan. Could you come here, please?”
He was so scared that slobber slipped from his mouth
and splattered on my neck. I closed my eyes as tight as I could. I was livid as I grumbled, “This isn’t happening to me. Michael, please, tell me this ain’t happening to me.”
“Daaaadeeee, Mommeeee said to tell you to come back home.”
My nails dug deep into his back. I sent all my anger to my fingertips and tried to dig down to his bone. He wailed and rolled off me. The hysteria in his eyes, the deadly scowl swelling in my face—nothing had to be said.
I wanted to kill him, probably should have, but I was in too much shock to move.
Children. Wife.
On my dresser, next to the condoms and Irish Cream massage oil from Victoria’s Secret, were two dozen long-stemmed red roses. Not a two-dollar arrangement from the Mexicans hustling at the freeway off-ramps, either. Michael had sent another dozen long-stems and a super big box of See’s candy to my job this morning.
All of a sudden I felt naked.
Cold, sweaty, and naked.
Like I was in the middle of a voluntary rape.
“Michael, you ain’t shit. You lied, you lied, you lied.”
“Chanté.” He jumped up and grabbed his clothes off the floor, bounced like a kangaroo and tried to get his pants back on in one good hop. “It’s not what you think.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s UPS at my damn door.”
Before I could catch my breath, Michael dressed and exited without saying a word, tripping over furniture in the dark.
I grabbed my white satin robe, raced behind him, snatched up the garden of roses he had given me, and threw them at his ass. The glass vase bopped him hard upside his head. Water splashed over his rayon shirt, stained my off-white wall. Somehow the vase didn’t break when it hit the floor and rolled back toward me. He cringed, grunted, staggered and stalled for a moment, turned his six-foot-two frame around, and curled his thick lips inside his mouth. Those dark green eyes tightened, became fire, burned down on me like he wanted to attack me.
He weighed almost two hundred, and I don’t weigh but one thirty, but I kicked the vase out of the way—that shit hurt the hell out of my toe—balled up my fist, stood still
and firm, got ready to break a nail or two. My hair came loose, hung and dangled, swayed all across my face and down my back. I was a wolf. I snarled, showed my teeth, got ready to claw, chew, howl, and go for broke with this no good son of a bitch.
“Daaaadeeee, daaaadeeee, daaaadeeee…”
“Michael, don’t make me act ugly out here.”
He rubbed the knot that was growing on his head, turned and swaggered in the direction of the voices of the bounty hunters who had tracked him down. I wailed out a few curse words, yanked the roses from the floor, ran up behind him, pushed him as hard as I could, then slapped the back of his head forty-eleven times with the rest of the bouquet.
He kept moving. Rose petals fell like confetti.
I caught my breath in the hallway, lowered my head. God. I went through pain and agony with Craig Bryant just three months ago. Seems like yesterday he messed me over. Why again? Why so soon? I’m only twenty-seven years old. Can’t some of this agony be spread over the next seventy years?
By the time I got myself together well enough to go spy out the living room window, Michael had picked up one of the children, a little girl wearing flowered footed pajamas and ponytails. The child hugged his neck and looked back at my ruptured life. Michael also held the hand of a thumb-sucking little boy. A long, tall woman in a gray housecoat and Bugs Bunny slippers trudged behind him and carried another snoozing, diaper-sagging rugrat, a baby dressed in the colors of Africa.
I yanked my front door, thinking I was about to say something profound. His wife turned and gazed at me. She was tore up, head to toe. I took inventory of the deranged, dark-as-the-night-is-long woman in a housecoat and rollers.