A Cold Piece of Work (9 page)

Michele's mind and heart were in conflict. She wanted to hurt him for hurting her and, at the same time, she wanted to embrace him for their time together—and the possibilities now that he was back. That he could still matter after eight years spoke to what she felt back when they were together.

“Damn,” she said aloud.

She did not know how to respond. Solomon had opened up to her in those text messages more than he had in their six months together. Maybe he had changed, or grown up, she thought. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt? After all, no man before or after him made her feel as he had.

Her mind told her to stay at a distance. Don't let him in—at least not too quickly. Bottom line: Solomon was not to be trusted. Maybe people could change, but maybe
he
had not.

“I don't think so,”
Michele texted him back.
“Maybe another time. I don't think that's a good idea.”

Solomon said aloud, “Damn.” He was not surprised by her response, but he hoped it would be different. He knew Michele to be prideful and smart and any woman who was proud and bright would not jump to see him after what he did to her.

“I understand,”
he wrote back.
“I hope it's OK 2 call u tomorrow evening.”

Michele:
“We'll see, Solomon.”

S
olomon called on all the willpower he had to not call Michele the next day. Overnight he decided the best course of action would be to back off, to let her absorb all that had taken place on Saturday night at the banquet and Sunday at church and via text.

His boy, Ray, helped him get to that point.

“You can do what you want—you always do—but to me, you should not try to overwhelm the girl,” Ray said. “Let her gather her thoughts; this is really not just about you. You want what you think you want. But she's got feelings involved, too. And a son.

“Look, if it's going to happen for you and her, it's going to happen. You can't
make
it happen. And out of respect for her, you should let her settle down and not pressure her.”

Ray was so level-headed and persuasive that Solomon fought himself and did not reach out. Maybe she'd be disappointed that he didn't, he reasoned. Maybe she'd even call or text him.

A day went by, then two, and Solomon found himself falling into the mode of a political candidate who had to concede defeat on election night. He called Ray.

“At this point, I feel like it's not going to happen,” he said. “I don't really know how to pursue a woman, anyway. I mean, I do, but I haven't done a lot of that. Haven't had to.”

“Well, maybe that's the problem,” Ray said. “You've gotten away with so much, including not pursuing women, that now when you want to—when you
need
to—you actually don't know
how. What's wrong with that picture? Real talk: I changed my mind. If you want her, you're going to have to go get her. Clearly, she's not going to break unless you break her.”

Ray's words again influenced Solomon.

“You know what?” he said to Ray. “This is the hard, cold reality—I want her.”

“Then you have no dilemma. You understand what has to be done,” Ray said. “And I know how to do it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Solomon said.

“I'm serious,” Ray said.

“How?”

“Gerald,” Ray answered. “That's your in.”

Something sounded underhanded about that—but that's what also made it so intriguing.

“Yo, I didn't know you were that conniving,” Solomon said to his friend. “Is that the right way to go about it, really?”

“You know why it's the right way to go about it? Because you already like the kid. You already wanted to help him. You told me that you called him ‘Money' because he reminded you of you. You connected to the boy. So being a mentor to him is simply doing what you've already wanted to do—even before you realized who his mom was.

“And you also said Michele was happy that a man was influencing her son. She'll put her feelings aside to help her son. Watch.”

Solomon nodded his head in agreement. He needed a pep talk to renew his pursuit. Ray delivered.

“Hello?” Michele answered into her cell phone.

“Hey. This is Solomon. Solomon Singletary. Remember me?”

“Can't say that I do,” she answered. “Refresh my memory.”

“I'm the guy you should let take your son to the Hawks' game on Thursday.”

“Oh, I don't know about that.” That was her first instinct. Even if Solomon did not have the history he created, Michele would have been guarded about letting Gerald go somewhere without her. With Solomon, she was doubly leery.

“I wouldn't let anything happen to him; except making sure he has a great time,” Solomon said. “You have my cell number; you can call me at any time to check on him. I'll put him on the phone.

“It'll be a great experience for him. And I think I can arrange for him to meet Kobe Bryant.”

Again, Solomon pushed a button with Michele. Kobe Bryant was her son's favorite player. Shoot, he was Michele's favorite player. She thought:
How could I deny my child a chance like that?

“Solomon, I don't want to have to kill you. You know that's my baby. He—”

“I understand, I understand,” he said, cutting her off. “I'm not ready to die, so I'll make sure he's good. I promise. It'll be fine.”

“He's going to be so excited.”

He gave her the details and she gave him directions to her house to pick up Gerald. In the three days before the game, Solomon did not contact Michele. He did not contact anyone—well, any women, anyway.

“I need to have my head clear,” he told Ray. “Dealing with women never gives clarity. They only cloud a situation.”

“Well, that's true,” Ray said, and they laughed. “You're really serious about this woman. That's good. You need to settle down— although I'd have to see it to believe it.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Solomon said. “But people change, things change. I can change…I think. It's about being motivated.”

When game day came, Solomon called Michele to tell her he would pick up her son at 5:30. “Why so early? The game isn't until 7:30, right?”

“I want him to have the full experience. If we get there early enough, we can eat dinner, get down on the floor so he can meet some players and get comfortable. I hate getting to anything late. That's a black folk affliction that I don't participate in.”

Michele could not hold back her smile. She agreed with Solomon on that issue. It reminded her of one of their first dinner dates. She was late, unable to decide on an outfit or jewelry or a purse. Finally, when she arrived at Marvin's at 14th and U Streets, Solomon was on his second cocktail.

“You look great,” he said to her when she arrived. “I see why you're a half-hour late.” He smiled and her anxiety was eased. But she knew then that he took timeliness as a serious matter.

So she was hardly surprised when her doorbell rang at 5:29 p.m. “Can I get it, Mommy?” Solomon could hear young Gerald bellow through the door. “Can I get it?”

“Ask who it is first!” his mother yelled back. “You know the rules!”

Solomon smiled. He felt the mother-son connection through the door. They were tight. They doted on each other.

“Hi, Coach Money,” little Gerald said when he opened the door. He wore a Kobe Bryant jersey and a wide smile.

“Gerald, good to see you, buddy,” Solomon said. “You look good. You ready to go?”

Just then, Michele emerged from the kitchen. She did not make eye contact with Solomon. Instead, she went straight to her son.

“Okay, listen to me, honey,” she said while bending over and straightening Gerald's clothes. It was nervous energy—nervous about sending her child with Solomon and nervous about being in the same room with him.

“You do what Solomon—uh, Coach Money—says, okay? No running off.”

“Okay, Mom. Okay.”

“Hi, Michele,” Solomon said.

“Hi,” she responded without looking up.

Solomon smiled. “Okay, then. You ready, Money?” he said to Gerald.

Michele looked up at Solomon. “Why did you call him that?”

“Oh, well, he reminds me of myself when I was a kid. And this older guy used to call me that.”

Michele gazed at him. There were a few awkward seconds of silence, with Gerald looking up at both of the adults. Finally, Solomon said, “Well, I guess we're going to head to the game.”

Gerald headed for the door. “Ah, wait a minute, young man. Don't I get a hug?” Michele asked.

He ran back and hugged her, and tried to pull away. But she hugged him tighter, longer. “Mom, we have to go,” he said.

“Okay…Solomon—”

“I know, Michele. We'll be fine and he'll be great,” he said. “I'll call you when we're on our way back.”

“Call me when you get there. Please.”

Solomon left without answering. He and Gerald made their way to Philips Arena. When they got there, he gave the kid the tickets.

“I'm giving you the responsibility of taking care of these,” he said. “You lose them and we have to go home.”

“I won't lose them,” Gerald said.

And he didn't. He was proud to be given such an important job. Their seats were in the club section of the arena, where there were several restaurants to choose from for a pregame meal. There was still an hour before tipoff, so they ate turkey sandwiches, fries and milkshakes.

“What are your grades like in school?” Solomon said.

“All A's,” Gerald said eagerly, “and one B.”

Solomon extended a clenched fist and Gerald put up his tiny fist and tapped Solomon's.

“I got the same grades when I was your age, too,” he said. “And you know what? Once you get all A's, you can't get anything else.”

“I'm not getting anything but A's,” Gerald said.

“Okay, if you do, I'll make sure to get you a present. You get all A's, I'll take care of you. Cool?”

Gerald smiled. “Cool.”

They got up from the table and headed for their seats, which were seven rows up from the floor, across from the Los Angeles Lakers' bench. There were still 45 minutes before tip off, and Solomon took Gerald as far down as they could get, which was right to the floor.

Just as they got there, Kobe Bryant emerged from the tunnel across the court. “Check this out,” Solomon said to Gerald, pointing toward Kobe.

Gerald froze. He stared at the NBA superstar, uncertain of what to do or say. “You all right?” Solomon asked.

He didn't answer. Suddenly, a pass to Kobe went over his head, toward where Solomon or Gerald stood. Kobe turned to retrieve the ball, which had rolled under a chair right in front of Gerald.

“Get it,” Solomon told him. Without looking up, Gerald squatted and squirmed underneath the chairs and picked up the ball. When he stood up, Kobe Bryant was standing over him, looking down, smiling.

“Hey, young fella,” Kobe said.

Solomon pulled out his camera from his pocket. “Let's get a quick photo?” he said to Kobe.

“Let's do it,” the player said. He turned around the stunned kid, put his arm around him and Solomon snapped the photo.

Kobe shook Gerald's hand and then he was gone.

“Oh my God,” Gerald finally said. “I met Kobe Bryant. I can't believe it. I have to call my mom.”

“Let's go to our seats and you can call her,” Solomon said. He was happy for the kid and relieved; meeting and taking a photo with Kobe Bryant was bigger and better than watching any game.

“Mommy, guess what?” he said into the phone. “Guess…I met Kobe Bryant.”

Solomon watched the kid's smile light up the arena. He was happy and proud that Gerald was happy, and it had to mean something for him in Michele's eyes, too. Still, in that moment, it was more important for Gerald to have a great experience than anything else. If Michele eased up on him, fine. But it was no longer about getting to her through Gerald.

He looked down at the boy as they departed the arena. “How was that?”

Gerald looked up at him with those bright, innocent eyes for a few seconds. “Awesome, Coach Money,” he said, finally.

Solomon gave the kid the responsibility of finding the car in the crowded parking lot. “You sure it's this way?”

“It's over here. I remember,” Gerald said.

And he was right. “You're good,” Solomon said. “That's why I call you ‘Money.'”

In the car, Solomon called Michele to tell her they were en route to her house. “I saw that the Lakers won.” Her voice was pleasant; there was not a trace of discord. “How is he?”

“Great,” Solomon said. “Happy. He's a great kid. I know you're proud. We had a great time.”

When they arrived at Michele's house, she opened the door before Gerald could ring the doorbell. They hugged. “You had fun, huh?” she said.

Her son nodded his head. His grin said it all.

“Thanks for letting me take him,” Solomon said as he hugged Gerald goodnight. “Remember what I told you about school, okay? I'll see you later.

“Michele, as promised, he's back in one piece—and happy.”

“He is.” She paused and they stared at each other. Solomon detected a tear in her eye. “Thank you, Solomon.”

He nodded his head.

“And thank you for letting him go with me,” he said. “I enjoyed him.”

He turned then and walked toward the car in her driveway. But he did not hear the door shut, meaning she was watching him walk away, meaning he had struck a chord.

When Solomon reached his car, he turned back toward the house. Michele was smiling.