Basketball Jones (3 page)

I quickly tried to pull back, hoping he hadn’t noticed I’d picked up a few pounds.

“Don’t do that,” I said.

“What? Hold you? Or don’t you think I noticed you put on a little weight?” He laughed. “AJ, I notice everything. But it’s going to all the right places. And that’s real talk, ba-bee.”

“I’m going to hire a trainer,” I said decisively. Even though we never talked about it, I knew Dray wanted me in top shape. I wanted to be in top shape too. It was one of those funny things about our relationship; we seldom said, “I need you to look good” or even “I love you,” which I was sure he told Judi every day. Girls needed to hear that, but I told myself I didn’t. All that mattered was that I knew Dray loved me, whether he actually told me or not. I just wish he kissed me more often.

“That’s what’s up,” Dray continued. “I got a cousin who lives down here that used to train me. Mainly we just shot hoops. If you want I’ll ask around and find you someone good.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll find somebody. I know you’re busy getting settled in your new house.” Judi sprang to mind and I was hit by a wave of jealousy, but I didn’t let Dray know. “How is it coming?”

“It’s fine. Judi’s like you, she’s great at all that shit. When she’s finished and goes back to Atlanta to close up the old house, I’ll take you out to see the new one,” he said. Dray’s phone rang and he looked at it, then answered. I was lying so close to him that I knew from the look on his face that it was most likely his wife.

“What’s up, babe? You miss me? Of course I miss you, J-Love.” He smiled at me and winked, and then I heard him say, “If that’s what you want, Judi, then get it. You know I’m not worried about how much it costs. Love you too, J-Love.” J-Love? So that’s what he called her. Dray may have thought it was cute, but it made me want to throw up.

He clicked off his phone and then looked at me and asked what we were saying before his phone interrupted our conversation.

I felt slighted but didn’t want Dray to know, so I replied offhandedly, “I was just saying, you know, I’m here if you need me.”

“I know you’re here for me always. I ‘preciate that, Aldridge Richardson,” Dray said.

“I know,” I answered softly, suddenly wishing I could hold back my tears and hear that every day of my life.

With Dray’s birthday less than a week away, I still hadn’t bought him anything and knew it was time to get busy. I’d thought that by coming to the Canal Place mall on a late Tuesday afternoon I’d practically have the place to myself. Even though I’d been in New Orleans for only a short time, I knew better than to try this place on weekends. Anyone who says the city won’t ever be the same after Katrina hasn’t been to Canal Place on Saturday. I made that mistake my first weekend there. It was as jammed as Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Still, weekdays also brought their fair share of shoppers, I discovered as I circled the parking garage for a space.

I’d seen an ad for Saks in the Sunday paper mentioning a special line of skin-care products for men that I used on Dray when we lived in Atlanta, and I figured that would be one of the gifts I could get him quickly and get back home in time to catch the Tyra Banks show.

I sometimes wondered what Dray would do if I weren’t around—who’d buy him the hippest fashions and all the other odds and ends that kept him looking like a male model. Well, I
guess Judi would look after him. She already did, from what I could see from the new shirts he’d been showing up in. More Ralph Lauren Purple Label and less Sean John. They weren’t entirely his style and were usually the wrong colors for the time of year, but then I didn’t expect she’d ever know him or his clothes the way I did. When I casually commented on the new shirts, Dray became self-conscious and tried to play it down. He told me he’d had them awhile, just hadn’t worn them out before. I just smiled to myself and went along.

For a big pro basketball player who towered over any room he walked into, Dray sure could act the part of the little boy when it came to his birthday. I chalked this up to having parents who, despite their meager means, never tired of finding new ways to spoil their children. He loved surprises, loved me coming up with them. Didn’t matter what. Dray liked not only expensive items like clothes or the latest gadgets, but silly stuff like the basketball-attired teddy bear I ordered from a company in Vermont. It wasn’t about the price tag but the gesture. I will never forget the first time I bought the skin-care products and then set up the bathroom like it was a spa. I led him into the bathroom, sat him down, and gave him his first facial ever. He loved it.

Like most people who soak up attention, he wasn’t always big on returning it. I don’t mean I ever doubted his feelings for me; just the opposite—I always knew he loved me even if it was seldom expressed in so many words. Apart from the mind-blowing sex, there was Dray’s romantic streak, which admittedly leaned toward the obvious and unimaginative, like store-bought flowers once on my birthday.

I have to say there were moments in the beginning where his need to be adored exhausted me. I thought, “Damn, how
about throwing a bone my way. Make me feel special for a change.” But most of the time I got a charge out of our dynamic. I loved taking care of him. I guess that came from my mom, who loved my sister and me more than anything in the world and made sure we knew it. A lifetime of unconditional love had to have rubbed off. I suppose this helps explain why I put up with Dray in departments that frustrated the hell out of me and would have sent any sane person bouncing out the door.

Opening the heavy double-glass doors of Saks Fifth Avenue, I stepped into the silver light of the fragrance department. The elegant room with its soft music, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and smartly made-up women and men behind brightly lit sales counters looked like every other fragrance department I’d ever seen, but I felt an immediate sensation of well-being.

I’ll admit it: I’m shameless when it comes to grooming. I could spend all day sampling colognes and lotions, testing one after another until the clerk finally would have to ask me to buy something or leave. Fortunately it never came to that. I’d promised myself that for once I wasn’t going to get caught up. I was there to shop for Dray, and as soon as I had his gift I was done.

Passing the John Varvatos display of facial scrubs and skin cleansers, I was reminded how much Dray loved the Varvatos shirts I’d given him for Christmas. A tall, slim man wearing wire glasses greeted me as I approached the sales counter. There was no question the guy was gay, but the pink handkerchief tucked into his navy suit pocket was a classy touch that set him apart from the other queens working the floor. I asked to sample the aftershave lotion, which he opened for me. I dabbed a little onto the back of my palm and then lifted my hand to my nose, surprised by the pleasantly clean scent. The clerk insisted I try the matching fragrance. I took another sniff and for
a moment was lost in thought at the picture of Dray curling up in bed with me while wearing his new cologne.

“Very nice,” I said. “It’s for a friend,” I added, but wasn’t sure why.

“Sure it is.” The clerk grinned knowingly, then turned to his left to show me a gift box set that included the complete line of Varvatos skin-care products and scents.

I looked at him and wondered if he was trying to read me and if I was going to have to put him in his place.

Just as he handed me the box for inspection, two well-tailored women appeared directly in front of me on the other side of the counter. One was a blonde in an orange print blouse. She wore her hair up and was talking avidly to a younger woman, who I could tell right away was a less-polished carbon copy. The woman seemed to be listening so intently she might as well have been taking dictation. Right away they reminded me of the wives of ballplayers. In fact I only noticed the pair because the first blonde mentioned the Hornets in a voice so loud you could have heard her across a football field. I was used to that. Ballplayers’ wives often dropped their husband’s name as if it were a solid gold bar, which for them it almost was.

I was curious to know if she was connected to the Hornets, so I decided to listen to as much of their conversation as possible and bought time with the clerk by asking him to bring me other gift boxes of skin-care products. I handed him back the package, which he set on the glass shelf behind him. I pretended to browse the showcase.

As if on cue, the older blonde summoned the clerk. “Listen,” she began in a manner so confrontational I couldn’t tell whether she was about to ask a question or pimp-slap him in the face.

“Look, honey, it’s my husband’s birthday. Now he’s not big on this stuff,” she said with a sweep of her hand, “but he plays for the Hornets and I’m trying to teach him the importance of proper grooming. What would you suggest?”

The clerk graciously indicated the array of products in front of her, taking care to distinguish one from another. She was only half paying attention, however, as she brought her jeweled cell phone to her ear. As the clerk presented item after item, she kept talking on the phone.

“I won’t know until he’s home. They’re in Philadelphia today, but he’ll be back tomorrow. Next week is his birthday and I know he’ll want to do something special. I might even have to give him some special sex. He can be such a chore.” She shook her head impatiently at the last comment, though it could have just as easily been in response to the products being shown to her.

Then it hit me. I knew who she was. The floor might as well have opened from under me. How did I not put two and two together? Of course, who else could she be but Judi? I stood there dumbfounded, trying to decide my next move. Although there was no way she knew what I looked like—much less that I even existed—standing only a few feet from her so suddenly was like waking up with a cool puddle of water in your bed. Was it better to leave immediately or wait her out calmly and purchase my gift as if everything were normal?

I looked at her from the corner of my eye. She was not what I expected. She wasn’t pretty or plain. Like many women she had learned that with money she could create the illusion of some sort of sorority-girl-pretty look with the right makeup or hairstyle. I guess the best way to describe her was as a slightly younger version of the lady who played Edie on
Desperate
Housewives.
Thank God I wasn’t competing with the character played by Eva Longoria, although with Tony Parker as the prize I might give it a shot.

Dray had dropped bits and pieces about Judi during pillow talk. I knew that Judi’s father was loaded after selling his hedge fund for close to a billion dollars. A divorce from Judi’s mother had taken care of half of that and Dray told me Judi’s father had cut her off when she started dating Dray. He wasn’t crazy about his only daughter shacking up with a black guy and told her she was now on her own. I knew she liked to shop and often left town for shopping sprees.

“How long is this going to take to gift wrap? I need to go to the jewelry counter and look at some rings. Maybe I’ll use Drayton’s credit card and buy you something, Amber. Just because I’m nice,” Judi said, flashing a smile as phony as her hair color.

“And because you got a rich husband,” the other woman said.

“So true. How lucky can a girl get? Rich daddy leaves, rich hubby appears magically out of thin air.”

“I thought you said you met him at some black club in Miami.”

“I did. Where else was I going to meet him, at the country club? I don’t think so. Daddy’s club was so sixties, Amber.”

Finally I couldn’t bear the pressure any longer, and as casually as I could, so as not to let Judi know how closely I was studying her, I stepped away from the counter. I made my way slowly for the door with my heart beating faster than my footsteps the whole way.

It looked like Dray would get his favorite skin-care products for his birthday, even though they wouldn’t be from me.

One of my three cell phones rang with an Atlanta number I didn’t recognize, but I answered it anyway. “Hello.”

“What’s up, bitch?” It was my good friend Maurice Wells, who lived in Jonesboro, Georgia, but had been raised in Selma, Alabama.