Friends and Lovers (19 page)

Minutes later, our limousine in the sky descended. The landing gear clanked and whirred open. I was still beat, felt tore up from the floor up, but most of my illness was almost gone. Chiquita was redoing her makeup and slightly bobbing to someone’s beat. My hand drifted down and massaged my belly. Think I felt a cramp coming on. Either that or gas. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so weak. Needed some serious sleep. To top
it off, when I relaxed, my head started to throb from where I’d gotten hit by the rug rat’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy. I wondered if that pain was supposed to be some sort of a tap from reality.

Shelby called me late Monday night from Miami. After I grumbled, “Hello,” it took her a couple of seconds to say anything. Her voice was grainy, the words choppy; she sniffled.

“What’s wrong?”

She cleared her throat and paused. “I might be pregnant.”

That made me wake right up. Felt like I’d stuck my finger into a light socket. Partly because of the pregnancy, partly due to the angry way she said it. There was a fistful of hate, hurt, grief, and despair in her tone. It had the flavor of subdued fear. She was too far from home to be tripping out by herself. The distance made me feel helpless and useless.

“You sure?” I asked over my yawn. I clicked the three-way light to its softest setting and sat up. I put my bare feet into the powder-blue carpet and gripped it with my toes. Ripped up as many fibers as I could. The clock said it was twelve-thirty a.m.

She said, “I think so.”

“You been to the doctor?”

“Nope.” Shelby took a wealth of short breaths, another weighty pause, then trembled out, “Took an EPT test.”

“When?”

“Hour ago.”

“And?”

“Bugs Bunny died.”

“You sure?”

“What the hell do you mean, am I sure?”

“I mean are you sure?”

“Unless I’m color-blind, I’d barely dropped two drops of piss on the strip before it changed colors.”

“Why’re you so upset?”

“Why did I call you?” She moaned. “You are such a man.”

“Be such a woman and tell me what I’m missing.”

“I’m upset because I messed around and got knocked up. And I know better. This ain’t the order this was supposed to happen in my life. I’ve got bills up the ying-yang. I’m still not where I want to be with my career. I mean I’ve bounced from teaching, to taking the test for LAPD, to the test for the sheriff’s department, to being a damn flight attendant.”

“Don’t focus on where you are, focus on where you want to be.”

“Where I wanna be ain’t pregnant.”

“I was just trying to help.”

“Did I ask for a solution?”

“No you didn’t.”

“Then don’t give me one.”

“All right.”

“Why in the hell did I call you?”

“I was about to ask you that my-damn-self.”

“I didn’t need my degree to get the job I have. I can’t keep working because they won’t let me fly and be sick like this. What if I get dizzy? If something happened to me or a passenger, they’d be held responsible. I’m so damn miserable and weak and—”

“Shelby?”

“Don’t cut me off like that—”

“Calm down. You’re jumping ahead. Today before tomorrow.”

“First you tell me to focus on tomorrow.” She chewed and swallowed. “Then you say don’t worry about tomorrow.”

“You’re tripping.”

Sounded like she yawned. Sounded like her mood had switched again. She said a weak “Blow me a kiss, baby.”

I did. “You get it?”

“Yeah.” She giggled. “Thanks.”

I pictured her with child. Her tummy and attitude growing, nose spreading around her high cheekbones. Me rubbing her belly, feeling the first kicks of a new life. Her pregnant, looking fine as hell, wobbling with her hands at her waist for back support. Me rushing us to the hospital. Her breathing harshly and sweating. Me holding her hands while she dug her fingernails into my skin. Her cursing me out and telling me I did this to her. A beautiful baby with her complexion. Me putting something on my fingernail cuts and smiling while I drove my family home.

Shelby let out a sad laugh and said, “Ready to give up your free Friday nights and trade your briefcase for a diaper bag?”

I didn’t answer. I collapsed back across the bed. Exhaled.

She said, “What are you thinking?”

“I was wondering what kind of dad I would be. My family wasn’t exactly functional.”

“So what? At least you had some kind of a family.”

“The only masculine role model I had was my dad, and I don’t know. He’s not exactly up for a reward on fatherhood.”

“My mother wasn’t—” Shelby started. “Never mind.” She paused. I think I heard her tapping a spoon on a bowl. Tapping with a hard rhythm. She said, “Are you seeing somebody else?”

“Nope. You’re too much to handle. No time for two.”

“You’re not like your daddy. Why should he matter anyway?”

“He doesn’t.” But he did. I said, “I was just saying.”

She quieted.

Shelby said, “What do you think I should do if I am?”

I said, “We’ll have to move into a larger place. Maybe it’s time to buy a house, review our finances. It’ll be hard, but—”

She snapped, “Tyrel, no.”

“What?”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“That’s not the right answer.”

“I think you just made a left and I made a right.”

“I don’t want to have a child. Not right now, anyway.

Not under these circumstances.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I have a career and this is not a good time. I don’t have the same kind of job you have. I don’t have the privilege.”

“What privilege do I have?”

“I can’t take my shoes off and kick my feet up on my desk and throw darts at pictures and play solitaire on the computer and bullshit around like that while I wait for a check.”

“Bullshit? You think I bullshit all day?”

“I mean, Tyrel, you know what I mean.”

“Let’s talk about it first, all right?”

“It’s not about us. This is about me.”

“It’s about us.”

“It’s about what I let happen.”

“Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. I hate it when you talk to me like I’m a child. You’re not my damn daddy.”

“Never said I was.”

“You’re not the one throwing up from coast to coast. It’s my body that’ll have to go through all those changes, and get fat and shit. Stretch marks crawling all up my ass. I see women up in the gym who have had children, and no matter how many sit-ups they do they can’t get rid of their pooches, and don’t get me started talking about saggy breasts and stomachs messed—”

“Shelby.”

“What?”

“Calm down.”

From my side of the phone, I heard Shelby rustle around; hotel drawers opened and closed, bathroom water turned on and off. She coughed, gagged, spat. She was as restless as I was. I was telling her to calm down and I was stressed my-damn-self, thinking about the
same life-changing concerns she was talking about—money, change of status, us not being married, things being done in the wrong order. Order was for people of tradition. My voice was easy, as easy could be, I was still opening and closing my toes, had gripped up some of the Berber carpet.

Shelby’s breathing was erratic.

I said, “You okay?”

“Hell the fuck no. Frustrated. Aggravated.”

“Are you eating?”

“Yeah. Butter pecan ice cream and Oreos.”

I ran my hand around the back of my neck and visualized her sitting up in the dark in her panties and no bra, running her fingers through her hair, twisting and yanking it at the roots.

“Shelby?”

She mumbled, “What?”

“Stop pulling on your hair before you go bald, baby. Pull all your hair out and you’ll have to get a weave, and Leonard will be talking about you night and day, onstage and off.”

She giggled, “Okay.”

I said, “Can you see the moon from your room?”

“Hold on. Let me open the curtains. Yeah. Why?”

“I can see it from the patio. Look at it while we talk.”

“What’s that gonna do?”

“Make it seem like we’re closer than we are.”

“You are so silly.”

Moments passed with us holding the phone, saying nothing.

She calmed and said, “Thanks for making me laugh.”

“That’s okay. Can’t laugh and be mad at the same time.”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t feel good.”

“Outside of the nausea, how do you feel?”

“Hungry. Stressed. Can’t think. Don’t wanna be at work.”

“Fever?”

“I think I’m warm. I want to be at home with you.”

I nodded at the moon. I said, “Wish you were here.”

“Jet lag has me irritated.” Her voice softened, started to sound more relaxed. She sounded worn, but the pitch was normal.

I said, “That’s okay. Just stop stressing, all right?”

She whined, “All right,
daddy.
“

“I’m not your daddy.”

“Then do me a favor and don’t patronize me when I get upset.”

“If I was, if I did, it was an accident.”

“You have a tendency to sound condescending. Like you’re talking down and trying to call me stupid on the sly.”

“Never.”

“When you made those comments about me not picking up my shoes and clothes, then you left a note on the front door, what was that all about? How was that supposed to make me feel?”

I said, “You need to clean up behind yourself.”

“You need to learn how to wash a dish or two.”

“I’m trying.”

She had attitude when she said, “So am I.”

“Let’s stay focused. We’re getting off the issue.”

“See,” she said, “that’s what I mean.”

“Do I ride your back over nothing?”

“Tyrel Anthony Williams.” She swallowed and chewed, talked with her mouth full. “I called you because I needed a friend, not a lover or whatever, just a friend.”

“You call Debra?”

“Why the hell would I call her? This ain’t got nothing to do with her. This ain’t the kind of thing I want to broadcast.”

“What’s the problem?”

“You are such a man. I called you because I need you.”

“I know. Just thought you might want to talk to her.”

“What, you’re not my friend?”

“Yeah. I’m your friend. I just meant to talk about whatever women talk about when you’re talking about stuff like this.”

“She’s married. I can’t just pick up the phone and call her or stop by her house whenever. It ain’t that kind of party. Do you still call Leonard all times of the night?”

“No, I don’t. But I would if it was an emergency. Plus Leonard is up late most of the time.”

“It’s not like that anymore. Debra’s not single and living by herself anymore. She’s probably getting her freak on and wouldn’t let him answer anyway.”

She laughed. I laughed. Two lovers’ stress dwindled a touch.

“Tyrel?”

“Yeah.”

“This is our business. Nobody else’s.”

“All right.”

“Not Leonard’s or Debra’s or anybody.”

“All right.”

“Swear.”

“I promise.”

“Good enough.” Shelby yawned and said, “I’m tired. I’ve got to be alert and on a plane at nine and it’s after four a.m.”

My clock said it was about twenty after one here.

She said, “I’m going to take another test. Just in case I screwed up and got a false reading. Let’s talk about it when I get back home on Wednesday. I need sleep, baby.”

“Call me if you can’t sleep.”

“Okay.”

My eyes were the color of ketchup by the time I finished talking to Tyrel. After I peed for the tenth time in the last hour, I blew my nose, and then picked up the phone to call Debra back, but stopped when I saw my empty left hand. I put the phone back down and thought about
Momma. She’d died with a teenage child and a ringless left hand. Left behind a hope chest filled with broken promises.

Then I saw my silhouette in the mirror. For a few seconds my mind wandered away, back to a time when I had ponytails, ashy elbows, dressed in secondhand tight jeans and a T-shirt. One day in particular always stood out. Crozier Middle School had a short day and I went home early, walked out of the sunshine and inside my darkened house. We didn’t have an air conditioner, so the house was dark to keep it from getting too hot.

Momma’s bedroom door was cracked open. I heard noises. Sounded like change jingling. My nose led the way, and I peeped through the door and became nauseated. A heavyset rust-colored man was on top of Momma, his blue work pants at his ankles, her flowered skirt hiked up to her waist, no emotion in her face, too much emotion in his. His janitor keys were jingling while he moved, made it sound like a bad Christmas song. Momma turned her head to the side and saw me in the door with my hand clamped over my mouth. She put a finger to her lips and waved me away like she was telling me to go play.

I went into the kitchen, dropped my books on the floor, and sat at the table. Shaking my head, trembling, rocking, twisting my greasy hair, and gritting my teeth while I bounced my leg up and down. Momma had taken out chicken wings and potatoes. That was for me to cook. I killed a roach or two before I started my chore.

Keys jingled on their way out of our front door. Saw that man cross Market Street and go inside of his peach stucco house. He was moving fast. Jingling a new song. I guess he didn’t know the school had a half-day either. I went to school with one of his children. His wife worked the cafeteria. She was a cook. Just like Momma used to be before she got sick.

When he deserted, Momma came into the kitchen. She smelled like that man. Like car grease and unwashed sweat, unclean body parts, the way fat people did. Momma was a stout woman with four moles on
her left cheek. We had the same eyes, mouth, and high cheekbones, so I guess everything else came from my MIA daddy. Momma was brown-skinned and always wore a brown wig. People at school would tease me about her size. They’d joke about the way her stockings went
swish-swish
when she walked. She used to be thin, like Dorothy Dandridge, but after she had me, she never lost the weight. They would taunt me about my dark complexion and tease me about Momma’s weight. Momma lit her Salem on the gas stove and leaned against the doorframe. Momma inhaled, then coughed. She coughed hard; it sounded like her insides were coming loose. We didn’t know it, but they had already come loose.