In My Sister's House (3 page)

“None of what was said about me bothered your daddy,” Nettie said. “Even if most of the shit niggas was saying about me was true anyway. After he helped me get back on my feet, I asked him why he did it. And he looked at me and said, ‘Nettie, every one of God’s children deserves a second chance. And no matter what you may feel, you
are
one of God’s children.’” Tearing up, Nettie used one of the table napkins to wipe her eyes. “I don’t know where it came from, but somehow deep inside I believed him. Your daddy helped me and didn’t expect nothing from me for it either. And I wasn’t used to shit like that. Niggas been wanting shit from me since I was a child. Dutch was just a giving spirit.” Nettie smiled and turned to Skylar. “And you’re the same way, Skylar. You always helping people. Shit, you helped me, too.”

“What you talking about, Nettie? All that you do around here for us? Please!”

“But I wouldn’t have had that chance if you didn’t keep me on when you opened Legends. When Dutch announced his retirement and said he was looking for a buyer for this building, my heart sank. I had no idea what I was going to do. Girl, where was my ass going? No formal education, and the only full-time job I had ever held was on my back! Going back to that shit was not even an option. And not because I was older or washed up, ’cause we all know I still look fabulous. Sshhiitt …” They both laughed. “I’m not ashamed of my past, because that’s exactly what it is, my past. Besides, your pops made me so hopeful about my future. Dutch was the only man I ever trusted.”

“Dutch loved you, too, Nettie. You’ve been family as long as I can remember,” Skylar said, missing her father more than ever. “I’ve always appreciated the love you showered on me and Storm.”

Saying her twin’s name abruptly changed Skylar’s mood. Nettie sensed this and and asked, “You thinking about Storm aren’t you?”

“Huh? Yeah, I guess. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy she is getting released. I really am.” Trying to sound convincing, Skylar continued, “I just don’t know what to expect. Has she changed? Has she gotten herself together?”

“I’m sure she has changed some, Sky. Let’s hope it’s for the better. Being confined can make a believer out of even a housefly. Put one a ’em in a jar with a lid, and punch a hole in the top for a little air to get in. No matter how much he buzzes around, once he realizes he can’t go anywhere, he’ll settle down. Storm had three years to think about her life. And settle down. By the way, have you spoken to her lately?”

Skylar bowed her head. “The last time she called, Sidney answered. That’s when she told him about her release date. I think it’s any day now. She’ll call for one of us to pick her up, I’m sure,” Skylar said. “I just pray she has a new outlook on life, and won’t fall into old habits.”

“Storm is a sweet girl, Sky. She just ended up on the wrong side of the street a few times too many, that’s all.” Nettie gave her a comforting smile. “Everything will be fine, baby, you’ll see.”

“Thanks, Nettie, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around.”

“You’d keep on living! That’s what you’d do,” Nettie declared. And with that Skylar smiled, and wondered if this was what it felt like when a daughter had one of those intimate moments with her mother. She wished that she could have known her own mom. But she thanked God for Nettie.

Nettie’s cellphone started singing Alicia Keys again and jolted the both of them out of their melancholy states. After glancing quickly at the display panel, Nettie snatched up her phone and turned on the Mute button. Skylar just shook her head and smiled. “You two.”

E
xhausted from the prison bus ride, Storm checked into the Libby, a cheap hotel on Arch Street in downtown Philly, as soon as she was dropped off. Not exactly the Ritz-Carlton or Four Seasons that she was used to, but this would have to do …for now. Besides, she had had only $249 on the books at Muncy and that’s exactly what they gave her when she was released. She could not believe that this fleabag of a joint was $99 a night. Sure, she thought of calling Sidney or Nettie to come pick her up, but she decided against it, opting to spend her first night home alone. She had spent the last three years locked up in a place where she had no privacy at all. Bitches even watched you when you peed. No, she needed at least twenty-four hours to regroup and plan her next move.

There were a few scores she had to settle. Besides, she didn’t feel like having to answer anyone’s questions about what things were like while she was locked down. Fuck, aside from Nettie, they hadn’t cared enough to come visit her ass much when she was in there. Especially Skylar. Storm wasn’t surprised, but she really didn’t want Skylar’s condescending ass coming up to the prison on family day anyway, sitting across from her with a frown on her face. Storm knew the only reason she came up to see her was because she drove
Dutch. But now he was gone. Storm could never forgive herself for being incarcerated during the final weeks of her father’s life. Dutch had been the best father any child could have.

She wondered how he did it all—being a single parent raising two baby girls, running the family business and dealing with his ongoing health problems. But Dutch did it and never complained one time— at least not within earshot of his girls. Despite the differences between the twins, Dutch gave them the same amount of love and attention. Skylar was the more serious and focused one. She knew early on what she wanted out of life and her career. She was a planner, a list maker. On the other hand, Storm drifted through life with as much ease as she was afforded. She graduated from college with a degree in fashion design. But as of yet she hadn’t done much with it. In fact, short of picking out the designer threads she once wore, she hadn’t done anything with that degree.

Storm never considered herself a “problem child.” She just had a mind of her own and did what she wanted to do. And Dutch encouraged this in both his girls. “Be the captain of your own ship,” Dutch would say. “Be a leader, not a follower.” He felt most parents of twins made the mistake of forgetting that they were two individuals, not one. Dressing them alike, involving them in the same activities, and acting as if they were one was never cute to him. Sure, twins were similar and shared a lot of the same interests, but they were still separate people with their own goals, aspirations, likes, and dislikes.

The only thing that bothered Dutch was that his girls were never close with each other. It was almost like they were born into the world as total strangers. No matter how much he taught love, togetherness, and sisterhood, the two girls seemed to have a vast amount of disdain for each other. Once they became adults, the only time they even pretended to like each other was when the three spent a holiday together, like Thanksgiving, Christmas, or his birthday. Other than that, they had little to do with each other.

God only knows what it will be like once we see each other again
.

That she even had to ask Skylar for a little job to get back on her
feet made Storm nauseous. But a bitch had to do what a bitch had to do. And besides, it was only temporary.

Glancing down at her watch, Storm decided to venture out for a bite to eat. She hadn’t eaten anything since her last breakfast at Muncy that morning. If you want to call plastic-tasting powdered eggs and two overcooked scrawny pieces of sausage that resembled hard Chihuahua turds breakfast, well, then she had had breakfast.

Pulling her cap down low on her head and donning a pair of cheap sunglasses, she took the elevator down from the fourth floor to the small, smelly lobby. After being confined to a twelve-by-nine cell for three years, she felt uncomfortable in small, cramped places. Cursing herself for not taking the stairs as she had upon her arrival, she prayed she could get off soon. The elevator came to an abrupt stop at the lobby, and when the door opened, Storm headed straight to the front desk. An overweight light-skinned girl with a headful of cheap braids sat behind the desk talking on her cellphone. Nearby was a half-eaten bag of pork rinds and a can of Pepsi.
Typical!

“Excuse me,” Storm said. The girl never looked up.
Is this bitch ignoring me, or didn’t she hear me?
Noticing the name “Pumpkin” on her nametag, Storm decided to give it another try, this time addressing her by name and a tad louder. Pumpkin stopped her conversation and glared at Storm.

“Hold on, Boo.” Pumpkin put down the phone and looked up at Storm. Storm immediately caught the attitude Pumpkin was giving her.
Now this bitch does not know me, because I will snatch her fat yella ass from behind that desk and beat her like she stole God’s supper
. Returning the stare, Storm decided to calm herself down and appease this ho, and tell her what was wrong.

“Yes, I just wanted to let someone know that there may be something wrong with the elevator—it took forever to get down to the lobby, and it actually got stuck midway between the second and the first floor,” Storm offered.

“Okay,
and?”
Pumpkin shook her head like a fat bobblehead doll.

“And
—I thought you might want to let the maintenance person know or whoever is in charge.” Storm forced herself to smile.

“Aight, thanks. I’ll leave a note, ’cause don’t nobody get in till in the morning,” Pumpkin said. “That’s why when I went to the vending machine, I took the stairs down there, ’cause that thing gets stuck all the time.” With that she resumed her conversation.

Storm disgustedly stared at her for a moment longer. Realizing that Storm was still there, Pumpkin rolled her eyes and again asked her person to hold.

“Anything else?” she asked Storm.

“No, it’s fine. I won’t be in this hellhole another night anyway. Like I said, I just thought you might want to know.” With that, something caught Storm’s eye. A roach had crawled into Pumpkin’s Pepsi without her noticing it. Storm decided to fuck with her.

“Girl, it sure is hot down here in this lobby. That Pepsi looks so good and cold. I think I’ll get me one.” She chuckled.

“Yup.” And with that Pumpkin lifted the can to her mouth and took a swig. Delighted at what she just witnessed, Storm started on her way out the door. She reasoned that the two belonged together: a fat, nasty, yella rat, and a germ-carrying roach. She let out a hearty laugh and stepped into the night air.

A
s the pulsating beat of the new Chris Brown joint filled up the club, the dance floor got crowded quickly. Judging by how fast everyone took to the floor, it was definitely a crowd favorite. His fans weren’t just teenage girls. Often compared to Usher and Michael Jackson because of his vocal style and dance moves, this twenty-year-old also had some cougars wet-dreaming about him, wishing for the opportunity to break him in. Posing bare-chested on an
Ebony
magazine cover hadn’t hurt, either. Suddenly, mature women who once spoke of him like a sweet doting son for their daughters wanted to bed him. All of this was before the whole Chris Brown–Rihanna episode that had had Hollywood tabloids selling out quicker than the Saturday morning hot cakes special at Denny’s. Certainly not one to condone his actions, Skylar had even forbidden Brown’s music to be played at Legends. But Quince, the club’s DJ, convinced her that she had to separate the artist from the man. Hadn’t she been guilty of still listening to R. Kelly? And
his
alleged despicable act was beyond forgiveness. She had innocently seen the video, sent to her in an email. She’d had no idea what it was until she opened it. And unless he, too, had a twin, there was no denying that it was him.

A stylish Skylar entered the packed club amid a flood of hellos, stares, whispers, and well-deserved compliments. As Tupac’s classic said, “All Eyez on Me.” She smiled. Along with all of the usual Friday night regulars there was a flurry of new faces—obviously, the magazine article and newscast profiles had worked.

Attempting to make her way to the bar, Skylar glanced briefly at herself in one of the wall mirrors and liked what she saw. Dressed in a tasteful black Dolce & Gabbana catsuit that complimented every curve of her body, with a multicolored scarf tied symmetrically around her waist and a pair of three-and-a-half-inch Jimmy Choo pumps, she was a striking presence. Her honey-brown hair was pulled back into a long, loose ponytail. Because of her flawless bronze skin, she needed little makeup.

Moving across the floor, she couldn’t help but sway to the music. But not too much. She was the owner and always had to set an example. Bumping and grinding and sweating like Whitney Houston on a dance floor was not professional. Among the bodies swaying back and forth, she noticed her man standing at the bar talking to Nettie. It was as if he knew someone was watching, because with a slight tilt of his head, he noticed her looking at him. His face lit up once he saw that it was her. Sidney Francis, a strikingly handsome six-foot-four chestnut-brown brotha with a killer smile, beamed at her.
Boy, have I hit the jackpot with this one
.

Usually a fine brotha like this had some shit going on with him. Like he knew he was fine so he walked and talked like you must
also
know it. Or they would look like Flava Flav and Jimmy JJ Walker combined, but be gentle, kind, and loving. Rarely did a sista come across a single, straight, educated, and spiritually connected brotha who gave you body and face and was available. But there he was. Skylar smiled. And to think, this fairy-tale romance almost hadn’t happened.

At thirty-one years of age, Sidney Francis knew he had found his African princess as soon as he spotted her at a small business seminar
in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, back in 2005. After being with the Jackson-Wilder accounting firm in Philly for the last five years, he was ready to open his own business. Although he doubted there was anything new that he could learn from this seminar, he had decided to sign up and attend anyway to obtain useful contacts. The all-day lecture was to begin at 9 a.m. and go to 5 p.m. Because Sidney arrived at 8:45 a.m., there was limited seating available. In fact, there only seemed to be two seats still left. One was in back of a twenty-five-ish girl who was reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, complete with a ridiculous beehive-type sixties hairdo, tattoos, and gothic makeup. Sidney couldn’t tell if she planned on opening a salon or a tattoo parlor. The other seat was next to an older, heavyset white gentleman who had an oxygen tank beside his desk and breathed like he was in a porno.
Amy Winehouse, here I come, baby
.