Love the One You're With (19 page)

“He didn't hit you back, did he?”

“Nah. Ha, he better not had, cuz then we woulda been fightin' fuh real. They ready ta bring in a stunt double.”

“Well, it's a standard thing in the industry. It's no big deal.”

“It is ta me,” he snapped. “I want this role ta be all me, Baby.”

“It will be.”

“Not if somebody else is fightin' my battles.”

“Who will know the difference?”

“
I
will.”

“Pooquie, it's not like you're Jennifer Beals in
Flashdance
having all your dance sequences performed by others. Or, better yet, in an action flick with Jean-Claude and havin' a hard time with the karate kicks. This thirty-second scene does not define who your character is.”

“But it's still an important scene.”

“Yes, it is. Every scene you're in is important. But it's not
the
most important scene.”

“But, Baby, I feel like … like I ain't pullin' my own weight.”

“Pooquie, don't torture yourself. So what if you don't get everything. There are others who don't get everything. Didn't you say that one of those actors is always fumbling his lines?”

“Yeah.”

“Now,
that's
a major problem. But this is a minor thing, so don't turn it into something major. You'll get so focused on not being able to do this one thing and won't give your all for the rest of the shoot.”

I felt him come down. “Uh … you right, Baby. Clemmy already told me all of this. But I guess I just needed ta hear it from you.”

“I won't be any less proud of you if you can't do the scene. And the world won't know it's someone else; they do a jood job of covering that up. Besides, I would prefer they
did
bring in the stunt double.”

“Why?”

“ 'Cause, if the other actor hurt you,
I'd
have to hurt
him
.”

He chuckled. “Baby, he taller and bigger than
me
. How
you
gonna hurt
him?
”

“Ha, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, Pooquie. That's what that scene is all about. And when you mess with
my
man, you better be prepared to be messed with back.”

He giggled. “You cray-zee, Baby.”

“About you? Most definitely.”

“So, how you doin'?”

“Jood. I'd be doin' better than jood if you were here. But Junior's doing a jood job of keeping me company.”

“Befo' ya know it I'll be Black.”

“I know.” I looked at the calendar on the back of the bedroom door. “I'm countin' the days.”

“Oh, Baby, I gotta go. They callin' fuh me.”

“Okay. Don't sweat this. And if you need to talk again, just call.”

“You know I will. Thanks, Little Bit. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Pooquie.”

I WAS DRIFTING OFF TO SLEEP WHEN THERE WAS AN ERRATIC KNOCK ON THE BEDROOM DOOR
.

“Yes?”

“Mitch-hull, may I come in?”
Junior asked in a hurried voice.

I sat up. “Yes, you may.”

He bolted in.
“Oh, I'm scared, I'm scared!”

“Why?”

Just then, a flash of lightning illuminated the dark room.

He jumped. He covered his eyes with his hands and then aimed for and buried his face in my chest.
“That! That!”

“The lightning?”

“Uh-huh,”
he sobbed with urgency. He was trembling.

I cuddled him. “You're afraid of lightning?”

“Uh-huh,”
he repeated.

I reached for and turned on the lamp. “You can look up now. The light is on.”

He wouldn't budge.

“Junior, it's okay.”

He inched his hands away from his eyes to peek. Seeing it was safe, he lifted his head.

Now, I could've given him the spiel about how he shouldn't be afraid, that we're inside and it won't hurt you, that it's only God blinking His eyes, and that it's one of those natural wonders that we have no control over but can be rather spectacular, even beautiful. I remember hearing all of those things when I was his age and also being frightened—and none of it made any sense, nor did it make me feel better. Instead of providing me with comfort, these explanations just made it more mysterious and made the anxiety grow. So, at this moment, the last thing Junior needed was a lecture (especially since I'm sure he's already heard it, more than once). It would be equivalent to convincing him the bogeyman isn't in his closet. I think it's important to help children overcome their fears, but there is indeed a time and place for everything, and trying to rationalize something so frightening when they are so young and want to be protected, not preached to, doesn't help.

I took his silence and that very panicked look on his face to mean one thing. I knew what he needed and wanted to hear right then.

I cupped his chin. “Do you want to sleep in here tonight?”

Those small eyes grew so wide I thought they were going to pop out of his head. “Can I,
pleeze
?”

“Of course. Come on.”

He hopped in the bed, scooting under the covers and settling on his back.

I did the same. “I'll leave the light on, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.” He smiled.

“You're welcome.”

He grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. “I love you, Mitch-hull.”

I squeezed back. “I love you, too.” I kissed him on the forehead. “Jood night.”

“Jood night.”

A POLITE RUB TO MY SHOULDER WOKE ME UP
. I opened my eyes to see Junior's smile.

“Jood morn­ing, ­Mitch-hull.” He was already dressed.

I sat up. “Jood morn­ing. How did you sleep last night?”

“I slept okay.” He grabbed my right hand, pulling me out of bed. “Come on. Wash your face and brush your teeth so you can eat your breakfast.”

“Eat my breakfast?”

“Yes.”

Junior knew better than to mess with the stove, or work any other electrical appliance. I had to see what “breakfast” for him would entail.

He had set a place for each of us at the ­dining-room table. ­There was a box of Wheaties, a glass of chocolate milk (for him), a glass of orange juice (for me), a banana for each of us, a stick of butter in a dish, and a jar of jam.

“I didn't want our toast to get cold,” he explained. “All I have to do is pull down the button and it will be done.”

I walked into the kitchen. ­There ­were four slices of bread in the toaster. I smiled at him. “Well, isn't this nice. I'll scrub up and be right back.”

“Okay.”

We ate and then we watched an episode of the Jackson 5's cartoon series (it's on my special Michael Jackson compilation tape, along with his famous moonwalk on
Motown 25
, clips from their variety specials, and appearances they made on
Soul Train, American Bandstand
, and
Midnight Special
). We were out of the house just before noon and trekked on down to downtown Brooklyn's Fulton Street Mall and Strip.

Like Gene, Junior likes to shop-till-u-drop. Pooquie was outdone when we all went Christmas shopping last year; after two hours, he decided to wait (more like sleep) in the car while Junior and I finished (we legged it for another two). As I soon discovered, Junior had been paying close attention to what I purchased for myself. He'd been able to read me so well that he figured out my taste. And he managed to not only choose the right item but the right store to go into; he's never fooled by those “Going Out of Business” and “Everything Must Go” signs, which are just ruses to entice you inside and get you to buy shit you don't want or need (half the time the store isn't folding; they're just trying to unload all the merchandise that hasn't sold).

So I let him take the lead. Because they were having a blowout on summer wear, he decided we should venture into Dr. Jay's, a spot for those looking for the latest designer urban gear at somewhat reasonable prices. We weren't in there thirty seconds when …

“Ooh, Mitch-hull! Look at this!”

It was a brown-and-gold tropical short-sleeved shirt. I took it off the rack.

“I think you would look jood in that!” he exclaimed.

“Do you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let me see …”

I turned to a mirror mounted on a wall behind the clothing rack. I held it up to my chin and admired the way it complemented my own skin color. “I believe you're right, Junior.” I raised my eyebrows. “Do you think your daddy will like this?” I already knew the answer would be a definitive …

“No.” He pointed to another shirt. “Daddy would like
that
one.” It was a
very
bright orange.

“Hmm, I think you're right.” I checked the tag on the collar. “And it's the right size.”

“A double extra-large?” he asked.

“Yes.” He knows his daddy, all right …

After getting a sweater and a pair of overalls for himself (he grows so fast that it's best not to buy him summer clothes in the winter), we found a cashier. He was more like an assistant manager—at least that's what his name tag said. It was pinned to a turquoise turtleneck above his right nipple, which, like his left, was very visible and
very
hard. He had skin the color of butterscotch, a short natty 'fro (I assume he was locking his hair; I could smell beeswax and Indian hemp), ­soda-bottle-cap-sized eyes, a silver hoop through his left earlobe, and lines shaved through his eyebrows (the “jagged” style that would become very pop­u­lar a few years later).

“Good mornin',” he said, flashing those pearly whites (and a gold crown) at the both of us.

“Good morn­ing to you, too,” I replied.

He took the items. “Looks like y'all got some good bargains ­here.”

“Yes, we did.”

“And y'all got ­here at the right time. The crowds usually don't show up till one or two.”

“Oh, good.” I glanced at Junior, who was giving the man … well, it could best be described as an evil eye. I never saw him wear a scornful face like it before.

“Is that gonna be cash or credit?” he asked.

“Credit.” As I went into my pocket, he turned to Junior. “So, little man, what's yo' name?”

Junior was ­stone-faced and silent. Hmm … did he not like being called “little man,” which is similar to Li'l Brotha Man, the title his daddy christened him with?

“What's ya name?” the man repeated.

He still wouldn't answer. In fact, he wouldn't even look at him.

I palmed his shoulder. “The man asked you a question.”

“Oh,” he feigned. He shifted his body in the man's direction, but his head didn't move with it. “My mommy and daddy told me to never talk to strangers.”

The cashier and I nodded at each other.

“It's okay. He might be a stranger but you're not alone.”

Junior peered at me. “Junior,” he coughed, still not looking at him.

“Ah. I'm a Junior, too. My first name is Tazmaine. Folks call me Taz. How 'bout you?”

No answer, again.

“Junior, the man asked you what was your first name.”

“Oh,” he feigned again. “I … I don't wanna say.”

That was a switch: the kid who is so proud of his name, who delights in not just saying it but
spelling
it for anyone who'll listen, not wanting to disclose it?

I was a little embarrassed by his behavior. “I'm sorry. He must be a little tired.”

“ 'Sa'ight.” He held out his hand. “I'll take that.”

I looked down; I still hadn't given him the credit card. “Oh, sorry.”

“No prob.”

While we waited for the confirmation, he continued to make small talk. Junior huffed.

“Hope to see ya again …
real
soon.” He winked, handing me the bag.

“You keep having sales like this and you will,” I assured him.

“Ha, don'tcha worry—we will,” he promised. “Oh …” He came from around the counter and handed me a card from his back pants pocket. “Whenever ya come back and need some help, just ask for Taz.”

I took the card. “Well, thank you, Taz. You have a nice day.”

Junior tugged on my arm.

“You, too.” He watched us leave with his hands folded across his broad chest and a grin just as broad on his face.

When we were outside, I confronted Junior. “Is there something wrong?”

He frowned. “I don't like that man.”

“You don't?”

“No.”

“Why? He didn't do or say anything bad to you.”

He shrugged. “I still don't like him.”

Hmm … could Junior sense when someone was trying to get next to me in
that
way? Maybe he recognized the way his daddy looks at me in Taz's eyes. Or it could've been Taz's body language. Or how Taz said what he said. Whatever it was, that friendly, affable aura that is very much a part of his personality disappeared, and he became cold and curt. Pooquie has reacted in the same way a few times when he peeped someone checking me out. It appears that even when it comes to the green-eyed monster, Junior's a chip off the old brick wall. Wait till Pooquie hears this …

Junior's sour mood was erased when we browsed through Toyland and stopped in McDonald's for a Big Mac. Then came the highlight of the day: after dropping off our packages at the apartment, we hopped the bus to the Billie Holiday Theater to see
The Wiz
. After he'd watched a young-adult Michael Jackson in the film version, I thought Junior would love seeing it performed live, and he did. We were in the second row in the center section, so he had a perfect view. The whipped cream on his slice of sweet-potato pie, though, was meeting the actors and getting their autographs. Of course, Junior was most interested in Tyrrone Weatherly—the actor who, like Michael, portrayed the Scarecrow.