Playing Hard To Get (30 page)

“Yeah,” Tasha said, though she knew it would never happen.

“Wonderful!” Porsche said. “I’ll have my assistant call you to set it up. It’s going right on my calendar. I promise. No excuses.”

“Well, that’s good, because I really want you to—”

“Look, honey, I have to go,” Porsche interrupted Tasha. “I’m getting on a jet. My new boyfriend is flying me to Paris for the afternoon. We’re in Dubai. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, I was watching it on the news—”

“Gotta go, love,” Porsche said quickly. “Send my love to Toni and Tiana!”

There was a click and the line went dead.

“Tiara,” Tasha said to no one. “Her name is Tiara. Not Tiana.”



They were Fola, Bolade, and Nijala. In that order, Fatimah, Tamia, and Tanya were given their Yoruba-based names upon how their older sisters saw them interacting within the community. Fatimah, Fola—Baba explained after their lips had been rubbed with water, palm oil, a kola nut, honey, pepper, salt, and fish—was named for always respecting her elders. Tamia, Bolade, came to the Freedom Project with great honor. Tanya, Nijala, who was always smiling and cheering for her sisters, no matter the issue was named for bringing peace.

“Ase,” the big sister said, happily calling each of the women on the journey by their nicknames.

Though Malik had been keeping his distance from Tamia’s process, meeting her only to discuss his case during the afternoon before she met with her sisters or afterward as they rode the subway to see Badu and Ms. Lolly—who were still in a subway turf war—Tamia often saw him waiting outside of the work room where she met with Baba.



“You could’ve come in,” Tamia said, walking into the basement library where she found Malik studying after her naming ceremony. He was sitting at a workbench, surrounded by books. “Baba said the community was to be there.”

“I was there.” Malik smiled, but he didn’t look up at Tamia. As she was changing how she looked, how he looked at her was changing too. He didn’t notice it at first. He’d always thought she was a beautiful woman, and after she cut her hair he saw that she was even more than that. It was nice. But it was common. Most of the women who came into the project and began to accept their own beauty grew more beautiful in his eyes. He thought this was the same with Tamia. But one afternoon, as she sniffed an African musk Badu had rubbed on her wrist, Malik saw the side of her neck. As she laughed with Badu at something, she turned her head and it was there, defenseless, soft, brown. It made him feel hungry and then warm. He looked away fast. He asked Badu if he would sell him a vial of the musk. That night he would go home and smell it, thinking about Tamia again.

“But not inside,” Tamia said. “You didn’t come inside.”

“How do you know you weren’t the one outside and I was inside, my Nubian sister?” Malik joked, using the militant voice that always made Tamia laugh.

It worked.

“You’re so silly,” she said, giggling. “What are you reading?” She sat down beside him on the bench.

“Not reading, checking the stacks,” Malik started and Tamia could tell he was about to go on one of his passionate riffs. While she’d thought they were silly before, now she found them comforting. His dedication, how he lost his mind in something he cared for so much made her believe in dreams again. “You ever hear about what happened in Philadelphia in 1985 when eleven black people were killed?”

“No,” Tamia said.

“The government bombed the headquarters of Project MOVE, a militant organization,” Malik said. “They used helicopters to drop bombs on the roof of the building. And when the fire started spreading, the mayor, a damn brother, said, ‘Let it burn!’ Eleven people died that day. Five were children.”

“That’s awful,” Tamia said.

“You know, it is awful, but what’s more awful is that most people don’t know anything about it. People in Philly. Black people. Militant people,” Malik said. “We can fight for freedom all we want, but if we don’t record our own history, none of what we’ve done will matter.”

“I disagree. I understand what you mean, but I have to tell you, it doesn’t matter if not one book records change. If it happens, it happened.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” Malik said suddenly.

“What?”

“A long time ago, I told you that I thought you were beautiful the way all black women are beautiful.” Malik looked into Tamia’s eyes. “Right now I want you to know I think you’re beautiful. Not just outside. But your mind. You impress me every day.”

Tamia wasn’t sure how to respond to this, so she didn’t. She kissed him.

She kissed him and when she tried to move away she realized Malik’s hands were around her neck and holding her to him. In his lips she felt the hunger and heat he’d fought with the day she smelled African musk in the subway. When they parted, it was as if they were still together.

“What was that?” Tamia asked, covering her mouth. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Malik said. “I kissed you.”

“No, I kissed you.”

“I wanted you to kiss me.” Malik looked at her like he was coming in for another kiss.

“But…” She moved back. “But we can’t. We…What about Ayo?”

“Ayo?”

“I know you have something with her.”

“I had something with her for a very long time,” Malik said. “But I think that very long time is all we have.”

“I knew it,” Tamia said.

“You knew what?” Malik asked. “You have somebody too. I know it. Probably some monkey-suit-wearing fraternity boy in the city.”

Tamia lowered her eyes

“Now, I knew it,” Malik said. “You come up here to Harlem to play, but your real thing is hidden in a high-rise. Is he paying your rent?”

“No, my mortgage,” Tamia said curtly before getting up.

“I’m sorry,” Malik said. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m frustrated.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been thinking about that kiss for a long time. But I know we can’t act on it,” he explained. “We can’t ruin what we have.”

“What we have?” Tamia’s toes were tingling just considering the idea that they had something between them.

“Our relationship,” he said. “You’re my attorney. You have to represent me.”

“Oh, yes,” Tamia said, thinking maybe her toes had just fallen off. “We wouldn’t want to ruin that.”



For more than a week, the flesh beneath Troy’s skin was boiling with such anger, such fury at Myrtle’s display at the church that it was becoming impossible for her to follow her desire to remain composed and poised as the immaculate First Lady she wanted to be. The questions Lucy had raised about Myrtle’s intentions pricked into her mind like thorns each night and she could hardly rest without thinking about Myrtle’s nerve and what she might be planning next.

And then, one morning after a sleepless night when the sun hit the concrete outside of the Hall brownstone, Kyle watched his wife rise, wash, and dress in a matter of minutes.

“Where are you going?” Kyle asked, sure he was still dreaming. Troy wasn’t exactly an early riser and her daily coiffing routine meant that leaving the bedroom before 10 a.m. was nearly impossible.

“Nowhere,” Troy said, slipping on her heels…and then switching to sneakers and then back to heels. “See you later.” She kissed him on the forehead and ran out as if she’d decided on the sneakers.

There was an early-morning line at the bank where Myrtle was manager, but Troy’s nerve pushed her past the tired crowd, through customer support, and before Myrtle’s receptionist.

“Can I help you?” the frail assistant asked, her hands still in position on the keyboard, her eyes peeking out over the rims of glasses that seemed to weigh her head down.

“I need to see the manager,” Troy requested.

“Are you okay? Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes,” Troy snapped, “you can help me by getting the manager. That would be what I initially requested.” While Troy wasn’t ever really great at defending herself, when she finally invoked this fierce strength that every woman in her family had before her, it came out in great big waves of fire, threatening to burn anyone in her path.

“I’m sorry, I mean was there something that happened here—at the bank—that you would like—”

“Listen to me, right now,” Troy started. “I need you to get the manager. That’s all I need. That’s all I want. So pick up your little phone and call her up because someone is here to see her. Do you understand that?”

The phone was in the receptionist’s hand and she’d pressed a button, but evidently the movement was still too slow for Troy’s racing heart. She charged past the woman and opened the door to Myrtle’s office.

“You can’t go—” Troy heard the woman at the desk call.

Myrtle was seated at her desk, eating a bagel and chatting on the phone.

“Girl, you know I did, but I”—she stopped and looked up at Troy—“was so excited and thought maybe we should do it again.” Myrtle laughed and chatted easily as Troy stood there. “No, he didn’t; he is so—”

Troy stepped to the side of the desk and tried to pull the phone from the wall. And while she didn’t quite disconnect the line, the set and receiver pulled from Myrtle’s hand.

“Oh, shit,” the receptionist said, standing behind Troy.

“You see me standing here?” Troy said.

Myrtle stood calmly and stared past Troy.

“That’ll be all, Cathy,” Myrtle said.

“Do you want me to get security?”

“That’ll be all.” Myrtle retrieved the phone from the floor and replaced the handset. “Have a seat.”

“I don’t need a seat,” Troy said.

“Well, fine. Stand there. But make sure—”

“What was the shit you pulled at church yesterday?”

“Shit? It was merely a testimony to something that I—”

“Don’t pull that crap with me,” Troy said. “I’m new to this, but I’m not new to drama. I know what you’re trying to do. And if you think you’re gonna run me out of First Baptist with some public campaign against me you can forget it.”

“Really?” Mrytle opened her drawer and produced a folded sheet of paper. She pitched it over to Troy.

Troy didn’t move.

“Read it!” Myrtle demanded.

Troy opened the pages. It was a bank statement. A bank statement for First Baptist.

“Now, I know you’re no financial wizard, so I’ll direct your eyes to transaction 31 for last month,” Myrtle said.

Troy turned to the second page, where
LOUIS VUITTON
was posted beside a charge for $6,189.73.

She didn’t say anything. She dropped the paper and sat down in the chair before Myrtle.

“I thought so,” Myrtle said wickedly. “Now, we talk.”

“What do you want?” Troy said, but this time her voice was fragile, broken. She’d planned to make the deposit into the account before anyone noticed or could complain about the purchase.

“You know what I want. What I’ve always wanted. Your husband.”

“And you think this is going to help you? A little charge from a store?” Troy tried to sound unmoved, but she knew the weight of what Myrtle was measuring. With so much already stacked against her, this could bury her, push her right into a grave and pour the dirt on top. Where she was from, the total in the margin wasn’t a big deal, but being the preacher’s wife, such a big charge at such a place for any reason was unacceptable. She’d pay for it. Kyle would pay for it. The church would pay for it.

“Your little show is over, Troy Smith,” Myrtle said. “You’re no more fit to be a preacher’s wife than a pig. And now I have proof.”

“So you’re going to show everyone this? You’d do that just to get rid of me?”

“Not exactly. I don’t think it’s necessary to show everyone this little bank statement…just to get rid of you,” Myrtle explained coolly. “I know what something like this could do to Kyle, to the church. It would ruin everything. I can’t have that. Not over some silly little purchase.”

Troy sat silently, her body shaking in fear as she waited for Myrtle to finish.

“Leave him,” Myrtle said.

“What?”

“Leave him. If you love him. If you love the church and you don’t want to ruin everything he’s worked so hard for, leave him,” Myrtle said. “If you don’t I’ll take it to the board of trustees and you’ll lose him anyway. You ever see a man after you take his dream from him?”

“This is ridiculous. This doesn’t make any sense,” Troy rambled. “I could just pay the money back, say it was a mistake. Say I—”

“The record stands. It doesn’t matter what you do now,” Myrtle said. “I have the statement. I have the proof. Elizabeth knows. And it’ll only be a little itty-bitty bit of time before everyone else does.” Myrtle paused and looked out the window. “Now I know this is all sudden for you and you’re probably going to need some time to think about it. But I’m telling you now, there’s only one thing you can do. If you love that man like you claim you do, you’ll leave the church and leave him. You haven’t changed a bit. It’s been two years and you still continue with your old games. It’s time for you to make a new decision. You can’t save yourself, but you can save Kyle.”

Troy looked down at entry 31 again. A tear fell and stained the page, blurring the black ink. How could she have been so stupid, she thought, remembering the afternoon when she’d handed the woman at the store the card. She knew people were watching her. She knew Myrtle was watching her. She couldn’t let anything happen to the church. To Kyle. And she knew in her heart Myrtle was right. This would ruin him.

“How long do I have?” Troy asked.

“I’ll call you,” Myrtle revealed, though inside she couldn’t believe Troy had given in so easily. She’d been working on Troy for months, waiting for her to slip up and step out of line. The bank statement, when Elizabeth had brought it to her, was a total surprise. She thought for sure Troy would know not to mess with the church’s money. “You’ll know,” Myrtle added.

8

I used to want the words “She tried” on my tombstone. Now I want “She did it.”

—Katherine Dunham

B
aba beat on his drum. The Royal Anhk was shining brightly. The tree was surrounded with people. There were the regulars—the dreads, the dancers, the believers, the worshippers, and the women of the earth. But in the middle—something unexpected. Two who were quite the same. One was carrying her new Ferragamo-studded clutch and red devils; the other, a pair of actual, real tennis shoes (for playing tennis) and couture jeans. Shoulder to shoulder, Tasha and Troy were the odd ones. Yet, they looked around as if surrounded by oddness.