The Meltdown (17 page)
Authors: L. Divine
“You’re welcome,” Mickey says, shutting the passenger door. “We’ll talk about it later.” Yeah, we’ll talk about it all right. Mickey will try to convince me to cheat on my man while I attempt to block her unwanted ill advice. We need to get down to the root of her sugar-daddy issues.
“I’m so looking forward to the conversation,” I say, making sure my girls get in Mickey’s classic ride okay. It looks like Nigel’s parents are home, and I don’t want to run into them tonight. I’ve had it with Mrs. Esop and the debutante ball talk this week. Between that and cheer, I can’t take any more bitchy broads in my world. Luckily, my girls and I always find our way back to the middle.
“You’re such a smart-ass sometimes, you know that?” Mickey says, starting her car and waking up the quiet neighborhood with Lil Wayne bumping loudly through her speakers. If Nigel’s parents didn’t know we were here before, they sure as hell know now.
“So I’ve been told,” I say, pulling away from the curb. “Bye, Nellie. Later, Mickey, and please give my goddaughter a kiss for me.”
“Our goddaughter,” Nellie says, checking her text messages for the umpteenth time this evening. Apparently she’s taking Mickey’s advice to heart and not her own.
“Semantics,” I say, driving out of Nigel’s neighborhood and back toward Inglewood. It’ll only take me about fifteen minutes to get home, which should put me in the house by midnight. Tomorrow I have to perform the obligatory Father’s Day duties, then the rest of the day belongs to me. Rah mentioned something about a session at his crib tomorrow evening for Father’s Day, and that might be cool, especially if the babies are there. But first I’ll have to get through greeting my daddies, and then I can have fun with my crew.
Insaniac
Insane in the membrane / Insane in the brain.
—C
YPRESS
H
ILL
“M
adame, Madame. Regarder,” the young woman
says.
I’m standing in the front parlor of an old house dressed in all white. I pick up my skirt and rush into the kitchen next to me, following after the excited girl.
“Flamme! Flamme!”
the girl shouts, pointing at the antique stove in flames.
“Get back,” I say, unable to process my thoughts quickly enough to translate into the French Creole my companion is speaking. I look around the large room for a fire extinguisher, but something tells me the invention wasn’t readily available in this time period.
“Arroser,”
I say, directing her to hand me the bucket of water used for dishes to quench the scorching flames.
We pour the water, but the growing fire seems to thrive from the liquid.
“Madame!” she shouts, pointing to my shirt, which is also on fire.
I try to pat the flames and then remember to stop, drop, and roll like they taught us in elementary school, but it’s not helping.
“Sir! Appelar, à l’aide, s’il vous plaît!” the girl shouts, running out of the kitchen toward the front door.
Just then, Keenan walks in and takes quick action. What the hell is he doing here?
“Are you okay, love?” Keenan asks after putting out both fires.
Who’s he calling “love”?
“Madame?” the young girl asks, kneeling by my side. She takes my left hand and helps me sit up on the cool floor. From the frightened look in her eyes, I can tell she’s worried about my silence and so am I.
“Marie, are you hurt?” Keenan asks, kneeling by my right side and checking me out. I’m walking through my dream as Maman again. Keenan must be my great-grandfather, Jean Paul.
“No. I’m fine,” I say, still confused. The girl rubs my hand, smiling at me. Her brown eyes are sad but sweet, hiding years of pain and abuse; she can’t be more than nine years old. I know it was hard being a black girl in the antebellum South.
“Tina, go and fetch your mother to help Madame Marie change her clothes,” Jean Paul says, helping me regain my footing. “I told you a woman in your condition shouldn’t be on her feet, especially not my wife,” he says to me. Maman must be pregnant with Mama: This is too weird.
“Sir Jean Paul,” the woman says, slightly bowing as she enters the kitchen. She looks about the same age as my mom. I touch my stomach, grateful it’s too early in the pregnancy to show. I don’t know if I can handle feeling Mama kick inside of me. That would be a little too freaky for even my strangest dreams.
“Help my wife get out of these burned clothes and into bed. I can’t have the great Voodoo Queen of New Orleans looking like a common cook who doesn’t know how to use a
stove,” Jean Paul says. He’s the only one present who finds any humor in his insensitive statement.
“
Oui,
monsieur,” the mother and daughter team say in unison.
They guide me to the back of the spacious single-story house, where we enter a bathroom adjacent to what I assume to be Maman’s room. It’s painted yellow with a huge wall altar dedicated entirely to Oshune next to the largest of three windows in the massive space. I feel like I’ve walked into a living shrine.
“You’re going to make me the happiest father alive, Marie, starting by staying out of the kitchen. That’s what the help is for,” Jean Paul says from the hall. We look at each other and sigh. Jean Paul was a jackass, and we have the spirit book stories to prove it.
“You’re going to be fine, madame. You just need a bath to calm your nerves,” Tina’s mother says, helping me out of my dress and into the ceramic tub. Tina begins passing her mother cupfuls of cold water. “Lean forward,” she says in a commanding voice. I bend forward and grab my knees, allowing the frigid water to pour from the nape of my neck down my back. She pours it again, this time over my head, causing me to wake up in a cold sweat.
“It’s too cold!” I shout, now fully awake. I look around the dark apartment, adjusting to my surroundings.
“I’m not pregnant,” I say aloud, feeling my stomach. My dreams are getting more confused with reality every day. Dreaming about Keenan as my husband is the same kind of fantasy as my dreams of being Mrs. Adewale, and they both come from my strong attraction to these men, but I can’t keep getting this hot and bothered. My top is soaking wet, and I feel like I’m on fire. Maybe after I change and dry off I can get some more sleep. It’s way too early to be up on a
Sunday morning, especially when I have no clients scheduled. I’m going to rest for as long as I can. Hopefully, the realistic dreams are over for today.
After my crazy dream, I slept for a few more hours and woke up feeling refreshed and a little lazy. It’s strange having the morning to myself, which I’ve taken full advantage of. After studying my spirit lessons and my schoolwork, I decided to chill for a little while before getting dressed by watching
Las Vegas
reruns and eating microwave popcorn for brunch. I take a handful of the salty snack and stuff my mouth. This is an episode I’ve never seen before, where they’re in New Orleans visiting a voodoo queen. I wonder if Mama’s got it on her DVR. She loves this show. Speak of the angel, my cell rings with Mama’s special tone. She must’ve felt me thinking about her.
“Hola,”
I say, singing along with the words of the Cuban music that accompanies Mama’s call. She’s the only one who used to get that type of favoritism until Jeremy came along. Now they both have their own distinctive soundtracks. Mama only uses her cell in case of emergencies or when she’s traveling, which is rare, but this is one of those times.
“Jayd, it’s so good to hear your voice. How are you, baby?” Mama asks. It’s good to hear her voice, too, even if it sounds distant through her outdated equipment.
“I’m good, Mama,” I say, taking a swig of water from my cup on the dining room table to clear my throat. My mouth’s so dry I can barely speak. “How’s Miami?” I think that’s where they are. The last time Mama called, she and Netta were living it up in New Orleans. I almost didn’t recognize Mama’s voice she was so happy. I sit up on the couch, throwing the sheets off my legs, half expecting them to be on fire like my skirt in my nightmare. Maybe Mama felt that one all the way across the country.
“Hot, girl. But it’s beautiful. You’ll have to come with us next time.” I plan to take her up on that. “By the way, Netta wants you to drop by the shop and make sure the clients’ boxes are in order as well as all of the other necessary duties her sisters might forget to check on before tomorrow.” Lucky for Netta, she and her two sisters know the hair business inside and out. While her older siblings are still holding it down in New Orleans, Netta started her own shop in Comp-ton over thirty years ago and hasn’t looked back, although she misses her hometown.
“I’m melting,” Netta says in the background, giving her best imitation of the wicked witch from
The Wizard of Oz.
I miss Netta’s funny spirit.
“I would love to visit there and Puerto Rico,” I say, envious of my grandmother’s travel itinerary. I’ve only been to New Orleans in my dreams. I’d love to touch the holy place one day with my own hands. “So when do you leave for the island?”
“Not until the middle of next week,” Mama says. “How’s the spirit room? Any news about my clients?”
“Everything’s fine, Mama. And don’t worry, all of your clients are surviving in your absence, although they do miss you.” I stretch my arms above my head, fully feeling my aching body. Cheer camp’s no joke. I even feel the burn when I’m not working out, but it’s all good. This week I’ll be on it like no other.
“Good,” Mama says, coughing slightly. “It’s healthy to allow people to feel your absence every once in a while. It reminds them of your uniqueness next time they decide to act a fool.”
“Well said,” and I agree. When I stopped talking to Rah two years ago, he never forgot how valuable a friend I am and never will. It’s the same thing with Jeremy. Although I miss him terribly, it’s good for couples to take a break from
one another. We both could use the space to miss each other—but not too much. My mom’s apartment feels lonely without my boo.
“You got that right, Lynn Mae,” Netta says. “We’re about to go through a tunnel, ladies. Say your good-byes and love you, Little Jayd.”
I can just see her brown, shoulder-length hair blowing in the wind as the truck speeds down the road.
“I love you, Jayd, and I’ll check in with you later,” Mama says, almost shouting because of the bad connection. “By the way, I want a full report about your spirit work and your dreams next time we talk, little girl.”
A full report? I don’t know about that, but I’ll do my best.
“Yes, ma’am. And I love you, too. Y’all be safe out there,” I say, closing the phone. I’m glad Mama and Netta are enjoying life, but the hater in me is slightly jealous. I neglected to take notes on my reading this morning. Maybe I should review the pages and jot something down so I’ll have something coherent to chat about next time Mama calls, which I hope will be soon. I miss her hugs, the smell of lavender and cocoa butter on her skin, and most of all, her warm smile. The last thing I want is to disappoint her while she’s gone.
As instructed, I study a bit more and learn more about Maman’s path before she married Jean Paul. It says that her powers were weakened the moment she became his wife because of a spell he put on her wedding ring. Once she figured it out, she took it off and never wore it again, which is what eventually led to my great-grandfather killing Maman. The more I read about our lineage, the more amazed I am by the Williams women’s strength. Individually and collectively, we are a force to be reckoned with.
After working for about an hour, I touch up a few of my loose braids before heading to my grandmother’s house in Compton. I love wearing my hair with the ends out and curly
from the cornrows I put in yesterday. I need to drop by Mama’s house and check on things as well as drop off Daddy’s card. I usually call my father for his special day since it’s too uncomfortable for us to be in the same room for long. But before I can dial my daddy’s number, my phone rings with an odd number in the display.
“Hello,” I say into the phone in my gruffest voice. I have a lot of new clients, but I still want people to know it’s not okay to call me out of the blue unless someone has referred them. Otherwise, I’m giving them hella attitude for both taking up my cell minutes and wasting my time.
“Hello,” the male voice says nervously. “I’m looking for Jayd.” Whoever this is had better make it quick. I’m ready to walk out the door and have only a few seconds to talk.
“You found her,” I say, going into my mother’s room to check out my outfit one last time. It’s only noon and already ninety degrees outside, or so the weatherman said. My pink sundress should keep me cool and comfortable for the day’s events.
“Hi, Jayd,” he says, this time sounding more secure. “This is Keenan from the coffeehouse.”
Keenan. This dude has moved from my dreams to my cell. How did he get my number? And more importantly, why am I suddenly more concerned with how I look even if he can’t see me through the phone? What the hell?
“Hello?” he repeats.
I don’t know what to say for a second. “Yeah, I’m here. I don’t recall giving you my number,” I say, now checking my hair. I run my fingers through the soft curls hanging over my shoulders, inhaling the fresh cucumber-melon scent. I whipped up a new batch of my personal beauty products and have been sampling them out on myself before using them on my clients. So far I like what I see, and so would Keenan if he were here.
“Nigel gave it to me when I asked him who hooked up his braids,” Keenan says, the nervousness returning to his voice. “I was wondering if you could hook a brotha up when your calendar allows.”
Satisfied customers are definitely the best advertisement. Maybe I don’t need to waste my money on business cards when word of mouth does the job for free.
“Were you now?” I ask, smiling at his obvious attempt to flirt without flirting. I’m always about my money, first and foremost. Having a smart, funny, and fine new client is a nice bonus, too.