5 Minutes and 42 Seconds (10 page)

On my way in I'd stepped on the beautiful white roses the gardener planted the day before and cursed. I took a moment to pray that they would grow correctly anyway and make my house look more like the beautiful home I'd
dreamt of. Just as I opened my eyes, the center door of the three-car garage flew open and Dream pulled out of the driveway. I looked at my daughter blankly, trying to observe instead of judge, hoping to see some kind of understanding, some kind of appreciation. My daughter looked back with nothing but resentment.

As Dream drove away, I flashed back to our argument earlier and knew Dream was going to see her man instead of going to work. Dream was pulling away from me. Soon my daughter would be as distant as Fashad, maybe more. In that moment I decided I'd done all a mother was required to do for that child. Dream was grown now. Old enough to buy, cook, and eat her own food, no matter how bad it tasted. Old enough to wash her own sheets, make her own bed, and lay in it.

I looked back down at the flowers. For twenty years I'd been wishing without hoping, praying but never really expecting anything or anyone to truly please me. It had been twenty years and roses, whether white or red, paled in comparison to a good dream.

I looked back at the house, then at the workers. I caught a reflection of myself in the rearview mirror of the Escalade that belonged to my husband, who could barely be bothered even to come home, and I wondered why I was the one maintaining the order of things. Fashad's money had paid for a lot, but I doubted any of it came close to equaling what I'd paid emotionally. I stared at my reflection, then caressed my face the way I wanted my husband to. They'll never make a vibrator that can do that. I paused to notice how much I resembled my mother, a woman who had options,
and the courage to choose herself. I looked at the house once more, then the workers. I flashed back to the first time my mother showed up at my apartment after kicking me out and moving to New York. It took a while, but I eventually forgave her, then understood and respected her. Now I would emulate her.

A delivery van pulled up as if on cue and I remembered the wig I'd purchased a few days earlier. I went after the box like a twelve-year-old opening a Christmas present she'd been shaking for two weeks. These days wigs were essential for me, but it wasn't always so. Before I left home to visit my mother and came back to a house without roses, I took perfect care of my hair. I guess I still wanted Fashad to notice; but now that I knew how things stood, what was the point? With wigs, I didn't have to waste time or get my hopes up.

I held that wig in the air as if it were worth a million dollars. I had visions of it making me look as strong, independent, and feisty as Erica Kane. I dreamed of the adventure that awaited me, the excitement, the love, the fulfillment. This wig would be different. This wig wasn't for Fashad; it was for Cameisha. I placed it atop my head and breathed the first breath of what would be a new lifetime.

I strolled over to the workers without taking my eyes off of them. They saw me stare and were justifiably panicked—the pep in my step was not just that of a woman after something, but of a woman who was willing to do anything to get it. Either that or they thought I was a fool for walking barefoot down the street wearing a platinum-blond wig and a yellow housecoat.

“Get down,” I said when I reached the two men.

“Excuse me?” said one of them.

“Get down,” I repeated, flicking the hair from my face and purposefully tilting my head to the left to bring out my good side, as if the cameras were about to pan in for a close-up.

“Ma'am, we are on official business. We can't just—”

“I'll tell you everything you want to know about my husband,” I said, interrupting him.

The men looked at me, then looked at each other. They started down the pole.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me,” I said, breathing into the words the way Erica Kane does when the dramatic music starts to play.

“You're cops. Everyone knows it. I said I want to help you put my husband behind bars.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, we're just working on this here light. We don't know nothin' about no cops,” said one worker.

The other cop looked me in the eye, and I made a point of staring right back. I smiled mischievously as he climbed down and said, “Keep talking.”

W
hat!” Smokey yelled
into the receiver and groggily looked at his clock. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and Smokey didn't usually get up until one.

“Why you answer it like that, Smokey?” said a sad voice he couldn't make out. He started to ask who it was, but figured it had to be Dream because of the whining.

“You knew it was me,” she continued.

“I'm sorry, baby. I just woke up. My bad, baby.”

“Why you always be callin' me that?”

“Callin' you what?”

“Baby.”

“Huh?”

“Don't call me that no more, Smokey.”

“All right, whatever, sweetheart.” Smokey rolled his eyes. It had been three weeks now since they'd met and he'd
hatched his plan. The agony of having to put up with her was becoming unbearable.

“I'm comin' over,” said Dream.

Shit,
thought Smokey. The last thing he needed was Dream coming over and pressuring him for sex. Dream was one of those girls who were so ugly they could only get guys to mind-fuck them. Smokey could always get it up for a mind-fuck; fucking Dream for real, however, was not an option. Smokey hid his condoms under the mattress, then thought Dream would probably want it raw-dog anyway, and took them back out.

“Smokey, you heard me?” asked Dream. “I said I'm coming over.”

“Why you ain't goin' to work?”

“I'll tell you about it when I get there.”

Dream hung up.

He cursed as he dragged himself out of bed to throw on the clothes he was wearing last night. When the phone rang. Smokey groaned, thinking it was Dream calling with more nonsense. “Hello,” he said, trying not to sound too exasperated. Much to Smokey's surprise, it was Bill.

“The shit's going down today. Meet me at the café around four. Don't be late,” he declared in one breath before promptly hanging up.

A butterfly fluttered in Smokey's stomach. He felt like a gladiator entering the ring after countless weeks of practice. A song had been on his mind since the week before, and he danced over to the closet, singing the hook to what he was sure would be his first single.

As soon as he threw on the throwback jersey there was a knock on the door.

Smokey peeked through the peephole and saw Dream's blue beehive wobbling in the wind like a puppet. Normally he didn't care what he looked like when she saw him, but today he took a glance in the mirror before he let her in. It was game time.

As soon as he opened the door Dream threw herself into his arms. Smokey started to back away because she was crying and emotions had always been contagious for Smokey. But today was important. He had to suck it up. He squeezed her tighter.

“What's wrong, baby?” asked Smokey, massaging the small of her back.

Dream tried to speak but couldn't finish without sobbing.

He shushed her gently as if he loved her, then guided her to the couch on which he'd fucked someone else the night before.

“Calm down. Tell me what happened,” said Smokey as they sat.

“She said that you don't love me. She said that you gonna leave me. She said that you ain't never gonna have no money.”

“Who?” asked Smokey, trying to muffle his shock.

“Momma.”

Smokey got angry, not just because Cameisha was talking shit, but because Dream wasn't supposed to tell anybody. He wanted to throw her out like the two-day-old pizza sitting on his living room table but he couldn't. He was a gladiator with a hitch in his sword, and couldn't change it now that he was in the ring.

“What the fuck, Dream!” yelled Smokey. He pounded his fist into the couch before getting up and pacing, arms folded, teeth clenched in anger.

“Baby, what? What's wrong? What? What did I do?” asked Dream.

Smokey almost slapped her, but pointed his finger in her face instead. Then yelled, “You said you wasn't gonna tell nobody!”

“I didn't. She found out on her own,” she said, sounding like a little girl being interrogated by a parent.

“You said you was going to be careful.”

“I was.”

Smokey continued to pace in front of the black leather couch, thinking,
What now?

“I didn't tell her it was you,” said Dream, trying to get him to sit back down on the couch. “Why does it matter, anyway, Smokey?” she continued once he shrugged her away.

Smokey was a little relieved to hear that Cameisha didn't know he was the man Dream was involved with, but it was still a bad situation. Now that Cameisha knew a man was in
the picture, Fashad would know as well. When the money disappeared, they'd grill Dream. She'd break. They'd come after him.

“Dammit, Dream!” he said, feeling discouraged. “I told you nobody could know about us.”

“Why can't nobody know about us?”

Smokey glared but kept his silence.

“Momma says she know why,” said Dream timidly.

Smokey continued to ignore her. He thought about breaking into the house and taking the suitcase, leaving, and never coming back. It sounded like a good idea until he remembered Bill and the deal. Besides, what was the point of being a baller if nobody knew he was a baller? Gladiators fight to the death. If he left he wouldn't be a gladiator, he would be a thief—there was no glory in that. For Smokey this wasn't just about money, it was about being somebody, letting himself and everybody else know he was something more than Fashad's bitch. Dream was the only vehicle he had.

“You hear me?” asked Dream.

“What?” asked Smokey, awakening from his trance and once again paying her all the attention she'd ever wanted, and never got.

“I said Momma say she know why you don't be wantin' nobody to know. She said it's 'cause you usin' me.”

“You believe her. Is that how it is?” He wanted to teach her another lesson by turning the tables, but the moment called for delicacy. “You don't believe I love you?” he asked, pretending to be hurt.

She turned her head and took a deep breath. Tilting
her head downward, revealing the Dream of old, she spoke softly. “No.”

“No, what? No, you don't believe I love you, or no, you
don't
don't believe I love you?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean…I love you, Smokey,” said Dream “But…” she continued.

“But what? No ‘buts.' Is you is or is you isn't my baby?”

“I'm is, but…I mean, why you want me, Smokey?”

“What you mean?” Smokey knew exactly what she meant. He was a little relieved she asked. A fat, ugly girl like Dream thinking she was worthy of him would have been an insult.

“Why you fuckin' with me, Smokey?”

“Because I love you.”

“Why?”

“Because you're smart, because you're beautiful…” said Smokey as if he were reading the compliments from a list.

Dream interrupted him. “See, Smokey? That's why I be thinkin' you lyin'.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm not. I ain't smart, and I ain't beautiful.”

“Yes you is,” said Smokey. “I don't want to hear you talking crazy like that.”

“Okay, but I ain't as pretty as these other hos I see runnin' around here. I see how they be lookin' at you, Smokey. Why you ain't with them?”

Like a gladiator, Smokey knew the time was right to jab his opponent.

“Because they ain't got what you got. They can't do what you do.”

“What I got, Smokey? What can I do? You want your hair did?” asked Dream, smiling for the first time since she'd appeared on his doorstep. Smokey smiled as well, not just because he was a little amused by her sarcasm, but because he was elated by the perfect setup.

“You got loyalty. I know you would do anything for me. Wouldn't you?”

“Yes.”

He kissed her with as much passion as he could muster. Before he could draw his lips back she suddenly pinned him down on the couch and kissed him again. Then again. Then again. He knocked over a half-drunken can of Bud, trying to make her stop. Finally he put his index finger between her lips and his.

“What, Smokey? I want you to make love to me. I need you so much.”

“I will, but first I want something from you,” said Smokey.

“Anything, Smokey, anything you want.”

“I want you to belong to me.”

“What?”

“Say it,” commanded Smokey. “Say you belong to me.”

“I belong to you.”

“You going to do anything I need you to do for me, ain't you?”

“Oooooh yes, Smokey. Yes, I am yours,” said Dream, panting like a sex fiend.

He patted her on the butt twice and told her to get up.

She looked at him in a confusion that was tinged with
insult. Smokey looked back at her sternly, silently reminding her of her vow. Dream got up. Smokey stood up and adjusted his clothes, then sat back down, thus giving Dream permission to do the same.

“It's time,” said Smokey.

“Time for what?”

“Remember when I told you we was gonna go away together.”

“Yeah,” said Dream, the excitement growing in her voice like a crescendo.

“It's time.”

“Oh my God, Smokey. Is we gonna get married?” asked Dream.

Smokey looked at her like she was crazy but she hardly noticed as she jumped up and down.

“Yeah, baby,” said Smokey, uneasily putting his teeth together and parting his lips, simulating a smile.

Then Dream really hit the wall. She yelled like Mariah Carey and started talking about wedding dresses and cakes. People who would get invitations and people who wouldn't. People who would be mad because they said it would never happen, and people who would be jealous because they thought they'd get married before she did.

“Wait,” said Smokey.

Dream was still blabbering to herself about a wedding.

“Wait,” said Smokey, a little louder this time. He put his teeth together again and opened his mouth, just in case his growing impatience came across as mean.

She stopped. “What, you don't want to marry me or
something?” She looked at him like he was telling her he was going to kill her.

“Naw, it ain't that. Just sit down and chill for a second. We got some things to take care of first. We can't just snap our fingers and get married. That shit takes time, and planning and shit.”

“I'm sorry, Smokey,” said Dream, and she took in a deep breath. Smokey figured her fit of joy was probably the most exercise she'd had in quite a while. “They always told me I was ugly…. I never thought it would happen to me.”

Smokey jumped up and grabbed her the way a fiancé would. He guided her back down to the couch. “I'm here for you. I'll always be here,” said Smokey, disgusted with himself for lying, but then remembering:
A gladiator has to choose himself every time.

“I need you to do something for me. For us. Something we have to do before we can get married.”

“Anything, Smokey. I love you. I'm yours.”

“You know the drill, right?”

“No. What?”

“The drill. With the trumpet.”

“Yeah,” said Dream skeptically, as if she were bracing herself for her mother being right.

“That shit is going down today.”

Dream gasped.

Smokey fumbled for the words to say what he wanted to say.

“I have to…you have to…I…we…we need that money.”

“Fashad's money?” whispered Dream as if someone could be eavesdropping.

“Our money,” said Smokey.

“Baby, I can't steal from Fashad. He done too much for me and my family. I can't just take his money from him.”

“You ain't takin' nothin' from Fashad, baby. Baby, trust me, Fashad is going to be going away for a very long time.”

She began to shake her head in disbelief.

“Trust me,” he repeated and grabbed her arm in an attempt to get her to relax.

Smokey looked into her eyes and saw confusion. There couldn't be any confusion.

“Baby, I need a woman—a wife—that's going to be down for me. Baby, we ain't stealin' nothin' from Fashad. We takin' the money that me and Fashad made, money that should be
my
money.”

“But what about Momma? What she sposed to live off of?”

“Your momma got plenty to live off of. She still got the record company, the auto shop. She still got the legit money and shit. She ain't gonna be broke. Me and you need that money to start a life together. And when Fashad gone, she ain't 'bout to be down for you and me. You see how she is now. She don't want you to be happy, baby. She don't want you and me to be together. She jealous, and when Fashad gone, she gonna be even more jealous, 'cause she ain't gonna have nobody.”

“True,” said Dream, biting her bottom lip and looking off into the distance in contemplation.

“You said you was mine. You said you was down for me.”

“I don't know, Smokey.”

“You said you would belong to me,” Smokey reminded her.

“What you want me to do?” asked Dream like a soldier reporting for duty.

“It's simple, baby. All you got to do is go home, go in the room with the money, and switch that suitcase with the one that has the money.” He pointed to a suitcase sitting by the door.

“Once you get the suitcases switched and the money's in your trunk, you call me—on my new cell phone.” Smokey caressed her hand gently, and rhythmically, as if he could hypnotize her with his touch.

“When the time is right, I'll call your momma. Cameisha will blow the trumpet and y'all can bury the suitcase I just gave you instead of the real money.”