A Deeper Love Inside (42 page)

“Elisha, we gotta go, sorry,” I interrupted.

“Hold up, wait a minute,” Elisha said, stopping me.

“I want to buy you something first,” Elisha said.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, wrapping up the muffin and then taking hold of the paper teacup.

“It’s not food,” Elisha said, looking into me, to calm me some.

“That’s okay,” I said to him. “Momma, can you step out, please?” I asked. She had trapped me in the booth.

Momma turned on me. She went full blast with her mother tone, “When a man says he wants to buy you something,
you let him buy you something
.”

• • •

At an AT&T counter in Albee Square Mall in Brooklyn, Elisha brought me a new Motorola Startac cell phone for $395 as Momma watched his thirteen-years-young man hands count out the cash and pay. He handed me the new box and said, “Now I have your number.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Momma had an outburst. “Take it!” she said too loudly and striking a bizarre pose.

“It’s cool, Ivory, this money is from my movie camera savings fund. I have to save ten thousand dollars to buy the camera to finish my first film. You are my muse.”

“Muse?” me and Momma both said.

“My inspiration,” he said. “You’re worth much more than any cell phone.” I took the phone from his hands. “Charge it and keep it on,” Elisha said.

Even though I could afford any cell phone available and every cell phone on that counter, I didn’t have ID, didn’t know a Social Security number and name I could have used without telling on myself, much less an address. I saw that Elisha used his family plan, his address and details, and just paid for my cell phone unit himself. The gesture had my heart, with the two holes in it, thumping.

“My mother invited you for dinner, Mrs. Santiaga. Even Porsche’s father is invited if you want to have him come,” Elisha said, his parting words. Momma was just staring off into the distance after the “Poppa invite.”

• • •

“So that’s the boy who you like?” Momma asked me. “I’m glad you have someone. You’re too focused on me. Yeah, that’s one you will marry. I’m a hundred percent dead on,” she said. “That’s how I was, too,” she continued, speaking about her young self. “I was with your father from fourteen to thirty-two. That’s when they came and stole him away from me, saddest night of my life. Now I’m thirty-six. Even though he ain’t here, I’m still his
only wife.
I had four of his children. No other bitch could claim that.”

“Momma, are you ready to go see Poppa? You’re right. You are his
only wife.
That’s why you should never give up on him.” I was trying to build Momma’s confidence.

“I’m as ready as I’m ever gonna be. It’s now or never,” she said.

“We’ll get up tomorrow early enough to catch the prison bus. I’ll pack you a lunch, go with you to the bus stop, buy you a ticket, and watch you get on. I’ll stay there until the bus doors close and the bus pulls off. I’ll stand there watching till I can’t see the bus no more. Then I’ll be there at the end of the night to meet you even before your bus is scheduled to return so we can go home together.” Momma hugged me.

“Don’t care too much, Porsche. Every person you meet will use it against you.” I was excited in those seconds, I couldn’t concentrate on friends or enemies or suspicions. I was wrapped up in Momma’s hug.

***

My new cell phone rang for the first time around 10 p.m. that same Friday night. “Hello,” I answered. There was a pause, an exhale, then . . .

“Damn, I wasn’t sure what to call you,” Elisha said.

“You know me and I know you,” I told him.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Outside walking,” I said.

“With who?” he asked.

“Momma,” I said.

“Oh . . .,” he said. “I’m feeling a little cheated,” he said.

“How come?” I asked.

“You owe me a do-over on our date today,” he said.

I was silent.

“How about tomorrow?” Elisha asked.

“Okay,” I said.

“I knew you missed me, too,” he said without laughing.

“I do,” I said, before I could stop myself from saying the truth.

“I have an audition early morning so let’s meet around noon. Is that cool?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “But how come you always have an audition if you’re going to be a movie director, not an actor?”

“Acting jobs pay good money,” Elisha said confidently. “That’s how I was able to buy the majority of the movie equipment that I own now. I’m saving up for the camera. It’s my one last big thing.” He sounded excited.

“After the auditions, do you ever get the job?” I asked him.

“I see I’m gonna have to buy you a television next,” he said. “If you had one you would know
I get the jobs
.”

“Oh, sorry. I don’t have time for the television. How much do you have so far in your $10,000 camera fund,” I asked curiously.

“I had $2,800. After today, I have $2,400. But that’s not for you to worry about,” he said.

“I’m not, you’ll do it. I can tell,” I told him.

“Alright, tomorrow then,” he said. “Noon?”

“Wait . . .,” I said. “Let’s change our meeting till 5:00 p.m. I forgot I have to work.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a job. Where?” he asked.

“I’m the meter maid,” I told him. He laughed some.

“A twelve-year-old meter maid?” he said.

“A thirteen-year-old movie director?” I said.

“I’ll be fourteen next month on December 14,” he said, showing off. “Besides, you once told me you were a witch and had me traveling all around Brooklyn with you to buy herbs and brews for one of your spells! Remember that?” he asked. He was messing with me. I was just playing about the witch thing cause I didn’t want to tell him the truth; that I was gathering herbs and natural remedies to get Momma off of crack. Back then, when Elisha checked out my list of “weird stuff,” provided by NanaAnna by way of Riot, I had to say something. So I told him I was a witch about to cast a powerful spell. He didn’t mind, though. At least he acted like he didn’t mind and even enjoyed my tale and the witch hunt adventure of gathering “the potion ingredients.”

“Alright then,” Elisha said after our words were paused, “Five p.m. It’ll be the first time I seen you on a Saturday.”

“Thank you for the cell phone . . .,” I said softly.

“Tomorrow,” he said. We hung up.

Momma was staring at me as I was speaking to Elisha. Afterwards she only made a sound, “
Umm hmm
.”

Chapter 39

When we reached the iron doors to the underground, Momma stopped instead of lifting it so we could climb down the cement stairs.

“I’ll open it,” I said. Momma wouldn’t move out of the way.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t want to go down there no more,” Momma said.

“It’s just for the weekend. We can go get the apartment on Monday. I have the money ready. I promise. I even have the place. You sign everything. I’ll pay for it,” I explained, feeling suddenly nervous. I did have the place. I just needed Momma to go meet with Mr. Sharp so she could take care of the parts that only someone over eighteen could take care of. If Momma would show up, sign everything, every single day after that, I would do the work, pay the rent, and make her happy.

“If I go down there, you gotta get rid of those fucking cuffs and that heavy chain. If you ever do some shit like that to me again, I’ll break your neck,” Momma threatened.

Momma’s anger was slowly mounting. We had a successful day, had gathered important information, accomplished some things, sat down together for a nice meal in a restaurant. Upon ending up back here, she turned tense.

“I only did that to help you get clean. It was the only way to beat that drug without the hospitals. I hate the hospitals. I told you before, Momma. And look at you now, so pretty.”

“And what about you?” Momma asked.

“Huh?”

“Everybody got they own thing. I got mine. You got yours.”

“What?” I seriously didn’t understand what Momma was getting at.

“I get rid of my friend Mr. Crack. You get rid of your friend Siri,” she said, mean-faced.

“That’s not the same thing,” I said. “The crack ruins you, makes you act strange,” I said.

“Siri makes you act strange, standing around talking all day to
somebody who ain’t even there. You even got that handsome boy acting like she’s real. If I gotta get rid of Mr. Crack, you gotta get rid of Siri,” Momma said.

I knew Momma was just bugging out at the moment. There is no person named Mr. Crack. There is a girl and a closest friend of mine named Siri. I began perspiring in the November cold standing on a slab of iron on the cold cement floor. Siri had been with me in the underground when Momma was nowhere to be found. She was with me on lockdown and at the bottom. Siri loves me and that I knew for certain. I couldn’t say the same thing about Momma. I couldn’t say for sure that she loved me. I couldn’t feel it. This was only day one of her being better, by not cursing me out, spitting on me, threatening me, ignoring me, or abandoning me.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hide,” Siri said. She was peeking around the corner so Momma couldn’t see her.

“I promise I won’t lock you up anymore, Momma. I’ll send Siri away so you don’t have to see her. Just please let’s stay together. After you see Poppa tomorrow, you’ll be so happy. You can ask him about the twins and Mr. Bilal Ode. Monday morning first thing, we’ll go get the new apartment.” I said that part softly and sadly, but I didn’t know why. Probably it was because I knew Momma didn’t believe me, or believe in me.

“We’ll see . . .,” Momma said. We stepped off the iron, opened the door and we went down.

“We’ll sleep in the bed together, okay, Momma?” I asked after we were in our pajamas. Momma rolled her eyes, but laid down first. I threw my arms around her waist and one leg over her body as she slept. I couldn’t chain her anymore, but at least I would feel it if she tried to run away while I slept.

But I couldn’t sleep. I just laid with my eyes opened and my body locked around Momma. Even at 3:00 a.m. I didn’t leave to work at Big Johnnie’s. I wasn’t required to work Saturday and Sunday mornings for him, but usually I did anyway and there was always work to do. At 5:00 a.m. I woke Momma. “Time to get ready for Poppa,” I said softly to her.

In Manhattan, on Columbus Circle, at 6:30 a.m., Momma was as
pretty to me as the sky. She wasn’t perfect, but even the sky has some lines, streaks, and explosions in it.

The ticket man moved down the lines, rows of women, some teens and kids. Most had packed lunches for the long ride. A few women had done the same as Momma, worn jeans and kicks for comfort and carried nicer clothes in a dress bag or carryon to change into before meeting their husbands, fathers, brothers, or sons. Momma was wearing my Gucci sneakers, the second pair from Mr. Sharp, which I had only worn once or twice. “That’s twenty-six dollars each,” the ticket seller said.

“Just one, please,” I said, handing the man the cash bills. I turned and passed the ticket to Momma. The ticket man moved on. I called him back to attention.

“This is the ticket to get to Niagra Correctional Facility, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“You go straight there, right?” I asked.

“With a couple of stops,” he said, moving on with his ticket business.

“No stops!” I had an outburst. I needed the bus to go straight to the prison. What if it stopped somewhere and Momma got off? Would she do that? What if she did? She’d go looking for Mr. Crack in some strange place that I didn’t know, or no one I knew, knew. I felt myself begin to panic.

“What are you yelling for? So what if it makes stops!” Momma said.

I thought to myself, maybe she’s happy it makes stops. Maybe Momma’s putting together her plan to abandon me. As my temperature raised up, the lady standing behind me said, “You can take the dark blue express van over there. It’s a straight ride, double the price.”

“C’mon, Momma,” I said, picking up her bag and grabbing her hand.

“This ticket is good enough. You already paid for it, and I need some pocket money!” she said.

“Okay, I’ll sell it!” I said about the twenty-six-dollar bus ticket she held in her hand.

“Let’s go before it fills up.” I pulled Momma along.

Over at the express van I purchased a fifty-two dollar ticket. Right before I paid, I checked, “You are driving straight to Niagra Correctional Facility, right?”

“That’s right, this is the express, you get what you pay for!” the driver confirmed.

I walked Momma onto the minibus and didn’t get off until she had her things packed away and her seat secured.

“Are you okay, Momma?” I asked.

“I know how to ride a bus! What about what I told you?” she said. There was no need for me to pretend. I knew she was asking again for some “pocket money.” I had it, of course, but didn’t want her to have anything she could cop with. I wanted her to ride up and back with only her round-trip ticket, to be certain that she would return to me.

“Are you okay?” a woman in the seat behind Momma asked me.

“She’s fine!” Momma said in her “mind your fucking business tone.” Then Momma looked at me and said, “I’ll get off.” She was threatening me. I knew she meant it. I handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

“For emergencies, Momma, okay?”

“Okay, Shorty. You’re holding us up!” The bus driver pointed to the sign express. “We make it up there first.”

I walked down the aisle, my thighs trembling, even my fingers shaking. I stepped down two steps and stood on the curb watching as they left.

Planning to sell my ticket and looking for a potential customer, I knew I would have to knock a couple of dollars off the price to move it, unless the slow bus was sold out. If it was sold out already, I could sell my ticket for ten dollars more than I paid for it.

“You selling that?” A woman who looked just as uneasy as me asked as I stood there holding it.

“No,” was the word my ears overheard my mouth saying. My feet had their own meeting and were moving up the stairs into the slow bus to Poppa’s prison. My nerves tangled like the wires inside of a heavy phone cable; I plopped down into a seat.