Apple Brown Betty (19 page)

“Umm-hmm.”

“He's got passion,” Jacinta continued. “Cares about his life and the people he loves.”

“He loves that ass, is what he loves. GQ Smooth, I know the type.”

Jacinta looked ready to lay a right hand on Slay. “Why are you hating on him? We talked. He's got some issues, for sure, but he's trying to resolve them.”

“What issues?”

“His sister, she's a model, she's having some problems. She's staying with him. He told me she was his heart. Isn't that something?”

Slay rubbed his chin. “Right, right.”

Jacinta waved him off. “Enough about him, though. So, what do you need from me, a solemn promise not to knee anybody else in the nuts?”

Slay shook his head. “You've given me more than I deserve,” he said. “I don't need any promises from you. Just keep yourself safe.” He looked over to her knife on the duffel bag, shook his head. “Hah-seen-ta, if you ever come around to your senses I think we could make a beautiful couple.”

 

Slay entered his mother's apartment, venting out loud. “I never liked the idea of this dude. I knew it.”

Nancy was sitting on the couch, dressed in her blue terry-cloth robe, having just taken a bath. The reality of George's death had just started setting in, as well as the depths of her struggle with that demon white rock. She'd taken two baths and a shower since waking up this morning.

“What's going on?” Nancy asked Slay.

He stopped sudden, his thoughts swayed by the sight of his mother, bathed and alert. “Hey, Mama,” he said, smiling.

“What you yelling about?”

Slay shook his head. “Wasn't nothing.”

“Was something,” Nancy pressed.

Slay took a spot on the couch next to his mother. “Cydney done went and got herself mixed up with this dude that owns the new restaurant over on Cookman. I got a few problems with how that dude operates, is all.”

Nancy looked down at her hands; hearing about her estranged daughter troubled her.

“Enough about Cydney, though,” Slay said, jabbing his mother's side and smiling, “look at you with your shit all niced up.”

Nancy didn't respond, her thoughts suddenly back to the different items of value in the apartment and how much they could bring her in crack.

 

The sun set off an orange glow that came down like pellets of sleet. In place of the chill that had been the norm lately was an Indian summer breeze that had the bums and degenerates near Cush outside of their cardboard homes, walking up and down the block. One such degenerate, pushing a shopping cart holding an old television and a fish tank piled on it was passing by as Desmond went to enter his restaurant.

“Excuse me, brother,” the sloppily dressed lady said. “You happen to have the time?”

Desmond stopped, looked closer—from afar he'd thought it was a man but it was in fact a woman—and turned over his wrist. “Quarter after nine.” He looked at the woman again. She was dressed in a flowery housedress and wore an ugly blue coat that wouldn't make the clearance rack at the Salvation Army.

Desmond moved to go by, but the woman with the plum-colored lips and rotting teeth, and a face covered in what looked like a shaky-handed application of mascara, reached into her cart and pulled something out for him to see.

Desmond moved closer to the woman, and took the newspaper that she'd lifted up from the shopping cart from her hands. It was a current edition of
USA TODAY,
stained with coffee and what looked like strawberry donut filling. “What am I looking at?” Desmond asked her.

When she opened her mouth the smell of too much mint Listerine rose up like sewer steam. “You see they caught that DC sniper, two of 'em?”

Desmond nodded.

“Shame it was two brothers,” she said offhandedly. “But that's the ways it goes sometimes.”

“Yeah, real shame,” Desmond agreed. “I was definitely expecting some scrawny white guy wearing a plaid shirt, hiking boots and with a bad haircut.”

“Right,” the woman said, poking out her finger. “They obviously got turned wrong on the road somewhere.” She looked off wistfully. “They poor mothers…”

“Well,” Desmond said, handing her the paper back, “it's great that whole ordeal is over.” He moved to go back inside but the lady stopped him again.

“I heard this place is something,” she said.

Desmond stuck his chest out. “Thanks…I own it.”

The woman smiled, nodded. “I thought you was the guy from the picture on the door. I guess you got yourself together. Bet your mother's proud.”

“My mother?” Desmond asked. “Yes, she is.”

“Got yourself a special lady to share it all with?” the woman inquired.

Desmond smiled. “Something like that. It's still very new.”

The woman nodded and her eyes seemed to glow. “You know that Chief Moose caught them snipers,” she said. “He's my sister's husband's brother's child.”

“You don't say,” Desmond said. He began to realize it would take finance to rid himself of this nuisance. He reached in his pocket, pulled out his billfold, handed the woman a crisp twenty. “You must be mighty proud.”

“Mighty proud,” the woman said. She grabbed the money with her shaky hands. A gold name ring with Nancy emblazoned on it in sprinkles of diamond glimmered against the sun.

“Nice ring,” Desmond said.

Nancy smiled her rotten-toothed smile at Desmond. Her eyes lingered on him as if she knew him. She seemed to be taking him in, appraising him. “Gift from my husband—may he rest in peace.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Desmond said.

Nancy nodded. “This ring is one of only three things in this life I hold dear.”

“What are the other two things?” Desmond asked, immediately regretting it. He was prolonging this exchange instead of moving it along quickly. Something about the woman was comfortable, familiar.

“My two children,” she answered.

“Are they doing well?” Desmond asked.

Nancy smiled, nodded. “Particularly my daughter.”

“That's good.”

“Take care of yourself…and that lady of yours,” Nancy said after a moment, moving on.

Desmond turned and watched her continue pushing that shopping cart up the block. He shook his head. When he looked at that thrown-together woman the thought of her reading the daily news was the last thought that would normally cross his mind. Jacinta's philosophy was becoming clearer with each passing day.

Everyone was a performer on a stage.

Desmond walked through the door of his restaurant with a smile on his face. Karen greeted him without smiling in return.

“Thought you were going to stand out there with that bum lady all day,” she said. “She came in here earlier, asking about the owner, I sent her away.”

“She was kind of cute,” Desmond replied. “Something about her I liked. She comes again, give her some food.”

Karen nodded. “Hmm…You just can't help yourself with the ladies. Blind, cripple or crazy.”

Desmond moved closer to Karen, lowered his voice. “Is there a problem?”

“None whatsoever,” Karen said. “You have a package waiting for you in the back office.”

“Package? What is it?”

“Hurry on back and see,” Karen said. She shut her appointment book, the pages making a louder thud than the closing of a steel door.

Desmond said hello to the few other employees he passed on his way to his office. He reached his hand inside along the wall and hit the light switch, shut the door behind him. On his desk was a delicate display of flowers in an intricately woven wicker basket. Desmond smiled, pulled his chair out from the desk and sat down by the flowers. He leaned in, sniffed the bouquet of pink and yellow roses, and plucked the envelope with his name written in cursive from the clip nestled in the bunch of flowers.

Inside the envelope was a folded sheet, which he unfolded, then he reclined in his chair to read. Across the top was scribbled,
I'm not sure if this will see the light of day, but thought you'd want to know what I thought. I can't wait to see you tonight.
He looked down farther at the center type. Cydney's review of Cush for the magazine piece was included.

The words were poetry to him.

“…a tantalizing array of down-home-variety food.”

“…atmosphere that rivals the most celebrated restaurants in the country.”

“…a guaranteed enjoyment.”

Desmond folded the paper back and placed it in the envelope. He sat back in his chair, smiling off into space. I've met someone, Daddy, and she's prime.

 

“What do you suggest?”

Cydney glanced at her watch. She didn't have time for a load of questions. She returned her eyes to the kindly middle-aged black woman before her. She smiled at the woman without showing her teeth. “Perfume is such a personal expression,” Cydney told her. “I wouldn't want to suggest anything to you. Do you like sweet fragrances, flowery fragrances? Do you like your perfumes with a subtle or strong scent?”

The woman looked down the counter, examined the bottles displayed. She took in a breath, held it, her jaw twisted to the side. “I don't know,” she said finally. “I'm not much of a shopper, and, actually, this is for someone else.”

Cydney sighed. “Okay,” she began, looking at all the choices. “Tell me a little something about the person you're purchasing this gift for, maybe that'll help.”

The woman smiled, put a finger to her lip and turned her head up in thought. Cydney glanced at her watch again. Soon she'd be with Desmond, and this long draining day would end on a worthwhile note. “She's really pretty,” the woman said.

“Anything else?” Cydney asked.

“She's worth a lot of trouble,” the woman told her.

Cydney clucked her tongue in her mouth, rolled her eyes. “All righty then. That helps oh so much.”

“How about I just give her what you like?” the woman said.

Cydney didn't protest. It seemed like the perfect route out of this situation. “I really like the Vivid, by Liz Claiborne.”

“Let me try that.”

Cydney reached under the counter, pulled out a sampler bottle. “It's a nice floral scent, I believe with a hint of violet and freesia,” Cydney said. “I've liked it for a long time. I need to get around to buying it for myself.”

The woman's eyes widened. “Oh, you don't have it?”

Cydney smiled, shook her head.

“Perfect,” the woman said.

“Excuse me?”

“I'll take it. Do you have gift-wrapping services?”

“You can take it to the customer service area in the corridor just before the food court. Show them your receipt, they'll take care of wrapping it for you.”

The woman clasped her hands together. “Great.” She crinkled her forehead. “Do they do the gift ID tags, you know with
to
and
from
on them?”

Cydney nodded.

“Great,” the woman said. “I want to have it signed to Miss Wonderful, from Desmond.”

Cydney nodded, bagged the perfume bottle. “That's very ni—” She stopped short, looked up. The woman giggled so hard it looked as if she were on one of those gigantic bouncy balls toddlers rode on. Cydney's face dropped into a huge smile; she swept the surrounding area with her gaze. Desmond stepped out from behind a large display, his hand upraised in a gesture of guilt. Cydney looked at the woman, pointed a finger at her. “You were good.”

“
You
were good,” the woman said. “You kept looking at that watch like the battery died or something, yet never lost your patience with me.”

“I rolled my eyes,” Cydney confessed to the woman as Desmond walked over.

Desmond placed his hand on the woman's shoulder, leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. The woman closed her eyes, accepted the kiss. She opened her eyes and gave him a hug. “Good luck to you, young man—” and turned to Cydney “—hold on to him, young lady.”

Cydney eyed Desmond, delight all over her face. “I'm certainly going to try.”

S
lay shuffled his cell phone to his right ear and said, “William Jeffries, esquire, how goes things?”

“You have a word with that Ja—whatever her name is?” Jeffries asked. “She has a major attitude problem.”

“Again, I apologize for that, Mr. Jeffries. I hope Clarissa took care of you.”

“She did.”

“Good.”

“That other one should be put on a leash, though,” Jeffries added. “She's really unprofessional. Has a huge chip on her shoulder.”

“I had words with her,” Slay assured him.

“I'm looking for no-hassle companionship,” Jeffries continued. “I'm not some sleazebag disrespecting women in some half-lit back alley for twenty dollars. I show these women respect, treat them to the finer things in life. I bet she'd never see the likes of the Berkeley Carteret if not for me.”

“'Course,” Slay said. “Jacinta just forgot how good she had it for a moment. She's fine now.”

“Let's hope so. If anything like that happens again I'll start to question your abilities, Mr. Slay. My colleagues have been speaking wonderful things about you and your services. I'd hate to see it all dry up for you because you failed to manage your people properly.”

“Like I said, I had a word with her.”

“I'd expect as much.”

“How did your friend's son like those dogs? The pit bulls,” Slay asked.

Jeffries growled. “He loved them. Personally I think the boy has problems. He's all into tattoos, body piercing, who knows what else. I think his father and mother are doing him a major disservice by feeding into everything he asks for. They need to be instilling in him the lessons of good clean family values. I do with mine. You won't see my daughters bopping around with their stomachs bared, their pants sagging down to show off their panties, listening to that big-lipped Jay-Z rapper, wanting to date ni—” Jeffries stopped himself, lowered his voice, which had begun to rise. “I'm off the path, the kid liked the dogs.”

“Good. Listen,” Slay said. “I called also because I wanted to see if you could do me a solid.”

“A solid?”

“A favor.”

“I hope you're not going to ask me to do anything illegal,” Jeffries said.

“'Course not.”

“What is it, then?”

“I need a bit of information on a guy named Desmond Rucker—”

“Desmond Rucker, I know him. He owns that restaurant, Cush,” Jeffries said. “Fabulous place, I've been there with some colleagues of mine.”

“Right, right. Anyway, I need you to get some information on him and his sister. I don't know much about either of them other than Desmond owns the restaurant and the sister's name is Felicia…and I believe she's a model.”

A guttural growl rose from Jeffries. “A model, you say?”

“So I've been told.”

“I'm pretty busy, Mr. Slay.”

Slay cleared his throat. “Clarissa went on and on to me about the wonderful time she had with you the other night and how she hoped I could set something else up between the two of you,” he said. Slay was the grand marshal of pushing the correct buttons.

“Felicia Rucker you think the sister's name is?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me check it out for you,” Jeffries said. “I'll get back to you sometime tomorrow.”

“Aiight, that works…and I'll give a call to Clarissa.”

“That'd be great.”

 

Desmond followed Cydney into the condominium complex. After a turn she stuck her arm out the window, waving Desmond forward. He drove up alongside her and rolled down the passenger window.

“I forgot to tell you we have assigned spots,” she said. “I'm in fifty-three. You can park in any of the spots you see without numbers.”

“I can't squeeze into fifty-three with you?” Desmond asked, smiling.

Cydney waved her hand at him dismissively, rolled her window back up and moved to her spot. Desmond parked in an open spot close by. Cydney was waiting on the sidewalk as he walked up afterward.

“So this is where Miss Wonderful resides,” Desmond said, craning his neck, swiveling his head. “Nice.”

“Quiet,” Cydney said. “Everyone is to themselves, no one bothers you. Just the way I like it.”

Desmond rubbed his hands together. “I can't wait to get inside and check out your place. You find out a lot about a person by the home they keep.”

Cydney took his arm in hers and began walking down the narrow sidewalk toward her building. Desmond was the only man she'd ever brought here. It felt good not worrying about her crazy-ass brother, only thinking about herself, her own hopes and desires. She gripped Desmond's arm tighter. “Don't expect much. It's neat, cozy, but far from spacious or luxurious. It fits my needs, though.”

“You don't have things scattered all over the place like I do at my place?”

Cydney frowned. “No, I'm very organized. I hope you're not telling me you're junky.”

“No, I'm just joking,” Desmond admitted. “If anything, I'm a neat freak.”

Cydney seemed relieved. “That's a plus. I mean, I have things set a certain way and I like to keep them like that. The drawers in my kitchen are arranged just so.” She put her arms out, to demonstrate her point.

Desmond laughed softly.

“What?” Cydney asked him.

He shook his head.

Cydney stopped in her tracks. “Tell me,” she demanded.

“I was just thinking that I'm very much looking forward to looking in your drawers.”

Cydney's eyebrows arched. “Listen at you,” she said, “loosening that collar, huh?”

Desmond smirked. “Loosening the collar, unfastening the buttons…”

Cydney licked her lips. “Mmm.” She started walking again, her step a bit faster. She climbed the stairs and came to the second landing. Her unit was the first one on the left.
“Mi casa,”
she said, her hand outstretched in welcome.

They walked in, Cydney slipped her shoes off at the door, Desmond followed suit. The dining area, kitchen and living room were connected, set off by the luminance of an elaborate chandelier. Desmond nodded toward the chandelier. “Beautiful.”

“Thanks. Didn't come with the place,” Cydney said. “I put it in myself.”

She took their jackets and hung them on the jacket tree in the far corner of the living room. Desmond walked over to her bookshelf and stereo entertainment unit. He fingered the books on the shelf. “I see you enjoy Margaret Johnson-Hodge, Cydney.”

“Curling up with one of her novels is like taking a Caribbean cruise on the cheap. Log on to Amazon.com and input your credit card info, twenty dollars or whatever, and in a week it's smooth sailing. She's so vivid and such a good storyteller, it's like you're vacationing with the characters on the page. She's one of the few I'll splurge on at hardcover prices. Eric Jerome Dickey is another. My mother was a big reader.” Cydney moved closer to Desmond, by his shoulder. “You like to read?”

Desmond shook his head. “I did at one point, but life doesn't afford me the opportunity to sit in one place long enough to finish a book.” He picked up a brightly colored, yellow and green novel, flipped it over and read the back flap.

“Timothy McCann,” Cydney told him. “Another of my favorites. You want to know about romancing a woman, making her toes curl, her back arch and her heart do flips—” she dipped her chin, nodded toward the book “—read that scene in the beginning of chapter thirteen.”

Desmond opened the book, flipped through the pages, looking for chapter thirteen. When he came upon it he read for a moment and then turned to Cydney. “Damn, I have got to start reading again.” He looked down at the book once more, scanned the page quickly, his fingers marking the lines as he read. He nodded his head, closed the book and sat it on the lip of the shelf without placing it back in its spot. A mischievous smile crossed his face as he rubbed his hands together, and his eyes drank Cydney up from hairdo to pedicure. Cydney swallowed his admiring stare like some rich Starbucks blend. He pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her gently on the lips. “What do you say we reenact that scene?”

The phone ringer echoed through the condo.

Cydney was going to let it ring and have voice mail pick up the call. “You better get that, it could be someone important,” Desmond said.

“Someone important is here with me,” she answered back.

“Don't keep me waiting long then.” He turned and went to look through her music collection.

Cydney hustled to the kitchen and grabbed the phone off the island. “Hello, this better be good.”

“What, I'm cutting into one of your Lifetime movies or something?”

Cydney lowered her voice, cupped the phone with her hands. “Slay?”

“I'm honored. You didn't forget the sound of my voice.”

“What do you want?”

“Hello there, brother, how's life treating you, is Mama still among the living?” Slay said in a mocking tone.

“Is our mother okay?” Cydney asked.

“She's living,” Slay told her.

“And you?”

“Same.”

“Wonderful,” Cydney said. “Now, I have to go.” She hung up and walked back toward Desmond in the living room. He was bent over looking through the CDs in her stand. “Go ahead and borrow anything you like,” Cydney said. “Lord knows you can use some new music.”

“I don't see Eddie Murphy here anywhere,” Desmond joked. He turned back to her and put his arms around her waist again. “Now, where were we?”

“You were just suggesting we reenact the scene from—”

The phone rang again. Cydney took in a deep breath. “I better get that,” she said. “I promise I'll be quick.”

Desmond rubbed her cheek. “Do your thing, Miss Wonderful. The night is still in Pampers.”

Cydney stomped across the carpet to the phone. “Yes?”

“Hanging up on me like that is some eighth-grade bullshit,” Slay said.

Cydney took the phone, moved into the kitchen, sat down on the floor with her back against a cabinet. “I don't want or need to have a conversation with you right now.”

“I agreed to stay away,” Slay said. “You mean, I can't call and see how you're doing from time to time?”

“I'm doing well. Okay. Can I go now?”

“So what's up with you and Mr. GQ Smooth, y'all still trying to kick it?”

“I'm concentrating on school, work and surviving,” Cydney said. She sighed. “Relationships will come later.”

“That's good because ol' boy ain't what he—”

“Hey, Cydney,” Desmond called out. He was at the threshold of the kitchen. His eyes narrowed a bit when he saw her on the ground whispering into the phone. “Oh, I'm sorry…I lost you for a moment. Where's your bathroom?”

Cydney frowned, pointed down the hall. Desmond observed her for a moment, crouched on the floor, phone pressed against her thigh. He tightened his jaw and nodded, turned from her and went to the bathroom.

Cydney closed her eyes and mouthed a quiet “damn” as she watched Desmond disappear from view. She picked the phone back up. “Slay?”

Slay clucked his tongue. “You lied to me, Cydney, that's not nice. You got company. That wouldn't be GQ Smooth, would it?”

“Yes,” Cydney admitted, “I have company.”

“You shouldn't have lied,” Slay said.

“Listen. Hello. Hello…” She dropped the phone in disgust and then picked it back up and turned off the ringer. Now Slay had hung up on her. She rose to her feet and placed the phone back on the charger stand. Desmond came out of the bathroom as she made sure her dead bolts were locked tight on the front door.

“We won't be getting any more interruptions,” she told Desmond.

“What, you turn off the ringer?” he said, the tenderness gone from his tone.

“I'm sorry,” Cydney said.

He waved her off. “Forget about it.”

“It was rude,” she said.

“You're entitled to your phone calls. To your friends, whether they're male or female.”

“I know what you're thinking and it's not that,” Cydney said.

Desmond's eyes crested. “Oh? I was thinking that was one of your girlfriends calling to check on you. So it was one of your boyfriends then, I take it?”

Cydney moved to him, ran her fingers up his stiff arms. “I have fallen so quickly for you it amazes me,” she said. “I have some issues in my life that don't affect you—that I won't allow to affect you. I promise you, though, that I'm an absolutely faithful and committed partner. And I expect that anyone I date seriously is faithful and committed to me in return. I'm hoping that we end up dating seriously, Desmond. I truly do.”