Apple Brown Betty (30 page)

Boom initiated a hug. Slay moved to him without hesitation, looking over Boom's shoulder at Kenya walking down the hall into the apartment on shaky legs. Her boys were at the end of the hall, too, grouped together like children waiting at a bus stop. Slay turned his eyes away from them and bit his lip.

“You need anything, hit me off,” Slay said as they broke their embrace.

“Aiight, Sham.”

The door shut on Slay. He turned and walked back through the lobby. Once outside he looked for the nearest trash container. It was at the end of the bare grassy lawn. He walked over to the receptacle and dropped the white bag that carried the apple brown betty dessert inside. He stuffed the Phyllis Hyman CDs in the side pocket of his jacket and started the slow walk back to his car, refusing to look in the direction of the apartment tower as he stepped through the cold, dark, lonely night.

 

Doomp doomp doomp doomp…doom da da doom doom

Doomp doomp doomp doomp…doom da da doom doom

“Damn!” Desmond eased Cydney off his chest. “I've got to get that, it could be the restaurant. Pause the tape, baby.”

Cydney took up the remote and hit pause as Desmond scrambled toward her kitchen counter. “What ring tone is that?” she asked him.

“Cumparasita,” he said as he extended his arm to the ringing cell. He didn't have time to catch his breath. “Desmond Rucker.”

Cydney didn't want to listen in, but the silence of the apartment gave her no choice. She sat back against the cushions of the couch, with her legs crossed underneath her, Angela Bassett's body on the television screen blurred and cut in half by jagged white lines. Tape on pause.

“Yes,” Desmond said, his voice sounding odd. “When? Where is she? No, I wouldn't suspect that I would. Yes, I have someone here that can drive me.” He took a deep breath that reverberated throughout the apartment. “Man oh man. Okay, thanks.”

Cydney knew something was wrong but she didn't know how to respond. When Desmond flipped his cell phone closed and fell in a heap on the floor, tears coming to him sudden and violently, she jumped up and ran across the living room to him. He took another one of those deep breaths and held his arms up and opened for Cydney to embrace him.

“What's wrong, Desmond?” she asked, her voice as odd to her ears as his had just been.

He took a third deep breath to settle himself down. “Oh God, Cydney!”

“Desmond?”

“My sister's in the hospital. She was sexually assaulted.”

Cydney's hand moved to her mouth. “Raped?”

Desmond's head dropped.

“Where's she at? We have to go?”

“Jersey Shore Medical Center,” he managed to say.

“How did this happen, did someone break in to your place? I thought you said she stayed sequestered there all the time.”

“She left and went somewhere. I don't know the details.”

Cydney rose and reached for his hands. “We've got to go.”

“You can drive?” Desmond asked.

“Of course,” Cydney told him.

Desmond reached his hand up and let Cydney struggle to pull his weight from the floor. His vacant eyes were glazed with moisture. The VCR Pause function ran its course and the movie automatically started playing again. The sound made Desmond jump. Cydney patted his arm and led him to the bedroom, where his clothes sat in a wrinkled pile by the foot of the bed.

They dressed without speaking. It was urgent that they get to the hospital quickly, but neither Desmond nor Cydney seemed to have the strength to move fast. Desmond, in particular, moved in a crawl. Cydney slid on her shoes and moved to help him fasten the buttons of his shirt that were giving him such problems.

“Thanks,” he said as Cydney did the last button and pulled him down to fix his collar.

“Your shoes are by the door,” she said, “and your jacket is on the coat tree. I need to use the bathroom before we go.”

Desmond was waiting for her by the front door when she emerged from the bathroom. She grabbed her keys and purse, slid on her own coat and opened the door for him. He walked out with his head bowed and waited for her as she locked up. He couldn't seem to move himself more than a few feet without her close by.

Cydney walked with him, arm in arm. The cold wind stabbed Desmond's face. He walked on with Cydney, nonetheless, dark visions of his sister's violation haunting his imagination.

“Trees are damn near bare,” Desmond said, to chase away the dark visions.

Cydney understood fully what he was doing. “Yeah, they're awful, but the pine trees they planted are nice. The condo association sent all of us letters asking if we wanted to volunteer to decorate the pine trees for Christmas. You think you might want to come out on that Saturday and put up bulbs and ornaments with me?”

“That would be nice.”

“Great,” Cydney said. “I'll send in the letter and let them know I'll volunteer.”

They reached Cydney's car and she moved to unlock the passenger-side door for Desmond.

“She's only eighteen,” he said as Cydney held the door open for him.

“I know” was all she could manage in return.

Silence sat heavy between them again during the ride to the hospital. Desmond fingered the rubber padding at the base of the passenger-side window, looking blankly out the window at the moving landscape as Cydney drove on. Cydney had attempted to turn on the stereo when they first got in, but Desmond asked if she wouldn't—his head ached. Cydney respected his wish.

As they finally neared the approach for Jersey Shore Medical Center, Cydney turned to Desmond. “Where do we go?”

“Follow the signs for the E.R. She's there.”

“You want me to let you off at the door and park, or do you want me to park and we'll walk in together?”

“Park,” Desmond told her. He put his hand on her knee and squeezed. Cydney nodded and blinked back tears. Seeing Desmond hurting so much challenged her emotions. And what of poor Felicia? Cydney had expected the day she met the young girl to be so much different than this.

Cydney found a spot not too far from the entrance. She and Desmond hugged close and walked inside.

Desmond went to the information desk centered in the bright room. A flurry of activity went on around him but all he saw, all his vision would allow him to see, was that one desk. “I received a call a short while ago from an Officer Jackson,” Desmond said. “My sister was assaulted, she's here.”

The lady behind the desk, spectacles on her forehead, rolls of fat where her neck should have been, pointed to an officer standing off in a corner of the waiting area, looking out the window. “That's Officer Jackson over there. You can have a word with him and then we'll let you see your sister.”

“How's she doing?” Desmond asked the woman.

“I'm not at liberty to—” Something in Desmond's eyes made the woman stop. “This is the most traumatic of experiences, but she's tough.”

Desmond nodded. “Thanks.” He looked behind him for Cydney. She stepped forward and met his arm.

“You want me to go in with you?” she asked.

“I have to speak with that officer over there first,” Desmond said. “And yes, if Felicia doesn't mind. I'd like you to come in with me.”

Desmond took Cydney's hand and they walked to Officer Jackson.

“Officer Jackson?” Desmond said.

“Yes.” The officer turned sudden, his preoccupation with his thoughts broken. He had deep chocolate tones and weathered skin. His eyelids slanted down and made him appear sad even as he smiled at them.

Desmond extended his hand. “I'm Desmond Rucker. We spoke on the phone.”

Jackson took his hand. “Mr. Rucker. I'm so sorry about the circumstances.” He turned and indicated the window he'd been looking out of. “I was standing here thinking about how ugly the night is. Not just this one, every night. I think I've just about seen enough over these twenty-some-odd years I been on the force.” He sighed. “But that's neither here nor there.”

Desmond nodded to Cydney. “This is my special, special lady. Cydney Williams.”

Jackson smiled at Cydney. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Williams.”

“So what happened?” Desmond asked, surprised by his strength.

“Let's walk,” Jackson said. Desmond and Cydney moved with him. “Your sister took a cab over to the Berkeley Carteret for a party just a little before seven this evening. She told me the party wasn't due to start until later, but she was planning on spending some time with a gentleman she met.”

Desmond's voice cracked. “Alone with some guy? Who?”

“Now, don't get too upset with her,” Jackson said. “She's at the age when young women start thinking all their feelings somehow spell out love.”

“She didn't tell me about any guy.”

Jackson smiled. “She said you'd say something to that effect.”

“So this guy,” Desmond said, “he did this to her?”

Jackson shook his head. “No, she was accosted in the stairwell on her way up to the guy's suite.”

“No one heard anything?” Desmond's voice rose. Cydney clutched his arm.

Jackson shook his head, pursed his lips. “Not a thing.”

“What about this guy she was meeting, what's he saying?”

“We have someone trying to contact him.”

“I want to talk with him,” Desmond said.

“You should let us handle that, son,” Jackson said.

“Handle it right and I will.”

Jackson nodded in understanding, pulled out a little notepad. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm bad with names, which is crazy in this case because this guy is a local celebrity of sorts. It pains me to call his kind a celebrity but that's what he is. He was a high-school football star in Asbury and now he donates a lot of money to the municipality—dirty money, which I don't particularly like, but I guess I can't fault them for taking it, because it is put to good use. They bought computers for the middle-school kids last year, I remember.”

Desmond nodded, not that he cared.

“Okay,” Officer Jackson said as he came across the name. “One of them funny names…Shammond Slay.”

Cydney's arm dropped from Desmond's grip, she stopped walking.

Desmond turned to her. “What's wrong, baby?”

She shook her head and started walking, backward, away from Desmond. Desmond turned to Jackson. “Excuse me a moment, Officer.” Jackson nodded.

Desmond moved to Cydney, but she kept walking. She turned and hastened her step. Desmond ran and grabbed ahold of her arm. “Baby, what's the matter?”

“I'm sorry, Desmond, I have to go.”

“What!”

“I hate to leave you without a ride, but I can't stay with you.”

“Baby, I need you here. Now, what's the matter?”

“I have to go,” Cydney repeated.

“Don't do this to me.”

“You wouldn't want me here,” she said.

“What, are you crazy? I do want you here. I need you now more than ever.”

She shook her head. “You wouldn't. You don't know.”

“Don't know what?”

She shook her head again. “You don't know.”

Desmond took her face in his hands. “You're scaring me, Cydney. Don't know what?”

“Shammond Slay,” Cydney said.

“What about him?” Desmond asked. “You heard of him?”

“I have to go.”

“Have you heard of him?” Desmond said.

Cydney nodded. “He's bad news, Desmond. He's also my brother.”

Desmond's mouth dropped open and his hands fell to his sides. He shook his head. “He can't be. You're an only. You told me so yourself.”

Cydney shook her head as her eyes began to tear.

Desmond backed away from her the same way she'd backed away from him. “You lied to me?”

“I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this, I always seem to do this sort of thing,” Cydney said, and she turned and hurried off.

Desmond watched Cydney move through the door and disappear into the black of the night.

“W
hatchu doing, George?” I say.

He turns to me, 'bout to shit on his self, his face looking all guilty and shit. I walked in on him, placing my cell phone back on Mama's kitchen counter where I left it while I went to piss.

“Phone was ringing,” he lies. “I tried to answer it, shut it off, do something.”

I nod at the pencil and folded piece of paper in his hand. “You need that stuff to shut off a phone, George?”

He looks down at his hand but can't say shit.

“Talking to you, nigga,” I say.

His back straightens and he clears his throat. “This is some…never mind,” he says. “We need to get back to what we were talking about, boy. Your mama's a stone-cold junkie. We gotta deal with that.”

I've got my fists balled tight. I straight up hate this motherfucker. My mama. Your wife, I feel like telling him.

Eff it, why am I sparing this nigga's feelings? “My mama is your wife now, George? Remember, you stole her away while my daddy was still cooling to death?”

“What do you even remember of your daddy, boy? You were only five when he passed.”

“I remember he was my daddy,” I tell George.

George shakes his head. “You don't remember nothing in particular then?”

This fool is trying to play me, always has, always will. “Aiight then,” I say. “I do remember him taking me to a Sixers game. We got a flat in that old beat-up car he had and he changed it and still got to the game on time. I thought for a long time I wanted to be an auto mechanic.”

“Versus the Celtics,” George says, smiling. “I remember that. I gave him those tickets.”

My shoulders fall for a second but I quickly raise them back proud so George won't notice and consider it a victory. This motherfucker always got to get one up on me. “You'll be waiting the rest of your life if you expect me to thank you, George,” I tell him in my most menacing tone.

George shakes his head and turns extra serious. “Don't worry about that,” he says, stammering like a bitch. I like this, with George looking all small before me and shit. “You know people. I need you to help me with your mama,” he continues.

“The people I know ain't no help to Mama.”

“She's gotten beat up a few times going out there for that stuff,” George says. “It ain't safe out there for a woman. I'm at the end of my rope.”

That's when it all comes clear to me. Why George was going through my phone and acting all suspicious and shit when I straight up caught him. Looking for a drug connection in my address book and shit.

“You ain't asking me to set you up with a drug source, is you, George?” I ask.

George's eyes droop. I know this motherfucker ain't trying to get me into that shit. “You are most definitely top-notch, George.”

“Don't judge me, you not carrying around this burden, boy.”

“Ain't I though? I know you think you're the only one in Mama's world, but I came before you, George. Who you think tries to keep an eye on her during the days while you at work? I know you don't think calling her on all your breaks is gonna keep her from pounding that pavement. You see for yourself that hasn't worked. She's slippery like an eel. A junk—what you said she is.” It was still too difficult to admit it out loud. Junkie.

George softens. “I don't want to fight you, Shammond. I need your help. She's not gonna give rehab another shot, not now at least. I know you don't want her out there any more than I do. Give me a name and a number. This is a short-term solution, believe me.”

Name and number, damn, I was right. I ain't giving him shit, though. And dollars to donuts, as my mama would say, he came across some numbers already in my celly.

“What you always had against me, George?” I ask him. I want to what they call “humanize” this motherfucker before I walk him straight into a wasps' nest.

George crinkles his nose as his eyes and mind head somewhere else. “You remind me so much of Dare. I think of your daddy and the word
waste
comes to mind first thing.”

I smirk. I gave him his chance and he fucked it up. “I'm wasting my time here, George. I'm out.” I can't contain my smile as I put together a plan in my head.

“Go, boy,” he says.

Sure he don't care if I goes, 'cause just like I thought he got a few numbers from my celly and he's just itching to try them, see if he hit the jackpot.

“You're foul, George,” I say before I leave. “Always was, always will be.”

He goes over by the couch and plops down right next to the table with the phone on it. His hand rests on the table, inches from the phone. That makes me smile. I'm gonna definitely walk this motherfucker into the wasps' nest. Definitely.

Out in the hall, I pull my cell phone and check it for missed calls. None. Smiling, I start dialing numbers, out to alert my peoples that if they hear from George they should humor him…then hit me so we can plan just how to sting this motherfucker.