Apple Brown Betty (7 page)

Desmond was as dumbfounded by her answer as she was. Again, as he'd been doing a lot of lately, he thought of his parents, his father. “Thirty years gone like that,” he said, his gaze off Cydney, wandering with his thoughts.

“Yes,” Cydney said.

“Good answer,” Desmond said, nodding.

“I don't know where it came from,” Cydney admitted.

“I don't want to cause any problems between you and your
boss,
though,” Desmond offered, “so I'm going to go attend to other matters. It's been a pleasure, Miss Wonderful.” He turned to leave and then moved back. “I'm here every day except Sundays. I hope you stop in again—without your boss.”

Cydney's tongue held in place, her knees shaking below the tablecloth. She nodded. Desmond moved to leave again.

“Desmond—I mean, Mr. Rucker,” she summoned the strength to call to him.

“Please, call me Desmond,” he said, turning back. He looked at her as if she were a painting in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “What can I do for you, Miss Wonderful?”

Cydney was thrown and having a difficult time acting as if she weren't. “What do you—what do you—recommend? From the menu, I mean.”

Desmond reached over her, his muscular arm brushing against her, and touched a spot on the menu in her hands. His scent of Curve tickled Cydney's flesh. “The honey-fried chicken.”

“What about for dessert?” she asked, hypnotized by his voice and scent.

Desmond smiled. “The apple brown betty, it's rich, sweet, a large serving—built for two people to share.”

Cydney's eyes glazed over, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a crease at the mention of the dessert.

“You're smiling,” Desmond said to her.

“Someone I knew once loved sharing his dessert with the woman he loved,” Cydney answered. She steadied her gaze, held it on Desmond despite the trembling of her knees below the table. “He was an older gentleman, though. You young guys don't have that kind of appreciation and romance in your souls.”

Desmond nodded at her appraisal, his smile an umbrella against the rain of judgment. His greatest desire was to kiss the soft lips of Miss Wonderful, show her through physical connection the depths of his appreciation and romance, but he held back. “Enjoy your meal, Miss Wonderful.”

He turned to leave, and then turned back abruptly. “Hold off on the apple brown betty this time. Okay?”

“Why?” Cydney asked.

“Come alone next time and I'll show you,” Desmond said. He added, “Remember, I'm here every day except Sundays.”

“W
e have two kinds of cheesecake. Italian ricotta, which, obviously, is made with ricotta cheese. And, Easter cheesecake, which has rich butter-cookie crumbs as the crust, and ground macadamia nuts through the creamy batter,” the waiter tells us.

I wouldn't want any even if it was sprinkled in gold dust. I want the better life George has been preaching to me since before Darius passed. I want my son to get himself together, at home with me where he belongs instead of in some juvenile detention center. George bringing us—Cydney, myself and him—on this little family trip up to God knows where in Massachusetts doesn't change anything. We should be at the JDC looking into these new accusations that Shammond started some riot.

“We'll take the cheesecake,” George says. “Just one. Two spoons.” He looks at Cydney. “You want anything, Cydney Doll?”

She shakes her head. Looks away. She's like me, not in the mood for any dessert, any trip, any more time away from Shammond.

“Make it three spoons,” George tells the waiter. The waiter nods and moves away.

George eyes me. I can feel him looking even though my head is down. George is a good man, no doubt about it, and I do love him, but Shammond is my own flesh. I carried him around for all those months. I'm the one he tossed and turned inside.

“You two stop looking so down and out,” George says to me and Cydney. “Try and enjoy yourselves.”

I want to hug George, not just for the attempt at bringing us joy with this trip, but for everything. For carrying Darius home all those nights. For providing hope I thought was lost way back when Darius started drinking so heavily. “I'm sorry,” I tell George. “I guess I'm not being appreciative enough.”

George pats my hand on the table. “Nonsense, you're very appreciative.”

“The nature-trail tour will be good,” I tell him. I know my voice sounds less than sincere, which is upsetting because I really tried to stir up emotion. George, knowing how much I read and how I love learning about new things, planned all this to make me happy. Under normal circumstances, I would be.

George shakes his head. “Change of plans.”

“We're not going to do it?”

“Nope,” George answers. “After we all eat this cheesecake together, we're gonna head on back home and I'm gonna have a word with my boss, see if that partner of his who works in the court system can do anything to help your boy out.” I wish he'd said “our boy” but that's nitpicking.

I look at George and something happens between us, an unspoken truth. I'm glad he doesn't stumble home on one of his partner's shoulders and he's glad I don't sing obscure gospel songs and lock him out the house.

“Thanks,” I tell him in a near whisper.

George nods and looks at Cydney, my child, smiling for the first time today. “One thing, though. I get the biggest piece of cheesecake,” he says. Cydney and I agree that is more than a fair exchange.

S
lay knew Theresa's schedule probably better than she knew it herself. Tuesdays she arrived for an early class. Usually late, trotting from her car, her expensive little pocketbook swinging against her leg as she crossed the lot and then the big lawn. He took this to mean she wasn't a morning person. Good, because he wasn't either. Wednesdays she came in later in the afternoon. A late start and a late finish—the sky dark, the lot thinned out by the time she returned to her car. She always came out walking slowly, looking dead to the world. Reminded him of his mother before the drugs, back when she worked all those hours keeping old Mr. Chesterfield's stinky ass cleaned up—so the old man wouldn't get bedsores—and strained her back lifting his heavy ass from the bed to his wheelchair. Thursdays, Theresa arrived early afternoon and was finished in a hot minute. She always seemed so pleased on Thursdays, smiling, taking the time to talk to other students as she moved through the lot to the main campus building. Her conversations were always with other females, too. The girl of his dreams was pure. Fridays was a schedule similar to Thursdays. Fridays were always difficult for Slay because Theresa didn't have classes on the weekend or Mondays. Longest three days in the world.

He'd spotted Theresa over a month ago on what had been a normal day until he pulled his BMW into the Exxon station across from where the Kentucky Fried Chicken used to be at in West Long Branch. Slay took the second pump, a black Honda Accord at the first fuel pump in front of him. He had his Nas CD on loud, as usual, was bobbing his head and thinking about making money as the pump meter spiraled. Then the driver's door of the Accord opened and she stepped out. He didn't know her name at the time. Her complexion was nut brown. She had on some shades tinted the color of Boone's Strawberry Hill, long brown hair bunched in a ponytail, hanging down the nape of her neck. Long-sleeved blouse with a plunging neckline, hardly any cleavage, though. She wore a jean skirt that complemented her strong, tight legs and round rump. She walked to the attendant who was standing by the little brick building of the station, next to a garage with two bays, smoking a cigarette. Slay turned his Nas CD down way low, lowered his passenger window and leaned to see if he could hear anything.

“I'm running late,” she said, sweet as molasses. Slay rubbed his hands together. Damn, she had a beautiful voice. Sounded like the “what city what state 411 operators.”

“It's still pumping,” the attendant casually told her.

“Can you stop it?” she asked. “I have enough.”

“You said fill up,” the attendant said. Slay clutched his hand in a fist. It took every ounce of willpower and constraint he had to keep from getting out and smashing this dude in the grill.

“Okay,” she said, defeated. “Here's my credit card, then. So you'll have it to run as soon as the car fills.”

The attendant looked at the card, huffed, tossed his spent cigarette to the ground and stamped on it. “You should have given me that before I started pumping. I could have run it through the pump.”

“Sorry, I didn't know. I'm a student here now, but I'm from Chicago. We pump our own gas there.”

The attendant eyed her. “You pumped your own gas? That's a scary thought.”

Slay balled his hand in a tighter fist. The girl made a face and strolled back to her car.

The pump clicked for Slay's vehicle and the attendant came and attended to finishing his fueling. He crossed the back of Slay's BMW and came up to the driver window.

“Nice ride,” the attendant said.

“Gracias,”
Slay said, not even sure if this guy had an ounce of Spanish in him. He looked like he did, though.

“That's twenty.”

Slay eyed the attendant's greasy hand, the wad of bills in his right, the woman's credit card in his left. “What's the name on that card?” Slay asked. He nodded his head to the car in front. “Shorty over there.”

The attendant started to say something to the effect that he couldn't divulge that information, but he saw the seriousness in Slay's eyes and thought about how a young black guy got an expensive car like this. It added up to more than the attendant was willing to confront. He looked down at the card. “Theresa King.”

Slay handed him a twenty and a ten, nodded his appreciation. “Go finish her off—and be nice. Show her a little customer service.” Slay rolled up his window and pulled from the lot. He parked on the street just outside the gas station, pretending to be going through papers, waiting.

Of course, when she came out, he followed her—to Mainland University about a mile farther up the road. He spent the next few weeks studying her, camping out in the lot to get to know her schedule, getting a connect in the DMV to run her plates. She lived off campus, in Tinton Falls.

Today, he was prepared to finally cross her path, introduce her to his world. He could feel the excitement rushing through him. Seemed like everything he touched sent back a static-electric charge. It was Friday and he couldn't bear the thought of waiting until next week. If this went as well as he suspected, he'd take her to dinner—maybe at Olive Garden or Red Lobster, someplace nice like that—then a movie. He wouldn't even sweat her for that nappy dugout just yet. He could tell she was classier than that. He would even ask her to come with him to Chapman's Funeral Home tomorrow so he could introduce her to his sister. He figured explaining the situation with his mama would endear him to Theresa more, have her rubbing his head before the night ended. He would do right by Theresa, not get her caught up in this other mess that ruled his life and kept money in his pockets. Make sure she kept herself focused on those books.

Now, Slay waited outside the Patterson Auditorium building that he knew she entered on Fridays. He wished he'd taken up smoking so he'd have something to do with his hands. The college kids shot him glances as they moved into the building. Many of the white girls smiled at him or giggled as they passed. He deflected it all; this was about Theresa.

He thought about that one time he had had the courage to call her home.

This is Tear-ess-a. To whom am I speaking?

He'd hung up like a child.

Slay squinted his eyes now, the sun sending a strong glare down. He placed a hand up to shield himself from that deep orange glare and looked up the path. Theresa was headed his way. She had her books pressed against her chest, looking magical and brilliant. Slay could tell by the casual way she walked up the path that her mind was elsewhere. Slay brushed his shirt, closed his eyes to get a clear remembrance of the things he'd read in Cydney's
Essence
magazines, the few things Cydney had told him about this caliber of female.

Theresa was on him before he could calm his nerves. “Excuse me,” he said just as she put her hand on the door to walk into the auditorium. “Can I get a word wit' you?”

She hesitated, but lingered. “Me?” she asked, pointing at her chest. There wasn't anyone else in earshot.

“Yeah, true.”

She let the door handle loose from her hands, let the door swing shut and came closer to Slay.

“How you doing?” he said.

“Good,” she answered coolly, not making this easy for him.

“I been seeing you around, wanted to introduce myself.”

She crinkled her nose. Been seeing? “Okay.”

He smiled, extended his hand. “I'm Slay.”

She crinkled her nose a second time. Slay? She took his hand. “Nice meeting you, Slay. I'm Pamela.”

Slay's eyes rose. “Pamela? Thought your name was Theresa.”

She eased her hand from him, her body tight, posture leaning away from him. “Theresa's my aunt. Who are you?”

Slay tried to think of something quick; he could tell he'd frightened her. He couldn't come up with anything solid. “I saw you one day and asked this girl if she knew you—she a—she said she thought your name was Theresa.”

Pamela didn't seem too convinced.

“What you reading there?” Slay asked, nodding to her books, trying to deflect from his mistake.

“
To Kill a Mockingbird
by Harper Lee,” Pamela said.

Slay hadn't heard of that one but he nodded and smiled. “Oh, yeah, that was cool. I liked his other book better, though.”

Pamela had had enough. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Slay, but I have to go to class.”

“Can I get your math?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

He shook his head, cleared the cobwebs. “I mean, may I have your number? Give you a call sometime?”

Pamela laughed nervously and shook her head. “I don't think so.” She turned to leave. Slay made the mistake of grabbing her shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?!” she barked.

He released his grip, put his hands up. “Sorry 'bout that. I just would like to get to know you a little better.”

“I told you good day, Slay.”

“What would it hurt,” Slay asked, “us talking a little more?”

“Talk?” she said, smirking. “You can't even put one decent sentence together.”

Her words made Slay's forehead line.

“You truly need to get yourself some edgu-ma-cation, Slay,” Pamela added, teasing him. She turned her mouth up as if he smelled and moved from him.

Slay's eyes dropped down to his feet. Damn, he'd forgotten to lace his Timberland boots, to drop the cuff of his left pant leg, as Cydney told him he must do. He looked to the doors of the auditorium. What was he thinking? No decent woman would ever want anything to do with him. This was sure to be a long weekend, he thought as he started his slow walk, against the glare of the sun, back to his BMW.

 

Ever since that meal at Cush, all Cydney could think about was Desmond Rucker. Miss Wonderful, he called her. Damn if he wasn't the best thing since…since anything.

Stephon had noticed a change in her when he came back to the table from making his phone call. He wasn't too happy about the smile that crossed Cydney's face every time Desmond walked by. Desmond made it a point to walk past their table at least five or six times, shooting Cydney glances each time, making her cheeks cherry blossom. He was digging her; she was digging him.

But first, she had to get through this day. Had to confront the sorrow of Pop G's death, confront the sorrow of her mother's life. Shammond had said he'd make sure their mother was at the funeral home.

Cydney pocketed her set of keys and moved up the front steps of the funeral parlor. The building was plain, sided with gray shingles, green awning over the brick step area that led through the front door. Green carpet adorned the immediate lobby; an arrowed sign with George Williams written in cursive pointed her in the direction of his service. Cydney made the left turn, her legs shaking, her hands trembling. It had been close to twenty years since she had dealt with a death this close to home—her birth father's funeral. All she really remembered about that day was George getting her pink cotton candy afterward and her making Slay throw a tantrum when she told him she didn't feel like playing catch football with him.

Cydney came to what amounted to a small ballroom. Slay was standing by the door closest to the urn stand at the front. He looked more subdued than she had expected, sad, off someplace else. Cydney's mother sat in the front row. George's supervisor sat behind her mother, a cheap dress jacket that didn't match his pants draped across the back of his chair. One of George's daughters sat on the other side, silent tears streaming down her face. They were arranged to fill the place out a bit. A few of George's coworkers stood in a group along the far wall, talking amongst themselves in whispers. George's ex-wife, Mildred, whom Cydney had only met once or twice, was standing by the urn, an overdone hat on her head, waving a church fan furiously as she sang some tune out loud.

Cydney looked at her mother again.

Slump shouldered, with most of her weight gone, she was wearing a black dress that looked as if she had picked it up from a pile in the corner of her bedroom and stepped into without ironing. Her eyes were closed and she appeared to be sleeping.

Cydney stood in place at the back of the room. Shammond nodded for her to come forward. She took a deep breath and then obeyed his command, taking small steps down the center aisle. She stopped at the end, gazed at the urn with the light shining on it, the picture of George from when he was younger. That picture had to have been thirty years old. Cydney never remembered him looking like that. She looked into the eyes of the enlarged photo, could see the decency in his pupils. She started to sob.

“No use crying, chile,” George's ex, Mildred, said.

“He was a good man, a decent man,” Cydney told her.

Mildred harrumphed. “I would have agreed with you up until the day he came home and told me he was leaving me, and his two daughters, for some tramp and her snotty-nosed younguns.”

Cydney closed her eyes. For a moment she'd forgotten the demons of the past—that George had indeed run out on his first family for a second one. “I'm sorry,” she said to the matriarch of that first family as she reopened her eyes.