Baby Brother's Blues (20 page)

35

R
egina couldn’t remember when her body had required so much sleep. Probably never. It was disconcerting at first. She’d be having lunch with Blue and all of a sudden she’d just start yawning in his face. She was mortified, but he found it funny. He encouraged her to listen to her body and do what it told her to do. She agreed and what it told her to do was take a nice long nap every day from twelve to two.

Once she surrendered to the naps, the house began to sprout suitable spots for her to enjoy them. The corner of the couch, with a jumble of pillows and the soft cashmere throw Abbie had sent her from India years ago, was as cozy as a cat’s favorite basket. The bed in the guest room that was soon to be the baby’s room was also a favorite. The nest that claimed her today was a tiny chaise longue that she kept on the sunporch off their bedroom. It was perfect for an afternoon nap and she was asleep almost before she laid her cheek on the plum-colored velvet cushion and pulled a light cotton quilt around her shoulders. For two hours, she dreamed of walking and laughing with her aunt on the beach at Tybee. At three-fifteen, she woke up, went downstairs for a cup of tea, and dialed Abbie’s number in D.C.

“My dear girl,” Abbie’s voice sang out before the phone completed one ring. “I have conjured you up at last! I thought my much-sought-after powers were abandoning me!”

“We can’t have that. What would your acolytes do without you?”

“They’d concoct a ritual for the return and revitalization of magic powers. These girls are serious believers in the power of burning sage and constructing altars in the woods.”

“I wonder who taught them to do that?” Regina laughed.

Abbie had an active, if unofficial, relationship with the women’s studies center at Howard University. Her classes and seminars were always full of earnest young women who needed to understand themselves and their world a little better. She also had a boisterous private clientele of
pre-, peri-, post-,
and
in-the-midst-of
menopausal women who flocked to her for advice and counsel. What had begun as Abbie’s personal quest had become a collective journey of sisterhood.

“You sound great,” Regina said.

“I feel great. How are
you
doing? Any morning sickness?”

“No, but I’ve been sleeping a lot more.”

Abbie chuckled. “When your mother was carrying you, she used to go hide in her office between classes and grab forty winks.”

“I’ve got that beat by half,” Regina said. “So how are you? Any more break-ins?”

This was the question Abbie had hoped she wouldn’t have to answer. She didn’t want to worry Regina by telling her that there had been two more home invasions less than a mile from the house.

“Things have been pretty quiet lately.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Trying to fool Regina had been silly. All she had to do was go to the Internet. Monday’s
Washington Post
had carried a big story about the neighborhood being terrorized by a string of increasingly violent crimes. The victims had all described the perpetrators as two black males in their late teens, armed with a .22 pistol and a Boy Scout knife.

“Don’t worry about it, dear. I’m always careful.”

“Have you called that man about the burglar bars yet?”

“No, dear, not yet.”

“Blue already paid for them!” Regina said. “All you have to do is schedule a time for the guy to come by and take the measurements.”

Abbie hated the whole idea of putting bars on the doors and the windows. That was no way to live. She might as well be in prison if she was going to look through bars to see the sky.

“I just don’t want to put bars on the house, Gina. I know it’s your choice, but I don’t think I could live here behind bars.”

The last thing Regina wanted was for Abbie to leave the house. Last year she’d tried to give her aunt the deed, but Abbie wouldn’t take it, pointing out that while her brother had been Gina’s father, the house was her mother’s legacy.

“Didn’t you used to have a gun?” Regina said. “What happened to it?”

Abbie’s laugh broke through the strange paranoia of the conversation like a ray of light. “How can you possibly remember that? It was a derringer, a very ladylike, pearl-handled derringer that I carried everywhere for years and never fired one time. I doubt if it would deter any thief worthy of the name.”

“I wish you wouldn’t make jokes about this. I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be. I’ve been turning on the alarm every night and whenever I leave the house during the day.”

“Really?” Abbie had resisted activating the house’s ancient alarm system almost as much as she had installing the burglar bars.

“Really. Now stop worrying and tell me if you’ve laid eyes on my friend Mr. Nolan.”

“Haven’t you talked to him?”

“Every other day or so. Lately, he’s been sending me letters.”

“Peachy?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, dear. As many spells as I’ve worked on that man, I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up at my door.”

“You better be careful. By the time you get back down here, you might blow his poor heart right up.”

“If I’ve got enough magic in me to stop his heart, don’t you think I’ve got enough to start it up again?”

Regina laughed. “You’re terrible!”

“I’ve got to go, dear. There’s a group arriving in twenty minutes for their journal workshop and I promised them fresh sangria. Tell your handsome husband I send enough love to last him until I lay eyes on you two in November.”

“I will. And you be careful until they catch those guys.”

“
They
better be careful. Woe be it to anybody who disturbs the peace of a postmenopausal woman at work!”

36

T
hree days after Mamie Robinson’s visit to Precious Hargrove, Lee walked into the same office with a fat folder marked
CONFIDENTIAL
that contained the report she’d concocted and enough supporting documents not only to discredit Mamie Robinson, but to paint a picture of the Robinson family as a multigenerational crime wave. It wasn’t hard to do. Mamie and her daughter had each been arrested for prostitution, passing bad checks, and various other ridiculously inept con games that always cost more in jail time than they ever paid off.

The husband and father of the household was in prison for life after stalking and killing a drug partner who tried to cut him out of a deal that went from bad to worse. Of the five sons he had with Mamie, two were in the same prison where he was housed, serving time for murder and minor drug trafficking. Two others had been killed by rivals several years before and Kentavious had been killed and mutilated in the same streets his father had been running all his life.

Before he died, Lee’s report said, Kentavious, at fifteen, had already been to juvenile twice, dropped out of school, impregnated his fourteen-year-old neighbor, and begun a brief career as a small-time marijuana merchant. His mother’s assertion that he was basically a good boy, Kilgore’s report stated, was based on nothing more than grief and a mother’s desire to generate sympathy and perhaps money in the wake of her son’s death.

Precious listened to Lee while she looked through the xeroxed mug shots and long rap sheets that defined the state’s interaction with the Robinsons. The two boys who were still serving time in the same prison as their father gazed defiantly out from their photos. Even in profile, they managed to convey their suicidal fearlessness. Their father, a long scar across his cheek and a dazed look in his eye, just looked tired.

“It didn’t seem like a con,” Precious said, looking at Mamie Robinson’s rap sheet. Soliciting, shoplifting, stolen credit cards. “She seemed like a mother with nothing left to lose.”

“That’s all part of it,” Lee said. “You’re a well-known public figure now, Senator. People are going to come at you more and more with all kinds of schemes.”

Precious closed the folder. She didn’t need any more evidence that this was not a family you wanted moving in next door. “But do you think there’s any truth at all to what she said about police officers protecting the dealers?”

Lee shook her head thoughtfully. “I didn’t find any evidence of that.”

Precious sat back with a sigh. “I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.”

“What do you mean?”

Searching for the right words, Precious shrugged her shoulders. “I’d hate to think we’ve got dirty cops to deal with, but the truth is, I pride myself on being able to read people. I’m usually pretty good at recognizing when somebody’s lying to me.”

Not as good as you think you are,
Lee thought. “These people are pros, Senator.”

“I know, and I appreciate what you did,” Precious said. “It’s just that a politician isn’t much good without a working
bullshit detector.
I hate to think Mrs. Robinson got past me.”

“I understand. Do you want me to talk to her?”

Precious shook her head. “No, I’ll call her myself.”

Things had gone exactly as Lee had hoped they would. No candidate with any sense wants to emerge as the champion of people everybody wishes would just go away.

“I think the thing that really got to me about her story,” Precious was saying, “is that I remember when my son was fifteen.”

“These kids are nothing like your son,” Lee said. “They’ve grown up with a level of violence most people can’t even imagine, or don’t want to. I saw it all when I walked a beat, day after day. I’ve seen what it does to them. They grow up mad and mean and ready to do whatever it takes to stay alive.”

Precious was watching Lee closely. “We can’t blame them for that, can we?”

Sure we can,
Lee wanted to say.
Ask my dope-fiend parents. Ask my crackhead cousin. They’re the ones making the bad decisions, ignoring the consequences, saggin’ and shufflin’ their way to oblivion.
Precious sounded to Lee like those
bourgie
Negroes who romanticize and rationalize the worst of the race’s behavior as long as they don’t have to get too close to it.

“I’m sorry, Senator. I don’t mean to be talking out of school here.”

Precious smiled a little. “I’m asking.”

“The thing is, by the time most of these guys are the age Kentavious was when he died, they’re already headed for the morgue or the penitentiary, which gives them just enough time to have a couple of babies by a couple of girls as clueless as they are.”

The contempt Lee felt for the people she was describing came through clearly in her tone.

“You’re not very optimistic, are you?” Precious said.

“I’ve seen what these guys can do to a neighborhood,” Lee said. “The truth is, Senator, one more gone doesn’t strike me as much of a tragedy.” From the look on Precious’s face, Lee realized suddenly that she had gone too far.

“I appreciate your candor,” Precious said, standing up. Lee rose as well. “And I appreciate all your hard work.”

“I hope I didn’t offend you,” Lee said. “Cynicism is the curse of the beat cop.”

“You’re not a beat cop anymore, Captain Kilgore,” Precious said. “And you didn’t offend me.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Lee said. “And please don’t hesitate to call on me again if you need me.”

“I will.”

“I can show myself out.”

Precious closed the door behind Lee, wondering what it was that left her feeling that perhaps Mrs. Robinson wasn’t the only one trying to con her. She sat down, picked up the phone, and dialed Blue Hamilton’s private number.

37

B
lue had been trying to catch up with Aretha ever since he got back from the beach. When he looked out of the car window and saw her working in her garden, he leaned forward and spoke to General behind the wheel.

“Pull over at the house, will you?”

The house, in this case, was not the one he shared with Regina, but the apartment he’d had when they met and that he still maintained exclusively for his own use. In the perfectly maintained four-unit building with the blue front door, Aretha kept her studio upstairs across the hall from Blue’s place. Zora lived downstairs on one side across from the guest suite that was always ready to receive short- or long-term residents seeking the privacy and safety that West End could offer.

General glanced at the clock as he eased the big Lincoln over to the curb. They hadn’t had lunch and it was almost four o’clock. His stomach growled loud enough for Blue to hear it.

“Do you want me to wait for you?”

“Give me an hour,” Blue said, as if he hadn’t heard the rumbling. His meeting with Precious Hargrove had run long. It was almost dinnertime.

“I’ll be back at five,” General said, with visions of a trip to the Beautiful Restaurant for some short ribs already dancing in his head. His stomach growled again as he stepped out of the car to open Blue’s door. Aretha spotted them and waved.

“Fine,” Blue said, waving back and heading in her direction. He heard the car pull off and chuckled to himself. General was getting ready to put a serious
hurtin’
on some lucky restaurant’s afternoon menu.

“Hey, you!” Aretha said, pulling off her gloves and leaning over to kiss Blue’s cheek. “Welcome back!”

“I’ve got something for you upstairs,” he said. “How much more do you have to do?”

“I can finish up tomorrow,” she said immediately. Aretha didn’t see as much of Blue now that they had each married and moved into their own proper houses. Those moments were precious when both found themselves at the same place with time to visit. Aretha linked her arm through Blue’s and grinned at her godfather. “I’m all yours.”

“Well, I’m a lucky man indeed,” he said, opening the blue door with a flourish so she could enter.

At the top of the stairs, she stood aside as he opened the door to his apartment and switched on the light. A fully stocked bar, black leather couches, and an entertainment center housing a blinking array of the latest audio and visual electronic equipment made this the quintessential male lair. Blue opened the floor-to-ceiling drapes and the late-afternoon sunshine filled the room, making it instantly more
visitor-friendly.
Aretha flopped down in a soft leather chair that cradled her like a protective mother’s arms.

“Do you want a Coke or something?” Blue said.

He had met Aretha when she was seventeen and her aunt Ava had asked him to keep an eye on her as a naïve young girl from her tiny hometown, alone in the big city. Even though she was now a twenty-four-year-old wife and mother, he never offered her anything stronger than apple cider.

“I’m fine,” she said. “What did you bring me?”

Blue walked behind the bar, opened an unseen drawer, and took out a small
something
wrapped in pale violet tissue paper.

“I’m really just the deliveryman,” he said, walking over to Aretha and putting the package gently into her outstretched hand. “Regina thought I’d probably see you before she did.”

Aretha peeled back the tissue paper and revealed a perfectly formed seashell in a shade of orange so vivid it looked like someone other than God had painted it.

“It’s beautiful!” She touched it gently. “Is it real?”

Blue nodded. “I’ve never seen one this color. Regina hadn’t either.”

Aretha laid it back carefully in its tissue-paper nest, but continued to admire it. As a painter, she had spent years considering colors, and this was no ordinary orange. It practically glowed.

“There are lots of colors we haven’t seen in the ocean,” she said, “because nobody’s ever been down far enough. It’s like those transparent squids that they discovered a couple of years ago. Nobody even knew they were down there.”

“Probably looked right through them,” Blue said, teasing her.

“Make fun of me all you want,” she said. “This shell is special. Tell Regina I said thank you.”

“Why don’t you tell her yourself? She’d love to see you.”

Aretha sighed. “I’ve been missing her, too. Things have just been kind of crazy at my house the last few months.”

The darkening of Blue’s eyes was almost imperceptible. “Last time I saw Joyce Ann out with her grandmother, she didn’t look crazy to me.”

“All two-year-olds are crazy!” Aretha laughed. “They just learn to hide it from outsiders.”

“How’s Kwame?”

The tiniest pause before she answered was not lost on Blue. “He’s fine. Busy all the time.”

“Well, he did a great job on the project he just finished for me. You tell him next time he’s looking for work, I’ve always got a place for him.”

In that way, Blue let her know that if any of that craziness she was talking about had a basis in financial stress, she could rest assured her husband would always be gainfully employed.

“I told you he was a genius.”

“So you’ve got a beautiful, sane child, a genius for a husband, friends who send you miracles from the sea, and a godfather who can’t imagine his life without you.” Blue’s eyes were dark pools, but his smile was warm and curious. “Where’s the crazy part?”

“Maybe it’s all in my head,” she said, with a wobbly little smile.

Blue nodded. “That’s possible, but I don’t think so.” He was looking at her calmly from the other end of the sofa. “Do you?”

Aretha sat back and let out the air in her lungs with a soft sigh. She turned her head to look at him without lifting it from the leather. “Kwame wants to move to midtown.”

Blue’s expression didn’t change. “What do you want?”

The question was so simple and straightforward, but it went directly to the heart of the matter and sat there, waiting for an answer.

“I want peace in my house,” she said, surprising herself with the answer. She knew peace didn’t have anything to do with place. Peace was a state of mind. She sat up, leaned toward him, and tried to explain. “I love living in West End, you know that. I’ve never been anything but safe and happy here.” She felt disloyal even thinking about moving. “But I’m tired of arguing about it all the time. Maybe it’s time for me to compromise a little, you know?”

“Compromise is fine,” he said. “Just don’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

“But isn’t that the essence of marriage? That give-and-take?”

“I’m the wrong one to ask.”

“Why?” she said, settling back into the chair’s cozy leather embrace again. “You’ve been married four times!”

He laughed. “That should disqualify me as an expert witness.”

“Well, what do you and Regina do when you have an argument?”

Blue’s eyes twinkled in a way that had to be seen to be believed. “We don’t argue.”

Aretha raised her eyebrows. “Never?”

Blue shook his head. “Never.”

“Did you argue with your other wives?”

“I don’t argue.”

Aretha wondered if that was why they had left him. Maybe what they needed was a good shouting match every now and then to clear the air.

“You’re no help,” she said.

“Because I don’t argue?”

“Because you won’t tell me what I ought to do.”

“Nobody knows what you need but you,” Blue said. “Not much I can do about that.”

And that, she thought, was the whole problem.
What do I need?
“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything you can stand to have me answer.”

“Do you ever miss singing?”

He smiled slowly. “I still sing.”

“I mean, doing it full-time, every day. Traveling around, doing shows. Living your life as an artist instead of… what you’re doing now.”

“It was time for me to leave that life.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“I never regret anything.”

The idea of living a life so fully integrated that second-guessing and the remorse that comes from twenty-twenty hindsight were nonexistent filled her with such longing that she could hardly keep from crying. But Blue was watching her and the last thing she wanted to do was burst into tears.

“What time is it?” she said, glad her voice didn’t tremble.

“Almost five,” Blue said without looking at his watch.

Aretha stood up, glad for a reason to escape before she said too much. “I’ve got to pick up Joyce Ann at Montessori. Can we continue this another time?”

“Of course.” He picked up the shell in its violet nest. “Don’t forget this.”

She curled the paper back around it gently as he walked her to the door.

“Aretha,” he said, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I want you to understand something.”

“Yes?” Was he going to break down and give her some advice after all?

“What we’ve done here in West End doesn’t mean you
have
to stay here. All it means is that if you do choose to live here, you’ll always be safe.”

“I know,” she said, hugging him good-bye. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by not being such a stranger.”

“I promise,” Aretha said, taking the stairs on the run. “Love you!”

Blue walked over to the window. General was back, leaning against the car smoking a cigarette. He tipped his hat to Aretha, who greeted him with a friendly wave and headed off down the street. Watching her, Blue knew she would be moving soon. He also knew this would be the first of a series of compromises if she and Kwame were going to stay together. Marriage was such a strange and complicated institution and it took a special kind of feeling deep in the hearts of both people taking the vows to make it work. He hoped his goddaughter and her husband had that kind of love to sustain them. In the meantime, Blue decided it couldn’t hurt to stay close to Kwame.