Between Lovers (11 page)

“Do you think you're in denial?”

That's another thing about my old man. He's so damn direct.

“No, sir. Hope and denial are two different things.”

“You have always gravitated toward the difficult.”

“I take the road less traveled from time to time.”

He makes a sound that makes me feel like a fool. “Well, I admire your tenacity.”

“Think I got that from you.”

“Mine is about justice, about righting wrongs that have been in this country since we were brought over here. That's the kind of writing you should be doing, writing about righting wrongs, son.”

“You're preaching, Pops. Can we have a conversation without the sermon?”

“Why don't you allow her to live her life as she has chosen. Let her and God come to terms.”

Then he quiets, inserts that pause like he does in all of his messages from the pulpit, allowing the listener to soak up the importance of what he just said, allowing them to think and feel.

The feminine voice on the navigation system tells me where to turn so I can find my way over to MLK Boulevard. Like L.A., the scenery changes from block to block, switches from blue-collar and white-collar to no-collar, very urban, very South Central-esque. Block to block, I see a few brothers wandering, looking for everything but a job. Only a few, but they stand out. There are plenty of hardworking people out here who live in the middle of a bad reputation. But they don't hang out on the curbs in the cold.

My old man talks on. “There are a lot of women out there. A lot of good women. Some very nice-looking women have joined our congregation. Quite a few come to Singles Bible Study. I'm marrying two couples that met at Bible Study in the next few months. Well, one of them for sure. The other, I suggested that they review their financial concerns and family issues before jumping over that broom.”

“Just like you told me and Nicole when we told you we were ready.”

“Just like I tell everybody. The checkbook has made a lot of people check out of hotel happiness and move to divorce court before the sun had a chance to rise again.”

“But they still get married.”

“Right before they get divorced,” he says with an air of disappointment, an air of powerlessness over all of his sheep. He's just as concerned with one as he is for the others. Just as he flies away to champion the big causes, he walks across the street to champion the smaller ones with the same passion. “They do what they want without a thought. That's because everyone is driven by—”

“Damn!” I yell that before I know it.

“Son?”

A sister breaks out between two cars, comes out of that mythical place known as nowhere, and I'm doing a good forty mph, so I have to screech my brakes to keep from running her down. The traffic behind me screeches too; a tailgater almost runs up my tailpipe.

“Son, you okay?”

“Almost had a—whoa! Looks like some drama jumping off.”

The sister is as beautiful as a queen, and she's running, a natural athlete moving with the stride of Mar-ion Jones, moving as if she's late for a million-dollar deal on Oakland's version of Wall Street.

Not running. A man is behind her, looking pissed off. She's being chased.

“What's going on?”

“Either domestic violence or this brother is about to jack a sister in broad daylight.”

“Stay in your car. Don't interfere with anything domestic. Dial 9-1—”

“No, wait. Hold on, Pops.”

The sister has mega skills. She does a fake move, cuts across traffic. Terrified beyond belief, her heels are in her hands, her dark slacks molding to her brick-house shape. The material of her matching jacket flapping with the wind that she creates as she moves and grooves, her cream silk blouse opening with her frantic pace, opening and allowing her beautiful breasts to bounce in such an erotic way.

Behind her is the man chiseled in muscles, running with an angry lover's stride.

As she passes my car, she grunts, glances toward me with a cry of help in her eyes. Our eyes disconnect and her pace doubles. Muscle man isn't a sprinter, but he's not giving up. He huffs and puffs by my car, sounds like a charging bull with asthma.

“Is he assaulting—”

“Wait, Pops.”

She does another move that would leave Jerry Rice in awe; fakes left and cuts to the right, moves like butter. He tumbles to the left, rolling and screaming in frustration as he hits asphalt palms first, scraping layers of skin from his flesh and ripping his OAKLAND POLICE jacket.

I tell my old man, “It's the police.”

In a voice that carries fear, memories from cultural abuse gone by, he asks, “You have a camera?”

“Not with me.”

“Don't leave. Make sure she's not abused. Bear witness, just in case her civil rights are violated.”

“Yes sir, I know what to do. Know what to do. I'm watching, I'm watching.”

“Take down any information that might be pertinent, no matter how trivial.”

“I remember all you told us to do. Stay out of it until it's calm. Take names, everything.”

Police cars swarm from everywhere. She's trapped at a fence that walks the perimeter of the overpass. Surrounded by anxious men. Lights on the tops of ten cars are flashing in celebration.

Pops asks, “What they doing to the girl now?”

“She's still trying to get away. Shit ... I mean shoot, she threw a shoe at the cops.”

“She knows better.” His voice fills with worry.

“She threw the other one. Clocked a cop in the eye.”

“Are people out?”

“Plenty. Cars are stopped. People have run out of the houses. Lots of witnesses.”

“Still, say a prayer. Say a prayer.”

I pray. Pray that that woman is Nicole's lover. Pray that she's Ayanna. Then all of my problems will be solved, courtesy of the taxpayers and a crowded five-by-nine at the Free Hotel.

Guns are drawn.

She lowers her head in surrender.

Then she looks to the sky before she turns, puts her hands on the fence, spreads her legs in surrender. She leans forward, the arch in her back forcing her backside to curve toward heaven, her pose reminding me of the humble way Nicole positioned herself to receive me as we showered yesterday morning. Her amorous posture as she broke down, wailed, and let her tears of confusion flow like water.

That woman is crying too. Just like Nicole did in the shower.

I tell my old man, “She's in the police car. Looks like the other cops are laughing at the one who couldn't catch her. He's gonna be the laughingstock of the PD today.”

“Our sheep is okay.”

“As okay as she's gonna be for a while. They didn't do anything extreme.”

“Good, good. You think it was drugs?”

“Either that or RWB.”

“RWB?”

“Running While Black.”

I readjust my earpiece, let a few anxious drivers go by before I start driving again, those flashing lights putting nonstop rainbows in my rearview mirror, and wonder if that was a sign from above, if that was real, or if that just was me chasing Nicole. If that was a sign telling me that Nicole was about to surrender. That I just need to run after her a little longer.

His voice is shaken. “But what was I saying?”

So is mine. “You were telling about the eligible and desperate women at church.”

“We have a lot of eligible women. Pretty women. Very pretty. And intelligent like you would not believe. Two doctors: one is a psychologist and the other a dentist.”

“I could use both. They take coupons?”

I laugh. He doesn't.

“Son, this thing with Nikki, I admire your tenacity, but your efforts may be misplaced. Call me old-fashioned, but somewhere you're going to have to draw a line.”

I'm still driving up MLK, caught at a light about ten blocks shy of the bookstore. The streets are calm. Me and my old man keep on talking. He's trying to make his point, a point of logic; I'm struggling to get him to understand where I'm coming from, the emotions that drive my actions. My obsession. But no one understands obsession, not even the obsessed.

I try to explain that I've met others, been interested in others for a limited time, but none touch me in the way Nicole touches me. True, they don't bring the drama that Nicole brings, but all bring their own brand of drama, their own issues, and when combined with mine, just don't work.

“When you make a relationship,” my old man says, “you're building a house of love.”

I slow when I get to the bookstore. Quite a few cars are here; the best parking on MLK is already gone. I make a U-turn and hunt for a space. I tell my Pops, “I'm at the bookstore.”

“Then park and listen.”

“Don't want to be late.”

“Black people ain't never been on time.”

“True. If we were on time then Harriet Tubman wouldn‘t've had to make all those trips.”

Pops goes on, “All buildings need a strong foundation. First the foundation, son, then you put your walls up before you put your roof up.”

“Uh huh.”

“Foundation first, you hear me?”

“Uh huh.”

“First the foundations. Most people don't have strong relationships because they are walking around in a house with no floor, clinging to slippery walls, waiting to see who will be the first to fall.”

“I know. You said that three times.”

“Only said it once.”

“I heard it three times.”

“A hollow head carries a echo.”

“Okay.”

“With Nikki, does your house have a floor? Did it ever have a floor?”

I close my eyes for a second, wishing I hadn't called. Every vein in my head pulses. I want to scream my throat raw, but nothing comes out, not a word, not even air.

Maybe one day I'll look back and see how preoccupied I was with my own life, how I didn't see the changes my old man was going through. Didn't see that he wasn't repeating things, but forgetting that he had already said something, and sometimes the engines in his mind were idling, searching for the next gear, sometimes downshifting, moving back three or four conversations, before he got back on track. It's the things that are right in front of our faces that we don't see.

Yes, I did have one singular focus. And that focus was Nicole. And when a man has tunnel vision, he can't see things that are happening in his periphery.

“Okay, Pops. What else is going on?”

“If you were around, if you were more active in our efforts, you wouldn't have to ask. You haven't been around much. Haven't seen you much since Detroit.”

He's right. Time has flown. That was back in the summer when we stood out in the heat and humidity at Fairlane Town Center, news helicopters overhead, with five thousand plus people who came to protest in peace: black and white, Christian and Muslim, calling for boycott of the Lord and Taylor, pumping our fists toward heaven and chanting
No Justice No Peace, No Justice No Profits.

He says, “Generation-X has forgotten whose shoulders they are standing on.”

I look at my watch, the time on the console, say, “No doubt.”

“That's why I wanted you here full-time, not just sometime, working with me and your brothers.”

“I'm a writer, Pops.”

“But the things you write about ...” his voice withers to nothing. I see him shaking his head, his face still lodged in the web of his hand, a hand that can palm a basketball with no problem.

“Reality. I write about reality.”

“Whose reality? We create our own realities, son. You have the power to change the world, one word at a time. Don't you think that one-hundred-fifty years from now, people will look at what you're doing and think that all we black people wanted to do was have sex?”

“No more than if they read a Sue Grafton book and think all thirty-year-old white women can solve every murder, as long as they're listed in alphabetical order.”

A moment of silence lives between us.

I tell my old man, “I'm outside the bookstore. People are passing by, waving. Blanche just stuck her head out and waved. Gotta go.”

My old man says, “When your mother comes back from her new shoe expedition, I'll tell her that you called. That all is well in your house. And as always, she's concerned about Nikki.”

“Oh, wait,” I say as I struggle to parallel park at the same time. “The reason I called.”

I tell my old man that I talked to Nicole's mother yesterday morning, tell him what she said pretty much verb for verb, insults uncensored.

He reacts with immeasurable concern: “Gasoline and matches.”

“Her words to the period in the sentence.”

“I've prayed and prayed for that ornery woman.”

I say, “She's a brick wall.”

Nicole's mother is an educator on the Harlem side of Memphis. A woman who doesn't go to work to make friends with children, to counsel, but shows up every day to do her job. A hard woman.

He grunts like a boxer who has been hit below the belt.

He asks, “You mind if I give Nikki's mother a call?”

“It's your dime. Gotta go.”

I tense, wait for his final words of criticism.

He says, “Kiss Little Nikki for me.”

“I will.”

“Love you, son.”

“Love you, too.”

Then he's gone. I sit and soak in what he's left behind. His wisdom. His voice. His bias.