Between Lovers (31 page)

Nicole talks for a moment, tries to explain. Tries to relate diverse thinking to someone whose rules are engraved in the Ten Commandments. She's talking to her mother, but at times I know she's talking to me.

Nicole asks for understanding, never for forgiveness because of who she loves, who she is, no apology for that, and in the end says, “You think I'd want this if this isn't going to make my life easier? My own sister, I love her too, but she acts like I'm a child molester in the making; my used-to-be best friend doesn't want me around her kids. I was their godparent, the one she trusted them with if anything happened to her. I send her e-mails, and she deletes them without reading them, so I guess she has de-godmothered me.”

“What did you expect? A parade?”

“I'm just saying. I'm not mad at them. But I have to deal with all of that. The people who love me are still here. It's a struggle for them, and I love them more for accepting me the best they can. I just wish that you were one of them.”

“If I accept you, then I go against God. If I divorce myself from my Savior, then I will never be reunited with my people in heaven. I will not burn in Bee-luther-hatchee for you, for any of my children.”

My eyes are misty, my cheeks as warm as an oven on Thanksgiving. My throat, tight. I want this to be over. Want this to be over because I realize why Nicole's mother wants me here. I was slow, thought I was here as a mediator, but I know. She's trying to work on both of us at the same time. Like she has a two-for-one coupon or something. I feel her. She's trying to pull me away from Nicole. Trying to make me think the way she does. My insides are aching. I want this over.

“White people,” her mother says. “You've been around too many white people. Started when you went to Memphis State. Should've sent you to Spelman.”

“What do white people have to do with this?”

“White people,” her mother rambles on. “And San Francisco.”

“How can you love God and dislike white people? What, white people aren't God's children? To be a Christian, to be holding a Bible in your hands, isn't that hypocritical? Don't you think that kind of bigotry can keep you out of heaven?”

Her mother doesn't answer.

Nicole says, “The Bible, the one you're holding right now, that came from white people. This isn't the religion we would have if white people didn't use that same Bible to justify slavery, to persecute everybody who didn't see things their way, to force them into their religion, into their belief system. Africa is where we're from. And where in the Bible, which I do honor and respect regardless of what you may think, is there anything written by black people for black people?”

“Lord, Lord, Lord.”

Then all is silent.

“I have to deal with a lot.” Nicole's mother sniffles. Tears are falling over her makeup, but she doesn't wipe them away. “People talk, whisper, come up to me and ask if it's true, some ask if you're dying from that gay cancer. Every church I go to, people run in my face and ask me how you're doing. And I know what they're really asking. If you're still sinning with a woman. And I know they blame me. Want to ask what I did to you, or your daddy did to you, to make you this way.”

“Did you listen to anything I said?”

“Did you find the justification for your lifestyle in the New Testament? In the Old Testament?”

“Momma, I can't deal with being across the room from you. I can't deal with you turning your back to me. Can I come over there? Can I hug you?”

“I cain't touch you, child, I cain't. Listen to your momma. I didn't get to be this age by being a fool. If you stay here, you become like the people here. If you go away, if you get away from here, away from this smog and people who act that funny way, your head will clear; you'll go back to thinking right.”

“Momma, don't fool yourself. There are plenty of women back home that feel the same way I do.”

Her mother says, “Why are you doing this? To punish me? What did I do wrong as a mother?”

Nicole puts her hands to her temples and massages.

Her mother says, “Come back to Memphis with your momma, baby. We can fix this. Prayer changes things. We can get you away from here, maybe take you out to the ranch in Millington for a while, get you some fresh air, some good cooking, get you away from these people, and we can fix this.”

“You don't want me back there. I embarrass you.”

“I want you back.” She reaches into her purse, pulls out her wallet; waves an American Express platinum card in the air. “We can buy you a ticket to go back to Memphis. Leave all that has been tainted with this world here.”

“I can't.”

Again, silence. Everybody is shaking heads and thinking.

Her mother speaks first, “Cain't give up my God. Cain't give up my God for no one. Not for my mother, and not for my child.”

Nicole says, “God knows my heart. I've reconciled a lot within myself. With God.”

“Not with my God. My God does not compromise.”

“We're human. Can we compromise?”

“No parent has to compromise with a child.”

Silence.

Nicole says, “Momma—

“If you cain't do as I ask, then stand behind me, Satan.”

Tears fall.

“Momma, can I hug you? Please?”

“Stay behind me, Satan. Satan must always stay behind me.”

Our Queen, our Diva from the South straightens her red pantsuit, the colorful scarf around her neck, caresses her golden Bible.

Her words are back to me. “I don't know her, don't know her at all. She came from my womb. Do you know what it's like to loathe something that you gave birth to? To be humiliated, sickened, embarrassed, betrayed, to feel nauseated every time someone speaks your child's name?”

Nicole sniffles, her words thick. “You don't listen. Why don't you ever listen when I tell you what's going on inside of me?”

“She is too far gone,” her mother says as she gathers her coat, her luggage on wheels, as she heads for the door. “There is an echo where she used to be.”

Nicole rubs her father's Bible, speaks with that childlike quality, “I don't like feeling like an orphan, Momma. Don't do this.”

“I hear that echo every time I breathe, and it pains me. I tried to save her. Yes, Lord, I tried and I tried and tried. And it hurts me. Hurts me so bad. Pains me that I can't bring her back. But ain't but one man ever raised the dead, and shame on me for ever thinking I could do the same.”

Nicole cries. Not loud. Soft and gentle.

Her mother says, “Tell her that the next time we see each other, that it will be in Memphis, down off Elvis Presley Boulevard, and one of us will be holding flowers, and the other will be getting lowered into this earth.”

“Don't say that, Momma, don‘t—”

“And I hope I have the flowers, because I don't ever want to lay eyes on her again.”

“Momma. I love you.”

“I loved my Little Nicole. My sweet child. I loved her so much.”

“I'm right here, Momma. Don't start talking like I'm not here. Don't make me invisible again.”

“Her soul has been sucked from her body. Poisoned with all kinds of strange thoughts. She is dead. When this is over, we will both go to two separate places. Yes, Lord. I will be with you, at your side, with the king of kings. And my child, your will be done.”

“I saw the signs, saw the three signs sent to me by the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and I came. And I tried. I stepped into the lion's den and fought my best fight. And I have failed you. Please forgive me, your humble servant. Please forgive me, Father.”

Nicole rocks, moans through clenched teeth, holds back the tears, fights with those tears so long her face turns red, like a furnace on the verge of exploding.

I say, “Nicole—”

She makes a hand motion asking me not to touch her, to leave her alone.

Nicole's mother tightens her golden coat around her red outfit, looking like sun and fire, sunrise and sunset, and with her Lena Home stroll and her breasts leading the way. And when she passes her daughter, she wobbles a bit, leans toward me. I use my left hand to steady her.

Her eyes go to the sky and she says, “Forgive me.”

She gazes back at Nicole's teary face. Nicole looks up at her mother's tears.

They stare. They cry.

An ice storm rages through me.

Nicole says, “I'm a good person. My character is still the same. I'm still the same.”

She wants to go to Nicole. I feel her muscles twitching, I feel her inner struggle. But she moves by me, leaves me with her luggage-on-wheels as she moves toward the door.

“I pity that child.”

Nicole responds, “I pity you, Momma. You have no courage.”

“Her father is turning over in his grave. Turning over in his grave.”

Nicole sobs. Turns her face from us, falls across the bed, and sobs.

When our Diva wipes her own eyes and opens the door, we are both taken aback. Ayanna is out there. My favorite stalker is right in front of the door, wearing the same black she had on earlier, leather coat open, scarf loose around her neck, purse on her right shoulder, keys and gloves in hand. Her eyes are the color of a old tomato, tears roller-coasting down her face, leaving a puddle at her feet. She's been crying for a while. She's been listening for a long while.

The door clicks closed, separating Nicole from us. Again, three people in a small space.

Nicole's mother looks Ayanna up and down, then down and up, before her eyes come to rest on Ayanna's hair. Her eyes widen and she mumbles, “Oh, God. I got the sign all wrong. I saw red and gold in my vision, and I thought that was your way of telling me what to wear into this place. My colors of victory. It's her hair. The red and gold, it's the color of her hair. You warned me of the devil.”

Ayanna wipes her eyes.

Nicole's mother's voice now sounds strained, coarse. “You look like an ugly, black Raggedy Ann.”

Ayanna yields a hostile, defiant stare.

Nicole's mother spits in Ayanna's face. That liquid anger splatters right below Ayanna's right eye.

I shout out my surprise, jump in between them, but Ayanna still doesn't move. No fear in her face.

They both stand strong.

Nicole's mother walks toward the elevator, marches away from a smoldering battlefield, leaving Ayanna right there, a butterscotch statue with liquid anger dripping from her cheek, being absorbed into the softness of the carpet without a sound.

Rain falls like bullets while we wait for the valet to bring the car around at the Waterfront. With the dark skies and the downpour, it looks more like London than California. In the lobby, people are huddled around the fireplace, laughing, having drinks, eating fruit, reading newspapers. Oblivious to what is going on in my world. I hear my name and turn to speak to those beautiful Ethiopian women behind the counter, absorb their warm smiles. I need smiles right now. As many as I can get.

One laughs and says, “Hey, famous author. When are you going to bring the rest of us books?”

I manage a soft chuckle, a wide smile. “I'll hook all of you up before I leave.”

Nicole's mother looks at those women. I can only see the back of our Diva's head, but the Ethiopians stop laughing.

I head for the door, would rather stand in the freezing rain.

Nicole's mother follows me, dragging her chicken on wheels behind her.

I'm fidgety, worrying about Nicole because I hate to leave her like that, but I want to get her mother away from here as fast as I can. She can sense that. She's no southern-fried fool from the old school.

I confront her, “Why did you spit on her?”

She responds without hesitation, “You have a good imagination.”

“From time to time. Yes, ma‘am.”

“Imagine having a son. Imagine him telling you he was sinning with another man. Try to sleep imagining them like that. Tell me how you would react. Let me know how nice you would be.”

Inside the car, she shifts and hums while I drive up Broadway toward the Tube. I turn the radio on. I turn the radio back off. Fingers tap the steering wheel. Eyes cut toward her. She's still shaking her head. Her hands tight, like little hammers.

She says, “When that child was in the third grade, I caught her in my closet kissing a boy Little nappy-headed Clark boy from down on Blair Hunt Drive. I whooped her hind parts good. Thought that would be my biggest problem. Trying to get her to not be fast. Never expected this. Never.”

I drive.

She shifts, rocks, mumbles, “Used to take her to get Big Macs, candy. She used to watch
Fat Albert.
Loved her some chocolate milk. Couldn't make her stop playing Pac Man. Her and her brother and sisters would have pillow fights. She would put a dishtowel around her neck and pretend she was a superhero. Would yell about zephyr winds blowing and say ‘O Mighty Isis,' and turn in circles for half an hour. And that girl would hold her arms out and run and run until she got out of breath.”

I open the glove box, hand her a tissue to wipe her eyes, and I drive.

Drive back in time and think about me playing on the fields at Hamilton High, going to Quik N' Split for a meal, drinking Kool-Aid and making my tongue turn red, climbing trees because they were there, watching girls play hopscotch, and huddling with my brothers so we could watch the
Bugs Bunny Roadrunner Hour.
No way I could've predicted being where I am now. No Ouija board or palm reader gave me a hint. I look at my hand, the one holding the steering wheel, and see the flesh of a man. A man who will get older with every passing second. That child is gone to wherever children go. Wish I could go back, but there is no road to yesterday. I can only drive forward.