Friends and Lovers (31 page)

She came over and hugged me.

She said, “Nice to finally meet you. My name is Alejandria.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

“I’m Bobby’s wife.”

I echoed, “Wife?”

That rocked me. I was glad I didn’t say what I was thinking, because I’d thought she was a new housekeeper.

Bobby said, “We got hitched in Vegas two weeks ago.”

“Two and a half,” Alejandria corrected. “We came over to help Debra take care of things so she can rest.”

All the tee-heeing and lollygagging was nice, but the reason all of us were showing up was undercutting every word. People would’ve thought we were crazy. We were laughing, smiling like smiles were two-for-one, but the humor wasn’t exactly funny.

I said, “Alejandria, anything I can do to help?”

Alejandria shook her head. “Relax. Make Debra relax too.”

“I heard that,” Debra yelled. As soon as she came into the living room, the phone rang again. Debra threw
her hands up and said, “Let the machine earn its keep. Bobby, forward the calls to the service. Check it every hour, if you can.”

The second phone line rang. The doorbell ding-donged.

Debra said, “This is ridiculous. I don’t feel like being bothered every other minute.”

Debra had a touch of frustration in her stride and continued moving on toward the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway. Richard was in his own world, checking out all of her artifacts.

He pointed at a statue. “Where did you get this African sculpture? Senegal?”

“Crenshaw swap meet,” Debra said.

Everybody laughed. Richard too. All those veins in Richard’s face took a powder. I smiled at Richard. And I meant it.

I said, “Debra. Bobby, and me all went to college together.”

Richard said, “USC?”

“Yeah, USC.”

“I’m Debra’s cousin,” Bobby interjected. “Shelby and me are kinda like brother and sister.”

I asked Debra, “Which bedroom should we put our junk in?”

The room got quiet as hell. I could’ve kicked myself, because I know I should’ve asked that question when I was alone with Debra instead of spreading my business.

“Richard,” Debra said politely. “Why don’t you put your bags in the back room, on the left? Shelby, come here, dear child.”

“What’s up?”

“I need you to run me somewhere.”

Richard walked over to me. I surprised myself when I gave him a genuine embrace. He lowered his voice and whispered in my ear, “Was that Tyrel in the wedding picture with you, Leonard, and Debra? I assume he was the best man, right?”

Shit. I lost the laugh I had and walked. Richard picked up our luggage and followed Alejandria. As soon as they
rounded the corner and their footsteps faded, Bobby took a step closer.

I raised my hand to Bobby. I said, “Don’t say it. If you do I’ll slap the shit out of you.”

“I ain’t said nothing,” Bobby whispered. “Engaged, huh?”

I snapped, “Married, huh?”

When I marched into the kitchen, Debra was outside, holding the door and waiting. Once again, I was in trouble. I slowed down and chewed the inside of my lip. Debra shook her head.

Debra said, “Stop dragging and come on.”

When we got into the garage, my eyes roamed every which-a-way, went to and fro across all the tools along the far wall. Hammers and saws and oil and filters. Leonard’s manly stuff was waiting for him, inside a two-car garage with only one car. Leonard’s Celica would never come back home. The thought seemed so freaking absolute that it made me shudder.

Debra went to the passenger side of her new Benz and got in. The Hyundai had been stolen a month or so ago. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d avoided stepping into Leonard’s space.

When I opened my door, she said, “Drive.”

I got behind the wheel, did my usual routine and drove the Dons—Don Diego to Don Carlos to Don Felipe to Don Miguel to Don Lorenzo. We crossed Stocker, breezed through Angeles Vista and went to another middle-class section, called View Park. By the time the tires hit Slauson, Debra still hadn’t moved or said a word. Debra always used silence and attitude to make me uncomfortable. Shit worked too.

We were heading toward the ocean when Debra sighed, then said, “When did you get engaged?”

My neck was warm. I loosened my paisley scarf a little and said, “Couple of months ago.”

She patted her Bible. “How long have you known him?”

“About five months.”

“Selfish bitch. You know what you are?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me.”

“A wild ass used to the wilderness. And you can save that sorry face you’re wearing.” She was talking matter-of-factly. It hurt like hell. Debra said, “How long have we been so-called best friends?”

I tried to sound like it didn’t matter, “Since we were eggs waiting for sperms.”

“Guess we’re not friends anymore.”

That really hurt because she meant it. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

I just barely said, “I’m sorry.”

“Had me standing out there looking stupid.”

“Sorry, but—”

“Kill it and save the story.”

She let her seat back so far it looked like I was riding by myself. Debra inhaled and released a shaking exhale. Tears were seeping down her face.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” she whispered like she was in conversation with herself. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and this shit will be a dream. Or he’ll call laughing and say it was some stupid publicity bullshit thing they thought up.”

I let a little time go by before I said, “How do you feel?”

“Numb. I don’t feel shit. It’s too sudden. Going through the motions. Afraid. Unsure about the future.”

It sounded like I was listening to a mirror. Numb. Don’t feel shit. Not a damn thing. Unsure about the future.

Debra said, “The funeral will be closed casket.”

My eyes shut themselves and a few moans trickled out of me.

She said, “Because I want everybody to remember him big and strong like he was. The way he looked when people saw him riding down the Dons smiling and waving and being silly. Not the way the accident messed him up.”

“What happened to the other driver?”

“It’s out of my hands. But you know how the system is.”

“Black?”

“Japanese,” Debra said and stared off into a vast nothingness. “
Times
said the kid was nineteen years old.”

“Damn. Japanese.”

“Leonard was taking care of everything. I’ll have to sell a couple of the houses, probably. Maybe dump the condo in Vegas. Because of a stupid nineteen-year-old drunk bitch.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Bet they own a chain of liquor stores down Manchester.”

She stopped babbling when I reached over and held her hand. She trembled like she was going through detoxification.

I said, “That attitude ain’t you.”

“Everything’s going to be different.”

“I know.”

Debra’s voice dipped and cracked, chilled me when she said, “Everything’s going to be so damn different.”

“I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, Shelby.”

Tears fell from Debra’s puffy, bloodshot eyes. I wished I could steal all of the pain. It didn’t take long before I was trying to stop my own lip from quivering.

I parked out near Venice Beach in a not-too-busy area facing the ocean, near a row of condos, but we didn’t get out of the car. On the way back home, I wasted some more time so Debra could pull herself together, and drove by the upper-class homes sitting high on Mount Vernon Drive. A sky-high spot where we could stand under the eucalyptus trees and see the rolling mountains on the other side of downtown.

I said, “Let’s walk.”

Debra didn’t look my way, but she nodded.

She held my right hand, we went through the turnstile, over the grass separator, held hands like we were still in grade school, stood near the bent fence. Down the
hill, in the cool air, traffic zoomed up and down Stocker. Debra came to life, put some pep in her step, and led me around the trail. We held hands but didn’t hold back the tears. And even then my girl was cool. At her worst, she was her best. She cried but she wasn’t hysterical and flapping around like sisters in a Baptist church on Sunday morning. She cried a bit, wiped it away, and went on with her life. I was supposed to be helping her, but she spent most of the time trying to calm me.

An elderly black couple was on the pathway too. The lady reached up and ran her hand across the man’s receding hair line; he held her hand. We slowed down and watched them flirt.

I was busy watching the old people who thought they were still young when Debra eased over and put her hand up to the scarf around my neck. I put my hand up to stop her, but she slapped both of my hands hard enough to get sued.

“Move your hands, Shelby.”

I gave her a have-you-lost-your-fucking-mind? glower for a second or two before I said forget it and lowered my palms. My eyes closed, my head dropped. The scarf was gently pulled away. Two warm and gentle fingers tilted my head backward, then side to side. Over and over, Debra’s fingers touched the spots where the territorial marks were still breathing and scowling.

She said, “I was wondering why you were choking yourself in that scarf.”

“Ouch. You’re hurting my neck.”

“Jealous?”

I nodded. Guess that’s what I get for telling him all about me and Tyrel. Brothers ask questions, you’re honest, and they sharpen the truth and hold it against your neck.

She walked away, moved closer to the fence. When she stood on the edge, she shuddered and scared the hell out of me. I put a hand on her shoulder, told her not to get too close to the edge, but she didn’t budge.

Ten times I said a tender, “Debra.”

She said, “Where did I fuck up?”

“Watch your language.” I put my arms around her. “You didn’t.”

Thirty minutes flew by before Debra led me back to the car. Her stride had its original gentle stroll. Her game face was on. But a false face can’t cover a false feeling. This time she eased in on the driver’s side. I wiped my face with my palms, then saw that Debra was doing the exact same thing.

I said, “Debra?”

“Shhh.”

We reached out and hugged each other. We were sharing a mood that we’d never shared before.

“Debra, we look like raccoons.”

“You’re the ugly one.”

“Never as ugly as you. Want me to drive?”

“Do I look like Miss Daisy?”

I flipped down the vanity mirror on my side, craned my neck so I could see the damage from all angles.

I said, “How does it look?”

“Like some pretty tacky shit.”

That pretty much answered that. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there was some pleasure and orgasms to go along with the passionless marks. I’d have to wear a scarf for at least three days.

I said, casually, “When is Tyrel going to get here?”

“Shelby, don’t play me like that.”

“What?”

“That question has been burning to get out your mouth.”

“I’m asking because I need to make sure I have the right information in the program.”

“I’m his wife. Whatever you need to know, I know.”

“Oh. Well, that was the only reason.”

“Why didn’t you call Tyrel?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You stole his phone number off our refrigerator.”

Next thing I knew, I was digging up my nose. I said, “What you talking about?”

“It was Leonard’s idea. You always ate as soon as you got in the door, so he figured if I put the number on the
refrigerator it wouldn’t take you two seconds to see it. And I know you tampered with it because you never put things back how you found them.”

“Think you know me so well.”

“We set you up and you played yourself.”

“Whatever. Either way, things have changed since then. I could’ve done without ever meeting Tyrel. He was just something to do until something better came along. A one-night stand that went on for a few months.”

Debra said, “You love Richard?”

I stared at my ring.

“Shelby? It’s a yes or no question.”

“Yeah. He’s good to me. He’s good for me too.”

“You’re happy?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t be better.”

“Then why haven’t you mentioned him before?”

Debra started the car. That meant she was finished with that part of the discussion. If I had’ve answered her, I would’ve been talking to my damn self. I put the scarf back on, adjusted it, let my black hair hang so I could cover up as much wounded flesh as I could. On the radio, KJLH was playing that controversial bisexual song about some brother named Bill. Guess it always created a controversy when people told the truth. Debra changed to a jazz station, then to an oldies station, then she pushed a button and an old Chanté Moore CD came on.

I said, “Wanna go get some ice cream?”

“Praline pecan?”

“Yeah.”

Debra grinned a little and said, “Thrifty?”

“Yeah, Thrifty.”

“Waffle cone?”

“Double scoops?”

“My treat.”

“Your treat.”

My top was down while I rode Crenshaw Boulevard from Manchester to where the street ended at pothole-filled Wilshire.

The ride was different. Superficial. Nobody was in the car lollygagging, cracking jokes about the creatures on the Strip, philosophizing, and flipping the radio from KJLH to KACE to KKBT every other second. I switched from my Enya CD to a Blackstreet CD and tried to give the ride a pulse, but the pulse just wasn’t there. Wasn’t happening no matter how hard I tried.

Mexicans were in the streets selling fruit and nuts at the freeway ramps. Bow-tied Muslim brothers hustled bean pies and the
Final Call.
A brother dressed in a green dashiki peddled five-dollar pictures.

Another hustled Malcom X, Martin Luther King, Bob Marley, and Tupac T-shirts. The dead were making a living for the living. The old, worn-down brother scurried through traffic, begged people to buy the T-shirts. I did a double-take when I saw the struggling brother was wearing a faded Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt and scuffed Kani boots, a dark scarf on his head. It was Jackson.

* * *

After I slowed down long enough to get my hair trimmed at Magic Shears, I rode through South Central and passed by the spots where my daddy’s stores used to be. One place was boarded up and had graffiti on every brick; another had been turned into a storefront church; another looked like a crack dealership.