Liar's Game (42 page)

He’d said it like I was nothing more than a friend.

I said, “Guess since you’ll be making all the cabbage, you’ll be hanging out at the Townhouse on KJLH night.”

He turned away. I stared at the back of his head, tried to read his mind.

He asked, “You’re not going to tell Rosa Lee and them good-bye?”

“I hate good-byes. Tell them for me.”

“At least go see Gerri before you raise up.”

I shrugged. Didn’t know if I could handle seeing her mangled body one more time. Didn’t want to have an emotional good-bye. Just wanted to get on the road to freedom. Get to my future.

He asked, “Is that how you treat your friends?”

“I don’t want to leave sad.” Again I shrugged because I didn’t know what else to do. “Give Harmonica and Womack a hug. Kiss Rosa Lee and her babies for me. Kiss Ramona twice. She’s so beautiful. I want to have a baby like her one day.”

The door across the hall opened.

“Naiomi,” Juanita’s voice carried, “I want you out of here.
Now.
”

Vince turned his head toward the demand.

I forgot about being naked and let the covers drop to the brown carpet. Reached down to the floor, grabbed my ripped 501s and pulled them on in a hurry. Hunted for my salmon-colored bra, but it was lost in the sheets.

He opened the door wide enough for us to see out into the hallway. I took baby steps until I was next to Vince. My shoulder touching his arm.

Juanita was there wearing jeans, a UCLA sweatshirt, hair pulled back into a ponytail, face fire red, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Naiomi was barefoot in gray cotton sweats, no makeup, her braids tied up at the top of her head, quivering a little. Right eye bruised.

Juanita stared at Vince like he was the worm inside her apple.

She snapped, “I’m going to do my best to get you out of here too, Vincent Calvary Browne.”

Vince said, “Junior. My name is Vincent Calvary Browne Junior.”

Juanita huffed her way down the stairs.

Vince asked Naiomi, “What happened to your eye?”

“Guess I fell, Mr. Browne.”

Something was bound to happen. Maybe, considering all of the choices, this was actually pretty mild. Not many restful hours had been on that side of the wall, or this. I’d told Vince about Claudio, what had happened at the comedy club. Told him, yes, I’d been intimate with Claudio. Tried to ease my soul. Vince had told me about what went down between him and Naiomi in the garage. Hurt me to hear that. And when Vince wasn’t looking, I went into the bathroom. And I cried like I did the moment the dirt was scattered on my momma’s coffin. Solidified that me and Vince were a done deal. That’s what sex does: it starts relationships and it verifies the end of relationships.

Juanita was at the bottom of the stairs. She yelled up at Naiomi, “Miss Smalls, how long will it take you to gather your belongings?”

Naiomi answered, “Not long. Fifteen minutes.”

That was when I led Vince back inside. I went to the sofa, folded my covers, then sat down and watched Vince gaze out the window. Toward San Bernardino. Then he went down the hallway and looked at my laminated pictures of his kid. He’d put my present up next to the photos of his parents.

I made herbal tea, toast. Offered some to Vince. He declined.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I answered. It was Naiomi. Shades hid the bruise on her eye. In the hallway was a stuffed green military backpack.

Naiomi said, “Miss Smith?”

“Yeah.”

“May I come in?”

“Come on.”

I stepped back. Naiomi came inside. Barely.

My scrutiny went to Vince. His eyes went to Naiomi, then to me. So much uptightness in this crammed space. I released a weary sigh to go with my understanding expression that might’ve looked something like a mother’s smile. Over the last few days, since I’d dumped that luggage holding my leftover love, my spirt had aged, left me feeling much wiser. I wanted to cling to that new feeling inside of me.

Naiomi said, “It only happened once, Miss Smith. I don’t want you to think that Mr. Browne was messing around with me the whole time I knew him. I hope that sounded right.”

I sorta smiled. Not a happy smile, just an I’m cool smile.

“Just once. I was unhappy, for a long time. I went after him. If it makes you feel better knowing that, I went after him.”

I shrugged and said, “We had broke up. He was a free agent. Still is. No biggie. You were human. Less than perfect.”

“The truth be told, imperfection is one of my better qualities.”

“Mine too.”

Vince was living in silence, watching, listening.

I went to the kitchen, took out a bag of frozen peas. My hips sang a simple song of empathy as I handed the peas to Naiomi.

I said just above a whisper, “It’s for your eye.”

Naiomi took the bag. “Thank you, Miss Smith.”

“Where you going, Miss Smalls?”

She shrugged. “North, south, east, or west. All four in due time. It’s a big world out there, and Stocker and Degnan is just an itty-bitty corner on a short block. A beautiful block, but it’s just a block.”

“Any chance that you might be heading toward Harlem?”

“East Coast isn’t my style. Not today anyway. Right now I’m going down the 605 to South Street. Regroup in Cerritos after I square this away. Have to go see my little boy’s brown eyes and lady-killer smile to relax my mind. I’ve been putting it off for a while, but I have to make some hard decisions about my life. You mind if I ask Mr. Browne something?”

“Go right ahead.”

My eyes went to Vince; his went to Naiomi.

She asked him, “You ever hear from Kwanzaa, Mr. Browne?”

Vince told her that Kwanzaa was singing at the mall today.

Naiomi smiled. “Don’t wait too long before you get to be her daddy again. They grow up so fast. Don’t miss the best parts. Don’t let her slip out of your life again.”

Vince’s face was solemn, trapped in thoughts.

Naiomi made it sound like it was just a sex thang, but she cared for him. A lot. It was in her eyes. In her words. In the curve of her lips whenever she looked at Vince. Any woman would be a fool not to care for a man like him. He wasn’t rich, wasn’t half the things that we put on our lists when we’re fantasizing about our knights. He was better.

Naiomi grabbed her duffel bag and threw on a backpack. She told us to take care, grunted and headed down the stairs.

I called after her, “Naiomi?”

“Yeah, Miss Smith?”

“Take care of yourself, too, homegirl.”

She adjusted her backpack, said, “Many blessings to you too. Peace and light on your darkest days.”

Vince reached for the phone about the same time I was closing the door. I wanted to ask who he was calling this early. But instead I stepped to the window, peeped down on Juanita.

The window was open; I heard Juanita ask, “Naiomi, are you really leaving?”

“You told me to leave, so I’m leaving.”

“Wait, sweetheart. Please, baby, please. Naiomi, come back. Wait. Listen to me for a moment. I was upset. Don’t leave me—”

The revving of Naiomi’s Jeep pierced the air. Tires screeched as she pulled away from the curb. Juanita’s hysterical eyes were on Naiomi, lips moving like she was casting some sort of a mumbo-jumbo spell.

Juanita marched around in circles, arms folded. She strayed toward the street, peeped out like she was trying to see if Naiomi was really gone. She leaned against her car, bent over like she was hyperventilating. Crumpled down to the ground and sat on her backside, bowed her head and tugged at the grass.

I’d miss Naiomi too. I’d think about her off and on, do that for years. Yep, I’d miss her. Not the way a person missed friends, but the way a person missed someone they saw or heard every day.

When Naiomi drove her jeep over the dips at Stocker and Degnan and crossed Crenshaw, ten years would go by before I ran into her again. We’d hardly recognize each other. The years will have changed us both. Naiomi would be with her family, rushing to catch a flight to Puerto Villarta, the place she was calling home for that winter season. I’d be with my husband and some close friends, on my way to a ski trip. Seeing her again would be a moment to treasure. Would bring back so many memories.

Vince was on the phone. Soft, tender words going into the receiver, spoke in a stimulating tone that let me know he was talking to a female.

He wasn’t my man anymore. No right to the feelings I had.

But I was human. As imperfect as they came.

I asked, “Who are you talking to?”

“Rosa Lee,” Vince said. He held the receiver out toward me. “Step to the phone and tell her why you’re not going to tell them good-bye.”

Malaika was outside the entrance to Robinson/May, arms folded over her cream-colored mohair outfit. Dark lipstick, lined. High fashion. Malaika shifted, frowned at her watch, made an impatient face.

She said, “You’re late.”

“Sorry. This is my lunch break. Was in a meeting.”

“Remember our arrangement.”

“Same as last time.”

“Same as last time. Please, Vince, stay upstairs.”

Malaika hurried off through the store. Sprouted wings, flew away and left her sweet smell behind. Something about the way she walked away from me like I wasn’t shit bothered me down to my DNA. Like she had told me on the phone, I waited three, four minutes before I went after her.

I grabbed an ivory program, then caught a piece of the rail upstairs, right over the food court where Malaika told me to stand, and gazed down at the stage in the middle of the mall. The chairs were packed, shoulder-to-shoulder crowd leaning against the interior palm trees for the free show. The last black-owned and -operated R&B radio stations was broadcasting live over lunchtime, giving away T-shirts, CDs, the entire promotions thing.

In the middle of the masses, a few girls had on black Dangerous Lyrics T-shirts. I’d seen brothers hawking those shirts on the Shaw, in a variety of colors.

After a preteen hip-hop duo from a record company did a rap and dance, the choir bounced out dressed in black robes with red, green, and gold Kente collars. Kwanzaa was up front with about six other children. Hair in curls, my mother’s sweet features in her face, especially the cheeks. Same eyes. The skinny drummer kicked off a strong beat, the bass and guitar players followed. The lady on the electric keyboard didn’t miss a note. Malaika threw out her million-dollar smile and floated up front, rocking and hand clapping, led the choir into a groove so funky the mall was swept into the spiritual vibe. People stopped moving; conversations under me at the food court died. Teenage girls by the cappuccino stand at the bottom of the escalator started doing some pretty hot moves.

Kwanzaa was passed a cordless microphone. Without hesitation she stepped out with her mother, both waving their hands side to side and singing so strong. I finally got to hear what she sounded like. Kwanzaa had a sweet little girl’s demeanor and a devil of a voice. She held her little head back and raised a hand to the sky, the same thing her momma was doing. When the song was done and the crowd applauded, she left the stage with her mother. My child ran into the arms of Malaika’s husband. He was down there in the crowd. All I saw was his back, his dark hair, but that was him. That was why Malaika wanted me to stay in the rafters, like I was the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

“Vince?”

This was a déjà vu. I had expected to see Naiomi standing near me, don’t know why, could’ve been hope, but it was Dana, dressed in blacks and grays. I didn’t ask her how she knew Kwanzaa was here, maybe I told her. Either way, I didn’t question much of anything anymore. Just let it be.

She said, “I hope you don’t mind.”

My eyes went back to the people below.

Dana said, “Kwanzaa can sing her booty off. She’s gonna be a Whitney Houston.”

My child was being carried through the crowd toward the Disney Store. Malaika stalled, broke away from her second husband, peeped up toward me, then dropped her eyes and followed her leader. Held his hand while he held my child. Looking like a family. All I offered was disruption.

I smiled at Dana. “I should’ve listened to you. You were right.”

“About what?”

“They don’t need me. Don’t give a shit about me.”

I left Dana standing near the rail.

When I passed through Sears, people were crowded in front of all the televisions, like they were watching a concert. A high-speed chase was being broadcast live. There was at least one a day.

Somebody said, “It’s that rapper. They’ve been chasing her down the 5 for the last two hours. Looks like she’s trying to get into Mexico.”

Butter Pecan’s face was down in the corner of the screen. I read the CLOSED CAPTION as the words floated by. Parents divorced.

Close to the border, the CHP put down spike strips. Blew out the tires. When the car limped to a halt, they surrounded her.

 

It took ten minutes for me to make it to Fairfax Avenue and Sixty-third Street. Yellow, red, and blue balloons were tied to the lemon trees in the backyard, a few on the wrought iron railing in the front and back. A sign that said the event of the decade was happening in the back was posted out front. Black, various brands of Caucasian, Armenian, Mexican—neighbors had come from as far as two streets in all directions.

Womack said, “Damn-di-damn-damn. Word sure travels fast.”

“It’s turning into a party,” I said.

“That’s what they told Joan of Arc.”

I said, “Hurry up. I gotta get back to work. Running late as it is.”

He was in his daddy’s back door, gazing down at the crowd that was gathering, furrows in his forehead as he chewed his thumbnail down to the skin. A basketball bounced off the rim, ricocheted off the garage and rolled toward the crowd standing in a semicircle. Children were squealing, shouting. Harmonica had rented one of those tent things that kids bounce around in, so around twenty kids were over here for the moment.