Liar's Game (46 page)

Ten years down the road.

I have to deal with tonight.

Right now.

This moment.

I rang the doorbell one time.

The peephole went black. Excited mumbles on the other side.

Dana made it sing a sweet ding-dong twice.

No answer. More mumbles.

I ding-donged it two more times.

Malaika finally answered.

Before I spoke up, Dana cut in, using her real estate voice, “Vince came to see Kwanzaa. Will you go get her, please?”

Malaika’s eyes went to Dana, then to me. “What?”

I spoke above a whisper, “Get my daughter for me, please.”

My ex-wife didn’t move. Neither did my future wife.

Dana added calmly, “Malaika, whether you like it or not, that’s his child. You’re just some sister he met at Mervyn’s.”

Malaika gazed at Dana. “Who do you think you are?”

Dana’s lips curved up into a wicked smile. “A woman he met in a bar.”

I said, “Dana, don’t raise your voice. It’s Kwanzaa’s bedtime.”

“Sorry.”

I turned to Malaika. So much nervousness in her eyes.

Drake was standing in her shadow. Dana was in mine.

I said, “What’s up, Drake?”

He said, “Vince.”

He resembled a buffed Ricky Ricardo. Regina was there, her arms folded, eyes wide, cordless phone in her hand, body rigid.

I showed them open palms, the way African warriors did to show they could be trusted, and said, “I just want to see my daughter.”

Drake held that eye contact. There was no fire in his eyes. No fire in mine. On a rainy night, I’d won that battle and lost the war. I didn’t want what was his. I just wanted what was mine. I nodded. Drake did the same, backed away from the door, but didn’t move too far from his wife’s side. Regina moved too. Malaika pulled Kwanzaa up to the front.

I stayed next to Dana. I was in a lion’s den, but with her I felt no fear. If she was born back in time, she could’ve ruled Cleopatra.

I said, “Hi, Kwanzaa.”

She smiled the way little girls do. “Hello.”

“You’re a beautiful little girl.”

The expression on Malaika’s face was the same as the one I had owned the night I stood on a Santa Monica Pier, baring my soul to Dana.

Malaika stooped down to my child and said, “Kwanzaa, remember what we were talking about?”

“What, Mommy?”

“About why we have different last names?”

“Yes.”

“Remember you asked me if you had two daddies, just like your friend?”

“Like Keisha?”

Malaika’s eyes were getting misty. With a lot of tenderness, a tone that asked forgiveness, she said, “Like Keisha.”

“Yes.”

Malaika’s voice splintered. “And I told you no.”

“I remember.”

“Well, Mommy did a bad thing. Mommy wasn’t honest with you, baby.”

Kwanzaa nodded and held onto my ex-wife, kept her face close to her mother’s breast, but her eyes were on mine. Yes. In her world, I existed.

Acknowledgments

Well, Virginia Jerry’s grandson is back at it again.

 

This book went through quite a few name changes, from the title
Imperfect People
I scribbled across the top of a sheet of typing paper to at last coming to a halt with
Liar’s Game
. My fantastic editor, Audrey LaFehr, came up with the final title. And I dig it.

I love coming up with new characters, new situations. While I was in a writing class at UCLA I had started working on
Liar’s Game
as a mystery with Vince as the lead in the story. Womack was in that story as well, but a very different kinda character. And Harmonica was a crusty old shotgun-carrying bluesman who ran a pool hall. And Dana, that New Yawk woman, was there as well. For me, her subplot with Vince was too strong, pretty much overshadowed the rest of the work. So I moved that part of the story up front and put the rest on the shelf. Like most of the stuff I save, bits and pieces, everything from dialogue to characters, will more than likely pop up in another story somewhere down the line. Yep, the original characters were pretty different. I still like their original story. And hopefully the winds will blow me back in that direction one day. All that is to say, characters evolve, plots change, and some stories take a while to get to their final form. My objective with each book is to write about new characters. Hopefully you’ll find these peeps different from the ones in the other four books
(SS, F&L, MIMC, Cheaters)
I’ve completed so far.

Okay, back to the acks.

I have to thank the peeps at BrownHouse Productions. Steve Lapuk and Debra Chase are the bomb. And Leah Hunter is sooo crazy—not in a
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
way, in a cool way.

I have to thank Yvette Hayward back in New York. I owe her big-time. She took me around the city and helped me with all the New York stuff.

And a big shout out to my ace Tracy L. McKinley in Little Rock, AK. Thanks for that southern-fried tour when I was hanging at Garbo’s bookstore. You be cool like that.

Tiffany Pace, your corrections (you know where!) are invaluable. Now, O ye queen of the LGB, the one who finds all of my mistakes and never lets me live them down, go finish your book!

Genny Ostertag, thanks for the info on “The Biz.”

And no matter how many times she calls me a BONEHEAD, I have to thank Glenda Green for the real estate connection. Without her valuable input, Dana Ann Smith wouldn’t have had a j-o-b. Thanks for letting me call you up damn near every morning and ask all of those questions. You’re the best! I.O.U. lunch at Baja Grill.

Book clubs. All of the groups have been so supportive. I promised the sisters in Phenomenal Woman big PHAT shout out. (Insert SHOUT!) And this go ’round I need to hook up with Pages. And Reading with a Passion. And Jan’s book club. Man, If I don’t mention Tabahani, Denise will talk about me from now until . . . and speaking of
Until
. . . I have to thank Timmothy McCann for having my back. Nice to be working in the biz with a positive brother. Much success to you! Your reviews are motivating for us all!

You know what. This is too much work. Almost like . . . writing a book.

I know what to do!

 

This book would not be possible without _____ ’
s
help. (Fill in your name if I forgot to mention you.) S/He was my inspiration, brought me Kool-Aid when I was thirsty, Colgate when my breath was humming, washed my dirty clothes, yada, yada, uh-huh, whatever.

LOL. Okay, all of that was fun. Now let’s get serious. Thanks to the Creator. Much love to my friends, and thanks to the peeps who enjoy what I write. Thanks for supporting all of the writers who are both established and up-and-coming. Thanks for keeping me out of the unemployment line. I WANNA THANK EVERYBODY IN MY CREW! My wonderful agent (Sara Camilli), my fantastic editor (Audrey LaFehr), everybody in publicity (Lisa Johnson and Sara Golier), and Genny Ostertag.

 

Peace and hugs

 

Virginia Jerry’s grandson signing off. . . .

—Eric Jerome Dickey 02/08/00

 

 

Fog walks the streets. Dark skies give Oaktown that Seattle appeal.

I have on black running tights, white T-shirt, gray St. Patrick’s Day 10K sweatshirt. Nicole wears blue tights and a black hooded sweat top, a red scarf over her golden hair.

We take a slow jog out of the Waterfront, by all the gift shops, head through the light fog. Rows of warehouses that are being converted into lofts line the streets. All in the name of profit and gentrification, the reversal of the White Flight is in progress. The homeless are out peddling
Street Spirit
papers for a buck a pop. The dirt poor, the filthy rich—all live a paper cup away from each other in the land of perpetual oxymorons.

I say, “You want me to meet this chick—”

“Don’t say
chick
. That’s a misogynistic word.”

“Nicer than what I usually call her.”

“Which is disrespectful. Yeah, I think meeting will benefit us all.”

“So this thing with her is pretty serious?”

She smiles because I’ve given up the silent treatment. “It’s serious. There’s more to it.”

Acid swirls in my belly.

Nicole goes on. “I think we can resolve this situation.”

“More like what?” I ask. “What more is there?”

“We . . . just more.” She has a look that tells me this is deeper than it seems, but can’t tell me all, not right now. She says, “Let’s talk while we run.”

We take the incline up Broadway, my mind trying to react to what she just asked me about meeting her soft-legged lover, whirring and clicking and whirring as we jog by the probation department. We come up on a red light and stretch some more while we wait for it to change. The signal makes a
coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo
sound when it changes to green—that good old audio signal for the blind folks heading north and south.

Before we make a step, a Soul Train of impatient drivers almost mows us down.

We jump back. Both of us almost get hit.

Nicole says, “Be careful here, sweetie. This is where all the assholes rush to get on the Tube.”

Someone slows and allows us to cross.

I run behind Nicole. Check out the fluid movement of her thighs. Seven years ago they weren’t so firm. Back then she had a whacked Atlantic Star hairdo that hung over one eye and she looked like Janet Jackson, not the
Velvet Rope
version, but the chubby-faced Penny on
Good Times
version. Now her belly is flat and the muscles in calves rise and fall, lines in her hamstrings appear, her butt tightens; all of that shows how much she’s been running, doing aerobics, hiking up every hill she can find.

It fucks with me. I try not to, don’t want to, but it fucks with me and I can’t help thinking about her being naked with another woman. Keep thinking about all the videos I’ve seen with women serving women satisfaction, but refuse to see Nicole in that light, in that life.

Those silver bracelets jingle as she gets a little ahead of me, not much.

The light at 13th catches Nicole. I catch up and ask, “Why does she want to meet me?”

“Because. Curious, I guess. I love you; she knows that. Sometimes she sounds intimidated.”

“Because I’m a man.”

“Maybe. After seven years, we have a solid history, don’t you think?”

The simple, five-letter word
solid
makes me feel good.

The signal
coo-coos
three times. We run north.

We race the incline toward Telegraph, a liquor store-lined street that leads into good old Berkeley.

I maintain a steady pace and ask, “This hooking up, is this for her, or for you?”

“For me. Because I’m in fucking purgatory.”

“Where do you think I am? I’m standing next to you.”

“Feels like I’m dancing naked on the sun.”

“That sounds painful.”

“Wanna see my blisters?” She clears her throat, spits. “It’s important for her because she needs to get comfortable with my needs, and wants, with my love for you, to be secure. And it’s for you.”

“How in the hell is this hooking up for me?”

“Because I see how much it hurts you. You’re an open book.”

“Don’t go cliché on me.”

She goes on. “Be honest. Would you be this . . . well, for lack of a better word, understanding if I were—”

“I’m not understanding; I don’t understand this whole lesbian shit.”

“I’m not a lesbian,” she says with force. Then she backs off. “Sweetie, I’m not a lesbian.”

I tell her, “Look, I’m being patient. Waiting for you to get through this . . . this . . . this phase.”

“Okay, patient. Would you be acting like a stunt double for Job if I were having a relationship, okay, even living with another man?”

“Hell, no. I’d break his neck. Go Left Eye and burn down the house. Not in that order.”

She says, “Going Left Eye. Now that turns me on. That evil side you try to hide.”

“Try me.”

“I’m serious. I want you two to meet. We have to. I want both of your spirits to be at ease. I want my spirit at ease. I want all of us to be able to have conversations, run races together. That way I don’t have to be stressed and trying to figure out who I’m going to be with. It’s a lose-lose for me, and I’m trying to make it a win-win for us all.”

“So she’s scared of me.”

“You don’t see her as a threat, not the way she sees you as a threat.”

“Nothing that menstruates is a threat to me. Ain’t
scared
of nothing that bleeds.”

“Okay, Mister Macho.”

Nicole has immeasurable passion when she talks about her soft-legged lover. I wonder if, when she’s talking to her friend about me, she speaks with the same heated tongue, one that drips adjectives made of sweet mangos, verbs made of ripe kiwis, says my name as if it were a fresh strawberry.

I say, “So this is for me, you, and her.”

“At this stage in my life, I do know what I want. And I’m going after it. I’m being honest with myself and I have the courage to follow it.”

“How long did you practice that
Fantasy Island
- sounding speech?”

She extends both her middle fingers my way.

I ask, “You want it to be like that?”

“Ideally, yeah. If I could wake up every day knowing I was going to share my life with two people I adore, do that without any stress, yeah, my world would be perfect.”

I say, “World ain’t perfect.”

“Our world can be perfect enough for us. We can create new boundaries, new love.”