Love in a Carry-On Bag (7 page)

“Leaving.”

“Why?” Even though they were fighting, she didn’t want to spend Sunday without him. How had it gotten this far?

“Because I need to get the hell away from you.” He threw his bag over his shoulder and pushed past her to the living room, scanning the area to make sure he had everything. His laptop sat on the coffee table and he quickly shoved it in his bag.

“You haven’t slept all night. You can’t drive to D.C.” Erica was standing in front of the door.

“Move,” he looked past her.

“Don’t do this,” she softened.

“This past Monday I missed one of the biggest gigs of my life providing for you and you still find something to complain about.” He flicked his hand in the air. “The fuck out of my way.”

“No,” she crossed her arms. Warren was in her face and breathing hard but she couldn’t let him go. “Just stay so we can talk about this.”

“I said move.”

She didn’t budge. He asked her three more times, but she held her ground. Warren was smoking hot. Erica really knew how to push his buttons.

“Get,” he shouted and then without thinking his fist swiped at the table lamp, knocking it to the floor. Porcelain pieces split into jagged edges and the bulb flicked yellow before flashing out.

The whites of his eyes had darkened, “I don’t want to see you,” he pointed his finger in her face and fear sliced through her like scissors. He pushed past her, leaving the front door wide open.

“Bastard,” she yelled after him, and then picked up a magazine and flung it at his head, just missing. “Go to hell.”

Warren’s footsteps pounded down the four flights of stairs as if he was angry with the linoleum.

Erica breathed back tears, looking at the broken piece of her lamp at her feet. The porcelain pieces could have cut her legs or her feet. They had never fought so vehemently before, and even though he took his anger out on the lamp, it felt very much like he was trying to punish her. While picking up the pieces to see if the lamp could be salvaged, she couldn’t help wondering if this was how the violence between her parents had begun.

Chapter Ten

The Cusp

E
rica’s parents married in
the parlor of her grandmother’s house on a watery day in January. It was the mid-seventies and her mother, Gweny, was twelve weeks pregnant. She stood in a white full lace gown with two button gloves fastened at her wrists. Her father wore his good black suit and shiny wingtip shoes. Bottles of homemade wine, corn liquor, and crème ale were set up on a card table with paper doilies and plastic wedding cups. At seventeen Gweny wasn’t old enough to drink, but her cousin ignored legalities, mixing together wine and beer, which they called boilers. She sipped, laughed, and forgot for one night that she was pregnant.

Women had babies in her family but very few married. The ones who did ended up cheated on, abused or abandoned. Growing up Gweny didn’t have one positive example of marriage and family, so young and without instruction she picked her way through her own marriage and motherhood with the baton of failure looming overhead. It almost felt as if failing at it was her destiny. Her husband was a decent provider but his new auto mechanic business often kept him away from the house, leaving her alone with two small girls born twenty-two months apart. Confidence was never Gweny’s strong suit and with no help and her little ones to care for, depression had an easy time finding her on the kitchen floor scraping up peas, in the basement doing the laundry, and on the sofa crying softly over the constant smell of shitty diapers. Her life proved to be a repetitive guilt trip. She longed for an escape from her mundane existence, and found it in Bonnie, a mistress disguised in housewife’s clothes, who one day at the neighborhood bar handed Gweny freedom in a fancy glass.

At first the change in Erica’s mother was subtle. She began oversleeping, and forgot little things like changing the clocks for daylight savings time. The laundry started to pile up and it seemed as if they were eating their dinner from a can more often than not. She was known to run their house on a familiar schedule and like all children, Erica thrived on predictability. Gradually her mother started losing track of time and Erica found herself being picked up later and later from nursery school, until one day she was the last child. The memory was as strong to her as the smell of ammonia, and she could remember waiting on the industrial rugged stairs, wringing her fingers in her four-year-old lap, trying to quiet the urge to poop.

“I’m so sorry,” her mother said the first time it happened, bursting through the double doors fussing with her dark sunglasses, while muttering a stream of excuses. After helping Erica into her scarlet wool coat, she carried her down the stone stairs without paying the late fee. Erica’s ponytails flapped in the wind as she wrapped her arms and legs around her mother, searching for that familiar scent. Inside the car, the stitched vinyl seats were toasty because she had left the engine running, but Erica wanted her mother’s attention and cried that she was still cold.

With her mother hanging out and her father’s short fuse it didn’t take much for their house to fall into a place of conflict. Her mother would come home late and her father would be waiting for her at the door screaming about money missing from his wallet.

“You got a babysitter here every night. Why can’t you stay
home?” he’d roar and the violent moments would stay stamped in Erica’s mind no matter how hard she tried to wash it away: him turning the kitchen table over, splashing her mother’s blouse with spaghetti. In the living room, he hurled a rotary telephone at her, bruising the skin around her eye, and Erica didn’t know if she should help or hide. In the bathroom, her mother’s arm went through a window and Erica fretted that the neighbors would hear. Upstairs, in the long hallway was where her father dragged Gweny by her ankles kicking and screaming and, as she watched, Erica worried that her mother would get a splinter.

Soon her parents stopped sleeping together and her mother became Erica’s burden, moaning and turning in the canopy bed that she had once loved, but now hated to share.

Over the next few
years Erica constructed a shell around herself, searching for her mothering elsewhere. She was a likable girl and had no problem finding nurturing in her favorite card-cataloging librarian, bubbling camp counselor, sugar-faced lunch monitor, or doting classroom teacher. These women were generous with cleavage-filled hugs, nourishing smiles and tongues that spun encouragement. And from the moment Erica stepped into Claire Downing’s sun-drenched corner office, Claire became one of Erica’s women.

President and executive director of B&B’s publicity, Claire Downing was the epitome of corporate professionalism. As one of the highest ranking women in publishing, Claire’s experience spanned close to twenty years. She was credited with building the career of the most successful authors in the history of the business. Her petite five-foot frame commanded respect. When her velveteen voice opened up in a room, everyone listened.

The chemistry between Erica and Claire was apparent in their
first meeting together. Erica was delighted to have the chance to work with a woman who reflected her own ambition and she decided right away to do whatever it took to work side by side with Claire. But that plan came to a halt the moment Edie Butnick, vice president and director of publicity, strolled in with her long legs and narrow eyes, sucking up the air like a parched potted plant.

“You’ll report directly to Edie,” Claire introduced the woman as her right hand and Erica soon discovered that just as the Christians believed that the way to God was through Jesus Christ, in the publicity department the only way to Claire was through Edie.

From Erica’s first encounter with Edie it was apparent that they were as likely to get along as oil and water. Edie looked down her nose at Erica and had a tendency to talk in a condescending voice that Erica found offensive. She was a knit-picking control freak who didn’t hesitate to call Erica at home on things that could be solved the next morning. Worse, she was constantly removing Erica from projects she started and giving them to other publicists to finish. Whenever Edie pulled one of these stunts, she explained that she was putting Erica on books that were a higher priority to the House. This would have been flattering coming from Claire, but from Edie it just aggravated the issues between them.

So on that Monday morning after her blow up with Warren, Erica heard a light tap on her office door and was astonished and surprised to see Claire breeze in. Women as high up on the chain as Claire never visited their subordinate’s offices, and Erica sat up taller in her chair to greet her.

“Good morning,” Erica smiled.

“Always here early.” Claire’s designer sling backs carried her to the empty chair in front of Erica’s desk. The soft wool coat she wore was opened and the fluorescent overhead light twinkled
against the gumball diamonds dripping from her ears, throat and ring finger. Erica touched the hem of her gray sheath dress. It was one of the more expensive pieces she owned, and she was happy that she was well dressed for this impromptu occasion.

“How was your weekend?” she asked Claire.

“Busy, Reverend Black is holding a major conference down in Atlanta and I’ve been on the phone with his people all weekend hammering out details. It’s a big deal even though we just found out about it.” Claire gave Erica a knowing look.

“Anyway, everything is set—the press conference, dinner, and a satellite tour. Black will be promoting the
Powerful Men
book and audiotape. His office wants us there for show. No one from editorial is available and Edie can’t travel, so I’m taking you.”

If pigs could fly there would be one buzzing around in her office. Erica couldn’t contain her disbelief.

“Don’t look so surprised.” Claire pushed a file across the desk towards Erica. “You know you are my go-to-girl. This trip should be interesting.”

“Thanks so much. I’m looking forward to it,” said Erica, and before she could add to the conversation Claire was on her feet cruising out on the same air she sailed in on.

She called over her shoulder, “We’ll meet again after lunch.”

Alone, Erica pumped her fist in the air. Her insides were turning as she got to her feet, dancing a hip-shaking jig. This was it. The opportunity had finally come for her to prove herself. She had been pulled in on the Reverend Black campaign, a coup in itself and the sweet strawberry on top was that she was going to Atlanta with Claire. Just the two of them, without Edie breathing her dragon breath down her neck. What would she wear? Her mind was working through her wardrobe as she flipped through the folder that Claire had given her. For the tiniest moment, she
had forgotten that Warren hadn’t called last night when he got home nor had he phoned her this morning. It had felt like her entire life was intact. Then, on page three, she saw scribbled in Claire’s curvy handwriting that the trip was scheduled for this coming weekend. Erica fell back against her seat.

Why was she even surprised? Nothing ever came easy.

Chapter Eleven

Dad Knows Best

A
s soon as Warren
skidded away from the curb, he knew that smashing Erica’s lamp was wrong. He hadn’t meant to lose control, but it pissed him off that Erica didn’t even try to understand his position. Why did she always insist on making the fight him versus her, when really the fight was them versus the distance? And where was all this pressure coming from? In the year and few months that they had dated, the couple had never missed a weekend. Didn’t that speak to his dedication to her?

The light drizzle elevated to a windy storm, and the rain splattered against his windshield on the ride down the New Jersey Turnpike. By the time he crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge, he had run out of adrenaline. The tasteless cup of coffee he had picked up at a bodega on 135th and Madison sat cold and abandoned in the cup holder on his right. Sleep deprivation caught him by the toe, and he wrestled his vehicle into the parking lot of the Rest Area. His SUV had tinted windows, so he climbed into the spacious backseat and made a pillow with his scarf. Lying there, he thought about how many times he and Erica had made love in that very spot.

It was like a weekly ritual for them. They would carry their portable chairs to Central Park’s Summerstage with mixed drinks disguised in soda bottles. When the show was over, they would giggle their way into the backseat for a steamy romp. The windows would fog and the air conditioning could never cool their flaming bodies. Warren wanted that time back, when every moment flowed with effortless ease. He drifted to sleep with those memories rolling through his head. Two hours later, his cell phone vibrated against his hip. It was his father. Warren straightened up in his seat.

“Sir,” he cleared his throat.

“Son, how are you?” his father’s voice boomed.

“Fine. Heading back from New York.”

“Maybe we could do an early dinner or something when you get into town.”

Warren looked at the clock on the dashboard. “I should be home in about two hours.”

“Great, I’ll be at the Willard.”

The valet attendant opened
the driver’s door and Warren stepped out in front of the Willard hotel, two blocks from the White House. He was still wearing his all black ensemble and was pleased that it was wrinkle free. Walking through the lobby, Warren passed the hand-crafted fireplace, china flower vases and sofa tables. The hotel was a bit gaudy for his taste with all of its Persian rugs and antique chairs, but it was his father’s favorite place to dine.

Inside the Willard Room Restaurant, his dad was already seated at a center table, bent over the Sunday Post drinking a cup of coffee, looking very much at home.

“Son,” he rose, pulling Warren into a hug.

“Afternoon, Sir.”

Warren took the seat opposite him and opened his menu. The pianist sitting at the baby grand started to play a composition of Bach’s. Warren knew the tune well because the composer had
been one of his mother’s favorites.

“How was your trip?” His father looked up. Maynard Prince was a youthful-acting older man with a full head of salt and pepper waves. His skin was the same rich brown as Warren’s, but he stood an inch shorter. He wore a navy blue suit with a canary yellow shirt opened at the collar and a gold link chain that had been his grandfather’s around his neck.

“It wasn’t bad. Traffic was easy.”

The pointy nosed waiter approached the table. “Good afternoon, can I interest you in something to drink, Sir?” He sounded nasal.

“Dad, you ready to order? I’m starved.” Warren hadn’t eaten since his breakfast with Erica and with all of the fighting, it hadn’t stuck.

“Just the lobster bisque,” he said. Warren ordered grilled shrimp and lamb sirloin.

The waiter took the menus and disappeared.

“Stan called me. Congrats on the extension.”

Warren felt the smile start down in his belly and drift up to his face. His father didn’t dole out praise often, and he was glad to be on the receiving end.

“It’s a big step for you.” He tossed his newspaper aside. “So I can’t understand why you were the last to sign?”

Warren draped his napkin across his lap, hating that his father knew everything that happened at work. It was one of the downsides of the job. Snitches were everywhere.

“I was just trying to figure some things out with Erica and the music.”

“What’s there to figure out?”

“She wants me to move to New York.”

“And do what?”

Warren hesitated. “Concentrate more on my music.”

“Son, please. Don’t start that starving artist, hippy bullshit.” His father flipped his vintage watch around on his wrist.

The waiter appeared with an iced tea for Warren and fresh coffee for his father.

“With your new contract, you are making more money than any of your friends. Keep climbing that ladder. Stan says sky’s the limit.”

But at what cost to his soul, Warren thought, chewing the side of his lip.

“Trust me,” his father continued, as if answering his thoughts. “Erica doesn’t want some man depending on her for a glass of water. That gets old real quick.”

The waiter dropped off the first course and Warren plunged his shrimp into the drawn butter.

“Have you dry cleaned your tux for Friday night?”

Warren looked blank.

“Son, tell me you have not forgotten about the ‘Man of Honor’ dinner this Friday. I bought a table for your coworkers at two hundred dollars a plate.”

With everything going on, it had slipped Warren’s mind. “I’ll drop it off tonight.”

“You really must stop waiting until the last minute to do things. There’s no room for error.”

Warren knew that all too well. The main course was served and, as his father chatted over the details for Friday, Warren’s mind wandered over to the piano.