Naughtier than Nice (11 page)

Behind that performance erupted the applause of all applauses, an earthquake caused by hand claps. Beale Streets came to the door of the venue, pushed through the crowd, and looked outside.

As Tanya Obayomi limped by, Livvy took a step toward her and asked, “Do you need help?”

The girl waved a hand, the sign of the heartbroken saying they'll be fine one way or another.

Livvy related. When she had found out about Tony's affair, that was how she had felt, the agony, only there was no song. All she had heard was the rhythm of the pain that had been within.

Then she realized what it had been about the girl. She reminded Livvy of Panther. The enviable complexion. The physical
attributes. And now Tanya Obayomi was as heartbroken as Panther had been the last time Livvy had seen her, when Panther begged her to comfort her and Livvy had been cold and rejected her. Livvy had been in pain too. It had been the best of times, and it had been the worst of times.

Tommie's voice shook and her breathing was labored as she asked, “Ready to go?”

“You don't want to go back inside and catch the rest of the performance?”

“I'm done. I'm ready to leave now. Tanya has changed the energy around here, the same way Mo's mother changes the vibe in my house. I mean, who does crap like that? Is her life a musical?”

Then came another interruption.

Livvy said, “Franklin Carruthers is coming toward us.”

“You're joking, right?”

His muscle car eased from the direction of Eso Won. Livvy saw that he had seen them. He passed them, signaled to turn left, but that section was now blocked off to allow pedestrians to meander the way people strolled the promenade in Santa Monica. Franklin turned around and this time, since he was closer to where they were, he stopped, rolled down his window, and called out to them, his face one big smile, like on his bullshit commercials.

He said, “Hey, Livvy. Long time no see, Tommie. I've really missed you guys.”

Livvy said nothing, stared at him, her expression of disgust carved in stone.

Tommie exploded, “How's your wife, Franklin? How's that bitch doing, asshole?”

Franklin drove away, tooted his horn as a good-bye.

Livvy asked, “Tommie, we leaving or what?”

“Let that asshole get out of my zip code first. I run into him before I get to my car, I swear to God I'll catch a case.”

“We'll catch two cases.”

Loud applause came from World Stage.

Livvy followed Tommie's anxious walk back to stand in the door and watch Beale Streets. It was like watching a young preacher and his soul-filled congregation.

Livvy said, “Those hazel eyes have these Afrocentric sisters' panties as wet as the Nile River.”

“Be quiet so I can hear Beale Streets.”

After listening, Livvy whispered, “Wow. I never knew that America wasn't a true democracy but was a polyarchy.”

“Hush. This next piece about Africans in Israel is deep.”

Minutes later Livvy said, “He's profound and has humor, charm, and poise. Handsome. No wonder that girl lost her mind.”

“Quiet, Livvy. This is his closing. Show some respect and learn something about the world.”

When his presentation was done, after he had informed, entertained, outraged, and enamored all, they stayed outside. The audience filed out of World Stage, brought conversation to the pavement in Leimert Park. Beautiful sisters whispered, both young and old enough to be Beale Streets's mother, said they imagined him, their young, prosperous, and sexy cunning linguist, engaged in cunnilingus.

What Tanya Obayomi had done seemed to have made him that much more desirable. He'd done something right to make her act like that. He'd done something right, left, and center.

Young black men stopped near them and soon it was a group conversation, one that echoed the theme of many of the poets. The killing of unarmed black men was once again the hot topic, talk of how history repeats again and again, and never in favor of the black man. They talked about how white artists were appropriating black culture the same way Elvis and the Rolling Stones had become rich from the black man's blues. Everything was stolen, even dreams. Beale Streets emerged from World Stage. Straight-leg jeans, striped shirt, bow tie, awesome blue wing-tip shoes. His Afro was
wild, untamed, very flattering. In that moment Livvy wanted to touch his mane; it was rebellious, heritage proud, and sexy. Beale Streets looked toward her and Tommie, nodded, then went back inside World Stage.

Livvy said, “His name is Beale Streets. Is he from Memphis?”

“He's never been to Memphis. He told me that he'd never been there, but his adoptive parents were blues fans. They met on Beale Street when they were both attending college at the University of Memphis. Their surname is Streets. The father had changed his name to Streets to avoid stigma and xenophobia. A foreigner with a name hard to pronounce in America is the same as a black woman having LaKisa or LaQuinisha across the top of her résumé. Name too Jewish, name too black, name too Mexican, and if you have a Muslim name you're the most fucked of the fucked. You're still prejudged, or judged, by your name. Anyway. He changed it to Streets and doors opened and I guess America liked him more. They have an interesting story as well. When he was adopted, they gave him the name Beale.”

“What was his name before it was Beale?”

“Never asked him.”

Livvy shrugged. “Whatever. Beale Streets. His name is weird. That's like me living on Crenshaw Boulevard and naming my kid Crenshaw Boulevard. Who does that?”

“Let it go.”

“Whatever. It's weird. That's all I'm saying.”

Tommie called home, told Blue she was with Livvy before Monica got on the phone.

Tommie said, “We're going to kick it a bit. Go to bed, little girl. Okay. Hold on.”

At that moment Livvy's phone buzzed. It was a text message from Dr. Ashley.

She had sent her a smiley face, nothing more.

Livvy sent her a smiley face in return. She tingled. She grinned.

She glanced down at her right ankle, at her anklet.

She glanced at the symbol.

Tommie handed her phone to Livvy. Monica wanted to say hello, asked her auntie Livvy to sing the name song; then Livvy gave the phone back to Tommie. What Tommie had, that was the way Livvy had always wanted her life to be with Tony. The youngest McBroom had the best relationship.

Driving fast, I turned down Grayburn Avenue, one street before Edgehill Drive, where I lived.

Beale Streets's SUV was already pulled to the side of the road, parked in the middle of the block on that residential strip. I parked behind him, then hurried and got in his ride on the passenger side. I had stopped to make out with him, to steal a good-night kiss, then run home. That was the plan. Our lips touched before there was a chance to say hello, and right away, things escalated. Music played low. World music. Songs by the artist named Sampha. As the songs “Too Much” and “Happens” played, we kissed.

Seamlessly, we evolved from kissing to petting. He pulled up my top, unsnapped my bra, and sucked my breasts. I unzipped his pants and masturbated him. He tried to put his hands in my pants, but my skinny jeans were too tight. I let my seat back and pulled my pants down below my knees so I could open my legs. He fingered me, massaged me. He let his seat back. I slid off my borrowed Louboutins and climbed over to his side, my borrowed jewelry jingling with every movement. There wasn't enough room. The steering wheel was pressed against my back and would leave a mark, so we played Twister. I moved and he pried himself from underneath me before climbing over the gearshift, bumping the rearview mirror along the way. We were laughing until he was in the passenger seat. He pushed the seat as far back as it could go, made it as horizontal as possible, and I took a deep breath, took in
the neighborhood, let two cars go by, their headlights in our faces, before I found the nerve and climbed over. I sat on him so I could see the neighborhood, so I could see trouble, because it was the hour of carjackings and robberies. It was also the prime time for police harassment, when videos could only capture the shadows of abuse. Moving like a Kizomba dancer, I rode him facing the windshield; my hands gripped the dash for support, and I felt him grow inside me as I continued to watch the neighborhood. It was too hard to focus, plus I couldn't move the way I wanted to, so it frustrated me, and I didn't want another car to come down Grayburn. What we were doing would be too damn obvious. I crawled across the armrest into the backseat. Beale followed me. Another car passed by and we froze. I hoped it was no one who would recognize my ride, then come to see if I was having car problems. I hoped no one had called the police. Whoever it was pulled into the house two driveways away. Beale sat up and I straddled him, kissed him, sucked his tongue, and had more room to go up and down, not much, but enough to feel the length of what was inside me. The SUV rocked. I tried to rock it until it flipped. Wasn't easy doing it inside a vehicle. I still needed more room. I had to get off him so he could reach and let both front seats all the way forward. That was better. We had more room. Then he rocked it man-on-top. It was so damn good. I fantasized while he grunted and went deep. I imagined us being outside in the cool night air, him going down on me while I sat on the hood and rested my legs on his shoulders, the angle of the SUV's hood and gravity pulling me down on his tongue. Imagined leaning over the hood and him taking me from behind, inhaling fresh air at the same time. Imagined sucking him while he drove down Sunset Boulevard, the bright lights falling across my back as I gave his appendage an eye-watering massage.

My first words to him were when I whispered my mantra, “Don't come inside me.”

When we were done, I expected to look up and see LAPD outside our fogged-over window. No one was there. I cleaned myself with wipes before I pulled my pants back up. Beale pulled his back on, then leaned forward and hit the power switch to let the windows down a bit. It had become stuffy and the windows were steamed over. We sat there a moment, winded by our quickie, panting in a post-orgasmic haze. We hadn't planned on having a Roc and Shay moment on the side of the road, hadn't imagined us doing anything in my zip code.

With the windows up, it had felt like the greenhouse effect. I was hot, sweaty, uncomfortable, could smell his cologne mixed with my perfume. That scared me. I needed to cool off before I drove to my home.

I had left Livvy fifteen minutes ago. She should just have been getting home. If I went by her house to take a shower, she'd ask questions. I would have to creep home, get to the bathroom. I was tripping, hoping Blue was in bed, sleeping.

Beale said, “Monica's mom piss you off again?”

“Tanya Obayomi pissed me off.”

“Is that the only reason you chose to abuse me on the side of the road?”

“That thing that Tanya Obayomi did . . . how everyone applauded for her like they wanted you to run out and catch her and kiss her like she was the woman of your dreams, that left me a little irritated.”

“It mattered to you. You're jealous. That means you're in love with me.”

“I'm catching feelings.”

“The more you're in love with me, the less you will be with Blue. I need you to forget that he exists.”

“You want Blue to become insignificant and I want Tanya to leave the West Coast and go back to the coast of West Africa. Let her go to the motherland and sing background for Tiwa Savage, or
work on her own thing. She's trying to be Tiwa any-damn-way, from head to freakin' toe. She probably wakes up singing ‘Folarin.' Keep that heifer out of my space.”

“Wow, Tommie. All I can say is . . . wow.”

“I know I have no right to feel that way, that it's hypocritical, and I know it sounds mean, but it's how I feel.”

“Blue will become insignificant. He will be outside your door singing and you'll ignore him.”

“And Monica? Since you can see my future so clearly, please tell me, what will become of Monica, O ye Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come? Will she be fine or is there a crutch sitting in the corner?”

“The moment you have your own child, the love you have for her, that obsession, it will go away and you will refocus. You will love your child and wonder how you ever loved another woman's child.”

“You're speaking on things beyond the realm of your understanding.”

Beale let his window down some more and said, “I'm going to kick it at Club Mapona tonight.”

I fanned myself, made the cool breeze chill the sweat droplets before I responded, “For real?”

“I want you to go with me. That would be so fleek, me and you walking into the club together.”

“I can't go and hang out in Hollywood with you. I can sneak and meet you at Runyon to work out, or go catch lunch with you at Islands, or connect with you far away in Santa Monica to have coffee, but I can't go out with you on a date at night in Hollywood, not when I have a family at home.”

“Want to take you. I need you to find a way to go out with me. I need you to find a way for me to introduce you to the people I know, so they will know that the anonymous woman I talk about really exists.”

“You tell your friends about me?”

“I tell them about you and they think you are a figment of my imagination.”

I was flattered. I smiled and bit the corner of my lip, entranced by his eyes the same way Livvy and Frankie were entranced by shoes, purses, and hairstyles. He'd become my secret, my fetish.

He said, “Have to say this, because this is on my mind right now, and we're always honest with each other. You did the piece you wrote for Blue. Don't ever perform that in front of me again.”

“Why are you tripping, Beale? I have done that piece in front of you at least ten times before.”

“And each time I have hated it. It's not your best work. It's the equivalent of rap music when I know you're capable of a piece that rivals Beethoven. What you did only appeals to the base senses.”

“Did you miss the standing ovation?”

“You're better than that old piece of work.”

“Not every piece will be like Maya or Toni or Chimamanda.”

“I need you to write about me, about us. I want people to be envious and applaud what we have.”

“Be professional when it comes to our work, Beale.”

“I am being professional.”

“Intellect without emotional maturity is pointless.”

“You don't think I'm emotionally mature? I'm not the one living a lie, Tommie.”

His phone chimed. Someone had sent him a text message. He didn't look at the phone. I was so close I would have been able to read the screen. There was no time for extreme jealousy, not tonight.

I said, “I have to go.”

“Talk to you tomorrow.”

We kissed good-bye. It was one of those kisses almost impossible to pull away from.

My bones would not be able to support being two women for much longer.