Naughtier than Nice (20 page)

By the time I looked back, Franklin was on the ground, on the gravel, cursing. Driver was over him, gloved fists doubled, leg cocked back like he was about to kick a game-winning field goal, prepared to kick Franklin in his ribs, his head, in whatever part of his body was uncovered. I thought Driver was bluffing, but I realized he wasn't the kind of man who bluffed. He kicked Franklin hard. I couldn't stop the first kick. I didn't want to stop the first kick. Or the second. The third kick was hard enough to send Franklin back to Alabama.

Driver spat to the left of Franklin, then said, “Franklin, stay down until we leave. Do not follow us. Do not contact Miss McBroom. Do not fool yourself—and there are two ways to be a fool. One is to believe what isn't true, and the other is to refuse to believe what is true. This is true. Next time you go down, you'll be six feet under the people already six feet under.”

Franklin's ego pulled him up to his knees. He was going after Driver. He yelled that he was going to kick some ass. That primal growl—one that sounded like the gruff noises weight lifters made when they had lifted three times their weight—its coarseness scared me and I turned and raced toward the car.

There were grunts like a man had become a punching bag. When I made it to the car I looked back into the darkness. It was quiet now. Driver marched toward me. When he was closer I saw he was undamaged, but his suit coat was ripped. Franklin was on
the ground again. This time he was holding his bloodied nose. He tried to get up, looked as steady as a newborn deer. He collapsed. He tried again and made it to his feet. He bent over, let his blood drain into the dirt to make mud as red as Georgia clay.

Driver said, “Miss McBroom, you will receive an invoice for the suit.”

“For the repairs?”

“No, for a new suit. This one is ruined and officially yours.”

Driver helped me ease into the backseat. Within a second, he was in the front. He did a three-point turn and headed down the winding road named Hetzler. All of a sudden the street name looked too much like
helter-skelter
. Confused. Disorderly. On edge, shaking, headlights brightened the back of my head, and my heart wanted to explode as I looked behind us. Franklin flashed his lights, sped up behind us, revved his engine like he was going to force us off the side of the cliff and make us crash on the houses below. Driver slowed down, dared him to try. Then Driver stopped at an angle that didn't leave enough room for Franklin to pass us on either side of the two-lane road to darkness. Headlights flashed. I looked at Driver's reflection and saw the kind of anger I had never seen on the face of a man.

Driver got out of the car and faced Franklin's car before he popped the trunk. He took out a sledgehammer, and like John Henry, he raised it up and brought it down on the hood of Franklin's car.

I screamed.

The short-handle sledgehammer came down again.

I screamed again.

Franklin threw his car in reverse, his tires screeching across the blacktop. He became a coward and ran the fuck away.

Driver put the sledgehammer in the car, on the passenger seat, then he eased back in and put the car in drive. He crept down the
hill, did no more than five miles an hour for the remainder of the descent. That was the longest ride I'd ever experienced. When we made it to Jefferson, Driver turned left.

Franklin sped, exited the snaking hill, his car now a one-eyed wreck. My ambitious stalker turned left too. He followed us down the four lane, high-traffic street until we passed Crystal Rose, flashed his surviving headlight, but at Duquesne Avenue, Franklin made an abrupt, screeching right, sped toward Washington Boulevard.

Driver said, “The road he turned on, the Culver City Police Department is about a half mile up.”

“I don't want the police in my business.”

Driver said, “No police involvement means there is something you don't want exposed. Everyone who has been intimate leaves something behind they don't want the world to know, especially women.”

“Well, Driver, this is where I stop answering questions.”

“I wasn't going to ask for any specifics, was just offering my summary. If he has something to lose, that changes things, tells me how far things can go on this end to resolve things on that end.”

“I don't want it to get out of control. More important than it all, I have sisters and I don't want them to know. I'm the oldest. I'm supposed to be the example. I'm not supposed to be doing stupid shit.”

Driver said, “More tissue is in the center console.”

“I need another box, yeah. Sorry for breaking down like this.”

“I will circle the neighboring cities. No extra charge. Clock is off. The wind-down is on me.”

Trembling, I asked, “Think he's going to CCPD?”

Driver shook his head. “He knows better.”

“He crossed the line with me.”

“With me too. Two things you never touch: a man's woman and a man's ride. But you would know better than I do if he's the type of man who will run to Johnny Law.”

“He's done things he doesn't want exposed.”

“So he's done things that have left him vulnerable.”

I wanted to keep it to myself, but I told Driver that my car had been given an acid bath, told him about my business being bricked.

He said, “You left a lot out of the equation. If he's that kind of a man, that changes everything, Miss McBroom.”

“Who does this shit?”

“There are two types of love: The kind where you love someone and all you want for them is the best. Then there is the selfish kind, where you'll stop at nothing to have them for yourself. Some men will destroy a woman if he can't have her, same thing some women will do to a man if she can't have her way. You have to deal with crazy in a special kind of way.”

He drove me through Culver City, took the long route toward Loyola Marymount, then back toward Inglewood, stayed under the speed limit, let traffic rush by, gave me time to think, to ask myself how in the world I ended up here.

Again my cellular buzzed. My nerves were on fire until I saw it was a text message from Livvy. She was still up. Palms dank, hands trembling, I ignored the message, but two minutes later, when I wasn't crying as much, I tried to call Livvy back. I had to keep up the façade of normalcy. Olivia didn't answer. It was almost ten. Tommie was probably in bed, in mommy mode, with Mo crawling between her and Blue. Livvy's married ass was probably in bed, sleeping naked with Tony on love-stained sheets.

I leaned my head against the window as the county of Los Angeles went by, tears falling.

Driver asked, “You okay back there?”

“I have to be up by five to pick up my youngest sister before sunrise. We're running the marathon in the morning.”

“I'll get you back to your home right away.”

“I'm not ready to go home to bad memories. I doubt if I'll be able to sleep after a night like this.”

“Tell me where you want to go from here, Miss McBroom.”

“I really feel like going to a dive bar and getting wasted with a bunch of losers.”

“Heard of a hole-in-the-wall juke joint in South Central called Backbiters and Syndicators?”

“Never have. What's the crowd like in that zip code?”

“People like me go there, occasionally people like you.”

“Heartbroken?”

“Just broken.”

Blue and I jerked awake when his iPhone rang. It was Angela's ringtone. It was way past late and Monica's mother was calling his cell phone. I pulled the covers back, was going to go for his phone, but Blue answered. On my back, eyes closed, ears open, I listened. He frowned, said a few words to her, groaned, cursed, and hung up. He didn't look at me, sat staring at the wall, grinding his teeth. He stood and picked up his pants.

I asked, “Where are you going this time of the night?”

He said, “Mo's mother has a little issue right now.”

“What's going on?”

“She had too much to drink and needs a ride home.”

“Then she should call a taxi or Uber, not you.”

“She went to some Beyoncé tribute thing at Savoy in Inglewood. Dangerous area. Taxis and Ubers don't go there.”

“Her being too drunk to drive is
not your problem
.”

“Tommie, please don't start. We were doing so well the last couple of days.”

“She calls. You jump. I don't like how that makes me feel, Blue.”

“You don't like it and I don't like it, but part of being an adult is
doing shit we don't like
.”

I snapped back at him, “
She's not a child.
”

“No
she's not a child,
but if Angela were Frankie, or Livvy, wouldn't you want someone to make sure they got home okay? Doing what's right doesn't mean doing what's comfortable. Didn't I just run to try to help Frankie when someone poured battery acid
all over her car? Don't I help your sisters all times of the day or night, and never once have I complained about it being inconvenient?”

“Stop enabling her. Stop giving in to her.”

Blue sighed, pulled on distressed jeans and a T-shirt, and grabbed a jacket, his decision made.

While I stood with my arms folded across my breasts, he walked out the door. His car started. Headlights came on. His car pulled away. I didn't know how to deal with this. I didn't have the tools.

I went to the bedroom, put my hand on my Bible, cried out to the Lord in my trouble, begged him to deliver me from this ongoing distress, to make the storm be still, for the waves of the sea to be hushed.

I went and checked on Mo.

She woke up. “Mommy?”

I said, “Scoot over, Mo.”

She did. I eased into her twin bed with her.

My phone hummed with a text from Livvy.

Change of plans. See you at Marker 20.

Thought you were going to meet us at Marker 13?

Dead tired, just showered, crawling in bed now.

Can I call you before you go to sleep?

There was no response. I called her anyway, and it went to her voice mail right away. Her phone was off. Wasn't going to wake Frankie. I had to handle my troubles myself. My cellular rang and I jumped. Blue's ringtone. I let it go to voice mail. I left Mo's bedroom and went back to mine, sat on the bed, mumbling.

Minutes later I heard noises at the front door. Blue was back sooner than I expected.

He yelled my name in a piercing and angst-filled way that sent a chill down my spine.

I hurried down the hallway and saw that he was soaking wet. He wasn't alone. He held his drunken ex in his strong arms. He'd brought her into my house. He'd brought the devil into my home.

Blue held Mo's mother in his arms like she was an unconscious rag doll, her suntanned skin sticking to his buttery complexion, both soaking wet, rain dripping from both of them, her face nestled in his neck, her arms around his shoulders, one of his hands holding her back and the other holding her juicy booty to keep her from falling and crashing to the floor. She was so inebriated he had to carry her like a bag of groceries. My nostrils flared and I lost the ability to breathe. She didn't have on a bra, and her breasts had fallen out. Pink nipples stared at me. No shoes were on her feet. Her blond hair was shaved on one side, just like mine was shaved, only the rest of hers was in a Sons of Liberty Mohawk painted with streaks of purple and pink and red. I stared at the caricature he held in his bulging arms. He held her tight, with concern. It looked like they'd married and he was carrying her across the threshold.

Blue said, “It was worse than I expected.”

“Blue, you can't just bring her here . . . into my home . . . not like that.”

“I tried to call you four times to see if this was okay.”

“You were supposed to take that Beyoncé chaser to her apartment in Carson.”

“She's too drunk. Could barely get her in my car without dropping her on her head.”

“Why didn't you leave Angela at that motel on Slauson between La Brea and Overhill?”

“She could pass out and choke to death on her own puke. I can't
pull up at a motel, get a room, and drop off a drunken woman, then speed away. Since I picked her up, by law, now I'm responsible.”

“You're responsible for the irresponsible, and bring her here so I can be responsible for her irresponsible ass too?”

“Make this easier for me, Tommie. I don't like this situation any more than you do.”

“I asked you not to go get her. I asked you not to get involved. This is on you, Blue.”

“Let's not do this. What's done is done and I could really use your help right now.”

“Look at this. I'll bet you wish you had gotten that vasectomy a lot earlier now.”

Monica's bedroom door opened; I heard her feet sticking to the wooden floor as she came out of her room. I called for her to go back to her room, but that only made her that much more curious.

Then Mo was there, wearing her pink Supergirl pajamas, golden hair in a sweet ponytail.

A look of horror and confusion covered her face, like a kid having a bad dream.

Monica began to weep. “Mom?”

At the same time her drunken mother and I answered, “Yes?”

Monica was looking at Angela, not at me. It was wrong, maybe inaccurate, but in that moment, I felt demoted, like I was about to be dismissed. I had become redundant in the home I'd created.

Blue carried her into the bathroom, sat her down in the shower, turned on the cold water. Angela shrieked and squealed and kicked like she was in the ocean drowning while surrounded by sharks. I wished he had poured bleach and peroxide all over her. Mo held on to me and cried like a newborn.

Just like that I was no longer the important mother in the house. The vampire wore pink lipstick. So did Blue's left cheek. I eased away from the situation, left them in the bathroom, went to the bedroom.

If I stayed, I would lose it. I went and grabbed my prepacked bag. Pulled on tennis shoes.

Blue spoke in a stressed whisper, asked, “What are you doing?”

“She calls, you jump and do what she asks like she's your wife. You don't listen to me. What I say, what I want, becomes irrelevant the moment you hear her voice. You've never broken up.”

“You're really going to leave?”

“Why in the world would you bring her here?”

“
Daddy! Come quick! My mother fell down and bumped her head.”

“Thomasina, if you're going to act immature, if you're leaving, then just shut up and go.”

“Angela is drunk, half-dead, and puking, calling in the middle of the night while I'm here taking care of her daughter; you've brought her to my zip code, to the place where I pay half of the damn mortgage without fail, and I'm the one immature in the middle of all of this fucking bullshit?”

“You know I'm as tired of this as anyone in this house.”

“This is my last night here. When I leave, I ain't coming back.”

“Are you serious?”

“As serious as three new condoms in a borrowed coat in my damn used car. Maybe when I make it back home, the coat pocket will be empty this time. Maybe it should have been empty a long time ago.”

He reached for me and I raised both of my palms, didn't want him to touch me.

I said, “I am through with you. I am done with this drama. Mo has her momma so she'll be cool. I am going to move on and have my own family. I know someone who loves me more than this shit.”

“So you're seeing someone?”

The sounds of a violent regurgitation echoed, followed by powerful pleas to God.

I said, “Go check on your woman, Blue. Run to your baby momma, like you always do.”

I went down the hallway, followed Mo's crying. She became hysterical. She held her mother's hand and cried. The woman lay halfway in and out of the bathroom. Angela managed to raise her head and look up at me with pathetic eyes. Then I looked at Mo, wanted to pull her away, but I knew she'd never abandon her true mother. So I watched her sitting with her mother, saw her tears, and saw her suffering. Mo looked at an enraged version of me. This night would change how she saw me. This night would change me. This night changed everything. I stepped over the sloppiness in the hallway. I stepped over the mess and looked back, let my mind photograph the moment.

Beale Streets was right. This was someone else's family. I had been the maid, the babysitter, the concubine, the fool who had spent her time and last dime taking care of another woman's parental obligation. There were no refunds for this selflessness, and the time lost couldn't be retrieved.

I had no blood ties, so I had no business being there.

This was not my family. This was not my reunion.

Blue asked, “Where are you going?”

“Don't worry about it.”

Monica screamed for me. For the first time I snapped at her and told her to stop calling me her mother. I told her that I wasn't her mother. Her mother was there. I told Monica to go to her mother. I was done with her. I was done pretending. She had her mother. She had her father. She had her family.

I didn't have a damn thing to show for all the years I'd been with them.

I might have been the queen for a while, but she'd been the pope all along.

Seconds later I was out the door, driving away in the rain, fighting a migraine.

I pulled over to the side of the road after I had passed Valley Ridge, turned on my flashers, throat tight and tears falling. I wasn't
married to Blue, but I thought that I had just broken up with the love of my life. Wanted to rip my heart out. It hurt like divorce. It hurt like the death of someone you loved more than life. I wasn't sure if we had just divorced. I wasn't sure at all. But what we had was dead. Tonight, it died. It hurt. A sudden hollow ache in my chest gave me unimaginable agony. I wanted to cut myself. I wanted to take too many pills. I knew a broken heart would heal; it would heal like the mark on my face. I knew I could survive, but it still hurt like hell.