Naughty or Nice (13 page)

We paid the check and on the way to the car we kept pushing on each other, never stopped ragging on each other. The talking took me back. Took all of us back. That was why Frankie drove up Imperial Highway to Prairie and breezed through our old neighborhood.

She slowed in front of our old two-bedroom house on 110th. It had been painted from dark blue to peach. Looked better than it did when we lived and loved there, but the crowd of Mexicans out front let us know that our ghetto pass had been revoked.

Tommie locked her door. “It used to seem so much bigger.”

I nodded. “And, damn, all these two-lane streets seemed hella wider.”

We moved on, but kept looking back.

Tommie said, “That was our house, Sticky Fingers.”

I leaned forward and popped Tommie upside the head. “What did I tell you about that?”

Both of those fools cackled like hens and started ragging on me again.

Frankie said, “Leave Tommie alone, Sticky. You know you used to go into Home Depot and steal everything you could get your grubby little paws on.”

“Frankie, remember how she'd come home with nails, paint brushes, light switches—”

It was two against one. All I could do was fold my arms and try to talk louder.

I yelled, “Because I wanted to fix that raggedy house up. I wanted a nice damn house.”

Frankie said, “Momma saw all the stuff you stole and freaked out.”

Tommie imitated Momma, “If anybody in this house ever ends up at the police station, don't expect me or Bernard to have any pity on your black ass. Whoever got sticky fingers gonna be getting three hots and a cot like your dope-smoking cousins from the East Side.”

“Her dumb ass got caught trying to steal a gallon of paint.”

“Shut up, Frankie.”

“And she was crying . . . the police brought her home . . . she was . . . Lord, she was confessing like she was on Perry Mason . . . begging Momma not to let them take her to Sybil Brand . . .”

“Shut up, Tommie.”

Tommie wouldn't quit. “What do you get when you cross Winona Ryder with Bob Vila? You get Sticky Fingers at Home Depot.”

Frankie howled. “Lord my side is hurting from laughing so hard.”

I said, “You know what? Both of you bitches are getting on my nerves.”

“Did she just call us bitches?”

 

We fought traffic and headed down on La Cienega and Third, became shopping warriors and battled to grab bargains at Old Navy, then hurried over to the Beverly Center. That was the spot to shop. Because when it got dark, the old fat Santa was replaced with a shirtless, sculpted Santa who had a lean Chippendale body. Just like all the other women with pornographic fantasies unabashedly asking Santa if they could sit on his North Pole, we were buck wild, touching his arms and pecs, joking and telling him we wanted him to come down our chimneys.

We shopped and talked for hours, until we were dead on our feet, then rode Sunset and cruised through ritzy neighborhoods looking to see who had the best lights. We always went by this one house in Hollywood Hills that had a live nativity scene. They hired out-of-work actors to dress up like Mary, Joseph, the three wise men, and perform in their front yard once a week.

Frankie said, “These people are half a brain cell from being retarded.”

I said, “Don't say
retarded
. Say
Algernon
. It's literary and people'll think you're smart.”

“Then shut up, Algernon.”

We were all over the city, but a big chunk of my mind was still on our old house back on 110th, thinking about when I was in the third grade and Frankie was in the seventh, the day we came home and saw a beautiful Christmas tree sitting in the corner, waiting to get decorated. Momma had said we wouldn't be able to get us a tree that year. Money was tight.

Momma was sitting in the chair, her cafeteria uniform still on, hands in her lap, tears in her eyes. I hadn't seen her cry like that since Big Momma had died.

I was scared; the first thing I did was run to her, put my arms around her, started thinking about that cancer thing she said her big sister had died from.

I asked, “What's wrong, Momma?”

“Happy tears this time, baby.”

A voice startled me. “Happy tears. The only kind I don't mind seeing.”

That was when I saw this bear-sized man on our old sofa. It was the same man I'd seen in momma's bed. He had a little nappy-headed girl in his lap. The little girl stayed close to him the same way I stayed close to my momma around strangers.

His voice boomed, “Frankie, Olivia, I want 'chall to meet Thomasina.”

He spoke our names like he knew us. I remember that now, so Frankie was with me.

He went on, “We call her 'Sina. This my daughter. In a few months, soon as we get some thangs straightened out, 'chall gonna be sisters, so get to know each other. She's four, so both 'chall gonna be her big sisters, if that's all right with 'chall.”

I remembered it being real quiet, except for Momma's happy tears.

I asked, “What's your name?”

Frankie scrunched her face. “That's Mr. McBroom. He's the janitor at my school.”

Momma tightened her lips. “He's a plumber. Works parttime as a janitor at Woodsworth.”

“He's still the janitor.”

Momma gave Frankie the
shut-the-hell-up
look.

“Bernard McBroom.” He smiled and looked at his baby, then at us. “When we get everything situated, 'chall can call me Bernard if you like.”

Momma wagged a finger at him. “Children shouldn't address adults by their first name.”

He laughed his big hearty laugh.

Frankie said, “Everybody else does.”

Again, Momma gave Frankie a look. “Well, we ain't everybody else, are we, Frankie?”

Most of the time Momma and Frankie were too much alike. Momma was seventeen years older than Frankie and they would go at it more like two sisters than mother-daughter.

Frankie said, “Uh . . . well . . . you marry our momma . . . then can we call you . . . daddy?”

But she had her soft side. The side that wanted a real daddy, just like I did.

He smiled. “If you want, then that's what 'chall call me. Li'l 'Sina can call your momma Momma, if that's what they agree upon. I'll let 'chall women figure that out on your own.”

Something inside me glowed. It lit up the room when I smiled back at him.

Momma went and got the decorations and all of us started decorating the tree. By the time we were done, it was like we were a real family, and Frankie and I were both crying.

Tommie's mother had died two years before. Car accident out in Moreno Valley. Our dad had died four years before that. Got sick all of a sudden and a month later he was gone.

When we were growing up, our neighborhood was a world of latchkey kids being raised by aunts, grandparents, and stepfathers. Then there were the drive-bys and the crack houses.

So in a city where there wasn't any moral fortitude, Momma found a man named Bernard. He looked you in the eye when he talked to you, walked with his head up and chest out. Bernard was as big as a bear, skin as thick as a football's, a brother from
that generation of hardworking men who shaved their fingernails with a pocketknife.

We had a daddy. Momma had a man in the house.

And in the deal, the two Wimberly girls became the three McBroom daughters.

M
y consciousness came back like a good scream.

Something inside me was going off. A warning.

I jerked awake. It took my eyes a moment to focus on the digital clock. It was between three and three thirty in the morning. I had come back home. I was in my marriage bed, as naked as I was on my newlywed night. Our bed was waist-high, the right height to make love with him standing up. Mirrors. Pillows. An armless chair. Silk scarves. All the essentials. I came back to my husband because if I didn't come home to him, I know where I would've gone.

Tony wasn't in bed anymore. His side was warm. I pulled the covers back and the night air chilled my naked flesh, hardened my nipples. Tony's cologne was on my skin, traces of him on my arms, on my hands. Condoms were on the nightstand. A three-pack of Trojans, one used.

I sat up. The light wasn't on in the master bathroom.

Curtains were open so there was enough light for me to make out silhouettes of everything in the room: the unlit candles on the dresser, the French doors, and the armoire.

Something was wrong. Out of place. I stared at the dresser. Couldn't figure it out.

I was about to lie back down and try to get some sleep. Then it hit me.

Before I knew it, I was hurrying across the room, standing in front of the dresser.

My purse was missing. I had left it on the dresser. I always put it on the corner dresser closest to me. I looked on the floor, but I knew it wasn't there because Momma had told us to never put our purses on the floor. Bad luck to do that. I looked in the chair. Not there either.

My purse was missing. My cell phone was missing. My husband was missing.

I was about to scream, but Tony's name caught in my throat. Even though it was dark, I hurried to the bathroom door, turned the handle, pushed it opened. Empty. Same for the guest bedroom, guest bathroom, office, and laundry room. The carpet hid my rushing around while I eased down the stairs. Halfway down, I stopped on the landing and listened. It was quiet, but the glow from underneath the door to the downstairs bathroom betrayed my husband.

I stood in front of the bathroom door, heard him in there going through my belongings. I turned the doorknob. It was locked. Sounded like he jumped and dropped a few things.

My heart sped up and I shouted, “Tony, give me my purse.”

I hit the door with my fist, then turned the handle again.

“Give me my damn purse, Tony.”

I hit the door with my fist again.

The bathroom light went off. The door opened. In the darkness he handed me my purse.

I asked, “Where is my damn cell phone?”

His hand came out in the dark, handed me that too.

I didn't have to look at it to know he'd gone through my cellular phone, looking at phone numbers from missed calls, incoming calls, and outgoing calls. I'd cleared all of those before I came home. I'm not stupid. My phone was on and I know I'd turned it off.

I exploded. “I hope you found what you were looking for.”

“You want me to answer that?”

I ignored his bluff, went into the living room, sat on the carpet facing the fireplace. It was off. The room was dark and cold. I heard him walk into the room behind me.

“Livvy . . . It's too cold to be on the floor naked.”

I didn't turn around. “Tony, don't come near me.”

“At least get a blanket.”

“Keep away.”

His voice was feet away. “Why was your phone vibrating at two in the morning?”

“My phone didn't vibrate because my phone was off.”

“You just thought it was off.”

“So you turned it back on?”

“I didn't turn—”

“Stop lying.”

“Who sent the text—?”

“Why would you violate my privacy—?”

“Because your damn phone was blowing up like Baghdad. No friend would call—”

“For all you know, it could've been my sisters.”

“They would've called the house. That's if they knew you were coming home.”

A headache came on.

He asked, “If it's nothing, why are you scared?”

“I'm not scared. I'm pissed off.”

Then came the tears.

He asked, “You seeing somebody?”

I didn't say anything, just wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. He asked again. Still no answer from me. I never argued the truth. Right now my home felt like my prison.

I said, “I shouldn't have let you fuck me.”

“Why did we have to use a condom?”

“Why you think?”

“I got tested. You got tested. We were fine—”

“I still don't trust you, Tony.”

“Trust? You've been gone for weeks, I can't find you, and you don't trust me?”

“If you would've used a condom with that bitch—”

“Livvy, I told you—fuck it.”

“And you have a lot of nerve questioning whatever I do.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“That's the way it is.”

“You're pretty suspect yourself. We haven't used condoms since—”

“So, is that why you're going through my purse and my phone?”

“You've had a Depo shot, so why would I need to use—?”

“Because I made your hoing ass put on a damn condom?”

My eyes were closed. Cellular phone in my hand. Purse in my lap.

His voice remained behind me. “You know what?”

I didn't respond.

He said, “You didn't delete the text messages.”

I pulled my lips in, then for some reason, I laughed and shook my head.

I asked, “Did you show your mother the pictures of your baby? It has eyes just like you, so that means the kid has eyes just like your mother.”

Tony didn't think it was funny.

I said that to hurt him, but my words only made me feel barren.

“Who were you with in San Diego?”

“Will you give it a rest?”

“Were you alone?”

“Keep away from me, Tony.”

In the movies, this was where the couple went insane, screamed, fought, and tried to kill each other, then the neighbors dialed nine-one-one and the police came, put chalk marks around the scene of a murder-suicide, and the end of your life became fodder for the morning news.

We did kill each other, only we did it with silence.

I opened my eyes and stared at the fireplace. There was no fire.

That was when I noticed a light blinking on and off. The oscillating luminance came from across the street. Colorful, happy lights letting people know Christmas was on the way.

I closed my eyes the way a child did when she was trying to make herself invisible.

Eventually I said, “She had you served at my dinner party. Then she sent pictures to my mailbox. To our house. To this goddamn address. This is our home and it's like she's moving in. She knows the baby is yours, Tony. She wouldn't do some shit like that if she didn't know.”

My eyes stayed closed, my world black. Tony's breathing told me how bad he felt.

I said, “We've spent eight thousand on fucking legal fees. And on top of that, we'll have to pay back child support for damn near a year. Then there is going to be child support every fucking month and . . . visitation.”

He whispered out his frustration, “What can I do to . . . What can I do, Livvy?”

Tony left the room, his footsteps going up the stairs. Then I heard him coming back, each step so heavy. He put a blanket around me, then there was a click. The fireplace came on.

He said, “I love you, but I'm not going to kid myself. I'll call my lawyer tomorrow.”

He went back up the stairs.