Naughty or Nice (19 page)

I traced my fingers over his handwriting, felt like I was touching him.

I sat in the chair, opened one of my presents. Lingerie from Victoria's Secret. I opened another. Thongs and bras. Then another. It was a vibrator, girthy and long, but not too long.

It wiggled when I clicked it on. My laughter filled the room.

I opened his note. It had one word written inside:
CLOSET
.

I went to the closet. The door was swollen, a little hard to open.

There were clothes. Pretty clothes from Macy's, Banana Republic, and Kenneth Cole. All in size eight. As if he were telling me he desired me as I am now, without change.

Boxes of shoes were on the floor. All size eight.

I wondered how he knew my sizes; then I remembered he had asked me in San Diego, I had moaned out my sizes when he was sucking my toes.

The shoes had me going crazy.

Bebe. Enzo. Nine West. But the ones that made me scream and prance around were the Lucite and leather T-strap Manolo Blahniks.

I'm not a materialistic woman, but the shoe whore in me sparked to life. I jumped up and down, wanted to call Tommie, call Frankie, but I knew I couldn't.

They don't know Bird. They only know Livvy.

I took off all my clothes, put on the Manolo Blahniks, modeled naked for a while. Had to, because nothing in that closet did these shoes any justice. Shoes like these were an aphrodisiac, made something inside me burn, tingle, and ache for Carpe to come to me.

I pulled the covers back on the bed, held the card in one hand, close to my heart, and the vibrator was in the other. I pretended he was here, humming deep inside me.

 

I crashed at Frankie's, then we yawned our way to my truck at the crack of dawn. Our skis and gear stuffed in the back, trying to beat traffic and heading toward the mountains.

Four Christmas presents were on the backseat. So was my mail.

It was cold. Down to fifty degrees. A lot colder in the mountains.

My cellular vibrated over and over. Carpe was sending short text messages offering oral pleasures and the chance for us to fall into another mating dance. We'd been sending messages since I left the studio last night.

Frankie sipped her coffee. “Could you not type and drive in the rain?”

“I got it under control.”

I messaged him back, told him that I was going skiing with my sister today, but I'd rather be with him at our nest right now, sent that message, then put the phone down.

Frankie told me, “Be careful.”

“I'm not driving that fast.”

“You know what I'm talking about. People get killed behind that kinda shit.”

“What am I doing?”

“Livvy, I get tired of that what-did-I-do game with niggas, I don't need it from you.”

A moment goes by before I tell her, “I'm being careful.”

She downed more coffee. “Who is he?”

“Guy I met.”

“You fucking him?”

“What do you think?”

“Geesh. I think you need to stop living like a refugee on the run.”

I told her, “You know, if it's gonna be like this all day, we don't have to go skiing.”

She let her seat back, closed her eyes. “When I went in your house and got your skis—”

“Uh huh.”

“Tony told me to tell you that he loved you, no matter what.”

My headache returned. My insides were being pulled in too many directions.

I tell her, “That was the same message he had left me yesterday.”

“Your house is decorated big time. You have a ton of Christmas and Kwanzaa and Happy Holiday cards from everybody. But it felt . . . empty. Strange. Anyway, he told me to tell you he had presents for you under the tree, if you want yours. He has presents for all of us.”

“Did you hug him?”

“Why?”

“Did you hug him?”

“Yeah, I hugged Tony.”

“How could you hug him?”

“I don't like what he did, because it was jacked and disrespectful, but, no matter how much I want to, no, I don't hate him. I told him that.”

“You kiss him on the cheek or on the lips?”

“Yeah, I kissed him on the lips, like we always do.”

Again I'm popping my jaw, sucking my tongue, riding with Judas.

Frankie went on, “When Momma was sick, Tony was there. When that fool beat up Tommie and . . . damn, the nigga burned her face, Tony was ready to go to jail for all of us.”

“Well, since you have so much love for the man, you might be able to dust off your old wedding dress and marry him in about six months.”

“Don't go there.”

“I'll be your maid of honor, cool?”

“Shut up.”

“And to save money on a photographer, you can cut my face out of our wedding pictures and put yours in.”

“You know what,
Olivia,
we don't have to go skiing.”

“We're going,
Frankie
. And I hope you fall and tear your friggin' ACL.”

“A'ight. Fuck around and get pushed into a tree.”

My eyes went to the rearview. I adjusted it, looked at the Christmas presents Tony had given her this morning. Two small boxes wrapped beautifully in reds, greens, and gold.

I asked, “The gifts Tony gave you . . . whose are those?”

“They go with us Christmas morning.”

I pulled my lips in, swallowed another emotional feeling.

She asked, “You okay?”

“Damn Depo shot . . . friggin' side effects . . . that's all.”

We talked about Tony's love child, and I vented, shed a couple of tears. That's what I hated. Livvy cried; Bird owned no tears; Livvy only had pain; Bird only had pleasure.

“I hate this shit.” I sipped bottled water. “Marriage was supposed to protect me, and now it's another damn game. Why do I have to play the game?”

“That's just how it is, Livvy. It's about game. Even when you get married, you still have to play games. The game never stops. So either you get good at the game, or you get out. And the sad thing about the game is nobody ever wins.”

I pulled my lips in, started popping my jaw, swallowed and held the tears at bay.

I said, “In that case, maybe people shouldn't get married. Hell, damn near everybody ends up divorced any-damn-way, so what's the point? Hell, men probably invented this marriage bullshit as another way of turning us into . . . into . . . into property.”

“No, women invented marriage. That way, when it doesn't work out, we can take half their property. That's called Affirmative Reaction.”

“Not in the mood for jokes, Frankie.”

She rubbed my hand, softened her tone, and asked, “Why did you marry Tony?”

“Loved him. Wanted to have his babies. Cook his every meal.”

She laughed. “You couldn't cook worth a shit.”

I laughed too. “I learned. I took classes, and learned.”

“You sure did. Surprised me.”

“Wanted to be with him, get old and be looking at each other the way Momma and Bernard used to look at each other every day and every night.”

“And now you don't love him, right?”

“Humiliated at my own dinner party. Eight thousand dollars in legal bills. A bastard child who will have to spend weekends and holidays at our home. How would you feel?”

“It's not the baby's fault.”

“So, am I supposed to accept the situation and—?”

My phone vibrated again. Frankie shifted. I left the phone where it was.

My thoughts took me farther down the 60, then up the 15 to the 10.

“Maybe I'm searching for an antidote, Frankie. I guess I thought that marriage was supposed to edify, kill all primal urges, make us safe from the outside world, shit like that.”

She shook her head and turned the radio onto KJLH. Cliff and Janine were on.

“Frankie?”

“Whassup?”

“Remember when I told you I asked Momma what marriage was all about? . . .”

“Uh huh.”

I clacked my teeth. “And she said it was about the end.”

“Uh huh. She told me when I was about to get married to G.I. Asshole.”

“What did she mean?”

She didn't say anything for a moment. “You'll figure it out.”

“So, you know what she meant?”

That was all she said about it.

Frankie told me, “I want you to stop seeing that guy.”

I never answered.

T
he doorbell rings.

Without looking through the peephole, I know it's Blue. I stand there, working on my breathing, my smile, trying not to answer too fast. I've been waiting, spying out of my bay window, watching him come down the walkway, then hearing the stairs rattle under his weight.

I open the door. “You're on time.”

“Wow . . . your hair. . . .”

My hair is five inches high, an uncontrollable Afro. My mane owns a new color, the hue of a brown penny. My dark skirt is new, and so is my wide-sleeved blouse. My blouse is tied at the bottom, showing off my navel ring. Silver bracelets jingle every time my left arm moves.

Blue looks at me like he's never seen me before. “You look nice, Tommie.”

My face hurts from blushing. “Thanks.”

“Never seen you in a dress before.”

“Haven't worn one in . . . years.”

“Just getting off work?”

“Nah. I wear dull pants and reindeer socks to work.”

“About to go out to a Christmas party or—?”

“Not tonight. I'm in for the evening.”

“Your hair . . . You look like you should be in a magazine . . . like a model.”

“People at work complimented me all day. Half of 'em didn't recognize me.”

“You look . . . wow. You're stunning.”

“C'mon in before I call an ambulance. You're gonna compliment me to death.”

“That skirt is kinda . . . like . . . bam. You walk into a bar, you'll start a fight.”

“Be quiet. You bring your screenplay?”

“Right here.”

“Can't wait to read over it.”

I don't know whether to hug him, kiss him on the cheek, kiss him like we did before, so I wait, decide to follow his lead. He closes the door, puts his screenplay down, hugs me a long time, then kisses me, first lip to lip, then nibbling, then his tongue moves with mine for a while.

“Hey, Blue, I didn't see any mistletoe.”

“My bad.”

“It's on the mantle if you . . . How many berries do we have left?”

He kisses me again.

When we finish our hello, he smiles. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“Colorful. Lots of pillows and candles. It smells like . . .”

“Pier 1.” I laugh. “I have a tendency to over . . . Sometimes I get a li'l bit too creative.”

“You're cooking?”

“I was putting a little somethin'-somethin' together.”

“Smells off the chains.” Blue checks his watch. “Expecting company?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then I won't keep you too long.”

“You, Blue. You're the company I'm expecting. My sisters decided to stay in the mountains another day. They went skiing. And I . . . I thought you might break bread with me . . . if you have time. Thought it would be nice for us to share some literature and supper.”

He smiles. “Supper?”

“Yeah. Nothing extravagant. Rosemary chicken, brown rice and vegetables. Hungry?”

“Sure. Single men shouldn't turn down free meals.”

“I made enough for Monica too.”

“Thanks. She loves your cooking.”

“Make yourself at home.” I rub damp hand over damp hand, swallow and clear my throat, touch my face and hair. “You can see everything I own worth seeing from the door.”

“Lots of candles.”

“Got them from Pier 1. Employee discount.”

“How much you get off?”

“If I go in at the right time and since I know where the cameras are, one hundred percent off.”

He laughs and shakes his head, his hand in his pocket, shaking loose change.

I shrug. “I can't afford any of that stuff, so I do like the rest of the employees.”

“Your place . . . very nice.”

Thanks to my plethora of candles, my rooms smell like heaven, but I'm still hoping the blissful aroma from the candles cover the fading scent of Clorox and Pine-Sol.

I tell him, “Let me show you something.”

He follows me into the living room, the room I spent the most time decorating.

Once again he says, “Wow. This is . . . wow . . . awesome.”

Black, red, and green streamers, flowers, and cloths decorate my front room, the one with the bay windows facing Fairfax. My Kinara, Unity cup, a straw bowl with a cornucopia of crops are in a straw basket, all of the symbols neatly arranged on a second-hand table I borrowed from my next-door neighbors, the Womacks. A gorgeous cloth with an African print covers the table.

I beam. “I have almost everything I need.”

In the far corner stands a small, undecorated Charlie Brown Christmas tree and a growing stack of presents, most of them small items from Pier 1.

He nudges me. “You're making me look pretty bad.”

Then I go to the presents, hand him one of the two extra Unity cups I bought.

He says, “This is beautiful.”

“For you and Monica.” I want to impress him with all the things I do. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“I can decorate with corn. I was talking to Womack and Rosa Lee, and they said that I didn't have to have children to have corn. If you don't have any kids, then the corn symbolizes the African concept of social parenthood.”

He nods as if he's learning something new. “It takes a village.”

“Right. The concept Hillary Clinton plagiarized and ran with.”

“Cool. I have extra corn if you . . . I can't get over how . . . You're stunning.”

My smile remains perpetual.

We walk back toward the kitchen. On the way I compliment Blue on his clothes too, his wool slacks and white shirt. His beard is coming in, making him look hip and distinguished.

“You look purty handsome yourself. Going somewhere tonight?”

“Just . . . over here. Mo's with her grandparents until the morning.”

He stands in the door while I check on the food, and when I'm done, I focus on his face, hoping he doesn't see the nervousness I'm trying to hide by staying in motion. The moment I quit moving, I feel the anxiety settling in the corner of my lip. I tremble for a brief second.

I have a new hairstyle, new clothes, new perfume. I remind myself everything is fine, that my apartment is spotless, that every CD, every magazine, every little thing is in its place. It took hours of work to get my home in order.

He comes into the kitchen.

Blue asks, “What're you listening to?”

“Bonnie Raitt.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He's a she and she's a white woman.”

“Oh.”

“Meant to change that before you got here. I can put on a CD, or the radio—”

“No. It's fine. Just wondered who it was.”

“It's no problem to change it.”

“It's fine.”

He says that kind of strong. My posture changes from calm to defensive. The energy in the room shifts and first my breathing cuts off, then speeds up. He had said that like he was at work telling one of the children the same thing he'd told the entire class two minutes before.

I wipe my hands on the front of my skirt.

I say, “It's programmed to play the mellow songs.”

“Sounds smooth.”

“I like her lyrics. That's the only one that sounds so ‘white,' I guess you could say.”

Uncomfortable silence.

I go back to the food, my back to him, my thoughts everywhere, wondering what I'm doing, wishing I wasn't doing this, asking questions, doubting myself, wishing I could call Livvy or Frankie and get some advice, maybe have them walk me through this, maybe I can call—

He interrupts my thoughts, asks, “Need some help?”

“Uh . . . well . . . mind taking the trash out for me?”

“No problem.”

He moves by me to get to the white trash can. The space is tight and his crotch rubs across my backside as he passes. I flinch. Then I feel warm. I tingle.

He says, “Sorry about that.”

“That's okay.”

Blue puts a hand on my shoulder.

I pretend I'm too busy to look up.

He asks, “Nervous?”

I turn around, put my head on his chest, take a few breaths, and nod.

He asks, “Something I did?”

I shake my head. “It's . . . It's been a while, that's all.”

“What's been a while?”

“Since I had somebody over in my space. A man I mean. Since I cooked for a man. I don't usually cook for anybody . . . don't try to make myself attractive. Not like this. I haven't had on mascara for over a year. Well, that frosted makeup, but that's not like real makeup.”

“Sure that's it?”

“Feels like it's everything. Being alone with you in my apartment is a big thing for me.”

He rubs my back. “What happened?”

I don't answer. Heavy memories make my voice uneven.

Blue kisses my forehead. “Where are they?”

“Who?”

“Your trash cans.”

“Oh. Bottom of the stairs on the left. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Blue picks up the two garbage bags, both with his right hand. One of the bags smells sour. He stops at the back door and looks at another collage of pictures I have on that wall. Pictures of me and my family, most taken back when my hair was in flips, French roll, and spirals. Back when my look was conservative and conforming. Each photo has a real smile.

He says, “You've always been beautiful.”

My smile comes back as the art of speech continues to abandon me.

He walks out the back door, goes down the wooden stairs, then vanishes. I stand there, stirring food and wondering if he'll come back, or take the walkway and go back home.

I take the lid off the brown rice, check the vegetables and vegetarian beans, look in the oven and test the tenderness of the chicken. On the counter are white plates with rose patterns,
silverware, cloth napkins, two wine glasses, a bottle of Spumante. A packet of Kool-Aid too.

I'm making our plates when I hear him coming back up the stairs.

He comes in and takes my hands, pulls me to him, kisses me.

He whispers, “You okay?”

“Truth be told . . .”

“Uh huh.”

“I'm scared.”

“Of what?”

“The unknown.”