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Authors: Niobia Bryant

BOOK: Show and Tell
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“It's in April.”
Five whole months away.
“I hope I get to go,” I lie with a straight face. Fuck it.
“Well, I better get back to work.” With one last wave, Delaney is gone.
I snatch up the phone and dial Cristal back.
“Lowe, Ingram, and Banks.”
“Cristal, girl, guess what?” My excitement made me loud as hell on the phone.
The line went dead.
Now is not the time for payback. I dial her ass right back. “Lowe, Ingram, and Banks.”
“You feel better now?” I snap.
“Lots. Thank you very much.”
“
Anyway
. Cameron didn't get married in December—”
“What!”
“They postponed the wedding.” My damn hands are shaking.
“Oh-oh.”
I nodded. “Oh-oh is right. Oh it . . . is . . . on. Trust.”
Chapter Three
Dom
“I'm Dom, and I can't be nobody but Dom until the day I die. Fuck it.”
I
'm a junkie. Whether I'm snortin' a bag of dope or not I will always be a junkie. An addict. A dope fiend. A head.
Yeah, I did rehab. I laid on the couch and let some shrink help me figure out why I even started with drugs. I moved out of the projects. I got off the stripper pole. I cut all ties with Diane (my mother who didn't deserve to be called Mama) who was—is—an abusive, weed smokin', manipulative, money-hungry bitch. (Fuck it, that bitch done called me much worse.) I got an honest job that don't make shit. I have a better relationship with my daughter.
I been through a lot. I'm not makin' excuses, I'm just statin' fuckin' fact.
I've done a lot. Again no excuses. Fact.
My journal is full and it's funny 'cause I never thought my ass would ever read outside of school or flippin' through some fuckin' magazine or some shit, but here I am writin'. Tellin' my own stories. Healin' myself through a pen and pad. I even told my drug counselor that I might write a book one day but my life ain't over yet. Maybe when I'm old with gray hairs on my pussy I'll sit back and really recollect on everythin' I've done. Things I have to forgive or be forgiven for.
The death of my ex in a car wreck after we argued.
The way I started to fuck my kid's head up talkin' down to her the way Diane shit me up.
The bullshit I pulled on Alizé. Yeah, I was fucked up for fuckin' her man behind her back and tellin' his no good ass how she was cheatin' on him. Sometimes I still can hear the sound of her bone breakin' and her cry that gave me chills. Even though I helped the police catch Rah, Alizé still won't fuck with me. She ain't been to the apartment to visit since I moved in. I can't say that I blame her but I ain't kissin' her motherfuckin' ass either.
I still got Moët and Cristal and dem bitches help keep me straight.
Livin' in Livingston in that fancy apartment is different from my days in the projects. It helps keep me clean and away from them people who ain't want shit 'cept for me to get high with 'em. It's hard enough goin' to that area everyday to work here at the daycare center. I love Newark. I'm a fuckin' Brick City Baby 'til I die, but right now I ain't strong enough to move back. Not if I want to stay clean.
“Mama.”
I look down at my little girl, Kimani. In her I see everythin' my ass wants to be. I want the way she feels about me to be different than the way I feel about Diane. So I will never smoke weed with her. I stopped cussin' at her little ass like she ain't shit but a stray dog. I stopped droppin' her off with anybody willin' to babysit. I stopped her from callin' me by my first name (that was Moët's idea).
I ain't tryin' to say I'm Mother of the year or some shit but I'm tryin.'
As she hugs my leg like I'm a fuckin' mix of Barney, Elmo, and Dora the Explorer I feel so much love for her. She looks just like me: slim, trim, dark, and beautiful.
“You ready to go?”
“Yup,” she says.
I finish up cleanin' the area where I assist the afterschool teacher for the first graders. This shit is a long way from my days as Juicy up on the pole at Club XXXCite. Makin' mad loot for shakin' a little ass or workin' my ass off for damn near minimum wage? Being able to afford the best designer labels or having to learn to appreciate the value of Wal-Mart and stores like NY & Co and Gap? It used to be nothin' for me to drop two grand on a pair of shoes. Yes, I was livin' in the projects at that time but I strutted through that motherfucker dressed like I owned it. Oh, I miss that motherfuckin' money, don't get it twisted. But bein' on that stage was just a part of me tryin' to prove to myself that I was special. Pretty. Needed. All the shit Diane took from me with her hateful ass words.
As soon as Kimani and me step out the buildin' on Broad Street I rush her to my car—my same red Lexus that is kickin' my ass with the car and insurance payments. Just that small walk from the front door to my car door feels like I leavin' my damn self open to turn the corner and buy a bag of dope to sniff the fuck up.
Dope used to be my friend when I turned my back on my real friends.
My morals. My conscience. My life. My everythin'. All of it caught up in a bag of dope.
I drive until I'm in an area I don't know like the back of my hand. Where the drug dealers are hidin' in their houses to sling that shit and not on the street corners and in front of stores . . . waitin' for me. Out of sight. Out of mind. That's how I felt. Shit.
“Mama, where my daddy?” Kimani asks out the straight blue.
I damn near swerve into a car in the opposite lane. “Huh?”
“
My
friend Hiasha said her daddy was pickin' her up from school and
I
told her I didn't have a daddy and
she
asked me where he was and
I
said I don't know.”
Shit, I don't fuckin' know either. But what do I say? Your daddy hauled ass as soon as I told that no good son-of-a-bitch I was pregnant. Last I heard he was livin' with some bitch in Hill Manor. He is a fuckin' drop shot just like my daddy, sperm donor, nut giver, man who gave my mother a wet ass . . . what the fuck ever.
I remember I asked Diane about my father the same way Kimani was questioning my ass. I remember that shit clearly. Humph, how can I forget it?
“Diane, where my daddy?”
She was laying on the couch in nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of thongs smoking one of her funny smelling cigarettes. She turned her head to look at me sitting on the floor playing house with my dolls. “Somewhere with a glass dick in his mouth that's where.”
She started to laugh until she choked. Thick smoke flew out of her mouth as she sat up suddenly.
I jumped up and came to stand by her. “Diane, you okay?” I ask, feeling concern as her eyes water. I touched her shoulder as my heart began to beat fast.
“Girl, get the hell off me and sit your stupid ass down somewhere,” she snapped.
She pushed me roughly and I fell back on my behind . . .
Diane was an ignorant bitch and still is. I don't even know my father's name. Shit, after that I ain't never had the nerve to bring him up no more.
I shake off the tears I feel risin' up at the memory. Sad thing? Before my ass OD'd and went to rehab I was just as ignorant as Diane. I probably woulda told Kimani to shut the hell up or something. She wanted to know just like I wanted to know back then. Still, I don't know what to say.
I look at her and sure 'nough she waitin' for her answer.
“Your daddy and me broke up a long time ago and he moved away.”
“So he won't pick me up from school ever?”
“Probably not.”
Back in the day this was a get high moment. Roll a blunt. Sniff a bag. Anything to forget. Not to deal. Get by.
As we turn into the parking lot of The Top I think again of the book I want to write. The stories I got to tell. The people I can help. Maybe one day. Right now I gots no business trying to help nobody else with shit about fighting demons 'cause I still gots my own to beat the fuck off my back.
Chapter Four
Moët
“Hey, it's me again . . . Moët, just when I thought my life could only get better.”
I
don't know I'm crying until my tears fall on the photo, running across the scarred and battered face of yet another innocent child. It's days like this that I wish I stuck to my dream of being a teacher once I graduated from Seton Hall University last May. I don't know what made me think I was cut out to be a case worker (uh, Family Service Specialist Trainee) for the Division of Youth and Family Services (DYFS). I want to help children. Make a change. Do good things. Plus, I like working and having my independence to take care of me and my baby girl, Tiffany. But sometimes this—all of it—is more than I can handle.
After a day of testifying in juvenile court about a suspected molestation case and then having to take three children into custody from an abusive mother, I'm headed to investigate another suspected case of child abuse. Unlike Cristal, I love Newark—or at least what I saw of it growing up in a strict Christian home—and unfortunately, there are far too many cases of drug abuse leading to the abuse and neglect of children. Blacks had enough of an uphill struggle without getting hooked on drugs. Black children from cities like Newark already started the race to success behind the starting line and the last thing they needed was a dope fiend mother or father to hold them back. I have seen some serious mess since working at DYFS but that is nothing to the craziness children face every day. I feel drained. Tired. Wore out . . . emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
And I still don't have a full case load. As a “trainee” I have to complete a one-year training program and keep up with my field and office casework duties. Sometimes the thought of a full caseload gave me a serious migraine. But I'm grown and this is my job. I made the bed and now I have to sleep in it.
Of course, I have a lot going in my life than just my job. Dom and Alizé had therapy and I wonder a lot if I shouldn't find somebody's couch to get on. I'm a single mother with a big-time, celebrity babydaddy who wants nothing from me and my newborn daughter but to stay the hell away from him. And yes, Lavitius Drooms aka Bones, the multi-platinum selling rap star, is the father. Hell I've only been with two men in my life. He actually thinks I just want eighteen years of child support. All I want is for him to be a father to our daughter.
I'm not the saint my parents want me to be, but I am a good person. I go to church. I pray. I pay my tithes. I'm not saved but I am healed. I am forgiven.
For fornicating with my minister at the age of sixteen.
For aborting the baby
he
didn't want.
For not honoring my mother and my father even though they made it so hard to do so.
For living a double life for years as I struggled to keep up with my friends and still front for my parents.
For the horrible example I set for my younger sisters.
For falsely accusing Bones of rape when he flipped on me for getting pregnant.
Of course he hates me. Yes, I was wrong. Dead wrong. But I have asked Bones and my Heavenly Father for forgiveness. It is up to them both to accept it.
I constantly thank my Heavenly Father that Cristal and Sahad were still together then. Bones is an artist on Sahad's record label, Platinum Records. Even though she had been mad at me for not telling her the truth, she convinced Sahad to help keep me out of jail for filing a false report.
My eyes fall on the 5”X7” portrait of my daughter sitting on my desk. Tiffany Drooms. To me she already looks more like Bones than me. She is a blessing for many, many reasons. Even without her father, she is
loved
by my friends—her four godmommies; my parents—even if they constantly prayed for her as if she is the spawn of the devil; and by me. I love Tiffany with every fiber in my being.
When I notice the time, I hurry through packing up my briefcase and grab my purse. Just two weeks back on the job and I already feel like I can use a mental vacation. Nevertheless, that will have to start another day. Duty calls.
One advantage to working in your hometown is knowing where you're going when you're sent on a home visit. I park my car on the street outside the small one-family house. It is the lone house on the entire end of the block, neighbored by a liquor store on the corner and an empty glass-strewn lot. Across the street is Westside Park. The biting winter air has kept the teenagers from playing basketball on the blacktop courts.
It's funny how empty a city can look when it's cold. But as soon as summer breaks out you know just how crowded the city really is. Even in the heat of summer, the lives of many children were still cold and bitter.
I turn and focus my eyes back on the house as I walk around my car. The front door looks like it once was a brilliant red but now graffiti and grime have dulled it considerably. If it wasn't for the color of the door everything about the little house could easily fade to black and white.
I reach inside my wool coat for my ID badge swinging on the end of a chain. I take one deep breath before I knock. Confidence has never been my strong suit. Up until last year I was still trying to find myself. Humph. That's what happens when you let too many people run your life. I'm finally learning to stand up for myself and clearly state what it is I want and don't want. Maybe having to stand up for these kids helped me to step up to the plate for myself.
When I knock on the door it swings open and a foul stench nearly knocks me off my feet. I turn my head to swallow down some fresh air before I cover my nose and turn my head back. “Hello. Hello, I'm Latoya James with DYFS,” I say loudly, trying not to be shot or attacked.
There was an anonymous report made of twin toddlers being left alone a lot while their mother chased a horrible heroin addiction. That led to me coming here to conduct one of those beloved home visits.
Through the opening of the door I can see a trail of clothes and random trash on the floor. I can just barely make out the edge of the kitchen and the floor is filthy. Old juice or Kool-Aid stains, sticky and black from dirt. I figure the horrible scent is the smell of rotting trash. “Hello, is anyone home? This is Miss James from the Division of Youth and Family Services.”
I turn away to walk back to my car. My steps halt at the faint sound of a child's cry. I step down off the small porch to double-check the address. Definitely the right place. And with a child crying, the door open and no adult answering my calls this looks like the right time. That cry is enough for me to enter the home.
With a small prayer, I step back onto the porch and I walk into the house. I have to cover my nose and mouth with the collar of my shirt to keep from gagging. The house is a wreck. Piles of clothes are everywhere. Open and used pampers are on the top of the scratched coffee table. There are more empty bottles of liquor than my mother has knickknacks and whatnots. The carpet used to be a rough shade of rust but large dark circles are flat and black in color like spills of some substance had never been cleaned up. Missing lamp shades. Raggedy furniture that should be on the curb. It's a mess. A big, funky, unlivable mess.
The more I move into the house the scent worsens and flies began to land against my face. I swat them away. Just a glance in the kitchen makes me want to throw up. The mother needs her behind whupped or like Dom would say, “That bitch needs to be pimp slapped.”
Excuse my language. I'm not saved but God ain't through with me yet.
The sound of the crying is coming from the back of the small house.
“Hello. Is anybody home?” I push the bedroom door open and I nearly jump out of my skin when a cat comes running out the door full speed. I turn to watch its retreat and my blood runs cold at the trail of sticky bloody paw prints it leaves behind.
“What the . . .”
Okay, I'm not crazy. Nor am I a hero. But I have to check on the twins. Point blank.
I turn back to the door as it continues to swing open and my knees go weak. I have to reach for the dingy wall to keep from falling out. The scent nearly choking me is the smell of death.
This might be more than I can handle.
There on the floor atop piles of dirty clothes sat the twins . . . next to the swollen and obviously dead body of their mother. I walk over clothes and trash into the room. The twins look up at me with swollen eyes and their tears halt for a second at the surprising sight of me. I gasp at the sight of the syringe still stuck in her arm and the pool of blood dried in a jagged circle around her head. It looked like she overdosed and then fell and hit her head on the edge of the dresser.
Jesus.
Girl Talk
W
ith drinks in hand, Cristal, Moët, and Dom settled into a plush leather booth inside the Savoy Grill on Park Place downtown. The low-key music was just loud enough to enjoy without keeping them from their girl talk.
Dom worked her arms out of the cropped jean jacket she wore. “Mo, you sure you ain't gonna explode or some shit?”
Moët flipped her the bird playfully as she took a deep sip of her margarita. “I go to church on the regular. I never said I'm saved yet . . .
bitch
.”
Dom just laughed before she cut her eyes over to Cristal. Through a haze of smoke, she watched her. “What's up with you?” she asked, leaning forward to flick her ashes in the tray.
Cristal just shrugged. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
Dom nodded as she bit the bottom lip of her glossy mouth. “Don't we all.”
Moët lifted her curvy glass. “Here's to my daughter's smile, bubble baths, the feel of the sun, and the end of the work week,” she said with a mischievous grin.
Cristal nodded in agreement as she let her head drift back slightly with a melancholy smile. “Hmm. Here is to the feel of my man's hands, lips,
and
dick, designer trunk sales, and rum raisin ice cream,” she nearly purred dreamily as she raises her glass of champagne.
Dom rattled the ice in her glass of soda. “And here's to good friends who forgive you when you fuck up and who pull your ass up when you're down,” she said with seriousness, as that hard glint in her eye softened a little.
“Now you know that's right,” Moët agreed with enthusiasm brightening her face. “To friends.”
The three women all looked at each other with a warmth that only sistahgirl friends can have.
“Even those here in spirit . . . if not body,” Moët added as they all ignored Alizé's empty spot.
“I know I fucked up y'all. And that old Dom feels like I shouldn't give a fuck 'bout Alizé and me not speaking . . . but I do.” Dom sat her glass down on the table. “She ever gone forgive me? Is it ever gone be the four of us again?”
Moët avoided Dom's questioning eyes.
Cristal shrugged when Dom turned those eyes to her. “I do not know, Dom. I really do not know.”

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