Texts from Bennett (18 page)

I was always suspicious of those who had passionate beliefs about things they had never actually experienced, and this was all the confirmation I needed.

Harper dropped the atom bomb.

“Or is the ‘whole shit’ how your mom pretends to be a retard and you pretend to be a
nigger
?”

My heart stopped. My eyes popped out of my head. I couldn’t believe she said that.

“Whoa—whoa—whoa—whoa—whoa!” I said, panicking. “That’s eghhhh. Bleeeergghhh.” Argh—I was unable to formulate any actual words.

“
What?
He says
nigger
all the time. Why can’t I?” she demanded.

“Dude. He doesn’t say it like thhh . . . aaat,” I said animatedly. “What the Ffff . . . this is my family! How could you say blaaaaarghh? No!”

“Because it’s true! He pretends to be a nigger and Lillian pretends to be a retard. How else can I explain it to you
so that you’ll finally see what’s going on?” she said. “Or is it even possible to? After all, you did swim out of the same gene pool as these cretins, apparently you don’t get it either.”

“Well . . . I’m just . . . hmph!” Lillian said, shocked.

I closed my eyes.

There was an impenetrable, nearly deafening cloud of tension suffocating the entire room. For the first time in my life, I asked whatever God was listening, whatever God I doubted might be out there, to wake me up from the nightmare that I was lost inside of.

“What about the nigga you was kissin’ in the car the other night?” Bennett asked, with a bomb of his own.

I opened my eyes. Was this a cruel joke? Was I on some candid camera TV show where your own friends and family destroy your life for a national TV audience? Because there’s no way this was real.

“Ha! Sure!” Harper said in an abnormally high-pitched voice. “No, seriously, answer the question. Why do you act like a—”

“Wait, what?” I interrupted, looking at Bennett.

“I tried to tell you at Popeyes, homie. I was tryin’ to tell you, but we had to leave ’cause Mercedes was trippin’ ‘n’ what not,” he said, looking embarrassed for both me and himself somehow.

Harper stood up and walked around me, just inches from Bennett. She put her hand on his shoulder as if to console him and said, “Don’t say things like that. Don’t be an asshole. It’s bad enough that you’ve caused this much trouble; don’t lie like a jerk.”

“Bitch, I ain’t lyin’ ’bout shit! And you know dat!” he snapped.

“What the fuck are you talking about Bennett?” I said.

“I tried to tell you at my job. I tried to show you the video,” he said.

“What video?” I asked.

“It’s on yo phone. Get out yo phone.”

“Mac, this is ridiculous. Can we make them leave already? Seriously?” Harper said.

“No. Hold on. I want to know what he’s talking about,” I said, pulling my phone from my pocket.

“I’m sure it’s a video of him stealing drugs or shooting somebody in Compton. Come on—let’s focus on the issue here,” Harper said.

Going to my media page, the last video was something I had filmed weeks ago as a demo recording reference for a song I was working on.

“There’s nothing on here, dude.” I looked at my cousin hard. “What are you trying to pull here?”

“I ain’t lyin’, Cuz! I seen her kissin’ another nigga in his car da other night!”

I looked at Harper. She shook her head.

“You fuck. You little wigger piece of shit,” she growled.

“Nah, fuck dat! Nigga, Mac. Your phone was in da garage. Hangin’ with da gardenin’ stuff. Da hos and da shovels and shit! I swear on CRIP, nigga!” Bennett pleaded.

“Wait, what?” I said. “My phone was in the ‘gardening stuff’? You mean the tools?”

“Yeah, yeah! In da garage! I put it back dere after I took da video.”

I looked at Harper’s face. She swallowed to alleviate the lump in her throat that had instantly enveloped. She took off, in a very fast-paced walk, toward the garage. I instantly followed.

“What’s he talking about Harper?” I said, running after her.

“I don’t know. He’s full of . . .” she said, not finishing her sentence, running through the kitchen.

Bennett followed the two of us. By the time Harper was opening the garage door, we had all caught up to her. She walked into the garage and ran to a pile of gardening supplies she had kept in the corner.

“Where do you see a phone, you little lying faggot wigger?” Harper yelled, sorting through the tools. “I don’t seem to see one! Huh—I wonder why!” she said, sarcastically.

“Because dat’s not where it is!” He climbed up on a wooden workbench on the other side of the garage and stretched up at a pile of things on a shelf. “I meant
deez
garden tools,” he said.

“Dude, those are kerosene lanterns. What are you doing up there?” I said.

“Whatever, mane. Here.”

Opening a hard-to-reach cabinet, he grabbed a phone that looked similar to mine from an acrylic paint–stained Kansas City Royals cup. Honestly, my first thought had been that the cup and the phone must have been leftovers from the house’s previous owners.

“
Give me that!
” Harper ran toward us.

Bennett swiftly jumped down from the workbench and gave me the phone, right as she made it to where we stood. I dodged her grasp.

“Wait. What the fuck is this?” My eyes were the size of chocolate chip cookies.

Again, Harper tried to grab the phone, I evaded her until she stopped and stood in silence, breathing heavily. She spat in Bennett’s face, then walked inside, slamming the door behind her so hard that one of the kerosene lamps fell from the tackboard it was hanging from and cracked.

“Dude . . . no. What is this Bennett?”

I pressed a button on the phone and its screen lit up. There were several missed texts — all from a Wichita, Kansas, area code. Harper didn’t know anyone from Wichita, Kansas.

1-316-915-####:
can i c u?

1-316-915-####:
got a cpl bttles of 1970s napa wine u have to try. delish.

1-316-915-####:
u check the phone today? gna go 2 jazz fest can u cum

1-316-915-####:
good c ing u. yummy

1-316-915-####:
can u get away tonite?

1-316-915-####:
u checkin the phone 2day

1-316-915-####:
is he back in town, babe?

“What is this Bennett?”

“I was lookin’ fo’ a place to hide some ’shrooms one day and
found dat shit. Da otha night when you was outta town fo dat show, I seen Harper kissin’ on some nigga in his car out front of da crib at like four a.m.”

I kept reading and rereading and rereading the texts as my cousin spoke. Just moments ago, my reality was a much happier one. Somehow.

“Yeah, homie. What’s worser den dat is I videotaped it all with dat phone. I thought dat was yo phone—I was wonderin’ why you kept it up on da shelf. Thought you was hidin’ it from me or somethin’.” Bennett paused, like he had to say something he didn’t want to. “She was out there kissin’ him for like a hour, late as fuck. I jumped up an got da phone and videotaped it.”

“I’ve . . . never seen this . . . phone in my life,” I mumbled.

“Yea. Because it’s her secret phone, ain’t it? Look at da video.”

I opened the media content folder. One video was on it, like a challenge. I tapped it with my thumb.

Bennett’s face, in very low light, popped up. . . . Not what I was expecting.

My cousin was grimacing, his eyes flicking around as he repeatedly said, “Bitch. This dirty-ass bitch. Slutty bitch. You dirty bitch. Ohhh, you dirty-ass bitch.” This went on for a good six minutes before stopping on an awkward still that looked up his nostrils.

I looked at him confused. “It’s just your face, Bennett.”

“Nah! Where’s da other side of da video? I was pointin’ da thing right at ’em!” he protested.

“The ‘other side’ of the video?”

“Yeah! It was filmin’ me mad as fuck, and also filmin’ Harper kissin’ some dude. I ain’t know how to watch the video though—my phone don’t got da split screen video feature thingy! I promise I ain’t lyin’. On Crip!”

I sighed.

“You were filming yourself the entire time, dude.”

Bennett needed a few seconds to compute the misfortune of the situation.

Then he needed a few more.

He picked his nose a bit, which helped him finally get it.

“Awwww. I was?”

“Yep.” I tossed the phone onto the table, then walked into the house, with my heart seconds away from melting to liquid and oozing out of my tear ducts.

•

I found Harper in our (now
my
) bedroom. She was standing and leaning back against the bed, looking at the floor.

“So who is he?” I said.

She was silent.

“Wow. You’re going to just fuck some other dude while I’m out of town, doing a show?” I said.

“No. I didn’t have sex with him. I wasn’t kissing him. We just kissed good-bye.”

“Bitch, quit lyin’! You was sittin’ on his fuckin’ lap!” Bennett yelled from the staircase.

“
Shut the fuck up!
” Harper screamed.

“Bennett, shut up, man,” I said.

“Who is he?”

“Please . . .”

“Who? Who were you kissing?”

“Please, baby.”

“Stop calling me baby. Tell me. Who is it?”

“A friend. But I wasn’t kissing him.”

“A
friend
?”

“Yeah . . . a, uh, a . . . guy I’m friends w . . . ith.”

“A guy you’re friends with, huh? Elaborate a bit.”

“A guy . . . from . . . a guy I work with.” She was looking at the ground.

“In front of my house? You kissed another man, in front of
my
house?”

“I didn’t kiss him! Why do you believe that white-trash piece of shit over me?”

“Stop calling them names! You hipster . . .
fucking
 . . . hipster
bitch
.”

I kicked the lamp off of my nightstand. It fell to the ground,
bending the lampshade, but remained lit. I was hoping it would shatter into a trillion pieces and make a super badass point, but all it did was emanate a very bright, unobstructed light from the bottom of the shade, so I leaned over and picked it up and put it back on the nightstand.

Bennett was eavesdropping from the bottom of the staircase and started sending me text commentary while we argued, which, thankfully I only saw later.

BENNETT:
she lyen

BENNETT:
u mite wanna git a aids test

BENNETT:
or tell her 2 git 1 and see if she got aids

BENNETT:
she wud prolly lie doe so u mite wnna git won

BENNETT:
or fucc a girl and tell her 2 git one den see if she has aids so u dont gadda git a aids test

Harper gazed at the ground for a few minutes, unresponsive. Finally, she closed her eyes and fought back tears.

“I’m so sorry. I kind of . . . kissed him.” She was full-on crying now, trying to hug me.

“Don’t touch me!” I yelled, swatting her arm away from me.

“Just come here. I can make this better.”

“Stop touching me, you fucking jerk!” I screamed.

I hesitated for a split second, before lunging from the mattress and landing on my feet, with my arms flying from behind me. Without thinking, I telegraphed a right overhand cross into the wall adjacent to the bed, punching a fist-size hole through the mocha-colored drywall. Harper was bawling.

“I’m sorrrrrrry. I’m sorrrrrrrrrrrry!” She was sobbing and gargling her own saliva. Desperate torment filled her voice.

“Were you fucking him?”

“No! No! I swear!”

“Then what’s the phone for?”

“What?”

“Why do you have an extra phone? To sneak around fucking other guys?”

“No. It’s . . . it’s my work phone.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a work phone?”

“Uh . . . what? I just got it. I . . . dunno.”

“Who is it? Who’s the guy? Stop lying now and . . . stop lying. Stop lying and I might forgive you.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because it matters. Who was it? Do I know him?”

BENNETT:
i seen him.he drive a nice car

BENNETT:
hE look like da type of dood dat wud B best frendz wit a girl he cudnt have sex wit..

BENNETT:
type of nigga who wud sleep in da same bed as a girl but not take there cloths off..thinken dat mean sumthin

BENNETT:
u no dem type of bitchez? i fuccd a girl like dat once.. for da first 15 minits her guy friend was layen in bed wit us tellin da girl dat she wuz maken a big mistake

BENNETT:
finaly her boobys came out and he left da room sayen he had a stomech ake LoL

She was silent and unresponsive again. I asked her to identify him nine or ten more times before she finally broke her silence and answered.

“Chad.”

Now
I
was silent.

“Chad?”

“Chad. From work.”

I had met Chad before. He drove an Audi A5 and dressed like a pompous prick with an indispensable surplus of trust-fund money. He wore Gucci high-tops and Prada turtlenecks. He vacationed in Cabo and ordered $435 magnum champagne bottles at clubs from his VIP table. His conversations were full of tall tales about his celebutante friends and posh taradiddle about trivial art pieces he planned on purchasing. He was one of the superiors at Harper’s company. He was younger than the other bosses but older than me and Harper. He
listened to really cheesy dance music, like Tiësto and the Black Eyed Peas, and bought front-row seats to the ballet and other obscure performance-art shows. He had two dogs, both Weimaraners, which he referred to as his kids. And he sent them to a high-end, and very expensive per day, dog daycare, whenever he’d leave town.