The Blackbirds (10 page)

Ericka said, “You were a regular Jayne Kennedy, and I guess you found your own Leon Isaac. I guess you asked God for a man and my father was the man God felt you deserved.”

“What I thought was God's voice was but the charismatic singing of the devil.”

“The devil does impersonations. That's good to know.”

“The man who fathered you married me with no intentions of ever being faithful. He married me to get me in bed with him; that was the only reason. We weren't married three months and he had already had at least two affairs. I was married ninety days and ready to divorce him, but I was pregnant. He didn't want a baby with a dark-skinned woman, but he loved to be with them day and night. I was his pregnant trophy, in a marriage tainted by your father's fetishes and infidelities, fighting
women in the street, and arguing with women on the phone in the middle of night. There were too many women. That wasn't marriage. I lived in a war zone.”

“There have always been mistresses trying to upgrade to being a missus.”

“We got into a fight in church on Easter Sunday because one of his little mud ducks had the nerve to spit on me. You were in my arms and that crazy woman tried to spit on you, too, but I turned you away. That was it. I had to do fine by myself. Looking back, I was happy before I got married. Could have had any man I wanted when I was twenty-one, and I chose the wrong one. God punished me for that. He punished me with him, and then He punished me again with you.”

“And God punished me with you. Only a child of the devil would do what you did.”

Ericka wiped her eyes.

Mrs. Stockwell wiped her own eyes.

“Since we're going down Memory Lane, guess who I saw today, Mommy Dearest?”

“Who did you see, Problem Child?”

“I saw Debra Mitchell's son. Her son is an adult, graduate of Morehouse.”

“Who is Debra Mitchell?”

“She worked for Dr. Faith, the lady who was your doctor when I was thirteen.”

“Nurse Mitchell? The nurse who involved herself in our family matter?”

“She's a doctor now. Dr. Debra Dubois. I guess she's doing well.”

“Well, good for her. I hope she's a better doctor than she was a nurse.”

“Dr. Dubois is writing her memoirs. She mentions me in the pages.”

“Why would she dare mention you in her biography?”

“From what I understand, she has written a few things regarding you, too.”

“What, is she trying to get sued? Does she not know who I am, what I can do to people?”

“We know how litigious you are. You sue everyone for everything. From child support to any injustice you think has been put upon you, you file a lawsuit. You sue neighbors for trees hanging in your yard. You were Marcus Brixton's best friend. Kwanzaa's ex loved to see you coming, because it meant money.”

“I exercise my legal rights to the fullest extent of the law.”

“You are an entitled snob. And you know whatever Mrs. Dubois has to say about you and me will not be nice. She knows what you did to me. You hit me with your Bible while we were in the doctor's office. She knows the real you. She saw you without the Christian mask.”

Again, Mrs. Stockwell's nostrils flared. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Ericka whispered, “I should go see her. I need to know what she's written.”

“What purpose would going to see her and reliving that period in your life serve?”

“She didn't like you. I don't like you. So I can add to whatever she has said.”

“I will sue you too.”

“You won't.”

“Fucking test me and see how quickly you fail that test.”

“That's the Mrs. Stockwell I know.”

“I am tired of this shit, Ericka. I am tired of you blaming me for your sins.”

Ericka clenched her teeth. “One day you should apologize for what you did to me.”

“I didn't impregnate you. I didn't steal money to buy pregnancy tests.”

“I should have kept running.”

“You never revealed who impregnated you.”

“I never should have come back.”

“I wish you had kept running and become someone else's problem. I wish they had found you dead in a ditch, or not had found you at all. I would have been free from you.”

“I know you wish the same things I wish about you.”

“You have brought me nothing but grief.”

“You have told me that more times than I can remember.”

“You did what was wrong. I did what was right for you.”

Ericka's voice shook. “No, you did what was right to maintain your image, including sending me away. You sent me to a house of abuse, and you did that to punish me.”

“What I did
for
you, it's the same thing those fast little girls' mommas who live in Newport Beach or in the Palisades do
for
them. All those trust fund babies have left a few secrets in the toilet. I went against my beliefs to save you from sin.”

“You can find a million reasons to justify what you did.”

“You needed to go to Oklahoma to save your soul. You were out of control.”

“You put me on a table, turned on the vacuum, and did what you had to do to remove your shame.”

“You required me to make a hard decision.”

“You have never
once
said you were sorry. You didn't shed
one
goddamn tear.”

“If I feel as if it is needed, when I feel I have done wrong, I'll ask God for forgiveness, not you. You put me in a horrible position, forced me to make a horrible decision, and you blame me.”

“Your attitude about everything is why I couldn't wait to get out of that house of horrors. You talked down to me. You said I'd never get married, said no man would want me.”

“But you did marry.”

“I did marry.”

“Just to prove me wrong.”

“I married a man who told me he loved me and wanted to marry me.”

“It didn't last.”

“I was married longer than you were married.”

“You became a preacher's wife.”

“I was somebody important for a while, and that ate at your heart every damn day.”

“I heard your church wedding was nice.”

“It was nice because you weren't invited to come piss in the punch.”

“Not being able to see my only child, my only daughter on her wedding day, that hurt. I will never forgive you for that. That hurt me in ways you will never be able to understand.”

“So does a forced abortion. I will never forgive you for that.”

“It will never hurt as much as birthing an ungrateful child.”

“Then I wish you'd taken a hanger and ended your misery as soon as it started. When I had issues trying to get pregnant, I had to sit in the doctor's office with my self-righteous husband and admit I'd had a secret abortion. He blamed that for my inability to get pregnant. He told me if I could not give him a child, then it was pointless being with me, said that God had punished me for my sin by making me barren. He never saw me the same after that revelation. After that, he saw the sophisticated woman he married as a well-dressed hood rat. Then came the cancer. He'd already pulled away from me emotionally, had affairs, had so many women I called them his copulating choir and conjugal congregation, and then cancer confirmed I was a bad choice. He stood in the pulpit and asked his congregation to pray for me, but behind closed doors he rejoiced in my suffering. I was worth more to him dead than alive.”

“You married a minister who saw you were not worthy of the Kingdom of God.”

“I married a European man who is the leader at a nondenominational church.”

“Well, you're divorced now. Glad I didn't waste my money.”

“Always negative. No wonder Mr. Stockwell knocked you up and slept with other women. Who would want to be laid up with a frigid, evil bitch like you in the middle of the damn night?”

“You really want to hurt my feelings.”

“As much as you want to hurt mine.”

“You're going to have to try harder,
Miss
Stockwell. A divorced woman has to try harder.”

“Same to you,
Mrs
. Stockwell. Same to you. A woman who hasn't
seen her husband in two decades, a woman who had a man's child but never had the man, she has nothing on me.”

“With the amoral things you've done, how the fuck do you face yourself?”

“How the fuck do you?”

They took a breath, then sat back and watched the others enjoy themselves.

Destiny, Kwanzaa, Indigo, and all the parents and stepparents were eating, sipping wine and West Coast IPA beer, interacting wonderfully. Ericka knew that she and her mother would never be able to resolve the irreconcilable event from two decades ago.

Mrs. Stockwell said, “Destiny is another one who was very belligerent and rebellious.”

“She's amazing. She's a survivor. I wish I had her strength, her nerves.”

“She went out into the streets and got what girls get who are disobedient to their parents.”

“Are you saying she deserved to get drugged and raped?”

“God has His way of showing children what happens when you disobey your parents.”

Ericka laughed. “Right, the floods, my cancer, and Destiny being raped are all in the plan. So I deserved what you did to me because I didn't follow your rules? Or better yet, the abuse you suffered, having your uncle's cock forced in your mouth for a few years of your life was God's lesson to you? Tell me how that fits into some grand plan for the universe.”

Mrs. Stockwell was visibly shaken, her right hand trembling.

Ericka's nose flared, her middle fingers tapping against her legs at a rapid pace.

Destiny began playing dominoes with Kwanzaa and their families. Indigo and her people were all laughing and talking, enjoying each other's company. “Teach Me How to Dougie” came on and everyone rocked
it and soon the other three Blackbirds led the charge as they all went into dancing the whip, Nae Nae, and Stanky Legg.

Then someone was at the gate, and when it was opened, Indigo's present from her parents was driven inside. It was a new, four-door Jeep Rubicon. Indigo jumped up and down screaming. Indigo's new Rubicon was pulled into the back, parked near her CBR and BMW.

Mrs. Stockwell said, “An apartment building. A BMW. A motorcycle. And now this? Indigo's parents have spoiled her rotten.”

“That's what you do when you love your child, Mrs. Stockwell. When a man loves his child, the mother doesn't have to beg and sue for support, then go to court over and over to get the payout raised, and the mother of that child wants her child to have the best. She would buy more things for her child than she bought for herself. She wouldn't pimp her child for child support.”

“You wanted for nothing.”

“I wanted for everything that was not material. I wanted what couldn't be bought.”

They gathered around the cake and sang Stevie Wonder's birthday song. While they were singing, a West African man who was regarded by some as a god appeared. His name was Olamilekan Babangida. It was Indigo's on-again off-again boyfriend–booty-call–almost-fiancé. He walked through the wrought-iron gate and up the incline, smiling, with a large box in his hands.

The West African was six foot two, very Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje–like, a Mandingo of a man wearing designer jeans and a tank top, the veins in his arms strong, his muscles aplenty. He was the type of man women responded to the way most men responded to Beyoncé.

Ericka waved at him, said, “Hey, Olamilekan. Glad you showed up for the party.”

He missed the loathing and sarcasm in her tone, waved, and kept going toward Indigo.

Mrs. Stockwell asked, “Who is he?”

“Indigo's boyfriend.”

“He's handsome.”

“Do you expect Indigo to have anything less than the best on her arm?”

He was born in Nigeria, but was raised in America. He spent some summers in Lagos, some holidays in the Hamptons. He was the perfect balance of two nations. A Princeton graduate. A polyglot. A man who made women squirm in their imagination each time he smiled.

Mrs. Stockwell said, “But he sure is black. Indigo is just as dark. They need to mix with people lighter than them if they want their children to have a chance in this country.”

“On that racist note, would you like something to drink before you leave?”

“I was going to stay awhile longer and break bread with Indigo's parents.”

“No you're not. You don't have to go home, but you are not staying here.”

“Indigo invited me.”

“Now you're
uninvited by me.”

“Because I told the truth?”

“This is a happy occasion and we're going to keep it that way. So smile, be your usual phony self, tell Indigo happy birthday, then leave so I can enjoy the rest of my day.”

“A glass of water will be fine. No sugary drinks. I'm trying to lose ten more pounds.”

“With that diet, are you sure you want to eat a piece of cake, Mrs. Stockwell?”

“I've been avoiding sugar, but I'll cheat today. Cut me a corner piece, if you can.”

“A small slice from the middle is what you'll get. Be glad I'm getting you a full cup of water. I'll try to not spill it on you. Would hate for you to start melting in front of all my friends.”

Ericka rushed to get her mother a cup of water and a slice of cake.

Mrs. Abdulrahaman was talking to Mr. Jones, but her eyes were on Mrs. Stockwell.

Beyond curt pleasantries, Mrs. Stockwell and Mrs. Abdulrahaman had nothing to say to each other. The cultural difference was too wide.

Mrs. Abdulrahaman told Mr. Jones, “There is a cancer support group
at Faithful Central. It's for anyone with any kind of cancer. They meet on Saturday mornings. You should go.”

“I will check it out. Thanks. Maybe I'll see if Destiny can go with me.”

“If you need, I will make time to go with you. My husband would not mind.”

Seeing Mrs. Abdulrahaman so close and chatty with Mr. Jones left a negative tingle moving up and down Ericka's spine, a tingle she had never felt when she was married and women flirted with her sanctified husband, the tingle that was the dangerous fire of jealousy.

She couldn't imagine Mr. Jones being intimate with Mrs. Abdulrahaman.

Yet the image did play in her mind, and it played in HD.

She imagined Mrs. Abdulrahaman bent over a sofa, and Mr. Jones going to town. Mr. Jones was a blessed, intense lover, good enough to make a woman go mad. Ericka shook that image out of her mind. She felt foolish, and turned away to give hugs and hellos to Kwanzaa's dad and bonus mom, chatted them up for a couple of minutes so as to not be rude.

When Ericka turned around again, she saw that her mother had left her seat.

Mrs. Stockwell had adjusted her boobs, fixed her dress, then gone to chin-wag with Indigo's dad. Ericka maintained her sweet smile as she took slow steps toward her mother. As she moved closer she heard Indigo's father saying, “—is called the Buharian Culture Organization. There is a lot of anger in the country and the people are in the streets screaming that enough is enough. Young Nigerians are standing up and protesting corruption.”

“Is the corruption really that bad? I read about the former oil minister—”

“Diezani Alison-Madueke. They say she was in bed with Kola Aluko and he was her money launderer. He's hiding in a Swiss estate, from what I hear. Alison-Madueke was arrested.”

“Yes, her. I read about her arrest. Shell Oil companies. Money laundering. Bribes. I mean, is it any worse than corruption here, or do they have your country under the microscope?”

“Police, political parties, the educational system, public officials, the media, even the religious bodies, they are all corrupt. Many say that Goodluck was bad luck for Nigeria.”

“I have to admit, I haven't done my research, but continue.”

“I am not afraid to say an orange is a fruit. The kerosene subsidy scandal, the police pension fund fraud, the Stella Oduah car purchase scandal, the campaign telling the government to kill corruption, not Nigerians. They have destroyed the economy, caused more poverty, and caused industries to collapse. You can see where the money is going because the officials now have flashy cars and homes all over the world, as their own communities are failing.”

Ericka interrupted, “Don't forget your appointment on the other side of town.”

Indigo's father said, “We hate you have to leave so soon. I haven't had a chance to have a full conversation with you regarding important business matters.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Don't become a stranger. There are global concerns we should discuss.”

“I would love to hear your international view on many matters.”

“You sure are looking lovely as usual, Mrs. Stockwell.”

“Why thank you. And you are always so fashionable.”

“What is your secret, Mrs. Stockwell? How do you keep a figure like a teenager?”

“Yoga, walking, drinking plenty of water, and eating salads.”

Ericka interrupted, “Mom. If you don't leave right now, you will be late for church.”

“Of course, my always thoughtful and considerate child. So much like her grandmother.”

“I don't need you near Indigo's father. I'm sure his wife wouldn't appreciate all the flirting at her daughter's party.”

Mrs. Stockwell said, “No one is flirting. I congratulated him on his successful journey from basically having nothing to being such an astute businessman both here and abroad.”

Indigo's father said, “I was just paying your
beautiful
mother a compliment.”

“Save the compliments for your
beautiful
wife, not my
Half
-rican American mother.”

“I compliment my wife all day and all night.”

“And continue to do so. It will keep your marriage stronger. And Mrs. Stockwell, why don't you be a churchwoman and go hug, kiss, and congratulate Mrs. Abdulrahaman on all she has achieved while being a wife and a mother. Go observe a healthy mother-daughter relationship.”

“I'm sure she has a better daughter than the one I have, Miss Stockwell.”

“I guess we both want what other people have, Mrs. Stockwell.”

“What is the meaning of this, Ericka?” Indigo's father laughed a hearty, Nigerian-born laugh. “There is no need for you to be rude at my daughter's party. I am only being sociable with your mother. Kwanzaa's father is friendly to her and makes jokes. So does Destiny's father.”

Ericka smiled. “Do me a favor, and I say this respectfully, but go attend to your wife and daughter. And as for you, Mrs. Stockwell, I will see you to your car.”

*   *   *

When Mrs. Stockwell left, Ericka returned to her apartment and showered, scrubbed her skin like she was removing nuclear contamination. She put on a different, more provocative bikini, jumped in the pool, and swam a few laps before she eased out and sat underneath the lush palm trees, her temper now cooled.

When she came out of the pool she noticed that Olamilekan was already gone. The West African superstar had made a twenty-minute appearance and moved on.

Ericka sat at the edge of the crowd of joyous people, then realized she had positioned herself where Mr. Jones could see her wishes and desires, but she didn't gaze in his direction. Not at first. Soon they made eye contact. She remembered, and she knew he remembered. She saw it in his eyes. It felt like she was laying down her heart. She wanted him
to come to her now, take her hand, dance with her, kiss her in front of everyone, tell them he felt for her the same way she felt for him. A girl could dream. She wondered if he had felt the love she felt when he had been inside her, when he had made love to her and put her up, up, and away, ten miles beyond cloud nine. She stared. Those gray eyes. So damn mesmerizing. She swallowed. Felt her nipples rise. Heat rose down below. Mr. Jones shifted in his seat, nodded at her. That simple nod made her feel sexy. That nod said he thought she was beautiful. That nod said he was thinking about when he had squeezed her ass, grabbed her hips, and pushed himself deep inside her. He had made a sound like he was dying. She had made a sound like a woman who had finally come alive. She imagined Mr. Jones. She imagined his six feet of solidness on top of her, between her legs. She imagined him moving inside her. He was a DILF. A bona fide DILF. Her hips moved to the Nigerian music being played, the heat down below making her rock, made her do a sensual Baikoko dance. Her hips rolled like the singer Shakira, evolved into a slow wine, moved her waist like she was a West Indian girl. He gazed. She danced. A chill went down her spine. Ericka finger waved at Mr. Jones, and then turned her head away, unable to breathe. He had gazed at her and his energy had set her afire. Despite her body being filled with angst due to her mother, she tingled and her hips moved. Ericka closed her eyes, hoping Mr. Jones was still watching her dance, hoped he too was remembering being inside her.