Apple Brown Betty (10 page)

D
esmond glided inside Cush, his heart pounding against the fabric of his shirt. Karen sidestepped, barely escaping the swing of the door. She'd been dusting the counter area a few feet inside. Desmond was too occupied with worry to apologize for his careless entry. “Where is she?” he asked. “Where's Felicia?”

Karen frowned. “Where were you? I wasn't expecting you to get here so fast.”

Desmond scanned the dining area. “I was on my way. Where's Felicia?”

“She's in the ladies' room.”

Desmond turned, looked at Karen for the first time. Fear and doubt clouded his face. “What did she say? You said she was crying?”

“Yes,” Karen said.

“No one went in to try and talk with her?”

“Of course we did. A few of us. She wouldn't tell any of us a thing.”

“I should go and talk with her,” Desmond said.

Karen nodded. “Yes, you should.”

Desmond held his spot, though. “I'm not good at this kind of thing.” He turned and looked at Karen again, his eyes wide with a deeper fear than she ever remembered seeing in him.

Karen touched his shoulder, eased him forward. “You'll be fine.”

“Hope she's not pregnant or something,” Desmond said. He'd stopped again, Karen's gentle push no longer moving him. “You know she's living in New York, modeling. She lives with a couple of other models. That's not the greatest environment for a beautiful young woman.”

“I know,” Karen said. Her arm was entwined in his and they started walking again.

He stopped again. “My parents were dead set against her doing this modeling thing. They wanted her to go to college. I wish she would have listened to them, but she's headstrong, stubborn, set in her ways.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Karen replied.

“It's different with me, if that's what you mean,” Desmond said.

Karen was able to get him to move a few more steps.

“You're a good woman, Karen.”

Karen smiled. “This is true. Now come on, your sister is waiting.”

Guilt covered Desmond. “I try to do the right thing when it comes to women, but it isn't easy,” he offered.

Karen rubbed his back, moved yet a few more steps. “Your sister, Desmond, she needs you.”

“I'm just saying…I'm probably not the best person to help her deal with a woman's problem.”

They reached the threshold of the ladies' room. Karen released her hold on his arm, stopped rubbing his shoulders, and looked at the restroom doorway. “You can bare your soul to me some other time. Right now—” she nodded her head toward the bathroom “—your sister needs you.”

Ten minutes ago, Desmond was lusting over a beautiful young woman, defining her by the sum of her assets, her ass and breasts. Now he was expected to tend to his sister? What in the world could he offer Felicia in comfort and wisdom? He couldn't imagine what would shake Felicia up so much that she would come down here from New York. Teary-eyed no less. He couldn't ever remember Felicia brought to tears in all her eighteen years. She was the little girl who could take lumps better than the boys.

“Go on, Desmond,” Karen directed.

He turned to Karen, had forgotten she was still here as his mind ran amok. “I'm going.” He clasped his hands together, rubbed them, took a deep breath and went to move forward but then stopped. He turned back to Karen. “Check and make sure no one else is in there.”

“I've kept my eye on it, there's no one in there except Felicia.”

“You positive?” he asked.

“Go!” Karen barked.

Desmond put his hand up in defense. “I'm going.”

He knocked as he entered. Felicia didn't answer. “Felicia, it's me, Desmond.” The sound of his voice was followed by an onslaught of his sister's sniffles. He noticed only one of the stalls closed and went to that stall and tapped on the door. “Felicia, sweetheart, you want to open up so we can talk?”

She paused for a moment before unlatching the door. Desmond pushed it open softly. Felicia stood pressed against the wall, a heap of twisted, wet scraps of toilet paper at her feet. Her makeup had run, black mascara showing the trail her tears had taken down her face. She looked up at Desmond. The woman he'd imagined her to be was not present. In the innocence of her eyes and the vulnerability of her posture, he could only see an eighteen-year-old struggling to be older and wiser than her years.

“What's the matter, Felicia?” He found himself rubbing his fingers along her hairline, caressing her face. To Felicia, the touch was as gentle as a breeze. She knew she'd made the right decision to come to Desmond instead of running home to her folks.

“Everything is screwed up,” she said.

Desmond desperately wanted to move from the cramped quarters of the stall, grab a seat at one of the tables outside in a quiet corner, but here would have to do. Felicia obviously wasn't up for a move just yet. He asked Felicia, “Screwed up. Why? What's happened?”

“I'm not going to slut my way to success,” Felicia said, shaking her head, defiance taking ahold of her. “I'm not sleeping with some slimy old creep to
advance my career.
”

Desmond's voice rose. “Someone propositioned you?”

The tears started to flow again from Felicia's eyes. All she could do was nod.

“Who was it, Felicia?”

“One of the agency photographers…Kenneth,” she sneered. “He works with getting our portfolios together to send out for job prospects. He hinted to me that he could increase my chances if I—” She stopped, hung her head for a moment. Wiped her eyes dry with her hands and blew her nose in a wad of toilet paper. Desmond had been awfully quiet, so she looked up at him. “Why are men such pigs?”

Desmond thought about Nora, about Karen, the dancer at the go-go bar with the mouthwatering ass and eye-popping nipples. He thought about the generous deposit he'd given the dancer, in the crease of her breasts, simply because she was built like a prizewinning Thoroughbred and jiggled like a pocket of change. Why were men such pigs?

“I don't know, Felicia,” he replied honestly.

“If they're not cheating on you, they're demeaning you,” Felicia continued.

Desmond nodded despite himself.

“They make you question yourself,” Felicia said. She looked at Desmond, hard. “Nora, she's all caught up with you. I know you probably have, but I have to ask anyway. You ever make her cry? Besides the wedding fiasco, I mean.”

Desmond sucked in air. “More times than I care to announce,” he admitted.

“How does that make you feel?”

“Ashamed.”

Felicia shook her head and looked away, tossing the thought of her brother's issues, most men's issues, aside. “Can I stay with you for a little while?” she asked. “I'm not ready to give up on modeling yet, but I'm not comfortable staying in New York right now, and I can't go home to Mommy and Daddy.”

Desmond placed his hand on her shoulder. “What's mine is yours.”

“Thanks. You're the best,” Felicia said, falling into his arms.

Desmond thought about that go-go bar again, knowing that today was probably just the start of his visits there. Was he the best?

 

The meltdown with her brother was on Cydney's mind as she sat down, crossed her legs and rummaged through the pile of dusty photo albums she'd just pulled from under her bed. She kept the albums in a cardboard box, next to a plastic box filled with shoes she never wore. As with the shoes, she'd considered trashing the albums several times, but never did. The phone rang as she picked up the first photo album and opened the cover. Cydney reached for the cordless, glad she'd had the foresight to bring it with her so she didn't have to run and grab it.

“Hello?” she said. She eyed a picture of Slay and her running through the water of a fire hydrant when they were younger. She smiled, remembering how Slay had taken the blame for opening the hydrant when the police came down that block. In the picture, Cydney was soaked all the way through; Slay had a bit of water on his pants and shirt. In truth, Cydney had opened the hydrant herself and had been playing in the water for quite some time before her brother joined in.

“Cydney?” Stephon spoke from the phone receiver.

Cydney flipped the page. Ooh, there was a picture of Slay when he was about ten or eleven, in his Pop Warner football uniform. Everyone was just sure he'd at least go to college on a football scholarship. He was magic with a football. Some of the older men in the neighborhood said he had Gale Sayers's moves and Jim Brown's power, whoever those two were.

“Um…yes,” Cydney said as she continued turning pages.

“I don't want to do the review for Cush,” Stephon said.

That caught Cydney's attention. “What? Why?”

Jealousy or insecurity, take your pick. “I'd rather run a piece on that new restaurant in Atlantic Highlands. The Wharf.”

“The seafood place?”

“Yes,” he said. “It's been getting tremendous buzz.”

“I thought our mission was to keep people of color informed about opportunities for cultural enhancement and entertainment here in New Jersey,” Cydney reminded him. “That is
Urban Styles
's mission statement.”

“It is.” He cleared his throat. “But come on, you know niggas love theyselves some scrimp,” he said, failing to tickle Cydney's funny bone.

“I'm doing Cush,” Cydney stated matter-of-factly. “You're being ignorant and you know it.”

“This isn't personal.”

“Right, Stephon.”

“I could make it personal,” he said. “I could mention how inappropriate I thought your behavior was that day we dined at Cush.”

“Inappropriate?”

“Highly. Making googly eyes at that stuffy Negro like some teenager.”

“Desmond Rucker is far from stuffy, Stephon.”

“Why you say that so certainly?” He swallowed loud enough for Cydney to hear on her end. “You were in his presence only a short while. Have you been back?”

Cydney started to say yes. “No.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive, Stephon.”

“I'm divorcing Samantha, Cydney. I'm really going to do it.”

“I hope you don't think there's hope for us, that you're thinking of divorcing her with some delusion of us being together.”

“Delusion?” His voice softened like a cried out child.

“I'm serious, Stephon. You and I are done.”

“You weren't talking this definite before meeting Mr. Restaurateur,” Stephon said coldly.

“Thought this wasn't personal,” Cydney responded.

“You have been back.”

“I haven't.”

“I can just tell you have,” Stephon said.

“Stephon, you—”

He cut her off with, “So how was it?”

“How was what?”

“That dick, Cydney, don't play coy with me. I just know you fucked him. You never were very discriminating in that department.”

Cydney's mouth opened into a capital-size O. “No, you didn't.”

“Yes, I did. So tell me. How was it?”

“I'll have the review over to you by the end of the week,” Cydney fumed. “Read it and see just how good it was.” She clicked the phone off. It rang back almost immediately but she let the voice mail pick up the call.

Okay, Stephon, she thought, you want me to go back so bad. Then I'll go back. She shut the photo album. There was no use in traveling down memory lane any longer. Slay was of the past. Stephon was of the past. Desmond Rucker…he was the future.

 

Slay pulled up to Kenya's uncle's house. He didn't need directions or a house number because the old man had a front yard full of useless odds and ends. The township inspectors had cited him for zoning violations on quite a few occasions, but as of yet they hadn't followed through with fines or jail time. Slay got out of his BMW, nodded to some people across the way that he knew and walked through the gate toward the house. The right portion of lawn was piled high with tires, hubcaps, and those gaudy Christmas ornaments that some people liked to stamp in their grass—a life-size Santa Claus, a sleigh and three reindeer. The left portion of lawn had a couple of old car engines, stacks and stacks of tied newspaper, a rusted stove, a refrigerator with the door lying on its top and garbage cans filled with leaves. Slay shook his head as he moved up the path to the front door. Kenya's uncle was a regular old Fred Sanford.

Slay opened the screen door and rapped on the main door frame. He rapped again after his first knock went unanswered. He moved to the edge of the porch and leaned over the side. The truck was parked in the narrow drive. Old man had to be home. Slay went back to the door and rapped again. This time he heard footsteps. Somebody fumbled at the lock behind the door and opened it.