For the Love of Money (30 page)

The waiter was back with my salad and water. I felt like sending him away again.

He said, “A Mr. Q. told me to give you his card.”

I looked and took the light green business card from my waiter's hand. It read “Mr. Q.'s Healthy Treats.” It had the name Qadeer Muhammad with an address and a phone number printed at the bottom. I flipped it to the back to see if he had written me a message, but he hadn't. I felt better with the card though. At least I could eat and sleep that night, but what would I do next? Would I hunt him down at his store? For what, so he could embarrass me by showing me his ring and his two sons? I could really make myself look like a fool. I had to fight off the impulse, I just didn't know how. All I could think of for the rest of the night was Victor Hinson giving me another one of his
personal
“treats” in my hotel room at the Four Seasons. However, would that be “healthy” for me? Or would it be more like a poison?

$   $   $

Raheema never looked more beautiful or happier in her life than at the wedding rehearsal at church that Friday morning. She was six months pregnant, but she didn't show it much. People call that a boy. Her husband-to-be, Ernest Neumann, was indeed handsome, penny brown with a rounded head and a perfect dimpled smile. He seemed self-assured and happy about marrying my girl.

Raheema's bridesmaids were all of her college friends. I told them plenty of stories about her to keep the mood light.

“So, Raheema was always the studious type?” they asked me.

“No question about it. I thought she would
never
get married unless it was to the books. Now she goes ahead and beats me to the altar,
and
with a baby.”

“Would you stop talking about the baby. Everybody doesn't know,” Raheema said.

I figured she had to be joking with that. I frowned at her. I said, “Girl, you may not be as big as a cow right now, but you
do
show. So don't even believe that lie that Ernest told you.”

“What did
I
do?” Ernest called out, overhearing his name.

“You knocked up my girl,
that's
what you did,” I fired back at him.

Everyone laughed, and I felt good while standing right in the middle of things and instigating. I had a few exciting tricks up my sleeve that included seeing Mr. You-Know-Who. I decided that you only live once, so regardless of whether I was embarrassed or not, I wanted to follow my impulse, as long as it didn't kill me. Having another talk with Victor would not kill me. What that talk could lead to, however, was another story.

Raheema's older sister Mercedes showed up before we were finished with the rehearsal, but Raheema didn't seem to have too many words for her. I found my way over to Mercedes just to say hi. She had been through a lot of changes in her life, but she was still my girl.

She said, “How you doin', Tracy? I hear you out in Hollywood now. Have you had any luck out there yet?” Whenever Mercedes asked you something, it always seemed like a loaded question with ulterior motives involved. She thought way too fast to have a normal conversation.

“A little something came my way,” I answered her. I asked her on the down low, “How come
you're
not in the wedding?” I didn't want to embarrass Mercedes or make a scene by being too loud about it, but I
did
want to know.

Mercedes grunted, tossed her head back, and laughed.

She said, “Shit, Tracy, I wasn't paying no damn hundred and fifty dollars for some African dress that I wasn't going to wear again. To hell with that.”

“Watch your mouth in this church, girl,” I reminded her.

She looked up toward the brown Jesus with long woolly hair at the front of the church and said, “Forgive me, Lord.” She looked again with large eyes. “Damn, when did Jesus turn black? This must be one of them
radical
churches.”

I just shook my head at her. Raheema pulled me aside.

“What did Mercedes say to you?” she whispered.

“Oh, I just asked her why wasn't she in the wedding.”

“She said something about the dresses, right?”

I smiled. “She said she wasn't paying a hundred and fifty dollars for some African dress that she would never wear again.” Actually, most bridesmaid dresses were disposable from what I knew, just like with prom dresses. Unless you were old-fashioned and into saving and recycling them.

Raheema sighed and said, “She can be so daggone
petty
sometimes. I would do it for
her
in a heartbeat. This is a once-in-a-lifetime occasion.”

I put my hand on Raheema's shoulder and said, “Don't let it get to you, girl. We both know how Mercedes can get sometimes.”

While I held my hand on her shoulder, I noticed that Raheema's hair was trimmed into a perfect V at the back of her neck, with big attractive waves that flowed on top.
Damn
my girl looked good in her natural! She even had
me
tempted to try it, but on second thought, my hair was never quite as flowing as Raheema's and Mercedes', I just had the fancy eyes, so I chose to keep
my
hair permed.

Before I stepped out of the door and headed on my way, my girl's husband-to-be walked over and shook my hand.

“Well, it's good to finally meet the woman behind the book,” he said with a knowing smile.

I was tempted to tell him I wasn't that little fast girl anymore, but like Kendra and Yolanda had told me out in Cali, I had to stop sweating it and go on with my life. After all, I
did
agree to publish my life story in a book, so I damn sure couldn't keep complaining about it.

Raheema asked me if I would hang out with her and her bridesmaids later on that night. I didn't make her any promises though. I wanted to make plans of my own.

I took a quick taxi ride to pick up my rental car from downtown, and bought a cheese steak and fries for lunch. By the time I had stuffed my face, it was slightly after four o'clock, so I left to pick up my brother from the basketball game at his school. I figured that finding 19th and Norris Streets would be simple. Maybe if I had remembered to pay attention to the street signs like my girl Kendra had told me, it would have been.

Well, I started on my way, driving through the ruggedness of North Philadelphia, and I kept running into one-way streets, construction, and slow traffic. It seemed like everything that could possibly slow me down and make me late to pick up my brother was happening to me. I got completely turned around and was frustrated. I finally stopped and asked for directions, and this talkative fool that I asked sent me the wrong damn way. I only found that out when I asked for more directions at a quarter to five. When I finally made it to Engineering & Science High School (after five o'clock), I noticed that I had driven right past the school earlier.

“This
is a high school?” I asked myself out loud. It looked more like a middle school to me. It didn't look as if the building could hold more than five hundred students.

Jason was long gone. I would have to catch up to him at home, and with that being the case, it gave me a perfect opportunity to stop off on Wayne Avenue to investigate Victor's health food store. My heart started racing like a young girl's again to even think about it. I totally forgot about the rush-hour
traffic I would have to fight through after five o'clock. So by the time I arrived in Germantown, my energy was all burned out. Nevertheless, I parked the car on Wayne, and went ahead and walked inside of Victor's health food store.

It was a clean place compared to the other stores on that block, and the fresh paint job was all white with green trim and a shiny black tile floor.

“Can I help you with something, sister?” a smooth-looking brother wearing a white headpiece asked me from behind the glass counter.

I don't think they were Nation of Islam Muslims, but regular followers of Islam.

I said, “Let me look around and see what I want first.”

“Okay, take your time, sister.”

I'll be honest with you: health food never looked too good to me. It didn't have enough color to it. Everything looked brown, green, or white, so the only thing I felt safe with was the vegetable platters. They needed to make health food
look
healthier. Or maybe I was too Americanized with the brainwashing of artificial colors and flavoring, but who was
I
fooling. I was not there for food anyway, I was there for a man.

I stopped the bullshit and just went for broke. “Is Qadeer Muhammad around?”

“Oh, yeah, he's in the back.” The brother stopped, stared, snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “I
knew
you looked familiar. You're the one in the book, right?
Flyy Girl.”

It seemed like all of Philadelphia knew my face. It
was
my hometown, but it wasn't as if I was famous.
Yet.

“Yeah, that's me,” I told him.

He stared at me and smiled.

I said, “And
I've
made changes in
my
life just like the brother
Qadeer
has made changes in his.”

The brother nodded to me. “I understand, sister. We all have to take those dark paths before we see the light.”

Okay, well, stop fucking staring at me like you want something and go get your damn boss!
I thought to myself. Muslim or not, that brother was as human and imperfect as the rest of us. I could tell where his mind was, right inside of my damn panties!

“All right, I'll go get the brother,” he said, leaving the counter area.

“Thank you,” I told him.

He reappeared shortly after. “He'll be right out to see you.”

For a second, it all seemed unreal. Victor Hinson, a Muslim with a health
food store, the same Victor who drank, smoked, got high, and screwed every pretty girl in the neighborhood who looked at him too hard. It was unbelievable! I had to look away to stop myself from laughing.

“How are you doing today, sister?” Mr. Qadeer Muhammad addressed me.

I turned to face him and looked again for his ring. I found it on his left hand, as plain as day, big, gold, and shiny. He was dressed as casually as any other brother in jeans and a sweater. He didn't even look like a Muslim.

“I'm doing fine. I just stopped in to see what your place looks like,” I answered.

Before I could say another word, a little hand pushed me aside.

“Dad-dee?”

“Say excuse me. What did I tell you about pushing through people?” Victor told his son sternly.

I looked at the boy to see if he had his father's looks, and I'll be damned if he didn't! He was a shade or two lighter, but he definitely had the looks, and I was jealous as hell! He could have been
my
son.

“Excuse me,” he looked up at me and said. I think he was five years old.

“That's okay,” I told him, smiling.

Low and behold, in walked the wife with the second son, looking like twins. They were both walnut brown and small. The second son looked up and smiled, and it lit up the damn room. I was so, so weak, hating
all
of them for stealing
my
family!

Victor,
or
Qadeer, I guess I should say, introduced us right there on the spot.

“Malika, I guess it's time for you two to finally meet each other. This is Tracy Ellison.”

His wife nodded her head and extended her small hand to me. She must have been around five foot three, and was very dignified and calm.

She said, “I'm pleased to finally meet you, sister.”

I took her hand and was at a loss for words.

“I, ah . . . same here. I'm pleased to meet you.”

I wasn't pleased at all! She took my damned husband!

Qadeer said, “Malika, give me a minute, okay.”

She looked at him and nodded before gathering her sons with authority. “Let's go.”

I was just about ready to fall down and die, but Qadeer led me out of his store and into the cold before I had a chance to.

“So, how long are you back in town?” he asked me.

I was daydreaming about rewinding the last twenty minutes of my life and never walking into his store and asking to see him.

“Hunh?” I mumbled.

“How long are you in town?” he asked me again.

“Until Sunday.”

He nodded. “You want to talk to me, don't you?”

I looked at him to read his eyes. They were steady and serious.

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“I mean, we could sit down and talk and clear the air between us. That's what you want, right?”

I was numb, and freezing, but his words were keeping me warm. He would still see me.

“Remember Raheema, my next-door neighbor and Mercedes' little sister? She's getting married tomorrow near downtown,” I told him.

He nodded again. “Oh yeah? Well, that's a beautiful thing.”

I ignored his comment and said, “We're all staying at the Four Seasons.”

“Is that where you want to talk?”

I read his eyes again.

“Ah, we don't have to,” I mumbled, “because I don't want any disturbances.”

He smiled and said, “I agree with that. It should be just us and our words.”

“Can you meet me at the Doubletree on South Broad Street then?”

I could
not
believe what I was saying!
Or
what
he
was saying, right out in front of his store with his wife and kids inside. I was becoming weak again, and the man was married.

“Ten o'clock,” he told me.

I finally stopped the craziness and asked, “What about your wife? What will
she
say about this?”

He said, “Tracy, as you mentioned yourself, we have some unfinished business to take care of, right? My wife knows this. It's not a secret. You wrote a book about us.”