62
Right Here
“Girl, he seems to get bigger every time I see him,” Hope said as she handed Stacy’s son a breadstick. The ladies were enjoying their first Saturday powwow in a long time.
“And so do you!” Frieda said, rolling her eyes at Hope’s round stomach.
“I am, huh?” Hope agreed. She rubbed her belly lovingly.
“How far along are you? Five months?”
Hope nodded.
“And already looking like a Butterball turkey,” Frieda said. “Hey, waiter! Cancel that order of calamari and bring this girl a salad!”
The other patrons joined in the laughter.
“You know I’m messing with you, girl. Get your eat on like you want to.”
“I have to. I’m eating for three.”
“And you’ve decided on the names for sure?”
“Yes, Acacia and Camon.”
Stacy scrunched up her nose. “I like Acacia, but that boy’s gonna have to whoop booty for days. I can hear the teasing now: ‘C’mon! C’mon!’”
“But it’s pronounced like Damon; the emphasis is on the first syllable.”
“That won’t matter to seven-year-olds.”
“And it won’t matter to my son. He’ll be above such things.”
Stacy rolled her eyes. “Oh, here we go, Miss Perfect Mom thinking she has all the answers. Girl, it don’t matter that you’ve read enough books to teach a college course on childhood development; it all changes when they get here.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yeah, you sure will.”
“Enough baby talk. Let’s talk about dicks.”
One of the women at the other tables turned around with a surprised expression on her face. Her lunching companion showed chagrin.
“Good Lord, Frieda. We can’t take you anywhere!” Hope shot the table next to them an apologetic smile.
“What? I could have been talking about anything or anybody—uh, Dick Gregory, Dick Clark, and what’s that one rerun . . .
The Dick Van Dyke Show
.” She looked pointedly at the table of judgers. “It
is
okay to talk about Dick, isn’t it?”
The two ladies beside them turned their heads and became very interested in their food.
“I see hanging around the doctor hasn’t improved your social skills,” Stacy said.
“He’s not complaining.”
“That is still so crazy that you’re dating the man who performed my surgery.”
“Yeah, and don’t think I’m gonna forget that he handled your titties! So when I bring him around, y’all chicks back the bump up!”
“You are a fool!”
The ladies stopped their banter long enough for the waiter to deliver their meals.
“Have you thought any more about the reconstructive surgery?” Hope asked as she dipped her calamari liberally into the chunky sauce.
“We’re going to wait until after the wedding,” Stacy said. She gave Darius a chicken finger and continued. “But Tony has been really helpful making me feel okay with it, whether I get the surgery or not.”
“Uh-huh. I knew I’d find out he’s been dippin’.” Frieda laughed loudly around a mouthful of burger with bacon. “Y’all church girls always trying to act like you ain’t getting the lickety-split. But I know better!”
Stacy got ready to protest, but Hope shook her head. “Don’t even try it, Stacy,” Hope said. “I went through the same thing. The girl is going to believe what she wants to believe, and that’s that.”
“Tony and I are adamant about staying celibate until after we say, ‘I do.’”
“And when will that be?” Hope asked.
“We’re thinking a June wedding.”
“A whole year from now? Hmph, lickety-split, lickety-split.”
“Licky spit,” Darius Jr. chimed.
Stacy covered Darius’s ears playfully. “Girl, you’re corrupting my son. Shut up!”
“Acting corrupt is how you got him.
You
shut up!”
Stacy’s cell phone vibrated on the table. She flipped it open.
It’s Darius,
she mouthed while listening.
Both Hope and Frieda stopped eating. For a minute. It wasn’t long before Hope was biting into her entrée, a jumbo-lump crab burger with steaming hot fries.
“Yes! Oh, praise God. You have got to be beside yourself right now. Who’s that screaming in the background? Oh, I should have known. Okay, well, call me later. Congratulations!”
Stacy beamed as she flipped off her phone.
“His case was dismissed,” Frieda said.
“Yes!”
“Hallelujah! Our God is an awesome God!”
“And that attorney ain’t too shabby either!” Frieda said.
“Oh, man, I can already tell you’ve been hanging around Dr. Livingston too long.”
“I know, isn’t that something? All the fine men in our church, and she has to go get another heathen.” Hope lowered her voice and leaned toward Stacy. “Now we’ll have to try to drag two people to church on Sundays.”
“Hmph, you’ll have to drag us out of bed first!”
“But what about the case?” Hope said, going back to Stacy’s news about Darius. “Doesn’t the state take over when there’s a rape claim, even if the parties dismiss it? Remember R. Kelly and how even though the girl’s parents said he didn’t do it, they still tried him?”
“I don’t know all the ins and outs of the thing, but with Melody gone and Darius cleared . . .” Stacy shrugged.
“And that punk-ass Shabach.” Frieda’s tone changed. “Walking around like nothing happened.”
“You know what the old folks say. That you might get by, but you don’t get away. And I’m not excusing anything he did, but the tape proves it wasn’t by force.”
“Talk about ironic. What are the chances that Tony would have talked to you about the love letters he was getting? Thank goodness you mentioned it to Darius. Otherwise he may never have put two and two together with proof that would stand up in court.”
“Don’t give me too much credit. I just casually mentioned the anonymous notes the second time Darius brought up the note
he’d
gotten from Melody. He told Bo, and that’s who asked to see a copy of Tony’s notes.”
“I’ll give Bo one thing,” Stacy said. “That man takes care of his man better than some women! He holds it down!”
“It still isn’t right what Shabach did,” Hope said. “He knew she was underage.”
“You’re absolutely right. But like I said, every dog has his day.”
“I don’t want to talk any more about him,” Stacy said. “My son’s father has been cleared. I feel like celebrating.”
She motioned the waiter over, and a short time later Frieda had a glass of chardonnay while both Stacy and Hope savored sparkling cider.
“To your daddy,” Stacy said as she kissed Darius Jr.
“To yo’ baby daddy,” Frieda said.
“To God be the glory,” Hope chimed in. They raised their glasses in toast.
“You know, life is full of ups and downs, but if we just keep breathing, a change has got to come. Look at us. Barely six months ago I was ready to drag Darius through the court; now I’m happy he’s been
cleared
by the system. Hope, you’ve been begging for a child, and God has given you two. And, Frieda, you’re with a good man, a doctor! Maybe you’ve finally found your Mr. Right, instead of Mr. Right Now.”
“Well, since he’s Mr. Got Money and Mr. Got House and Mr. MD and Mr. Big Dick . . . you might be right!” Frieda laughed, but secretly prayed—yes, prayed—that Dr. Gabriel Livingston was here to stay.
Hope sat back in her chair, fat and happy. “You know what? Life is feeling pretty good right now. And they say this doesn’t compare to the glory. I can’t imagine what it will be like when we get to heaven.”
“Girl, you better smack Mistah upside the head and worry about heaven later,” Frieda teased in her best Sophia from
The Color Purple
voice. “Seriously though, I for one am not trying to die to find out about the hereafter. If you ask me, I’d say we’ve got heaven right here!”
Hope smiled at her crazy cousin. “You know what, Frieda, you might be right.” She lifted her cider. “To heaven right here, y’all.”
“To heaven right here!” Stacy and Frieda echoed.
“Heaben here!” Darius Jr. shouted.
It seemed no one wanted to be left out of paradise.
63
Talk to Me
A month ago she’d been happy. Now Hope lay spread-eagled in the middle of her king-sized bed with two pillows under her and one on the side, trying to find comfort. There was none around. She turned to her side slightly and grimaced. One of her children was bearing down on her lower intestine, the other on her bladder. There was a constant ache in the small of her back, and she had to pee every five minutes. There was a reason she had wanted children, and Hope vaguely remembered that at one time she had actually prayed to get pregnant. Now she was starting to believe Frieda was right, that anyone wanting another human growing “on top of her pussy” was out of their blankety-blank mind.
Hope plumped the pillows behind her and tried to raise herself to a sitting position. The babies really began acting a fool then. One of them kicked her on her side, and the other one (or was it the same baby but now using its hand?) was making an imprint on the top of her stomach. And she had to pee . . . again.
Huffing, Hope threw back the covers and marched to the master bathroom. She was almost there when the phone rang. Thinking it was her mother, who she’d called earlier, she rushed back to the phone, grabbed it, and made a beeline for the restroom.
“Mama?”
“No, baby, it’s me.”
Hope rolled her eyes. “What?”
Cy paused, and then said, “How are you feeling, baby?”
“How do you think I’m feeling!” Hope yelled. “I’m feeling like a stuffed potato—which I can’t eat, by the way, because starch gives me gas. My back is throbbing, and I’ve spent most of the morning on the stool. How is your fucking day?”
Cy pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it like he would a foreign object. Who was he talking to? Surely not his loving, positive-minded, Christian wife. Using the F-word? This must be her evil twin.
“Uh, look, baby, I can see I caught you at a bad time.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Click.
Cy frowned and hit the redial button. He got voice mail. “Hope, I’m worried about you. Call me back and let me know you’re okay and if you want me to bring you anything. Matter of fact, I can cancel my last two appointments and come home early if you want. Call me. I love you.” Cy ended the call and speed dialed another.
“Hey, father-to-be. What’s going on?”
“That’s what I called to find out.”
“Hold on a minute, man.” Derrick motioned his assistant to leave the office and to close the door behind him. “Okay, talk to me.”
“Hope just cursed me out.”
“Who?”
“Hope.”
“That’s what I thought you said.”
“Man, I don’t know what happened. When I left her this morning, she was fine. Up until last month she was fine. Now I don’t know who I’m going to wake up to in the morning.”
Derrick chuckled under his breath.
Not far enough under. Cy grew rigid. “You’ll understand if I fail to see the humor in this situation.”
“It’s called pregnancy, bro. Nobody schooled you on the multiple personalities a woman can take on when they’re expecting? When Vivian was pregnant with our son, I spent several nights in the guest room.”
“Really? It got that bad?”
“Worse, but that’s all I’m going to tell you.”
“All I know is she’s driving me crazy. In and out of bed all night long. I barely get any sleep. Crazy mood swings, running me to the store every other hour as her taste buds swing between craving sugar and sweet. And why isn’t it ever something we have in the fridge? We haven’t had sex for weeks, she keeps threatening to move her mom in, and she’s harping on me every day to finish the house before the kids come. I’m tired of it!”
Derrick leaned back in his leather chair. “So what I hear you saying is you’ve never felt more blessed in your life and you never thought you could love someone as much as your wife. That about right?”
Cy smiled into the phone. “That’s exactly what you heard, my brother. I’m blessed beyond measure, and the woman who is carrying my son and my daughter? I love her more than life itself.”
64
Runaway Child
Melody was still pouting, much as she had been for the past two months, going on three. This act alone used to be enough to melt any amount of anger her mother had against her. But not this time. Even her father, normally putty in her hands, had turned a deaf ear to her pleas not to be shipped off to another school in another state. In what she’d hoped would be a turning point, she’d pseudo run away from home the week after Bernadette had delivered the decision that she would be attending a Christian, girls-only school. “Pseudo” because she’d actually only gone over to Natasha’s house and refused to answer her cell phone.
Things had turned, all right. When she’d arrived at school the following Monday, she was summoned to the office and met by a police officer and a social worker.
“You’ve been listed as a runaway, and we’re taking you in,” the officer had said as she’d led a tearful Melody out of the office.
When Melody had jerked her arm away in an act of defiance, the officer had turned her around and had her handcuffed before Melody even saw silver. When they reached the police department, they took off the cuffs and allowed Melody her one phone call. Of course it was to none other than Bernadette Anderson.
“Mom.” Melody didn’t have to fake the tears. “I—I—I’m at the police department. They’re saying I’m a runaway!”
“Isn’t that what you are? After being a liar and a whore?”
The caustic comment had taken Melody’s breath away. Her mother was showing a tough side the daughter had never known existed.
“I’m sorry, Mom. If you come and get me, I promise I’ll do right. Go to Louisiana, whatever you want. But please come and get me. I’m scared.”
“Let me think about it.”
“Huh?”
“I
said
, let me think about it. Now put the officer on the phone.”
Melody’s hand trembled as she called out to the policewoman. “Excuse me. My mother wants to talk to you.”
The officer gave Melody a stern look. She shuffled a few papers around and took so long Melody began to doubt if she’d take the call. “Excuse me?” Melody said timidly.
“I heard you!” The officer marched over and snatched the phone away. “Officer Ladd here.” She shot another withering glance at Melody, who scuttled over to a bench in the waiting area.
“I know you can’t talk, but I just want to thank you.” Bernadette fought to stay composed. “This hurts me more than it hurts her.”
“I understand.”
“Your mother raised you right, Becky. All those years she and I worked together . . . I know it was God that had me run into her in the store this weekend. I’m in your debt.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Anderson.”
“Well, I won’t keep you. Please take care of my baby while she’s in there. She’s done wrong, but deep down she’s a good kid. You’ll keep her a few hours?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, God bless you, child.”
“Right, I’ll keep you posted.”
From the time Bernadette and Clyde had picked up their daughter from the downtown juvenile center, Melody had been reserved yet respectful. The only thing she maintained of her old, spoiled, selfish self was the pout and the absolute belief that she was the victim and the one who’d been wronged.
Melody threw down the magazine she’d only been pretending to read, snatched the earbuds out of her ear, and jumped off the bed.
“It ain’t fair! I don’t want to leave California,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
She continued talking to herself as she pulled her phone from her backpack and angrily punched buttons. “If I’ve got to go through this bullshit, I’m not going to be the only one who suffers.”