The Blackbirds (34 page)

He laughed. “I understand, Miss Stockwell. I understand.”

Fifty more miles of desert went by. Las Vegas was on the horizon, and the PET scan was on her mind. Her life was on her mind. She had always played life safe, never taken any risks, not until she'd met Indigo, not until she'd reconnected with Destiny, not until she became best friends with Kwanzaa. Ericka had always been so predictable. She had been tofu. Even with what had happened when she was thirteen, even with her forced stay in Oklahoma, her life had been tofu.

Ericka's cellular rang. She looked at the ID. It was Kaiser calling. They had called her a dozen times since she sat in the office and was given the bad news. She rejected the call. She rejected the truth.

She rejected them and looked at the clouds again, searched for hearts, for the images of love. Ericka reached for Mr. Jones's right hand, put his fingers between her open legs. As they rode along doing one hundred miles an hour, he rubbed her where there was heat.

Feet on the dashboard, Ericka adjusted herself the best she could. As they headed downhill, the Las Vegas Strip thirty minutes away, his finger rubbed her spot. He had learned how and where to touch her.

She whispered, “Faster, Mr. Jones. Faster.”

Two days later, Ericka met Mr. Jones at Angelus Funeral Home to say good-bye to one of the people she had befriended when she was going through chemotherapy at Kaiser. The thirty-year-old woman's cancer had returned, and it had been aggressive, and in a matter of days the body had started shutting down. She had been in hospice, the inevitable had occurred, and she had been called home. Ericka hadn't spoken to her since right before Indigo's last birthday.

Ericka had been notified of the loss when she was leaving Las Vegas with Mr. Jones.

He had comforted her. Once again he had been there for her.

After paying respects to a fallen soldier, Ericka dried her tears, suppressed her fears, and followed Mr. Jones to Venice. They parked their cars near Abbot's Habit, then walked through the eclectic neighborhood hand in hand, ended up on the promenade at Venice, first using their medical marijuana cards and visiting a dispensary who sold outstanding Kush, then stopping to look at artists in action, freak shows, T-shirts, the Pacific Ocean only a few hundred yards away.

Mr. Jones told her that when his parents were growing up, they had been part of the Great Migration, that time after World War II when blacks fleeing the mistreatment in the South came to California in search of unionized work and wages that were strong enough to support a family. Black L.A. was art and jazz back then, and Central Avenue was
the place to be. Hattie McDaniel had to sue because it was against the law for blacks to own a home in the same areas that had become the epicenter of black culture.

Ericka said, “I wish I could have seen it back then.”

“It was less integrated.”

“Was that any better?”

“In some ways it was.”

“We're so spread out now. In the Valley, in the Inland Empire, down to San Diego.”

“I took a lot of black L.A. for granted when I was growing up.”

“We're too busy living and trying to survive to have many of those reflective moments.”

“See it now. It's changing. See what's left before it fades away.”

“Every day I look at things I never want to forget.”

“Laws changed and the white people ran away, but black folks haven't laid claim to the area. All the names they use are the developers' names. Leimert. Baldwin. Crenshaw. Blair. This is no-blacks-allowed-after-dark territory. Come sundown, you'd better be on the other side of Central Avenue, or you'll become some policeman's play toy. Black neighborhoods should have more than a street named after MLK. All we have around here that's official is Little Ethiopia.”

“That's two blocks along Fairfax. Not even close to an official black area.”

“I'd love to see a memorial as large as the tribute to the African Renaissance in Dakar. Something that makes a statement and was made by black hands. I would love something ethnic you could see as far away as the 10 freeway. It would be a black man, black woman, and their child, an unbroken family, and it would point toward Africa, back toward the Motherland, maybe toward Liberia, where some of the enslaved blacks went after they left here.”

“They should have one just as prominent in Oklahoma, in Greenwood, where they held a terrorist attack on the Black Wall Street. They should have a brother or sister memorial there too.”

“If no one else, they were owed reparations.”

“I love talking to you. Love talking to you about race, ethnicity, demography, and family.”

“Destiny says I talk too much about the same things. She thinks I'm angry. I'm not. I'm enlightened, and because of that, I'm passionate. She just says I talk too much.”

“Destiny is wrong. But then again, she probably thinks I talk too much too.”

Ericka and Mr. Jones moved on, but when they turned down a side street to make the long walk back to their vehicles, Ericka saw a familiar pink CBR parked in an alley.

It was Indigo's motorcycle.

It was one of a kind, easily identifiable.

Ericka panicked, looked back and forth, but didn't see Indigo anywhere in the crowd. She imagined Indigo seeing them, telling Destiny, then Destiny being infuriated. Ericka told Mr. Jones she thought it would be best if they walked separate streets, took different avenues to get back to their parked cars. Mr. Jones hesitated, but didn't argue.

They took separate routes to their vehicles.

She followed Mr. Jones back to Baldwin Hills.

Ericka hurried in through Mr. Jones's garage, undressed as she went up the stairs.

Mr. Jones asked, “What would Indigo be doing at Venice Beach on a weekday?”

“Maybe she's with Olamilekan.”

“Didn't they break up?”

“They always break up. He dumps her if he thinks she's said two words to Yaba, and she dumps him if she thinks he's still seeing some South African girl recovering from a broken nose. They should call fake breakups
fake-ups
. They fake-up too much. I've stopped caring.”

“So they got back together after their last fake-up.”

“They're talking. He's sending flowers. He's sending gifts. I think they're cool again. He was over last week. Or maybe she's kicking with Yaba. He's been over to see her too.”

“If she were with Yaba, as tall as he is, we would have seen him a mile away.”

“Not if he was sitting down, maybe at the café by the bookstore, having lunch.”

“Yaba lives this way?”

“Yaba's estate is in the Pacific Palisades.”

“And Olamilekan?”

“Bel Air.”

“Both live a long way from here.”

“Both live near better beaches. The properties they have and their amenities make going to a public beach seem like slumming. And both would get mobbed by sports fans.”

“Yeah, we'd see the crowds first, long before we saw one of them.”

“So that means she's not with one of them.”

“Is she with Destiny delivering Fire Sticks?”

“Only saw one CBR.”

Ericka checked her phone. There were no messages from Indigo.

Ericka hoped that meant Indigo hadn't seen her being romantic with Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones called Destiny, started a conversation, talked for two minutes about attending a cancer support group in Inglewood on the following Saturday morning, then ended the call.

He said, “She has no idea. She's busy delivering Fire Sticks around town.”

“I haven't received any messages from the rest of the other Blackbirds either.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to kiss and kiss and kiss. I want your lips on my lips.”

“You want me to stop talking.”

“I never want you to stop talking, but I need you to start kissing.”

Soon they were nude, on the sofa, a cloud of Cataract Kush floating over their heads.

People around Ericka were dying. She wanted to live. She wanted to do the things she had always been too afraid to do. She didn't want to die regretting not doing things.

Sex with Mr. Jones was beyond being physical; it was an affirmation of being alive.

When Ericka woke up, showered, and dressed, she noticed her missing earring sitting in the middle of the sofa. She smiled, felt relieved, and put it in her bag, did it without asking Mr. Jones when and where it had been found.

Kwanzaa was in Cristiano's bed, naked, cuddling, chatting, getting to know each other better. With him she had the desire to be naked in bed, to use him to gain relaxation and comfort, and it didn't matter if it was light or dark outside, because being with him gave her peace of mind.

He was always available for her. She couldn't say that about her ex.

Her cellular hummed. Marcus's ringtone. Kwanzaa put her phone on silent.

Kwanzaa crawled back to Cristiano, said, “As I was saying, I'm just trying to make sense of this anti-intellectual, anti–critical thinking society, and in the meantime I keep myself busy by studying chemiosmotic coupling, dehydrogenase, and the Henderson-Hasselbalch equation—which describes the derivation of pH as a measure of acidity—and at the same time mastering the theory of linear versus nonlinear differential equations.”

“Okay, wordsmith, stop showing off. You're a bluestocking.”

Kwanzaa laughed. “No one has ever called me that, but I guess I am a bluestocking.”

She sat up, turned on her iPad, took out notes, studied for a couple of hours, then browsed the web. Cristiano was next to her, working on a business plan, at times texting.

He didn't talk much. The silence between them was comfortable.

It was so hard to not be distracted by a naked man in bed with her.

Her feet rubbed against his muscular leg.

He put his work down, took her breast in his mouth. A moment later
it was too much to bear and they rolled on their sides, her feet at his head, mouth to each other's genitals. They were unhurried. He had her spread open, explored her. She used her mouth and hands, tried to drive him mad, went on until she couldn't take it anymore.

Soon she was in the position she loved the most.

She became his koala bear again.

*   *   *

After a nap, they bathed, washed each other's bodies, then talked as they put lotion on each other's skin. Nude, Cristiano took one guitar down from the wall, handed it to Kwanzaa.

He took down another. They played awhile, had a jam session.

Kwanzaa sang a number by ZZ Ward, then another by Nina Simone. Next she sang a Spanish song by Carla Morrison, “Tu Orgullo.” Cristiano played and sang two numbers by Damien Rice, then two more by Ed Sheeran, the last being the one about Alzheimer's. Cristiano's father had died from Alzheimer's three years ago and that song struck a chord.

Kwanzaa said, “Those songs are amazing, heartwarming, heartwrenching, inspiring, eye-opening, poignant, and tragic. If I could write songs, that's my style, the type I would write.”

“That's the sum of what life is. Life is the ebb and flow of the good and the bad.”

Kwanzaa asked, “How many other instruments have you mastered?”

“I have learned to play the piano like a second-rate Bach.”

“Well, you play a vagina like Beethoven performing ‘Ode to Joy.'”

“You're an excellent musician yourself.”

“Yeah, I can fellate and make you sing David Sanborn's ‘The Dream.'”

“Yes, you can.”

“The sounds you make when you're in my mouth turn me on.”

“I'm getting aroused.”

“Me, too.”

“We'd better get out of here.”

“Yeah, or we'll end up back in bed.”

“Or you'll be bent over the desk.”

“We better get out of here fast.”

They dressed in jeans and tees, his Hugo Boss and hers Forever 21, and left the loft, walked out into the sun, into the heart of urban gentrification. Holding hands, they chatted and strolled by the converted warehouses covered with roof-to-sidewalk murals to Traction Avenue, laughing about something irrelevant as they went inside the Pie Hole, a local spot where the menu always changed and was written on the rolls of brown paper. Yesterday afternoon, after they had ridden to San Pedro and back on Cristiano's Harley, Kwanzaa had had the apple crumble pie with black coffee. Here Cristiano didn't order iced coffee, but either had Earl Grey or Thai tea, and he loved the maple custard and blueberry crisp.

Kwanzaa glanced at her phone. Over a dozen missed calls from attorney Marcus Brixton. She knew what that meant. Her ex was desperate to see her.

The small eatery had a rustic charm, exposed bricks, a unique ambiance. Kwanzaa found a table in the seating area. She loved the cozy café feeling. Ten minutes there and she was pro-gentrification. She wished Crenshaw Boulevard could be renovated and have coffee shops and a variety of restaurants that offered healthy food choices. It would be nice to see the Shaw become a peaceful environment and a safe walking area from end to end. Paying six dollars for a slice of pie was a bit much, but it seemed worth the atmosphere.

Kwanzaa looked around. They sat in a room of hipsters, all wearing cuffed jeans or yoga pans, most of them using Macs. Some carried their cute little dogs like they were babies.

Cristiano leaned over to Kwanzaa and whispered in her ear, “I will tell you why I like the blueberry crisp so much. The blueberry crisp is like going down on you. It's nice and warm and juicy, flavorful, and not overly sweet, has a very nice balance. I could eat it, or taste you, all day.”

“We better get this pie to go.”

“Not yet. Let's sit here, enjoy the moment.”

“I love this spot.”

“Tell me which pies you like and why.”

She smiled, loved his game.

She said, “The apple pie is rich, buttery, like cinnamon, sort of tart, sort of sweet. It tastes like you taste when you're in my mouth, when
you're coming in my mouth, when I swallow. I love the aftertaste. It's intriguing with lemon and vanilla innuendos. The sweetness is perfection.”

“The Earl Grey pie is topped with pistachios on a white fluffy layer of godliness. Took my first bite and I was sent to heaven. It was that way the first time I opened your legs and licked you. The moment your rich succulent pie touched my lips, it was like I had an orgasm while savoring. I loved the silkiness, the consistency, the taste, the sweetness level of you.”

“Sometimes when you orgasm, it's rich, like whipped cream and cinnamon. It startled me, but it was a pleasant surprise. Another time it was airy, frothy with a slight tea taste.”

“You taste like a peach, like peach cobbler with the right amount of butter. But I can taste hints of chocolate. If my tongue goes deep enough, there are sweet, bitter notes of the chocolate.”

That went on for a while. It went on until Kwanzaa squirmed in her seat and craved another sixty-second orgasm.

She said, “Okay, you can't talk to me like that and expect me to sit here and focus. How can you do this to me with words about food?”

“We have to sit here and eat and have at least one cup of tea.”

“You're trying to keep me in my clothes, when you know I want to be naked.”

“As long as I can. You look nice in clothes. Let's mix with the world for a few.”

“Of course. We must be civilized.”

Kwanzaa glanced around the room.

People stared at her, at Cristiano.

They knew.

They had heard the rumor.

And now they had seen her with him every weekend.

She smiled.

*   *   *

Back at the loft, again nude, Kwanzaa used the maple custard to paint her lover's nipples, to smooth over his fraternal twins. She licked the pie
away from one, then sucked pie away from one, added more pie, then sucked one as she stroked the other. He was a dessert so sweet.

He took Kwanzaa, made her his pie, and pampered her with his tongue. It was therapeutic, better than a steam, a facial, a shampoo and condition, and a deep-tissue massage. Then she pampered him, stroked and sucked until he gave her his orgasm, and it was like sweet red wine, a delicious cocktail, like eating sliced fruit and little mini bites of chocolate while listening to invigorating neo soul.