He moved close to her and whispered, “I might be able to help you with that.” She stepped away and scrutinized him. Young, twenty-something, not too tall, creamy white skin, black spiky hair, and a stocky build. He could supply her with as many pills as she wanted, he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you’re interested I know someone, and whatever you need I can get it for you. You interested?”
A small voice inside her head said she shouldn’t trust this man; accepting his offer would be a mistake, never mind illegal, but she squashed that voice and nodded vigorously.
“How much?” she asked, but he covered his lips with his forefinger and beckoned her to follow him. He led her to his car in the parking lot and produced a bag of pills from a box in the trunk. A shock ran through her as she viewed his supply.
“What are you looking for?”
Shaking, she showed him her prescription bottle and he found a bag with thousands of pills that matched what she had. Excitement and fear trilled in her chest. “How much?”
He leaned close to her ear and said a dollar a pill for the first twenty if she was willing to play.
“Play?”
He grinned revealing small child-like teeth that Bet found adorable. He was so young and yet old for his age. He slid the back of his hand across her breast. “You’re an attractive woman. I like curves and you got plenty.”
Bet shoved his hand away but giggled. “I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“I like a mature woman.” He leaned into her and kissed her cheek, soft and slow, lingering against her skin creating a stir of goose bumps down her neck. He shook the bag. “Forty for this bag or half price if we get to play.”
It’d been weeks since she and Malcolm had been intimate. She tried to imagine this boy, with his minty breath and fake New York accent, having sex with her. It would be like prostitution, but she considered it. Twenty dollars. She had that much in her purse. No random cash withdrawal to alert suspicion from Malcolm. Before she could stop herself, she nodded.
In her bedroom, excitement swelled between her legs. The boy—he said his nickname was Tripp—was so young Bet blushed at the thought of him touching her body. Without his shirt, his skin stretched across his bones, revealing small muscles in his shoulders and arms. He ran his hands up her thighs, took hold of her panties—large, practical, unsexy cotton panties—pulled them ever so slowly down past her toes and flicked them to the ground. He grabbed her ankles and pulled her across the bed sprawling her naked, except for her bra, on her back. She emitted a nervous giggle, feeling like a teenager having sex for the first time in her parents’ bed. Her forearm rested across her breasts as if attempting a semblance of modesty. He separated her legs, sliding his hands up her inner thighs until the tips of his fingers were pushing against that private place only Malcolm had touched in forever.
Suddenly she remembered the night Malcolm proposed on the living room floor of his tiny apartment on Newark Street in Northwest. He still had a year left at the Washington College of Law. They’d ordered Chinese and after consuming a bottle of wine made love on the couch with Heatwave crooning in the background. Naked, Malcolm got on his knees and proposed.
“Marry me, Elizabeth Ellis. Marry me right now.”
She giggled when he twisted tinfoil to make two rings, but then he asked again with such a serious expression that she stopped smiling too, took a deep breath and responded with an equally serious, “Absolutely yes, Malcolm Walker.” She joined him on the floor, facing him, both on their knees, hands clasped together, vowing to love and honor each other forever. Always and forever. He slipped the tinfoil ring onto her finger and she slid his tinfoil ring onto his finger.
With the boy on top of her, she shuddered, eyes at the ceiling, afraid of what was happening, thinking she should tell him to stop, he should go, yet craving the excitement, wanting him to consume her. She considered stroking his hair, but instead reached for the bedspread. When she heard the crackle of a condom wrapper, her body went rigid and she wanted to say “stop,” but in a second he entered her, pushing deep and painful. She scrunched her eyes closed. His body and hips pumped into her, hard and rhythmic, out of sync with what her body was used to, smaller than Malcolm, not so gentle. When he came, he yelled as if he’d been stabbed, then flopped down at her side, eyes closed. After a while of silence, a loud snore escaped his lips and Bet stared at him in disbelief. She turned away from him and saw the bag of pills on the nightstand. Dear God, what had she done?
32
After vacuuming, folding laundry and heating up a meal of leftovers, Kenya considered taking a bath, but instead settled on the couch to watch a TV movie, but couldn’t focus on it. She eyed her phone as if it would ring any moment now. She wanted Sidney to call, yet didn’t. Loved him, yet hated him. She felt the same about her baby sister, blobs of love and hate shifting within her like a lava lamp. The agony of not being able to talk to her, to find out why. Simply why. “Why would you do that to me?” She said the words out loud as if her sister might hear and respond.
Sipping a glass of Cabernet, she was thankful to have the house to herself. Both Junior and Charlene were sleeping over with friends: Junior with Timothy Krane and Charlene at Christine Nichols’ house with Kesha. Kenya needed time alone to process a life without her husband.
She had met Sidney during her first year of law school at Howard. He tapped her right shoulder while she stood in line at the campus cafeteria, and when she turned, of course, she saw no one; he stood chuckling on her left side. She spun around and he gave her his hand. “Sidney Dubois. Pleasure to meet you.”
His wide smile, dark skin and gentle eyes softened her chagrin. They stood shaking hands until the woman behind him complained they were holding up the line. He assailed her with questions—what was her name, her major, where did she grow up—then shared that he was studying for his MBA. He liked that they were both D.C. natives. Unable to sit with her for lunch—no explanation given—he wrote her phone number on the back of his hand and promised to call. But she didn’t hear from him for several weeks until he came running across the Yard shouting an apology. “I got caught in the rain and your number got smudged. Been hoping to see you again.” She wasn’t sure she believed him, but liked the way he looked at her with an expression of sheer delight. They met that evening at a local cafe where he talked about music and made corny jokes she found funny despite herself. The next day he gave her a card he’d made out of notepaper, a cream-colored page folded in half then quartered with a sketch of flowers and geometric shapes done in colored ink. Inside were lines from Luther Vandross’ “Because It’s Really Love.” She frowned at him, feeling heat flush from her neck to her face. It was far too soon for such sentimental expressions, she thought, but when he kissed her hot cheek, all she could do was grin at him like a fool.
Thinking of him now living in an apartment in Georgetown, away from her, was confusing and uncomfortable, so she watched her phone willing him to call. Even though she knew, all they’d do was argue and insult one another.
She’d gotten pregnant with Sidney Junior in her last year of school, and instead of listening to her friends—“think about your career”—she had the baby and still graduated on time. Her mother almost had an aneurysm when she found out about the pregnancy. “You never get pregnant before you have a ring on your finger,” she admonished. “If he doesn’t marry you, you’ll be stuck. Stuck!” Her mother had said the words as if Kenya would be working in a factory for the rest of her life with no chance to ever do anything else. But there was no question whether or not they would marry; they were in love. Her mother almost jumped in the air when she realized Sidney was the son of Reginald Dubois of the Dubois Hotel Corporation.
In retrospect, her mother unwittingly had been right. Kenya was stuck. Had been stuck for years. And now, betrayed in such a profound way she could barely comprehend what had happened. She couldn’t fathom why a woman would sleep with her sis
ter’s husband. Kenya had sat in stunned silence for most of today’s therapy session. There was nothing to say. Yes, she was angry. Yes, she felt confused about the death of her sister and the affair. It was the kind of situation where you wished the woman dead, but the guilt inside Kenya was overwhelming. And she worried about her children. Bouncing between parents on alternating weekends and one night a week—she knew families going through that. That was no kind of childhood.
When the phone rang just past midnight she jolted upright, realizing she’d fallen asleep. A woman identified herself as a police officer and said she was at Cabin John Park with her son.
In a state of panic and confusion, Kenya gathered herself and drove to the park as quickly as she could. When she arrived, Timothy Krane’s father was standing beside a petite uniformed police officer, likely the one who called. A second officer stood by one of the police cars on the other side of the parking lot with a young man, hands cuffed behind his back. Unable to see her son anywhere, she approached the officer and Mr. Krane, who was pacing and grumbling.
The officer asked, “You’re Mrs. Dubois?”
Kenya nodded. “Where’s my son?”
“He’s in the patrol car, Ma’am. I’m Officer Slater. We talked on the phone. He and a group of teenagers were smoking weed and loitering in the park after hours.” The officer excused herself and talked to a voice on the other end of her radio. Kenya looked at Krane with disbelief.
“What’s going on?” she said again, struggling to take in what the officer had just said.
“Your son is a bad influence,” said Krane, pointing his index finger at her. “I’ve called my lawyer.”
Called his lawyer. A bad influence. Kenya was more confused. She didn’t know the man well and had mostly interacted with his wife, Cindy, but she’d always liked their son, Timothy. He was in the same grade as Junior.
“What do you mean, a bad influence?”
“He and his friends were smoking weed and got my boy arrested.”
“My son was not smoking weed. Why would you even say that?”
“Oh. Well . . .” Krane kept shaking his head and poking the air with his finger. “You clearly don’t know your son. They were hanging out with his friends. These older boys who had drugs on them.”
The lights in the parking lot were dim but she could see a picnic table at the edge of the trees. It was a pretty park during the day, but sinister in the dark. She peered through the windows of the police cars, but couldn’t make out who was in them. The male officer helped put the teenager into the car.
Krane’s phone rang and he turned away to answer it. She dialed her father’s number but there was no answer. She wanted to call her mother, but knew it would only create more stress; her mother would be of no help. Instead she called Sidney, but he didn’t answer either.
Officer Slater came back and said the boys would be released with a warning.
“Was my son actually smoking weed?” Kenya asked, feeling her eyes blinking repeatedly.
“I’m not sure, Ma’am, but he was with a group of boys, and two of the older teens were in possession of narcotics and marijuana.” Kenya’s mouth fell open and she covered it with her palm. “Those two have been arrested and charged with possession. Mr. Krane indicated that his son was having a sleepover at your house, is that correct?”
“No, that’s not true.” Kenya closed her eyes for a moment, trying to stop the rapid blinking. “I dropped my son off at Timothy’s house myself earlier this evening. Junior was sleeping there. That’s what Junior told me.” She hadn’t gone to the door with him. Had simply pulled into the driveway, kissed his cheek and left. She hadn’t even waited until he was inside like she usually did.
The officer pulled out a notebook and made a few notes. She was a small woman, but sturdy. Not a woman Kenya would mess with. She looked at the two police cars, trying to see inside them. “Who are these older boys?”
“They are underage, so I can’t reveal their names to you. Perhaps your son knows them?”
Kenya’s arms and shoulders were rigid, an ache beginning to pulse in her neck. She needed to sit down but waited helplessly for her son to be released from the confines of the patrol car. After several long moments, Junior and Timothy came walking over, their heads low like dogs who’d been caught stealing from the kitchen table. Krane grabbed his son by the arm and dragged him toward his car, but paused, looked back at Kenya and said, “I don’t want your son anywhere near my boy, you got that?”
She said nothing, simply glared at him, then turned to Junior who kept his eyes on his friend, watching him get shoved into his father’s car. As she drove home, she called Sidney again, this time he answered.
“You need to get over to the house, right now. Your son almost got arrested.” She gave him no time to respond and hung up.
At home, she sat at the kitchen table silently fuming while Junior slouched in the chair opposite, kicking the leg of the table. When Sidney finally wandered in, he glared at Kenya. “Okay, what’s this all about?” He looked from Kenya to Junior and back and leaned his arm on the breakfast bar.
“Talk,” Kenya said to her son.
Junior kept his eyes toward the floor, saying nothing until Kenya banged her fist on the table. Startled, he began to talk. “We weren’t doing nothing wrong.”
“Obviously you were—” Kenya was cut short by Sidney who raised his hand.
“Explain what happened,” he said.
The boy took a deep breath. “We were thinking about running away.” Kenya gasped but with a look from Sidney said nothing more. “We went to the park to figure out where we were going to go first. These older boys were there and they started talking to us. They seemed real cool. I knew one of them ’cause his sister goes to my school. They were the ones smoking the weed. Not me and Timmy. We were just hanging out, talking to them. They were making jokes and being funny. We were having fun till the cops showed up.”
“Having fun?” Kenya was horrified.
“We should’ve let the cops take you to jail,” Sidney said flatly. “Maybe you would have learned something.” He checked his wristwatch. “I’m not driving back at this hour. I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“Kenya, it’s almost two o’clock in the morning, and I’m tired. What he did was stupid, but I believe him. Nothing I say will change the situation. Now, if you want to sit up lecturing him, you go right ahead.” He looked at his son. “I will, however, talk to you tomorrow.”
“See, this is the problem.” Kenya leaned back trying to control her anger. “You just walk away like nothing’s your fault. Maybe if you had been more present in his life he wouldn’t have been thinking about running away.”
“Seriously, Kennie? I’m the problem?” He came closer to her. “You don’t think your insane fixation on controlling everything around you, making sure everything is in its place, everyone is buttoned up all nice and pretty. You don’t think that may have driven him insane? ’Cause it did me.”
Fury imploded in her chest; Kenya could barely breathe. She rose to her feet and snapped at her son to go to his room. Junior scampered out and bounded up the staircase. She turned to Sidney and lifted her hand to slap him but he grabbed her arm.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Or what?”
“Or you will never see me again.”
“You think that bothers me?” Kenya laughed, a chuckle verging on hysteria and snatched her arm away from him. “You can look for divorce papers as soon as I can get them prepared because I’m done with you. You have done nothing but bring me down and given little to your children. I have proof that you cheated on me, not once, but twice. And all that money you got stashed away in the Cayman Islands, I will get half.”
“Don’t count on it. On second thought, I will drive back tonight.”
She felt the scrape of the keys along the marble countertop as if they had grazed her back and close
d her eyes as he walked out.
“Good riddance,” she said to the air.
33
Ghana laid in bed listening to the sirens wailing and fading. Each rise of a horn sent a chill through her. Ryan was on the streets and each wail could be for him. Despite herself, she kept checking the clock, promising that if he wasn’t home by midnight, she’d call his cell phone. This was what she said every night he was working, although he was usually home well before midnight. The rhetoric in the media that there was a war against police officers was fear mongering, she was certain of this, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in danger. Anything could happen on the streets. He wore a vest. A vest, he said, like it was a casual piece of clothing. But Ghana reminded herself that it was a bullet-proof vest. Every day, he wore a bullet-proof vest. She wondered how wearing armor every day to work affected a person’s psyche.
She jerked awake. Another dream of standing on the beach looking for Malawi, but this time Ryan was in the water being tossed by the waves and a dark figure—possibly Malawi—was pointing at him; when Ghana realized he was drowning, she woke up. He lay next to her now. He must have snuck in while she slept.
“Baby?” she said and turned over to face him.
He was on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at a streak of light from the streetlamps cutting across the ceiling.
“Yes,” he responded, terse and distant. She slid her left hand over his stomach and felt a T-shirt. He was wearing shorts, too. He never wore clothes in bed. Feeling rebuked, she pulled her hand away. He was still mad at her, for all the arguments, for going to Florida without telling him, for disappearing last weekend to her sister’s house and not coming home until the next day. They had spoken little in the last few days. She rolled onto her back, ready to turn away and try to sleep, in the same bed but separated. Then she changed her mind and reached out for him again, pushing her hand under his shirt, feeling the hair around his navel, sliding down to where the hair grew thick and smooth. He didn’t move. He would make her work for it, and she would because she was sorry. She pulled his shorts down to his knees then used her foot to push them farther down to his ankles and past his feet. She climbed up, straddled him, pushing his T-shirt up so she could kiss the hair on his belly. His body shifted and she felt him harden, then his hands slid around her waist gripping her hips. She flattened her body against him, her mouth seeking his tongue and as he bit her lower lip, he pushed into her, taking her breath away. Every time, that same sweet capture of air from her mouth.
Malawi's Sisters Page 17