by Donald Welch
Brother Mills told Grace to get dressed and to keep what had happened a secret between them. He told her he was disappointed in her, and so was God, because she’d cried. “Roland never cried,” Brother Mills admonished. “Not even once.”
When Grace got home, she went straight to Roland’s room. She told her brother what had happened, but he accused her of lying. “Brother Mills would never do anything like that,” he said, angry at her.
“Why did you leave me there?” Grace pleaded.
“I thought you wanted to stay and play with the stupid doll,” he told her.
Grace started to cry, and Roland told her to stop being a baby and go to bed and that she would be all right in the morning. As Grace turned to leave Roland’s room, she noticed a hundred-dollar bill on his dresser.
“Where’d you get that from?” Grace asked.
“Brother Mills gave it to me, and you better not tell Mom,” he warned.
Grace just stared at him.
“Don’t worry,” Roland said. “I’mma give you some.”
Grace didn’t want any of it, and she walked out the room. She hated God, Brother Mills, but most of all, she hated Roland.
Your big brother was supposed to protect you, right? Not lead you into hell.
MAYBE THE ALTERCATION yesterday with Grace was why Roland was so angry this morning about his starched shirts. Tisha, as she usually did, tried to rationalize his anger: It could be his job, his mother’s illness, his sister’s attitude, maybe his other woman. But, Tisha did know one thing for sure: She was no longer in control of herself.
My depression has set in so deep that it’s found a permanent home in my soul. When did my life become such a mess?
Nicole had once suggested to Tisha that she might be experiencing postpartum depression, but what did she know? Nicole’s no doctor, Tisha thought. She might be marrying one, but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Tisha knew her depression did not stem from her baby. Hell no! Kimmy was the one bright light in her life. Her daughter was her one reason to get up in the morning. Tisha hadn’t always been this way. She was always positive and enjoyed life. Her daddy used to say that if there was but “one ounce of good in a person,” Tisha would find it.
Tisha still missed her daddy. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t think of him. He was her champion. Losing her father four years ago after his long battle with prostate cancer was a heartbreaking blow. Even in the last stages of the cancer, he was strong, never complained or gave in. Her daddy held strong to the very end.
She vaguely remembered her mother, who was killed by a hit-and-run driver while crossing City Line Avenue. Tisha was only three years old when it happened, and from what she has been told, her mother was hailing a taxi from the Bala Cynwyd Mall. She stepped too far into the street, and then a vehicle made a sudden illegal turn, knocking her in the air. Her mother died on impact, and the driver was never caught.
Witnesses told police they saw a white female driver with blond hair in a dark-colored car speed away after the impact. She had to have known she hit something or someone, because she slowed down at the next traffic light and glanced back very briefly, long enough for pedestrians to get a few letters from her license plate. The police never bothered to pursue it, and the accident got only five lines in the Philadelphia Daily News.
The family always suspected that if Tisha’s mother had been a person of prominence, an arrest would have been made. Her grandmother told Tisha that a few days after the accident, her father received a cashier’s check in the amount of three thousand dollars from an unknown source. Her father was furious. He thought it was blood money from the driver or someone who knew about the accident. It could have been a donation from a concerned party, but her father sensed something different. Granny said that he tore the check in a hundred pieces and didn’t want to pursue the matter any further. It just would not bring his wife back.
But her mother wasn’t forgotten. Tisha’s father shared photographs and stories about her mother and kept the memory of her alive. In her childhood home, there were family pictures in every room, and her mother was in most of them.
Everyone in the neighborhood loved Tisha’s father, Gus Grant. When she was a young girl, all of Tisha’s friends told her they wished their dads were like hers. Since her mother wasn’t around to teach her girly things, her grandmother took over that role. But her father wanted the primary role of raising her. He learned how to braid hair, taught her to cook, and even showed Tisha how to sew. She remembered that her father’s rough thick fingers could barely thread a needle.
Late one night, she got up to go to the bathroom, and there was a light on in her father’s room. She peeked in, and he was still trying to thread that needle to sew her Girl Scout Brownie outfit. He could barely keep his eyes open. He was so tired, but he was determined. He hated to fail at anything. Tisha crept away quietly because she knew that if he saw her spying, he would be embarrassed. When she opened her eyes that next morning, there hanging on the closet door was her uniform, ready to wear.
When Tisha was nine, Nicole, Freda, Mira, and the other girls used to come over frequently because her father gave them so much attention. Mira said she was going to marry her father, so Tisha decided she didn’t like her anymore and Mira could no longer be her friend. That was her daddy, and she didn’t like sharing him.
Tisha’s father enrolled her in the Girl Scouts, dance classes, and piano lessons. No matter how busy he got at the Acme Plant, he made it to every recital and program. Sometimes at night when they’d return from an event, she’d hear him in his room quietly crying because he missed his wife and was sad that she wasn’t there with him to share in his pride at their daughter.
One morning at breakfast, Tisha asked if he loved her mother more than her, and if he cried for her when she wasn’t near him. That was the only time she thought she hurt her father. Not necessarily because of what she said, but because she referred to her mother as her.
“She’s your mother! And if you don’t want to call her Mom, then you call her Mrs. Grant, but she is never to be referred to as her again.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Well, you ought to watch what you say before you say it, young lady. Go to your room.”
Embarrassed and hurt, Tisha replied, “Yes, sir.”
Later that evening, like clockwork, her father came to tuck her in and read a bedtime story.
“It’s okay, Daddy. I don’t deserve a story tonight. You can just tuck me in.”
He said with a soft smile, “What am I going to do with you, girl? Remember, I love you and Momma both the same.”
“What did you say, Daddy?”
“I said, I love you and Momma the same.”
“Oh,” she replied.
He followed his routine by reading her favorite bedtime story, The Little Engine That Could, for the hundredth time.
When he left her room, Tisha reached for the framed photograph of her family from the nightstand, then placed it on her pillow and silently vowed never to hurt her father like that again.
Her Barbie doll would have to remain on the nightstand alone that night.
Her father never remarried, and even though there were a few women he dated, he never brought them to their house. When Tisha got older, he told her he never married out of respect for her mother. “And besides,” he said, “there would have been no woman allowed to come here and you not give her hell, Tisha.”
Tisha couldn’t dispute that.
LYING HERE on the floor of her bedroom today, face swollen and neck bruised, Tisha knew her father would be disappointed in her.
The sound of Kimmy crying snapped her back to reality. She pulled herself up from the floor and went to her child. Looking at her beautiful baby in her crib, she was so glad Kimmy didn’t resemble Roland in any way. Yes, Kimmy was the spitting image of Tisha. Things were not that bad after all.
One day I’ll tell Dad
dy’s spirit that I’m sorry.
Three
I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar
DENISE UPSHAW had just seen her last client for the day at the firm. She was supposed to be hosting Nicole’s bachelorette party at Mira’s Loose Balloon club, but a major water pipe had burst in the club’s basement, and to her disappointment, Nicole’s apartment was to be used instead. Denise was aggravated because she wanted everything in place for the special event, and the club would have been a perfect location. However, she had to admit that she was a little relieved. Originally, she didn’t want to have Nicole’s party at the Loose Balloon. She relented only because of persuasion from the other girls. It wasn’t because it was a gay club; that didn’t bother her at all. She just didn’t feel it was a classy enough venue for someone of her prominence to host any kind of affair.
Denise assured herself that even with this unexpected turn of events, the gift she planned for Nicole would top everyone else’s. Through her connections, she was able to secure two first-row concert tickets and backstage passes for R & B singing sensation Ginuwine, at the Merriam Theatre. Ginuwine had been one of Nicole’s favorite singers since he released his first solo song, “Pony,” in the 1990s. Denise shook her head, remembering when Nicole first saw Ginuwine. She’d called all the girls, screaming and demanding that they immediately turn on BET to see this fine brotha’s video. Getting those tickets was no easy feat, but Denise was friendly with one of Ginuwine’s attorneys and managed to get the hookup—an expensive hookup! But Nicole was her girl, and she didn’t mind the expense. But before she could head over to the party, Denise first had to make a stop at her Broad Street campaign headquarters to see how the painters were coming along.
SINCE ANNOUNCING her candidacy for city council in the First District, Denise had been doing triple duty—working at the law firm, raising campaign funds through public appearances, and perfecting her platform. If elected—better yet, when elected—one of the first things she would introduce was a bill prohibiting smoking in all public establishments, which had been one of her pet peeves since college. She knew that winning this campaign would be an uphill battle because the incumbent occupying the First District seat had been there for many terms, but Denise had a number of new plans for her district as well as for the city, and it was time for new blood in city council.
Judges from all four local courts—Traffic, Family, Municipal, and Common Pleas—held her in high regard, and she had a fine reputation and some backing from powerful politicians and union bosses. All she needed now were their endorsements and their money.
One of her campaign strategies was to court the Hispanic vote. Zenora was more than willing to make connections, and she got help from two of her Hispanic salon employees and lovers. Zenora also spoke Spanish and was available as Denise’s interpreter at the weekly community meetings held at the Lighthouse Community Center, which was in a largely Hispanic neighborhood. Once word traveled through the neighborhood, Denise had quite a following.
Denise knew that Zenora’s interest in helping her went beyond their being girls; Z was able to meet more of the Hispanic male population, thus keeping her options open for new papis.
Residents came to Denise with problems that she could easily handle through her contacts at City Hall, and if there were problems she couldn’t handle, she gave them a referral to the proper agency or another lawyer in her law firm. The firm always took a few pro bono cases for needy families if Denise persisted. The city’s leading Hispanic publication, Al Día, gave Denise’s popularity a boost when it did a feature story on her weekly meetings and involvement in Philadelphia’s Hispanic issues. She met new friends and volunteers who were willing to work at her campaign headquarters and do the necessary groundwork.
Denise often visited the city council chambers on the fourth floor of City Hall. When the room was empty, security staff let her walk in for a brief period. Denise would sit quietly on the sideline benches reserved for the public spectators and visualize herself sitting at the leather-top oak desk reserved for the First District council member. Denise imagined that many embattled sessions took place during its one-hundred-plus years of meetings, protests, and budget hearings. Denise wanted to be a part of it. “I’m going to be sitting in that seat after the November election,” she would say to herself aloud.
Denise parked in front of her campaign headquarters and marveled at the large red, white, and blue banner: ELECT ATTY DENISE UPSHAW TO 1ST DISTRICT COUNCIL.
“What are you doing? That is not the color I selected. The walls are supposed to be mint green, not forest green!” Denise yelled upon entering her campaign headquarters.
The painters were limited to only a few words of English, so they muttered something in Spanish. The two men smiled at her then continued painting.
“Stop! Alto!” Denise said. “No mas. Just stop! It’s not right! I need you both to stop. Where is Domenick?”
The younger of the two responded, “Sí, Señor Domenick not here, gone home. You like color?”
“No, I don’t like the color!” Denise reached for her cell phone and scrolled down the screen to Domenick’s name.
“Oh, great—his voice mail…. Hi, Domenick, it’s Denise Upshaw. Listen, I need you to call me immediately on my cell phone. I’m at my campaign office, and your painters are using the wrong color. I asked for mint green, not this forest green they’re putting on my walls. It’s too dark. I am sending them home. I expect you to have someone here bright and early tomorrow morning with the correct color to finish the job. And if you are not going to be here, let me suggest that you leave someone here that can speak English. Thank you, and good-bye.”
The two workers knew enough English to realize that they had made some sort of drastic mistake, and they packed up their supplies to leave. Denise assumed they were father and son by their similar features and body build. As they passed her, the older gentleman said, “I sorry.”
For a moment, Denise felt ashamed of the way she had reacted. They would be out of a job if Domenick replaced them, but she quickly dismissed that thought because nothing came before the election. Compromise, incompetence, and foolish mistakes couldn’t be tolerated now. She checked her watch, turned off the lights, then locked the door behind her.
Since she didn’t have time to go home and change, she made a quick trip to the restroom, where she double-checked her hair and makeup. The charcoal gray skirt with a silk fuchsia blouse skimmed her tall, lean frame. Her cell phone rang. She assumed it would be Domenick, but it was Renee.
“Hi, Denny. It’s Ree Ree.”
Denise hated when Renee referred to her as Denny, and she had no idea where her friend had gotten that from.
“Hey, Renee, what’s up?” Denise said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her tone.
“Gosh, girl, did I call at the wrong time? Are you okay?”
“No, no, Renee. I’m fine. Just a little frazzled about the way this campaign is going. What’s going on?”
“I just tried Nicky at the house, and no one is picking up. Can you let her know my train is delayed and once I arrive at Thirtieth Street Station, I’ll get a taxi right over?”
“Okay, no problem, I will. Sorry I answered the phone in such a negative tone. It’s just that I’ve had one eventful day.”
“It’s okay, Denny. Feel better, and I’ll see you when I get there. Ciao, bella.”
Denise left the headquarters and got in her gold BMW 645i convertible. As she headed toward Nicole’s condo, she wished she had not offered to host this bachelorette party, because, at this moment, what she really wanted to do was go home, take a nice hot bath, turn off the phones, put on some John Legend, and go to bed.
Wishful thinking.
Just then her cell phone rang again. Another crisis.
Four
Sing a Song
TWO DAYS AGO, Nicole had gasped as she watched Freda try on her bridesmaid dress. Freda looked in the mirror and admired her body. Nicole let each one of he
r bridesmaids select her own style of dress for the wedding. As long as it was cream-colored, they could design the dress any way they wanted. And Freda’s dress showed everything but her birth date. The front had a deep cleavage cut all the way down to Freda’s waist and the length was so short, anyone could see Clara. (That’s what Nicole’s nana called a vagina. She called it either Clara or yo’ pock-e-book.)
“Yeah, girl, I do look good, right?” Freda said, assuming that it was a gasp of approval.
Freda was named after the 1970s singer, Freda Payne, of “Band of Gold” fame. Free-spirited Freda was always the performer and “onstage.” Life was Freda’s stage.
Nicole rolled her eyes and bit her tongue. It was too late to add any fabric to the dress at this point, so she was just going to let Freda be Freda.
“Yeah, girl, you look good. But you already knew that,” she teased.
Freda was a talented girl. Talk about singing. Oh, my God. Picture Whitney and Mariah rolled up in one. Yes—looks, talent, body. Freda had it all, except for that successful career she had always yearned for. Nicole couldn’t understand why Freda hadn’t been picked up by a label, but she suspected it was probably because Freda kept getting in her own way and falling for the wrong men all the time.
Freda loved her some B-boys, hood boys, and definitely any man with the thug look. If they had a criminal past, they were usually “fine as shit,” according to Freda. And her men were always between twenty-one and twenty-five—that’s how she liked them. If they didn’t come with drama, she was not happy. Nicole couldn’t count the times that Freda had had to bail out one of those jerks for some dumb shit they had gotten themselves into. But no matter how many times they’d do her wrong and have her go through crying spells, she’d be right back for more of the same with another new one. Freda was searching for something—and Nicole wasn’t quite sure what it was—but wasn’t everybody, in some way or another?