Original Love

by J. J. Murray

  Most of it involved eggs and soap on Hell Night. “And which prison is Willie in?”

  “He’s not in jail. He’s a respected businessman now.”

  “Yeah?” The kid who spent more days in detention hall than class is a businessman?

  “He runs a waste management company.”

  I blink hard at her. “Like the guy on The Sopranos?”

  “No. He does industrial waste removal. In fact, he and his company have been working twenty-four-seven down at Ground Zero. You might have even seen him on TV.”

  “Our Willie…is down there?” Of all my friends and associates from the old days, I had thought Willie the least likely to succeed anywhere but a boxing ring. And now he’s a hero.

  She nods. “You wouldn’t recognize him. His long hair is gone, and he’s fighting premature baldness in a big way. So yeah, Willie is down there.” She raises the covers and looks down at her stomach. “And I want you down there.”

  “But it hasn’t been fifteen minutes.”

  She pushes my head down to her stomach, where I immediately begin nibbling on her hot skin. “Take your time then. Enjoy yourself. You know I will.”

  Ebony makes me go to Frank’s Barbershop on New York Avenue for a haircut and a shave, mainly because of something she calls “beard stubble burns” on her thighs. I definitely enjoy myself “down there,” but I know she’ll enjoy it more if I have a smooth face. The Captain used to get his hair cut at Frank’s long ago, and not much has changed. Same smell of talc, same lumpy chairs, even the same old magazines. When I look into the barber’s mirror after I’m done, I see either a very old Marine or a shorn novice about to enter the priesthood. And before I can enter Ebony’s house, I have to put up with quite a few comments from my daughter.

  “Yes?” Destiny says as she answers the door.

  “Morning,” I say, and I start to enter.

  She steps in front of me. “Who are you?”

  “Very funny.”

  “My mama doesn’t like Hare Krishnas,” she says. “You trying to sell flowers or something?” She squints. “Is that a chin?”

  “Step aside, little girl.”

  “Hmm. A Hare Krishna with an attitude.”

  I am kind of grouchy. I haven’t been sleeping very well, and not just because Ebony won’t leave my body alone. “Destiny, it’s cold out here.”

  She turns my face from side to side. “You look like your daddy.” She looks down. “A lot.”

  “Too much?”

  She nods and lets me enter.

  Even Ebony does a double take, and later that night, she lights fewer candles. “No offense,” she says, “but you look a lot—”

  “I know, I know,” I say, interrupting her.

  “Especially since you’re not getting any sleep. All those circles under your eyes.”

  I squeeze her butt. “And whose fault is that?”

  “Not mine. You’ve been tossing and turning all night, even running in your sleep. I’ve almost hit you a few times to stop whatever race you’ve been running.” She turns me away from her and wraps her arms around me. “Now tonight, we’re going to reverse spoon, okay? I’ll just hold you until you fall asleep.”

  “Okay.”

  But though I try to fall asleep, I can’t, and it’s not because I feel Ebony’s heat behind me. It’s something else, something I can’t explain. When she drifts off, purring her little whistling snore, I get out of bed and go to the bathroom. I throw some water on my face and look into the mirror.

  My father stares right back at me.

  I am his spitting image. Didn’t Mom have anything to do with my face? I wonder where she is now. She should be invited to the wedding.

  And for the rest of the night, I run searches online for Helen Pearson of Troy, New York, but come up empty. Almost twenty-six years ago, she left me on Christmas Eve—a holy night—leaving me with a holy terror. Do I even want to see her again? I contemplate spamming every AOL member named “H Pearson,” but decide against it.

  Mom got her freedom, and I’m going to let her keep it. My side of the church will just have to be sparse.

  I try curling up on the couch in Ebony’s office and am finally falling asleep when the phone rings. I fumble for the cordless phone on Ebony’s desk.

  “Hello?”

  “Pete, it’s me, Henry. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  I look out a window and see the beginnings of a cold November sunrise. “No, Henry.”

  “Good. How’s the book coming along?”

  I can’t tell him the truth—that it’s not coming along at all. “Just fine.”

  “Well, there’s really no rush yet, since we’re shooting for a December release.”

  Over a year from now, which actually is pretty quick. “That sounds good.”

  “So I won’t need the finished product until the end of this December or early January.”

  “I’ll have it ready.” If Ebony has her part ready, that is.

  “You’re not out on that boat anymore, are you?”

  “Uh, no, Henry, I’m staying with Ebony.”

  “The Ebony?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve finally found your muse!”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s so wonderful.” He lowers his voice. “She doesn’t know about you and Cece, does she?”

  “No, Henry.”

  “Are you going to tell her?”

  Now would not be a good time to tell her any of it. “There’s nothing to tell, Henry.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You see, Henry, um, you’re the father of the baby, because Cece and I never…”

  “She told me you did.”

  “No, Henry, we didn’t. You are about to be a daddy.”

  Henry doesn’t speak for several moments.

  “You still there?”

  “You didn’t, or you couldn’t?”

  I smile. “A little of both, Henry.”

  “Well, well, well.”

  “I’m happy for you, Henry.”

  “But why would Cece say that you did?”

  This is too much drama for me before sunrise. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Oh, I will. Right now, as a matter of fact. I’ll keep in touch.” Click.

  As soon as I click off the phone, I see Ebony in the doorway, wearing a robe and shivering. “I’m cold.”

  I welcome her to the little couch. “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Henry. We’re to have, I mean, Desiree is going to have a December release.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Yeah. Just in time for the holidays.”

  “I guess that’s good.” She thuds her head on my chest. “Are you going to tell me about Cece Wrenn now, or do I have to read it in her memoirs?”

  Oops. Sound travels in this house. Either that or Destiny taped our entire conversation at Xando after all. “You heard.”

  “Only your part of the conversation. So you couldn’t do the do with her?”

  I hold Ebony close. “No.” I tell her of my encounter with Cece, and though her eyes narrow on occasion, she seems convinced that nothing happened.

  “But she has Henry believing that the baby is yours?”

  I nod.

  “That’s twisted.”

  “I know.”

  “Better not put that in our book.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Who would believe it?”

  “No one.”

  She drags a few fingers softly over my chest. “I’m sorry you aren’t sleeping well. I’ll start giving you warm milk before bedtime.”

  “You don’t have to. My body knows it needs rest, and as soon as it tells my brain, I’ll be sleeping better.”

  I hear Destiny’s door open, a thud, and an “Ow!” Ebony laughs. “Every single morning. You know she has an audition today.”

  “She does? Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “She only told
me last night. Says it’s bad luck to tell anybody. I’m driving her into the city.” She stands and stretches. “And you’re going to stay here and sleep all day, okay? Just veg out.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “No writing, no reading, no walking, don’t even take a shower or a bath. Just get into my bed and sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m worried about you, Peter. I mean, before we got engaged, you were sleeping just fine, but afterward…I don’t know, but it kind of sounds like maybe you’re having second thoughts.”

  “I’m not having second thoughts, Ebony.”

  “Well, why else would you be running away in your sleep?”

  “I’m not running away this time.”

  “You better not.” She kisses my forehead. “Try to get some rest.”

  But after they leave, I can’t sleep. Maybe it’s all the Earl Grey tea I’ve been drinking these last few weeks catching up with me. Maybe it’s all the adrenaline that flows through me whenever Ebony’s around. Maybe I’ve just gotten my second wind and am able to stay up later, as I used to do when I was in college.

  Or my mind is just too troubled to let me sleep.

  I leave Ebony’s bed and wander down the hall to Ebony’s office, fully intent on adding to both novels. I have to get the other Ebony to Johnny’s art show in Whiter Shade, but maybe I’ll wait until after Ebony’s show at DC Moore to write that so I can make it more authentic. I could add all that’s happened recently to Promises to Keep, but I want to write that with Ebony. Maybe our separate narrations can come together by the end of that book, just as we came together.

  I don’t even turn on my computer, booting up Ebony’s computer instead to see how far she has gotten over the last few weeks. She can’t have gotten far, what with all her preparations for her show. I expect to read only a paragraph or two—

  What is all this? How in the world has she been able to write so much? Where have I been when she’s been writing? Maybe Ebony hasn’t been sleeping well either, because here are twenty pages of new text.

  What is that kid wearing on his legs? Couch cushions? His mama’s going to kill him! And why isn’t anyone playing basketball? I passed a backboard and goal just a block ago, and there was nobody there. What kind of neighborhood is this? It isn’t raining or snowing, so why isn’t anyone shooting hoops? I’ve never played street hockey, because we never played street hockey in Brooklyn—street football maybe, with a couple little kids on the lookout for traffic. But it doesn’t look too hard, and it’s kind of like basketball: put the orange puck in the net. I can do this.

  I bust on up to them like I own the neighborhood, rolling my neck and saying, “Y’all need another player?” expecting them immediately to say yes. How can they refuse an offer like that? The fat kid looks ready to explode. I’m mad I wore my new Adidas. I don’t want to get Italian fat kid blubber all over them when he finally does blow up.

  But instead of inviting me to play, they just stand around looking at each other—except for the kid with the cushions and the catcher’s mask. He’s staring hard at me, checking me out from head to toe. I’d give him a mean look if I could see his eyes.

  “Sure,” the kid with the crew cut says. “Eric, take a break.”

  “I ain’t givin’ her my stick, Mickey!” Eric shouts.

  Oh, yes you are, skinny boy!

  Mickey takes Eric’s stick and gives it to me. “You good on defense?”

  I didn’t come all the way up the street to hang out with Couch Cushion Boy.

  That’s the nickname she first gave me? I’m so glad she changed it to “Seven.”

  “What, you think because I’m a girl that I can’t score?”

  Mickey’s eyes pop. “Okay, you play forward. Eddie, you drop back.”

  Eddie isn’t having it. “Nah, nah. I ain’t gonna.”

  But I’m not having Eddie’s little attitude. “Boy, you’re so fat that pigs follow you home looking for a date. I think I hear them oinking for you now. And what’s that under your chin? It looks like a pack of hot dogs. I could take you to a Yankees game and feed the entire third base side!”

  She said all that? I’ll bet she did. She was always so good at dressing down people. I probably forgot the rest because I had instantly fallen in love with her. When your eyes are locked on, your ears turn off.

  Couch Cushion Boy pops up his catcher’s mask and laughs out loud. It wasn’t that funny, but he’s got some nice eyes, so it’s okay. When I turn to look at Eddie again, he’s back near the goal. What a chump! I thought Italians were good at firing words. Eddie would be dead fat meat if he ever stepped foot in Brooklyn.

  “Let’s play,” I say, and for not knowing a thing about hockey, I kick these other boys’ butts, let me tell you. They have no kind of moves. Instead of watching the puck, they watch me and fall for every one of my head and body fakes. There’s nothing to this street hockey at all but a little shake-n-bake, and after I score on my first shot ever, they get all crazy.

  “That don’t count,” this tall beanpole on the other team says. “She ain’t on your team. She ain’t from your neighborhood.”

  Well, excuse me, Mr. Beanpole. “What doesn’t count?”

  “It’s still nine to nine, and you gotta put Eric back in,” Beanpole says to Mickey.

  That’s not going to happen, and no boy ignores me for more than a second without regretting it for days afterward. “Excuse me?” I put my face all up in his. “Are you saying that because I’m not from this neighborhood that it doesn’t count?”

  “Y-yeah.”

  “Well,” I say, and I smile. “I am from this neighborhood, chump. I just moved in over on Grace Lane.” So take your sorry Bruin behind out of my face.

  “Grace Lane ain’t Preston Street.”

  Beanpole is ticking me off! “And you aren’t shit playing hockey, boy.” Well, he isn’t. He only looks like he can play with all that gear on. And the way he looks at me, I bet he never had a girl cuss him before. That’s not something Mama lets me do in the house, no sir. But Beanpole’s skinny little lips are bouncing up and down, and no sound’s coming from him. “All the cool shit you got on, and you can’t play a lick. You’re just mad a girl scored on you.” Dag, his skinny little lips are getting chapped with all that air flying by them. “And you’re just scared that I’m going to score on y’all again.” Which I aim to do once Beanpole can speak again.

  “I-I ain’t scared,” he says.

  “P-p-prove it then,” I fire back. I know I shouldn’t mock people I just met, but I didn’t survive Brooklyn to back down to no braces-wearing beanpole from the suburbs.

  “Let her play,” Couch Cushion Boy says, his voice kind of low and high at the same time. Like I need his help. Couch Cushion Boy couldn’t scare an ant with a full can of Raid.

  I laugh out loud. She’s right, of course. And this first-person narrative reads so much better than mine. It’s fresher, almost as if I’m back there. Maybe I should change mine from third person to first person so it isn’t as distant.

  “You shut up!” Beanpole yells at Couch Cushion Boy.

  Ah, it’s on now! I push Beanpole about three feet back. “Who are you telling to shut up, boy? You’re talking’ to…” I look over at Couch Cushion Boy, who’s grinning like a fool. “What’s your name?”

  “Peter.”

  I jab a finger hard into Beanpole’s chest. Any harder and my finger would go clean through. “You are talking to Peter, and he’s my boy. You don’t tell any of my boys to shut up. Now are we going to play or what?”

  A few minutes later, Mickey and I score and we win. Big deal. I’m waiting for them to start another game, but the Bruins walk away. That’s it? Hell, I just got here! Geez, play again or something. No one goes to a basketball court and only plays one game. It isn’t American! But even my team starts walking away, except for Peter, who’s having the hardest time getting out of his cushions.

  I step to him and smell some really strong
garlic. Is he Italian? No. He has too many freckles on his nose. “Turn around.” He does. “Number seven. That’s my favorite number, you know that?”

  “Uh, what’s your name?”

  Uh, why does everyone around here seem to stutter? “Ebony Mills.” Then I look down because Peter is staring hard at my face. Most boys in Brooklyn didn’t look much at my face. They were always looking at my titties and my behind. This Peter, though, he’s locked on to my eyes. Either he’s just plain rude, or he likes what he sees. I hope he likes what he sees. “But you can call me E if you like.”

  “Okay.”

  And then I let Peter walk me up the street. I don’t let just any boy do that. I mean, he did stick up for me, and he still can’t take his eyes from my face. What, am I the first black girl he’s ever seen? From the looks of this neighborhood, I’ll bet that I am the first black girl he’s ever seen.

  Not quite true. I went to school with several black girls, but none of them had Ebony’s face. Geez, I’m feeling the embarrassment I felt then right now!

  “Are you going to Simpson?” he asks.

  “Where else am I going to go?”

  “I dunno. You could go to St. Pat’s like Eddie.”

  Peeeeee-you. And have him explode on me in homeroom? His guts would never come out of my hair. “No, thanks. Catholic kids are too wild for me.” And the ones in Brooklyn—forget it. Once they get loose on Friday afternoon, they’re about as Catholic as a tree stump for the rest of the weekend. “Do you go to Simpson?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What grade are you in?”

  “Seventh.”

  Dag, we’re going to be in the same grade. We might even be in the same classes and stuff. “Me, too.”

  Then Peter smiles, and it’s a nice smile, too, almost like he’s relieved or something. Yeah, he’s relieved. He thought I was older because of my titties, and I’m not about to tell him it’s just a padded bra he’s seeing.

  We stop in front of his house, a nice two-story with a two-car garage and a sloping driveway, which is a crummy place to play ball, but at least the ball will always roll back to you. All Peter needs is a backboard and goal. “Uh, this is my house.”