In My Sister's House

by Donald Welch

  “Girl, it sure is hot down here in this lobby. That Pepsi looks so good and cold. I think I’ll get me one.” She chuckled.

  “Yup.” And with that Pumpkin lifted the can to her mouth and took a swig. Delighted at what she just witnessed, Storm started on her way out the door. She reasoned that the two belonged together: a fat, nasty, yella rat, and a germ-carrying roach. She let out a hearty laugh and stepped into the night air.

  < FOUR >

  This Joint Was Jumping

  As the pulsating beat of the new Chris Brown joint filled up the club, the dance floor got crowded quickly. Judging by how fast everyone took to the floor, it was definitely a crowd favorite. His fans weren’t just teenage girls. Often compared to Usher and Michael Jackson because of his vocal style and dance moves, this twenty-year-old also had some cougars wet-dreaming about him, wishing for the opportunity to break him in. Posing bare-chested on an Ebony magazine cover hadn’t hurt, either. Suddenly, mature women who once spoke of him like a sweet doting son for their daughters wanted to bed him. All of this was before the whole Chris Brown–Rihanna episode that had had Hollywood tabloids selling out quicker than the Saturday morning hot cakes special at Denny’s. Certainly not one to condone his actions, Skylar had even forbidden Brown’s music to be played at Legends. But Quince, the club’s DJ, convinced her that she had to separate the artist from the man. Hadn’t she been guilty of still listening to R. Kelly? And his alleged despicable act was beyond forgiveness. She had innocently seen the video, sent to her in an email. She’d had no idea what it was until she opened it. And unless he, too, had a twin, there was no denying that it was him.

  A stylish Skylar entered the packed club amid a flood of hellos, stares, whispers, and well-deserved compliments. As Tupac’s classic said, “All Eyez on Me.” She smiled. Along with all of the usual Friday night regulars there was a flurry of new faces—obviously, the magazine article and newscast profiles had worked.

  Attempting to make her way to the bar, Skylar glanced briefly at herself in one of the wall mirrors and liked what she saw. Dressed in a tasteful black Dolce & Gabbana catsuit that complimented every curve of her body, with a multicolored scarf tied symmetrically around her waist and a pair of three-and-a-half-inch Jimmy Choo pumps, she was a striking presence. Her honey-brown hair was pulled back into a long, loose ponytail. Because of her flawless bronze skin, she needed little makeup.

  Moving across the floor, she couldn’t help but sway to the music. But not too much. She was the owner and always had to set an example. Bumping and grinding and sweating like Whitney Houston on a dance floor was not professional. Among the bodies swaying back and forth, she noticed her man standing at the bar talking to Nettie. It was as if he knew someone was watching, because with a slight tilt of his head, he noticed her looking at him. His face lit up once he saw that it was her. Sidney Francis, a strikingly handsome six-foot-four chestnut-brown brotha with a killer smile, beamed at her. Boy, have I hit the jackpot with this one.

  Usually a fine brotha like this had some shit going on with him. Like he knew he was fine so he walked and talked like you must also know it. Or they would look like Flava Flav and Jimmy JJ Walker combined, but be gentle, kind, and loving. Rarely did a sista come across a single, straight, educated, and spiritually connected brotha who gave you body and face and was available. But there he was. Skylar smiled. And to think, this fairy-tale romance almost hadn’t happened.

  At thirty-one years of age, Sidney Francis knew he had found his African princess as soon as he spotted her at a small business seminar in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, back in 2005. After being with the Jackson-Wilder accounting firm in Philly for the last five years, he was ready to open his own business. Although he doubted there was anything new that he could learn from this seminar, he had decided to sign up and attend anyway to obtain useful contacts. The all-day lecture was to begin at 9 a.m. and go to 5 p.m. Because Sidney arrived at 8:45 a.m., there was limited seating available. In fact, there only seemed to be two seats still left. One was in back of a twenty-five-ish girl who was reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, complete with a ridiculous beehive-type sixties hairdo, tattoos, and gothic makeup. Sidney couldn’t tell if she planned on opening a salon or a tattoo parlor. The other seat was next to an older, heavyset white gentleman who had an oxygen tank beside his desk and breathed like he was in a porno. Amy Winehouse, here I come, baby.

  Nestling back in his seat next to the faux British pop/rock singer, he took a quick scan of the room. What the hell am I doing here? Then he saw her. Right then and there he knew the real reason he had paid $349 for a seminar he didn’t need. His wife-to-be was seated directly across from him. It was as if God himself planted her there for him. Not wanting to seem rude, he tried in vain to catch her eye without being obvious. He would smile at her. Yeah, that always seems to do it. Momma always said I had the prettiest smile this side of Philadelphia. Never mind the fact that Momma hardly ever left the state of Pennsylvania.

  Just thinking about that, and her, made him chuckle. This caused “Amy” to turn around and stare like he had disturbed her or something. “Sorry,” he said. Not missing a beat, she turned back toward the speaker at the podium. He felt that he should do the same. Periodically, he’d attempt to steal a glance at the beautiful sista, who reminded him of a better-looking Gabrielle Union, which was hard to imagine, because Gabrielle was his ideal woman. He remembered seeing her in Tyler Perry’s film Daddy’s Little Girls and leaning over to his sister, Dawn, in the theater, saying, “Now that’s wifey material right there!”

  Two hours and forty-five minutes into the seminar, the moderator stopped for lunch. Everyone headed to an area set up like a cafeteria. Sidney would work his magic on “Gabrielle” during lunch. Hell, by the end of the seminar, they would be planning their engagement.

  “Excuse me, was this seat taken?” Sidney asked. Without even looking up, Skylar replied that it was not. Sitting down, he noticed that she was engrossed in a book.

  “What’s that you’re reading?” he asked. This time, looking up, Skylar felt like time was standing still. She was literally speechless. She swore to herself that she had never seen a man so handsome in her life. “Oh, it’s just a novel my book club is reading,” she said, not taking her eyes off him. “The Bachelorette Party.”

  “Oh, I see. Were ‘we’ thinking of having one of those soon?” He lifted one eyebrow curiously.

  “No, not me, I am happily single,” she lied. “It’s the book club selection we decided on. Our group meets tomorrow, and I have a few pages to finish up. It’s pretty good.”

  “Who’s the writer?”

  “Donald Welch. He’s actually from Philly. It’s his first novel, and it’s making quite a buzz. Will Smith has even optioned the film rights,” she proudly stated, as if she knew the writer and the megastar.

  “Will Smith, wow, that’s impressive. Well it must be pretty good. Sorry, I haven’t heard of the brotha Don, but that’s not saying much. If it isn’t a book on business or stocks and bonds, I’m afraid I have no idea what’s out there,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll let you get back to your reading.” And with that, Sidney turned on his BlackBerry and retrieved some emails. Skylar smiled and returned to her reading.

  Why didn’t he say something else to me? Skylar thought to herself, stealing a glance at him while he appeared to be texting someone, scanning as much of him as she could see, as quickly as she could see it. She didn’t want him to think she was interested or anything, although she clearly was. After all, she had not been able to concentrate on anything she was reading since she first laid eyes on this heavenly creature. She noticed he wasn’t wearing a ring—that was a good sign right there. Or was it? Playas often didn’t wear their wedding bands when away from their wives so they could appear single. But there was no tan line either, so it seemed safe. She liked his nice, strong-looking hands, clean nails, smooth, even skin, close, fresh haircut. Even through his suit jacket it was obvious that h
e worked out—his chest was on point. The scent of his cologne was ambrosia. She needed to see his shoes. Dutch said you could always tell a successful man by what was on his feet. Moving her chair back, she pretended to drop something and looked under the table. He was wearing a pair of stylish, expensive soft black leather loafers. Smiling to herself, she returned to her upright position at the table, wanting to ask about the cologne, which by now had inebriated her senses, but deciding against it because of her womanly pride.

  Say something, dammit! she screamed to him in her head. I know you’re interested. She could tell by the way he had approached her. Looking around she could see that there were plenty of seats available, even a few vacant tables, however, he had chosen to invade her space. She laughed to herself and wondered, Why must we all play these childish games? Okay, fine, she’d break the silence.

  “Excuse me, what’s that cologne you’re wearing?”

  “Oh, it’s Unforgivable by P. Diddy. Not sure if I like it or not, but my sister got it for me. Do you like it?” His broad smile made Skylar blush like a teenage schoolgirl.

  “Why, yes, I do.” Looking up at him with doe-like eyes, she returned his smile, hoping this would reopen the door for a more in-depth conversation. But he only thanked her and resumed fidgeting with his BlackBerry.

  Oh no, he doesn’t! an annoyed Skylar thought to herself. She wouldn’t say another word to this pompous jerk. The next few moments seemed like hours going by, and nothing else was uttered between the two. Skylar couldn’t keep her mind focused on the book. She could have sworn she had read the last paragraph three times. Checking her watch, she noticed that the lunch break would be over soon and was determined she’d leave “Mr. Right” wishing he had said more to her. Thoughts of Dutch came into her mind. He used to tell her not to jump to conclusions. “Things aren’t always what they appear,” he’d say.

  Stealing another glance at him, she reasoned that perhaps he was just trying to be respectable and not too forward. She despised pushy men, anyway. But somehow she knew he wasn’t that way. No, this was a decent man. One she hoped to know better.

  “Gosh, it looks as though it’s time to go back inside,” Skylar offered.

  Still not looking away from his BlackBerry, Sidney told her he thought he was done for today, especially after receiving an email that needed his immediate attention.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it isn’t bad news,” she said.

  “No, nothing like that, but I probably need to take care of it sooner than later.” He started to gather his briefcase, turned off his phone, and excused himself. And with that, “Mr. Perfect,” “The One,” was gone, probably for good.

  Watching him walk away, it suddenly occurred to Skylar that she didn’t even know his name. “How rude!” she said loud enough just for her own ears. For a second she even thought about calling out something—anything—to him. But what? Inquire about his cologne again? Tell him that she wanted to get it for Dutch? Yeah, that’s it. …. No. She nixed that idea with a chuckle because she knew very well that Dutch only wore Old Spice, a scent he’d enjoyed as long as she could remember. Too late now anyway, her Prince Charming was disappearing among the bevy of pedestrians going in all directions.

  Returning to the seminar, she mechanically sat through the last half, oblivious to anything that was going on or being said. Embarrassed, she quietly cursed herself for being so smitten with the handsome stranger.

  Later that evening, while readying herself for bed, Skylar heard her cellphone ring. Trying to identify the source of the John Legend ringtone, her attention made its way over to her handbag. Rummaging through it, she grabbed the phone and noticed the word “Private” on the keypad. Frowning, she immediately shut it off and put it on the coffee table. She had a practice of not answering private or unavailable calls. Standing up, she noticed a tan-colored business card had fallen on the floor. The name Sidney Francis, CPA, was inscribed in gold lettering on the front. It didn’t ring a bell so she started to discard it, but after flipping it over she noticed some unfamiliar handwriting. “Was great meeting you at the seminar. Would love to take you to lunch sometime. Please call! — Sidney 1–267–555–0234.” Covering her mouth with her hand in disbelief, Skylar couldn’t contain herself and fell back onto her bed, letting out the loudest scream she’d ever made. Knowing she was in the apartment alone, she jumped up and started running around in blissful glee.

  “Oh, my God, what in the world will I wear?” she thought. Rummaging through her closet, tossing designer dresses and blouses haphazardly about, she suddenly realized how silly this was. Plopping down amid the designer wreckage, Skylar shook her head in innocent embarrassment. They didn’t even have an actual date scheduled yet. Throughout the entire ordeal, she did not let go of his business card. She stared and stared at it, knowing she would indeed call him. Speaking out loud, “Yes, Mr. Sidney Francis, I will have lunch with you. Perhaps I’ll call you in a day or two, but not today.” She didn’t want to seem too anxious. Ecstatic, Skylar got up, decided on a lingering hour-long soak with lavender and vanilla bath crystals. As her body descended into the toasty calm waters, she dreamt of the man with the beautiful smile.

  A romance had blossomed almost instantaneously after their first lunch date. A lot had happened in those two years. Dutch’s death and Storm’s incarceration had certainly taken their toll on Skylar. But meeting and falling in love with Sidney was definitely a highlight. His hypnotic, insatiable smile mesmerized her, and the love he showered her with brought her welcoming comfort daily, even at the times he annoyed her—like when he left the cap off the toothpaste after every use no matter how many times she reminded him, or when he left their computer signed on and retired to their bedroom. These were small nuisances compared to what she got in return.

  As Skylar fell in love with his smile all over again, looking at him through her impressively crowded club, she reassured herself, Yes, yes, I can live with this. Yes! Today was a good day to be Skylar Morrison.

  Just before reaching Sidney at the bar, Skylar saw Flynn, the house comic, waving her down. “Hey, Sky, hot night, huh?” With his jovial, easygoing style and winning personality infused with impeccable comedic timing, Flynn had been with Skylar since she opened Legends.

  “Hey, Flynn. Yes, I’m very happy about that. I’m sure you are, too.” She smiled.

  Flynn loved performing in front of crowds. The bigger the better. It wasn’t that he was that funny. Some of his jokes fell flat. But it was just Flynn. He’d tell a joke, and even if no one else thought it was funny, his infectious laugh bellowed through the club, prompting everyone else to follow suit. Sometimes his joy spilled onto the streets of South Philly, and eager patrons lined up awaiting entrance would start laughing, just knowing that Flynn was onstage doing his routine. He never made it to the big time—his only claim to fame had been a lone appearance on HBO’s popular Def Jam Comedy Show in the early ‘90s. Unlike Bernie Mac, D. L. Hughley, Martin Lawrence, and Chris Tucker, Flynn Wilson didn’t see the offers come in. He did manage to go on the small club circuit a few times as the opening act for B-and C-listers like Chris Spencer and Ralph Harris. Even they worked more than he did. After a while those jobs had dried up, too, and he came to work for Skylar at Legends. It wasn’t the Comedy Store in L.A. or a showroom in Atlantic City or Vegas, but it was better than nothing. Still he had dreams of making the big time. He would just have to keep working at it. Will Smith, Patti Labelle, Bill Cosby, or some other famous Philadelphian would surely come through one night and hook him up.

  The one time Will Smith had been in the house, Flynn was home with the flu. When he found out that Will had been in the audience, he got sicker. Will had a reputation for helping so many people, especially those from Philly, and Flynn remained hopeful. Skylar had promised as long as she had Legends, Flynn would have a job.

  Knowing he would never have a chance with a girl like Skylar didn’t stop him from thinking of her as much as he did. Not the
same way he did in the beginning, though. No, Skylar was more like his little sis. This was why he gave so much attitude to Sidney once he saw that Skylar was smitten with him.

  “I don’t know about yo pretty boy, Skylar,” Flynn said one night before they opened.

  “What do you mean, Flynn? Sidney is really a nice man,” she assured him.

  “Yeah, well he better know I’m watching his ass, and if he slips up one time on some stupid shit, I’ma be right here to take care of his ass!”

  Smiling and shaking her head at Flynn, Skylar gave him a hug and a light peck on the cheek. “That’s very sweet of you, big brother, but I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. But I know you got my back.”

  It wasn’t long after that Sidney had won over Flynn, too. Once Flynn found out that Sidney was a Phillies fan, he was all right with him. If he couldn’t have Skylar for himself, well, then, he was cool with Sidney becoming the lucky man. In the end, Sidney asked Flynn to be one of his groomsmen at their wedding, which was taking place next year. Of course, Flynn said yes, but jokingly said it might be a double wedding because he had planned on finding him his “special girl” by then, too.

  “Yo, Sky, any special announcements you need me to make tonight?” Flynn asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Suddenly remembering something, she stopped him before he reached the stage area. “Flynn!” she shouted. “Can you remind everyone that we are holding auditions in the morning for two new dancers? Here at the club at 10 a.m. sharp— and emphasize 10 a.m. sharp, would you please?” She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Aw, girl, if I do that, well, you gonna be here by yo’self. You know black folks don’t know nothing ’bout being on time,” Flynn joked.

  “And as long as we play into that stereotypical excuse, they will be late! So let’s stop that right now!” she laughed. Flynn went up onstage just as Mariah Carey’s voice trailed off at the end of a song. Signaling to Quince to end the music, he grabbed the mike and started his routine.