On the Line

by Donna Hill

  My girl, Rosa, plopped her “J-Lo wannabe” ass on my desk, like she always did when she had something juicy to share.

  “Ooh, girl. I was at the Copa this weekend with Hector, you know that papi I met at the Puerto Rican Day Parade.”

  I simply nodded so she could continue. She sounded just like Rosie Perez when she was super excited.

  “We were groovin’to Don Omar and I saw your brother across the floor getting down with a hot mami.”

  “Yeah. He’s dating an older woman.”

  She crossed her legs and folded her arms. “Damn. I wish I knew he was into that, because your brother is fine.”

  I couldn’t join her usual infectious laughter. I wasn’t amused. “Are you up for a cup of coffee?”

  “Maya, don’t take it so seriously. Your brother is enjoying himself.”

  “I know, but…”

  “But nothing. What you need to do is get your ass a man and let Curtis live his life, or you’re going to end up alone one day.”

  I understood Rosa’s point. But she had a different boyfriend every six months. I didn’t have time for that. I promised my parents I’d take care of Curtis, and that included monitoring his choices for a partner.

  For the remainder of the week, things appeared to be back to normal for Curt and me. He was home for dinner every night. He never brought up Rachel and neither did I. In a way, I felt bad. He was probably hurting, but I felt it was best to leave things alone. When the time was right, he’d find someone else.

  It was Saturday, and when Curtis came home from work, I had his favorite devil’s food cake with my special cream-cheese frosting prepared. I couldn’t wait to surprise him.

  Rachel’s voice, coupled with my brother’s laughter, paralyzed me. Shame on me for assuming they broke up. I couldn’t believe she dared to step back in my house again.

  “Hello, Rachel.” There was no need for small talk. I wasn’t going to pretend I liked her.

  Curtis lifted his face and sniffed the air. “Mmm. Damn, it smells good in here.”

  “I baked your favorite cake. The bowl’s in the kitchen. I know you love to lick it clean.”

  Rachel giggled.

  “That’s what I’m talking about.” He looked at his girlfriend with his Kool-Aid smile, not the least bit embarrassed. “I don’t usually share, but I’ll make an exception this one time.”

  Rachel’s giggle rolled into a full-bodied laugh. “Enjoy, honey. I’ll wait for a slice of the finished product.”

  “Curt, why don’t you bring out the cake. I’ll get the coffee.”

  Rachel raved over my cake. I didn’t need her compliment. I knew my confections were tasty. She found my sweet spot. Maybe she wasn’t so bad. My brother seemed happy. I owed it to him to give her a chance.

  “So, Rachel, tell me a little more about yourself.”

  She took a noticeably deep breath. Curtis whispered, “It’s okay,” before she started.

  “I’m divorced. I was married at twenty-one. I was young and pregnant. My son is seven now and barely sees his father.”

  My heart stopped. What was this woman trying to tell me? “Are you looking for a new father?” I put my right hand up into the air, silently asking the Lord for strength and turned the question to my brother. “Are you ready to be a daddy? I didn’t give up my future for you to turn around and do this to me.”

  Curtis jumped up from the sofa, and the cake platter went flying. “Damn it, Maya. Everything isn’t about you. Rachel was just…Never mind. Why am I wasting my time trying to explain things to you. You’ve already made up your mind about her.”

  “Curtis, I better get going. Maya, I’m sorry our evening ended on a bad note. Good night.”

  Oh, hell no, she wasn’t leaving my house with the last word. My pride wouldn’t allow it. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” I knew it was stupid, but I couldn’t think of anything better at the time.

  She ignored my comment and kissed Curtis.

  He whispered into her ear, but I heard every word. “Baby, I’m sorry about my sister. I’ll call you later.” They walked to the door and hugged good-night. Then my brother turned his pent-up anger on me.

  “What’s your problem? That’s why I never brought any of my girlfriends home to meet you.”

  I didn’t care that he had other girlfriends. I just felt Rachel was wrong for him. “She’s using you.”

  Curtis was bursting with laughter. I didn’t see what was so funny about the situation. “Let me get this straight. A woman who owns her own business, drives a Mercedes and lives in a slammin’ house, is using me. Me—a college senior, living at home with his sister.”

  He was right—it sounded ridiculous. But something didn’t sit right with me. I’d have to sleep on it. “Clean up the kitchen. I’m tired.”

  “Good night, sis. I still love you.”

  I loved him, too. I hope he realized that.

  Work followed another sleepless weekend. To clear my mind, I jumped right into work. Curtis called to meet me for lunch between his classes. I had a huge caseload stacked before me, which already guaranteed me an all-nighter. Curtis was worth it, so I squeezed him into my schedule.

  At lunch Curtis didn’t waste any time getting to the point.

  “Maya, I’m in love with Rachel.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You just met her.”

  “Actually, we’ve been dating for a year.”

  “Excuse you?”

  “No offense, Maya, but I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle me dating anyone, especially a woman older than you.”

  Damn right.

  “I’m thinking about moving in with her.”

  What the hell was he thinking? The conversation was worse than anything I could have anticipated.

  I breathed slow and deep. It was imperative I gain control before I lost him. “You have a home.”

  “It’s Mom and Dad’s home, Maya. I need to move on.”

  “You’re being ungrateful.”

  “I’m being real.”

  I couldn’t believe the crap that was falling out of my brother’s mouth. I needed some time to digest his bullshit.

  “Curt, let’s talk about this over dinner. At home.”

  “I have plans tonight. Don’t wait up.” He dropped two twenties on the table. “Maybe I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

  I pushed my platter away from me. My appetite was shot. I needed to get my own life together. It was sad, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had been on a date.

  That night, I must have watched the shadows dancing across my living room walls for hours before I finally went to my room to change. I threw on my favorite black dress with the plunging neckline. I hoped it didn’t make me look as desperate as I was.

  I took a cab to the Village, where I’d have a selection of bars to choose from. The city was alive for a Monday night, but I managed to find a quiet spot. Eighties music filled the air. It was just what the doctor ordered. There were a ton of sexy brothers in the place. Maybe I’d finally meet someone, unless I’d stumbled into a gay bar.

  I ordered a chocolate martini. It was delicious, but I wished I’d ordered something stronger.

  I pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked since college. After the stress I’d faced over the last few days, a cigarette was in order.

  “Excuse me, miss, but you can’t smoke in here,” the bartender barked, his arms folded across his massive chest.

  I’d completely forgotten about the No Smoking law. I swallowed my drink and stepped out for my smoke. There were at least five other people engrossed in conversation amidst a light cloud of smoke. I placed my cigarette between my lips when a brother, more delicious than my martini, lit it for me.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing the nicotine to course through me. I opened my eyes and the sexy dream still stood before me. The glow of the streetlamp and the light mist of smoke surrounded his aura. He appeared as a sort of god.


  He extended his hand toward me as he introduced himself. “My name’s Ken.”

  I held his hard, callused hand and smiled. A hard-workin’ man. I wondered how hard he worked in the bedroom.

  “Thanks for the light.” My cheeks warmed.

  “Share a drink with me.”

  “What makes you think I’m alone?” I purred against my will.

  “Then your man is a fool for leaving a beautiful woman like you alone.”

  “How many women have you used that line on tonight?”

  His laughter was rich and hearty. “Well, if you must know, you’re the first. And, if you reject me, I already have my eye set on the blonde in the white dress.”

  I liked him—he was a welcome distraction. “I’m Maya.”

  “Maya…Just Maya, like the singer?”

  “Maya Perkins.”

  A look of surprise spread across his handsome face. “From Brooklyn Community Bank?”

  My guard was up. I stepped back. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m Ken Douglass from Secret Service.”

  Heat colored my caramel complexion. Ken and I had spoken over the phone many times regarding a number of investigations. I had fantasized about him on many of those occasions. His voice over the phone was titillating, a perfect match for the striking Adonis before me.

  “Maya? I apologize if I’ve mistaken you for someone else.”

  No mistake. I just couldn’t find my voice. I managed to push out a response. “I’m just amazed at what a small world it is. I never imagined ever running into you.”

  “Does that mean sharing a drink with you is out of the question?”

  He had no idea how much I wanted to share with him. My body was charged up. I hoped a drink and some conversation would bring me down to earth. Just as I was about to respond, the hot reggae song, “Temperature,” slipped out of the bar and I shook my hips.

  “Ooh, that’s my song.”

  Ken tossed my cigarette to the ground and pulled me back into the club. He sauntered across the dance floor, finding us the perfect spot. His husky build and bronze skin in the dim light left me breathless. I hoped he couldn’t hear the beat of my heart over Sean Paul. Ken slid away from me and impressed me with his dance moves. I felt like I was on a menu as he feasted upon my ample figure, tracing every curve with his eyes, before he pulled me back into his arms.

  “You look gorgeous.” His lips brushed the nape of my neck. Chills rippled through my energized body. “I’m so glad we finally met.”

  It felt so good to be in this man’s arms. Every kiss he placed lifted my fears of being alone. He was what I needed right then and there. If he didn’t stop, I wasn’t sure what I was capable of doing at that moment.

  “I think I’ll take that drink now.”

  We sat at the bar and Ken ordered a couple of drinks for us. I watched a special news report that flashed on the television above the bar.

  I shook my head as the reporter described the scene where an unidentified young black man was shot by police. The unarmed suspect was driving a Mercedes that resembled one that was reported stolen, according to authorities. That was the third case in two months.

  I tried to ignore my cell phone buzzing away in my purse, but the caller wouldn’t give up.

  “Maya, you need to get to the emergency room, right away. Curtis has been shot.”

  Rachel rattled off the name and address of the hospital. Like a zombie, I repeated the information to Ken. Without any further questions, he drove me and has been by my side ever since.

  For years, I listened to your fans whine about their lives. I was always ready to blurt out some advice for your frazzled callers and talk about them at work the following day. I always said, “You’ll never catch me on that show.”

  I was wrong. Please help me.

  I’d tempted fate when I wished Rachel was out of our lives, and it backfired. I made a mistake. I gave Curtis no alternative but to pack up and move on, and that’s what he was doing the night he was shot. I pray he makes it. How can I make it up to him?

  The doctor’s here now.

  Pray for me,

  Maya Perkins, My Brother’s Keeper

  Slowly, I fold the letter and gently place it back in the envelope. Wow. That’s all I can say. Yes, sis, I will be praying for you. I could never say that out loud on the radio; it would mess up my MO, but in the privacy of my bedroom in the still of the night, I can pray for you. And I do. I actually close my eyes and say a prayer—and maybe it was just as much for Maya as it was for me.

  I yawn loudly and stretch, then take a peek at the digital clock on my nightstand. It’s almost four a.m. I rub my eyes. I think I have one more reading left in me before I call it a night. Taking out another letter, I open it and place it on my lap. Black Power? Oh, dayum. A revolutionary. Well, this one should be interesting. I perk up, no longer sleepy.

  CHAPTER 9

  Dear Joy,

  I’m writing to you because I was listening to your show a couple of weeks ago and heard a woman call in talking about Black Power. She said that Black Power was dead, and you and some of the other callers agreed with that fact. But I’m here to tell you that just because something or someone has died don’t mean it’s dead.

  A woman named Black Power had a room on the ground floor of 567 Stuyvesant Avenue. That was in 1964 when I was just eight years old and Mama owned the only bookstore for thirty blocks.

  I remember spending my school holidays in the bookstore, which was just called The Bookstore back then. Me at my mama’s hip, doll clutched in one hand and my favorite, Where the Wild Things Are, clutched in the other.

  I didn’t know it then, but plenty of famous people came in to talk to my mama about politics and the plight of the black people. Amiri Baraka, Angela Davis and Assata, before she was accused of killing that state trooper, broke out of jail and fled to Cuba.

  I remember their conversations the way small children do, the words floating above my head in a mist. The only thing clear and simple to me were the knees of the folk and the fabric of Mama’s kente cloth skirt.

  Nothing in that time was more amazing to me than the sunlit streets and the eerie way the streetlamps knew just when to come on.

  Mama was a Black Panther sympathizer then and kept her beret in the top drawer of the desk that doubled as the counter. Next to the old cash register was a picture of my daddy in a gold-plated frame. He smiled out at me from behind the glass Mama kept dust-and streak-free with Windex.

  I only knew my daddy through pictures, the letters that came once a week addressed to “my sweet baby girl,” and the voice that floated to me from the other end of the phone every Wednesday night at six.

  Mama would go upstate once a month to visit him. But I wasn’t allowed to go. Daddy didn’t want me to see him in that place.

  I remember a white lady coming into the store. She was tall with thin pink lips and long blond hair and even though she wore her beret the way the rest of the Panthers did, for some reason it didn’t look right on her. Something about her blond hair or the color of her skin took the meaning away from it.

  She wore tight black pants, dark shades and a black T-shirt that said Power To The People.

  She didn’t say a word, just walked up and down the aisles, running her fingers along the spines of the books and making small noises in her throat. When Mama couldn’t take it anymore, she asked, “Can I help you find something?” And even at that young age, I knew the “Miss” was missing from her question.

  The woman shook her head no and then suddenly turned and walked out, but not before dropping a folded piece of paper down on the counter.

  Mama picked up the piece of paper and then watched as the woman climbed into a fancy car that pulled away quickly.

  I often wonder if the woman’s eyes were blue or brown. I dream them blue, because that’s what color Black Power said the devil’s eyes were.

  I never knew what was written on the paper, but I think it had something
to do with my daddy being killed in prison, because Mama just kept saying “No, no, no” over and over as she dialed a million numbers and asked, “You hear anything ’bout Divine?”

  It was true, true as the sky was blue. My daddy was dead. They said he committed suicide. Found him in his cell, swinging from a foot of rope.

  But Mama never believed that that was true. When she talked about my daddy’s death, she always said, “When they murdered my husband…”

  The Black Panthers came to mourn my daddy, but never did bring groceries like they promised they would. They did leave a gun though, told my mama to use it on herself and me if she had to. Said, “Don’t let the white man kill your man twice.”

  Mama put that gun next to the beret.

  Black Power didn’t come into the bookstore for a long time on the account she’d seen that white woman walk in there the day my daddy died. She thought that Mama had gone over to the other side. She told people that my mama was conspiring with the enemy.

  Mama heard the rumors Black Power was spreading and even saw a petition that Black Power was trying to get people to sign to get Mama out of the neighborhood. But no one would sign. When Mama got wind of that, she nearly lost her mind and walked right up to Black Power and gave her the what for.

  I didn’t hear any of it—I was in the bookstore staring out at them—but I knew Mama was giving her a good piece of her mind by the way her head was rolling on her neck.

  Black Power screamed back at Mama and then looked sorry. After that Black Power started coming back in the store again, edifying Mama and me.

  I asked her one day where her babies were at and Mama’s mouth dropped wide open like I had said a cuss word.

  Well, what did I know? Every woman that I had ever seen had babies or had had babies at one point. I had never seen Black Power with a baby—not even a picture of one in the man’s wallet she carried in the back pocket of her fatigues.

  Mama called me “fresh” and told me to hush. And I did.

  Black Power just looked at me and said, “All the black people in the world are my babies.”

  I didn’t believe that.

  The most babies I had ever seen a woman have was ten and that was Ophelia Jackson on Halsey Street and she was a whore. Or so the talk went. I figured there had to be at least one million people in the world and Black Power couldn’t have birthed them all and she certainly wasn’t my mama.