Love in a Carry-On Bag

by Johnson, Sadeqa

  “I’m telling Dad,” Jared stood crying. Bernard quickly hushed his younger brother by offering his wristwatch.

  Dad? The couple hadn’t been married a few weeks, and “Dad” was already slipping from the young boy’s tongue? The anxiety that had been building since Warren overheard the gossip at the church crashed through him like a wave hitting a breaking point.

  From across the room Warren watched his father whisper something to Shar and then walk towards the back of the house. Warren knew he was heading to his study to steal a smoke. Bravery surged through him. It was such a ballsy feeling that he knew he had to strike before he lost his nerve. After giving his father a head start, Warren followed down the center hall adorned with original paintings by artists such as Leroy Campbell and Georgia O’Keeffe. The family portrait of Warren, his father, mother and sister was gone.

  Turning the sharp corner that led to his father’s private study, Warren pushed the heavy oak door open without knocking.

  “Son, when did you start barging in?” his father demanded, startled.

  “Were you ever planning to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “That Shar’s sons are yours?” The words shot from Warren’s mouth.

  His father looked down at his pipe and took his time to pinch in a chunk of tobacco before bringing it to his lips. After the smoke cleared, he replied. “I had planned to tell you about the adoption as soon as it went through.”

  “I’m not talking about an adoption,” Warren clenched his teeth. “It’s all over the church. Apparently everyone knows but me.”

  “Watch it, son,” his father set his pipe down and glared, fixing Warren with the same look he would use to intimidate him as a boy. “Have you lost your cotton-pickin’ mind?” His father’s polished speech dropped Southern. Clearly, he was upset.

  “You owe me an explanation,” Warren took a few steps forward, refusing to back down.

  “How dare you come in here with this nonsense. In the middle of a party? I have guests roaming my house. You’ve got some nerve,” he pointed his pipe.

  “Just tell me the truth and I’ll go.”

  “Boy, you better watch your tone, before something happens that we both regret,” his father stared him down.

  “Then you’re a coward,” Warren spat, unable to believe his own nerve. “After all of your rules about what a man is? Now you can’t even look me in the eye and tell the truth?” He turned on his heels and left the door wide open. Another no-no.

  Blanche was holding court with the wife of a senator when Warren stormed through the party.

  “I’m leaving,” his face was misty with sweat.

  Blanche excused herself, and hurriedly followed him across the living area to the front door. Outside she had to trot down the street to keep up with him. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Why are you here?” Warren looked at her. The street was empty in both directions, but music could be heard coming from the house.

  “I wanted to support a worthy cause.”

  “No. Why are you really here?” He ran his teeth over his bottom lip.

  Blanche fidgeted with her clutch.

  “What happened with you and Erica?”

  She stared at him.

  “What did you tell her that day I left you at my apartment?” Warren demanded.

  “Nothing . . .that it was over between you. Isn’t that right?”

  Warren could hear the desperation in Blanche’s voice and he didn’t want to hurt her, but he had to come clean. “That night I was really drunk, Blanche.”

  She moved closer and reached for his cheek. “That wouldn’t stop us now.”

  Warren swatted her hand. “We work together, Blanche. And I’m not over Erica. I’m sorry,” he offered.

  “You’re sorry,” she mustered, spit flying. “Fuckin’ asshole. You want to have your cake and eat it too. First you wanted me, now it’s Erica. What a jerk,” she said flatly.

  Just then two women stepped outside of his father’s home for a smoke.

  “Blanche, calm down.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me to calm down. What about how I feel?” she retorted. “Ever consider that? Or is your world so small you can only think of yourself?”

  Warren grabbed hold of her arm to try to control the scene but she pulled away.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, pointing her finger in his face. “What a wishy-washy pig.” She moved away from him, back up the cobblestone path and into the house.

  Warren started to follow, but he knew it would do more harm than good on all accounts.

  Sitting behind the wheel of his Yukon Danali, Warren could only think of one thing. Erica. He removed his cell phone from his hip and called her. After four rings the machine picked up.

  “Hey it’s me. Warren. We need to talk, please call me back.”

  When he got home he tore out of his suit, paced his living room floor and tried her again. No answer, another message.

  “I really need to talk to you. Call me when you get this.”

  An hour later, his heart felt as if he had been running a twenty-one-mile marathon with no water and Erica held the icy cup. He needed her. Damn it, he couldn’t take any more. He tried her again.

  “Leave a message.” Beep.

  This time, when she didn’t answer, he started singing. It was the wimpiest thing he ever did, but he was beyond caring. Erica needed to know how he felt.

  He sang the first three verses of “Wild as the Wind.” It was the song that they listened to over and over again in the car on the way to the Pocono Mountains, and Warren wanted her to remember when things were good. Although he sounded nothing like Nina Simone, he had perfect pitch and could carry a tune. With your kiss my life begins…

  Warren put the phone to his heart, hoping that she could hear the pattern of his thump, bringing it back to his ear. “I can’t go on like this, baby. I’m like a leaf clinging to a tree. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m drying up without you. You’ve got me begging…”

  The message space was filled, and the line went dead. Warren clicked off his phone, suddenly feeling like he played himself. What kind of dude sings on a woman’s answering machine? Stupid. That was so high school, but the sad part was that he meant every verse.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Stepping on Faith

  Erica caught the 5:00p.m. Amtrak from New York City to Washington, D.C. It was the train that she always caught on Friday night, the train that got her to Union Station at 7:47p.m. sharp. When she was goofy and in love she had timed how long it took her to walk from the platform, through the station, and outside to where Warren waited curbside, dripping with that crooked smile that she loved so much. Three minutes is what it took for her to sashay through the crowd with her skinny heels click-clacking against the shiny floors, and her carry-on bag trailing behind her. Erica remembered how those minutes might as well have been hours, as her ache for Warren would escalate with each switch of her hip, smile hello, and elbow to the person holding up the line in front of her. Her body would fever with anticipation as she predicted how Warren would look, feel against her breasts, smell when he pressed his lips to her earlobe, and taste when their tongues touched. These thoughts would bustle inside of her with each anxious step, threatening to set her on fire. On some trips she’d find her feet scampering when she rounded the automatic doors, but she would force herself to slow down, so as not to appear flustered.

  Now Erica was making the trip to see another man, LaVal Jarvis. He had been aggressive about bringing her to D.C. to hear his lecture, and pursued her intently to manage his speaking engagements. It was only part-time, but the opportunity had forced Erica to really examine her work situation at B&B Publishing. Weeks had passed since Erica was stepped over for the Director’s position by Athan McKinley, and he still had no clue how to help Claire run the department. Working with him had been draining, and Erica didn’t see any signs of her much deserved promotion down the
pike.

  Moving on was a thought that had been constantly ticking at the back of her brain, and for some reason when she opened her eyes that morning, she knew it was time to consider leaving. The heart to heart that she had with her mother made her realize that she no longer needed the office with the view, the fancy title and write up in Essence magazine to exorcise the family’s demons. She had already escaped them. Erica was exceptional right now. But she wasn’t great because of what she had accomplished, she was great because of who she had always been, and this self-realization was what put her on the path to restarting her life.

  Erica knew that if she wanted to she could jump ships and go to another publishing house, but why not take a leap of faith and venture out on her own? After all, entrepreneurship was in her blood. Her father had owned an auto repair shop in Elizabeth, New Jersey, until he sold it and moved to South Carolina. According to Jazmine, he had opened another shop five miles from his house in Charleston, but this one also had an auto detailing department with a small line of products that he manufactured himself. It was probably why he still paid her mother’s mortgage after so many years apart. The act was chivalrous, and the only reason her mother hadn’t been forced onto the streets. Erica had to admit that she was grateful to him for keeping up with the bill, because she could only imagine how much worse things could have been.

  When the train pulled into Wilmington, Delaware, Erica wondered why she was thinking about her father when she spent most of her time pretending that he didn’t exist. If Grandma Queeny were sitting next to her she would have pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and declared, “Chile, that’s because it’s time for you to till the soil and dig up that toxic stuff that’s hindering your good crops from growing.”

  Erica stared out the window but looked at nothing in particular. She supposed that it was time for her to deal with her feelings towards her father. Ever since she saw her mother in the diner she couldn’t stop thinking about how forgiveness was for the offended, not the offender. For almost two decades Erica had been lugging around bags teeming with bitterness against her dad, and like a corpse it had grown heavy with rot, and the noxious fumes were killing her. When her father left Erica swept her suffering under a sturdy mat, stepped over it and moved on. She ran, flipped, and tumbled, doing everything to outsprint the agony of her abandonment.

  But in that moment as she sat alone listening to the chug of the train, she knew that she was tired of outracing her past. She needed to make amends with her father so that she could go forward and love a man with an open heart. Perhaps that had been the problem with Warren, and Erica pressed her jacket to her lips to keep herself from crying.

  “But he abandoned us. How could he not know that he was leaving us with a mother who wasn’t capable? He was married to her for Christ sake. We were supposed to be his main girl, two halves of the same whole and he left,” screamed the little girl picking the scabs from inside of her. Erica felt the wounds split, and bit down harder on her collar until her teeth ached from the pressure. Then she wrapped her arms around her waist and squeezed as tightly as she could. It hurt to think of the father that she had loved with unabashed innocence. So much time had passed since she had even heard his voice. He must have grown sick of calling without her answering, but the fifty dollar bills came every month like clockwork. Perhaps that was his way of repenting.

  Erica rocked herself. The tears kept betraying her as she realized that she didn’t want to end up at his funeral listening to folks proclaim what a good man he had been, and her having missed out because she had spent her life holding a childish grudge. Everyone deserved to be forgiven, and it was time for her to put down the corpse, scrub herself clean, and get on with living.

  The train cranked into Union Station, and as Erica took the three-minute walk to the street, she averted her eyes from where Warren usually parked, making a mad dash for the taxicab stand on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue. The driver helped her with her bag and then zigzagged through a sea of cars. Traffic was light, and it only took a few minutes for him to pull in front of the Jefferson Hotel on the corner of 16th and M street.

  “Thanks,” Erica slipped the cabby a twenty and told him to keep the change. The doorman asked if she needed help with her luggage, but she declined.

  The Jefferson was an intimate, residential-style hotel, boasting old world charm located four short blocks from the White House. LaVal had booked her a suite, and once she slid in her keycard and opened the door, she could see that it was much more space than she needed. The sitting room was beautifully situated with Victorian antique furniture and tapestry, while the master bedroom’s focal point was a four-poster bed. Erica kicked out of her traveling shoes and parked her bag against the mahogany chest of drawers. She had always been a sucker for a view, and when she pulled back the drapes there was a narrow door that led to the balcony. Erica stood stocking foot on the stone walk, gazing at the Washington Monument, thinking about Warren’s voice messages.

  She must have played it over a dozen times. Her heart was telling her to believe every word, but she was paralyzed with fear. Even though she was now conscious of forgiving her parents, it was different when it came to a man/woman relationship. Hurt me once, shame on you, twice…well that was a risk she was having a hard time taking.

  The evening was unseasonably warm, and Erica breathed in the fresh air, trying to let the coolness clear the clouds from her head. Then without a second thought, she pulled her cell phone from the side pocket of her dress and scrolled through her contacts. The phone rang three times, and she didn’t realize that she was holding her breath until she heard his voice on the other end.

  “Hello,” it had turned slightly southern.

  “Hi, Daddy…it’s me.”

  “E-bird? Oh, wow! It’s so nice to hear your voice. How’re you doing sweetheart?”

  She could hear the crank of a jack lifting a car, and could almost smell Valvoline. A giggle crept into Erica’s voice and the nervousness slipped off the balcony and disappeared into thin air. “I’m fine. Everything is going well.”

  “Yeah, Jaz tells me that you are a big shot working in New York City.”

  “I wouldn’t say all of that,” she felt herself blush.

  “Still modest, I always knew you’d do big things. The way you’d tackle that fast math that I taught you on Saturdays at the shop. You remember that?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “You were always quick as lightning. Anything I taught you, you’d eat it right up. Man, it’s good to hear your voice,” he said again.

  “Same here.”

  They fell into an easy rhythm of catch up, and before Erica knew it the sun had dipped, and she was running late for LaVal’s lecture.

  “I hate to go, but I’ve got to get to work,” she said.

  “Okay, I understand. But promise you’ll call again soon. How’s Sunday afternoon?”

  “Um, that should be fine.” Erica replied, and then allowed her father to pin her with a time.

  As she bounced through her hotel room she felt lighter, like she had left ten pounds of baggage behind on the balcony. The guck from inside of her chest felt scraped and shoveled bare. It was almost as if she had swallowed a decongestant pill, opening her up and leaving her feeling unblocked and free.

  In the bathroom, there was only enough time for a quick shower, and after oiling her skin, Erica slipped into a gray kimono-sleeved dress, and accentuated the look with round-toe heels and a three-string beaded necklace that she’d bought at the African market in Harlem. There was no real time for make-up, but she swiped the mascara brush over her lashes and packed a little shadow and gloss to apply on the drive.

  LaVal had sent a towncar for her, and on the ride over she noticed that the center where he was scheduled to lecture was only five blocks from Warren’s house. Through the tinted back window she watched as the corner coffee shop where she picked up their bagels drifted by. Two blocks over was their favorite flea mar
ket, and a block up was De Vinos, where they went for wine. She was so close to him, and everything felt familiar.

  LaVal was speaking inside a neighborhood recreation center on the edge of Northwest. It was a neighborhood that ten years ago was labeled dangerous, but gentrification had changed the tag to up-and-coming, and then to good. When Erica hustled through the door, a woman with bright tangerine braids handed her a yellow program.

  “Thanks,” Erica nodded, and then made her way down the center aisle, just as a scrawny teenage boy started with the introduction. Erica took a seat to the left and then glanced over her shoulder to take in the crowd. Every inch of the moderate-size hall was lined with rows of folding chairs, and although all the seats weren’t filled, the audience was scattered enough to give the appearance of a full house. Erica pulled a notebook from her bag and held it in her lap. After a round of applause, LaVal strolled across the stage with one hand waving in the air.

  “Thank you,” he said, adjusting the mic. His quarter-sized dimples dented his cheeks. LaVal appeared as polished as always, in a fudge-striped suit and dotted tie. His hair was cut close and his sandy eyes were bright.

  “You know, it wasn’t too long ago that I was just like you,” he said, directing his attention to the young African-American boys who slouched in the front row.

  “I used to carry a gun, and I earned so much money selling drugs that it made people who worked look like field laborers. And they were, in a sense,” he paused for effect. “Why do the hard work for pennies, when the easy money was like taking candy from a baby?”

  The room was still, and within seconds LaVal had swept them all into the palms of his hands.

  Although Erica had read his book, hearing him tell his story live and on stage was like thumbing through his life for the first time. The crowd was mostly Jewish women and young black men bused in from a Southeast community center. Both groups hung onto his every syllable. It was amazing how he could play to both crowds without seeming pretentious, and Erica knew that it was because of the chameleon skin of the black man.