by Joy, E. n.
Sharita's eyes flashed black. She stepped so close up on Porsche that her lips grazed her daughter's cheek. Her words almost burned Porsche's skin, and for the hundredth time, Porsche hated that her and her little sister, Mercedes, and her younger brother, Seville, had been forced to come back to Harlem and live with their mother.
"What was right?" Sharita breathed. "What was right woulda been bringing his black tail straight home that night instead of cruising the streets looking for a ho. Why else would a man with a wife, and three little kids, be getting chased by the po-po in the middle of the night with a white crackhead in the front seat of his wife's new Cadillac?"
Porsche sniffed as her heart splintered into tiny pieces. She had loved her father with all her soul. He'd been dead for three years, but she missed him more than words could describe. He had suffered for a long time, and watching him like that had almost killed her. But she still hated that he'd died and left her and Mercedes and Seville no choice but to come across town to live with their mother.
But she understood how Sharita could ask that question too. A lot of people, family members and fans, had asked the same thing over the years, including the commissioner of the NBA. He'd asked the same exact question before ruling that her father's accident was due to his own negligence. The ruling immediately voided her father's contract and shut him out of the league.
Outrageous medical bills had left her father dead broke, and when the little bit of funds he had saved and invested ran out, his gold-digging, money-hawking wife did too.
Monte Johnson was a fighter though. He didn't try to stop Sharita from going off to live her own life without him and her children. The system tried to say that in Monte's condition he couldn't take care of his children without their mother in the house, but he would have died before he let foster care drag his kids into the cut- throat urban cesspool they called a system. With only a small disability check, and a little help from his God- fearing elderly mother, he kept his children right by his side. What he couldn't give them financially, he made up for it with his love. But it would be the love of God that his mother seemed to instill in them twenty-four seven, after moving in to help them out, that really gave Monte faith that everything would be all right.
Porsche had been too young to understand all the chaos and drama when her father was first injured. All she knew was that Sharita had left them and she missed her. Years later, when she realized that the daddy who was now sitting there twisted up in a wheel- chair and paralyzed from the waist down had once been a star Philadelphia Sixers marquee favorite, she had been forced to ask herself, and then her father, that same question.
"Who was that lady in the car with you when you got hurt?"
There was deep sadness in Monte's eyes as he remembered that night. For a second, Porsche hated that she'd taken him back to that dark period in his life.
But whatever had gone down on the streets of Philly had changed the entire course of her life, and she needed to know exactly what had happened.
"I always knew the day would come when you would ask that question," Monte had said to his oldest child, "and I always hoped I would be strong enough to answer you. But, baby, if your old daddy ain't never taught you nothing else, I pray to God I taught you the difference between right and wrong. I pray I taught you the truth from a lie. That I taught you the difference between the path to salvation from the path to damnation.
"I can tell you this, baby girl; I have never once cheated on your mother. Never. I didn't need to. Sharita was even finer back then than she is now, and besides, I loved her. A part of me will always love her. But you know how it is with professional athletes and hot women. They come a dime a dozen and they're always looking for a way to get next to you. I've had women try to kick in my front door, and then swear to God they would squeeze in right through the keyhole if I didn't open up.
"But see, I was never that type of dude. I was a one- woman man and your mother" A sad smile had crept into Monte's eyes as he remembered the good years with his wife. "Sharita always satisfied me. She always kept me wanting to come home."
Porsche had smirked. "Grandma said Mommy was always greedy and had selfish ways."
Monte had nodded, but then defended his wife too. "Yeah, she wanted a lot of nice things. Most women do. But your mother deserved a lot too. She worked hard at being a top NBA wife. She kept herself looking good and she kept me full on everything. We lived in the right house, drove the latest cars and wore the hottest clothes. She took good care of me, and I took care of her too. Every time she left the hospital carrying one of my new babies in her arms, I drove her home in a brand new ride."
Porsche already knew this part of the story. Sharita's first whip had been a spanking new black Porsche, which was how she got her name. Monte had bought her a custom-made pink Mercedes Benz when their second daughter was born with autism, and two years after that, Sharita had ridden home from the hospital with a perfect baby boy in a white-walled, drop-top Cadillac Seville.
Porsche couldn't think of anything more ghetto than naming kids after luxury cars, and she hated her name. In high school she had started spelling it P-o-r-t-i-a. When Sharita found out, she screamed on her and told her that fine automobiles were part of her birthright, and to quit running away from her destiny before she swung her foot back and kicked her down to the ground.
Porsche had allowed her father to take his little trip down memory lane. When he was done reliving the good times, Porsche had taken his hand and waited to hear the rest of the story.
"It was in the middle of our best season, Porsche, and we were hot. We were undefeated, and in our minds, unstoppable. One of the players, our top scorer, got injured on the court. He got taken down on a play so simple it just didn't make no sense. We ran a fast break and he went up for an easy lay-up, uncontested, and somehow came down wrong. Standing right there in my man's hospital room, after hearing he'd torn a bunch of tendons in his knee and ripped some cartilage too, we lost our confidence. There was no way he'd be back to help us finish the season, and we needed what he brought to the court in order to make our magic work.
"I was driving home from the hospital late that night. I was rolling down the avenue when a police car pulled out in front of me. He came skirting around a corner. Fast. Too fast. If I hadn't stomped on my brakes, I woulda hit him. Something was going on up there in that car. It looked like he mighta been fighting some- body in the front seat. But then he took off again, fast as lightning. The next thing I knew, his passenger door flew open and a body fell out and rolled into the street.
"I almost ran over the chick. I don't know how I did it, but I swerved around her, and when I looked in my rearview mirror she was moving, trying to crawl outta the street. Don't ask me why I did it, I just did. I backed up to her and jumped out the car. When I got over to her, I almost hollered. She was messed up, baby. Real bad. Way too messed up for somebody who had just fell outta a car. She was bleeding everywhere. From her mouth and from her ears. Both of her eyes were swollen shut, and her top lip was split almost in two. Her pants were down around her ankles and her shirt was gone. Somebody had tied her bra around her neck, and there were deep, bloody bite marks all over her chest.
"Something told me to look up, and when I did, I saw that cop car speeding down on us. He had circled around and put on his flashers. He was coming back to get this chick. I looked down at the stone fear on that lady's face and something in me just clicked. This girl hadn't fallen outta that cop's car. She had jumped out.
"So I did what I had to do. I wasn't even thinking. I just did it. I tossed her over my shoulder and threw her in my ride. I had barely made it behind the wheel when that cop was on us.
"He rammed right into us. Hit me so hard my chest slammed against the steering wheel and the white girl flew off the seat and crashed into the dashboard. The cop backed up outta my trunk and put his cruiser in reverse so he could get me again, but I was moving by then. Burning rubber all over that Philadelphia black
tar.
"He was on me, but I was pushing the Caddy. Back then they were built like tanks. You could knock a bull into next week with those metal bumpers. I floored it and took off, scared outta my head. In any second I was expecting my back windshield to explode from the spray of his bullets.
"All I wanted was to get home, Porsche. To you, to Mercedes, to Seville, and to your mama. I woulda given that cop what he wanted if I coulda. I woulda rolled that half-dead white chick outta the car and kept it moving straight to the crib, if I could have. I didn't know her. She wasn't nobody to me. But I wasn't built that way back then, and I ain't built that way now either. That was a human being down there bleeding underneath my dashboard, and when she looked at me and whispered,
'He's trying to kill me,' what was I supposed to do?
"I drove. Anywhere I could, as fast as I could. I got on 95 and pumped that Caddy's engine wide open. I knew the lady needed to get to a hospital, but all I wanted to do was get away from that cop; to be out of that whole situation, but fate just wasn't gonna make it that easy for me.
"The cop radioed for his boys to back him up. You know what he probably told 'em? 'Black male being pur- sued with a kidnapped white woman in his car. Brand new luxury Caddy. Possibly drug-related.' Man, a whole squad swooped down on us in less than two minutes. They chased me down, baby. They boxed me in, then rammed into me so hard from behind that the car went flying right off the road."
Tears burned Porsche's eyes as she stood next to her mother and replayed her father's words in her head. Listening to him recount the events of that night had been like watching a movie. Monty had painted the horrible picture in color, and Porsche had felt like she was right there beside him.
Porsche blinked, then turned to her mother and finally answered Sharita's question. "Daddy was doing what was right, Ma," she said in a small voice. Porsche didn't run up against Sharita too often, but when it came to her father's good name and righteous heart, she was ready to take on the world. "He wasn't doing what was easy, or what you mighta want- ed him to do, but he was doing what was right."
Sharita smirked and rolled her eyes as she folded another sheet. "Yeah. That's his story and he's probably still sticking to it in his grave. Monte Johnson had you blinded, baby. I used to be stupid and naïve like that too, Porsche. But then life stepped in and slapped them little blindfolds straight off my eyes." She put the sheet in the box and lit another cigarette.
"C'mon," Sharita said, her voice softening as she looked at her daughter with pride in her eyes. "You too pretty to be twisting up your face. Let's change the subject, baby, and talk about something nice. That chick died that night anyway, and now Monte's gone too. Me and you about to be chilling up in a fly house in Jersey with a maid and a cook. So don't be worrying and frowning and all that. Them sheets won't be the only things getting wrinkled, and I know you wanna keep yourself looking good for your man, right?"
Porsche could only nod.
"Good," Sharita said. "Go tell your brother to carry these boxes into the living room while I fix a drink and pull myself together. You not hungry yet, are you?"
Porsche shook her head.
"Good. You don't need to be sitting around eating all day anyway. And suck some of that stomach in, girl. Don't let that baby mess you up. You only six months, so don't mess around and get too big, too fast. Humph. You'll be walking around here with your breasts down to your knees and a bunch of nasty stretch marks spreading all over your behind."
Sharita looked down at her own flat stomach and gave it a little pat, then slid her hands down her jeans to her shapely hips. "You see all this? Still fine and still firm. When I was pregnant with you, nobody could hardly tell up until the day I had you. Trust me. Stay outta the kitchen, Porsche. You got my looks and my body, but your daddy had three big, fat sisters, so it won't take much for you to fall into the danger zone. Keep your belly tight and your booty banging. That way, you'll keep your man at home with you where he belongs. You still giving him some every other night like I told you?"
Porsche shrugged.
"Don't start holding out on him just 'cause you having a baby, honey. If you can't take it on top, then get on your knees. Vince is doing a lot for this family. He got us a big house, nice cars...he's setting Seville up in his business and paying your sister's doctor bills. That's more than your trifling daddy ever did, so you better do anything and everything you gotta do to keep that man happy, you hear me?"
Porsche heard her loud and clear.
Chapter Two
"Is it good enough for you, baby?"
Porsche whirled around, happy to see her man standing in the doorway of their spacious bedroom. He gazed at her like she was a soft piece of butterscotch candy he was dying to suck. She grinned as he pulled her to him and kissed her softly on the lips.
Just being close to him had delicious shivers running through her body, and for the millionth time, Porsche thanked God for sending her a man who was not only fine, but he was good, and kind, and loving too.
"Anywhere you put me is good enough," she answered, kissing her husband back.
Vince smelled crisp; like new money. His shape-up was fresh and his beard trimmed tight. He was wearing a Miskeen hoody and jeans and some Tims. But even though he dressed like most street hoods on the block, Porsche knew her man's character stood head and shoulders above the rest.
Vince turned his wife around, and together they looked out the bedroom window at the view of the backyard. Not only was their house a mansion com- pared to the tenement apartments they'd both lived in all of their lives, the backyard was so big that three or four other houses could have been built on the lot.
"I ain't never seen grass this green before," Porsche murmured. Vince cupped her tiny belly and snuggled her from behind. "It still feels unreal. Like none of this is really ours."
Vince chuckled and kissed her ear. "Oh, it's ours all right. We got papers on this property, baby. Signed and sealed."
"Six bedrooms," Porsche said, turning around in his arms. Her mother's words rang in her ears, and even though she knew Vince loved her for more than just sex, Porsche pressed up against her man, teasing him. "And four bathrooms? What we gon' do with all this space?"
"Live in it," Sharita shouted from the doorway as she barged into their bedroom. "Girl, this house ain't hardly too big. Y'all got yourselves a nice room here. Mercedes and Seville both got theirs, and you know I gots minez. Plus, Vince gave Seville the downstairs room to use as his recording studio, right Vince? That leaves one bedroom for our guests, and in a house like this, we gonna have plenty of them. I mean what good is it to have all this if you can't show it off. Right?"
Porsche hated the way her mother hungered for money and possessions, but she tried to understand. All of Sharita's hopes and dreams had been deaded when Monte lost his NBA contract. She saw Vince as their only ticket out of the hood. Her greatest joy in life seemed to be the fact that her daughter had hooked her- self a professional athlete who had a lot of warm dough rising in his pockets. Sharita lived life through her daughter, making Porsche's successes her own.
But despite her mother's faults, Sharita's excitement was catchy, and Porsche did like nice things. She smiled and let her mother pull her out of Vince's arms and drag her through the house, giving orders on how each room should be decorated.
"Now, this room is airy, baby," Sharita said as they entered the living room. "See how high the ceilings are? That means you gonna need long drapes at the windows. And please, whatever you do, don't put none of them tacky-behind 125th Street cotton panels up to the windows. Matter fact, I got a real nice magazine that has all the latest in home decorating ideas. You still keep Vince's credit cards on you, right? We can sit down this weekend and pick out curtains, rugs, the whole nine. Honey, we can order them over the phone and they will ship that stuff right to the front door. And if you wanna hire somebody to come nail up some fancy rods and all that mess, we can."
Porsche was overwhelmed, but Sha
rita had every- thing figured out. She decided that the master bath- room, with the Jacuzzi tub and rain shower stall, should be decorated in black and gold.
"A man like Vince needs to come home and be able to take a dump in a castle, ya heard? This joint gotta look like it belongs to royalty. Even the toilet bowl. Keep it manly up in here, Porsche. Let him know who's in charge. Don't try to kill your man with none of them crazy pastel colors and lilies and tulips and junk that don't do a doggone thing for his ego. If you want girly- girl stuff, we'll do my bathroom up in some real nice lavender and pink. And whenever Vince is on the road, you can just jet down the hall and share with me. Okay?"
Within weeks, Sharita had the entire house done to suit her taste. Mercedes, who was eighteen years old, had been enrolled in a nearby school for teenagers with disabilities. Seville, who had just turned sixteen, had gotten twenty-five thousand dollars worth of sound engineering equipment, compliments of his brother-in- law, and started making beats in his home studio.
It kinda bothered Porsche a little bit that her mother hadn't asked for her input on decorating any- thing, even her own bedroom, but the pregnancy was starting to weigh on Porsche too. She had been planning to take some online college courses, but her energy was low. Besides, she had to admit that her mother had slamming, expensive taste. Everything Sharita had so much as looked at had turned out to be classy and beautiful.
Vince invited all his football friends and their wives over to see their new place. Nailah came on her husband Jerrard's arm, looking all in closets and under beds like the hood rat she really was. Porsche and Nailah had grown up together in the heart of Harlem. Nailah was real pretty and had a bomb shape, but she was never satisfied with what she had. Vince had introduced her to his friend, Jerrard, while they were in college, and when Nailah found out he was a strong NFL prospect, she had latched onto his arm and never let go.