A Deeper Love Inside

by Sister Souljah

  She pushed open the door. I understood her polite way of saying, “Get out! You’re not getting your money back.” I still forced out a smile and left. I cursed myself out all the way back. “Eighty fucking bucks!”

  I could’ve got pretty flowers from the little Spanish men for eight or nine dollars. Then I thought of Lina. In my mind, she was setting me straight.

  “Not little Spanish men, Latinos or Boriquas!” whatever that meant. I told myself that these expensive flowers better make Momma smile so bright, love me so much, and accept Siri, who I was gonna introduce to Momma tonight when I prepared all of us some chicken soup.

  NanaAnna had taught me that soup prepared properly, with organic ingredients, healed the body. She had explained to me that garlic is a natural antibiotic and the many healing uses of garlic were in my recipe journal. Momma seemed a little sick to me. I hate hospitals. I was gonna try my best to heal Momma with foods that NanaAnna said are natural medicines.

  “So this is our new place?” Siri asked me. We were underground. I had arranged all of the flowers and set them in the best places.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “But will Momma like me?”

  “Momma loves music. So hum and sing her your most beautiful song,” I honestly recommended.

  It was almost four in the afternoon now. I had the filthy mattress cleaned up and lying up against the wall outside in the alley in the back of Big Johnnie’s store. With the living space cleaned like brand new and the stove looking like brand new, and the flowers smelling nicely, I raced down a bunch of blocks to buy sheets, pillows, a lamp, two plates, a frying pan, and the groceries. Racing and running back and forth, I was sweating and thirsty. I didn’t eat that morning and my stomach was empty.

  “A handful of almonds and raisins or three spoons filled with peanut butter to keep yourself from fainting,” NanaAnna had said to me after noticing my peculiar eating habits and fainting and collapsing spells. “If you don’t feed your body the right nutrition, your own body will attack you,” she taught me. “Poor nutrition leads to a sick body. A nutrition-starved brain leads to all kinds of psychological problems,” she once said before breaking it down so carefully, so I could understand her. “If you don’t eat right and it develops into a starved brain, then psychological problems, they’ll give you chemical medicine that will steal your smile, jumble your thoughts, then kill you.”

  The smell of the healing chicken soup filled up our place. “It better work,” I said to myself. I was recalling how many blocks I had to walk to find foods that were organic: tomatoes, potatoes, garlic, ginger, onions, carrots, and celery. Not to mention, organic thyme and chili peppers. The cost of the organic vegetables, herbs, fruits, and other seasonings was so extreme that I began to panic in the expensive organic market. The money from my money tree was drifting out of my hands triple time in that store.

  Siri got me to take deep breaths in the bakery aisle. She told me to smell the sugar! I inhaled the scent of organic apple pies and oven-baked cookies and cupcakes. I calmed down.

  “See, it works!” Siri cheered. “We don’t have to buy this stuff. We can just smell it and fill our bellies.” We laughed together. That’s when a nappy-headed boy my age with a pile of pretty kinky hair and with skin more better than suede and a natural bright smile came walking up the aisle.

  “Do you see anything you want?” his expensively heeled mother asked him, as she held her Epi Leather bag close to her side.

  “Not yet,” he said casually.

  “Well, look around. Get whatever you want. Put it in our cart.” She was speaking to him like he was a young king.

  Get whatever you want: the phrase kept repeating in my mind. Without any gold jewelry, he looked rich. In addition to his eyes and skin and teeth, all glowing, he wore Evisu jeans and a Polo Rugby. His Nike Air Force 1s were crisp. I wondered if he shopped in this overpriced organic market with his loving mom regularly. Maybe they could buy easily the foods that were priced so high it had pushed me to panic.

  He seemed like an opportunity.

  Siri pushed the cart into him on purpose in the juice aisle.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No problem,” he said. Then his mom appeared.

  “Elisha, what’s going on?” she asked, seeing my cart pinned up against his legs.

  “Nothing,” he answered casually, turning the cart around and positioning it back to me.

  “Hello,” she said to me. “Is she a friend from school?” his mom asked him.

  “No,” he said.

  “And what’s your name?” she asked me.

  “Ivory,” I said.

  “Well I’m Mrs. Immanuel. He is my son, Elisha.”

  That’s how we met.

  • • •

  Momma didn’t return for me, or for her beautiful refreshed apartment, or my menu of organic, healing chicken soup prepared in the clay pot that NanaAnna gave me as a going-home gift. Siri and I ate together instead. We shared soup, brown rice, salad, and slices of organic apples for dessert.

  I unscrewed the mop head from the stick. Then lodged the stick on the two cement beams. I made it into a place where I could hang Momma’s few clothes. With all of her stuff removed from her only clothing closet, I crawled into the empty space and danced till I collapsed. I had not done that in a long while. I had learned to sleep naturally in the last two weeks on the reservation.

  When I woke up on Momma’s empty closet floor, I was all wet. My throat was dry, and I needed water. I jumped up, grabbed a bottle from the half refrigerator, and drank it all. I checked my dollar-store clock, 3:38 a.m. I raced up the iron stairs and pushed at the floor door. It was unlocked. It opened.

  You never seen nobody work like me and Siri did that early morning. We busted our little asses. We cleaned that place, and it needed it. There was dust hiding behind the cans and foods on every shelf. The back room was piled high with dishes, empty boxes, disorganized old newspapers, and mess. I wondered if one man could’ve used all this stuff or if Big Johnnie had a worker in the later afternoon or evenings that I didn’t know about. Or did he leave his place like this on purpose to see if I was a good worker or not?

  I didn’t have time to daydream. I cleaned and cleaned. I even unplugged and turned his toaster upside down. Weeks of old breadcrumbs spilled out. I wiped down his microwave oven, and cleaned out his refrigerator. I washed all of the dishes and made his few pieces of silverware sparkle. I tied up the newspapers and stacked them up front.

  When we were finished, I ran down and spooned out some organic chicken soup for Big Johnnie. I put it in one of the clay bowls I bought the day before. I covered the bowl with one tight sheet of saran wrap and left it on the front counter where Big Johnnie sits. I left a simple note.

  Good Morning, Thank you from me and Aunt. Enjoy my home-made organic chicken soup.

  From, Ivory.

  I soaked my sponge mop with hot water and soap, and raced it down each aisle carefully. I walked myself backwards with the mop until I reached the floor door. Seconds later, me and the mop were back in our underground space. It was 6:00 a.m., whew . . .

  Chapter 30

  It was three o’clock that same day. I waited to approach Mr. Sharp, who was the owner of The Golden Needle, five more stores, and an entire apartment building. When I was buying roses yesterday, I noticed that Mr. Sharp was just arriving to his shop in the afternoon. I could’ve been wrong, but I imagined that since he was big balling, he chose to have a big breakfast with his attractive wife. They slept in a huge comfortable bed with silk sheets and satin pillowcases. They had a huge television and play-fought over the remote. He wins all of the play fights and keeps the TV on sports. She doesn’t like sports but also doesn’t complain. Instead, she reclines and counts and admires all of the jewelry that he bought for her, cause he could do it like that. When she’s not counting jewelry, she’s counting her secret money stacks, cause Momma used to say that a real bitch always has and keeps a secret money pile. />
  Speaking of Momma, she still hadn’t returned. I pulled down two pieces of her not-so-nice clothes. I would carry them with me over to The Golden Needle as bait for the lady who sits in the window sewing. I didn’t want her to think I was some aggravating beggar hanging around the store, since she had seen me pressing my face in the window just yesterday. If Mr. Sharp wasn’t there, I’d ask the lady to stitch Momma’s jeans and the dress that I just ripped a tear in. I wasn’t worried about Momma getting red that I took her clothes. I planned to buy her plenty of new ones.

  Also, our underground apartment doesn’t have a bathtub. Momma used to soak in her pretty, marble, Long Island tub, with candles and perfumed water. I promised myself I would take Momma to a nice hotel once a month. We would go shopping for pretty things until our feet got tired. Then we would head back to our hotel with our purchases. I would run warm water in the clean, deep tub, dash in a few drops of Momma’s favorite scent and maybe even some rose petals. Momma would be so relaxed and happy. She would love me.

  I looked back at the roses as I climbed the first cement step to exit the underground. They were young and gorgeous. The petals were smooth and tight. They had not even blossomed yet.

  “Momma will be back before they blossom,” I told myself, then left out.

  • • •

  “Un momento!” The Spanish-speaking lady leaped up from her chair where she had been sewing when I arrived.

  “Espera aqui!” she said and pushed passed me and through the shop door. Standing alone in The Golden Needle shop, I turned and watched her sprinting down the block in her skips.

  Maybe it’s an opportunity, I thought to myself. I looked around. They had the things I guess anyone would expect to be in a sewing shop: two gray dummies with lady figures and no arms, and with plenty of pins in their shoulders; a stand with spools of threads of every color, displayed and lined up like rows of nail polish in the manicure shops; folded fabrics, tape measurers, yard stick, scissors, the works!

  My eyes landed on the pretty gold curtain that had shiny gold sequins on it. Maybe Mr. Sharp was behind that curtain. I walked over, pulled the curtain back a little and was surprised to see a room in the back much larger than the small reception area in the front. The back was carpeted even though the front area was not. The carpet was white and completely clean. There were racks of men’s suits that looked brand-new, three dressing rooms, and a wall of photographs.

  “Mr. Sharp,” I called out just to be sure, but I could feel that I was all alone in this space. I am familiar with that alone feeling wherever I go.

  I began looking at the photos of rich-looking people, luxurious cars, and tailored clothes. I liked the world the photos re-created. It was a different world than the one I lived in now. I looked closely, amazed when I saw a photo of Sean Combs, dressed in a tailored suit, looking like he had a billon bucks. Iron Mike Tyson’s photo got me pumped, cause like Notorious B.I.G., he repped hard for Brooklyn. Ball players, and well-suited boring politicians, singers, and men built like athletes, they were all on that wall, amazingly. As I eased down, I found a section of photos covered with thin plastic as though the owner wanted to be sure those pictures didn’t fade or tear. I couldn’t see the photos at the top even though I was standing on my tiptoes. I could see the ones in the middle. In disbelief I pushed my face up close to five photos of Momma! She was styling, rich and glamorous, smiling cause she knew it. Her handbag was more exclusive than anything on the wall and prettier than everything except Momma’s hands. Momma’s long, manicured perfectly painted zebra nails complemented the summer silk white gown she wore, which fit her body like skin and showed off her pretty shoulders, long neck, and nicely shaped breasts. I touched my own little breast wondering, would they turn out like Momma’s. I put my hand on my little waistline. Momma’s was small and tight same as mine is now. Momma had woman’s hips and the silk of the dress clung to her thighs showing the shape of her pretty, long legs. Her pedicure, French Black, complemented her heels. Her heels complemented her handbag. Heels so lovely it seemed she bought them from a shop that was selling only that one pair, for ten thousand dollars. After Momma came in for a private showing, the one pair of shoes fit her perfectly like Cinderella. She pulled out eleven one-thousand-dollar bills, paid ten for the shoes and threw the salesman a thousand-dollar tip. When Momma walked away with her threaded and embroidered shopping bag with the leather handles, the shop closed down forever because they only existed to find the perfect woman for that one pair of exclusive high heels.

  “What are you doing?” a man’s voice said calmly. But still he shook me out of my thoughts. I turned quickly, and was facing Mr. Sharp, a well-dressed, handsome older man.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked me. Then I heard the bells jingle from the front door opening.

  “Step into the front office,” Mr. Sharp said. As I walked through the gold curtain, the sewing lady was back and giving me a suspicious stare. Mr. Sharp walked out behind me. He was tall, towering over me. His presence made her relax her face muscles.

  “Lo siento,” she mumbled.

  “Linda, have you been out arguing with the meter maid again?” Mr. Sharp asked her calmly.

  “No, no . . .,” Linda said, answering with her hands and her face. I knew she was lying. What else could make her bolt down the street like that, leaving the store with a young stranger?

  “Give Ms. Linda your clothes, and tell her what you want done,” he said.

  “In English?” I asked. He laughed two short laughs.

  “If you are telling her in English and showing her at the same time, she understands.”

  “Mr. Sharp, about the photos on your wall . . .,” I began.

  “Yes, I can see you recognize that kind of elegance . . .,” he said. “So do I. I must admit, of all my clients that ever looked at those pictures, you’re the first one to be moved to tears,” he said.

  “The pretty lady in the dress,” I said slowly.

  “Which one?”

  “The prettiest one on the wall,” I said. He smiled a bright smile like he knew something no one else in the world knew.

  “Must mean Lana.” He turned and walked back through the curtain. I followed.

  “Senorita,” I heard the sewing lady say. She followed me. Now we were all three in the back.

  “It’s okay, Linda. Come on in,” Mr. Sharp said to her. She did, remaining close to the curtain like a security guard.

  “Show me the prettiest one on the wall,” he said to me.

  I pointed to Momma. I heard him say Lana so I knew he knew her.

  “Do you know anyone else on that wall?” he asked.

  As I searched, Siri whispered, “It might be a trick question, be careful.” But I was too busy searching the wall to consider Siri’s warning. I stopped still, in front of a photo of my poppa, which I had not seen before. More regal than the president or the king of any country, so handsome was Ricky Santiaga that he was prettier than Momma. He was prettier than anybody and everybody else. I put my finger on the photo and slid it to the right. There was another photo of Poppa standing beside a younger-looking Mr. Sharp.

  “Can I have this one?” I asked automatically without thinking. “Can you make me a copy? I can pay you for it,” I said, feeling anxious, nervous, delighted, and depressed all at once.

  “What’s your name?” he asked me as though he might already know the answer.

  “Ivory . . .,” I said, to protect myself.

  “Ivory . . .,” he repeated. “Ivory, you are crying again.”

  He got up from the tall stool he was leaning on and walked over towards me. Ms. Linda’s eyes followed him like eyes follow a main lead actor in an emotional film. Mr. Sharp reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a clean and pressed folded handkerchief with embroidered edges. He wiped away my tears.

  “Who is he to you?” Mr. Sharp asked me.

  “Who?” I stalled.

  “The man in the photo?” Mr. Sharp said.
r />   I took two steps to the left and pointed to momma’s photo and said, “Ms. Lana is my aunt.”

  Mr. Sharp stared at me some, smiled, and walked away.

  “I’m staying with my aunt for a month . . .,” I said.

  “A month?” he repeated.

  “I want to help her out. I’m looking for work,” I added.

  • • •

  The Golden Needle was the golden opportunity. More than my fake story about being Momma’s niece, it was my truest emotions that captured Mr. Sharp and opened his heart to cooperate. He didn’t offer me a job, but I was building a trust. After that afternoon, every day I skipped down the block with my bag of quarters and fed the parking meters. I had matched the faces of all of the shop renters and workers with their vehicles. I never let the expired sign hit any of the meters where their cars were parked. I became the number-one enemy of the villain, the meter maid. But what could she do about it? Was she gonna write an eleven-year-old a ticket for preventing business owners from receiving expensive parking tickets?

  My hustle was in full swing, one hundred dollars a week from Big Johnnie, plus sandwich-making money. I collected service fees from each of the shop owners for my meter-feeding job, five dollars a week, twenty-five dollars a month. A ticket from the meter maid would cost them twenty-five dollars each time and some of ’em had piles of meter tickets! I also received tips and gifts from all of the shop renters for my excellent manners and customer service (thanks to the lessons from Lina, Diamond Needle number 2). Every day, Monday through Thursday, I went to Mr. Sharp’s place from three to four. I’d sit and talk to him for an hour while watching the meters and the streets. His stories kept me alive.

  “Ricky Santiaga was an upstanding cat, a man’s man and all-round great guy,” he would say about my poppa. “He was the sharpest man I ever tailored suits for. He spent a fortune on my business. Every man wanted to be him. That bought me more business. Even the athletes and superstars envied his position. That bought me more business. Ricky Santiaga never played with credit or debt. Whatever it was worth, he’d pay me double. Soon as I handed him the goods, he paid out in cash, always large clean bills.” Mr. Sharp was trapped in those memories. I understood. So was I.