A Deeper Love Inside

by Sister Souljah

  “Entertainment, no sex, no touching, no nudity. That’s what you wanted to know, right?” I said it too spicy.

  “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “No. I have a permit.”

  “Under what name?”

  “Nobody is who they say they are. Not you and not me,” I reminded him.

  “When did you first meet Mr. Sharp?”

  “September 1996,” I said swiftly. Midnight’s mind was merging what he thought he knew, comparing it to what I was telling him and counting it all up. I understood. But no one could count better than me. I had a heap of practice. He stayed quiet for too long. So I asked him.

  “What about the information you were suppossed to tell me? The information that’s between you and me, that you won’t confirm if I repeat it?”

  He looked at me, into my eyes and at my hands and feet. It felt like he was examining me, looking into me, but I knew it wasn’t in a dirty way. I can tell the difference. I know that dirty look and the feeling it brings.

  “There is no warrant for your arrest. There is no reason for you to hide your identity. The juvenile prison has no record of your escape. You are on record as having been transferred to the Kennedy-Claus Hospital for Criminally Insane Juveniles on July 20, 1996, and released after effective treatment and time served on July 19, 2001, one month ago,” Midnight said.

  Now my mind was moving. Were the authorities saying that I was crazy and that nothing I say is true? Were they saying that all of the things that happened in my life from the time that I got locked up and for eight whole years, were all false? Were they saying there was no Riot, Lina, Hamesha, Lil’ Man, Tiny, Jinjah, Rose Marie, Camille, Ting-Tong, Shana, and no Diamond Needles? Were they saying I didn’t escape? There was no NanaAnna, no reservation, no drummer in the tree house, and no Onatah, her family, no casino and No Elisha! I began to sweat some. I could feel panic easing in, threatening a takeover.

  Midnight pulled a folded clean handkerchief from his pocket, poured some of his water on it, and began to wipe my perspiration with the cool water.

  “Under what name?” I asked Midnight softly, while shaking some. “Who are they saying went crazy?”

  “Porsche L. Santiaga,” he said almost silently.

  “Why did they say they sent me to the insane hospital?”

  “Violent uncontrollable repeated outbreaks, schizophrenia paranoia, psychotic treatment,” he said as though he had read it off a file that he had studied for a long time. No wonder he had the three Arabian women supervise me when I went to see the twins. The authorities had told him I was a nut job. Did he think I would hurt them? My body began to tremble some: I tried to stop it, but my hands were shaking.

  “Who did they say they released me to?” I asked, shaking and trembling.

  “Your mother, Lana Santiaga,” he said.

  The anger that Midnight had just talked about began to raise up from my feet and was moving with the strength of a hurricane and speed of a tornado. Tears were boiling up, flooding over from my insides. My anger was crippling me. Midnight took my hand and pulled opened each stiffening finger. He was massaging my palm, same as Riot or NanaAnna would do.

  “I searched for you. I knew something illegal, inappropriate, and unacceptable was happening to you. The state would not allow visits to the Kennedy-Claus facility. A judge and the state denied each of my requests. I knew they had to be wrong. They’re powerful, the authorities, the government. You were just a young girl,” he said. “It was smart that you wrote that letter to the New York Daily News. They weren’t expecting that. It might have saved your life. Strange things happen to people in prison, especially the ones who no one is checking up on or looking for.”

  I breathed in deeply. Then I exhaled slowly. It hurt to struggle so hard to get to a place, then have someone, anyone, say that I never struggled, and that they simply released me when they wanted to. That it was them who handed me over to Momma, one week before her death. Now Momma was no longer here to prove that they were liars.

  “Don’t think too much about it. There is the truth. Then there is the lie. The government has an endless budget to manufacture as many lies as they would like. They use one lie to cover up their last lie and to set up for their next lie. Each of us could spend a lifetime trying to reverse the mud, stains, and false accusations that governments manufacture daily. Or, we could just go on living the truth as we know and understand it.”

  I was beginning to feel some relief. Midnight, the only man who came for me, believed me. He didn’t believe them. He didn’t side with the officials.

  He didn’t believe the doctors. He didn’t believe the judge.

  “Why do you believe me and not them?” I asked. “They have a track record of lying. Can the state ever admit that they were out maneuvered by a little girl when she was ten?”

  “I took a good look at you. What I was seeing and what they were saying was two different things. I’ve been around the world a few times. I looked into many faces. I’m suspicious of anyone who doesn’t allow a person to see a prisoner face to face. Or a government that won’t allow the voice of the accused to be heard openly, or a court that won’t weigh the thoughts and testimony of at least two sides or however many sides there are,” he said. I took a deep breath and exhaled big. I shook my fingers, and twisted my little waist some.

  “Use this circumstance to your advantage. They said your time is served. It’s better than the life of a fugitive where you can never relax being who you really are and were born to be.”

  “I have some questions. What about Momma? You said Poppa told you to save me and to give me a good life. Why didn’t Poppa save Momma?”

  “No human could save her. She gave her life to the drugs. Drugs are mind-altering substances. They alter the mind of the user, most of the time permanently,” he said, sure that all users were hopeless, it seemed.

  “Aren’t those the same drugs you and Poppa were selling?”

  “No comment,” Midnight said, without smiling, gloating, or denying.

  “Well, how do you earn your money now?” I asked him. “How does a barber afford the presidential suite?” I pushed.

  “I don’t hustle. I don’t deal drugs. That’s what you really want to know, right?” he threw that back at me. “The barbershop is just one small business that I own. There are many more,” he said. “All legit,” he added swiftly.

  “What about my sisters?”

  “You’ve seen their faces yourself, and heard their voices. What did you think about what you saw? I’m sure your own eyes don’t lie to you.”

  “Where do they live?” I asked, avoiding telling him that he was right. They both looked safe, healthy, happy, and wealthy.

  “All around the world,” he said, also avoiding my direct question.

  “Why don’t you give them back to me? We’re blood-related family. They’re my sisters.”

  “You’re a juvenile.”

  “So when I’m eighteen I can take them? I’ll be an adult, legal, and you say I’m not a fugitive,” I reminded him.

  “If they want to return to you, I might allow it. But under some conditions. First, how you’re living and if your life and home is better for them than their current place in the world. Two, if they want to live with you. Three, if you can provide, including their continuing education. Oh, and if you allow them to maintain a relationship with their adopted family. My wives love them. My wives raised them, and all of my children love them.”

  “How about you? You’re so cool in this confused world,” I said, maybe with too much emotion and attitude.

  “I love them also. They are your father’s daughters. If it wasn’t for love, I wouldn’t be here right now,” he said comfortably. I like a man who can be masculine and comfortable when discussing love, like Elisha.

  “Can I hug you?” I asked him, feeling emotional and grateful towards him.

  “Nah, that wouldn’t be right,” he said, again with a smoothness that ma
de me attracted and angry to be attracted.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a unrelated, unmarried woman,” he said. I guess that was a line out of his “Muslim manual.”

  “I thought you said I was a young girl, a juvenile, a minor,” I reminded him.

  “That’s what the law says. My eyes see something else,” he said.

  “What about Winter?” I asked him.

  “What about her?” he asked without changing a tone or his face. He was unmoved.

  “Did you ever love her?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s not the kind of woman I would love,” he said.

  “What about me?” I asked in too quick of a hurry.

  “What about you?” he said calmly.

  “Am I the kind of woman you could love?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he dismissed me.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “You are Elisha Immanuel’s woman. He is a good man, strong, solid, and capable.”

  “How do you know that?” I said softly, feeling like I had all of the wind and breath kicked out of my body. Suddenly I was feeling naked in an unsexy way.

  “I told you. I’ve been searching for you since ’94. When Sharp entered the picture, I found a whole new set of people who were connected and searching for you. Right now, Mr. Sharp is waiting for you. He was at the graveyard gate parked. I sent him back. Elisha has been searching for you for so long, that if you delay, he will become someone else’s husband,” Midnight warned, and his warning was burning in my breast, cutting through my heart, and churning in my belly.

  “I just wanted to know if you were decent and if you thought that I am decent. I needed to know that, to hear that from you. That’s why I asked you that question: What about me?” I said, trying to erase my guilt.

  “I’m not here to judge you. As a man, I’m as decent as a man could be. I know I have a soul. I know I have to answer to the MAKER of my soul, above all else. I can see that you are a beautiful woman, clearly. I feel like you’re decent and that your soul is good,” he said. “InshaAllah, my instincts are right.” He seemed to be thinking still. “Just be smart. Don’t compare yourself to others as a standard. Ask yourself if you are living right and true. And wear some damn clothes,” he said calmly. “Don’t show the world the same that you should only show your husband.”

  “I’m not married yet,” I said. I don’t know why.

  “I know. You’re also not stupid. So you’ll marry soon.”

  “So you like Elisha!” I said, turning excited.

  “I like him. Your father likes him. He went to see him a few days ago.”

  “Elisha and Poppa.” That was so hard for me to imagine or believe. Elisha had gone all the way up by Canada to meet my father.

  “Yes.”

  “But how?”

  “I know you think you did all of your living on your own. Some young heads think that way. Your father, Ricky Santiaga, protected you as much as any incarcerated father could protect his daughter. You might not realize that yet. Think about it: your father must have given you certain things that ultimately saved your life when you were in a tight spot.” He looked at me to see if I was considering his words. I thought of my money tree.

  “Between you and I, my father was a political prisoner. He was away from my life for many years. I fought hard the whole way through his absence. But the whole time I knew it was my father who made me a man, who gave me the foundation and the lessons in life that made me a fighter who could win, a strong fighter,” Midnight said. “Mr. Sharp connected back to your father recently. But it was because of your father, Ricky Santiaga, and his reputation that made Mr. Sharp protect you. Mr. Sharp made it safe for you to be a young girl who didn’t get swallowed by the streets. Mr. Sharp was the first one to pick up on Elisha. Sharp’s man brought Elisha to Sharp for hanging round the back alley where you lived. Sharp had a sitdown with Elisha.”

  I didn’t say nothing. Midnight was in the process of blowing my mind.

  “After I hooked up with Sharp, I picked up Elisha. We didn’t have the same kind of sitdown that he and Sharp had or like me and you are having. I tested him, roughed ’im up a little, to make sure he could hold his own. That’s what men are supposed to do,” Midnight said solemnly.

  “That’s good. Elisha loves a test,” I said casually then smiled, letting Midnight know Elisha is damn sure strong. Yet and still, in my heart, I knew Elisha wasn’t no killa. He walked with too much love for that.

  Midnight had that energy like he had deleted a few men who deserved it. Like he eliminated them with a swiftness, without even a speck of doubt or hesitation.

  “Now, you, Porsche, are Elisha’s job. Make him work for you.” Midnight smiled, his first smile, a million-dollar smile that is permanently pressed into my memory. I jumped on him, leaned against him, gave him a tight hug and a kiss on his cheek.

  “Sorry,” I told him afterward, pulling back. “I’m subjected to violent outbursts,” I confessed. We both laughed.

  Chapter 47

  Four days later, in the back room of Sharp’s Golden Needle shop, the immaculate carpeted place where both Ricky and Lana Santiaga had once stood at the top of their game, I was sliding into my red debutante’s ball gown, designed by Mr. Sharp. It wasn’t short. It wasn’t long. The elegance of it was in both the fabric and design; the shoulder straps; the criss-crossing back out; the tapered waist; and the way it hugged my breast and stitched out my small waist and exploded in layers at my hips. It was “an eye catcher,” as Mr. Sharp put it. “A traffic stopper and a shockwave.” Once I was in it, I felt like a Spanish dancer, the ones who held castanets in their hands and made music with their fingertips combined with the click of their high heels. Then I imagined I was a female matador, wearing a dress so red that instead of one bull, it inspired a whole herd to charge and chase me.

  Enticed by the feminine sleek satin heels that matched the dress and criss-crossed on my ankles, I still chose to wear a brand-new pair of red high-top Converses, which nearly gave Sharp a cardiac episode.

  “I’m walking twenty-eight blocks to the organic market, Mr. Sharp, not on the New York or Paris runway!” He shook his head the way older people who love the young ones shake their head. “Drop ’em in your handbag, just in case,” he said. I opened the red Epi Leather. He dropped them in.

  With my skin glistening, my manicure and pedicure perfectly designed in an overpriced, by-appointment-only exclusive Manhattan salon and my hair freshly done by Esmeralda herself, I began walking down Sharp’s block, past Sharp’s building and down twenty-eight more blocks. My excitement mounted with each step. I loved that when I walked out of Elisha’s life for a while, he didn’t suspect me, like I was out hoeing or anything like that. “You said you love me, so don’t go loving no one else,” he had told me when I was twelve, and that meant the world to me. It made me hot when he had first said it. It kept me hot, on many cold lonely nights on the roads far away from Brooklyn.

  The sun was bright and high. The air was thick and warm. I was feeling a thousand pounds lighter than I had in eight years. The Brooklyn summer sidewalks were swelling with people. None of them were wearing debutante gowns. I was wearing one, and several sets of eyes were massaging me—the men, the boys, and even the women. I was almost there, but couldn’t see my way clear to the organic market.

  Surrounded by three hundred people, Elisha finally saw me. As I pushed through them, he moved towards me. The people were cheering for him, I realized. However, it seemed that Elisha could only see me. Serious-faced till we reached one another, he grabbed me up and hugged me so tight and squeezed me so hard! Over his strong shoulder I saw cameras snapping our photos. He must’ve seen cameras, too, and him knowing that I didn’t want my photos taken, grabbed my hand and bolted, pulling me through the crowd. Now we were running, and the crowd began chasing us. Elisha was leading, my feet were running and my heart was rac
ing. The Eyewitness News van was chasing us with their television cameras. I couldn’t fucking believe it. I looked back at the crowd and instead of getting smaller and farther away, it was increasing in size and getting closer as we ran. My body was excited. I didn’t have time to think. I was just feeling the rush and the thrill of fleeing.

  Traffic was jamming as people spilled into the streets. Drivers stepped out of their cars to try and see and understand what was happening. Shop owners were leaning out their doors, some of ’em calling out Elisha’s name with enthusiastic familiarity. I began laughing. What was going on?

  “Elisha, where are we running to?” I asked him, as we kept moving.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Long as we running together.”

  • • •

  In a schoolyard in Brooklyn, Elisha’s old school, at 7:00 p.m., one thousand people, many of them teens like Elisha and me, were sitting on the cement facing a huge outdoor movie screen, which Elisha had arranged. Excitement filled the air. Vendors with popcorn machines, hot sugared almonds, sliced fruits, ICEEs, ice pops ’n creams, and other treats outlined the yard and their businesses were bubbling. Kids and parents were racing back to squeeze in next to where their families were seated.

  Elisha had still not let go of my hand from when he first grabbed it hours ago. We were seated in the center of the crowd, like regular viewers. Elisha had one arm and one leg tossed around me. It felt good. The movie soundtrack began and hundreds of more people gathered outside of the schoolyard fences to watch Elisha’s first film, A Love Supreme.

  The soundtrack was awesome. It had emotion and as a dancer and lover of music, I knew that only the best musicians could make music that made crowds of people all catch the same deep feeling at the same time from the same song. It was nice to see a sea of strangers, yet familiar faces, in a Brooklyn neighborhood all grooving together, bodies rocking in syncopation.

  When the movie began I saw the familiar face of the female star. It was Audrey. My insides tangled a bit. I was thinking more clearly now. I had left her alone with my man for way too long, stupidly. How dark my mind must’ve been. So dark, I couldn’t consider her, or any other girl or put the possibility of losing him in the first position. Maybe there would be love scenes. Maybe the two of them had rehearsed those scenes over and over again, the way I had laid with Elisha, reciting lines and quizzing him for tests and learning and loving him. Maybe in the making of the film, while I was Momma’s little moneymaker, dancing out my sorrows and my madness, miles and miles away, Audrey had squeezed into his heart. I knew that didn’t mean that I wasn’t in his heart. But maybe it meant I was and she was, too.