Money Never Sleeps

by Tu-Shonda Whitaker

She sat up in bed, her bare back pressed to the headboard and the sheet pulled over her breasts. “I was thinking that maybe we should, umm—”

  “Should what?”

  “Stop seeing each other for a while.”

  Emory looked at Chaunci as if she had two heads. “Where the hell did that come from? That’s what you want?”

  “It’s not about what I want,” Chaunci said. “It’s about what I know. And I know that this whole deal is moving too fast and we need to slow down.”

  He squinted and stared at her. He looked her over, then lifted her chin. “You in love with me?”

  “Emory—” She was seconds from saying “yeah.”

  “Let’s just quit while we’re ahead.”

  “Ahead of what?”

  She sighed. “I just—”

  “You’re scared.”

  “No. I’m just not ready—”

  “To face your fears.”

  “Would you stop cutting me off?”

  “Then stop lying to me!”

  “I’m not lying to you.”

  He tilted his head. “So you’re telling me the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aight, then cool.”

  “Cool?” she said, taken aback.

  “Cool.” He sat on the edge of the bed and reached to the floor for his pants. He slid them on.

  “That’s all you have to say? Cool?” Chaunci couldn’t believe this shit.

  “What the fuck you want me to say, Chaunci?” He slid his T-shirt over his head. “That I’m in love with you and that I know you’re in love with me, but you’re punking the fuck out? Seriously, I don’t have time for that. I know what I want. You have to get your shit together. And if you can tell me that you done and you don’t want us to be together, then cool. I’m not about to beg you or try to convince you that I love you.” He slid his shirt on. “If you can’t see that I want to spend the rest of my life with you then you have a problem. ’Cause I’ma make sure you wear that shit.”

  “I just think—”

  “Chaunci, that’s the problem: you think too much.” He slipped his sneakers on.

  “I’m not saying that we can never be together. I’m just saying that right now doesn’t seem to be the right time. We can always be friends.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Emory asked. “Really? Have you? ’Cause there’s no way in hell that you believe what you just said. I don’t know who you’re used to dealing with, but I know bullshit when I hear it.” He walked out of the bedroom and a few moments later the apartment door slammed behind him.

  Chaunci lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. “What the hell did I just do?”

  Milan

  Floacist’s seductive, poetic voice seduced Milan into Shonda’s Soliloquy, a poetry spot in the heart of SoHo where there was always a nightly crowd. People from all over the tristate area packed the place as if it were a tourist attraction instead of a local spot where lovers of words, literature, and a deep lyrical movement came together and grooved.

  Shonda’s was a world all its own: an industrial loft decorated with white leather couches, flickering tealight candles on petite tables, candelabra chandeliers hanging above the small planked stage, and an all-blue glass bar that lined an entire wall.

  Milan eased into the spot with Bridget and Carl behind her. Her eyes scanned the crowd as she nodded to the music. She was there to meet Kendu and get his thoughts on renting Shonda’s for her birthday party, but from the looks of things he had yet to arrive.

  “Drink?” The bartender smiled as Milan slid through the crowd and leaned against the center of the bar.

  “White wine, please.”

  Once she had her drink, she eased onto a barstool and turned toward the stage, where Floacist made love to the mic, performing her hit “Forever” with Musiq Soulchild. Milan found herself softly chanting the words to the seductive poem. Her nipples tingled as she thought about what it would be like to make love to this beat. She closed her eyes and sipped her drink. Her shoulders slowly rocked to the music.

  Feeling herself slipping into a zone, she forced her lids to open and immediately her gaze locked onto a familiar set of warm chestnut eyes. “Samir.” She smiled and immediately wondered if she was smiling too much.

  Deciding that her grin was a little too wide, Milan cursed her dimples. “Umm, what a surprise seeing you here.” She fanned her face, as the awkwardness caused her body heat to rise.

  “Yeah,” Samir said. “I was surprised to see you here too, especially since this isn’t Saks.” He laughed.

  “Excuse you.” She chuckled, doing her best to avoid his eyes. “I happen to love poetry. I actually write a little from time to time.”

  “Yeah?” His eyes roamed over her body.

  She crossed her arms over her breasts, hoping to hide the imprint of her hard nipples. “I do have a few nights a week that I give bougie some time off, thank you very much.”

  “Really.” He nodded. He looked her up and down before looking toward the door. “Here comes the legend.”

  “Where?” Milan said anxiously. She turned toward the door to see Kendu walking toward her.

  “Damn, this place is packed,” he said, placing one hand on Milan’s waist while kissing her on the lips.

  “You know Samir, right?” Milan said, hoping Kendu didn’t catch the nervousness in her voice.

  “Yeah, sure,” Kendu blew him off. He nodded. “Wassup?”

  “You got it.” Samir smiled. “Later, Milan.”

  “Yeah, later.”

  “I don’t like this spot,” Kendu said to Milan as Samir walked away.

  “Why?”

  “I just don’t.”

  She stared at him. He’s lying. “So what are you saying? You want to leave?”

  “Yeah.” He turned his face from side to side. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Milan’s footsteps echoed down the block as she stormed behind Kendu to his truck. As she tried to cross the street behind him one of her heels got stuck in a grid. “Kendu!” she screamed as he continued to walk. “Kendu!” she screamed again, causing a few people to turn around and look, but Kendu continued on his way. Unable to catch his attention, she wiggled her foot free, and scurried after him. “What the hell is your problem?” she said, pissed, as she caught up to him. “And where the hell did you park?”

  “I’m sick of your shit, Milan!”

  She whipped her head toward him. He continued walking. “What?” she said from behind him, hurrying as if she were on a chase. “What the hell are you talking about? What did I do to you?” she said toward his back. “And slow down.”

  He stopped for a moment and faced her. “It’s always some shit with you!” He started walking toward the truck again.

  Milan felt like she’d been slugged. He wants to argue. Why does he want to argue? “I don’t know what your problem is, but I didn’t do shit to you!”

  “Why is this motherfucker all up in your face? First my retirement dinner, Bloomingdales, and now this spot. How did he know you’d be here?”

  Is he jealous?

  “Is this where you been meeting his ass? Is he the new athlete?”

  What? “Kendu,” she said, exhausted, as they cut through a thick crowd and crossed another block. “What the hell are you talking about? I had no idea Samir would be there.”

  “The hottest goddamn athlete in the NFL just randomly shows up somewhere and ends up in your face. How does that shit sound? Crazy to me.” He took off again.

  “Would you slow the fuck down?” She ran after him.

  “No.” He took the keys for his Infiniti truck out of his pocket and turned off the alarm. “Get in.”

  “Hold it! Stop for a moment,” Milan said breathlessly. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You on some silly shit.” He pointed at her.

  “Knott, I didn’t know Samir was going to be there. I didn’t.”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you accu
sing me of being with him?”

  “You said it. I didn’t.”

  “Is that what you expect from me?” she asked in disbelief.

  “I don’t know what to expect. I don’t. Hell, you cheated on Yusef, so I damn sure can’t say what you’d do to me.”

  There was the right hook again. “I’d never cheat on you.” Why am I trying to pacify him? Why? “And furthermore, I cheated on Yusef with you. Hell, you cheated on your wife too!”

  “Well, I guess we’re two cheating motherfuckers.” He unlocked the truck’s door and slid in. “Now I’m ready to go the hell home.”

  “Well, you go ahead.” Milan nodded.

  “There you go,” Kendu snapped. “Would you just get your ass in the truck?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I don’t appreciate—”

  “You don’t appreciate what, Milan?” He pointed his left index finger at her. “What could you, Ms. Millionaire-fuckin’-Wife, not appreciate? Hell, you struck groupie gold when I asked you to marry me. What more do you want?!”

  Milan choked back tears. She looked down at the bits of glass on the ground, a few pieces of shredded newspaper, and other litter.

  She turned, but as she walked toward the curb it hit her that she’d been called a groupie by her man. Of everything he could’ve called her—his best friend, his lover—of all the words he had to choose, he picked “groupie.” Ain’t this a motherfucker?

  Milan turned again and walked up to Kendu, her heels stabbing through the litter. She looked him directly in the face and struggled to restrain herself from smacking the shit out of him. “Groupie?” She shoved him, but he was too big for it to have an effect. “Groupie?” She pointed a finger in his face.

  “Milan, go ’head,” he warned.

  “Groupie, motherfucker?” The tears she’d fought to hold back snuck past the corners of her eyes and streamed along the sides of her nose. “Groupie?” She could look at him and tell he was sorry he’d said that to her. But she also knew him well enough to know that once pride filled his chest there was no way he’d apologize. So fuck him. “Groupie, motherfucker? Really? Why don’t you just say what this is really about? This is about you not wanting to marry me!”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yeah, you did. You said it practically every day. And what did I do? I made excuses for you. Ran around here trying to plan a wedding in a rush, because I knew it wasn’t what you wanted! But I wanted to hurry and do it, just in case you were serious. I’m soooo stupid.”

  “Milan—”

  “And you are such a fuckin’ coward!” Her heart pumped like a revved-up ’57 Chevy. She stood at the corner and watched the traffic. She slid her engagement ring off her finger.

  “Put your goddamn ring back on,” he snapped.

  “For what? You don’t want to marry me. I’m just a fuckin’ girlfriend with an ornament on her hand, waiting once again for yo’ ass. But not anymore. Fuck you. I’m done. I’ve been waiting since I was nine, waiting while I was in college, waited while I watched you marry some crazy bitch who put a baby on you. Waited and waited and waited. No more. Fuck you!”

  Sweat and tears ran down her face. She could look in Kendu’s eyes and see that he knew she was telling the truth. And though her heart felt like it was being ripped to shreds, she knew she couldn’t wait a moment longer. Waiting had only caused her a million moments of grief, despair, and regret over what she should and shouldn’t have done. She’d had enough of waiting for Kendu to get his act together and for him to act “right” when he felt “right.”

  The truth of the matter was that she didn’t want to wait for him to get his shit together. She just wanted it to happen. She was tired of pretending that she understood him when most of the time she didn’t.

  She didn’t understand how a grown man could hold on to the hurt of being an abandoned little boy now that he was thirty-two and knew that shit happened, that motherfuckers weren’t perfect, and that that included his mysterious-ass mama and daddy. And he knew that the opportunities he’d been afforded were a blessing that the average person only dreamed about. So whatever his problem really was, she didn’t know and didn’t care to decode. To hell with it. She wasn’t his therapist.

  And right now, Kendu could kiss her ass because there was no way she was going to push aside another day or even another moment of what she wanted because she was, yet again, waiting for this motherfucker to get his shit together.

  “I’m done.” She handed him his ring.

  “You’re done.” He looked her over. “So what are you saying, Milan?”

  She didn’t answer him. She simply walked swiftly down the block, disappearing into a subway station with the camera racing behind her.

  Jaise

  “Ma’am, is Jabril Williams here?” Two uniformed officers stood at Jaise’s door with an elderly white-haired woman wearing a worried look.

  Jaise stood at her front door with her granddaughter on her hip and her grandson crying and hugging her around the knees. Jabril had come home with his children, claiming he was dedicating this weekend to being a good father and doing more than paying child support. And when he left shortly after J.J. started crying, he said he was running to Walgreens for Anbesol, Tylenol, Pampers, and milk.

  That had been three hours ago.

  “I haven’t seen him,” she said. “And who’s asking for him?” She looked at the old woman. Lord, please don’t tell me he’s fuckin’ this bitch too.

  “Do you know when he’ll be returning?” one of the cops asked.

  “Officer, with all due respect, why are you asking me these things?”

  “Because my granddaughter,” the elderly woman said, “called me a few nights ago and said she was living here.”

  “Living here?” Jaise said, shocked. “Your granddaughter?”

  “Yes.” The woman’s voice trembled with tears. “And she’s only fifteen. She’s a runaway and she’s involved with Child Protective Services. I’m her guardian, so I was hoping she’d be here.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I have no idea who you’re talking about, and Jabril isn’t here.”

  “Do you have a way to get in touch with him?” the officer asked.

  “No,” Jaise said.

  “Well, if it was a family emergency,” the cop said, “how would you get in touch with him?”

  Jaise smirked. “Officer, he is the family emergency.”

  “Well, ma’am, if you see him, please ask him to give us a call.”

  “If I see him,” she said, closing the door.

  After making sure they were gone, Jaise hurried to dial Jabril’s cell phone. Voice mail. “You know what, Jabril?” she said calmly. “I’m convinced that you have lost your damn mind. Yo’ ass is going to get locked up fucking with these young girls. I tell you what, you just better get your ass home and come get your damn kids!”

  Click.

  The sun rose and shot rays of light into Jaise’s living room. She hadn’t been to sleep all night and felt like she was walking through space. She’d had enough. She couldn’t take any more. Bilal was gone and, hell, for all intents and purposes, Jabril was gone too.

  She sat with her thighs crossed and the ball of her right foot lightly tapping her Persian rug. The tip of her toes gently brushed the hand-sewn fibers out of place as she struggled to ignore the migraine crawling down the back of her neck.

  Focus …

  She leaned her head against the back of her oversized sofa, closed her eyes, and tried to move past the first line of her silent prayer—the same prayer she’d said since last night.

  God give me strength now.

  He didn’t.

  She opened her eyes and her gut ached as she looked over to her grandchildren, who were doing their own thing. Jaise couldn’t even remember if they’d been to sleep.

  J.J. dug in a potted plant, broke off leaves, and ate bits of dirt, while his sister repeatedly bumped into Jaise’s antique bookcase with her walker. Yet Jais
e never told them to stop or tried to redirect them. Instead she attended to her thoughts.

  She eased to the edge of the sofa and reached for her mirrored cigarette case. She wrestled with the clasp—that only seemed to cause her grief at times like this—and caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her usually beautiful button eyes were now at half-mast and had been transformed into exhausted almonds.

  She licked her dry lips and resumed wrestling with her cigarette case. Finally it opened. She slid a Virginia Slims between the center of her lips and held her vintage Zippo lighter to the tip. Moments later her cigarette came alive. The first pull felt like a fresh peppermint breeze, restoring her senses.

  Jaise walked over to the closet and pulled out the double stroller—the one item Jabril had ever purchased for his children. She unfolded the stroller and locked the wheels. “Come on, J.J.” She put him in the front of the stroller. “Come on, Jada.” She placed her in the back. “We’re going to sit on the stoop.”

  Jaise grabbed her cigarettes and pushed the children out the door.

  Two hours later, Jabril pulled up, parked his car, and slowly walked toward the house.

  “Ma.” He looked at her strangely. “Why do you have my children out here like this?”

  Jaise didn’t answer. Instead she pulled the last cigarette from her pack and lit it. She took a strong toke as Jabril said, “Ma. Do you hear me?”

  “You know what?” She took a hit. “I hear you and I see you. I see that you are one trifling no-account motherfucker. I’ve had it.” She flicked the ashes from her cigarette. “I’m tired. I can’t keep saving you. I can’t.”

  “Saving me?” Jabril said, put off. “Ma, what are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been trying to make up for one mistake after another after another.” She took a puff. “But you keep fucking up. I can’t do it anymore. I have to let you go. So I tell you what. Take your kids and get out!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Then suddenly she got quiet and said, “Get out.”

  “Ma,” Jabril said, shocked, “what are you doing?”

  “Get. The. Fuck. Out!” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve had enough and I don’t have anything left to give you!”