Love Trumps Game

by D. Y. Phillips

  “Mama, I’m tired, too.” Neema rolled her eyes and admired her recently done nails. “Tired of being broke. I don’t have nobody else. Daycare costs money that I don’t have ’cause I don’t have no job. You they grandmother. Why can’t you watch ’em while I go see about a job? You ain’t doing nothing.”

  Hattie counted down from ten before responding. Three, two, one. “That’s beside the point. And you watch yo’ mouth; talking to me like that. You need to get on outta here with that craziness.”

  “What? You want me to beg?”

  Neema went around and stood in front of the television. Her red satin dress and black Jimmy Choo stilettos were one big blur to Hattie’s eyes and reeked of everything but a job interview. She could be such a pretty girl, but her ugly ways blocked it. Neema looked more like Beyonce with a bad weave and a bad attitude.

  “I said no.” Her blood pressure was rising. Hattie could always tell when the twitching of a headache began at her temples. She shook her head. “Lord, this child is going to be the death of me.”

  You would think that after raising two girls, dealing with a job she had hated for twenty-five years, not to mention a marriage that had turned loveless, she had paid her dues. But no. People still expected things; someone to sponge off, someone to clean up behind them, someone to cook for them, and someone, always, someone to watch their kids at the drop of a hat. Hell, no. She wasn’t having it.

  Her girlfriend had been right about being too available for her grown offspring. If Jackie had gotten her way, they both would have been cruising the high seas, sipping on apple martinis, and making goo-goo eyes at younger men. Placing her glass down, Hattie leaned to the side, attempting to look around her daughter’s shapely frame. “Whoever heard of job hunting on Saturday? Move out the way, Neema! You must think I fell off the turnip truck.”

  “Dang, Mama.” Neema Jean sauntered over and flung herself down on the sofa. “You always do this to me.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Give me a hard time,” Neema whined, then pouted like an eight-year-old. “You never do it to Myra when it comes to watching her kids. Never.”

  “Neema Jean, please.” Hattie sighed, feeling exhausted. She knew it was only a matter of time before Neema started her whining. Whining, plotting, begging, lying, stealing, and scheming: These were her daughter’s best qualities. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she had raised both girls in the church.

  “Don’t go blaming your sister because she takes care of business.” Myra was five years older, married to a doctor, and ran her own pet-grooming business. Neema was more like her father; spoiled, lazy and always looking for the easy way to get ahead. “And speaking of Myra, you need to ask her to watch the kids for you. Don’t you know how to do it? You babysit for her; she babysit for you. I’m sorry, but I’m not up to it this weekend. I need some rest.”

  “Mama, pleeeaassse,” Neema whined, short of crying.

  “Neema, I already said no. Now stop harassing me.”

  Hattie wasn’t falling for it this time. No sirree. The last time Neema had claimed that she was going to look for a job on a Monday, she didn’t return for six days. Six whole days! Hattie hardly slept for worrying about the girl’s whereabouts. Not only that, but Neema Jean’s careless disregard had caused her to miss an important doctor’s appointment. Hattie would never understand how a woman could abandon her children for days at a time without so much as a phone call to check up on them. Interview, my foot.

  “Bet you wouldn’t treat Myra like this.”

  “Myra got sense enough to hire a babysitter; instead of lying to me about where she’s going.” If anything, this so-called job interview was nothing more than a ploy for Neema to go lay up somewhere with Topps. Topps Jackson was nothing but trouble with legs and, in Hattie’s opinion, entirely wrong for Neema. Her daughter could have done so much better, but repeating that wisdom to Neema had become futile. “Take ’em to their father. Let him watch ’em.”

  “He can’t. He’s off on business.”

  “I bet he is.” The business of harassing good Christian folks. She resisted bringing up Topps’ earlier visit.

  Neema sighed. “Mama, don’t start that mess about Topps. He’s a fantastic father and you know it.”

  Hattie bit her tongue lightly. “Try asking your sister to watch the kids.”

  “You know it’s over an hour drive to Myra’s house.”

  “And it’s a nice day for a long drive. Nee, stop making excuses.”

  “Fine, Mama! I guess I can’t go to the damn interview then!” Like a spoiled child, Neema huffed and hopped up. She blew out a hard breath before stomping off in the direction of the small bathroom and then slammed the door.

  “Well, you wanted to be a mother, so be one,” Hattie mumbled, then shouted in the direction of the closed bathroom door. “And don’t be slamming no doors in my house or using that kind of language with me! You not that damn grown!”

  Smiling, Hattie went back to her program. Happy people with smiling faces were dancing to “Blow the Whistle” by Too Short. “I’m the one that shoulda never had kids,” she mumbled as she picked up her chilled lemonade and took a sip. She glanced over at her grandchildren, who hadn’t said another peep the entire time. They were standing like stiff, brown trees next to her loveseat.

  As much as she hated to admit it, Brandon carried that same handsome hardness of his father. A head full of curly, black hair; piercing dark eyes; the same strong jaw line. Raynita, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Neema Jean with her honey-hued complexion, thin lips, and large brown eyes. A smile could bring the deepest dimples to her plump cheeks. Poor things.

  “Nita, why you over there looking so sad?” It was cute, the way Neema kept the child’s hair in neat cornrows with colorful beads dangling from the ends. Their shoes and outfits looked expensive, making them well-dressed kids for a mother that didn’t have a job to speak of. “You two look hot and hungry. How ’bout some cold milk and some of Nanny’s homemade cookies?”

  Raynita’s eyes lit up. “Nanny, you have chocolate chip? They’re my favorite.”

  “I don’t want no damn chocolate chips,” Brandon said with a scrunched-up face. “Peanut butter cookies taste better.”

  “Boy, you watch your mouth before you get a bar of soap in it. You start that cussing in my house and the next thing you’ll be getting is a leather strap on your behind!”

  “Hell, I didn’t want no stupid cookies anyway.” Brandon stuck his small chest out. “I hate chocolate chips.”

  “Hey! I said, watch your mouth.” Good grief. Hattie got up and headed to her refrigerator for some cold milk. Raynita and Brandon followed behind her like puppies. She fetched her cookie jar down from the shelf. “I don’t have chocolate chip cookies, but I have oatmeal raisin with walnuts.”

  Both kids took a seat at her table. The day before she’d baked two dozen cookies, knowing her grandkids would be back over soon enough. “You’ve tried the rest, now try Nanny’s best.”

  She ignored Brandon’s tight lip at the mention of a leather strap. The child didn’t know it, but her words were mostly idle threats. The only time she had felt justified to take a belt to one of them was the day she had found Brandon hiding in one of her closets playing with matches. The little fool had almost set her house on fire.

  “What about you, Brandon? You sure you don’t want some cookies?” Hattie took pride in her baking and often contributed her baked goods to various church functions.

  The boy put his head down.

  “Suit yourself then.”

  No matter how much she tried to instill good morals into her grandchildren, the more it seemed like a losing battle. For a seven-year-old, Brandon knew more curse words than she did, and didn’t mind using them. Raynita, on the other hand, was plagued with sticky fingers. More times than she could recount, the girl had been reprimanded for stealing small trinkets from some local store. Hattie had to hide her purse when R
aynita was in her house.

  “Brandon, you sure you don’t want some cookies?”

  Brandon glared at her with tight lips.

  “Nanny, can I have some more?” Raynita asked, after wolfing down two cookies and half a glass of cold milk.

  “I said, I don’t want no stupid cookies. Stop punking me!”

  “Punking? What? Boy, please. Honestly, you starting to act more like your father every time I see you. And don’t take that as a compliment.”

  Brandon frowned up at her. “Don’t be talking about my daddy either.” He stood up with balled fists.

  “Boy, I’m forty-nine years old and this is my house. I can talk about what I want.” Hattie fought the urge to laugh. In her heart, she knew that they were good kids, but she also knew their tendency for waywardness stemmed from a poor environment. The Crenshaw District, the area where Neema lived, was infested with people who had long given up on the idea of doing better. As a result, many lived in poverty, their normal lives filled with baby-making for a payday, prostitution, drugs and violence. “Is that how your mama teaches you to behave?” Her tone softened. “Nita, of course you can have more cookies.” Then to Brandon, “And you, young man, you need to work on your attitude. You hear me?”

  Hattie was waiting for the boy to say something smart back when she heard her screen door being closed gently. Just one more sassy word from that boy’s mouth and she’d whack him one good time to show that she meant business. Next came the sound of a car engine starting up, and the peel of tires spitting dirt as they sped away.

  THREE

  “What?! I know that trifling Neema didn’t tip out my…” Hattie put her cookie jar down, hurried to her security door, and stepped outside in time to see Neema’s 2006 black Range Rover burning rubber away from the house.

  “Neema! You get yourself back here right now! Neema!” Furious, Hattie tried running a few seconds behind the car, but it was hopeless; not to mention dangerous with all the heat. Besides, she didn’t see the sense of giving her nosey neighbors something to talk about. Her legs ached, and smoke and dust stung her eyes.

  “Damn her!”

  After a cloud of dust cleared, she pursed her lips and headed back to her house to discover Raynita and Brandon arguing over a cookie.

  “Cut it out, you two.” Hattie went straight to her phone to call Neema’s cell phone. How dare she pull a kid-dumping stunt?

  “It’s mine, give it back!” Raynita screamed, about to clobber her brother.

  “Make me, ho.” Brandon was daring her with a clenched fist. A cookie was clutched in his other hand. “Don’t make me hurt you!”

  Hattie hung the phone up and stared in disbelief. “Brandon! What’s wrong with you?” This wasn’t the first time she’d seen the two argue over something so trivial, but it was the first time she’d heard the boy call his sister a derogatory name. “Young man, I don’t know what your problem is, but we don’t talk like that in this house.”

  The two were at her house a mere three days ago and Brandon had seemed fine. She couldn’t imagine what had transpired enough to change his attitude in such a short time frame.

  “Nanny, he snatched my last cookie!” Raynita yelled loud enough for her neighbors to hear. “He’s always doing stuff. That’s why I hate him.”

  “Alright, you two. Nita, you don’t hate your brother, and Brandon, if that’s her cookie, give it back.”

  Brandon tossed the bitten-off cookie to the table. “Crybaby. That’s why I can’t stand you either. You nothing but a snitch. That’s why Daddy likes me better than you.”

  “Brandon, stoppit! Nita is your baby sister and you’re supposed to look out for her.” Lord have mercy. This was exactly what she wasn’t in the mood for—kids bickering back and forth, and acting like baby hoodlums. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I’m tired and it’s too hot for all this.” She loved her grandkids to the core, but sometimes, after spending a day or two with them, she was ready to yank out her own hair.

  “I can’t stand her; that’s why.” Brandon looked ready to throw some blows.

  “This is what happens when mothers spare the rod.” Neema was forever claiming that she was doing her best to provide structure and discipline for her offspring, but Hattie was having a hard time seeing the evidence.

  Brandon yelled, “It’s too hot in here! I wanna go back to Daddy’s house. I didn’t wanna come to your stupid house no way.”

  “Boy, what in the world has gotten into you?”

  “I hate snitches; that’s what.”

  “Brandon, you do not hate your sister.”

  “I do so, and when I go live with my daddy, I won’t even miss her telling butt.”

  “Umph.” Hattie shook her head as she sauntered back over to the cookie jar and removed a few. “I know your mama ain’t foolish enough to let you live with that man.” It was wrong to bad mouth Topps to their faces, but she couldn’t help how she felt. Topps was notorious for his gang affiliations and drug dealing. Maybe even a few murders. People talked and she’d heard enough. It was difficult to feel warmth about a man who had allowed his own mother to starve to death. “If you wanted some cookies, all you had to do was ask. Whatever has gotten into you, you need to control it while you’re at my house. You hear me, Brandon?”

  His only reply was a stubborn pout.

  Raynita talked with a mouth full of cookie. “Mama said he acting mannish ’cause he spent the night at Daddy’s house. She said Daddy musta let him do weeds or somethin’.”

  It felt like Hattie’s heart thumped and skipped two beats. She patted her chest. “Is that true, Brandon? Your father let you try drugs?”

  “I ain’t no snitch like Nita.”

  “Little boy, please. Snitching is when you talk to the police. I asked you a question. Did your father let you do drugs?” Hattie waited with a hand on her hip. It was hard to keep her face from frowning. So help me to God, if Neema is allowing that man to abuse this child, I will go crazy on her behind! “You can tell Nanny the truth, Brandon.”

  Every now and then, the boy spent time with his father, but each time he returned, there was a remarkable change in his behavior for days. He acted funny, looked funny, and walked funny. Heck, sometimes Hattie thought Brandon even smelled funny after such visits.

  “Dang, Nanny, why you all up in my bizness?” Brandon wiped crumbs from his mouth with a paper towel before tossing it to the table. The tone of his young voice suggested irritation.

  Hattie raised a brow. “Boy, at seven, you don’t have no business.” She couldn’t control her kids’ lives, but if she could convince Neema to move to a better environment, meet a nice young man and settle down, maybe Brandon and Raynita might have a chance. True, Topps Jackson was the children’s biological father, but it didn’t give him a right to exploit them. It also didn’t give him the right to contribute to their budding delinquency.

  “I’ll just say this. Your father might be crazy, but I know he ain’t that crazy, to be letting you try drugs. I better not hear something like this again, I know that.”

  “I said, it’s my bizness, Nanny. Know what I’m saying?”

  Brandon looked upset enough to fight, but it didn’t stop Hattie. If there was something she needed to know, she planned to find out one way or another.

  “That’s it. Maybe you need to take time out to work on your attitude. Get yourself on in that bedroom.”

  For a few seconds, there was a stand-off, two contorted faces glaring. Hattie couldn’t believe how defiantly the child was behaving. She must have been getting soft because when her own kids were coming up, it wouldn’t take much for her to go get a leather belt or a switch from her peach tree out back and get busy. “Did you hear me, Brandon?”

  He still didn’t move.

  Hattie stepped closer. “Boy, I am not playing with you. I said, get yourself into that bedroom. Now!”

  Without another word, Brandon got up and stomped from the room.

  “Lord,
give me strength. I’m getting too old for this mess.” Hattie forced herself to calm down. “Nita, what’s your mama’s cell phone number? I have it around here somewhere, but don’t feel like searching for it.”

  “Uh…I don’t know. She didn’t tell me her new number.”

  “What new number?” Grandmother or not, she needed to find out when Neema would be picking the kids up. The sooner she came back, the sooner she could get back to her peaceful existence. “When did she get a new number?”

  Raynita stuffed the last of her cookie into her mouth. “Daddy bought her a new phone yesterday. He took her old phone and threw it away. He bought me and Brandon a phone, too, but I think I lost mine. I don’t know Mama’s new number.”

  “Oh, that’s just great.” Hattie blew out a weary breath. “No way to reach your mother in case of an emergency.” Hattie shook her head. She didn’t understand it. A lot of the young mothers of today were certainly a different breed from when she was coming up. “Oh, well…” She sighed. “Maybe she’ll call later tonight to check on you two.”

  As much as she hated the idea of it, she would have to wait it out. Knowing Neema, it could be days before she even called to see what was going on. And then again, she might not call at all. Hattie knew one thing—when she did hear from that girl, she planned to have a serious talk with her about Brandon and his visits to his father’s house. Topps Jackson shouldn’t have been allowed to have unsupervised visitation with stray puppies. Neema would probably say it was none of her business how she raised her kids, but Hattie didn’t care. When it came to her grandkids, she planned to make it her business.

  FOUR

  “Yo, boo, you working that dress.” Topps Jackson smiled in appreciation the second Neema opened his front door and stepped inside his house. He clutched his cell phone tighter while his free hand did a slow massage of his shirtless chest, before finding its way down to his groin area. “Yeah, man. I’m still here.”

  “You like?” Neema threw her head back seductively and deliberately ran her tongue along her red lips. She catwalked over to the white leather sofa where he sat and placed her oversized Gucci bag down. Slow-motion-like, she spun her body around, only to stop to give him an ample view of her high and perfectly rounded “asset.”