by Nikki Woods
The sun’s orange glow cast elegant shadows across the marble-tiled floor of my townhouse’s foyer. It was almost beautiful enough to make you forget that it was the middle of winter in Chicago and cold enough to freeze the blood in your veins.
Cocoa, my chocolate Labrador Retriever, bounded down the stairs and practically pinned me against the wall.
I pulled the door back open. “All right, down girl! Go on.” Barking anxiously, Cocoa dashed outside and took care of business before scampering back to warmth. I dropped my keys on the hook by the closet and hung my coat before sitting on the bottom step of the staircase. I ducked and dodged Cocoa’s wet kisses while trying to slide off my pumps and slip my feet into fuzzy houseshoes before trotting upstairs with her on my heels.
According to the silver plated clock hanging on my kitchen wall, Keela would be ringing my doorbell in less than ten minutes. I stuck a bottle of Dom Perignon in the freezer to chill, then called a local pizza joint and placed an order for delivery. Checking the Caller ID came next—Randy had yet to respond to my messages. As I changed into my pink jogging suit, I decided that I was not going to call him again. Two can play that game.
The front gate slammed. Trotting downstairs, I flung the door open just as Keela was about to ring the doorbell.
“Get in here!” I yelled, startling her.
She pulled me into a tight bear hug. “Hey, sweetie! I know it’s only been a day, but I missed ya’!”
“Girl, puhleeze, let me inside. It’s freezing out here!” I laughed, wiggling out of her embrace then yanked her into the house. She tugged off her red cashmere hat and shook her hair out, each ringlet falling in perfect alignment, framing her round dimpled face. Cocoa danced around our legs.
“Hi, Cocoa.” Keela said, patting her on the head. “Essence is right behind me. I saw her pulling into the parking lot.”
“Wow! She’s early.” The snow was now falling in earnest, picturesque oversized flakes fighting each other to reach the ground first.
Essence opened an umbrella before climbing out of the white BMW 745i Sedan that her parents bought her for her thirtieth birthday. She laughed when she spotted us standing in the doorway. “Don’t start talking smack!” She teetered on stiletto heels, stepping carefully around ice patches.
“Don’t fall! I ain’t got homeowner’s insurance.”
Her high-pitched laughter followed me as I went upstairs to check on the champagne. The front gate squeaked and slammed again.
“That’s the pizza. Take care of it, will you, Essence? I’ll pay you back later.” I leaned over the banister, drying a glass with a paper towel. I couldn’t quite hear Essence’s response but I did decipher a few expletives mingled with the flirty banter she exchanged with the deliveryman. The aroma of spicy pepperoni wafted slowly through the house, my mouth watering before Essence and Keela even made it up to the second floor.
“Will you get your dog?” Essence yelled as she crossed the room and pecked me on the cheek. “If he scratches a hole in these stockings, you’re buying me a new pair.” She placed the greasy pizza box on the kitchen countertop, opened it, and fanned her hand grandly in invitation.
A snap of my fingers sent Cocoa scurrying to what I had dubbed her “basement apartment.”
I flipped the switch to the black accented gas fireplace and flames sparked in mixtures of blue, red, and yellow. They painted a pretty picture on my matted cream walls and then stretched in ominous shadows across the ceiling.
“Paper towels, Keela,” I yelled. The grease was already starting to seep from the box onto the countertop’s newly polished surface.
“Ooooh, Lordy! It’s been one . . .” Essence declared as she propped her narrow behind on the armrest of my earth brown leather sectional.
“Bad day?” Keela asked, heading back to the kitchen, returning with a box of orange juice and a handful of paper towels.
“Another day with my nose to the grindstone.” She sighed before sliding down into couch.
I threw my head back and laughed. “Essence, you manage a day spa. It can’t be too grueling with the smell of sea salts and that motivational music playing all day.”
“Look, I deal with broke-down women looking for a miracle. Trust me, it's high-pressure. You know black women will snap if they don’t walk out of the salon looking like they belong on the pages of a beauty magazine and that is not reality for ninety-eight percent of them.” She paused in the middle of her tirade. “What’s the orange juice for?”
“I’m going to drink it instead of champagne.” Keela smiled with wide-eyed innocence as Essence rolled her eyes.
“Can’t you suck it up and drink just this once?”
“You know I don’t like champagne.” She read the label on the bottle, “even if it is Dom Perignon.”
I shook my head. “You’re such the kindergarten teacher.” Her current job as a substitute teacher was the latest in a long string of jobs, including pastry chef and buyer for an adult bookstore.
Essence stood up, poised to pop the cork to the bottle. “Are you ready to do this?” I nodded and she poured the two of us a glass.
“Let’s toast to dreams coming true.” I raised my glass and clinked it with theirs; first one, then the other.
“I’ll toast to that,” Keela murmured before taking a sip of juice.
“Hmmmm. Nice and dry.” Essence downed her entire glass, then poured herself another one. While refilling mine, she raised one eyebrow, crinkled her smooth forehead, and a half smile danced across her delicate face. The shadowy light from the flames only accentuated her beauty; from her luminescent skin to the deep almond eyes set under the flawlessly arched eyebrows and bowed lips. “Well?”
“Ladies,” I paused to add even more drama to the moment. “You are looking at an entertainment executive who within a year of creating a position and a department with a major, albeit-outdated record label, has signed her first major recording artist.”
“No, you didn’t, Kingston!” Keela shouted, hitting me in the arm.
“Of course, I did.” I crossed my arms in front of me and pursed my lips.
“You got Scooby!” Essence screamed.
“I got Scooby!” I reached into my briefcase, pulled out the signed contract and waved it in front of them. I watched their expressions as the magnitude of my accomplishment sunk in. What happened to me, happened to them—good and bad. Their excitement was genuine. I threw the entire contract up in the air and danced as the sheets of paper fell around us.
We drank more champagne and orange juice, toasting to everything from fat paychecks to good sex. We never got to the pizza. Keela and Essence scooped up a slice on the way out.
“Your mother would be so proud,” Essence said at the door, pulling us into a group hug before leaving.
I smiled sadly and leaned against the closed door. Yes, my mom would be proud. I only wished she had lived so I could see that pride for her little girl shining in her eyes.
The salty taste of bittersweet tears mixed with champagne, then with the contract in hand, I fell across my bed and slipped into a restless sleep.
Chapter 2
I couldn’t breathe. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not lure air into my tightly squeezed lungs. My chest was compressed as if two tons of bricks sat on it, weighing it down. And it was so dark - a thick, dark, murky black mass that threatened to swallow me.
The jagged rocks snuggled on the river bottom pierced the pads of my toes as I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to balance my weight. The images spinning before my eyes were too fast and furious for me to distinguish. But they felt familiar. Ahh! the scenes were from my childhood. How old was I? Five, maybe? No, six. Funny, you always hear that when it's your time to go, your whole life flashes before you; but I always thought it would be like viewing a movie on one of those old film reels: sitting in a plush seat watching places and people magnified on a big screen, popping alternate handfuls of popcorn and licorice candy, waiting for t
he happy ending. But this was not the end, and it certainly wasn’t a love story. I was trapped in a horror movie that was careening out of control.
I tried to breathe again. Wasn’t it Toni that sang that song? Breathe again. Breathe again. “I’m trying!” I screamed violently to myself. Then something floated by. I squinted and strained, but still couldn’t distinguish what it was. My heart pounded in my ears with the ancient rhythm of African tribal drums, growing louder and faster by the second. Then a voice joined the dance in my head. It was faint; I turned. I searched. Me? I waved in annoyance as if swatting away a mosquito looking to fatten itself on my blood. I didn’t have time for this. “Cha na man.
Me soon come.” I recognized the sound of my voice, but who was I talking to? I spoke again and my Jamaican patois is at the same time familiar and unfamiliar. The irregular cadence of the rhythmic language tried to connect me to a memory tired of being ignored.
Sinking further and further toward some unknown pit, I’m supposed to be doing something, but I don’t know what. Then I saw her. She was floating. Peaceful. And she was so very still. She almost looked as if she were sleeping and the river was her bed, the soft waves, her pillow. I stretched out my hand and waited to feel her familiar grasp. The gentle current tugged at her as if trying to coax a shy child into joining a schoolyard game. Everyone was running to the edge of the river in a mixture of arms and legs and the film that was moving too fast before was now in slow motion—each detail in excruciating clarity. If I couldn’t breathe before, now way too much air gushed into my lungs. Screams came at me from all directions, ringing loudly in my ears. Despite the noise, I could still hear feet pounding on the sandy bank.
Everyone else seemed to be in motion, but fear and disbelief would not allow me to move. No amount of coaxing could draw me any closer. I am already close enough, close enough to see the pink, yellow, and green bathing suit that I had convinced her to put on earlier that day. Close enough to see that her chest was painfully still. Close enough to know that the vision of her slight motionless frame would forever be branded in my heart and soul.
I bolted straight up in the bed, terrified; my spine ramrod stiff. Eyes wide, mouth dry, and my pulse raced—but at least I was awake. My nightgown was attached in circles to my body, stuck by the sweat that also created a small wading pool in the small of my back. And with each chill bump that sprang up along my arms, my breathing slowed and I prayerfully realized that the terrible images from just seconds ago were gone.
The mocha-colored window blinds swayed angrily against the windowpane, trying to withstand the force of Chicago’s winter wind. I must have fallen asleep on top of the covers after Essence and Keela left. The scattered pieces of the contract that I had tossed triumphantly in the air were strewn along the side of my bed, peppering the tan, blue, and maroon area rug. Then I remembered: I had placed them there, meaning to read through them again before I fell asleep.
Sometime during the night, I had yanked my heavy homemade patchwork quilt from its folded position to further buffer against the icy night air and I gathered it closer to me now. I strained to remember the ending of the recurring nightmare, but it always stopped at the same point. Cocoa slept soundly, curled in her corner of my room. I smoothed my lace eyelet sheets beneath me as if a neatly made bed would provide security, but the haze refused to clear.
The phone shrilled, slicing though the silence and my thoughts scattered even further. Something was wrong. Why else would someone call this late at night? It had to be two, maybe three o’clock in the morning. I rubbed my eyes and squinted, but still couldn’t quite make out the numbers on the caller ID. Again, the phone rang. Deep down, I knew. Of course, I knew. I knew, but my breath still caught in anticipation as if willing, alone, had the power to change the outcome of this call. I picked up the phone in the middle of the fourth ring. The receiver was barely to my ear when I heard the voice, soft but urgent, heavily accented and harboring a lifetime of secrets.
“Kingston.” The voice belonged to my great-aunt Beatrice, my grandmother’s youngest sister, calling from Jamaica. The line crackled and I pressed the phone harder against my ear. Aunt Bea’s voice was steady, but the pain hidden beneath her whiney, alto tone would be embedded in my mind forever. “It’s time, Pickney, time for you to come home. We just found Mama Grace.” She paused before the dreaded words, “She’s dead” left her lips.
Chapter 3
I hadn’t been to sleep since my Aunt Bea’s early morning phone call. In only three hours, I had packed, booked a flight, and called Jonetta to let her know I would not be coming into the office. I even arranged luxury accommodations for Cocoa at the Paws House Hotel. Pretty good in my estimation, considering I was totally numb—numb and disconnected like a balloon that had slipped from a toddler’s hands. My grandmother’s passing had not become my truth yet. The scenario belonged to someone else. Death can do that though, make you reflect on what’s really important, which was exactly my target of deep thought as I glanced over at Randy.
Despite yesterday’s conviction, I had dialed Randy’s number and roused him from a deep sleep so I wouldn’t have to catch a taxi to O’Hare.
He was blinking the sleep from his eyes and trying to smother a yawn while he negotiated his Mercedes Sedan through the pre-morning rush traffic that could be a nightmare along this stretch of the Dan Ryan Expressway.
Despite being dressed in a sweat suit, he was still quite fashionable, the latest Nike Air Jordan gym shoes completing the ensemble. His hair was cut low and shone from this morning’s application of Dax Wax that had been worked in by his stiff bristle brush. Randy’s thin mustache and goatee were just as neatly groomed, a toothbrush dipped in gel brushed downward to keep every hair in place.
The muscles in his triceps bunched as he absently wiped some residue from the control panel of his car that looked like it belonged in a fighter jet. Not an ounce of fat draped his body as if Michelangelo were brought back from the dead, dropped in the middle of the ghetto and forced to make a black woman’s version of David. His hands lightly gripped the steering wheel in standard driving format. Sparse black hair covered his knuckles, and his long fingers tapered into tidy square nails. His hands were well taken care of as he visited my nail technician for manicures more often than I did. Finally, I slid a lingering glance over the fullness of his lips and my memory sparked faintly. Each time I was just about ready to walk out the proverbial relationship door, memories of those lips whispering hotly in my ear, and deliciously exploring all the secret conclaves of my body would keep me right where I was—in a dead-end relationship.
I would be the first to admit that our relationship started out as one centered on an almost animal kind of lust. We had incredible sex, nasty sex—sex so good it stank. But what started out as an electric connection had withered into merely a mutually satisfying relationship. He used to play the role of the perfect boyfriend to a tee, but now all we’d become is a textbook case of one hand washing the other. A stockbroker who modeled on the side and aspired to be an actor, Randy needed connections. Because of my new foray into the entertainment business with the Mansini Music Group, I was constantly attending fund-raisers, benefits, and political soirees. This put me in a position to meet people who could possibly further his career. I needed a man on my arm who was not only debonair, but also an intelligent conversationalist with the capability to conform to any situation. It used to work very nicely. But it was getting harder and harder to remember why we'd ever hooked up.
Randy already had his Bose stereo set to a popular Hip-Hop station, volume blaring at a deafening level from the ridiculously expensive surround-sound speakers, his low cut fade bobbing lazily to the upbeat tempo. The morning-show personalities were hamming it up. The current target of their humor, the Chicago Police Department, which once again found themselves on the cover of the leading local paper thanks to yet another police screw-up. I lowered the volume and flipped the knob to a news/talk station to get the real story beh
ind the accidental shooting without busting an eardrum.
Randy sighed and clamped his lips together. He viewed my changing the station as an invasion of his personal space, but he must’ve decided it wasn’t a battle worth fighting and busied himself switching lanes. Then, the news segued into commercials and I adjusted the volume even more for either conversation or silence. I opted for conversation. Though things had been strained between us for quite some time, we were still a couple; the least we could do was talk.
Adjusting the vent, I looked over at Randy again. “You look so cute when you’re sleepy. I can just imagine what you looked like waking up early on a Saturday morning excited about watching cartoons and eating Captain Crunch.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Well, thanks for getting up and taking me to the airport. I really appreciate it—just one more thing I didn’t have to figure out. I already think I left something behind and it’s driving me nuts. You know how it is when you’re packing in a hurry. I hate to forget anything when I’m going to Jamaica. Things are so expensive there. Even the little things—soap, toothpaste—you know what I mean? I checked everything twice, though, so I should be okay.” I wasn’t okay, though. I looked around and couldn’t believe that I actually was thinking about asking Randy to pull over so I could go rumble through my bags and check for the twenty-eighth time when suddenly he did another lane change to avoid something in the road. This put us solidly in the middle lane sandwiched by other testy commuters. Pulling over was out of the question; we were pretty much at a standstill.
“So this was a big load off my mind,” I continued. “I know you had a late night with the Reebok photo shoot, but Essence is leaving to go out of town herself this morning and Keela is, well, Keela or I would have gotten one of them out of bed.”
Randy grunted in response. All right. Humble appreciation was not working. Not a morning person even after a full night’s sleep, he perked up only after a Grande Vanilla Latte and a cinnamon roll slathered with icing. But pile a lack of sleep on top of that and it wreaked havoc on his home training. Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough time to swing by a Starbucks so we both had to do without the daily shot of caffeine to smooth our rough edges. I closed my eyes, settled into the leather seat, absently fingering the one-carat diamond stud in my ear and continued undaunted.