Apple Brown Betty

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  The three of them laughed together.

  “I was wondering where that shirt was.”

  Felicia turned from the running water spigot of the kitchen sink. She had on one of Desmond’s shirts and his favorite slippers. “Hey, lover boy,” she said to her brother.

  Desmond moved closer to her, saw her feet as he came around the rise of the island counter. “Man, you got my slippers, too!”

  Felicia looked down, turned off the spigot, and dried her hands on his shirt. Desmond gasped. Felicia smiled. “Manolo Blahniks these slippers are not, but they’re comfortable.”

  “Manolo what?”

  “Manolo Blahniks,” Felicia said. “They’re like the hottest shoes for women right now. You want to impress this new mystery lady, mention the name to her. Manolo—m, a, n, o, l, o. Blahnik—b, l, a, h, n, i, k. If she has any sense of style whatsoever she’ll know them.”

  “You keep assuming there’s some new woman in my life,” Desmond said.

  Felicia placed her hands on her hips. “You telling me there isn’t?”

  Desmond fought unsuccessfully to keep a smile off his face.

  “Thought so.” Felicia sat on one of the bar stools that lined the wall next to the kitchen counter. “So what’s her name?”

  Desmond pulled a bottle of Snapple from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap, sat across from his sister. “Cydney Williams. And she is prime.”

  Felicia raised one eyebrow. “Oh, is she now?”

  Desmond took a long swig from his drink, nodded his head as the iced tea eased down his throat.

  “Does she have a brother?” Felicia asked, smiling.

  “Hey, now,” Desmond said, “you’re my baby sister, I don’t want to hear that.”

  “Women have needs, too, you know.”

  Desmond covered his ears.

  “I am young, supple—”

  Desmond hummed over the sound of her voice.

  “A vine of fresh fruit waiting to be plucked—”

  “Huuuuuuuummmmmmmmm.”

  “Waiting to have my skin peeled back—”

  “Hummmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

  “My ripe flesh—”

  Desmond stopped humming. “Enough!”

  Felicia laughed. “Don’t be a prude, Desmond.”

  “You not telling me that you—” he chewed up his face “—that you’ve done the do?”

  At that, Felicia covered her ears and hummed.

  Desmond shook his head, swallowed the last of his tea. “This is too much for me.” He got up and placed the bottle in the recyclables bin. “I have to get into the restaurant. We’ll finish this discussion later.”

  “Whatever, baby brother.”

  “I’m older by nine years and a few months.”

  “I’ll say,” Felicia said, squinting her eyes and leaning forward. “Is it me or is your hair starting to recede?”

  “Funny.”

  “I try my best.”

  “You decide what you’re going to do?” Desmond asked as he retrieved his car keys off the hook by the phone. “Modelingwise, I mean. Are you going back or are you going to talk with Mom and Dad, maybe do the college thing like they wanted you to?”

  Felicia got up off the stool. “I’m definitely not doing the college thing. I was heading to the city today, but they had some kind of something or other, so I set up a meeting with some of the agency folks for tomorrow. I’m not going to let that one asshole, Kenneth, sour me on this. I’ve been into fashion since I was a little girl. I’m going to keep modeling as long as they’ll have me.”

  Desmond nodded. “You were going through Mom’s stuff before you got potty trained. I even let you practice applying makeup on me.”

  Felicia smiled. “Riiiiigggght.”

  “Make sure we keep that between us.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “On the real, you’re a strong young woman,” Desmond said. “I’m proud of you.”

  Felicia smiled. “I’m proud of you, too, baby brother.”

  Desmond thought about Cydney Williams, the good time he’d had with her, the bright future he knew they could have. He blew Felicia a kiss and walked through the door toward his truck.

  Felicia was proud of him. He could take that. Cydney was all he expected and more, he could take that, too. He looked toward the sky as he moved toward his truck, toward Cydney’s father looking down. “I’m going to do your daughter proud,” he said just before he slid inside the truck.

  NANCY

  “Can I come in? I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I say.

  I peek through the cracked, chain-locked door with hope. Indecision and lack of get-up-and-go must run in these folks’ family, I think as I wait. Finally, the door opens for me. I walk inside. It’s more naked than it was the last time I was here, the day of Darius’s funeral. The entire apartment carries the smell of burnt eggs.

  “Why ain’t you home curled up with your husband?” Darlene asks. She’s Darius’s sister, my ex-sister-in-law. Before I answer, Darlene moves toward the kitchen in hyper steps, her back to me, but I can still see the sneer on her face, or at least imagine it.

  “Bit of discord,” I tell her, following slowly behind.

  “Speak English,” Darlene prods me. She is sitting in a chair at the corner of the kitchen. The small dinette table that usually centers the room is absent.

  “Got in a fight,” I retry, scanning the room with my eyes. I just know she’s going to eat all this up. She never really forgave me for marrying so quickly after Darius died. I’m not sure I forgave myself, but I know I’ve come to forget it.

  “About?” Darlene asks.

  “George is upset at me because he thinks I’m not doing a good enough job mothering my children. Cydney is running around with this bad boy, Byron, and Shammond…” I don’t even want to get into what Shammond is up to.

  “I believe the children are the future,” Darlene sneers.

  I lean against the counter self-consciously. The bare apartment and Darlene’s slovenly appearance have me wondering. Darlene’s clothes drown her slight frame. She’s lost so much weight since I last saw her. “Where are your children?” I ask her, looking around.

  “Away?” Darlene answers. The sneer that had been a part of her voice for the past few moments was gone.

  “With who?” I press.

  “Folks.”

  I wring my hands, looking toward the refrigerator. “I’m a bit thirsty, Darlene. You mind?”

  “Help yourself. There’s juice and soda.”

  I trudge to the refrigerator, open it. Empty except for an extra-large bowl of spaghetti that looked as if Darlene had been pecking at it for over a week. “I’ll just grab a glass of water,” I tell her, closing the refrigerator. I turn around to find that I’m alone in the kitchen. “Darlene?” I quietly walk from the kitchen, move toward Darlene’s bedroom. I knock on the door. I can hear shuffling inside.

  Darlene emerges, her head down. “Been looking for something the past hour and can’t seem to find it,” she says as she scurries by.

  I follow her to the living room. We both sit on the couch, the only piece of furniture in the room. Up close I can see discoloration on Darlene’s lips. Darlene notices my probing eyes and sits back against the couch cushions.

  “So King George has come down off his throne,” Darlene says.

  “He means well. He still hasn’t figured out that nagging me just makes me more resistant. Not that I’d know what to do anyway. Cydney’s at the age where she can make her own decisions and Shammond is just stuck in the rough years.”

  “How old they now?”

  “Cydney’s seventeen, Shammond is fifteen.”

  Now Darlene was shaking her head. “Darius would trip out, he could see them practically grown.”

  “Can I stay with you tonight, just to cool off and not have to hear George’s voice for a bit?” I ask. I don’t want to think about Darius. Even though George has been wonderful to me, and I love him, th
ere’s still a part of me that wishes Darius had worked out. For our children’s sake.

  Darlene looks me over before nodding her head. “Why not.”

  “Thanks.”

  Darlene smiles. “You did Darius dirty in death but you never did him dirty in life.”

  I take that as a compliment and let it ride.

  “I need to step out,” Darlene says. “You can grab some sheets and stuff from my bedroom closet and make up this couch. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “It’s late,” I hear myself say. Same thing I used to tell Darius. I feel a need to share the same info with Darlene because she and Darius have similar tendencies. Her bare apartment is all the proof.

  Darlene simply pats my knee before rising and seemingly walking out the door in the same action.

  It’s her life, I think as I move to the bedroom with George’s voice echoing in my head. “That boy’s the source of all these problems, Nan. He’s mixed up in all kinds of stuff. His sister’s unable to get herself back on course ’cause of him. You need to do something.”

  Didn’t the fall of one’s children always land on the shoulder of the mother?

  “Should have listened to me when I told you that boy did something to Cydney Doll way back when,” George’s voice says to me as I step into the bedroom. “She ain’t been the same since.”

  Blame, blame, blame.

  What kind of mother did he think I was? Did he think I’d stand by and let one of my children hurt the other? I’d questioned Cydney. Cydney said nothing happened.

  I move to the closet of Darlene’s bedroom.

  “I blame you, Nan,” George’s voice tells me as I open the door.

  Of course he did. Darius had no ambition and diligence. George had enough for the both of them. He seemed to come to the realization now, after these years of marriage, that I wasn’t perfect. The realization seemed to shake him. But it was breaking me because I wanted to be perfect, I wanted him to still look at me like he did those nights he carried Darius to my doorstep. I needed George to stop nagging me and help me, same as he did Darius.

  The blankets and sheets are balled in a clump at the base of the closet. I crinkle my nose. Sleeping on them isn’t at all appealing. I can hear George tomorrow, once I tell him whose couch I spent the night on. “Hang around Darius’s sister long enough and you’ll surely be about nothing.”

  I pick up the ball of sheets and turn to leave, tripping over a sneaker too large to be Darlene’s. Something falls from the sneaker. I place the sheets on the edge of the bed and lean to retrieve the sneaker and its contents. A lighter, a few small whitish shavings and some kind of pipelike contraption, a glass bowl fitted with fine mesh, lay next to the sneaker. I hesitate to pick up the contents and return them to the sneaker. For some reason I start to think about the day George caught me in the bathroom, smoking a Newport, washing the ashes down the sink. “Nan,” he’d said, shaking his head. “Only trashy women smoke. You’re not trashy, now, are you?” I shook my head at the time. No, I wasn’t trashy. I was the woman he’d looked on so adoringly when he carried my husband home. All this drama in our lives had chased away that look in his eyes. I wanted it back. I wanted him to take care of me, shield me from the problems of the world, hold me under the arm like he did Darius.

  Tears find my eyes, and my hands shake as I pick up the lighter. I fumble to place the shavings in the bowl. Crack. I’d seen Shelby Lewis, who’d lived across the street from Darius and I, smoke it once, after her first child’s father got caught with that underage girl, violating his probation. Overnight, Shelby’s problems multiplied like roaches. But, for the few moments she sucked in the grayish smoke, she didn’t seem to feel the pain anymore.

  I spark the flame as tears drip down into my mouth. I’m a sensible woman. I know this is no answer.

  “I blame you, Nan.” I hear George’s voice in my head, clear as day.

  I know you do, George. I also know you don’t hold me like you used to. Why’d you have to go and stop? Don’t you know I came to you because I’d been through a lifetime of not being held? Don’t you know I expected you to hold me until the day I died?

  I look at the cooked elements in the glass bowl.

  Just for this moment I wasn’t going to be perfect, wasn’t going to strive to meet an ideal I knew was light-years away from me. I place the pipe to my lips. It worked for Shelby Lewis. Maybe it would work for me. Then, tomorrow I’d go and have a long talk with George, let him know how much I love him, and that his constant badgering is tearing me apart. I’m already a broken woman, two kids that I have no idea where and how they’re going to turn out. Two kids that have turned a deaf ear to my pleas of concern and worry. All I have right now is George.

  “I blame you, Nan.”

  Oh, George, don’t say that. Please don’t say that.

  “But I do, Nan.”

  Okay, George, you win.

  Put this in your pipe and smoke it, George.

  CHAPTER 13

  Slay came down from his mother’s apartment showered, shaved and well rested. Nancy had stumbled in late last night, shame in her eyes, and curled up with Slay on the bare mattress. They slept in each other’s arms, keeping each other warm.

  Now Slay wore oversize Rocawear jeans that fell into a bundle on top of his gray Timberland boots. He had on a gray Sean Jean cardigan V-neck sweater with a burgundy stripe shadowing the neckline. He rapped twice on Kenya’s door.

  Kenya stepped out, backward, and locked her door. She turned around all smiles. “Ready,” she said.

  Slay couldn’t believe his eyes. She wore a two-toned leather jacket over a lace-trimmed top, and black wool trousers.

  “You like?” Kenya said, noticing the dumbfounded look on Slay’s face.

  He nodded.

  “Hope so,” Kenya offered. “You bought it.”

  Slay crinkled his forehead. “What you mean?”

  Kenya started walking, Slay on her heels. “That money you gave me for my birthday a while back, told me to get something nice for myself.”

  She stopped at the lobby door, Slay rushed to open it for her. “You did a good job,” he said as they stepped outside.

  “Thanks,” Kenya said. “You look nice, too.”

  Slay shook his head, his gaze trained on Kenya. “Not like you.”

  He forgot about the purpose of this outing as he drove to the restaurant, all shook up by the look and smell of Kenya. “What’s that you wearing…that perfume?”

  “Waters Sheer Passion,” Kenya said, adding, “You got me this, too.”

  “I ain’t never smelled this on you before.”

  “I was waiting,” she told him.

  “For?”

  She turned away and looked out the window without answering.

  As they neared the restaurant Slay remembered his purpose again. GQ Smooth.

  “Ooh, this is nice,” Kenya said as Slay parked across the street from the restaurant in the metered spots.

  Slay nodded. “Right, right.”

  They walked in, shoulder to shoulder. A pretty woman behind a small podium greeted them.

  “Welcome to Cush,” she said. “Party of two?”

  Kenya nodded.

  “Smoking or nonsmoking?”

  “No smoking,” Kenya told her.

  The woman gathered two menus, tapped them on the podium and waved Slay and Kenya toward her. “Follow me this way.”

  Slay scanned the place, noticed a well-dressed dude walking around making conversation with the people at each table. When Kenya and Slay reached their quaint table, Slay motioned to the hostess. “Who’s that?” he asked, nodding his head at the well-dressed gentleman.

  The hostess blushed. “That’s Desmond Rucker, the proprietor.”

  “The what?”

  “He owns the restaurant.”

  Slay nodded. “I thought so.”

  The hostess walked off.

  “This is the straight bomb,” Kenya said as she looked over the
menu.

  Slay picked up his menu, squinting his eyes to read the offerings.

  “You still need glasses?” Kenya asked.

  Slay smiled at her. “Yeah, probably.”

  Desmond Rucker came to their table. “Hello, folks,” he said. “I hope you’re enjoying everything so far.”

  “We just got here,” Slay said.

  “It’s real nice,” Kenya added.

  “I’m Desmond Rucker, the proprietor,” Desmond said. “I’ll be right around. Holler if you have any concerns or anything, and I truly hope you enjoy.” He turned to leave.

  “Yo, Desmond?” Slay called to him.

  Desmond turned back. “Yes?”

  “Good luck to you with this,” Slay said. “This is a tough neighborhood for a business. Most of the places that try get chased away eventually.”

  Desmond smiled. “I don’t give up so easily. I fight to the end.”

  “It’ll be a fight,” Slay said.

  Desmond smiled again, nodded and walked off.

  Slay sat back in his seat, leaned to the side like he did when he drove, rubbed his fingers over his lips and smiled. It was going to be a fight for GQ Smooth for real. Word up.

  Cydney was watching the Lifetime Channel again, absorbed in a movie, when the phone rang.

  “Dang, you people just don’t want me to finish a movie,” she said as she moved across the carpet to the phone stand. She looked over the number on the caller ID; it was unfamiliar, but the 973 area code let her know it was from North Jersey. She picked up. “Hello.”

  “Cydney Williams?”

  “Yes,” Cydney said to the female on the other end. Immediately she thought about Desmond. Please don’t let this be a live-in girlfriend, or worse yet, wife, connecting the dots after finding Cydney’s number in Desmond’s shirt pocket. “Whom am I speaking with?”

  “My name is Villa Moore. I don’t believe we’ve ever spoken before,” the woman said. “I’m Mr. James’s personal assistant.”

  What, Stephon had his staff making calls on his behalf now? “What can I do for you, Ms. Moore?” Cydney asked.

  “Mrs. James asked me to contact Mr. James’s friends and business associates, especially the people from the magazine. I came across your name and number in his PalmPilot.”