by Lori Johnson
Howard pushes back his seat and stands up. “What? You accusing me of not caring? That’s my little sister you’re talking about, man. What gives you the right—”
“What gives me the right?!” William bellows. “You see this child?! Her presence here gives me the right. Long as she’s here, Frank can’t be.”
“I don’t mean no harm,” Bruce says, squinting in Aliesha’s direction. “But who’s to say little Miz Babygirl gotta be here anyway? It ain’t always good for a man to have children in his house that ain’t his own blood.”
“First of all,” Alfred says in a voice that is louder than usual, but still calmer than the others. “This isn’t Frank’s house. It’s Mildred’s, legally passed down to her and in full accordance with the dying wishes of both our parents. Secondly, Aliesha stays. That’s what Connie, her mother and our sister, would have wanted. Connie always hated the fact that Mildred couldn’t have children of her own. Besides, at this point, taking Aliesha away from Mildred would not only be cruel to the both of them, it would probably put Mildred that much closer to an early grave.”
“Exactly,” Josiah says. “So, it’s settled. Frank’s ass has got to go, whether peacefully or by force. Those are his only two choices.”
“That’s not how we do things in this family,” Howard says. He resumes his seat and shoves aside a pair of men’s underwear that has spilled from the contents of the garbage bag in front of him. “I suggest we take a vote. Okay, so, by a show of hands—”
“Damn all that, man,” William says. “Haven’t you been listening? All right, I tell you what, y’all let Frank come on back. But the next time he lays his hands on Mildred, I’m gonna have to kill him, plain and simple. And God forbid if he should lay a hand on this child . . . ’Cause if that should happen, Lord knows.” William extends his arm and sweeps his hand in a wide circle around the room. “Lord knows, excluding Josiah, I’m gonna have to come and gut every last one of y’all.”
“Why you got to go and take it there?” Scottie says. “Ain’t no call for all of that. Frank’ll be all right and everything will be back to normal soon as he finds himself another job. Ain’t like none of us ain’t never been there before.”
“Been where?” William says. “So low you had you raise yourself up by knocking some woman down? Naw, not me. I ain’t never been that low. ’Sides, I offered Frank a job. But just like all the rest of y’all siddity Negroes he thinks he’s too good to stand out in the sun all day, stanking and sweating and getting paint and dirt on his hands and beneath his pretty little nails. Ain’t that right?”
“See, there you go again. Ain’t nobody said all of that,” Scottie says, sounding genuinely offended.
Bruce laughs and says, “Don’t pay Midnight here no mind.”
Aliesha gasps at her uncle Bruce’s daring to make an open reference to the nickname she knows he, Scottie, and a few of the others in her family called her father behind his back.
“You know how them country boys are. Always wanna make shit personal, that ain’t. Well, take it from somebody who knows, boy, it’s a world of difference between slaughtering a farm-raised hog and a grown-ass man who’s been reared up on the South Side of Chicago, much less four of them bloods, like you standing up here threatening to do. You sure you got them kinda balls?”
William grins and shoves his right hand into his pants pocket. “You think I don’t? Well, try me then. And see if your big, fat, greasy, yella throat ain’t the first one I slit.”
That’s when all hell breaks loose. Uncle Bruce bolts from his seat, turning over the dining room table in the process. Aliesha’s father pushes her out of the way before snatching up a dining room chair and raising it over his head. In the bloody, knock-down, drag-out that ensues, the chandelier breaks away from the ceiling, crashes to the floor, and shatters into a million little pieces.
Rather than flicker and begin to fade, the scene’s lighting and the sounds of violence grew harsher and increased in intensity. Feeling herself on the brink of being rendered completely deaf and blind, Aliesha woke herself up screaming.
CHAPTER 16
After a few sips of coffee that next morning, Aliesha reached for the phone and punched in a number. The phone rang seven or eight times before it fell silent and a groggy voice said, “Hello?”
“Hey,” Aliesha said. “Sorry to wake you, but I need you to go somewhere with me this morning.”
“Damn, girl!” Monica said. “It’s barely six AM and on a Saturday, no less. Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know. Possibly. Can you be ready in a couple of hours?”
“Yeah, I’m sure I can. But what—”
“I’ll fill you in later,” Aliesha said. “I’ll be there to pick you up around eight.”
Two hours later, Monica answered the door of her cute little bungalow dressed in a conservative pair of sandals, a dark pair of jeans, and a screen print T-shirt, which while clingy didn’t reveal any of her cleavage or midriff. “Is this okay?” she said, in reference to her outfit as she collected her purse and her keys.
“Sure, you look fine,” Aliesha said.
“Well, I wasn’t sure about the occasion. So what gives? You need me to help you bail somebody out of jail? Help you dig a ditch and get rid of a body or what?”
Aliesha nodded and said, “Umm, definitely more the latter than the former.”
Monica stopped in midstep. “Please tell me this is not another one of those church things. For real, Aliesha, I am in no mood this morning to be spreading manure or pulling weeds out of sister so-and-so’s garden or helping build brother ‘down-and-out’ and his thirteen badass kids a place to call home.”
Already off the porch and halfway up the walk, Aliesha turned and grinned. “You’re going straight to hell. You know that, don’t you?”
“Oh yeah, and with bells on!” Monica said before breaking into a laugh and resuming her trek toward Aliesha’s car.
Aliesha waited until she had the vehicle in drive before she said, “I had the dream again. The one I told you about before.”
“Oh, you mean the one with your dad and all of your uncles fighting over how to handle the situation with your auntie?”
Aliesha nodded. Monica was the only person she’d ever confided in about the nightmare or the depths of her feelings for Kenneth. The couple’s three-month relationship had spiraled to an end before Aliesha had been afforded the opportunity to introduce the two. However, over the course of time, she’d shared with her girlfriend all of the pertinent and ugly details, including the awful encounter in Vegas. Monica knew that the last time Aliesha had experienced the nightmare had been that first night after her tearful return home without Kenneth.
“So, you think maybe the dream is somehow tied to your most recent interaction with Kenneth? Come on, girl, ’fess up now. You sure you and dude didn’t get together after church for a little boot-knocking for old times’ sake?”
She shook her head. “Sorry to burst your nasty little bubble, but nope, nothing like that ever even came close to happening. To tell you the truth, I think this particular dream has more to do with my current relationship with Javiel.”
“What?!” Monica said. “Girl, stop. Javiel is crazy about you.”
“Yeah,” Aliesha said. “And for all it’s worth, so was Kenneth.”
“Okay, besides a messed-up dream about something that happened more than twenty years ago and that in no way, shape, or form involved Javiel, what could possibly make you believe he’d ever want to do you any physical harm? And do note that I deliberately left off mental and emotional damage because I’m starting to believe that your ass really is the one who’s got a few screws loose.”
“Remember all of that crap I told you Javiel’s mom unloaded on me the other day? About how some woman named Evelyn was responsible for Javiel’s three-year stay in the monastery? And how he’d intended to marry this woman, but she’d dumped him. And how shortly thereafter, she’d turned up dead?”
Aliesha looked at her friend and in a flat voice said, “That’s what I need you to help me figure out.”
Monica swallowed hard and said, “Okay, okay, and we’re supposed to do that how?”
Aliesha turned her eyes back onto the road. “Just wait. I’ll show you.”
Obviously none-too-thrilled about the Saturday morning mission for which she’d been recruited, Monica remained uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of the drive. But she kept her reservations to herself until Aliesha pulled up to Javiel’s house and parked in front of his garage. Before Aliesha could get out, Monica grabbed her and said, “Wait, you’ve got a key, right? ’Cause if breaking and entering is what you’ve got in mind, you’re on your own.”
“Yes, I have a key,” Aliesha said. She jiggled the full key ring she kept in her purse, then turned and opened the car door, only to have Monica grab her again.
“Okay, good. But hold up. Listen, if what you’re about to show me involves skulls, bones, bloodstained clothing, a body in the freezer, or any combination of the aforementioned, I suggest you call the Riverton Police Department and let them handle it. Barring that, why not call Pat? Isn’t that kind of crap sort of like her area of expertise?”
“Would you just come on,” Aliesha said. “All I want is your take on something that strikes me as peculiar.”
After leading her muttering friend to the house, Aliesha unlocked both the security and the wooden doors, before stepping over to the keypad and typing in the numbers that disarmed the alarm. Monica said, “Damn, a key and a code? This boy must really be feeling you. Mine, on the other hand, just barely lets me spend the night.”
“As much lip as you give him, I’m not surprised,” Aliesha said.
“Umph, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My lips are what won him over in the first place.”
When Aliesha cut her eyes and shook her head, Monica said, “Oh, I know—to hell with bells on, right?”
They laughed, entered the house, and turned down the hall that led to Javiel’s studio. “Have you seen the room where Javiel does his work?” Aliesha asked.
Monica shook her head. “Nope. Can’t say that I have.”
Aliesha pushed open the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of the artwork she’d thought she’d have to pull from the various stacks of unhung canvases that rested on the floor and leaned against the studio’s walls. Instead, as if anticipating her arrival, each individual painting had been neatly arranged, according to size, around and atop the drop cloth–covered sofa.
“What do you make of that?” she asked.
Monica pulled her glasses from her bag and walked over for a closer inspection. “What should I make of it? Aren’t artists known for painting women’s bodies?”
“That’s not just any woman,” Aliesha said. “Or even a series of different women. It’s me, me, and only me.” She walked over, folded her arms across her chest, and peered down at the work.
“Huh, I guess it is,” Monica said. “Being as I’ve never seen you butt-ass naked, it’s kind of hard to tell.” She picked up the portrait of Aliesha’s backside, brought it closer to her face, and said, “Damn, girl, is that a birthmark or what?”
Aliesha dropped her arms and said, “Would you stop kidding around. Doesn’t any of this strike you as strange?”
“What? That your man likes painting you?” Monica smirked. “I would think you’d be flattered.”
“Maybe I would if I didn’t feel like I was being dissected. Why does he insist on painting me like this?” Aliesha paced in front of the odd display, like an annoyed art teacher or critic. “A little piece here and a little piece there? And if you’ll notice, there’s not a single painting of my head in this entire collection.”
Monica scrunched her brow and gazed over the array of canvases resting on and against the sofa. “Maybe he just hasn’t gotten around to that yet. Maybe this is part of some special series he’s working on. . . .”
“Yeah, maybe,” Aliesha said, seizing the painting of her backside from Monica and returning it to the empty spot from which it had been removed. “And maybe . . . just maybe I need to find out if this woman, Evelyn, was missing any essential body parts when she turned up dead in the woods.”
In a more serious and measured tone, Monica said, “Okay, seeing that you’ve pretty much concluded that Javiel is some kind of mild-mannered, paint-brush-wielding ax murderer, before you alert the FBI, why not let me see what I can pull from Jesus? Having three separate accounts can’t hurt and might get us that much closer to the truth.”
Aliesha pondered the suggestion before she sighed and said, “Okay. You’re probably right. But when you bring up the subject with Jesus, try to do it without disclosing too much about what we already know.”
Monica laughed and, while stuffing her glasses into her bag, said, “I can’t believe I’m standing here letting you talk me into taking part in some ole Nancy Drew, Murder, She Wrote type of bullshit. I knew I shouldn’t have answered the phone this morning.”
She hadn’t intended to call him. She’d ventured into the second bedroom she primarily used for storage in search of a misplaced reference book. Her “junk room,” as she labeled it, was full of cast-off furniture, a few suitcases, partially taped-up boxes of books, knickknacks, old clothes, and other seldom used and similarly discarded items.
After a careful zigzag across the room, she’d located the book on one of the two large and cluttered bookshelves. Instead of leaving the room the way she’d come in, she’d set out on a different path, one that led her to bump against a midsized, gray suitcase. On pausing to rub the sore spot just below her knee, she immediately recognized the offending suitcase as one of a pair she’d taken on her trip to Vegas with Kenneth. Upon her return, she’d been so distraught, she’d tossed the bag into the room without ever bothering to unpack it. Since that time, the luggage and all of its contents had sat where Aliesha had left it, deliberately abandoned and forgotten.
She clutched the book to her chest and stared down at the bag. A part of her felt inclined to kick it as hard as she could. Another part of her wanted to hug it as tightly as she was hugging the book. Finally, she knelt, placed the book on the floor, and reached out for the bag’s zipper.
The first thing she spotted when she raised the flap was one of Kenneth’s white T-shirts. She’d been in the habit of lounging and sleeping in them when they’d been together. Thinking it might still contain a whiff of him, she picked up the cotton jersey and brought it to her face. Instead of Kenneth, what greeted her nostrils was a soft, subtle blend of the scent the two of them had created together.
The discovery forced her eyes shut. She shook her head to keep the tears at bay. When she felt composed enough to look again, she noticed the book . . . not the academic text she’d set aside . . . but rather the novel Kenneth had given her as a gift, Their Eyes Were Watching God. Aliesha pulled the accompanying card from between the pages of the book, opened it, and reread Kenneth’s scribbling. “If you’ll be my Janie, I promise to be your Tea Cake.”
A sad smile tugged upward on the corners of her lips. The book was one she’d never read, but she’d heard so much about it and its author, Zora Neale Hurston, a Black, female anthropologist, like herself, she almost felt as if she had.
She remembered telling Kenneth, “Thanks,” after he’d first presented her with the book and she’d finished reading the card’s inscription. “But just so we’re clear, at some point, doesn’t Tea Cake get bitten by a rabid dog and try to kill Janie?”
She flipped through the pages of the book, only to find herself muttering, “Damn you, Kenneth.” If only she could summon something akin to outright hate for him, maybe then the thought of having to live without him wouldn’t hurt so much. By the same token, she
knew she’d feel so much more at ease if only she could piece together a small portion of what she’d felt for Kenneth and deposit it in the gaps, crevices, and flat empty spaces that loomed between her and Javiel. In spite of his shortcomings, his mother’s persistent warnings, and even her own nagging doubts and suspicions, she still desperately wanted to love him.
Maybe Monica was right. Maybe she was getting worked up over nothing. Maybe after she talked to Javiel and got him to open up about “Evelyn,” like she’d finally done about Kenneth, maybe then they could clear away some of the stagnant air between them and move forward. But before she could draw any real comfort from the thought, another one occurred to her, one so disturbing she jumped up and knocked over the contents of a nearby box as she scrambled about the messy room in search of the phone.
“My, this is quite the surprise,” Kenneth said on answering.
Aliesha eased herself back onto the floor and next to the still-opened suitcase. Somewhere in the background, she heard the sweet sound of Kem’s voice. The song, “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” was one that she had introduced to Kenneth. Hearing it brought back a flood of warm memories and made her smile.
“I hope it isn’t inconvenient,” she said. “Do you have a minute?”
“For you?” he said. “Always.”
She reached into the bag and stroked his old T-shirt. “I need a favor,” she said.
“Sure, Miz Babygirl. What can I help you with?”
“You weren’t by any chance planning on attending services at Garden View tomorrow, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t. But I certainly can if—”
“No! No!” Aliesha said. “Just the opposite. I’d really appreciate it if tomorrow, you’d stay as far away from Garden View as possible.”