All the Trouble You Need

by Jervey Tervalon

  He turned off the big Maglite he held in his hand like it was Darth Maul’s lightsaber, and waited for Trisha to let him into the car. She barely had caught her breath from being so startled; finally calm, she opened the door and shouted at him.

  “I couldn’t see a thing. I was going crazy,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s what I like around here. It’s so private. No one spies on you, because they can’t see,” David said, like a man of mystery.

  Finally, the freeway entrance and the light of civilization shining in the distance. Even though she had her attention on driving, she could feel David’s eyes riveted on her.

  “So, what’s with this Jordan guy? Isn’t he a little old for you?”

  “Old? He’s only twenty-eight.”

  “Really? Who would have guessed it. Maybe he drinks.”

  Trisha decided not to respond.

  “So, who else is going to be at the march?”

  “Michelle said she’d come and some of the other sorors.”

  “Michelle? I don’t know about her. She’s pretty and all but she’s too forward.”

  “Too forward? Michelle?”

  “She expects too much. I don’t mind going out with her and all but she wants what she can’t have.”

  “David, you guys haven’t gone out but a couple of times. How do you know all this?”

  “I know. We’ve talked. She let me know right off how much she wanted a family.”

  “When we first went out, all you talked about was wanting a family. Bet you did the same with Michelle.”

  “You think you know me so well,” he said, grinning. “But between you and me it’s different. We understand the same things. We come from a similar background.”

  Trisha could hardly wait for the Garden exit. Whenever David started in on how they were cut from the same cloth, she felt like screaming. They crossed Milpas and could see the marchers gathering in front of the Afro-American Community Center.

  “Is this Jordan coming?” David asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve invited lots of people.”

  “So, you invited the both of us?”

  Trisha sighed. David just didn’t know when to quit.

  “We’ll park here,” Trisha said and, as quickly as she could, cut the engine, grabbed for her purse, and slammed the car door shut. She started walking, hoping David wouldn’t continue to piss her off. He caught up with her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. David had such a selective memory. What was she supposed to think about this new and improved attitude? Before he went away to England, about the only time he called was to borrow money. Oh, it’s only for the short term. Dad said he’d send the money. But Dad didn’t, and she had loaned David more than a thousand dollars of her own money over the last two years. He had yet to repay her a cent. It was like she was helping to finance his undergraduate education.

  “People like us understand what the score is. Our parents accomplished much and we have to do just as much.”

  Trisha shrugged as they entered the crowd of marchers and she slipped away from his grasp. She made her way to the very end of the hundred or so people, almost all of Santa Barbara’s black community, plus the last few remaining white members of the local NAACP. Most everyone was a family friend or an acquaintance of some sort. Her hunch paid off; at the rear of the marchers she found Jordan lingering dead last. He was obviously daydreaming, oblivious to the lighting of the candles to commence the march.

  “Jordan!”

  Trisha reached over and squeezed his hand.

  “Have you seen my mother?”

  “Yeah, I did. Walking with a huge candle she had to hold with two hands. She had to ask someone to hold it so she could give me a hug.”

  “She really likes you.”

  Jordan shrugged nervously.

  “You want to get something to eat after this?” he asked.

  “Maybe later. I’ve got to give a friend a ride home,” she said.

  Just then the procession started to move. All the candle holders gathered at the head of the march and led the way for the rest of them.

  “See, in L.A. we didn’t celebrate King Day. We would just caravan to the beach and get toasted.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a cynic. Come on, help me find my mother.”

  Jordan allowed Trisha to pull him into the heart of the march. Then, almost at the front of the slowly moving crowd, she suddenly stopped, causing folks behind them to stumble. Jordan saw what caused her to lose her balance; David was with Lady Bell, the both of them looking regal and self-assured as he escorted her and her huge candle to the very front of the line.

  “That’s your stuck-up friend, David. That boy’s everywhere.”

  “Well, he came with me.”

  “What? I thought you asked me.”

  “Yeah, I did, but you never did confirm.”

  Jordan shook his head. “Confirm?”

  “In my world people do confirm,” Trisha said.

  “How far is the march?”

  “To State Street, but we couldn’t get a permit to march down State Street, said it would be too disruptive.”

  “Those bastards!”

  “Are you ever serious?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  They continued on into the dense core of marchers. There, she waved to a heavyset black woman done up like she was ready for church, in a fur and a kind of beehive wig.

  “Pie!” Trisha shouted.

  “Y’all late!” Pie said, frowning.

  “I know. The parking was horrible,” Trisha answered.

  “Y’all still late.”

  Trisha gave Pie a kiss and wrapped her arms around Pie’s wide waist. Pie smiled happily and handed each of them a candle. “Y’all should know what to do with these.”

  Jordan thought Pie’s voice was better for croaking than talking. Listening to her made him want to laugh, but he had sense enough not to do something that stupid.

  “Pie, this is Jordan. He teaches at the university.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Pie,” Jordan said, nervously.

  “You sure about that?” Pie drawled.

  He extended his hand to her, and she examined it for a moment and dropped it.

  “How you know I’ve been married?”

  “Huh?”

  “You called me Mrs. How you don’t know I just don’t shack up or what?”

  “I just assumed . . .”

  She laughed. “You sound like a smart boy. Is he smart?”

  Trisha didn’t seem flustered a bit by Pie asking such a question. Jordan was, though.

  “What, y’all expecting to get engaged but you ain’t brought him ‘round to see me.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Jordan said, glancing at Trisha.

  “I like this boy. He’s got manners. But you better tell him why you can’t cook.”

  “Pie helped raise us. She did all the cooking.”

  “Raise y’all? I been working for the Bell family since 1975. I was the first one to take you home. You was the prettiest and the cryin’ist baby I ever want to see. That family is the quietest colored folk I ever done worked for. I cooked, cleaned those Bell babies’ butts, but Trisha done take the cake. You got both these boys trying to make time with you. You got nerve.”

  Luckily for Trisha and Jordan the march started, and Pie saw friends further along and left them without a backward glance.

  Soon they arrived at State Street and the short march ended in front of the popular Joe’s Bar and Grill, where Lady Bell held her candle up high, and David stood next to a tall minister with a booming voice who led them in prayer for the memory of Dr. King.

  Afterward, Jordan took Trisha’s hand.

  “Let’s go to that Thai place you like.”

  Before she could respond, David appeared, standing a bit out of earshot, wearing a bemused expression. The march ended quickly but not quickly enough. Trisha wanted to drop David off in Goleta and return to J
ordan as quickly as she could, but first she had to maneuver around the minefield of good-byes, especially with Pie returning their way.

  “I’m inviting you young people to my place for Sock It to Me Cake.”

  Trisha shook her head. “I’ve got to get David home. He’s studying for medical school exams.”

  “He can study after he eat,” Pie said. Trisha knew that it was impossible to argue with her once she got going. Then David added his two cents.

  “Sock It to Me Cake sounds good. I’m taking a break.”

  Trisha shrugged. David was never that generous or easy when she had been crazy about him.

  “Okay, I’ve got to get back and grade some papers,” Jordan said, and took off so fast she wondered if he heard her good-bye.

  As Trisha drove to Pie’s, she refused to say a word. David, though, chattered relentlessly.

  “I don’t know what you see in this Jordan. He really is stuck on himself.”

  “Jordan? I always thought you loved yourself more than you ever loved me.”

  David sighed, dramatically.

  There was a pause. She didn’t want drama with him; all she wanted was to drop him off and get the hell back on the freeway without getting lost on those dark roads.

  “You really like this guy?”

  It was like he hadn’t heard a word she said.

  “I like him a lot,” she said, and instantly regretted it.

  David sighed again, dramatically.

  “It’s so obvious. But it can’t work out. You should be able to see that.”

  Trisha refused to take the bait and turned off the road into Pie’s driveway. She lived on the lower east end of Santa Barbara, an area older locals referred to as Little Mexico. Ironically, Pie’s property extended all the way to Coast Village Road, the main drag of Montecito, which meant this old black woman who could barely read was property rich. Trisha liked the Mexican neighborhood with all those friendly kids, some as brown as she was, playing in flower-filled yards. She wished she was back there and not having to escort David into Pie’s cramped living room. They sat on the annoyingly soft vinyl-covered couch, and already the backs of her thighs were sweating. She couldn’t keep upright enough to avoid leaning on David, which inspired him to slip his arm around her. Tommy, Pie’s old gutbucket ex-Marine, had his attention focused on the prizefight happening on his stomach; his preferred way to watch his five-inch television was to rest it on his stomach, and if people came by, he’d put it at an angle so they could see a bit. The real action wasn’t on that silly television but in the kitchen; Pie and Lady Bell were banging pots and swinging pans. Trisha wanted to leave but she was stuck until the desserts were ready. Also, she couldn’t figure out why David, the world’s most bitterly impatient person, sat happily sorting through a stack of Jet magazines, sipping a big tumbler of Kool-Aid that Pie had poured for him.

  “Mom! You have to explain to Pie why I have to go.”

  Lady Bell appeared in the doorway, drying her flour-encrusted hands on the worn apron.

  “Well, . . . Pie. These kids need to be on their way.”

  “Aw, I want y’all to have some cake. It’s just about ready. Hold your horses and there’s a cake for your daddy too,” Pie said, and returned to the kitchen.

  Trisha knew what that meant. Daddy must be in another bad mood and she was elected to lead the food appeasement detail. She’d probably be the one who’d have to bring it into the den where he’d be glaring at the television. Why did he need his own cake? So he could eat and glower without having to share? She caught David smiling at her.

  “What are you grinning at?” she snarled.

  “Can’t you relax? That cake smells delicious. I’m content to wait.”

  “I am waiting,” she said angrily.

  After another fifteen minutes Pie came out with a tray of fat slices of very yellow cake, and as soon as Pie returned to the kitchen, Trisha glared at David.

  “Eat the cake!” she said.

  She ate two tart bites and headed for the door.

  “Come on, David!” she demanded, waving at him.

  Trisha had started the engine and put it into reverse before looking up at David peering anxiously into the window. She finally unlocked the door, let him in, and drove recklessly to the freeway, speeding all the way out to Goleta in silence.

  “I can’t believe you’re acting so love struck!” David said.

  “Who’s acting love struck?”

  “Don’t lie, but he’s not your kind.”

  “You keep talking about kind. Are you supposed to be my kind? Am I supposed to be happy about that?”

  “Yes, you should, because we have a chance for a future. That’s what’s important.”

  “I don’t know how you could say that. David, we broke it off before you went to England. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Yes, it has. I’ve changed.”

  “How?”

  “I want to marry you.”

  “You’d better get out here,” she said, and stopped abruptly. She unlocked the door without pulling over to the side of the road.

  “Trisha?”

  She looked straight ahead, ignoring David. Finally he sighed and put one foot out of the car. Trisha smashed the gas pedal, and David had to leap away, fearing for his leg, if not his life.

  * * *

  Trisha drove home on automatic pilot, so overwhelmed with David’s marriage proposal that she didn’t notice the trash cans in front of the garage door until she hit them, but not so hard as to do damage to either the car or the door but more than loud enough to irritate her father. After she cut the engine and the lights, she slumped in the seat and waited for him to come peering out. She dreaded having to contend with his bad temper. Sure enough the door opened, and she watched him silhouetted in the doorway, hands on hips. How long did he plan on staying there like some damn motionless sentinel?

  “Trisha, is that you? Why the hell are you driving like a lunatic?”

  Suddenly, she wasn’t afraid of his temper; she didn’t care. She was an adult and he needed to respect that, even if she did run over the trash cans. She walked by him with a curt “Good night” and headed for her bedroom. She had no time to worry about her father, when she had David to worry about.

  “Because you’re a Christian. You believe in family, and you know what we’re working toward because we both come from there to start with,” David had said to her on more than one occasion. That was his justification for the relationship, even when he insisted they were still a couple, after she had wanted to end it earlier on.

  Then almost instantly she was angry. How could he treat her like shit for so long and then expect her to marry him? And she wanted to ask, “So what about all these rumors about how wild you were in England? You’re the one who says he’s such a Christian!”

  She hoped that by lying perfectly still in bed she might fall asleep, but she became even more alert. She detested the fact that David still had such influence over her, but perversely she couldn’t help imagining herself and David five years from now; she’d be finished with law school and David with his internship at some prestigious hospital, and then they’d squeeze in two beautiful kids and live like the Kennedys or something. They shared a mutual fantasy of achievement and wealth that each made more possible for the other. Her own fantasies made her queasy; thinking about his made her depressed.

  She immediately called Jordan.

  “Jordan?”

  “Trisha? What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing much. I just needed to hear your voice.”

  “Really, that’s nice to know.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Oh no, I was thinking of slipping out . . . for a beer. It’s not really late.”

  “I’d like to see you.”

  “Yeah.” Jordan paused long enough to sink Trisha’s heart. “Sure, I can swing by. You want to go to Frimples for a burger?”

  “I shouldn’t leave. My father is a little paranoid about m
e being out late. I thought we could talk for a minute. I’ll meet you in the driveway. Don’t ring the bell. I’ll hear you.”

  Trisha hung up, relieved to know she’d see him; she didn’t need a scene with her father, but one was coming. She had to get her own apartment. She couldn’t manage her life and him too. He needed so much order in his life the whole family tried as best they could to conceal whatever might upset him. Footsteps stopped at her door. “Good night, sugar,” Lady Bell said. Mother knew how to do it, slip into the house without making a sound, and since she slept in a separate bedroom, she could avoid causing those little disturbances Daddy couldn’t tolerate. It used to be easier when she was a girl. During all those business trips for General Electric he took, her mother had the opportunity to run the house as she saw fit, and backed with the checkbook, almost anything went if it had to do with church, or civil rights, or the down-and-out. Trisha remembered when she let the Black Student Union have their meeting at the house, but Pie had to tell her that those funny cigarettes were marijuana.

  “Lady Bell, we got to get them to clear out of here! They smoking funny cigarettes!” While her mother was horrified, waving her hands over her head like she was shooing flies, Pie managed to herd two dozen buzzed college students from the living room without offending anyone. If Lady Bell had a special power, it was being incapable of giving or receiving offense . . . and charming everyone.

  Even through the heavy curtains Trisha heard the distant, faint roar of the bad muffler of Jordan’s Triumph. She hurried through the house to disarm the security alarm and then went outside, hoping to meet him at the bottom of the driveway. Before she was halfway down she saw headlights flying up the hill, but then to her relief he cut his lights and engine and coasted to a stop a few yards from the house. She ran to the car gesturing for him to follow.

  “Let’s go sit by the pool,” she whispered.

  Jordan shrugged and followed her along the side of the house to the pool deck. She led him to the lawn chairs farthest from the house.

  “Great view,” he said, whispering as he looked down at the flickering lights of the city and the happy Christmas lights of the drilling platforms in the channel.

  “We can talk here. It’s far enough from the house.”