“Frank Willis,” he said, extending his hand, which Jordan ignored.
“What’s with pounding on the door?” Jordan demanded, feeling more ridiculous by the moment, trying to look tough with a teapot in his hand.
“I should go. Having a working vacation, as they say.”
Frank gave Daphne a warm embrace and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Jordan couldn’t bring himself to look at Daphne. He dressed, ignoring her eyes as she lingered by the door, arms folded as though the man was still there. She could explain but Jordan wouldn’t ask; too much mystery with her already.
“Look, I’m gonna be going.”
“Jordan.”
“Yeah?”
“You have every right to know what’s going on.”
“You think so?” he said, bitterly.
She sat on the edge of the bed as he opened the door to leave.
“I can explain. Give me time.”
“You don’t have to. Really. I’ll see you around.”
As he walked out of the apartment, he glanced back. Her face was vacant of emotion. He knew he should have been pissed off, enraged, but something was so wrong with her. He was more mad at himself; he should have seen it coming, but still he got run down like some blind, deaf, and dumb idiot.
* * *
He pulled into his driveway to the sight of Ned’s fully loaded van, packed to the roof with suitcases and boxes. Somehow he had forgotten Ned was leaving today. He felt doubly sick to his stomach; losing a woman and a best friend on the same day.
He walked up the rickety steps of the hovel and through the screen door could see Ned and Art sitting down to a feast at the sad little kitchen table, so weak it wasn’t holding up well under the weight of the spread, a whole Mexican-style roasted chicken, watermelon, tamales, a mound of chocolate chip cookies, and a big pitcher of lemonade—all Ned’s favorites.
“Hey, J! Come on in before we knock this all out,” Ned said.
“Yeah, Trisha brought a feast.”
“Trisha! Did she ask for me? What did you say?”
“I said you were . . . out doing Daphne. Naw, man, I said you had to run an errand and you’d be right back. You lucked out; she had to go home for a second.”
Jordan sighed and slumped into a chair, but then they heard the roar of Trisha’s SUV.
“You in trouble now. She’s gonna smell the woman on you,” Art said.
“Women have that sixth sense,” Ned said, “and heightened powers of smell.”
Jordan bolted from the table and ran to the bathroom. There, he locked himself in and tore off his clothes, tossing his jacket, shirt, and pants into a hamper. He showered vigorously to rid himself of any lingering Daphne, found a pair of stale running shorts and a T-shirt, and stepped out to meet Trisha, who was seated next to Art and across from Ned, looking entertained and content with their company. In tight black jeans and French-cut T-shirt she looked as good as the last time he saw her.
“Hi, Trisha,” Jordan said, feeling suddenly guilty. Maybe that was part of her charm, her ability to make him feel guilt.
“Hello, Jordan,” she said, still with a bit of frost in her voice.
“Are you going to have breakfast?” she asked. “How was your run?”
“Run?”
“How far did you run?”
“Too far. The run was rough.”
“You look like you showered. You always shower and put your running clothes back on?”
Jordan sighed, rolling his eyes.
“No.”
“He’s just too cheap to buy enough fresh underwear,” Ned said.
After breakfast they stood around Ned’s van watching him make a final check, then after the farewell embrace, Trisha returned with a colorfully wrapped box for Ned.
“I hope you can use it,” she said, gesturing for Ned to open it. Inside he found a multipurpose emergency flashlight.
“It’s very powerful. The salesman said don’t look directly at the light because it could cause eye damage.”
“Is that a selling point?” Jordan asked, but Trisha ignored him.
Ned looked unsure of how to respond to the gift. Trisha gave Ned a farewell kiss.
“You two should quit playing and set a wedding date,” Ned said. “See, I can say anything I want now that I’m out. It’s like being on your deathbed or something.”
Trisha and Jordan looked at each other uncomfortably.
Ned pulled his van into the street and waved at them as he drove off.
“Y’all live long and prosper. I’m gonna miss you.”
“Call collect. We want to know how you doing on the road!” Jordan shouted, but Ned was halfway down the street.
“I’m gonna miss him,” Art said, holding up one of Ned’s many sketchings of Taco Bell.
“Me too,” Jordan said, walking to the street and staring after the van.
“Jordan, are you okay?” Trisha asked, but Jordan kept his distance, not wanting to explain his tears.
CHAPTER 9
Trisha remembered writing a paper on the history of psychiatric hospitals. This hospital had to be “Bedlam Lite,” with its sturdy furniture and cheery tile and big-screen television; more a rec room in a college dorm if it wasn’t for the dozen or so glassy-eyed zombies watching television with rapt attention. Other than the one dark-haired, mushroom-pale man walking in tight circles angrily muttering, “Those bastards, liars, kill them all!” the room was calm and more sedate than she had any hope it would be.
Her father waited on the couch farthest from the psychiatric patients. She tried to look at ease as she approached him, but it disturbed her how he stared so fixedly at the ground. Only when she reached out for him did he notice her, and then it was with alarm. After slow recognition, he reached to embrace Trisha with unsteady eagerness.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said, avoiding his eyes. At least he looked much better this time; much more animated than last week.
“Good to see you,” he said, warmly.
“We miss you, Daddy,” Trisha said.
“As you probably expect, I can’t wait to go home.”
“Yes, I’d want to go home too.”
“How’s your mother holding up?”
“She’s doing great.”
“I hope this move isn’t too much for everybody. It must be overwhelming.”
“No, it’s going okay. But I never imagined how much we have.”
“That’s your mother. She’s a damn pack rat.”
The “pack rat” irritated Trisha. She decided to bring up a subject she knew would sting him.
“Your lawyer called.”
He leaned forward and gestured for silence. Then he stood and escorted her to one of the unopenable windows.
“The lawyer is one of them. Whatever he says, don’t listen.”
“Mr. Johnson?”
“Yes! He’s in on it. That’s why I’m here. Too much is at stake. He’s in the plot against me.”
“Dad . . .”
“That’s why they have me in here. I’ve made plans. I’m not going to be an easy victim.”
Alarmed, Trisha remembered her father purchasing a shotgun last year.
He gestured for her to listen.
“Ask to speak to my doctor. Find out what you can.”
“Dad, I . . .”
“Do it!” he said, and walked away so quickly she didn’t have time to respond. He disappeared down the hall leaving her to wonder if he’d return. He didn’t. She sat there watching the patients watch television until she got the nerve to ask for his doctor. At the nurse’s desk she had to wait for the nurse, a heavy woman with a quick frown, to finish what seemed to be a very long personal call.
“May I speak to Dr. Seto?”
“I’ll see if he’s available,” the nurse said, more gruff by the minute.
“The doctor is coming out to speak to you. Please have a seat.”
After a forty-five-minute wait he finally appeared
, an athletic Asian man who had the walk of a surfer. Trisha stood to meet him.
“Miss Bell?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Seto,” he said, as they shook hands. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to discuss your father’s release.”
“His release?”
“Yes. He’s responding well to his medication. We have him on a low dose of an antipsychotic drug. He’s making marked progress.”
“Really?” Trisha said, slumping against the wall. “You know, I’ve never found out exactly what’s wrong with my father.”
The doctor glanced at the chart in his hands.
“This isn’t an exact science, but we know he’s suffering from paranoid delusions, and he’s been deeply depressed for quite some time.”
“And you believe he’s better?”
“Well, he’ll never be better in the sense of something like this never happening to him in the first place. For the rest of his life, he’ll hear voices. Nothing can change that, but with medication and supervision hopefully he’ll be able to manage.”
“Doctor, what if he’s still experiencing paranoid delusions?”
“Unfortunately, he probably is. It’s a matter of management. I talked to your father at length. He’s extremely intelligent and self-aware. I think he’s a good candidate for release.”
“Well, I’ll explain all this to my mother and she’ll get back to you.” Trisha rushed to the elevators praying she wouldn’t see her father standing by the window, searching for enemies, obsessed with his family’s survival.
* * *
Home, she found her mother in the master bedroom, folding clothes.
“Oh, you’re back. I forgot to give you his clean clothes for the week.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s coming home soon, or at least the doctor thinks he should.”
“It’s a blessing,” Lady Bell replied.
“Do you think he’s ready? At the hospital he said some pretty crazy things.”
Lady Bell cleared space on the couch for them to sit.
“I haven’t noticed.”
“Maybe he isn’t taking the medication,” Trisha said.
Lady Bell frowned and straightened the clasp holding her long hair into a tight bun.
“Your father has always been a little paranoid.”
“I thought this was the first time he had a nervous breakdown.”
“No. His work has always been hard on him. He doesn’t talk about it but it was easy to see. He was the only black person to reach that high in management at General Electric, but they overworked him and wouldn’t promote him like the others. Things became a little easier but it never stopped grinding away. He wanted you to have the best; the best education, the best neighborhoods, and he sacrificed for it.”
Sacrificed his sanity, Trisha thought.
“Mom, we need to do something about that shotgun he has.”
Lady Bell paused, considering Trisha’s remark.
“We need to get that gun out of here before he comes home,” Trisha added.
“He’ll be very upset.”
“He’ll just have to be upset,” Trisha said.
“Okay, you handle it.”
Trisha knew she’d get stuck with the responsibility.
“Maybe Jordan will know what to do,” Trisha said.
* * *
The last few weeks she and Jordan were easing back into seeing more of each other, and he seemed to want to see even more of her. While Jordan made it clear that he wasn’t seeing Daphne, she didn’t really believe him. More than likely they had some falling out, and it was only a matter of time before they’d get back together. Jordan seemed too interested in talking about David, and that made her suspect that maybe he was just jealous. That’s what she wanted him to be, but if that was the basis of his coming around, that wasn’t what she wanted either.
In truth, she didn’t know what she wanted.
She drove the few miles to Jordan’s. There, she saw his Triumph in the driveway, but she didn’t pull up behind him. Instead, she parked on the street. Now she knew what she wanted, at least for the moment—to catch him cold; see if he wasn’t keeping his word about Daphne. She imagined Daphne stepping into the shower with Jordan, wild soapy sex ensuing.
She knocked on the door and felt her stomach tense at the sound of someone approaching. It was Art.
“Hey, Trisha, Jordan’s coming right back. Come on in.”
She followed him into the dusty living room. Art was a nice guy but he had weird taste in clothes. His jacket was the brightest yellow she had ever seen on a guy—bumblebee yellow—and it seemed even brighter in contrast to his brown skin.
“Where did you find that jacket?”
“The thrift store on State. I think it’s part of a uniform for a hamburger stand.”
Art pointed to the cursive “Stanley” above his chest.
“I just bought this huge sombrero. Ugly chic, baby, and this is ugly chic.”
“Yes, it is.” Trisha said, as she slipped by him and through the living room into Jordan’s bedroom.
She had liked Jordon’s small, neat bedrom, but she no longer felt comfortable in it. Jordan had probably slept with Daphne on this bed. Of course he had. He slept with her there, and who knows where else. Daphne could easily give him what she couldn’t, but Trisha wasn’t going to sleep with him to keep him. It wasn’t just because she was a Christian; she wasn’t made that way, it meant too much to her.
She heard someone coming toward the bedroom. Jordan was startled to see her, just as she had hoped; and just as she had hoped, he was alone.
“Hey, I was going to call you.”
“Jordan, I need your help.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“I need you to take my father’s shotgun to the police station.”
Jordan laughed.
“You want me to go to a police station with your father’s shotgun? Okay, a black man shows up with a shotgun and says he wants to give it to a policeman. Yeah, that’ll work.”
“I called. The police say it’s okay.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Nobody’s going to shoot you and call it a mistake.”
Trisha sighed. “They said put the gun in a paper bag.”
“Now, that’ll calm everybody when some cop notices I got a shotgun in a garbage bag. I guess you didn’t see Terminator?”
“Well, you could keep it here.”
Jordan shook his head.
“No, that’s not an option. This is one black man who hates guns. Don’t like to have them near me.”
“So, you’ll do it?”
“Drop the gun off at the police station?”
Trisha did her best to look like she needed this done more than anything in the world.
“Okay, but let me ask you this. How come you just don’t take it yourself?”
She laughed. “Because I asked you to do it.”
“Well, that explains it. I’ll come by and pick it up . . . soon.”
“It’s in the car.”
Jordan sighed.
“You want me to do it right now?”
“Yes.”
“Great. You drive, in case something goes wrong. You can watch me make the evening news.”
* * *
During the short drive to the police station on Figueroa, Jordan continued to glance into the backseat at the shotgun Trisha had wrapped like a Christmas present, neat and well taped.
“That gun should be in the trunk. What if the police stop us? They’ll think we’re some kind of black Bonnie and Clyde.”
“You worry too much.”
Jordan shook his head.
“Rich girl, you don’t know. That’s what I like about you. Raised in Santa Barbara, might as well have been Mars.”
Trisha stopped in front of the steps of the police station.
“You’re in the red. I guess you don’t want me to reflect too long on this.”
Trisha nodded.
“Okay, if this makes up for . . .”
“For dumping me for Daphne? No, it doesn’t. . . .”
Jordan sighed and unlocked the door.
“Okay, here goes,” he said, without moving.
“It’s probably best you get it over with.”
“I’m doing this because you don’t think your father should have a gun?”
“Yes, he doesn’t need one now that he thinks ‘they’ are out to get him.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“ ‘They’ are whoever he thinks ‘they’ are.”
Jordan sighed deeply, and turned around to reach for the shotgun in the backseat.
“Okay, this is where I get cut down in my prime,” he said, and opened the car door and stepped out holding the shotgun against his leg in a halfhearted attempt to conceal it.
“Now we’ll see just how vigilant the Santa Barbara police are.”
Trisha watched him walk up the stairs to the station like he was going to his own execution.
This shouldn’t take long, she thought, but as the minutes slipped away and Jordan didn’t return, she wondered if something had gone wrong. She was about ready to go on into the police station when she saw Jordan sprinting down the steps like he was running for his life.
“Go! Go!” he shouted, as he jumped into the car.
Trisha tore out but slowed when she noticed Jordan grinning like a pumpkin.
“You dog!”
“I was waiting on a claim ticket and the cop started talking about people dropping off guns.”
“And . . .”
“He says that it happens all the time. Family trouble and other family members want the guns out of the house, but he said people don’t want to think about how easy it is to get another gun.”
“Great,” Trisha said. “That’s what I needed to hear. That’s all the trouble I need.”
“Anyway, I’m glad we took care of that. When’s your father coming home?”
“Any day now.”
Trisha shook her head, dreading more and more her father’s imminent return home. She hardly noticed arriving at Jordan’s place on Milpas.
“You want to come in?” Jordan asked. “Maybe we could get some lunch.”
“Thanks, but I need to be home to help my mother.”
“Maybe later on tonight.”
“Jordan, I need to ask you another favor.”
All the Trouble You Need Page 11