Theresa hopped out of the car, fuming with frustration. “What is it with these men?” she asked out loud. Did—could—Parvell really want to get serious or to marry her? If so, why didn’t he ask straight out and why did he treat her coldly? If not, why the jewelry—from the looks of the box, a ring? And did she, Theresa, really want to be with him? If she did, why did she feel such a hopeless attraction to Lamont Green? Did she really care for Parvell or was she just desperate to have a man—any man—who might be a husband? Could Parvell be a real contender, when the truth was that she felt uneasy even thinking of inviting him to come anywhere with her during the holidays.
Wracked with conflict, she stomped up to her door, throwing it open and slamming it shut as hard as she could. She marched into the kitchen, threw her coat across a chair, dropped her purse on the floor, and reached down to take off her shoes. Then her house started beeping, annoying her because it would not stop.
All of sudden, Theresa realized that her alarm was about to go off in a matter of seconds. She ran to the control panel, suddenly forgetting the code. The alarm went off full blast with lights flashing all around the house, drawing her neighbors out of their homes with their hands covering their ears.
The phone started ringing, and in all the uproar, she could barely grasp that it was the alarm people. When she answered, she couldn’t remember her own password, never mind the code to turn off the alarm. By the time she figured out the code, a police car had pulled up, and two officers hopped out with guns in hand.
Theresa finally cut off the alarm and ran to answer the door before the police opted to knock it down. It was only when she heard the security system lady calling out to her that she realized that she still had the telephone in her hand.
The police were now in the house running around the downstairs with guns drawn and aimed to shoot. The first cop stopped in his tracks when he noticed Theresa. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, Officer,” she answered meekly.
“Is that your security service on the phone?”
“Yes, Officer.”
“May I speak to them?”
“Yes, Officer,” Theresa answered, conscious that she was repeating herself. She handed him the phone.
“This is Officer Yarborough Flowers . . .”
Theresa struggled to regain her composure while he talked to the dispatcher, then placed the phone back in her hand.
“Do you remember your password? Do you need to set a new security code?” the dispatcher asked.
“My password is ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.’ And no, I don’t need a new code.”
“You sure? ’Cause we can reset it for you.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Thank you,” Theresa said and clicked off the phone.
Officer Flowers eyed her curiously. “Would you like to explain what just happened?” he asked in a firm voice.
Theresa, who was normally very poised and together, leaned against the wall and broke down into a rush of tears. She knew that she was acting like she had lost her last piece of gray matter, and she felt even worse as her neighbors began to gather to see what all the fuss was about. She waved them away for now.
“We’ll call you to check on you later, girl,” her neighbors, the Websters, said together.
“Okay,” Theresa answered, hoping they would hurry up and leave. They were the kind of neighbors you needed, even if you didn’t always want them around. The Websters kept tabs on everybody and everything happening on the street—earning them the distinct honor of being dubbed the official neighborhood “crime dogs” of the Durham police department.
They left eyeing each other and whispering, “What’s up with Miss Thang?”
The officer’s demeanor softened as he took Theresa’s hand and said, “Are you sure you are all right?”
She nodded.
“Really? Because you look terrible, and you like to woke up the dead with all of this drama and excitement.”
Theresa sniffled and smiled.
“Miss Lady, the Lord has just laid it on my heart that this is not quite how you handle things. Am I right?”
Theresa nodded, surprised and relieved. She had been bracing herself to be admonished some more, right before he wrote her a ticket.
“You think because I’m a cop, I don’t listen to the Lord when I’m on duty?”
Theresa opened her mouth to answer him but he spoke before she had a chance to say anything.
“Baby girl, let me lay something on you. There ain’t no way that I am strapping on a gun, then get big and bad enough to hop into a squad car without first praying and giving honor to God and asking Him to be by my side as I make my nightly rounds.”
Theresa remained quiet. He had a point.
“Look, whatever is bothering you is so great it caused you to disrupt the flow of your whole street. Now, that ain’t a good thing. You strike me as a church woman. But I believe you’ve taken matters into your own hands, and you are not trusting the Lord to handle whatever it is that He is trying to do for you. I don’t know what it is, but I do know that you need to put God first in this matter. ’Cause if you don’t, you will mess up worse than you did tonight.
“And let me tell you something, if I come up in your house like this again, I’ll whip out a ticket on you so fat, you’ll need Jenny Craig to help you take care of it. You hear me, Miss Lady?”
Theresa nodded, shamefaced and embarrassed. “Okay,” she said, trying to give a cheerful, I’m-in-control-of-this-thing smile. “And thank you. Really. I’m grateful.”
After seeing Officer Flowers to the door, Theresa took her favorite mug out of the dishwasher. It was sturdy, big, and pretty—pale gray with purple and silver butterflies on it. She filled the mug with hot water, dropped in a Constant Comment tea bag, stuck it in the microwave for one minute, plopped two heaping spoonfuls of honey in the tea, then took the mug, along with her coat and purse, upstairs. Setting the mug on the wide edge of her lavender Jacuzzi tub, she started running the bathwater. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror.
No wonder Officer Flowers had tried to console her—she was a mess. Her hair was sticking straight up all over her head, mascara and tears streaked her face, snot was running out of her nose and over her lip, and her lipstick was so smeared that she looked as scary as Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Her sweater was damp with tears and streaked with her foundation. And the worst part was her boots. Theresa had been in the process of taking off her boots when the alarm sounded. Evidently from the one boot-clad foot, she hadn’t even thought to remove the other one.
“Dang, so this is why I was walking so funny,” she thought, bending down to remove the boot.
Theresa stripped off her clothes and eased into the comfort of the warm bathwater. Sipping her tea, she clicked the remote to turn on her favorite gospel station, The Lite. One of her favorite songs, “I’ll Live,” by Jason Nelson, was playing. She was humming the melody of the vamp—“I’ll live, I’ll live”—when it suddenly hit her: Where is the box from Parvell?
Theresa put down her tea and, grabbing a bath towel, jumped out of the tub. Her coat and purse lay right where she’d dropped them, on the bathroom floor. She stuck her hands in both pockets of her coat and came up empty. Then, dripping wet and shivering, she dumped out her purse on the floor. No box.
A horrible sense of dread gripped Theresa. She’d never lost so much as a cheap earring, yet now it seemed possible—no, likely—that she had lost a very expensive piece of jewelry from Parvell. Putting on her favorite soft yellow pajamas and matching satin slippers, she raced out—making sure to shut off the alarm—to her car. A frenzied search in, under, and around the seats turned up nothing.
Theresa put her hands on her face and sighed heavily.
“I have messed up big-time. Lost Parvell’s gift and don’t even know what the heck it is. And if I don’t find it before he hears that I’ve lost it, no reason to wonder if I should be with him because
this thing will be over before it ever got started.”
It was too late to call the Washington Duke Inn to ask if anyone had found a box. For all Theresa knew, it might have been picked up by someone dishonest. Feeling overwhelmed by defeat, she went back into the house and climbed into bed, clutching a pillow tightly to her chest as a new set of tears fell. Remembering Officer Flowers’s words, she whispered, “Father, thank You for always being here when I need You. Show me what to do and help me find Parvell’s gift.”
She released the pillow and felt peace creep over her. Just before she drifted off into anointed slumber, a soft voice came to her, saying, “Put Me first in your life, let go of that which is not of Me, and I will give you rest and bless you with the desires of your heart.”
Chapter Four
LIKE THERESA, PARVELL WOUND UP HIS EVENING IN A warm bath. He reached for his favorite inflatable pillow and meticulously pressed each suction cup against the wet porcelain. The music coming from the mounted wall speakers of Charmayne’s state-of-the-art Bose sound system was “hot,” “kickin’,” “tight,” and “all pumped up.” Unbeknownst to just about everyone but Charmayne, Parvell was a closet rap and hip-hop aficionado, and he had an impressive collection of CDs by Ludacris, Snoop, Petey Pablo, Three 6 Mafia, T.I., Lil Jon, Trick Daddy, Mike Jones, the Ying Yang Twins, and Project Pat—just to name a few.
Tonight the radio station was pumping out a drop-it-like-it’s-hot sweep of classic songs by Juvenile and the Cash Money Millionaires. Parvell reached for his glass of Crown, turned the Jacuzzi down to low, and sipped in complete satisfaction, as Charmayne massaged shampoo into his scalp.
It had taken some doing to get her to let him in, let alone run his bathwater, fix him a drink, and wash his hair. When he first knocked on the door, Charmayne opened it and let that evil toy poodle, Lulu, that she loved so much run out and chase him back to the car. Sometimes Parvell wondered if Lulu was Charmayne’s alter ego. Charmayne was cool, smooth, and methodical, but the dog was wild, crazy, and almost uncontrollable—as if she was acting out the emotions behind Charmayne’s very calculated and almost unreadable moves.
Finally, after Lulu got tired of acting crazy, Parvell made it onto the porch, where Charmayne kept him standing for a good ten minutes, while he issued no fewer than four good “Baby pleaz—pleaz baby—I need you, baby—ooo baby—baby, baby” begs. The crack in the door widened on number three, and number four was so good, it got him past the front door and into the foyer.
Uncle Big Gold had always told him that “Baby pleaz” worked like a charm, adding, “And boy, if you throw in some ‘I’m such a fool,’ ‘I can’t make it without you,’ ‘I’m hurtin’, baby,’ and ‘You the only one who can take away this pain,’ you in like Flynn.”
He lifted his hand, and in a matter of seconds, his glass was refilled. Parvell, who loved luxury, ran his fingertips over the delicate engravings on the heavy crystal glass, enjoying watching it twinkle and glisten in the soft light of Charmayne’s lush, sky blue bathroom with the pewter-colored metal fixtures. It was as big as a master bedroom and had everything you needed in it, including a wet bar, television, small microwave oven, and miniature refrigerator.
He sipped and closed his eyes, before opening his mouth to allow that sensual “ahhhhh” that always made Charmayne quiver and murmur “Oooooo, Daddy” to escape.
“Daddy?” she whispered, as her expert fingers slipped down to the back of his head, taking great care not to mess up her new manicure. Her nails were too expensive and took too long to put on to mess them up washing a man’s hair. Her nail artist, LaShawn, had encouraged her to go with a more subdued, classier look. But Charmayne had just rolled her eyes at LaShawn, saying firmly, “I told you to hook me up, not have me looking like some church mother. You save that old tired mess for somebody like Queen Esther Green, and do these nails right.”
LaShawn rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and pulled out what she secretly thought were the most “ghetto fabulous” nail tips she had in the salon. Charmayne was thrilled with them and rewarded LaShawn with a hefty tip. They were fluorescent red, with gold dust sprinkled on them ever so lightly, so as not to detract from the diamond chips embedded in each nail.
“Something wrong, baby?” Parvell asked, wondering why she had stopped rubbing the back of his head.
“Uhhh, no, Daddy,” she answered. Glad as she was that Chablis had tipped her off tonight, she worried that her girl might not have sense enough to keep her involvement with Parvell a secret. The last thing she needed right now, when they were trying to clinch the Jethro Winters deal, was to have folks know that she was up to more than business with Parvell. Once the deal went through, she could start to push Parvell into claiming her publicly as his “boo.”
Charmayne, who was nine years younger than Parvell, thought he was everything she wanted in a man and future husband. He was wealthy, educated, and an entrepreneur. But even more than that, the brother was from her neck of the woods, the ’hood. She loved the way he walked, dressed, talked, hustled, and put it on her. Only a brother from the ’hood could really speak her language.
Unfortunately, most of the brothas who qualified for her attention were happily married like James Green and his frat brother, Bug Hopson; didn’t make enough money if they met her other standards; made enough money but the hustle was just a wee bit too shady for comfort; too young, too old, too fat, too country, too drunk, too ugly, or had a tad too few teeth for her taste; expected her to take care of them; or were far too self-righteous to be bothered with, like Lamont Green. Parvell Sykes was the only man she knew who fit the bill. And whether he knew it or not, she had appointed him as her desired man-to-be.
“Then, if nothing’s wrong, you need to quit staring off in space and tend to your man like he means something to you.”
Charmayne started to cup Parvell’s head in her hand, but then she got mad. Here she was, sitting on the hard edge of her tub because Parvell didn’t like sharing a bath with anybody, washing and massaging his head, handing him glasses of Crown like she was a bartender at Durham’s favorite over-thirty-something black nightclub, The Place to Be, and he had the nerve to say some mess like that to her.
Worse yet, he was saying it after his tired behind had been caught with another woman. Parvell hadn’t apologized enough to suit Charmayne, and he didn’t even have the decency to mention the box Chablis had seen him give Theresa. Charmayne knew Theresa Hopson’s support could help sway Rev. Quincey to back the Winters bid. And Charmayne knew that if, given the chance, Parvell would try to get more than “backing and support” from Theresa. Tall, shapely, and chocolate, with naturally long hair and the kind of long legs brothers loved to fantasize about, Theresa Hopson was a beautiful woman. The box—a ring box, according to Chablis—made her wonder just how far Parvell would go to gain such a chance.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, admiring her pale, redbone complexion, greenish brown eyes, rich, cinnamon lips, and naturally dark golden hair with red and blond highlights. Charmayne knew she was sexy, with her large round behind, anchored with wide hips, and her neat bustline that was neither too small nor too big. There was only one thing wrong with her image in the mirror. Her bare ring finger.
Parvell held out his glass for another refill, sighing impatiently when she didn’t respond on cue.
“My drink,” he insisted, getting annoyed.
Charmayne rose, but instead of getting the Crown bottle, she grabbed the large pitcher she used to rinse Parvell’s hair. Dipping it into the bathwater, she dumped what had to be two quarts right over his head.
“What the . . .” Parvell sputtered. “Girl, you aiming for a little tap on that behind, pouring all of that hot water all over me like that.”
He stood up, eyes clenched tight to keep out the soapy water, hand reaching for a towel.
“Sorry, baby,” Charmayne cooed, like she didn’t have the faintest idea of what she had done. She left the towel on the rack, content to wat
ch him squirm. Only when her satisfaction at watching him spit and sputter and swear over the soap in his mouth and eyes was complete did she put a tiny facecloth in his hand—a “towel” that belonged to one of her niece’s dolls.
“What do you think I can do with this mess?” Parvell snapped, one foot out of the tub, trying to dry off his face with that little scrap of wet material.
“Poor baby,” Charmayne said, without an audible trace of sarcasm. She handed him a large towel but didn’t bother to help him get out of the tub.
Parvell dried off, mouth all tight, eyes stinging. When he finally rinsed the soap out of his eyes, Charmayne was smiling and dropping her light blue silk robe to reveal her gold bra, with tassels on the tips of the cups, which so beautifully offset her glistening gold-dusted, diamond-chip nails. She shook a bit to make those tassels twirl, snapped at the almost invisible golden strings on her matching thong, and turned around to give a little shake to the tassel hanging down the back.
“I bet Theresa Hopson don’t know how to do this,” she said in a sultry voice.
Parvell wanted to get mad. But when Charmayne got to twirling those tassels, shaking and twisting like she was auditioning as a dancer on a rap video, he lost all memory of what he wanted to scold her for. Seeing that he was easing into a better mood, Charmayne decided to go in for the kill. She spun the tassels some more, and when Parvell broke into a grin, she dropped down into a squat like she was doing a table dance, then worked her way back up, still twirling those tassels.
Right on cue, Nelly came on. And as soon as she heard “Drop down and get yo’ eagle on, gurl,” Charmayne dropped it like it was so hot she’d spontaneously combust if she kept still, popping and bouncing her big wide butt with such smooth and rapid precision that she could have put any of those young rap video dancers to shame.
Holy Ghost Corner Page 5