The bass on the car was booming so loud, Theresa could feel the thumping jolting her chest. It was only when they made out the tune as a gospel song by Keith “Wonderboy” Johnson that Lamont relaxed his hand and removed it from the inside of his coat.
The window rolled down just enough for them to recognize Baby Doll’s face from the passenger side.
“I just wanted to wish y’all a good evening.”
“Thanks, Miss Baby Doll,” Theresa said, wondering what was so different about the way she was talking until it dawned on her that the new teeth made it easier for her to enunciate her words.
Baby Doll rolled the window back up and the car drove off.
“All I want to know, is where in the world did they find a ’75 Cutlass Supreme in such excellent condition? And, where in the world was Mr. Lacy if Miss Baby Doll was on the passenger side?” Lamont asked.
“The first is a good question, Lamont. But I’m not so sure I want to know the answer to the second one.”
Lamont laughed.
“Yeah, you have a point there, baby.”
Theresa was about to comment when his telephone rang as if on cue.
Lamont looked at the caller ID and frowned, mumbling, “What in the world does she want?” as he walked away to take the very unexpected call from Chablis.
“Yes,” he said impatiently.
“Look, this will only take a minute,” Chablis said, wishing that she had to call anybody but Lamont Green. But she was not going to sit by while Jethro Winters rolled over her brother’s neighborhood without trying to do something about it.
“I have a paper that kind of . . . uhhh . . . fell out of Charmayne Robinson’s purse on Winters’s plans for the neighborhood surrounding the Cashmere, when what he is calling ‘Phase I’ is complete. Charmayne is my girl and all. But she is not gonna help that greedy white boy roll up on my brother and his folks in that neighborhood. I just wanted to make sure that it was all right with you, if I mailed it to you.”
“Sure, sweetie,” Lamont said, not even thinking about how that endearing term sounded to Theresa, who was waiting on him and looking at him like he was crazy. All he knew, was the girl had something that would blow Jethro Winters out of the water when they made the first appeal to the DUDC.
“It’ll be in the mail tomorrow. I’m sending it certified.”
“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll call you as soon as I have it in my hands. Thank you, baby,” he said and hung up the telephone, walking back over to Theresa with the biggest grin on his face.
Theresa stormed off toward her car, hurt and wishing she didn’t feel like crying. Lamont hurried to catch up with her.
“Baby . . . baby . . . wait.”
That was it. Theresa had reached her limit. Upon hearing that second “baby,” she snapped. Walking up to Lamont, Theresa snatched that cell phone right out of his hand and threw it on the ground.
“What the—”
The surprise on his face felt good for a mere second. But it wasn’t enough to satisfy the frustration that had been building up in her for some time. When the phone started ringing a second time, she jumped up in the air and landed with both feet on top of the phone. And she jumped and jumped and stomped on that phone until there were nothing left but silver and black fragments on the pavement of the church parking lot.
Satisfied and tired, feet sore from stomping on that hard metal-like plastic, Theresa hopped in her car and drove off before Lamont could say another word.
Lamont was standing in the middle of the skid marks from Theresa’s car, staring at the silver and black fragments of material that used to be his cell phone. No woman had ever even thought to challenge him on who called that number. A cell phone was, after all, sacred territory. It was the one phone a brother could expect to receive calls on and not have to deign to answer the “who was that” look. And to have a woman snatch the cell out of his hand and then to jump on it and smash it to pieces was tantamount to her rummaging through his things, finding that “black book” (which in his case was chocolate brown leather), reading it, and ripping it to shreds right before his eyes.
James, who had witnessed the entire episode, turned into the smart-alecky little brother that he was and started singing his own version of Brian McKnight’s “What We Do Here.” He walked up to Lamont, clasped his hand on his shoulders, knowing he was being so wrong, held up his own cell phone like he was talking on it, and sang:
“Who I talk to right heah . . . is none yo’ biznez . . . And I wanna make it clear . . . oh my Theresa . . . that even tho’ you’re a dear . . . I’m tellin’ you . . . Don’t ask me ’bout what comes from heah.”
James started laughing and Lamont got angrier. He did not see any humor in that little ditty, or what just happened.
“What I want to know,” Lamont snapped in a nasty voice, clipping James’s laughter, and making Rhonda ease away to where Vanessa and Bug were standing talking to Lena Quincey, “is what made that woman think that she could clown me like that?”
“Nothing made her think she could clown you, Big Brother. She just did.”
Lamont continued to frown. James was definitely not helping with this matter.
“I don’t know why you standing there acting like Theresa committed a capital crime because she tore up your precious phone,” James said as he started laughing again at just the thought of Theresa jumping up and down on Lamont’s cell phone. “Oh sorry. Look, you asked for it, Lamont. Even though she shouldn’t have messed up your phone like that, you still asked for it.”
All Lamont did was continue to frown and look at James like he had a big booger hanging out of his nose.
“Why don’t your trifling butt just fess up? You’ve talked to some women on that cell phone like they were the ‘bestest’ thang in the whole wide world right in front of Theresa. And nothing or no one could persuade you to do otherwise—that is until today. ’Cause I bet you’ll give some real serious thought over what you say, how you say it, and who you say it to on that cell the next time some woman calls you whenever Miss Theresa is around.”
Lamont raised his hands in surrender.
“Okay. I have not handled telephone calls right around Theresa. So, sue me.”
“See,” James sighed heavily, “that is the problem. Your main concern is that it bothers Theresa and hurts her feelings . . .”
“Isn’t it enough,” Lamont queried, “that I am concerned that my calls bother Theresa?”
“No,” James answered him matter-of-factly. “The calls are just a symptom. The problem is that you don’t think there is anything wrong with these calls because they don’t mean anything to you. See, you love this woman. She has first place in your heart. But you have to make it clear to her and everybody else that she has first place in your life.”
“Wait a minute. If I love her—and I do—then, if I marry her, doesn’t that say it all?”
“No,” James replied gently, wishing that another man had explained this very womanly issue to him when he first realized how much he loved Rhonda. Could have saved him a lot of grief and frustration, if he would have just understood what he hoped to convey to his brother.
“Lamont, when you fall so deeply in love with a woman that you are going to make her a permanent part of your life, you have a responsibility to protect her from the slights and transgressions of others who may have difficulty digesting a change in how you relate to them because this woman is now in your life. What seems normal and easy for you may be something akin to an anathema to them. And without even meaning to, they will take it out on Theresa—and it’s not fair for you to allow that to happen to her. You following me on this?”
Lamont nodded and got into his car.
James knew he’d said enough.
“You’re still playing Santa, right?”
Lamont smiled and tapped the middle of his chest with his fist to signal that he was, and drove off.
Rhonda, Vanessa, and Lena were standing together talk
ing and absorbing as much of James and Lamont’s conversation as they could without getting caught and called on the carpet for eavesdropping.
“You better call the girl and make sure she’s all right, Vanessa,” Rhonda directed. She’d never seen Theresa lose her cool like that.
Vanessa pulled out her cell phone, dialed it, and walked a few paces away from her girls. She’d tried to keep her nose out of Theresa’s business. But that little peeling off and burning-tire-rubber episode demanded some attention from somebody. Before Theresa could finish getting hello out of her mouth, Vanessa leaped right into the conversation.
“Why did you run off like that?”
“I don’t want to talk about this with you, Vanessa,” Theresa answered in her businesswoman voice.
“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” Vanessa countered. She couldn’t stand it when Theresa got her butt up on her shoulders like that and then got to talking in that harsh voice. “Look, I didn’t mess over tires expensive enough to pay all of my bills this month—screeching out of the parking lot like I didn’t have any daggone sense.”
Theresa didn’t say anything. And she had the nerve to try and sneak out a sniffle after all of that big, bad, and nasty talking.
“Is your behind crying? Where are you?”
“In my garage.”
“Girl, how fast were you driving?”
“I dunno.”
Vanessa sighed out loud. Sometimes Theresa could make you want to throw her up in a tree. She said, “Look, the Lord laid this on my heart some time ago and I have just gotten to the point where I have peace about sharing this with you.”
She felt Theresa tightening up all the way through the phone and wondered if she should continue, and decided that it was now or never.
“I don’t understand how you can be so assured and faithful in the business world and then fall flat on your face when it comes to believing the Lord for a husband. Nobody can get around you when it comes to that store. But you run your own self in circles when it comes to finding a man.
“I’ve sat back and watched you run off a few good brothers because of your ridiculous specifications. I’ve heard you ask some nice man who just wanted to take you out for a cup of coffee if he’d been tested for AIDS, and then wonder why he didn’t call you back. Did you really think that the good Lord would send you somebody who was HIV positive, when He knows your every thought and concern?”
Vanessa took a real deep breath and went for what she knew Theresa would swear was her jugular vein.
“And Lord help the brother who starts to like you and reveals that he hasn’t always had the best credit. What hardworking black man do you know who hasn’t had to deal with less than perfect credit at least once in his life?”
Theresa started breathing hard into the telephone. Having good credit was something she was so proud of, and she had trouble understanding others who didn’t.
“Umm . . . hmmm,” Vanessa said, sucking on her teeth. “You need to work on that one, girl. ’Cause your own brother has had a few ‘flags’ on his credit report. And one more thing—I’m not so sure you know what to do with a brother, like Lamont, who walks and acts like his ‘stuff’ is the best there is in all of Durham County.”
“VANESSA!” Theresa exclaimed. “We don’t need to be all down in that boy’s clothes.”
“Well, if he were your husband that is exactly where you’d need to be. Because he is the kind of man who wants one of those Betty Wright women.”
“What is a Betty Wright woman?”
“Well, okay,” Vanessa said. “He wants a Millie Jackson woman.”
“Vanessa, if my ears serve me correctly, Millie Jackson’s music is more risqué than what I’ve heard Betty Wright singing. So, what’s your point?”
“Lamont wants what Betty Wright calls ‘a lady in the streets, a mama to the kids, and you-know-what-in-the-sheets.’”
“Of course Betty Wright would sing like that, she’s the Clean-up Woman for goodness sake! And why would I want to be like that?”
“Because that’s what yo’ man gone want.”
“What man?”
“Lamont,” Vanessa answered, thinking that this conversation sounded a whole lot better when she rehearsed it with the Lord in prayer.
“So, how did Lamont Green suddenly become my man?”
“When the Lord decided that is who he would be,” Vanessa said with such an anointed conviction, Theresa felt it and knew in that instant that she was right. Only the Lord could have revealed that to Vanessa in such a way that she could believe it without a shred of natural evidence.
“You know Lamont is your husband. That’s why you get so mad when Gwen calls, and then cut the pure-tee fool when Chablis called him this evening.”
“That was Chablis?”
“Yes. And from what I’ve been able to gather from sneaking and reading the text message James sent to Bug, Chablis has some information that is gonna rock some of the members on the DUDC’s world. That is why he was so sweet with her—she had something he wanted, and this time it had nothing to do with going over to her house for an impromptu ‘wine tasting.’”
Theresa started laughing.
“Girl, you are so wrong and so crazy.”
“I just call ’em like I see ’em,” Vanessa said, glad that Theresa was finally calming down. “Anyway, you need to let the Lord fight this battle for you. Lamont is just a man—brown dust, like a blade of grass, and no match for God. He is your husband and you know it, too. Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Theresa said, wondering how it came to be that the Lord decided that her husband would be a boy from her old neighborhood—a boy just like her. And all these years, she’d thought that her husband would be some kind of “big-time something or another” with one of those impressive black family pedigrees.
But then as Romans 8:28 clearly stated in her Amplified Bible, All things work together and are [fitting into a plan] for good to and for those who love God and are called according to [His] design and purpose.
A sweet calm came over Theresa. It was the peace that was so perfect it pushed her past the hurt and fear of being alone without an anointed and God-selected husband to share her life with. As the Lord told Jehosophat when faced with a treacherous and powerful army bent on turning his people every which way but loose, the battle is not yours, but God’s.
Like so many women, she’d been fighting her own battle of loneliness and fear of never being married, instead of trusting the Lord and knowing that no matter how long her time without a husband may have appeared to her, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob was not about to leave her hanging with a heavy heart silently pleading for deliverance from the place she was in.
Ruth was out in a field gathering food so that she and Naomi would not starve. She found food, love, a husband, and the distinct honor of being King David’s “Nana” or “Big Mama.” If the Lord hooked up this widowed and impoverished Moabite woman in a foreign land, Theresa knew He was doing the same for her in her own hometown, with the boy next door.
Chapter Fifteen
IT HAD BEEN A COUPLE OF YEARS SINCE CHARMAYNE had been in This Ain’t Your Carolina Blue Sports Bar and Grill. As she sat quietly taking in the setting, she understood why. This place, though quite comfortable and pleasing to the eye, had a bit too much early-1960s, white Southern flavor for her taste.
Most of the walls consisted of polished walnut paneling. The two large picture windows, framed with navy and white plaid curtains, offered wonderful views of Duke’s east campus several stories below. The smoking lounge epitomized shabby chic with the large and comfortable chairs—some in aged and cracked black leather, others in worn navy velvet with slick nap on the arms. And adding to that ambience was the superfluous supply of Duke athletic accessories hanging everywhere. It could make a Carolina grad like Charmayne feel very out of place, especially during a heated Duke vs. Carolina basketball game.
About the only things that spoke of twenty-first-century
life were the two large, flat-screen televisions in the main area. Otherwise, the sturdy wooden tables surrounded by matching chairs that were almost too heavy to lift, rough wooden floors with antique and sometimes threadbare Oriental area rugs, kept right in step with another time—one where black folks were invited in only to make sure that the surroundings were clean and comfortable enough for the next day’s crowd.
For most white folks (along with a decent showing of black folks) who wanted to hang out after work or on the weekends, the This Ain’t Your Carolina Blue Sports Bar and Grill was an ideal spot that was always crowded. But whenever Charmayne wanted to hang out like this, she preferred to be in the company of people at The Place to Be nightclub, located not too far from Eva T. Marshall University.
Now, The Place to Be definitely didn’t represent old-money elite like this place. But it sure was a whole lot more fun. You could get all dressed up and go over there, eat some good food, drink some good liquor, hear some good music, and dance until you sweated past your weave tracts down to the roots of your real hair. Plus, some of the Triangle area’s finest and sexiest brothers were always on-site at The Place to Be.
Charmayne rattled the ice around in her drink before she drained what remained, and then dipped her fingers in the glass to get a piece of ice to suck on. She loved the taste of residue liquor on ice almost as much as she liked the taste of the liquor itself. She didn’t care for prissy drinks—the ones that were all pretty and pink and dressed up with some kind of sugary something or another. Charmayne preferred old-school, black-people liquor—Crown Royal, Rémy Martin, Hennessy, and of course, Grey Goose.
“You are working the heck out of that ice, baby. Think you could do some of that twirling around on me?”
Charmayne glanced up and then around to make sure nobody was close enough to hear Jethro. She was not into white boys and didn’t want to risk having a brother watching and listening, and thus ruining her chances with him. Nothing worse than having one brother say to another, “Don’t waste your time, Dawg. You know she loves her Vanilla,” when it was chocolate you were craving all along.
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