by Julie Smith
Little Lovelace. A name so ironic … given to her by her parents, maybe because it had “love” in it, yet considering Daniel and Jacqueline, what a life she’d probably had.
Certainly had.
She was here now because her mother was out of pocket and her father had done violence to her.
His heart surged with pity and affection for her. And fear. This was a girl who had to be protected.
If she was an angel, he’d be an archangel—Michael, the defender. He’d keep her from her enemies.
He needed to make her feel welcome. What could he do?
Flowers. That would be good. His were white only, but there were some nice ones—plenty of calla lilies, for instance. He got a pair of scissors and was halfway out the door when he felt his feet dragging. Did he really want to do this?
No!
He did not.
He wanted to do the minimum so that he could feel as if he was keeping his vow, yet she’d get the hint that he wished she’d be on her way.
Cold, nasty bastard, he thought, so disgusted with himself he clipped half his Confederate jasmine to go with the calla lilies.
Seven
DANIEL WENT BEFORE his father with the knowledge that he was a grown man, much larger and stronger than the other man, more imposing in every way. He could handle whatever Daddy was dishing out.
“She got away,” he said.
“She got away. Daniel, you don’t mean that. You’re a grown man and she’s a little girl. What do you mean, she got away?”
Daniel began to sweat. How was he going to say she’d just walked out while he was asleep? When he was a kid, his father would rage. “Son, you left the plug in the sink and the water ran over. How could you do that?” It would start out that way.
Daniel would think his father meant it, that he was really asking him how it happened, and his father would say, “You don’t mean that, Daniel.”
He’d try to explain that he did, and then the name-calling would start, and the ridicule. And then the blows, always on the head or face. His father would simply let fly, sometimes knocking Daniel’s whole head around, sending it wobbling on his neck, leaving him sore for days; sometimes giving him a bloody nose or a busted lip; he didn’t care if he made marks, indeed, seemed to prefer it that way, and Daniel dared not cry, because the punishment for that was “something to cry about.”
Things were different now. He’d come back partly to resolve things with his father, to work with him as an equal. But also because he agreed with him on this one. His father was onto something important, something Daniel believed in.
Whatever problems he’d had with his father as a child, whatever fear he’d had of him, he could put behind him now, because Errol Jacomine was a formidable ally. The papers called him “the disappearing preacher” because of that thing he’d pulled in southwest Louisiana. He was a legend, the D.B. Cooper of charismatic religion.
Daniel’s relationship with religion was problematical, but his dad had moved on. The thing he was working on now was what America needed, and if anyone could pull it off, Errol Jacomine could—with Daniel’s help.
There were other reasons Daniel was here—one good one anyway. Things hadn’t worked out that well elsewhere. He knew why, too. He knew exactly why.
It was Jacqueline’s damn fault.
Everything was fine until he married the bitch. He was a Christian, his mom and dad were Christians, Jacqueline was a Christian; things were just fine.
Then Jacqueline went weird on him.
She started with that feminist shit. Wouldn’t stay home, had to have a job—stupid job, too; receptionist somewhere. Wouldn’t take care of the kid. Wouldn’t, wouldn’t, wouldn’t.
Wouldn’t do a damn thing, is how it ended up.
Fucked up Daniel’s life in the process. Got him started on marijuana, which didn’t lead to heroin, but most certainly did to alcohol, which had turned out to be his personal demon.
Only good thing came out of it was Lovelace. Bright kid. Real bright kid. He might not have Jacqueline—he wouldn’t want her anyway—but he’d fallen in love with his own daughter, and that was good enough to get him through. Even in the years when he was in Idaho, stockpiling food and living off the land, he’d get a job now and then—in “agricultural imports,” he liked to say. It might not be banking, but he had enough socked away to get the kid through college.
Meanwhile Jacqueline had gone and joined the New Age. If she wasn’t off doing a firewalk or something, she was flying somewhere with one of her twenty-five-year-old dope dealer boyfriends. Which was where she was now, and maybe under the circumstances that was more a good thing than otherwise.
He’d had a whole lot of second thoughts about bringing Lovelace to his father. He loved her so much he’d let something slip about what The Jury was doing—nothing much, really, just a hint that maybe he knew where her grandfather was, and his father had decided that made her dangerous.
That was what he said. He knew his dad—actually, he wanted her. He wanted her brain and her spirit. He wanted her for the movement, and so did Daniel. So he’d gone to get her. He’d done it his dad’s way, but he was sorry now. He wouldn’t hurt her for the world, but he’d certainly scared her—that was a way of hurting her.
He wondered if he had let her get away, if subconsciously he hadn’t wanted to kidnap her, and he’d been careless accidentally on purpose.
He said to his dad, “You’re right, I don’t mean it, she didn’t get away. I decided not to bring her.”
His father threw his arm back, and Daniel saw what was coming next, but he was frozen. Errol Jacomine whacked him as hard as he could on the side of the head.
“What’s the matter with you, Daniel? Are you crazy? You get that little girl back or we’re all gonna fry.”
It didn’t really hurt. It wasn’t a big deal at all. Though he’d just been hit, Daniel was elated. This was what he’d hoped for—he was over all that.
“Come on, Daddy. Tell the truth. You just want to see your granddaughter.”
“Yeah. Maybe I do.”
Daniel grinned, and his dad grinned back.
Errol Jacomine said, “Now, is what we’re doing important work, or are we merely spinning our wheels?”
“It’s real important, Daddy.”
“Are we going to save the world, Daniel?”
“We’re sure gonna try.” For the first time in his life, he actually felt close to his father, felt they shared a mutual respect.
“Well, let me tell you something. It won’t be because of your brainpower if we do. You don’t have the sense of a rhesus monkey, do you know that? I swear to God I wish I had time enough to send you back to school. What were you doing all those years in Idaho? Lettin’ your brain atrophy? Is that what you’ve been doing?” He let his voice rise.
“I haven’t got time for this crap, Daniel. I just haven’t got time for it. What we’ve got going is big, and what we’re going to get going is bigger. Do you understand me, son? Do you actually get my drift, or is it too complicated for your tiny brain? We have to move fast. We have to move very fast. You get that young lady back and you get her quick. Double quick, goddammit.”
He shouted so loud Daniel felt like running. Simply turning tail, slamming the door, and hightailing it down the street, exactly as he’d done a thousand times when he was growing up.
This time he didn’t. He thought to himself, He’s right. He’s acting like an asshole, but there’s nothing wrong with what he’s saying.
He felt proud that he could separate the two. Working with his father was hard, the hardest thing he’d ever done, but what he thought was, the man was smart, the smartest man Daniel knew, probably, and he’d taught Daniel good values.
Daniel liked what he was trying to do, and deep in his heart he knew his father was proud of him and trusted him or he wouldn’t have come to Idaho to get him, revealed himself even though he was wanted for half the crimes in the universe, recruited his
older son to be his first lieutenant.
A woman came into the room, shaking wet hands and looking worried. “Daddy! Everything all right?”
“Well, Miss Bettina. However are you today?”
“Daddy, I heard shouting….”
“Were you worried about me? Were you worried about your old daddy? You know, you are absolutely the sweetest woman I’ve ever met in my entire life. You’re going to make someone a wonderful mama.”
The woman looked about nine months pregnant. She smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Well, that’s not the point. The point is, how are you? You still getting sick around cigarette smoke?”
She kept smiling, obviously reveling in the attention. “I’m better, Daddy. Thank you.”
“Well, you take care of that precious cargo.”
The woman left, leaving Daniel shaking his head. Daddy was like that: furious one moment, all concerned about someone the next.
He thought: Daddy has a style, that’s all. He yells and he says things, but he doesn’t mean ’em. If he did I wouldn’t be here. I’m gonna do my damn job, and the hell with that crap. I really don’t care.
His dad was all business again: “One thing. Before you get my granddaughter I want you to do something else.”
Daniel thought he couldn’t be hearing right. “Daddy? I don’t understand. I thought you just said—”
“You thought. You thought! You’re not supposed to think, son, you’re supposed to do what God put you on this Earth to do.”
“But…”
Errol Jacomine leaned over his desk and pushed his son’s chest with the flat of his hand—a little peanut of a man with fire in his eyes, pushing Daniel, who prided himself on his body, who went to the gym every day. “Shut up, Daniel. I’m telling you, do this first and then do the other and I want ’em both done by tomorrow. Have you got that?”
“But tomorrow I have to—”
“I know what you have to do tomorrow. Don’t sleep. Work round the clock. Just get the job done, goddammit. Listen, I’m going to give you some pills.” He rummaged in his drawer until he found them. “These’ll do it for you.”
Daniel took one and made as if to go, testing the waters to see if his father had forgotten what he wanted. But Jacomine didn’t even see him. He was staring at the wall, fingers steepled. “I want you to put together a dossier.”
He pulled a People magazine article out from under his desk blotter. “I want you to find out everything you can about this woman.” He handed Daniel the article, which included a picture of a woman—Rosemarie Owens, according to the caption. She was a blonde who wasn’t quite pretty and who looked hard as nails, more or less in the Ivana Trump mold—or maybe Daniel just thought that because of the article.
It said she was at the center of some nasty Texas scandal, the scorned woman in a divorce involving giant bucks and a younger woman. She was suing.
Of course she was suing. That was the way she was made. Daniel said, “Ball-busting bitch,” and his dad backhanded him. Smacked his right cheek as if it had a mosquito on it. No warning, no nothing.
“Get the fuck out of here.”
Daniel didn’t even bother to analyze this one. He turned his left side toward his dad. “I’m turning the other cheek.”
His dad smacked that one, not quite as hard. “You know what Jesus said about his tormentors? ‘Father, forgive them for they know not what they do’? Remember that, son? That’s what I’m praying for right now. You know not what you do, Daniel. You know not, boy.” He was standing up, roaring.
* * *
Dorise had gotten her sister to take care of Shavonne—her sister and her sister’s television set—and here she was at a movie with Troy. Holding hands.
She wondered if he was going to ask her to get something to eat afterward. Or maybe have a drink. She hadn’t dated in so long she didn’t know what people did after a movie.
One thing, if he didn’t take her somewhere, she wasn’t going to bed with him.
She bit her lip. Going to bed with him.
Was that really what she was thinking of? Am I going to bed with this man?
She found the thought gave her a funny feeling in her pussy, a good kind of funny feeling, one she remembered as if she had it every day. The truth was, she’d had a good sex life with Delavon. Real good, if you didn’t count the way he made her feel bad about herself, and he hadn’t done that until after she gained weight.
And there was something else—even as he said those things, all those nasty things about her body, he used to act like he couldn’t get enough. He’d take her great pendulous breasts in his hands and then in his mouth and he’d squeeze and bite and suck. Sometimes he’d do the same thing with them she’d do with his cock when she sucked it—he’d kind of go up and down and all around, as if he were expecting her to spout white stuff. Then he’d put one hand on each breast and just squeeze and squeeze.
He’d do the same thing to her butt. Grab great hunks of brown flesh and hold them tight and shake them; then he’d grab more hunks and do it some more. He’d grab the extra flesh around her midriff and around her thighs and feel it good. He’d do it like he loved it.
That was how it was when they were in bed. Now when they were out of bed, he’d say mean things, but she didn’t care that much, long as he kept on grabbing her.
She wanted that again.
The lights came on. “So what you think?” Troy said.
“I don’t know. Didn’t see what they saw in each other, ’cept they both movie stars.”
“Well, ain’t that enough?”
He meant her to laugh, but she chose to answer him seriously.
“No. No, that ain’t enough, Troy Chauvin. You need to have somethin’ in common.”
“You think you and me have somethin’ in common?”
“I don’t know.” Her nose was out of joint and she didn’t know why.
“Well, I think we do. I think we both like to have fun. That’s true, ain’t it?”
“I don’t know.” Having fun had been hard for her ever since Delavon died.
“Let’s go hear some music. I’ll show you.”
They danced, eyes locked, and then they danced slow, and he kissed her.
He’d kissed her good night before, but this time she had a few drinks in her, and he really kissed her.
She wanted him bad. She must have all the time, because she’d gotten her sister to take Shavonne for the night.
She took him home and got into bed with him, and he played with her body like Delavon did, gloried in her copious flesh like she was some kind of goddess.
But he did one thing different from Delavon. He talked to her real nice while he was making love to her. He’d say things like, “Oh, baby—man, you beautiful. You so beautiful, baby. I ain’ never seen nothin’ that pretty in my life. Oh, man, look at those titties. Oh, man.”
Like that. It made Dorise feel shy and strange, and she woke up with her nose out of joint again. She got up and pulled on a robe and went in the kitchen.
She was standing at the sink, drawing water for coffee, when Troy came up behind her and grabbed her round the waist. “Baby. I thought I’d lost you.”
He wore only his jeans, his big, good-looking chest hanging out for anyone to see. He was built like Delavon, sort of—both of them had good big shoulders, handsome torsos. His skin was light, too, much lighter than Delavon’s.
“Whatchew mean?” Her tone sounded harsh, even to her. She didn’t know why.
He put his hand gently on her head and stroked her hair. “Hey. Hey, look at me, baby.”
She didn’t want to.
He dropped into a chair and took her hand, so that she had to look down on him. “Wha’s wrong? Now tell Troy wha’s wrong.”
“Ain’ nothin’ wrong.” Once again, she heard the snap in her voice.
“Baby.” He stared up at her, adoringly, she thought, but that was impossible. He barely knew he
r. “Baby, you cain’t be this way. You tryin’ to break my heart? Huh?”
He looked so sad she smiled, to see if she could make him smile. “I’m not tryin’ to break your heart.”
“No? Well, then whatcha doin’? Whatcha think ya doin’? Baby, I need you. Don’t do this to me.”
“Don’t do what?”
“One-night-stand me. Love me and leave me. Suck me dry and throw me out.”
She had to laugh. “Suck you dry? I ain’t even started yet.”
He grabbed her around the waist again, and then leaned toward her. He dropped to the floor, to his knees, and slid his hands down over her hips, around to the front of her thighs.
He opened her robe and thrust his face inside, licking her pussy.
She thought she was going to die. This man was on his knees, licking her pussy. Delavon wouldn’t do that in a million years.
Wouldn’t do either thing, she thought.
She wasn’t sure she really liked it.
But they ended up in bed again, and she was damn sure she liked the rest of it.
How did I ever do without this? she thought.
He said, “Man. I could sure use some eggs and grits.”
“I’ll make you some.” Automatically, she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“Uh-uh. I’ll make ’em.”
“You know how to cook?” This was too much.
“No. But I can make eggs and grits.”
She took a shower while he made breakfast, and it was a new experience for her.
This a day for firsts, she thought. I never see a man go down on his knees, and I never had one cook me breakfast. I sure am gonna enjoy this.
They were having coffee when he said, “What you doing this week, baby?”
“I’m—well, I got Shavonne and—”
He looked impatient, made some kind of quick gesture, like brushing away a mosquito. He said, “We work somethin’ out. I mean, who you workin’ for?”
“You know who I work for. What you mean?” She’d flared again.
“Now don’t get mad. Course, I know who you work for. Uptown Caterers, right? Am I right?”