“You know what? I don’t have to put up with this bullshit. Don’t call me again . . . or I’ll be reporting you.” I slam the phone down so hard the echo trickles out into the hall. I’m starting to sweat and the spoiled-food stench is making me feel light-headed.
I need to call home. See what my parents know, what they may have said. But I can’t do it here. The muffled clumping sound of Miyuki’s power boots stomping about is only adding to the nauseated thing taking over my body.
My cell phone’s ringing now. Turning it on was a mistake.
But it’s Nik. He’s probably got information. Something from Brian Thompson. “Hi, can I call you back? I know, I know. Let me just get out of here. I’ll call you right back. Promise.”
CHAPTER 13
Pickuppickuppickup. Dammit—
“Hey. It’s me. Yes, I know what time it is. I know it’s Saturday. I know you’re going to check this voice mail right away to see who the hell is calling you at this time in the morning on a Saturday. It’s me and I sound crazy, I know. But I haven’t slept. Like, at all. And I need to talk to someone. I need to talk to you. Shit. I’m talking too much on this. Listen, if this message cuts out, know that you need to call me back, right.fucking. now. Please. I’ve already left you, like, eighty emergency 911 calls. Actually, just call me back. Or I’ll call you back in twenty Mississippis.” I hit disconnect and start counting. As I get to twelve Mississippi, my cell phone vibrates.
“May, what in all the hells are you doing? I told you about people—”
“Playin’ on your phone, I know. I know. But this . . . this is different and not a game and I can’t believe what’s happening.”
“First, slow it all the way down, May. You are talking much too quickly for this man to follow. Now, before you open your hot little mouth to say the next spill of words, answer me one thing: Are you safe?”
“Tyson, I need to explain this.”
“Now, May, all you need to do is answer my questions, please. That’s the only way this is gonna work. So, where are you? Are you safe?”
“Yes, I’m safe. Thank you. I’m at home.”
“Good. Now, what—in fifteen words or less, May—what is going on?”
“Please, just trust me when I say that I can’t say exactly . . . not yet. I’ll explain everything, but I need you to do me a favor—a big one.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Tyson, you’re about the only person I can call right now, and I need your help.”
“Where are the Wonder Twins?”
“They’re not really talking to me.”
“Really? Because the rude one called me on Thanksgiving Day seething, asking where you are.”
“Shit. What else did Lindee say?”
“May, I did not answer my phone. She left some fire message asking if you were with me and if you called me and something about her mama’s house in Queens or some mess. Look, that shit got deleted, okay? That little girl didn’t even say hello or ‘happy turkey day’ or nothing. Just launched into this long song for which I did not have time or tolerance. You know how I am about phone manners.”
“Look, I’m sorry. She is pissed at me—they both are. She had no business throwing all that on your plate, interrupting The Wiz. I get it.”
“The Wiz?
“Yeah, every year, Thanksgiving, you and the boys watch The Wiz.”
“That’s Christmas Eve, May. We watch the games on Thanksgiving, like every other big-bellied American. Girl . . .”
“Sorry. I just—I got confused.”
“This entire collection feels confused. Are you coming down off something?”
“Has anyone else called you? Any messages from a reporter—a guy named Bauer, Clark Bauer?”
“What is going on? A reporter? Are you in trouble with the law, May? Is this call being recorded or something?” He raises his voice, enunciating: “Because I, Tyson H. Turner, I do not know anything about what has transpired in the last seventy-two hours.”
“Christ. This call is not being recorded. It’s nothing like that.”
“What is it like, then?”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Start at the top. What’s the big piece of chicken on the plate?”
“The big piece of chicken is I fucked up, royally.”
“Wait. If this is about a certain King, this queen is staying out of it.”
“King, queen. Right. You had that one in your pocket for a while, huh?”
“For a minute.”
“It’s not about Grant, not directly. He’s in there too, but it’s not the big piece of chicken. Wait, did you talk Grant recently?”
“May, I told you, don’t pull me into that. You and him are you and him. It’s not us. I said that from the start of—”
“I slept with my boss.”
“The Robot?”
“No. Her boss, the big boss . . . Oz!”
“ Whuutt? As in the Wizard? Oh, fix it, Jesus.”
“Yes, okay? Yes. Yes, I fucked up. And, yes, I fucked the Wizard of Oz. Judge.”
“No judgment here—you already know. But the way it sounds, the way you sound . . . May, what else is going on?
“There’s a story coming out—or might be coming out—and it’s a dirty bomb. I think. I don’t know what he even really knows. It could all be some shenanigans, trying to get me in a corner to say things I don’t want to say. I mean, ten years, denying it, lying about it . . . it becomes the truth, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Lying and denying and shenanigans. Do I need to come over there?”
“It’s this reporter—Bauer. He wants to expose me or maybe use me to expose Grant. I don’t know his game yet. I’m not seeing the whole board.”
“Expose what?”
“You haven’t read the Tell Me More stories about me and Grant?”
“Tell Me What—please. May, I do not drink that brand of tea. If it’s not the Times, Variety, Vogue or my homeboy Frankie’s blog, it doesn’t rank in my media reads. I operate on facts only, not made-up bullshit.”
“My relationship with Grant is smeared all over the inter-webs, for anyone to discuss. It’s all coming from Tell Me More.”
“So everybody knows about you and the King. And what of it? Like that makes a difference.”
“It’s not just about me and him. They exposed his recent . . . problems, and the break he was taking in Connecticut.”
“What did I tell you about him before you two got braided up together?
“That he’s solid.”
“He is solid, May. That is a good man right there. Who gives a dry fuck about what anyone has to say about you and him or what he does for rejuvenation?”
“There’s more, Tyson. I can’t get into any of it right now. I’m juggling a lot of balls.”
“Better than gargling them balls, honey.” Tyson’s old smoker’s cackle rumbles from his chest and cracks my stone-cold tone. I chuckle too. “Now, what’s this favor?”
“I need you to come with me to the Singh sisters’ holiday thing. It’s next week.”
“The whut next week? I will still have turkey leftovers rolling around my belly next week. What is the rush to get to jingle bells and ho-ho-ho?”
“You know they do the friends-and-relations gathering at their spot downtown. This year they bumped it up way early. They didn’t get into the why of it, and honestly, I was just happy to still be on the e-vite list. I’m going to need you to work your magic too. I need to look glorious, like everything’s curry.”
“Ooh. You know I like when you talk your island talk, mon. Everyt’ing curry, mon.”
“Not this again.” I wait for Tyson’s Ja-fake-can accent to peter out. “So, are you going to come with? I don’t think I can pull it off solo. Not right now. I’m basically getting a shit pizza delivered to my lap every other day. I need support.”
“Damn, a shit-pizza delivery service? That’s vivid, boo.”
“Well, aside from the fuck-uppery with Mr. King—which you are not getting involved in, I know—and then personally finding out where the sausage gets made at the Wizard’s penthouse, I’m also about ninety percent sure that the Robot is spying on me. And she’s using this other hater-bitch at the office for backup.”
“Spying? You write sex stories, young girl. Unless you’re actually having the sex at work in your office, then what in the Lord’s good, green earth is there to spy—”
“Look, I know how it sounds. But trust me on this, please, Tyson. I feel like things are about to fold in on themselves at work, and I need to set myself up to come out on the other end of it unscathed. My head is all over the place. I don’t have the armor to take on the twins when they’re still breathing flames.”
“All right, May. I’ll come with you. Text me the particulars and I’ll bring my secondary kit. I’ll come by early, so we’re not rushing as usual. But two things need to be in place for this to go right: A: I’ll need a warm chicken patty with coco bread from Dutch Pot’s bakery—your whole Carib flavor just now gave me a hankering, and B: There will be no discussion of Grant for the entire time I’m there working. And I’m so sincere about that last stipulation. Clear?”
“Clear. Thanks, Tyson. One question?”
“One.”
“Will you help me fix things with Kendra and Lindee?”
“May, you are testing the limits of my talent and tolerance.”
“Come on, please. I have to make it right with them. The fact that they invited me to their holiday bashment doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve gotten the all-clear to land. It might only be the very tip of an olive branch from them. I’ve got to be smart about this or basically it’s a wrap for me and the Singh sisters, and I need them.”
“Just work on the warm Jamaican patty and coco bread, May. We’ll tackle the other stuff, time permitting.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”
“Oh, please. The bed is already made, hospital corners. I’m going to try to catch that early hot yoga class. That instructor is always what I need for the weekend, all hairy and hot, with them thick thighs. Mmm. What’re you gonna do?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Okay. I’m talking smaller here: What are you going to do this morning, in the next hour?”
“Probably go up to the roof deck and brace myself.”
“For what?”
“For the call home.”
CHAPTER 14
When other subway riders leave the seat next to you empty on a wintery rush-hour morning, you know you look bad. Caught a glimpse of myself in a window reflection and death warmed over is being kind. Out of thin air, a wretched cold materialized and implanted itself in my lungs and bones and skin. I actually started feeling like something was brewing after I hung up from Tyson. It’s almost as if I wished the thing into being. Not sleeping more than three hours just before dawn, and spending two days shut-in literally under the covers staring at a glowing laptop screen didn’t help, either. I felt even worse than I looked. Everything hurt or trembled. I was sweating and chilled at the same time. When I got to my office chair, the whispers had joined up with the gasps and were building into blatant pity.
“Hey, girl-pie.”
“It’s not a good time, Maggie.”
“For realz. No dis, but honey you look cray—”
“I think I know how I look, Maggie. Thanks.”
“I said no dis.”
“Right. You did say no dis. Is there something you needed?”
“Not really; I was rollin’ through. Wanted to grab some time to chop it up with Joan, but Kristen’s not at her desk—as usual. That bish be tryin’ it, right? Anyway, I heard you were back after your . . . thing last week. Thought I’d pop in and say wassup.”
“My thing last week?”
“Yeah, I heard you had a moment. Like a moment. Full-on froke-out and collapsed in the elevator and everything.”
“So that’s the talk—I froke out?”
“You know it’s impossible to keep shiznit on the DL ’round here. But something else will happen—it always does—and everybody will be sipping the tea on that. You’ll be back on top.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“You know what I mean, Best. My mother always says that the best revenge is looking great. And—normally—you look fucking fabulous. You’re a total dime. And like they say, who cares what all the fives be sayin’. They’re always going to be on your jock about something, right?”
“Totally.” I cough, barely covering my mouth. Energy’s fading fast. I don’t listen to rap music, no reason I need to have it on full volume right here in my office. More rattling coughs blast through my dry mouth, over my cracked lips. And right on cue, Maggie hustles out of my mini–germ factory.
“Anywayszz, I’m out,” she says, backing away. “Check you later, girl-pie.”
“Sure. Do you mind closing that?”
“Totally,” Maggie says, and slides my door closed with the sleeve of her sweater.
Bauer’s calls started this morning. At least he gave me the weekend off. Nothing from Lindee or Kendra. Nik hasn’t reached out since we spoke Friday. The phone was on and quiet for two whole days.
In a text, Tyson let it slip that Grant was in Toronto with his sister—a wedding or engagement party for his homeboy Luke. The minute Tyson hit send, I could practically hear him cursing at himself through the text-message screen. And my mind filled with visions of us, Grant and me, at this event having drinks and dancing and gorging on love and laughter and the good times under our feet. But despite the sharp images in my brain, I know that brand of happy is not owed to me, not with Grant. Not with anyone.
Speaking of drinks, I need to call my folks, for real this time. They didn’t answer when I tried them Friday, same thing on Saturday. (Sunday was reserved for drinking really bad wine alone in Grant’s dark room and passing out on his stack of pillows.) Each time I called, I got the answering machine, which was like hearing a Christmas carol in spring. I didn’t want to leave a message. I doubt they even check the thing. So this call has to happen right now. If I show up at their door on Friday, arriving by car service, my father will not be pleased. It’s more than the missed opportunity for him to make an airport run. My dad is the only person, besides cabdrivers, who actually likes picking people up from the airport. Whenever Uncle Dobbs would fly in late at night, I would always volunteer to go with my dad for that airport ride. Benjamin called me sucker to my face and Bryant usually got carsick. But I liked going with my dad. I remember how dark it would be outside and feeling special, seeing what the wee hours looked like. It was always cold too. My dad still had the front windows rolled all the way down. The wind, loud and mean, thumped at my ear, and the whole right side of my head. He said it was to keep us both awake. Obviously I figured out later—or maybe I knew it then too—that the brittle breeze to the face was an attempt for him to sober up. But I liked the cold air filling the car. We were being so different, wild rebels, that’s what I told my child’s mind. Kids can convince themselves of anything.
The other issue is, even before the accident, my parents never did well with surprises. They like to know who was coming and when, what was going to happen and how. The unknown is a factor they prefer not to entertain.
I’ve been chanting Tyson’s curt advice on how to approach the angry Singh girls. He called me back after I drunk-dialed him late Sunday night. He didn’t give me a hard time about it or anything, just said, “You talk to them by talking to them.” That’s it. That’s all he said, and somehow it made sense, even for dealing with my folks. I sent an e-mail—with full sentences and sentiment—to both Kendra and Lindee early this morning, apologizing for my rude flake-out and subsequent MIA assholery. They haven’t responded yet. But that isn’t going to deter me from the task at hand. Now is now and I’m going to tal
k to my parents by talking to them.
My father answers and it throws me off. I was prepared for the cold breeze that is speaking to my mother. He sounds pleasant enough, but weary; more so than usual.
“So, some good news: I’m coming there, coming home.”
“As we expected,” he says. It’s clipped and stiff and clicks on my nervous ramble.
“No, I know. I mean, I know you told me to do that, to come home, but I was going to say that I’m coming home earlier than what we talked about.” I take a breath and let my jumbled words dissipate. Talk to them by talking to them. “I’ll be there later this week, Dad. My boss, he did me a huge favor and hooked me up with an interview, a crucial interview for this story I’ve been working on for a few months.”
“I thought your boss was a lady.”
“Yes. Yes, she is that. She’s a lady. But it’s another boss who helped me out. My boss’s boss.”
“I see. Your boss’s boss is sending you here on assignment. That’s interesting. This is a love life story?”
“No, no; oh, no. Nothing to do with love life. This story is . . . um . . . different from what I normally cover, but it’s a good story and I think, if I report it out and line things up bird by bird, this could really change things for me here, change my career for the better.”
“Hmm. Now I’m intrigued about this story. Sounds big.”
“Right, yeah. We should talk about it, Dad. Just not right now. There’s a meeting. I have a meeting soon, so I can’t stay on here long. I wanted to share the good news with you and Mum. I’ll call you later with my flight details and stuff.”
“And your interview, it’s downtown?”
“Actually, it’s not in Montreal at all. It’s in Ajax, so I’ll fly into Montreal and then pick up a rental to drive to Toronto, for one night. Then I’ll be back with you before I . . . uh, head back here, to New York.”
“That’s a lot of turnaround. You can’t do the interview later, closer to when you’ll be here anyway for your brothers’ ceremony? Seems to make more sense that way.”
“It does make sense that way, but I am on deadline with this story and I need to get in there before this woman changes her mind about the interview. You know how that goes. I really want to see this story through.”
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