Devil In Her Bed

by Amarie Avant

  Sleep weighed down against my shoulders. The hood of my eyes burned. For the six days after Sammy’s death, I had worked vigorously on Kill Joy with our creative team. It was too soon to fathom that Sammy was no longer here to joke his ass off or rub my bruised ego when Dad talked shit. No boisterous laughter. No big brother.

  Three hours later, my mother stood before a canvas portrait of Sammy. The royal purple cap and gown from his graduation commencement popped against his dark skin. From childhood, we all agreed that he had the most beautiful smile, but this photo took the cake.

  Sammy’s joke came to mind: “I was cheesing my ass off wasn’t I? Do you know how many professors I paid to get here?”

  My brother always downplayed his intelligence, and I’d always shake my head and laugh at him. On that dreary afternoon, I’d placed my arm around my mom.

  Her face was set in stone. No emotion shined through.

  “Let’s do this together, Mom.” I gestured toward the shiny royal blue coffin. A few high school friends and one of my mom’s aunts were gathered around it. Somber smiles on their faces were telltale signs that they’d reminisced on something zany my big brother, the comedian, had said.

  “Okay, baby girl. But where’s your father?” Mom’s chin rose, her gaze sliding across the funeral home.

  “You arrived together, right?” I arched an eyebrow. Mom and I had always been thick as thieves, but had Samuel’s death tossed a wedge between Mom and Dad too?

  “Of course, he dropped me off at the door, harping about the ramp entrance and how it wasn’t up to protocol. He just needed something to argue about or to fix. Your grandmother wouldn’t have too much of a time being wheeled up the ramp anyway.”

  Before I had the chance to respond, hard stomping sent every eye in the room toward the double doors at the exit. The flooring was thinly carpeted, no padding. My father stumbled around, his hefty body made heavier by a lack of equilibrium. An open can of beer sloshed in one hand. In his other arm a six-pack was cradled.

  “Deon…” Mom spoke up.

  Dad stopped in front of Hosea first, who had lingered toward the back of the room. Hands balled, stiff legged, I marched over there.

  “Mr. Lowe, I am sorry, can we talk about this…” Hosea spoke defensively.

  Dad’s index finger jutted out. His first-born son had died, and he needed a target. “I oughta—”

  I cut in front of them and slapped down my father’s ever-pointing finger. “Dad, stop acting like a damned fool. Sammy is dead, and he isn’t coming back. I suggest if you ever want to see me again, you’d stop harassing my man!”

  After all the years Dad had to make a spectacle of himself in front of all of our family and friends. Hosea was always the bigger man about it. Though, after telling my dad off, I still pushed Hosea away by not returning to Los Angeles with him at the end of the week. Once in the city, I had also started searching for my own apartment under the guise of “breathing room.”

  ***

  It’s been almost a year and a half since I’ve left San Antonio. Lincoln’s rented car stops parallel to the home my parents bought with pride when I was in high school. The cream-colored home has black shutters, a stone frame and a bright yellow door.

  The vast front lawn has been cut. The blue bonnets lining the edge of the parkway make for a good focal point. But my mom's prized rose garden, parallel to the porch, has been cut to its root. Dad had called me the day she did it.

  My mom. A strong, black woman, had gone postal on her rose bushes on Sammy’s birthday. I was too stuck in my own emotions to call Dad back.

  While Lincoln transports my luggage from the trunk of our rental, I see myself hopping into the passenger seat of Sammy’s Jeep. It was a bright, sunny day much like this noonday. Sammy had already completed a year at UC Irvine, and here I was following after big brother.

  Lincoln places my last rollaway down.

  “Come ’ere, Siobhan. That brilliant mind of yours is working in overdrive.”

  I turn away from the faded memory and smile at him. “Not really.”

  His hand glides across my cheek, the callused padding of his fingertips massaging my skin. My eyes close, and I sigh. Damn, he had threatened last night to break me. To fuck me so good I could only cry happy tears and have a voice raw from shouting his name.

  My vocals are a little raspy today, and the sex had succeeded in giving me life.

  A thoughtful peck is planted on my forehead. “Talk to me.” His words whisper against my skin.

  “All right, I was just wondering why you’re interested in a downer like me.” I give a wry grin.

  “You were not.” He wraps an arm around me, tips my chin and says, “You’ve had a shitty life, Siobhan. It was the first thing I noticed when you were running after me. These beautiful brown eyes were full of an unyielding hope.”

  “Hope? And here I thought when I look into the mirror—prior to you—my entire demeanor was hopelessness.”

  “No, not at all.” His strong arms squeeze me, there’s a slight growl in his tone due to the ache in his side. “I told you from the start, I had no desire in stupid girls. But a ‘bag lady,’ who has had to fight for something in this life is worth more than gold. I admire you.”

  I smile genuinely, as his lips linger against mine. “Why do I have the feeling you never said ‘bag lady’ until I opened my big-ass mouth.”

  His laughter is a deep roar. “Obstacles give you strength. The issue isn’t quantitative speaking; it’s how you deal with said bags.” He then quotes the great philosopher, “‘The unexamined life is not worth living.’”

  “Shut up, Socrates.” I shake my head as he smacks a kiss on my cheek.

  “Siobhan?” a familiar feminine voice calls out, with a flurry of astonishment and contentment.

  Lincoln slips away from our public display of affection. And we both turn to see the very first best friend a daughter could ever have.

  My mother begins to descend the porch steps, her elation rising by the second. She places a hand over her mouth, then rushes to me, hugging me tightly. “You are here!”

  “I know, Mom, I’m so sorry.” Crap, I’ve been diminished to a wayward child in front of my significant other.

  “Sorry,” she scoffs. “You are a Lowe, we are not sorry people, Siobhan, so remove that from your vocabulary and make some introductions.”

  Her eyes slides up and down Lincoln’s frame. He’s dressed down for the occasion in jeans and a thermal that fits snug as a bug against sculpted arms.

  “Yes, introduce us.” My father’s voice is contrite, all too near and scares the holy crap out of me. I turn in the opposite direction to see him, in an old tattered shirt, jeans and scuffed boots. He places down a wrench, and I look over toward the boat port on the side of the house. There's a rowboat and two jet skis out in front of the port. He keeps his classic Mustang in the port since Mom won't allow him to keep it in the garage.

  Dang, he had to have been tinkering on that damn car. And more than that? He had to have seen our entire display.

  “Hello, Dad.” I hug him, he pecks my cheek, eyeing Lincoln suspiciously.

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lowe, the name is Lincoln Zager.” Lincoln holds out his hand.

  Dad rubs his own hand against his jeans and then shakes Lincoln’s hand. By the way his teeth grit into a smile, I know he’s squeezing Lincoln’s bones, but my boyfriend continues to match his eye contact.

  “Where you from?” Dad asks as if whatever Lincoln says, they're both from rival gangs. Mom bumps her hip against Dad.

  “Arlington, England.” Lincoln doesn’t miss a beat as he holds his hand out to my mom. She brushes past that for a real hug.

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Lincoln, any friend of Siobhan’s is a friend of ours. Please call me Shania, the grump’s name is Deon,” she says, squeezing him heartily.

  Lincoln grimaces somewhat, but says, “Thank—”

  “What’s your problem?” Dad cuts in
again. Damn, he could give Detective Ortiz a run for his money. Everybody has a motive.

  “He got into a fight. Let’s go into the house, please.” I wave an arm.

  Dad scoffs, “Who was he fighting?”

  “He’s perfectly capable of answering that, Dad, damn.”

  Lincoln speaks up, “That’s okay, Deon—”

  “Mr. Lowe works perfectly well,” my father cuts in.

  “Mr. Lowe,” Lincoln says as we walk toward the front door, “Siobhan and I were at a bar, one of the patrons was confused as to who she belongs to.”

  Dad does a double take.

  I do too. Firstly, I appreciate Lincoln’s quick response, and respecting my wishes not to divulge the stalker situation. But to belong to a man? I can hear my dad now, “Never depend on a man, baby girl. Anything he can do, you can do better, got that?”

  And that was true. Dad always was the first to review my grades. I couldn’t hide a progress report from him to save my life. He bought me a beat-up old Corolla just to teach me how to change oil and fix a tire. He took me to the shooting range. He fed me the reality of not having to wait for a man and that I was more than capable of taking care of myself in all aspects of life.

  The anger radiates off Dad’s skin. Yet, he pulls the sneaky card. “You drink beer?”

  “Sure do.”

  Dad pats his back, and says, “Well come on into this house, and let’s have us those beers.”

  As my dad and mom walk ahead, I shake my head to Lincoln, mouthing, “No.”

  My dad isn’t always a snake in the grass, but when pertaining to my wellbeing his bite is lethal.

  The den and kitchen is situated with an open floor plan. It is separated by the bright yellow paint my mother had begged to have in the kitchen, from the more demure stone gray that went with the multi-toned stone colored couches.

  As Lincoln takes a seat on the stool near the marble island, I sink down onto the couch across the way. The remote is wedged near my seat, so I deftly grab it and turn down the television. The Spurs are on the defense against the Miami Heat.

  “Your dad would chew your head off for turning down that damn game,” Mom says. “Guess he’s too busy reading Lincoln and how he’s going to knock him out instead.”

  I glance across the way. Dad is pulling out two cans of beer from the fridge, wiping off the tops with a sunflower cup towel.

  “So you’re here for Regina?” she inquires.

  My bottom lip almost drops. Dang, what the heck did I do? Is Regina that mad at me? Then I realize my voicemail to my mom, months back, maybe she read between the lines? Did I mention Regina, though? “Yeah, just a short weekend trip. But I’ll see her tomorrow, after that flight, I’m not ready to deal with her–”

  “Oh, baby.” Mom rubs the top of my hand. “I understand that—”

  “Blast! This is the most atrocious beer I’ve ever tasted in my life.” Lincoln slams the can down onto the counter.

  Dad opens his mouth. His chocolate brown skin boiling to a deep red.

  “Mr. Lowe, we’ve gotta go purchase some better beer.” Lincoln slams a hand on Deon’s back. All the animosity leaving him instantly.

  “Bu-but this is my favorite beer.” Dad sounds baffled.

  “Well I bloody see why you’re such a grump.” Lincoln begins to grab the keys out of his back pocket.

  “I’m driving,” my dad says, not to be chauffeured around. They’re out the garage door in an instant.

  My mouth tips to the left, in an awkward grin. “What just happened here?”

  Mom’s voice is delayed for a moment as she digests what happened too. The silence is worrisome at best. “Mom, those were some serious fighting words. What happened?”

  She shrugs and then laughs. “They’re bonding. That’s the only conclusion I can come to.”

  “My man just dismissed the same beer that I’m sure Dad was sneaking into his sippy cup as a badass little kid.”

  She grabs the remote. “Deon likes him, trust me. Let’s turn on a little jazz on satellite radio and you can tell me about Sean Connery.”

  “Oh Lawd, do not compare Lincoln to Sean Connery. Jesus, I remember being a kid watching The Rock. You’d complained to high heavens until Sean came onto the screen. Then you winked at me, and I swear for the love of God it took years for me to realize why.”

  Mom chuckles. “Yes, I did. Your father only watches old westerns and action flicks. Sean was the man back then. Before your time, I had purchased all the double oh sevens on VHS for your dad’s birthday or Christmas or Father’s Day. Child, I bought those darn movies for me.”

  I shake my head, though happy that I’m bonding with my mother like we used too. Like Regina and I will get to tomorrow, come hell or high water. “Well, still, Lincoln is no comparison to Sean Connery.”

  She grunts, “If you say so. Now spill the details.”

  And giving her the details is exactly what I do. Apart from the sex, I can't stop grinning while divulging about the romantic dinner on a yacht—fudging the story to indicate that Lincoln took me on one of those semi-expensive “boat” ride dinners off the coast.

  “Tell me how he fought for you.” She leans back on the couch. “Sheesh, your dad fought for me a few times. I’ll admit that in this day and age, fighting for a woman, no matter the cause or necessity, can get you killed. You look at someone wrong nowadays and that's your life. But mhmmmm, a man fighting for you. Now ain’t it the best feeling ever?”

  Her beaming face is beautiful. I missed my mom.

  Though I'm swimming in my own glow, I retort, “Crap, I can see Dad punching the lights out of every guy who gazed at you too long.”

  Her lips curve into a sly grin. “I’d be so mad at him, and just about talk his ear off later on. Though in the moment, watching him, girl…”

  “TMI!” I smirk as she hugs a pillow to her chest.

  Snatching up the remote, I change from a jazz song to something less evoking for her. “We were leaving the bar, when one of the guys followed us out,” I begin with a lie, and then branch over toward the truth about how Lincoln almost bashed the stalker’s head in.

  “Oh goodness, the asshole had a knife? Thank God he didn’t have a gun.” Mom shakes her head.

  Mom rattles off question after energetic question. “How did the two of you meet?”

  “Well, let him tell it, I ran after him and tried to catch him.”

  Mom chortles. “Siobhan, you were too much of a serious child for me to believe that.”

  I chuckle. “Well, technically, I was running after him. We were jogging. He lives a couple miles up the street.”

  “Humph, I guess I could see you running after that physique!”

  For another hour, Mom and I laugh and talk while drinking lemonade.

  The door to the garage opens. There’s shouting about drinking each other under the “bloody fucking” table, on both Lincoln and my father’s parts.

  “Oh… okay. Sounds like my beautiful home, your father and I worked our asses off for is being turned into a frat house. How about you and I head to dinner?” Mom asks. “A nice quiet dinner at Vichy’s, no boys aloud? Heck, I’ll even go upstairs and spruce up my Patti Labelle. No wait, it's been a while since I wore my Chaka Khan!”

  I say, “They’ll eat each other alive.” I mumble then speak up, as the guys head into the kitchen. “Lincoln, Dad, you guys hungry?”

  “Nah, we’re gonna be arse over elbow soon,” Lincoln says.

  My mouth tenses, he is not getting drunk with my father! “But—”

  “Don’t be so cheeky, girl,” Dad cuts in. Apparently, Lincoln has mentioned about me being cheeky. He swings an eighteen pack of a new brand of beer onto the counter, though Lincoln had already placed one on the counter. Crap, what’s going on with this “his and hers” bulk beer boxes?

  Dad turns to Lincoln and says, “Hey, Lincoln, what is that word again, ‘beastly’? You said the guy you fought off for baby girl was beastly.”
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  “That I did, Deon.” Lincoln smiles at me, I’m sure his version of fighting off the stalker hit a little closer to home than mine did. Perhaps the imaginary guy at the bar had a damn pit bull too?

  “We’ll see about this beer you bought, it might be beastly. I can say that right?” Dad continues the conversation, and I have become a ghost to them.

  “Bloody brilliant.”

  ***

  The restaurant is all redbrick, and we’re seated at a picturesque window. The sky has become a mask of deep blue and indigo, taking with it the summer heat. The faint serenade of Frank Sinatra surrounds us. Candlelight twinkles against two glasses of Vichy house wine, which have been generously poured. Though Mom is dressed in her everyday clothing and I’m in travel attire, the Vichy ambience has our chins elevated.

  I’m in San Antonio, and it’s not the end of the world.

  “Should I call and check on them?” I ask.

  “Hell no. They’ll be sound asleep. Your dad’s on an empty stomach. Beer is no less than glorified warm milk for him.”

  I sigh. “Lincoln and I had a small meal on the plane.” And I don’t want him to be asleep when I return. Actually, he had made reservations at a nearby hotel and resort. Due to my parents’ Baptist background, I was going to sneak out this evening then return in the morning. Tomorrow, Lincoln was going to connect with a few army buddies while I attempt to sort out whatever Regina’s issues are.

  “A small meal?” She grins. “That’s what I’m talking about. You’ve stepped up from peanuts. Besides the ‘let’s get wasted,’ Lincoln carries himself well, even in jeans and a very nice looking thermal, he appears to be in the money.”

  I nod, taking a sip of Tuscan soup. “He does very well. Lincoln dabbles in art and he owns a weapons manufacturing company.”

  “Come again now?”

  “Like Smith and Wesson.”

  “Zager? Oh goodness, your pops has a shotgun with the maker Zager. He has those darn gun magazines all over the damn house. There’s a stack of them next to the damn upstairs guest toilet. On one of the covers was a new humongous automatic rifle called the Zager … oh hell, Deon bragged about it being a special issued gun. An army brat was modeling it. I don’t know what Deon was so happy about, seeing that it was illegal for regular citizens like him to carry one. So your Lincoln Zager is that Zager.”