Life

by Sullivan, Leo

  I heard the sporadic crackling of police radios. I spun around and there were two police officers standing in my bedroom, a place that I once held sacred in terms of its intimacy that we women have for our personal sanctuary.

  One of the officers was Black, tall and strikingly handsome. He stood about six feet four, built like a football player. I realize I was supposed to be traumatized by the day’s events, but I had an overwhelming desire to stand in the mirror and fix my do; officer man was fine with his wide broad shoulders and tree trunk thighs. His partner was white, older with stringy blond hair, a long beak nose and unpleasant blue eyes that looked at me with the disdain of his forefathers as he announced, “Ma’am, we’re going to have to take you in, you’re being placed under arrest for assault –”

  “Whaaat!” I screamed. “I come home and catch my husband with another man, and you’re going to arrest me?” Incongruously both officers turned to look at Marcus as he stood in the hallway.

  “Get your ass in here!” the Black officer yelled not bothering to hide his contempt. “Why in the hell did you tell us that damn lie? You said she came home and just went off on ya’ll,” he said, while the other one had me place my hands behind my back while he read me my rights. I could tell he was enjoying the hell out of his job, just from the impressive singsong of his voice.

  “Hold up, hold up Ralph!” the Black cop said to his partner. “You want to tell us what happened?” he asked Marcus with little patience in his voice. Marcus gazed at the floor. The fumes of gas permeated the room. He just shrugged his shoulders. The Black officer shook his head somberly as he picked up a picture. Our family portrait.

  “This your son man?” The words came out choked like an accusation between two Black men. A silent berate that a white man would never be able to understand. Marcus swallowed the dry lump in his throat and nodded yes.

  “How about we just take both of them down to the station and let the judge decide the outcome first thing in the morning?” the white cop asked. For the first time the Black cop looked directly at me.

  “Ralph, let me speak to you out in the hall a sec.” His voice hinted at a plea, I hoped that his plea would be for me.

  “I’m going to call in and get a female officer to take her in,” Ralph said on a second wind, not even paying attention to what his partner just said.

  “Ralph!” his partner called again. I got the impression that they had been working together for a while. I watched as they walked into the hall, leaving me alone with a man I realized that I never knew. My husband.

  “Marcus, no matter what, you’re gonna hafta pack your stuff and get out of my house!” I said, feeling the blood boiling in my veins. The police walked in. My heart fluttered in my chest. I had never been to jail before.

  “You come with me,” the white officer said pointing. I suddenly had the urge to go to the bathroom and it wasn’t to pee either.

  “Me?” I asked, pointing a finger at my chest. That white man walked right up to me and continued walking. I watched as he handcuffed Marcus. Lord God! I couldn’t help thinking, better him than me. Take him away. I watched as Marcus was being led out of the room in cuffs with a shocked expression on his face.

  I was alone with the Black officer. His intimidating presence seemed to fill the entire room. He walked up to me and placed his big hand on my shoulder. This was not the officer, this was the brotha comforting a sista in distress. Someone raised their child with compassion for human life.

  “Are you going to be all right?” His words stroked me for something I realized I had been starved for, affection. I bit down on my lower lip, held back my tears, exhaled frustration, looking away from him as I felt the tide of emotions building. A sincere man can always do that to a hurting woman. I didn’t trust my voice. I tried to smile, but hurt pulled my cheeks the wrong direction. The nametag on his broad chest read “Coffee.” Damn, the name suits him well, I thought as I looked up at him. Coffee, with a touch of cream, his complexion was smooth mahogany.

  “We’re going to take him down to the station, charge him with obstruction of justice for lying to us. Now, ma’am, you did say that the other guy slipped and fell out of the window, right?” It took me a second to catch on. “Ma’am?”

  “Oh, uh, uh, yes, yes, he did slip and fall,” I stammered with my words trying to connect. He still had his hand on my shoulder trying to coach me. When he stepped away taking his hand off of my shoulder, he offered me his card.

  “If you have any more problems, let me know.” I looked up into his handsome face, the man was Denzel Washington fine. Damn I wanted to fix my hair. “Call me. You know I’m here for you, to serve and protect.”

  I wondered, Is it me, or is Mr. Policeman trying to flirt? I watched him as he headed toward the door checking out his nice rear end. He turned catching me with a knowing grin that says caught you looking.

  “Mrs. Green?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know some of the best things in life are free. Call me.” He smiled a one-hundred watt smile that could make a girl need sunglasses and walked away. Mr. Policeman definitely was flirting.

  *****

  I took all of Marcus’ belongings and had a yard sale. When he came to get his stuff, I called the police on him. I drained all of the money out of our accounts, wouldn’t let him see his child and when he started getting too intimidating, I had a restraining order placed on him where he could not come within ten miles of my home. Basically, I became the proverbial bitch, making his life a living hell. And the bad part was I still loved him with all my heart. I too was guilty of committing a sin. Every day I looked at my child and was reminded of the old adage: You reap what you sow. Ain’t love grand?

  ***** As always, in times of need, I called my girl, Nandi. She was now teaching at UCLA as an assistant professor in African studies.

  She answered on the third ring sounding winded.

  “Hello, Nandi?”

  “Girl, what’s wrong? I know that voice,” she said with concern.

  “You sound like you was running or something,” I said stalling for time, not sure that I wanted to tell her.

  “Well, if you want to know the truth, me and my warrior were doing a little nation building in the bed.” She laughed. Nandi was happy. I felt a pang of jealousy. She married an ordinary brotha. He was a carpenter, had one of them African names that was hard to pronounce. They had three kids. Her first pregnancy was with twins. More African names.

  I sighed over the phone shaking my head as if she were standing there as I blurted out, “I caught Marcus in bed cheating on me –”

  Before I could get the words out, Nandi was hollering, “I told ya, I told ya his sorry ass wasn’t shit, too damn pretty with his conceit –”

  “I caught him in bed with another man,” I interrupted.

  “Man? Girl tell me you lying.”

  “Nope, caught them in my damn bed playing hide the sausage. Child, Marcus’ asshole elastic gotta be ruined. The man backed out of his ass with something as long as my arm.”

  “Helll naw!” Nandi drawled unbelievingly on the other end of the phone.

  “Guess who he was with.”

  “Who?”

  “Stan Johnson.”

  “Stan Johnson? That preppie cute guy that used to drive the nice Benz that went to Florida State?”

  “That’s him girl,” I responded trying to carry on a conversation like it was not humiliating me as well.

  “What the hell is going on with our Black men?” Nandi said exasperated. “Didn’t he marry that nice girl Tonya the AKA?”

  “I dunno,” I said with my mind conjuring up the vivid scene of walking in on my husband with another man. In the background I could hear Nandi’s husband calling her affectionately. Nandi always told me that she was going to have ten kids if she ever married. In my heart and soul, I honestly believed her. We talked a little while longer then we hung up. For the first time I felt worse than I actually did before I called her.r />
  *****

  Chapter Nine

  “Starting Over”

  – Hope –

  My life turned hectic fast. Being a single mother trying to raise a small child, go to school and work a full time job was kicking my ass.

  I arrived home running late from picking my son up from daycare. My plan was to take him out to dinner again to McDonald’s. The good thing about him being young was he hadn’t mastered the art of complaining yet. We ate fast food so much, they could charge me with cruelty to children. It’s amazing what you can do with a Happy Meal.

  As I drove up, I noticed the police car parked in my driveway. It was Officer Coffee. He smiled that sexy smile of his as I parked. It should be a law against a man being so damn fine!

  He got out of the car to greet me. I was dressed for the occasion. My hair and nails were done. I had on my favorite Italian hand-woven gabardine skirt suit with a killer eggshell, silk, nearly transparent please-don’t-hurt‘em blouse. It was completely see-through except for the breast area, just enough to flirt with the imagination. With my suit coat on I looked very conservative. As I was retrieving Junior from his car seat, Mr. Policeman walked right up behind me, just as I planned.

  “Mommy, mommy, po-leees,” my three-year-old said, pointing his sticky fingers at Officer Coffee. I turned abruptly, catching him looking at my behind just as I did to him. He smirked, embarrassed, furrowing his brow, like a gentleman caught in the act. I couldn’t help but smile, maybe showing him a little too much gum and teeth, enjoying the attention of being noticed by such a handsome man.

  “So what can I do for you Mr. Coffee?” I asked, remembering his cliché–the best things in life are free. I hadn’t been with a man in almost a year. His words held a special meaning to me. I held my son like he was contaminated, trying not to let him put his sticky little fingers on my $180 dollar blouse as my eyes quickly roamed the car looking for the candy apple he had earlier.

  “Just stopped by to check on you. Hey lil man,” he said, ruffling my son’s hair. I could smell his cologne, it was a beautiful fragrance that seeped inside of me like his imperturbable masculinity. Damn he smelled good.

  “I just thought I’d make good use of your tax dollars by coming back to check on you and your son, besides, you never called me.”

  I looked up at him with his handsome face carved out in the majestic clouds as birds flew overhead, chirping chimes of summer’s reign. “You know what Officer Coffee, I refuse to answer that under the grounds that it may incriminate me.”

  He chuckled a good one at that. What he did not know was that I already called the number in the pretense of a booty call, and the number that he gave me was an answering service, not his home, which meant that policeman, was a playa or else he would have given me his home phone number. My girl Nandi taught me that a long time ago when we were in school.

  “So how are things going?” Officer Coffee asked. We both knew what he was talking about–Marcus.

  “I’m taking it one day at a time. Boy! If you don’t put that dirt down, I’ma knock you into tomorra. Come here!” I yelled at Junior. All the ghetto came out a sista. You know a bad-ass kid can do that to you. “Excuse me.” I blushed and apologized to Officer Coffee for my language.

  “So, are you two going to get back together? If not, I’d like to ask you out.” The brotha squeezed a bunch of words into one sentence catching me off guard. I pondered the thought, as I watched my son meander over to the damn dirt pile again. I stared up at Mr. Coffee absent-mindedly and felt the bright sun on my cheeks.

  “It’s going to take time,” I responded melancholically, hearing the slight tremble in my voice that usually gives rise to my emotions. Officer Coffee brought something to the surface in me that I had been trying to run from. I wanted to forget the day that my marriage went bad. In some ways I think that it traumatized me, the way that it does a lot of women.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said, deciding to make no secret about my attraction to him. “If I decide to play the dating game, you’ll be the first on my list.” Boldly, I tiptoed, kissed him on his lips and rubbed my body against his. Estrogen and testosterone pollinated the air. We had cerebral intercourse. My body just seemed to gravitate toward the man. I pulled myself away from him, walked over and snatched my little rugrat out of the dirt and took off walking like I stole some love. Actually, I was a little embarrassed by my antics. I turned and peered over my shoulder once I reached my door. Mr. Coffee was wearing my red lipstick. I couldn’t help but giggle. “You need to get a real phone number. That answering service is a sure giveaway that you’re a playa.” Mr. Coffee’s jaw dropped realizing that I had indeed called him. My son waved bye as I closed the door.

  *****

  For the first time in my life, I was going to have to be an independent single parent. I could not lose sight of my dreams and aspirations. I didn’t just want to be a lawyer, I wanted to be a damn good lawyer and help my people as best as I could. They gave my baby brother life for a few rocks of cocaine, and white men were stealing billions from corporate America, shutting down entire cities and never went to prison. In my heart I knew this was not right.

  Eventually Marcus won a court order granting him weekend visits with his son. Can you believe I was still in love with that man? In fact, I was tempted to seduce him, just out of spite. To be truthful, it’s a woman’s dream to turn a gay man straight, especially if he just happens to be your husband. But in my heart, I knew that Marcus would always be damaged goods. I would never be able to forget the sight of Stan backing his anaconda out of my husband’s ass. Disgusting! In some ways we were now strangers. I held the darkest secret within me–Marcus Jr. wasn’t his child. In my mind I reasoned that’s why I had to forgive him. We both cheated and now must suffer the consequences. I could never ask him for a divorce. For me that would be the testament to the failure of something I held very dear to me, the precious virtue of marriage. So often, I just blamed myself then got lost in my work and school.

  *****

  On May 28, I graduated from law school. Two months later, I passed the bar exam with one of the highest scores in the state. However, months later I was still unable to find employment. I sent my resume to hundreds of employers. One day when I arrived home there was a message on my answering machine. The United States Attorney’s office for the district of Tallahassee, Florida wanted me to come in for a job interview. As desperate as I was, there was no way in hell I was going to work for them. Especially after what they did to my brother, and not to mention their so-called war on drugs, which was actually a war on Black males. Lately there had been a lot of DWB charges–driving while Black. For a Black woman, me anyway, it would feel like treason to help imprison young Black men. As it was, America was already spending more money on sending Black men to prison than the entire educational budget. My sole purpose of becoming a lawyer was to get Black men out of prison, not keep them in. I decided to call Nandi to chat with her about this latest event.

  “Girlllll, you’ve got to be out your cotton pickin’ mind!” Nandi screeched. In order to learn the enemy and how to defeat them you must first learn their tactics. Not only will it give you valuable knowledge but will give you an advantage like being behind the enemy lines of their scrofulous ways, teaching you their strategic tactics,” Nandi exhorted, and went on to regale me with one of her stories. This one was about the true story of General Hannibal and how he journeyed all the way from Africa through the Caucasoid mountains of Europe. He had over one hundred thousand soldiers and elephants and they went through the treacherous rough terrain and tempest weather. They encountered tribes of barbaric cavemen, better known as Neanderthal. By the time they reached Rome a year later, he lost over half his of his forces. Weary and fatigued, with forty thousand soldiers, a Black man conquered Rome, defeating its million-army military. Hannibal is known as the greatest stratagem of all time. He ruled Rome for many years. How was he defeated? He made the mistake of allowing a Roman t
o join his army. The Roman befriended Hannibal, learning of all his brilliant war tactics and defected back to the other side and defeated Hannibal in battle.

  “Hope, you can learn a lot from your enemy. White folks have been doing that to us for years. Stealing our genius and using it against us.”

  I hung up the phone in a daze. Nandi was right. She knew one of my life-long desires was to get my brother out of prison, and one day file a class action suit against the government. I wasn’t anti-government, but I was anti-discrimination, anti-racism, anti-oppressive and anti-genocide. So if the government was that, then I was against it and any act that violated human rights against human life, Black or white.

  Chapter Ten

  “A Bird in the Hand”

  – Life –

  I shoved Trina in the room shutting the door, as I spun around realizing my blunder. She had her hand in her purse. I forgot all about the small derringer .38 two shot pistol that she carried.

  “Nigga, let’s get one thing straight! Don’t you ever, ever, place your damn hands on me out in public.” She took a step forward, and continued, “Yeah, a bitch was wrong for stealin’ your shit, but I knew you would never trust me with your money.” She then reached into one of the shopping bags, took out not one, but two bricks of cocaine and placed them on the table. As if reading my mind she answered, “I bought them from my cousin in Brooklyn for ten grand apiece. He gave me one for eight after I promised that I would come back and get more. I stood there rigid. I never had a bird in my entire life, much less two of them. Trina sauntered up to me real close and poured a heavy dose of herself all over me as her hand caressed my private part then unzipped my fly as she eased inside my pants. “Papi … I would never betray you … Never!” Vaguely I could hear what she said as my mind did figures, weight, dollars. There are thirty-six ounces in a kilo of dope. Two times thirty-six is seventy-two. Each ounce goes for about a grand in Tallahassee. My face broke into a shit-eating grin. Trina removed her hand and looked at me strangely, sensing where my mind was, knowing it wasn’t on sex.