Never Knew Love Like This Before

by Denise Campbell

Deni knew she was up for a promotion, so she had to think first before she put in a charge against the city. The next thing she knew, she began to hyperventilate.

  “Sorry about that, cuz,” Slammer said. He dabbed at his forehead, which had a trickle of blood running down it.

  “Are you okay?” For the first time, Deni felt an allegiance with her cousin.

  Slammer sounded angry. “We should file a complaint at the station.”

  Deni thought about how it would affect the strings she’d pulled to get Slammer out. “Yeah, don’t worry. I will.”

  When she dropped Slammer off at Mama Ticey’s house, she shook her head in disgust. Why did everyone feel if you had made it in the black family, you had to help everyone? None of this would have happened if she hadn’t stuck out her neck. She was sick of it.

  When she got home, she looked around at her French Provincial furniture, her white carpet, and her white entertainment center. Everything looked so white, so sterile. Her schedule was posted on her refrigerator, in her bathroom, and in her guest bathroom. She lived by her to-do list.

  “It’s not you, it’s me.” Trent’s words came back to haunt her. A man’s classic “I’m dumping you” words. That’s what he told her as to why he didn’t show up at the church in front of two hundred guests.

  Downing a glass of sherry, Deni played a song by Cherish called “Unappreciated,” thought about the signs that led up to her public shame, and had a good cry over her broken wedding, her broken heart, her broken life.

  Chapter 6

  Coleman

  (CNN)—New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin blasted the slow pace of federal and state relief efforts in an expletive-laced interview with local radio station WWL-AM.

  Defining Moment

  “Ma, turn the TV up,” Coleman said.

  They were living in a motel room in Austin, Texas. Nothing much to look at. Twin beds. Faded carpet and dingy tea-colored bedspreads, but this was the best he could afford with what was left of his 4,000 dollars he’d taken out the bank. This had been one of many nameless motels they had stayed in on the trek to California.

  “Coleman, perhaps you shouldn’t watch this. It seems to keep you more upset.” Miss Johntrice’s voice was gentle, calm. She’d remained calm through the whole ordeal.

  “No, I want to know what happened to our friends, to our house.”

  From what the news reported, the system had failed, plain and simple. The system was only designed to protect at a category three–level storm. Already below sea level, New Orleans was a prime target.

  August 29 would always be a watershed for him—it was the day that had changed his whole life. It was the pictures he missed the most. His home had been destroyed. He hoped he could find work as a saxophonist in Cali. He was going to miss the French Quarter and Congo Square.

  His thoughts turned back to the Superdome. They’d made it to the Superdome, which was the closest thing to the Middle Passage that America had seen in recent history. He would never forget the stench, the feces, the urine, the soiled Pampers, and even the violence. After a week, he’d started on the next leg of his journey to Los Angeles.

  Afterwards, he had hoped his car would make it to Los Angeles and then it did.

  One of his first calls in Los Angeles came from Malik. “Blue, I’ve got bad news for you. Your house was totally destroyed.”

  “That’s all right. I was planning on not coming back anyhow. I’m staying in Cali.”

  Chapter 7

  Deni

  September 2005,

  Category Four Storm

  A week later, when Deni made it in late from work, the strong scent of hyacinth, jasmine, and oleander scented the air, and instead of uplifting her mood, it made her feel more melancholic. She almost hated to come into her house, it was so filled with longing. Yearning. Loneliness. She still had her wedding dress hanging up in her closet, where it stood, a mock reminder of her dashed hopes and dreams for marriage. For years she’d bought wedding magazines. She had planned to have the perfect wedding.

  “If I’m so fuckin’ gorgeous, how come I can’t find a man?” she thought.

  She grimaced when she looked at her old violin, which she showcased in a glass menagerie. She’d had this violin since she was twelve years old. This was the last of three violins, which her mother had struggled to pay for, and which seemed like a condemnation of all the hopes and dreams her mother had had for her.

  She was in a crappy mood because she’d found out that Trent, her former fiancé, had eloped with his white secretary Margaret. The nerve of that no-good bastard. She was also depressed because Mr. Ryan, her supervisor, had called her in and reprimanded her because of the report that she had put in a complaint against the LAPD.

  “This doesn’t look good, Miss Richards. I received a report from the police department saying you were consorting with a felon. I’m going to have to reprimand you.”

  “But this Officer Malloy showed inappropriate behavior to me. Did you see my report against him?”

  “Miss Richards, there definitely seems to be a conflict of interest here. Would you consider dropping the allegations?”

  Although Mr. Ryan didn’t say it, it was implied that they would not reprimand her if she dropped the charges.

  Deni didn’t want to report that the felon was her first cousin, so she decided to drop her charges. But what about her dignity? she’d wanted to say. So some young punk wearing a uniform had the right to fondle her?

  Halfheartedly, Deni looked at her voice message machine. She saw her message light flashing green. Putting her briefcase on the desk, she pushed the button and listened to her messages. The first message perturbed her. It was from the man claiming to be her father.

  “Attorney Deni Richards. Robert Franklin here. I was just wondering if you received my letter. I’d like to know if we could meet for lunch soon.”

  “The name is Den-I such as in Deny,” she snapped at the answering machine. She already disliked this Robert Franklin for how he mispronounced her name.

  Suddenly her phone rang, getting her the much-needed relief from her turbulent emotions. It was her liberal white girlfriend, Jean Allen. They’d met at UCLA as roommates and were now in an interracial book club together. Jean started right in on her. “Did you contact the discrimination lawyer about the restaurant?”

  “No, I changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  As close as Deni was to her girlfriend Jean, she didn’t want to disclose what had really happened to some of her money or about the incident that had transpired earlier last week with the LAPD. Her white friends could never understand racism. It was like trying to translate Chinese to a Russian person. Her white friends always felt she was too sensitive, anyway. “Well, something came up.”

  “Anyhow, you remember what happened to the discrimination case against Denny’s?”

  “I know, but if Black people went around charging discrimination suits we could never get any work done.”

  “Okay, counselor. I know you don’t want to rock the boat.”

  Deni didn’t tell her, but she’d contacted her private attorney, but failed to follow up because she was too stressed out with filing her complaint against LAPD. “Yes, I’m up for a promotion. I had to think about that too. How did your test come out?”

  “Negative.” Jean was referring to her and her husband Abe’s five-year attempt to get pregnant. They were what demographers called DINKS—double income, no kids. Jean wanted a baby in the worst way, though.

  Obviously, last month’s fertilized embryo eggs didn’t implant.

  “Oh, well. I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe next month.”

  “No, I’m sick of this.” Jean’s voice faltered.

  “Why don’t you try adoption?”

  Jean changed the subject and didn’t answer. “Well, guess what happened today?”

  Jean taught at Fifty-Fourth Street Elementary, one of the local Los Angeles primary schools. She loved her fourth-graders, and
seemed to especially love Black children. For a white girl from the Valley, she didn’t seem to mind working in the hood.

  “What?”

  “A crack addict walked into our school butt naked in front of my class of third-graders.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I kept the children calm. I was able to get security down to the room and take care of them, though. We had to have the police come out.”

  “You poor thing,” Deni empathized with Jean. She changed the subject. “How’s your mother doing?” Jean’s mother, a thirtysomething-year chain smoker, often suffered with emphysema attacks now. She still tried to smoke and was in an oxygen tent. “She’s doing fine—that is, if she doesn’t blow up her oxygen tank trying to sneak a cigarette. I hope I don’t have to go up to San Francisco and see her anytime soon.”

  Deni laughed. “I hear it’s hard to quit.”

  “Anyhow,” Jean went on, “by the way, did you ever contact the man who wrote you?”

  Now it was Deni’s turn to be uncomfortable. “No.” She didn’t want to talk about this putative father right now. An awkward silence ensued.

  “Did you hear about that hurricane hitting New Orleans?”

  “Yes. I’m going to turn on the news. I’ll call you later.”

  Deni hung up the phone and went over to her big-screen TV in her great room and turned on the news. So much had happened this past week, she’d hardly kept up with the news about Hurricane Katrina. When she turned on the news, she was shocked. She couldn’t believe what she saw.

  What she saw shocked her. It was as if she was in a time warp. She couldn’t believe all the black families she saw standing on the oases of their roofs with floodwaters surrounding them. Survivors held up signs, HELP! Then the cameras shot over to the Superdome. She couldn’t believe it. Most of the people who were trapped were poor and black. It looked like a modern-day slave ship. What was the world coming to? She saw a few whites, but most of whom the news captured were black people. People who looked like her.

  The people that the newscaster interviewed reported, “We’re hungry.”

  “We’re cold and wet.”

  “We’re thirsty.”

  Deni wanted to help, but what could she do? After all, it wasn’t her problem. Or was it? Afterwards, it depressed her so she poured a large wine goblet of Chardonnay. She didn’t like to drink alone, but since her aborted wedding, she’d found this to happen more and more. She hated that she was forced to drop her complaint against the police department, but she knew all the departments were interconnected and this might interfere with her promotion. Was she a sellout like Shawn said?

  As she sipped on her wine, her thoughts turned to the letter from Robert Franklin.

  How did he get her phone number? Then, she realized that if he was a former FBI agent, he had access to all types of private records.

  That night, she read for the second time Robert Franklin’s letter.

  Dear Deni,

  My name is Robert Franklin. I believe I’m your biological father. Enclosed is my picture. Your mother and I were high school sweethearts. I went away to the Navy and I lost touch with her. She never returned any of my letters and she never let me know that she had given birth to you.

  I later joined the FBI. I have since retired and I was looking Esther Richards up and found out that she had passed.

  I’m so sorry to hear that. She was a wonderful young woman. So full of life and dreams. She was my first love. We had something special. Somehow we lost touch after I did my tour of duty in Vietnam. Although I married someone after I got out of the service, I always thought of Esther.

  My wife died three years ago. I saw a program on lost loves and I thought of Esther. That’s how I found out about you.

  Esther never had any other boyfriend who I knew of at that time, and that’s why I think I could be your father. Please contact me at 805-555-5622.

  Robert Franklin,

  Santa Barbara

  She looked at the picture of the man enclosed in the envelope. She did look a lot like him. She had the same thick eyebrows, the same almond-shaped eyes. The only difference was in their complexion. She was a medium cappuccino color, and her father was the color of deep espresso.

  Stunned, Deni curled up in her Queen Anne chair. First, she had to wrap her mind around the idea that there was this man her mother had loved, because she’d never seen Esther date anyone in her life while she was growing up. And if Robert Franklin was indeed her father, she thought about how her mother could have gotten child support and her life could have been easier. Perhaps even her mother could still be alive. Deni’s cheeks burned and she grew full of rage. No, she didn’t think she wanted to contact this fool. He was a day late and a dollar short. Who needed a father after all this time?

  What she needed was a tune-up. She picked up the phone and called her married lover.

  Chapter 8

  Coleman

  October 2005

  Internet

  “Passivity did the most damage,” says the 520-page report, entitled A Failure of Initiative.

  “The failure of initiative cost lives, prolonged suffering, and left all Americans justifiably concerned our government is no better prepared to protect its people than it was before 9/11.”

  From Sheltered to Homeless Shelter

  Los Angeles was nothing like he thought it would be. He didn’t even want to think over the last few weeks. It had been a nightmare, hell-on-earth experience.

  Finally, he had settled in Los Angeles. When his car, overheated radiator and all, arrived with his mother, Miss Johntrice, Britton, and Blossom, he had one goal. An apartment for his family.

  The first thing he did was find a gig playing in Redondo Beach at a jazz club on Fisherman’s Wharf.

  He missed the Big Easy, but he knew now that home as he knew it would never be the same. He couldn’t look back. He could only go forward. But now here he was living in a homeless shelter. Him—a former homeowner—now reduced to being indigent, a homeless man, asking for handouts. He had to work hard to maintain his dignity, though. He couldn’t believe how many of his friends had been scattered.

  When he called FEMA, it was always the same thing.

  “Oh, we lost your application.”

  “We called you and you didn’t respond.”

  His house insurance was a joke. They wouldn’t pay enough to replace anything hardly. He needed his mortgage papers and insurance papers and he had to write back to New Orleans to get the papers.

  He heard reports on the news saying, “This is a signature moment in history,” but it didn’t feel like it when it was happening to you.

  Images haunted his sleep after watching different New Orleans residents. He still recalled the stench at the Superdome, and the sights of animal carcasses and even human beings floating down the street. He really got upset when he saw anyone on the news from the Lower Ninth Ward and how demolished that area was.

  He was watching TV to see the aftermath. “There was a boat in his backyard.”

  “The president doesn’t think he has to do anything for this area.”

  “We need a different government.”

  He would miss Bourbon Street, and all the New Orleans music, but something in Los Angeles called to him. It felt like an adventure. He wanted to try, even if he failed.

  His cousin told him that his home and his mother’s home had been destroyed. That was another problem. Fighting with the insurance, and trying to get the money.

  His mother took care of the children while he did temporary work during the day at Labor Ready—anything he could find. He hadn’t enrolled Blossom or Britton in school yet, but his mother did home schooling with them. One night when he came in, Miss Johntrice couldn’t find Blossom. When they found her over in another family’s cubicle, he couldn’t take anymore.

  “Blossom, come out. Where are you? You’re starting to scare me.”

  Blossom finally showed up from one of the other f
amily’s cubicle. “Here I am, Daddy.”

  Coleman grabbed her and hugged her. “Don’t ever go off with strangers, you hear me, Blossom?”

  Blossom broke into tears. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  “I’m not mad at you. Daddy is just—” His voice broke off. He was mad at himself for putting his family in this situation. But what could he do? He wanted a shot at the LA market. He had so many bad memories in New Orleans and this was his chance to get away.

  He needed an apartment, but he couldn’t get it without the FEMA. He’d used up his savings paying for hotels before he made it to LA. To move into an apartment took almost 5,000 dollars.

  When he heard about the adopt-a-family program at the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, which took in families into other’s homes, he decided to swallow his pride and to sign up until he could save enough money to get an apartment.

  Chapter 9

  Deni

  Category Five Storm

  Often the voice of conscience whispers

  Often we silence it

  Always we will have to pay

  —Anonymous

  Although she’d just experienced one of the deepest, toe curling, snatch-your-wig-off-your-head orgasms she’d ever had, when Deni turned over, she glared at her lover with disgust. Ronald didn’t seem to notice. He had already turned away and was lighting a cigarette. Ronald was an accountant with Los Angeles County and she’d known him for the last five years, but the affair just happened after “the Trent Debacle,” as she now referred to it.

  Deni couldn’t take it anymore. Luxurious silk sheets. Five-star-hotel. It still felt wrong. The fact that this was sex without love left her running on empty. Inside, Deni knew it was her own self she was disgusted with, not Ronald, but he just seemed so content with this coupling of bodies and not of their spirits. And what about how he was cheating on his wife? For the first time, she gave the wife a thought. Without a word, she went into the hotel’s posh bathroom and cut on the shower jets. As she sponged down her body in the shower, no matter how much water ran down the drain, no matter how much soap she used on her body, she felt filthy. How many more times was she going to sleep with him? In her spirit, she knew she had to stop. Something inside of her was changing. “This is it,” she said out loud as she cut off the jets to the shower.