Three Nights In Mannford

by Cynthia Conner Goyang

  Truman glanced nervously at Jonathon and began to back out as Deshaun gripped his gun more firmly.

  “You and homeboy best get on up outta here — unless you jokers here for a little fun with my girls?” Before Truman could respond, Deshaun shouted toward the back rooms, “Girls, get yo’ butts out here.” He looked at Truman with a smirk.

  Intrigued and aroused, Truman vacillated as four women — in various stages of dress and undress — sashayed seductively within inches of the two men. Truman inhaled the provocative perfume of each of the beautiful, busty women as they pressed in close. “Whoo,” he said, tempted to cast all his responsibilities and caution to the wind. He glanced at Jonathon, who shook his head.

  “We’ve got to get back,” Jonathon said dryly.

  Truman shook his head and lifted his palms. “I can’t right now, girls. Maybe later.” He smiled sheepishly.

  “Aww,” the ladies said in concert, putting on various pouty faces. They glanced at Deshaun who frowned but then dismissed them with a sideways nod. They then flounced out of the room.

  Jonathon stared pointedly at Truman, who stared back, annoyed, before relenting. Just as the two men turned to leave, three slow knocks and five fast sounded from the outside. Truman leaped away from the door, his eyes wide with fear and apprehension.

  Deshaun chuckled through his gold teeth. “Ooh, May-Or. You should have seen your face. Ain’t nothing, man. Ain’t nothing at all.” He glanced at the outdoor camera on his watchphone and then opened a small hatch on the inside door. There stood a girl of about ten. Each of her braids held a colorful barrette. She was carrying a baby on her hip and a diaper bag on the opposite shoulder.

  “Mama told me to bring you this,” she said, her wide eyes looking uncertainly at Deshaun through the slatted steel. She slid Deshaun a note through one of the slats.

  “Oh, all right then, little girl!” Deshaun said. He reached into the diaper bag and pulled out two crisp hundred dollar bills. Then, stepping to his drug-laden table, he counted out twenty clear dime bags of weed and placed them in the diaper bag. “That’s it, girl. You can go now.”

  Truman watched the young girl’s eyes grow even wider and could tell that she was frightened. She fidgeted with her barrettes and backed away. Hugging the baby tightly, she then abruptly turned to leave.

  “Hey,” Deshaun called to her as she made her way down the sidewalk. “Tell yo’ mama Deshaun said to send you back this way when you get a little older. Turnin’ a little trick here or there won’t hurt ya none.”

  The young girl nodded with a confused expression, obviously not understanding Deshaun’s meaning. She turned back and skittered away.

  Truman felt all the blood drain from his face and his stomach lurch. “Man, you are pure scum!” he said, regarding Deshaun with disgust.

  Deshaun threw back his head and laughed.

  “Who me? Don’t judge me, May-Or. Blame that girl’s sorry mama, not me. She gon’ hear it sooner or later anyway.” Truman glared at Deshaun, who seemed to take no notice as he sauntered across the room. “Check out my pimp cup, y’all.” Deshaun grabbed up the gaudy thing, glared back at the two men, and took a healthy swig. “Huh. Look at you.” Deshaun cursed and smirked again.

  “Lovely place you have here,” Truman answered with all the sarcasm he could muster.

  “You may be the honorable May-Or of Mannford but yo’ tail up in here, ain’t it? You and yo’ special homeboy over there ain’t no better than Deshaun! I think we finished here. You white boys best be on yo’ way now.”

  “You are a piece of crap, Deshaun,” the mayor said under his breath.

  “So are you May-or, so are you!” Deshaun said, indulging in another belly laugh and then dismissing the two men with a wave of his fingers.

  Truman and Jonathon wasted no time exiting the house. Pulling their suit coats tight around them, they stepped out without another word. Their eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses and their baseball caps pulled low.

  As Jonathon drove away, Truman stared out the dark-tinted window, just as he had on the trip over. This time, though, his vision was obscured by tears of silent despondence. Man, my life is in the toilet. He sighed. How could I let this happen? Truman felt the bag of coke in his pocket. The familiar conflict between opposite feelings clutched at him.

  As always, he felt torn between duty and desire. Just as a starving person yearned for food, Truman also desired, even salivated, for the coke. The white powder had reduced him to a creature of craving. It had already wrecked his marriage. His divorce had been finalized that previous Monday.

  She sure didn’t stay long after she found out about this, Truman thought sadly. He shook his head. Just a matter of time before everybody else finds out . . . A montage of images played on a screen in Truman’s mind. Jail, exposure in the headlines, his body in a casket. Wiping his eyes, he again stared dismally out the window.

  After a moment, Truman closed his eyes and willed himself not to think anymore or replay the events of his day, the futility of his life. He kept his eyes closed and listened to the sounds of the traffic whirring by. When the car slowed down, Truman opened his eyes. Jonathon had pulled back up to the Mannford Crystal Ballroom where the gala for the philanthropists of the year was still in full swing.

  “I won’t be long, Johnnie,” he said, not yet willing to remove himself from the car. “For what it’s worth, I know this whole thing must have been tough for you.”

  “You’re right, Mayor Henderson,” Jonathon answered, wearing a pained expression. “This has gone much further than we expected. I don’t know that anything will ever be the same again.”

  Truman reached forward and patted Jonathon’s shoulder, then handed him a tin with a bit of cocaine ready inside. Jonathon grabbed for it, snorted some, and then gave the tin back to Truman, who snorted a healthy portion as well.

  “Don’t worry, Johnnie,” he said, after sitting a moment to let the coke penetrate. “This whole mess will blow over before you know it.” He tried to sound more convinced than he felt. He transferred the bag of coke from his breast pocket to under the seat. “I won’t be long,” he said, patting Jonathon on the shoulder again. “Gotta make one more announcement. Then I’m out of there.”

  “Sounds good, Mayor Henderson,” Jonathon answered, his eyes staring forward.

  Truman exited the car, straightened his suit, and headed back into the party.

  Chapter

  21

  7:00 P.M.

  “Man, I’m out,” Akil called to Marquise. “You comin’?”

  “Naw, I’ll bring up the rear,” Marquise said, shaking his head.

  “Ima roll then, dude,” Akil answered and was out the door.

  With the barbershop closed for the day, Marquise stood alone in the center of the main room. Akil had already swept up the hair on the floor and sterilized the combs and equipment. Though everything was taken care of, Marquise lingered. He blinked his eyes several times, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tears that had threatened to overflow throughout the day, especially at the news about Darrelle Moseley’s mom that Aunt Mabel had delivered. He went to the back room and leaned on the washer, allowing hot tears of sorrow for that brother Darrelle to slide down his face. They were also tears of anger at people like Deshaun who preyed upon the community instead of helping it.

  “I’ve got to go back out there tonight,” he told himself. “Make what’s around me better.” He remembered that promise he’d made to himself years ago as a young boy: “Make what’s around you better.” The maxim took him back to his early years.

  Ten-year-old Marquise had never slept well. In the ramshackle house of his childhood on Madison Street in Denver, he’d lie awake in his grimy bit of a bed, alert to the sounds of squirrels that had taken up residence in the walls. He’d see them come out in the dead of night. Emboldened perhaps by their s
heer numbers, they’d cling to the old, tattered curtains and stare at him. Their large brown eyes seemed to be taunting him — the skinny kid cowering under the threadbare sheets, lying awake in a fright between his two snoring older brothers, Ronnie, and Freddie. Even when alerted, he’d be too cold and afraid to get up in the dark, instead holding on until the first morning light.

  One early morning, Marquise had bitten his lip at the cold and held his bladder as long as he could endure until he could hold it in no longer, and he forced himself out of bed and down the frigid hallway. At the bathroom doorway, he encountered his brothers and his sister, Shanae. He couldn’t understand why they were just standing there. He pushed past them in desperation, his bladder ready to burst. However, he stopped short when he saw why they had hesitated. He blinked, then wiped at his eyes as he stared at the water frozen in the toilet bowl.

  Marquise remembered Mama trudging around, slue- and flat-footed. All she could do in the situation was pat and hug each of them, wrapping them in threadbare blankets for comfort.

  Daddy, in turn, reacted with loud, angry ranting and raving — cursing Mama and the kids alike for their predicament. Marquise watched with wide, frightened eyes as Daddy stormed out of the frigid house, slamming the door behind him.

  Being so young, Marquise couldn’t recall how the frozen-water crisis resolved itself. What he couldn’t forget was the disgusting sight, sound, and smell of the busted pipes’ contents falling from the bathroom up above to the floor below.

  Amid it all, the school day loomed. Marquise and his siblings had dressed as best they could. Downstairs, they hurriedly crunched cereal without milk. Out the door they went, into the swirling windblown snow. Cold, hungry, and trudging several frigid blocks to the bus stop — they were ill-prepared to join their classmates on the other side of town, in another world altogether. Even so, Marquise joined in at school with determination. Although his home life didn’t get much better as he grew older, he worked hard to succeed at school. With sheer persistence, he participated in sports teams and the student council. By his junior year, he became student-council president with his slogan, “Make What’s Around You Better.” Even when he didn’t have much control over what happened at home, something within him continually pushed him to do whatever he could to make life better for him and his siblings.

  Marquise’s thoughts returned to the present. Curious over what might be happening that night in his town, he walked over to the barbershop’s television and clicked on CNN. He stood for a while, watching the angry protesters who were gathering once again in downtown Mannford. Shaking his head sadly, he clicked off the television. A look outside told him that darkness had descended.

  He turned off the lights and walked out of his pride and joy, House of Fade, locking the door before turning toward his SUV.

  “I’ve got to do this. I’ve got to make what’s around me better,” he said to himself. He got into his car and headed toward downtown.

  As he drove the familiar streets, his thoughts went to Lawrence. “No, brother man,” Marquise said, shaking his head. “You gon’ sit this one out. I’m not gonna ask you to take the risk.” His thoughts then turned toward Keiana. “I gotta do this, baby. ‘Make What’s Around You Better.’” It was how he had determined to live then and for the rest of his life. “I hope you’ll understand. I love you and Nisha, baby.”

  Marquise parked his SUV in a secluded spot two blocks down and walked in the dark. He could see lights on in the nondescript house on Cherry Street.

  No, my brothers and sisters downtown. Here is where you should hold your protest, he thought. The things happening in this house are what is going wrong with our community.

  Marquise trod cautiously toward the house, pausing when he heard a large dog bark its warning from behind a tall fence. With his attention on the dog, he was surprised when headlights suddenly appeared. A dark sedan was pulling up to the same house that Marquise had come to scope out. He jumped behind a tall oak tree to avoid being seen. The wind began to whip up. The smell of rain was in the air. Marquise watched as the sedan pulled into the driveway and a familiar-looking white man got out.

  Mayor Henderson? Dang! What the heck?

  Marquise moved back farther behind the tree where he could still watch without being seen. His heart beat nearly out of his chest, and his breath came in short, quick whiffs.

  Another man, the car’s driver, stood with the mayor. This man’s face was also familiar, but Marquise could not remember where he’d seen him before.

  Marquise crouched down and glanced around him. No one had noticed his presence. Emboldened and sensing that something important was going to take place, he took out his cell phone and began videotaping the scene.

  Two steel doors opened, and there stood Deshaun.

  “Hey, May-Or. Isn’t one visit with Deshaun enough for one day?” he said so loudly that Marquise could hear. “I already gave you and homeboy enough snort to last a dang year. Ah, I know, May-Or! You here for de’ ladies.” Deshaun turned his head into the house. “Girls, come out here. We got company!”

  “Yeah, bring them out,” the mayor said, rubbing his hands together. Rather than excited, the mayor’s demeanor indicated that he was uncomfortable.

  Marquise watched as several beautiful and scantily clad ladies were wrapping their arms around the mayor and the other man, the driver.

  Oh my goodness! Marquise looked down at his camera and decided to snap a photo in addition to what he was recording. Marquise hadn’t considered that the flash might go off, though, and the light from his camera phone shone brightly.

  “What was that?” Deshaun asked, stepped out of the door, to face in the direction where Marquise was hiding. “Gentleman, it looks like we got us an audience!”

  “What?” the mayor said, removing a young woman’s arms from around his neck. “Johnnie! Quick, your gun.”

  “Oh crap!” Marquise muttered. He took off running back toward his SUV as a bullet whizzed past his head.

  7:18 P.M.

  Keiana walked to Nisha’s classroom in Mrs. Helen’s Wee Care. “Hi, Nisha, my sweet girl,” Keiana said, smiling. She reached her arms out to her baby and then covered her face with sweet kisses. “Thanks so much, Ada.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ada, Nisha’s caregiver, answered. “You know Nisha is an absolute joy to all of us here.” Ada gave Nisha a goodbye hug before handing her over.

  “That’s good to know.” Keiana smiled as she took Nisha and the diaper bag from Ada. “Say bye-bye to Ada, Nisha. Bye-bye.”

  Nisha waved her chubby little hands.

  “Bye-bye,” Keiana said, grinning at Ada and the ladies at the front desk as she walked toward the front entrance.

  The ladies laughed. “Bye, baby, Nisha. Bye,” they said. “We’ll see you on Monday.”

  Keiana laughed as well. “Yeah, see you all then.” She smiled and waved.

  In the parking lot, Keiana secured baby Nisha in her car seat and then jumped into the front seat. The early-evening sun had slipped behind a few gathering clouds. Keiana paused before pulling out then heard her cellphone ring.

  Must be Marq, she thought, expecting to see his usual call at closing time. When she looked closer though, she scowled. “Aww, tst, just a stupid telemarketer,” she said with disappointment. “Hmmm, he must be running late. Oh well, your daddy will probably call in a little bit,” Keiana said, smiling at her baby girl’s face in the rearview mirror.

  “Dadadada,” Nisha sputtered in response.

  Back home, Keiana carried Nisha into the apartment and placed her in the playpen. Then she turned her attention toward the kitchen. “What’s Mama going to cook for dinner, little girl?”

  Nisha responded by pounding her teething ring on the side of the playpen.

  “We can’t eat that, Nish,” Keiana said, laughing.

  She kicked off her shoes,
went to the fridge, and took out the ground beef. Then she went to the pantry for spaghetti noodles and sauce. Dinner was soon on, and the delicious aroma of spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread filled the air. Keiana fixed a fresh salad and set everything aside for when Marquise came home.

  “Can’t forget to set your daddy’s jalapenos out, little girl.” Keiana glanced at her watch. “Wow, Marq’s really running late.” She eyed her phone. “Well, hmm.”

  Chapter

  22

  7:50 P.M.

  Where is Marquise? He’s sure running late. Keiana glanced out the window hoping to wait a bit longer, but Nisha’s fussy, hungry cries told her that the little one could not be put off. She fixed plates for herself and Nisha and set them both on the dining table. “Come on, Nish. You ready to eat, baby girl?” Keiana picked her up from the playpen and placed her in the highchair. Baby Nisha began to hungrily and messily gobble up her baby food.

  Keiana watched her baby eat and wished she could have that same lack of concern for anything except eating. But knots had begun to form in her stomach, and she played with her food more than ate it.

  Where is my bae? Keiana wondered. He was running too late. Traffic’s probably heavy. Saturday’s always crazy, she told herself, hoping that would make her feel better.

  She looked over at messy-faced Nisha who had finished her food and was happily gurgling. “All done, Nisha? That’s so good, baby. You ate it up. Good girl!”

  Grabbing a cloth and wetting it with warm water, Keiana wiped Nisha’s face. She absentmindedly put the dishes in the sink and then lifted Nisha out of her highchair and carried her to the window. Keiana glanced out into the now-dark sky.

  “Hmmm, where is Daddy, Nisha?” she asked, then kissed her little girl’s cheek. She peered out a bit longer. Realizing that watching and longing wasn’t going to bring him home any quicker, she decided to turn her attention to Nisha. “Well, let’s go get your bath. You ready for your bath, sweet girl?”