Dirty South

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  There probably was more, but she couldn’t think of anything else. Her budget was four hundred dollars. She hoped that was enough. Once she landed in Georgia she’d find a dollar store to purchase what she could. The rest she’d get at Target. Did they have Targets in Georgia? She sure hoped so.

  She couldn’t believe it. Two more days at home. That’s all that was left. Then she’d be leaving Honey and Earl behind. Never to return, probably. After college she’d get her own place, hopefully room with Kenya for a few years. Then she’d get married. Get a house. A nice ranch-style with fences around the property that made you think they had horses. A Volvo in the circular drive.

  Lark had it all figured out.

  What was it they said about the best-laid plans, though?

  There was a soft tap at the door.

  “Come in.”

  The door slid open. Honey.

  “Unless you’ve come to tell me I’m adopted and Oprah’s my biological mom, and she wants me back, I don’t want to hear it.” Lark looked at her mother and smiled. “I’ve had enough heart-to-heart with you for one week, Mama.”

  “You’ve got a fresh mouth.”

  “Came by it naturally.”

  Honey was by her side. “What’s that?”

  Lark tapped the notepad with her pen. “List of some things I’m gonna need for school.”

  “Funny you should say that. I was coming to see about us going shopping.”

  Lark frowned. “I’ll get it down there. I can’t carry this stuff on a plane.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Speaking of which. Daddy handled my flight reservations?”

  “He did.”

  “What time I’m flying out?”

  “You aren’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My return flight from Georgia is five-fifteen, I believe,” Honey said.

  “Your return flight?”

  Honey smiled. “Yes. We rented a car. I’m driving you. Leaving the car there. They can do that, you know. And then I’m flying back.”

  Lark’s mouth dropped open into an O. She couldn’t respond.

  Honey picked up the notepad. “Let’s see what’s on this list. We’ve only got one day….”

  Chapter 23

  Kenya

  “Told you Tommie and Blue were gonna end up together, Kenya.”

  “Happily ever after,” I say.

  Terrence closes the Eric Jerome Dickey novel, places it back on the table next to my bed. Over the course of three days he’s read the 269-page paperback to me, cover to cover. It can get lonely in the hospital, even with Mama, Hollywood, Eric and Lark visiting me regularly throughout the days.

  Terrence clasps his hands together, rises from a chair, stretches, yawns. “Naughty or Nice. Dickey did a good job with that one.”

  “He always does.”

  Terrence smiles.

  Lark asked me if he was as cute as his namesake on 106 & Park. I said cuter. I meant it, too. My Terrence has his salt-and-pepper cropped short. He wears glasses, sports a bushy mustache and smells like aftershave.

  “How long you been married again?” I ask.

  “Twenty-seven years this past June.” He looks around, moves over to the footboard of my bed, knocks on it. “Would’ve knocked on your table,” he says when he sees me looking, “but that ain’t wood. They don’t make anything out of wood anymore.”

  “Superstitious, are we?”

  “When it comes to marriage, you need a cross pendant, rabbit’s foot, horseshoes, four-leaf clovers, Claudine on DVD…”

  “Claudine?” I ask.

  He sniffs his nose. “Diahann Carroll, Miss Kenya. A nice little dose of fantasy is good for every marriage.”

  “I have to get Brown Sugar then. A two-for-one.”

  Taye and Boris.

  Mmm.

  “You a long way off from marriage, Kenya,” Terrence says. “Gotta get your degree first. Settle yourself in a career.”

  “True dat.” But love is on my mind. “Any other advice?”

  “Trust,” he says, “which comes from honesty. Have to be friends, too. It’s helpful if you and your husband actually enjoy being around each other. And most importantly, you need some of what I call that Rudyard Kipling.”

  “Rudyard Kipling?”

  Terrence nods. “If you can fill the unforgiving minute/ with sixty seconds worth of distance run/ yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it/ and—which is more—you’ll be a man, my son.” He pauses. “Or daughter.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” I say.

  “Poem is named ‘If.’ Stick-to-it-iveness, Kenya. That’s the most important thing in a relationship.”

  “Never give up,” I whisper.

  “Ever,” Terrence says.

  “Could you do something for me?” I ask Terrence.

  “Long as you don’t ask me to read you War and Peace.”

  “What?”

  He waves me off. “What you need, Kenya?”

  “Need you to dial a couple numbers for me, hold the phone. I have a few calls I need to make.”

  This time I don’t fall asleep. I have on a touch of lipstick, a dash of perfume. My hair is neat, pulled back in a tight ponytail. All the clutter is cleared off my table. There’s one bouquet of flowers left in the room—yellow tulips from Hollywood. Yes, Mama’s Hollywood.

  I smile as Donnell walks in the room.

  It’s funny. Watching Donnell slowly ease into my room, all kinds of images run through my head. Us walking through the park holding hands. Playing virtual reality games over at Dave & Buster’s in Philadelphia.

  Dancing in his parents’ basement at one of his parties.

  Kissing in the dark of the movie theater.

  “You wanted to see me?” Donnell asks.

  “Yeah. I did.”

  “Wassup, Kenya? I’m here.”

  “Why don’t you sit?”

  He looks around. For a chair, I guess.

  “Sit on the bed,” I say.

  “I’m okay standing.”

  “Please?”

  He frowns. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I’m not made of glass, Donnell. Sit on the bed.”

  He sighs, but slides the table next to my bed out of the way, drops the side rail, eases onto the bed. “Okay. Wassup, Kenya?”

  “How’ve you been?”

  “Fine. Wassup?”

  “You in a rush?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Got a date?” I ask sweetly.

  “Don’t do that, Kenya.”

  I nod. He’s right. “Do you hate me?” I ask.

  “Why would I hate you?”

  “I disturbed a pretty good thing.”

  “You did. That a cause for hate, though?”

  His honesty is refreshing.

  Terrence would give that a thumbs-up.

  What did Terrence say?

  Honesty, friendship, Rudyard Kipling.

  “When you were standing on line to get my book signed, what were you thinking?” I ask.

  “I hoped I didn’t have to use the bathroom.”

  I giggle. “What else?”

  “You’d be surprised, and happy.”

  “What made you buy me the Chrisette Michele CD?”

  “You wanted it.”

  “The dolphin key chain?”

  “You wanted it.”

  “The yogurt bars?”

  “You love those.”

  “You’ve been a good friend,” I say.

  “I’ve tried my best, Kenya.” He takes a deep breath. “Most of the time.”

  “Even before we were going out.”

  Donnell warned me about my ex. Ricky. He didn’t want to see me get hurt. He picked me up when I did.

  “Yes,” Donnell says. “Even before we were going together.”

  “Hand me that cup of ice chips,” I say. “My mouth is dry.”

  Donnell gets the cup, puts it to my lips. I open my mouth, tilt
my head back. I crunch on a mouthful of ice shavings. My tongue dislodges itself from the roof of my mouth. Much better.

  “More?” Donnell asks.

  “I’m good.”

  He puts the cup back on the table.

  “There was a party down in Georgia, at school. One of the sororities. The Deltas.”

  I smile at the memory.

  Not the party per se.

  Carolina. Tammy.

  My sistergirlfriends.

  “Okay,” Donnell says.

  “I ended up having to sing.”

  “Sorry I missed that. You have a beautiful voice. I never get tired of hearing you sing.”

  “After the party, this guy came up to me, complimented me. Chatted me up some. I ain’t gonna lie…he was fly. Six-four. Ran track, so his body was right.”

  Donnell’s jaw muscles tense.

  He smiles.

  But his eyes don’t match the smile.

  “He made a heavy play for me.”

  “JaMarcus,” Donnell says.

  I nod. “Yup.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was feeling him. I won’t lie to you.”

  Donnell swallows.

  “I understand what you said about Melyssa,” I say. “How sometimes things just happen. It’s crazy, but true.”

  Donnell closes his eyes and sighs long and hard.

  “But nothing happened like that between me and JaMarcus,” I say.

  Donnell’s eyes open. He searches me for the truth.

  “Nothing,” I repeat.

  “Okay.”

  “You ever heard the poem ‘If.’ By Rudyard Kipling?”

  “Yeah. Think so.”

  I repeat the line Terrence recited to me.

  “Yeah,” Donnell says.

  “Stick-to-it-iveness.”

  “What’s that?’

  “I’ve got that,” I say. “We’ve got that.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m gonna need you to help me with my papers.”

  “What?”

  “I still can’t hold any heavy books, so I’m gonna need you to spot for me.”

  “What are you talking about, Kenya?”

  “I could use a computer, but in the meantime we’ll have to share your laptop.”

  “Kenya, slow down. You’ve lost me.”

  “Almost,” I say. “But I smarted up.”

  “What?”

  “Terrence made some calls for me. Well, he dialed. I spoke.”

  “Who is Terrence? What calls?”

  Terrence dialed Donnell’s number, of course.

  And a few others.

  I’d thought of several after Terrence agreed to make a couple calls for me. Lark. Had to call my homegirl. Mama. Had to let her know what was happening. A few others.

  “Kenya?”

  “I’ll explain some other time,” I say.

  “I don’t understand anything you’ve told me.”

  “It doesn’t matter at the moment.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I’m not going to school in Georgia, Donnell.”

  He frowns. “You haven’t…? You’re gonna be okay, aren’t you?”

  I smile. “Has nothing to do with my accident.”

  The frown is still on his face. “You’re giving up on college.”

  “Oh, no. Never that.”

  I say never that the way I spell it in text messages.

  Neva dat.

  Donnell shakes his head. “I. Am. Lost.”

  I reach forward, take his hand in mine.

  I don’t mention Melyssa Bryan, or her visit, but she looms large in the room.

  “We’re going to school together,” I say.

  “What?”

  “I’m staying in Jersey. Going to Rutgers with you.”

  His eyes widen, mouth falls open.

  “Close your mouth, Donnell.”

  He does.

  “Say something, Donnell.”

  “I…I don’t know what to say, Kenya.”

  I loved when he called me YaYa.

  It was cute.

  But I’m Kenya.

  And Donnell loves himself some Kenya.

  What more could I ask for?

  “Don’t say anything.” I squeeze his hand. “Kiss your girlfriend.”

  All we’ve been through the past few weeks, all the turmoil, confusion, pain and suffering, all of it disappears with Donnell’s smile. He shakes his head, snickers, then leans forward.

  And kisses his girlfriend.

  Chapter 24

  Fiasco

  “Two spiderwebs.”

  Fiasco didn’t reply. He chewed on a drink straw, stewed inside, felt a dangerous anger bubbling up just below the surface. He hadn’t felt that way since just before he went to prison.

  “Good thing no one was back there. That would’ve been a bad ending.”

  Fiasco ground his teeth, balled his hands in fists, kicked the dirt below his feet. A cloud of dirt rose up from the ground.

  “World’s Greatest MC? What does that mean? This big ol’ bus. You some kind of entertainer?”

  Fiasco eyed his travel bus. Two spiderwebs, bullet-hole punctures that cracked the two back windows on the right side of the bus. The back windows. Windows to the sleeping compartment.

  “Need some cooperation from you, son.”

  Fiasco finally looked at the trooper. Cowboy hat over a crew cut. Weather-beaten tan, square jaw.

  “We had just pulled up at the club,” Fiasco said. “Yes, I’m an entertainer. I was scheduled to perform. The driver was parking, getting us settled. I heard shots. I ducked down. Didn’t catch anything.”

  “Someone mentioned there being a caravan of Expeditions with tinted windows circling the lot right before the shooting. They drove off right after the shots were fired. But no one can say for sure the shots came from those vehicles. You see such a thing?”

  “I ducked down,” Fiasco repeated. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Just your dumb luck got your bus all shot up?”

  Fiasco nodded. “Guess so.”

  Trooper Cowboy shook his head. “Some people have all the luck.”

  Chapter 25

  Kenya

  It’s hard to say goodbye. Better to just say see you soon. That’s exactly what I tell Lark, my best friend.

  “You’re sure about this, Ken?” she says.

  I nod, smile. “I’ve never been surer about anything.”

  She’s sitting in the bed with me.

  “The mighty twosome becomes a onesome.”

  “Onesome?”

  “This is my moment. Don’t intrude.”

  I laugh.

  She does, too.

  “The benefit concert should benefit someone other than me.”

  “School costs a grip. I’ll take the money,” Lark says.

  More laughs.

  “So your mom is driving you?”

  Lark smirks. “Yup,” she says. “Honey’s ushering her daughter into adulthood.”

  “Adulthood, huh?”

  “My clock is ticking, Ken.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  Lark takes my hand, squeezes it. A friend’s gesture—same kind of thing Donnell does. “I’m happy for the both of us,” she says.

  I bite my lip, nod, but keep silent.

  “You’re gonna be okay, Ken?” she says.

  “I am…but look. We need to establish some parameters for our relationship if we’re gonna make it work.”

  Lark snickers. “I agree.”

  “At least ten text messages every day.”

  “And two live calls,” Lark adds.

  “As opposed to a dead one.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Smart-ass.”

  “We have to make it a point to see one another as regularly as possible. I suggest we get together every six weeks or so, when you come to see Donovan.”

  “And you have to get your future husband to drive you down some, too, Ken
.”

  I nod. “Will do.”

  “I’m going to be off in a strange and dangerous land by myself, so feel free to send gifts, care packages.”

  “You ain’t going to Baghdad, Lark.”

  “Without you there…it’s gonna feel like it.”

  And we cry.

  Chapter 26

  Eric

  I’d called Fiasco more than twenty times.

  He didn’t pick up once.

  They’d been reporting on the shooting of his tour bus all day on Hot 97. Angie Martinez was fearful the rivalry between Fiasco and Yung Chit would end with someone dead. Hearing her say that word, dead, really put everything into perspective.

  Fiasco was my friend.

  He’d picked me up when I was at my lowest.

  I’d been posting negative comments about Yung Chit on my MySpace page. And people had been reading. My last post had garnered over sixty comments—most of ’em hating on me for hating on Yung Chit. He was the darling of the moment, hip-hop’s reigning king. I could see that from my own little world perspective. I couldn’t imagine what Fiasco was dealing with.

  I’d been trying to throw Fiasco some support by tearing down Yung Chit. But all I’d really done was add fuel to the fire. If Fiasco ended up hurt, I was partly responsible. I dialed his number yet again.

  Straight to voice mail like my last few calls.

  Dayum!

  Chapter 27

  Fiasco

  They were calling the concert at Kenya’s school a Dirty South production.

  Fiasco shook his head, laughed to himself. Where did it all go wrong? All he wanted to do was make good music, leave a legacy. What was his legacy gonna be now? The last man standing in the feud with Yung Chit or the first man down? Either way, the music would take a backseat.

  The cruelest part of the whole thing was that the beef had pushed Yung Chit’s album sales over three million. Fiasco hadn’t even picked up enough new sales to reach the elusive gold status—500,000 records. He couldn’t even sell that anymore. Couldn’t even sell that after trading jabs with the hottest rapper in the game, after getting the kind of media exposure in the past few weeks he hadn’t seen in years. Fiasco’s face was all over the Internet. Talk of his beef with Yung Chit dominated the airwaves, both television and radio. Rap lovers were getting a constant diet of Fiasco. And they were pushing away from the table without even taking a bite. He was finished in the game.