Two Thin Dimes

by Caleb Alexander

  “I hate you, Jai.”

  “I love you too, Sis.”

  “Bye, girl.”

  “Bye.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The ten trucks were large eighteen-wheelers, with massive cargo holds. One truck carried the still bundled, but bulky Christmas trees, while another carried bags of Christmas tree decorations. Two of the eighteen-wheelers carried bags of toys, while the remainder carried food.

  LaChina had the stores pack each bag of tree decorations so that it included everything needed to decorate one seven-foot Christmas tree. The grocery stores happily obliged, by packing in every four bags, enough food to make an abundant Christmas dinner for twelve. The set included not only a twenty-five-pound turkey, but cans of corn, string beans, cranberry sauce, bottles of three-liter sodas, and boxes of stuffing and cake mix. She even threw in all of the ingredients to mix and make all the items, as well as a roll of cookie dough for the kids.

  The toys were bagged according to gender and age group. Half of the toys were donated by local toy stores, which had been a miraculous feat this close to Christmas. The total bill for the trucks, the workers, and the merchandise surpassed one hundred thousand dollars easily, though one would not be able to tell by watching Jamaica. She handed out bags of goodies with an enthusiasm and cheerfulness that would have made Santa himself envious.

  The trucks were lined in a row, in the middle of one of the Courts’ busy, snow-covered intersections. The tenants themselves were lined up in an orderly row as well. Their line mimicked that of the trucks, allowing them to move from trailer to trailer, and receive their goods in an efficient manner.

  The chill of the morning air did little to dissipate Jamaica’s warm smile, as she stood bundled and wrapped on the back of one of the food trailers, handing out bags of turkeys. She turned to LaChina.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Jamaica asked.

  LaChina, bundled in a fur-lined Bomber jacket, stopped handing out bags of canned goods, and stared back at Jamaica.

  “Yes, Jai, just wonderful, peachy, fantastic. I feel like a damn elf, are you happy now?”

  “You’re a scrooge, a Mrs. Grinch.”

  “I am not.” LaChina shook her head. “I agree with what you did, Jai, but we could have hired someone to pass these things out.”

  Jamaica hugged her friend. “Oh, China, this is what Christmas is all about!”

  LaChina stood up straight, and stretched her back. She placed her hands onto her hips and leaned forward for several moments, and then reversed the process, by leaning backward. When finished she turned and stared at Jamaica again.

  “Jai, this is what Christmas is all about, but what about next year? What about when you are no longer with Tameer, or when you’ve gone back to New York and when you’re traveling and being Tiera again? What’s going to happen then? This is a commitment, Jai, a big responsibility. You can’t rush into people’s lives thinking that you’re going to make it better, and then forget about them next year.”

  Jamaica stopped passing out bags and stood erect. She stared at her friend.

  “China, I thought about that. I didn’t think about it when I first called you, but I thought about it later. There’s a playground here that I’ve been going to. There’s some little girls that play at that playground every day. I talk to them, I push them on the swings, I push the merry-go-round for them, and I catch them when they slide down the slide. I see us, China. I see me, you, Naivasha, Jemia, Tamara, Arriana, Porsche, Teremesha, Brittany, Germany, all of us, when I look at them.”

  Jamaica nodded her head slowly, and stared off into space. “They’re going to college, China, all of them. They are going to go to private school, and then college, on me. They’re going to make it.”

  LaChina smiled, leaned over, and embraced her friend.

  “Well…” LaChina blinked several times and sniffled. “There has to be a new generation of the Sisterhood of the Treehouse Chipmunks.”

  LaChina and Jamaica shared a laugh, and embraced each other tightly. LaChina rocked Jamaica slightly, from side to side.

  “My sister, my dear sweet sista.” She released Jamaica, leaned back, and examined her. “What’s happened to you? What in the world’s happened to you?”

  LaChina waved her hand over Jamaica’s body. “You’re dressing different, you’re talking like you’re from the hood, and you’re caring. You really care about what happens to people.”

  LaChina lifted her hand and placed it on Jamaica’s forehead, where she pretended to check for a fever. It made Jamaica laugh.

  “I ran away with a spoiled little star, and I’m bringing back a woman. A mature, elegant, socially concerned black woman. My sista!”

  Again they embraced.

  “If you hoes are dikin’, then what you need my man for?” a voice called out from the street.

  Jamaica and LaChina quickly turned in the direction from which it came. It was Dashawnique accompanied by Shamika and LaShay.

  Sensing trouble, LaChina’s aunt Savanna approached from the neighboring trailer. She was followed closely behind, by her daughter Jemia.

  Jamaica jumped down from the trailer, followed by LaChina. Dashawnique approached Jamaica.

  “Yeah, bitch, what’s all that shit you was talking?” Dashawnique asked, pointing her finger in Jamaica’s face. “You’ve got to give the people what they want? Well, I’m here.”

  Jamaica’s palm flew up, stopping just in front of Dawshawnique’s face. “You can talk to the hand, because I don’t have time.”

  “That’s what I thought,” replied Dashawnique. “You scary bitch!”

  Jamaica shook her head. “I’m not going to be too many more bitches.”

  Dashawnique’s hand flew to her hip, as she leaned her face into Jamaica’s. “Bitch!”

  LaChina grabbed Jamaica, and pushed her back against the trailer. Savanna approached them.

  “What’s going on here, young ladies?” Savanna asked. “If there is a problem, I’m sure that beautiful, intelligent, mature young ladies like yourselves, can all sit down and talk about it.”

  LaShay’s hand quickly flew to her hip. “Ain’t no problem, bitch, unless you want it to be one.”

  Savanna’s hand flew to her face and covered her mouth.

  “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed. The language and disrespect was shocking to her.

  Jemia turned to LaShay. “Did you just call my mother a bitch?”

  LaChina turned and rolled her eyes at LaShay, who had offended her aunt. LaShay’s head began moving from side to side as she spoke.

  “You heard me, yeah, I called her one!” answered LaShay. “I’ll call you one, your momma one, your daughter one, and your grandma one, if the bitch was here.”

  Savanna grabbed Jemia’s arm. “Jemia, don’t worry about that, let’s go.” Savanna turned to Jamaica and LaChina. “Let’s go. The people from the church can finish giving out the rest of the stuff.”

  Jemia pulled away from her mother, and reached for LaShay. “You called my mother a bitch, that was all I needed to hear!”

  Jemia’s first slap landed directly on LaShay’s left cheek. It was quickly followed by a left hook to LaShay’s right eye.

  Jamaica, free from LaChina’s restraint, lunged forward and grabbed Dashawnique’s braids with both of her hands. She pulled with all of her strength, bringing a screaming and swinging Dashawnique’s head down to her waist, where she started slinging it to and fro.

  With Jamaica engaged, and Jemia giving LaShay an old-fashioned Texas-style thrashing, it left a smiling LaChina, staring at a wide-eyed Shamika.

  Savanna, frightened at the melee erupting around her, ran to gather her sons, and some male parishioners from the other trailers.

  The fight between Jemia and LaShay was beyond one-sided, it was a slaughter. Jemia punched, pounded, ducked, dodged, punched, jabbed, moved, and punched some more. LaShay’s eyes were blackened, and her lower lip was split.

  Jamaica’s hold on Da
shawnique’s hair was broken, when she could no longer find any more braids to pull out. Standing on a snow-filled street, surrounded by dozens of synthetic micro braids, the girls clawed, scratched, bit, and fought.

  “And I’ll…teach…you…never…to…call…my…mother…a…bitch…again!” Jemia’s sentence was interspersed with solid smacks across LaShay’s cheeks with her fist. LaShay was desperate.

  “Shamika!” screamed a bloody LaShay. “Help me! Shamika, you bitch! You better help me!”

  LaChina folded her arms and leaned back against the tractor-trailer. She smiled at Shamika. Together they listened for several moments to LaShay’s desperate, crying, screaming pleas for help. LaChina nodded her head in LaShay’s direction.

  “She’s calling for you,” she told Shamika. It was a dare.

  Jamaica pulled some of Dashawnique’s real hair out as well. Her four solid smacks to Dashawnique’s face, were the last blows of the free-for-all, as the men from Savanna’s church finally arrived and pulled everyone apart. Dashawnique spied her braids strewn all over the ground, and quickly covered her head in embarrassment.

  “You bitch!” Dashawnique screamed at Jamaica. “You fake bitch!”

  Dashawnique’s tears dropped into the slushy snow, joining her fallen tracks.

  Jamaica, still being held by the meaty hands of a very large church deacon, replied in kind.

  “I’m fake?” she shouted back at Dashawnique. “My hair is still on my head!”

  No one held Jemia, as no one had to. Her opponent was sprawled out in the snow being treated.

  “Leave Tameer alone!” Dashawnique screamed. “You don’t need him! Go be with your superstars! We’re just regular people, why are you messing up our lives!”

  Dashawnique’s hands were released. She used them, not to attack Jamaica, but to cover her tear-filled face. The crowd’s silence became a screaming vacuum that served only to amplify Dashawnique’s sobs.

  “You can have anybody,” Dashawnique told Jamaica. “Just let me have him.”

  Jamaica’s eyes watered and she felt two inches tall. Although she was not sure, she felt as though the crowd’s glances now fell scornfully on her. She wished that she could disappear.

  Crying heavily, Dashawnique approached a confused Jamaica.

  “We’re real people, not toys,” Dashawnique told her softly. Her trembling hand reached out to Jamaica, wanting to touch her, wanting to caress her face. It never made it. Dashawnique’s hand moved to her quivering lip, where it continued to tremble in unison.

  “You’re beautiful,” she said softly to Jamaica. “Just let me and Tameer get back together. If you leave us alone, we’ll be together.”

  Jamaica’s mouth fell open. She wanted to comfort the pitiful creature that stood in front of her, but didn’t know how.

  Dashawnique’s face fell into her hands again, and again, she began to sob. “Please…please…”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jamaica’s sensuous laugh resonated throughout the living room. She wore very short tights, which exposed her silky, flawless, mocha legs. They were stretched across Tameer’s lap, and he watched them intensely, while caressing them softly. She could feel him throbbing underneath the back of her legs and this caused her outburst of laughter.

  “You want some of this, huh?” she asked, smiling at him tauntingly.

  Jamaica raised her legs into the air, and rubbed them gently, only inches away from his face. His eyes followed her slow-moving hand along her legs, and again, she could feel him throbbing beneath her.

  Tameer wanted her. He wanted her bad. The dryness of his mouth caused him to swallow hard.

  “Okay, so you want to tease, huh?” he asked. Tameer reached over Jamaica, and grabbed the ice pack cloth from her right hand. “Give me my rag, and my ice. See how funny and sexy you are with a hand that looks like a melon!”

  Jamaica removed her legs from Tameer’s lap, and sat up next to him on the couch. “So, are we going to do it or what?”

  A smile shot across Tameer’s face, and he quickly went for Jamaica’s neck. “Yeah! That’s what I’ve been wanting to hear!”

  Jamaica pushed his head back. “Not that, silly. Are we going to go visit your mom and my dad?”

  Tameer folded his arms, and leaned back in the sofa. “I want to, but I just don’t know.” He shook his head. “What if she doesn’t…”

  “Tameer, she’s your mother,” Jamaica interrupted. “She’ll be glad to see you.”

  Slowly, he nodded in agreement. “I guess you’re right. I’m just nervous.” Tameer turned and stared into Jamaica’s eyes. “I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

  Jamaica reached out to him. Gently, she placed her arm around his neck and pulled him close.

  “I know you’re nervous, but I’ll be there with you.” She leaned forward to kiss Tameer on his forehead, but right before her lips were about to touch him, he raised his head and locked lips with her. She pulled back.

  “Tameer!”

  “Shhhh!” was his reply.

  Tameer pulled her close again, kissing, rubbing, pulling, maneuvering. After a moment, Jamaica found herself lying back on the couch, with Tameer inside of her.

  “Oooooh, Jamaica.”

  “Oooooooh, Tameer.”

  The trip to Houston took over three hours. Jamaica’s penchant for fast driving, along with the scarcity of traffic on Interstate 10, allowed them to arrive sometime around noon. The actual navigating of the massive city, choked arterial roadways, and their unfamiliarity with both, resulted in a three-hour search for Cherice Harris’ home. It was nestled inside of the Tony River subdivision, one of the city’s premier addresses. When they finally arrived, their initial enthusiasm had given way to nervous apprehension.

  Jamaica placed her arm onto Tameer’s shoulder, and stroked the side of his face gently. “So, what do you want to do?”

  Tameer didn’t know. It was for a lack of a better plan that he decided to go through with the meeting. Slowly, he turned to Jamaica and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, we’re here now,” he answered. Tameer exhaled loudly, and his gaze shifted toward the car’s floorboards. “Might as well go in,” he mumbled.

  Jamaica offered an encouraging smile, and then took the first step by unbuckling her seatbelt. Nervous and shaking visibly, Tameer followed suit.

  The home of Cherice Harris was massive, brick, imposing. It was nestled deeply with a spacious, wooded, corner lot. The home’s massive Doric columns, gigantic floor-to-ceiling celestial windows, and grand symmetric balconies which overlooked the wide, pristine street, caused it to exude a formal posture.

  The lawn was green, unusual for this time of year. It sat well manicured, filled with decorative shrubbery, and active flower beds of red, white, and pink. Interspersed within this neatly clipped domain, rose numerous, spindly, twisting, turning, knotted oaks, which stood majestic, like sentries guarding a medieval castle. To say that the home was impressive, would be an understatement.

  Tameer was deeply hurt, as he examined the setting on both sides of the twisting, turning, winding pathway to the door. It hurt to know that his mother lived in this manner, while her family lived amidst the violence and poverty of the Courts.

  The doors were made of a solid dark wood, with several massive beveled-glass inlays inserted within, as well as surrounding them. They were flanked by a pair of fancy brass lighting fixtures of French design, which matched the fancy brass door handles jutting out from the massive double doors. It was very clear from the residence, as well as from the S600 Mercedes and convertible Jaguar XKR convertible sitting in the driveway, that Cherice Harris had money. Lots of money. It hurt Tameer even more.

  It was Jamaica’s tiny fist that knocked first. Tameer found the doorbell.

  “Who is it?” a voice called out from behind the massive doors.

  “It’s Tameer.”

  “Who?”

  “Tameer.”

  The door opened to reveal
a tall, slender, elegantly dressed woman in her mid-forties. Cherice Harris had aged gracefully, they saw. Her hair revealed only a light, yet dignified, streak of silver, which twisted with the rest of her hair into a tightly done French roll. Cherice wore a long, white, sleeveless vest and pants suit, which bell-bottomed at the cuff to reveal a pair of matching white Manolo pumps. Her hands caressed a loose string of Mikimoto pearls hanging from her neck, revealing an expensive manicure with French tips. Cherice leaned slightly forward.

  “May I help you?” she asked the strangers at her door. Her gaze shifted inquisitively from one to the other, demanding an answer. Tameer cleared his throat.

  “Uh…yea, ma’am, I…I’m your son Tameer Harris.”

  Cherice’s left hand left her pearls, and pressed down upon her chest. “Oh…my goodness, I see.” She shook her head slightly, as if to rid herself of a daze. Her hand waved toward her home’s interior. “Well, please, come in.”

  Jamaica knew things were wrong. The lack of a hug, a smile, or any type of affectionate greeting, aroused her suspicions. She knew that she had to maintain her silence, yet she also knew that she would have to remain alert.

  Cherice led them into her formal living room, which was larger than Tameer’s entire apartment in the Courts. She waved her hand, offering her guests a seat. They took the couch; she chose the love seat across from them. Seated, Cherice crossed her legs and smiled at her son.

  “So how are you?” she asked him.

  Tameer quickly shifted his gaze from the upstairs balcony, which overlooked the living area, back to his mother. His heart was palpitating rapidly.

  “I…I’m fine,” he answered. Quickly, he turned toward Jamaica. “Mom, I’d like you to meet my special friend, Jamaica.”

  “How do you do?” Cherice rose briefly and extended her hand toward Jamaica.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Jamaica greeted, as they clasped hands softly. “Nice to meet you.”

  Cherice nodded. “Likewise.” Her finger rose, and she shook it slightly toward Jamaica. “It seems like I know you from somewhere. You look very familiar.”