The Takedown

by Nia Forrester

  “I don’t care if you look in my phone,” Jamal said. He took his eye off the road for a moment to look at her. “But I hope you don’t need that, to feel secure. Access to my phone, my tablet … my computer … I hope that’s not what it takes for you to trust me.”

  Though he joked around a lot, sometimes Jamal said things like this; things that reminded Makayla how much more of an adult he was than he often let on. He schooled her. In more ways than one, he was her teacher. She was the young pupil, learning, and finding her way.

  “I do trust you. And that’s why I wondered why you didn’t mention it.”

  “Then ask me. I’m marrying you because I made a choice to be with one woman only. You. Nothing is gon’ change that. Not the appearance of an old girlfriend, not a … parade of butt-naked, willing, and very flexible women begging me to …”

  Makayla laughed. “Don’t oversell your willpower,” she said. “I’m pretty sure you’d be tempted if there was a parade of butt-naked, willing, and flexible women.”

  “Okay, so I might get a semi. But that’s it.”

  Makayla spluttered into laughter once again. Jamal’s right hand fell from the steering wheel and he rested it on her thigh.

  “So, why’re you seeing her?” Makayla asked quietly after a few moments passed.

  “To catch up, mostly. But she said she had something to tell me that’s work-related, so …” Jamal shrugged.

  “Does she know you’re engaged?”

  Makayla saw him grin and then quickly repress it.

  “Yeah, baby, she knows,” he said. “And as a matter of fact, she is too. Getting married in less than a month. She’s coming to New York to shop or something.”

  Reaching for one of her locs, Makayla turned to look out the window. If that was supposed to reassure her, it didn’t. For all she knew, Madison was hoping for one more shot before she committed to someone else.

  It had been a long time now, but not so long that Makayla had forgotten how Madison used to look at Jamal. During their breakup, Makayla had guiltily studied the pictures, of Madison and Jamal attending events together. As the newly-minted President & CEO of Scaife, Jamal had become even more of a magnet for New York’s Black society and entertainment pages than he had been before. Every woman standing within six feet of him became the subject of speculation as a possible new “love-interest.”

  For a time, Madison Palmer had been the one who stuck, and the only woman who appeared repeatedly in pictures with Jamal. Always flawless in chic, sleek dresses, or form-fitting pants, she effortlessly looked the part of a high-powered recording executive’s partner. Makayla remembered with painful clarity how it hurt her when she saw those shots, of Madison looking up at Jamal with glowing eyes, her expression that of a woman who knew what she had, and who had no intention of letting it go. Back then, Makayla was certain that Jamal was lost to her for good.

  “Are you comfortable with that?” Jamal asked now. “Me going to lunch with her to catch up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His hand on her thigh tightened in reassurance, but Makayla noted that he didn’t offer to cancel the meeting. He might spoil her, occasionally indulge her, but Jamal would never coddle her. They both knew she had a way to go getting comfortable with him still coming into contact with women he had once been involved with, and he was willing to make some changes to accommodate that discomfort, but only reasonable ones.

  They didn’t talk about Madison for the rest of the drive. And even more of a relief, they didn’t talk about Devin and Harper either.

  Because that, Makayla didn’t feel anywhere close to being ready to discuss.

  ~6~

  Devin sat forward in his seat and rubbed his palms together, then fidgeted with a loose thread at the hem of his shirt.

  “I’ll take it you’re not feeling it today,” the man sitting opposite him said.

  “I’m not feeling it any day,” Devin responded.

  The man laughed. “Fair enough. But you keep coming, so that’s something.”

  His name was Wendell Harris, and he had been chosen from a list of names of psychologists that worked at the same hospital as Claudine. One of the few perks his mother got as an employee was free, or low-cost medical care for herself, and her immediate family members. She had, without asking why, readily helped Devin find a psychologist when he asked.

  Claudine never asked questions, because Claudine didn’t want to know. If he were to write a book about his mother, that would be the title: ‘She Didn’t Want to Know.’

  Devin had selected Wendell Harris from the list because his name sounded like he might be Black. He wasn’t. He was a skinny, White guy with fire-engine red hair, and fair, freckled skin. He wore plaid shirts and hiking boots, and looked like someone who should be out on a trail in Colorado somewhere, instead of in a Harlem hospital counseling people who were fucked-up in the head. Devin remembered being annoyed when he met him, and thinking that White folks shouldn’t be allowed to name their kids ‘Wendell.’ And especially not if their last name was Harris.

  “Why do you think you keep coming?” Wendell Harris asked now.

  He leaned back in his chair as he spoke. It was a leather overstuffed armchair, and Devin’s was a hard, wooden seat. It used to be the opposite, but Devin had asked him, during their first session, if they could trade seats, because he didn’t want to get too comfortable. He wanted to remain alert.

  “Devin?” Wendell prompted, when after a few moments he still hadn’t responded. “Why do you think you keep coming?”

  It was a question that had been asked before. One that Devin never answered before. But today he did.

  “I keep coming because … I want to figure out why I allowed my body to do things that my mind finds disgusting.”

  Wendell Harris looked surprised, and pleased. He hadn’t expected a response. The expression on his face was fleeting. He quickly reined it in, the pleasure at making what he probably thought was a breakthrough.

  “I wonder if we could talk about that word: disgusting. It’s very judgmental. Why not ‘objectionable’, instead. You come because you do things—did things—that your mind found objectionable.”

  Devin gave his counselor a tight smile. “I know English. ‘Objectionable’ isn’t a strong enough word for how I felt about the things I did … was doing.”

  “Did that word, did it apply to how you felt about more than the acts themselves?” Wendell Harris asked.

  “Yeah,” Devin said. “It applied to me as well. I felt like I was disgusting.”

  “The good news, Devin,” Wendell Harris said, “is that you were not. You were not, and are not disgusting. That’s what I hope the work we’re doing together will help you realize.”

  Devin tried not to smirk.

  Yeah. Good luck with that.

  He called Harper after his session.

  Makayla would be in class, and there was no one else he wanted to talk to. It was unusual that he would want to talk at all, but his session had him all amped up, and going around in circles in his head, though he wasn’t sure why.

  Harper answered right away, as he had known she would.

  “I’m about to go to this thing,” she said. “There’s this kid in Queens that I’m about to check out. I’ve been trying to catch up with him for weeks and I finally got a hook-up, so he’s meeting me at his place. All the way in Hollis.”

  “You’re from over there, aren’t you?” Devin asked.

  “Nah. Excuse you. I’m from Strong Island, I’ll have you know. I’m not from fucking Queens.”

  Devin smiled. Harper was a real potty-mouth sometimes, for a girl, but he liked that about her—that she wasn’t just profane, she was unapologetically so. There was nothing worse than someone who cussed, and then followed it up with a cute expression like, ‘excuse my French.’

  “Oh, okay, Miss Strong Island.”

  “Yeah. Don’t make that mistake again,” she said. “So, what’re you up to?”r />
  “Not much. Comin’ from a meeting myself.”

  “Want to tag along?” Harper asked. “You can help me size this kid up. Tell me whether he’s out here perpetratin’.”

  “What’s his name?” Devin asked.

  Dodging a street vendor, he paused at the entrance to the 77th Street Station. Harper didn’t need his opinion about whether or not an artist was any good. She had a good ear, and was one of those rare individuals who, though lacking their own musical abilities, had an uncanny ability to spot it in others.

  “Prentice Michel,” Harper said. “Heard of him?”

  “Nah.”

  “He’s Haitian-American, and has this really unique sound. Want to come with me to meet him?”

  She sounded hopeful. The hopefulness in her voice always made Devin want to pull back, run away, or avoid her entirely. He didn’t like being the source of anyone’s hope, because he knew that he would let them down.

  But he had begun trying something different with Harper. When his impulse was to go, he made himself stay. When he wanted to put distance between them, he tried to make himself pull her closer.

  “Yeah. Why not?” he said. “Got nothin’ else to do.”

  “Where are you right now?” Harper asked, her tone bordering on excited.

  “Uptown. How you gettin’ out to Queens? Train, or …?”

  “Oh hell no. SE has a lot of perks and I intend to use them. Where exactly are you at? I’ll swing by in a car to get you.”

  “A’ight. Bet.” Devin recited the best cross-streets where she could meet him, then found a corner-store where he could grab a soda and chips while he waited.

  Twenty-five minutes later, a black Town Car pulled up and the door swung open. Harper leaned out of the backseat and beckoned to him.

  Dumping the remainder of his drink and snack, Devin climbed into the lush interior, savoring the coolness, and the cleanliness, after the oppressive, sour heat of the city sidewalk.

  Harper was wearing jeans and sandals with a loose white top, trimmed with blue on the scalloped sleeves. Her hair, as usual she had pulled into a sloppy ponytail. Long, curly tendrils hung haphazardly around her face as though, after fastening her hair, she hadn’t bothered to check for neatness.

  She was pretty, in a girl-next-door kind of way, and only outright sexy when she was completely naked. Whenever he saw her, Devin made it his business to get her naked within the hour if possible.

  Lately she had begun occasionally wearing makeup—brown eyeliner and a light, pink lipstick. He wondered if it had anything to do with him. She was feeling him. He would have to be blind, or an idiot not to see that. But just as with her hopefulness, he preferred not to dwell on it.

  “Hey,” she said, when the door shut behind him. Then she reached over and grabbed him at the back of his neck, pulling him toward her.

  She didn’t seem to care that there was no partition between them and the driver. She kissed him long and deep, her tongue seeking out and finding his. Devin leaned into it, and returned it.

  Kissing was something new between them. At first, they hadn’t done much of it—at least not on the mouth. It was an act that usually made him uncomfortable. It felt too … close, or something. People, and things, too close to his face triggered bad memories. The entry of a tongue into his mouth, especially unexpectedly, sometimes made him panic.

  Kay had liked kissing when they were together. She liked doing it often, and for long periods of time. And with her, he was into it too. It felt natural with her.

  The first time, they were about eleven. He had been sleeping over at her and her grandmother’s place for years, and it was almost routine, after an afternoon or evening playing videogames, or watching television, for them to fall asleep together on Makayla’s bed.

  The night of their first kiss was the last night of their summer vacation before sixth grade, and they were excited. Lying together in the dark, facing each other, they talked in hushed tones about their classroom assignments. They weren’t going to be in the same room, and Devin remembered being bummed about that.

  He remembered that lying there, he felt the warm, minty sweep of Kay’s breath on his cheeks and lips as she spoke. They weren’t supposed to be talking at all, they were supposed to be sleeping. His mother, because she was unlike other mothers, didn’t mind him spending the night before the first day of school at someone else’s apartment. He didn’t mind either. He didn’t like being home. For lots of reasons.

  Devin remembered leaning in closer as he listened to Kay talk.

  He remembered pressing his lips against hers even though it didn’t seem like he had formed a clear intention to do it. Hers were cool, and almost, but not quite shut, because she had been mid-sentence.

  He remembered how she froze, but didn’t move away.

  He remembered that because she was so still, he pulled back to look at her face. They both smiled at each other, and then laughed.

  ‘Ew,’ Makayla said.

  And then they were laughing again.

  What she said did not hurt his feelings, because somehow, he knew she kind of liked it, that brief, dry, almost-closemouthed kiss.

  Their laughter summoned Kay’s Nana to the room to tell them to go to sleep. She paused before she left, staring at them both strangely, as though recognizing for the first time that they were prepubescent, and of the opposite sex.

  After that, when Devin slept over, Kay’s Nana, who Devin called ‘Grandma’ made him up a bed on the sofa. But still, when they were both sure she was asleep, Devin crept into the bedroom to sleep with Kay, just because he liked it when she was near, and she liked him nearby, too.

  He had long learned to be a light sleeper, and a vigilant one, so most mornings, he managed to wake before Grandma did, and creep back out to the living room. And on those mornings when he did not, all she did was come into the bedroom and yank back the sheets.

  ‘C’mon back out here, Devin!’ she’d say. ‘Y’all too old for that, now!’

  It was many years after that first kiss before Grandma’s ultimate fear about what might happen between them if they slept in the same bed actually happened. And when it did, it was as natural and as comfortable as that first kiss had been. Devin thought sometimes, back then, that Grandma knew when it happened, because Kay told him that one day, without explanation, she had been taken to Planned Parenthood. There she was counseled by a doctor who looked too young to be a doctor, about birth control, and then armed with condoms, and put on the Pill.

  That was Grandma all over—never puritanical, always pragmatic, always practical. He missed her. He missed her something awful.

  “Hey.”

  Harper’s voice summoned him back to the present, and Devin looked at her.

  “I said, you have to be honest with me when you meet him, okay?”

  “Honest with you about what?”

  “Prentice Michel.”

  “I thought we were just goin’ to meet him. He gon’ spit for you, or what?”

  “I don’t know. The place in Hollis is a private studio, so maybe so.”

  “I don’t judge other people’s music,” Devin said, shaking his head.

  “Oh please. You’re a musician. How can you listen without judging?”

  “Music is a judgment-free zone for me,” Devin said.

  “Yeah, right. Like I never heard your screed about how commercial the music business is, about how crappy all the stuff we put out there is.”

  Devin tried not to smile. “That’s different. Because the shit y’all put out ain’ even really music.”

  “Well, you could always class-up the joint by signing with us,” Harper said, giving him a sly smile.

  Devin grinned back at her despite himself. “Yeah. No thanks. Tried that.”

  Turning in the seat to look at him directly, Harper rested her arm across the back of the seat. “Since you mention it, I can’t believe we never talked about that. What the hell happened? It just doesn’t make sense
to me that Jamal wasn’t able to close you. He can close damn near any…”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. He’s the fuckin’ god of the music business,” Devin said, cutting her off, and turning to look out the window at the sidewalks.

  “Hey.” Harper put a hand at his cheek and turned his head so he was facing her. “Who gives a shit about the gods of the music business? You’re a god of music. Now that’s what’s really up.”

  Prentice Michel was legit.

  The studio where he recorded was in his Mom’s basement of all places. While she was upstairs cooking lanbi and griyo, he was downstairs with a half-dozen of his boys smoking weed and jamming to music that was a mix of traditional Haitian kompa, reggae, and hip-hop.

  Prentice, whose real name was Lucien, told Devin that he got the moniker when he used to work it out with his father and his uncles, and they called him their ‘apprentice’ while he learned to play traditional instruments and rhythms. Over time, that got shortened to Prentice, which was a lot easier for the American tongue than the francophone name, Lucien.

  “And besides,” Prentice said. “They already got a recording artist named Lucien out there. You know the one—that pretty English motherfucka.”

  Devin didn’t know who Prentice was referring to, and didn’t care. But what he did care about was the fact that Prentice and his boys, high as they were, were creating some real shit in their crappy little basement studio.

  Watching one of Prentice’s musician’s fingers move over the strings of his crude, worn acoustic guitar, Devin’s own fingers twitched involuntarily. And when the drums reached their highest crescendo, his eyes closed and his head moved from side to side.

  “You play, my man?” Prentice asked, collapsing next to Devin when he finished a number in Haitian kreyol and was taking a breather.

  “Yeah. I do a little somethin’,” Devin said.

  “A little something?” Harper piped in. “I know you heard of Devin Parks.”