Erica blows her breath and then smiles. “Break a leg today, and don’t worry about Liv. We’ve got her.”
* * *
I merge onto Route 78 and take the New Jersey Turnpike. I flip the radio to 1010 WINS to hear what the traffic is like. The Lincoln Tunnel is a twenty-five-minute wait, so I take that route, praying that the traffic around Forty-Second Street isn’t too bad. All the cars slow as the traffic merges to get to the toll at the tunnel. I flip through my phone to calm the nervous energy. On Facebook I see that Shayla replied to my direct message.
If you can get away, let’s do lunch. Midtown works best.
With all the hustling this morning, I almost forgot about Martin calling.
That’s perfect. Twelve o’clock. You pick the place.
I drop my phone in the passenger’s seat. Shayla. What am I doing reaching out to her? Last I heard she was living that underworld, fast-money life. When we were growing up, I never wanted any part of the street game, but Shayla’s always been down for climbing up by any means necessary. Lunch at a public place should be fine. It’s not like I’m inviting her to my house, where my family lives. Introducing her to Preston. I’d never do that. Seeing her might help me get to the bottom of how Martin found me, and just get that man off my chest. That’s all I wanted.
The audition is at Fifty-Second and Eighth, and I maneuver into a parking lot a half block away. The cost is exasperating, but what can I do but cross my fingers that this commercial will pay back dividends?
Now, you know the odds are against you. Actresses come a dime a dozen.
But I ignore her. I pop down my driver’s side mirror to refresh, recheck, and regather. My Louise Hay affirmation is taped to the visor on a yellow Post-it so I read it out loud while looking myself dead in the eye.
“All is well. The Universe supports me at every turn.” Preston thinks talking to myself in the mirror is bonkers and maybe it is, but I do it anyway. When I step out of the car I am ready.
* * *
“Morning.” The petite blonde smiles at me from behind the small desk.
“Felicia Lyons, here for Samsung Galaxy.”
“Room eight.”
She hands me the copy and I’m relieved that it’s the same lines I’ve practiced. Sometimes they change them at the last minute.
There are two women waiting in front of me. I give a polite smile; one smiles back, and the other nods. We all have similar looks but I’m the brownest of the bunch and I hope that works to my advantage. My mocha doe eyes are my best feature. I do an awesome surprise, and watch out when I have to gush and cry. I haven’t relaxed my hair since college, so my natural is long and thick and full of body. I go over my lines one more time, and when they call me in, I tell myself it’s all mine.
* * *
Shayla messages me to meet her at Landmarc at the Time Warner Center in Columbus Circle. I’ve never been inside the building, and when I see the directory of stores I wish I had more time to buy myself something. As always I’m on the clock. I have about an hour to meet with Shayla before I need to dash back for the kids and figure out dinner.
At the entrance of the restaurant, I see Shayla sitting at a table by the window bent over her tablet. She is as beautiful as the day is sunny. I envied that when we were kids. Shayla woke up pretty. I always felt like I needed to do a little work to catch up. Her shiny hair was bone straight, hanging down her back. She had coal eyes, high Ethiopian-like cheekbones, and a natural pout to her mouth. When she turned to face me, I saw her hand-size breasts mushed together with a demi cut bra. No surprise there. That’s been Shayla’s trick for cleavage since we were eleven.
“Faye.” She steps and hugs me. She smells expensive. I squeeze her back. She’s taller than me by an inch and her waist is small.
“You look great, as always.” I slip into the seat across from her and glance out at Central Park.
“You look good. How many years has it been?”
“A few,” I say, knowing damn well that I haven’t seen her for at least seven years, before I married Preston.
The waiter comes out of nowhere and is smiling down at me, asking for the order.
“What are you having?” Shayla looks over at me.
“Chopped salad.”
“Salad? That’s bird food. Give us two cheeseburgers and surprise us with your favorite draft beer.” She winks at the waiter.
“I don’t drink beer in the middle of the day. I have to pick up my children from school.”
“One beer won’t kill you. Chill out. Damn, you uptight.”
I feel weird. “So what you been up to?”
“Business, that’s all.” She said business like it wasn’t the type of thing I needed to know. So I changed the subject.
“You want to see my kids?” I unlock my phone and pull up pictures. The waiter drops off the beers.
“Damn, Faye, they are beautiful. Don’t look nothing like you.”
“Whatever.”
She looks over each picture slowly, studying at least ten before handing me back my phone.
“You could have made me godmother to at least one kid. Damn. I am your oldest friend. You didn’t even invite me to your wedding.”
“Girl, please, you’ve never even liked kids. Swore on a stack of Bibles when we were thirteen years old that you would never have them.”
“Still.”
Preston texts me.
How did the audition go?
I text back, Well. Heading home soon.
I check the clock before stashing my phone in my purse. The burgers come and Shayla chews.
“Did you give Martin my phone number?” I say abruptly.
“What? Martin?”
I watch her face for the lie and keep my eyes even.
“Who the hell is Mar—oh, wait, Martin from—”
“Did you?”
“Girl, no. Is that what this is about? Why you finally had time to see me?” She shakes her long hair. “I haven’t seen that fool since, damn, like back before things happened. Probably wouldn’t even recognize him on the street.”
I believe her. “I don’t know how he found me.”
The waiter approaches and drops off two waters.
“You’re a frazzled mess.” Shayla touches my arm. “What happened?”
I tell Shayla about him calling the house and catching me off guard. “You should have seen how my middle daughter was clinging to me. Like I was having an affair or something.”
“It’s probably because you were all flushed like you are now. Look at you. Breasts all full. Face, cheery and shit. You still got feelings for the old dude?”
“Nooo.”
“Faye, you ain’t got to fake it with me. It’s obvious. You gonna fuck him?”
“Shayla!” I touch my fingers to my throat and look around to see if anyone has overheard our conversation. “That’s not what I want. I’m married. Happily married.”
“Mmm hmm.” She stares me down. “Does your husband know about—”
I cut into her quick. “No. And he doesn’t need to.”
“Okay, Faye.” She holds her hands up in surrender. “You did make me solemnly swear to take it to my grave.”
I was about to remind her that nothing had changed, but her phone rings. She checks the caller ID but doesn’t answer.
“So what does the man want?”
“He’s about to be released from prison. Asked me to come see him in Philly when he gets home.”
“You going?”
“I don’t even go to Philly to see Gran.”
“My mother used to say, best to let sleeping dogs lie.” She sips her beer. “But it looks like that dog is wide awake. I’ll cover for you.”
“You’ll cover for me? What are we, sixteen?” I laugh.
“You know it’s something about that first man who pops your cherry. You just don’t ever get that dude out of your system. It’s like they live inside of you. Forever. Time doesn’t change that.”
“I need to go.” I pull two twenties from my wallet.
Shayla pushes the money back toward me. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you pay, Faye.” The waiter passes the table and she thrusts her credit card at him. “That’s insurance, so that I’ll see you again.”
I gather my things. Purposely stand without the usual promise to touch bases with available meet-up dates. A quick hug and then I am walking out the front door.
SEVEN
The Man, Mr. Martin Dupree
As I maneuver my car back through the Lincoln Tunnel, my mind swerves. I thought downloading with Shayla would help me move on, but it has untied my system. Memories gush to the surface. It’s as if someone has wrenched me open like a fire hydrant on a hot day.
It’s hard to remember Martin without thinking about the Daddy Gracious Church. Gran was a fool of a fanatic back then. She worshipped Daddy Gracious like he was the Second Coming of Christ, going to church services five or six times a week. It was all one big charade to me.
The church was in the neck of South Philadelphia, less than a mile south of Rittenhouse Square. Before Sunday service, Daddy Gracious would start at Twentieth Street and cruise down Fitzwater in his long, white Cadillac convertible with the tomato-red interior. The top was always down, so that his shoulder-length press and curl blew with the wind. Martin, his driver, drove slowly enough for Daddy Gracious’s drill team to keep up on both sides of the car and behind him. Everyone in the neighborhood knew his theme music, and the children came running when they heard the tambourines, drums, and horns. Flags, pom-poms, and batons moved through the air as dancers’ feet stomped, twirled, and kept the rhythm. Sunday morning was more entertaining than late night television.
Daddy Gracious kept a cooler filled with ice-cold canned sodas in the backseat. As he passed the people in the street he would crack open a soda, sip it first, and then give it to the outstretched hands. Followers believed his lips were anointed, and the folks would line up for blocks, hoping to be blessed with a kissed can. By the time the entourage pulled in front of the storefront church at the corner of Sixteenth and Fitzwater, the music from the drill team would be thunderous. The trumpets blared, the drums would beat harder, and the choir stood singing on the curb with the doors of the church open.
“Here comes Daddy. Here he comes.” The singers’ hips swayed. Teenage boys stood guard at the curb, and at Daddy Gracious’s nod they would roll out this bright red carpet that only he could walk on.
But Daddy Gracious didn’t walk. He tiptoed on high-heeled boots, much like the shoes Prince wore. Daddy glided across the red carpet, swinging his long lion’s mane back and forth. His fingernails were long and curved like a predator’s, and he wore a rich, white cape that swished and cracked the air when he moved.
“Give Him some praise. He’s worthy. Now give Him some praise.”
When he entered the church, the whole congregation would jump to their feet. Daddy Gracious hoofed it down the aisle and then fell into his center pulpit chair. Two ushers would fan him until he caught his breath and was on his feet again. The show would continue until the audience was riled up and breathless.
Martin Dupree was always with Daddy Gracious, driving him around, standing as his bodyguard, and playing bass guitar in the church’s band. He was thirteen years my senior and he was Billie Dee Williams in Mahogany fine, Brad Pitt in Troy fine, Denzel Washington in Mo’ Better Blues fine. Every time I walked into church and saw him up in the pulpit rocking his instrument, my heart skipped a step. His gold-flecked white shirts stood out in the sea of bright white we were all required to wear. His hair swept away from his face in a fit of shiny black curls, hazel eyes, and thick lashes. Seemed like a sin to waste so much pretty on a man when so many women ran around the church looking like wet ducks.
Every Sunday, Gran made us sit in the same pew, fifth row from the front, left-hand side in the aisle, and as soon as I was seated I’d feel Martin staring at me from behind his dark shades. The small circular ones that seemed sewn on, because no matter how hard he plucked the strings of his bass guitar and rolled his instrument, the glasses never moved. When Martin and I would later bump around the back of Daddy Gracious’s car, his frames stayed still then too.
Living with Gran had shamed me. Losing my parents had deadened me. But when those catlike eyes peered at me in a way that wasn’t obvious to anyone but me, things inside of me came alive. My body was like the earth thawing after a long, harsh winter. Just a look from Martin made my throat curl toward him, and I inhaled until the thin material of my collared dress ballooned and my bra felt like it would burst. The first moment Martin called to me, I came in heat.
Gran was down on her knees praying hard and loud, no doubt for my salvation as well as her own sanity, when I snuck away from the carnival. By then Crystal had been excused from Sunday services on account of her job at Payless shoes in the Gallery mall. I was shocked when Gran allowed that, but Crystal was pregnant with little Derell, needed the money, and according to Gran couldn’t be saved.
“That chile always had the devil in her. Don’t you follow in her footsteps,” Gran would say, thumping her Bible at me. Crystal was crazy but it wasn’t the devil. She was an ornery teenager with raging hormones and I would soon relate.
* * *
I was in the church corridor, dipping my head for a drink of water from the fountain. My hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and my white ensemble fit me well. When I came up wiping the dribbles with the back of my hand, Martin was there. Smelling like a dream. Smiling wide. Standing too close. Eyes lapping over my curves. Gran had finally let me wear shoes with a little heel to church, so I was tall enough to look up at Martin with my Cleopatra eyes.
“How are you today, Young Sister?”
“Fine.” I tried to back away but there was the concrete wall.
“You okay?”
I nodded. He kept his eyes on me until I gave him a shy grin and then looked down at my ankles.
“I wanted to give you something,” he whispered and then pressed a strip of paper into my hand. His thumb flicked against my palm, like a match to the striking surface. The friction turned my hormones inside out, and I leaked with love or lust or both. At fourteen, I didn’t know the difference.
* * *
I kept the paper tucked in the bottom of my shoe until I reached my bedroom and could savor it alone. It simply read, in blue ink, “I’d like to get to know you better, Young Sister.” I blushed all week whenever I pulled the note from inside my pillowcase, where I kept it.
Next Sunday I sat in our pew trying to keep my nerves under control through all the hoopla that led up to the sermon. As soon as Daddy Gracious One said “Let us pray,” Martin nodded to me and walked toward the side door. I took that to mean he wanted me to follow. Gran’s eyes were closed, so it was easy to get away. He waited for me at the fountain.
“You look pretty today,” he greeted me the first week. “Like your hair,” the next. By the third Sunday we had worked up to, “That dress is wearing you well, Young Sister.”
He always called me Young Sister. And I liked the way it sounded from his mouth. Like we were in the middle of a revolution and he recognized the part I played. On our fourth meeting we went from talking by the water fountain to leaving out the side door of the sanctuary.
“You want to see the inside?” Martin asked, with a wink at Daddy Gracious’s car.
Everyone referred to his Cadillac as “that Fat Hog.” It was the finest thing in all of South Philadelphia, at least on the black side of town, which ranged from the trolley tracks down to Oregon Avenue. So asking me, a fourteen-year-old orphan girl, if she wanted to get inside the car when I was used to catching the bus, was like asking a kid if she wanted to board an airplane to Disney World with her twenty closest friends.
I followed him down the alley to where the car was parked. It was a cool day, so the top was up. Martin opened the door fo
r me, and when I got inside, we were completely isolated. The leather was smooth against my back and easy to snuggle against. Martin turned the radio on and we sat next to each other. He hummed the song on the radio, something by Force MDs. I felt grown.
“You sure are pretty. Tender.” His smile gave me tremors and I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I had dressed more thoughtfully since Martin began showing attention, wearing Crystal’s low-cut blouse and a skirt with a split.
“You okay?” he touched my chin.
“Yeah.”
He dropped his hand on my thigh and I never wanted those shivers to stop.
* * *
Martin became all I could think about during the week, and the next Sunday I was the first one ready for church. Gran eyed me.
“What the devil’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing, just didn’t want to be the cause of us being late today. I know how important church is to you.” I didn’t bat a lash.
Gran let the moment pass.
* * *
I imagined that Daddy Gracious loved to see the women holding themselves and falling all over the place in the name of the Lord. He kept them juicy with sweat, ripe and heavy, so that they could give it up at offering time. The ushers would pass the plates around while Daddy walked up and down the center aisle, punctuating each thought with a whip of his cape.
“Don’t put nothing in the basket that jingles, now. Don’t hurt Daddy’s ears.” Whip. “Give the Lord something that folds. And you’ll be blessed now.” Whip, whip. “Daddy’s got sensitive ears, now. Make sure you give something soft.” Whip, whip, whip. He’d give a swivel of the hips and then return to the pulpit. Nothing ever rattled in those plates. Even the broke folk put in dollars.
After the collection, the congregation would pray over the money. But I never prayed. I had my eyes on Martin, eager for his signal to sneak away.
* * *
We were two months into hanging out in “that Fat Hog.” The clouds were drizzling, and I was glad that I had pulled my hair into a tight bun so it wouldn’t frizz up. Martin opened the door and then was beside me with one hand on my thigh, working the radio station with the other. We didn’t talk much, but the chemistry was connective. Martin stopped fiddling at a Keith Sweat song. Our time together was limited, and Martin seemed to advance on me more each week. I knew where we were heading, but I didn’t stop him. Little beads of drizzle pitter-pattered against the window while his hand moved to the top of my pantyhose. When I didn’t push his hand away, his head moved in close and I could smell Doublemint gum. I tilted my head and he kissed me. His fingers were cold on my belly, then caressing the rim of my panties, before his whole hand curved down my pelvis into my mess of hair. His fingers played my delicate spots like a melody on his guitar, soft and sweet, then long and hard. I was sweating under my clothes. With Martin I was gone. When he was around I didn’t have space to think, to breathe, which made it impossible to do anything but what he wanted. I rocked my hips to melt into his rhythm. I moved my butt back in the seat and tilted forward so that his finger could go deeper, and then the sensation was building and needed to be released and I let it. I reached out for the dashboard to steady myself. This time the orgasm ricocheted through my entire body. My forehead was wet and I when I finished gasping I was washed in shame.
Second House from the Corner Page 5