by J. J. Murray
“I’m sure,” Lauren said. “You’re taking me home for the first time in fourteen years, and my mama is waiting up for us.”
The driver squinted at his GPS screen. “All right.” He pulled the taxi away from the curb. “You’re that actress, right?”
Lauren nodded and then shook her head. “I was an actress. Not anymore.”
“At least you had the good sense to escape Congress Heights,” the driver said.
“I heard it was getting better there,” Lauren said.
“Yeah, well,” the driver said, “anything would be an improvement. Unemployment is still around twenty-five percent, and there still isn’t a decent place to sit down and eat, unless you like IHOP.”
“There’s nothing wrong with IHOP,” Lauren said. “How’s crime these days?”
“It’s quieter,” the driver said. “Still higher than anywhere else in the city.”
“I hear that Homeland Security is relocating to St. Elizabeths,” Lauren said. “That’s really close to my mama.”
“Homeland Security wouldn’t have anything to do with what happens on the streets,” the driver said. “There was a shooting on Alabama Avenue just last night.”
“We’ll avoid Alabama Avenue,” Lauren whispered.
After passing the Library of Congress and crossing the 11th Street Bridge, they took Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue to Lebaum.
When the taxi stopped in front of a small colonial, Lauren gripped Patrick’s hand tightly. “We’re here. It still looks the same.”
Patrick paid the driver with two twenties. “Thanks,” he said.
“The fare is only twenty,” the driver said, “and I already included the tip.”
Patrick shrugged. “She wouldn’t let me pay for the train tickets, so I have some extra cash. Take your wife to IHOP.”
“Right,” the driver said. “But I’ll take her to the one in Columbia Heights. Take it easy.”
As soon as they were out of the taxi, Lauren opened a chain-link gate and started up a concrete walkway that split a flat yard, the grass yellow but thick.
“The house originally had three bedrooms and one bath,” Lauren said, “but Daddy added a full bath, a half bath, and another bedroom.” She dragged Patrick up concrete stairs to the porch. “How do I look?”
“Perfect, as usual,” Patrick said.
“I’m nervous,” Lauren said.
“Why?” Patrick asked.
“My mama was my first audience,” Lauren said, “and she’s still my toughest critic.” She knocked loudly. “I hope she’s in a good mood.”
“And if she isn’t?” Patrick asked.
Lauren sighed. “Then, well, she isn’t, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
Pamela Jimmerson opened the door a minute later and looked past them. “Where are the reporters?”
“Back at Union Station,” Lauren said.
“Good,” Pamela said. “Come on in.”
As Patrick entered the house, he glanced at Pamela. She was shorter, darker, and sturdier than Lauren was, flyaway gray hairs waving above her cornrows. She wore a pair of jeans, a Howard sweatshirt, and some brown slippers.
“Hello,” Patrick said.
Pamela nodded.
Lauren reached out to hug Pamela. “It’s good to see you, Mama.”
Pamela rolled her eyes and gave her a quick hug. “How was your trip?”
“Quiet, for the most part,” Lauren said.
“I don’t believe that,” Pamela said. “Nothing is quiet if you’re involved.”
She has that right, Patrick thought.
They trailed Pamela through a narrow hallway and past a sitting room where a short sofa faced a flat-screen TV on a stand.
“You bought a TV, Mama,” Lauren said.
“Obviously,” Pamela said.
Patrick appraised the house, noting the Berber carpet, the crystal doorknobs, and a ceramic tile kitchen floor. There’s not much I could do here because Lauren’s father has beaten me to it. Her daddy was a craftsman, not a handyman.
Pamela led them upstairs and paused in front of the first door. “I have to get up at four.” She sighed. “Which is in about two hours since some people don’t know how to visit at a decent hour.”
“Don’t you want to see the wedding?” Lauren asked. “I can show it to you on my phone.”
“I already watched it on Entertainment Tonight,” Pamela said. “You looked . . .”
“Nice,” Lauren said quickly. “I looked nice, right?”
“That’s not what I was going to say,” Pamela said.
“I know,” Lauren said. “Well, how did I look?”
“Well, if you know, you tell me what I was thinking.” Pamela folded her arms against her chest.
“You thought I looked . . . stunning,” Lauren said.
“I was stunned, all right,” Pamela said. “Coveralls? Really? And baggy ones at that. You weren’t wearing them. They were wearing you. At least you didn’t wear white.”
“Mama,” Lauren said, her eyes dropping.
“You couldn’t wear white, right?” Pamela said. “What color was that? Tan? First tan bride I’ve ever seen.”
Lauren sighed and opened the door. “When do you get off tomorrow?”
“You should know my schedule by now,” Pamela said. “It hasn’t changed in twenty-three years.”
“Can’t you get off early?” Lauren asked. “We want to treat you to dinner.”
“I can meet you at Popeyes around five,” Pamela said.
“Not Popeyes,” Lauren said.
“I happen to like Popeyes,” Pamela said. “I always know what I’m getting at Popeyes. The menu may change here and there, but it’s mostly the same day after day after day. No surprises at Popeyes. Unlike this.”
Lauren nodded. “This is a good surprise, isn’t it?”
“There are no good surprises at two in the morning, Lauren,” Pamela said. She looked up at Patrick. “You are going to say more than hello, aren’t you? Feel free to join the conversation.”
“I’m just minding my manners, Pamela,” Patrick said.
“Minding your tongue is more like it,” Pamela said. “I don’t blame you a bit. Good night.” She turned, walked down the hallway to the next door on the right, opened it, stepped inside, and shut it behind her.
Lauren turned on a light inside their room. “Except for the TV, not much has changed since I lived here.” She bit her lip. “Especially in here. Wow, Mama. You had fourteen years to clean it out. Why didn’t you?”
“Because it’s your room,” Pamela said through the wall.
“If you want it clean, you have to clean it.”
There are some seriously thin walls in this house, Patrick thought. It’s as if Pamela is inside the room with us.
“But it’s your house,” Lauren said.
“This was never my house,” Pamela said. “This is your daddy’s house. And I didn’t have a thing to do with that room, Patrick. That was all Lauren’s doing.”
I have gone back in time to the nineteen nineties, Patrick thought.
Posters of the Fugees, Boyz II Men, Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, Monica, Puff Daddy, Tupac, Sir Mix-A-Lot, Will Smith, and Run-DMC completely covered the wall next to her bed. Posters for Men in Black, The Color Purple, Pretty Woman, and The Matrix crowded the ceiling.
Lauren sat on the edge of the bed. “I had the biggest crushes on Richard Gere and Keanu Reeves back then.”
Patrick put the tool bag on top of a simple white desk. “Interesting,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to whisper,” Lauren said. “She can hear you. You heard that, Mama?”
“Yes,” Pamela said. “But I don’t want to hear it. I want to sleep.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “My mama hasn’t changed much either. Except for the gray hair. When did you stop dyeing it?”
“I do dye it,” Pamela said. “I’ve just been a little too busy working. You know what work is, right? Somethi
ng you do every day and need a good night’s sleep to do well?”
“It doesn’t take that long to dye your hair, Mama,” Lauren said. “And anyway, gray looks good on you.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Pamela said, “and I am not going to talk to you through the wall all night, so hush.”
“We used to talk through this wall all the time,” Lauren said.
“Look,” Pamela said, “I am getting up to work in two hours. I do not want to kill anyone tomorrow or in the next five minutes.”
“Good night, Mama,” Lauren said.
“Good night, Lauren,” Pamela said. “And no fornicating in there.”
Lauren’s mouth dropped open. “Mama!”
“It’s not going to happen,” Pamela said. “It’s too late for any of that. You probably already got some today anyway. Isn’t that right, Patrick?”
I’m glad that wall is there so she can’t see me blush. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Y’all go to sleep,” Pamela said. “I want to hear some serious snoring, okay?”
“Yes, Mama,” Lauren said.
After disrobing and snuggling for a few minutes in Lauren’s double bed, Patrick felt Lauren’s hand moving down his stomach.
He grabbed her wrist.
“You can’t stop me,” Lauren whispered.
Patrick shook his head. “Please don’t,” he whispered. “I can’t help myself,” Lauren whispered.
“If I have to come in there,” Pamela said through the wall.
Lauren’s hand vanished. She put her lips to Patrick’s right ear. “After she leaves in the morning then.”
“What if I call in sick?” Pamela asked.
Lauren turned to the wall. “Will you?”
“No,” Pamela said.
“She’ll be gone by five,” Lauren said. “I can wait until then.”
“Such disrespect,” Pamela said.
Lauren sat up. “Okay, Mama. We’ll fornicate when we get back to Brooklyn.”
“That’s better,” Pamela said. “Good night. For the last time.”
Lauren slipped out of bed, went to her desk, and pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil. She wrote hurriedly and handed the paper to Patrick.
I will tease you all day tomorrow. And remember our rule.
“Here?” he mouthed.
Lauren nodded, writing, “Rest your tongue.”
Patrick shook his head. He took the pencil and wrote, “You told your mama you wouldn’t.”
Lauren smiled. “Mama won’t be here to know,” she mouthed.
“What are you two plotting in there?” Pamela asked.
Lauren returned to bed. “Mama, please. We’re trying to get some sleep. We’ve had a long day.”
“Uh-huh,” Pamela said. “I hear paper crinkling. Are you two passing notes?”
Paper-thin walls, Patrick thought. So thin you can hear paper crinkling.
“You don’t want us whispering,” Lauren said.
“Plotting, always plotting,” Pamela said. “Please go to sleep.”
“I’m trying,” Lauren said, “but you keep talking to me.”
“Oh, hush,” Pamela said. “Kiss him and go to sleep.”
Lauren kissed Patrick’s cheek. “Good night,” she whispered, and in a few minutes, she was purring.
Patrick looked up and focused on the movie posters above him. Here I am, snuggling with a very pretty woman, and I’m caught in some sort of Pamela-Lauren matrix, with Pamela maybe six inches away from us behind that wall. He closed his eyes. I hope I can out-sleep Lauren. He sighed softly. It won’t matter. She’s an actress. She can fake being asleep better than I can.
I had better rest my tongue.
59
Lauren waited as long as she could with her eyes closed, but Patrick didn’t wake up by eleven a.m. She slipped out of bed, checked her mama’s room and found it empty, brushed her teeth, returned to bed, sneaked under the covers, and found that Patrick was already erect.
She threw back the covers and stared at his face. He’s still asleep, and yet he’s hard as a rock! Who’s he dreaming about? Forget that rule!
She shook him violently. “Wake up!”
Patrick opened his eyes. “Is it time to get up?”
“You’re already up,” Lauren said. “Literally.”
Patrick looked down. “Oh.” He yawned. “I told you that sometimes happens.”
“Who were you dreaming about?” Lauren asked.
“I wasn’t dreaming,” Patrick said. He pointed at his fading erection. “I wake up that way whenever it gets cold. You stole most of the covers last night.” He swung his legs to the edge of the bed. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Lauren shook her head. “Not so fast.” She straddled him. “I have to have you.”
“And I have to pee,” Patrick said.
She looked down at his deflated penis. “Where did it go?”
“It’s cold in here,” Patrick said. “And I really have to pee. That Frappuccino I drank on the train is screaming to get out.”
“When you get back, then.”
Patrick shook his head. “I intend to respect your mama’s wishes.” He cradled her face with his hands. “I cannot afford to have your mama angry at me. Ever.”
“She was only cranky because she was tired,” Lauren said.
“Really?” Patrick asked.
“She’s kind of cranky a lot,” Lauren said.
“I have to keep making good impressions,” Patrick said. “And I can’t make good impressions if I go against her wishes.”
“How will she know?” Lauren asked.
“She’ll ask me, and I’ll tell her,” Patrick said. “I won’t lie to you, and I won’t lie to her.”
Lauren poked out her lower lip. “But I want you to make rapid impressions inside me right now.”
“I promise that I will make countless impressions inside of you when we get back home.” Patrick held on to Lauren’s thighs and stood.
“Countless?” Lauren said.
“Countless.” He turned and set her on the bed. “Now, where’s the bathroom?”
After showering together and dressing in jeans, boots, and sweaters, Lauren and Patrick walked half a mile to Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue and entered the MLK Deli, where they ordered bacon, egg, and cheese wraps and coffee for a late brunch. No one looked their way or spoke to them as they waited in line.
This is strange, Lauren thought. Surely someone here should recognize me.
After she paid, the cashier smiled, winked, and said, “Welcome back, Lauren.”
Hmm, Lauren thought. Maybe they are all just being polite. “It’s good to be back.”
They ate their wraps as they walked up Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue and looked through the barred windows at City Beats, the shoe store next to African Queen Braids.
“I used to get a crab platter from Aabee Seafood and just walk up and down this street eating fresh crab and talking to people,” Lauren said. “Now everyone has bars on their windows and stays inside.” She looked across the street. “The Pizza Place is gone? Man, this street has changed. Jamaicans made great pizza for a decent price over there.”
They finished their brunch and continued to Styles Unlimited, a hair salon.
I know someone in here will know me. Lauren thought. They have to.
As soon as she entered the salon, a slim black woman with blond hair, black pants, black shoes, and a black top ran up to her. “I heard you were coming!” she shouted. “Let me see that ring!”
Lauren looked on the wall next to the entrance and saw her ancient head shot, dust coating the glass. This is more like it, though they need to dust off that thing. “Hi, Trula.” She showed Trula her ring.
Trula looked up at Patrick. “Hey.”
Patrick nodded.
“What do I call you now, Lauren?” Trula asked.
“You know me, Trula,” Lauren said. “Just call me Lauren.”
Trula looked up at Patrick again. “Not Mr
s. Esposito?”
Patrick shrugged.
“Just Lauren,” Lauren said. She sat in the first chair. “So, what’s been going on?”
Trula moved behind Lauren. “You got a lot of time?”
“I know I haven’t been here in years, Trula,” Lauren said. “Just give me a condensed version.”
“I wasn’t talking about that,” Trula said. She roughly finger combed Lauren’s hair. “I’m talking about this. You want us to do something about this, don’t you?”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Lauren asked.
The taller, plumper black woman who was fixing a little girl’s braids in the next chair looked over at Lauren. “Just everything.” She smiled. “Hey, Lauren.”
“Hey, Wanda,” Lauren said. “You’re still here, too?”
Wanda shrugged. “Where else am I gonna go?” She chuckled. “And your hair does need help. Aren’t there any salons in Brooklyn?”
“I don’t need a salon,” Lauren said. “I’ve gone natural. It’s supposed to look a little wild.”
Wanda chuckled. “You can still do something with it. Damn.”
Lauren laughed. “Okay, Wanda.” She smiled at Patrick. “Is it okay if I get my hair done? We have plenty of time before we meet Mama for dinner.”
“It’s okay,” Patrick said.
“These ladies aren’t cheap,” Lauren said.
“Just easy,” Trula said. “I mean, Wanda’s easy. I require some dinner and some dessert first.”
“Hush,” Wanda said.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Lauren smiled at Patrick. “Ladies, this is my husband, Patrick. Patrick, that’s Wanda, who did my hair for many years, and this is Trula, who I went to school with.”
“A hundred years ago,” Trula said. “We know who he is, Lauren. He’s on the TV all the time.”
“I didn’t think he was some random guy you picked up on the street,” Wanda said.
“At least not on this street,” Trula said. “He definitely isn’t from around here.” She squinted at him. “You’re from New York, and you don’t speak?”
“Hello,” Patrick said.
“He speaks,” Wanda said.
Oh, how I have missed this place! Lauren thought. This place speaks “home” to my soul. It doesn’t matter who you are when you walk in here because you’re family—and you’re also fair game for anything anyone says about you.