Kismet 3

by Raynesha Pittman

  “I’m not asking you to do that, nor would I take her away from you, but you’re right. She has a parent who can and wants to do their job. I can’t speak on if and when Savannah will come around ready to snatch her up, but I can promise you, she’ll never be able to keep y’all out of her life.”

  “That’s real nice, Dre, but I have to speak frankly with you. I’m not settling for a part-time, weekend position in our daughter’s life, and if that’s what you’re planning to offer me, then you can kiss my ass. I’m telling you right now, I know you won’t be a problem, but the woman you love will be, which means you will eventually become a problem too. If Savannah takes Sade away from us, I’d tell everything I know to anyone willing to listen and do something about it. Savannah’s no saint, and she’s not fit to raise an ant in an ant farm, even with supervision.”

  I couldn’t help it. I had to laugh. His anger was just what I needed to hear to be sure that the right man was raising my daughter. I could tell he spared his words for me out of respect, but what he really wanted to say was exactly what I would say, and that’s... I’d kill Savannah dead if she ever tried to take Sade away from me again.

  “You just said everything that I need to hear, and that’s exactly why the respect is mutual. By the time I get my shit together to be able to prove I’m better fit to raise Sade than you and your wife, she’ll be getting ready to graduate from high school. All I ask is that you continue to welcome me in and out of your house when I please, as you’ve done since we met.”

  “As long as you remain the man that you are and continue to treat our princess like the princess she is, I don’t care if you move in. Hell, you can move your next wife in too,” he said, chuckling.

  We chatted a little longer, and when we were done talking business, he put my baby girl on the phone.

  “Hi, Daddy. Are you coming to see me today? I want to show you the butterfly I caught.”

  Sade never sounded sweeter. My baby’s voice was the first piece of reality that made me realize I was about to do time behind bars. I instantly started missing her. Then my mind wandered over to my son. I wondered how he did with his first football game. I wondered if he was a natural on the field like his daddy, and if he wasn’t, who would Mama Dee find to work with him. When I was done talking to my princess, I needed to call my boy, Mike, and tell him to step his uncle role up a notch and make sure he was on the field sideline coaching my son.

  “Hello, Daddy, are you there? I asked you if you are coming to see me today.”

  I was brought back to reality by the sound of Sade’s voice.

  “No, baby, Daddy had to go away for a while. I was so excited about meeting you that I forgot that I had business to handle back in Nashville. I’ll be gone for a few months, but I’ll call and write to you every day, and I want you to write to me too, okay?”

  I didn’t want to tell her that I was in jail because I had taught Sade that jail was a place that they put those who broke the rules. I told her everybody in jail wasn’t bad, but just like her, sometimes, good people get in trouble, and jail was their punishment. I didn’t want her to think that being a father to her was breaking the rules.

  “Okay, Daddy. I’ll draw you a picture of my butterfly and send it to you. I named it Savannah, like my mommy. It’s pretty just like her too. I put her in a jar to keep her from flying away and leaving me alone.”

  I was going to explain to Sade that caging beauty is a temporary fix, but she told me Mrs. Jefferson had already told her that. Whenever I get out, I think I’ll need to get some knowledge dropped on me from Mrs. Jefferson as well. She seemed to know her stuff. I continued talking to Sade until I heard Mr. Jefferson tell her it was nap time.

  Going to jail is not what my kids needed. They needed me, their father, in their lives, helping them with their day to day and helping them to build their faith. I should be the one tucking Sade in bed, and I should’ve been there walking the length of the football field rooting my son on and ready to fight refs for bad calls. It’s not the Jeffersons’ or my mama’s job to have to play mommy and daddy to my kids. Thoughts like these while you’re behind bars will make you depressed. That’s why I try to stay disconnected from the world when I’m serving time. The urge to call my mama and Mike about Andre Jr. disappeared. I’ll make those calls tomorrow. I was only in the mood to tell Savannah what Mr. Jefferson said, then lay my ass back down with my thoughts. I tried to call Savannah to tell her to pack up and go to the Jeffersons, but the house phone went straight to her cell phone’s voicemail. She must’ve already transferred the phone lines in preparation to leave. I waited a few minutes, then called her back, but this time, I called her cell phone. It rang three times, and then someone picked up.

  “Hello?”

  It was a man’s voice, but the music was too loud in the background for me to pick up on to whom the voice belonged.

  “Hello?” I asked, puzzled by the fact that Savannah didn’t answer my call, but some unfamiliar man’s voice did. “Who the fuck is this? Where’s Savannah?” I asked, but I didn’t receive an answer to either question.

  All I got for a response was, “She’s busy. Call back in an hour.”

  Then the phone went dead. My first thought was that the nigga had hung up on me, but as I attempted to call back, I couldn’t get a dial tone. Before I could make it to the jailer to tell him something was up with the phone line, three of Nashville’s sheriffs were walking toward me with handcuffs and shackles. They were ready to transport me home. The whole time I was being hog-tied and shackled up, all I could think about was who the fuck was answering Savannah’s phone.

  Chapter Four

  A Pair of Queens

  These last three weeks have been hard and almost unbearable. Every time I tried to focus on anything else but Savannah, my mind led me back to her and that same question: who the fuck answered her phone? She didn’t have any male friends that lived in state, the voice was too immature to belong to her father or Mr. Jefferson, and her brother wasn’t fucking with her because of Peaches. I kept pacing my cell from one solid grey metal wall to the next. No matter how hard I tried to sit still, I couldn’t. My thoughts kept fucking with me.

  It wasn’t another nigga... It couldn’t be another nigga... Fuck that. It better not be another nigga!

  This girl really had me crazy over her. I heard love could make you turn that way, but this shit was becoming ridiculous. If I could just get to a phone, I’d be straight. Even if she said it was her other nigga answering, at least I’d have some closure and could move on. Not knowing anything at all was making my time feel longer and harder. I spent my first week, which felt like a month, in a one-man holding cell. I didn’t have access to nothing: no phone, no pencil or paper to write with... nothing but three meals a day. I couldn’t eat, not because the food was bad. I just didn’t have an appetite, and when I did, I felt nauseated. I went to court that week but didn’t see a judge because transportation got me there late, which pushed my next court date back for two weeks. My second week was a little better. I was moved into a dorm with thirty other inmates, and I was able to write. The first letter I wrote was for my mama. It was short and straight to the point. I told her where I was, gave her my next court date, and told her to visit me Saturday. I knew my mama wasn’t the letter reader or writer. She preferred a face-to-face visit so she could read my eyes and phone conversations so she could feel the emotions in my voice. She didn’t like letters because they made her jump to conclusions.

  The last time I was locked up, she said, “You can save those letters you keep writing for your girlfriends. I’ll keep money on my phone to hear your voice.”

  “It’s like that, Mama? You don’t want to read how much I love and miss my Mama Dee?” I teased her.

  “No, I don’t because I can’t tell the mood or mind-set you’re in when I’m reading them. Not knowing drives me crazy and makes me stress over you being in that cage. I’ll wait for your call.”

  So, there wasn
’t a need to tell her how I was holding up on paper. She wouldn’t believe it anyway. The next letter I wrote was to my baby girl, Sade. I promised to write to her every day when we last spoke, and I had broken that promise. I apologized to her and told her from here on out she’d be getting mail from me. The last letter I wrote was the hardest to write because I wasn’t sure if the recipient was worth any more of my time, or if she wanted any more of it. I wrote her name at the top of the letter twice and erased it that many times. Then I stopped fighting with myself and let my pencil ask what I wanted to know.

  Savannah,

  I tried calling you before I got moved, but I was told you were too busy to come to the phone. Who the fuck was that answering? Keep that shit true, because I’m not trying to deal with the drama you love to keep yourself involved in. Write back and let me know what it is between us. If there ain’t nothing between us, then it is what it is. Throw my shit out. I can replace it, and I’ll have my car shipped here. You ain’t gotta worry about hearing shit else from me. I can go through the Jeffersons about my daughter. If we straight, and I’m overreacting, then let a nigga know, and I’ll apologize. Either way, you need to get with my mama ASAP about my whip being shipped or how to do this jail shit. Her name is Mama Dee, and she’s a hundred percent no-nonsense, so come correct, or she will have no problem with checking you. Her number is 615-555-0103. I’ll be waiting to hear back from you.

  —Dre

  I read the letter four times, looking for any signs of weakness. I couldn’t let Savannah know how she was affecting me. Her playing hard to get and all these different niggas was making me sick. I wanted to walk away from her and just say fuck it, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know why walking away from her was so hard to do. I knew I loved her, and when she had her mind right, I could see her as my wife, but every time I felt like I was making the right decision about us, she made me change my mind.

  “301, 302, 303...”

  I could hear myself counting off each push-up that I hit, but my mind wasn’t exercising with my body. I was too busy thinking about her and wondering if she would ever change her fucked-up ways. I told myself that I would never let Savannah affect me again like she did in Washington, but there I was starting to feel sick again.

  “337, 338, 339 . . . Fuck that, I was more than enough man for her ass,” I yelled, allowing my thoughts to come out of my mouth. But what I said was true. I am more than enough man for her, yet she had me feeling like I wasn’t. Her actions had me doubting myself, because why would she need another man if I was the full package? She couldn’t be that much of a ho. I had to be slipping somewhere, but every time I reevaluated myself microscopically, I couldn’t see any errors on my part. I provided, I protected, and I kept her more than satisfied in the bed. Could Savannah really be that hot in the ass that one dick, man, or whatever you want to call it, couldn’t satisfy her?

  “368, 369, 69, 69, 69...”

  I counted the number sixty-nine eight times as I wondered if a sixty-nine was in Savannah’s plans for the night now that I was out of her way. See, this is the shit I don’t like. Jail always fucks with your emotions and leaves you feeling out of control. Now, I’m all worked up and feeling sick over her, and being locked up aided in my feeling this way. I’m a man, and feelings like the ones I was having were made for women. I don’t mean any harm, but that illness was structured for a female to go through. It wasn’t made for a man, because it forced us to deal with emotions that we normally didn’t give a second thought to. That’s why it was worse for a man to go through it. It fucked with our manhood and played with our minds. I never thought the illness would make its way to me because I was shielded with self-confidence. I’d passed out tissue box sentences to a few chicks, but I wasn’t ever expecting to receive one back. I was finally getting a taste of what I had put my son’s mama through. It felt fucked-up to be on the owner’s side of a broken heart that I should have seen coming. I wasn’t apologizing for cheating on my ex. All I was saying was that I understood what I put her through now. Karma is a bitch, and her address had to be the jailhouse.

  “387 . . . Man, fuck these push-ups,” I said as I got off the ground. I couldn’t concentrate long enough to remember to count or what number I was on. Who was that dude answering the phone? Are you cheating on me already? I thought.

  Even though cheating is expected of men, it didn’t make it right for us to do, but sometimes, it was out of our control. We were outnumbered by women four to one. That meant it was three times as likely we would cheat. My stance on cheating was that it was more acceptable coming from a man than a woman. There was proof all over the world that backed me. For example, in some cultures, they entitle men to more than one wife. How many cultures do you know that allow women to do the same? None. Not one. And if it’s going on in private, that’s the way it’s meant to be. It’s not in a woman’s nature to have more than one husband or to cater to more than one man. The same goes for a man. It’s not a part of our nature to be inferior to our wives. That’s a change in roles that will throw the whole family aspect off balance. A woman is made for a man, but a man is made for many women.

  “Listen to Neanderthal-ass Dre.”

  Yeah, I’m on my caveman shit, but the shit I’m saying is real. Men fall on one knee and propose after we choose that right woman to be our wives. Yes, a few women were proposing out there, like Savannah proposed to me, but that’s not the traditional way. The traditional way was to allow the man to honor you by his confession of love with the desire to give you his last name. Women nowadays were proposing because they felt like they’d earned it, but they get mad when the man didn’t act like he was all into it. Don’t get mad at me. Be mad at the truth. That just might be the same reason Savannah and my shit ain’t flowing like it should. She jumped the gun, and I just went along with it. Damn, there goes some more shit I need to have a heart-to-heart with Dre about.

  Once I gave my letters to the guard on duty, it seemed like my time got harder. Now, I had to wait on Savannah’s response. I tried working out all week to get my mind off of the daily mail call, but that wasn’t working. I was finally able to use the phone on Wednesday of my third week. I tried calling my mama to see if she had talked to Savannah, but she didn’t have money on the phone to answer yet. I tried to call Savannah, but she had collect calls blocked on her phone.

  It was Saturday morning, the end of my third week back in Nashville, and I still hadn’t heard shit from anyone. Visiting had just started, and I hadn’t been called to step out. After hitting a set of a hundred push-ups, I lay back down on my bunk to try to sleep visiting hour away.

  “Aye, you said your name was Andre, didn’t you?”

  I had been awakened by my bunkie standing over me. He was a young guy, probably about nineteen or twenty. He was dark-skinned, tall, maybe about six foot three, and skinny. He had a high-top fade like everybody was wearing in Nashville. They called it a “Boosie fade” after the Baton Rouge rapper Little Boosie. Most of the niggas I saw rocking the haircut needed to kill themselves for walking around looking whack, but his fitted him. He tried to cover himself in tattoos to give himself a harder look, but his baby face with them soft, dark brown eyes showed that he had never been through any real shit in his life. Little buddy had just gotten himself caught up with the wrong older niggas. We hadn’t had a conversation yet besides exchanging names. His was Montez, but he preferred to go by Tez. I had overheard him talking to his girl on the phone, though. He was in for some robberies he had played a part in. From what I heard in his conversation, he really shouldn’t have been committing them. He was straight and didn’t need the money, but he was trying to gain some status with the niggas in his neighborhood, from what I gathered.

  “Yeah, I’m Andre. Who’s asking?”

  Even though I looked at him like he was a little nigga, I sat up on my bottom bunk. I didn’t like nobody standing over me, and who’s to say he wasn’t trying to test me to gain some respect in here? As I sat up,
he took a few steps back like he knew what it was, and then said, “I think they are calling you for a visit, man. That’s the only reason I’m asking.”

  I thanked him, threw my shirt and shoes on, and then stepped out of the dorm room to the awaiting guards. When I walked into the visiting room, I was greeted by my mama’s warm smile.

  “Mama Dee, you can’t be coming in here to see me, looking good like that. I don’t want to have to beat up a nigga in here over you.”

  I turned my attention to the two older cats in the booths next to mine. They were checking the hell out of my mama like they were trying to memorize her for some late-night self-pleasure. I couldn’t have niggas hitting their meat to thoughts of my mama.

  “Boy, hush. I came here straight from Junior’s football game. That’s why I’m so late. I didn’t have time to change.”

  “That’s how you go to your grandson’s football games?”

  “I said, hush, Andre.”

  She was fussing but blushing at the same time. She must have seen them watching her too. Unlike my father and me, my mama’s skin wasn’t caramel or golden-brown. She was dark, but her black skin was smooth, like a cup of coffee served black. She didn’t have any blemishes or scars anywhere my eyes were permitted to see, and wrinkles had yet to touch her skin. For fifty years old, my mama looked damn good in them tight-ass blue jeans and red, fitted “Nashville Cardinals” youth football shirt. I’m going to make it my business to burn the jeans she had on soon as I get out. They fit her fatless body too good and made her rump stick out. I didn’t know what Mama Dee had been doing while I was gone, but it looked like she started walking or running a few miles a day. Her hair, nails, teeth, and neatness of her clothes showed she wasn’t just fit, but she practiced and maintained good hygiene. She gave them old cats a reason to look, but I wasn’t giving them a pass for it. I kept mugging one of the niggas until he felt the need to speak up to me.