by Kate Stewart
“Sorry about that, cuz.” Greg daps me up. “We’re working on it. Retraining the force and making sure we’re in the community, not just policing it. It’s slowly getting better. Dunne isn’t a bad guy. Just still conditioned to make some assumptions.”
“You mean conditioned to profile.”
Greg doesn’t address my comment. He knows it’s true, but there’s no good answer. He and I both know his colleague was wrong for that. His eyes urge me to let it go. I’m one of the few in my family who has a relationship with Greg. The others can’t forgive him for Chaz. Even knowing Chaz probably would have killed others that day, even if by accident, had Greg not taken that shot. Greg joining the force always felt like a betrayal to them. Cops were in our neighborhood to harass and arrest, not protect and serve. They couldn’t comprehend Greg crossing enemy lines. I understood why he wanted to change the problem from the inside. Despite the run in with Officer Dunne, maybe because of it, I still understand.
“Who’s this pretty girl?” Greg smiles at Bristol, and she offers a stained smile in return.
“You know my boy Rhyson, of course. This is his sister, Bristol. She’s my manager.” I capture and kiss her hand before she can stop me, pulling her into my side. “And my girlfriend.”
Bristol’s surprised eyes clash with mine. I squeeze her hand, mouthing, “He’s cool,” to her.
“Ohhhhh.” Understanding and confusion wrestle in Greg’s eyes. “I thought you and—”
“Nope. Not anymore.” I convert my grimace into a smile. “Look, we’re keeping this on the low for now. If you can keep your big mouth shut until we want the cat all the way out the bag.”
“Got it. You can trust me.” Greg’s grin grows wide, pride in his eyes. “You doing it big, ain’t ya? Number one album. Got that top spot.”
I welcome the change of subject, chuckling, shaking my head.
“Still can’t believe it myself.”
“And this whip.” Greg whistles, running a hand over the glimmering black paint covering the Rover. “Nice.”
“It’s actually for Ma.” I smile at Bristol’s look of surprise. “I’ve tried to give her like four cars, and she hasn’t taken any of them. I’m hoping this one will be too much for her to resist.”
“Good luck with that.” Greg shakes his head. “She’s about as stubborn as you are.”
“I prefer to think of it as determined.”
“That you were. You had to be. It’s in everything you write. And that new track ‘Bruise’ is deep.” He looks at me directly. “Made me proud.”
After what just happened, my own words, the lyrics to ‘Bruise’ that urge us to understand and empathize, mock me. Do I really think I should try to walk in Officer Dunne’s shoes? I notice the impression the cuffs left on my wrists. You don’t see the impression they’ve left inside me, not just this time, but the time before and the time before. How can I walk in his shoes? How can he walk in mine? He’s never lived with this constant threat, and I’ve never lived without it. Living those lyrics is so much harder than singing them from the safety of a stage.
Greg looks over his shoulder at his idling car. “I need to go. I guess you’re on your way to Aunt Mittie’s for Sunday dinner.”
He glances at his watch, unaware of the bomb he just dropped on Bristol’s world.
“You know how she hates it if you’re late.”
“Sunday dinner?” Bristol gasps when Greg climbs into his car, her eyes storming and hands balled at her sides.
I know what’s behind her anger. Fear. Fear that my mom will reject her. Keeping it one hundred, Ma probably will reject her at first, but the woman who raised me will eventually see in Bristol what I see. And maybe not today, maybe not right away, but she’ll be happy for me. She’ll fall in love with Bristol like I did. Even with the humiliating confrontation still smarting like a third-degree burn on my pride, I’m excited about the two women I love the most starting the process today.
“What the hell, Grip?” Bristol demands. “You can’t do this. Not like this.”
I’m determined to shake off the unpleasantness we just experienced. I refuse to let that shit ruin a day I thought would never come. I lean my back against the passenger side door and bring her close until we are flush, front to front.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“No, I’m not okay. You can’t just spring this on me. I—”
“Forget dinner for a sec.” I push her hair back from her face. “What just went down with the cop. Are you okay?”
Her irritation fades, concern taking its place.
“Am I okay?” She rests her elbows against my chest, leaning into me. “You were the one in cuffs. That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry if I made it harder for you.”
“You being here made it harder, but only because I couldn’t protect you the way I wanted to.”
“Not my privilege making me clueless?” she asks weakly, her eyes only half-joking. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t need her apologies right now. I need her. I slide my hands down her back leaning in a few inches and hovering there until she comes the rest of the way. As soon as our lips touch, all the tension, frustration, anger, and yes, fear—I let it go. She opens for me, taking me in. The world falls away, and I’m lost in her. We kiss until I feel her lose herself in me, too. Until the tension leaves her shoulders and her hands come up to frame my face.
“You’re still in trouble for springing dinner on me like this,” she says against my lips.
“I did say if you ever gave me a chance,” I drop one last kiss on her lips. “I’d take you home to my mama.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bristol
I ONLY HAVE my own vanity to blame.
If I hadn't been so concerned about my makeup, I probably would have realized where we were headed.
I would have demanded he turn the car around, or as a last resort flung myself into traffic on the 5. Now I have no recourse but to endure this. The woman will hate me. She hates the very idea of me with her son. She loves Qwest because . . . black. She hates me because . . . white. I know that’s an oversimplification. There are a lot of things Mittie James loves about Qwest that have nothing to do with the color of her skin. But I could be Mother Theresa and she wouldn’t approve of me because of the color of mine, so excuse me while I oversimplify.
At least having to deal with this distracts me from the clusterfuck of that “routine” stop. I’ve never seen anything like it. That officer cuffed Grip for no reason, with no provocation. It’s the kind of thing I might doubt if I read on Facebook. I might assume the driver exaggerated for the sake of the story. But I saw it with my own eyes, and I’m still holding my previously held notions up against what just happened and wondering how to reconcile the two.
“It’s gonna be fine.” Grip’s hand braves the space across the console to capture mine.
“You should have asked me or at least warned me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
His wicked laughter fills the car until his shoulders shake and he bends over the steering wheel.
“Yes, by all means wreck us. That would be a reprieve,” I mumble, looking out the window to study my surroundings.
The community teems with life. A cohort of guys riding dirt bikes pop wheelies down the street. Young girls play hopscotch, their braids bouncing as they jump the squares. A man wearing a bright red apron stares appreciatively at the Rover through the steam rising from his front yard grill. I don’t see the war zone Grip has often talked about. But we are sometimes in the most danger when we let our guards down, when we let peace deceive us and trick us into forgetting. Being at Grip’s old high school, hearing about the funerals, the gangs, the volatility—it all tells me there is more to Compton than what this Sunday drive reveals.
A man in conversation with two others leans against an Impala, not as well kept or tricked out as Grip’s, but a six four all the same. A blue handkerch
ief encircles one thickly muscled, ink-marked arm. Nothing’s amiss in his actions, but maybe there’s violence in the eyes tracking us. Something about him seems lost, desperate, dangerous. Or is that just my perception of him? Am I as bad as Officer Dunne? Fear and ignorance driving my assumptions? I’m discombobulated in this zip code, on this block, and the only things familiar to me are the opulence of this car and the man driving it.
I love him. Grip’s fingers wrap around mine, and he darts concerned glances my way when he thinks I’m not looking. His beautiful words. His outrageous humor. The way he looks at me and makes me feel. Ms. James may not like me, but her son loves me. Obstinately, unwaveringly loves me. I’ll hold onto that like an anchor.
“We’re here.”
Grip kills the engine in front of a small house in a row of houses that look almost identical, differentiated only by color and the front porch decorations. Ms. James’s house is blue. A tributary of cracks run through the short span of concrete leading to the entrance. Three chairs squeeze onto the tiny porch, a vibrantly colored pillow in each one. I envision Ms. James and her friends seated there, inspecting the neighborhood and keeping watch. The wooden door stands open, leaving only the black-barred screen between me and Grip’s childhood home.
“Stay right there.” Grip gets out and stands just outside. “I have to open the door for you. We have an audience.”
“An audience?” I peer through the tinted windshield.
It’s a sci-fi movie out there, with all the inhabitants frozen in some time warp, and apparently this expensive Range Rover is the spaceship from outer space. And when I step out, I am the alien.
“Um, I feel like everyone’s staring,” I side-whisper as we approach the house.
“Yeah.” He gives me a cocky grin. “I’m a pretty big deal.”
“Oh, God.” I have to laugh. “Your conceit knows no bounds.”
“Well, and it isn’t every day they see a car like that.” He turns to me on the front porch. “Oh, and you’re the only white chick for miles.”
Great.
“Anything I should know?” I ask.
“Nah, Ma’s easy.” Grip shrugs. “Oh, just remember it’s sweet potato pie, not pumpkin.”
That matters?
“Okay. Got it. Sweet potato.”
“And the greens, they’re collards, not kale.”
“I’ve never had collard greens. You think I’ll like them?”
“If you don’t,” Grip says, eyes stretched for emphasis. “Pretend you do. And eat. This ain’t the day to diet, baby. Ma doesn’t trust people who don’t eat.”
“Why is every tip you’re giving me about food?”
“Food’s her love language. Everything you need to know about my mother is on her table.”
My palms are sweaty. Why does this feel so important? I glance at Grip’s strong profile, and I can’t help but think of all it took for him to emerge from this neighborhood as the man he is today. The talent. The strength. The intelligence. The perseverance.
The kindness.
He wouldn’t be the man I love without the woman on the other side of this door, and against the odds, knowing she wants him with a woman who “looks like her,” I want her to want him to be with me. I want her to like me.
“Collard greens. Sweet potato pie,” I rehearse under my breath.
“Hey.” Grip grasps my chin, his touch gentle and his eyes intent on my face. “Scratch all that. I fell for you. Not the edited, censored version of you. That’s who I want my mom to see today. I want her to meet the real Bristol.”
The tightness in my shoulders eases, and the breath I was holding whooshes over my lips.
“Thank you.” I lean a few inches toward him, poised for a quick kiss.
He puts his hand between our lips, the look he gives me completely serious.
“But for real, though, eat those greens.”
He opens the door and pulls me in behind him by the hand.
“Ma!” He steps into the immaculate and modest living room. “I’m home.”
There’s energy in the steps shuffling up the hallway. The closer they come, the tighter my nerves. I wiggle my fingers free of Grip’s, ignoring his chastening look.
“You’re late is what you are,” her disembodied voice tosses up the hall. “You ain’t been to church in I don’t know how long, barely make it home for Sunday dinner, and when you do come you’re . . .”
Mittie James’ feet stop abruptly at the threshold, but her curiosity leaps into the room ahead of her and seesaws between her son and me. She’s still wearing her church clothes and stockings with her bedroom slippers.
“You’re late,” she finishes, her eyes locked with mine. “Hello, Bristol. This is a surprise.”
I want to look away, but I can’t. A weak smile hangs limply between my cheeks.
“Sorry, I’m late, Ma.” Grip closes the space separating them, scooping her petite frame into his broad chest. “It’s okay that I brought Bristol, right?”
The caramelized eyes, so like Grip’s, do a slow slide from me to her son.
“Of course. Welcome to our home, Bristol.” She smiles politely and starts back the way she came. “Dinner’s ready. Come on.”
“You heard her.” Grip smiles, takes my hand, and turns up the hall, dragging me along. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Hey, wait.” I dig my heels in, making him stop, too. “Was it pumpkin or sweet potato?”
“Babe.” He sighs and deposits a quick kiss on my nose. “Just come eat.”
The small dining room feels full, even though there’s only a few people at the table. I’ve met everyone here, but they receive my presence with varying degrees of surprise, curiosity, and animosity. Fortunately, Amir is here, and so is the sweet teacher from Grip’s old high school, Shondra. I’m guessing Jade’s in the animosity camp. Even with her hard, almond-shaped eyes tracking my every move, I feel a tug of sympathy for her. How could I not after what Grip just withstood? Knowing at such an early age, Jade was violated by one who was supposed to protect her. When I think of all these things, I see Grip finding it in his heart to write a song like “Bruise” as a miracle.
“Here’s another plate.” Ms. James rearranges the place setting by Jade to accommodate me. “Amir, grab that other chair out of the kitchen.”
He jumps up to do her bidding but offers me a reassuring smile on his way. I look at the chair beside Jade, unsure if I should take it or let Grip have it and wait for the one Amir is bringing.
“We don’t bite.” Jade nods her head to the empty seat, her lips twisting derisively. “Sit down.”
I'm not so sure about that since she pulled a gun on me the last time we met, but I offer her a small smile, which she doesn’t bother returning. I take a deep breath, sit, and try to relax my shoulders.
“Good to see you again, Bristol,” Shondra says, her smile warm and genuine.
“You, too.” I’m so grateful for even that small kindness. “How have you been?”
“Good.” Shondra sips from the glass of iced tea at her elbow. “Kids crazy as ever, but good. Still talking about Grip coming to see them a few weeks ago.”
“It was fun.” Grip leans back and drapes an arm across the back of my seat. I sit up right away, leaving plenty of space between his arm and my back.
“Well, fix your plates.” Ms. James gestures to the table crowded with enough food to feed ten more people. “Nobody serving you here, Marlon. You know how to get your own.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His grin comes easy, and where I’m strung tight, he’s as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him. There’s a comfort, an ease, to him like I’ve never seen.
He’s home.
He stands, stretching to scoop generous portions of everything. I’m about to do the same when he picks up the plate in front of me and replaces it with the full one.
“Here ya go,” he says softly, his smile down at me intimate and affectionate.
He served me.
Oh
, God. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but it feels deliberate. He’s expressing something. He’s telling them all, without saying a word, that I’m special to him. I glance around the table, noting the smirk on Amir’s lips, his eyes teasing me. The speculating surprise in Shondra’s glance. The narrow-eyed resentment coming off Jade beside me like a radioactive wave.
The disappointment on his mother’s face before she stows it away.
“Thanks.” I muster a smile for him. “You didn’t have to.”
“No problem.” Grip metes out his own portions, sits in the extra seat, and turns his attention to the people still watching us closely. “So, catch me up. What’s been going on?”
His question seems to crack the wall of tension some, and everyone eats and laughs and talks. I dig into the food. I’ve never tasted any vegetable like collard greens. I’m tempted to scoop up what’s left with my fingers and turn up the plate to slurp the juices. Everything tastes so good, and I don’t care if they’re collard, kale, or Crayola, I want seconds.
They talk about people I don’t know and things I don’t quite grasp. I never watched Martin, so when they reminisce about a particularly funny episode, I smile and try to follow. Even without context, it’s hilarious the way Jade tells it. I find myself laughing along.
“What you laughing at, Bristol?” The laughter drains from her face. “Have you ever even seen Martin?”
Busted.
“Um, no.” I bite the inside of my jaw. “It just sounded funny the way you were telling it.”
She rolls her eyes and sucks her teeth.
“Don’t start, Jade.” Grip’s voice holds an unmistakable, quiet warning.
“What?” Jade grabs the Raiders cap off the table and shoves it on her head, leaning back in her seat. “Just didn’t seem like her kind of show.”
The sound of forks and knives scraping over the plates is magnified in the deep pool of silence following the exchange. It’s because of me. Everyone is uncomfortable because I’m here, but I have no idea how to fix it. I’m just a girl having dinner with her boyfriend, as desperate for his mother to like me as you’d expect.