“At least let me take another one I like.” She opened her purse and took out her lipstick, then redid her hair. “I know it will be all over social media. I’m your mother, but I don’t need to look like a mother.”
Eighteen selfies later, Frenchie was satisfied. She’d always been persnickety about her photos. That done, I went back to my side of the table.
“Love Is a Battlefield” played on the restaurant’s sound system. First Frenchie started singing, then I joined in, then Fela came in, using plastic utensils as drumsticks. He threw in some Drakeish, improvised rap about his girlfriend, Chavers, on the break.
The waiter came for our order, eager to give the kind of customer service that came with the zip code.
Frenchie said, “Turkey burger lite. Fries. Gluten-free bun. Strawberry daiquiri. A double.”
Fela hummed. “Pipeline, the chili burger. Fries. Mojito.”
At the same time Frenchie and I snapped, “Really?”
“Sweet tea.”
Frenchie said, “Fela, don’t make me lose my religion.”
“It was a joke, Ma.”
“I know you sneak and drink my wine.”
“Once, and you will not let me forget it.”
I said, “Maui burger, no cheese, lettuce wrap. Fries. Mai tai.”
Frenchie said, “Can you make mine a lettuce wrap too?”
The waiter nodded. “You have a good-looking family. Like a Hallmark card of happiness.”
We nodded, all of us caught off guard by the comment.
Fela said, “We’ve been called many things, but we’ve never been called a family.”
My son’s phone buzzed.
“Ma, I’ll be back. Going to the bathroom to wash my hands.”
“And sneak and text that Chavers girl. I hear your phone vibrating. Don’t be long.”
“I’ll tell her you said hello.”
“I’ll tell her about all the other nasty-ass fast girls chasing your ass.”
“Mom. Don’t be a hater.”
He hurried away texting, left me and Frenchie alone.
“Nobody” by Keith Sweat came on; Keith sang how he wanted to tease and please and show his lover he needed her. I sang his part, to not feel so awkward. When the girl part came in, Frenchie sang how she wanted the night for her and her lover. She promised to give it to him just the way he liked because no one could love him like her, her voice soft, yet high enough to carry. She sang as if she wasn’t even aware that she was singing, like being a vocalist was in her DNA. When the song ended, the people at the next table applauded us.
We made eye contact. She looked unapproachable.
I asked, “When you look at me like that, what are you thinking?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“That bad?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I can take it. I probably deserve it.”
“Best for both of us if I allow some thoughts to remain thoughts and not become words.”
“Tell me.”
Frenchie said, “You went on tour and left our relationship on the cutting-room floor.”
“Did I?”
“You’ve never forgotten about Fela. I appreciate that. Thanks for not leaving him on the cutting-room floor.”
“He’s my son. He means everything to me, always has.”
“It hasn’t been easy.”
“I know.”
She twisted her lips. “I saw you, Dwayne.”
“Where?”
“Venice Beach.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“You were walking on the boardwalk. I spotted you in the crowd before you spotted me.”
“You were there? You hate that beach. You’ve always hated that crowd.”
“Dwayne, I was there, on the boardwalk, singing with the losers, weed heads, and freaks.”
“Singing? What do you mean?”
“Things were tight, so I put my ego on the shelf, dusted off my guitar, and I went down there during peak hours and sang for tourists and whoever would listen to a has-been sing her old songs and cover hits by others. I had to make us some money to buy food. I saw you and freaked out. Didn’t want to be seen. This is my low point, and I saw you, the former child star, the man theater loves. I was singing and begging for tips.”
“Jesus. Why?”
“Needed to pay my mortgage and keep up my son’s health care. Did what I had to do. Fixed expenses eat up a lot of the money. Have to deal with food insecurity, medical bills, utilities.”
“Damn, Frenchie.”
“And I started selling real estate for the dead on the side too.”
“Graves?”
“Yeah, my shit was so grave I started selling graves. I’m at a low point. Doing what I have to do to stay afloat. Living ain’t free and dying costs a grip. Next stop will be Third Street Promenade. Then I guess I’ll get a job bagging groceries at Trader Joe’s with other celebrities who used to be famous in the nineties.”
“It is honorable work.”
“I did the research. It has what I need: living wages with the potential of a ten percent raise annually; health, dental, and vision insurance; paid time off; in-store discount. My big fear is that someone will recognize me and try to shame me on social media. Or TMZ will show up and not see the courage, humility, and dedication in what I’m doing. You are one of the lucky ones, Dwayne. Very few actors can fully support themselves from their craft. We all have to rely on unemployment and, when that ends, hope we can find honest work to offset those dry periods.”
“I had no idea. Fela never told me any details. Just that he was hungry.”
“He is hungry. I’m hungry. He knows not to tell anyone. It’s our secret, our struggle. Mine and his.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
“I’m doing my best.” She rocked and her voice cracked. “I wasn’t made to have a nine-to-five; always saw myself as being self-employed, singing, dancing, but I’m adjusting and doing my best.”
“I know. We’re entertainers. The world’s playtime, their evenings, weekends, and holidays, are our stage time. We sacrifice, work hard to make strangers feel good and relax and have a good time.”
Her eyes teared up. She poked her tongue in the inside of her jaw, shook her head, and chuckled like it was incredulous. “From Juilliard to Broadway to sitting on the beach with a plastic bucket in front of me begging for spare change. I was where people juggle chainsaws and walk broken glass to earn their dinner. Felt like I was part of a traveling circus that’s too poor to go on the road. I broke down and joined the freak show. The Venice circus.”
“I heard you, but I assumed it was someone else covering your old songs.”
“A few weeks ago, I saw your father down at Venice.”
“Nigga Daddy?”
“Don’t. Not with me.”
“Dwayne Sr. You saw him?”
She nodded. “Saw him again when he walked into a bar in Century City where I was a singing waitress.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Yes, I was a singing waitress, too. Your father walked in with a young African girl on his arm.”
“Singing waitress? Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I did that a few weeks, to get extra money, until I was fired.”
It was a lot to unpack. “I’m listening to you. I don’t miss a payment, Frenchie. What’s going on?”
She told me about her accountant stealing all she had and vanishing to the West Indies. I was stunned. I felt like everything was my fault. I let down my wall, spoke from my heart.
“Frenchie, I’m sorry. For everything. Sorry I didn’t marry you. We should have been a family.”
She raised her hand like she didn’t want me to say another goddamn word. Those soft wor
ds, my excited utterance, had rocked her. Frenchie opened her mouth to say something, moved her lips, but no words emerged, as if she were searching for the right language to express the foreign sensation she felt, but there was no such language.
With tears in her eyes, she stood and stormed away from the table.
I wiped my eyes too.
Fela came back. “Where’s Mom?”
“Bathroom.” I was just as rattled. I told Fela, “Let me go wash my hands too.”
When I made it back to the table, Fela and Frenchie were laughing, already eating. Frenchie had three mai tais. I only had one, but it felt like I’d had four. I could tell she was buzzed. Swimming in emotions and buzzed.
“Ma, can Dad give me a ride home?”
She shook her head. “That wasn’t the plan. You have a hard time following rules, Fela.”
“Please? My beautiful mother, mother I love dearly, please, Mommy, please?”
“Sure, hang out with Disneyland dad.” She laughed. “Don’t be out too long. School in the morning.”
“Can we catch a movie?”
“Fela.”
“My homework is done. I’ll be home before my curfew.”
“If you’re not, I will not hesitate to call the police on your police-calling father.”
“Go with us.”
“No. Not this time. Lots on my mind right now. I’m going home to sip on some wine.”
Frenchie didn’t say anything else to me. When we were done breaking bread, she kissed Fela, rubbed his wild hair, then left, headed toward the Macy’s at the north end of the mall, the one that sold women’s clothing.
We headed in the opposite direction. I didn’t look back for fear of turning into a pillar of salt. I assume Frenchie didn’t look back either. She’d never been the type to look back, had always been good at moving on.
* * *
—
FELA AND I hit the Goodwill in Manhattan Beach. I took my teenager thrifting. He scored some funky clothing and found a headset he liked. Everything cost forty bucks. We hit the theater, saw an action movie, and I got my son home on time. We said good-bye; then an hour later I called his mother’s number. I was parked near LAX on Lincoln, watching planes come in from the east. I’d been rattled since dinner at Islands, so rattled I couldn’t let it go.
“Frenchie? Why did you leave the table like that?”
“I was trying to spare you your life.”
“I apologized.”
“And that left me stuck with sixteen years of anger festering inside me. What am I supposed to do with this anger now, Dwayne? It disarmed me. You can’t just apologize like that. It’s not fucking fair. I fucking hate you.”
“Frenchie.”
“You said what you said, said you wished we had married, said you wished we had been a family, and it stirred up old feelings. We were supposed to be a team greater than Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni. I see old pictures of us and they remind me that we used to be so intimate, and I remember everything you did, everything, all we did together, all the stuff that you said you would do with me forever, and I recall all the late-night exchanges and phone calls, and I reminisce about all the good things and bad things, and I remember now that all the good times are just a memory and there’s nothing left for us now but bad times henceforth until the end of time. I’ve learned not to feel sad over someone who gave up on me, even though they gave up on someone who would have never given up on them.”
“Frenchie.”
“What, Dwayne? What do you want this late at night? Why do you keep disturbing me?”
Her tone was as hard as a diamond, anger stronger than graphene.
Disturbed, I sat in the dirty rental car that doubled as my motel, my heart drumming inside of my chest.
“What do you want, Dwayne?”
Sixteen years of bitterness, resentment, attorneys, judges, court orders, and disappointment was the wall erected between us. I should’ve hung up. I should’ve handled it all in court as we had done from day one. I should’ve let my three-hundred-dollar-an-hour attorney talk to her three-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer. But I didn’t.
CHAPTER 45
DWAYNE
MEMORIES OF NEW Jersey, of being in court, of being lied on, they all danced in my head.
I steeled my nerves, swallowed, and asked Frenchie, “What if I come back to your house?”
“Dwayne, it’s late. Playtime is over. Fela had a long evening and is in bed sleeping.”
“To talk to you, not to my son. I want to talk to you.”
“This late?”
“You have company?”
“Would I answer if I did?”
“Are you expecting company?”
“Not your business.”
“Can I come back to Inglewood?”
“Can you?”
“May I?”
“You may have your attorney talk to my attorney and we’ll work it out in court as usual.”
“Frenchie.”
“What, Dwayne? What, what, what, what, what do you want? Why are you calling my number?”
I also had memories of the days, weeks, months, before New Jersey. “I want to see you.”
“You just saw me.”
“Not the way I want to see you.”
It was there, in the statement. I waited for her to hang up on me.
“You want to see me?”
“Yes.”
“Not Fela.”
“I want to see you, Frenchie.”
“Why?”
It was hard to say the three words, but I did. “I miss you.”
Her voice changed, softened. “You miss me?”
“Yes. And I’ve missed you a long time.”
Then her voice was diamond hard again. “No, you don’t.”
“Yeah, I do.”
There was a long pause, and I expected her to either curse at me a hundred times or burst out laughing.
Her tone tendered. “You miss me.”
“I miss you.”
She hesitated. “You want to see me.”
“I want to see you.”
Again she hesitated, then sounded perplexed when she asked, “For what purpose?”
“Frenchie.”
She understood; it was in her breathing. “My son can’t see you come into my home and definitely not into my bedroom. So you’ll have to sneak around back and come through my bedroom window.”
“You’re serious?”
“Are you serious about missing me or just . . . you fucking with me, Dwayne?”
“I want to see you.”
“Dwayne, I’ve been drinking. Don’t call me and mess with my head.”
“Just me and you, Frenchie. Just me and you. Like we used to be.”
“We’re being honest here?”
“Yeah. We’re being honest.”
“Okay. I don’t like you but still have feelings for you. My desire for you is stronger than the dislike, and I hate that. I almost told you that tonight when we were at Islands. Almost was foolish enough to say that out loud.”
“Serious?”
“You looked so good that day at the beach.”
“So did you.”
She exhaled, stressed. “Wait, wait. We have to go to court in a few weeks.”
“I know. We’ll be back in the ring fighting through our high-priced lawyers.”
“Not a good idea. Things are ugly enough as it is, Dwayne.”
“I’m coming back. I’m coming to see you, Frenchie. I need to see you.”
She hesitated. “Give me thirty minutes. I need to shower and make sure my son is sound sleep.”
“He’s my son too.”
“And you can’t be noisy. If we have ex-sex, you have to make sure you are
quiet. I’m serious.”
“So, are we having ex-sex?”
She groaned. “Shit. Is that what you wanted? I’m sorry. Or just to talk.”
“I wanted to talk. But yeah, I want you like that. Since we’re being honest.”
She asked, “Or are you just saying that now since I slipped and said ex-sex?”
I took a breath. “I’ll knock on your window.”
“Tap, don’t knock. Tap. My bedroom is the first one. My light will be on. Well, I’ll light a candle.”
“Okay.”
She said, “And you can’t make me be noisy either.”
“We’ve never not been noisy.”
“Park up the street. Not out front of my home. And no talking, not a word when you get into my room.”
“I have to be silent?”
“We will both be on vocal rest. No speaking, singing, or whispering.”
“I get it. I’ll head in that direction now.”
“Bring a condom.”
“From where?”
“They make a million condoms a day; I’m sure you can find one.”
“Condom or condoms?”
“Condom. The thin kind. Non-latex. I’m allergic. Ribbed if possible.”
“One and done?”
“One and done. And this better not come up when we go back to court.”
“Frenchie.”
“What, Dwayne? What now?”
“Sometimes I touch myself, just to feel me, and imagine me filling you to my balls.”
“Sometimes I drink too much and imagine you down my throat.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m imagining that now.” She swallowed. “Get a condom and get here.”
CHAPTER 46
BRICK
DR. ALLISON ÉMILIE Chappelle put her head on my chest. I had my hand in her incredible hair, an Afro that smelled like coconut. My fingers massaged her scalp. Her dog jumped up on the bed and rested next to her.
She stared at the wheelchair and said, “You didn’t ask if I’ve ever been able to walk.”
“You said you ran track, so I assumed you were able to walk, not just run.”
“I walked for twenty years. I ran track for fourteen years. I hiked in twelve countries. Played volleyball at a professional level. And was a scholar. Did it all. Owned the world. Until a car accident.”
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