by Lolita Files
This was yuppieville. There were no mangy goats or Chicano babies with bare asses running around, as Fred Sanford would have her believe. What had all the fuss been about?
A huge movie theater complex loomed ahead to her right and a television complex beckoned on her immediate left. Manhattan Beach Studios. So she was in Manhattan Beach.
She was relieved to at least now have a point of reference.
* * *
She looked around as she drove down Sepulveda. A soft drizzle was falling that made the roads slick. Cars were moving with hesitant care, which gave her the chance to get a good look around. She was comfortable driving in the rain. The way she saw it, anyone from Florida worth her salt had long ago mastered the art of navigating tropical storms. This bit of dampness was child’s play to her.
It was a typical beach city, much like the Fort Lauderdale of her youth. The difference was in the lay of the land. South Florida was a flat, sandy place, below sea level, she’d always heard. As a child, she feared it would sink and she’d be eye to eye with Flipper and his friends. California was different. She’d seen desert and snowcapped mountains during her drive, and now she was by the ocean. Every type of terrain seemed to be within reach. She noticed a big, solid rock of a mountain on the horizon ahead, surrounded by fog. It was beautiful and mysterious, like something out of an old Hitchcock film.
Maybe I’ll check around here, she figured as she cruised past the sleepy little businesses and restaurants mingled with fancy car dealerships. She turned off Sepulveda onto Manhattan Beach Boulevard, stopping at the first apartment building with a “For Rent” sign.
“It’s how much a month?”
Reesy wondered if she’d gone deaf.
“Eighteen-fifty,” repeated Judy, the sophisticated young building manager, as she led Reesy around the tiny apartment. “Plus first, last, and security.”
The place was pretty enough, with a fireplace, beige marble floors, and a vaulted ceiling, but the extra space that led up to the skylight wasn’t livable. High ceilings meant nothing if all you had to work with below was under seven hundred square feet. And it was just a one-bedroom with a patio that wouldn’t hold two people.
Eighteen-fifty, my ass, Reesy thought. Judy couldn’t be serious. But she was. She said eighteen-fifty like she was saying two dollars, with a smile. Like everybody had eighteen-fifty just lying around.
“Manhattan Beach is, of course, one of the nicer areas in the South Bay.”
“What’s the South Bay?” Reesy asked.
“Oh,” Judy said with a pleasant smile. “You must be new to L.A.”
“Yes.”
“Where are you from?” she asked, checking out the impressive ring on Reesy’s left hand.
“New York.”
“New York is lovely,” Judy said, leading Reesy out of the apartment to the front of the building. “It’s so fabulous there. But, my goodness, it’s expensive. Much more expensive than it is to live here. Well, certain parts of L.A. are very expensive, of course, but New York overall is so costly.”
“Not in Harlem, it isn’t,” Reesy said. “You could rent a whole floor for less than eighteen hundred bucks. Three bedrooms, a kitchen, den, living room, a backyard. You get a lot of space for your money.”
“Yes, but who wants to live in Harlem these days?” Judy asked. “Isn’t it…,” her forehead crinkled as she chose her words with care, “…rough there?”
“The white folks and the banks that are buying up everything don’t seem to think so,” Reesy said, not choosing her words at all. “In five years, Harlem’s gonna be whiter than Utah. It’s a shame what’s going on up there.”
“Ohhkay.” Judy looked down, unsure what to do with herself.
“Maybe you’d be more interested in Ladera or Inglewood?”
“Those must be black areas of town,” Reesy said.
Judy’s eyes widened and she coughed. Reesy spoke before she could say anything to recover.
“I was born and raised in a beach town, Fort Lauderdale. It doesn’t matter to me who lives around me, as long as they’re decent and I feel safe. But I would like being near the beach and, if I had my druthers and it’s going to cost me eighteen hundred dollars, I’d like a place with a yard. Maybe a rental house, you know?”
She smiled at Judy, who was still in a bit of an embarrassed stupor. Reesy watched Judy struggle to read her, as if she was unsure of what to say next. Reesy smiled again with reassurance and touched her on the arm.
“You know,” Judy began, “I didn’t mean anything…”
“It’s okay,” Reesy said. “You don’t know me. For all you know, perhaps I would feel better in Linglewood.”
“It’s Inglewood.”
“Well, there too,” Reesy said with a laugh. Judy smiled. The two women walked to the front of the building and stood beneath the eaves, out of the rain. Reesy pulled her keys out of her purse and clicked the car alarm. Judy glanced in the direction of the responding chirps. She saw the black Porsche sitting by the curb.
“I think I might know of a place you’d like,” she said. “It’s more expensive, around twenty-one hundred, but it’s a back house not far from the ocean. It’s got three bedrooms, two baths, and a decent backyard. You want to see it? I know the owner pretty well. Things don’t stay available around here for long.”
“Thanks, Judy. Sure. I really appreciate your help.”
The two women again smiled at each other.
“Um, Teresa,” Judy said, “can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, but you have to promise to call me Reesy first.”
“Okay…Reesy.” Judy opened her mouth, then closed it, feeling a bit silly.
“Go on,” Reesy said. “Ask me. We’ve obviously addressed the awkward stuff.”
“Okay,” Judy said. “I know this is going to sound crazy but, what are…druthers?”
Reesy smiled, realizing she’d just made her first L.A. friend.
The house was perfect, even though it cost a grip.
It was an older place, full of light, with lots of windows, hardwood floors, spacious rooms, and cabinets everywhere. It was rich with character. There was a decent-sized front yard and a gate that led to a garden path and a secured backyard with ivy growing up the brick walls that enclosed it.
True to her word, Judy had called up her friend and he met Reesy at the property. He owned the house in front, which gave her an even greater sense of security.
Kent Sommers was a handsome thirty-something man with sun-drenched blond hair and a tan so golden, he made Reesy look pale. He was a family man who loved to surf, as evidenced by all the boards lining the side of his house. His wife, Barbara, was just as striking and golden, as were their two beautiful boys.
Reesy liked them at once, as they did her. They all sat together in the living room of their house, which was as open and airy as the one she hoped to rent. Reesy played with the children, five-year-old Colin and three-year-old Dean. Barbara made chai tea as they waited for Kent to do the requisite background checks.
Reesy hung out with them for three hours while he made calls to her prior landlords back in Harlem, Atlanta, and Fort Lauderdale. She and Barbara talked about Broadway, and life in New York versus life in Southern California. Barbara noticed the ring on Reesy’s finger—and Reesy noticed her noticing—but neither woman spoke about it. They drank their tea as Reesy watched the boys playing with the family dog. Meg, a year-old Jack Russell, was a bright, wiry little thing that scampered about and did somersaults at will. Peals of laughter could be heard as the boys chased after her from room to room.
At least their family is real, she thought. Not like the counterfeit family she’d been brought up in.
Reesy wondered what her own marriage and family might have been like, had the wedding commenced uninterrupted and the baby lived. No matter, she thought. It wasn’t supposed to be.
When Kent returned smiling, she knew everything was a go. She was ready to move on with her l
ife. There was no better time and no better place to start than right there.
She loved the rental house. It was far enough back so that she had privacy, and sound enough to buffer noise coming in and going out.
She liked it so much, she didn’t even sweat what it was going to cost.
“Do you mind if I pay you several months in advance?” she asked Kent.
He and Barbara looked at each other.
“No,” Barbara said. “That’s not a problem at all.”
Reesy had her cache of stipends, years’ worth of checks for ten thousand dollars each that her parents had been sending every quarter since she’d turned eighteen. She had been investing that money for the past fifteen years, even though she had tapped into some of it in the last year to pay for rent and living expenses in Harlem. The stipends and dividends were now well into the low seven figures, a secret that Reesy kept well. Her ability to manage the funds and make smart decisions was a quiet source of pride. She had her parents’ business acumen and a knack for numbers. Financial security was important to her, and while she wanted a partner to have her back on many levels and had looked forward to that with Dandre, it gave her a strong sense of satisfaction to know that she could always take care of herself.
So what if it was with her parents’ money, she figured. As far as she was concerned, what they gave her was seed capital. It was her eagle eye that had turned it into greater profit.
She opened an account at a nearby Washington Mutual and transferred funds from her bank in New York. She returned later with a cashier’s check for twenty-one thousand dollars. First, last, security, and seven months’ rent. It sounded like an awful lot of money, enough to put down on her own piece of property, but she didn’t know if she liked California that much just yet. She figured seven months would give her ample time to get settled and see if Manhattan Beach was where she wanted to be.
Reesy moved in that same day.
“The side door that leads to the back sticks a little,” Kent said. “The wood swells. Winter’s the rainy season and this is an older place. If it gets to be too much of a problem, let me know.”
“Okay.”
Reesy didn’t expect it to be a problem. She didn’t plan on spending that much time in the backyard anyway.
She called Misty the next morning to give her the address.
“Make sure you remember the half,” she said. “It’s six-oh-three and a half Bern Street.”
“I got it,” said Misty. “Are you sure you’re okay out there? Do the people seem nice? I heard they’re kind of superficial.”
“I’ve been here one day. So far everything’s fine.”
“And your landlords’ names are Ken and Barbie? That’s crazy.”
“It’s Kent and Barbara,” she said. “Look, I don’t have time to talk now, but boy, do I have some heavy shit to tell you.”
“About what, you and Dandre?”
“There is no me and Dandre, so I wish you wouldn’t mention it again,” Reesy said. “It’s about T-n-T.”
That was a nickname the two girlfriends had given Reesy’s parents years before. Misty was silent on her end.
“Anyway,” Reesy said, “I’m in the thick of traffic. I’ll call you later. Just make sure my stuff goes out today, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Hey.”
“What?”
“You didn’t do it, did you?”
Misty let out a heavy breath on the other end and, once again, there was silence.
“No, I didn’t. I’m not going to.”
“Thank God. You’re doing the right thing.”
“Look, Reesy—”
“No, you look. Whatever you do, don’t ever tell Dandre my whereabouts. You got that?”
“Like I would tell him,” Misty said.
“Just checkin’. Love, baby. I’ll holla later.”
Reesy went by a florist and ordered an enormous thank-you basket for Judy. She had one sent to Misty as well.
Then she went about the task of getting the basics from the Target on Sepulveda—pillows, a comforter, plastic cups and plates, snacks, and a little TV—enough to tide her over until her things arrived from New York.
Her stuff came five days later. By then her cable service had been set up, as well as her phone, power, gas, and the installation of appliances. Her first major L.A. lesson was that rentals didn’t come with a thing. She had to buy a fridge, a stove, and a microwave.
The Sommerses’ new vehicle—a shiny light blue SUV with a top rack packed with shiny new surfboards—arrived the same day as the freight truck with Reesy’s belongings. She was beginning to realize one of the reasons why they loved her so. Her big fat check had given them a new car lease on life.
“Have you said anything to my daughter?”
Misty was at home in Greenwich, Connecticut, holding a pair of tongs, standing over a skillet full of hissing grease. Rick was stretched out on the couch, channel-surfing between news programs, waiting for her to serve up his favorite dish—fried chicken, homemade biscuits, fresh creamed corn, and cabbage with onions. The meal was heavy for the middle of the week, but he’d asked for it, and Misty wanted to please her man. She held the portable phone in the crook of her neck as she tried to keep from getting splattered.
“What do you want, Tyrene?”
“I want to know if you told Teresa what you saw.”
She had Misty on speakerphone as she sat at the desk in her expansive office on the top floor of the Snowden Building in the heart of downtown Fort Lauderdale. Tyrone was in Miami Lakes briefing one of his clients, Trini Thompson, a popular, high-profile seasoned player for the Miami Dolphins.
Trini and his wife, Elise, were in the middle of a nasty divorce. After months of tailing her, to the detriment of his performance on the field, he’d caught her and her lover in flagrante delicto in a tiny motel in Islamorada. Tyrone had gone with him, afraid of what his close friend might do. His being there saved Trini’s life, for had Trini been alone, he would have ended up in prison. He wanted to kill Elise and her lover, but Tyrone had stopped him. Now a tearful Elise was talking to every sports show, news channel, radio host, magazine, and newspaper that would listen. She was the remorseful wife, crying neglect because her husband was always on the road. Trini seemed like the villain. Tyrone was strategizing every way he could to turn the sentiment of the public and courts back to Trini’s favor.
Tyrene knew it’d be hours before Tyrone returned. The two men would have dinner, drinks, and small talk before Tyrone broached the subject of business.
Misty maneuvered pieces of chicken out of the pan and onto paper towels. She lifted the lid on the corn and stirred. She couldn’t believe this woman had the gumption to ring her up.
“I don’t have anything to talk to you about,” she said. “You should be getting your house in order, not questioning me.”
Tyrene leaned forward, her palms on her desk.
“Now listen here, young lady,” she said. “My daughter’s had her share of trauma and crisis, what with that fool she almost married. The last thing she needs is a red herring thrown her way that has nothing to do with anything. It was an insignificant, unfortunate mistake, and none of us should ever be troubled with hearing about it again.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
Tyrene slammed her right palm flat against the desk.
“Dammit, Armistice Fine, don’t you get snippy with me.”
Misty fumed at Tyrene’s blatant refusal to acknowledge her married name.
“I’m calling you because I want an end to this. You’ve been like a daughter to me and I don’t want any friction between us. If you love Teresa—if you love our family—then let this thing lie. We must promise to never speak of it again.”
“Honey,” Rick yelled from the other room, “is it almost soup yet?”
“Yeah, baby,” she said. “Gimme a minute, I’m on the phone.”
“Don’t tell him you’re on the phone with
me,” said Tyrene.
Misty set the tongs down and focused her attention on the conversation.
“So now you want to tell me what I can and can’t say to my husband?”
“I’m telling you this is none of his business, and I hope to God you haven’t said something to him already, because that would be very dangerous and foolish of you.”
Misty laughed, her tone bitter.
“No disrespect, Mrs. Snowden, but you’ve got problems.”
“Who do you think—”
“No, who do you think you are, calling me up and telling me what I’m allowed to say and who I’m allowed to say it to? I’m not a child and I’m not your child, so I suggest you take this bullying attitude of yours somewhere else.”
Rick was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching his wife.
“Who dat, baby, Reesy?”
Misty shook her head and waved him away. He came over to her instead, stood behind her, and wrapped his arms around her waist. He palmed both breasts, then slid his hands down to her belly and rubbed it. She pried herself free from him and turned back to the stove.
The sound of Tyrene’s ranting voice could be heard through the phone.
“What’s up?” Rick asked. “Sounds like somebody’s going off.”
“Baby, give me a minute,” she said. “The food’ll be on the table in two shakes.”
“Of that ass?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, annoyed at his indifference to what she was experiencing on the phone.
Rick reached around her, his movements too quick for Misty to notice. The purloined wing burned his clenched palm as he rushed away.
“Oooch, oooch,” he cried, tossing the blistering chicken from hand to hand.
Misty waited until he was out of the kitchen before she responded to Tyrene again.
“I’m hanging up now,” she said into the phone, “and I suggest you not call here and threaten me again.”
“It’s not a threat.”
“I don’t care what it is, but if you call back with this nonsense, I will tell Reesy. And Tyrone. And Rick and Dandre. I’ll round up everybody for one big conference call and get this…situation…out in the open for once and for all.”