Show and Tell Page 3

  I remember I asked Diane about my father the same way Kimani was questioning my ass. I remember that shit clearly. Humph, how can I forget it?

  “Diane, where my daddy?”

  She was laying on the couch in nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of thongs smoking one of her funny smelling cigarettes. She turned her head to look at me sitting on the floor playing house with my dolls. “Somewhere with a glass dick in his mouth that’s where.”

  She started to laugh until she choked. Thick smoke flew out of her mouth as she sat up suddenly.

  I jumped up and came to stand by her. “Diane, you okay?” I ask, feeling concern as her eyes water. I touched her shoulder as my heart began to beat fast.

  “Girl, get the hell off me and sit your stupid ass down somewhere,” she snapped.

  She pushed me roughly and I fell back on my behind . . .

  Diane was an ignorant bitch and still is. I don’t even know my father’s name. Shit, after that I ain’t never had the nerve to bring him up no more.

  I shake off the tears I feel risin’ up at the memory. Sad thing? Before my ass OD’d and went to rehab I was just as ignorant as Diane. I probably woulda told Kimani to shut the hell up or something. She wanted to know just like I wanted to know back then. Still, I don’t know what to say.

  I look at her and sure ’nough she waitin’ for her answer.

  “Your daddy and me broke up a long time ago and he moved away.”

  “So he won’t pick me up from school ever?”

  “Probably not.”

  Back in the day this was a get high moment. Roll a blunt. Sniff a bag. Anything to forget. Not to deal. Get by.

  As we turn into the parking lot of The Top I think again of the book I want to write. The stories I got to tell. The people I can help. Maybe one day. Right now I gots no business trying to help nobody else with shit about fighting demons ’cause I still gots my own to beat the fuck off my back.

  Chapter Four

  Moët

  “Hey, it’s me again . . . Moët, just when I thought my life could only get better.”

  Idon’t know I’m crying until my tears fall on the photo, running across the scarred and battered face of yet another innocent child. It’s days like this that I wish I stuck to my dream of being a teacher once I graduated from Seton Hall University last May. I don’t know what made me think I was cut out to be a case worker (uh, Family Service Specialist Trainee) for the Division of Youth and Family Services (DYFS). I want to help children. Make a change. Do good things. Plus, I like working and having my independence to take care of me and my baby girl, Tiffany. But sometimes this—all of it—is more than I can handle.

  After a day of testifying in juvenile court about a suspected molestation case and then having to take three children into custody from an abusive mother, I’m headed to investigate another suspected case of child abuse. Unlike Cristal, I love Newark—or at least what I saw of it growing up in a strict Christian home—and unfortunately, there are far too many cases of drug abuse leading to the abuse and neglect of children. Blacks had enough of an uphill struggle without getting hooked on drugs. Black children from cities like Newark already started the race to success behind the starting line and the last thing they needed was a dope fiend mother or father to hold them back. I have seen some serious mess since working at DYFS but that is nothing to the craziness children face every day. I feel drained. Tired. Wore out . . . emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

  And I still don’t have a full case load. As a “trainee” I have to complete a one-year training program and keep up with my field and office casework duties. Sometimes the thought of a full caseload gave me a serious migraine. But I’m grown and this is my job. I made the bed and now I have to sleep in it.

  Of course, I have a lot going in my life than just my job. Dom and Alizé had therapy and I wonder a lot if I shouldn’t find somebody’s couch to get on. I’m a single mother with a big-time, celebrity babydaddy who wants nothing from me and my newborn daughter but to stay the hell away from him. And yes, Lavitius Drooms aka Bones, the multi-platinum selling rap star, is the father. Hell I’ve only been with two men in my life. He actually thinks I just want eighteen years of child support. All I want is for him to be a father to our daughter.

  I’m not the saint my parents want me to be, but I am a good person. I go to church. I pray. I pay my tithes. I’m not saved but I am healed. I am forgiven.

  For fornicating with my minister at the age of sixteen.

  For aborting the baby he didn’t want.

  For not honoring my mother and my father even though they made it so hard to do so.

  For living a double life for years as I struggled to keep up with my friends and still front for my parents.

  For the horrible example I set for my younger sisters.

  For falsely accusing Bones of rape when he flipped on me for getting pregnant.

  Of course he hates me. Yes, I was wrong. Dead wrong. But I have asked Bones and my Heavenly Father for forgiveness. It is up to them both to accept it.

  I constantly thank my Heavenly Father that Cristal and Sahad were still together then. Bones is an artist on Sahad’s record label, Platinum Records. Even though she had been mad at me for not telling her the truth, she convinced Sahad to help keep me out of jail for filing a false report.

  My eyes fall on the 5”X7” portrait of my daughter sitting on my desk. Tiffany Drooms. To me she already looks more like Bones than me. She is a blessing for many, many reasons. Even without her father, she is loved by my friends—her four godmommies; my parents—even if they constantly prayed for her as if she is the spawn of the devil; and by me. I love Tiffany with every fiber in my being.

  When I notice the time, I hurry through packing up my briefcase and grab my purse. Just two weeks back on the job and I already feel like I can use a mental vacation. Nevertheless, that will have to start another day. Duty calls.

  One advantage to working in your hometown is knowing where you’re going when you’re sent on a home visit. I park my car on the street outside the small one-family house. It is the lone house on the entire end of the block, neighbored by a liquor store on the corner and an empty glass-strewn lot. Across the street is Westside Park. The biting winter air has kept the teenagers from playing basketball on the blacktop courts.

  It’s funny how empty a city can look when it’s cold. But as soon as summer breaks out you know just how crowded the city really is. Even in the heat of summer, the lives of many children were still cold and bitter.

  I turn and focus my eyes back on the house as I walk around my car. The front door looks like it once was a brilliant red but now graffiti and grime have dulled it considerably. If it wasn’t for the color of the door everything about the little house could easily fade to black and white.

  I reach inside my wool coat for my ID badge swinging on the end of a chain. I take one deep breath before I knock. Confidence has never been my strong suit. Up until last year I was still trying to find myself. Humph. That’s what happens when you let too many people run your life. I’m finally learning to stand up for myself and clearly state what it is I want and don’t want. Maybe having to stand up for these kids helped me to step up to the plate for myself.

  When I knock on the door it swings open and a foul stench nearly knocks me off my feet. I turn my head to swallow down some fresh air before I cover my nose and turn my head back. “Hello. Hello, I’m Latoya James with DYFS,” I say loudly, trying not to be shot or attacked.

  There was an anonymous report made of twin toddlers being left alone a lot while their mother chased a horrible heroin addiction. That led to me coming here to conduct one of those beloved home visits.

  Through the opening of the door I can see a trail of clothes and random trash on the floor. I can just barely make out the edge of the kitchen and the floor is filthy. Old juice or Kool-Aid stains, sticky and black from dirt. I figure the horrible scent is the smell of rotting trash. “Hello, is an
yone home? This is Miss James from the Division of Youth and Family Services.”

  I turn away to walk back to my car. My steps halt at the faint sound of a child’s cry. I step down off the small porch to double-check the address. Definitely the right place. And with a child crying, the door open and no adult answering my calls this looks like the right time. That cry is enough for me to enter the home.

  With a small prayer, I step back onto the porch and I walk into the house. I have to cover my nose and mouth with the collar of my shirt to keep from gagging. The house is a wreck. Piles of clothes are everywhere. Open and used pampers are on the top of the scratched coffee table. There are more empty bottles of liquor than my mother has knickknacks and whatnots. The carpet used to be a rough shade of rust but large dark circles are flat and black in color like spills of some substance had never been cleaned up. Missing lamp shades. Raggedy furniture that should be on the curb. It’s a mess. A big, funky, unlivable mess.

  The more I move into the house the scent worsens and flies began to land against my face. I swat them away. Just a glance in the kitchen makes me want to throw up. The mother needs her behind whupped or like Dom would say, “That bitch needs to be pimp slapped.”

  Excuse my language. I’m not saved but God ain’t through with me yet.

  The sound of the crying is coming from the back of the small house.

  “Hello. Is anybody home?” I push the bedroom door open and I nearly jump out of my skin when a cat comes running out the door full speed. I turn to watch its retreat and my blood runs cold at the trail of sticky bloody paw prints it leaves behind.

  “What the . . .”

  Okay, I’m not crazy. Nor am I a hero. But I have to check on the twins. Point blank.

  I turn back to the door as it continues to swing open and my knees go weak. I have to reach for the dingy wall to keep from falling out. The scent nearly choking me is the smell of death.

  This might be more than I can handle.

  There on the floor atop piles of dirty clothes sat the twins . . . next to the swollen and obviously dead body of their mother. I walk over clothes and trash into the room. The twins look up at me with swollen eyes and their tears halt for a second at the surprising sight of me. I gasp at the sight of the syringe still stuck in her arm and the pool of blood dried in a jagged circle around her head. It looked like she overdosed and then fell and hit her head on the edge of the dresser.

  Jesus.

  Girl Talk

  With drinks in hand, Cristal, Moët, and Dom settled into a plush leather booth inside the Savoy Grill on Park Place downtown. The low-key music was just loud enough to enjoy without keeping them from their girl talk.

  Dom worked her arms out of the cropped jean jacket she wore. “Mo, you sure you ain’t gonna explode or some shit?”

  Moët flipped her the bird playfully as she took a deep sip of her margarita. “I go to church on the regular. I never said I’m saved yet . . . bitch.”

  Dom just laughed before she cut her eyes over to Cristal. Through a haze of smoke, she watched her. “What’s up with you?” she asked, leaning forward to flick her ashes in the tray.

  Cristal just shrugged. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  Dom nodded as she bit the bottom lip of her glossy mouth. “Don’t we all.”

  Moët lifted her curvy glass. “Here’s to my daughter’s smile, bubble baths, the feel of the sun, and the end of the work week,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  Cristal nodded in agreement as she let her head drift back slightly with a melancholy smile. “Hmm. Here is to the feel of my man’s hands, lips, and dick, designer trunk sales, and rum raisin ice cream,” she nearly purred dreamily as she raises her glass of champagne.

  Dom rattled the ice in her glass of soda. “And here’s to good friends who forgive you when you fuck up and who pull your ass up when you’re down,” she said with seriousness, as that hard glint in her eye softened a little.

  “Now you know that’s right,” Moët agreed with enthusiasm brightening her face. “To friends.”

  The three women all looked at each other with a warmth that only sistahgirl friends can have.

  “Even those here in spirit . . . if not body,” Moët added as they all ignored Alizé’s empty spot.

  “I know I fucked up y’all. And that old Dom feels like I shouldn’t give a fuck ’bout Alizé and me not speaking . . . but I do.” Dom sat her glass down on the table. “She ever gone forgive me? Is it ever gone be the four of us again?”

  Moët avoided Dom’s questioning eyes.

  Cristal shrugged when Dom turned those eyes to her. “I do not know, Dom. I really do not know.”

  Chapter Five

  Cristal

  Being stylish in forty-degree weather is not easy but I would not be me if I did not try. Last winter it was nothing for me to pull on a sharp eight-hundred-dollar Bergdorf Goodman overcoat to make a statement until I could enter the building, remove my coat, and reveal whatever fabulous ensemble I had on beneath it. The girls and I have been obsessed with clothes and fashion since high school. Of course with a little extra change it is easier to pull something together but I am making what I got work for what I want. I had to learn that taking my car note money to buy three-hundred-dollar shoes and thousand-dollar pants was just plain crazy. So I am looking as fine as I please in a fitted turtleneck jersey dress from H&M. Luxe for less. My new motto . . . well I am trying.

  So after a few months of living the life as the future wife of a Black mini-mogul am I back on the grind. Not that going back to work is that big a hassle for me. I have always worked. I guess I learned something from nothing leads to nothing.

  Bzzz.

  I close the Vogue I am pretending not to read as I reach out to press a button on the intercom. “Yes, Mr. Ingram,” I say in my most professional voice, not wanting all these intelligent lawyers to think that this ghetto girl from Newark with more work experience than education could not fit in. My life in the hood side of Newark is very different from this state-of-the-art chrome building in downtown Newark.

  “My wife is on her way up. Please make sure she comes directly into my office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Mrs. Gregory Ingram. Hmmm. Interesting. This would be my first time meeting the socialite. Her name, charity work, and social events are well known. She made being the wife of a wealthy man an art form.

  The Ingrams lived in New York but Mr. Ingram and his partners recently moved the firm to Newark. The rent is cheaper and this part of Newark might be twenty minutes away from the hood where I grew up but it is miles away in terms of everything else. These suits could walk out of the door of their elegant office and hop onto the train right next door at Penn Station to be back in New York in ten minutes flat and never once have to blink or catch sight of that other side of Newark.

  I whipped out my compact and made sure my makeup and straight Rihanna-inspired bob is still intact. Of course everything is in place and I am looking just as fine as I want to be. There are not too many women that I like to impress, but Carolyn Ingram is definitely one of them.

  I am slipping my compact back down into last year’s Birkin when the private elevator opens. Mrs. Ingram walks in and there is no doubt that she knows she is the shit. I recognize her from the same society and gossip pages I long to be in. My skillful eyes take her all in. From the Fendi shades to the tip of her stacked Gucci shoes. Her dark and flawless mocha skin is obviously the handiwork of good genes and an even better esthetician or surgeon. My eyes widen a little at the diamond solitaire on her finger. It is big enough to choke a horse and make my clit swell with renewed life.

  I rise to my feet and extend my hand. “Hello, Mrs. Ingram. You are looking lovely, of course. Let me escort you right back to Mr. Ingram’s office.”

  She removes her shades and the other diamond on her hand makes me literally squint. Gray eyes that have to be contacts glide down to my hand and then up to my face as she clearly assesses
me. I cannot help but wonder if I pass her test as I notch my chin a little higher and give her the same assessing stare without being flat-out rude.

  Suddenly she smiles and her Lumineers are almost as brilliant as her jewelry. She finally accepts my hand limply. “And you are?” she asks with a polite but distant smile.

  I move from behind the waist high steel receptionist desk. “I am Danielle Johnson,” I respond as I lead her back through the door leading to the executive offices of the partners.

  “Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” she says from behind me.

  I make a face that thankfully she cannot see. “Thank you.” I hope she does not think I want her husband. If I did slip any of the partners a little bit, it would not be Mr. Ingram’s dusty old ass. I shiver at the thought of his silvery balls. Please.

  With a polite knock on the mahogany door, I open it and wave Mrs. Ingram in. She passes me on a cloud of classic Fendi perfume. I give her one last smile before closing the door and gladly gliding back to my desk.

  I hope her little chit-chat with her husband does not include my ass getting booted out of here because she is scared of joining the ex-wives club. She may think my fine Lisa-Raye-looking ass is giving Mr. Ingram’s limp dick a hand- or mouth-job. Her husband or anyone else’s is the last thing on my mind. I have Mohammed and not even Sahad crawling back to me on his hands and knees with a key to his dynasty will make me leave him. Outside of my friends, I have never known what it is to be loved until Mohammed came into my life.

  I never thought my ass would be a wimpy, love me, I need you kind of chick. More like what can you do for me and how quickly. Not that I did not deserve the finer things. Mohammed just could not afford it. But what he lacks in cash flow he makes up for in dick throw. Okay? Alright.

  “You remind me of myself.”

  Immediately slipping my mask of professionalism in place, I swivel in my chair to find Mrs. Ingram standing at the reception desk looking down at me—literally and figuratively.