Apple Brown Betty (3 page)

“Don't do that, Stephon. You dishonor your wife and daughter by saying that. When your wife isn't popping those pills, when she's sober and attending to you and your child, there is plenty of love in that house.”

“I'm unhappy,” Stephon said. “That's all I was trying to say.”

“So get happy. Confront your wife again. Let her know what you're feeling, and open yourself to what she's feeling. Obviously she's unhappy, too.”

“I wish I'd met you first,” Stephon mused, “before I got married, before I got myself in this mess.”

Cydney smirk-laughed. “That's what makes life so interesting. You can't go back, and you can't change what has already been done. You can wish 'til the cows come home…” She looked toward the living room of her apartment. Even through the closed and locked bedroom door she could feel the presence of her brother, could feel the presence of her mother. She wished she couldn't, wished she could completely rid herself of them both. Wished.

“I love you,” Stephon blurted.

“Yes, I suppose in your own way you do,” Cydney said. “At least as best you can under your circumstances.”

His voice registered hurt. “Are you not returning the emotion?”

“I can't do that, Stephon. You know that.”

“You can, you just won't.”

“Correct again, boss.” She might as well put it out there and let him know what he was instead of dwelling on what he wasn't.
Boss
and not lover, at least not anymore.

“This is some hurtful shit,” Stephon said.

“You haven't given me my restaurant assignment for this month,” Cydney said, moving on.

“How can you so easily just brush past the issue of us?”

“No one said it was easy, but it is necessary. Far as I'm concerned, there is no us.”

“We shared a lot.”

“And still do.”

“Not the same.”

“Good thing for the both of us it isn't.”

“What if I just left my wife?”

“That would show me that when my imperfections became clear to you, you'd be predisposed to calling up some other chick in the early morning and confessing undying love to her. Not exactly what I'm looking for in a life partner.”

“You've got to have an answer for everything.”

“Not everything.” Cydney placed the pillow she'd been clutching back neatly in its spot on her bed. “But look, like I said, you haven't given me my restaurant assignment for the month.”

Stephon sighed. “I want you to do a review of that new soul food spot that opened in Asbury Park.”

Cydney's posture straightened, buoyed by interest. A new restaurant opened in the bleak city of her birth? “What's that? I hadn't heard about any new soul food place.”

“It's on a…hold on.” Cydney could hear Stephon sifting through papers. “This downstairs office comes in handy when I want to just get away from it all,” he said when he came back on line.

“Yeah, I bet.”

Stephon ignored her. “Cookman Avenue. Name of the place is Cush. You know the area?”

I grew up around the corner, Cydney wanted to say but didn't. “I'll find it. Cush? What kind of name is that for a restaurant?” She crinkled her nose. “Sounds too much like mush.”

Stephon managed a laugh. “The cat that owns it named it after some ancient African city.”

Cydney was impressed. “Deep.”

“Yeah, this is an accomplished brother we're talking about. Desmond Rucker. His family owned a chain of restaurants in Pennsylvania. Maybe we'll even look to do a feature on him at some point…” Stephon's voice trailed off; he stopped himself from waxing too poetic about Desmond in Cydney's presence.

“Well, I look forward to this.”

“Don't go falling in love with him now,” Stephon joked.

“It's all about the food, Stephon, the food.”

Her words were reassurance to Stephon's ears. “I'm going to go and try to get some sleep. Thanks, Cydney.”

She loved how he always said her name in full; didn't break it down and call her Cyd or something along those lines. She closed her eyelids and gripped the phone receiver firmly as she thought about the inequity of life. How could his wife sleep away these precious moments when she could be snuggling with her handsome husband, cuddling with her beautiful daughter or further decorating her majestic home?

“Peace and blessings, Stephon.”

“Same to you, Cydney.”

She clicked the phone off and sat on the bed for a moment, composing herself. After a while, she rose to go put the phone back on the charger stand. She attempted to turn the bedroom doorknob and then remembered she'd placed the lock on. She opened the lock and moved through the doorway with her head down and her shoulders devoid of their usual upright strength. Talking with Stephon nowadays always took something out of her. She had moved only a few steps when she bumped into something. She looked up, startled, her brother standing in her way, his eyes dull like a butter knife, but still capable of cutting.

“Who were you in there talking to? And why did you lock the door?” he demanded.

Cydney swallowed hard and tried to smile.

D
esmond Rucker leaned against the wall in the large industrial kitchen, next to the swinging doors that led out to the dining area. He could hear the mill of voices from outside. He smiled as he considered this smashing success. Opening night of his restaurant, Cush, and they were teetering on full capacity. Desmond hadn't expected anything less, even though the nay-sayers questioned the wisdom of opening a restaurant among the ruins of Asbury Park. The block he chose to plant seed was a thoroughfare of abandoned and boarded-up buildings. Only three other entrepreneurs had had the courage to attempt commerce on this block: an antiques dealer, a sneakers retailer and a Chinese food take-out spot. None of it mattered. Desmond could feel a certain soul in the broken city, a certain soul that his restaurant could nourish and help in bringing the city back to the strength of its heyday. He remembered coming over with his parents from Pennsylvania when he was younger. He fondly recalled those stolen weekends like memories of a lost love. They were so few and far between. His parents spent so much time cultivating their business—a chain of Rucker Restaurants—that there was little time for anything else.

“What are you standing there grinning like that for?” Karen, Desmond's handpicked hostess, asked. It was so busy she was moonlighting as a waitress.

“Success, sweetheart,” Desmond answered as Karen disappeared through the doors with a platter of hot food in hand.

A moment later, Karen came scuttling back through those same doors, stepping with energy. As she passed by, Desmond couldn't help but notice the cling of her skirt to those luscious hips and that round ass. He blinked his eyes. She's married, Desmond. Married with a capital M.

“Damn right this is success,” Karen said to Desmond as she passed him again to go back outside. “I'm going to have to soak my feet in Epsom salts when I get home tonight.”

“Get your man to massage them for you.” Desmond couldn't help himself; in his life of restraint and refinement, he had but one weakness—fine women. They made him feel whole in ways he couldn't fully explain.

Karen stopped long enough to wink at Desmond and then moved through the door.

“I hope her husband is appreciating that,” Desmond said aloud, shaking his head as Karen disappeared through the swinging doors.

The chirp of Desmond's cell phone cut through his carnal thoughts.

He opened the flip of his StarTAC. “Desmond Rucker.” He rarely got personal calls so he always answered as if it were a business line.

Desmond was greeted by his younger sister Felicia's voice. “Hey, baby brother.”

“I'm older by nine years and a few months,” Desmond said, smiling.

“Dang, somebody was shooting blanks for a long time…nine years.”

“Workaholics,” Desmond said. “The first child was planned. The second was a pleasant surprise.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes, it is. Where are they? They haven't picked you up yet?”

Felicia sucked in some of the cool night air. “I love your awning…what color is this, burgundy?”

Desmond's voice plummeted. “You're here?”

“Walking up to your door,” Felicia said.

“Man!” Desmond slapped the flip of his cell shut and moved through the swinging doors of the kitchen. One of these days he was going to kill Felicia. She had clear instructions to call him as soon as their parents picked her up from the train station. That would give him half an hour or so to make sure everything was as close to perfect as he could get it. Half an hour to get his nerves under control. Half an hour to prepare for his father.

“Place is hopping,” Karen said as Desmond took a spot next to her at the hostess podium.

“My parents are here,” Desmond informed Karen. “My fool-ass sister just called.”

“Really?” Karen swung her head, swept her long hair off her shoulders. Her skin was the color of fresh-roasted peanuts, her teeth white like copy paper. She brushed the lapel of her jacket and straightened her shoulders. “Nervous?” she asked.

“Nope,” Desmond lied through clenched teeth. His heart was threatening to cut through the strong fabric of his suit. “The crowd helps. My father is bound to be impressed. I don't ever remember his restaurants being this crowded, and we have more square footage here.”

“Thought your mother ran them with him,” Karen said.

“She did.”

“You only mentioned your father, Desmond.”

“Did I?”

“Yep, you did. Is that a bit of male chauvinism showing its face?”

“Not at all,” Desmond said. “My father is the more opinionated of my parents, that's all.” An understatement if there ever was one. “Just want to do well,” Desmond reasoned. “The culinary business is in the Rucker blood.” He looked at her and returned a smile. “You know what I'm saying, baby?”

Karen could feel herself drowning in Desmond's eyes. Before she could compose herself enough to answer his question, the front door opened.

Barbara Rucker, Desmond's mother, stepped in first. She was a striking woman, her black hair highlighted by elegant strands of silver. The perfection of her skin, the absence of wrinkles, made her appear a decade younger than she actually was. Like all the Ruckers, she had a good amount of height on her, close to six feet even without her high-heeled pumps. She wore a burgundy pantsuit that brought out the deep mocha hue of her skin.

Frank Rucker was an older version of his son. Broad through the shoulders. Large hands with thick cords of veins running over the top to give a clue as to their true strength. Same deep mocha color as his wife, an oddity among black couples; usually one partner was shaded differently than the other. He wore a neat, short Afro, salt covering his temples and spraying his crown. His jaw was boxed, chiseled like those of male models, no flab anywhere on his fit frame. His mustard-colored turtleneck sweater and dark brown pants were even more stylish than the cream-colored suit his son wore. He seemed to gain better posture when he spied Desmond at the podium, when the reality set in that his suit was indeed more stylish than his son's.

Felicia, at eighteen, was budding into more of a womanly flower with each passing day. It bothered Desmond that she favored close-fitting blouses that showed her full bosom, not that they could be hidden under a baggy shirt, and pants and skirts that showed off the bubble of her behind. Unlike the other Ruckers, Felicia was a shade lighter. She had large, oval eyes, a thin nose and full lips. She was a touch taller than her mother and had broken all of their hearts by moving to New York City in September to accept a modeling contract. She relished the role of heartbreaker.

Desmond was about to greet his family but then a fourth person stepped forward. Desmond's tongue froze and a mystified look held his face captive. Nora Claxton came in on the heels of his parents and sister. Nora's skin was the color of caramel, her eyes a grayish, bluish, greenish conglomeration. She didn't have Mrs. Rucker's height, but carried the same dignity and straight posture. In a past-gone lifetime, she was Desmond's wife-to-be. She smiled at him now, warmed by his surprised look, his gaping mouth.

While the Ruckers scoped the restaurant, Nora was the first one of the group to speak. “Beautiful place you have here, Des.”

“Thanks,” he managed to say.

The trio of blood relatives then engulfed Desmond. His mother placed a tattoo of red lips on his cheek; his father offered a firm handshake, seemingly trying to crush Desmond's hand in his grip, and his sister served up a coy smile as she wrapped him quickly in her arms and then stood just a few feet back from the others.

Desmond stood watching them and so Karen pushed forward and extended her hand. “I'm Karen, the hostess,” she said. “I've heard so much about all of you.” She scanned Nora and tried unsuccessfully not to crinkle her nose. “Most of you,” she added.

Desmond sprung to life. “Um, Karen, would you show my family to their seats? I'll join you all in a minute.” He looked at his sister. “Felicia, may I speak with you a moment?”

Karen ushered them to a reserved table in the back of the restaurant. On the way, she stopped one of the waitresses and subtly asked her to add another place setting at the Rucker table.

“What's going on?” Desmond asked Felicia, back at the front.

“We're here to get our eat on,” Felicia said.

“You know what I mean,” Desmond answered. “With Nora?”

Felicia looked in the direction of her seated family and the sister-in-law that wouldn't be. “Oh, her? I honestly couldn't tell you. From what I gather, she was speaking to Mommy and sort of invited herself when she found out they were coming. You know she really must have wanted to see you if she'd put up with Daddy for an entire car ride.”

“Figures,” Desmond sighed. “This is uncomfortable.”

“Why?” Felicia scanned the restaurant with the flair of a soap opera actress. “You got some other hoochie up in here waiting on you?”

“I don't do the hoochies,” Desmond said, “and you know it. It's uncomfortable, considering the circumstances of my relationship with Nora and how it ended.”

“Oh, you mean the canceled wedding. Daddy was the only person happy about your failed nuptials if I recall.”

“It was for the best,” Desmond defended.

“No argument from me on it being the best for Nora,” Felicia said, “but you might want to send Ms. Nora another candygram. I don't think the sistah got the message. She was Des-this-ing and Des-that-ing the entire car ride here. I'm glad I just had to deal with it from the train station to here. I couldn't have stood all that syrup the entire ride from Pennsy. That chick was about to make me diabetic.”

“She wants to remain close,” Desmond said, sighing.

Felicia smiled. “She must not know about the legend of Desmond Rucker. No one, regardless of how beautiful, intelligent or whatever, can get close to the black Clark Gable. No one can tame you…not counting Daddy, of course. See you at the table, Romeo.” She tapped Desmond playfully and walked to join the others. Desmond stood in his place, looking like he was searching for his car in a crowded mall parking lot.

Karen returned to the podium and loudly shuffled the appointment book across the podium surface. “How come you never told me about your pretty friend?” she asked. There was a definite edge in her voice.

Desmond turned quickly. “What?”

“Miss America over there,” Karen said, nodding her head in Nora's direction. “How come you never told me about her?”

“Nothing to tell really,” Desmond said.

“You could fool me. You looked like you saw a ghost when she walked in. She had stars in her eyes. There's definitely history between you two.”

Desmond tapped the podium and smiled. “Yeah, history, as in of the past, over and done with.” He reached up and touched Karen's cheek as he left to join his family.

 

It was a large crowd at Cush that first night, but sadly, the majority of the patrons were Caucasians. The blacks in the community were not at all supportive, even though the place served food targeted to their taste buds.

One table had an older white gentleman, gravelly-throated like Redd Foxx, wearing a black mock turtleneck, a tweed jacket and purplish tinted shades. He was entertaining a brunette too young to realize she resembled Raquel Welch. Mr. White Foxx kept the waitresses busy, ordering multiple glasses of the most expensive champagne. One of the waitresses suggested he purchase a bottle, but he brushed her off, telling her neither he nor his date were big drinkers.

At another table, the mayor of a nearby municipality entertained a party of seven—all of them big-time political movers and shakers. Loud raucous laughter emanated from the table every few seconds. For serious-minded folks, they surely were having themselves a blast.

Off in the romantic corner of the restaurant, a young man with reddened cheeks kept peering over his shoulder as his giggly girlfriend continued to ask him why he was acting so funny. After much prodding, he reached in his side pocket, pulled out a velvet-covered jewelry box and dropped to his knee. Her giggles stopped, replaced by the heavy fanning of her hands and a high-pitched squeal.

“You must be mighty proud of this turnout, baby,” Desmond's mother called to him from across the table. Desmond nodded, looking at Nora out of the corner of his eye.

“Looks almost as good as our first place on opening night,” Desmond's father added.

Nora leaned in, a slice of cleavage appearing, and reached across Desmond to retrieve a pat of butter from the butter bowl. “Excuse me,” she said in that breathy soft tone that she knew made Desmond wild with heat. Desmond shot a glance at his sister across the table; she looked away and smiled.

“Build this up the right way,” Frank Rucker offered, “before you start going and thinking about expanding or opening up another one. Too many restaurants fail because the owners move so fast. I can already see from looking at your menu that you've got quite a bit of a learning curve. Some of these entrées and appetizers seem out of place in here.” Desmond nodded, thankful for the advice. He scanned his mother and father. Over thirty years they'd been married. Just another reminder of his father's immense success, another yardstick that Desmond was afraid he'd never measure up to.