Bad Blood (12 page)

Chapter 22

Rachel

I
DIDN'T WANT TO WAIT TOO LONG BEFORE
I
CALLED UP
U
NCLE
A
LBERT
at the nail salon. He was the only relative I had in California and my closest male friend. He had always been my favorite relative, but he could be as bitchy as Lucy. If I didn't call him and he showed up at my apartment after I left, I knew I would never hear the end of it.

I couldn't stop thinking about the night before. I'd spent a few hours at the Fox Club with some friends from work. When I'd got home around eight, Skirt was sitting in his mama's Chevy station wagon in front of my apartment building, with a bottle of my favorite wine.

After we had drained the wine bottle, Skirt and I had spent a few of the most passionate hours together ever. But things had not changed between us, and they never would. I was ready to meet a real man, after all. I needed a man who could escort me to my work-related functions and other social events—and not embarrass me by getting arrested. I was glad Lucy was looking out for me. And so was my mother.

Before I could put my telephone back in its cradle, it rang. The caller was the last person in the world I wanted to talk to on a Sunday morning.

“Hello, Mama,” I said, rolling my eyes and rolling over in bed at the same time. Since she had retired from her job in a school cafeteria, she had more time on her hands. She spent a lot of it calling me to monitor everything I did, from what I ate for dinner to me finding a husband.

“You sound like you just waking up, Rachel.”

“I am just waking up, and I'm still in bed,” I said with a sigh, looking around my room again. My apartment on College Avenue had two large bedrooms. My spare bedroom was neat and organized. That was where I kept my computer, two shelves of books, and a few other odds and ends. The room I slept in was usually neat and organized, but today it was cluttered with clothes, magazines, empty wine bottles, and a few sex toys. Had Mama been able to see my room, she would have fussed up a storm.

“I been meaning to tell you, you don't even speak like that simple country gal you used to be. When you answered the phone just now, I thought I had dialed the wrong number. You sound like one of them black newswomen on the TV.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Don't thank me for something like
that!
The way you talk now ain't natural! You done changed, and I don't know if it's for the better.” Mama paused and sucked on her teeth. “I'm worried about you, Rachel. You way out there among them West Coast fools, with half of them running around in robes and cutoff britches—or half naked—protesting this and that, eating raw meat, and smoking Lord knows what.”

“Mama, I'm not doing any of that.”

“And another thing, you ain't so young no more. You twenty-three years old. How do you expect to find a husband, spending half the day in the bed? It's practically noon. How come you ain't in church, girl?”

“It's not noon in California, Mama. I keep telling you there is a time difference between Alabama and the West Coast. I'm just about to get up and get ready for church.”

“Good. Running around with that
funny
uncle of yours, you need all the spiritual support you can get.”

“We don't call people like Uncle Albert ‘funny' out here, Mama. We call them gay.”

“Pfffft! I wouldn't call no man who fornicates with other men gay! Gay is what you call a Easter basket or a—”

“How is everybody doing?” I broke in. The heavy sigh on Mama's end told me she had called to deliver unpleasant news. My twenty-year-old brother, Ernest, was autistic. My sister, Janet, who was eighteen, was paranoid schizophrenic. Growing up with them had been a real challenge and still was in some ways. Every time Mama had a problem with one of them, she called me up to vent.

My mother's younger brother Albert had moved in with us after their parents died in a bus accident when he was thirteen. He had moved to California several years ago. A few years after he'd relocated, I'd followed him.

“Well, I'm glad you asked. Uh, your brother ain't doing too good.”

“Oh? What's the matter? Did he stop taking his meds again?”

“He don't take his meds the way he's supposed to. Last night he went to the corner store to pick up a few items for me to cook for dinner. He came home with a bloody nose and a knot upside his head. Somebody had jumped on him again, and he couldn't even tell us who it was.”

“Mama, I keep telling you not to let Ernest go out at night alone! Why didn't you get somebody in the neighborhood to drive him to the store, like you usually do?”

“The doctor said I need to let him be more independent,” Mama told me with another heavy sigh. “Ernest keeps asking when you're coming back home. . . .”

“California is my home now, Mama. I'm never moving back to Coffeeville, Alabama.”

The long moment of silence made my chest tighten. This usually meant Mama had
more
unpleasant news to report. I was right.

“Your sister's been hearing voices again.”

“What do you mean ‘again'? She's always heard voices. Even when she was a baby.”

“Them voices she's hearing now ain't so nice. One told her to haul off and slap me last night.”

“Oh no. She . . . she's never been violent before, Mama.”

“Well, she got violent last night. I just hope them voices don't tell her to pick up a hammer and bash me in the head.”

My heart was beating so rapidly, I had trouble breathing. I worried about my mother all the time. She refused to even consider putting my siblings away, so I felt totally helpless.

“Mama, maybe you should really think about getting Ernest and Janet some serious help.”

“What do you think I been doing since I birthed them two kids, girl? I got God's help, and that's better than any doctor or hospital or anybody else!”

“God didn't stop Janet from slapping you last night. What if those voices tell her to burn down the house one night, when you and Ernest are asleep?”

“I'm way ahead of you on that one! I put up smoke detectors in every room in this house.” Mama laughed.

“Mama, this is not funny. I don't know how you can live the way you do. Don't you want to know what it's like to live like a normal woman?”

“What's wrong with you, girl? I
am
living like a ‘normal woman.'”

“I don't think so. Janet seems to be getting worse instead of better. She slapped you for no reason.”

“She slapped me because them voices told her to slap me.”

Talking to my mother was so exasperating, especially if she was the one who called. That meant I didn't have time to prepare myself. When I called her, I usually drank a shot of tequila or something equally potent first. I sat up and glanced at the clock on my nightstand and swung my legs to the side of the bed. “Did Janet stop taking her meds, too?”

“No, she is taking her meds. She keeps asking me when you coming back home.”

“Mama, I'll come for a visit when I get my vacation. Now, let me get up and get ready for church. My friend is going to introduce me to someone, a man from a real nice family that she can't stop talking about. His name is Seth, and I'm real anxious to meet him.”

“Well, don't get your hopes up too high. Most men are descended from dogs. You be careful with this Seth boy. I don't want you to get in trouble on account of him. Like you did with that Morgan boy back here.”

“I'll call you later in the week and tell you all about Seth, Mama. If he turns out to be a jackass like Jeffrey Morgan was, I'll just kick him to the curb.”

“Good. I'd hate for the police to arrest you again. . . .”

Chapter 23

Seth

“A
LL YOU NEED IS A GOOD WOMAN BEHIND YOU, SON.
I
F THAT
won't straighten you out, nothing will. No man succeeds unless there's a woman guiding him. Look at your father and your brothers!”

“I don't need a woman to ‘straighten me out,' Mother,” I said, holding my breath to keep from snickering, like I usually did when she brought up this subject. “I'm doing all right on my own so far.”

“And that's only because of
me.
What would you do if I didn't look after you the way I do? You'd probably be locked up or dead by now. You are not like your brothers.”

One thing my family never let me forget was that I was not like my brothers. I was the baby in the family, and even though they had spoiled me rotten, every time I got into trouble, it was my fault. I was wild and unfocused in elementary school, and the class clown and a prankster in middle school. My grades were always shitty, so it was a wonder I even made it to high school. And I was always attracted to the kids who couldn't stay out of trouble. After I was suspended from school for everything from fighting to mouthing off to my teachers, my folks finally cracked down on me.

My mother and father had been born and raised in California, so they were not into giving “whuppings,” the way the parents of some of my friends with Southern ties were. Punishment in our house meant a stern talking-to, back-to-back church events, and no allowance. That straightened me out for a little while, until I got interested in girls. Sex was on my mind day and night, and I couldn't wait to find out what all the fuss was about. I went from girl to girl and was never in a serious relationship in high school, even though I fathered a child with one of my conquests.

Mother was still convinced that all I needed was a good woman—other than her—in my life. And apparently, so were her friends.

“Last Saturday that meddlesome-ass Florence Patterson's last single son married that Brinkley girl. Florence came up to me after the ceremony and had the nerve to ask me if you were gay!” Mama yelled during our latest conversation about my marital status.

Florence Patterson, a retired high school math teacher and a malicious old hag, was one of Mother's closest friends. She stayed all up in everybody's business. She had four sons, and all of them were now married.

“You can tell that old busybody crow that I am not gay and I can't understand why she'd even think something like that,” I shot back. “I've dated plenty of girls.” I loved women, and I loved being in a relationship, but I was a lot more picky than I had been in high school. Now I wanted a woman who was going to be a partner in more ways than one. For instance, she had to have more to offer me than her body and her time, and she had to be willing to help me achieve my goals.

It was a typical late summer Sunday morning. We were having a steak-and-egg breakfast in the spacious dining room of my parents' house, a gorgeous five-bedroom Spanish-style structure in the heart of the exclusive Berkeley Hills. I still lived at home for more than one reason. One, I didn't have to pay rent or help with any household expenses, even though Sister Patterson kept hinting that I should “volunteer to contribute,” the way her sons and my brothers had when they still lived at home. My parents didn't push it, and so I didn't. I had it made, and I was going to milk this cow dry. Another reason I still lived at home was that I loved the way my mother pampered me. The thought of living on my own scared me. For one thing, I was not making the kind of money I needed to live in the kind of place I wanted. Some of my single friends lived in dumps in crime-infested neighborhoods. One even shared a backstreet hovel with four roommates. Well, none of that appealed to me.

As usual, Mother dominated the conversation, while Father looked on, gnawing on the T-bone steak that Clarice, our part-time cook, had put on his plate just a few minutes ago.

“Well, you're twenty-five years old, and you don't have a steady girlfriend
now.
You spend too much time in San Francisco,
gay heaven.
That's why Sister Patterson—and no telling who else—thinks you're gay. Sit up straight, and don't you leave good food on your plate, the way you did at dinner last night. Clarice doesn't cook for her health. We pay her a pretty penny to spend hours at a time in that kitchen, over that hot stove.”

I straightened up in my seat, took another bite of my steak, and then took a sip of tea before I responded.

“Mother, I have had numerous girlfriends. I just haven't found the right one yet.”

“The boy has a son in L.A. And he went with that child's mama for several months,” Father pointed out with a serious frown on his face. “That proves he's not gay.”

“There are a lot of gay men who have dated women and who break down long enough to, uh, get close enough to a female to get her pregnant just so they can have children,” Mother countered. She drank some tea, covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a belch, and gave me a sharp look. “What about this girl that Lucy—whom I'd encourage you to go after if she wasn't divorced and a little too close to the heavy side—wants to introduce you to at church this morning? I heard she's real cute and has her own car, her own apartment, and no babies. And I'm glad she's in the church. But you can't trust girls from small towns in the South. Most of them come with a lot of baggage.”

“Your mother is from Slidell, Louisiana, a small town in the South, Mother,” I reminded. I braced myself for another dose of Mother's wrath.

Instead, she ignored my comment and said, “Don't you tease me, boy. What's the girl's name?”

“Rachel . . . um . . . I forget her last name. Lucy showed me a picture of her. She's only twenty-three and has a fairly high-level management job at some fancy private school. She's doing real well for a girl her age that didn't even go to college.”

“Hmmm. She sounds too good to be true,” Mother said with a skeptical look on her face. “She must look like a nanny goat and be as heavy as a seal.”

“Uh-uh. She looked pretty nice in that picture that Lucy showed me,” I pointed out.

“Just be careful with this new girl, son,” Father said, piping up. “She might have two or three closets full of skeletons.”

“What about her family?” Mother asked.

“She has an uncle out here, but the rest of her folks live in Alabama. According to Lucy, they are all good, hardworking Christians,” I said. “I can't wait to meet them. I have a feeling this girl is going to change my life.”