Crazy Love (14 page)

Suddenly the bathroom door opened. “Oh, here you are, I need to use—” Jackson froze midsentence and his words dropped to the floor. Stacie looked up at him with glazed eyes; he was nothing but a blurry figure. “What are you doing?”

Stacie blinked several times to bring the world back into focus. With a startling clarity she saw Jackson's disgust, the same look Crawford had given her. She dropped her shoe and raced out of the bathroom to the kitchen, Jackson hot on her heels.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“Nothing!” Stacie yelled. “Nothing at all,” she repeated, then turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice and guzzled it straight from the container.

Jackson waited while she took her drink and returned the juice to the refrigerator. When she turned to walk out, he grabbed her by the shoulders, and looked in her eyes. “Would you please tell me what's going on?”

Stacie tried to shrug out of his grasp, but it was too tight. Instead she dropped her head. “Nothing's wrong,” she muttered, then glared up at him. “Aren't you gonna leave me?”

Jackson gave her a puzzled look. “Why should I leave? For one, I can't, but even if I could, I wouldn't. Tell me what's going on,” he pleaded as his grip loosened.

“It's nothing,” Stacie said as she walked away and headed toward her bedroom. She slipped into bed and listened to Jackson as he used the bathroom. When he slid into the bed, she was silent. When he pulled her to him, she held herself rigid, and when he called to her, she pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, Jackson pulled himself out of a deep sleep, his heart rate quickening when he didn't recognize his surroundings. It took him a minute to remember where he was. Then it all came to him and a smile blossomed on his face. He vaguely remembered carrying Stacie into the bedroom. She's not that bad after all, he thought. All she needed was a pounding from Big J, a ride on the J Coaster, and a piece of J-bone. He stuck out his chest, as much as someone lying down could.

Then just as suddenly another thought poked its way in, an image of Stacie, naked, crouched on the bathroom floor sniffing a shoe. Stacie! She wasn't there. He almost called out to her, but the stillness of the apartment told him that she was long gone. A pink slip of paper on her nightstand caught his eye, and he snatched it up.

“That's it?” he muttered. “She's worse than a fucking dude. Where's the ‘thanks for a good time'? And the ‘I would like to see you again'?” Jackson turned the paper over and stared at the blank sheet. He was tempted to leave her a note asking to see her again.

“Fuck it! Let Miss Stacie call
me
.” He slapped the paper down on the nightstand, stalked into the living room and plucked his clothes up off the floor. He was dressed in three minutes flat and marched down to his SUV, which ironically started on the first try. “Ain't this something?” He tilted his head up toward the roof of his car. “You like playing with me, don't you?” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “The last twenty-four hours have been unreal.” Just as he put his car into gear, Tameeka's Escalade zoomed in beside him.

“She'll know where Stacie is,” he said, and jumped back out of his SUV.

I
'm
so
sorry about Friday night,” Tameeka apologized for the hundredth time that morning. “If I'd known what Tyrell had planned, I would've made sure that you drove your car. He can be so sneaky sometimes,” she smiled dreamily, as if being sneaky was a good thing. “I'm glad that he did…”

“It really wasn't that bad,” Stacie insisted, averting her eyes. She turned to look out of the restaurant's window. Sitting in front of the picture window afforded them a fabulous view of the street. It was midmorning Sunday and the neighborhood was filled with people walking their dogs. Ever since they'd moved in together, Sundays had been officially appointed their brunch day. They never made it to church, but they always tried to have brunch together at their favorite restaurant. “Jackson dropped me off and I was so tired that I went right to bed,” Stacie lied, as she gazed out of the window at a six-foot-tall man strolling down the street carrying a toy poodle.

“Oh!” Tameeka exclaimed feigning surprise. “I thought you had company…I saw an empty Magnum wrapper in the garbage…and since you were the only one home…” She suppressed a giggle as Stacie turned panicked eyes on her.

“Maybe it was Tyrell's,” Stacie weakly suggested, then her voice grew stronger. “Why the hell were you going through the garbage anyway? That's so tacky. Going through the garbage,” she muttered.

“No. It wasn't Tyrell's. We don't use that brand. And just for the record, I wasn't
going through the garbage,
it was sitting right on top. A blind man could've seen it.”

Damnit! “Well, I don't know how it got there,” Stacie said, then stuffed omelet into her mouth. Tameeka watched her through narrowed eyes. She knew her friend was lying.

“Maybe DeWayne left it there. You know, while we were at work,” Tameeka nonchalantly said, and surreptitiously watched Stacie's reaction.

“DeWayne? Office Manager DeWayne? Naw,” Stacie shook her head. “I can't see that happening. He'd never do something like that.”

“It's just weird, funny almost, how a condom wrapper would end up in our garbage since neither one of us left it there. Do you think we should call the police?”

“Call the police?!” Stacie shrieked and several people swiveled their heads to look at their table. “Okay—okay. I did it. I mean, Jackson and I did it,” she confessed, then looked at Tameeka, who was grinning. “You knew, didn't you? You knew what happened.”

“I knew something was going to happen between you two. You guys had enough sparks between you to burn down Atlanta a second time. Besides, I saw him yesterday when I ran home to pick up some clothes. How was it, girl?”

“The man put something on me,” Stacie answered between laughs. Then her tone turned serious. “I don't know, girl. That man got some special powers. I've never felt that way before. It was fast and everything, but not like a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am-type fast. It was fast and furious, fast and hard, fast and—”

“I get the picture,” Tameeka said. She knew Stacie's penchant for sometimes being a little too descriptive. “So whassup between you two?”

“Dunno.” Stacie shrugged and looked down at her plate. It was almost clean. She'd eaten more than she'd planned to, and now she'd have to hit the gym. “He doesn't meet all the criteria on my list,” she revealed.

“Your list? Your list? Stacie, honey, girl. Here's a really good man; a very good man. He's a single dad, he takes care of his son. He takes care of his grandmother. And he's gainfully employed. What more do you want?”

“Well…” Stacie reached into her purse and pulled out a sheet of paper. Tameeka instantly recognized the tattered sheet as “the list,” and she shook her head, annoyed. “He doesn't have hazel eyes, he has a son, he doesn't make over eighty thou a year, he doesn't—”

“Hold up,” Tameeka said so sharply that Stacie jumped. The last time Tameeka used that tone with her was a couple of years ago when Tameeka caught her smoking weed in her bedroom. “When has that list
ever
done you any good?” she hissed angrily. “You read and study it like it's some type of blueprint for a man. Like if you have everything on the list, you're gonna have the perfect man. Well, Miss Stacie, I'm here to tell you that you won't,” she stated. She was just getting started. “There are
no
perfect men. Hell, there aren't any perfect
women
. You know why?” she roared on without waiting for a response. “Because we're all human.
Humans are not perfect.”

“I—didn't—say—that—I—was—looking—for—a—
perfect
—man,” Stacie stuttered. “All I'm looking for is…” She looked at her list and again started reading off her criterion.

“Stop!” Tameeka demanded. “I know what's on the list. You've had it since high school. And it ain't working, Stacie. The list thing isn't working.
This list
isn't working,” she said, correcting herself. Stacie thrived on her lists.

“But I have to have standards,” Stacie argued weakly.

“And there's absolutely nothing wrong with standards. And I hope that you don't think that you should just settle. But you need to be flexible. That's all I'm saying,” Tameeka said.

“I am flexible,” Stacie argued. “All the guys I date don't have hazel eyes and they all don't look like Shemar Moore, and—”

“See, you're not listening to me,” Tameeka insisted. “You're still looking at the external. Start looking at the man's soul.” She stared at Stacie, exasperated. Then her lips turned up into a slow smile as an idea came to her. “Give me the list,” she instructed as she held out her hand.

“What?” Stacie asked, blinking. “Why?”

“You heard me. Give me the list.”

“No!” Stacie quickly folded it up and clutched it to her chest. “No,” she repeated.

“Stacie, don't make me come over and take it from you,” Tameeka warned, and Stacie narrowed her eyes, daring her to do so.

“You're not having this list,” Stacie said forcibly, and moved to stick it in her purse. But before she could, Tameeka rounded the table with lightning speed and snatched the paper out of Stacie's hand, then marched back to her seat. Stacie's jaw dropped in amazement as she watched Tameeka rip the list into tiny shreds until it looked like confetti. Her eyes watered. Her map of fifteen years had been destroyed.

“I'm sorry,” Tameeka whispered, and reached over to pat Stacie's hand. Stacie snatched it back and glared at her friend through glassy eyes.

“You didn't have to do that. I would've given it to you…eventually,” Stacie sniffed.

“Yeah…well,” Tameeka answered. She felt guilty for making her friend cry. “I'm only doing it because I love you,” she said, which prompted an eye roll from Stacie.

“You don't love me. You're just jealous.”

Tameeka sadly shook her head. “You've sang this song already, girl, and I'm tired of the hook. I'm not jealous of you,” she gently insisted.

“Why else would you destroy any chance I have at happiness?” Stacie asked, and glowered at Tameeka.

“That list?” Tameeka asked as she pointed to the pile of paper on the table. “So that list is the key to your happiness?” she asked, incredulous, and Stacie nodded.

“It is and you're just jealous because I get all the fine men.”

Tameeka pushed away from the table. “You know what? This is the last time you call me jealous. Have a drink of your happiness,” she said. Tameeka scooped up a handful of Stacie's shredded list and dumped it in her iced tea, then marched out of the restaurant.

B
ang! Bang! Bang!

“What the hell,” Jackson muttered groggily and let out a stream of curses under his breath. He glanced at the clock and let loose with another round of curses. They were so blue that if his grandmother were within earshot, she'd be after him with a bar of soap. It was two o'clock in the morning, and he had to be up for work in three hours. He stepped out of bed and blindly groped around for a pair of underwear and a T-shirt.

“Who is that, baby?” Ettie Mae called from her bedroom. She too had glanced at her bedroom clock and had gotten a bad feeling; no good news was ever delivered at two o'clock in the morning.

“Don't know, Grandma, I'll go see. Go on back to sleep. Whoever it is is gonna get an ass whooping. Breaking down my door in the middle of the night like they ain't got no damn sense,” he muttered. He moved confidently but sluggishly through the dark house. The knocking was growing more insistent. He stood at the door, regretting his procrastination about adding a peephole.

“Who is it?” he growled, intentionally deepening his voice and making it gruffer and thicker than it normally was. The question was met with silence. He barked it out again. This time he got a response that made his heart fall down to his feet. He didn't hear his grandmother walk up, but he felt her standing behind him.

No name was needed. He knew the voice. Age had deepened it and living the life had roughened it, yet even after nine years he still recognized it. He glanced back at Jameel's room. He had a good view from the front door. Jameel lay on his back, his arms and legs spread wide as if he was getting ready to make angels in the snow.

For the first time in his life Jackson was truly terrified. A little voice told him to snatch his son up, pajamas and all, and run for their lives. His thoughts must've shown on his face because his grandmother said, “Don't make no sense to think about doing something stupid, that ain't gonna solve nothing. Open the door, baby. You knew that this was going to happen sooner or later. Yep, sometimes sooner is better than later,” she whispered, then began humming a church hymn.

Jackson suddenly longed for the days when all his troubles could be solved with a plateful of chocolate chip cookies and one of his grandmother's hugs. Everything that he loved and lived for was being jeopardized by what was on the other side of the door.

Jackson deactivated the security alarm, then pulled the door open. Michelle Jacobs, his first real girlfriend and Jameel's mother, stood on the porch. She fearfully peeked at him with eyes that looked like they had seen a million lifetimes, none of them enjoyable. The thin cotton coat she was wearing didn't disguise the assault she had committed against her body. Years of hard drugs and even harder living had ravished it. Her face was a grayish color and although she was only twenty-seven, she looked like she was forty.

Jackson and Michelle stood on the threshold staring at each other. He looked at the lady who once had his heart and wondered how she ended up taking a left in life when she should've taken a right. Ettie Mae watched the scene from a distance. It'd been eight years seen she'd seen her great-grandson's mother; she didn't like her then and she definitely wasn't feeling her now.

After watching them watch each other, Ettie Mae stood between Michelle and Jackson and invited Michelle in.

“Enough of this foolishness. C'mon in. We don't need to let the neighbors know all our business,” she grumbled as she steered Michelle toward the living room. Jackson tiptoed down the hall to Jameel's room. Thankfully he was still sleeping. Jackson gazed down at him and his chest tightened.

“I love you, little man,” he whispered as he kissed his son's cheek, then closed the door behind him. He wished he had a lock for it.

Back in the living room, he found his grandmother and Michelle sitting on the couch. Ettie Mae was at one end and Michelle was clutching the opposite end. They were eyeing each other like two roosters getting ready to fight. Instead of sitting down, he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. He glared at Michelle, who was now studying the room.

Jameel was well loved. Pictures of a smiling Jameel covered the walls and tabletops. There were pictures of him taking his first steps, playing football, and riding a pony on a carousel. But it was the pictures of his birthdays that her eyes returned to. Eight years' worth. Eight years of her child's life. Eight years that she'd missed.

From across the room, Jackson saw Michelle's eyes dampen. They were glistening in the lamplight, and he almost laughed at her pain. Almost…but one glance at his grandmother quickly dried the urge up. He wasn't raised to be ugly.

“Why'd you come back?” The question came out weaker than he wanted it to. He cleared his throat and threw in some bass. “I thought you didn't want to be a mommy.”

“Back then I didn't,” she said simply, shrugging her shoulders helplessly.

“So the urge hits you at two o'clock in the morning?” Jackson asked sarcastically.

“I wanted to make sure you were home. But ‘the urge,' as you call it, has been with me for a while,” she answered, then tried to explain. “What could a nineteen-year-old college dropout dope fiend know about taking care of a baby? All I cared about was my next high,” she said, and licked her lips as if she was remembering the taste of the drugs. She caught Jackson's questioning look. “I still want it. I fantasize, hell, I crave being high. It's a daily struggle.” Jackson snorted. “But I'm clean now. Been so for six months now,” she finished proudly, and Jackson got a glimpse of the girl he had fallen in love with nine years ago.

Ettie Mae joined the conversation. “What happened? How did you end up this way?” she asked, concerned. Even though she didn't care for Michelle, the girl's blood was in her great-grandson.

Michelle's hands began to tremble; she hated telling the story, but the people at rehab assured her that it was good for her. She inhaled deeply, then started. “It started small. I used to get so stressed out about taking tests, so right before a test I'd take something to relax me. It worked and I loved the way it made me feel. Soon I was popping pills to relax me, pills to keep me up, and pills to make me sleep. I was taking at least ten pills a day.” Jackson pounded the wall behind him and Michelle quickly reassured him. “As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I stopped cold turkey. A cigarette didn't touch these lips, and if anyone was smoking cigarettes or some weed, I got up out of that place. I would never do anything to harm my baby.”

“My
baby,” Jackson quietly reminded her. She can't claim him, he said silently.

“But what happened?” Ettie Mae questioned softly.

“I started back after I had Jameel. I got stressed again, only it was worse. Between taking care of a baby and school, I was driving myself crazy.”

“It's not like you didn't have help,” Jackson shot at her. Between him, her mother and his grandmother, they both had more than enough help to go around.

“I see that
now,”
Michelle replied listlessly. “But I wanted to do it all by myself. I wanted to take care of the baby and go to school full time.” She shrugged, then continued with her story. “And when a friend turned me on to coke, I felt like I was superwoman. The world was brighter, everything seemed possible and all my worries flew out the window. The sky was the limit. I was the shit! Oops! Excuse my language,” she apologized. “Then there was the heroin…and the prostitution. It was hell…I knew that Jackson would take care of his own. That's why I left Jameel the way that I did.” She finished and looked dejectedly down at her lap.

“Touching story. You can't have him,” Jackson stated flatly, but his eyes flashed angrily at her.

“I don't want him. I only want to
see
him. I want to know
my
son,” Michelle argued. She had expected his reaction and would've been surprised if it was anything different. So she had come prepared to fight.

“He's
my
son. I don't want him near you. You're a crackhead. Besides, you forfeited your rights when you ran away. Where were you when he got the chicken pox? Where were you when his first tooth fell out or when he took his first steps? Where were you when he came home crying because the other kids at school teased him for not having a mother? Where were you!” he shouted, his body trembling with rage.

Michelle shrank against the couch, pressing herself back as if she was trying to make herself invisible. Then she fought against her fear. She pulled herself up and looked him in the eye. “I'm very,
very
sorry. I missed so much of my baby's life. I want him to know how sorry I am. If I could do it all over again, I would never have gotten involved in drugs and given up my baby. I messed up. My parents wouldn't have anything to do with me. All my friends are married or doing something with their lives. I wouldn't wish this life on anybody,” she said quietly, then, “I only want to see him. Nothing more. Please,” she begged.

“No!” Jackson barked. “All the damn sorrys in the world don't change the fact that you left your son. You abandoned your baby!”

“Fine then. I didn't want to bring this up. Not right now. But I got a lawyer, just in case you wouldn't let me see Jameel. And she said that I have just about the same right to see him as you do. Maybe even more, since I'm his mother,” she added slyly.

A
lawyer?
The blood rushed from Jackson's face and dropped to his feet. “You signed a note, giving me rights to Jameel, I still have it,” he said desperately. Then he cursed himself for not getting a lawyer himself and legalizing everything. But he still made a move toward the bedroom, to get the note. After all these years he still had it. It was stuck in the bottom of a shoebox that he kept shoved back in the corner of the top shelf of his closet.

Michelle's hand dipped into her coat pocket and it brushed against her lawyer's business card. Her lawyer's promise popped into her head: We'll get Jameel back to you even if we have to cut his father's balls off to get him. Confidence and power filled Michelle, a lethal combination for someone in her shoes.

“Forget about the note. I told my lawyer about it and she told me that I had nothing to worry about,” she replied airily, as if she didn't have a care in the world. Michelle strutted to the front door with Jackson and Ettie Mae in tow. “I don't want to start any trouble. I only want to see my son. Please let me see my son,” she begged, then searched Jackson's eyes for a shred of kindness. Seeing none, she shook her head sadly, then left just as unexpectedly as she had come.

Jackson wanted to be sure that she was really gone, so he watched as she walked down the stairs and melted into the night. Then he rushed to Jameel's room and stood over his son's bed.

She's not taking you! His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “She's not taking my son!” he vowed.