Friends and Lovers (23 page)

He didn’t say anything.

I kept my attitude light, not too cheerful, kept yakking and asked him if he had a few minutes so we could get together, maybe meet on neutral grounds, maybe rendezvous for lunch at the Coffee Company in Westchester.

He said, “Sure.”

Not a single emotion was in that word.

I ended up parking my Z behind the First Federal Bank on La Tijera and Sepulveda Eastway, then sitting under a ceiling fan, waiting for him in a place halfway filled with retired white people who hoped the heat from the tea didn’t unglue their dentures.

I wore a cinnamon pink skirt and white blouse, friendly colors, because I knew he’d show up in his suit, walking like he ruled the world. Tyrel saw me waiting in a booth, shifting around underneath an antique picture of an Italian coffee shop.

My heart dropped when our eyes met. I mean
dropped.

After all the emotions I’d babbled to him over the phone, he didn’t say a word then, and he walked in not saying a word now. He sat in front of me. When times were better we always sat next to each other, because he liked to rest his hand on my leg.

He stared at the picture over my head—“Internationale di Milano 1906”—for a moment before he cleared his throat, lowered his eyes to mine and said, “Your pager working?” nodded my head and sipped my tea.

“Nobody has known how to find you. Not even Debra.”

“Haven’t felt like talking to anybody.”

“Where have you been staying?”

I didn’t tell him that I’d been camping out in a cheap room with thin walls on Figueroa, some space that cost me one-twenty-five for the week, but with the kinds of people lingering the halls, and the noises that were creeping through the walls, I was more than ready to call this off and go home with him. I’d run away and
was living in a stale room, on a hard mattress, shades drawn, trying to cope with who I was.

“Ty?”

“I hear you.”

“I wanted you to know, there were a few others before you, but you’re the first man I’ve ever loved like this.”

I had to hurry up and get all of the words out, because in another minute I’d be blowing my nose and whimpering like an idiot, pouring out my heart. This was rough. Tyrel held his poker-faced attitude. I fought and held mine.

The bastard asked me if I’d gotten an abortion.

I could’ve gagged. I almost went off on him, but it was damn hard to un-lie a lie. My heart wanted to curse him until his ears bled, tell him that he was too naive and too stupid to understand how a woman’s body worked, that he didn’t have a clue about the things that threw it out of sync, played havoc with hormones, and kicked a sister’s cycle off track.

I asked, “Do you ever give up?”

His blank expression didn’t change.

I snapped in a low tone, “I’m not gonna sit here and be tormented by you.”

Tyrel sipped his tea. “Why didn’t you consult me?”

All of a sudden my makeup was frying. “First, kill the psychology, Tyrel. Second, stop making my business your business. Get a fucking life and stop trying to control my body.”

Finally I hit a nerve and churned an emotional response out of his ass. I saw the vibration in his lower lip and the surprise in his eyes. That made him blink more than a few times. He had to regroup before he repeated, “Control?”

“What would you call it?”

“I thought this was a relationship.”

“I guess we’ve both been misled.”

He sipped his tea again, said, simply, “Did you?”

“If I ever decided to do something like that, hey, it’s my body. End of story.” I stayed just as cool as he was.

I sipped my tea, smirked, then asked, “Any more false accusations?”

Tyrel was throwing down a glare that said he thought the police should come get me and make me pay my debt to society.

The brother switched gears, lost the cold-blooded tone, softened up his expression and said, “I ran into a friend of yours.”

“What friend?”

“Lisa Nichols.”

He told me what she’d seen. The things she said. I closed my eyes. Everything felt heavy. Too heavy. When I looked at him for what I hoped would be the last time in this lifetime, Tyrel treated me to a bushel of say-nothings.

He asked me the million-dollar question again.

I grabbed my purse, slapped on my shades, stormed away from the table, and left his ass.

The next evening, by the time I made it home from work, Shelby had slipped in like a bandit and packed some of her clothing. Her toiletries were gone. Most of her
Essence
, novels, and
Runner’s World
magazines were AWOL. Her feminine things-with-wings had taken flight.

Debra called me at work the next morning. Another voice I didn’t want to hear. She wanted me to know that Shelby was crashing at their house, sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms.

Debra said, “This really makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“Likewise.”

“And it puts Leonard in a bad position too.”

“I’m respecting what you said and I’m not pressing your husband for any answers, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

She made a painful sound. I didn’t pity her agony.

I said, “She ask you to call me?”

“I’m calling because I care.”

I waited.

Debra said, “Shelby’s transferring out of L.A.”

“That’s a pretty sudden change.”

“She’s emotional and impulsive.”

I didn’t grace her with a response.

She said, “It’s not a done deal, not yet anyway. Come by tomorrow. You could pop by for dinner.”

“No thank you.”

“Don’t be stubborn. You’re the best thing that ever happened to Shelby. Leonard thinks Shelby is the best thing that ever happened to you.”

I made a repulsive sound, then asked, “Where’s Leonard?”

Debra said, “Leonard’s out of town for a few days. He’s polishing up his act for the HBO special he’s doing next month.”

“Have him call me when he gets a free minute.”

Her tone had changed from strictly business into a soft plea when she said, “Come by and talk it out with Shelby. Please? The few moments that we have been here at the same time, she’s been in the room with the door closed.”

“Well, she’s been closing plenty of doors.”

* * *

A few days passed. I came home and everything Shelby owned was gone. Everything down to her stray pubic hairs were cleaned out. The three keys were scattered on the carpet. She left a pink note taped to the glass closet door.

I’ve packed my shit

I’m gone

Your ex-whatever

At work I caught myself checking my messages every other minute, and when I was at home I jumped when the phone rang. I was home alone, sitting around waiting
for a phone call, expecting like the ghetto child who stayed up to wait for Santa Claus.

There was no Santa.

No phone call.

No Shelby.

* * *

In between expensive eateries and sexual gadget shops, the Boulevard of Broken Dreams had people standing on corners selling maps to gone-but-not-forgotten stars’ homes.

I parked in a lot behind the House of Blues, then went up the hill and dashed through traffic to the Comedy Emporium. African-Americans were filing into a stained glass door that had a caricature of Eddie Murphy. “Chocolate Comedy Night.”

The terrace had a thirty-inch monitor showing footage of Richard Pryor live in concert. Pryor prior to the fire.

Two comics doubling as guards were at the back door. They sprung off the concrete rail, stood side by side.

I said, “I’m on Leonard DuBois’s list.”

Redhead crew cut took a sheet of paper out of his black satin Comedy Emporium jacket. He said, “Who you?”

I showed him my I.D. They flagged down a pale, Michael Jackson impersonator; he adjusted his Thriller jacket and moon-walked toward us. The bouncer with the purple Mohawk and the silver earrings in his eyebrows, nose, and tongue said, “This Leonard’s homeboy.”

The other one asked me, “You see his movie billboard?”

“Where is it?”

“Up Sunset. In the curve at Fairfax. Can’t miss it.”

The Michael impersonator made a hurry-up motion. I passed by Madonna, a phony Sammy Davis Jr., and the Godfather of Soul.

Upstairs was crammed. Cigarette fumes were thick, clinging to me like a sticky bugger. That was why I wore jeans and boots.

A chubby, countrified brother was on stage doing 7-Eleven jokes.

The fake Michael grabbed his crotch, moon-walked away.

A brother put his hand on my shoulder and said, “If my child ever did some shit like that, I’d shoot ‘im dead.”

We laughed.

It was Leonard. I knew his voice before I saw his face.

He was dressed all in black and had on a salmon jacket with three buttons. A little awkwardness was on his face.

I said, “Where’d you get the jacket?”

“Debra picked it up. How this color look?”

“Smooth.”

“It don’t make me look like a punk? If it do, let me know and I’ll hit somebody in the face to make a point.”

I laughed. “Look like you’re ready for
GQ.
“

He said, “Good.”

He’d been dressing better since Debra started coordinating his wardrobe. Less trendy, more classy.

I said, “So what’s up?”

“Shelby moved out.”

Three sisters in skirts narrower than my belt came over with devilish smiles. One of them asked Leonard for his phone number.

Leonard raised his left hand and showed his wedding band.

The sister said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Leonard said, “Means you’re a day late and a dollar short.”

“I paid to get up in here and meet you, and that’s how you gonna treat me?” She pulled his arm. “Buy me a Long Island and get t’know me. You can buy some hot wings and zucchini too.”

Leonard pulled his arm back. “You know you ain’t right.”

She dropped a hand to her hip. “You can’t buy us a drink?”

Leonard said, “Us?”

“You don’t expect my friends to drink some of mine, do you?”

He said, “I left my wallet in my wife’s purse.”

“You in all them movies and ain’t got no money?”

Leonard raised his palms and shook his head.

Two of them did a wiggle-walk and hurried away. The third one stayed long enough to snake her neck at Leonard, “You ain’t shit. Ain’t nothing worse than a broke-ass nigga.”

Leonard said, “If you didn’t spend so much on that weave, you wouldn’t be broke as a joke and walking ‘round begging.”

“I got money.”

“Then why don’t you buy us a drink?”

“Nigga, please.”

She followed her friends.

I said, “Let’s move away from your groupies.”

We moved up the stairs, stood near the back of the room.

“What were you saying about Shelby?”

“She moved to San Diego. Debra said she’s apartment hunting and camping out at Chiquita’s crib.”

An Elvis impersonator led a white couple over to Leonard. Another interruption. While they talked, Elvis left the building. The couple went up into the V.I.P. section.

Leonard said, “He’s from HBO.”

I clucked my tongue on the roof of my mouth.

Leonard touched my shoulder, “Yo.”

“What?”

“Wake up.”

“I’m here.”

“You cool?”

I blew out some impatient air.

The crowd was laughing.

Leonard said, “Guess Chocolate didn’t tell you.”

“Who?”

“Shelby.”

“Didn’t think she would leave.”

“She had Debra’s cousin Bobby come down and help
her put everything in a U-Haul. She call you before she left?”

I shook my head, coughed. I said, “When did she leave?”

“Couple of days ago. I didn’t find out until this morning. I looked in the garage and saw she had moved all of her stuff.”

He told me that him and Debra fell into an argument when he saw everything was gone. And he’d had a few words with Bobby too. Leonard sounded uncomfortable. Hurt was in his tone too. I knew what he was saying, but I understood what he didn’t say. If he had’ve known what was going on, he would’ve called me.

I raised a hand and said, “I wish her nothing but the best.”

The audience applauded. The chubby brother primped off stage. The M.C. went up and grabbed the microphone.

I hoped this bullshit hadn’t caused too much strife in Leonard’s new and improved life. I asked, “Why didn’t Debra come out?”

“Smoke messes with her allergies. Plus she’s studying.”

“She’s back in school?”

“Taking continuing-education classes.”

Leonard took a card from his pocket and handed it to me.

I said, “What’s this?”

“Shelby’s number in Diego.”

“She tell you to give it to me?”

“I borrowed it from Debra’s day planner.”

I folded the card, tapped it against my leg.

I said, “Let’s step outside. I feel my lungs turning black.”

“Can’t. Show time.”

The M.C. started Leonard’s introduction. I checked my watch.

He said, “You staying to support a bro, right?”

“It’s late. Gotta be at work in the morning.”

“I know you didn’t drive up here to go back home.”

“I’ll wait a few. I want to see what you’ve got.”

“You upset?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Yeah, you’re upset.”

“It’ll pass.”

“Call her. Work it out.”

I motioned toward the stage and said, “Break a leg.”

Leonard lowered his head, folded his hands in front of himself, closed his eyes for a few seconds.

Then Leonard was on stage. He was good. He’d always been at the top of his game, but I hadn’t seen his show in a few months and I saw growth. He had a new level of comfort.

For a brief moment, I wished his daddy could see him. Wished my daddy could see the things I’ve done on my own. Most of the time it felt like my daddy was as dead as Leonard’s old man.

Those thoughts lasted a brief moment. Very brief.

I was aching about San Diego. Thinking about how my life felt like constant heartache with pockets of happiness tucked in between. I tore the number Leonard gave me into shreds. Dropped it where I stood. Starting over was nothing new.

Inside my car, I pulled out my c-phone. Called Joshua Cooper. Woke him up and asked how soon he could get me that corner office with a postcard view of the Golden Gate.