Love in a Carry-On Bag (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

There’s No Place Like Home

I
t wasn’t often that
Erica returned to the house where she grew up, but every time she did, Monroe Street seemed smaller. Erica guessed it was her father who had kept up with the payments on the property. Otherwise, Erica was sure they would have been forced out a long time ago. The once desirable area had suffered when the middle class fled for the surrounding suburbs. The house located directly across the street had been abandoned because of fire. Planks of fat wood had nailed it shut. Ms. Frances, the neighborhood gossip who lived next door, had died a few years ago and left the house to her son Nelson, who was in and out of jail. The roof of her house sagged so far to one side, it looked as if the whole house was about to cave. Erica remembered the countless times Ms. Frances dished on her family, pegging Erica as the girl who would just end up pregnant. How ironic that now, Ms. Frances’ house took first place in being the worst eyesore in the neighborhood.

The shrubs in front of her mother’s house were overgrown, but the small patch of lawn looked good for this time of year. Erica slowly walked up the steps, instinctively avoiding the third one with the loose brick.

“Ma,” she called through the mail slot, then banged on the door with her fist. The bell hadn’t worked since she disconnected it when she was ten years old. She heard bedroom slippers scuffling toward the door. Two locks were released before her mother slid back the metal chain.

“Slim?” her mother mumbled, casting her eyes on the mosaic vestibule floor. Her ear-length hair that used to be full of luster and weight stood lifeless and transparent. A cigarette burned in one hand, while the other held up the stretched-out scrubs that served as pajama pants. The white T-shirt she wore hung past her waist, and her braless breasts shifted from one side to the other. Why wasn’t she dressed and ready to go? Erica bit back her attitude as her mother moved to let her in.

Their living room always felt masculine, with wooden mini blinds and mahogany crown molding. Grammar-school pictures of Erica and her sister sat on the mantelpiece, and dusty sheet music was opened on the piano rack, though Erica knew no one had played since she had moved out. After tapping a few keys, she headed to the sofa. The only songs she could remember how to play were “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and a few bars from “F
ü
r Elise.”

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Erica reached for the table lamp with golden tassels hanging from the shade like fancy earrings. In the light she gasped; her mother’s face was swollen and bruised as if someone had kicked her with steel toe shoes.

“What happened to you?”

The green plastic cup her mother now clutched found her lips. Erica watched as she gulped with thirst.

“I fell.” Fuzz clung to her upper lip, which was bloated like mushrooms and caked with dried blood. Her left eye had a purplish ring around it and was slightly closed.

She was definitely lying. “Somebody hit you?”

“Can’t go nowhere lookin’ like this.” Her mother tipped her cup to her mouth again.

“Well, I don’t have ten thousand dollars to give the courts, so
you’re going,” Erica snatched the cup of beer from her mother’s hand and poured it down the kitchen sink, despite her mother’s protests. Erica’s heart thumped wildly against her blouse. Part of her wanted to know who, where, and what regarding the bruises, but most of her didn’t. This wasn’t the first time she saw her mother black-and-blue and Erica wouldn’t be sucked into playing detective today. Her task was to get her mother to court. She couldn’t shift her eye from the objective.

A roach scurrying across the kitchen counter made Erica jump. She wanted to smash the bug dead, but lost her chance as it ran for a crack in the wall. The yellow paint that had been so bright in her childhood had dulled and was covered with a slimy film of grime and dust. Erica was tempted to sneak up to her old bedroom and reminisce, but she had to get them moving.

Back in the living room, her mother sat on the arm of the peach floral sofa that needed to be reupholstered. A rust-colored stain had bled through two of the burgundy flowers, and the cushions were worn thin.

“What if they keep me?” Her voice was meek.

“Don’t do this to me, Ma. The bondsman said you just had to show up and they would drop the charges.” Erica crossed her arms, realizing that she hadn’t even removed her coat.

“I can’t stay here no more. I need a vacation.” Her mother sounded exasperated.

Erica opened her mouth, tempted to counter with, “your whole life is a vacation, you don’t work, what is it that you do all day exactly,” but she stopped the sass from rolling off her tongue. This wasn’t the time and they needed to go.

“Things bad ’round here now.” Her mother’s eye jumped, and tears dribbled. “Gunshots as common as flies on shit. Can’t hardly walk to the store no more.”

Erica helped her mother to her feet, trying not to look at her, but the desperation in her mother’s eyes couldn’t be missed. Then her tongue betrayed her as it always did when her mother’s problems were shoved into her lap. She didn’t know what possessed her to say it. Perhaps misery really did love company.

“Get dressed and pack a small bag, Ma. After court, you can stay a few days with me.”

“Oh, Slim, thank you.” She moved towards Erica for a hug, but Erica stopped her.

“The conditions are no drinking. This is a dry trip,” she warned.

“Whatever you want,” Gweny hopped up with new energy. “Whatever you want.”

Chapter Thirty

Mommy Dearest

W
hen the prosecutor dropped
the charges, Erica’s mother reacted as if she had just beaten a murder rap, throwing her hands in the air crying and thanking Jesus.

“I told you all you had to do was show up,” Erica said, as she helped Gweny with her jacket and purse. After signing a few papers they were free to go, and headed out to the street. Bonnie hadn’t shown, and Erica was happy when the judge issued a bench warrant for her arrest. Maybe if Bonnie was behind bars, her mother could get her act together. All she could do was hope.

Penn Station Newark was only a few blocks from the courthouse, but her mother insisted that she couldn’t walk, so Erica hailed a taxicab.

“I sure appreciate it. My knees won’t make it that far,” she cranked the cab door closed behind her, and Erica wanted her mother to stop acting old and disabled. Something was always bothering her. If it weren’t her knees it was arthritis, a bad shoulder or sore back. Was she ever just all right? Erica had to dig way back into her childhood just for a glimpse of her mother pain free.

When they reached the train station, Erica stopped at the deli kiosk and bought them both Pepsi-Colas. When she was younger, her mother would tell her that the soda was the next best thing to a beer, and as she watched her twist the cap and take a long slurp, Erica wondered if she remembered sending her on the countless trips for the replacement beverage.

“This feels like a real vacation.” Sunglasses were perched on her nose, and covered the majority of her marks and welts. Her mother attempted to blend some lipstick on her twisted lip, but it did not mask the left leaning sag to her mouth when she spoke. Seeing it shot a pang through Erica. Turning away, she studied the pigeons snacking on crumbs. After standing on the platform for five minutes, a train slowed into the station. Passengers were scarce in the middle of the day, and they had no problem getting seats next to each other. Her mother spent the thirty-minute ride looking out the window.

In New York, they caught the subway to Harlem. Erica strained to lug her mother’s postage stamp canvas bag.

“I haven’t been up here in a long time,” her mother said, stopping at the top landing of the subway stairs winded and breathing hard. She leaned against the rail for support, fumbling in her pocketbook for a cigarette.

“When’re you going to quit?” Erica watched two teenaged girls passing in high-heeled boots swing their asses hard, searching for some attention from the three boys holding up the corner.

“One thing at a time, Slim.” She cupped her palms and lit. After a few drags, they were on the move again. As they passed Sylvia’s Soul Food restaurant, Erica offered to get her mother a plate but she declined.

“My arthritis is flaring up. I just wanna get to your house and get out of these clothes.”

She was dressed neatly in a pair of wool straight-leg slacks and matching flats. Her leather coat had large silver buckles that were out of style, but still looked decent for its age. Erica wore dark jeans and her leather jacket. A chilling breeze picked up and she ducked her head and placed her hands in her pockets. A thick
piece of paper was crumbled against the seam, and she pulled it out. Warren’s unused ticket from the Nets game. She crushed the ticket with her palm and let it fall to the ground. The wind lifted it across Lenox Avenue.

“Come on Ma, I’m cold.” Erica snapped.

“I’m walkin’ as fast as I can,” she huffed at Erica’s mood swing.

After a block, Erica relaxed and started giving her mom a neighborhood tour, pointing out where she dropped her laundry, ordered take-out and rented movies. It was only the second or third time her mother had been to visit and Erica was proud to show her that she was doing just fine.

The street where Erica lived was called Astor Row, a historical landmark in Harlem. The houses were set back from the curb, with front yards and wide wooden porches that gave the street a Savannah, Georgia, feel. But Erica’s building was the orphan of the block. It explained how she could afford to live in New York City without a roommate.

“What’s going on in the front yard?” her mother stopped at the wrought iron fence enclosing the property, gesturing toward the porcelain bathroom sink filled with wilted flowers. A bicycle sat to the left, and a front basket was filled with dying mums and hanging ivy. Behind the bike was a pasted together scarecrow that resembled a painted mummy with a dingy straw hat holding a tarnished tray with bird seeds.

“My landlady is from England. This is her version of garden art.”

“Your porch looks worse than Ms. Frances’.” Her mother leaned against Erica’s arm as she climbed the slanted stairs.

“Rent is cheap, and she says the porch is under construction.” After more breaks on each landing, they reached her fourth-floor apartment.

“Girl, you don’t have to worry about me going back down those steps the whole time I’m here.” Her mother followed her down the short hall, and when Erica opened her front door, she wished she had tidied up before inviting company.

She hadn’t remembered the ransacked appearance of her place until then, and the dishes in the sink now gave off a vinegary smell.

“Cleaning lady ain’t been here,” her mother dabbed at her forehead, pushing her bangs into a hair comb at the top of her head. “Got a beer?”

Erica shot her a look, but her mother pretended not to see as she walked into the kitchen nook opening each cabinet until she had found a vintage bottle of merlot Erica had long forgotten.

“Just a little to celebrate.” Her mother held the bottle toward Erica.

“It wasn’t a trial, Ma.”

“I’m not in jail,” she smiled, and Erica saw that she still had all of her teeth. Okay, she thought, uncorking the wine, feeling she could use a drink herself. Leaving the bottle on the counter to breathe, she changed into a pair of yoga pants. When she returned to the kitchen, her mother had filled both wine glasses to the brim. Erica burst out laughing.

“You’re only supposed to fill the glass halfway.”

“Why? Then you just gotta keep coming back.” Her mother swigged the merlot like it was malt liquor. Erica shook her head. This was her mother, and even though her mother annoyed her most of the time, Erica felt comforted having her near, like everything was almost alright.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Thanks, Slim. That means a lot,” her mother said, coming in for one of her bone crushing hugs. Erica surprised herself when
she allowed it.

“There is nothing in the refrigerator but condiments, so I can order us something,” Erica rummaged through her junk drawer for takeout menus.

“Whatever you want is fine.” Her mother went into the bathroom, and when she came out she was wearing her panties and a stretched-out bra. Her breasts drooped to the rolls on her stomach. Spider veins crept around her jelly-like thighs and her belly hung over her waist in two chunky ripples. She had aged since the last time they had spent quality time together, but when was that? Erica couldn’t remember because her weekends had been so consumed with Warren that she had little time for anything or anyone else.

Without overthinking it, she picked up the telephone and ordered burgers from Jimbo’s, a diner-like restaurant a few blocks away whose number she had on speed dial. When she hung up, her mother walked over holding up a pair of nylon shorts that she found in the bedroom.

“Can I wear these?”

They were Warren’s.

“No. Why are you going through my things?” Erica pried the shorts from her mother’s hand and carried them back into her room.

“I was just tryin’ to find something with some rubber in the waist,” she defended herself, but Erica didn’t hear her because she was searching the room for anything else that belonged to him. Just touching the shorts reopened the badly stitched wound, and when she looked around his imprints were everywhere. Had she not noticed it before? A dress sock was on the floor and the sheets hanging off her bed were the ones he’d slept on last. His copy of
Black Enterprise
was face down on top of the dresser, as was his
favorite pen. Warren always left a pair of black slacks and a buttoned down shirt in her closet. In her top drawer were a pair of underwear and a bottle of cologne. Erica wanted all of him gone.

After yanking the sheets from the bed, she went around grabbing everything that said Warren and stuffed them in the sheets. The teddy bear that he had won for her at Six Flags, the watch he gave her for her birthday, the pink and red roses that she had dried marking their one year anniversary, their photo album—all of it she rolled into the sheets. Sweat dotted her forehead and her hair was sticking to her face.

“What’s wrong with you?” her mother watched.

“You want to leave some damn body,” Erica mumbled to herself, then started stomping the linen into a ball.

“Erica.”

“Nothing, Ma.” She kicked the bundle aside and pushed past her mother to the kitchen.

“I’m your mother, girl. Don’t tell me nothing.” She followed.

“Warren left me.” She picked up the wineglass and started guzzling like her mother had. She didn’t stop until she had licked down the last drop. A fiery sensation passed through her chest as she closed her eyes, hating that she was handling her crisis just as her mother would, throwing back drinks. She was supposed to be the strong one.

After a few moments, her mother placed her robust arms around Erica’s body, and for the second time that day she didn’t resist her mother’s affection. Instead she collapsed, and rested her face in the sweet-smelling place between her mother’s breasts.

“Life’s filled with disappointments Slim, and I know I might be responsible for most of yours, but you going to be all right. I can promise you that,” her mother said, rocking Erica in her arms after so many years of neglect.