Love in a Carry-On Bag (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

Friday Night Fever

F
our days had passed
since Warren left Erica. It was Friday night and in less than twelve hours his father would marry Shar, within a year of his mother’s death. His sister Billie was engaged and pregnant, and wouldn’t be coming home for the nuptials. James was hugged up with a lady friend. Spider, the band’s pianist, wasn’t answering his phone. Warren slogged through his condo feeling restless and agitated, searching for something mindless to do.

Growing up with a father who served in the military had made Warren orderly almost to compulsion, and when he pulled open the doors on his walk-in closet, it was as if he had stepped into a section of a men’s department store. On the right, his suits were lined in a row with the sleeves folded forward. The dress shirts were color coordinated, shoes stacked with tree horns, and T-shirts and shorts folded with crisp edges. Warren’s wardrobe was larger than most women’s, and he rummaged through the neat racks with the intent to purge. He started with removing dressy pieces to donate to Career Gear, an organization that gave the suits to men in need. Warren had already pulled eight suits and heaped them into a pile when his fingers closed in on the sleeve of a navy Brooks Brothers suit.

It was arguably his best suit. The one he wore to job interviews, important dinners and his cousin Grace’s wedding. It was also the suit he wore when he laid his mother to rest. He remembered selecting the suit because she always said that it was bad luck to buy new clothes for a funeral. Warren ran his fingers over the lapel, recalling the Sunday morning last spring when his father summoned him abruptly to the family house in northwest D.C.

His mother hadn’t been feeling well. She’d been nursing a persistent cough for weeks. Warren had noticed the rattle and rasp during their biweekly phone calls. Erica was at his place, and convinced him to stop for cornbread and a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup from Devon and Blakely.

“Let’s get those purple tulips too,” she said when they passed a small Mexican woman selling flowers out of a white plastic bucket.

His mother was in bed when they arrived. The room smelled like bacon. On the nightstand was a pitcher of water, an empty plate, a roll of Ritz crackers with a jar of peanut butter, and a half emptied coffee mug. On the floor was an extra blanket, a jar of Vick’s Vapor Rub and a stack of newspapers. From the looks of things it seemed that she was spending a lot of time in bed, and Warren grew concerned that she wasn’t moving around enough. After kisses and hugs, Erica jumped in, telling his mother about a book that she was planning to send her. The ladies kept up a constant chatter while Erica fluffed her pillows and straightened the blankets and sheets.

“I can’t wait to read it,” his mother smiled broadly, which made Warren grin because he loved that his mother loved Erica.

“You bring your horn, baby?” his mother asked as Erica carried the flowers to the window seat overlooking Colorado Avenue.

“Play ‘Favorite Things’ for me, that song always…” she started hacking and her eyes popped like they were trying to escape from the sockets. Erica rushed over and poured her a fresh glass of ice cold water.

“Ma, you sure you okay?” Concern was etched into his forehead, but his mother took a few sips and then waved him on.

“Your father took me to see Betty Carter at the Village Vanguard in New York and, man, she tore that song to pieces. Play it for me, sweetie, so I can reminisce.” She nestled her head into the pillow with her eyes closed. Warren unfastened his horn, pressed it to his lips and settled into the longer version of the song, the rendition that John Coltrane played in 1965 at the Newport Jazz Festival with McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones. Three minutes into the piece Warren was lost beneath the cadence and cords, and changed keys to give the tempo a chilling effect. Traditionally, the piece is played slowly, but Warren pushed it, making the beat lively and danceable. When he finished he was out of breath and his T-shirt was soaked through.

His mother clapped with glee. “Music just makes me feel better. I don’t care what anybody says. Don’t you ever stop playing, you hear me? Never,” she leaned forward, and in the next moment she started choking.

“Mama, I think you better go to the doctor.”

“Your father took me yesterday and everything was fine. Stop worrying, son,” she took a deep breath and then settled back on the pillows. “Erica, take Warren downstairs and feed him some of that soup. I’m not going to be able to eat it all. You two go on now. Let me rest,” she smiled.

Warren kissed her cheek and followed Erica out of the bedroom and down the back steps to the kitchen. As always, the room smelled like warmed cinnamon and he couldn’t figure out how that could be since his mother surely hadn’t cooked anything all week. The 13-inch television that was sandwiched between the cherry cabinet and formica countertop was tuned into Bob Schiffer’s show
Face the Nation
. Warren recognized the theme
music as he handed Erica the remote and a spoon for her lunch.

“I’m going to talk to my dad real quick. Make yourself comfortable,” he rubbed the back of her neck and then headed to his father’s study, on the other side of the house.

Out of habit, Warren ran his fingers across his mother’s piano before turning the corner and tapping on his father’s door. “Sir.”

“Son.” His father looked up from the
National Geographic
magazine he was reading. His pipe and a tin of tobacco sat on the desk amid a stack of loose papers. A framed family photo, taken when Warren was twelve, sat appropriately in the right corner. The study had been the setting for several serious conversations with his father growing up; “the talk” about sex and girls, warnings on drugs and alcohol, why certain friends weren’t welcome in their home, Warren’s college choices, and the list went on. There was always a pipe, a brush brass zippo lighter with a soaring eagle, and a tin of tobacco. But Warren had never been offered a smoke. That day was no exception.

“Your mother has lung cancer,” his father said without fanfare. He was not one to beat around, preferring to head right for the heart.

By accident, Warren bit his tongue and a small trickle of blood salted his mouth. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” his father said, dabbing at the sweat forming on his forehead with a handkerchief. “They’ve given her a few weeks to live. Actually, they’ve suggested hospice.”

“Hospice? What about treatment?”

“The cancer has already metastasized into her brain. Chemo and radiation might give her a few more months.”

“So let’s fight.”

His father dropped his head in his hands and pushed his tight curls back over his head. “She refused to go to the doctors for so
long. You know your mother, insisting that it was nothing and she could cure herself with oils and herbs. Now it’s too late. It’s just too late,” he answered, and when Warren looked up at his father it appeared that he was aging right before his eyes.

Erica took the next day off from work and stayed with Warren when he couldn’t get out of bed. Nine days later his mother had passed on.

While pictures were pulled,
programs stapled, flowers selected, and food ordered for the repast, Warren concentrated on the song he would play to honor his mother. The choir wanted him to play “Eye on the Sparrow,” but Warren decided on “Precious Lord Take My Hand” and asked Miss Rita, the church pianist, to accompany him on organ. “Precious Lord” had been his mother’s favorite church hymn, and Warren watched videos of Mahalia Jackson and Aretha Franklin singing the song so that he could get it just right. There had been nothing pleasant about the funeral. Not one memorable thing about Pastor Davis’ sermon. He disliked walking in the processional with piteous glances being cast on his family. Didn’t like the laying on hands that people felt compelled to do as they passed his pew. The smell of so many flowers made his stomach churn and the Extra Strength Tylenol did nothing to relieve the ache in his head. Warren felt wretched down to his bones.

But at the very moment that Warren thought he couldn’t take one more second of funk, Pastor Davis called him to the pulpit for his musical intersession. And Warren didn’t just play “Precious Lord,” he made his trumpet sing “Precious Lord.” Shoulders started swaying and the congregation was moved to Amen, Hallelujah and Thank you, Jesus. By the second verse, Sister Clementine caught the Holy Spirit and had to be hugged and held by her teenage son. Warren played, feeling ordained, and understood for the first time
what John Coltrane meant when he declared that, through his music, he had heard the voice of God.

When he finished, Warren didn’t bow or even acknowledge the applause and calls on the Lord as he walked down the three steps from the pulpit. All he saw was Erica, sitting in the front pew. Falling into the seat next to her, she clutched his hand so tightly that it felt as if she was trying to extract all of his pain, like a presser would fruit for its juices. She squashed and squeezed, transferring his feelings into her body so that just for a time he could feel free. That’s how Erica was or who she used to be, and it was going to be pure punishment for him to get used to his life without her.

Damn her.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Jumping the Broom

T
ardiness was never an
issue for Warren. He learned from his father the habit of arriving early: fifteen minutes prior to an event, twenty for work, and one hour if he were going to perform. For the wedding he arrived at Tabernacle Baptist church with thirty minutes to spare, but spent ten of those behind the wheel of his car scratching his foot. On the drive over his left toes started itching, all of them. As soon as he pulled into the parking lot, he removed his sock and raked his fingernails over the skin. Warren had had athlete’s foot before, and hoped he hadn’t caught something from the rental shoes his father insisted he wear. He found an old tube of hand cream in his glove compartment and slathered what he could squeeze across his toes. His skin still stung with irritation, but it would have to do.

Warren put his shoe back on and got out of the car. His truck had been washed and waxed two days ago, and before trudging across the lot he checked his reflection in the shiny paint. As if the itching wasn’t enough, the black and white shoes were cutting into the sides of his ankles, and the heel rubbed with each step. The day was going to be a long one.

Two women walking in front of Warren commented on the loveliness of the church. He had to agree. Tabernacle’s church was a building of beauty, with early century stone walls, ten-foot stained glass windows, a bell tower that still rang on the hour, enclosed in a steeple that could be seen for at least a mile in all four directions. Today, satiny calla lilies chased roses along the metal railings, which fanned to either side of the wide stairs. Oversized wreaths filled with blood orchids hung from each of the double doors, and something smelled plumy.

Warren’s father, Maynard, greeted guests at the top landing. The two men were identically dressed in black, three-button notch-lapel tuxedos, with white shirts and trimmings.

“Son,” his father embraced him while patting him on the back, and Warren caught a whiff of his spiced cologne. A smile as thick as a stack of pancakes played on his father’s face as he looked Warren in the eyes.

“Thanks for standing with me today. It means the world to me,” and then his father did something he had never done before. He kissed Warren’s cheek and whispered, “I know how you felt about your mother, and I loved her too. But I can’t stop living, I have to move on.” He patted Warren’s cheek, and turned his attention to three women dressed in wide-brimmed hats. Before Warren could recover from the comment, his father was gesturing for him to show the women to their pews.

Monkey-faced Sister Clara linked arms with Warren, and he cringed when she tried to explain.

“Warren, baby, I been meaning to call you. ’Bout the other day…” she started, but Warren cut her off.

“Enjoy the service.” He left her standing at the last pew, despite the available seating up front.

As he walked to the back of the chapel, his seething subsided when he spied his great-Aunt Maggie, being pushed in her wheelchair by an aid from her nursing home. Warren kissed her forehead and offered to escort her down the aisle. The crowd then started pouring in, family members, distinguished members of
the military, and friends of the family.
After what felt like an hour of walking back and forth, his feet started itching again, and he was just about to duck away for a scratch when Blanche walked through the church doors. He had forgotten that his father invited her. She was wearing a turquoise scoop-neck dress that pressed her small breasts into buxomly cleavage. Her soft hair was gathered in a side bun, and a handbag with a chain-link strap hung from her arm.

“Hey, you.” Warren took her hand.

Her face gushed pink. “I thought I was going to be late.” She leaned in, kissing him on the chin.

The organist began a new selection while Warren escorted her to her seat.

“Where’s Erica?” Blanche asked, sliding into the pew.

“I’ll explain later.”

“At the reception,” Blanche assured him. Warren nodded, walking towards the vestibule, where his father was waiting.

“It’s showtime, Son,” he said, pinning a maroon gardenia to Warren’s lapel.

They walked up the side aisle to the front of the church, past the stained glass windows depicting the birth of Christ. Once they were standing in front of the pulpit, his father nodded to the organist and the processional music began. Shar’s younger sister, Bethany, who was both hippy and busty, made her way down the aisle dressed in a wine colored dress that bunched at the waist. Bernard, the older son, carried the broom, followed by Jared, clumping along with the ring pillow. Both boys were dressed in white, and looked uncomfortable in such fancy clothing.

Once the bridal party took their places around the pulpit, two ushers rolled out the white carpet and the wedding march began. The flower girl was so shy that she didn’t drop a single
petal. The organist pounded a heavy introduction and everyone rose to their feet.

Shar and her father stood in the entranceway and Warren had to admit that she was a beautiful woman, though very different than his mother. Shar’s skin was the color of cumin and her small eyes had a distinguished slant. Her champagne slip dress fell delicately over her full breasts and exaggerated hips, and when she marched, the shiny material trailed behind her. As she descended the aisle, cameras flashed in every direction. But she kept her eyes fixed on her husband-to-be. The energy flowing between them was obvious. Shar’s teeth stacked into a smile when Maynard left Warren’s side and took his place next to her. Watching them both, Warren wondered about the development of their relationship over the years. How much time had they spent? How many memories shared?

Pastor Davis asked the church to be seated and the wedding rituals began. Rings were slipped on, vows exchanged, candles lit, songs sang, and then the pastor stopped for a dramatic pause. In his deep preacher’s voice, he boomed, “Maynard Prince, please give the people what they want. Kiss your lovely bride.”

The invited guests applauded.

The wedding reception was
held at the Museum of African-American Culture on Fort Place in Southeast D.C. A horse-drawn carriage sat out front with a sign on the rear of the buggy that read, “Just Married.” Inside, the gallery walls were covered with African, Caribbean, and African-American art dating back to the early 1800s. An ice sculpture of two swans greeted the guests at the entrance to the hall. When Warren first walked in, there was something about the way the female swan curved her neck towards the male that made him think of Erica. She liked being
kissed on the neck, and that was where Warren snuggled his face when they slept.

“Want some company?”

Warren was sitting at a table facing the dance floor, drinking his third glass of champagne. He had just sat back down after giving the wedding toast to his father and Shar and he was replaying his speech in his head, hoping he had done an alright job. Blanche dropped her shawl over the seat next to him without waiting for his response. His father and Shar were leading the room in a fast swing to
“
Blue Suede Shoes.
”
Watching the couple encircled in each other’s arms brought images of Warren’s mother to his head. She loved to dance. On Friday nights, his mother was known to fry up a big batch of shad or porgies and potatoes, and push the carpet back so that Billie could teach her and Warren the latest steps. But he couldn’t recall his parents ever dancing together.

“What’s going on?” Blanche sipped from her glass.

“Not much,” he was still watching the floor. The couple took a bow as the people standing around the edge clapped their hands. Maynard was a natural ham, and Warren could tell by the never-ending grin on his face that he was juiced from the attention. The waiter passed with the champagne tray and Warren grabbed another.

Maynard reached the bandstand and unclipped the microphone. “I’d like to thank you all for coming out to celebrate this day with me and my new lovely wife. We’re off to honeymoon on a private beach in the Cayman’s.” Someone whistled.

“So in the words of the great Russell Simmons, who I think is a cool cat,” Maynard raised his hand in the air, egging the crowd on. “Thanks so much for coming out. God bless and good night.” He gave one last salute and then exited the stage. Back on the dance floor, he swept Shar up in his arms, spun her and
then they dipped. The couple waved and made their way out of the reception hall. Guests followed them with cameras trying to get their last shots.

“Aren’t you going to take pictures?” Blanche moistened her glittery lips.

“I’ll get some from the photographer.” Warren was enjoying the way the bubbly made him feel. Invincible like nothing really mattered. He could no longer feel his toes itching. The six-piece band was playing a Stevie Wonder hit, and a few die-hards danced across the floor. But most were heading to the coat check.

“I’m going to give you a lift home.” Blanche touched his knee.

“Cool,” he said, standing and stumbling a little. Warren knew he was a few steps from being wasted but grabbed another glass on his way out.

Blanche unlocked the doors
from her keypad as they rounded her candy white sports car. The night air was unseasonably warm, and her wrap was loose around her pale shoulders. After opening Blanche’s door, Warren slid into the cushy, leather passenger seat.

“Nice ride,” he tipped his flute to his lips. The interior smelled like granny smith apples, and the radio station was playing a rock song. Warren nodded his head to the hard, heavy sounds of electric guitar, bass, and drums. The combination of instruments was the perfect compliment to his mood. Music was the seat of his being, and just as he started to disappear into its clutches, Blanche asked.

“So where is Miss Erica? I can’t believe she missed the wedding?”

“We broke up,” was all he offered, because he wanted to stay inside the bass line of the music. To his surprise she changed the subject, offering to buy him a drink.

“There’s this place right down the street from my house. The
waitresses are dressed like skimpy flight attendants, and treat you like you’re seated in first class,” her dress had slid away from her knee and exposed her milky thigh. Warren tried not to notice as he looked for someplace to put the empty glass.

“Give it here,” Blanche tilted the flute to her lips for the last little drop. Smiling, she tossed the glass into the backseat and revved her engine.

Her townhouse was located just a half block from thriving
Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown, where the streets tipped
over with hot bars, mediocre jazz clubs, and trendy restaurants. Her plan was to park the car in her driveway and walk over.

“How far is the lounge? I need to use the bathroom,” said Warren, helping Blanche from the car. The split in her dress had slipped up further and he saw that she wasn’t wearing pantyhose. Warren tucked in his shirttail.

“Come in.” Blanche flashed her teeth. “I need to grab something anyway.”

Warren followed her as she switched her narrow hips up the brick walkway to her home. The front door was red with gold trimming, and Blanche fumbled with the key. Leaning against the door frame, Warren wondered if it were a good idea for him to be there. It was late, and Blanche was his co-worker. What were they doing? What was he doing?

The lights were dim and Blanche grabbed his hand on the way up the three short stairs, which opened into the living room. Her hands were cold but the house was much too warm. While she turned up the table lamp, Warren loosened his bow tie. The living room walls were beige, and the suede sectional was just a hue darker. Hanging above the stone fireplace was an oversized framed photo of Blanche, with a red silk sheet sliding from her right breast. Her hair puffed around her, and her eyes looked like
the photographer had told her to make love to the camera.

“Nice photo.”

“Thanks. The bathroom is down the hall,” she pointed.

Warren wasn’t surprised to find it small and dainty like everything else in her townhouse. He took his time washing his hands, but couldn’t look at himself in the mirror. Maybe he should just leave. He thought of Erica, and all of the accusations she made about Blanche. Perhaps he should sober up on the cab ride back to the church to pick up his car. When he returned to the living room, the fireplace had been lit and Warren found himself mesmerized by the flames. Sitting on the mantel was a collection of sculptured angels, and he turned one over in his hand.

Blanche walked into the living room, approaching him from behind. The heat from her body reached him long before her words, and when he turned to face her she was holding two wine glasses. “They come from Brazil,” she said, thickening her accent, saying Brasil instead of Brazil.

“They’re nice.” He took a glass. “Who’s from Brazil?”

“My mother is from Bahia, but she lives in New York now. I never knew my father.” Taking a step back, Warren bumped into the fireplace, and Blanche leaned her body into his to steady him.

“Do you go to Brazil often?”

Blanche unclipped her hair and tossed it around her shoulders, “Not really. I’m a love child. My mother is the daughter of a wealthy Salvadorian, and my father was of African descent. He worked in my grandfather’s tobacco fields. My mother was disowned after I was born.” Her eyes darkened.

The temperature by the fireplace was making Warren’s armpits sweat, so he walked over to the sofa and dropped against the pillows. Blanche followed, raising her glass for a toast. She was leaning in so close that Warren could smell her. He knew what she
wanted. Perhaps he had always known but could never admit it. Her fingers touched his wrist, and then she kissed him. Her lips were sticky, and tasted like raspberries.