Love in a Carry-On Bag (18 page)

Warren was t
he first to pull away. “What was that?” he asked, though it was obvious. Blanche kissed him again, with her tiny hands moving along the base of his neck. I should leave, he thought again to himself. It had reached that hour in the evening where only one thing happened when a man and woman were tipsy, by the heat of the fire, and for Warren, on the rebound with a cracked heart.

“Do you really want me to stop?” her voice was dim against the thick of his bottom lip. And as she sucked and pulled, all of his earlier hesitation withered away. Blanche pushed him further back onto the sofa, hiked her dress up and straddled his lap while her fingers worked his zipper. Slipping down her own dress, her breasts fell loose like lemons. Warren took one in each hand and was disappointed to realize that they weren’t soft to the touch. Could they have been implants? But then it didn’t matter because desire took over, and by the time the condom appeared from the side of Blanche’s panties, Warren’s sensibilities and thoughts had abandoned him. Blanche pushed him from the couch to the floor, and he navigated inside of her with a recklessness that surprised him.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Eat On

E
rica was nervous, but
wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because the Wednesday lunch with LaVal turned into a Friday-night dinner. Blizzard-like conditions in the Midwest had delayed flights in and out of Chicago for two days. LaVal stayed in New York conducting business and had postponed their meeting until then. Under normal circumstances Erica would have never agreed to a Friday-night work dinner, but tonight she was relieved to have something to do. Staying busy was the key. Mind-numbing thoughts of Warren couldn’t catch her if she was busy.

Her mother was still “vacationing” at her apartment and Erica was surprised at the easy rhythm that they had fallen into. Twice that week, they had stayed up half the night talking and giggling like school friends. Her mother had scrubbed the apartment until all Erica could smell was pine and Clorox. And she prepared home-cooked meals every day: crispy fried chicken, smothered skirt steak, stewed red snapper, yellow-corn casserole, collard greens, baked macaroni and cheese, sweet potato pone with walnuts and marshmallows, and her famous 1,2,3,4 cake that she frosted with homemade cream-cheese icing. But tonight was Friday, Erica’s second weekend without Warren, and she needed something stronger than her mother’s food and good company to chase away the bleeding-heart blues. As pathetic as it seemed, a work dinner with LaVal proved to be her best option.

Traffic was heavier than she had anticipated when she stepped out of the nail salon, and although she knew the subway was the best option, she flagged down a taxicab. In the backseat, she checked her work voicemail for messages, jotted down questions for LaVal, and before exiting the cab glossed over her lips. Rain was in the forecast and out on the street, she shuddered against the chilly wind. Her winter-white skirt swung just below her knees, and the leather knee-high boots she wore gave off the right amount of spunk without being suggestive. It was something that she took into account for appointments with male clients. Never overdo it.

They were meeting at Union Square Café on 16th Street and 5th Avenue. Erica was surprised when LaVal suggested that restaurant because it wasn’t on the tourist map. The Café served American cuisine with an Italian soul, and was known for having an extensive wine selection that she couldn’t wait to try. The dinner rush had already begun, and when she walked in she had to elbow between chatty couples to get to the host stand. The place was packed with folks who seemed high off the start of the weekend.

“Erica Shaw meeting LaVal Jarvis.” She clutched her purse. The tight-lipped hostess scanned her book and then motioned for Erica to follow. They walked past the bar with the dinner specials scribbled on a chalkboard and into the main dining area. LaVal was seated at a table towards the back, looking triumphant as if he had just purchased a blue-chip stock. A bottle of white wine was sweating and breathing in the ice bucket, and he stood when she approached. The gesture made her stomach stiffen. Warren would have done the same thing.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said as LaVal pulled out her chair. He then caught her off guard by pecking her cheek. Erica pushed her bag under the table, hoping that her face hadn’t
turned flush.

“I took the liberty of ordering a chardonnay and a plate of salt and pepper calamari.” He only half smiled, but his dimples still weren’t hard to find.

As usual, LaVal was dressed with guiltless style, and Erica complimented him on his chocolate suit and blond-striped tie. She asked him about his week in New York City.

While the waiter poured her wine, LaVal mentioned that he was vying to be the keynote speaker at the Black Lawyers of America conference next month.

“The original speaker canceled, so they’re scrambling for a replacement.”

“It would be a great way to kick off the book,” she said, watching him dish a few pieces of calamari on her plate, before taking some for himself. The wine was tasty. “What is this?”

“It’s Vernaccia di San Gimignano, a dry white wine from Tuscany. It’s one of my favorites.” LaVal pronounced the Italian label with no accent.

“What are you? A connoisseur?”

“Nah. Just know a little sumptin’ sumptin’ about entertaining.” His eyes held her gaze a second too long.

“Do you speak Italian?”

“Piccolo. A little.”

The waiter returned with mixed olives, warm bread and a dish of olive oil. They placed their orders and the menus were removed.

LaVal stretched back in his chair. “So, tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Are you originally from New York?”

“Newark.” Erica took a sip of water. She wanted to be sure to stay hydrated and sober. She felt shy under his spotlight and changed the subject. “Why don’t you tell me about you, since
you’re the subject that I have to sell.”

“You’re selling me,” he chuckled. “I love it, but I’m sure there isn’t too much that I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

“Tell me something that’s not in the book,” she leaned in, but it didn’t take much to egg him on. In the time that it took for the first course to be cleared, it became obvious LaVal liked being on stage. His face was animated as his history unraveled, and Erica could easily picture him as a television personality, and told him so. LaVal laughed. “I’ve heard that once or twice before.”

The waiter lowered his tray onto the wooden stand, and Erica’s nose seemed to open up wide from the aroma of cheese, sherry and butter. Food had become her new lover and she couldn’t wait for her fix. LaVal had the grilled lamp chops, Erica the creamy seared scallops. Forks and knives clanked and cut, while they chatted and chewed.

“Enough about me. You’re the one I’m entrusting my entire writing career to. Who is Miss Erica Shaw? Is it Miss or Mrs?” Faint freckles dotted the bridge of his nose, and his sand dune eyes were intense but kind.

“It’s Miss.” She dragged her sliced scallop through the sauce.

“How long have you been with B&B?”

“Just over four years.”

“Like it?”

She nodded.

“How much longer do you plan to be there?”

“Excuse me?” Erica put down her fork, and LaVal’s face widened to a flirt.

“I was just testing your loyalty.”

“You don’t have to. I’m fabulous at what I do.”

“So then I should be a
New York Times
bestseller this time
next year?”

“Slow down, trumpet…I mean…cowboy.” Erica looked into her plate, pinching her thigh under the table.

“You play the trumpet?”

“No.” She sipped the last drop of her wine, and was grateful when LaVal poured her another without asking.

“So how did you make it out?” she turned it to him.

He shrugged. “There was always something in me that radiated greatness, even when I was on the streets dodging foster care.”

“What was your breaking point?”

“You ever been to a group home?” he asked, and then continued without waiting for her response. “We used to put our names on our socks so that they couldn’t be stolen, because you don’t want to be caught without socks in a Chicago winter. That life wasn’t for me,” he shook his head, and as he talked about the past, his speech pattern changed. Erica could see darkness etch around his brows and in the slits of his eyes. His transformation made her feel cottony towards him. Women loved a reformed man with a glint of the streets. Once she got a picture of him in the local papers with a nice write-up, the women should flock to the book signings like cattle in a herd.

“When I met my mentor, it was a no-brainer. He set me up, and I changed from working the hood to getting my education. It wasn’t hard. I was a smart dude. Every now and again I’d dip back for a little cash, but once I was focused that was it.”

The waiter topped off their wineglasses and they both declined dessert. A WASPy couple entered the restaurant and took a seat at the next table. The woman’s rosy perfume went straight to Erica’s head.

“When’re you headed back?”

“Tomorrow. So will you show me New York?”

“I need to get home.” She straightened up in her chair.

“It’s Friday.”

“My mother’s visiting.”

The waiter placed the check on the table and LaVal grabbed it before Erica could.

“I’ll pay.” She summoned the bill with her pointer finger, but he refused to hand it over.

“I can’t have a woman pay for my dinner.”

“That’s my job.”

“Then I’ll let you buy me a drink.” He pulled a platinum card from his wallet. “Come on, just a quick one at the bar.”

Erica knew she should stand her ground and bid LaVal good night. He was her author, and she was already two and a half glasses into the night, on the rebound and incredibly lonely. But going home was so unappealing that she agreed. When LaVal walked over to help her with her chair, she wasn’t sure if it was the influence of the wine, but he smelled wonderful.

On the ride home,
Erica wrote down everything that she could remember from their conversation. This was the part of her job that she loved: getting at the core of a writers’ work so that she could twirl her pitch to the media just right. Erica anticipated reporters salivating over LaVal’s book as if it were caramel-crusted pie.

Her mother was up watching a movie when she walked in. A 22-ounce can of Colt 45 was cracked open on the table.

“Where did you get that?” Erica pointed.

“Chile, you got some stairs. I walked down to the corner for some air. It’s Friday, Slim, let me live.”

Erica didn’t feel like fighting. “Any calls?”

“Phone ain’t ring all day. You eat?”

Erica dropped her things in her bedroom. It was the one room that her mother hadn’t sparkled, probably because she couldn’t figure out what was dirty or clean. Erica slipped into her yoga pants and got out of her bra. In the living room, the television was turned up too loud and her mother was fooling with her hair.

“You just washed it?”

“Yeah, and the back gets so tangled. Can you grease my scalp for me?”

“Now?”

“Before it dries up.”

Erica sighed and tossed two pillows in front of the futon on the floor.

“You ’spect me to get down there, with these knees and my arthritis?”

Right, nothing on her mother’s body worked. Erica went for the folding chair that she kept stored in her bedroom closet. Bringing it into the living room, she opened it up and her mother eased her plump bottom into the metal seat. She wore a faded, snap-front house coat, and cellulite dimpled her flabby arms.

“Thanks, Slim.”

The weather report had been forecasting rain all day, and finally out of nowhere came the sound of the clouds opening and water pouring from the sky. It was that hard-hitting type of storm, with drops that were fast, furious, and fleeting, and would pass in five minutes. Someone out on the street gave a screech, and Erica could hear the slapping of feet against the soaked concrete. The apartment was warm and the pitter-patter of raindrops so soothing that Erica found herself humming while she parted her mother’s hair and slathered the scalp with oil. She had a finer texture of hair than Erica’s, but it wasn’t as healthy. Whole sections were broken off and it was uneven with split ends.

“You want me to clip your ends? Make it even?” Erica knew her mother was too cheap to go to the hair salon. That wasn’t the type of thing she spent her money on.

“You know what you’re doing?”

“I trim Tess’ ends all the time.”

“Guess it can’t look no worse.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She went into the kitchen drawer for the scissors. Her mother picked up the remote and flipped the channel to the basketball game. The Nets were playing the Wizards and Erica felt her insides curdle like spoiled milk. Covering the floor in three long strides, she grabbed the remote. “I can’t watch this.”

“Fine.” Her mother put her hands in the air. She must have gotten used to Erica’s temper swings.

Leaning against the arm of the futon, Erica clicked a few channels before settling on the Food Network. Emeril was cooking New Orleans style gumbo, and listening to the ingredients distracted her bluesy emotions enough to return to her mother’s head.

As a girl Erica loved playing with dolls, brushing and braiding their plastic strands. There was something therapeutic about doing another person’s hair. Untangling and greasing was like massaging and releasing. It was an intimate gesture that reminded Erica of when her mother would sit on the front steps and cornrow her hair. Her mother made sure to fasten colorful beads on the ends of Erica’s hair, so when she jumped double-dutch, her beads would soar in every direction making music in the air. It gave her the sensation of flying.

On those days, when her mother said she was going to the store, she came right back with her Pepsi-Cola, and sometimes brought ten cent popsicles for all the kids playing outside. Erica enjoyed the attention she received when giving out the treats.
Bonnie wasn’t around and her mother was mostly sober. This would last for about a week, and it didn’t take much for Erica to start thinking that her mother would get a job, stop drinking for good, show up for parent/teacher conferences, and pay back the candy drive money she had stolen from Erica’s hiding place under her panties in her top drawer. But as soon as these thoughts started looking like clear pictures, the dreaded white Trans Am would appear in their driveway. Erica’s bedroom was in the front of the house and she could hear the engine roar into the spot before anyone else. Bonnie would lift the mail slot and shout Gweny’s name until someone opened the door. The bottle would be hidden in a brown paper bag for the neighbor’s sake, but once Bonnie crossed the threshold, the bottle was cracked open. Each time, Erica felt like she could vomit.