Love in a Carry-On Bag (19 page)

“Finished,” she took her mother by the arm and helped her from the folding chair.

“Ooh, ouch. You hear those bones crack? Where the mirror at?”

Erica pointed towards the bathroom, and then followed the few steps.

Her mother held onto the pedestal sink, turning her head from side to side. “Oh, my. Slim, who knew you could do hair? I look wonderful.”

“New hair, new attitude,” Erica found herself hoping aloud. The haircut was fitting. Shorter in the back, layered in the front with feathered curls falling against her forehead. The bruises on her mother’s face were clearing up, but her lip still sagged.

“Next time, I’ma bring some color so you can dye all of this gray.”

“Ma, you have like ten strands. That’s good for your age.”

“If you ain’t have so many steps I would say we should go out,
but I ain’t going down. That rain got me aching already.”

“You’re not that old.”

“Chile, you don’t even understand.” Her mother walked back to the chair and lifted her beer. “You got cards?”

In the kitchen, Erica found a deck in the same drawer as the scissors. A pen and pad was already on the coffee table. She and her mother had been playing Rummy 500 since Erica was old enough to count, back when they watched soap operas together.

“Ma, you still look at
Guiding Light?
”

“Every day.”

Cross-legged on the futon, Erica shuffled the first hand. “Cutting?”

“Now you know I ain’t choppin’ up my aces.” Erica forgot her mother’s card superstitions. Most people cut for the winning cards but she just patted the top for luck, and the game began.

While they played, her mother caught her up on family gossip; which cousin was pregnant, on drugs, in jail, moved out West and started a new business. The conversation was easy, and it was good-natured moments like these, when iced tea was merely made from leaves, sugar and water, with no hidden baggage floating to the top, that got Erica to dreaming. Erica knew it was a dangerous feeling considering the disappointments of their past, but she just couldn’t help it.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Girls Night

T
he next evening, Erica
attended a book signing at the Barnes & Noble in Union Square. That location was reserved for only the most premiere authors, and Ms Elizabeth Mavis Samuels fit the bill. She was one of the groundbreakers and grandmothers of African-American literature. Her first manuscript was lost when she left it on a city bus. It had been typed on a typewriter, so she had to start the book again from scratch. Once she had finally finished, her manuscript was rejected thirty-seven times before being offered a meager deal for publication. She had since become a
New York Times
bestseller and her ten novels had been printed in fifty-two languages worldwide. Elizabeth had been Edie’s author and Erica was happy to inherit such a legend. A beautiful woman, Elizabeth had long salt-and-pepper locks that hung past her back, some with cowry shells clipped to the ends. When she looked you in the eye, it seemed as if she were reading you. Erica had arrived earlier than necessary to make sure Elizabeth was comfortable. They hit it off right away.

“You remind me of my granddaughter.” Elizabeth turned her soulful eyes on Erica, “Smart and savvy. But, dear, why are you so sad?”

Damn. “I’m fine, ma’am, really. Please let me know if you need anything.”

“I’ve been a one-woman show forever. But it is always good to know that help is available.” She squeezed Erica’s hand, and then hugged her to her breast. The scent of lemongrass wafted from her shoulders and once she let go, Erica felt lighter, like she was fully in the room. Elizabeth patted her cheek and walked with the grace of a queen to the front of the room. Without waiting for a proper introduction she took the stage. Every chair in the room was filled, and additional fans filed around the edges of the stage and in the aisles. Elizabeth was long past coaching, so Erica had the privilege of just listening and absorbing.

After a brief question and answer period, Elizabeth moved to the desk and began signing books, shaking hands and posing for photographs. Erica’s cell phone vibrated inside of her bag, and when she saw Tess’ number on the caller-ID she moved behind a shelf of books to answer.

“What’s up, Sugar?” chirped Tess.

“At a signing. What are you so happy about?”

“Got the night off. Where’s Warren?”

Erica hadn’t told her about the break-up, and simply replied that he was in D.C.

“Great. Let’s meet for a drink?”

“Sure,” she had nothing else to do tonight. “I’m in Union Square.”

“Perfect. Madame X on Houston, I’ll be waiting at the bar.”

It
had been raining
off and on for the past twenty-four hours and a light sprinkle drizzled from the clouds as Erica stepped from the taxicab. Flipping the collar of her raincoat, she trotted down the few steps to the basement bar. Tess was seated on the suede bar stool. Her afro was picked out to its fullest and she was wearing a gr
een halter dress that clung to her curves. Her ample cleavage, brushed with glitter, was at the center of attention.

“Hey, Sugar,” she popped her gum and then kissed Erica on the cheek. She smelled like a cinnamon stick.

“Where’re your clothes? It’s not summertime,” Erica dropped her tote over her chair.

“This is Ken, our hunk of a bartender,” Tess smiled up at the thick armed blond. “Make her the same drink, sweetie.”

“What am I having?”

“It’s called a sexy motherfucker,” Tess did a shoulder slide. “Can you believe they named a drink after us?”

Erica gave a weak smile and then looked around the dim room. The bar was outfitted in red velvet chairs from the seventies. Nothing matched exactly but it worked, lending the room a dark, vamp feel.

“I’m glad I picked this place, there’s a live band at nine,” Tess said, sipping. “Maybe I’ll get up and sing.”

It was just like Tess to walk on stage uninvited and out-sing the performers paid for the gig.

“How was your day?” Erica stirred her drink.

“I just had a date with Hercules.” All of Tess’ men had secret nicknames. “Girl, brother man is so sexy the whole dinner felt like foreplay.”

“So what happened?”

Tess batted her eyes. “I gave it to him in the bathroom of this snobby Upper Eastside restaurant
Unfaithful
style.
”

“
Unfaithful
?”

“Didn’t you see the movie with Diane Lane and Richard Gere?”

Erica’s face went blank.

“You don’t watch enough television for me. Well, it was insatiable. I’m surprised my afro is still intact.” She patted her ’do. Erica could feel Tess studying her and knew what was coming next.

“Whatcha looking so down about?”

“I’m not down.” Was it that obvious? She had done her make-up, combed her hair and was wearing a stylish black ruffled top with fitted trousers.

“You can’t outdress your problems,” said Tess, reading her thoughts.

Erica didn’t want to break down at the bar. Tess sensed it was something big and ordered a second round. The lounge area was half empty, but every seat at the bar was full and the talk boisterous. After another gulp of her drink, Erica told Tess about Warren. Every detail tumbled out, from their last weekend in D.C., the strong fights, Blanche, his father getting married suddenly, to him calling it quits in Philadelphia. By the time she finished, she had to pinch her thigh to keep the tears from welling up.

Tess moved to hug her, but Erica pushed her away. “Don’t make me cry. This is so fucking unfair.”

“So why are you taking it?”

Erica looked at Tess.

“Honey, I would have been on the train to D.C. by now. Warren is a good man. Go kiss and make up.”

The thought had crossed her mind, but Erica couldn’t take any more rejections. “I called twice, and he hasn’t returned either call.”

Tess told Ken to keep an eye on their drinks, pulling Erica outside for a cigarette. Huddled against the brick wall, they smoked while watching the cars and cabs zoom by. The drizzle was frizzing up both of their hairs but neither seemed to care.

“Want my advice?” she turned, but didn’t wait for Erica to respond. “Relationships go through things. Just because he got mad doesn’t make it a deal breaker. Warren is hurting too. If he doesn’t answer your calls, then go after him.”

Smoke curled from Erica’s lips, and the nicotine rush was
instant. She took a moment to enjoy the fuzziness it caused in her head. Tess was probably right, but just going to D.C. took guts that Erica wasn’t sure she had. She felt wimpy and weak, and if he rejected her again, she didn’t know what she would do. She stubbed out the cigarette and led Tess back to the bar.

Ken had poured them each a Kamikaze shot, and the three cheered, then threw the drinks back. Erica was becoming her mother. She couldn’t remember the last night she had gone to bed sober.

The musicians were setting up their instruments on stage, and the drummer sprung into action, lightly tapping his drum sticks.

“What’s up with your promotion?” Tess asked and Erica could tell that she was changing the subject to keep her mind occupied. The two had been sisters-friends-neighbors for the past three years and there wasn’t another woman alive that understood Erica the way that Tess did.

“Just waiting to be acknowledged.”

“Honey, you work for corporate America. Ain’t nobody giving you shit you don’t ask for.”

“Edie is out. What should I do?”

Tess looked at Erica like she had just failed an elementary spelling quiz. “Request a meeting with your boss and tell her what you want,” Tess touched her chin, “then go to D.C. and tell Warren what you need.”

The music started, and a sun-kissed sister wearing a floor-length, red dress started singing her rendition of “That’s the Way Love Goes,” by Janet Jackson.

Erica wondered if it was a sign.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Purpose

I
t was dawn when
Warren finally made it home. He kicked off his shoes before shouldering his front door closed with a thud. The blisters on his feet caused by the rental shoes had ruptured, and he could feel the pus oozing into his silk socks. He plopped down in his love seat, and peeled them off and massaged his swollen toes. What had he been thinking? Sex with Blanche? She wasn’t his type, and had only served as a temporary fix to put some distance between him and Erica. Now, he dreaded the aftermath this would cause at work. What was worse, Warren fell asleep after sex, and when he woke up he thought it was Erica next to him. For three beautiful seconds his heart skipped happily and he actually thought that Philadelphia was nothing more than a bad dream. But then he heard a sleeping sigh and realized it wasn’t her, and his entire evening rushed back: the wedding, seduction by Blanche and the sheer absence of Erica.

It was on his drive home that missing Erica had started like the onset of a toothache. It was a slow nag that worked its way to a pinching pain. By the time he was slumped against the sofa the ache had permeated his nervous system and reached a place where “Ouch” couldn’t begin to describe his torment. All he could think about was Erica—her lithe touch, spirited voice, the way she stood war posing when she was upset, and the image of her bottom lip trembling with sexy rage when her mother called.

Sleeping with Blanche had given his body some relief, but it was his soul that needed soothing. Warren was restless and uneasy, but he didn’t want to medicate with alcohol, or smoke marijuana until he was in a purple haze. What he needed was a friend, and from across the room his silver brass mate beckoned him. Warren took three steps to retrieve his horn and when he unclasped the metal case, his trumpet begged to be cradled and kissed.

Warren wasn’t sure what it was, but something made him carry his horn down the hall until he was standing in front of his spare bedroom. The room was box-sized and had been closed off from the rest of his apartment since the day he had salvaged his mother’s music collection. After her death, his father thought nothing of leaving her items curbside for the sanitation department. But Warren had rescued her piano stool that had been in her family for over a century, crates of vintage albums, and her favorite sheet music before the garbage trucks arrived. He had planned to make the spare bedroom a music sanctuary, but had never gotten around to it.

Blues, classical and jazz albums by Nina Simone, Dinah Washington, Muddy Waters, Mozart, Bach and Ray Charles were stacked against the eggshell walls, with countless others. Her wooden record player sat in the corner, with a thick film of dust covering the oak frame. When Warren lifted the top and dropped the needle, out belted Billie Holiday. Her sad, sultry voice was as much a part of his childhood as his favorite Spider-Man pajamas.

Some day he’ll come along, the man I love.

Warren hadn’t heard his mother’s favorite song in ages. The emotions behind everything that he carried over the last month welled up inside of him until it was difficult to stand. So he sat on the stool. His mother had loved Erica for him as much as he did, and the tears flowed with a furiousness that forced Warren
to shove the collar of his dress shirt into his mouth. The grief hit him like a whirlwind. Warren had spent so much energy burying his true self beneath objects that were supposed to make him feel good: his shiny SUV, the eighth-floor condominium, his high-salaried job, all of the things that made him look established on paper. But the death of his mother followed by losing Erica made him feel hollow inside, like a forgotten conch shell. Once he allowed himself to be honest, pent up misery began unraveling and he couldn’t stop throwing it up. It left his body in spouts of babbling cries, coughing and clutching, kicking and screaming. This felt as though it went on forever, until Warren was weakened and wet, and his body just stopped and stooped over in silence. Then he heard the most familiar voice whispering in his ear, “Play son, play.”

Warren was still sitting on the stool that his ancestors had shared, and as he placed his mouthpiece against his lips, he felt their kindred spirits traveling through his body. His mother’s lilac scent filled the small room.

Now she was seated on the piano stool, her long fingers in position, nodding that it was time. A duet between Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong was next, and Warren and his mother joined them. As his notes pierced the air, his mother’s were soft, as if she were bathing him like she did when he was her baby. Warren replaced Billie with Bird, and as his mother’s petite foot worked the pedals, her entire body danced up and down the keys. When he played Coltrane’s “Favorite Things,” his mother played faster, bringing Warren to his feet. Once he was up, her fingers swept across the keys as if she were sprinkling his body with her special oils, while whispering, “This is your Purpose. You are a King.”

Warren mashed his valves in acceptance of her gift, knowing at that moment that if he lifted his arm, he would fly.

Once the records stopped,
Warren’s body was spread across the floor like he had just finished making angels in the snow, and he stared without seeing the ceiling. His lips were dry and chapped, and he had lost all sense of time. Instead of playing the music, he cradled his horn in his arms and whistled the melodies, mimicking the notes with his fingertips. A telephone rang in the distance, but Warren’s ears only heard music.

A few days later,
he was still there.