Love in a Carry-On Bag (5 page)

Chapter Six

I Wish I Could

It was dark when
Erica got off the PATH train at Penn Station. Even though she was born and raised in Newark she had spent so many years in New York that she felt like a stranger. She maneuvered through the pedestrian traffic past the bookstore, the wine and spirit shop, the newsstand, and McDonald’s, pinning her handbag to her side, never forgetting that it was filled with her father’s fifty dollar bills. Now because of her mother’s trouble her dream of throwing her father’s money back in his face would never be.

Train stations brought all classes of life together; suits with hired cars curbside, commuters chugging down that last cup of coffee before heading home to children and chores, and the down-and-out loiterers who hogged the wooden benches until police ordered them to move on. Erica was one who hurried, pushing through the sliding glass doors and onto the street, not stopping until she reached the taxi stand. A heavy-set woman with a curly-do and airbrushed nails motioned her into the next cab.

“Where to?” the driver asked in a thick West Indian accent as she slid across the splintered vinyl seat. The car smelled like a half carton of cigarettes and Erica hoped the smell didn’t get trapped in her hair. She read off the address while letting the window down some. The fresh air calmed her nerves, which had not stopped buzzing since her mother’s morning call. She couldn’t wait for this to be all over.

Outside the tinted window, Broad Street stumbled by with packed bus stops, vendors selling the latest bootleg DVDs and mixed CDs, knock-off designer purses, tube socks and children’s trinkets. Young mothers in tight pants negotiated prices as their babies sucked on pacifiers, kicking their feet against plastic-covered strollers.

When the driver made a left onto Bergen Street and headed toward Central, Erica counted five liquor stores in a twelve-block radius. Fatty fast-food restaurants occupied every third corner with large signs advertising dollar menus. The homes were rundown but shackled with wrought-iron gates. Housing projects were named after African-American heroes like Betty Shabazz, Malcolm X and Shirley Chisholm, people who deserved higher recognition for their American achievements than dilapidated tenements. The debris blowing down cracked streets was as common as the young men hugging the corners in oversized coats, jeans fastened below their waist, and Timberland boots. Even the trees look sad.

“Thanks,” she paid the driver. He sped off before she reached the front door. Chivalry was so dead.

The bail bonds’ office was a standard storefront with a red-and-white striped awning and thick bars over the two windows. The street was eerily empty and Erica was relieved when she was buzzed inside. At the end of the short hall a man dressed in a velour running suit waved her in. He was younger than she had expected.

“I’m Chris,” he said with a warmness that put her at ease. The office was sparse with a gray metal frame desk on the right and two faux leather chairs. An old boom box sat on top of one of the file cabinets and Erica recognized the song playing low. The walls were ecru and bare except for the poster of Martin Luther King, Jr., holding his inmate number taped with the quote, “If you bend your back people will ride your back. If you stand up straight
can’t nobody ride you.”

The quote hit Erica with a pang. When she was seven-years old, she would go to work with her father in his garage every Saturday. Each week he brought her a crispy fried bacon and egg sandwich that she would eat while sitting in the driver’s seat of whichever car he worked on. Careful not to spill crumbs. The same quote was pinned to her father’s bulletin board and it was one he repeated often. Her hand dropped into her purse and caressed the wad of fifties.

“
We have a problem,” Chris took her coat. “In addition to the bail we discussed earlier, a detainer for your mom popped up in Irvington. Turns out she has some unpaid traffic tickets.”

Her mother had lost her driver’s license years ago.

“How much is it?”

“Five hundred with no ten percent.”

“What does that mean?” Her hand covered a cough that came out dry and rattled.

“It’s cash only, which means you’ll have to pay the whole thing.”

Erica’s armpits began to sweat. “Why didn’t you tell me this over the phone?”

“It just popped up before you arrived. I can still post bail for the shoplifting charge but the jail won’t release her until the detainer has been satisfied.”

Erica didn’t know what to do. This situation had already caused her to split her soul in directions that troubled her pride. She had left her job an hour early, was spending her father’s money that had accumulated in her drawer, and
now she had to call Warren for the difference. Although he wouldn’t hesitate to help, she still hated asking.

Music was already swirling
in Warren’s head as he clicked off his desk lamp and shoved a file in his satchel. At the last minute Brett had called another meeting, this time with the hardware team to discuss design options. Now he was running late for his gig at Sweet Melodies, but if traffic was on his side he could still make curtain. His band had never had a musician of Bobby Watson’s caliber sit in before and Warren couldn’t wait to share the stage.

“’Night, Gladys,” he waved to the evening receptionist as he crossed the travertine floors of the main lobby. Erica’s ringtone went off and he reached for his phone.

“Hey, baby,” he sang.

“Where are you?”

“Heading to the club. Bobby’s there tonight. What’s up?”

“My mother is in jail,” her voice cracked.

“What? Why didn’t you call me? Where are you?” he stopped in front of his building, but the air was so chilly he was forced to keep walking.

“In Newark. At the bail bonds. I can pay the bail but some ticket came up for another five hundred.”

“Whatever you need, baby. How come you didn’t call me earlier?”

“I did but…”

“You should have left a message,” his voice was rising, and before she could respond, he apologized. Erica put him on hold and he could hear her talking to someone in the background. It bugged him that he couldn’t be there to help figure things out.

“There’s a Western Union on the corner but they close in thirty minutes. Do you have time to stop?”

A fierce wind spun up, licking Warren’s face. He knew that if he stopped he’d never make the show.

“Can I send it first thing in the morning?”

“She won’t get out if I don’t pay the detainer and I’m not leaving her there overnight.”

“What about my credit card?” he slid behind the wheel.

“Honey, it’s cash only. Forget it, I’ll figure something out.”

“Let me speak to the bondsman.”

“I said don’t worry about it, I’ll handle it,” she said, her tone embarrassed. “I don’t want you to miss your performance.”

“Erica, put the man on the phone,” he retorted, leaning on agitation. A few seconds later Warren heard a man’s voice and they talked about what he needed to do.

Wiring the money had
sucked up a full hour. When Warren walked into the club his band was well into the second set, jamming with a young trumpet player from Southeast. He didn’t see Bobby anywhere. The place was packed with Monday-night regulars but Warren wasn’t in the mood for small talk. The bar was shaped like a horseshoe and Warren found a seat in the curve.

“What’s up, Sissy?” he said, greeting the regular bartender over the music.

“Hey, handsome. What’s your poison?” she smiled, resting her hand on her curvy hip. Sissy’s skin was the color of cognac and she wore a black Cleopatra wig that was as much a staple at the club as she was.

“Glenfiddich, neat. Bobby still around?” He leaned in over the music and could smell her wig spray.

“No, honey, he rushed out of here about ten minutes ago, said something about teaching a class first thing.”

It was just Warren’s luck. A chance of a lifetime lost in a puddle of responsibility. Sissy returned with his drink.

“What happened to you? Boss working you like a runaway slave?” she chuckled.

“Something like that,” he said, dipping his head. Warren downed his four ounces and headed for the stage.

Chapter Seven

Game Time, Jersey Girl

Erica lounged on the
bright orange futon with her feet tucked under her. “I’m home.”

“You took a taxi, right?” asked Warren. Live music was playing in the background, and Erica could hear the chatter of different voices resonating at once.

“I had more than enough left over,” she said, feeling sheepish. “Thanks.”

“I need to keep you safe.”

Even with the distance, Warren overwhelmed her with devotion and mere talk couldn’t express how sustained she felt.

“How’s your mom?”

“A mess, but at home. Did you make the show?”

“Naw, but it’s cool,” his voice dropped and Erica felt his blow.

“I’m sorry.”

The music got louder. “Look, you’ve had a long day. Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Promise?”

“Kiss, kiss.”

Erica held the phone against her breast long after the line died, too riled up for bed. A glass of wine would have been sedating, but her cabinet was dry. So she sat staring at the exposed brick wall in front of her. It was one of the best features in her one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t newly refurbished like a lot of the Harlem apartments, which had attracted a mix of young, white, and foreign professionals. But for Erica, the place was a perfect fit. With gleaming hardwood floors, oversized windows, a tiny kitchen cove, claw foot bathtub, and original moldings and trim throughout, the space had an old school feel. Her unit was at the front of the house, so it was flooded with natural sunlight. Adjacent to the window was a three-tiered bookshelf leaning heavily on its side bursting with books, some from childhood. Magazines and manuscripts were stacked under the glass coffee table. On the surface of the table were two used tumblers, a dry cleaning receipt, and a word search book stuffed with a pencil. Erica grabbed the book and started flipping.

It was important for her to pick the right subject when selecting a word search. The topic needed to capture her mood. Exotic islands, Cadbury candies, Celtic string instruments, sea animals. She settled on the islands. First word Bora Bora. Eight letters and she was sure the word was either upside down or backwards. It was backwards, jackpot. Next the Cayman, easy. Daukuskie Island, tricky, but she found it diagonal, right side up. Circling each word was like pulling the lever on the slot machine and winning. Chi ching. She moved through the puzzle, ending on Vancouver Island. The next puzzle she chose was Goddesses of the World, and the sound of lead scratching the page became her lullaby.

Tuesday night she worked
late and so did Warren, so their conversation was quick.

“How was your day?”

“Missed you.”

“You more.”

“Dream about me.”

On Wednesday to pass the time, she took a free African dance
class with her neighbor, Tess. That night, she and Warren fell asleep whispering and breathing on the telephone. When Friday finally arrived she couldn’t contain her excitement and dialed Warren first thing.

“Don’t be late. I have a surprise for you.”

“I hope it includes nudity,” he teased.

“You’re such a dirty old man,” she called back.

“With a fine ass woman like you, can you blame me?”

Erica felt her face blushing and promised to see him soon.

After their long week apart, Erica was really looking forward to relaxing courtside at the Nets/Wizards game with him and she planned to look incredible while doing it. Her bi-weekly paycheck dropped on Thursday and after work she had her shoulder-length hair pressed and curled. The nail salon was her next stop. She sat for over an hour getting her eyebrows waxed and nails polished. Finding the right look for the game wasn’t easy either. After scouring the shops along Avenue of the Americas in the West Village, she finally scored a pink Nets baby tee and a pair of skinny jeans that fit like they were sketched on.

At work, she camouflaged her evening look with a two-buttoned blazer and ballerina flats, saving her stiletto boots for game time. All morning she slaved over a press release. For lunch, she sat in the cafeteria forking down a salad, but the afternoon sauntered on like a stubborn heat wave. The office was insanely quiet for a Friday, and after dashing off an email to one of her authors, she decided to call it quits. But then Warren called saying that he was running late.

“I thought you were leaving early?”

“I should’ve been finished by now but the program I’m
working on has some sort of bug.”

“Will it take long?”

“No, I just need to see if the problem is on my end or with the developer’s program.”

“I hope there’s no traffic,” she was trying not to pout.

“Once I verify that it’s not my error, I’m on the road.”

“K, meet you out front.”

When Warren dropped the
receiver in the cradle he noticed Blanche hovering over him. Their cubicles shared a common wall and she was leaning on it like she wanted to chat.

“Everything all right in paradise?” She picked invisible lint from her French puffed sweater. Her lips were painted fuchsia, her hair pulled to one side.

“Debugging. Should’ve been out of here thirty minutes ago.” He flicked his wrist and pushed back his sweater.

“Quick favor? Could you grab me a few backup disks from the supply room? Whoever stocks them puts them way out of my reach.”

Warren cut his eyes.

“Being petite is such a handicap,” she said, cupping her chin with her palms.

“Fine,” he mumbled, figuring it would be quicker to grab the disks than find someone else to do it.

Blanche waited until
W
arren
turned the corner and slid
around to his desk. Reaching into her skirt pocket, she pulled out a disk and inserted it into his computer. Within three seconds the screen froze and she sped back over to her side.

Warren whistled on his walk down the hall.

“Here,” he handed her the box. Time was ticking, and if he moved quickly he could at least get to the game by the start of the second quarter. Rolling back his sweater he tapped the keyboard,
but after a few strokes realized the program wasn’t responding.

“What the hell?”

Blanche popped her head up. “Need help?”

“Did you see anyone touch my computer?”

She shook her head.

“The program is non-functional. This is bullshit.”

But there was no time for him to figure it out, he had to call IT. The operator told him that someone would be right up, but that always meant twenty minutes. Warren dropped his head in his hands. Nothing this week had gone according to plan.

“Since you’re going to be around, want to put in for Chinese?” Blanche called from her seat. Warren wished she would just leave him alone. He thought about leaving and dealing with the consequences later but, to his surprise, a young lady from IT arrived.

“Please fix this quickly,” said Warren, offering her his chair.