Naughty or Nice
Authors: Eric Jerome Dickey
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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NAUGHTY OR NICE
Â
A
Dutton
Book / published by arrangement with the author
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All rights reserved.
Copyright ©
2003
by
Eric Jerome Dickey
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
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ISBN:
978-1-1012-1006-2
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A
DUTTON
BOOK®
Dutton
Books first published by The Dutton Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
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Electronic edition: December, 2003
A
LSO BY
E
RIC
J
EROME
D
ICKEY
The Other Woman
Thieves' Paradise
Between Lovers
Liar's Game
Cheaters
Milk in My Coffee
Friends and Lovers
Sister, Sister
A
NTHOLOGIES
Got to Be Real
Mothers and Sons
River Crossings: Voices of the Diaspora
Griots Beneath the Baobab
Black Silk: A Collection of African American Erotica
Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing
Cappuccino
(Movie)âOriginal Story
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Learned that in physics, the day I was actually paying attention.
ivvy
ARE YOU A WOMAN BETRAYED?
I
was reevaluating my life. I'd been keeping busy at work, teaching skincare and body-care therapists the correct treatment protocol, product knowledge classes, taking out-of-town trips to teach business classes on how to be successful in the skincare industry.
The irony was that I smiled at my nine-to-five and taught people how to get it together when my marriage was ragged and everything in my world was falling apart.
I went to my hotel window, looked at the never-ending whiteness falling from above, at the mountains of snow that lined the street, folded my arms, and went back to my laptop.
The ad read,
ARE YOU A WOMAN BETRAYED
? It was from a Website for discreet encounters. The Webpage had popped up on my screen while I was surfing the Net.
For the most part, I was a West Coast gal with most of the Ten Commandments carved in my heart. But this weekday seemed to be one of my weak days, the kind of day that made me gaze at my wedding ring and ask myself some hard questions.
My cellular phone rang and pulled me away from the computer.
It was Tommie, my younger sister. There were three of us McBroom girls. Now McBroom women. Frankie was the oldest.
I was the baby of the family until Tommie came along and made me a middle child. They were my bookends, my support.
In her haunting, soulful voice, she said, “Whassup, Sticky Fingers?”
I laughed. “Don't start with that.”
Most of the time Tommie was pure sunshine. But with all she's been through, I should be calling to check on her three or four times a day. Loving somebody makes you worry about them twenty-four-seven. But her voice had that motherly tone that worked my nerves.
She asked, “Where are you today?”
I told her I was in Newark, Delaware. America's first city.
She asked, “How did it go today?”
“Wasted trip. Classes were canceled. We're snowed in.”
“Still snowing back that way?”
“More like a blizzard. As soon as the trucks plow it away, it's right back.”
“How cold?”
I told her that it was six degrees out. So cold that the snow looked like it had been crystallized, and was as hard as ice. I'd gone outside to touch it and damn near froze to death.
“What's there to do back there?”
“Grow old and die.”
“Look, I have issues with you being gone and nobody knows where you are on any given day. I don't know what hotel you're at, what city you're in. That's kinda jacked up.”
Tommie wanted to know if I'd been working out, if I'd been eating three squares a day. I told her they had put me up at the Embassy Suites and there was a TGIF attached to the hotel. That was their only room service. I'd thrown on my gray sweats and worked out in the rinky-dink gym for two hours, then went over to the restaurant, ordered a low-fat salad, sat in the lobby in front of the fireplace, ate, and watched the hotel employees decorate a Christmas tree.
She said, “You have to keep your health up.”
Tommie was talking and I was back at my computer, looking
through those personal ads, every now and then punctuating the conversation with “uh huh” or “okay” or “right.”
My fascination was with the cyber world. There were a lot of explicit ads on that site.
MAHOGANY WOMAN SEEKS IVORY LOVER FOR ORAL PLEASURES.
I read them, and I saw the people, doing things that illicit lovers do.
BI-CURIOUS ISO THREESOME WITH BOYFRIEND.
I blinked away from those images. I asked Tommie, “Where is Frankie?”
“Think she went to look at some more property.”
“You seen her?”
The television was on in my hotel room. Ten o'clock news. The city and the airports were shut down. I was trapped inside this four-star cave being tortured with local news about “pothole patrols,” and a bulletin letting the city know that Home Depot was out of salt and shovels.
Tommie said, “We worked out at Sand Dune Park this morning, then we drove to Hermosa Beach and had brunch on the boardwalk at a bistro cafe.”
“Don't rub it in.” I cleared my throat, tried to stay focused. “You work today?”
“I'm at Pier 1 now. On break. Heading over to Barnes & Noble so I can get a cup of tea. It's crazy today. Old Navy has a sale, and I think we're getting a lot of their customers.”
“All sunshine in Manhattan Beach, huh?”
“Let's kill the chitchat and cut to the chase,” Tommie said. “Staying on the road isn't going to make Tony's paternity suit go away, Livvy.”
That hit me hard, a blow to my stomach and my throat at the same time.
She said, “Everybody who was at your dinner party . . . Well, you know how people talk.”
“Tell them I said fuck off.”
The fact that Tony had had an affair was bad enough, but the fact that the baby might be his, my life had become a bad dream that I couldn't shake. My head throbbed. And what I felt, it all came back just like that, that feeling that there was no word to describe.
“All I'm saying is running away will not make it go away.”
I snapped, “I'm not staying on the road to make it go away.”
I rubbed my temples, took a hard breath, and told her that one of our instructors was sick and Dermalogica had asked me to travel for a couple of weeks and teach some classes: Seven Steps to Success, Environmental Control, Spa Body Therapies, and Hormones and Menopause.
“Get real. You're not the only friggin' overpriced-lotion-pushing instructor they have.”
“I'm not a lotion pusher. I'm trained to teach over fifty classâ”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” She told me to hold on while she ordered a ginger-peppermint tea and a muffin. The server's voice came through Tommie's mouthpiece, told Tommie she looked very Christmassy in her red top and green pants. After that she came back to the phone. “You're using avoidance behavior as a defense mechanism. Stop being a coward and faceâ”
“Well, fuck you too. Don't spit that Norma Rae therapy bullshit at me. You went to Galveston, spent a few months with Nurse Ratched, and came back a regular Freud.”
Tommie introduced me to the click.
She'd brought up my pain and I'd brought up her therapy issues.
I slapped the phone against my head, cursed.
I closed my eyes. Wished I were riding down Pacific Coast Highway in a convertible, top down, all of my cares blowing into the ocean breeze as I headed up into wine country, maybe to Oakland. I'd always wanted a convertible as a second car, my
weekend car. Shit, as much money as we spent on friggin' attorney fees on this damn paternity suit, I could've had one.
I took a breath, tried not to get too worked up, tried not to cry any more useless tears.
I called Tommie back.
She answered, “What?”
“Tommie, what I just said . . . I apologize.” Everything about me was heavy. “Don't sit on my nerves like that. Remember who you're talking to. I used to change your Pampers.”
“And I'll be changing your Depends.”
“Oh, please. I'm only six years older than you.”
“Six dog years.” Sounded like she was sipping on her tea, eating her muffin. “So be nice or I'll come to whatever convalescent home you're in and kick out the plug on your life support.”
That eased the tension a little, but not much.
She asked, “Well, since everybody is asking, and you won't say, I guess I have to askâ”
“Don't.”
“Have you heard anything about Tony's DNA test? She his baby momma or what?”
“Where are you?”
“In the kiddie section of the bookstore.”
“You saying that to fuck with me?”
“What? Oh, no, no. Straight up, I'm buying a book for . . . for my neighbor's little girl. And don't trip, nobody can hear me talking about family business. Whassup with the DNA?”
I took a hard breath. “Tommie, will you give it a break?”
“We need to face this, Livvy.”
“I don't want to do this.”
“Stop walking around the pink elephant.”
I snapped, “Stop stressing me the fuck out.”
She snapped back, “You're stressing me out too.”
“I don't call you to stress you out. I'm not there to stress you out.”
“You're flying all over the country and with all these crazy
people in the world blowing up buildings I keep thinking you're going to end up on a plane with Bin Laden.”
“Baby, Bin Laden doesn't want to fuck with me right about now.”
Both of us backed down.
ARE YOU A WOMAN BETRAYED?
taunted me.
I took a hard breath, sat on the floor, my head between my knees, eyes closed. “I'm just . . . all this drama . . . these attorney fees . . . eight fucking thousand in attorney fees . . . court papers because he fucked around and . . . shit . . .”
That was when the tears came. I shivered and choked. I was feeling lonely and fat and unattractive. I'd gained so much weight that my body didn't feel like it was my body anymore.
After I told Tommie all of that, I wiped my eyes, grabbed a tissue, and blew my nose.
She softened her tone, “It's gonna be okay.”
“Can we please get off the phone now?”
“Hold on.”
She was at the cash register paying for a book. The cashier's voice came through and I heard her complimenting Tommie on her frosted makeup and reindeer socks. Then she asked Tommie if she played basketball. I could see my little sister now, tall and dressed in solid colors, long-sleeve shirt, her long hair braided and hanging down her back.
I went to the bathroom and grabbed some tissue, blew my nose again.
She came back on the line. “Stop blowing snot bubbles in my earpiece.”
“Wait . . . wait. You're wearing frosted makeup?”
“Don't start. I know it can be bad for my skin.”
“That is . . . Damn, Tommie. Make sure you cleanse so you don't break out.”
“Don't change the subject. You're making the ugly crying face?”
“Wait. Red shirt, green pants, frosted makeup, and ugly reindeer socks?”
“Hey, I work at Pier 1. It's the Christmas sale. What do you expect?”
“That's so fugly.” I chuckled.
Fugly
was one of our family phrases. It meant “fucking ugly.” “And yeah, I'm making the ugly crying face.”
We talked while she hurried down to Farmer's Market to get a banana, then as she hustled back into Pier 1. Customer after customer stopped her for decorating suggestions. If they only knew how hideous her apartment looked. Sounded like the store was crowded. It took her a moment to make it back to the break room. She was moving a lot, no doubt putting on her blue apron and name tag and that cheesy button that says “
ASK ME HOW YOU CAN GET
10%
OFF
!”
She asked me, “What's the worst thing that could happen with you and Tony?”
“God.” I sniffled, wiped my eyes with my palm. “You sound like Momma.”
“Would your world end?”
I blew my nose again. “Can we end this conversation, or at least change the subject?”
“You gonna be okay, Livvy?”
“Head hurts. I need a sleeping pill.”
“Take a Tylenol PM.”
“No, I need one six feet tall with nice-sized hands and feet.”
My baby sister howled.
“I'm not joking.” I blew my nose again. “Need an orgasm to get rid of this headache.”
“What do those feel like?”
“Headaches or orgasms?”
“That works?”
“Headaches, cramps, depression, you'd be surprised what a good O can fix.”
Tommie just turned twenty-three and hadn't had one decent sexual experience. When I was her age, I had my esthetician license, was shacking up with Tony, playing wifey, making love like rabbits, and making plans for us to get married.
Her break was over. She had to hit the floor and smile at the customers. Now I wanted to keep talking to her. But I told her I had to pack and get ready for the morning.
We ended the conversation with kisses and I love yous.
I walked to the front window, looked down at the courtyard. People were in front of the fireplace, but I didn't see anyone I might be interested in having a conversation with. Slow night. The Christmas tree was almost decorated. Right after that my cell phone rang again. I thought Tommie was calling back, or maybe it was Frankie's turn to call and harass me.
