Naughty or Nice (9 page)

I took a breath, rubbed my temples, stood at the counter, ripped the package open.

Baby pictures. She had sent pictures of the baby. Her name, Miesha. Pictures of the sonogram, photos of the baby wrapped in a blanket. There were other photos, several close-ups.

Roomba bumped into my foot. I kicked it as hard as I could.

I slapped the pictures on the counter. Stared at them for a long while. My trance was broken when the phone rang. Tony's cellular number lighting up the ID. I let it ring.

I washed dishes in total silence, dried them, and put them away.

I went back to the pictures, stared at the magnet of my humiliation.

I wrote a simple note:
She looks like you.

Then I packed more clothes and headed for my truck. I'd driven down the hill, away from my home before I gave in and allowed the tears to cloud my eyes.

S
an Diego was less than a two-hour drive from my life in Los Angeles. The same for him. If things didn't work out for either of us, or if there was simply a change of heart, if I didn't like the way he looked, or if for whatever reason he didn't like my hair, or if I wasn't thin enough for his taste, we agreed to be honest and go our separate ways, as if we never met.

My cellular rang. It wasn't the man I was planning to meet. Frankie's number was on my caller ID. She'd called at least ten times and wasn't going to stop until I answered.

I answered, “Hey.”

“Don't make me put your picture on the side of a milk carton.”

“Where are you?”

The first voice was Frankie. The second was Tommie. They had me on a three-way.

I adjusted the bags in my hand, said, “At Fashion Valley Mall. Stress shopping.”

I loved them, but hearing them did nothing for me right now.

Tommie asked, “How many pairs of shoes you buy?”

“Who said I bought shoes?”

Frankie tisked. “Oh, please.”

Via Spiga. Pliner. Pelle Moda. I had done some serious damage to my charge card, all in the name of therapy. My bookends knew me better than I knew myself. Still, I denied every single
pair of shoes I had in these bags, and the three pair I had already taken to the truck.

They let me know that Tony had been calling all over looking for me. He had been home, my husband had seen the pictures. After I'd left Ladera, I'd gone by Frankie's place.

I said, “Frankie, you really should close your livingroom windows at night.”

“What are you talking about?”

Last night I was going to stay with her. I'd called and there was no answer. As I was heading down her walkway, the sweet sounds of a McBroom woman living in pleasure, on the edge of ecstasy, came to me. And unless Sharper Image made talking vibrators, I heard Frankie's lover too, their passion slipping out into the night.

I said, “You sounded like a damn cat with its tail caught in the door.”

Frankie cursed me for busting her out like that.

Tommie laughed. “Frankie, you know your butt be woo woo wooing.”

I said, “She didn't make it to the bedroom, Tommie. She was in the living room with the damn windows open.”

“Whatever,” Frankie snapped. “All you had to do was knock, Livvy.”

“And your friend would've thought he was getting a two-for-one.”

“Hell, I could've used some help.”

I asked, “Who was over there riding you like the Lone Ranger?”

Frankie wouldn't reveal the identity of her orgasm donor.

Tommie asked, “Was it the fugly man?”

Frankie cursed Tommie out, then Tommie tried to tell me about Frankie's blind date, about her running into some guy she used to be crazy about. The phone wasn't even up to my ear, all of their words going out into the wind. I wasn't up for this kind of conversation.

I looked at my watch, then lied to them, “Gotta go. Teaching a class.”

Frankie said, “Kind of late in the day to have a class.”

“Look, I'm working so . . . guess I'll call you back when I get some free time.”

Frankie asked, “What do you want me to tell Tony if he calls again?”

“Tell him it's not your problem. That's goes for you too, Tommie.”

Tommie responded, “Okay, okay.”

“Tell Tony it's not your problem.”

“I understood it the first time.”

I let them go, took a few deep breaths, then headed outside.

I stopped underneath the sign for the JCPenney package pickup, a few feet away from the Salvation Army people who were ringing bells at every entrance. My eyes went to the sky. Darkness was sitting on the city. I looked at my watch and waited a few more minutes. I was dressed in all black, a dozen bags at my feet. First a Mexican lady passed by, her child in a stroller. Then a man passed by with his child on his shoulders. This time last year I had baby fever so bad, it was ridiculous. I knew it was my time. They were all over the mall. Some of them were pretty cute. Pisses me off to think I was sitting up with Tony, having that “let's get pregnant” conversation and he already had a bastard on the way.

A black Nissan pulled up and slowed down. He waved. I waved back. It was him. Had to be. Not many black people were down this way.

My hair was pulled back into a ponytail, like I had told him.

He said, “Bird?”

I smiled. “Carpe?”

He laughed. “Let me park.”

“Okay.”

I rocked from foot to foot, bounced my Gap and Banana Republic bags against my leg. He vanished down at the end of the lot, near the golf course. Right after he disappeared, a red Miata slowed down by me, another shopper looking for parking. The back window had been torn, maybe slashed, then repaired with
duct tape. Convertibles always made me smile and imagine riding down the coast, music up, and my hair dancing in the breeze. When you wanted something, you saw it everywhere. Dream homes. Good relationships.

My dream car sped down the aisle, mixed with the rest of the people looking for parking.

Minutes went by.

When I thought Carpe might've had a change of heart and driven away, he appeared between the cars at the end of the lot, hurrying my way.

He said, “Parking sucks.”

“I know.”

Like we had agreed, he was dressed in blacks too. He was tall, around six-four, his hair short with a goatee, and he had told me that he weighed around 185.

One look at him and I doubt if he had ten percent fat on his body.

I shook his hand. Our first touch. Our first time hearing each other's voices. My first time smelling the sweet patchouli on his skin. His first time smelling the soft perfume on mine.

He said, “Getting your Christmas shopping done?”

I held onto my smile. “Got a couple of presents . . . for my sisters.”

“Wow. Talk about shoes.”

“My fetish.”

“I see. You must've shut down the mall.”

“I know, I know. Women and shopping. Strange thing about Christmas shopping is that, well, call me selfish, but somehow I always end up buying more stuff for me than for other people.”

He chuckled. “Must be crowded in there.”

“Kinda weird. Lot of cars, but nobody's really lining up for the cash register.”

“It's like that all over.”

“Yep. Economy is really bad. People are losing jobs and holding onto their chips.”

He nodded. “How was your drive?”

In Southern Cali, when people felt awkward and didn't know what to talk about, they always talked about two things: traffic and weather.

“Easy,” I said. “Came down the 405 then took the toll road to the 5.”

“I've never taken the toll road.”

“Three bucks saves you thirty minutes.”

He motioned at the bags sitting at my feet. “How long have you been here?”

“Came down late last night. Needed to get away from L.A.”

“I feel you.”

There were things we could do to get comfortable, places we could walk and talk: Seaport Village, Fashion Valley Mall, or take the 5 across the border and hang out in Tijuana.

He said, “Hungry?”

“People on a diet are always hungry.”

“What do you want?”

We stood there, smiling awkwardly at each other. It was very bizarre, this moment that made him more than words and a name on a computer screen. He'd gone from being virtual to real. I was trying to be cool, but I was tense, nervous as hell.

I said, “You heard of the Gaslamp District?”

“Don't think I've been down there.”

“It's a hot spot. Restaurants, jazz joints, night clubs, whatever.”

“Which way?”

“Not far.”

“You want to ride with me or—?”

“Follow me.”

“No problem.”

“Let's eat and . . . take it from there.”

He nodded.

 

I caught the 8 down at Hotel Circle. Carpe followed me to the Historic District and we parked in Horton Plaza, the outdoor mall facing the Gaslamp. I thought I'd get lost, but I didn't.
I'd looked this up online and printed out the directions before I went to meet Carpe. The area was a miniaturized version of Bourbon Street mixed with a little of New York's Soho, landscaped by evergreen and palm trees to give it that bona fide West Coast flavor.

He said, “Nice Victorian architecture down here.”

I agreed with a nod, then asked, “What do you want to eat?”

The moment I said that, my question felt sexual. It didn't sound that way, but it felt that way. That wasn't a question to ask a man. Too open ended.

I rushed my words, “There are over eighty restaurants over sixteen blocks.”

He said, “I'm open.”

“Well, there's Japanese, Italian, Mexican . . .”

“Let's just walk and be adventurous.”

“Okee doke.”

“See something you like, we'll check it out.”

We crossed the street, two restless people in search of something better, blended with the crowd, passed by clubs playing cool jazz, rhythm and blues, and folk music, stopped in the Hard Rock Cafe for a moment, moved on by cigar shops and billiard rooms, saw some salsa dancing, even passed by a disco complete with strobe lights and mirrored balls.

He said, “You look nice.”

“Thanks. You too.”

“I didn't expect . . . You're beautiful, if you don't mind my saying so.”

I smiled. He said that in a soft and soothing, reassuring way. “Thanks.”

I was wearing an angora sweater and velvet jeans, the kind of clothes that felt good to the touch. Clothes that were sexy without being hoochie.

He said, “Your husband cheated?”

I put my hands in the pocket of my leather jacket, then one hand came up to my hair, rubbing it back when it needed no rubbing. My humiliation was easier to talk about online. When
Carpe had no face, no voice, no aroma, I had found comfort in his anonymity.

I said, “He had an affair.”

“How'd you find out?”

“What do you mean?”

“She call you? Did you hire a service to follow him? . . .”

“We were having a dinner party, celebrating my husband's promotion with friends, family, a few neighbors. The doorbell rang. There was this beautiful woman asking for him.”

“She came to the door?”

“No, it was the process server. And of course when a beautiful woman comes to your door looking for your husband, you don't leave. I waited. He came to the door, and she slapped the papers in his hand, told us to have a good night, and walked away.”

“Wow. At a dinner party?”

“My sisters, our friends, lots of people were there. It fucked me up. I went nuclear, started yelling, made everybody leave. It just . . . damn. Really made an ass of myself.”

“Can only imagine. How old is the kid?”

The image of those baby pictures were engraved in my mind. I took my hands out of my pocket, then put them right back in.

I answered, “Six months.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Five years.”

“Kids?”

“We'd been trying . . . then this . . . Can we talk about something else?”

At one time I was so clear about what I wanted to do with my life. Now I wasn't so clear anymore.

He put his hand on my shoulder for a moment. “How about them Raiders?”

I laughed. “Raider fan?”

“Yup.”

“Cool.”

We walked and talked sports. Both of us were down with the
Lakers, straight ride-or-die. And I lived for March Madness. I told him I played basketball in college.

He asked, “What position?”

“Mostly small forward and running guard.”

“No wonder your body is so nice.”

“Not even. Back then they had me down to twelve percent body fat.”

He asked, “Were you any good?”

“I can take you to the hoop.”

“Don't talk it if you can't back it up.”

“Oh, I can back it up.”

“We're gonna have to find a court so I can take you to school.”

I said, “Scored twenty-eight points in one game.”