Second House from the Corner (22 page)

“This my song.” She waves her hands in the air to some gutter hip-hop that I wouldn't even work out to, but she knows every word.

Here's the thing that drives me mad about the new wave of rap. Don't get me wrong; I can Harlem Shake, Swag It Up, and Chicken Noodle Soup with the best of them. But the rap that's popular now isn't saying much of anything. There is no story to the music, like when Big Daddy Kane, Salt-N-Pepa, Nas, DMX, and my girl Eve got on the microphone. You could strap in and enjoy a story, get your money's worth. Now the MCs can't even rhyme, and literally I mean rhyme. Michael Kors doesn't rhyme with Michael Kors, Nicki Minaj. That's called using the same word twice. Perhaps she could try rhyming it with pores, oars, doors even. I'm just saying.

*   *   *

“Where are you going?” I ask Crystal once I pull onto Seventeenth Street and pass my alma mater high school, Engineering and Science, at the corner of Norris Avenue. I'm looking at the school like I hadn't seen it in years, and Crystal snickers.

“Yeah, it's still standing. You remember my girlfriend Leefa?”

I nod. She was Crystal's bestie growing up and lived on York.

“Your snootie ass school wouldn't accept her daughter. So she's going to Dobbins Tech in the fall.”

I try not to crinkle up my nose at that. I wouldn't send my enemy to Dobbins High School. I remember when we used to play basketball against them and I was terrified that a fight would break out and that we Engineers were going to get our butts whooped. We were known more for our brains than brawn. Dobbins was the opposite, and I can bet the chicken coop that things have not changed.

“Temple buying up everything 'round here. When Mama kicks the bucket and leaves me her house, I'm going to sell to them. Take that money and move down to Richmond, live in a phat house, and start over.”

“That's your plan?”

“Yep, that's my master plan. Everybody ain't got no Honeybear like you.”

“Whatever.” I suck my teeth. Crystal pulls out a pack of banana Now & Laters and tosses me one. I smile at her for remembering they are my favorite.

“I ain't rushing Mama to the grave. I love her old ass, but when she goes, I'm selling and going too. I've got it all planned, picked out my neighborhood and all.”

“Where are you going now, Chick?” I ask her again.

“Where are
you
going?” she asks me again.

“None ya.”

“I know you going to see Martin, Miss Fast Ass. You better not be fucking him.” She looks me up and down.

“I'm married.”

“Ya man ain't come get you yet? He must be mad as a hot tub filled with piss. Damn, how you mess up with a guy like that?” She fiddles with the radio station again. “Wish I could get a man to let me stay home and take care of the damn kids.”

It's just like Crystal to marginalize what I do. “That's a twenty-four-seven job. And I audition, too.”

“You ain't book nothing since that Super Bowl thingy, and what was that, like five years ago?”

“Two.”

“That's what I'm saying. Your ass had it good as shit. Make a right here on Girard Avenue and take that over to Twenty-Second Street. White people done bought all of this up now. Push the black folks out quickly.”

I turn onto the block Crystal tells me to, and then onto a side street that hasn't been gentrified in the least. This is, of course, where she's going.

“Right there.” She points and is taking her seat belt off before I can get to the curb. “Thanks for the ride. Be good.”

Crystal bangs on the door with her fist. A man in a running suit with his eyes half shut and a cell phone glued to his ear feels her booty as she passes him in the doorway. They close the door without looking back.

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

The Raging War

I get back on Broad Street, taking that to Market. My ring finger itches. Maybe I shouldn't go. I weigh it over in my head, but in the back of my mind I know that I am going. It's Friday night and I don't feel like spending it calling Preston and him not answering, worrying over my children, sulking over home, sitting in Sadville.

When I get to the front door of the apartment, Martin's standing in the doorway with beads of moisture in his hair. His soapy scent draws me in. I go for a hug, but Martin dips his face and kisses me square on the lips. I don't back up or frown fast enough.

“I shouldn't be here.”

“Young Sister, I believe in life we are always exactly where we're supposed to be.”

“Even prison?”

“Especially prison.”

The front door is at my back. Martin stands so close that we are breathing the same air. Just like in the alley way back when, he clouds my ability to think straight.

“I suspect you know a little about that yourself.”

I flash to my daily schedule. Every moment tied down to the perfection of my family's life. Moving sometimes as if I'm sleepwalking, but keeping the kids on schedule, never losing pace. Everything for everyone else, nothing left for me.

“I know I promised you a meal but I had a late start. I've ordered takeout. Rum and Coke?”

“I actually prefer Jack and ginger.”

“Then you're in luck.”

He leaves me for the kitchen. It's not until then that I become aware of the Marvin Gaye album playing in the background. Right away my mind starts comparing real men versus hood boys. I bet the guy Crystal went to see is playing some of that gutter garbage that we listened to in the car, nothing that caresses the spirit and ears. It's Marvin Gaye's voice that carries me to the sofa and allows me to consider removing my sandals. Marvin's voice settles my back against the cushions, allows the tension in my neck to subside, and puts me at ease, not Waka damn Flocka.

“Where did you get a record player from?” I ask. He hands me my drink.

“Some things don't go out of style. I've ordered from Ms. D's. Have you ever had it?”

I shake my head.

“I get the feeling that you don't come home too often. What keeps you away?”

“The memories.”

His arm is hung over the sofa, and his fingers make circles on my bare arm. The sensation rushes my blood to the surface. I sip, letting my eyes take a slow stroll up and down him. Martin is comfortable in his skin. The stint in jail certainly didn't wash away his “it” factor.

“So what brings you to Philly now?”

I gaze at him. My eyes are three-quarters closed. I'm in that space of partially here, partially there. My brain's not churning. I'm not thinking about right or wrong. He must have played an oldies greatest hits album, because Al Green's “Love and Happiness” spins, and I feel that Philadelphia soul hit me. I've missed this.

“You are still so beautiful, Faye.” He takes my chin in his hand and turns my face side to side. “What happened here?” He traces a thin scar on my cheek.

“When my son was two we were playing in the park and I got scratched with a branch. I was trying to keep him from falling and wasn't looking where I was going.”

I'm thirsty.

“I haven't danced in so long. Will you?” He holds his hand out to me. I hesitate, but he pulls me up without me giving an answer. We sail to the middle of the floor, where we sway. There is no awkwardness between us as we glide to the music.

Martin sings “something that can make you do wrong, make you do right” in the same key as Al Green. Our hips stagger toward each other to the tune of the tortured ballad. The horns, bass, and keyboard leap off the turntable and beat inside of me.

“Be good to me and I'll be good to you,” he croons at the base of my ear, and I'm glued to this place where nothing else matters. Martin brushes my lips. Before I can object, we are kissing.

His mouth is warm, like just-baked banana bread, and I ooze like peach butter. Martin's hands are in my hair. His eyes are on mine, holding me, caressing me, begging me to allow him to release my pain. I try to resist the tug but I feel him pulling forth his Young Sister while tossing aside the woman I've labored to be.

The delivery guy at the door breaks our rhythm. He taps the bell again and Martin looks down at his feet. I understand and move toward the sofa, reach into my purse, and pull two bills from the dwindling five hundred. Martin carries the food into the kitchen and sets it on the counter. I start for the couch, trying to regain myself, but he catches me in his arms and pulls me to him.

“I love this song.”

We dance some more.

My body presses into his chest, and his arms swallow me whole. Bill Withers sings “Ain't No Sunshine,” and we cling. I hold on with desperation, like a drowning woman clutches a life raft. That's when I hear the rain, thrashing in thick drops against the windowpane. Martin rocks me and then dips my head. I feel the bulge swelling in his pants. Instead of moving away, my midsection digs against his, and I have to repress the moan. My nipples stretch and strain.

“What do you want, Faye?” His breath heats my neck, and his fingers pull the rest of my uncombed hair down my back. My breasts arch toward him and I know in that moment I have come for my dose.

I am entangled in the same web that he caught me in when I was fifteen, sneaking out of church while Gran was down on her knees praying for my salvation. Martin is the medicine to my pain. He's my remedy. I open my mouth to him and he claims me, like he did when I told him how my father died. Inhales me, like he did the first time I visited my mother at the nursing home and she didn't recognize me. Holds me, like he did when I felt lost and misunderstood. And now that my husband doesn't want me, won't let me see my children, Martin kisses me like he wants nothing more than to make it all go away. And it does.

I drink until I'm tipsy. My clothes melt away. I am oblivious to anything but this moment of sweet, succulent sensitivity. In the middle of our makeshift dance floor, Martin's stout fingers are under my dress, plunging between my lips. I climb. He keeps his fingers there for longer than I can stand, and my suppressed heat airs out.

“Still so juicy, Faye.” He's hoarse.

My legs are wrapped around his waist. He carts me to the back bedroom. The queen bed smells like Ivory Soap, and I am against the pillows, spread-eagled. His knees hold me in place as his fingers resume their sweet crawl while his tongue massages my ear. My body dances, escalates, bucks to the beat we share as I feel a quickening light me up. I gasp as the pleasure overtakes me.

“Yes, baby.” He dabs my sweat but doesn't let me rest. I haven't caught hold of reasoning before he has stuffed himself into a condom and into me. My pelvis tilts to greet him and welcome him home.

I read in a trashy novel once that the first girl to sleep with a man right out of jail is the lucky one because he's pent up. I wonder if that's what was happening with Martin, because for a man thirteen years my senior his stamina and endurance rival that of a seventeen-year-old. His body buckled around me and squeezed, pressed and pulled at my misery until I am free. Then he stands me against the wall, drapes one leg over my ass, and pounds me until we are both drenched and I feel sweet and pulpy.

*   *   *

The music has stopped. Martin lights a cigarette and hands it to me, then another for himself. The satin sheets lay lazily across my stomach. Too tired to do anything but look at Martin and enjoy the moment of being with a ghost.

“Faye, I need something.” He drapes his arm across my waist.

“Not today. Let this just be about me.” I puff hard on the cigarette before putting it in the ashtray on the nightstand. My fingers are in his chest curls when I doze.

*   *   *

When I'm shaken awake, my first thoughts are of Preston. Then I see the curly chest and remember I'm with Martin. The sleep has broken the trance, and the realization that I, Felicia Hayes Lyons, has just crossed the line and am an official adulteress creeps in. I think of the woman in the book
The Scarlet Letter
that I read twice in high school, and when I sit up in the bed, it feels like I have a big A tattooed on my forehead.

“I have to go, Young Sister. There's curfew.” Martin's leg touches mine and I move away from him like he's fire.

What have I done?

I'm frantic, moving covers, looking on the floor.
Where are my panties?

I storm off into the living room. They must be on the floor. Martin calls after me.

“Faye,” he says my name softly. “Come here.”

“I have to go.” I'm shoving my unwashed parts into my underwear when he walks in. He's wearing pants but his chest is chiseled and bare.

“Faye, stop.” He's standing next to me, pulling me into his arms. His touch calms me. I relax against his nakedness and pause. He grabs my chin and holds my eyes to him.

“No one has ever meant what you mean to me. I'll protect you and our secrets.”

 

TWENTY-NINE

The Other Side

In the Nissan, I can smell Martin everywhere, feel him everywhere. It's as if he has seeped into my pores and reclaimed me. I can't remember being this sore, since losing my virginity in the back of the car.

The bars and restaurants are closed for the night, and there aren't many cars on the street as I make my way back to North Philly. When I slip into Gran's house, I fall into my bed without showering. I sleep for the first time since I arrive in Philadelphia with no substances or aids. But guilt is a cognitive emotion that can sometimes be born slowly. Like the first moments a fetus takes hold of a woman's belly; she doesn't know the tiny dot is there but it is growing.

By morning, the remorse is so large in my throat I can barely eat. I have a guilt hangover. What have I done? I've missed my morning call to the kids and by the time I ring the line, Preston answers the telephone.