The Boy in the Black Suit (13 page)

“Amen!” the church rumbled.

He waved for Love to come to the microphone.

She walked up to the podium as calm and graceful as can be. But when she got there and lifted her head, I felt a lump in my throat, like I had swallowed a house. I straightened up and sat on the edge of my seat just to get a better look. I knew her. At first I wasn't sure, but as I stared a little longer, I definitely knew I knew her. It was Renee. From Cluck Bucket. Why was everyone calling her Love? Who was Love?

She looked way better at a funeral than she did at work. And then I tried to snap myself out of it, because it was crazy to be looking at a girl like that at her grandma's funeral. But still, she looked so different. She had her hair down and curled. And even though I was sitting in the back of the church, I could tell she had on a little bit of makeup, and for some reason I just knew she smelled good.
Snap out of it. Snap out of it.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said, her voice much sweeter than it had been when she took chicken orders.

“My name is Love Brown, but most of you here know me as Lovey. I don't really have a whole lot to say besides the fact that I loved my grams. She took care of me when my mom passed, and showed me how to be who I am today. How to be strong and independent when things get thick.” She paused and smiled wide. “I'm sure we could all share some special times we had with her. But for me, our favorite thing was to take pictures. I remember when she first taught me how to use a camera. I was probably six! She would pose and I would snap, and she'd smile and poke her hip
out like she was still young,” she said with a touch of Brooklyn in her voice. People laughed a little bit. “I'll always remember that, and I'll always have those memories, and thankfully, those pictures to remind me. I'll miss her forever, even though I know I'll see her again.” Here she stopped and started unfolding a piece of paper she had brought up with her. “And that's kinda what she wanted me to talk to y'all about, but I don't want to mess it up, so I'll just read what she asked me to.” She smiled again, this time more nervously. “Grams was big on following directions, so let me do just that.”

At this point the church was quiet. Not a sniffle, not a candy wrapper crackling, not a creak in the wooden church pews, nothing. I kept staring at Renee's—Love's—face, trying to find the weak point. The hard swallow, the drowning eyes, something that would give me the feeling I needed. Something that would tell me that there were explosions happening inside of her, and that she was one of us—a mourner. But this one wasn't coming as easy. I kept watching, waiting.

“It says . . .” She cleared her throat and looked down at the paper.

“Dear Sweethearts,

If you're hearing this, I've moved on. And if I'm lucky enough to have any one of you sad today, just know that it'll be okay. And that I'm okay. Better than okay.

Lovey will tell you that when her mom passed, the one word I would never let her say was death.
I wouldn't let her say it because I never believed in it. Dead means finished. Over. Done. That didn't describe her mother then, and it doesn't describe me now. I've just changed. Like changing clothes, when one outfit gets too old, gotta take it off and put on another. Or like changing jobs, once you've done all you can do, you get a new position. But to say I'm dead means that you'll never hear me, or feel me . . . but you will. I promise. Just because you won't see me for a while, doesn't mean I won't be there. I'll be there, with a new camera and a full roll of film snapping away.”

Here the crowd laughed. I kept waiting for something to happen to Love. I kept staring, waiting for her to break, but she kept speaking, smoothly and confidently. A tear streamed down her face, but that wasn't enough. It was regular tears. Not like my tears.

“And when it's your turn to change”

—Love flipped the page and continued reading—

“to move on, I'll be here waiting for you, with a photo album, a cup of tea, and a hug like you never felt before. I love you all, especially my Lovey, and I'll see you all soon enough.

Yours, Gwen”

Love cleared her throat and calmly folded the paper back up.

“Thank you all so much for coming,” she finished up, still no sign of a breakdown in her voice.

Every single person in the church stood and clapped for Love and for the words Ms. Brown wrote in that letter. I stood and half-clapped while watching her go from the podium to the arms of the preacher to the arms of some other old man, an older woman, and then back to her seat. I wondered what made her so strong. What made her so different. Maybe it was her grandma, Gwenolyn. Maybe Ms. Brown had been dying for a while and had time to prepare Love, and that's why she was taking it so well. I wasn't sure, but I knew this was the first funeral I had been to where I didn't find what I was looking for.

And maybe that's why I stayed after. Maybe I wanted to know what she knew that I didn't—that thing that was keeping her so cool. I mean, her grandma just died. And her mom was gone. And judging by the fact that there were no men sitting next to her in the pew, her dad wasn't around either. And no brothers and sisters. Pretty much everything I was living every day, except she was obviously doing it better than me. I bet she didn't go to sleep listening to Tupac every night. I had to know what the secret was.

Or maybe it wasn't even all that deep and I stayed just because I kind of had a thing for her, and today of all days, for some reason, I was feeling brave, or as my mother used to say, “froggy.” Like the black suit was the cure to robot face. I mean, I did just tell myself that the next time I saw her I was going to make a move. But damn, the very next day? At her grandma's funeral?

Downstairs in the church, it seemed like everyone was talking all at once, their voices blending together to sound like a whole bunch of nothing. The plastic forks scratched against the Styrofoam plates, the fold-up chairs squeaked and honked as people scooched up to the tables. Family members stood in line with people who were obviously homeless and waited their turn to be served chicken, and green beans, mashed potatoes, and bread, by Love. The homeless folks dressed in their best, and either smelled like too much cologne or not enough deodorant, and the stench sort of snuck around enough for everyone to smell it, but not enough for anyone to care. The family dressed in the usual all black, the women with big hats, the men with shined shoes. But nobody made it seem weird that there were homeless people at the repast. Nobody frowned or made any slick comments. It was clear that this was the way Ms. Brown wanted it, and everybody understood and respected that. But I wasn't family or a homeless friend. I was just a kid . . . being creepy.

I stood in line behind one of the big hats and watched as the girl I knew as Renee, but whose real name was Love, dished out the food. Everyone had a little something to say, like “You did great,” or “God bless you, sweetie,” and the lady in front of me said, “You look so pretty.”

She stole my line.

I was totally gonna use that.

Love did look pretty. She looked like Renee again, but without the hairnet. And with makeup on.

“White or dark?” she asked, looking me dead in the eye and not recognizing me.

“Um, white,” I said.

She reached the metal tongs down into the pan and poked at a chicken breast.

“No wait, dark meat, please,” I said, nervous.

She looked up at me, smiled, and shook her head. “You sure?”

I smirked. “Yeah.” The nerves calmed a little.

She put the meat on my plate.

“Veggies?”

“Yes, please,” I said, side-stepping. Too polite.

“Potatoes?”

“Sure.”
That's better.

She dug the spoon deep into the creamy potatoes and came up with a big scoop. She plopped it down, and the weight of the potatoes almost made me drop the plate. I fumbled it a little, and caught it before I had green bean juice all over my only suit. There's no coming back from that.

She tried to hold in her laughter, but couldn't, and pretty much spit all in the food, which then made me laugh.

“Do I know you?” she asked, shoving the spoon back into the potato pan.

“Uh, not really. I mean”—
Don't blow this, Matt
—“I mean, we met, once. Twice. Kinda.”

Love looked confused.

“At Cluck Bucket,” I reminded her. “I came in a few months ago trying to find a job.”

She still looked confused. “Sorry, tons of people come in there looking for jobs. You know, the whole rumor about them paying well?” She rolled her eyes. “It ain't true.”

“It's not? Dang. That's why I came in,” I explained. “But remember there was a dude who was hitting on you, and you told him there was no chicken?”

“Ah.” She smirked. “I remember that. These clowns think they can say whatever they want. I got his ass,” she said, and then made a face like she was sorry for cussing in church. But we were downstairs, so it couldn't have been as bad.

“And that girl came in, puking all over the place.”

“Right.” She stuck her tongue out and made a gag-face. “I remember you now. You came in again, another time too. Ordered a bunch of stuff for you and your homeboy.”

“Yeah.”

“Didn't look like you needed a job that day,” Love said skeptically. She probably thought I was a hustler, pulling out that cash knot like that.

“Naw, it's not like that, I—”

“Hey, whatever you do is on you. None of my business,” she cut me off, shrugging her shoulders. “But . . . uh . . . what are you doing here? How you know Grams?”

Uh-oh. My head started swimming as I thought through my options, and when I ran through them all, I realized there was no way I could win. If I lied and told her I knew her grandma because she took care of me when I was homeless, that wouldn't go over good. I mean, Love clearly didn't mind homeless folks,
but I didn't know if she wanted to kick it with one (who she now thought might be a drug dealer as well). If I told her that I worked for the funeral home, then I would be dude who worked with dead people, which wouldn't be a bad thing—if I wasn't a teenager. Teenagers work at fast-food joints, not funeral homes. Maybe I could tell her I used to volunteer at the shelter with her grandma. But then I would still have to keep that lie going, and I just wasn't that great at stuff like that, especially with a girl.

I didn't know what to say.

“I uh . . .” I could feel my face start to stiffen up. Robot face was coming, and there was no stopping it. Then I felt a big hand on my shoulder.

“I didn't know you were still here, Matthew.” Mr. Ray's raspy voice came sliding in between me and Love. “You're usually long gone by now.” Then, realizing I was in the middle of a conversation, he looked at Love and said awkwardly, “Oh, excuse me for interrupting.”
Wink.
“Take care of him, Love, he's one of mine. Best worker I got.”

Then he looked back at me and bounced his eyebrows before walking away.

I dropped my head.

“You work for the funeral home?” she asked.

Busted.

“Yeah.”

“So then what you doing eating my food? Ain't you still on the clock?”

I looked up and she was standing there with a fake attitude and a grin.

“Not really,” I said. “You heard Mr. Ray. I'm usually gone by now.”

She dropped her hand from her hip. “So what you stay for this time?” I could tell there was a little bit of flirt in her voice.

I grabbed a fork from the side of the table and put it in the mountain of mashed potatoes on my plate.

“Guess I was just hungry,” I said, with a smile I hoped wasn't stupid looking.

I sat at an empty table and tore into my food, which by the way was pretty good. The chicken needed a little black pepper (or some of my All Sauce), and the potatoes a pinch of garlic powder, but all in all, not bad. I wondered if it was better than the food at my mom's funeral. I wasn't sure because I couldn't eat any of it. No appetite. But everybody else seemed to like it. Still, the food at Ms. Brown's funeral was definitely above average.

Every few bites I looked up and glanced at Love, still slapping food down on white, flimsy plates for all kinds of different people. She smiled and stretched her arms out to hug almost everyone from behind the food table. And whenever a few people would pass, she would shoot her eyes over at me really quick hoping I wouldn't see her looking. But I caught her every time, because I was looking at her, too.

After everyone had a plate, she came over to my table with a plate of her own.

“Anybody sitting here?” she asked, smiling because it was clear I was alone.

“Yep,” I said, short, doing my best to return the flirt.

She set her plate on the table. “Well, they gonna have to find
another seat.”

Love looked so pretty, even though her forehead was shiny, glowing with sweat, from standing over the hot food for so long. Still, she looked awesome.

“So, Matthew,” she said, scooping potatoes with a spoon, and eating a little at a time, like cheesecake.

“Matt,” I said.

“Okay. So, Matt.”

This was just like in the movies.

“So, Love.”

“Lovey.”

“Renee.”

When I said that, her eyes shot up at me, but not in a flirty way at all. More like a surprised way. Like I said something wrong. Something I wasn't supposed to say.

“What?” she said.

“Renee. That's what I thought your name was, from when I saw you at Cluck Bucket those times.”

“Why?”

I pointed to my chest. “The chain you had on.”

Renee reached into the neck of her dress, and pulled the gold chain out. The nameplate hung from it.
RENEE.