The Eleventh Commandment (7 page)

S
tacy sat in the living room, listening to the sound of Tony's footsteps as he entered the kitchen from the garage. She heard them stop, and knew that he'd opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. It was a daily ritual, popping a cold one as soon as he got home. He'd only have one beer a day, max. He was too aware of staying in shape to drink more than that. Cognac, however, was another story. After she heard the beer can top pop, she heard Tony's steps continue. Hiding the paper she'd been reading within an
Essence
magazine, she called out. “Hey, Tone.”

“Hey.” Instead of turning right, toward the living room from where she'd greeted him, he went left, and up the stairs to the bedrooms above. Not a good sign, but not a total surprise. He was home earlier than usual, which typically meant one of two things: he'd run out of potential opportunities to track down. Or he was in pain. Or both.

Stacy didn't know what to do, didn't like this state of flux that she'd felt for months, ever since the Cardinals had released Tony from their roster. This life was so different from the one she'd imagined when they met. The living room and bright Phoenix sunshine faded behind her memories of that better time—when their friendship went to another level and both decided to give the relationship a try.

Things had gotten off to a rocky start. After showing genuine interest in her at one of the Montgomerys' legendary Sunday dinners, Stacy had thrown a hitch in the giddyup when after Darius and Bo had shown up at the same dinner she began overtly flirting with the defensive back. Tony immediately peeped her try-and-make-Darius-jealous game and made it known that he didn't want to play. He'd cooled things until the day he'd seen her leaving a hospital as he entered, the day she'd found out that a lump in her breast was malignant. Tony had recently had his own indirect battle with the C word, had almost lost his mom to cancer. His understanding and compassion thawed the ice between them, and as he cared for her during and after her lumpectomy, their friendship began to grow. And then there was his proposal that brought the heat and changed the game! Stacy smiled, remembering. It had started with a date at the Getty Museum, after learning that both she and Tony had a love for art. Even so, she'd never visited the museum and hadn't been able to ignore her man's class in choosing such a location. They walked the grounds, opening up even more about their feelings for each other. Then they'd heard a jazz trio playing, and had moved closer to listen to them.

 

“Shall we?” Tony asked.

Stacy looked around. “We can sit here?”

“Why not?”

“It looks like it's reserved.”

“Baby,” Tony said, leaning over a bit, “my knee is acting up. If it is reserved we can sit down until whoever's got the table gets here.”

They sat down at the center table, and soon the couple were taken to paradise on the wings of smooth jazz. A card on the table informed them that the group, the Musical Messengers, were on a twenty-five-city tour and would be at the Getty only this weekend. When they broke into a jazzy rendition of Marvin Sapp's “Never Would Have Made It,” Stacy unexpectedly teared up.

“They're playing gospel,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “I love that song.”

“Me too,” Tony said. He kept his arms around her as the trio played. After the bridge, the saxophone player stepped to the mike and began reciting an original poem:

Tony, getting down on his knees, began speaking along with the saxophonist and then finished the poem he'd written and then given to the musician when he set up this whole surprise. The saxophonist dropped out and Tony continued.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. Stacy could barely see it for crying.

“Tony!”

“I know it may feel like I'm moving too quickly. But I've waited my whole life for you. I know we can work. Because even now, before we're lovers, you're my best friend. Marry me, baby. And make me the happiest man on the planet.”

“Yes,” Stacy whispered, and then again, louder, “Yes! I'll marry you!”

“You'll be my wifey, baby?” he asked as he slipped the ring on her finger.

“Yes, baby, I'll be your wifey.”

Stacy wiped her eyes as she came back to the present moment, her heart beating faster with the blessed memories of that event. In that moment, she recommitted to Tony, and to God.
I'm right here, baby. You and me together, we can do this. We'll get through this....

“Why are you crying?” Tony leaned against the living room's entryway, an unreadable expression on his face.

Stacy hadn't heard him descending the stairs. “Babe!” She hurriedly wiped the tears from her eyes. “I didn't hear you come down.”

Tony walked into the room, sat in a chair opposite the couch where Stacy reclined. “What's the matter?”

Stacy looked over at the only man she'd ever loved, besides her baby's father, Darius Crenshaw. She hoped that the love she felt in her heart showed in her eyes. “Would you believe I've just taken a nostalgic walk down memory lane? I was remembering the night you proposed. It is singularly the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What can I say? Now, as then, it brought me to tears.”

Tony rose from the chair and joined her on the couch. He took the woman he'd loved enough to give her his last name in his arms. “That was a good day.”

“The best.”

“You know I love you, right?”

She shifted her body to face him, and wrapped her much smaller hands around his large ones. “I love you too, Tony. And I'm so proud of you.”

Tony's demeanor immediately changed.

Oops. Wrong words.
Who knew?

Tony removed his hands and jumped up from the couch. “What do you have to be proud of me about? Huh? I'm an out of work ball player trying to come back from what is looking more and more like a career-ending injury. I'm being courted by half-ass networks for half-ass sportscaster jobs. We're getting ready to see our net worth decrease exponentially, which means my child support payments will have to go down, which means their mothers will start tripping even more than they do now!” He came and stood over Stacy, causing her heart to leap into her throat. “What part of that equation do you find worth being proud about, huh? Huh?”

Stacy took a deep breath before she looked into her husband's somewhat scary face. She didn't like how he was standing over her, didn't like the fear that bubbled from her core to her stomach and from her stomach to her head, bringing on the hints of a migraine. She'd shared with Hope how some retired athletes couldn't handle the transition, becoming different men than the ones the women had married.
Are you worried that Tony will change like that?
That's what Hope had asked, and right now ... ? Stacy simply did not know what Tony was capable of doing.

“I remember a sermon where Pastor Montgomery quoted that it wasn't what happened to us, but how we handle it,” she finally answered, forcing her voice to remain calm and steady. “In the face of some pretty challenging circumstances, you are still a strong, good man. That is why I'm proud of you.”

Tony continued to hover over her with a silent intensity. Stacy eyed him steadily before looking beyond him, noticing a pair of sparrows frolicking in her wilting rosebushes. She abstractly remembered that the gardeners would come tomorrow and water the bushes drying prematurely under Arizona's relentless sun. It was only June, but she already knew the summer would be a scorcher. She only hoped that her husband's anger wouldn't outdo the record-breaking temperatures that Phoenix expected.

“That's bullshit,” he finally said, turning and walking toward the window in time to see the birds that Stacy had observed leave the rosebushes and fly off in pursuit of each other. “But I know you're trying to make me feel better. I appreciate it.”

“I married the man you are, not what you do.”

“I know that. I believe that.”

After a roller coaster of emotions within minutes, they'd reached a tender moment, one that had been rare in the last few months. Stacy didn't want the moment to end, so she mentioned something safe, something that almost always put a smile on Tony's face. “I've been thinking about the Fourth of July holiday, maybe spending it in LA and being able to spend at least part of it with Shea, Justin, and DJ, all of us together doing something fun.”

Tony looked out the window for another moment before turning to face her. “It's funny that you should mention LA. I finally got the call and will definitely be doing a walk-on at their training camp.”

“That's great, baby! I know you'd love to be back in LA. Me too.”

It was true. Tony had loved playing in California. And now that this new team had been formed, and the Coliseum rebuilt, he'd like nothing better than to end his career in the City of Angels. “I'm not getting my hopes up but . . . it's a shot.”

“I talked to Hope today and she'd just gotten off the phone with Lady Viv. She's putting together the next Sanctity of Sisterhood conference and wants my help. She told Hope that if we were in town for the fourth, we were welcome to their barbecue.”

A slight frown scampered across Tony's face before he settled his features into an unreadable mask. “We'll see what's up.” Without another word, he walked away.

Okay, what just happened?
These mood swings were throwing Stacy off balance; one second the two of them could be in a great place and the next second he'd be filled with attitude. Walking on eggshells was an understatement. Anything could set him off. Stacy opened the
Essence
magazine and continued reading the paper that she'd hidden inside it when Tony came home. She was an optimist, but she was also a realist. If anything shaky jumped off between her and Tony Johnson, she planned to be prepared.

D
arius sat with a smile on his face, watching his son consume a Happy Meal. For the life of him he couldn't figure how a little toy inside a colorful box could make chicken nuggets and fries such a hit, but his son had turned down Bo's slap-your-mama spaghetti in favor of the popular children's fast food meal. D1.J. walked the action figure across the granite island top as he munched on a fry, his legs swinging freely beneath the bar stool. Darius continued to watch him, amazed that doing what mothers around the world did every day all day—taking care of their children—could bring one such joy.

DJ took a break from the imaginary war happening on the table and turned to find his dad watching him intently. “What is it, Daddy?”

“Nothing. Just watching you eat.”

DJ scrunched up his face. “Why?”

Darius laughed. “No reason.”

DJ pondered that comment a moment, then reached for another fry and aimed it toward his father. “Do you want one?”

“No, he does not,” Bo answered, turning from the stove with two plates of sausage spaghetti. “Nobody in this house eats that fake food but you.”

“It not fake!” DJ protested.

“It isn't as good as my spaghetti,” Bo countered.

“It's
better
than your spaghetti!” DJ said, as his voice rose an octave.

Bo leaned against the island, coming face to face with the little boy he loved like his own, which, in a way, DJ was. “Do you like how tall your father is?” DJ nodded. “What about his face; do you think he's handsome?”

DJ looked at Darius. Another nod. “Yes.”

“Well, you know how he got so tall and so fine?” Bo's voice became an almost-whisper. “By eating
real
food like my spaghetti!” Without waiting for a reply, he flounced over to pull the parmesan-garlic toast from the oven.

DJ laughed. “Uh-uh. That's not true, Daddy . . . is it?”

“No, son, that's not true. You are going to be way more handsome than me.” This, Darius believed was true. When it came to his son, he felt that he and Stacy had given him the best of themselves. DJ's facial features were almost carbon copies of Darius, but his lean body, keen mind, and sparkling personality were courtesy of Stacy Gray-Johnson. Yes, he'd been given awards, charted platinum albums, and toured the world, but the five-year-old wunderkind sitting across from him was by far the best product he'd ever created.

Bo placed the toast on the island and then joined them. Once he sat down, Darius reached for his fork. “No,” Bo said, eyeing DJ as he took a piece of toast and tore it in half. “You're going to grow up looking like either a chicken nugget, hamburger, or French fry because that's all you eat.” After finishing a forkful of spaghetti, he added, “But don't worry. You'll be the finest chicken nugget the world has ever seen. In fact, that's my new name for you: Nugget. You okay with that?”

DJ was crazy about Bo, but in this instance adopted an appropriate look of chagrin before forcing out a begrudging, “Not really. I like DJ.”

“What if I tell you that the next time you come over we're going to create a special cookie and call it a Nugget, named after you. Would you be okay with that?”

“Yes!” A pause and then, “To go with my Happy Meal, right?”

They laughed and the conversation meandered from DJ's lengthy dissection of the movie they'd seen the day before to Darius's upcoming tour that kicked off with the musical benefit in New York's Central Park. They made quick work of devouring the vittles and while Bo tidied the kitchen, Darius and DJ went to pack for DJ's return to Stacy. As father and son chatted, Darius offered up a prayer of thanks that he and Stacy had been able to finally come to terms about custody. Because of Darius's hectic schedule, DJ stayed mostly with his mother, but when he was available, Stacy never turned down a request from Darius to spend time with his son. Last year, DJ had even traveled to New York with Darius and Bo when they went to visit the extensive family Bo had there.
Yeah, buddy,
he thought as he watched his son zip up his Transformer-decorated carry-on,
your life can't get much better than this.

“You ready, little man?”

“Do I have to go home, Daddy?”

Darius's brows creased. This was an unexpected comment. He sat on the bed. “Don't you want to go home and see Mommy?”

“I want to see Mommy, but Tony's acting funny.”

Darius tensed. “What do you mean by funny?”

DJ shrugged. “He just acts mad all the time and hardly plays with me anymore.”

Darius relaxed. A little. “Aw, little man, don't worry about that. Tony likes to play football, remember?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He's not playing right now and is probably a little upset about that. So just hang out with Mommy and give him his space, okay?”

“Okay.”

They walked from DJ's bedroom back into the living room. Darius grabbed his keys from the fireplace mantel. “All right, Bo. I'll be right back.”

Bo looked up from the TV show he was watching. “Okay. You got a hug for me, Nugget?” DJ walked over and hugged him. “Okay, baby, hurry back.”

As they walked out the front door to the Infiniti SUV waiting in the driveway, Bo went into the kitchen for a soda. Seeing a cell phone on the counter, he snatched it up, ran toward the front door, and opened it in time to see the brand new sporty BMW turn onto the road. “Darius!”

But it was too late. Darius hadn't heard him and, knowing how loud his husband played the car stereo, Bo knew why. He also knew that Darius hated going anywhere without his phone. He often even took it with him when he used the john.
Oh, well. He's just dropping off DJ. I guess he'll live without it till then.
Bo watched the car until it turned the corner and then walked back into the house. He was just about to set the phone down on the one-of-a-kind, stainless steel coffee table in front of him when it chirped in his hand. Someone had sent Darius a message.

“Bo,” he said to the empty room, in a voice laced with warning, “you go looking for shit, you're going to find shit.”

But it was a temptation he couldn't resist. He tapped the message indicator envelope. His jaws tightened when he saw the sender's name. “Muthafucka, you are just like herpes. You won't go away!” With anger mounting, he tapped the screen to open the message, and read it:

“Oh, you've got this shit real twisted, nucka.” Bo scrolled to the beginning of the message thread and saw that there had been several. While most had come from Paz, there were some that had been answered. “What? An independent project with my baby providing the sound track? Oh, H-E-double-L to the muthafuckin' no! You think it's that easy? You think you're going to dangle some money and take my man?” Bo's ire now had him walking the floor, boxing with an imaginary adversary. “You mess with him, Paz, and that will be your ass. You don't want none of this Brooklyn-born playa. You don't want none. Of. This.”

As soon as Bo sat down to plot out his husband-saving strategy, an angel landed on one shoulder and a devil made himself at home on the other.

 

Angel: He didn't respond to the flirtatious e-mails, only the business ones.

Devil: But that don't mean he hasn't called him, or met him somewhere.

Angel: Except for Stacy, in all these years, he's never given you a reason to doubt him.

Devil: He's never given you a reason
that you know of
.

Angel: Don't make a mountain from a molehill, Bo.

Devil: Today's Mr. Cool, tomorrow's fool.

 

Bo jumped from the couch. “Both of y'all shut the hell up!” Walking to the back of the house to the great room where the bar was located, Bo made quick work of pouring a shot of Courvoisier and slamming it down. It felt so nice, he did it twice. “Think, Bo.” And he did, back to the days and months following DJ's birth, and Darius's dilemma about who the person was with whom he should spend the rest of his life. His heart had said Bo while his head had screamed Stacy and their newborn son. It had been one heck of a tug-of-war, but eventually soul mate love and Stacy's histrionics had pushed Darius right into Bo's waiting arms. Now they coexisted amicably—Darius, Bo, Stacy, and DJ. Tony, not so much. The gay couple was tolerated because Darius was DJ's father, but Tony had let there be no mistake made when, during a visit shortly after he and Stacy married, he informed Darius and Bo that “he didn't get down with anybody who got down like that.”

Bo had retorted, “Then I guess since your wife's baby daddy is gay, you're not getting down with her?”

Stacy's intervention had prevented an episode of
Fisticuffs, Beat-downs, and Curse-Your-Ass-Outs,
but since that confrontation, Tony had refused interaction except when absolutely necessary for the sake of the child. Meaning that if he were home when Darius dropped off DJ, he'd eke out a “how you doing” and then promptly leave the room.

No, Bo. Don't be a bitch about this. Don't make waves until you know for sure there's another boat in your harbor.
Plan of action decided, he picked up his phone, stored Paz's number, and cleared the screen just as he heard Darius's keys jingling in the door. Bo poured another Courvoisier, this time on the rocks, fixed Darius's favorite drink, and walked toward the living room to meet him. Halfway there he changed course and took the drinks into the bedroom. He was too happy and life was too good for anybody to think for a minute that he'd give any part of it up. Couldn't nobody love Darius the way that he did and when it came to this fact, Bo believed that he could show him better than he could tell him.