The Last Street Novel (41 page)

“And is she okay?”

Shareef paused and looked at his grandfather again.

“Yeah, she’s okay,” he answered. He said, “We’re planing to start things over when I get back home on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Why Tuesday?” his grandmother asked him.

Shareef told her, “I’m still healing. So tomorrow and Monday would be the sorest time for me to travel.”

His grandmother told him, “Let me see what you’re talking about, boy,” and she began to march down the stairs.

Shareef and Charles looked at each other. They both knew better. Wilma realized that her grandson was injured a while ago, but she refused to see him until after he had spoken to his wife. So by the time she arrived in the living room in her nightclothes, Shareef realized that he owed his grandmother an apology.

She immediately looked over his left side, all bandaged and iced up. She said, “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

“He’s going once he gets back to Florida,” Charles answered her. “We figure it’s better that way. There may be some of those other guys in the Harlem Center. So I’d rather he not go there.”

Wilma frowned and said, “Well, take him down the street to St. Luke’s.”

St. Luke’s Hospital was three blocks away, at the foot of Columbia University.

Shareef and Charles looked at each other again and began to laugh. Neither one of them had even thought of St. Luke’s.

Charles said, “Well, hell, my mind must have taken a trip. Why was I only thinking about the Harlem Center?”

“Because every time the police are involved, that’s exactly where they take people. Now get this boy together with some clothes so we can take him down the street.”

She looked her grandson in the face and told him, “And this is what a
good wife
is for, Shareef, not just for jumping in the sack, but taking care of her husband and family all together.”

C
HARLES GATHERED TOGETHER
some of his clean sweat clothes that would fit his grandson, and they called the hospital emergency service to have an ambulance pick them up from the house.

Right as the ambulance arrived, Shareef looked into his grandmother’s wholesome brown face and said, “I’m sorry for all of this, Grandma. I’m definitely too old for this kind of trouble.”

“Aw, baby, I’m just glad you’re okay,” she told him. Then she kissed his cheek with a smile before she became serious again.

She said, “Now, what are you gonna do about these street books you wanted to write?”

She had him stuck. Shareef hadn’t come to a final decision about that yet, but he knew he still had to deal with Jurrell if he made the wrong one.

He told her, “I don’t know yet.” That was an honest answer. He didn’t know.

His grandmother heard that and turned away from him with a grunt. “Hmmph. Well, you need to make a decision,” she advised him. “The right one.”

Charles looked on and chuckled again as they both prepared their grandson for his ride in the ambulance.

A
FTER MUCH
N
EW
Y
ORK MEDIA
reporting one of the worst public shoot-outs in recent history, the case of St. Nicholas Park held various court dates from October 2006 through January 2007, with no conclusive evidence that linked Shareef Crawford to any of the murders. To the jurors, Shareef appeared to be an ill-advised author caught between two groups of the wrong people at the wrong time. Behind the scenes, however, Jurrell Garland made certain that no one had any reason to talk. It was not as if a witness would gain much from pointing a finger. None of their friends or loved ones would return from the grave, and unless one of the suspects on the other side were given a deal that included no prison time, going “up north” after snitching was not a safe thing to do. In fact, unless a deal included a new place to live and a brand-new identity, a snitch was not safe on the streets of Harlem. At least not while Jurrell remained desperate to become a legitimate businessman. And his plans included Shareef Crawford remaining a free man to write and promote books. So by February 2007, with Shareef found innocent of all charges, healed from his wounds, and back home safe and sound with his family in Florida, he was free to execute the next stage of his plans.

I
N MID
-M
ARCH
of the new year, Shareef tossed a Little League baseball from the pitcher’s mound at a recreation center field in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. At the plate, a nine-year-old boy in a red helmet swung his aluminum bat and made contact for a grounder toward second base. He then dropped his bat and began to run toward first.

At second base, Shareef Jr., wearing an Atlanta Braves jersey and cap, made the catch off the second hop with his leather glove, aimed his throw to his left, and zipped the ball toward his first baseman.

Shareef Sr. hollered to the hitter, “Run it out! Run it out!”

But the hitter watched the ball about to beat him to first base, and he slowed down his run before he made it there.

Shareef told him, “Look, man, you run it out anyway. He may miss the catch at first. Or it may be a bad throw. Then you can turn the corner and run to second. You hear me?”

Shareef turned and faced the rest of the nine-and ten-year-olds in the outfield. He said, “I want everybody to finish out their runs to the bases. Nobody slows down. If you slow down, you’re giving me a lap around the field. And you’re only gettin’ this one warning, so make sure you hear me.”

He looked them all in their eyes and said, “All right?”

The kids all nodded and mumbled their yeses.

Outside of the baseball field, Jennifer Crawford smiled and shook her head from her foldout chair. Her daughter sat in a smaller foldout chair beside her, with the rest of the mothers who watched their sons at practice.

“Your husband sure is a good coach. He’s gon’ have those boys
ready,”
one of the mothers commented to Jennifer.

“I know that’s right,” another mother agreed. “He’s much tougher than last year’s coach. Last year those boys did whatever they wanted to do.”

Jennifer knew that wouldn’t happen with Shareef. Just as her husband played to win, he would coach to win. There was no other way that Shareef would get involved, no matter what it was.

A
FTER WRAPPING UP
another evening of baseball practice, Shareef and his family went out for dinner at Red Lobster. Over his giant snow crab legs, Shareef Jr. looked across the table and asked his father, “How long are you gonna be in New York, Dad? For the whole week?”

“Of course not. We have another practice on Friday,” Shareef told him. “So I’ll be in New York for two business days and back to Florida in time for practice.”

His daughter asked him, “Can we go to the airport with you?”

Shareef said, “Girl, you have school tomorrow. And I’m getting out of here at six o’clock in the morning. You wanna be up that early?”

Shareef Jr. responded before his sister did. “No way.”

However, Kimberly grinned with shrimp on her fork and answered, “Yeah.”

Jennifer chuckled and said, “Yeah, right. If I tried to get you up that early, you’d be kicking and screaming.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

Jennifer ignored her daughter and went back to eating her lobster.

B
ACK AT HOME THAT NIGHT
, Shareef tucked his kids into their separate rooms. His condo near Miami had been sold months ago, and Jacqueline Herrera had faded away months before that.

Little J asked his father, “With you coaching again, Dad, you think we can win the baseball championship like we did in football?”

Shareef chuckled and told him, “We gon’ try. We’ll see how far we get.”

Little J nodded. He said, “I love when you coach, Dad. It’s like, everything is better when you coach.”

“That’s because I coach to win,” Shareef commented to his son. He said, “But at the same time, I always want the game to be fun, too. So I make sure we keep it moving and learn to play the right way.”

His son nodded to him and was satisfied. His negative attitude had tapered off a great deal since Shareef had been back home. Little J, however, was still no saint. He had an obvious, competitive edge to him, and his father was pleased with it. Shareef looked at it as partially hereditary, and partially training.

When he went to tuck in his daughter, Kimberly had a different idea for him.

“You’re gonna sleep in here with me again, Daddy?” she suggested.

Shareef chuckled and said, “Not tonight, girl. Tonight I got a date with your mother.”

Kimberly looked alarmed. “You and Mom are going back out? Who’s gonna be here with us?”

Shareef laughed harder and told her, “Nah, we’re not going back out. We have an in-house date.”

Kimberly looked confused, “An in-house date? Well, what are you gonna do? You’re gonna watch a movie on DVD and eat popcorn?”

Shareef continued to laugh. He said, “Good idea. I’ll see what your mother thinks about that. In the meantime, I need you to close your eyes, relax, and count those pretty, pink sheep.”

Kimberly told him, “Daddy, there’s no such thing as pink sheep. Sheep are white. And I never see them when I sleep anyway.”

Shareef grinned and shook his head. Kimberly would keep him there all night if he let her. So he kissed her on the lips and said, “All right, it’s past ten o’clock, girl. Go on to sleep.”

Instead, Kimberly wrapped her arms around her father’s neck.

“Please, Daddy?”

Shareef stopped smiling and became serious.

He said, “Now Kimberly, when a man says no, that’s what he means. Just like when you say no. You hear me? You want a person to stop when you say no. That’s when you know that they respect you.”

He said, “Now we can’t all have what we want whenever we want it. Okay? That’s just the way life is.”

Kimberly released her arms from around her father’s neck and mumbled, “Okay.”

“Now go on to sleep,” he told her. “I’ll kiss you in the morning.”

She said, “In my sleep?”

Shareef stood up from the edge of his daughter’s bed and smiled at her one last time.

He said, “Yeah, I always kiss you in your sleep.”

“Why?”

He wasn’t expecting her to ask him that. But he shook it off and answered, “Because I love you, just like I love your brother.”

“And do you love Mommy, too?”

Shareef wondered if all little girls could talk forever if you let them.

He said, “Of course I love your mother. But if you don’t let me get in there with her, she may start to doubt it. Now you want your mother locking me out of the room?”

Kimberly smiled from ear to ear and said, “You can sleep with me. I won’t lock you out.”

Shareef paused for a minute. His mind traveled to the wrong place, an adult place. He told himself,
There’s always gonna be another woman on that other grass. That’s just life, too. But do I want my daughter being like that?

Her innocent comment stopped Shareef in his tracks. But how innocent was it? Did his daughter even understand what she was saying? Was he ready to make a big deal out of nothing? Shareef didn’t know what to say or do.

Finally, he told his daughter, “That’s not right, Kimberly. Daddy was only joking. And you know your mother wants to see me. So don’t be unfair like that. Okay?”

Kimberly nodded to him. “Okay.”

Shareef turned off her light and said “Good night” as he left her room.

“Good night, Daddy?”

B
Y THE TIME
Shareef reached the master bedroom to join his wife, who was in her nightclothes, he had lost his sex drive. Their bedroom action was still not as steamy as it had been before they were married with kids, but it was much better than it had been over the last few years. And they had come to the agreement that it was best to give a traveling man something to miss at home before he hit the road in the morning. Nevertheless, Kimberly’s comment had tossed Shareef for a loop.

Jennifer could tell that something was amiss as soon as she felt her husband’s rigid body in bed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him.

Shareef was rarely rigid when it came to sex and foreplay. He only said no in the fourth quarter of a football or basketball game, the last round of a close fight, the ninth inning of a close baseball game, or whenever he was on a roll while working on his latest novel. But none of those things applied that night. So what was his problem?

Shareef sat up straight and shook his head. He said, “I’m trying to figure this out.”

“Figure what out?”

He looked at his wife and told her, “Before I came in here, when I was putting Kimberly to bed, I joked with her that you would lock me out of the room if she kept holding me away from you, and you know what she said?”

“What?”

“She said, ‘You can sleep with me. I won’t lock you out.’ And the shit just hit me as a grown-up thing. And she was smiling her ass off when she said it.”

Jennifer started laughing. She told him, “That sounds like a guilty conscience to me, Shareef. She didn’t mean anything like that. And you know that.”

“But how can we be so sure?”

Jennifer sat up straight and said, “I don’t believe you. How dare you think that about our daughter?”

Shareef shook his head and immediately felt ashamed of himself. Maybe he shouldn’t have even brought it up. But it was too late for that now. He had his wife thinking about it.

Shareef leaned over and hugged her, not in a sexual way, but in a comforting, understanding, please-forgive-me hug.

Jennifer didn’t push him away, but after a minute or so, she commented, “That’s karma for you, Shareef. Like they say, what goes around…” She stopped herself and grunted, “Mmmpt, mmmpt, mmmpt. Now you got me thinking about my daughter for no good reason.”

Shareef felt bad about it himself. He thought,
Damn! Ain’t this a bitch! Now I feel like I’ll become one of those crazy-ass fathers who won’t let anyone near his daughter, and that only turns them out more.

Shit!
he stressed himself.

On cue, his wife chuckled and said, “You did it to yourself, Shareef. You did it to yourself.”

But she was concerned about the future of her daughter now as well.
And
her son. How would they turn out in their marriages?

Jennifer figured they would both be as creative about life as their father. But where would that creativity lead them when they found things more restrictive than they desired?

Shareef mumbled back to his wife. “They’re just gonna have to choose right, that’s all. Choose right and fight for it, that’s all they can do.”

Jennifer thought twenty years ahead and grumbled, “Mmmph. I don’t believe you have me thinking about this.”

Shareef chuckled about it himself. “I guess I’m finally growing up now, hunh…into a scared-ass parent?”

His wife grinned and told him, “Yeah, you need to put that in that new book you’re writing.”

Shareef told her, “It’s too late. I’ve already finished it.”

I
N THE MORNING
, he climbed out of bed with no sex, took his shower, gathered his luggage, and kissed his family good-bye as they continued to sleep in their separate rooms. Contrary to what many women thought, not every man had to have it every night. Shareef had other things on his mind and they pushed his sexual desire aside for the minute. Not only was he thinking about the future of his kids, but about the future of his writing career.

Jennifer mumbled when he kissed her. “Call me when you land in New York.”

W
HEN
S
HAREEF EXITED
the walkway from the plane in New York’s LaGuardia Airport in Queens, he strutted in his familiar, dapper uniform of a sports jacket, slacks, fine shoes, and a handsome mug. He had a new respect for his audience of women, too, and the lifestyle that their support had given him. So when the first woman noticed and made him aware that he was her favorite author, Shareef was as gracious as he had been when his writing career had first taken off.

He told the young East Indian woman, “I thank you very much for enjoying my work. I know you could have spent that time and support on someone else.”

She argued, “No I couldn’t have. I’m addicted to your books, Shareef. I love them all. You’re just so
real
the way you write, you know. I can really
hear
and
feel
the people.”

He thanked her again and laughed at his natural urges as he moved on toward the cab stand outside the luggage claim area. The woman looked too good for comfort.

Yeah, this is gonna be a struggle my whole life,
he told himself about his strong attraction to women.

“Where are you going?” the taxi director asked him at the front of the line.

“Times Square.”

“Hey, Times Square.”

A car pulled up, the driver tossed Shareef’s luggage into the trunk, Shareef climbed in, and he was off on his way to his editor’s office in Manhattan to discuss the future of his writing career, face to face, with the marketing, sales, and publicity departments.