Monthly Archives: July 2012

Stones and rocks knifed up through the surface of the road. Jannie’s bare feet bled. At eleven years old and waif-like, she was light enough to step on most, but some were like daggers that cut into her soles. The dirt quickly soaked up the blood, exposing a mahogany trail of fading life.

She didn’t know what else to do but walk. That’s what her father said she must do. “Follow the sun where it sets. You’ll be safe if you go in that direction. Run as fast as you can until you can no longer breathe, then just keep walking.” These were his last words before the machete wounds in his side and back finally silenced him.

In the middle of the night, Jannie slipped out of her incinerated village. She ran until she couldn’t take another step. Her adrenaline hid the pain and damage inflicted on her feet.

While sitting on the side of the road, catching her breath, the anesthetic wore off, and she felt the sting. Jannie looked at her wounds. Blood and bruises. She looked back up the road at the blotches of darkening red in the dirt. She forced herself off the rock. She limped for three more miles before the sun rose behind her.

She had to hide. There was undergrowth on either side of the dirt road. To the left there was a clump of trees. The grass is greener. Maybe there’s water. She was more thirsty than hungry. She walked to the shady oasis. A small, but steadily-flowing stream rose out of the earth, ran along the base of the foliage, and like a serpent, dove down and out of sight.

Jannie cupped some water to her mouth. It was fresh and unspoiled. She looked up into the palms. There were nuts in the branches. She tried to climb, but her feet hurt too much. She picked up a couple of rocks and threw them into the fronds. A few fell to the ground, and she harvested the food. She pounded the nuts open with a rock, looking for worms. Finding none, and with her right hand to preserve custom, she ate them. She repeated the process until she was satisfied.

“The heat. The road is too open. I have nothing to carry water,” she said aloud.

She decided to wait until the sun was beginning to set to continue her journey. Jannie sat down in the shade and fell asleep.

Hours passed.

A sound startled her awake. She could see up the road from her village, the bright orange color of the western sun touching the horizon was reflecting off the windshield of an oncoming truck.

Should she stay hidden, or should she ask for help? She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to be… But…

Jannie stood up and was about to wave her arms, but something told her to crouch down and hide. As the truck approached, it slowed and came to a stop directly across from her hideaway. Through the brush she could see a man get out of the cab and point in her direction. She began to tremble.

She knew he saw her.

The stranger started walking toward her. Jannie had nowhere to run.

Someone in the truck called to him, and he stopped. He turned back, got in the vehicle, and they drove off.

Jannie took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from her brow. She looked at the back of her hand — filthy. She crouched down next to the stream and began washing: first her face and hands, then her legs and feet. She looked around. The sun had set. She slipped off her rag dress. There was no soap, just water.

She wrung out the material and got dressed. She shivered.

“I need to bring some nuts with me.” She tore off a section of material, gathered some food, and tied them up in a small makeshift sack. She walked back to the road and continued west.

The evening was becoming cooler. In the distance, Jannie could hear the roars of lions and the laughing of hyenas. Both were dangerous. She stopped in the middle of the road. Her fear was overwhelming. She didn’t want to be ripped apart by wild animals? Maybe she should have stayed in the village.

A growl close by. Jannie jumped and turned. A lion! She can’t out run him. It’ll be painful, over in seconds. “I’m sorry, my father, I didn’t make it out of the Congo.”

The lion made a rush and leapt into the air, his claws extended, his mouth open, his ears back and his mane flattened in the wake of his speed. Jannie closed her eyes. She had seen her young uncle ripped to shreds. She began to scream when a rifle cracked. The cat fell to the road. Jannie opened her eyes and whipped around. It was the man from the truck.

“I saw you earlier. I was going to offer you a ride, but my partner told me to leave you alone,” the stranger said.

Jannie couldn’t speak. She was shaking all over.

“Where are you from?” the stranger asked.

“My village was burned to the ground. My mother was raped, and then cut up until she bled to death, my father was murdered, and my brothers… I don’t know where they are.”

“You can come with me. You’ll be safe.”

Jannie followed the stranger to his truck, and they rode to his campsite. She was given soap and water to clean up, a new rag dress to wear, and some food. She was shown where she was to sleep: a cot with a thick sleeping bag. The stranger said good night and left Jannie to fall asleep.

Her eyes flashed open. Someone was tying a gag over my mouth. Others were tying her arms and legs. Her clothes ripped off. She screamed in pain, but the gag muffled her cries. Two, three, four. She lost count.

She didn’t know how long it lasted. When it was over, they untied her.

Before morning, Jannie ran from the camp. This time she took some of the food and water that was leftover in her tent. She ran until she was exhausted. It was near twilight, and she heard a growl nearby. She turned in time to see the horizon obliterated by the body of a pouncing lion.

Lion’s teeth in her neck. The pain. She tried to scream. He shook his head. It was over.

The lion dragged the body away. No one knew Jannie was dead. The men in the camp just shrugged their shoulders when they discovered she was gone. There would be no one mourning, no funeral, and no burial. Soon there would be nothing left. No evidence of existence.

But Jannie was no longer running, hiding, hungry, thirsty, tired, and bleeding. The road west, out of the Congo, was quiet. The bloodstains on the dirt were already fading.

When they call my name I’m more relieved than happy. It’s finally over. All the hype.

I feel groping hands all over me, excited squeezes and back thumps while I slowly rise and head to the podium. Flashes of light spark as the photographers capture shots of me shaking hands with the old white guy who hands me the bronze statue. They snap even more when I look down at the award, holding it close like a new father might cradle his baby.

As I clear my throat I try not to look at Mama before I begin. Her hair is too bright, her nails are too long, her dress too tight. She doesn’t look like any of the other mothers present—black or white. Instead I look down at the Heisman again, readying myself to speak.

I’m not all that surprised when it begins.

It starts with the familiar mushiness in my mouth as my teeth slowly lose their anchoring, detaching themselves from my squishy gums. I wonder if I can just start my speech, hoping no one will notice. But when the first tooth drops from my mouth, a string of bloody saliva still connecting it to my chin, I know I’m done for. The photographers go crazy with their cameras. I finally look up at Mama, who’s now standing atop her chair, wildly hooting like a banshee—totally oblivious to the chaos in my mouth.

That’s normally when I wake up.

I’ve been having that dream for the past year. And now, I’m wondering if it might actually mean something.

I tap my pencil on my open math book and look up. Mama’s listening to her oldies station on the kitchen radio like always. But today, the DJ’s talking to this psychic dream lady who wrote a book that’s all about what dreams mean.

Mama rolls her eyes and her fake lashes shiver, “Who gives a good goddamn! Get to the roses!”

She’s been waiting all morning for the part of the radio show when suspicious girlfriends call the station to set up their cheating men. What happens is, the radio station calls the guys and offers them a free dozen roses. Then they ask the poor dudes who they wanna send the flowers to. That’s usually when all hell breaks loose because the guys hardly ever say the name of the lady on the line.

Mama loves that part.

She’ll sit our cracked kitchen table, braiding a zillion little braids into one of her customer’s hair, and between long drags on her Virginia Slims she’ll savor the drama on the radio. “That dumbbitch!” she loves to holler, slapping the tabletop so hard that the cellophane packs of unbraided hair on the table jump as she laughs her ass off at the broken-hearted women on the line.

So this morning she’s watching the radio like an alley cat stalking a mouse hole, like if she stares at it hard enough the DJ just might kick the psychic dream lady off the air and get to calling some cheating men.

I’m at the kitchen table trying to do my summer school Trig homework. But the numbers and symbols in the book aren’t making any sense, even with the notes from the math tutor Coach Simms assigned me. It’s just that I’ve always done better with words than numbers. So since I’m listening more to the psychic lady with the weird raspy voice than paying attention to my homework—I’ve heard it.

My dream.

Some caller kept dreaming she was losing her teeth and wants to know what it means. “Mmmmm,” the psychic lady hums. “That’s actually quite common. It means you’ve said something that you wish you could take back.”

I think about what she’s said.

“Trey!” Mama snaps.

I look up, surprised at the pinched look on her face that tells me she’s been calling me for a while.

She flicks a long trail of ash into the empty grape soda can on the table, still eyeing me. “Run to the store for me.”

***

My body sways on the city bus as it travels over a bump and I find myself wondering about the dream again, and what the psychic lady said it meant.

I guess I do regret some of the things I’ve said.

I adjust the little white earphones in my ears under my hoodie, leaning my head against the bus’s window. The earphones aren’t attached to an iPod or anything, but they used to be. A silver iPod. Then my mom’s last boyfriend sold it to get high. I still wear the earphones though. People usually leave you alone when you look like you’re busy listening to music or something.

“Crenshaw and Slauson,” the driver mumbles my stop and I make my way off. I pull my hood off my head once I step onto the hot street below.

So, maybe I regret cussing Mama out when Donald sold my iPod.

Or maybe it can also work in the opposite way and I regret the things I didn’t say. Like that day Coach Simms pulled me aside after football practice, his body smelling like Old Spice and afro sheen as he said, “Ms. Jackson showed me the essay you wrote in class last week. The one about becoming a writer.”

I’d stared back at him like he was speaking a foreign language.

But he just kept on, wrapping a thick forearm around me. “Listen son, I want you to know anything is possible. Don’t let no one tell you different.” But I’d just shrugged him off, too embarrassed by the conversation to even respond. So, maybe I wish I would have said something back. Something real touching. Like something one of my characters in my stories would have said and everyone who overheard it would have teared up like Ms. Jackson does whenever she reads my stuff in class. But real life never works like stories.

I walk into the little corner store and the bell on the door gives a jingle. The old Asian dude at the counter watches me suspiciously from behind his clear shield as I walk the aisles, gathering stuff in my arms. When I finally reach the counter he gruffly rings up the items.

He snatches the sweaty bills from my hand through his little opening and I think about that gangster movie I watched last night and wonder what it would feel like to whip out my HK 45 in his face, tell him to empty his register—NOW! He wouldn’t look so tough then.

But, I don’t have a HK 45.

And even if I did, I figure I’m too far from home to make it back on foot without getting caught. And, well, I’ve never stolen anything in my whole life.

So instead I watch him load up my paper bag with the things I was sent for: two boxes of mac and cheese, Honey Smacks, a carton of milk, Mama’s Oreos. I take the stuff and my change and head out of the store, adjusting my earphones that are connected to nothing, my eyes falling to the miles of cracked sidewalk that stretch before me.

Even though she could not see her, Cookie just knew Miss Fran was waving her arms. Miss Fran was complaining about the heat. It was early spring, not quite sixty degrees outside. “I don’t know if it’s the heat or my womanhood but I feel like I’m in an oven,” she announced to the hair shop occupants. Cookie’s nose picked up the familiar scent of the Mum underarm deodorant Miss Fran never left home without.

Now don’t get me wrong, Miss Fran didn’t have B.O. In fact, Cookie loved how the smell of the ever popular Evening in Paris colognemingled with the scent of the paste deodorant. EP was her favorite cologne. She always kept an extra twenty-five cents for a squirt from the perfume machines in the ladies rooms at the RKO, Paramount or Branford movies houses downtown. Most of the time, she caught part of the misty blast just below her ear as she stood on her tippy toes and slowly pressed the perfume plunger.

“Maybe you ought to get some of that Lydia B. Pinkham’s stuff they talk about on the radio,” the new operator offered with a smirk. Several ladies laughed while the older ones took exception to the remark made by Crystal the young, shapely girl with the big legs. Miss Fran stretched her eyes and put her hand on her hip.

“Maybe you ought to pay attention to the head you shampooing. You got more water on the floor than in the bowl,”

Miss Linda, the operator in the second chair and a contemporary of Miss Fran gave her finger an imaginary lick and chalked one up for the older girls. Crystal ignored the gesture and turned her attention to hair washing.

Ms. Fran’s forehead glistened. Beads of sweat generated by her mane taming expertise, trickled past her freckles and settled under her chin. Every now and then she patted them dry with the end of a terry cloth towel laid across the shoulder of her pink smock. She moved about efficiently combing and prepping Cookie’s wet hair mass for the second beauty step, the drying ritual.

The length and texture of the customer’s hair determined how much she pulled twisted or braided handfuls of thick, thin, coarse, wavy or silky strands into equal sections creating temporary designs destined for a heated encounter a heated encounter with the “Mandogoose.” Cookie’s hair was on the way to respectability. Things would soon be straightened out.

The “Mandogoose,” a hair drying contraption, was a big silver thing supported by wheels. It resembled a cross between a mandolin and a goose’s neck. The adjustable trunk emitted a stream of hot air that was aimed at targets of semi-wet hair squares or rectangles. Beauty shop technicians had to move and reposition the dryer and the customer as the process progressed. To the delight of most hairdressers it was eventually replaced by the bonnet hood, and later, hand held dryers.

Anyway, Cookie knew what getting one’s “hair done entailed.” She sat still and tried as best she could to maintain a neutral expression throughout the ordeal. There was no way she would show any sign of discomfort. Any such behavior could possibly damage Miss Fran’s reputation as a “hairdresser’s hairdresser.” After all, she was purported to have coined the phrase, “If your hair isn’t becoming to you, you should be coming to us.”

Plus, Cookie had an obligation to be a positive role model for her sister, Ann. Nevertheless, she frowned and shook her feet, discretely, to ease her pain. Ann, who was next up, watched from her seat, terrified. Anyone who experienced getting your hair “done” knows it was not easy. However, no one would say so; it wasn’t worth voicing, at least not in public. For the average girl, the ends justified the means. Simply put, it was worth the wait. There were two places in the neighborhood that, eventually, everyone had to go, the undertaker parlor and the beauty parlor. One of the places was gender specific. Almost every girl in the neighborhood went to the beauty parlor at least twice a year, for Easter, Christmas and sometimes on your birthday, if your folks could afford it. To complain about the difficulties surrounding the hair ritual was almost sacrilegious and jeopardized your chance to experience one of the coming-of-age experiences of the 50’s and 60’s. Who wouldn’t want to, “look real pretty when your hair is done?” In fact, if your family couldn’t afford it, someone always paid your tab or credit was graciously extended.

Getting one’s hair “done” was a big deal― a luxury. For the most part, neighborhood women gathered in their kitchens to take care of hair. There was no conditioner or cream rinse to tame the tresses. Madame Walker’s products, as well as Posner, Apex, Murray’s and Dixie Peach pomades were staples under the sink keeping the hot comb and curling iron company. In the absence of expensive dryers one’s hair was braided and allowed to dry before the application on heat.

“Lord, I could go for an ice cold soda pop!” Miss Fran announced as she finished drying Cookie’s hair and stopped for a well deserved break. Cookie happily volunteered to go to the store. She too, needed a break. By her face was framed by a thick mane that looked like cotton candy.

“Now child, you know you can’t go out in the street with your hair all over your hair. Your sister can go next door for me. Can’t you Ann?”

Ann answered the call, immediately. She was eager to escape what appeared to be the torture of her sister and the sticky red plastic covering on the waiting chair that stuck to her thighs. Before Miss Fran folded the money in a piece of newspaper and placed her order, Ann already knew she was going to buy a bag of potato chips, two Squirrel Nuts and a couple of Mary Janes with the remaining reward. For generations the reward for community couriers (children who ran errands was the ever welcomed phrase, “Keep the change.” The Change! Under no circumstances was Cookie and her siblings allowed to accept money from adults, known or unknown. However, protocol did allow for keeping “the change” or accepting soda bottles to exchange for monetary deposits. Perhaps the elderly, tired and overworked of this neighborhood unknowingly invented private shopper services.

“Do I have to write it down for you, honey or can you remember? I want a bag of salted peanuts and a Royal Crown cola.” She never drank her RC without an added bag of salted peanuts.

“No ma’am…I mean…Yes ma’am…I can remember. I bag of peanuts and a Royal Crown,” Ann proudly recited.

Ann trapped a giggle inside as Miss Fran said, “Get something for yourself with the change.” Cookie’s eyes widen. Although she knew her sister would surely share the treats with her, Ann stuck her tongue out, made a face and hurried outside. The beauty shop was sandwiched between a small grocer and a barber shop. Both places carried the same pop brands but she felt more comfortable going to the grocer’s. Besides, the grocer’s son, Reggie was her fifth grade classmate…and she liked him a little, too. He rushed to reach into the soda box and select the RC from among the bottles of Nehi, Yoo-Hoo and other brands surrounding an island of ice sitting in a pool of water. They both smiled, shyly.

“Thanks for getting the RC. That water must be very cold.”

“Naw, not really. I do that every day,” he claimed with a slight air of machismo.

His mother noticed they were at a loss for words. “Reg, don’t forget to put her purchases in a bag,” she gently reminded. So mesmerized was Ann that she almost forgot to get something for herself with the change. Her memory returned just as she put her hand on the door handle. The Change! She turned around and walked pensively to the glass case filled with all sorts of sugary delights. She reached her own chips on the stand next to the counter, and then she placed her order. This time Reggie’s mother waited on her and dropped each selection into the brown paper bag. Ann remembered she had the extra ten cents her father slipped her earlier. She decided to surprise Cookie with BB-Bats and a pair of wax lips.

Ann walked back into the parlor with an air of accomplishment. She noted how Cookie’s face appeared more relaxed, her foot wasn’t shaking and her shoulders were lowered.

“That’s my girl,” Miss Fran complimented her on her efficient peanut and soda pop pick up.

Cookie was rolling her eyes at her and had that I’m-gonna-tell-ma-you-didn’t-share look. Ann casually walked to her sticky seat and slowly removed the red cellophane belt from her Mary Jane’s with the cadence of a stripper. Her eyes met Cookie’s. She popped the entire piece in her mouth and savored it with closed eyes just to make Cookie mad. She waited for Ms. Fran to turn the chair then, she unwrapped the other one. That way Cookie could not see her how much she enjoyed the flavorful blend of maple and peanut butter on her ten year old palate. The taste was enjoyable. So much so, she had to use her pinky finger to wipe away the Mary Jane juice seeping from the corner of her mouth.

Cookie was livid. “Girl, you gonna look real pretty when I get through with your head.” Miss Fran fluffed the heretofore stiff bulk of protein. Now the part she dreaded, no matter how many times Cookie held her ear, the straightening comb would find some spot to leave something for her to remember, if the ear didn’t get it, the scalp did. She braced herself and thought how a piece of candy would have distracted her, a bit.

Since it was the Saturday before Easter, a time when the beauty shops were full. Cookie recognized three school mates anchored to the cushy revolving chrome and leather chairs, holding onto the plush arm rests as if their lives depended on it. Pained expressions accompanied the desire to look pretty. The experience so terrified a few, the attending beautician had to cover the station mirror with a towel. That way, the tender headed ones, those who flinched at the sight of a hot comb or curling iron, would sit still. Cookie and Ann never needed the mirror covered. Miss Fran was patient. She always checked their comfort levels, “You alright, baby? Let me know if the comb gets too hot.” Cookie, many times, wanted to ask, ‘Have you taken a look at my expression?’ She didn’t though she always answered, “Yes, Ma’am, I’m fine.”

The glob of Dixie Peach hair grease remained centered on the back of Miss Fran’s left hand. From time to time she scooped a dab to apply to a swatch of hair. A stream of pungent smoke spiraled into the air as she regulated the temperature of the hot straightening comb by blowing on it. She then wiped it across the damp towel at her station. Next, she set the metal comb to a section of hair near the scalp and like magic, fluff turned smooth. Cookie knew the end results would be worth the pain. Miss Fran pressed hair to the point of silk. Cookie’s hair felt lighter. She began to relax. Miss Fran took a step back to admire her work.

“Y’all know I can do some hair. The child’s hair is pretty! Check out them edges, not a one out of place,” she proclaimed in a proud exaggerated southern cadence.

A few of Miss Linda’s patrons waiting near the front shot bored glances across the room in response to the beauty parlor owner’s boasting. In their eyes, their hairdresser was far superior. Miss Fran was oblivious to their silent disdain. Miss Linda smiled if Fran wanted to try and sound like Scarlett O’Hara, so be it. It didn’t take a dime out of her pocket; she had just as many customers as Miss Fran.

The mound of bramble rendered smooth, bone straight and ready for the final touch, addition of curls or braids. Today, Cookie was getting curls, Shirley Temple curls. Miss Fran dug into the jar and replaced the pomade glob on the back of her hand with a glob of curling wax. The curling irons were heated to a safe temperature.

Cookie relaxed as her nose alerted her, the end of the process was at hand. After the fragrance of shampoo and pomade, the sweet smell of curling wax seemed to ease all tension. She could hardly contain the anticipation of the flurry of compliments, looks of approval, and smiles she would receive from the ladies in the shop, her sister, and especially her parents. Miss Fran took few unnecessary breaks, the only time she left a patron was to pay the insurance man, order from the Fuller Brush or Watkins man or put in her lucky numbers for the day.

Curlers clicked and clacked as Miss Fran put her masterpiece together. The final touch, a wide tightly rolled bang spanning the space between her left and right temples topped off whatever the rest of your hairdo, whether braids or curls. The ever looming bang situated above the forehead was standard until such time, you were deemed old enough to sport a “cut bang,” a swatch of hair spread out like a fan, positioned the same distance as the regular bang and brushed flat onto the forehead.

Cookie’s grimace was replaced with a smug smile. Her ordeal was finally at an end. What a price we pay for beauty. She couldn’t wait to get out of the chair to sport her new “do” and see what, if anything, her sister Ann had left in the candy bag.

“Give me your ribbons baby,” Miss Fran cooed.” (No self respecting mother sent her daughter to the hairdresser without them back then.) And then it was done. For some reason hairdressers always ceremoniously wiped the mirror before handing it to the patron. Mirror in hand cookie studied her reflection. Miss Fran swiveled the chair slowly so as to give the little girl a three hundred and sixty degree view of her work.

The beaming smile on Cookie’s face answered the unasked. She felt she looked beautiful. Relieved, she relinquished her seat to her tender headed sister. She shook her head just enough to feel the movement of the curls on the back of her neck. Ann passed the bag with the remaining goodies and timidly moved toward the styling chair. Cookie rolled her eyes at her sister, made a face and took a seat. It was her turn as spectator.

Carmel heard the thunder rumbling as she quick-stepped to the corner store. She wore a light denim jacket that barely protected her from the chill in the air. Her umbrella sat on the kitchen floor in the apartment, but Carmel figured she’d be back before the rain came. Lightning sparked across the evening’s dark sky above, scaring her for a second.

Her steps picked up speed to an almost-run. She turned a corner and saw the lights of the store across the street. Carmel ran across the road, stepping on the curb just in time to avoid a black sports car whiz by. The driver blew the horn that lost itself to the noise of a bus stopping outside the store.

The only customer inside wore an Army jacket with jeans tucked haphazardly into her combat boots. The dark-skinned woman leaned on the counter sharing a joke with the clerk. Her laugh broke the monotony of the hum from the store’s appliances. Carmel recognized the clerk from having visited the store before and smiled. Deepa smiled in return but continued her conversation. Carmel couldn’t hear Deepa’s soft voice and cared little about her gossip. She had to get back before the rain started. That’s all Carmel had on her mind.

She heard the customer ask, “So what did he do then?”

A moment of whispers was followed by a throaty laugh. Carmel walked to the back of the store and found the beer section. She dragged a six-pack of Schlitz malt liquor out of the icebox, took it to the counter and gingerly stood behind the tall woman engrossed in conversation with the clerk. The pair erupted in laughter once again before Deepa beckoned Carmel closer.

“Oh, my. You are too much for me lady,” Deepa said, her native Eastern Indian accent lilting every word. She smiled and shook her head while ringing up the price of Carmel’s beer.

“Will that be all?” she asked Carmel, who nodded her reply.

“Girlfriend, you ought to hush,” the dark-skinned woman said, slapping the counter. “That man of yours is a trip. You need to hang him out the window and shake his ass.”

“I’ve been telling Nikki, here, stories of my husband and our new baby boy,” Deepa explained to Carmel. “He can’t figure out anything without me there to show him. Men are useless things. That’ll be $8.24.”

Carmel smiled weakly and dug into her tight jeans pocket for money.

“Yeah, you can say that again,” Nikki said. “I don’t mess with men no more. They ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

Carmel fumbled with scrunched up dollar bills from her pocket and dug deeper for change. A thin gold band on Carmel’s left hand glinted under the fluorescent lights.

“How about you?” Nikki asked, nodding at Carmel. “Don’t tell me you’re married, too?”

Carmel laid eight singles on the counter and placed a quarter on top of the bills. “Keep the penny.” She turned to Nikki. “Yeah, ’fraid so. Biggest mistake I ever made.” She looked at Deepa feeling her cheeks burn. Why would she say such a thing to a perfect stranger? “I mean, it’s beautiful when it works and I’m sure everything’s going great for you guys, but you can run into troubles sometimes.”

“Then dump him, I say,” Nikki yelled, her large white teeth flashing. “Kick his ass out and find something better, like a four-legged dog instead of a two-legged one. Or better still, get a goldfish.” She chuckled.

Carmel smiled broadly at the woman’s humor. “Yeah, maybe I should.” But she knew she wouldn’t. His ass wouldn’t get kicked, and he was probably having a fit right now because she wasn’t back with his beer.

“You got kids?” Nikki asked.

Carmel shook her head. A sound like the world had been ripped in two startled them, and all three looked toward the window. Instantly, the storm hit the street and rain battered the pavement.

“Aw, shit!” exclaimed Nikki. “Now you know I ain’t got no umbrella. You guys got one?”

Both Deepa and Carmel shook their heads in unison.

“I thought I could get back before it started,” Carmel whispered to herself.

“Well, if you don’t mind Deepa, I’ll camp out here till it stops,” Nikki said.

“You’re more than welcome,” Deepa replied. She sat back on her stool to watch the small television set twittering quietly under the counter. Nikki stepped out the door and stood under the green and white canopy.

“Oooh, girl, it feels good out here. Come on, sit here with me till it stops.” She beckoned to Carmel and rested her behind on the store’s thin windowsill. “What’s your name?”

Carmel moved slowly toward the door and leaned in its frame and introduced herself. “Leroy’s gonna kill me if I don’t get back with his beer.”

“Forget him! Sit your ass down here. He’s just gonna have to wait.”

“I really don’t have far to go.” Carmel hesitated at the door.

“Going across the street will get you soaked to the bone,” Nikki said, “and you’ll catch your death. Si’down. It’ll pass over in a minute.”

Nikki patted the slim edge of the sill.

Carmel shivered. The air felt cold to her but, despite herself, she sat down next to Nikki anyway. The woman was right; the rain would be gone in no time.

“Yep. Men just ain’t worth it,” Nikki said. She pulled out a candy bar from a hidden pocket inside her jacket, peeled off its wrapping and offered a piece to her companion. Carmel shook her head.

“So who is this Leroy, anyway?”

“Just my husband,” Carmel answered softly.

“Yeah, well, I figured that much. I mean why you still with him if your marriage sucks?”

“It’s not so bad,” Carmel said. “We’ve been married almost ten years. We dated about a year and after a while, sometimes, you know, it just kinda has its ups and downs. He manages that video store on Eighth Street.”

“Victory Videos?”

“Yeah, that one. It’s a pretty decent place. We watch videos all the time.”

“Have you seen ‘Waiting to Exhale’ with fly Angela Bassett? Ooh, that woman is gorgeous,” Nikki shrieked. “Man! That is such a great film. That scene where she’s throwing out all his stuff and then burns his car. How many times have you wanted to do that?” She laughed, deep and strong.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

Carmel enjoyed the conversation moving to something else. She didn’t want to talk about Leroy, and she feared going back to the cramped apartment. She’d been gone almost half an hour and they lived only ten minutes from the store.

“No kids, huh?”

Carmel shook her head. “We did try, but then I had some troubles and kept losing the babies. Now everything is broken inside me. That’s what Leroy said.”

Nikki stared into the rain for several moments. “You know this man of yours ain’t the be all and end all of your life,” she said. “You don’t have to go back to him. Take charge, girlfriend. Right now. Don’t go back.”

Carmel grinned. How exciting. She could imagine his face contorted from the pain of life without her, his tears flooding their tiny home, drowning him to death. Defiance rose inside her like a bear waking from a winter’s sleep. Maybe Nikki was right? Maybe she didn’t have to go back? The city was big enough. Surely, he would never find her if she changed her name.

Carmel watched the raindrops make tiny explosions all over the ground, like sparks of inspiration that don’t quite know how to hold together to become something wonderful.

“You ain’t even listening to nothin’ I’m saying are you, girl?”

“Oh, I hear you. I’m hearing you all too well that I just might not go back.”

She felt her blood rush to her cheeks and her heart began to race. Could she do it? Not go back to Leroy?

Nikki crumpled the candy bar wrapper into a ball and stuffed it into another of her many coat pockets. “What d’you want outta life?”

“Happiness,” Carmel replied. She thought for a moment. “Peace.”

Nikki sighed loudly. “How come every sucker wants peace? World peace! World peace! All those fancy Miss America’s want world peace, like that’s even possible. Yeah, they can take their empty heads to Bosnia or Rwanda and say, ‘Okay, like my name is Angie, okay, and I want you nice folks to stop fightin’. Okay?’” Nikki laughed at herself. “They all say world peace but they don’t really give a shit who dies for a piece of land as long as they get their crown.”

Carmel shook her head. “I’m not talking about world peace. Maybe I sound selfish, but I want my own peace. My peace and quiet.”

She took a breath drawing in the wet air and holding it for a moment before exhaling heavily through her mouth. “What’s it like to have someone hold you,” she said. “Just hold you. No groping and poking. Just two warm people together exchanging happy thoughts and dreams. No noise. No TV. Just peace. No banging inside my head.”

She stopped, afraid she sounded weird. Maybe she had said too much to this stranger. Although, Nikki wasn’t a stranger. Not anymore. Nikki leaned close to Carmel and wrapped her fingers around her companion’s left hand and almost breathed the words into Carmel’s ear.

“That sounds like you and me, girl. That’s just what we’re doing right now.”

They didn’t look at each other but sat on the windowsill outside the store, enjoying the rain.

“Talk to me, Nikki. Tell me about you. I’ve never seen you here before. I’m sure I’d’ve remembered someone like you.”

Nikki laughed her deep laugh that Carmel found contagious. Nikki had large dark brown eyes, big teeth that protruded slightly and dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. Her shaved hair revealed a perfectly round head and three gold hoops shimmered in her right ear. Her dark coffee-colored skin had a touch of milk, and Carmel figured sugar surely filled her soul because despite her hard appearance, she was the sweetest and kindest person Carmel had met in a long time.

“I ain’t nobody,” Nikki said, removing her hand from Carmel’s. She glanced down at her steel-toed boots. “I come here sometimes and get me a candy bar.” She looked at Carmel and grinned. “I ain’t nobody.”

The urge to touch Nikki’s round cheek overwhelmed Carmel. As she raised her hand, a bus whooshed to a stop in front of them. A man in a brown raincoat climbed down and stood for a moment in the street. He nodded almost absently at the two women sheltering under the store’s canopy. He made several attempts to light a cigarette as the bus pulled away, then, unsuccessful, wandered down the sidewalk and disappeared around a corner.

Carmel stared at her new friend and asked, “Were you ever married?”

Nikki roared with laughter. “Me? Married? Uh uh. Not for me.” She paused as if contemplating married life then said, “I sold myself to men for too long to ever want to marry one of them.”

Carmel’s eyebrows came together. “Sold yourself?”

Nikki’s brown eyes blinked slowly at Carmel, a faint smile on her lips. She whispered, “I used to be a hooker. Walked the streets wiggling my ass for money.”

Carmel’s eyes widened. She’d never met a prostitute before and didn’t know what to say. She turned away not wanting to stare.

Nikki laughed. “No, I don’t do it no more if that’s what you’re thinking. That was a long time ago.” Her eyes searched the gray rain and Carmel felt embarrassed by her shocked reaction.

“At least it feels like another lifetime,” Nikki said. She sucked her teeth and stared at the wet pavement. “My momma, she died when me and my brother were real young. OD’d on heroine. So I took to the streets. My way to survive. Ain’t no big thing.”

“Do you ever see your brother?”

“Nah. Never saw him again after they separated us. I think he went to a nice family, though. He was just a baby and babies get taken quicker than older kids like I was then.”

A cool breeze made Carmel shiver. She couldn’t imagine being a hooker and having her mom die from drugs. Nikki must be a real strong woman going through all she had and still being able to laugh. Carmel smiled at her new friend. She wanted to touch her arm, hug her maybe, reassure her that her brother was doing just fine. But Nikki knew all that already. Carmel could tell. She was the kind of woman who wouldn’t let any man hurt her and wouldn’t let anything get her down. Nikki had the longest eyelashes. They curled smoothly upward as if she had curled them herself, though Carmel knew they had to be natural. Clearly, Nikki wasn’t the type to fuss over her lashes in the morning. There was something mesmerizing about this woman. Something exciting and liberating. Nikki had defiance written all over her and Carmel wanted to touch it, to bathe in it.

She wasn’t going back to Leroy. There, the decision was made. She wouldn’t go back because she didn’t have to. Nikki had made her see the light – her voice inside Carmel’s mind urging her on, “To hell with him.” Carmel’s heart began to race and her insides shivered.

Why had she gotten married?

“Oh Carmel, darling, you look so beautiful.” Carmel’s mother fluffed the train of the wedding dress around her feet.

“Maybe I need some air? This dress feels very tight.” Carmel tugged at the lacy collar.

“Caaarmeeeel, sweetheart.” Her mother took her face in her hands. “Everyone gets nervous. You look gorgeous. Everything is going to work out just fine.”

Carmel gripped her father’s arm as they marched up the aisle. She saw teeth bared at her but couldn’t see one face in the crowd of family and friends all lined along the pews. She heard the piano playing and saw the lips move on the preacher’s face. She said, “I do,” on cue and saw Leroy grinning back at her, and she prayed to God they would be happy together.

Then Leroy hit her.

Carmel couldn’t recall why they had argued. She remembered the flat of his hand stinging her cheek and leaving it red for hours afterward. Her mother had told Carmel that sharp tongue of hers would get her into trouble one of those days. He had reacted because Carmel had pushed him too far and she shouldn’t have said whatever it was she had said. If she would just love him more then he wouldn’t get so angry. Men are fragile. That’s what her mother said. “Women are the stronger sex emotionally, so we have to protect our men and not push them over the edge.” That’s what mother had said using make-up to cover her own bruises.

Carmel had to go back. He would find her. The city wasn’t that big. He would find her and kick the shit out of her. Then he’d kill her. Carmel knew he would. He had told her so more than she cared to admit. She shuddered at the thought of him then stood up, pulling the six-pack up with her.

“I gotta go, Nikki.” She couldn’t look at her new friend. “Leroy’s been waiting a long time and I’m in for it now. I’m really in for it. I’m sorry.”

Nikki shook her head slowly from side to side. She grabbed Carmel’s hand and squeezed. “Why you gotta go running back to his sorry ass?”

“Because . . .” Carmel knew she didn’t have an answer that would satisfy Nikki. She just wasn’t brave like Nikki. She could feel her friend’s judgment, the you’re-the-problem-with-women-today look, and it almost felt worse than the back of Leroy’s hand on her cheek.

“It’s funny,” said Nikki, “you can marry an asshole like that and they say it’s normal, but marry another woman, like me, and they say it’s against God. Being scared of him and still going back, that’s what’s against God.”

The rain stopped but the water, draining from the streets into the sewers underground, continued to make loud crashing noises around them. Carmel frowned and looked at Nikki’s strong fingers wrapped around her own small hand. She stood motionless, staring at the streetlights reflecting in the wetness. The air whipped around her as another bus pulled up to the stop. Four young girls flowed into the street and giggled their way along the sidewalk. Nikki’s grip loosened, releasing Carmel. The weight of the six-pack in Carmel’s other hand dragged her arm downward. Bending over, she let the beer pull her torso down and she laid the cans on the ground. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the cans until finally, she plucked one then another from the plastic holder before straightening up and leaning back, adjusting her hips on the windowsill.

She held out a can to her friend. A short hiss hit the air as their cans popped open at the same time. Carmel inhaled deeply, ignoring the hammering inside her chest, then raised her drink as if to salute the moon and clinked cans with Nikki.