[SIX]

STACY

YOU DIN’ HAFTA tell me another word. ‘Cuz if I got a dolla, my kids gonna get ninety cent of it if it’s gonna make them comfortable. And if I ain’t got nothin’? I’ma shoot me a rooster ‘r sumpthin’ so they could eat. I put that on everything I love. So, me with a hundred- thousand-dollar credit card in my hands? And my kids are sleeping in bags on the floor? What? Are they serious?

Our first stop was IKEA. And the shopping spree was off to a running start. We filled up four shopping carts, and that’s not including the beds, the sofas, and some other furniture that wouldn’t fit in the car. We really rushed through our first stop just so we could hit a used-car lot, but my eyes were on their like-new cars. After all, if I’m gonna be ballin’, I might as well look the part, right? Anyway, I wasn’t gonna buy the car right away, just wanted to check it out for future purchase. I knew Danté would kill me if I came back with all the furniture and a new ride. Not like he was the boss of me or nothin’; I just know how he is. So I just figured I’d take it easy. After the dealership visit, we stopped by the mall, where I picked up some Victoria’s Secret lingerie for me and my sis, and we went by Foot Locker, where I got sneakers for the whole family— even Mom. It felt so good to come to the rescue of my family, with my knight in shining armor by my side. And I rode that high into the evening as we shopped at Publix for a month’s worth of groceries, and after that we stopped by Wendy’s for fast food.

We were makin’ a whole lotta noise on the way home with the radio blastin’ Q-102, and I had a buzz because I couldn’t wait to pop one of the bottles of wine we bought. It felt like Christmas Eve and we were headed home to open all the gifts early. Only thing I could think about was celebrating with my man. The fast food could wait for later.

DANTÉ

By 8:00 p.m., some five hours later, the house was still quiet and I was at peace. Truth is, the peace and quiet was probably what woke me, since I’m not at all used to living like this. For all my life, I can remember sirens, loud music, and teenagers hanging out in groups at unreasonable hours, shouting and starting senseless fights with one another. If it wasn’t the teenagers, the traffic, or the domestic disputes right there in the street, there’d be gunshots fired from the top of someone’s building. It was that same reckless, irresponsible attitude that hung in the air, so thick it could create a funk; so thick it could be considered loud. And sometimes, so deadly that you either surrendered or became vigilant. So, for the life of me, as I took a walk inside and out of the Singletary home, it was hard to see how Stacy had the opportunity to get involved with the violent escapade she had talked about, the one that had virtually chased her out of town. And then I somehow recalled something she’d said about the jurisdiction of her mom’s house in respect to where all the drama took place. Suburbia, versus the congested city.

She got a nice house up in Lawrenceville. They would never think to look there. Too far up north, away from the ‘hood.

So then maybe that was the reason why the Singletary home seemed like some kind of a safe haven for her kids. Or, at least, that was the vision I was left with. Still, I found myself looking (and listening) closely at the home security system. Every time someone came in or left the house you’d hear:

“Garage door, open. ”

“Back door, open. ”

“Front door, open. ”

The system seemed to cover everything, but all the while I’m thinking, So? And if someone decides to kick in the door? “Front door, open” ain’t gonna help a damn bit. And I gathered that this was the reason for the aluminum bat I had noticed in the pantry. In the pantry?

The rest of the house was more or less predictable: “cookie-cutter specials,” we HG Channel fans call them. You stomp on the floor and you can hear the basement door rattle. You pull the front door closed hard enough and the impact can be felt throughout the dwelling. Same old fixtures and utilities and appliances in the bathrooms, the kitchen, and the laundry room. Same old chandeliers, ceiling fans, and moldings that come standard when the house is built. And, of course, central heat and AC throughout, all of it (I’m informed) payable through one power, gas, and light company. Again, someone, somewhere, is sittin’ pretty getting all of that money.

The overwhelming plus I noticed was the space in the house. The square footage had to be over twenty-five hundred. A far cry from the thousand square feet I had to manage up in the BX.

Noises outside. Nine p.m.

Lord have mercy. Sounded like a party showed up, already in progress.

There was the car that her brother, Rory, drove, there was my Blazer, and another white truck behind them with the words IKEA FURNITURE WARE HOUSE branded across its side. A caravan had just arrived, for sure. And everyone that went for the ride was apparently full of joy. If I didn’t know better, Stacy bought everyone something with her new black and platinum MasterCard. Jesus.

AFTER AN hour (at least) of moving all the purchased goods into the house, I got a better look at things: the his-and-hers beds for Stacy’s kids, Jason and Jackie, the sectional and dining-room set, the mattress set for her sister (the bed she wanted had to be ordered); there was also a large-screen TV, a desktop, and a laptop computer, a whole bunch of kitchen stuff, more food than a family could eat in a month, and master beds for the guest room and (of all people) Stacy’s mom. Everybody had new sneakers on and you could smell that new-sneaker freshness in the air. And as I’m towing things through the house, and helping Rory assemble the furniture in the living room (where there was the most space), I’m looking over at Stacy spending time with her kids. I can’t get her attention, but my subliminal messages are shooting over at her like a machine gun.

How much did you spend? How are you gonna pay it back? I told you earlier you had to be careful.

But my inaudible conversation was going nowhere. After a time, I just said, What the hell. And I stuck it in the back of my mind. I was just happy to see her happy. No sense in messing that up. She had her kids in her arms, which was the reason we had come to Atlanta in the first place. Not only that, she had apparently cleared things up with her moms, which seemed like a good thing as well. I just couldn’t help thinking that all this was a pipe dream, empty happiness that was produced thanks to the little plastic card she got. The card. Wow. How much different things felt when you could spend money. How many smiles and how much contentment and how many relationships repaired when you can spend money. I wondered if I had a million dollars, could I buy happiness in all the people around me? Clearly, she was doing it with less than $100 grand. That is, I hope it was waaaay less than $100 grand. But I also knew that no matter how much money she had, purchased happiness doesn’t last long; not even as long as the money lasts.

AFTER A hefty, late dinner, most of us got niggeritis and fell asleep in our respective areas of the house. Stacy had her one-year-old, Jackie, sleeping between us. Jason was almost six years old, and I knew it was way past his bedtime to be playing with his new video game all night. I could hear the TV real clear through these cookie-cutter walls. And I was sure the rest of the house could as well. So, I got myself out of bed and went to the room next door, where Jason and Rory shared the space. Rory was snoring like a horse, dead tired and slumped on a blow-up mattress on the floor, while Jason was lying on his new bed, facing his new TV and flipping the controller like a pro.

“You think it might be time to catch up on some sleep, young man?” I said this, but I also went to sit on the bed and see what he was up to on TV.

“Play,” he offered. And he tried handing me the controller for player number two— one of the two he had been using. Jason, boy genius, was playing Red Faction, where the players and guns you choose shoot up one another during a prescribed time limit.

“Okay, Jason. I’ll play, only if you do two things for me.”

“Okay—what?”

“First of all, we gotta turn this down some. People are trying to sleep,” I said. Then, under my breath, I said, “Not that you care. Also, if I win, you have to put the game up, and get some sleep. You got day camp tomorrow, bright and early, right?”

“But it’s mandatory swim tomorrow. I hate mandatory swim.”

“Okay. Well, you can’t be a tough guy and shoot everybody up in Red Faction and in the morning be a scaredy-cat for mandatory swim, now can you?”

Jason made that confused face that I’m sure child psychologists see every day. But I went on with my proposal.

“So, you gotta promise, Jason. You promise?”

“Yeah,” he said with that disgruntled look. And I imitated the whole Muhammed Ali look, like I was gonna kick his little ass within five minutes, and then lights out. That was around midnight. By 3:00 a.m. I still hadn’t beaten Jason. But we played until we both fell off to sleep on his bed. Stacy came in and woke me.

“Y’all look so cute. Come on.”

More than half asleep, I allowed myself to be pulled up from the bed. Stacy tucked her son in and we held hands leaving the room. The image of that peaceful little genius stuck in my mind as we did.

“I put the baby to sleep. You need to shower.”

I made a face, but she was right. I dragged myself into the shower and when I came out, Stacy was in a fuck-me negligee.

Again, me with the curious expression. “In your mother’s house? “

Stacy sucked her teeth. “Don’t worry about her. I own that bitch.” She said that and handed me a glass of Alizé. We toasted.

“To the best of times,” she went on.

“Is that a Jay-Z quote? Or Charles Dickens?”

After twisting her lips to the side, she said, “Another one of your smart-aleck comments?”

After my first sip, I tried to ask her about money. She put her hand to my mouth.

“Don’t steal my joy,” she said. And I hushed up. Next thing I know, Stacy dropped to her knees and opened the towel I had around my waist until it fell to my feet. Now, in my mind, the pastor’s influence was overshadowing all this, with his usual speech about the Happy Meal standing out in bright neon lights. I know. I know, Pastor. But maybe just this one more time.

My head back and my hands on my hips, I realized more of those amazing feelings that Stacy always pleasured me with. She did this so well, engaged herself as if she were on a mission; and she made it so I didn’t have to feel guilty for not immediately returning the favor. She made it seem as though she liked to give head. And I guess, with my guilty conscience, I was left to wonder what plea sure she got out of this. But every time I think with the whole conscious-black-man side of my brain, it’s precisely at this time when I’m being selfish and when she’s blowing my mind. And I conveniently forget. Besides, today seemed so different. To-day seemed to be some kind of redemption for Stacy. She achieved her goal, and then some. She’s back with her kids, back in her ‘hood, secured by a strong line of credit, and now she’s got a pulsating man-size muscle working across her tongue and gums. And damned if this wasn’t just turning me on, encouraging me to give love in return.

I grabbed a chunk of Stacy’s hair, pulled her and her sloppy gums off me, and I swung her around so that she was bent over the new bed. Seconds later I was bending over and kissing her ever so lovingly. I loved it when she shaved down there, all prepared for me to slick my tongue along the smooth skin of her sensitive sex. And only when she began pulling away from me, at the moment her body became stiff as a board, unable to take any more, I shifted gears and went for the routine driving in and out, in and out. And her sighs grew to the point that I had to cover her mouth with my hand. Damn cookie-cutter house. At the same time, my other hand was securing her waist and I just went for it. It was fast and furious, and then it was slow and gradual and methodic and reaching for the deepest Stacy possible.

STACY

This was a time to celebrate. I was back home, back with my family, and my man was here. Plus, I was happy as a pig in shit after the lil’ shopping spree we came from. So I was tryin’ not to hear anything about my spending and all that conscious-consumer stuff Danté be talkin’ about. I just wanted to be supported 150 percent. And now that we were in the bedroom alone, I felt so obliged to give this man pleasures from out of this world.

Somethin’ about my mouth and Danté’s dick works so perfectly. It fits so snug, I’m comfortable workin’ with it. And when I look up to see his eyes roll back, I feel as if there’s no greater ecstasy for a man. Plus, somebody spoiled this man before I got to him. Because he never said no to my lips and tongue lovin’ him like they do. And I’ve had straight-up prudes stop me from goin’ down on them— which was a trip ‘cuz I thought all men liked head. So, in my mind I’m like, What ever, man. Your loss. But Danté’s lovin’ it. And I love this man to death, so he can get it whenever. The thing that’s so different about Danté from most every other man I been with is that he will give me pleasure in return. He won’t make me feel used and left unsatisfied. He will hold and caress me, and I always feel comforted within his embrace. And, as my ladies out there know, ain’t nothing like that feeling and bein’ hooked up with the right one. For me, Danté is that right one. He will give it to me in a smooth, romantic rhythm, and he can be rough with it, too. The thing is balance, and not overdoing it so that it gets ordinary or boring. One thing I don’t think will ever get boring is Danté givin’ me head. The attention he devotes, the pace that he brings with his tongue game, is crazy. How can I explain how it feels except that it’s electrifying! He sends chills through me and my body just goes into the jolts and spasms and I wanna pull out my weave. And all of that comes before the oceanic orgasm that pushes through me. My toes are curlin’. My eyes are all over the place. I’m pullin’ the bed sheets off and we’re eventually sliding off the bed and onto the floor. I cannot control myself when Danté really puts his work in. There are the quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am encounters we have. But then there are those thorough, passionate times that he forever surprises me, and sensations shoot up inside of me like some kinda lightning bolt. Wow. And just when I think I’ve had it all, I find myself beggin’ him to give me more. I need his dick inside of me and I don’t mind placing my direct order. Give it to me, Danté. Fuck me. From there on in, I know not what I’m saying. My mouth, my hands, and the rest of my body— everything has a mind of its own.

DANTÉ

I had to pull out quick and step away from her limp, frustrated body. I wanted this to last, and if that was gonna be the case I needed to cool it. I went to gulp down the rest of the Alizé, then I walked around the room like some naked Adonis, taking deep breaths so that I could simmer down. This was something I had to teach myself so that (no matter how excited I was) I wouldn’t cum too quick. Most times it worked. And when it didn’t, the worst case was that things got messy. But thank God I never had a mishap where I got a woman pregnant. Stacy says she can’t get pregnant because of some IUD she has in. I don’t know about all that. I just know to wear a rubber or withdraw. And still, after all those revelations and all that we’d been through, Stacy and I were still not using the rubber.

“COME HERE,” I directed. And Stacy made her way across the room and assumed a doggy-style position on the floor. Right there I became a beast for a few minutes, grabbing at her hair, snatching her head back, and feeding her dick from behind, over and over again. That was the whole object of pulling out, so I could start all over again from scratch.

More noise from Stacy. Then again, with my hand covering her mouth. Again I pulled out; but now I directed her to the corner of the room where I stood with my back against the wall. Since she was so obedient, and since the activity was driving my ego through the roof, I just followed my carnal urges.

“Kneel down. Suck it. ” I could feel myself becoming that raunchy, careless monster— that man in the nightmare, that bloody dream I had on the trip down to Atlanta. But, by all indications, Stacy was going with the flow. She was loving this and willing to oblige. So who was I to poop a party?

Sloppy and wet and ready, I leveraged our bodies so that she could continue to blow me, but now we were moving to the floor, with Stacy on her back and me hovering over her, working in and out of her mouth— her second pussy. In my mind, I guess, this was a new missionary position.

Although I was on the edge of orgasm, my intention was not to end up this way. And, with the little senses I had left, I pulled my baby up from the floor and carried her to the bed. Now was the time for the real missionary work. A shame how I was manipulating her like this, but (I promise) there was a heavy connection between us. In her eyes, her breathing, and the convictions she voiced over and over, Stacy was lovin’ every minute of this. And so it was no problem to throw her onto the bed and to then dive easily on top of her. It was no problem to grab her legs and order her to hold them so that her knees were rubbing at her ears and so that she’d allow absolute access to every inch of her. And that’s what I took. I took it over and again, my face flush against hers and hugging her so that our bodies molded as one. And now it didn’t matter who heard. It didn’t matter that the walls were paper thin. If the whole world heard that we were making love, then maybe they should know. Maybe they should part the sea and allow us to come through just like we were both cumming now. Her flexible body going through spasms, and my stiff body shivering with the absolute release.

IN THE morning, I had enough energy to wake the kids and make breakfast for nine people (three of them little people), then we ushered the kids off to day camp. On the way back to the Singletary house, Stacy wanted to stop and get some knickknacks that she said she forgot the night before.

Her idea of knickknacks was a DVD player for her brother, a new playpen for Jackie, and a whole line of Victoria’s Secret thongs and pan ties and bras for herself. Didn’t she already go to Victoria’s Secret?

As if she needed an excuse for me, she said, “Well? You do want me to be beautiful and look good, right?” She said this in front of the cashier, as she whipped out that credit card, and then hugged up on me and kissed me with those lips that had worked long and hard the night before. How could I argue?

She didn’t stop there. Proactiv System’s skin care for the two of us— she got that from one of those impulse kiosks you always see along the walkway in the mall. Never mind that this spending wasn’t part of the knickknacks Stacy wanted. Then there were a number of designer suits for me. Our favorite video collection of Boondocks (because she left hers at home—my home, that is). And then there were the sneakers— three pairs of them— and the jackets, the new his and hers Mogul cell phones from Sprint (her favorite ser vice provider), and finally a few cases of wine from the local Publix supermarket. In my head I counted all of seven thousand dollars that she had spent before we finally made it home. But add that to the furniture, electronics, and other house hold items from the day before, and I’d say she had to be close to $40 or $50 grand, easy. Without a doubt, this woman’s spending was untouchable. And she did it like such a pro. But for me to say anything to her, I’d get that same old sad-eyed response: don’t steal my joy.

——

I KNOW a friend, who knows a friend, who knows a friend. As usual, it’s a client-related connection. So Stacy and I went to a Sunday-night dinner engagement, featuring superstar Kool DJ Red Alert. As the coincidence goes, he had just moved down to Atlanta and set up shop where he performed live each week at a restaurant and nightclub called Flambeaux in Stone Mountain, Georgia. Of course, Stacy might not be all that familiar, but me, Bronx boy that I is, was entirely familiar with Red Alert’s importance in New York City radio. He had continued to be a staple in radio and in hip-hop culture for as long as I could remember. So, I thought we’d take the trip to the Sunday-night event and chill with Red.

“RED IS cool,” said Stacy.

“That he is. The Kooooool DJ Red Alert, ” I said, imitating how I always remembered him saying it on New York radio. “Did you dig that old-school jam he played?”

“Old school? Everything he played was old-school.” “Okay. I know that. But that disco-lady song was smoking. I ain’t heard that in a looooong time.”

Stacy flatly replied, “I ain’t heard that ever. ” I wasn’t gonna let Stacy’s little sarcasm spoil the night. I just wanted to always remember that look in her eyes when we were inside the club; how she was all dreamy-eyed and in love. And now that we were outside for some air, and holding on to my arm like she did just continued the romance. I couldn’t remember ever taking a walk with her, I mean one of those romantic walks under the moon and stars. And with every step we took through the restaurant parking lot, that became more and more a good idea. The moon was full. There was a clearing across the street— basically more parking area and uneven land. So I suggested we go for a stroll. Maybe walk off some of the alcohol we’d drunk, however casual our indulgence. Stacy was pointing at stores in the Mall at Stonecrest, explaining that this was one of Georgia’s largest shopping experiences. But, without being too abrupt, I changed the subject from shopping. I’m sure that to her, talking about shopping was a complete thrill. For me, it was a complete waste of time.

Maybe it was just me, but this just seemed like a time for reflection. Our stomachs were fed, our buzz was minimal, and our hormonal imbalances had been satisfied (and then some!) the night before. So, this seemed as good a time as any to get deep.

“So what do you want out of life, Stacy?”

Without hesitation, she said, “Well, of course I want my kids to be happy. But more than that, I don’t want them to have to go through the same hurdles and challenges I had to.”

“Life is always gonna give us that, no matter who we are,” I told her.

“Yeah, but the unnecessary stuff, Danté. The silly stuff that we get into? I really don’t want that kind of struggle in my space. I want peace. I’ve earned that by sacrificing. But besides the kids’ being happy, I wanna be happy, Danté. And I’ll do what I have to to get that, by any means necessary. But I’ma also give what I have to get there. I want a house, but I’ma make it a home for a king to come back to after a hard day’s work. And, Danté, I’m thinkin’ that king is you.” Stacy sure had me quiet with that testimony. We kissed and hugged for an extended period of time.

Stacy further said, “I never really wanted no superstar life. I mean, it would be nice to experience. That whole red-carpet bit in New York was like a fantasy, and I know I was trippin’ a little, but I’m just fine with someone I love, and someone who loves my kids. If I can get that, I’ll give you the world. I’ll cook and clean and wash your dirty drawers. It’s whateva, Danté.”

“Damn, baby. All of that and the way you put it on me in the bed? You make a man wanna say woo-woo-woo!” I hugged Stacy and we kissed there under the moon like we were the only two brand-new people on earth. Yeah, I was aware that cars were gliding past and that people were hopping into and out of their parked cars; some own ers were there to more or less show off their rides and blast their music in the nearby parking lot. But right this second, nothing else mattered.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Stacy, that was a wolf. ”

“Yeah, we got them out here.”

“Yeah, we—what?” I pulled Stacy back toward the club parking lot. “Girl, you must be crazy, talkin’ like it’s okay to hang out near a wolf.”

Stacy laughed. “Really. It’s okay, baby. I been seein’ them wheneva I’m outside of the city. But it’s just not that serious. They don’t have news flashes all up on the TV talkin’ about wolf bite, wolf bite. ” She laughed again, but that was irrelevant because right now we were crossing the street at my pace. The stroll down lovers’ lane was over.

“Well, shit. Don’t make me no difference, ‘cause I’m back in my truck and headed back to Lawrenceville in a few seconds.”

“Don’t they be bustin’ shots off in the Bronx, right near where you live?” Stacy asked.

“But that’s the Bronx. By the looks of things here, your bullets are wolves. ”

“You funny.”

“Okay, but nevertheless, if I have my choice, I don’t wanna deal with either— bullets or wolves. How about that?”

JUST AS we made it across the street, just as we stepped into the parking lot, a tricked-out, fire-engine-red Chevy convertible, with its reggae music blasting, pulled up to a sudden stop in front of us. And all four of the guys in the vehicle had sunglasses on. Not that I cared, but that didn’t make a bit of sense because it was close to 11:00 p.m. The driver had a brimmed red baseball cap on, the kind meant for profiling, not for the baseball field. Of course, the hat had the requisite A embroidered in white. Atlanta? Or Asshole?

By the looks of things, these guys were up to no good, so I pulled at Stacy to move to the right. But the Chevy backed up abruptly and blocked us. When we went the opposite way, the Chevy jerked forward, blocking us again.

“Hey, yo, we don’t want no trouble. Y’all go ‘head and have a good night now.”

The driver threw the vehicle into park and sat up high in his seat— high enough for his ass to be where a head should be.

“Yo, don’t be rude, dude. Me waan’ talk to dah pretty lady, dass all.” He pulled down his shades and his eyes crossed as he trumpeted his abrupt response. “We d o n ‘ t w a n t n o trouble, you say? Well, we don’t waan’ no trouble eeeder, playboy.” Even I could’ve laughed at the horrible impersonation he did of me. But there was nothing funny about this. The guys with him were also sitting up now, all of them grittin’ on me with their various head ties of black, red, and green-mixed shreds, more or less daring me to rebel. One of them had a half head of hair braided with the other half in an Afro blow out. He also had a patch over one eye. No sense in me trying to figure out that fad.

A couple of the troublemakers were smoking weed out in the open air. One was very muscled and had his arms folded as some sign of strength. I ain’t no master in martial arts or no boxing specialist, but if the shit hit the fan, I wasn’t a gunslinger. First thing I’m gonna do is kick the biggest guy in the nuts right before I pull Stacy along to try to make a break for it. Ain’t no way to beat four guys intent on causing some harm. So, the solution here was to kick it out, or talk it out.

What was strange to me was Stacy. She had her face turned away from the Chevy, and she was mumbling into her cell phone. I was hoping hers was not a 911 call, because, so far, these guys were harmless. So far.

“Hey, lil’ momma. What’s good?” asked the driver.

“Yo, that is her!” one of the guys with the weed pronounced. And now he too was making a cell-phone call, as if there might be some consequence here. Fuckin’ world according to cell phones.

The driver seemed to take that as a cue, and he said, “ You know when they find out that’s yo’ ass, right?” I twisted my face, wondering what the hell he was talking about. By then I realized he w asn’t talking to me.

Stacy, still half on and half off her phone call, swung her head around and the ghetto (all of it) poured out of her mouth like the dam had just broken.

“Nigga WHAT. Fuck you, and THEM!” My whole body froze as I watched Stacy transform before my very eyes. I had seen some parts of this personality in a couple of our arguments, but never this aggressive. She was loud enough to be heard by half the parking lot. And, given the circumstances, a few witnesses might be just what the doctor ordered. Hell, we were outnumbered and, the worst-case scenario, outgunned.

All the while, Stacy’s head was wagging, her neck cranking, and her arms flailing.

“You need to get a fuckin’ life, that’s what you need to do. Come on, Danté.” It was a direct order from Stacy, and the way she cursed at them, with the drawl in the words, seemed to make it that much more poisonous. Shit, she had me scared, and I’m the man loving this woman. Now she was pulling me away from these cats like this had come to an end. But it seemed that hers was a perfect response to their bullshit because they didn’t push the issue. The car didn’t block us again.

I couldn’t help but think, Damn, I love this woman! But I didn’t wanna speak too soon, because (as they say) it ain’t over till it’s over. After a tongue-lashing like that, there was no telling where this would lead or what in God’s name brought all this to my face. It was when I looked back over my shoulder to see one of the weed smokers (the one on the cell phone, with the two-way hairstyle) make a gesture in our direction that I realized this might be just another page in a short story. I couldn’t tell whether it was directed at me, at Stacy, or at both of us. Either way, I smelled trouble.

“Stacy? You looked like you were ready to go toe-to-toe with those guys.”

“Well, wasn’t it you tellin’ me I shouldn’t be afraid? Ahem? I sort of remember somebody sayin’, ‘You can’t go through life being afraid. You do what you gotta do. For you, and for your children.’ “

Damn. This woman has total recall like a mafucka.

“You don’t let anything get by you, do you?” She wagged her head in that no-nonsense way. I went on to say, “I’m not suggesting that you be afraid, Stacy. What I am suggesting is that you avoid any unnecessary confrontations, especially when we’re outnumbered two to one. I mean, okay if you want that, I guess I’ll hafta fight and yell, and swing and dig somebody’s eyes out until I’m lying in a hospital bed wishin’ and prayin’ and healin’. But I’d rather not if I don’t have to.” I knew better than to let her get a word in, otherwise she’d inevitably talk her way into an argument. She’d be angry at me, or else spiral into a mood swing, which often resulted when it was clear that I was right and she was wrong. Of course, the last plate on that menu was no sex, maybe for a week. Any way you sliced it, I could not win.

When we got back to Momma’s house, I circled the Blazer to let Stacy out, and she no sooner took me into her embrace.

“I’m sorry to bring you so much trouble, Danté. It’s just—”

I hugged her back, loving how she had just laid all her burdens on me at a moment’s notice.

“What is it, Stacy?” I asked this and noticed a tear falling.

“One of them: the one with the patch eye.”

“The crazy hair?”

She nodded against my chest. “That’s him. That’s who shot my ex. His name is Theo. But we was in the same school. I know his name is Theodore Jefferson Barnes.”

Wagging my head, unable to make sense out of anything, I said, “You think you have a problem with him? You think he’s comin’ after you?”

Stacy was sobbing now. “It’s just all twisted, Danté. How he gonna shoot my man and then the same girls he rollin’ wit’ gon’ come at me ‘n’ claim I set ‘em up.” Stacy was a mess, mascara running from her eyes and weak at the knees as I held on.

There was no smooth way to do this, but I had to try to change the subject quickly. I had watched this woman digress and spiral in the past and I knew she wanted to experience this drama. I knew that she was comfortable revisiting these moments, these people, and the emotions that went with them. The trick was to pull her out of this quick so that she wouldn’t fall so deep that I couldn’t retrieve her. Wow. What I go through to love a woman.

“BABY, NOT that this has anything to do with what happened back there, but I was wondering if there’s an agenda for the week. I mean, are we gonna relax? Are we gonna do some sightseeing? Maybe take the kids to the movies or an indoor amusement park or something?” I was so desperate trying to brush that whole bit from our minds; trying to get Stacy’s mind on something else, using her children as the bait. Yes, it was desperate, but necessary.

Stacy seemed to be stuck. Her eyes cleared up, but she was clearly confused by the change in subject. There was concern in her eyes and then she cocked her head to the side some; really confused. I knew, though, that the mention of her children would throw her off. But not to the point that she’d do what she was doing now, staring at me like I was a bad habit.

A WHOLE week went by since the altercation (if I can call it that) near the parking lot of the Red Alert event at Flambeaux. During the week I got more familiar with Jason and Jackie. Jason was kicking my butt less and less with the Red Faction— but of course, all the butt whoopings he was dishing out added up— while little Jackie got comfortable holding my big finger with her miniature hand. Her hand was so soft, and her smile so cute, that I couldn’t help wondering where their daddy was. Somebody, somewhere, was missing out on all this good love from the little people. His little people.

Besides the kids, Stacy and I did at least four to five different restaurants, we caught a couple of movies, and I got to do some real-estate research. Wow. Everywhere I looked they were building brand-new communities; brand-new spacious homes that could be purchased for cheap. Cheap meant two to three hundred thousand dollars. The buyer wouldn’t have to put any money down if his or her credit score was in the 600 range. Not only that: the developers of these homes were (across the board) picking up the closing costs. That really made it easy and affordable for home buyers. And cookie-cutter special or not, a two-hundred-thousand-dollar home here in Atlanta, if repositioned most anywhere in New York, could be a nine-hundred-thousand-dollar home. Even a million-dollar home. Just the mere idea of the incredible difference in the value placed on a home was attractive. And the house wasn’t built with materials that were cheaper or less expensive— that wasn’t it. Even I knew the price of a two-by-four in New York and how the cost wasn’t much different down in Atlanta. It was all about location, location, location. And the availability of land was minimal in Manhattan and its surrounding boroughs. So, naturally, real-estate sellers or own ers in the suburbs try to squeeze every cent out of potential buyers just because of the proximity to New York City, where all the jobs seemed to be. Atlanta, on the other hand, was rich in jobs if you went downtown. There were also remote jobs at factories and corporations like Coca-Cola, Quaker Oats, CNN, and so many others that planted themselves along industrial parks and so forth; but even those are limited positions when you weigh them against the population in Atlanta and how it’s grown by the millions over the past de cades. So, needless to say, to get to and from any of these good jobs, you gotta have a car. And if you happen to live an hour out of the city, you just might run into traffic troubles and even relationship troubles, since a lot of your at-home time will be absorbed by I-85, or I-285 and its ridiculous rush-hour mess.

——

DESPITE THE challenges, ATL is still (in my view) a hot spot, and the place to be. And it’s not just anybody who’s finding their home here: it’s celebrities, businessmen, and little people like me. Black people are calling Atlanta the New Mecca or the Modern-day Harlem. I wasn’t so sure about that. With wolves, frogs, and snakes making their presence known in and out of the woods, maybe a better name for Atlanta might be the Rural Harlem. Still, I’d rather negotiate with wild animals than live bullets any day.

Another thing is, Atlanta residents aren’t afraid to support and vote black mayors into office. And now that it’s happened for more than a few terms, it’s become normal to see a black mayor. Even a black woman as mayor. Try that in the Hamptons, or South Beach, Florida, or Palm Springs, California. In fact, Atlanta’s airport is the biggest in the world, and is run mostly by black employees. One of the restaurants Stacy and I went to was at the airport, and the restaurant was operated by mostly blacks. After a while, as an outsider looking at all this for the first time, you’d think that white folks might feel a little displaced, or even irrelevant. But then that might just be good old-fashioned redemption? And I don’t know about most others, but I love myself. And loving myself means loving other people who are a lot like me. Self-affirmation is what I’ve heard it called. And I suppose that’s why so many people who like to cook buy cooking magazines or watch the cooking channels. I suppose that’s why people who practice the same religion then eat together, socialize, and picnic with one another and support one another through cooperative economics. So, too, are the folks in Atlanta supporting one another, even if its black managers run white-owned franchises; it still serves to put checks in folks’ pockets and food on the tables of many families. And socializing together and sharing time and space together. Sure, you have your bad apples; but that’s the case everywhere you go. I’m not saying that I’m gonna all of a sudden up and move down here, especially considering the consistency and the roots my family has developed in New York. I just realize that Atlanta has it goin’ on. And even if I’m not living here, I would at least like to consider scooping up one of these properties so that I, too, can watch my money grow.

WEEK TWO, and I was doing more fixing than sightseeing and vacationing. By that, I mean, Mrs. Singletary’s home had some issues I couldn’t help working on. The banister (leading from the first floor to the second) was loose. Part two of the two-car garage door was stuck, and so for a while there was only parking for one car. And whoever had their car outside in the notorious Atlanta heat got their ass fried the moment they got in the driver’s seat. Mrs. Singletary also had an ant problem, so I played exterminator, went down to Home Depot, and out of my own pocket I purchased what was necessary to get rid of the insect issue. And, that wouldn’t be the end of it because the ants would surface again in the future. You just had to maintain the practice of taking care of shit, something I knew I wouldn’t be around to do. But all along I’m thinking it’s a nice gesture to do this for them. After all, I do it for her sister up north. And thinking about that got me laughing while I was working, telling myself I could easily identify Mrs. Singletary in the Bronx by calling her Singletary North, and in Lawrenceville, the sister would be Singletary South. Danté, the name butcher. Meanwhile, besides exterminator and fix-it man, I also grabbed some paint and spackle from Home Depot and I filled in those nicks and scars that decorated the walls in most of the house. And to do things really right, I knew the interior walls had to be painted throughout; but to myself I’m saying, I’m only fucking your daughter, we’re not married yet. Shit, I’m still a free man!

The laughter was keeping me sane because my ass was not supposed to be working. But then again, I felt right at home and relaxed doing just what I loved. So, call me crazy, but this is me.

While I’m doing some last-minute cleanup, the house is about to get noisy again. I was sure the honking horn outside was Stacy and the girls returning home. They’d been gone all day, like they were most weekdays, running the kids to and from day camp, dropping Mrs. Singletary off to work, and doing I guess what ever it is that girls do when they group together. I didn’t mind. The spare time did me good; I got to correct some issues at the house, and (I hate to think this way, but) sometimes Stacy and I could use the distance. We were still working on havin that entire mont h with absolutely no arguing. I figure, if we could get a month in, we could get six months in. If we could do it for six months, then we could manage a year. If we could practice being happy for a year, then it would surely be a joy to live together.

I had just been promising myself that I’d get some sleep— the opportunity to rest. But that’s when I heard the honking. And honking was unusual in this quiet neighborhood so I stepped lively toward the front of the house to see what was up.

I think I’m getting a migraine. And it was just so sudden, the moment I set my eyes on the girls all hopping out of the new car in the driveway.

No more, I huffed.