[THIRTEEN]

STACY

YES, THIS WAS a little intimidating, even for me. I was stepping right into the fire, ready for the one-on-one with my enemies. But, have I not been through worse? I watched my boyfriend get shot up. I lost my home and kids. Please. Although I didn’t know Ophelia King or her daughter personally, I still had to look at them as enemies, and with all I been through, I was definitely not afraid of these heffahs. Bottom line: they had my man in their home. According to the news reports Sam told me about, Danté don’t even know who the fuck he is! Poor Danté. And it was probably all my fault, too. Soon as I get my boo home, things are gonna be different. Everything’s gonna be perfect. Wait’ll he sees our new home I just got; he won’t think twice about this raggedy mansion.

Of course Sam was with me as we walked from the oval driveway to the glass-door entrance to the house. But he was really no more than a pawn; a cobroker who could get me in though the front door. Far as these heffahs knew, I was just another potential buyer who had seen a dozen other homes. But if anything got out of hand, the worst-case scenario here was the switchblade I had in my purse. When all else fails, that would get me the respect I deserved.

SAM WAS the first to speak as a woman pulled open the door. I noticed she used a key to open it first and wondered what that was about. Is you lockin’ my baby in here?

“Hey, Angela. This is my client Ms. Singletary.”

No disrespect, but the chick he called Angela resembled a sort of Lady Kong (if there is such a thing) and I was almost afraid to shake her hand. But I did. I knew this wasn’t Ophelia since I had done my Web searches and such. I knew exactly what the lawyer looked like, and I was prepared to play dumb once we met face-to-face.

The things I have to go through for you, Danté.

Wearing dark sunglasses and my favorite blond wig, being escorted through the house felt a little like undercover work, even though I had done this over and over again during the past two months while speculating for my own home purchase. Not to mention how I had rehearsed this over and over in my head the night before. And now here I was, living my dream as the take-charge woman I am, but still nervous as shit.

Sam did his little sales pitch to make it all look and sound good. My client is very exclusive, so if you don’t mind me showing her around… A damn good excuse Sam used, but he knew damn good and well that I was not the usual qualified and interested buyer for this house. I was merely going through the motions. Funny thing about the real-estate game: everything is always made to look so perfect— perfect lighting, everything clean, unlived in, as if the new own er wouldn’t have a care in the world. But I remember well the many conversations Danté and I would have as we laid together watching the HG channel, discussing how so many houses were made the same, with much of the same materials, and for as inexpensive as possible. And sure enough, as Sam took me to see property after property, I could see, feel, and almost smell the inexpensive materials. And everything— the designs, the landscapes, and the craftsman specials became so predictable. I could easily refer back to things Danté had told me, and I knew that I wouldn’t get taken advantage of.

When I finally found the house I wanted, I stumbled on an additional sense of security in my purchase. As it turned out, the man who came out to appraise my new property was from New York! Not only that, he was a former New York Knick! In my mind, I put two and two together and it all made sense. First of all, there was no way this man would ruin his reputation and just green-light any old purchase for me. And second, he was a homeboy!

All he had to say was go and I was ready to buy. I was ready to put down a few grand in the event they gave me a problem with getting an FHA loan. And what’s more is the owner/builder carried the closing costs for me. I was in heaven with my brand-new three-thousand-square-foot four-bedroom house, complete with unfinished basement and plenty of front and back yard. I had my two-car garage, my mortgage payments would be twelve hundred a month, and now all I needed was to have my man back to complete the picture-perfect storybook life I wanted.

I couldn’t wait to see him. Danté. His name still felt so good on my tongue. Soon, more than his name would be on my tongue.

Lady Kong agreed with Sam’s request and found somewhere else to go. On the top floor of the house we went through a couple of rooms, the master bedroom with the queen’s bath and Jacuzzi and multijet shower, and a long-ass closet where Ophelia kept so many shoes. In my mind I was saying, You just wait, baby. In a minute it’ll be my turn to live like a queen. And I’ll be the one with the thousand pairs of shoes. Just a matter of time.

I already had an understanding of what the house looked like on account of Sam’s details and the printed listing with photos. So, I knew that the studio, the law office, beauty salon, and weight room were the last areas I wanted to see. I was also ready for the possibility of seeing my baby together with the other woman. God help her if she gives me trouble.

One of two other rooms was labeled THE EGYPTIAN ROOM. And it was occupied by a young lady who had been on the phone when we knocked. She offered up a quaint smile and brushed past us to allow viewing. I tried to lock eyes with her, but she seemed to be very into her phone call. And if that was the chick I had to fight with, then whateva. Now that I had a good look at her, I felt ready. I hurried Sam through this room and we went to another. The Ivory Coast room also had a decor that was distinctly African, but I’m not here for this, I told myself, not wanting to enjoy any of this. The only thing I wanted was to be face-to-face with Danté.

Already, Sam was knocking on the next door and announcing our entry.

“Good morning? Showing the home?”

In this room was a daybed back up against a far wall. There was a chair near the bed and a black leather orga-niz er positioned on the chair. I would recognize that day planner from a mile away in an eclipse. And sleeping on the daybed, covered in a comforter from head to toe, was my baby. Our entrance woke him and he was navigating through what ever sleep was still caught in his eyes. I froze as I watched him wiping away his dream.

Danté. I wasted no time.

“Sam, lemme have a minute.” And Sam knew just what I meant. Wait in the hallway and guard the door so I can talk with my boo.

Danté didn’t suspect a thing. I had to recall that I was wearing a disguise as I approached him. The sunglasses came off first and I negotiated for his attention, trying to establish eye contact while he busied himself with straightening up.

“I’ll get out of your way,” he said without looking up.

“Danté? It’s me, Stacy. Danté?”

At least I got his attention. But he seemed to be confused. It was the look you’d have when someone called your name, but you couldn’t remember who they were. You couldn’t place the face.

“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong person.”

My poor baby. It was so real and right in my face. This whole memory- loss bit I saw in the online news accounts. And that may be so, but there was no questioning this electricity I felt being so close to him. Still, I did not hesitate to move in closer. What’s mine was mine.

“Baaaby? You don’t remember me? Stacy? The love of your life?” Danté seemed to be avoiding eye contact, but the way a shy boy would; one who was being confronted by an aggressive schoolgirl. But nobody did aggressive like I did aggressive. Closer still, I touched my palm to the side of my baby’s face. “Aw, sugah. Is it really like they say? You can’t remember anything?”

More confused now, Dante’s face screwed some. But I had the antidote to this little puzzle in his life. I eased in evermore and molded my body to his. He rejected and backed up, but the wall was right behind him. And now I had him pinned there and my face easily snuggled into the nape of his neck. I immediately began to smell him. God, how good this felt to smell my man again.

“Miss? Excuse me, but you got the wrong person.”

“Up here? Maybe?” I was pointing to his forehead. Then my arm quickly lowered until my hand was cupping my belongings— the package between his legs. “But down here? Ain’t no mistakin’ these, baby.”

Danté was startled, as though I might be threatening his prized possessions. But it wasn’t that way at all. Not sure of my own aggressive actions, my grip weakened, and with my eyes closed I stroked him. Being up against him like this and breathing him in felt so right; that void I had been living with for months now was being tickled and rekindled. I just wanted to scream as I took my hand from between his legs and put my arms around his neck. I was ready to get the best of a long- awaited kiss.

DANTÉ

Damn.It was her. The minute she took off her glasses—the eyes. And how could I not have seen this coming? The irony was there, right alongside Murphy and his pain- in- the- ass possibilities. What ever can go wrong, will. And to think I was this close to making my great escape. The thing that spooked me was, how did she find me?

Earlier that morning, Ophelia had come knocking at my door. It was a 6:00 a.m. knock that I would’ve never expected from her. Dancer, yes. Momma O? Not in my wildest dreams. But here she was. And I should’ve known, really. Especially considering the conversation I’d overheard the night before. Clearly, just about anything and everything was possible from here on out.

However, this— I admit— was impossible; from way out of left field. Stacy.

Ophelia had laid it all out for me, right before she spit the raw truth at me.

I want you out of my house, she told me. You have overstayed your welcome. You’ve slept with my daughter and my para legal…

It took a minute to get the superstar attorney to shut it up, but once I got to say my two cents, there were just two things I had to clear up.

“Ophelia, no doubt. This is your home. I’ve disrespected you. I totally agree. But you need to know two things. First of all, I have real strong feelings for your daughter. She’s not just a socket I plugged my extension cord into. Memory or no memory, I gotta feel at least a connection before sleeping with a woman. With all these diseases floatin’ around, it’s life or death, dating out here. But the other thing? If I was on an island far, far away, and your para legal was the last woman standing with a suitcase full of million- dollar bills… with a Superwoman cape on… and my life depended on sleeping with her? You know what I’d do?” Ophelia stood before me, arms folded, in her courtroom best, most likely on her way to a hearing of some sort. “I’d shoot myself,” I said. “Twice!”

And of course I gave my best defense, but there was no winning here. Ophelia was judge and jury. I was dead wrong and really should have taken my time with Dancer. Should’ve known better. She was a lovely woman, talented, beautiful, and in reality (thanks to her mom) delivered to me on a garnished platter. Not your average relationship.

“And that’s what I’m saying. Okay, so you may not be a bad man. You may be the best thing that ever happened for my daughter. But I’m not gonna assume that’s the case, where you get a pass on all those other important courting decisions that women have to make. This is just too damn convenient for any man.” Then, Ophelia said it best: “If there’s really anything there to go on, you all will find one another in another space and time. But you won’t do it under my roof.” That’s about the point when the conversation about Dancer ended. I had no real power or leverage.

After those issues were clear, there was a bunch of other small talk; I guess, her way of saving face under the circumstances. She also handed me a box of some belongings, including a wallet with a car registration, insurance card, and a black leather or ga niz er. The or ga niz er looked familiar, like it could’ve come from one of my nightmares. Just the same, I scanned through it as Ophelia began to tell me what she knew about me. She had apparently spoken to some people who knew more about me than I did. She also dropped a bomb on me about my father and grandfather: They’re no longer alive, Danté. And you were running the business yourself ever since. Apparently, something happened with this Stacy— I think she’s your girlfriend, according to Pastor Bishop— but you came down here with her and somehow you were separated and had the accident downtown. Ophelia had laid it all out for me, even pointing to some of the notes in my or ga niz er and showing me some of the pictures that w ere set between clear plastic photo holders. This felt too much like her closing argument and what would be considered exhibit A and exhibit B. I just happen to be the defendant on the losing end of a smoking-gun case. Pictures of me and my father. Pictures of me and my grandfather. A picture of me by a forest- green truck. Magnetic advertisements that read MISTER FIX- IT were applied to both side panels, right under the driver- and passenger-side windows.

Amidst Ophelia’s revelations, my mind began tossing ideas and images around. There were instances when I felt pain coming on, but then it stopped. There was that woman again—t he one who tried to attack me with a knife in an earlier nightmare— only this time she had a sundress on and he was approaching me with some sultry smile that was more promising than evil. Again, there was my concern for my dad and grand—

Did she just say that they’re no longer alive? I found myself stuck between Ophelia’s words; as if I was literally squeezed within the images, the foggy images, the fog alone. And now, here she was, standing before me with a box of things, passing them to me and asking me to leave her home.

Here’s five hundred dollars to help you out. Don’t worry about paying me back. I just want you to get back on your feet. Your truck is outside. Here are the keys. And just like that, I was expected to be out of her home; out of her daughter’s life. I couldn’t imagine the repercussions if I went against Ophelia, and I didn’t want to, either. By six thirty I was back under the covers, trying to catch up on as much sleep as possible. Long day ahead. And now it was sometime after ten and all of a sudden this woman was in my face.

The chick in the nightmare.

Her mouth was reaching for mine, but just then I put my palm over her face like a mask. I squeezed as though I had a nice grip on a basketball and I spun her around so that now she was against the wall. What I had to say next couldn’t be prevented.

“I don’t know how you found me, but you need to get the fuck up outta my face. Keep your crazy ass out of my life. I’m not gonna tell you again.” Again. I heard myself say again, as if I’d told her this before. I was spooking myself now. Whoa.

She was obviously mortified. I didn’t feel any resistance against my hand; no fight in her. So I took my hand from her mouth and I backed away from the confines in which I had her. Her face had turned soft and her eyes saddened. There were some tears caught up, but they didn’t fall. It was just a stillness about her. Remorse. Loss. Surrender?

She looked down at the floor.

The door to the room opened behind me, and some guy stood there.

I turned back to her and was shocked by how close she had come. Her hand reached for my cheek and she smoothed it along my skin.

“What happened to us?”

I didn’t answer.

Again she asked, “What happened to us, Danté?” The words came out in more of a pathetic sigh and lacked spirit. And now the tears did fall. She appeared to run out of gas (thank God) as she stepped around me and headed through the door. Before she was out of sight, there was that last look over her shoulder that said so much and so little all at once.

Why are you doing this?

And I had to admit to myself that I felt her pain. Part of me felt sorry while another part thought about the nightmares. For sure, that was her. And seeing her here in what I considered a most secure environment just added fuel to my fire. It was time to go. Where I was going, I didn’t know. I just knew I was getting the hell up outta there.

LEAVING THE King mansion was bittersweet. At one point during my stay there I felt embraced, as if I might spend the rest of my life there. Yeah, there was the pool, the great lawn, all the comforts and luxuries that kings and queens enjoy. But it was so much more than that. The mansion was nothing but a building. What made it “home” for me was being fed and pampered, so there was a sense of security and certainty. What made it special for me was feeling worthwhile, helping where I could, correcting computer issues, and fixing things around the property, indoors and out. Even if it was to go to the local Publix supermarket to buy hornet spray and then aim and shoot it at a nest that plagued Ophelia’s sense of calm. Sure, this sounds so simple, but it was through these acts that I felt a sense of contribution and inclusion on various levels in the King home. It could be something simple like cleaning, mopping, or spackling tiles in the shower. It could be more involved, like when I spent all day cleaning the garage. What ever. This felt like family. It felt like something I really missed. But then, add to that the love and attention I was getting from Dancer, and you could say I had the best of all worlds.

And now I was suddenly stripped of all that in one wave of a wand. It was as if a decree came down from the queen: off with his head! It was drastic and I wondered why Ophelia didn’t just cut my dick off!