Between Brothers Read online

  Brandon turned toward the doorway. He didn’t have time for this. “O. J., most folk in the Disciples probably judge a brother by his fruits. If your fruit is funky, don’t blame me.”

  O. J. felt his heart surge at the accusation. He was a minister; nobody had the right to come at him like that.

  “You know what, Bailey, you nothin’ but a nerd in saint’s clothing. Let’s just lay what this is about on the table. Just ’cause you’ve never had the balls to go out and get a taste of the good life that most saints experience before they come into the church, you think you can look down your nose at anybody who don’t meet your definition of a good Christian. Why don’t you just go out and get yourself some, boy? Maybe Monica will be merciful and break you off a little beginner’s piece.”

  Before Larry or Terence could restrain him, Brandon charged toward O. J., and O. J. was suddenly reminded that Brandon had four inches and ten pounds of fat-free muscle on him. Brandon grabbed him by the collar and shoved his husky frame down onto the hardwood floor. Pinning him with his forearms and powerful thighs, Brandon was intent on making the reverend repent for his little jibe. “For once in your life, apologize for disrespecting a black woman, O. J.! Now! Maybe all the other women in your life let you treat them like trash, but you’ve crossed the line with me! Apologize now, you hypocrite!”

  Then Brandon felt the crack of O. J.’s knee against his groin. Emitting a soprano squeak, he fell back into Terence’s arms.

  “Where the hell did all this come from?” Larry’s face was full of confusion as he wrapped his arms around O. J.’s struggling torso.

  “I was just havin’ some fun with the brother, dang.” O. J. was starting to calm down, playing the innocent role. He stood, straightening his shirt and trying to catch his breath.

  His voice slowly returning to its normal tenor and his knees strengthening under him, Brandon wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and collapsed into the couch. “I’m sorry, brothers. Who am I kidding? O. J. knows I’ve never cared much for him. His presence in this house is a daily reminder of the failure of the black church.”

  “What?” O. J. attempted to lunge forward, but Larry still had a grip on him. “I’m the problem? I’m devoting my life to ministering to God’s people, and I’m the problem with the black church?”

  Remaining seated but looking ready to rumble, Brandon wiped at his forehead. “O. J., you know the number-one reason I hear from people who don’t want to have anything to do with Jesus, or any religion, for that matter? Hypocrisy! Can you think of a better example than a preacher who crows about walking like Christ, and then goes off and sleeps with half the congregation? I know there are hundreds of opinions on what Jesus was like, but I’ve yet to hear a claim that he was a player!”

  “Damn, this is too deep for me,” Larry said, releasing O. J. as the preacher stopped struggling.

  Placing his hands on his hips, O. J. fixed his stare on the floor, his chest heaving. “Brandon, what business of yours is it who I see, and what I do, on my own time?”

  “I don’t know, O. J., I suppose it’s none of my business at all. But that’s easier said than done when I look at our community. You think there would be a need for a place like Ellis Center if there weren’t so many kids and young adults screwin’ around outside of wedlock, that we have almost a whole generation of kids now who don’t even know their fathers? And the church is no better. You can’t look down a pew at a church these days without seeing a woman who’s had a child or is pregnant outside of wedlock.”

  “That is true, it’s almost commonplace at my grandmother’s church.” Terence’s involuntary comment surprised him almost as much as it did Brandon.

  Crossing his arms, Brandon continued. “I’m not saying all teens and singles can abstain from sex, nor am I sayin’ we’d be problem-free if they did. But you can’t tell me it wouldn’t make a hell of a difference. A child born out of wedlock, into poverty, black or white, has a much higher likelihood of winding up as a burden or danger to society. Now, we all know of plenty of exceptions, many of ’em at Highland. But the success rate isn’t staggering.”

  “Brother, I’m not gonna argue the big picture with you.” O. J. stood, his back against a wall near the entrance to the living room. The picture of Keesa loomed in his mind like a dark cloud. “But I do my best to be responsible with sex. In some ways, I was like you before women started throwing it at me left and right. Join the ministry someday, and see the way sisters parade themselves before brothers of the cloth. We’re like the black community’s rock stars. And you’d also find, my innocent friend, that once you taste the pleasures of the flesh, it ain’t so easy to give up. When I feel I’ve reached a point to settle down with one woman, I will, but in the meantime I try to make sure I don’t bring any children into a situation like the one you describe. Your argument falls flat with me.”

  “O. J.,” Brandon replied, “that might be fine if you kept your business quiet and didn’t hold yourself up as a paragon of virtue. How do you explain away the effect on kids and students in your congregation who look up to you, who admire your sermons and songs, and then hear that Rev. Peters gets his business on when and with whomever he wants? If even one of them decides to play around with sex as a result, you think they’ll be as responsible as you? All it takes is one slipup to have an unplanned pregnancy, you know. You wouldn’t at all feel guilty about that?”

  O. J.’s stomach churned. “Brandon, I have ugly needs. Besides, I ain’t convinced everything the Bible stipulates in that area is cast in stone. Times change, brother. Let’s not forget, in Bible days they could pray for a sick loved one, and boom, Christ might raise them from the dead. When my mom had cancer back in the day, I prayed my little behind off, and she just got sicker. When she passed away, that was a big lesson for me. The Bible is a history lesson, bro, not a manual of how God expects us to live today. Why don’t you judge me when you’ve walked a mile in my shoes?”

  Wiping his eyes, Larry jumped from his seat on the floor and headed for the staircase. “I know one thing, you brothers will never solve these religious questions. Yeah, Brandon, it would be a nice world if everybody could be as good and pure as you are, and I mean that sincerely. But that’s just not how it is. You ask me, I respect what both of you do as an expression of your spiritual beliefs, the people you help, the examples you set. How you live your private lives is your business. Can we all agree to squash these morality arguments, knock out our course work, and help save Ellis Center?”

  As O. J. blew past Larry to return to his room, Brandon sighed. “I didn’t start this little episode, but I have no right judging anyone. Jesus can help me forgive and forget. O. J., are we straight?”

  “Don’t sweat it!” O. J.’s halfhearted shout barely beat the sound of his door slamming shut behind him.

  “Black men, I gotta go.” Terence grabbed his keys and briefcase. “I have to be on the eight-fifteen bus if I’m gonna be at the office on time.”

  “I’ll give you a ride, man, I’m heading out anyway.” Brandon gathered his own items and straightened the mess he’d made.

  Watching his boys leave, Larry popped a Bic pen into his mouth and began to chew it like a chicken bone as he headed down to his basement-level room. In less than seventy-two hours he would be in the midst of his biggest political battle at Highland. He had to stay focused, but the blowup he’d just witnessed was going to stick with him for a while. Couldn’t four brothers unite for the good, for once, without letting their differences separate them? Somehow, he told himself, they were going to have to lay that mess aside. For Ellis and for each of them personally, the stakes were too high to do otherwise.

  CHAPTER 19

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  HOPE

  That night, Brandon held his phone to his right ear and leaned wearily against the Fred Hammond poster near his desk, shaking his head in mock defeat. He was on the line with his folks, spilling the news about his hopeful date with Monica. He kn
ew he should have held out longer before telling them, but even if she never went out with him again, last night had convinced him his interest was not completely one-sided. He had to share the news with somebody, but aside from his brothers and Bobby, there were only so many people who knew just how starved Brandon’s love life had been in recent years. To shoot off at the mouth over one date—which hadn’t even ended with a real kiss, for fear he’d have planted one on her nose by mistake—would have exposed him for the romantic novice he was. But he had to tell the folks, and the news had even overshadowed that of his admission to Duke Medical School.

  The Baileys took Brandon round and round, thrilled to hear about Monica, ecstatic with pride and eager to analyze his success. “Brandon, honey,” Mrs. Bailey said, “I just want to say I sure am glad you got out of that Disciples of Christ group. From what you’ve said, you’d never have asked this girl out when you were under its spell. I’m happy for you. Nothing’s more important than thinking for yourself, even where God’s concerned.”

  “Well, I gotta admit,” Brandon said, “if my membership in the Disciples hasn’t been officially revoked yet, it will be now. Oh, well!”

  Dr. Bailey sniffed in what sounded like confusion. “I just don’t understand how those kids got you thinking that dating is a sin, son. I mean, I believe God played a role in my meeting your mother, but he doesn’t drop mates for us out of the clear blue sky. If I believed that, I’d never have gotten your mother to date me. She wouldn’t give me the time of day, no matter what, but I—”

  “I know, Dad,” Brandon said, chuckling. “You kept trying and trying, calling and calling, until she said yes. I could tell you the story after all the times I’ve heard it.”

  Sounding slightly offended, Brandon’s father defended himself. “Now, look, you may have heard that story and others a zillion times, but there’s a reason I repeat myself, son, and it’s not because I’m a couple years shy of fifty. I tell you and your brothers these things so you don’t forget them, so they become so deep in your memory that you act on them without thinking. Forgive an old man if he prattles on now and then.”

  Brandon smiled. “I know you mean well.” He leaned against his desk and waited patiently as his parents made rosy pronouncements about his potential with Monica. Don’t let life pass you by, they encouraged. You are what every single black woman wants: handsome, well-educated, spiritual. Sounds like the main traits those Ebony bachelorettes list every year.

  “The girls out there, they don’t relate to a brother like me,” Brandon said. “It’s not the fifties anymore, folks. Girls don’t respect guys who talk about God and wanna save sex for marriage. Ask Brian or Gregory,” he said, reminding them of his brothers. “We ain’t sittin’ around being single for the heck of it.”

  As his parents continued their assessment of his dating life, he heard his other line and depressed the flash button. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end made his heart gallop like an overeager stud. “Hi, is Brandon in?”

  “M-Monica?” He slid over to his stereo and turned down Eric Benet’s True to Myself CD. Why was he sweating? Mopping his brow with the sleeve of his rugby, he began to pace the creaky floorboards of his room. Whoa, he thought to himself. Chill.

  Monica’s voice sounded cool and calm, the way Brandon wanted to sound around her. “Mmmm-hmmm. Thought I’d see if you really stayed home to study for that microbiology final. I thought you might just be trying to get out of a second date. You’ve only got a few weeks left in town, right?”

  “Yeah, can you hold on a second?” Brandon clicked over and let his parents go, after giving them a few seconds to rib him about Monica’s flouting of tradition. A young woman calling a man after a first date, indeed. What did she think this was, the nineties?

  Brandon clicked back over. “So, Monica, what’s up?”

  “You tell me. You been takin’ care of business with your studies?”

  “You know it. I spent most of the day at the library with two study groups, histology and microbio. My brain is good and wracked, but I’ll be recharged after talking with someone as stimulating as you.”

  “Oh, is that your version of a mack-attack line? Brandon Bailey, I didn’t know you were such a sweet talker. Aren’t you just full of surprises.”

  Brandon smiled to himself. “Ah, girl, I thought ya knew.”

  “Well, I’m learning. Look, would you be mad if I asked you for a quick favor?”

  Brandon checked his watch. It was 11:06 on a Saturday night, and a beautiful woman was asking for a favor. Was this one of those “booty calls” Larry and Terence always joked about? “Now, how could I get mad at a fine black queen such as yourself? What’s up?”

  Monica paused before she replied, almost sounding unsure of herself. “Well, I know it’s late, but Tara and I were just sitting up saying we’ve got a hankering for one of Chappy’s cheese steaks. We wanna go, but we know we shouldn’t be out this late by ourselves. Could you meet us over there? We’d feel so honored and protected.”

  Something in the sound of her voice told Brandon he wasn’t getting the full story. That only made him more curious. “Now, this isn’t some ambush, is it? I mean, if you didn’t enjoy our date last night, just tell me so. You don’t have to lure me out into the hood and have me jacked up, understand. I’ll just leave you alone.”

  Monica chuckled. “I will be there, Brandon. Come on, it’ll be a chance to build on our conversation last night. Maybe even make up for the fact that you haven’t called me yet.”

  “I said I’d call you before the weekend was over. Have you heard of Sunday?” Brandon paused as he realized he should be flattered by her impatience. “Well, anyway, never mind, I can meet you guys at Chappy’s. You sure you don’t want me to pick you up?”

  “No, it’s fine to meet us there. We’re all studying over here, too, so the apartment is not in a shape that I would allow any guy to see it in. Are you gonna grab Bobby or one of your housemates to come with?”

  “Can’t. Bobby’s out of town and the housemates are busy. Larry’s staying at the Hotel Ashley tonight, Terence is locked away in his room with Lisa, and Reverend Ho-J is out doing his normal thing. It’s just little lonesome me here.”

  “Well, be safe. See you in half an hour?”

  “Deal.” As soon as I down that last Seagram’s cooler, Brandon thought. A brother had to keep his cool somehow.

  At quarter till midnight, Brandon cruised into the 1200 block of Alabama Avenue and whipped his Altima into a space across the street from Chappy’s. The aging storefront restaurant, with its peeling exterior, was an eight-block walk from Highland’s campus, deep in the heart of Shaw. Like most blocks in the area, this one had seen better days. All that remained was a smattering of liquor stores, Asian-owned convenience marts, and a crowded Hardee’s swarming with folks up to no good. As he turned his wheels toward the curb and reached for his Club, Brandon pretended to ignore the group of three older men sitting in front of the abandoned building where he had parked. He could hear their coarse language and hoarse laughs through his window as they yukked it up with passing juvenile street dealers, brokedown prostitutes, and idle observers. As Brandon climbed out of his car, his nostrils burned with the combined odors of incense, Colt 45, Red Bull, and the weed the older brothers were helping themselves to.

  As he braced against the crisp night air and waited for the stream of whizzing cars on the road to die down so he could cross over, one of the men yelled to him. “Hey, Highland man, you want some real brew? Or a toke? It’s on us, young bro!”

  Thankful for the safety provided by the crowded street, Brandon looked over his shoulder quickly. “Oh, no thanks, brothers.” He had walked through this neighborhood plenty of times as a freshman and sophomore, when he lived on campus. He, Bobby, and assorted friends had made late-night runs to Chappy’s when they’d needed a study break and some greasy food to salve their weary souls. The place had been a legendary Highland hangout since it
opened its doors during Brandon’s parents’ sophomore year. But this was his first time journeying over here on his own. He hoped the elder brothers would leave his ride alone.

  As he leaned against his car and prayed for its safety, a small boy in an L.A. Lakers jacket and ratty Wrangler jeans darted up to him. “Hey, mister, can I get a dollar? My momma is sick. She needs money to buy some medicine.”

  Shielding his eyes under the glare of the street lamp overhead, Brandon stepped back just far enough to get a clear look at the child. His head shaved bald and his right earlobe sporting a gold hoop earring, the boy looked to be ten or eleven years old. His pudgy face was trapped between unblemished childhood toddler and hardening adolescence. Slowly, the face became familiar to him.

  “Pooh Riley, is that you, boy?” Forgetting his surroundings, Brandon dropped his guard as he recognized the child he had tutored for the past two years. “What are you doing out here at this time of night?”

  Pooh sniffed and locked his eyes on Brandon’s chest. He spoke in a halting but hard tone. “Uh, Mr. Brandon, I didn’t know that was you. Please don’t be tellin’ Ms. Sheryl that I’m out here in the streets. She done told my momma to keep me inside after dark. I don’t want her to get in trouble.”

  Glancing at the men near his car, Brandon knelt down to meet Pooh’s eyes. “Pooh, what do you really need the money for?”

  Pooh’s eyes filled even though his mouth remained in a straight line. “My momma tryin’ to buy some booze, you know, take the edge off her pain from that surgery on her knee. If she can get to sleep, then I can sleep. I’m sorry, Mr. Brandon, but I got to get this money somehow.”

  Knowing there were plenty of others who would give Pooh the money for a much higher price, Brandon knelt low enough so he was out of sight of the men near his car. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Where’s your house, Pooh?”