Between Brothers Page 19

  It turned out Pooh’s house was three blocks away. Brandon followed the boy past several more liquor stores and a Church’s Chicken. At a small grocery store he walked up to the glass-encased counter and paid for a couple of painkillers, which the elderly clerk slid through a circular opening.

  When they reached the porch of Pooh’s rented home, Brandon removed a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to Pooh. “Stick this in your socks, for the next time your mother really needs you to get something. You should never go out in the streets looking for money.”

  Pooh wrinkled his nose. “Mr. Brandon, don’t worry about me. I ain’t no punk.”

  “I don’t care if you look like a punk, I want you to be safe, little man. Now go inside and tell your mother Mr. Brandon said she should use those to relieve her pain and get some rest. Don’t buy her any alcohol. She doesn’t need that. Just make sure she gets that stuff and stays in the rest of the night.”

  Pooh put a hand on the metal doorknob. “Thanks, Mr. Brandon. I’ll see you next week at Ellis, man.”

  “I better.” As Brandon watched the door swing shut behind Pooh, he realized he had forgotten about Monica and his car. There was so much need in the life of someone like Pooh, and he wasn’t equipped to deal with all of it.

  Stuffing his carefully lotioned hands into the deep pockets of his Union Bay jean jacket, Brandon briskly walked the three blocks and darted back across the street. He parked himself beneath Chappy’s neon sign. Half of the bulbs in the neon had burned out, meaning the sign actually read ppy’s, but any real Highland student could find Chappy’s blindfolded. Carefully eyeing the snaggletoothed bag lady who stood just outside the entrance, carrying on a conversation with herself, Brandon scanned the street for a sign of Monica. He feared he had missed her when the restaurant door creaked open behind him.

  “Uh, hello, Mr. Bailey. You are officially late. How you gonna leave a couple of sisters hanging like that?” Brandon turned to see Monica standing in the entryway, the door propped open. His eyes flitted over her white Nike sweatshirt and the respectably snug fit of her Levi’s 501s. She had her hair pulled back into a ponytail, and her face was well scrubbed but free of makeup. On top of everything else, the woman had the nerve to be a natural beauty.

  As he stepped inside, Brandon glued his eyes to hers. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m on CP time tonight. Je suis tard.”

  Smiling at his use of French, Monica led him past the crowded tables of rowdy high school and Highland students to the short line of people waiting to place their orders. The smells of burning grease, melting cheese, and fried meat hung heavily in the air. As they took their place in line, Monica waved at Tara, who stood at the head of the line with a male friend of her own. “Think you’re gonna throw me off with the use of French? Don’t you know I’ve had four semesters of it at Highland, not to mention three years in high school?”

  Brandon grinned. He wasn’t going to tell her, but he still recalled those exact facts from a rare conversation they’d had on the yard last year, back when he did well to squeak out a hello as he crossed her path. “Well, I thought I’d heard you were fluent en français. Now, tell me, did you and Tara really come here without any men? Who’s l’homme in line with her?”

  “Don’t worry about it, just be flattered I invited you out. Peutêtre je t’aime. Ever thought of that?”

  Reaching back to his last French class, freshman year, Brandon translated the line in his mind. Maybe I like you. A prickly, happy sensation climbed his leg, heading straight for his most sensitive region. “Ah, flattery will get you nowhere with me, lady.”

  “What ya want!” The boom of Chappy’s hoarse voice told Brandon it was time for them to order. Chappy was slumped behind the greasy glass counter, his matted Afro protruding from beneath a soiled white chef’s hat. Chappy was hard at work preparing his trademark sandwiches and making small talk with his patrons, his crinkled brow awash in sweat, some of which had dried on the bottle-thick lenses of his maple-colored bifocals. He looked at Brandon with sudden recognition. “Hey, partner, how ya doin’? You know this pretty lady here, huh?” He pointed a mangled spatula at Monica.

  “She’s the one who got me out here tonight. Chappy, how you been?” Brandon never ceased to be amazed at Chappy’s ability to recognize him, even though he’d only stopped in a handful of times since sophomore year. “The lady and I will each have a cheese steak. Pile ’em up with everything!”

  “I got your back, son, you know that.” Chappy went to work feverishly, barking orders to his teenage assistants like a military general while continuing to build cheese steaks piled high with beef, American and cheddar cheeses, green peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, mayonnaise, mustard, salt and pepper, and a dash of his special sauce.

  Five minutes later Brandon took a seat across from Monica in a cramped wooden booth near the front door. After dusting off his seat and again refusing a complimentary edition of The Final Call from one of the Fruit of Islam standing watch near the entrance, he eyed his cheese steak skeptically while Monica finished her first bite.

  She waited for him to tear into his sandwich. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “I don’t know. I guess something other than my stomach motivated me to come here tonight.”

  “Oh, ha-ha, Mr. Choirboy. I’m gonna tell those Disciples on you if you keep talking like that. Now give me some scoop. I wanna know about the real Brandon Bailey.” Her eyes burned with a playfulness that made Brandon’s heart flip with joy.

  “Meaning?” He batted his eyes like a confused child.

  “Meaning I don’t know much about who you’ve dated at Highland. Who have you been sneaking off with?”

  “You mean you haven’t asked around?” Brandon hoped she hadn’t. There was nothing for her to find out where he and Highland women were concerned. “I’ve spent years now using Bobby to get your four-one-one from Tara.” Brandon knew he must be getting high on himself. He should not have shared that fact just yet.

  “And what exactly did you find out?” A smile pulled at the corners of Monica’s moist mouth.

  “Just that you don’t date many Highland men. Don’t worry, Tara always had your back. The most she ever gave Bobby was vague stories about you havin’ a man back in New York.”

  “Well, if things go well, maybe you can get the story from the horse’s mouth. When are you gonna answer my question?” Her patience obviously running short, Monica laid her cheese steak back into its pool of grease and locked eyes with Brandon.

  Brandon chuckled to himself. He’d tortured himself before last night’s outing over how to respond to this question. Now, having survived their first date and remembering that he’d be out of D.C. and Monica’s world in a matter of weeks anyway, he decided to shoot from the hip. “You wanna know who I’ve dated at Highland? Let’s do a laundry list, shall we?” Pretending to be pensive, Brandon pinched his lips together and let his cheeks balloon like a feasting chipmunk. “Well, there was Kelly Grant.”

  “I know Kelly. I used to see you hang out with her all the time, both freshman and sophomore year, right?”

  Brandon flushed. So she did notice, even back then. Why hadn’t he encouraged that interest? “Yeah, for all the good it did me. Kelly and I were bosom buddies. We witnessed to folk on campus and on the Disciples’ mission trips, studied together for English, black lit, and econ, and had the type of long talks I thought would lead somewhere. Then I went and ruined it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Told her I liked her, was interested in more. How do you like this response? I’ll never forget that night. She looks at me like I’m a little boy who just offered her a bite of his sucker. She pats me on the head and says, ‘Thank you for sharing that with me.’ She forgot to tell me how nice I was. Looked at me like a teacher looks at a prize student but never addressed my interest.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t ready for a relationship at the time.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, I’m sure. I’m s
ure that’s why she’s dating that basketball jock Scott McKnight now. Just ’cause he stepped to her at the right time. I bet he’s a real gem.”

  Monica slid a handful of slender fingers under her chin. “You sound bitter.”

  “Oh, why would I be bitter? Because despite the fact that I’m cute—if nothing else, I know that—I can’t get the women I show interest in to give me the time of the day? Let me complete my list of rejections. Melba Miller said she had no time for a man, she just needed Jesus; Donna Williams said she might be able to like me, if I didn’t mind waiting until she made up her mind between me, her ex-boyfriend, and another ‘friend’ of hers; and Alicia Holland never even bothered to return my phone calls. With experiences like that, in this day of the blackmale shortage, why would I be bitter, baby?”

  Monica smiled slyly. “Uh, Brandon, maybe you gave up too quickly.”

  “Oh, no, trust me. If anything, I spent too much time—”

  “I don’t mean those other girls. You ever think that if you’d kept going, you might have hit on someone who was already curious about you?” The curve of her lower lip told Brandon exactly what Monica meant. “You just ruined the one excuse I always gave you. I had always assumed—”

  “Assumed what?” Brandon could feel his freshly scrubbed armpits growing clammy.

  “Oh, I don’t know. That you never asked me out because you were seein’ other people. Your interest was obvious.”

  “I-It was?” Brandon realized he didn’t even need to ask how. Monica had probably smelled the lust emanating from him the first time they met. “This is embarrassing. Look, Monica, I was all set to ask you out a couple of times, right, but when I got into the Disciples, well, let’s just say I was socialized to be very particular about who I dated. Or tried to date.”

  She eyed him with insincere confusion. “You do know I’m a Christian, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I’m guessing you’ve never considered joining up with a ministry like the Disciples.”

  “I believe in expressing my spirituality in my own way, Brandon. We’ve talked about that. I don’t understand why you would let almost four years go by without asking me out, just because I wasn’t religious enough for you.”

  Sucking down a piping-hot bite of the steak, Brandon held up a hand. “Monica, I can’t explain it. There’s no excuse. I know it was lame to ask you out so late in my last year here. But I couldn’t have forgiven myself if I didn’t find out what you’d say.” Feeling like he was approaching an emotional slippery slope, Brandon reined himself in. “I guess all I’m saying, Monica, is I’m into you. I just want to spend time with you. You set the terms, I’ll follow for these last five weeks. We can do what you want, where you want. Like Levert said, I ain’t no Casanova, but I’m also no dog. Where’s the harm in giving me some pleasant memories, on your grounds? You might even find me enchanting before all’s said and done.” He wiggled his eyes playfully, trying to lighten the mood.

  Setting her sandwich aside, Monica reached forward and tapped his hand, sending a wave of heat through his body. “I just wanted to hear you say it, Brandon. I’m not blind, you know. I just needed to know where you were coming from. Look, let’s just get to know each other and enjoy each other’s company. Why don’t you tell me why I should go out with you again?”

  Wondering if he was really sitting in Chappy’s with Monica or just in the middle of a good dream, Brandon pitched his sandwich aside and jumped into a bout of verbal gymnastics with Monica. They delved into dreams and goals. She shared her plans to attend a top MBA program and start her own advertising agency. Her mother was a partner at a major agency in New York, and her father was an author of corporatecommunications textbooks. She preferred the East Coast but wasn’t ruling out some grad programs in the South and Midwest. Brandon talked freely about his plan to eventually start an inner-city clinic once he had worked in private practice a few years. He wasn’t sure what specialty he would choose yet, though the way that managed care looked to be driving down the compensation levels for specialists, his father’s suggestion that he follow him into family practice was starting to look pretty good.

  Another half an hour, and they finally swerved into what Brandon had once considered forbidden territory. Monica’s curiosity about his views on sex had predictably been stirred by their double date with Bobby and Tara. Brandon talked openly about how his interpretation of the Bible forbade fornication, and Monica respectfully shook her head in disbelief.

  “I guess you can’t miss what you’ve never had, but . . . never?” Pushing his history with Brandy from his mind, Brandon wowed Monica as he explained his parents’ success in waiting for marriage, as well as the shared commitment he and his brothers had to maintaining their purity.

  “Three celibate men in the same family?” She asked to see pictures. “They’re as cute as you are,” she said. “You sure you’re all straight?”

  Brandon vigorously set the record straight on that issue. He and his brothers were not bigots. What folk did in their bedrooms was their own business, but the day he or his brothers went that route would be the day Louis Farrakhan and Rush Limbaugh became golfing buddies. Hoping to open Monica up to a new perspective, Brandon tried to challenge her thinking. “What type of world—no, what type of black community would we have, if just fifty percent of the single folk were committed to abstinence? Think there’d be a drop in the number of illegitimate babies, fatherless children, drug use, murders, and poverty? Think that a woman with four kids, on welfare, couldn’t be earning a degree from Highland if she had kept her legs closed and kept herself unburdened?”

  Monica wasn’t going to be won over in a night. “Brandon, if that many people were celibate, you’d have more murders and crime, because all you brothers would be out your damn minds. Testosterone buildup would make your brains bubble over.”

  Brandon had no choice but to laugh. By the time he walked her and Tara to Monica’s Saturn an hour and a half later, they had become fast friends. As he opened the driver’s side door of her car, he tugged gently at the arms of her sweatshirt. “You know this conversation isn’t finished, ma’am. We’ve still got to settle up on this matter of diggity. Someone’s going to have to compromise here.”

  Monica placed a warm finger on Brandon’s lips, her Certs-fresh breath teasing his aching nostrils. “Now, you know I’m no nun, Brandon. But let’s say we squash the argument after we’ve been out a few times. I don’t sack-hop with just anyone, you know.” With that, she smiled, slid into the car, and was gone.

  When he got back to the house, Brandon felt as if he had entered an alternate reality. He was so high on the night he walked right past O. J.’s door, ignoring the ungodly blasting of his Daryl Coley CD. He might have to block out the bass of O. J.’s boom box, but he was going to sleep good tonight.

  CHAPTER 20

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  SNEAK ATTACK

  From his position across the street from Ellis Community Center, Jay Turner, David Winburn’s campaign manager, impatiently smoldered in the driver’s seat of his Ford Probe. Waiting in this bucket of bolts was adding to his frustration. It had broken down on him three times in as many months, and he was tired of pumping his hard-earned summer savings into this lemon. Of course, that headache was secondary now. The informant he was to meet was ten minutes late, and the main speakout of the HSA campaign was to begin in Carlton Auditorium in twenty minutes. Where was this fool?

  Turner froze in his seat as he realized that a small boy dressed in an L.A. Lakers starter jersey and blue jeans was moving rapidly toward his car. With a determined look on his cherubic face, the boy stopped within an inch of Turner’s window. Hoping he wasn’t about to be carjacked by the five-foot preteen, Turner cracked the window and mumbled a greeting. “Were you sent to meet Turner?”

  Without opening his mouth or altering his blank expression, the boy reached into the Lakers backpack on his shoulder and produced a large manila envelope. Turner whisked the
package through the crack in the window, feverishly checking its contents as the messenger stared him down.

  “Mr. Orange said you was s’posed to pay me fifteen dollars.” Apparently the child was not mute.

  Turner grinned and slipped two crisp ten-dollar bills through the crack. He decided to play dumb; he was sure the kid shouldn’t have mentioned Rolly Orange’s name directly. “There’s a tip for you, Pooh,” Turner said, reading the name engraved on the kid’s jacket. He told himself the tip would salve his guilt over accepting help from anyone using a child as a go-between. “You have a good night now.” As the boy turned and retreated back into the darkness from which he had emerged, Turner punched the accelerator on his ailing auto. There wasn’t much time to get up to campus, but when he got there, he would hold David Winburn’s political salvation in his hands.

  Monday night, and the first debate for the Highland Student Association presidential election was about to begin. Even though they hadn’t been talking much lately, Ashley was by Larry’s side minutes before the curtain was to rise on the main stage of Carlton Auditorium. Watching the election-committee volunteers do some last-minute tweaking of the head table at which the candidates would be seated, Larry allowed her to play with his tie while Mark ran down his list of final reminders.

  “All right, remember, we gotta come out looking like the picture of cleanliness. You need every poll point you can win tonight! Don’t let David bring you down into the mud unless absolutely necessary, least not at first. Pound home the security plan, alumni donations, and dormitory finance. When it’s time for the pissin’ contest, lampoon his security ideas, reliance on Congress for funding, and the results of his past administrations. Then, however you have to do it, get him between the eyes with those memos to Dr. Johns just before the closing statements. He’ll never recover!”

  Larry frowned as Ashley took one final tug on his designer tie. “Mark, I told you the memos are an absolute last resort, brother. We don’t need any more negativity up in this place than we’ve already got. I can beat Winburn on the merits.” Larry knew his attempt at morality would disappoint Larry senior, but he was feeling his oats tonight. Debates were the perfect forum for someone with his looks and charm; if nothing else, he’d lock up the female vote tonight.