A Private Affair
T.C. turned toward Quinn. “Nice crib.”
Quinn gave him a short look and stepped down into the living room. “You sound surprised.” He changed the radio station from R& B to all rap. The intangible words and driving beat vibrated in the background.
“Naw. I ain’t mean it like that, man,” T.C. stammered. He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I just meant, you know…living ’round here, you just don’t figure—”
“To see people livin’ halfway decent. Ain’t that what you meant?”
He shrugged again.
“You sittin’ down, or what?” He indicated the six-foot couch with a toss of his head. “Want a brew?”
“Sounds good.”
Quinn’s mouth curved into a wry smile. He opened the fridge and pulled out one beer and a can of Pepsi, which he kept around to mix with rum. He handed the Pepsi to T.C., who started to open his mouth in protest until he looked up and caught Quinn’s stern expression and arched eyebrows. “I don’t give alcohol to minors,” he said simply. “Whatever you do in your spare time is your bizness.” He popped the top of the beer and took a long, ice-cold swallow. Beads of moisture hung on the can. “Even in this game you need to have some ethics.” He looked pointedly at T.C. “Don’t ever forget that, kid, ’cause when you do you stop being human.”
T.C. popped the top, gave Quinn a curious look, then nodded his head. He took a long swig of his Pepsi, tapping his foot to the beat.
Quinn plopped down in the matching recliner, flipped the switch and leaned back. The clock on the facing wall showed nine-fifteen. He wondered where Lacy was. Maybe it was one of her church nights. The last time he’d set foot in a church he’d prayed for his mother’s return. She never did, and he never went back. Pushing the thoughts aside, he turned his attention to T.C. “What’s with the visit? You ain’t running with me tonight.”
“Yeah, I know. I just wanted to…you know…say thanks…for the other night. I mean, I know you didn’t want me hangin’ around with you…so…thanks.” He took a quick swallow of soda to hide his discomfort.
Quinn held back his smile. He remembered all too well how he’d felt on his first run: the rush of adrenaline, the eagerness to please. “Where are your folks, kid?”
“Around. I have six brothers and sisters. My mom waits tables. Don’t know where my pops is. I’m the oldest,” he added, and Quinn could hear the note of pride in his declaration.
He already knew the rest: oldest male in the house became the man of the house, and the man of the house had to take care of himself and his family by any means necessary. It was the tale of the inner city.
“You still in school?”
He nodded. “I graduate in June.”
“Just make sure that you do,” Quinn warned, suddenly seeing himself in T.C.—if he’d had the chance to start over.
They talked about this and that, their favorite athletes, which team was going to win the NBA championship, and the characters in the neighborhood.
“Did you hear about the shoot-out on Riverside?” T.C. asked.
“Naw. I been holed up in here all night. What went down?”
“The usual.” T.C. shrugged, already jaded by the circumstances of life. “Cops got into it with some brothers. It got ugly and shots got fired. Coupla dudes got popped. Some girl, too, with a stray.”
It was a story so typical you almost didn’t pay it any attention, Quinn mused, shrugging off the sudden chill that surprised his body. “Where’d you say this was?”
“Down on Riverside, couple of blocks from that big church. They still had the area all taped off when I left a couple of hours ago.”
Quinn nodded absently, took another swallow of his beer and a quick look at the clock. Ten forty-five.
“Hey, gotta roll. My moms is working late and I promised I’d make sure the kids were in.”
Quinn grinned. “Then you better get steppin’.” They both stood. “Hold on a minute, I’ll walk out with you.” He went into his bedroom and changed clothes. He didn’t have to be at B.J.’s until eleven-thirty. He had time.
The three block stretch of Riverside was completely blocked off from traffic. Police cars and ambulances crowded the street. Swirling blue and red lights dotted the night sky. He spotted the meat wagon and immediately knew what that meant. From the look of all the uniforms that blanketed the street, the unfortunate victim was a cop. Guiltily, he released a sigh of relief.
Quinn was directed by a beat cop to move on. He made a wide U-turn and headed back down the way he’d come, passing a Channel 7 Eyewitness News van headed for the scene.
Quinn stepped on the accelerator. He’d catch it on the news.
Quinn arrived at B.J.’s a little early and was surprised not to see Turk behind the bar. He kept walking and stopped in front of the gray door, to be met by Smalls.
All eyes turned to him when he entered, but this time instead of refocusing on the poker game the stares remained fixed on his face.
He strolled past the gambling table, ignoring the odd looks. Halfway across the room, he spotted Sylvie heading in his direction. Her usual sunny smile was missing, her butterscotch face a portrait of sadness. When their gazes connected her eyes widened in surprise. An unnamed fear coupled with a rush of adrenaline snaked its way through his veins.
“Oh, Quinn. I’m so sorry.” Sylvie pressed her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around his stiff body.
He wouldn’t panic. Something had obviously happened to Remy. He would handle it. Gently he clasped her shoulders, peeling her away from him. He looked down into red-rimmed eyes. “What are you talkin’ about? Sorry for what?”
Sylvie blinked several times before realization struck. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”
Just then Remy stepped from the back room and Quinn’s pulse escalated its beat. “Hey, man, you know you don’t have to be here. I wouldn’t expect you to—” He caught Sylvie’s warning look.
Quinn looked from one to the other. “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but somebody better damn well tell me somethin’—and quick.”
Remy put his hand on Sylvie’s bare arm. “Lemme have a minute with Quinn,” he said softly. Sylvie nodded and stepped aside as Remy put his arm protectively around Quinn’s wide shoulders. “Come on in da back, son, where we can talk private like.”
Quinn threw off Remy’s hold. “Talk about what?” he demanded. His heart started beating like crazy.
“Just come on, man. Come on.” Remy ushered him into the back room.
All eyes trailed the pair as they walked into Remy’s office and shut the door. Moments later, the door flew open with such force that everyone in the room flinched and held their breath. Quinn stormed out, his eyes glazed, with Remy hot on his heels.
“Quinn, wait. I’ll go wit you,” he called.
Quinn threw up his hand to halt Remy’s pursuit. “No!” There was no room for argument. Suddenly the decor, the drab, stark nakedness, the shadows, the familiar scent of the back room, overwhelmed him.
Quinn raced from the building. His mind whirled in horrified disbelief. Of course it was some macabre mistake. They were wrong. Everyone was wrong. It happened all the time.
The Beamer assumed a life of its own as it hurtled down the darkened streets of Harlem, darting in front of cars and terrifying unsuspecting pedestrians. His entire life rolled before his eyes as if projected on some sort of larger-than-life screen.
He pulled to a screeching stop in front of the precinct house. For several moments he just sat there, staring at his hands that gripped the wheel to keep from trembling. Calling on something deep inside, he forced himself to get out of the car and put one foot in front of the other.
The rest of the night was a series of nightmarish snapshots taken from a house of horrors photo album—from the drive to the medical examiner’s office to his return home, where he found himself staring at the snow dancing across his television screen.
He had watched himself mindlessly follow the short, pudgy doctor with tufts of hair protruding from his ears down the long, dull gray corridors, the effort of walking zapping his strength like the grip of quicksand. The only sound was his own heavy heartbeat, thudding like tribal drums in his ears. A thick metal door ahead swung inward to reveal a frigid, stark and sterile room with bright white walls bouncing off highly polished stainless-steel instruments and blinding him to where he really was, projecting the illusion of virgin purity. He cringed as teeth-gritting sounds of metal hitting metal played a chilly tune to the backdrop of the whir and hum of unseen machines and the snap and pop of rubber gloves, while technicians went about their business of uncovering the mysteries of death.
The motion of the doctor removing the stiff white sheet from her face flashed repeatedly like that of a high-speed camera shutter every time he blinked. Wrapped in a sheet like dirty laundry, with a tag for pick-up dangling over her exposed, pink-polished toenail. Something deep inside of him gave way, and he seemed to choke on his own air. Icy fingers of disbelief ran down his spine and he shuddered. Instinctively he reached for her, seeking the warmth and assurance he’d always known, come to expect. Her hand, it was so cold. All the life and the warmth that was Lacy was gone. Her face was just as peaceful and pretty as it had always been, except for that deep, dark, black hole in the middle of her forehead that could have easily resembled the blessing marks from Ash Wednesday.
But he kept staring at her, rubbing her hand, begging her in the silence of his heart to just get up so they could get out of there. Out of this place that was too quiet, too cold, too lifeless, with its stainless-steel tables and rubber blankets, the stench of embalming fluid more pungent to him than the odor of the back alleys. Lacy didn’t belong in a place like this. She was too full of life, too full of energy. So why was she so still? Why wouldn’t she just get up, so they could leave? Dread swept through him. He wanted to run, to scream at her to get up. But the words wouldn’t come.
So he tried to blink the vision away. But it remained, unchanged. She could have been asleep, just as he remembered from tiptoeing into her room as a kid to tug her ponytails. She’d looked as though she’d open her mouth at any moment and make one of her smart-ass remarks, like when they were growing up and everyone always said how much alike they looked. “I’m just prettier,” Quinn would say, and Lacy would remark, “But my boobs are bigger.” And they would look at each other and crack up laughing. That’s all he wanted to hear. Just hear her laugh, tell him to eat and not stay out too late. He wanted to watch her face glow with pride when she read his work or listened to him play.
He wanted to tell her how important she was to him. How she’d made life bearable after their mother deserted them. How much it meant to him to hear her words of praise, and how much he loved her.
All he wanted was for her to be asleep so he could walk across the hall and smell corn bread baking in her oven. Then everything would be all right and this sick, unspeakable torment that had infected every inch of his body would go away. His fingers dug into his palm. When had he told her he loved her?
From his eyes they fell, silently, trickling onto his clenched hands. He looked down at the unbidden wetness, blinking, momentarily confused. “Big boys don’t cry,” he could hear his mother taunt. And Lacy would whisper in his ear, “It’s all right Q. It’s okay.”
It would never be okay again.
“Comin’ home from church,” he moaned, the force of his sobs shaking his powerful body. “Church! Praying to her God. Where were you tonight? Huh? Why weren’t you watchin’ over my sister, like she said you always did? ’Cause there ain’t no God. You ain’t real. I knew that when you nevah brought my mama back. But Lacy kept believin’, ’cause that’s just the way she was. So why her? Huh? Why? She ain’t never done nothing but good. And you took her. So whatta we got now, huh—God?”
Suddenly he lurched to his feet, staggering, his legs stiff and heavy from hours of immobility. He stumbled toward the window as the hazy orange sun began its ascent above the rooftop rows of tenements and high-rise projects.
Then, as if conjured from the depths of a personal hell, the agonized wail of a mortally wounded soul screaming to end its inhumane torture ripped from the bowels of his being, as his foot crashed through the curtain-covered windows.
“N-ooo!”
The service was a blur, packed with people he’d never even known were friends. His only moment of clarity was when Maxine stepped up to the podium and sang, “You Are My Friend,” in a tribute to Lacy that rivaled Pattie LaBelle.
He could still hear the haunting power of her voice, the painful truth of the words humming through his veins as he and Maxine made their way toward home.
Maxine took periodic, countless glances at Quinn’s drawn profile. He hadn’t uttered a full sentence in days. She was afraid for him, and at the same time she needed him. She needed him to tell her that everything would be all right, to hold her and tell her they’d get through it. She was hurting, too, more than she would have believed was physically possible. But Quinn had left them behind, as sure as Lacy had. He was visible in body, but the spirit of the man was gone.
He turned to her when they reached her apartment building. His hair had come loose from the band that held it, and it blew gently across his black-clad shoulders, touched by the stirring breeze.
“You’d better go on up,” he said in a barely audible voice. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, because he knew that if he did, she’d see the hurt and the fear. He couldn’t expose that part of himself to anyone—not ever again. Big boys don’t cry. It’s okay, Q. “Listen, I gotta go,” he said abruptly. His gaze flickered briefly on her face. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. “Later.”
Maxine watched his long, bowlegged swagger until he was out of sight.
Several weeks later as Quinn was stepping out of the shower he was surprised to hear the faint ringing of the telephone. He had so isolated himself since Lacy’s death that those who knew him had backed away after repeated attempts at offers of support. That being true, Quinn couldn’t imagine who would have the heart to call just to get their feelings stepped on.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Parker?” came a voice, thin as a rail.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Oh, thank heavens,” she rushed on. “I’ve been trying to reach your sister for days but she never seems to be home.” Quinn’s insides did a nosedive, leaving him momentarily speechless. “Such a hardworking girl, that one. It’s the main reason why I decided to hold the apartment for the two of you. She left your number on the application in case of an emergency.”
He finally found his voice. “W…hat?”
“The apartment. The one on Eighteenth Street. I’ve been holding it for weeks. She promised she’d come by with the rest of the money. When I didn’t hear from her I got worried…”
Quinn’s pulse pounded so loudly in his ears he could barely make out what she was saying. He felt as if he’d been tossed into someone else’s nightmare.
“So I need to know if you two still want the apartment. I know how desperately she wanted to move. Said you’d be a hard sell, though.” She chuckled. “It’s such a lovely place. I told her she should let you see it first, but she insisted that she wanted to take care of everything and surprise you, so you couldn’t say no.” She chuckled again.
Quinn took slow gulps of air. He had every intention of just hanging up, ending the nightmare now. But something kept him on the line and pushed words through his mouth that he didn’t know were forming.
“Why don’t you gimme your address, and I’ll come by. I think it’s about time I saw this place.”
The movers would arrive shortly. He looked around. The apartment was full of memories. All of which he wanted to put behind him.
He’d finally given in to Maxine’s insistence that they go through Lacy’s things. He’d let Max take what she wanted. He took the old second-hand piano, the one Lacy’d given him on his twenty-first birthday. He smiled, recalling the moment and the look of pure joy on her face when she saw his astonished reaction. His fingers lovingly caressed the keys. He moved away and took an accepting breath.
Boxes were packed and taped, his clothes bagged and ready. He checked the cabinets and closets for any overlooked items. He checked under the bed and behind the wall unit. He took a broom and swept it beneath the love seat and then the recliner. Satisfied, he ran the broom under the couch and was surprised to find it meeting resistance. He tried again and his notebook came sailing across the floor.
For several moments, he just stared at it. Bending, he picked it up. Remembering. He ran his hand across the pebbly black-and-white cover. One day perhaps he’d open it again….
The bell rang.
His eyes swept the room.
Time to go.
Chapter 3
The professor’s nasal voice continued its monotonous droning. The words blurred as if water had dripped on a penned page. The room was thick with the scent of sterility, body heat and morning breath.
Amidst it all, Nikita struggled to concentrate. She couldn’t. The drone dissolved into a dull buzz. She wanted to giggle as she pictured the rotund Professor Cronin as a huge bee—buzzing, buzzing, flitting from one student to pollinate another, dripping words of “constructive criticism” all along the way. The room grew smaller. The buzz grew louder, closer. She had to get away. Bzzz, bzzz.
She heard him demanding in his astonished nasal voice that she return to her seat, calling repeatedly to her retreating back. It was the first time she’d heard any animation in the buzz since the start of the spring session.
No one ever walked out of Professor Cronin’s anatomy class, under threat of expulsion. So at any moment she expected a firing squad to let off a round. She hurried. She wanted to run. But of course running through the sanctified hallways of Cornell University Medical School was against the Eleventh Commandment: “Thou shall not digress from proper decorum.” Or was that her parents’ commandment?
She pushed through the glass doors, greedily gulping the clean, fresh air, inhaling the pungent aroma of freshly cut grass and blossoming buds. Faster. She headed for her dorm, not quite sure what she’d do when she arrived, only knowing that she had to get there. She’d figure it out. Rebellion felt exhilarating. She smiled.
The buzz grew fainter.
Six and a half hours later, soothed by the sound of Kenny G on CD, Nikita pulled into the endless driveway of her parents’ imposing Long Island estate. For the first time since she’d signed off the Cornell campus she questioned the veracity of her hasty actions.
Several moments passed—Kenny’d G’d, Al’d Jarreau’d and Grover’d worked his magic—before she took the key out of the ignition. She released a sigh. “It’s now or never.” Never, a little voice whispered back.
Nikita slid from behind the wheel of her silver-and-black Mercedes convertible—a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday four years earlier—easing the door shut. Her honey brown eyes settled on the house.
Set on sixty acres of land, in Lattington—which was situated in the “Gold Coast” of above upper-crust suburbia—the Harrell home was the envy of many. It was an architect’s delight, of Southern, turn-of-the-century charm coupled with modern accoutrements such as tennis court, swimming pool and gazebo. Their home had been the focus of many Home and Garden, House Beautiful and Architectural Digest issues. What seemed to impress everyone most, was that the Harrells were both black and affluent. Dr. Lawrence Harrell was one of the most renowned vascular surgeons in the United States, and Professor Cynthia Lewis-Harrell was the first black woman to head the mathematics department at Princeton University. Then there was Nikita.
Absently she ran her professionally manicured hands along the length of her ten-months-in-development dreads. They’d finally reached below her ears, and she couldn’t wait until they were long enough for her to vary their style. Her parents, on the other hand…
She looked up. Second-floor lights twinkled against the impending nightfall, a sure sign that she’d missed dinner and that her folks were settling down for the evening. Tradition.
Determinedly she proceeded down the cobblestone walk, careful because of her heels. The smooth stones could tell many a tale of her skinned knees and bruised elbows.
She pressed the bell and listened for the familiar beeps of the alarm being disengaged. The door swung inward.
“Niki! What on earth? Your parents didn’t say anything about you coming home,” Amy rushed on, hugging Niki to her slender frame. She had been with her family for as long as she could remember. Amy was the real power behind the well-oiled Harrell machine.
Amy released Niki and set her away. Her sharp brown eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? I’ve never known you to just come home without letting anybody know.” She peered around Nikita, looking for something that would explain the unannounced arrival. “Come in here and let me look at you.” She hustled Nikita into the house. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“In trouble?”
“No, no. Nothing like that, Amy,” Nikita assured. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, that’s all.” She forced a smile.
“Humph. That doesn’t sound like you. Not like you at all. Your folks are upstairs and you already missed dinner,” she scolded, walking with Nikita down the Italian tile foyer.
“Amy! Who was at the door?”
Nikita’s heart knocked at the sound of her mother’s strident voice.
“It’s Nikita. She wanted to surprise us.” Amy threw Nikita a sharp look of disbelief.
Her mother, caressed by a pale peach satin lounging outfit and a cloud of Donna Karan’s Chaos cologne, floated to the top of the oak staircase. “Nikita! Larry, Larry. Nikita’s home.”
“I’ve dropped out of medical school.”
The silver teaspoon that her mother held clattered against a tiny demitasse cup. Cynthia’s gray-green eyes rounded in disbelief.
Nikita’s gaze darted across the table toward her father, who appeared to have not heard a word. The only indication that he had was the telltale flare of his nostrils.
Cynthia turned toward her husband. “Larry, for God sake, did you hear what she just said?”
“Of course I heard her. I’m not deaf. She’s obviously joking,” he continued without inflection. “Because no one for whom I’ve paid more than seventy-five thousand to finance their education would walk in here, sit at my table and tell me they’re throwing all that in my face.” His voice suddenly exploded. “She’s obviously joking!” His fist slammed down on the table, causing everyone and everything within range to jump.
Nikita swallowed hard, and for a split second she contemplated telling them yes, it was a joke. But if she did do that, the joke would ultimately be on her.
Her tone was soft, but decisive. “It’s not a joke. I’ve left medical school. I’m not going back.” There, she’d said it, and the earth hadn’t quaked and lightning hadn’t struck.
“Oh yes, you are going back,” her father spat out, rising to his feet. “And you’re going to finish at the top of your class, as you always have.” His hazel eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “After all we’ve done for you—”
Those words rolled around in her head like a beach ball out of control, and something as sharp as the sound of dry wood inside of her snapped.
Nikita sprang from her seat, leaning forward, pressing her palms against the linen-covered, hand-carved table. “What about all I’ve done for you!” She pinned her father with a defiant stare, then turned on her mother. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve done everything you’ve directed me to do. Joined all the right clubs, had the right friends—and the right color, of course. Excelled in every subject, attended the schools you wanted me to attend. Majored in a subject I hate. I was valedictorian for you. Summa Cum Laude for you, Mother, Father. What about me?” Tears of frustration burned her eyes and spilled. Her body trembled. “I can’t do it anymore. I won’t. Not…any…more.” She sat down hard in her seat and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.