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“Mama, why didn’t you tell me that what I give you isn’t nearly enough?”
She shook her head sadly. “It ain’t your fault that I left school. You shouldn’t have to take care of me. I don’t know what to do anymore, Jackie.”
I grabbed her by the shoulders, sat her down on the bed, and knelt on the floor beside her.
“Mama, I’m going to tell you something but you can’t even tell Elvira. If you do, I’m going to get in a lot of trouble with Keith and that won’t be good at all.”
“I won’t say nuthin,’ but what’s goin’ on now, Jackie?”
I rubbed her hands. “Mama, no matter how things turn out with my trial, you and I are going to come into a lot of money. At least half a million dollars.”
Her eyes got wide as saucers and she drew her hands back like my own were burning hot. She looked suspicious and disappointed all at the same time. “Jackie, you swore to me that you didn’t have nuthin’ to do with what happened to that poor woman. What in the world have you done?”
It would have been funny if the whole situation weren’t just so damned desperate and tragic. “Mama, I did not kill Annabelle and this is not her money. This is money that as far as I’m concerned, I’ve already earned. My reputation is tarnished, to say the least, I’ve been arrested and thrown into exile, and still have a trial to get through.” The anger was building inside of me and my tone became strident. “I should get a billion dollars for pain and suffering when this is all over, but I won’t. The best I’m able to do for myself is sell the inside story of my ordeal.”
I told her about my deal with Elaine. “So get up, put your clothes on, and let’s go shopping for food, medicine, and whatever else you’ve been doing without.”
She looked doubtful.
By now I was shouting at her. “Look, I know you didn’t want to worry me or ask for more, but this is ridiculous. I was bringing home $50,000 a year after taxes and giving you another $200 a month would not have been a struggle.”
“Stop hollering at me, Jackie. You buy fancy clothes. Your rent is $2,000 a month, and every time I talk to you, it seems like you just been to some fancy restaurant. You and your Black Pack, just eatin’ and drinkin’ like y’all the first folks to ever be Black with problems. It’s all stupid, but that’s your life. Who was I to stop you from eatin’ and talkin’ ’bout bein’ Black? I jus’ took what you gave me and stretched it like I always done.”
By now she was standing up, her eyes were on fire, and I understood on a very deep level that compared to the problems of her generation, those of the Black Pack seemed inconsequential.
Deflated, I slumped into the armchair. “Fine. I have $10,000 in my bank account. There is no reason for you to jeopardize your health or go hungry. So, let’s go shopping.”
She wasn’t through. “So, you got $10,000 in the bank. That means you got five months’ rent for a place you can’t even stay in, Jackie. And how long is that gonna last?”
“I don’t know, Mama.”
“Well, girl, you better start knowin’. This thing you and Elaine got goin’ might work but it might not. You need to get rid of that apartment because that $10,000 is all you can count on. Ask Keith to let you put the furniture in the place where you stayin’ and then you won’t have to pay storage.”
“Is that it?”
She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. “No, that ain’t it, baby. Tell Keith that the next time some reporters wants to talk to you or me, they better have their checkbooks with ’em because we need the money.”
27
CHOCOLATE-COVERED STRAWBERRIES
My plan for getting even with Miss Tiffany Nixon was coming together but it was so bodacious that every time I thought about it, my courage waned a little more. So, there was nothing left to do for the rest of the day except go back to the brownstone.
I took a cab back down to Greenwich Village, feeling exhausted from the heated exchange I’d had with Mama a few hours before. It also saddened me deeply to know that I’d have to give up my own apartment, but it was the only sensible thing to do.
I sprawled out on the living room floor, listening to an old Whitney Houston song called You Give Good Love. The pain-filled lyrics enveloped the room, a fitting accompaniment to my own despair. The doorbell rang just as I was contemplating suicide.
“Who is it?”
“Paul.”
I unlocked the door and was about to throw my arms around his waist until I saw his face. There were scratch marks on each cheek and his right eye was reddened and beginning to swell.
I was horrified. “Who did this to you?”
Paul closed the door behind him and held me tightly in his arms. His voice was raw with emotion. “I went to Rosa’s house that night after I caught you waiting for Victor. We ended up in bed and after that . . . well, we were pretty much a couple. Then you called. My first instinct was to hang up but I couldn’t.”
“Nothing happened between me and Victor that night. We did not have sex, okay?”
