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“I’m sorry, Tasha—I meant to say Tasha,” Lynn said once both Tasha’s and Tamia’s eyes were on her. Free of her entourage, she thrust out her arms for an embrace. Tasha was pulled to her before she had any opportunity to protest. Lynn whispered into Tasha’s ear, “I know you don’t like that. I know a lot about you.”
Tasha smiled her friendly pictures smile and pinched Tamia’s arm.
“Wow, that’s something. That’s really…something.”
“Hello, I’m Tamia Dinkins,” Tamia said, trying to shake Lynn’s hand, but she hugged her too.
“Yes,” Lynn said, “I’ve heard of you. You both went to my alma mater—Howard. You’re on the alumnae Web site in the ‘Who’s Who of New York.’”
“Wonderful,” Tasha said dryly.
“Tasha, I was trying to get in contact with you a few weeks ago. I got last-minute tickets for a tea Michelle Obama was hosting in midtown. It was for influential wives, who also happened to be businesswomen—but then I realized you closed your artist-management firm.”
Had Lynn been looking, she would’ve seen that Tamia was shaking her head for Lynn to stop speaking, but she just kept going. While Tasha had only managed Lionel and two overaged rappers during her brief, yet spirited tenure as a business owner, after having Toni and moving to Jersey, she had little time and lost lots of inner-city connections. So she officially had to shut down what was left of her operation. It was a painful departure from the only career choice or true private life Tasha had ever known, and to make herself feel better, she’d shoveled it beneath piles of silence and denial.
“Yeah, well, that’s in my past.” Tasha’s voice was soft, resolute, everything Tamia hadn’t expected. Tamia turned to be sure it was still Tasha who was standing beside her.
Lynn was laughing.
“It doesn’t have to be in your past,” she said, holding Tasha’s arms at the wrists. “The city still needs you. You’re hot.” She bit at her lip in a way that confused how Tamia and the man who was standing behind the group listening understood “hot.” Did she mean Tasha was “hot” or her work with artists was “hot”?
“Thank you,” Tasha said. “I can’t say I’m not.”
“Look,” Lynn said, sliding a shiny black card into Tasha’s hand and whispering in her ear. “This is my private card. I know lots of people who would be happy to help you get started. When you’re ready to come back into the city, give me a call.” She kissed Tasha on the cheek and looked into her eyes. “Yeah, you’re hot.”
?
Kyle’s head was spinning around on the floor again. Only, this time, it was on the living room floor of the Harlem brownstone. Troy was standing by the front door wearing a coat.
“You gonna pick me up?” the head asked a nervous Troy, who knew somehow she was naked beneath her coat.
“Pick you up?”
“Yeah…so we can go. We’re on our way to hell. You burned the church down. Broke my head off and ate my body. We have to go to hell.”
Now a Biggie Smalls song was playing in the background.
“I’m ready to die,” Kyle’s head sang along with Biggie.
“But I don’t want to go to hell! I don’t want to die,” Troy cried.
“It’s too late. You’re already dead.”
Then, in the way that waves come quickly up on sand, the woman and the head were away from the comfort of their living room and in the backseat of a funeral car. Kyle’s head was wearing a top hat Troy’s grandfather used to wear to funerals. Troy’s once black coat was now red, matching her fingernails, shoes, and lipstick, which stained her teeth.
“Y’all going to hell?” the driver of the car asked, turning around. It was Sister Glover. She was smiling big from behind Troy’s wedding veil.
“We sure are! My baby and me,” said Kyle’s head.
“No, we aren’t. We want to go someplace else—I have money. I can pay,” Troy tried, reaching into her pocket, but there was no insides and her hand went right in between her bare legs.
“Can’t pay to go someplace else,” Sister Glover said.
“That’s right,” Kyle agreed.
“Good thing y’all got together. Pastor, I was worried you would choose a good Christian wife, grow the house of the Lord, and spend your life in eternal heaven,” Sister Glover added, turning completely away from the wheel of the moving car and thumbing through an old B
ible with pages falling out everywhere. “But you got her and now it’s so clear, y’all are going to hell. Both of you. How wonderful. I am so proud. Here it is—here’s the Scripture—”
