L.A. Blues III Read online

  Gagging air with nothing left on my stomach, I tried to catch my breath. A string of saliva ran from my mouth and I wiped it with the back of my hand. Between breaths I said, “It must be something I ate.” The truth be known, I hadn’t eaten anything but a little broth that morning. This was my meal from yesterday.

  Finally feeling some relief, I sat down and urinated since I couldn’t help from peeing all the time, it seemed. I came out the restroom stall, washed my hands, then rinsed out my sour mouth. The next thing I knew Chica grabbed me by the shoulders, spun me around, then peered deeply down into my eyes.

  “You look funny.” She shook her head and pursed her lips the way she did when she was figuring out something. “You sure you aren’t pregnant?”

  “No.” I averted my gaze as I threw the paper towels into the waste bin.

  In turn, Chica grabbed up a paper towel, scurried into the bathroom, got on her knees, and scrubbed up the floor where I’d missed the toilet. She came out the bathroom, paper towel crumpled in her hand and shaking her head. She washed her hands and let them air dry. “Z, stop lying,” Chica snapped. “You’re pregnant, mija. I’ve had five babies. I should know. I thought you looked different. It’s something about your eyes. That’s how Shirley knew I was pregnant with Trayvon.”

  For the first time in months, Chica could talk about her murdered fifteen-year-old son, Trayvon, without breaking down crying. She was talking as if this was a warm memory—her getting pregnant for the first time at eighteen by a drug dealer, Dog Bite. Memories; how time softened tragedy.

  As I felt hot tears swim to the surface, I shook my head to clear my eyes.

  Chica reached over and hugged me, her tone as soothing as brook water running over smooth pebbles. “Why are you hiding it? You’re a grown-ass woman. Girl, won’t that be nice to have Romero’s baby? You really loved him. This way, you’ll always have a piece of him.”

  I bit my bottom lip, fighting back the tears, which floated dangerously near the surface at all times these days. I noticed that tears were becoming my daily friend. I wasn’t used to this rollercoaster of emotions. One minute I’d be all right, the next I’d be sobbing uncontrollably. Finally I spoke up. “I’m not sure if I’m going to have this baby.”

  Chica caught her breath. “Wait a minute. What do you mean? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  I nodded.

  “Please don’t do it.” Her voice was adamant, almost pleading.

  “I just can’t have a baby right now . . . not ever. I don’t have a motherly bone in my body. I’m too scarred emotionally. When I was eight years old and my mother had my brother Diggity, I changed his diapers and got up at night with him so much, I think I knew then I’d never want babies. She just handed him over to me like I was the mother.”

  Chica glanced around the bathroom, stooped down, peeked under the other stalls to make sure we were alone, then went into the bathroom and pulled out some toilet tissue. She handed it to me. “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told another soul.”

  “What?” I wiped my eyes, and gazed out. Chica looked like I was seeing her through a rainy window since my eyes were so bleary.

  “When I was out on the streets, just before I got clean, I got pregnant by one of my johns. I didn’t know who the father was and I went and had an abortion . . .” She paused, as if it was too painful to remember, let alone put into words.

  “And?”

  “On that first day everything seemed okay, but the next day, I started hemorrhaging. I wound up in the hospital in ICU. While I was passed out, they gave me an emergency hysterectomy in order to save my life. At the time, I was just happy to be alive. I never dreamed I’d clean up and find a good man like Riley so it was just another day in the life of a crack head. But now, I’d love to have a baby for Riley and I can’t ever give him one. ”

  “Does Riley know about this?”

  “He knows I’ve had a hysterectomy, but he doesn’t know why. I heard what you said about dick is not your friend.”

  “When did I say that?”

  “When I wanted to tell Riley about my being molested as a child. You said something like, ‘Don’t tell men all your dirty secrets.’”

  “Right. Save that for your girlfriends.”

  Chica gave me a serious look. “You’re more than a friend. You’re my sister.” Then she added, “It’ll all work out. Trust me.”

  She pulled me into a long hug and was saying some more soothing words about her helping with the baby, which sounded more like Charlie Brown’s teacher, “Wonk, wonk, wonk,” as far as I was concerned. I heard Chica’s voice washing over me, but I didn’t feel comforted. Between the nausea, the constant peeing, the fist tightness in my womb, the sore tingling in my growing breasts, I was miserable all the time. I pulled away and rushed out the restroom. I couldn’t tell her the truth about the possible rape in Rio. I still didn’t know what I was going to do. I found a table and I sat alone.

  The dinner choices included grilled Cajun salmon, chicken cordon bleu, or Cornish hens with wild rice, asparagus, and a Greek salad. Dessert consisted of the most decadent piece of black forest cake slathered with a dollop of whip cream and the largest scrumptious Bing cherries I’d ever seen, but I knew I couldn’t hold it down so I didn’t try.

  An example of Haviland’s fastidious attention to detail was demonstrated in the impeccable calligraphy on the menu. I just picked at my food so my stomach wouldn’t get upset again. I was thinking about what Chica said. Would I regret having an abortion?

  “Hello. Why are you sitting over here by yourself?” A strangely familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.

  I turned around and found myself face-to-face with the minister. He wore a white starched collar like a priest and a black old-fashioned Nehru-styled suit.

  I glared at him, throwing all the shade I could muster up. “Why not?” I just wanted to be left alone.

  His face melted into genuine lines of concern. “You seemed troubled.”

  “No, I’m good.” I waved my hand in a “get lost” gesture.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ve got to leave, but there was something about you. I’d like to give you my card, just in case you need prayers. You’re welcome to come visit my church, too.”

  I looked down at the small business card. Fellowship Baptist Church, Inglewood, California. Reverend Edgar Broussard. I slid the card in my purse next to my Glock, which was licensed, and which I carried with me at all times.

  “I hope to see you again.” He gave me a tentative look, as if he expected me to say something in response.

  “How are you getting back to the shore?”

  “I’m taking the ferry back. I’ve got to get to work. ”

  “What kind of work do you do?” I leaned forward with interest.

  “I’m a fireman.”

  “A minister who works?” I lifted my eyebrow in an incredulous manner. I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic, but a working minister was an oxymoron in my world. I’d seen all the big churches on TV and splattered throughout Los Angeles. My relationship with organized religion had been like that of a relationship with a distant cousin since I became grown. I think the last time I stepped foot inside a church was at my nephew Trayvon’s funeral. Shirley made us go to church so much after I went to live with her as a foster child at the age of nine, I really made a vow that when I got grown I’d never go to church.

  “You know Apostle Paul and the disciples were tentmakers,” Reverend Broussard said. “They worked when they weren’t out making disciples. So I follow in their footsteps. Besides, not all of us have mega churches.”

  “Oh, so you’re not one of the pimps in the pulpit?”

  The minister paused. “If that’s what you want to call them. I could take offense at what you’re saying. I know there are some bad ministers out there, but I try to live by the Word. I fall short sometimes, but I do my best.”

  I didn’t respond to him.

 
; “Well, I must be getting along.”

  I wanted to tell him I didn’t want to hear anything about any old God or any Christianity. But most of all, I was angry at God. I almost wanted to shake my fists at the heavens and scream, “What next, God? You’re doing a good job up there. First, You take my family from me when I was a child, then You kill off my first true love, and now I’m pregnant with a baby that may or may not be my lover’s child. What else you got good for me, God? Is that all You got?”

  I silently made a vow. I promise to find the two men who kidnapped my brother and indirectly caused Romero’s death. I will get to the bottom of this if this is the last thing I do.

  I knew whenever I made a vow, I followed through with it.

  I wanted to tell the good reverend I didn’t want to hear anything about any old Jesus or any Christianity. If there was a God, why was I born into the life I was born into—with my mother being a Crip, my brother Mayhem being a Crip, or, the coup de grâce, my father being murdered in front of my eyes when I was nine years old? How could I not be scarred? Give me a break.

  As everyone got up to do the Cupid Shuffle from the movie Jumping the Broom, I remained seated. I looked on as the dances evolved into the Wobble, the Electric Slide, and the Dougie. The women outnumbered the men ten to one, so it was good they had the line dancing going on. The party was getting heated up. I thought about how well Romero and I used to salsa together and a pang of loss hit me again. I sipped my water slowly to keep from regurgitating again.

  Gradually, my stomach began to settle down. Instead of dancing, I was enjoying myself with a bottle of water, and finding solace in my settled stomach. One day I would be happy; the next, I’d be miserable. Little things, such as not feeling sick to the stomach, made my day now.

  Even water tasted good, now that it wasn’t coming back up. I didn’t want to go into the main ballroom and sit on the dais with Haviland and the wedding party because if I got sick again, she might guess. Up until now, I hadn’t told either Chica or Haviland that I was pregnant, but Chica seemed to have guessed from my vomiting. However, I didn’t confirm or deny my pregnancy when Chica asked me. I trusted Chica not to say anything; we’d held each other’s secrets since we were raised together in foster care. But I didn’t want big mouth Haviland to know—particularly if I terminated the pregnancy.

  To begin with, I was not the motherly type. Never wanted children after being a foster kid. Truthfully, I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to be a good mother.

  What would I do with a baby? But then I got down to the heart of it. What if the baby wasn’t Romero’s? Could I raise a rapist’s baby?

  One day I would be okay; the next, I’d be miserable. I’d even driven to an abortion clinic, not once, but twice, but the protesters surrounding it scared me off the first time, and the second time, I just sat in my car and cried.

  First of all, let me explain something. It wasn’t that I was religious or anything that stopped me each day. Maybe I didn’t want to be seen on the Internet or Instagram where someone snapped me on the camera going into the clinic. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no saint because of the reality show. I really don’t know what stopped me.

  In all my thirty-five years, I’d never been pregnant. For one, I didn’t even think I could get pregnant, since I’d been sexually active more or less (meaning I had periods of celibacy, particularly when I first got sober) since I was nineteen. I’ve been married twice, once where the marriage was annulled. I’d been single the last ten years. I generally used condoms, but the last time I was with Romero, he didn’t use one. I was drugged in Rio, so I don’t know what happened while I was out, but I do know I was tampered with downstairs in my cootie-cat.

  After being raised as a foster kid, even though I had a good foster home with Shirley and Chill, who were still my surrogate parents, I was leery of risking motherhood. As far as I was concerned, Venita, my biological mother, pushed us out into the world with no more concern than a cat has for kittens and we all wound up spread to the four winds. I had no role model of how to raise a child, other than the care my foster mother, Shirley, had given me. But, was that good enough to be a mother? But then I got down to the heart of the matter. What if the baby wasn’t Romero’s? Could I love that child?

  I cut my iPhone back on, but the signal was weak. Within minutes, my phone vibrated. A text message came across: I see where you put out a call on Facebook and Twitter for a biological sister named Righteousness. I think I might be that person.

  For a moment, everything around me fell silent. The world froze like children playing the game Red light/Green Light. I had to stop reading I was so floored. I sucked in a deep breath, gathered my wits about me, and continued to read the message.

  Hello, my name is Rachel Jackson .I saw your call on Twitter and Facebook for a female child born in Sybil Brand Institute in L.A. in 1986 named Righteousness de la Croix. I think I might be that woman . . . I now live in Ypsilanti, Michigan. You can call me at 734-999-1111. I was adopted at age ten through “Wednesday’s Child” through Fox 11 KTTV in Los Angeles. I am available in the evenings.

  She’d also sent an attached picture of herself. Right away, I could see some of my mother Venita’s features. Although she was what some black people would call a “redbone,” this Rachel had Venita’s cherry nose and slanted eyes.

  I text messaged back: You look like my mother. Let’s talk at 9:00 tonight. I will call you. I’m at a wedding on a ship. I can’t call you from here.

  Okay, she text messaged back.

  I was so excited, I forgot my unwanted pregnancy, I forgot my nausea, I forgot my blackmailer, and I almost forgot where I was. Years melted away and I was still nine, worrying about the basketball in my mother’s stomach, which I later learned was a baby sister, who somehow survived when my stepfather, Strange, beat the mess out of my mother when she was seven months’ pregnant. I was so excited I couldn’t wait to catch the next ferry going back.

  I made my way over to the dais where the bridal party was seated. The line of well-wishers had thinned out and the newlyweds were surrounded only by their wedding party. I was supposed to have sat at this long table with Peter, but I had elected to stay in the dance hall. I’d missed the first dance of the newlyweds.

  “Z, where have you been?” Haviland snapped petulantly. “You missed the throwing of the bouquet and the garter.”

  “I’m sorry, but I got a little seasick.” I caught myself, then changed the subject. “Girl, you’re looking radiant.” I blew air kisses, a Hollywood habit I’d picked up from Haviland.

  Haviland was beaming, her makeup still intact. You could see how happy she was being the center of attention. She was the cynosure of all eyes, and, as an actress, she really hammed it up. Even so, she had this determined look like this was it, like she might make it through her fourth marriage. For her sake, I hoped so.

  “Thanks for sharing our day,” Trevor said.

  “I wish you both all the happiness,” I said sincerely. “I’m leaving, Haviland, Trevor.”

  In spite of Haviland’s protests regarding me leaving the reception so early, I insisted I had to leave. I hugged them both, in the best mood I’d been in since the wedding started. They were due to fly out for Paris for their honeymoon later that night.

  “Have fun. Congratulations!”

  Chapter Three

  Absently, I twiddled and twirled my ankh, which I wore around my neck, as I sped up the 73 West Freeway toward L.A. in my rental SUV. A few months ago, a Santeria had given this amulet to me when I was in Rio. Sometimes this ankh brought me comfort and lifted my mind from fear. I was still wondering if the ankh was what gave me the power to kill four men by myself when I was surrounded in Brazil.

  Driving along, in a moment of clarity, I felt a sudden urge to go to an AA meeting, but I wanted to go to a meeting with people who looked like me—brown. Plenty of AA meetings were scheduled in Orange County, but I wanted to go to one in L.A. I’d been sober for almost three years
now. Up until Mayhem was kidnapped, life had been good—brand new because of my newfound sobriety.

  It hit me that I hadn’t been to an AA meeting in almost three months but, fortunately, with this pregnancy and the constant nausea (which I was kind of hoping both would magically go away), drinking was the last thing on my mind. I thought about it. A meeting wouldn’t hurt. It always gave me clarity about a situation: how should I handle the reunion with my long-lost sister? I wouldn’t talk about my unplanned pregnancy, or my reunion with my sister, but generally, I’d hear a solution in what was said by one of the people who opened up and disclosed more.

  I merged from the 405 Freeway to the Harbor Freeway, exited at Vernon and was driving down Vernon to Vermont in South L.A., all the time my mind was on my baby sister. So, her name was Rachel now. What would she be like? Would she remember me? I last saw her when she was about eight or nine and living in a foster home in Rowland Heights.

  My mind drifted back to Romero. I decided I would go to the cemetery tomorrow and put flowers on his grave and talk to him about my situation. Should I abort this baby? My real question: Romero, is this your baby I’m carrying?

  Oh, no! I don’t want to be on some Maury Povich TV show with the DNA test. I could see the drama now. Would his family come forth and say, “That’s not Romero’s baby. He doesn’t look anything like him—I don’t care if he is dead!” Oh, Lord! And Romero came from a crime family background, too.

  My mind wouldn’t rest. I couldn’t stop thinking about this pregnancy. To take my mind off my dilemma, I thought about my sister, Ry-chee, aka Rachel. I had told her I would call her back at 9:00 P.M. It was only 6:00. I had time to make an hour AA meeting in the hood.

  I was so excited about going home to sit down and really talk to my baby sister, I wasn’t as conscious as I usually am. Wahoo-wahoo. Suddenly the wail of numerous sirens swooped down into my consciousness. Loud sirens blared around me, and a cordon of police cruisers were zooming down on me. My heart catapulted in my chest.