One Better Page 12

  She read the tearful saga about a woman’s emotional addiction to her lover. When she finished the novel, she was shocked by how much she identified with the main character, Leila. She too was helpless before this obsession. With tears in her eyes, she was unable to wait a second longer. She dialed Bennie’s number.

  “Hello?” A wobbly tear slid between her closed eyes when she heard his voice. Listening to his familiar breathing, Sterling felt her heart stop and pressed her hand against her bosom “It’s me. How’s B.J. doing?” she asked.

  “How’s my baby?” he countered.

  The heat was on. When she hesitated, he let go a deep gulp. In record time he was at Sterling’s condo. He left his clothes at the front door. Apologies weren’t necessary. Armed with the best cognac and the purest heroin, the young couple screwed until their bodies were sore with love and memories. It ended with tears and apologies.

  “Tell me about the deal again. I can do the Texas thing. Tell me where to drop the rental car. First, I rent the car, and put the bag of cash in the trunk. Then I take Interstate 77 to Brownsville, Texas, cross the border there into Mata . . . Mata . . .”

  “Matamoros, Mexico, baby.”

  She was struggling, stumbling, but she managed to convince Bennie that she had indeed been listening but had tuned him out because she was scared. Scared of his reactions, of his turning against her if she was caught. She would have no one. No one. It was eerie. It was terrifying. It was a fact.

  “I love you, Sterling. Honestly. I really need your help. You’re the only one who can help me.”

  Sterling looked into Bennie’s soft brown eyes and wanted to believe him. She was desperate to trust him, to believe that he loved her, that she was the one who could help him, that she mattered to him.

  “I’ll do anything, Bennie.”

  Sterling pushed aside the dope, took both of Bennie’s hands in hers, and rubbed them over her heart.

  “Don’t ask questions, just do as I say.” He took a deep breath and continued. “Ordinarily, if you’re a steady customer with the Mexican cartel, chances of somebody knocking you or your runner off are slim. I’ve dealt with Gus, Ricardo, and Henriquez in Mexico for eight years, and have every confidence in their safe delivery of high-quality drugs, but this is a cruel business. Even though I’ve never had a problem with them, you can’t hardly trust nobody.” He placed his hand over hers.

  “Bennie? Is there anything else I need to know?”

  Sterling felt him flinch. She didn’t understand. There was something he didn’t want her to know about this. He seemed too guarded.

  Outwardly Bennie looked like the prime example of a hard-working young man. He had a steady job as a supervisor in Detroit’s main post office. He owned a five-year-old Mazda and owned a co-op in Harbortown—a yuppie’s dream. With his meager salary of just over $35,000 a year, anyone would think that he was just an average young man leading an average life.

  Sterling knew that Bennie had been in the drug business for well over nine years, and she wondered what he did with all of his money. He’d hinted over the years that he had stashed a lot of it away somewhere.

  When she took the plane to Texas a week later, on the seventh of March, she was totally high. With some of the upfront money Bennie had given her for the run, Sterling had secretly ordered an exorbitant amount of the eighty percent heroin from Horacio. Even though Bennie promised to give her all the drugs she wanted, Sterling felt it was better if he didn’t know exactly how hooked she actually was.

  She had half a million dollars in cash in a navy Dooney & Bourke bag when she arrived at the Houston airport. Bennie had gone over the scheme a dozen times with her. Once over the border, Sterling had to drive about ten miles to Castellano’s Garage outside Matamoros. Bennie told her to look for a man with a jade-and-silver elephant earring in his right ear. She was supposed to tell him that she needed her tire changed. When he took out the spare tire, he was going to remove the bag of money and replace it with a spare tire filled with drugs. Afterward she was supposed to shop at a nearby store and pick up a few pieces of jewelry and souvenirs, then drive back across the border and into Texas.

  Shit, this was easy. Just 1,830 miles in thirty-three hours and she’d be back home. To Bennie. She could make it. She had to.

  CARMEN

  Blessed be the hand that prepares a pleasure for a child, for there is no saying when and where it may bloom forth.

  —DOUGLAS WILLIAM JERROLD

  M y goodness gracious,” Spice said, putting down the scissors and massaging her hands. “I hadn’t realized how strenuous this job was.”

  Carmen smiled and dropped a large mound of baby food labels in front of her. “Two more bundles and you’re finished.”

  “Can’t we start our rounds now,” Spice pleaded, “and let the younger volunteers clip coupons?”

  “Come on, honey bunny, don’t give up on me now. We’ll be finished soon.”

  For years the Heinz Baby Food Company had given St. Anthony’s Children’s Hospital six cents per label. Concerned citizens sent in thousands of labels that had to be cut, counted, counted again, and then put into bundles of one hundred. Once Heinz’s check came, the hospital put its money toward research. “Ready to go upstairs?” Carmen asked Spice enthusiastically.

  “I don’t understand it, Carmen.”

  “What?”

  “How you can be so happy to see so many children suffering.”

  Carmen paused, buttoning up her blue smock. “The head nurse told me that even though there are two hundred and fifty other volunteers, it takes just one to make a child’s stay at St. Anthony’s less frightening.”

  As they left the small office and passed the blue logo of a boy and girl’s silhouette holding hands, she smiled. “I take pleasure in thinking that I’m that person. The most precious thing you can give somebody is time, and it doesn’t cost nothing.”

  Their first stop was the intensive care unit. “Hi,” she said, going into the room with a pile of books tucked beneath her arm and addressing the little faces there. “How’s everybody today?”

  A little girl who appeared to be about five years old frowned. With a plastic oxygen tent encasing her tiny body, the young girl, whose every breath seemed painful, was probably suffering from pneumonia. Carmen approached her bed and said, “Tell you what, how about if I read you a story? I’ve got several here. I’ll call off the names and you nod when you hear one you’d like me to read, okay?”

  Carmen pulled up a chair beside the bed. “How’s about Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?” She watched the girl hesitate, then shake her head no. “‘The Three Little Pigs’?” Still no luck. Carmen shuffled through the books, then said, “I know. You’re a big girl, right? You’d prefer big girl stories.”

  Scooting her chair closer to the bed, Carmen smiled and said, “Look here. I’ve got a wonderful story about a little girl. It’s called Meet Danitra Brown. Danitra, that’s a pretty name.” The little girl smiled. “It says here that Danitra is a truly remarkable little girl.” Carmen looked at the child’s eager eyes and added, “She’s probably a lot like you.” A bigger smile this time. “Danitra only wears purple because she thinks that one day she might be a princess, and everybody knows purple is the royal color. Would you like me to read you this story?”

  Racked with coughs that reverberated like bad music, the little girl couldn’t answer immediately. In a remarkably quick reversal, her face became bright with anticipation.

  Carmen’s heart leaped. These kids, no matter how ill they were, no matter how much they suffered, were little troupers. Who couldn’t help but be inspired by their courage?

  “Are you okay, baby?” When the child nodded, Carmen opened the book and showed her the pretty picture on the first page, then began to read. When she left, the young girl had fallen asleep with a serene smile on her face.

  She visited nineteen other patients on that floor, stopping to read to those patients who weren’t yet asleep.
Now it was time to visit the burn unit, and this was the part that always made Spice freeze. Frequently Carmen covered this unit herself, but not tonight.

  The unit was relatively empty, and most of the kids were already asleep by the time they got there. Still, throughout their visit she could feel Spice’s every reaction. One little boy awoke while they were there and Carmen refused to look at Spice—but still she felt her resistance.

  It was late Sunday evening by the time they finished at St. Anthony’s. Both wore their blue lab coats over their jeans and white tops. “We’re home,” said Spice, pulling into Carmen’s driveway.

  “I like the one about the makeup the best,” Carmen said, unbuckling her seat belt.

  They had been listening to Talk of the Town, with Darby Mitchell, the late night deejay on WJLB-FM 98, and had laughed most of the way home.

  “Wait—” Spice placed a hand on Carmen’s wrist. “Listen . . .”

  “You know you’re ghetto when the rims on your ride cost more than your car,” said the deejay, reading a fax from a listener.

  The two women laughed together as the deejay put another caller on the air.

  “You know you’re ghetto when you cut off your Barbie’s hair and use it as bangs for your weave.” Even the deejay was howling in response to the joke.

  Spice turned off the ignition, laughing.

  The wind and snow wailed in furious gusts, lifting the border of Spice’s velvet cape as they climbed the stairs leading to Carmen’s apartment above the garage.

  “Hungry?” asked Carmen once they were inside, hanging up her coat and reaching for Spice’s cloak.

  “Starved.”

  “I’ll make sandwiches.”

  “Great. Make them spicy,”she teased. Spice whipped off her black-and-white horsehair boots and sank back on the cozy sofa.

  “I had the pleasure of an unexpected visitor stopping by my place a week ago.”

  Carmen recognized a new excitement in her friend’s voice. “Mr. Westbrook?”

  “Yeah.” Spice hiked an arched brow. “Are you surprised?”

  “No, not really. I’m surprised you kept it a secret so long.” Carmen shrugged, then smiled easily. “He knows a good woman when he sees one.”

  Both were lost in their own thoughts for a minute, but the silence between them was comfortable. Spice closed her eyes. “Did you see that little boy?” Her eyes were still closed, as if she didn’t want to look her friend in the eye.

  In a kind of flashback, Carmen experienced again Spice’s feeling in the unit. “Who?” she said, lighting the stove and taking an Italian sausage out of the refrigerator. She washed her hands, talking to Spice over the sound of the splashing water. “See who, Spice?” she asked again, hoping that Spice didn’t notice the shrill note in her voice. Unconsciously she banged the skillet against the gas eye, then added three caps of canola oil in the center.

  “That little boy in ward three. He reminded me—”

  “Of someone you know.” Carmen reached beneath the sink and poured herself a drink, then placed two links into the pan. Tears welled in her eyes as she diced the onions and red and green peppers, then tossed them into the hot skillet. She washed two tomatoes and let them drain on the dish towel.

  Spice opened her eyes, leaning her upper body forward and looking into Carmen’s tearful eyes. “Adarius. It wasn’t just the way he looked—”

  “It was his voice.”

  “I hate to mention it, Carmen. I know it hurts. But we’re friends. We’re family. I want you to be able to talk to me. I couldn’t call myself your friend if I didn’t say out loud what you were thinking and were afraid to say. I know how much . . . it still hurts.”

  “Yes. But I’m fine, Spice. Really I am.” Turning away from Spice, Carmen wiped her eyes. She opened the freezer door to grab some ice cubes and prayed for momentary freedom from her emotions. “What’ll you have to drink, spirits or coffee?”

  “Coffee will be fine.”

  Carmen served her friend, turned the television on to CNN, and went back into the kitchen to turn over the sausage. “Did I put too much sugar in?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “It’s just right,” Spice said after sipping the creamy liquid. “Guess who else stopped by last week—Otis.”

  “And . . . ?” Carmen coated two buns with Miracle Whip before layering the bread with sizzling sausage, onions, and peppers.

  “Carmen!” Spice shouted, rising and moving to the sink beside her. “Your hands are shaking.”

  “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Carmen turned on the faucet and, with a dollop of liquid soap, washed her hands under the hot water until she felt herself begin to relax.

  Forcing a smile, she dried her hands on the dish towel. With sturdy hands on Spice’s shoulders, she steered her friend back to the sofa. “So tell me what that good-looking brother-in-law of yours is up to.”

  “He wants to seduce me.” Spice eagerly accepted the platter of sliced tomatoes and the bulging Italian sandwich. “Thanks.” She caught Carmen’s eye. “I almost let him.”

  Both women laughed mischievously as Carmen set the tray on her lap and bit into the thick bread. “Are you surprised?”

  “No. Scared.”

  Carmen wiped the dressing from the corners of her mouth. “Why?”

  “Hell, he’s still my brother-in-law. It’s creepy.”

  “Screwing family members these days is passé. Marrying them is another matter.”

  “Marriage for me means love. I didn’t say that I cared for the man.”

  “Point taken.”

  Spice leaned forward and asked quietly. “How’s your health, Carmen? You’re so skinny I can almost see your bones.”

  “My doctor put me on a weight-gaining program,” Carmen lied. There was no doctor. Suddenly she felt nauseated and placed the sandwich on the table. “Tell me more about Otis.”

  Spice took a large bite out of her sandwich, chewed until the bulk was workable inside her mouth. “I feel guilty.”

  “About what?”

  “David. He keeps creeping into my thoughts. I don’t know if I ever mentioned this to you before, but the only thing that David asked of me was faithfulness. I promised him that I would always do that for him. And now, even though he’s gone, when I think about another man, I feel guilty. I know it sounds crazy, but my marriage is still so real for me. But now, my dreams are always about some other man—not David. It’s strange.” She sipped the remainder of her coffee, then continued, “As far as my brother-in-law goes, I’ve imagined Otis naked and screwing me so often in my dreams that I’m ashamed.”

  “Why? Who could blame you? Otis is a damned good-looking man.” Carmen emptied her plate down the disposal and then hugged Spice before she sat back down. “Stop chastising yourself.”

  “I feel like I can’t get rid of my past. It keeps pouncing on my psyche.”

  “You need to come to peace with yourself. You and I, Spice, we’re not like ordinary people,” Carmen said bluntly. “If we knew when we were young what we know now, we would never have subjected ourselves to such self-degradation.” She took two long gulps of Popov from her glass. Neither of the women wanted to delve any deeper into that subject.

  “However, we can’t change the past.” Carmen turned and stared out the window. Her face was a mask. “We can only regret,” she said in a hollow voice, then again, whispering, “We can only regret.”

  Suddenly lines of sweat broke out all over her body. She was burning up, couldn’t breathe, and quickly removed the blue smock that she’d worn home. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead and sank deeper into the sofa.

  The white ashes on her cigarette were ready to fall. Carmen leaned over and tapped them into a metal ashtray, watching in silence as the embers fell. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then stopped. Very softly she began again. “Do you know what I read in the paper the other day?” She didn’t wait for Spice to answer. She continued, her hands shaking again. “Th
ere was a story about a father putting his two-year-old daughter in a microwave oven to punish her for wetting the bed. The toddler was slightly bruised, but can you imagine that child’s fear? Her own father. My Lord.”

  Carmen’s voice deepened as she continued. “And then I read about this young woman whose thirteen-year-old son was shot in the back by a policeman. The young man was in the wrong. He was trying to steal a car. But in the interview, the mother felt that the officer could have shot him in the leg, in the arm, anywhere but in the back.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Spice said.

  “The worst part is, she didn’t even know that her only child, her thirteen-year-old son, had been shot. No one contacted her. Her son lived for four hours at Grace Hospital. And now the mother says that she’ll always wonder if she could have made it to the hospital in time before he died. She wanted to know . . .” Carmen stopped and brushed back the tears. “She wanted to know . . . Did he have any last words? Was he frightened? Did he hurt? Did he wake up alone and ask for his mama? They didn’t even give her a chance to say good-bye to her . . . baby.”

  Spice started to cry, tears falling freely from her eyes. She spread her hands across her chest, hugging herself. “Stop. Please, don’t say any more.”

  Carmen lit a cigarette, then walked over to the baby carriage and picked up one of the dolls. She cradled the doll in the arc of her right arm and exhaled a huge gust of smoke. She paced the length of the room three times before she spoke. “When you have a child, it’s deciding forever that you want to have a part of your heart walking around outside your body. You can’t control it—you can only watch, and you do your best to help them avoid the pitfalls of life.”

  Carmen thought, Who will feel their pain? Who will forgive their mistakes? Who will have the patience? Who will kiss away their tears?