A Hire Love. Candice Dow

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СКАЧАТЬ 45FATIMA

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      PROLOGUE

      Mounds of makeup-soiled tissue sat on the pew separating my sister and me. My mother was on the other side with her Southern church hat cocked to the side. Spit bubbles lined my lips as I asked, “Why?”

      With her left arm wrapped around my shoulders to settle the jitters, my mother wiped my face with the ball of her right thumb. My sniffles stuttered as I fought to catch my breath.

      When we fell in love, I thought to myself, this is too good to be true. As the pastor did the eulogy, our life flashed through the lenses of my Chanel sunshades. He was the man of my dreams. Why couldn’t this be a dream?

      With my arm stretched to the picture that sat atop the casket, I rocked back and forth wishing that I could touch him just one last time. It was a blow-up of the Black Enterprise magazine cover when he was featured: Hip-hop pays off for young entrepreneur/writer. He began the first magazine geared toward financial independence for young artists in the game, profiling rappers who’d gone bankrupt, along with those who made their money work for them. His life was dedicated to changing the minds and pockets of those who were pimped by the industry.

      In the middle of the eulogy, his voice rippled through the church: “Fatty-Girl.” Chills ran through me. My head swung around. Again, he called for me: “Fatty-Girl.”

      In the doorway of the church, he stood. The glare around him forced me to squint. Still, I could decipher the vision before me. I smiled as he strolled toward me. Dressed in what he wore into the office the day he was rushed to the Emergency Room: Black Prada shoes; Seven Jeans; Armani button-down. I bolted from the pew and into his arms. His cologne filled my nose. I didn’t care how he got here or about the mix up as to his death; I just wanted to hold him and forget about ever losing him.

      People in the church gasped and some even snickered. I could give a damn about what they thought. All that mattered was that he was here with me. I kissed his cheek. It was cold and hard. I tried again. It was even colder. I rubbed his back and he evaporated in my embrace.

      Everyone in the church pointed and laughed at me as I stood alone in the aisle hugging myself. Why didn’t they help me? I just lost my husband and they found my desperation a big joke.

      When my alarm clock interrupted my recurring dream, I sighed slightly as the “Hot 97” morning show host giggled in my ear. Damn it. This is no Deliver Us from Eva. This is my life. I’m in my king-size bed without my king.

      My legs kicked wildly. As if this day was different than any other, I huffed because I didn’t want to get up. Why can’t I just lay here forever? Piles of manuscripts were scattered on the floor beside my bed. Derrick would always straighten up after I fell asleep. The disarray forced me to cover my face.

      I stretched and rubbed sleep from my eyes hoping for a miracle. When I looked around, the papers remained. I sucked my teeth. I need help. All editors need an assistant at work and at home.

      When I heard Whitney Houston’s voice come through my speakers, I rose up.

      “If tomorrow was judgment day…and I’m standing on the front line…and the Lord asked me what I did with my life; I’d say I spent it with you.”

      A smile spread across my face as I sang the lyrics to Derrick’s favorite song. My head bobbed side to side. I felt his presence. The dream. The song.

      He was my inspiration to peel out of bed. I two-stepped into the bathroom and mimicked his silly robot dance. My love is your love and your love is my love. When the song ended, my grouchy mood was gone. Derrick stopped by to cheer me up. He always did have perfect timing, if you don’t count that he croaked too soon.

      Scene 1

      FATIMA

      I scrounged around the house stuffing papers in my bag. When I reached the front door, I realized that I hadn’t had my caffeine. I rushed back into the kitchen and opened almost every cabinet. Where is it? I just bought some yesterday. After a five-minute search, I noticed the huge Pathmark bag on the kitchen table stuffed with bags of coffee. It was too late to even consider, so I rushed out and I peeked in the mirror over the dining room table. My wedding portrait on the opposite wall was reflected in it. Derrick smiled at me. Just as I do every morning, I took a deep breath and smiled back. His voice vibrated through the room: “Chill out, Fatty.”

      I frowned at him through the mirror. He continued, “You can’t take on this world by yourself. You need help. It’s that time.”

      With my hands propped on my hips, I rolled my neck. “Time for what?”

      The silence left me wondering if I were hallucinating. Here I am speaking to myself and hearing him. Maybe it was time. It was time for me to get my butt to work.

      After sprinting up 138^th Street to Adam Clayton Powell, I stuck my arm out and hopped into a gypsy cab. I exhaled, “Fifth Avenue. Between Forty-eighth and Forty-ninth.”

      This, of course, would be the day that someone would want to play me. I wiped the moistness forming on my nose. Then, I asked him to repeat the amount I thought he stated. “How much?”

      With a strong West African accent, he said, “Twenty dollar.”

      “No, fifteen.”

      He demanded, “Twenty dollar.”

      “I catch a taxi every day from here. It’s fifteen.”

      He continued to drive. “Twenty.”

      “Whatever. Fifteen—or I’ll get out first.”

      This bastard called my bluff, as he had the audacity to pull over on 125^th Street and pop the trunk. What could I say? No, you’re going to take me to work for the right price?

      Instead, I flung the door open and contemplated cursing him out, but I chilled. My mobile office was in his trunk. Five dollars wasn’t worth losing the possible bestseller that I was reading.

      He said, “Six dollars.”

      “P-lease!”

      As I rushed to the back of the car, I spit obscenities. Why this morning of all mornings? When I looked up and saw Starbucks, I was thankful. It’s hard to cope without coffee. Derrick learned early in our relationship that I was addicted. He would have it ready for me by the time I got out of the shower. He’d always brag that that was the key to our happiness.

      Derrick spoke to me again, “Fatty, you need a hug.”

      I do not need a hug. I just need some coffee and I’m twenty steps away.

      “You need someone to take care of you.”

      I СКАЧАТЬ