Friends and Lovers by Eric Jerome Dickey

Author:Eric Jerome Dickey [Dickey, Eric Jerome]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101659663
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 1998-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

22 / TYREL

“May I speak to Vardaman Williams?”

“He ain’t here. Who this?”

Outside my twenty-sixth-story window was an overcast Oakland. I was in my high-rise at 1200 Lakeshore, living a life so elevated that everybody below me looked like ants wandering to and fro. Not many brothers and sisters were jogging around Lake Merritt’s three-mile course. Bodies of water gave me peace. Composure. I should’ve been across the lake at Gold’s Gym, working off stress, but I didn’t have to open my ivory linen curtains to see it was a drowsy morning made for being inside watching game after game.

I said, “Tyrel Anthony Williams.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m his son.”

“Uh-huh.”

I played the game and asked, “Who am I speaking with?”

“Yeah, this is Mrs. Williams.”

I readjusted my mental barometer, set it to calm, clear, and smooth, before I asked Mrs. Williams, “How are you doing?”

“What you want?”

“Well, is my father coming back home soon?”

“I don’t know what time Vardaman gonna be in.”

“Is he at one of the stores?”

She made an irritated I-don’t-know grumble. This fight was an upstream battle. Sounded like she put her hand over the phone and said a word or two to somebody. I glanced around my place. Wondered how long I’d have to be here before it felt like home.

Purple satin panties and a dark padded C-cup bra were on the back of my maroon wingback chair. Fresh cut sun-flowers were in a purple vase on top of the whitewashed dresser. My entire place had bright colors—reds, yellows, greens. Almost everything was new; most of the furniture I’d owned in L.A. was sold.

Down the hall, my toilet flushed.

Then Mrs. Williams finally took her hand off the receiver.

She said, “Uh-huh. What was you saying?”

I said, “I left my new number on your answering machine, do you know if he got it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Could you write it down and give it to him?”

“I ain’t got nothing to scribble on.”

I walked in the living room, stood near all the pictures of my family. “When will he be in?”

“I ain’t sure.”

“Well, if you turned the answering machine on, I could call right back and leave the information when it picked up.”

A ticktock later she said, “The machine’s broke.”

“Okay.”

“Uh-huh. Is that all?”

“Tell him I said, ‘The cat’s in the cradle.’”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a song.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind. Tell him I called. I’ll call back.”

Mrs. Williams hung up.

Twin fumed, “See, that’s why I don’t call that bastard.”

I’d had Twin on a three-way when I called Daddy.

She was in an uproar. “I’m not a psychic, not a prophet, but didn’t I tell you that bitch was going to do that?”

“Don’t curse in front of the kids.”

“They’re downstairs in the den.”

Twin was at her home in Atlanta; I was in my leased condo in Oakland, cordless phone in hand, walking around like I woke up, butt-naked.

I said, “Twin, no matter how far he goes, he’s our dad.”

“Momma could’ve found a better sperm donor.”

“Sounds like you want to kill the messenger.”

Her anger kicked into overdrive. I sat on my queen-size

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