Pamela Yaye - The Trouble with Luv'

He tossed a handful of shrimp into his mouth. “Suppa’ sure is good, miss. Lady.”

Realizing he was referring to her, she said, “Glad you’re enjoying it.” Sister Bertha had seen to it that all the guests washed their hands and faces with soap, but to remove the grime out from Old Man Griffin’s fingertips called for something a little stronger than regular soap. It looked like the man needed some extra-strength bleach.

“We gonna get dessert?”

“I think I saw some chocolate swirl cheesecake around the back.”

“Chocolate swirl cheesecake! My old lady used to make that…was good…real good. Haven’t had dat in a long while.”

“Where is she?”

He shoveled macaroni into his mouth. “Don’t know for sure.”

“What happened?” Ebony asked in a quiet voice. She was about to withdraw her question, when the older man dropped his fork, propped his elbows up on the table and started to talk.

Ebony, and the other people at the table, listened quietly as Old Man Griffin shared from his past. He recounted how his life had taken a turn for the worse with clear detail and emotion. It was the winter of 2001, three months after September 11th. People were still scared. The economy was crumbling. Jobs were hard to come by. But the construction industry was flourishing. He loathed the cold weather, but he needed a steady paycheck. It was his third day on the job, the coldest day of the year, and he was battling the flu. A gust of bitter wind had rocked his scaffold, and in the blink of an eye, he slid off and landed hard on his back. Neck and facial injuries and a broken back had ended his construction career. He scratched his head. “Da foreman said I wasn’t en…entittl…”

“Entitled,” Ebony corrected.

“Thank you, miss. Lady. Da foreman said I wasn’t entitled to any cump…cumpens—”

“Compensation?”

He smiled his thanks. “Yes, dat’s it. He said I wasn’t entitled to any compensation because temporary workers aren’t covered for disability insurance or health benefits.” He fell silent for a few seconds. “Those damn welfare checks weren’t enough to feed my pregnant wife and two small kids. It was hell. I couldn’t get another job until my back healed and I couldn’t send my old lady out to find work, either. When we couldn’t pay da rent da second month, our stupid landlord kicked us out.”

Old Man Griffin twiddled with the napkin holder. Unshed tears pooled his black-brown eyes. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, pushed the pain back to its rightful place and said, “We didn’t have anywhere to go. My wife’s cousin took pity on us and let us stay with her and her family for a month, and then we had to go.”

“And you don’t know where your family is now?” Ebony asked.

“My old lady took da children to her people down south…I think they’re in one of da Carolinas, I’m not sure. I haven’t seen or heard from dem in a year. Her family never thought I was good enough for her anyways.” He hung his head, but the anguish in his voice was unmistakable when he said, “I miss dem kids, especially the baby. She was just a few weeks old when my wife left. She’s three now and don’t even know her own daddy.”

“At least your ma didn’t toss you out on the street so her pimp could move in.”

Ebony swung her head to the right. Her gaze landed on the slight adolescent-looking girl with the chalk-white lips sitting next to Amelia. The girl reminded her of Halle Barry in New Jack City. The stringy blond hair. Cheap makeup. Too-short skirt and stretchy blouse. Ebony didn’t know what drug she was abusing, but it was obvious she was a slave to something.

“Back in the day, I was the most popular girl in school. All the brothers wanted to get with me. Jocks. Pretty boys. Geeks.” She snorted. “Today, those boys wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.”

Silence fell over the table. In the silence, Ebony searched for the right thing to say. “There are places you can go and get help. Agencies. Shelters. Community Centers. They’ll get you off the street, help you stay clean and give you a fresh start.”

“There’s no help for me. Ma used to say I’d never amount to anything. Told me I’d end up turning tricks like her. Said it was in my blood.” With a flick of her head, she said, “Guess she was right.”

Ebony extended a hand. “I’m Ebony. What’s your name?”

“Why do you care?” The woman’s eyes hardened, and her shoulders arched like she was gearing for a fight. She took in Ebony’s perfect hair, flawless complexion and polished nails. “You must feel pretty good about yourself, huh? Serving poor black folk. I bet you think you’re better than us. All dressed up in designer clothes and shit.”

It took a lot for Ebony to get embarrassed. But when a hush fell over the room and people at surrounding tables gawked at her, she felt her face flush. She didn’t dare look over at Xavier; she could feel the heat of his angry stare right where she was. Drinking from her glass didn’t loosen her airway. Keep your cool, she told herself. Don’t argue with her. If you ignore her, she’ll get bored and move on to something else.

No such luck.

“Is this your good deed for the year, Ms. Socialite? Feeding homeless bums? Giving advice? Pretending to care? Trying to make the world a better place, huh?”

For the first time in Ebony’s life, she was speechless. Running a shaky hand through her hair, she wished that she were back at home, in bed, figuring out the latest mystery on CSI.

“Don’t you hear me talking to you?”

Ebony’s eyes spread. Is she talking to me?

“Yeah, you heard me, Miss I-think-I’m-Better-Than-Everybody-Else. You’re too good to answer me now, huh? People like you make me sick. You walk up in here like you know what’s going on out there on the streets, but you have no idea. I’ve been taking care of myself for years—y-e-a-r-s—and I don’t need no damn agency making my life worse.” Her eyes tapered. “I don’t need your advice, either, ya hear? I can take care of my damn self!” She leaped out of her seat and the plastic chair sailed back on the floor and landed with a clunk. Leveling more insults at Ebony, she snatched up her frayed windbreaker and then stormed out of the hall.

“My dogs ache,” Sister Bertha announced, hobbling into the kitchen some three hours later. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but my shift is over. Come on, Willy, let’s go home. Mama needs to soak her feet.”

The other two couples followed suit, leaving Xavier and Ebony alone to finish up. The next forty-five minutes flew by quickly, as they worked to get the church basement back in shape.

Ebony couldn’t remember the last time she had worked this hard. She had swept and mopped the kitchen floor while Xavier stacked the tables, collected garbage and vacuumed. Once the dishwasher was loaded, and the cycle set, Ebony was going to bid Xavier good-night and head home. Anything that had been overlooked would be his responsibility. She was beat. So tired she could hardly keep her eyes open.

“Where’s the dishwasher?” she asked, checking underneath the sink and along the counter. “Is it in the storage room or something?”

Xavier tapped his chest. “You’re looking at it!” The look of disbelief on Ebony’s face brought a grin to his mouth. “The church doesn’t have the extra money to buy one,” he explained. “So for now—” he held up his hands “—these will have to do.”

Ebony faced the sink. It was overflowing with crusted plates and utensils and the counter was piled as well. What she really wanted to do was go home, but she didn’t feel right leaving Xavier alone when there was still work to be done. The clock on the microwave said it was five minutes to ten. The sooner they got started, the sooner she could go home. Ebony picked up one of the sponges on the counter and flung it his way. “You wash, and I’ll rinse.”