A Private Affair

Quinn unlocked the passenger door.

By the time Quinn returned to his apartment on 135th Street, it was nearly 3:00 a.m. He hoped that Lacy was asleep, because if she wasn’t he was sure she’d stick her head out of her apartment door as soon as she heard his key turn in his lock. Lacy thought it was ridiculous that they should live in two different apartments, but as much as Quinn adored his sister, he needed his privacy. At least with this arrangement he had the best of both worlds: his privacy when he needed it, and the comfort and nurturing of his sister just a few steps away.

The door creaked on its hinges as he slowly pushed it open. The sound unconsciously caused his heart to beat a bit faster, and he had to stifle a chuckle. Like a kid sneaking in after curfew, he imagined that at any second the lights would come blazing on and irate parents would descend upon him: “Where you been, boy? Can’t you tell time? Get to your room and don’t come out.”

No lights came on. There were no parents waiting. There never had been. He flipped on the light switch and closed the door. Tonight, though, he would have welcomed having someone there. He would have even settled for one of Lacy’s lectures about the vagrancy of his life. He needed to feel cared about, especially tonight, and he couldn’t seem to shake the feelings of melancholia. Working the spots and talking with T.C., he’d seen himself as he was years ago, eager, hungry and willing to please, to be accepted, to be one of the boys. Sure, he’d paid his dues over the ensuing years. He’d earned a reputation, a degree of respect from his peers. He had a decent crib, fancy ride, designer clothes and enough women’s phone numbers to last him two lifetimes. And it all added up to zip. Outside Harlem, outside the security of the hood, he was nothing and nobody. This was his world. What else could he ever hope to be: the writer and musician that Lacy always talked about? Not in this world. Not in this reality.

Pulling off his jacket, he tossed it on the kitchen chair, then noticed the sheet of pink paper on the table with the familiar scrawl.

Hey, bro,

I know you didn’t eat anything worth the time it took to fix it. Dinner is in your oven. Don’t let me find it there in the morning. Max was here. She asked about you, though Lord only knows why. Get some rest.

Jesus loves ya and so do I.

Lacy

Quinn smiled and folded the piece of paper. The light was on.

It was about noon Saturday when Quinn bounded down the stairs of the apartment building and smacked into Maxine Sherman, who was coming through the door.

He felt her lush softness crush against the length of him, then bounce away with the force of their collision. His arm snaked out and grabbed her around the waist, halting her descent back down the stairs. “Sorry, babe. You all right?”

Maxine felt as if the wind had been sucked from her lungs, and it had nothing to do with their near calamity.

She smiled up at him. Her dark eyes sparkled. “I’m fine. I just need to watch where you’re going,” she teased. She begged her heart to be still. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” She could feel his warm breath graze her face.

Quinn took a short step back and released his hold. “Have some folks to meet. What about you? Lacy’s not here. She’s pulling the early shift at the hospital.”

She tapped her forehead with her palm. “Oh, I completely forgot.” She shifted her purse from her right hand to her left. She took a quick look at her feet, summoned her courage and looked up into Quinn’s penetrating gaze. “Mind if I walk with you?”

“Naw, not really. Actually, I was takin’ my ride.” He smiled, and her world seemed momentarily brighter. “Sure, come on. We ain’t hung out in a while.”

“So, how you been, Max?” Quinn asked, pulling the Beamer into the early morning traffic. The scent of rich leather mixing with the sounds of the rap group RBL Posse blaring from the speakers enveloped them. “Still at the bank?”

“I’ve been okay, I guess.”

“You guess?” He turned toward her and smiled.

Maxine ducked her head and grinned. “What I mean is, things are just so-so. Nothing spectacular. And yes, I’m still at the bank. But I don’t intend to stay there forever. I’m studying Travel and Tour at the community college. I’ll have my own travel business one day.”

“Hmmm. That’s all good. I know it’ll work out for you,” he said, though he couldn’t see how. But then again, things were different for women—better. Black women definitely stood a better chance of getting out and making a real life. As a black man he didn’t even stand a good chance of catching a New York City yellow cab in Harlem. He had yet to meet a black man who owned his own business through legal means.

“Where’s your man? I know there’s got to be somebody takin’ care of all that,” he teased, moving away from the topic that haunted him.

She hesitated, weighing her response. “There’s no one special.”

“Fine thing like you. Brothers must be crazy not to snatch you up.”

“Humph. That’s what I keep saying,” she rejoined.

“The right dude’ll come along and sweep you off your feet just like in those romance books that you and Lacy love to devour.” He chuckled at the thought.

Maxine poked him in the arm. “Very funny. Those books are good. There’s a lot more to them than folks like you give them credit for.”

“Yeah, right. You tellin’ me those blond-haired, blue-eyed devils could tell you ’bout lovin’ a man? What do they have in common with us? Arr-nold, pretty boy Tom Cruise, De Niro?”

“First of all, love is a universal thing, Q. Color has nothing to do with it. We all feel it and we all want to experience it with the right person. Besides, the new wave of romance novels that we read have black characters, showing black men who are about something, and the women. At least in those books it’s a place where we can read about black people in a positive light. Not like how we’re always played in the news and on TV. I know you think they’re corny, but they have a lot of reality in them. They’re about people just like you and me. About them struggling to get their relationships together while dealing with life. Just because they’re about love don’t mean that there’s nothing to them.”

Quinn turned his head and looked at her profile for a long, silent moment, maybe seeing Maxine for the first time. She was no longer a skinny little girl with braces and knock-knees. She was all grown up, smart, hardworking and a real beauty. And seemed as if she had a head on her shoulders. She was Lacy’s best friend, and like a second sister to him. When they were kids he’d chased her up and down 135th Street, trying to pull her long hair. He would hide in Lacy’s closet, then jump out and scare them witless when Maxine spent many a night. He’d seen her with her unpressed hair standing on top of her head when she woke up in the morning and teased her about the lumps of sleep in the corners of her eyes. That all seemed like another lifetime, when things were simple. Looking at her now, fine as she wanted to be, he wondered when she’d changed from the skinny little pain in the neck to the woman she’d become. Yeah, some man would be real lucky to have Maxine Sherman as his woman.

Chapter 2

I Don’t Wanna Cry

Quinn was sprawled out on his sofa, just about to take a quick nap before his evening run, his belly full from yet another one of Lacy’s lip-smacking meals, when the downstairs doorbell rang. Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned. He was in no mood for company. He’d turned his phone down and his beeper off earlier just to have a little peace. He’d been working on a short story that he wanted to share with Lacy when she got back from wherever she’d gone, and hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Maybe if he didn’t answer they’d just go away. Then he realized that his lights were on, that with his apartment facing the street anyone could just look up and see that he was home.

The bell pealed again. He practically threw himself off the couch. Maybe Lacy forgot her keys again—he hoped. He crossed the room in long, smooth strides, pulling his locks away from his face as he leaned toward the intercom.

“Yeah.”

“It’s me, man, T.C. Buzz me.”

Quinn pressed his head against the cool wall and expelled a silent string of damns. It was rare that he ever allowed any of his “associates” into his crib. This was his refuge, a place to cleanse himself of where he’d been. He didn’t want to dilute it by bringing the outside in. He could count on one hand the number of men and women who’d ever crossed his threshold. He guarded his privacy, and everyone who dealt with him knew it. Obviously nobody had schooled T.C.

He pushed the talk button, said, “Come on up,” then pushed the button marked DOOR. The telltale buzz hummed through the control panel.

Turning, he retraced his steps and snatched up his discarded sneakers from the floor and the red T-shirt he’d worn earlier from the back of the couch, then took them both into his bedroom and shut the door. Returning, he took a quick look around, picked up Walter Mosley’s Gone Fishin’ and Ecstasy, a black romance novel by Gwynne Forster—which he’d sneaked from his sister just to see what they were like (it was actually pretty good)—and returned them to the bookcase. One lesson he’d adopted from his sister was cleanliness. He kept his place so immaculate that women who’d paid him visits always thought he had a woman living with him. He took one last look around and spotted his notebook, which contained all of his rhymes and short stories. He grabbed it and slid it under the couch just as T.C. knocked on the door. No point in giving anybody the opportunity to be nosy. Besides, if word ever hit the street that he wrote poetry, there wouldn’t be a hole deep enough for him to hide in.

With great reluctance he opened the door. “Whatsup?” T.C. sauntered into the room, taking in the decor. Black leather furniture, situated on clean-enough-to-eat-off floors, dominated the living area, which was separated from the cool, cream-colored kitchen by hanging ferns and standing banana plants at either end of the archway. A six-foot bookcase was filled with hardcover and softcover books. The state-of-the-art stereo system, encased in smoked-glass and chrome, pumped out the soulful sounds of Marvin Gaye’s “Distant Lover.” The scent of jasmine came from a stick of incense.

T.C. turned toward Quinn. “Nice crib.”

Quinn gave him a short look and stepped down into the living room. “You sound surprised.” He changed the radio station from R& B to all rap. The intangible words and driving beat vibrated in the background.

“Naw. I ain’t mean it like that, man,” T.C. stammered. He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I just meant, you know…living ’round here, you just don’t figure—”

“To see people livin’ halfway decent. Ain’t that what you meant?”

He shrugged again.

“You sittin’ down, or what?” He indicated the six-foot couch with a toss of his head. “Want a brew?”

“Sounds good.”

Quinn’s mouth curved into a wry smile. He opened the fridge and pulled out one beer and a can of Pepsi, which he kept around to mix with rum. He handed the Pepsi to T.C., who started to open his mouth in protest until he looked up and caught Quinn’s stern expression and arched eyebrows. “I don’t give alcohol to minors,” he said simply. “Whatever you do in your spare time is your bizness.” He popped the top of the beer and took a long, ice-cold swallow. Beads of moisture hung on the can. “Even in this game you need to have some ethics.” He looked pointedly at T.C. “Don’t ever forget that, kid, ’cause when you do you stop being human.”

T.C. popped the top, gave Quinn a curious look, then nodded his head. He took a long swig of his Pepsi, tapping his foot to the beat.