Chapter Twenty-Nine

Bridgette sat on the sand at Zuma Beach, still in a wet suit. A boogie board lay at her feet. It was a warm April morning in California. “I’m looking forward to Asia. I’ve always wanted to vacation there.”

D lay in bed in Manhattan, his shades drawn, the blanket pulled up to his neck. It was after one in the afternoon. D was in no rush to get up.

“Doesn’t sound like much of vacation, Bridgette. Tokyo, Osaka, and then South Korea and Thailand.”

“I’ll find time for dancing and sun, D. Believe me. So how’s your side?”

“Got the bullet in a little bottle on my desk. I can’t play ball for another couple of months, though there’s been some discussion of me taking up yoga.”

“Cool. I love yoga. We can do a class when I come back.”

“Yeah,” he said unenthusiastically. Then with real concern he asked, “So how’s your family holding up?”

“My parents are doing as well as you could expect. We got another shrink coming to see Jen. Our attorney thinks the DA may go along with a mental-illness defense—I think that’s what they call it. We’ll see, you know. It’s been tough. Family shit. I know you know.”

“Yeah,” he replied softly. “Bridgette, I don’t think we should do yoga together.”

She giggled. “The big black man is scared of being embarrassed.”

“In a way. I’m still getting calls from reporters, Bridgette, and they’re not asking about you anymore. They’re asking about me. Who am I and other silly shit like that. I can’t have that. You’re just too famous for me.”

There was a long silence on the line from California. “Are you dumping me?” she asked finally.

“I’m just being realistic about who you are and who I am.”

“I can’t believe you would say something so silly. That’s kiddie talk, D. I know you’re a man. Just be the man you are and it’ll all be okay.”

“No. No, it won’t. I know who I am, Bridgette. You need to be realistic and recognize who you are. What I’m saying is for the best.”

“The best?”

Bridgette clicked off her cell and tossed it onto the Malibu sand.

D placed his phone on the bed and looked across the room at the photo of his family.

* * *

Four hours later D stood next to his mother in a church off Eastern Parkway in the ghetto end of Brooklyn, not that far from the street where he was born, scarred, and shaped. His mother, Zena, held his arm. The wedding march began, with the melody being carried by the saxophonist from Night’s touring band.

“There’s quite a few nice black girls who attend this church, Dervin,” his mother said. “They cook. They have regular jobs.”

“Ma, don’t you think you should be focusing on your marriage?”

“I got mine, Dervin Hunter. What do you have? You have a business. That’s good, but that is not a life. Besides, I want some grandchildren and you have to give them to me. You know you’re my only son.”

“I know, Ma.”

D tugged at her arm as the organ played the wedding march, and they moved forward down the aisle.