EMJAY
“Damn, she ain’t here yet,” I said, pulling up behind Mama’s jet-black BMW. There was a red M5 Spyder parked alongside the curb. The outside of the house looked good with the new white paint job and the red shutters. The grass was thick and emerald-green while the red tops that lined the perimeter of the house were newly trimmed. My heart was beating crazy matched by my sweaty palms that I dried against my jeans. I was about to ring the doorbell until I realized that I didn’t have to; I grew up in this house.
“Ma, I’m home,” I joked, letting myself in. Whatever she was cooking smelled good. “Is that my baby boy?” I heard Ma coming from the direction of the kitchen. Ma appeared in a red dress with black high-heel shoes. This brother who looked to be about twenty-one, six-three with pecan-brown skin walked toward us from the living room with a glass of wine and a dumb-looking smile.
“Taj, I would like you to meet my handsome and smart son, Emjay. Emjay, this is Taj Bowman.”
What the fuck? This is him? This is the brother she’s been laughing on the phone with? I sized him up. “Hey, what’s up?” I said, giving this man who could have been my younger brother some dap.
“What’s up, Taj, good to meet you.”
He wore dark-blue jeans, black Kenneth Coles and a white dress shirt. Taj’s hair was cut short like mine with rows of waves brushed in. I couldn’t believe that this was the dude Ma was seeing. I was in for a long night.
“Leandra has told me a lot about you.”
He sounded fake as hell. “Well, I just heard about you yesterday, and I don’t know much.”
“Emjay,” Ma said with a tone of protest.
Ma eyed at me like she wanted to choke me. What the hell was she doing robbing the cradle at her age?
“Why don’t you two have a seat in the living room and get acquainted while I go check on dinner.” I stuck my hands down into the pockets of my jeans as I followed Taj into the living room.
“You want something to drink, Emjay?”
Okay, why the fuck was he acting like he was the man of the house already? Last I checked, Ma was paying the bills.
“A beer is cool.”
Taj sauntered back behind the bar, pulled out a cold bud like he had pulled a rabbit out of his ass, popped off the top and handed it to me.
“So your mother tells me you’re in school.” All of his talking-proper bullshit was starting to wear thin. “What are you studying?”
I wanted to tell him that it was none of his business, and to get out of my house but instead . . . “I haven’t really decided yet. I’m trying to get my gen-reqs out of the way.”
“Gen-reqs?”
“General requirements. Math, history, English, science.”
“Okay, gotcha,” he said, sipping wine from his glass. The more I gawked at the guy that was fucking my mama, the madder I became. You really know how to pick ’em, don’t you, Mama?
“Ma tells me you’re a photographer.”
“Yeah, catalog stuff mostly. I’ve done a few runway gigs in New York.”
“Do you know Tyra Banks?”
“I’ve met her a couple times, but we’ve never worked together.”
As we continued on with our conversation, the bell rang. I knew it was Shariece. Ma answered the door.
She walked in with a bouquet of flowers looking fine as hell in tight black jeans.
“I know you said that I didn’t have to bring anything, but I saw these on the way here and thought they would make a beautiful centerpiece.”
The flowers were better than that bowl of fake, dusty fruit I thought Ma would have sense enough to take off the table by now.
“Girl, you are too much; come on in.”
Taj stood off waiting to be introduced. “You must be Shariece.”
An expression of shock ran across her face. Surprised at how old Taj looked—no doubt. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you finally.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Taj asked.
This phony brother seemed like Ma’s hired hand than someone she was fucking.
“A glass of Merlot would be great.”
Taj disappeared behind the bar and poured Shariece a glass of wine.
“Leandra, the house looks terrific.”
“That’s right; it’s been a while since you were last here. You haven’t seen all of the remodeling.” The living room consisted of an Afrocentric theme where masks and pictures of African kings and queens lined the gold-painted walls but looked more like a beige tone. A long, white leather sofa sat against the wall facing the entertainment center chock-full of figurines, pictures of me when I was little and rows of DVDs. The fifty-inch LG TV took up much of the space. There were two white leather love seats and a rocking chair that didn’t match with anything Ma had. They belonged to some lady named Mrs. Boyd, who had left her the house when she’d died, so Ma wanted to hold on to them. A long dining room glass table sat in the center with gold placemats.
“I like the beige in here. It’s cute.”
“See there, Ma, I told you it looks more beige than gold.”
“It’s not beige?” Shariece asked.
“No, it’s gold,” Ma said.
“It doesn’t look like gold,” I said.
“It doesn’t have to look like gold when it is gold, Emjay.”
“Why don’t you have gold furniture in here then?”
“Boy, where would I find gold furniture?”
“I don’t know, maybe in a James Bond movie.” I knew I was being a smart ass, but I didn’t care. I was over this dinner bullshit.