Rick Edelstein - Women Go On

​Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones.

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​                  Women Go On by Rick Edelstein
 
 
            Entering her modest apartment Imara was dressed more formally than usual as a result of going to church where her younger brother’s body lay in a casket too expensive. She sat down heavily into the irregular cushion of the worn arm chair, world-weary and bone-tired, staring into space trying to understand the loss. Imara was a deeply intelligent woman with righteous values but nothing seemed to fit. DC’s death, a  failed marriage to the wrong man, a decent job as manager-of-the-month at I-Hop but hardly a meaningful vocation. She stirred, feeling something under the aging cushion, retrieving a remote for the stereo and inadvertently pushed the play button ensuing  the sound of Iggy Azalea rapping, “Fancy”.  Surprised, Imara shook her head, a half  smile at how ludicrous is her now-dead brother’s favorite, booming the infectious bass line, she rose and walked--in rhythm--to the kitchen area, poured water, drank, picked up the sponge and wiped off the already-clean counter. Again. And again. The doorbell rang. “It’s open, Thembi.”
            Thembi, a woman of kindness and strength entered carrying car keys and a full shopping bag, “Finding a parking spot  for your car on other-side-of-the-street parking-day is...” Hearing music, “What is that?”
            “DC’s favorite, Iggy Azalea.”
            “Iggyzalea, sounds like an allergy which gives you a rash.”
            “I can hardly understand what she’s saying but I like her sound.”
            “I’ll bet she’s just another white girl trying to be black, right?”
            “She’s from Australia and used to clean houses with her momma. She earned her rap cred according to DC.”
             “Give the ignorant azaleas a rest, please.”
            Imara turned off the music.
            Holding up the keys Thembi asked, “Where should I put these?”
            “Under the sink behind the cleanser.”
            “What?”
            “Habit. Hide the keys so DC wouldn’t rip off the car. Put ‘em anyplace.”
Thembi dropped the keys on the nearby table, went to the kitchen area with her bag, taking out a bottle of bourbon, six pack of root-beer, a small bottle of Vanilla extract, opening the fridge, taking  out ice cubes, proceeded to mix two drinks. “Time for the wake.”
            “Wake? Just the two of us?” 
            “Tradition. I’m fixing a little pick-me-up for us.”
            Imara sitting, staring into space again.
            “Hello! You’re doing that. Don’t disappear on me, Imara.”
            “Why do they do that?”
            “Because, would answer most why’s but to what is your particular why referring? Notice I didn’t end the sentence with a preposition, said the English teacher at a deteriorating inner city High School. No applause? Okay, why do they do what, Sissy?”
            “Open casket. DC’s face looked like an abandoned car.”
            “I thought he looked at peace.”
            “You’d find something positive in hell.”
            “If it’s the destination of DC’s dealer, positive as hell can be. Oops, she’s disappearing again. Talk what you’re thinking so I don’t feel alone.”
            “When I visited him in jail bringing cigarettes and macaroons...”
            “Macaroons?”
            “His favorite. Sonny was clean in prison.”
            “Which is the purpose of jailing an addict, thank you.”
            “He swore he’d never go back when he got out.”
            “Don’t tell me you believed him.”
            “His exact words,” she said imitating Sonny, ‘I swear, Sissy, ghosts been chasing me all my life but that’s over.’”
            “Uhmm hmmm.”
            “Hour and twelve minutes after he was home, all of seventy-two minutes, dealer connected.”
            “I tried to drown my sorrows but the bastards learned how to swim.”
            “You just made that up, Thembi?”
            “Frida Kahlo.”
            Imara pointed to framed photo of Frida Kahlo and one of her paintings, “My hero. Frozen in bed and still painted her butt off. Strong sister.”
            Thembi brought over drinks for each and toasts, “Here’s to Dion Charles Johnston.”
            “To DC.” She sipped, scowled, “What is this, Thembi?”
            “Bourbon, root-beer with a soupcon of vanilla extract, courtesy of mix-master supreme, yours truly.”
            “This is terrible.”
            “DC loved it.”
            “A junky’s taste buds are hardly a recommendation.”
            “Don’t call him that.”
            “Why not. That’s what Sonny is...was.”
            “DC’s dead. The least we can do is respect.”
            “Respect. Don’t speak ill of the dead. Please, give this sister a break! What was was and what is is. Being dead doesn’t alter the truth.”
            “He was your kid brother, Imara!”
            “And he was your cousin. How much did he rip you off for, Cuz?”
            “Who said he ripped me off at all?”
            “Thembi...”
            “All right, all right. Last time was one hundred and eight dollars.”  
“One hundred and specifically eight. Probably what he owed his dealer.”
“He swore he’d pay me back the first advance he got.”
            “Advance?” She pointed to the open nearby box with DC’s writing, “I wanted to submit his writing to online sites, even create a blog but no, he kept saying,” imitating Sonny again, ‘I’m not ready yet, Sissy.’ Oh God, Thembi, DC wrote  for who? Me, you, jail buddies?  Advance? Sonny was into retreat. “
            “But I still liked his writing.”
“Me, too.”
“Uhmm hmmm...and how much did he rip you off for, Sissy?”
            “Raided my bag when I forgot to hide it and my TV, almost a brand new Samsung.”
            “Wasn’t all that new, I was with you when you bought it, remember?”
            “And my old car. I was tempted to call the cops.”
            “That clunker was ready to die. You got more insurance money than what it was worth. Besides, a sister can’t call the man on family.”
            “Can’t call the man on family. Yes, sure, we ignored the reality and supported the illusion, hope against hope that someday he would kick and publish and...”
            “Come on, Imara, if all we had in this life was everyday doings without striving, without hope, we’d suffocate under the white man’s cushion of reality.”
            “So we played the game with Sonny.”
            “That’s part of loving somebody.”
            “The gun wasn’t even loaded.”
            “The cop didn’t know that.”
            “I’ll bet Sonny didn’t either.” Pointing to the box of writing, “I don’t know what to do with these.”
            “That’s all of his writing?”
            “Smack fantasies.”
            “More than that. DC’s writing was good, not just rantings of an addict. He once sent me something from jail. It was called, ‘Spread Your Hustle.’ The boy could write.”
            Imara sighed a sound of resignation, “Yes, he could. Did he ever show you his dirty stuff?”
            “DC wrote porn?”
            Imara went to box and dug in. “Hid it in the bottom.”
            “Any good?”

​Finding a few tattered pages, “Some funny, some rank, some I got to admit made me moist. Here it is. Dig this, Thembi.” Reading DC’s words, “The roses died but the scent lingers. I touched her soft spot which blessed my fingers.”
            “Go on, DC! Whew, the boy is dangerous.”
            “Was.”
            “Was.”
            A knock on the door to which Imara whispered to Thembi, “I am not up for company.”
            Knock again.  Thembi rose, “I’ll get it.”
            “Whatever they’re selling, Thembi, I am not buying.”
            Opening the door to a substantial man, Ambrose Franklin, Thembi’s less-than-appreciative response, “Oh, you.”
Ambrose nodded, “Hello, Thembi. How are you?
“I’m handling things. Come in, I guess.”
Ambrose entered facing intense antagonism from Imara. “What are you
doing here?”
            “I heard about DC.”
            “Body’s on display at the church of Saintly Hollows. Arlington and...”
            “I know the location, remember?”
            “Oh, right.”
            “Can I sit a spell?”
            “Why?”
            “Long walk from the here to the church.”
            “Still don’t have a car?”
            “It’s in the shop.”
            Imara grimaced and “Uhmm hmmmed,” rather than say a derisive, “And you want me to believe that you have a car!”
            Thembi feeling claustrophobic witnessing this corrosive scene tried to lighten things up, “Ambrose, can I fix you a drink?”
            To which Imara was less than pleased, “Thembi!”
            Thembi insisted, “History does not mean we can’t be civil. Particularly today.”
            “Nothing civil about DC’s demise or present company.”
            “Ambrose, want a drink or not?”
            Ambrose turned to Imara. “Your call.”
            To which Imara scythed, “Oh really?”
            “Your home, Imara. I got to respect that.”
            “Listen to the man, Thembi. Respecting me.”
            To which Thembi quietly imitated Aretha, “R – E –S –P –E – C- T..”
            “What the hell, let’s play it out.” Imara said. “Fix the man a drink, let’s indulge in small talk and Mister Franklin can tell us where he learned respect all of a sudden.”
            Ambrose refused to bite into the vitriol. “Not all of a sudden, Imara. Eight and a half years now, at least.”
            “How time flies when you’re having fun,” Imara cut him.
            “Can we talk...I mean real talk?”
            “Sure. What’s the subject, Ambrose? Let’s see, real talk? Okay the real weather is changing even though too many climate-change denying stupid white men...”
“Redundancy,” Thembi cracked while mixing his drink.
Ambrose, “Things change. I’ve changed.”
            Imara, “The only change I believe in are two fives for a ten.”
            Thembi finished mixing the drink, handing it to Ambrose, “Maybe you two should be alone so I’ll just...”
            To which Imara slammed, “Don’t you dare leave, Thembi.” Turning to Ambrose, “You’ve got nothing to say to me that I want to hear.”
            “I need to say it anyhow,” Ambrose insisted. “All these years since...well I realized I was messed up...and some other dudes were just the same...found a...I don’t know what to call it...a group of, yeah, messed up men meet once a week with a therapist sort of guiding things.”
“I am not your friend, Ambrose, so sharing your tales of woe and redemption are not in my interest.”
He rolled over Imara’s protestations, “When my mother kicked me out of the house, two months shy of fifteen I think...”
            “We all come from someplace so don’t give me your history as an excuse for your ...you really want to get into this, Ambrose, because if you do, this woman will show no mercy.”
            “Okay, okay, you’re right but...please, Imara, just hear me out...I found out some things that I just didn’t know...realize...that I never  fit...didn’t fit in the family I was born to...didn’t fit in schools...didn’t fit in jobs...and didn’t fit in being married.”
            “Can I get a second on that,” Imara hurled.
            “I know I hurt you and I’m extremely sorry so...”
            “Hear that, Thembi. The man is sorry.” Imara threw the words at her target, “You know where you can put your sorries, Ambrose?”
            “I was ignorant and took it out on you but between me and you I meant no...”
            To which Imara furiously cracked, “There is no more between, Ambrose Franklin. To this woman you are a chasm, a hole that has no bottom so the best thing for you to do is remove your sorry self from these premises poste haste.”
            “What I did was...”
            Imara turns to Thembi, “Was I not clear enough?” Then spun back to Ambrose, “Read my lips, Ambrose, I...”
            “I will speak my piece, Imara. The things I said to you were...were reprehensible and I know that now but...”
            “I did not know that you even knew that word, reprehensible. Whoring around, insulting me when I objected, dissing my entire dark-skinned family...reprehensible? How about deplorable, vile, despicable? I am running out of appropriate adjectives so I think it is time for you to drink your drink, pay respects to DC and do not, Ambrose, do not, N-O-T, knock on this door ever again meaning never.”
            Ambrose put down his drink, stood and said “I remember a different Imara who was more kind, softer, not so...”
            Imara froze him out with, “Kind ‘n soft went out the window well past a certain midnight smelling like some cheap whore’s perfume when you hit me.”
            “I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
            “My right ear which still rings on rainy days knows what you were doing.”
            “I don’t drink no more. I got a steady job. I’m going to night school for...”
            “Why are you still here!”
            “Maybe hoping you’d forgive and forget that...”
            “Only a fool forgets that a man beat on her and this girl’s momma didn’t raise no fool!”
            Ambrose nodded, downed his drink, walked to the door, stopped. “Where and when is the funeral?”
            “No funeral. Donating his body to the hospital for intern learning.”
            Thembi was surprised. “You never told me that.”
            To which Imara retorted, “Wasn’t a committee decision. He’s my brother. Blood decides.”
            “But the thought of interns cutting him up, Imara, I just...”
            “There is no him Thembi. What was DC is long gone. Maybe his body being of  use will get him good points wherever he’s going.” Imara looked at Ambrose. “The same church we were married in now has my dead brother. Goodbye, Ambrose.”
            “If you’ll just give...”
            “What is it about goodbye that you don’t understand?”
            Ambrose let out air like a tire suddenly gone flat, mumbled something and left.
            Thembi said, “You never told me he hit you.”
            “And ruin your positive outlook on life?”
            “That’s unfair.”
            “Yes, it is. Okay, he hit me and when he was drunk his two favorite words were bitch and cunt.”

​Thembi grimaced, “Men. No wonder I’m gay. I would implode if some man called me that.”
            “You implode, I explode. When he hit me I called the cops...and don’t tell me you can’t call the man on family but Ambrose stumbled out before they came and I had a miscarriage and can I have another one of your terrible drinks?”
            “Coming up.”
            “When did you know?” Imara asked Thembi.
            Mixing drinks, “Know? Know what?”
            “That you were gay.”
            “I was born liking women and uncomfortable around men. Even my daddy, he was sort of, no, not sort of, he was so detached he felt uncomfortable when I hugged him. It never bothered you did it, Sissy?”
            “Bother me? Shiiiit...I might have been better off if I was gay.”
            Thembi playing, “It’s never too late, baby.”
            ‘What, and ruin a good friendship.”
            “Actually, but don’t tell anyone, we’re not all that different from straights. Gay women fight and argue and even some butch women go rogue and hit their partner.”
            “Ever happen to you?”
            “I detest confrontations. When human frailties got out of control I went for rapid closure, thank you, taking refuge in my books, in Harriet Tubman High School dealing with the kids who think they’re so different but all dress the same, and when things get too heavy inside I indulge in TV mind-candy and hang with my best friend, Imara Johnston.”
            Imara probed, “And that’s enough for you? You don’t miss...you know?”
            “Missing’s part of the game, Sissy. We have to make peace with that, don’t we?”
            “How do you do that?” Imara asked.
            “What?”
            “Find a positive in a negative.”
            “God’s mystery.”
            Imara wasn’t buying. “God’s mystery. Another cliché to hide out in.”
            Thembi asked, “You no longer believe in God?”
            To which Imara responded wryly, “Not really...but I still talk to Him.”
            Responding to the doorbell ring Imara jumped up and moved quickly to the door, “I told Ambrose never to...” but when she swung open the door ready to battle, no Ambrose.
            Standing there were two men she had never seen before. Bubu, short, stocky, a face trying to smile but looking more in pain than happiness. With his buddy, Stretch, a tall man so thin he must avoid heavy winds, wearing glasses with a tape over the bridge. Bubu was carrying a six-pack of beer and Stretch, with a box of donuts, facing Imara who automatically said a chilled, “Hello,” assuming they got the wrong door.
            Bubu knowing he was in the right place, “All right!”
            Imara asked, “Can I help you?”
            Stretch chimed in, “We been listenin’ to the grapevine...”
As usual they completed each other’s sentences, Bubu said, “Learnt about that cop burning Dion Charles Dubosees.”
            Stretch corrected, “Duboise.”
            Bubu undeterred, “Johnston and...”
            Stretch filled in, “We understand that it’s hair in the butter time for y’all but just the same we need to pay our respects.”
            Thembi hearing them walked over, “How do you know DC?”
            Bubu clarified, “In the joint. He was stand-up.”
            And Stretch added, “Told us to look him up in the daylight. Gave us this address. Said it was his big sister’s which I be assuming such is you.”
            Imara looked at Thembi who shrugged, turned back to them “Yes, well all right, come on in. I’m Imara.”
            Stretch entered, “Cool tag.”
            Bubu polite, “Please to meet you Iminamara.”
            “Just Imara. Swahili for strength.” Imara completed introductions, “And this is Thembi.”
            Bubu nodded, “You peoples got some names.”
            Thembi helped out, “Thembi means hope in Zimbabwe.”
            “Zimbab who?” Bubu asked.
            Stretch, “We.”
            “Us?” Bubu was confused.
            Thembi clarified, “Zimbabwe . A country in Africa.”
            Bubu commented, “Africa’s some kinda’ big country ain’t it to have another country in it.”
            Thembi said, “Africa is a continent. There are 57 countries in Africa.”
            Bubu almost smiled, “Smart women turn me on no insult intended particularly you being Dion’s main squeeze.”
            Thembi straightened him out, “No. I’m his second cousin.”
            “Makes me no never mind if you two had chemicals between you,” Bubu said and then gave her the six-pack. “Tastes better if you put in the freezer for a breather.”
            Thembi took it, “All right. Would you like one now?”
            “I wouldn’t be minding at all, thank you very much,” Bubu said.
            Thembi detached one and give it to Bubu and took remaining five to the freezer, nudging Imara as they shared  silent awareness of the bizarre company.
            Imara played the hostess despite her discomfort, “Well, please, sit down and...what are your names, again?”
            “Bubu. And this here is my main man, Stretch.”
            Stretch nodded, “Respects,” gave her a box of donuts and sat down.
            “Can I offer you something as...Bubu isn’t it...he has a beer.” Imara asked.
            Bubu toasted and slurped the beer, “Which will do for a megabyte.”
            Imara asked, “And what would you like...Stretch, right?”
            Stretch nodded, “If you have Scotch neat I would mos def have little or no objections. And one of them donuts, particularly the sprinkled job.”
            Imara took the box of donuts to the kitchen area, once again connecting with Thembi as both tried to conceal their almost-hilarious response to the visitors. “I’m afraid no Scotch. How about bourbon?”
            “Kicking won’t get you nowhere lest you being a mule,” Stretch said.
            “Is that a yes? Imara asked.
            Bubu “Uhmm hmmmed.”
            “Well then bourbon coming up,” Imara poured, then taking out donuts and putting them on a plate, assisted by Thembi, giving Stretch the drink and the plate of donuts nearby, which of course, Stretch reached out for the sprinkled job.
            Thembi broke  the uncomfortable silence, “Did you know Dion long?”
            “When you’re doing time a minute’s as long as a year,” Stretch said.
Bubu added, “He was no punk. No rabbit blood in Dion, no sir. I’ll tell you straight up he stood tall although one might think somebody busted for chasing the dragon would take it to the vent but not Dion. He stayed hard as an oak tree.”
            Imara, “Chasing the dragon?”
            Stretch, “Dope-fiend, no insult or harm intended.”  
            “None taken,” Imara said.
            “No harm no foul.” Bubu added.
            Thembi was still ignorant of...”Taking it to the vent?”
            “Suicide. But not him. No, that boy was a writer, a stone-cold writer Dion was. Busier than a one legged man in a butt kickin’ contest,” Stretch clarified.
            Bubu slurping his beer, “Yes indeed, it was kickin’.”
Stretch, “Some cons said his writing was as useless as tits n a boar hog but we chugged their mouth full learning them to not be throwing manure up hill lest it roll back into they face if you get my drift.”
            Imara and Thembi looked at each other, neither one understating Stretch’s rap. Imara asked, “Not exactly. No, we don’t actually get your...your drift.”

​Bubu, “Dion’s writing was so good you could hardly stand hearing it but then you could not do without it so in good times Stretch would out-loud the words.”                   
            Stretch, “I’d read ‘til the wheels fell off.”
            Bubu, “Some of the dudes in our yard would drop a hump just so Dion could write something to their war department.”
            Stretch, “Homeys in our crew would pay Marlboro man dibs so Dion could make up a letter to their boneyard.”
            Bubu, “He wrote one for me to my woman. I learnt it before she’d come visit or she would know that the words weren’t mine. It was not an easy task I will tell you true  blue  as my memory bank is on low deposit if you know what I’m saying. I did not sleep that night. I was mos def tweaked.
            Stretch, “The Lord poured Bubu’s brains with a thimble and somebody shook his hand.”
            Bubu, “I learnt it down did I not?”
            Stretch, “Some people’s memories like trying to throw  wide loop with a short rope, know what I’m saying, ladies?”
            Bubu. “There you go since I learnt it so hard it took root so back off  brother in fack as of since I still got it down I ask present company if anybody in this vicinity want to hear it cause this brother can definitely roll  with Dion’s rap.”
            Imara looking at Thembi, neither understanding, shrugge and nodded with feigned interest, “Yes, we would like to hear anything Dion wrote.”
            Bubu, “He wrote but I laid the groundwork to Dion as the words must apply to what was my woman from her man which is the very utmost that you understand what I am saying.”
            Imara faking comprehension, “Got it.”
            Bubu, “In true times facing the reality of what is and what ain’t, she did not necessarily deserve the last bit of news which rapidly got old because she split with a border brother.”
            Stretch, “A Mexican dude.”
            Bubu, “She didn’t know much or even any better as she was just a duck who’d fall off a dump truck if it was greasy enough.”
            Thembi, “A duck who’d fall...”
            Stretch, “the girl was below the not-all-that-swift pedometer marking.
            Imara, “Dump truck?”
            Stretch, “A weak-faced dude who does not hold up his end.”
Bubu, “She was a woman with too much lackin' in the...what’s the word?”
            Stretch, “Patience.”
            Bubu, “86’d in the patience-department. Angie, her tag for Evangeline, if she coulda just held her breath a few beats more I woulda’ been out before she did some rash trash as I had me wino time left.”
Imara and Thembi look at each other in ignorance.
            Stretch, “Too short of time to even start an almost-conversation.”
            Bubu, “She hit and split on me before they gave me two hundred dollars and bus ducat. Can you believe that?”
            Imara faking understanding, “Well sure, I guess, yes.”
            Bubu, “Okay then you got the lay of the land for what Dion wrote at the time.” Bubu closed his eyes, accessing the memory, then recited as if in grammar school, “Evangeline you are so fine that I will do the time while chilling knowing Evangeline that you are mine keeps me from offing and killing. I’ll just keep buffing...”
            Stretch, “Working out with weights.”
            Bubu, “While eyeing the date...”
            Stretch, “Release exactified.”
            Bubu, “...and huffing and puffing to your sweet gate.” Bubu opened his eyes, almost bowed. “The end. Dion told me ‘sweet gate’, what were the words, Stretch?”
            Stretch, “A double entendre with one meaning.”      
            Bubu, “Zackly. Your brother could put a word together.”
            Imara, “That’s, uhmmm, that’s...Evangeline, she must have been moved by that piece.”
            Bubu, “Yeah, well, she was at the time but when I hit the pavement she already spun out and took whatever jingles I left going south for this dude talking out of the side of his neck. I would not be surprised if he was a tree jumper.”
            Imara, “Tree jumper?”
Stretch, “A steady rapist, no disrespect for Dion’s kin, mind you.”
Imara, “None taken.
Bubu, “But I’ll give you the skinny which is if Bubu ever runs into that smut I got a bone crusher waiting on his ribs.”
            Imara, “Well, Bubu, there is a saying: If a man takes away your woman, the best revenge is to let him keep her.”
            Bubu, “Who said that?”
            Imara, “Just a saying.”
            Bubu, “Ain’t my kinda’ program.”  To Stretch, “The dude who said that is probably on the leg.”
            Stretch, “Either that or a j-cat.”
            Bubu sharing hand gestures, “Or a flip flopper.”
            Stretch with accompanying hand gestures, “Or a high-sliding punk who we told to spread his hustle and rinks....”
            Thembi jumped in, “I know what spread his hustle mean.”
            Bubu, “He was good wood.”
            Thembi wasn’t buying into their memorial of how great Sonny was. “Maybe so but as soon as he got out, what was it, Imara, seventy-two minutes you said, he went straight back to...”
            Imara, “Sometimes I think he may have been better off in prison.”
            Bubu, “Not maybe so because one never knows what’s under the rug since some wanna-be might yoke him up just for a rollie.”
            Imara, “Yoke him up for...”
            Stretch, “Come from behind and stab him for a cigarette. In the slam sometimes the log is so crooked it won’t sit still. Cons seldom come out of the same hole.”
            Bubu, “No ma’am, cannot trust ‘em. Dion was a convict, pure blood, you can be proud of him.”

​Stretch, “Dion was no con.”
            Thembi, “I don’t get the difference.”
            Bubu, “Con is a sleaze.”
            Stretch, “Convict on the other foot is tough as rawhide.”
            Bubu, “Zackly ‘n then some. There are plenty cons wearing knee pads to get a Cadillac bunk. Not your brother. No way.”
            Imara, “Cadillac bunk?”
            Stretch, “Kick ass, no insult intended, to get a single bunk.” Stretch finished his drink, stood, “Well, we’ve got a row to hoe with some people on the other side of the horizon so if you don’t have worries we’ll just be making a move towards relocation. C’mon Bubu, let’s get past the shadows before the dogs start barking.”
            Bubu standing, “On my feets,” and to Imara and Thembi, “Wouldn’t want my road-dog treading solo know what I’m saying?”
            Stretch nods to them, “Our respects.”
            Bubu, “Similar.” He starts to go, stops and turns, “’Scuse me, any chance of toting the remainder of that there six-pack?”
            To which Stretch opposed, “What are you spewing, dude, them’s for the wake.”
            Bubu, “I do not see no one else to be sipping on suds in this scene so I just chewed over the 4-1-1- particularly we be spending good rare green on...”
            Stretch, “I don’t care if syrup goes to a dollar a sop, we leave the brew fore the good people including the donuts. I swear, there is something seldom about you, boy.”
            Bubu nods to Thembi and Imara, “Sorry. No disrespect.”
            Thembi, “None taken.”
            Imara gets the beer and donuts handing it to Bubu, “Actually, as you might say, Bubu, true blue of the matter is we do not drink beer or eat donuts so you may as well take them. I mean it. Please.”
            Bubu tempted but won’t make a move unless Stretch assents.
            Stretch, “I feel like a skunk telling a buzzard he stinks but if you insist.” He nods to Bubu to take them as they walk toward the door.
            Imara, “Thank you for stopping by.”
            Stretch, “Our privilege, ma’am.”
            Thembi, ‘It was very thoughtful of you.”
            Stretch, “Well, Dion’s passing might be of a kinda’ worth when you come right down to it.”
            Imara, “How do you see that?”
            Stretch, “My mamma used to say a dry well teaches us the worth of water.”
            Bubu, “What does that mean, Stretch?”
            Stretch, “I’ll fill in the Q’s as we journey to a place with promise.” At the door he turned, “Condolences to Dion’s kin.”
            Bubu, “Same.”
            Imara, “Thank you.”
            Imara closed the door on their departure. After a few beats assured they are alone and out of hear-shot, Imara screamed, “What was that?”
            Thembi taking the bourbon to the kitchen to make a drink, “I understood every other word. After the blues brothers I need a double.”
            Imara, “Against my better judgment I’ll join you.”
            The Doorbell rang. Once. Then Twice.
            Thembi mixing drinks, “Aren’t you going to get that, Imara?”
            “I’m not ready for the Stretch ‘n Bubu act again.” She looks around, “They did take all the donuts, right?”
            Doorbell rings again.
            Thembi stops mixing drinks and walks to the door, “I can’t stand it,” opening it to Maureen,  a pale Caucasian with an apologetic face carrying a package.
            “Uhmmm, hello.
            Thembi, “Yes?”
            “I’m Maureen Ann Brady.” She extends her hand to shake awkwardly but she has to hold on to the package she is carrying. “Pleased to meet you.”          
            Thembi turns to Imara who walks to the door, “We don’t know each other, so we?”
            “I’m Maureen Ann Brady.”
            “So I heard.”
            “You are Imara Samuels Johnston.”
            “How do you know my name?”
            “It was on the report.”
            “What report?”
            “At the police station, You, you claimed your brother’s body. Johnston, Charles Dion. Dion’s derivation is French. Was your bother French?”
            Imara to Thembi, “Is this woman serious?”
            Maureen, “Also from Dionysus, Greek Zeus. Your brother could have been Greek, too.”
            Imara, “My brother is, was African-American.”
            Thembi, “Derivation might be God.”
            Imara, “Stop, cease, desist. What...who are you and why are you here?”
            Maureen near tears, “I’m Maureen Ann Brady.”
            Imara, “Which has been eminently clear from the moment Thembi opened the door.”
            “But you asked.”
            Thembi, “Excuse me, Miss Brady but...”
            “Mrs. It’s a Mrs.”
            “Mrs. Brady, we are in mourning right now and whatever it is you came about may not be the appropriate time.”
Imara, “Wait a minute. What are you doing checking out a police report for my name? I thought that’s supposed to be confidential.”
            Maureen, “It is very seriously utmost confidential. For certain.”
            Thembi, “This is beginning to feel like a re-run from Saturday Night Live. You’re not Kristin Wiig in make-up, are you?”
            Maureen, “I love that show.”
            Imara, “I am running out of patience, Maureen Ann Brady, so if you don’t come up with a reasonable explanation for your uninvited presence you will be talking to the other side of the door.”
            Maureen is frozen in place.

​Thembi, “Last chance, and it’s not a vowel. Why are you here, Mrs. Brady.”
            “My husband is Thomas Michael Brady.”
            Imara, “Is there a culture gap? What am I missing?”
            Thembi, “What is it about your husband that has to do with us, Maureen?”
            “He...uhmmm...he is...was..the officer that...” turning to Imara with great difficulty, “...the officer that apprehended your brother.”
            Imara is stunned. “Your husband is the cop who killed DC?”
            Maureen near tears, “H was pointing a gun and...”
            Imara, “It was lot loaded.”
            Maureen, “He did not know that. Please!”
            Imara stares at Maureen, shakes her head, walks back into the room, slumps into the receding pillow of the protesting arm-chair, “Did you make those drinks, Thembi?”
            Thembi returns to mixing drinks and brings down another glass, “On the way.” Looking at Maureen who is trying not to tremble, “Come in, Mrs. Brady. I think you can stand one, too.”
            Imara, “Say what?”
            Thembi, “Sit down, Mrs. Brady.”
            Maureen goes to sit but stops, offering a package.
            Thembi, “What is this?”
            Maureen, “It’s a cake.”
            Imara, “Don’t touch it, it might be a bomb.”
            Maureen, “It’s a cake.”
            Thembi takes it, “Thank you.”
            Imara, “Her man killed baby-brother an you’re thanking her for the cake?”
            Maureen, “I...I didn’t...I do not mean disrespect...it’s just that...in my family, when someone dies we have a wake and everyone brings something and the family sits around and remembers the deceased and cries and laughs and gets drunk and...I am sorry if I offended you. I most definitely did not intend to insult you. I hope you forgive me.”
            Thembi, “Sit down, Mrs. Brady. We will have cake with a special drink I invented that has a humbling effect which is desired under the circumstances.” Finished mixing the drinks she cuts the cake. “Take off your coat, Mrs. Brady.”
            Maureen, sitting on the edge, carefully folds her coat and puts it on her lap, “Thank you.”
            Imara rises and takes the drinks, setting them down on a table, taking one for herself. “I cannot believe this. I am drinking with the wife of an Irish cop who killed my brother.”
            Maureen, “Actually his family originated from Wales.”
            Imara, “I’m glad that’s clarified.”
            “Thomas Michael is very specific about that. His people are not Irish. They are Welsh.”
            Thembi puts three plates of cake, forks, napkins on table, taking one for herself.
            Imara, “What are you doing here, lady?
            “Paying my respects.”
            Imara turns to Thembi, “What am I missing?”
            Thembi makes a motion to ease up and turns to Maureen, “Does your husband know you are here?”
            “Thomas Michael Know? Oh no oh no oh no oh my, I am afraid not. None, nil, zero information about my presence here is definitely not within Thomas Michael’s sphere of  knowledge.” She nibbles on the cake, sips drink, likes it, drinks more. “This is a very good drink.”     
            Thembi toasts and drinks, “And you’re a very good judge.”
            Maureen sips delicately, “Bourbon, correct?”
            Thembi, “Uhmmm hmmm.”
            Maureen sips again. “And...uhmmm...yes, oh yes, root beer. Interesting.” Sips again. “But there is something else...I can’t quite identify it.”
            Imara, “Is this some form of contest? Are we being secretly filmed for Ellen?”
            Thembi, “Two out of three ain’t bad.”
            Maureen sips again, “Of course. Got it. Very clever Vanilla extract, right?”
            Thembi, “How id you know? Nailing vanilla extract! Off the wall. Extraordinary!”
            Imara, “Strange.”
            Maureen, “It’ makes Thomas Michael crazy. I can figure out, yes, Imara, the strangest things but I have a great deal of difficulty handling every day affairs. I often forget to water the plants which subsequently die.”
            Imara drinks, laughs derisively, “Who is this woman!”
            Thembi, “Excuse Imara.”       
            Maureen, “No, that’s very much all right. I enjoy when people laugh at what I say even if sometimes or many times I do not get it.”
            Imara, “You enjoy people laughing at you?”
            “I see it another way.”
            “Such as?”
            “Well it’s...my father, he was often on the edge, very dark and...I digress...I mean, well...it’s difficult to be angry at someone when you are laughing. Isn’t that so?”
            Thembi, “The woman’s got a point.”
            Imara, “I’ll drink to that, whatever that is.” Drinks. “God, this is terrible.”
            Maureen, “I do not want to sound contrary but I do not agree. I find this a very good drink.” She downs the drink.
            Imara and Thembi look at each other, at Maureen, and down their drinks.
            During the ensuing they each get drunk but NOT in a cliché slurring words sloppiness. Just an easing of life’s burden drunk.
            Imara staring at Maureen who feels the pressure, “Yes?”
            Imara, “Just trying to figure out...were you born on this planet?”
            “Thomas Michael, my husband, says I must come from another galaxy.”
            Thembi goes to the kitchen with the cake, “Shall I mix another batch, ladies?”
            Maureen, “Yes, thank you, that would be splendid.”
            Imara, “Splendid.” Eating some cake, “This isn’t bad. I haven’t eaten all day.”
            Thembi mixing drinks and nibbling on cake, “Delicious.”
            Maureen eating cake carefully, “Yes the cake is from Saperstein’s bakery. The Jews make very good cake.”
            Thembi, “They’re also good with money.”

​Imara, “Not all of them. Mrs. Friedman down the block, her husband went broke and they fight a lot.”
            Maureen, “My dentist is Jewish.”
            Thembi bringing drinks for each. “My G-Y-N is Jewish.”
            Imara, “What is this, Jewish inventory week?”
            Maureen, “I don’t mind waiting in the dentist’s office. I catch up on my reading.”
            Thembi, “What are you reading now?
            Maureen drinks, “People magazine. Nothing serious. Just an every six month cleansing. I like having clean teeth, don’t you? He is a very good Jewish dentist.”
            Imara, “Were you raised by wolves?”
            Maureen, “I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t insult you. Are you Jewish?”
            Imara breaks up laughing which is catching as Maureen laughs and Thembi get caught up, until finally the laughter subsides, they each sip, quiet in the room...until...
            Maureen, under the influence of Thembi’s concoctions, “I never told anybody why I stopped going to confession.”
            Imara, “Told anybody what?”
            “I think I’m a little looser than usual and tempted to say something that should not be said but I am going to say it anyhow because you, Imara, and you Thembi, are the first women I feel obliged to share something, if you don’t mind.”
            Thembi, “Share on sister.”
            Maureen looks at Imara for permission who nods, “What the hell, Maureen, roll it.”
            “Father Brannigan, he touched me in places and did things to a young girl that were not appropriate. Most definite not.”
            Imara, “How old were you?”
            “I feel so ashamed.”
            Thembi, “No reason to be ashamed. It is Father what’s his name who should...”
            “Twelve. I did not even have my period yet. I have not been able to return to confession since. Thomas Michael does not know why. I choose not to tell him. In fact you two are the first persons I have told. Period.”
            Imara, “Finally they’re getting busted. Did you see the move, ‘Spotlight?’ It’s long time due for people to nail those child molesters and I don’t care if they’re hiding behind a collar they should be cowering behind bars. Maureen girl, I will definitely drink to busting Father what’s his name.” She offers a toast to which they each raise their glasses and drink.
            Maureen, “This drink is very very good, yes.”
            Imara, “All right, Maureen, time to get down. Tell us straight out. Why are you here?”
            “Well I, you see, not me, well, yes, me, everyone actually thinks that policemen shoot people all the time but most of them never even fire a gun except at target practice.”         
            Imara, “Where you been, girl? Sometimes our brothers are the targets they be practicing on.”
            Maureen, “Thomas Michael was thinking of quitting the force but already has sixteen years and needs another four for his pension.”
            Imara. “Stop. Cease and desist. Maureen Brady will tell us exactly why you are here, in my home or you will leave my home.”
            Thembi, “That’s a little hard, Sissy.”
            Imara turns to Maureen, giving no respite. “Why?”
            “Thomas Michael, my husband...”
            Imara to Thembi, “I may have to kill this woman before...”
            Thembi to Maureen, “We know he is your husband, Maureen, but you are not answering Imara’s question and knowing Imara, you are twenty seconds away from exiting our domain.”
            Maureen drinks, then, “Our religion will not permit a divorce even though Thomas Michael hasn’t touched me in over a year but he is my husband and if he does something, anything, as his wife under the law and the church as his eternal wife, I am involved.”
            Imara, “Are you telling us that you are involved in your husband’s shooting my brother?”
            “It was in the line of duty and after investigation they determined it was an appropriate response.”
            “Appropriate? DC’s appropriately dead, is that why you’re saying?”
            “Your brother is dead and that is a terrible thing. Terrible.”
            Imara stands, drinks effecting her as she wobbles to the door an opens it. “Tell us the reason you came here or I will close the door behind you.”
            Maureen is frozen.
            Thembi in an empathic tone, “ Maureen, what do you want from us?”
            Maureen quietly, “To...to forgive Thomas Michael.”
            Imara slams the door  shut. “Forgive! Have you lost your mind? I am not nor shall I ever be into forgiving your white cop of a husband for killing my black civilian brother.” Imara storms to the kitchen, gets bourbon bottle, walks to each of them, splashes bourbon into their glasses. Long silence as they each drink. Then...
            Maureen, “We never had any children. In truth, Thomas, he did not try all that often actually.” They drink in silence. “Did you know that every ten seconds someplace on God’s earth there is a woman giving birth.”
            Imara, “We oughta’ find that woman and stop her.”
            Thembi breaks up laughing. Imara joins her. Maureen smiles. They drink.
            Maureen, “Can I tell you a secret?”
            Imara, “As long as it has nothing to do with forgiving your cop husband.”
            “I...I sometimes have a fantasy of having an affair with John Goodman.”
            “John Goodman. The actor? He is seriously fat.”
            “Yes, isn’t he.”
            “I think I’m caught in a time warp from another dimension.”
            “I never told anyone about John Goodman before.”
            “Smart move.”
            “Want to know another secret?”
            “I don’t know if I an handle it.”
            Thembi, “Go ahead, Maureen, get down girl.”
            “I like to read. Oh this is awful...”
            Imara, “What is awful about reading or am I too drunk to understand?”

“The nature of what I read.”
            “Were you a switched baby?”
            Thembi, “What nature, Maureen?”
            “When Thomas Michael is...well sometimes he works day and night. Actually in truth we are talking truth now right, well sometimes he may not really be on duty but we both  make like he is and when I am left alone all of those lonely nights well, I...I like to read books are stories that are, well, stimulating if you get my drift.”
            Thembi, “Ahh, sexy, salacious stuff.”
            “Yes, I do believe that’s an accurate description, yes.”
            Imara, delightfully drunk, wobbles over to the open carton, takes out a loose-leaf book and scans. “I hear the call, Sonny...a tribute..hey, hey, hey check this out. You will get off on this, Maureen Brady.”
            Thembi, “Maybe now’s not the time to read DC’s writing, Imara.”
            “What better ways to praise him.” Scanning pages, then stops, smiles, “Get this.” Reading, “The clitoris of the spider monkey is twice the size of the mane monkey’s penis scientists surmise.”
            Maureen, “Is that true?”
            Thembi, “DC was a mess but he spoke the truth.”
            Imara, “Except about his habit.”
            Maureen still dealing with...”Oh my God, the clitoris is twice the size of the monkey’s penis. One would think...can you read some more? Please.”
            Thembi, “She can but I don’t know if she should.”
            Imara, “Stop shoulding all over me, Thembi. What better way to honor DC than to read his work,” giggling sweet drunk, “Scandalous as it may be.”
            Thembi, “But out loud to a stranger?”
            Imara, “Maureen is strange but she gave up being stranger with her personal reveals.”
            Maureen, “Thank you.”
            Thembi, “You got it. Read on, Sister.”
            Imara reading, “The human female’s vagina can easier stretch than clench, which for smaller men makes a boy out of a mensch.”
            Maureen, “A boy out of what? A mensk? What is a mensk? “
            Imara, “Not mensk, mensch. That’s a Jewish word for a man. A mensch to the Jews is a real man.”
            Maureen, “Is your bother Jewish?”
            Imara and Thembi break up laughing. Imara tosses loose leaf binder to Thembi. “I can’t read...read? I can hardly see. Your turns Thembi.”
            “I’m in not much better shape. I don’t know if I can read either.”
            Maureen, “Please I would like to hear more. He is a very good writer. Please?”
            Thembi shrugs, does her best to see as she scans pages, then stops and reads. “A woman may not orgasm until Saturday a week while a man takes seconds to reach his peak. In the old days men would fuck to conquer beauty but nowadays to the woman he owes a duty.”
            Maureen, “Tell that to Thomas Michael. He is finished before I ever get started. Would your read some more, please?”
            Thembi, “My eyes are high and not into focusing right now. Here, Maureen, you read.”
            Maureen accepts the binder, asks Imara, “Is it all right with you if I read your brother’s brilliant writing?”
            Imara, “I gave up any concept of all right a long time ago. Read on, Maureen Brady.”
            With difficulty, as she, too, is delightfully drunk, she digs for glasses from her nearby purse, puts them on, smiles to each as if she is about to give a formal, public recitation, and reads. “Up, down, sideways, continuously, men must address the woman sinuously. They must kiss and tongue and taste and touch to make her juices flow and such...” Maureen stops reading.  “Thomas Michael is the only man I ever had sex. With. The only time I ever had orgasms...oh God am I saying this. The only time is when I am alone with the books I told you about.”
            Thembi, “And I’ll bet you thought of John Goodman, then, didn’t you girl-friend?”
            Maureen, “Yes. Is that wrong? I mean sinfully wrong? Will I have to pay, you know, atone? I don’t know how many Hail Mary’s, actually the priest is the one who decides but I can’t quite go to...I’m sure you understand so I’ll just have to decide myself, yes,  okay, got it. Twenty-seven Hail Mary’s will do the trick. Does that sound reasonable?”
            Imara, “Whatever gets you off is worth the price.”
            They are each quiet in their own gently high world, until...
            Maureen, “Your brother is a truly gifted writer.”
            Imara, “Was.”
            Maureen, “Was?”
            “Was a gifted writer. No longer is.”
            “Was. I am so sorry about his, your loss.”
            “Yes, Maureen, we are each and every one of our sorry selves sorry.”
            Another silence, each dealing with DC’s departure.
            Maureen, “Thomas Michael is planning to move to another apartment. Without me.”
            Imara, “Our men leave us.”
            Thembi, “Our men die.”
            Imara, “And we women go on.”