Meet the Grahams

“Now, Isa, don’t forget to soften up when you enter the bridge.”

“Look, I’ve got this, Edily; if anything, you’re going to jinx me by having me make a complete ass out of myself!”

For that exact reason, I was reminding my little sister to soften up at the bridge so she wouldn’t make a fool of herself. She tends to go overboard with things, especially when she has everyone’s undivided attention.

Nodding my head in response, she continued to babble,

“Please, Edily, just spare me at least once in my life! This isn’t a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden. It’s just a wedding reception. It’s funny how I couldn’t perform at the actual wedding because my oblivious sister found a way to book Jon B. just in the nick of time. Imagine how that panned out for me.”

Before allowing this conversation to get out of hand because this wasn’t the time or place, I cut her off: “Isa, please cut it out. Are you still mad over that mess? As I’ve tried to explain to you before, Faith asked me at the last minute to get someone to sing at her wedding. You and Jon B. were the only people available in my contacts, and who do you think she chose?”

Looking at me with the rashest expression on her face, she replies,

“Screw you, Edily.”

Waving Isa off, as usual, I reminded her again to soften up at the bridge, although I knew it would piss her off even more. I couldn’t help but stand there and wonder in utter disappointment about how completely sour and immature she was acting. Today is supposed to be my favorite cousin’s happiest day. My sister, who Faith adores, is acting like a complete spoiled brat.

Everything around me was perfect for the bride. The satin ivory seat covers and dipped lilac roses in crystal vases as centerpieces were the perfect combination. The room's lights were dim, causing the oversized chandeliers to glow in a way so elegant that it left me astonished.

“Edily darling, could you hold Izzy while I get some pictures of your sister up there singing?”

“Sure Mama.”

Now, like always at every family function, I’m stuck with the baby. It seems like that’s how these family functions go down; Isa asks Mama to hold little Isaiah while she goes to the restroom, say hi to a relative, make a plate, or hell, whatever excuse she can come up with to drop him with Mama. Ironically, Mama always finds her way to me, and then I’m stuck with my nephew for hours, sometimes days at a time. Today, for some odd reason, I don’t mind his company. He’s the cutest and sweetest 2-year-old I’ve ever seen, especially in his little black and white tuxedo and lilac bow tie. I believe I’m just emotional and sappy because of the type of day and moment it is. Being here at my cousin's wedding genuinely makes me question my future. I’m 29 years old and still very much single. I have a decent job with a highly “important sounding” title, and although my income is far from where I would want it, in my eyes, I’m the shit.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I see internal and external natural beauty. I have a 5’4-inch frame, toasted almond skin, a size handful of perky breasts, and enough behind to cuff, grab, and enjoy. Seemingly hypnotic, ebony eyes, defined lips, long dark brown naturally wavy hair that, along with my nails, are always maintained. I have a home. It's small, but mine: a car, no kids, and an aesthetic so unique, you would think I would have men falling at my feet, but that’s far from the case. I can’t find a good man, even if it means saving my life. My family and friends believe I’ve set my standards for men way too high. What do they know?

After the way I’d been treated, I felt left with no choice but to demand a man with more than just the basics going for himself.

The only person in my world who has had, or should I say is having, a successful relationship is Faith, and she’s just now making it to the alter with twin girls before her marriage at age 32.

Isa is the main character in my world, pushing me to lower my standards. She believes in her juvenile mind that men fall at her feet and give her what she wants because she has a lot of what it takes to keep them on a leash. She would take a John with no job, home, or real financial stability but still hustles in the streets and rides in $80,000 cars to look good. Then there’s Tom, who has a 6-figure income but has no emotional attachment to her life and buys her what she wants. I love my little sister. She has so much potential but goes nowhere with it; where she does go usually turns out to be a dead-end street with little to no way out.

Isa is beautiful; I mean drop-dead gorgeous. She’s so striking it’s almost frightening. She, too, has toasted almond skin and ebony eyes. However, the definition of her facial structure makes her stand out. Her lips are plump and pouty if that helps paint a picture. Along with having extremely high cheekbones, she also has the cutest and deepest dimples ever! She was blessed to have more French than Indian ancestry in our genes, so her hair is naturally thick and wavy. When it’s straightened, her beauty becomes flawless.

She’s always been a petite framed woman, but the Stair Master has been her best friend since she had Izzy. Isa is built like a stallion—social media model type minus the filters.

However, my little sister uses her beauty like poison, believing everything is supposed to be handed to her on a platinum platter. What’s most difficult for me to understand is how and why she became so boisterous. We watched our mother go through so many years, different versions and levels of abuse, to survive and give us the life we have today. My childhood scarred me to the fullest, so I don’t see how Isa pulls some of the stunts that she does. I guess she’s been affected by the trauma differently.

Looking back, things were traumatic growing up; it seems as if life is finally starting to get better for us as a family of women trying to endure. Mama’s career as an LPN is beginning to take off, keeping her out all day and night. This gave her little time to focus on Isa and her wild lifestyle, which Isa takes full advantage of.

My sister is the true definition of a “go-getter.” She’s still in school at Chicago State and doing well the last time I checked, yet she was still out there socially. She’s had three abortions and a 2-year-old by age 23, but no baby’s daddy or male role model in either situation. She aspires to become the next Diana Ross or someone of that stature but lacks the class. Case in point, she’s on stage at a wedding reception, allegedly singing a love ballad, in front of our entire family. She’s singing in the most seductive tone and grinding like she is producing a baby-making record and wants everyone in the audience to make a baby, too! She sounds and looks good on stage, but her lyrics are so sexually forward and vulgar that it’s hideous; she should’ve sung this self-written song at the bachelorette party.

Isa is a talented writer but refuses to allow me to find her a writer to help express her vulgarity in a classier manner. Better yet, find a production team to help take her to where I know she can go, which is the top. She assumes because I work for a major record label, it’s my job to “put her on,” but she makes it too complicated. No one in the industry wants an artist who won’t listen or doesn’t know how to take constructive criticism. Isa doesn’t take too kindly to advice, good or bad. I swear we fight like cats and dogs.  

“Child, what chu’ daydreaming about?”

His country accent and tone startled me for a second. I nearly felt numb to the sound of his familiar yet distant voice. Realizing it was my sorry excuse for a father, I immediately put my guard up and gave a soft nod to reply while still bouncing Izzy on my hip.

“Oh, nothing much, just listening to baby sis do her thing up there on that stage. How are you, Smitty?”

“Yeah, she sounds mighty nice, but something just ain’t there. I know she bes’ stay her behind in college, cus’ you know, not all dreams come true.”

Here he goes, being the old, callus bastard of a man he’s always been. He had some nerves when saying some of the things he said. With him being a pimp, my mother being his main whore, along with the things we’ve endured in the past, he has no right to judge or poke fun at Isa’s dream. I went from being happy and somewhat annoyed at my sister to ready to blow a gasket just at the sight of his face and attempt at a conversation.

My memories of my father are all bad.

In my eyes, he was just a man who had my mother working the streets all hours of the night. My sister and I stayed in a cold apartment, alone, hungry, and waiting for the so-called pizza man to ring our bell.

Pizza that never came. Ever.

Nodding in agreement about Isa staying in school, I tried shifting positions, turning my back toward him, hoping he would get the hint and go away. Of course, he doesn’t. He instead decides to ask in the most broken version of English possible,

“So, how’s dat music career going? Is you rolling round in dem’ big ol’ dollars yet, gurl?”

“It’s going, you know what they say, another day, another dollar, I guess.”

I’m not too satisfied with where I am in my career, so I wasn’t open to conversation about it, especially with him. I was hoping that, given the tone and nature of my response, my father would understand. However, I’m not surprised that he continues.

“N’other day, N’other dollar my ass, I seen that new ride you dun pulled up here in child. Who you think you fooling?”

Little to his knowledge, my car is the same age as his grandson, who barely even knows it.

“Smitty, the car is over two years old, along with your grandson right here, who you seem to be totally oblivious to.”

“Why? What? Is that yo’ baby Edily?”

I was beyond heated by now. Was he being serious, or just completely ignorant of what was going on with his daughters? It was funny at first how clueless he was, but this…was sad.

I chuckled disapprovingly and in as snotty a tone as I could muster,

“No genius, this is Isa’s baby Isaiah, and no, he is not a Graham. You need to ask yourself where the hell you’ve been all this time. This conversation is sad and should be embarrassing on your part.”

I could see Isiah's lack of the family’s name, along with my tone and choice of words, had struck a nerve. Graham had been our father’s last name, so Isa and I felt as though our children didn’t deserve the memories. Therefore, Smitty Joe Graham didn’t deserve the honor. We both agreed, with our mother’s approval, to name our children with the last name of Ross, Mama’s maiden name.

“He ain’t no Graham? What the hell you mean he ain’t a Graham? If that’s Isa’s baby boy, then he damn near better be the only mother fucker in here named Graham! Ha! Well, look at what I got here; my oldest daughter dun got a little money, a halfway decent job, and bought herself a slick ass mouth! While my youngest got a 2-year-old boy without my last name, but got her ass on stage, hoeing, at a fucking family wedding! Yeah, Edily, where the hell have I been?”

I was nearly mortified by his words, and if it weren’t for me trying to balance Izzy on my hip and my drink in my free hand, I might have fallen over.

I can’t stand Smitty and have zero respect for him. I couldn’t help but lash back.

“Well, we did have a pimp for a daddy. So, what did you expect to get, Charlie’s fucking Angels?"

“Well, you got a hoe for a mother too! A wise one at that, so you best re-adjust dat’ smart ass mouth before I show out at this here trumped-up ass wedding.”

I could feel myself turning visibly red by now, flustered to a point where I knew Smitty could also see. Never backing down, he continues rambling.

“Now, hand me my grandson so you can go fix that heap of foundation on your face.”

With a look of total confusion, I almost yelled,

“Excuse me? I don’t wear make-up!”

“Well, you should. I can see all that pitiful anger right behind what you think is beauty.”

By then, I was done. My feelings were hurt. I felt insulted and injured like I was 14 all over again. Left with nothing more to say, I did exactly what he requested. I handed Izzy off, despite my better judgment, and made a b-line toward the restrooms.

I hit the door and immediately faced over the sink, drowning in crocodile tears. I can’t believe I’ve allowed myself to get so worked up by my so-called father. However, unlike him, I was far more sensitive, emotional, and delicate like my mother, JoAnne Rey Graham.

Mama is a petite, Creole-cultured woman from the French Quarters of Louisiana. Her skin and features are almost those of a suntanned Arabic woman. Her hair was once long, jet-black, and straight. However, she’s now rocking an easy-maintenance bob cut. Her eyes are big, round, and sparkling. She has a naturally giving and loyal attitude, and despite the years of drug abuse and prostitution, Mama is exquisite.

I admire my mother’s inner beauty and strength because our past was saddening. I recall hearing Mama getting her ass whipped by my daddy in the middle of the night. Mainly because she didn’t want to go out on the track and make money. I can still hear him telling my mom,

“Real bitches” didn’t cry, yet the more she cried, the more he would beat her. I cried for her some nights because I knew she was holding back her tears.

I don’t understand or see how she put up with his drug-addicted abuse for so long; it wasn’t until Smitty ‘Trigger Finger’ Joe put a pistol in my mother’s mouth. He told her he would kill her, us, and himself if she didn’t go out there and make enough money for his ‘fix’ when she finally got the courage to leave.

I recall Mama begging him to let her up so she could make the money, promising to return in a couple of hours. Mama approached Isa and me, where we had been sitting and shaking in fear in the corner of our tiny bedroom; Isa was just about 12 at the time. I would remember her exact words to this very moment,

“Edily, you keep an eye out one last time, and I promise I will be back in 2 hours, and in about 3, this will all be over for good. Edily, Isa, I promise this is us no more.”

I swear, Isa and I watched that clock and prayed it would finally be over.

I remember us talking about the things we would finally get to enjoy once we were away from him: warm meals, filled bellies, Mama smiling again, and no more beatings for either of us.

We sat, prayed, and waited until Mama seemed to walk in the door on cue precisely 2 hours later.

Smitty jumped up, snatched the money out of Mama’s hand, and was out that door so fast he had forgotten his jacket.

Within that instant, Mama locked the door behind him and quietly told Isa and me to pack a bag of what was important to us while she began to do the same. We were told not to worry about anything that we couldn’t fit; Mama promised it would all be replaced.

While we packed, Mama described how she needed us to handle ourselves accordingly once he returned. We were to play the role.

Mama explained that we were getting ready to leave and would never come back. However, in order for us to leave and for this to work, we had to move fast, be smart, pay attention, and play along.

Isa and I were both ready for this nightmare to end, so we paid close attention to Mama’s game plan and followed instructions.

Mama directed us to put on our warmest and heaviest pajamas and put our bags in the never-used front closet. Isa and I were to go into our bedroom as if we were in bed for the night. We weren’t allowed to get up, not even to pee, until she came to get us.

I remember cuddling up in the bed next to Isa and singing my own song, something to the tune of

“We're getting out, and it’s finally over; yes, we're getting out, and it’s finally over.”

I had a passion for writing music for as long as I could remember, and tonight was no exception. Isa sang along and added her lyrics while we patiently yet nervously waited for this nightmare to finally end. I can recall repeating the song's lyrics repeatedly until we heard Smitty come back in. We could hear him stumble through the house, tripping and knocking things over in his path. We listened while Mama let Daddy get high and make love to her for one last time. I remember feeling most excited about those parts of our nights finally about to be over.

The level of sexual abuse was immoral.

There were so many countless nights we’ve had to sit and listen to our parents have sex. Our mother fulfilled Smitty’s drug-induced fantasies with orgies, weird games of sorts, and sexual noises that went on until the early morning hours.

This time, however, Mama kept her promise by coming into the room to get us.

We followed Mama to her bedroom, waiting anxiously by the door. We watched as she first went to the nightstand on her side of the bed. Opening the tiny cabinet door, she grabbed a small purple bag, filling it with what seemed like tons of money and jewelry.

Next, she put on a hoody and signaled for us to head toward the front door. We grabbed our bags out of the closet. Reminding us to keep quiet, she made us hold our shoes until we were completely out of the apartment building we lived in.

We were in a cab on our way to the train station, heading to Chicago. We never went back to Louisiana and hadn’t seen Smitty again for over ten years. Chicago had become home, and the three of us were, as a final point, our own team.

My emotions were rapidly running, and my head was spinning at least what seemed to be 90 mph. I shuffled through my knock-off Prada clutch for some painkillers, found some Excedrin, and popped a couple. 

I fingered through my hair a bit, put on some lip gloss, and attempted to pull myself together while fighting away the tears. I finally decided to return to the reception; despite this headache, I was long overdue for another drink.

Thinking I was letting go of what transpired between Smitty and me, I was stopped by a commotion in the banquet room lobby. I listened for familiar voices and noticed Isa’s screeching voice over everyone. It appeared she was telling Smitty to put Isaiah down, and Smitty, being Smitty, was refusing.

Isa is going off on Smitty, telling him how much of a father or grandfather he hasn’t been while Mama is playing back up, chiming in whenever Isa would let her. On the other hand, Smitty was taking all the verbal knives and daggers that were being thrown at him left and right by the duo.

Still refusing to put Izzy down, he shouts with his usual callous response to an altercation with our mother or me. This time, however, Isa was the one on the insulted end.

“Oh, shut up bitch! I made you, and this here I’m holding is me! That’s how y’all do me?

I fly all the way up here to play family man at this snobby shit ass wedding. Trying to make right while y’all pretending and acting like rich folk, looking down on me and such! This how y’all do me? Me? I-made-you-bitches, all you bitches!”

Unable to take anymore, I wiped the last of my falling tears and stormed into the lobby area with the drama. Before I could get a word in, Mama was speaking her peace.

“Yeah, you made us and did what with it, Joe? Turned us all into some evil, selfless, angry bitches, or better yet, some gold-digging ass whores that left your tired ass hanging?"

Not again, Joe, I refuse to let your black ass come in here and ruin another memorable moment in my family’s life. Not today Joe, your black ass will not have the glory, not today!”

Mama had spoken with so much venom and passion you would’ve thought she was spitting poison behind her words.

However, words were nothing but a mere challenge to Smitty. Never being able to just let things go when he knows he’s wrong, Smitty shoots back, almost dropping Izzy,

“Fuck you mean ruin another moment? Bitch you chose to make me a moment in your world, hoe, not me!”

Mama was snickering. My father had become a joke.

“Oh, now wait a minute, Joe, I thought you chose me. Why isn’t that how pimping in the South goes, honey? Sounds like you are contradicting yourself now.”

We all laughed at Mama’s humor—everyone except Smitty. Uncle Ross interrupted the humiliation, noticing Smitty found nothing amusing about this situation.

“Hey Joe, let's break this mess up. I need you to leave. This is supposed to be the happiest day of my daughter’s life, and my sister was right. You are ruining the moment.”

Back in his pimping, callus, country accent, Smitty continued to rant about his place in this family and who he’s made and shaped. He knew how to create tension and fired back, leaving us all botched.

Smitty decided to mention that Faith was lucky she was his niece and that she should be happy he came to the wedding. He implied Faith knew the situation could’ve been a lot worse. His cowardly demand that Faith tell us how many times she’d been to New Orleans within the past two years perplexed us all.

The fear in Faith's eyes read a story waiting to be told.

I didn’t know or understand what Smitty's words meant, but at this point, I, in good conscience, didn’t care to find out. Just like everyone else, I wanted Smitty to be gone.

I also knew my Uncle Ross. The fact he didn’t dwell on what Smitty had just said shuddered me even more.

Uncle Ross calmly continued to ask him to leave before he got removed.

“Smitty, I’m going to tell you one last time to leave before it's a hell of a lot more than just your trigger finger missing.”

Challenging Uncle Ross would be a death sentence for any fool; however, Smitty was a different type of fool. Ruthlessness and insensitivity were understatements for my father. I could tell Smitty was up for more than a challenge at the rate he was going.

Uncle Ross is my mother’s only brother, yet I have about seven Uncles. That’s kept Smitty Joe and all other drama and mishaps as far away from Mama, Isa, and me as humanly possible.

Uncle Ross and his guys ran all of the south side of Chicago. They labeled Faith a street princess and, of course, Ross Street King. My Uncle Ross, favorite cousin Faith, and Aunt Aida were pure street royalty, no one messed with them or their family.

It took about six years of hell before Ross accepted Faith’s dating her now-husband, Brice. He, too, was a street lord who had been working for Uncle Ross for about eight of those six years.

Brice was even forced to change his last name to Ross instead of Faith changing hers, which I’m sure he didn’t mind. This further proved Uncle Ross played no games.

“Fuck you, young blood! I ain’t gotta go nowhere. Jus’ cuz my trigger finger don’t work, don’t mean this here pistol won’t!”

That said, Smitty did what he normally does when he is on the losing end of a dispute: draw his pistol.

We all moved back while the room fell to silence.

I couldn’t believe some of the stunts this man would pull in this day and age. Who draws a gun at a wedding reception and you’re not the jealous ex-lover?

Mama spoke out, unmoved by the weapon,

“So, you going to kill my brother at his daughter’s wedding? Why, because you’re not wanted, Joe? Anyway, I thought you stopped using guns ever since you shot your trigger finger off. What type of nonsense you got dancing around in your head now, Joe? Are you trying to blow off your entire hand nowadays?”

We laughed uneasily at Mama’s continued humor.

Smitty changed positions, now pointing the gun toward Mama,

“Look here bitch don’t act like you ain’t ever had no pistol put to face.”

“Yep, and that same coward that pulled that gun on me, putting the barrel in my throat, is the same coward still standing here. Who, by the way, still ain’t got the heart to pull the trigger? Your gun didn’t scare me then, and it doesn’t scare me now; you’re all talk and no aim. I am free from you, Joe, and so are my daughters.

We have been for a long time.

Ironically, you haven’t learned that the more you try to hurt me, the more you hurt. The more you resent, the more you weep in pity. Now I’m asking you for my niece, my brother, and my sister-in-law for you to leave. This is not your family, Joe; we are not your family.”

Seeing the blood boil over in Smitty’s head, knowing his next move was to shoot, I yelled out and reminded him that pimping was dead in the south. Ruling with an iron fist doesn’t work around these parts. I knew telling him that would take his focus from Mama.

Pimping in the South was a sensitive subject to Smitty as he saw it as a form of art and employment.

Smitty turned that long-barreled pistol toward me, and before I knew it, three shots were fired; instincts kicked in to hit the ground.

I couldn’t believe what was happening. I lay there for a moment, nearly stuck, trying to gather a thought; my mind continued to draw a blank.

This was the definition of shock.

Looking and feeling over myself, realizing I hadn’t been harmed, my mind raced as I thought about who was standing next to me when Smitty fired Isa and Izzy.

No longer caring about my safety, I jumped up to check on my nephew and little sister. My world would end right now if something had happened to them especially on the count of Smitty’s doing.

Once grounded and out of panic mode, I noticed Smitty Joe lying in a growing pool of blood

Mama is standing there with a gun, shaking uncontrollably.

My steps toward her were slowed out of misperception on the last 30 seconds of my life.

I wasn’t sure what had just happened.

I knew everyone I loved and cared about was unharmed, and Smitty ‘Trigger Finger’ Joe Graham was the one down.

“Oh my God, Mama, you alright? Say something to me?”

Mama was shaking and sweating. The still yet satisfying look in her eyes made me even more uneasy at this point.

“JoAnne, give me the gun.”

This moment seems so surreal.

My mother had just shot and killed my father while he was trying to shoot me.

Mama began to laugh and shout while still aiming the gun at Smitty in what sounded like a native chant,

“NO FUCK YOU, SMITTY JOE, MAY YOU BURN, BURN, BURN, BURN, BURN IN HELL. LET THE GATES OF FIRE OPEN UP AND RECEIVE YOU….BURN SMITTY JOE GRAHAM, BURN!!!

Mama laughed while breaking into tears.

I hadn’t heard Mama speak like that in years. I believe we were all mixed up about Mama’s tears. The uncanny added laughter is what I think did it.

Uncle Ross took the gun from Mama as she broke from her trance and went to embrace both Isa and Me in her arms.

She hugged us both, insisting we were free for good and no longer had the burden of Joe in our lives.

“I may go to jail, but at least my girls can live in peace now.”

“Mama, you’re not going to jail; you can simply tell the officers the truth, he tried to shoot me first, and you were defending my life.”

Mama went into apologizing for the memories, moments, and the time she lost with the two of us.

“Oh, my beautiful girls, despite the past, you all have grown so much and are so mature. I’m so proud and sorry at the same time.”

Mama was feeling guilt, anger, and joy all at once; her mind was tired. I nodded at Isa. She smiled back with relief, but I could see the hurt in her eyes.

This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t handed Izzy over to Smitty. It was my fault our father was dead. Even though I felt partial blame, I needed to break this moment before Mama mentally broke down right before us.

“Mama, it's okay. You did what was right for your family and what was right for the situation at the time. We can’t dwell on the past right now, Mama. Right now, we need to figure this mess out before the police arrive.”

Both Mama and Isa agreed. Mama complimented me on my maturity and began to call the police while Uncle Ross went to cover Smitty’s body with a tablecloth.

After calming Mama for some time, I checked in to see how Faith was holding up after all the madness.

When I entered the dressing room, surprisingly, I found Faith dancing and singing in the mirror, barely fixing her hair and make-up.

I spoke up, trying not to frighten her,

“Hey cuz, sorry my pops and our family drama ruined your wedding.”

Still giddy, doing her own little dance, Faith replied,

“Ruined my wedding? Girl, y'all made it epic! More of a blast than what it already was.”

I looked at her with confusion,

“I’m saying, Edily, check this out from my point of view; in one day, I’ve gotten the royalty treatment, gotten extra pretty and glamorous in this wedding dress. I took pictures that were all about me and enjoyed my current family while joining another. I witnessed a murder and got married to the father of my children! Which is, by the way, a good man who is willing to commit to me forever.

I got two weeks of paid vacation from work, and I leave for Paris in less than eight hours. What more could a girl ask for? Edily, I’m in total bliss! You might as well call me Princess Faith because I’m royalty today, honey!”

I was so pleased to see Faith in her frame of mind; I thought I would come in here, have to wipe some tears, and do some serious damage control. Since no one else seemed to be worried about Smitty, not my mother, his killer, not even the bride, why should I? Besides, I’ve never felt a real connection to Smitty anyhow.

Faith and I chatted about the good days when we ran the streets together and how we got to this point in our lives while waiting on the police. I was still trying to wrap my feelings around my pimp for a father being killed by his main whore, who claimed to be his only love, my mother. I knew our lives were getting ready to take a challenging turn.

Faith and I were singing Mary J. Blige's version of the song “All Night Long,” one of our favorites, when out of nowhere, Faith asked in a very peculiar tone,

“I wonder who the hell gonna bury Uncle Joe's old fool behind?”

That was a very worthy question.

I hadn’t even thought about it until Faith mentioned it. I replied, but my answer was not compassionate.

“Who cares Fai?”

The amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, along with the raw emotion of Smitty’s death, had me unable to focus on the subject truly, nonetheless care.

“Nobody liked Smitty callous behind, so if anybody would bury his ass, it would probably be the state. Or one of his modern-day whores."

I was laughing, almost belligerent at this point; Faith had chimed in almost in celebration,

“Girl, yes, Uncle Joe was a foul-ass man; I’m just glad he’s gone; the drama he kept bringing up every time we all got together had finally gone too far.

Dad was not feeling that pimp mess on my wedding day; hell, neither was Auntie Anne!

Auntie was all revenge of the whores and shit! I love the way she handled herself tonight, Cuz!”

I agreed with Faith on all aspects, minus her ghetto outlook on my mom.

We went back to singing and performing in the mirror like we used to. I couldn’t help but think about the things that had led to this point.

Faith and I continued to laugh and almost celebrate the death of my father while not an inch of my soul cared.

The knock on the door startled me at first. I answered the door, knowing Faith wasn’t going to budge.

“Good evening, officers.”

I spoke in my academic, university voice, attempting to level out my alcohol and prepare myself for what they were getting ready to ask.

They greeted us with a nod while I stepped back to let the two officers in.

“Let me start by getting your names and roles in this wedding. I assume you must be the bride, Faith, correct?”

That was the short Caucasian officer speaking. He had a scrawny little build, seemed older than most officers, and had a voice like a tiny old man who had smoked all his life. His lungs were on the verge of giving out, and his demeanor was a bit cynical.

Faith's reply was short and in a bit of an aggravated tone. You could tell she didn’t want to be asked many questions,

“Yes, that’s me, and I don’t want to have time for this mess. My wedding was ruined because of my evil Uncle Joe. I’m not in the mood for my day to turn into his day. I swear that man ruins everything!

Can we hurry up and get on with this process, please? We haven’t even eaten yet, and my daddy has spent a lot of money on this custom seafood menu. We better get to eat and at least finish this top-shelf open bar off.”

Faith was nearly whining while I chimed in,

“Yes, officers, and I’m Edily Graham, Faith’s cousin, and Maid of Honor; Joe was my father.”

I made sure to say it in the most relieved but victimized tone.

“Joe wasn’t invited; he just showed up, and since it was Faith’s wedding, everyone agreed to let him stay as long as he didn’t cause any problems and as you can see, officers, that dream was short-lived.”

The tall Black cop seemed intrigued. I offered him a seat on the small couch while Faith and I sat down next to him. We allowed him to continue asking a series of questions that led to my father’s death. He took control of the questioning while Mr. Scrawny, the cop, took notes and combed over the room.

Faith and I ensured we gave as many damaging details about Joe’s character as possible, ensuring that Mama’s actions tonight were justifiable and in self-defense.

Despite everything that was going on and the questions being asked, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the officer questioning us. He was the typical tall, dark, and handsome.

However, his intense voice almost sounded like a growl when he spoke. His hands and nails were clean, his teeth pearly white and perfectly polished. His hair was cut low, lining chiseled to a ‘T,’ while his demeanor wreaked of arrogance. He was well over 30 and more than an average detective on the force. I noticed there was no wedding ring but a platinum ring on his left pinky finger. His shoes were expensive, and although he was out of uniform, his attire was also hip yet professional and appeared expensive. When he entered the room, I could smell his rich and alluring cologne. That’s what initially caught my attention. Along with the barely noticeable Day Date white gold and diamond Rolex on his right wrist and platinum bracelet on the other, I was in admiration and no longer focused on this interview.

“So, you would say your father was callus and unnecessarily abusive, correct Ms. Edily?” asked Officer Scrawny.

“He was. Now, can we be done with this interview, officers? My cousin already feels like her day was ruined by my father. My family is beyond tired from all the years of stress he’s caused, plus the Bride is starving!”

Irritated that he’d snapped me out of an apparent trance, I stood to let the officers out, ending the questioning myself.

The tall, handsome cop nodded in empathy, passed me his card, and, in the sincerest tone, advised,

“Give me a call, Ms. Edily, if you have any questions or can think of anything else to help clarify this situation.”

I took the card and let both officers out to continue to ask the other guests what they had known.

An hour or so later, Smitty ‘Trigger Finger’ Joe Graham was in someone’s freezer, the officers were gone, and we were all sitting down enjoying top-notch seafood that Faith made sure to customize herself. She took us all back to the south and put a Creole touch on the menu.

We had steamed and fried lobster, crab legs, jumbo shrimp cooked to order, fried alligator, tilapia, and sushi rolls, all served with fresh steamed or sautéed vegetables. Faith and Uncle Ross ensured it was on the menu for this occasion if it came from down under. Mama even made up a special batch of her famous seafood gumbo as the starter soup for guests.

Topping the menu off, if you were allergic to seafood or weren’t feeling it, they had Ribeye steak, Lamb pops, fried and fire-roasted chicken with baked, mashed, or twice-baked potatoes.

I couldn’t wait to have my time to shine and put out a spread like this!

Faith even went so far as to serve stuffed rainbow trout. The aromatic essence of passion fruit filled the room as the trout was lit on fire as a performance, prepared especially for her groom. I was captivated!

We laughed, danced, made a soul train line, and did some family karaoke. Jon B. sang again, with Isa singing Tamia’s part to Eric Benet’s ‘Spend My Life’; they sounded so harmonious that we all had to hold back those sappy tears.

We bonded as a family while guests slowly began to leave.

We polished off the open top shelf bar and, with all other naysayers and onlookers gone, the Ross family opened the last two bottles of Armand De Brignac champagne and toasted to new beginnings.

                                                  *****************

Relieved to finally be home, I got into my tiny house a little after 2 a.m. Kicking my shoes off at the door, I was literally out of my lilac purple, satin dress before I could make it to my bedroom.

This was a definite sign of my intoxication. Sober, I wouldn’t dare leave a satin dress that I had to pay $800 bucks to have made on the floor; tonight, however, was a different story.

I climbed into my king-size bed and let the darkness and alcohol put me to sleep.

It seemed like I had just gotten into a good nod when I heard my phone ringing from somewhere between my living and bedroom. It was that damn ringtone that I dreaded to hear, yet the only ringtone I still had and lacked the strength to change, delete, or block the number,

‘I don’t wanna love you, don’t wanna need you, just wanna leave you, I swear, I just want it to be over…’

I was not in the mood; however, I knew he would call obsessively if I didn't answer, and I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. Hearing the phone continuously ring, I staggered through the darkness of my home, looking for my phone. Annoyed, head pounding and still trying to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness, I decided to answer; I was definitely in the mood to give his ass a few choice words once I found my phone on the couch beside my clutch.  

“What, Maleek? It’s like 4 a.m. Have you no tact?”

In his New Yorker accent and slang,

“Yo shorty, I know it’s late. I been calling you all day, ain’t been getting no answer. So, I figure the hell wit’ it. I’ll wait till she is good and sleep to call. That way, I’ll know you’re home, and at least I’d get an answer. You know I know you, girl; you always answer for ya’ boy out ya’ sleep.”

Amused by his method of reasoning, I asked him what he wanted, stressing the irritation in my voice.

“Yo Ed, Brianna, and me need some place to sleep tonight. It’s been a rough couple of days for us; we will be gone before you come home from work tomorrow.”

I couldn’t believe what he was asking of me.

My ex of about five months now was further out of his mind than I thought; the nerve of some men.

“Excuse me? First of all, Maleek, it’s fucking 4 a.m. Why the hell are you and your child out at this time of night? Secondly, I’m off tomorrow, so the answer to your question is hell the fuck, no! Try Motel 6. They always leave the light on for you!”

I hung up without giving him a chance to respond. I hated shutting Maleek down like that, but at some point in my life, I had to.

Maleek was the heartbreaker of all heartbreakers in my world.

It’s not that I didn’t care about leaving Maleek and his now 3-year-old daughter to sleep in a hotel, but Maleek’s disordered and selfish lifestyle deserved my cold shoulder treatment.

He called my phone again back-to-back. I didn’t answer, knowing I would eventually fall for Maleeks old tricks.

When it came to Maleek, I was a fool, more like a dumb ass.

We were together for over four years until he introduced me to his 2-year-old daughter about eight months ago. He claimed to be tired of hiding his other life behind my back. It was then time for him to step up and be a better father to his daughter, a better man to her mother, his wife, and a more truthful man to me. When he broke that news to me, I was completely distraught.

The man I’d given my heart to have a wife, a kid, a dog, a picket fence, the whole nine, all while living and being in a perfectly normal relationship with me.

He spent nights, sometimes weeks, at my house here in Chicago. Before all the drama went down, Maleek and I were going half on rent, had joint bank accounts, and spent most birthdays and holidays together. I’m not talking side chick holidays; I had Christmas, New Year's and Day, 4th of July, family barbeques, you name it. When Maleek wasn’t working, he was with me, and I loved him wholeheartedly. Granted, he was from and lived in New York, but we both had business in each other’s state and were nearly inseparable. It wasn’t like I barely saw or spoke to him. I don’t know how he was able to live a double life for so long.

I had been to New York to meet his parents when we first started dating. Frequently, when I was in New York on business, and Maleek wasn’t there, so I wouldn’t feel alone, I would stay at his parent’s house in his old bedroom, do brunch and shopping dates with his mother, play golf with his father, I had become family. His mother, Mrs. Smith, would serve up an enormous breakfast and have her famed hot chocolate brewing for me before I headed out to work for the day.

I had seen his family become my family. I had met sisters, brothers, best friends, aunts, uncles, even his grandmother! Hell, his grandmother sends me fresh lemons from her tree every spring with a new kettle to attempt to make her legendary lemonade for myself. Of course, she sent me the recipe and told me she only passed it down to whom she considered family.

Not to mention, when he was in New York, I would stay with him. At his house, the house I called my New York home, which I decorated, has all my touches and photos up. Even up until this very moment, my mind couldn't grasp how Maleek played the role for so long. I believe I was more hurt at how everyone in his world knew what he had going on except for me; I had felt betrayed by his entire family.

I found myself angry and in tears all over again. I cut my ringers off and attempted to go back to sleep. I was once again good and dreaming until I was awakened by a loud banging at my door. Noticing the sun was just barely up, I glanced at my clock, 5:52. This couldn’t’ be anyone other than Maleek's old fool ass. I prepared myself for the bullshit story I was about to receive.

I swung the front door to my residence open, nearly naked wearing the pissed-off face.

“Really, Maleek, at 6 a.m.? You show up here at six fucking a.m.?”

He cut me off before I could finish my rant,

“Look, Edily quit acting brand new and let us in! You honestly think I want to have her with me here, at your doorstep, looking stupid at six fucking a.m.? It’s cold, Brianna hasn’t really been sleeping, and…”

No longer being able to take the sob story, I rudely interjected,

“Well, you should have planned better and gotten you and little Ms. Princess here a presidential suite at the Hyatt or something.”

“Stop it, Edily! I didn’t want Brianna sleeping in another hotel for another night. We’ve been doing this for too many nights and well,”

The long pause almost made me shriek. Listening with the reads of sarcasm on my face, he went on,

“We just needed someplace with real structure for the night. Now morning.”

I was outdone! I couldn’t believe Maleek. He had this little girl out here with him, living out of a suitcase like he often did, yet he decided to come to me for structure.

Not believing a word, I attempted to end this unwanted visit,

“Look, Maleek, you shouldn’t have a 3-year-old out living like she in a father/daughter rock band. Furthermore, you need to find another hotel because this isn’t it. Book your daughter and yourself the next flight out and take her home to her mother, your wife. Now, if you would excuse me, I was trying to sleep in, considering today is my day off.”

I slammed the door in both him and Brianna’s face. You would think that I was done until he decides to yell through the door, adding to the pity party,

“So, you just gon’ leave me and my shorty out here like this, Edily? Out of everyone, I thought you would always understand and at least have a heart.

"Dammit, Edily, I’m desperate! I could see if it was just me, but I got Brianna!”

 He was angrily yelling at this point.

I swung the door open for a second time, leaving enough space for them to get in,

“Gone by 9 Maleek. You know where the covers are, and please, no bullshit.”

“Deal”

I went back into my room, made sure I locked the door behind myself, laid back down, and prayed that Maleek would let me sleep off this alcohol.

I was reawakened, this time to the smell of breakfast—turkey bacon and eggs, to be exact. I saw that it was a quarter after ten and became angry all over again.

I stormed out of my bedroom, nearly blowing my top,

“What the hell, Maleek? We made a deal and said NO BULLSHIT, and this here is complete and utter bullshit! Remember, gone by 9? I didn’t want to see your tired ass face or deal with your shit when I woke up!”

Not being moved by my actions, Maleek continued to scramble eggs at my stove and spoke to me in the calmest tone,

“Yo Ed, chill out with all that, especially in front of my kid. You know you don’t wanna be a bitch to me right now. Besides, you look like you could use some breakfast and hot tea. Long night?”

He was doing it again, changing the subject and being manipulative. He knew me far too well, but I never let him know or see it.

“Well, considering some asshole called my phone at four and then played pop-up with his rude ass kid at six and basically intruded on my morning, I guess you can say I've had a long night and an even longer morning.

However, I don’t need your services. Please get you and your kid and leave Maleek. Know when you’re no longer wanted.”

Again, not being moved, he continued to make the eggs and started on a pot of tea. I can admit I was stuck and intrigued by his disposition. This primarily turned me on about him; his ability to keep calm during a storm and rationally make important, sometimes life-changing decisions. That part of him had me fascinated.

“Look, Edily, quit trying to play me, especially at a time like this.”

Still in bitch mode, I cut him off,

“Stop taking such risks on my watch. Don’t make me have to have the law escort you and your kid the hell up out of here, Maleek!”

In pure disbelief at my threats, Maleek laughed and shook his head at me,

“For real, Edily? So, it’s like that? You would call the law to put me up out of here? You sure have gotten strong lately. Guess our breakup proved me the fool.”

I was so outdone by his vernacular. I couldn’t even reply.

“Look, Ed, I know you probably hate me for what I’ve done, but you must know, there is no other woman like you on this earth. I’m genuinely here because Bri and I needed structure. We needed understanding and empathy; you possess all those qualities. I swear I booked us a flight for 1:30 today, so as soon as she’s done eating and I give her a bath, I’ll be out your hair for good.”

My heart felt warm, but my mind wouldn’t let that battle be won,

“Maleek, it all sounds good, but you’re being irresponsible right now. You have your 3-year-old living on the road with you, living out of hotels, offering no structure whatsoever. Then you think it’s ok to intrude on my life like this because I supposedly offer stable attributes? Maleek, Brianna is a little girl. She is supposed to be at home watching morning cartoons, eating cereal, and playing with her dolls. I’m disgusted with you right now.”

Finally getting some sort of emotion from him after all this time yet I wasn’t sure if it was the emotion I wanted. He blew up,

“Man look, Edily, I’m trying to keep a cool head despite you being a bitch and all! With all my daughter and I have been through within the last 72 hours, the last thing I need is to be criticized right now! If you can, just back the hell up a little!”

Wait; was he on serious, brain-altering drugs?

Perplexed, I fired,

“Back the hell up? You have got some damn nerve! First, you call my phone at 4, show up unannounced at 6, don’t leave when you were told, in here cooking my food, but I need to back the hell up? News flash fuck-tard, I have been more than accommodating to you and your shit! Yet you’re still in here acting as though I owe you something! I tell you what, Maleek, you and your rude ass daughter hurry the hell up so you guys can make your got damn exit!”

He looked at me with a peculiar yet disgusted expression,

“Who the fuck you calling rude?”

Bingo. That comment must have struck a nerve because Maleek Smith rarely drops F-bombs.

“Uh, yes, dear, rude! I’m talking about your child. She’s been here for hours, eating my food, wearing my T-shirt, and has yet to acknowledge my presence. She knows exactly who I am. How have you and your wife been raising this child?

I was keen on kids having respect and discipline. Although Brianna wasn’t mine, she had stayed at my home several times while Maleek played producer in the Chicago streets. I’m not sure what he explained our relationship to have been; however, from my understanding, I was where she stayed when she came to Chicago with her dad despite our breakup, and she respected me. We built our own relationship and had a bond. I felt foolish for keeping him and his child, who wasn’t biologically mine, in my world, but parts of me back then couldn’t seem to let go. I can’t stand a devious child; neither can most adults. The challenge is the lack of a balance between work life, a personal life, and being a full-time parent. It appears Brianna has gotten caught up in the whirlwind of all three with her father.  

I wasn’t about to be disrespected in my house, especially while she ate my food. Not acknowledging my presence as she usually would do was a sign that something had been said or done to imply otherwise. The poor child ate her breakfast like she hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Brianna got the hint and spoke up in the softest tone,

“I’m sorry, Ms. Ed, but Daddy said…”

Maleek cut her off,

“Look, Edily, you’re taking this way too far; we just needed someplace cozy to sleep. When I called, I had just finished doing a show at the House of Blues with one of my artists. She had been with a sitter all day and was cranky and tired. I, too, was tired. I don’t know why, Ed, but we needed you; I needed you. That’s why I called, that’s why I just showed up; hell, Ed, that’s why I’m here.”

My eyes went soft for a moment.

Brianna was supposed to be our baby. She was supposed to be home with me while he was on the road. For him and our family, I would have gladly taken to the office more, gotten out of marketing and promotions, and raised our daughter. I would have provided a structure for our family and not allowed him to always have her out on the road.

This was supposed to be my child, my man, my family.

I grew angry again, trying to keep from crying and lashing out. I had worked so hard to build us up as a kingdom together.

Maleek Smith had so much potential in my eyes and the eyes of many others.

He was a chocolate 5’11, 210lbs handsome brother with a great career owning his up-and-coming record label. He left Epic Records as an A&R a little over six years ago and, since then, pursued his dream. His label was doing exceptionally well the last time I did the books. Last year alone, Maleek made over 3 million dollars off local record sales and shows. He was a black man with a dream and was doing everything he could to make his dream come true; for that, I admired him.

We got along and understood each other well because we were both dreamers, living our lives in the pursuit of happiness. On top of being business-minded, Maleek had sex appeal and charm. His smile was perfect; he ate well and had a gym routine; he stayed at the barber shop, keeping a fresh lining to go with those ocean waves. He kept a nice luxury car that was kept clean, he was humble and believed in Spirituality, and the sex, the sex with Maleek was the absolute best. Any woman could understand why I was still hurting over this man and all of what I felt I had lost.

However, I knew we were done for good.

My heart agreed to let him and his daughter finish breakfast so I wouldn’t feel like a total asshole. Besides, the man made me a plate and, against my objections, had brewed me some hot tea, adding honey and lemon.

“Maleek, you and Brianna, just hurry up and finish, please, so I can try to enjoy my day off, deal?”

“Deal. I’m just sorry I no longer make your days enjoyable.”

I chuckled at his gesture, finished part of my breakfast, took the tea, and headed to my bedroom to doze off for a third time.

When I woke up again, the clock read 1:11. My bedroom door had been cracked open, an indication that Maleek and his daughter were gone. Hopefully, Maleek was gone for good, and I didn’t have to move and get my number changed.

It was a sunny and warm day in early May in Chicago, so I got up and opened my floor-to-ceiling window. I loved this window because it allowed me to take everything in around me. The window was without curtains or a screen; it opened outwards and offered the most breathtaking view of the lake. Many nights, I sat right at the base of the window to watch the sunrise. This window and the view it offered gave me peace. When I let the latch free, I took in the ambiance of everything, allowing my day to unfold how it wanted.

I had a tiny house, but I think I had the best view on the city's southeast side. Leaving the window open to keep the smooth, warm Chi-Town breeze flowing, I turned on Alexa, requesting soulful artists like Billie Holiday and Lena Horne, and drew myself a nice hot bath. Something in my soul felt the mood to let go and attempt to officially put my past behind me. I made myself a Cadillac Margarita, slowly eased my way into the steaming hot lavender and chamomile, bubble-filled waters, and, like the late Whitney Houston, exhaled.

I found myself vowing to let go of Maleek and never to allow him to return to my world in such a fashion: no more fancy trips and expensive dinners. Mr. and Mrs. Future in-laws were no more. For holiday dinners, there is no longer the need to bring potato salad or famous fried turkey to that huge New York dining room table that seats 12. The seats that once sat my mom, my sister, Maleek, myself, and his entire family together were vague memories. There would be no more saving for that trip to the motherland, I guess Mama, Isa, and I will go together. No more 2k23 and French onion creole dip on game nights. No joint accounts, retirement plans, no more of us. No more the future Mrs. Smith, no more him.

I had invested so much time with this man that I had broken into pieces for the final time. I must have filled a third of the tub with my tears alone. I knew I had to get it out finally. This was the first time since he admitted his secret life to me that I’ve had the moment to Crocodile Dundy cry and mourn the relationship. I swear I cried like a lost child in my tub. However, by the time ‘The Declaration’ by Ashanti had come into rotation, I was over the memories of Maleek like a bad habit.

I had thought about Mama and Joe, the fights, the long cold nights waiting on Mama to come in with enough money to get Smitty high and hopefully feed us. I recall Mama getting raped by another pimp and Smitty blackening Mama’s eye because she should have known the other man was a pimp and not a client.

I remember Isa and me running away from home, only to get caught because we decided to go to school, and Smitty beating the 3 of us because he felt betrayed. My childhood memories were the worst. I don’t think I’d ever fully get over it, but I’m a work in progress. Joe was dead now, and for the life of me, I couldn't care less.

I was a little conflicted with myself because I don’t believe one tear in that tub was cried for Joe's loss. I didn’t feel an ounce of pain, sorrow, or mourning for the man who was known as my father. My bubbles had diminished, and the water was beginning to get cold as I turned into a human prune. I sat there for at least another 10 minutes, trying to figure out why I felt nothing for Smitty Joe Graham.

Once out of the tub, I decided to call Mama to see how things were going with her. I noticed I had a dozen missed calls from her, so I instantly got nervous. Only for her to answer on the first ring, sounding like a 6-year-old high on sugar.

“Well, good afternoon, sleepy head! You weren’t playing when you said you were sleeping in on your day off! I've been calling you all morning, trying to have you get something together tonight so we can all go out and celebrate! Was your phone dead?”

My mother wasn’t acting like nor did she sound like she had just killed her husband less than 24 hours ago. With apparent misunderstanding, I answered her,

“No, ma. I just cut the ringer off. Maleek called my phone last night, and I wasn’t feeling it. Now, please help me understand, Ma. What exactly are we celebrating?”

“Honey, we are celebrating the death of the dead! And you know how I feel about that Mr. Smith jerk, don’t you? I say we all go out and celebrate! I’ll call Aida, you call Zion, and we should all link up at The Park Ave! Maybe let Isa hang, too, for a change. That sorry fool is finally out of our lives for good, so I need to pour out a drink to that sadistic fuck! Wait, I take that back; he ain’t worth the liquor! I’m gonna drink my drink and down it to that sucka!”

By the way, she was shouting and slurring her words, I could tell Mama had already started her celebration party. However, for the first time in a long time, masked behind her intoxication, Mama sounded sincerely happy.

“Mama, you shouldn’t say things like that out loud. The right person might get the wrong impression of what you’re saying, and you may find yourself in a world of dilemmas. What did the detectives say when you spoke with them this morning?”

“For me to get a lawyer, so I’m going to need you to work on that for me. Girl, you should have seen the detective that interviewed me. He was fine as sin. Tall, dark, and fine! Just how you like them, honey. I looked at him for me, of course, at first, but considering my current marital situation, I had to pass. Since I’m older and most definitely not a flight risk, they just asked me questions and told me to be back there first thing Tuesday morning.”

I was pretty surprised.

“Oh, wow, Ma, you got off pretty easy. I thought they would have you there all day today or hold you over the weekend. Did you get arrested and immediately bond out or something?”

“Child, by the time I told those detectives my story, one of the female detectives told me it was a wonder I hadn’t killed him sooner. I just explained that he had a gun on my baby at my niece's wedding reception. I spent most of the time giving the female detective my gumbo recipe because I had brought a bowl from the wedding and had all the officers licking their fingers while I told my story. They sent me home and told me to get some rest because I was getting ready to go on a ride, considering who your father was in the south and all.”

Mama must have still been joking when she said that part because, in my eyes, Smitty Joe wasn’t anyone in the south, north, or on earth to me but an old dried-out pimp.

She continued not allowing me to get a word in edgewise because she was in her zone,

“You know honey, with all these women Smitty was still into, they gon’ be coming out the woodwork trying to see what they can get. I just hope I don’t have any problems with these whores because I’m still legally obligated to the asshole. I know when I left, there were 10 of us. When I checked back two years ago, he had over 30 girls. Young, old, white, black, all races, shapes, and sizes. Shame he’s got that house and all those women that live in it riding and depending on him to survive. Hah! It’s a mess how that cocaine addicted man had enough sense to make a halfway comfortable living off pussy. Child Joe was something else.”

Now that I think about it, Mama was right. Smitty had been a pimp for over 40 years and was nearly running an empire of women, so I could imagine how many incomes were about to take a hit. Hopefully, these women would come up with the money to at least bury his ass because my mother and I weren’t.

“So, at this point, Edily, I’m doing what the officers told me to do, rest and celebrate, so how bout’ it for tonight?”

I was enthused by my mother’s calmness about the whole situation. Even though she was talking a mile a minute and slurring over every other word, Mama was cool as a cucumber. She didn’t have any sense of worry or fear behind her voice, even though I felt this rest and celebration was a deadly combo for Mama.

“Well, I don’t think they told you to celebrate Mama, but I’ll let that one slide. Besides, you deserve it. There’s a promo party tonight at the W Hotel for several artists on the label. One in particular is my own, so I have to be there and be on point.”

Mama quickly interjected; I could sense her frustration by the abrupt irritation in her voice.

“I thought you were off tonight. You and that dang on job of yours, girl. Let me guess, we can come, but I have to be on my best behavior, right?”

She knew me too well,

“Of course, Ma, you do. Besides, I love the promo parties; it's not considered work for me. I get paid to walk around, schmooze, look pretty, and drink top-notch liquor with the execs all night.”

“Yeah, but you never said party and let your hair down. I want to party tonight, Edily, and let my hair down for a change. Don’t you think both you and I deserve it? Plus, after that crazy wedding planning these last ten months and how it all played out, Aida could use a let-down, too! Shit, Edily, why you always gotta work!”

It was official: Mama was tipsy and entering the dark side. She began to whine like a child,

“I just want to hang out with my girls and cut a rug tonight. Not be all cooped up in what y’all young folks call VIP drinking nasty-ass champagne and over-priced, watered-down drinks. In VIP back in my day, before I met Joe, we would dance freely, open our own bottles, pour, and drink while safely partying all night. The perks of VIP were being able to do that with no drama and a cab if you couldn’t make it home on your own. Hell, you ain’t got no idea what VIP is, child! I used to be able to smoke my weed and do a line of coke without no damn discrepancies. Just there at your table, roped off from the rest of the club, doing whatever the hell you want.   Sorry, Edily, but I have to pass. I’m not in a mood to behave tonight.”

My feelings were practically hurt. I felt bad that I chose to work over taking my mom to a separate club and hanging out with her.

“Mama, don’t do that to me. Deep down, you know you want to come but feel somewhat indifferent because I have to work. You know we need the money.”

“Bullshit, Edily, you need the money, not we, and as quiet as it's kept, your ass don’t need it either. I make over 200k a year, you make double that, your sister got a whole lineup of sugar daddies and such, and let’s not forget you shared bank accounts with a millionaire! We are fine; you are fine, but I understand your position and where you’re trying to go with your life and career. I’m just not in the mood for it tonight. Aida and me will probably hit up a local lounge or something and flirt with some of the old timers.”

Mama suddenly sounded depressed. Between the tone of her voice and rant on our family’s finances, I sparked a better idea,

“I tell you what, Ma, I’m going to set up a table at the W for you and Aunt Aida separate from the crowd, book you guys in a presidential suite, and keep the bottles of grey goose and separate ice buckets and chasers coming. That way, I can work. You can let as much of your hair down as you like, and we can all still party and not worry about stuffy VIPs. Now, I can’t promise you weed and cocaine use in the club, but you and Auntie Aida will have a suite for all that. How’s that sound?”

“First of all, my old ass is not doing no cocaine; however, it sounds like my baby knows how to get me and like we have a plan. So, what time do I need to be ready?”

“I’ll send someone to get you and Auntie from your place by 10, deal?”

“Deal”

We got off the phone, ending it with our usual I love you. I was suddenly excited about hanging out with the girls. We haven’t all hung out stress-free in a while, so I was delighted with the idea of us all meeting up at the W. I made arrangements for a car to pick up Mama and Auntie Aida, called Zion to let her know the plan, and ended up being on the phone with her for over an hour, recalculating what happened at Faith’s wedding.

Zion, too, wasn’t surprised that we were going to celebrate the death of my father; she, too, believed it was necessary.