I was grateful that Bebe’s father was in the front yard. Otherwise, I would’ve walked right by her house. I hadn’t been here in a while, a few months to be exact. I waved at Mr. Rivera. His grandson Bobby was also in the yard, playing with his toy truck. His short dreadlocks reminded me of Flip.

I pushed open the gate and walked up to Bobby. I bent over and hugged him. I smelled a mixture of sweat and coconut oil, probably from his hair. Finally, I entered the house in search of Bebe. I passed people that I had never seen before in the dining room. We all nodded to each other with the acceptable grave expressions. They informed me that Bebe was in the kitchen.

I sat my purse and a bag with a pint of scotch on the table in the dining room. She came into the room. Even with her morose expression, she still looked as beautiful as ever. Normally her eyes were big and round, but today they were narrow slits from the puffiness. She had probably been crying non-stop. Her nose was peeling from blowing it too much. She seemed poised for a breakdown. I hugged her close. I wanted to shield her from all of the sadness in the world, at least for the moment. I swallowed to keep the tears at bay. She pulled away gently and wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

“It’s all right. I’m just glad you’re here now.”

“How’s Bobby?”

“He’s not really gettin’ it, bein’ only three years old.”

We sat at the table. “I got some scotch and ginger ale,” I said, grinning. I opened the bag and sat the contents on the table.

“Glasses?”

“Kitchen,” she said, rising. But I put my hand up to stop her.

“I’ll get them.”

As I entered the kitchen, I was hit with a rancid odor. The lid of a tall, green trashcan was on the floor in front of the refrigerator. The can contained a large, black garbage bag, overflowing with trash. I picked up the lid and placed it back on top of the bag. Faded red fingerprints were at the lower end of the refrigerator door. More than likely, they were from Bobby. There were dishes in the sink and all over the countertops. I picked up two tall glasses and washed them as best as I could amongst the clutter.

When I returned, Bebe was wiping her eyes. I sat the glasses on the table, reached into the bag, and pulled out the bottle of scotch. I twisted off the cap and poured both of us two fingers. Then I filled the rest of the glasses with ginger ale. She picked up her glass and took a swallow. She moaned as the scotch burned. I picked up my glass and took a healthier swallow. I was used to the burn. I’d spent last winter, drinking away weekends while I mourned the death of my mother. I hadn’t had a drop in over a year. I gave up the booze after I gained 20lbs.

For the moment, we drank to Flip. She took a healthier sip, sat the drink down, and shook a cigarette loose from a pack. She lit it and blew out a stream of smoke. I hated when she smoked. My mother smoked for twenty years and died of lung cancer, but now was not the time to complain.

“He asked me to marry him, and I told him that I would think about it,” said Bebe.

“Really? When?”

“On Sunday.” It was now Friday, almost a week later, and Flip was dead. “Not that it makes a difference now.”

She looked into my eyes for some sort of confirmation of her nonchalant attitude. I shrugged. I wasn’t sure how to react. Women said or expressed one thing but really meant something entirely different. I took the safe road. I switched to shrink mode--a poor imitation of my therapist.

“What would you have said?” My voice became soothing, almost maternal.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like yes. I mean that I would’ve said yes, but sometimes, no.” I gave her a perfunctory nod.

“What happened?” I prodded gently.

“I spent the night on Sunday. He took me to work that Monday. Then he called me that night. He had some kid with him. I don’t know his name. I think its Dwayne. Let’s say it’s Dwayne. All of a sudden, he accused Dwayne of stealing his gun while he was still talking to me. He kept a nine-millimeter at the house for protection. Dwayne was there Saturday, but he couldn’t find it on Sunday when I was there.

So he’s talking to me, but he’s accusing Dwayne at the same time, and a fight broke out. Then the phone went dead. I called back, but it was busy. Finally, he called me back at three in the morning. He was at the hospital. He had grabbed a knife and cut Dwayne across the face, but he’d also cut his own arm. Dwayne got away. He’s lucky or he would’ve been dead.”

A tear fell down her cheek. She wiped it away with her hand and puffed on the cigarette. She blew out a stream of smoke. Her hand shook as she flicked ashes into the ashtray. “They must’ve been waiting for him ‘cause they shot him in the back of his head. That nosy bitch from upstairs called the police.” I nodded again. (I wasn’t even an echo of the real thing, but she didn’t seem to mind.)

The tears were streaming down her face now. I took her hand. She put out the cigarette and pulled away from me. She grabbed a napkin from a crystal napkin holder in the shape of two swans and wiped her face.

“The police came to my house around two in the morning. I went to the precinct and told them what I knew. God help that mothafucka if my brothers find him first.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Her eyes were shining, and her mouth was twisted into a sneer. Her menacing appearance sent a shiver through my body. I knew her brothers. They were good men--hard working fathers and supportive husbands, but they were from the streets. This was their sister’s man, their nephew’s father. Although I agreed with her orally, I said a silent prayer for Dwayne. He didn’t need to be on the streets, but I wasn’t so sure if he deserved the wrath of Tony and Sylvio.

A woman I assumed was her grandmother came into the room from the basement. She looked like an older and darker version of Bebe. They shared the same heart-shaped face and full, pouty lips.

“Bebe, Tony come back with the hamburger rolls yet?”

“No Nonie, not yet. This is my friend Reggie. Reggie, this is my grandmother.”

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” She left the room and entered the kitchen. After a moment, the rear screen door close. “My God, you look just like her.”

“I know. My Puerto Rican daddy made me lighter, but that’s it. Everything else is from her and my mother. She got up here yesterday. Drove up with my uncle from Georgia.” She lit another cigarette. The front door suddenly opened and closed. Someone had come in.

Jasmine entered the room. “Put that damn cigarette out!” she yelled, just as loud and as boisterous as ever. I loved her for it. We needed some noise. Happy noise. The room had taken on a somber tone. Jasmine also had a bag. I already knew what it contained.

“Hey Jaz. Let me guess, Hennessy?”

“You know it,” she said. She put her hand on my shoulder for a brief moment, sat the bag on the table, and then went around me to Bebe. She leaned over and hugged her. The tears fell down Bebe’s face once more. Jasmine straightened up, and Bebe reached for more napkins.

“It’s all right. We gonna get through it. Oh, I forgot to get soda.”

“I gotta another ginger ale in my bag.”

“Oh bless you Reggie. I need a glass,” said Jasmine.

“Gotta wash one out.”

She went into the kitchen. A moment later, we heard water running. “Pfew! It stinks in here. Bebe, why don’t you get one of your brothers to take out the trash?”

“Why you gotta be so loud?” I winked at Bebe. She smiled. I felt a fluttering in the pit of my stomach. Her smile did that to me.

“Shut up Reggie,” said Jasmine. She returned with a clean glass. We heard the front door close again. Then we heard her brothers. “Uh-oh, here we go,” said Jasmine.

“Let’s go downstairs,” said Bebe. She extinguished her cigarette and dropped the used, crumpled napkins on the table.

We picked up our drinks, plus the bags with the alcohol, and followed Bebe downstairs to her room in the basement. She sat at the head of her bed with her back against the headboard. I sat in an old leather recliner that no longer reclined. It was still soft and comfy. Jasmine sat at the foot of the bed after she had mixed herself a drink.

She had another pack of cigarettes on the nightstand to her right. She pulled one out of the pack and lit it. I ignored the fact that she had just extinguished one. Her mind was on other things.

“I shouldn’t be drinking this with my diabetes,” said Jasmine.

“You have diabetes?”

“Isn’t that what I just said? I am speaking English, right?”

“Whatever,” I said, grinning. “I’m just surprised because you always seem so up.”

“That’s ‘cause you only see me at work. When I get home, sometimes, I just crash. I don’t even take my clothes off.” Jasmine shut her eyes, and her head flopped to the side. I giggled. Bebe smiled. The butterflies fluttered again.

“How does Anthony handle it? I’m asking because he always seems so worried about you,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. Well for one, he don’t know that I drink. And two, if anyone tells him, I’ma kick their butt,” said Jasmine, while looking at me.

“What? Moi?”

“Yes, big mouth.” We laughed again.

An hour or so passed with us mostly silent. We sipped our drinks and reflected on the days that had passed and the days to come. Every so often, one of us commented on what needed to be done: funeral arrangements, social security for Bobby, and a therapist for her to talk to.

Sandra came down the steps. She was Bebe’s friend from high school. I knew her in passing. There was an awkward silence after Bebe introduced her to Jasmine, but we were saved from ourselves when Sandra produced a bag of weed. Bebe asked us to go into the walk-in closet to smoke in case Bobby came downstairs. Then she turned on the TV.

I never actually smoked. I occasionally enjoyed a contact high. Sometimes I’d stand around while other people smoked and attained a buzz without actually inhaling. Very Bill Clintonesque. Tonight, I needed a whiff. We left Bebe and disappeared into the closet.

The small room was cluttered with large, black garbage bags, filled with clothes. We sat on the bags and became as comfortable as possible. Sandra rolled a blunt--a marijuana cigarette rolled in cigar paper and some of the cigar tobacco, instead of the traditional bamboo paper. I fixed her a drink.

Sandra lit the blunt and took a long drag. She passed it to Jasmine who also took a long pull. I declined. Booze was my choice of poison. I was on my third drink. The room quickly became filled with smoke.

“I didn’t like him,” said Sandra.

I knew what she meant right away. “Yeah, I didn’t care for him either.”

“Who?” asked Jasmine.

I looked at Jasmine incredulously. “Flip, you nitwit.”

“Anyway,” said Jasmine, while rolling her eyes. “How come you don’t, I mean, didn’t like him?”

“Well . . .”

“He . . .” We both said simultaneously. “No, you go first,” I said to Sandra.

“He wasn’t good to Bebe, and he was mean to me,” said Sandra.

“I know that they had problems, but he wasn’t that bad, right?”

“Jaz, you just pretty much came into the picture so you didn’t really know him. He was--”

“A piece of crap,” snapped Sandra.

“I was going to say difficult. He had a lot of problems. His mom really messed him up. I don’t know how, but that’s what Bebe told me.”

“He pulled a gun on me once,” said Sandra, while looking at the floor. Sandra looked up to find Jasmine staring at her with a shocked expression.

“Yep. I was trying to get him to leave, ‘cause he was drunk and putting her down, so he threatened to shoot me. He always had a gun, you know, bein’ a dealer and all. Anyway, he pulled it out and kept it at his side, but all he had to do was lift his arm and pull the trigger.”

“I was at their house one time when they got into it, but he didn’t threaten me.” Jasmine looked at me. I nodded.

“Maybe he liked you more than me. What happened?” asked Sandra.

“He showed up drunk one night after he had promised to leave for good. This was before he hit her. Anyway, he was putting her down, and I flipped the script on him. I asked him why he wanted to stay with her if he thought she was beneath him. He couldn’t explain, so he left.”

“I guess that’s where I went wrong. I told him that I would kill him if he didn’t leave.”

“Well there you go,” said Jasmine. She snickered, and then we all burst out laughing. Sandra regained her composure first. “How long have you known Bebe?”

“Since last spring,” I said. “We used to come home together, and she’d talk about him. It was hard just listening. There were times when I wanted to shake her and yell at the top of my lungs for her to get away from him. But I learned years ago that sometimes you just have to let people go through whatever it is they need to go through so they can get to where they’re going, with some exceptions. Like when he hit her. I was afraid that she wouldn’t leave him, so I helped her move back home. After something like that, some women are too afraid to leave.”

“They ain’t afraid. They just don’t wanna leave,” said Sandra.

“They’re afraid. My father used to beat my mother on the regular. It was a weekly thing, like cleaning the bathroom. I was too young understand. No, scratch that. Even as an adult, I still didn’t understand it. Then on her deathbed, my mother told me about this one time when my father held a gun on her while she was pregnant with me. Flip threatened to shoot you. Imagine what he must’ve been doing to Bebe? And the longer they stay, the worse it gets. Trust me, they’re afraid, sometimes terrified.”

“You got a point,” said Sandra. “But, . . . a part of it is that they want to stay. She still loved him after everything he put her through: the fights, jail, his drug dealin’, not spendin’ enough time with Bobby . . .”

“A lot of women mistake things for love,” I said defensively. “Abused women mistake fear for love. They think: ‘he hits me ‘cause he’s afraid of losing me. He doesn’t want anyone else to have me, so that must be love’.”

“Yep. I had my share of that,” said Jasmine. “I been in Bebe shoes before, and he ended up dead just like Flip. He got gunned down, chillin’ in front of a store two days after this other dealer threatened him. When I lost him, that hurt worse than any of the stupid things he put me through.” Jasmine wiped away a tear that had fallen down her cheek.

I reached out to her. She took my hand. Sandra rubbed her shoulder. Jasmine didn’t break down completely, but she needed a moment to get it back together. She let go of my hand, looked up at me, and smiled through her tears.

“I need another drink,” she said.

I stood up and left the closet. We were out of ginger ale, so I announced that I was going to the store.

“Bring me some cigarettes,” yelled Sandra from the closet. She poked her head out and handed me a ten-dollar bill. “Pack of Newports.”

“Sure. Anyone else?”

I left the house with a shopping list that consisted of soda, cigarettes, and ice cream. As I walked the six blocks to the store, my mind wandered. Flip was really dead. I still couldn’t believe it. As terrible as it sounded, I was secretly relieved for Bebe. Sad but true, I could only see disaster for her had she gone back to him. She had to flee her home just shy of six months after they had moved in, and the whole time that they lived together, she was unhappy. I just couldn’t see him turning that around. Then again, I was biased toward him, and men in general, particularly abusive men. But that wasn’t the real reason for my relief.

The truth is, my feelings for Bebe went beyond friendship. I wanted to be with her. The realization that I was a lesbian should’ve freaked me out, but it didn’t. My epiphany actual felt right. My attraction to men had never even reached the excitement level of a shoe sale. With Bebe, I felt bliss. Euphoria. Shoot, I felt alive. Which shocked me, because lesbian or not, she wasn’t my type.

She’d had a child too young (seventeen years old) and was all of the things that I despised. She was lazy, disorganized, and worst of all, passive-aggressive. Her strategy for handling a challenge was to hope and wait for a particular outcome, and then duck out of sight when the you-know-what hit the fan. She’s never had a plan “b”. No, that’s not right. She did. Me. Whenever she needed someone to bail her out, I was there. Babysitting, carfare, lunch, even paying her rent! I was there.

And now, Flip was gone. I couldn’t help feeling that I deserved something for all of my effort. I couldn’t help feeling that she might be open to something different, something new. Men had disappointed her so many times; back and forth with Flip, and then the countless others that she used to fill the gaps between their breakups. They were just physical distractions for the real thing. But I was hesitant in approaching her. All the signs pointed to Bebe not wanting this. She was mourning the loss of her son’s father, her first love. And with her resolve, she’d probably bounce back and find another man to fill the space in her life.

Flip never did anything except eat, sleep, and shit on her. And he would’ve kept pulling her down into his murky world of low self-esteem and battery had he not been killed. I’d lied to Sandra and Jasmine. I didn’t just dislike him. I hated him. But not just for his trespasses on Bebe, but for the undeserved love that she bestowed on him. I wanted the love that she willingly gave to him. Bebe was devoted to him. She would’ve never left him, not really. She just needed space after he’d hit her. She would’ve returned to him and probably married him. That realization made me burn with envy. I was glad that he was dead. Good riddance. Now there’s one less drug dealing batterer in the world.

I stopped as a car rounded the corner in front of me. I looked up and realized that I had walked passed the store. I doubled back a block and entered the small bodega. I got the items on my list, paid for them, and returned to Bebe’s house. When I got back, Bebe’s family and all of the strange people were gone. I looked at my watch. It was 10:30pm. My guess was that they had retired for the evening, upstairs or their own homes, respectively.

As a matter of fact, the house seemed deserted until I got to the dining room. I heard the echoes of voices in the kitchen. I moved a little closer to the kitchen doorway. I felt a cool breeze. We lived in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn, next to the Jamaica Bay. The bay breeze offered a respite from the summer heat.

Everyone had moved outside to the backyard. I walked through the kitchen and joined them. Bebe, Sandra, and Jasmine were sitting in lawn chairs. Bobby was sitting on the grass in front of his mother. A vacant seat to Bebe’s left had been set up for me. I sat the bag on the floor next to the empty chair and sat down slowly.

“It’s about time, miss thing. We were about to send out an APB on you: an all points bitch alert,” said Jasmine.

“You wanna watch that. Child on the premises,” I said. She shrugged her shoulders, a drunken smile on her face.

I passed out the items. I gave Bobby an ice cream cone to keep him busy. He immediately became preoccupied with his treat and ignored us. We caroused, debating topics like weight loss, and, ironically, the effects of drugs and alcohol.

Amidst the drunken brou ha-ha, I noticed that Bebe had become quiet. She was staring at Bobby. I surmised that she was either drunk, or missing Flip, or both.

All of a sudden, I felt incredibly guilty for my earlier thoughts. How selfish of me? She needed me to be here for her, to console, like a friend, and all I could think of was what she owed me. She looked up and caught me staring at her. She smiled. I smiled back.

“You’ll be okay,” I whispered.

“I hope so,” she murmured back.

“You will. I gotta go. It’s getting late.”

“I’ll call you a cab,” she said.

“Thanks.”

I stood up slowly and went back into the house. I had to use the bathroom, but I could wait until I got home. I needed to get out of here, fast. I felt like a toad. Lower than a toad, I felt like toad shit. I picked up my bag and took a deep breath. I exhaled slowly to keep the tears at bay. I heard steps behind me.

“The cab’ll be here in a few minutes,” she said.

“Okay.”

I didn’t want to face her, but I knew that I had to. When I turned around, she embraced me. This time I didn’t stop them. I let the tears flow as I hugged her back. She kissed me on the cheek. I broke the embrace.

“Thanks a lot, Reggie.”

“Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I heard a car honking. “Gotta go.” I walked away from her and let myself out. I sat in the back seat of the taxi. I gave him directions. My heart sank as he pulled away from the curb.