Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [114]
Tyrone squinted. Yep, those were definitely keys dangling between Perry’s fingers as he yelled, “Come on, boy, get over here, only take you a second.”
Tyrone veered across the street and swept up the steps onto Hettie’s porch. “Yo, Pops, what’s up? You look like you’re on the way to stepping out in your good shirt.”
Perry looked away so his embarrassment wouldn’t show. “You hear about those girls?”
“Mona just called. I’m trying to get over there now.”
Perry threw the keys at Tyrone. “Take her out and help her look for them, you know, help her calm herself down.”
Tyrone caught the keys in one hand, and then Perry reached into his pocket and pulled up a twenty. “Do something nice for her too. Buy her something to eat, maybe some flowers, something that smells sweet, you know what I mean?”
Tyrone’s eyebrows were furrowed in deep confusion. “Scuse the cliché, Pops, but I’m gonna take the money and run before you change your mind. Even though I’m dying to ask why.” He searched Perry’s face when he asked it.
Perry looked up and down the steet, at the porch floor, at the keys dripping between Tyrone’s fingers. He looked everywhere except at his son’s face. “Why?” he said. He took a deep breath. “Because that’s what a man does, Tyrone.” Now he did look at his son. “A real man doesn’t run his woman into the ground, lie and cheat, try to outhang every stupid ass who walks the Strip on Saturday nights. A real man is strong enough to go soft on his woman and knows that it doesn’t take away from his manhood.”
Now Tyrone was embarrassed. Now he couldn’t meet his father’s gaze. He took the twenty, and his father held on to his hand, shaking his hand, and Tyrone had the feeling that they were both learning how to be real men together.
Bliss was bored, waiting for Mister to return. Shern and Victoria were still huddled up against each other asleep on the couch, so there was no one to argue with, or complain to, no one even to console her should she start to cry again. There was no television, not even a transistor radio. So she went exploring. Crept around the corner from the main room where her sisters were sleeping, ended up at a white wood door with a glass handle. Started to open the door, then stopped. Decided to play ice skating on the smooth, cold floor. She propelled her body and spun herself around as if her double-stockinged feet really had blades attached. She curved out figure eights and double Lutzes all through this expansive and empty room. She hummed “Moon River” and pretended she skated with a partner, and now he was lifting her up and up and she was twirling like a fast-moving sundial on the palms of his hands. Then she was back on the floor, bowing gracefully to a standing ovation, grabbing for her partner’s hand, presenting him to share in the accolades. She was holding the glass handle to the white wood door, pulling her partner out because he was shy; she pulled the handle instead, and the door creaked open.
Now she was Bliss again, not the gold medalist ice skater. She was her bold, curious self, looking inside the closet of a room on the other side of the door. She saw the baseball bat that was propped against the wall on an irregularly shaped patch of a red velvet rug. She picked up the bat and swung it around. It was a heavy bat, and she had to call on her strength to brandish it about. She scuffed her stockinged feet against the cold, slick floor, pretended to straighten out a cap on her head, rubbed her hands along the side of her corduroy pants, spit, straightened out the cap again, then spread her feet and swung the bat. “Strike one, strike two, you’re out.”
Now she was no longer playing baseball but was a sleuth