"I should go home," he mumbles across the mouth of his beer bottle. But he doesn't know where that is. Home isn't a street address; it is that point where a couple converges, a point that stretches when they are separated but never breaks. Roderick and Tamara are at home with each other even when they are apart. Nate envies them as much as he loves them. "Speak of the devil."
With a flash of chrome, Roderick pulls up to his house in Tamara's ostentatious black coupe. He double parks behind the cars dog piled in his driveway, too tired to be concerned. He worked overtime to get off before the party was over but now that he is home, all Roderick wants is his dinner, his bed, and his wife. He drags up the walk, imagining the current in the room changing when he enters, the friends and family who will bear down on him with open arms. A weary smile tugs at his lips; his strength is at half mast but his joy is not.
He stops on the porch with a lunch pail in one hand and a backpack over one shoulder; he grins. "My negro Nate."
"How you living, boy?" Nate asks, drawing Roderick into a quick embrace.
"Hard," Roderick replies, clapping Nate on the back. "But I ain't complaining."
"Better not." Nate taps Roderick's shoulder with his fist. "You got it all, Rod. How was school?" he asks wryly.
"Don't start some shit," Roderick retorts, grinning. He takes a lot of heat for his gear, but Tamara bought the lunch pail for him during his first year of medical school. The sturdy stainless steel is engraved "Dr. Ross - If lost, please return to the future Mrs. Dr. Ross." That little joke has gotten him through some long days. "What's up with you, Nate?"
"Nothing."
"Yeah?" Roderick asks skeptically, studying Nate's sullen expression. "Whatchu doing out here?"
"Just chilling, thinking, you know." Nate shrugs and drains the rest of his beer.
Roderick's lips twitch. "You didn't get into it with Mo, did you?"
Later on, Nate will tell himself that he was trying to warn Roderick; he will convince himself that he did the right thing. "Nah, bro. But you might need to check out what she's into."
Roderick smiles, imagining his sister's antics. He's as proud of her as he is protective. "Just tell me, man - do I need to call five oh?" he jokes, chuckling.
"Call your 'boy'," Nate says gruffly, his eyes cooling to obsidian. "I know you call him your best friend, but he ain't no kind of friend to Mo. You can believe that."
Roderick's smile drops like a light going out. He recognizes the tone; Nate has used it before when speaking of Lucas. "What are you saying, Nate?" he asks calmly, professionally.
"Your boy had Mo on the ground in your backyard today. He was pushing up something but it wasn't daisies, know what I'm saying?"
Roderick snorts, rolling his eyes. "Get the fuck out of here, Nate."
"For real, man."
"Whatever." Roderick stares at Nate for a long minute; he shakes his head, laughing awkwardly. "Bullshit."
"I know what I saw, Rod. I'm just trying to let you know."
"Lucas was pushing up on Mo," Roderick repeats dubiously.
"Not pushing; doing." Nate's eyes glitter as the images flood into his consciousness. It is envy that hardens his voice. "I would've had to empty my wallet for some shit like that," he declares with subtle malice.
"Don't fuck with me, Nate," Roderick snaps coarsely.
Nate raises his hands and lowers his eyes to the ground. "Go ask your boy."
He doesn't believe it; he can't. The idea is outside the realm of possibility. Anger ignites in the center of his chest like a match strike. Roderick's eyes fall on the empty bottle of beer; he wonders how much Nate has had to drink. "I'm about to," he says coolly, shouldering past Nate. "Don't go any . . ." Roderick's demand is cut off by a shrill voice coming from the side of the house; he spins around.
"Quit, boy!" Marlowe shouts, skipping across the grass toward her car. "I ain't playing with you. We gotta go get this ice." When she comes into view, Lucas is right behind her, grabbing her by the hips; she nearly stumbles. "What did I say?" Marlowe grumbles, her merry, lighthearted protest dying in her throat.
Her merriment goes unnoticed; Roderick's scalpel sharp gaze dissects the scene into the obvious conclusions. Nate's words run through his mind. He doesn't even frown; his lips are as cold and hard as stone. "Mo!" he barks loudly.
No other sound could have brought Marlowe to earth so quickly and with such force. She does stumble, leaving one of her flip flops in the grass. She turns at the sound of her brother's voice, sober and still. When her eyes fall on Nate, she begins to shake. She reaches back blindly for Lucas; she gropes at his arm. "Go in the house," she commands softly, her eyes narrowed to murderous slits.
"Nate knew? When you talked to him?" Lucas asks quietly, stepping forward.
Marlowe looks at him sharply. "Go in the house, Lucas," she repeats, her voice trembling.
"Yes or no," he demands in a silky almost inaudible tone.
"Yes. Lucas!"
He's already walking to the porch, calmly, confidently. He stops in front of Roderick but his eyes are fixed on Nate, studying him, measuring him. When he sees what he needs to see, he turns to Roderick. They stare at each other silently; a hundred things are spoken, none of which Nate understands. His gaze flicks back and forth, trying to break the code of their brotherhood.
Marlowe rushes up to them, gasping for breath. "Nate, I swear to God . . ."
"Shut up, Mo," Roderick interrupts, silencing her. "Go in the house. We need to talk," he says stonily to Lucas.
Lucas nods. "I'm here."
"You shut up!" Marlowe retorts. "Nobody is getting into a fight over . . ." she trails off when Roderick grabs her arm and drags her to the front door; he throws it open and strides in. Lucas follows after casting a last look at Nate, a promising look.
Roderick thrusts Marlowe towards the living room and detours to the guest room; Lucas follows and shuts the door behind them. Marlowe grasps the knob and twists it frantically; it's locked. "Open the door, Roderick!" she shouts, shaking the knob. There is no answer. Marlowe kicks her shoe off; it hits the door with a thud. But there is still no answer. "Goddamnit!" She turns and rushes to the kitchen.
"Yes or no," Roderick begins as calmly as he can, pacing to the far end of the room. "You fucked my sister in the backyard?" he calls out over his shoulder. He can't look Lucas in the eye; the words 'fuck' and 'sister' cut across his tongue like broken glass.
"Yes."
Roderick stops in front of the bathroom door and turns around. He shouldn't be surprised at Lucas' straight answer, but still something in him recoils. "In my backyard?" Roderick states more than asks.
"Yes." Lucas' fists clench within the confines of his pockets. We made love - that's what he wants to say. But this isn't the time to mince words. He has to make his declaration at the right moment to turn the tide.
"My sister?" Roderick's voice cracks. He can't wrap his mind around the truth even though it is right there in the room hissing like a poisonous snake.
"My woman," Lucas corrects, loading the phrase with every nuance of feeling he possesses.
Roderick freezes, staring at him. "Since when?"
"Three weeks ago."
"Bullshit." Roderick clamps his lips together, shaking his head.
"We're together, Roderick, as of three weeks ago." Lucas takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "I love her."
Roderick's incredulous laugh comes out as a snarl. "Bullshit."
"I love her," Lucas repeats testily, frowning. "We're moving in together."
"Bullshit!" Roderick's voice booms against the walls like thunder. "Now I know you're lying. No way you're moving into Mo's apartment. Mo?" he snaps, his eyes afire. "No way. Motherfucker," he grits, his jaw as tight as a vise. "You're fucking with my sister!"
A crowd has gathered around the door. The television is on mute; the stereo is off. Those who speak whisper quietly so as not to miss a word of Roderick's ranting. Hand in hand, Marlowe and Tamara push through like medics arriving at the scene of an accident.
"Excuse me!" Tamara snaps. "Move!" She stops at the door and slaps it with her palm. "Roderick Ross - open this door. I ain't playing with you, mister."
"No, Roderick," Lucas protests, ignoring the pounding on the door. "Never. I wouldn't do that."
"Don't lie to me!" He points at Lucas. "No fucking way you're moving in," he exclaims, punctuating his statement with jabs as hard as punches. "I know my sister."
"Not as well as you think you do," Lucas says flatly. "She loves me; I love her. We're moving in together. That's it." As soon as the words are spoken, Lucas realizes his mistake. He has tread on sacred ground, on a raw wound between two siblings. Fuck, he thinks dismally. As if on cue, Roderick's temper explodes. He grabs the lamp from a nearby table and throws it against the wall.
At the sound of breaking glass, Marlowe goes into a panic. "Open the door!" she screams, yanking the handle like a wild thing.
"Roderick!" Tamara calls out. "Baby, don't do this! Open the door right now!" She beats the door with her fists and then starts kicking. "I'm kicking it down. You hear me? We're coming . . ." her threat is cut short when the door swings open in front of her face. Roderick grabs Marlowe, pulls her in, and shuts the door. Tamara tries the knob; it's locked. "Damn!" she spits, slapping the door with her palm.
Roderick remains silent while he strides back to the far end of the room, trying to compose himself. When he spins around, Marlowe and Lucas are standing side by side like suspects in a line up. Suddenly he goes still, squinting. He's seen them like this before, at the front door. Before we left, he thinks. The Monday after the wedding. Roderick closes his eyes, panting like a bull. Other bits of unattended information flood to the forefront of his mind: the wedding reception; the dance at Ivan's. "I'll take Marlowe off your hands . . ." The eyes Roderick opens are confused and hurt. "Three weeks, huh?"
"Roderick, listen . . ."
"I'm listening, Mo," Roderick interrupts harshly. "I'm all ears. You got something you want to tell me?" he asks with biting sarcasm.
"I love him," Marlowe declares as she moves forward, her arm pointing back towards Lucas. "He loves me too. We're moving in together and that's it!" She swipes her arms across her chest as though clearing out his protests. "I know what Nate told you, but he's a trifling prissy little punk, and I don't give a shit!" she shouts, her eyes glittering. "This is my choice. You better just get used to it and calm the fuck down."
"Yeah, what Nate told me," Roderick barks. "I didn't expect to hear that shit. From him," he emphasizes. "Anything else I should know about, Mo? You pregnant? Is that why ya'll are shacking up?" Roderick glances from Marlowe to Lucas and back again. "Do I even get to see the kid or am I just gonna hear about it from somebody a couple of years down the line?"
"Enough!" Marlowe spits, advancing on him. "I'm sorry you found out like this Roderick. This is not what I wanted." She shakes her head, placing her hand over her heart. "But I don't answer to you, okay? And I don't have to be pregnant to be with him." She stops suddenly, narrowing her eyes. "Don't you dare compare us to them!" she almost screams. "This is not the same thing. Fuck! Fuck you, Nate!" she shouts, turning and rushing the door.
Lucas jumps in front of her, holding her. "Don't."
"Move!" she bellows, trying to pull free. "I'm gonna break his fucking neck!"
"Why you want to jump on Nate? He's just the messenger," Roderick shouts coldly.
Marlowe's head snaps around; she stomps across the room to her brother. "Let me tell you something, boy: Nate ain't no kind of friend to you. Get that through your thick head. That's your friend, right there," she declares, pointing at Lucas. "That's your brother. If you want to lose him behind some stupid shit, that's on you. It ain't worth it. Trust me. I almost did it." She pauses, piercing him with her gaze. "But you are not gonna lose me, Roderick. Ever. Believe that. I love your bossy, big headed ass!" she shouts, her voice clogged with deep emotion. "But I love him too. And I'm gonna be all up in your face until you accept it," she threatens tightly. "You're gonna get sick of seeing me. If that's what you want, you got it. I'm changing. He changed me," she says, pointing at Lucas. "And there ain't no changing back."
Roderick loves her; he loves them both. But love hurts right now. It's not a great gaping wound; it's just a cut, one that will heal in time. Just not today. Roderick stalks past his sister to the door; he turns the lock and then stops, glaring at Lucas. "If you hurt her," he mumbles, holding his lips tightly to keep the tears at bay, "your dick will end up in a gator's gut somewhere in Florida."
"Understood," Lucas replies quietly as he studies Roderick's eyes. He grasps the knob and pulls the door open. Roderick strides out and pushes through the crowd toward the stairs.
"Baby," Tamara calls out, following him. "Move heifer," she snaps at a woman blocking her path. She rushes up the staircase after her husband and grasps his arm. Without breaking his stride, Roderick latches on to her hand and proceeds silently to his room.
Marlowe stands in the doorway of the guest bedroom, following her brother with fierce eyes until he disappears from sight. Her gaze falls to the assembled on lookers; their greedy eyeballs cut her like a thousand knives. She tenses; her eyes fill with blood as she scans the crowd. When she spots Nate at the far end of the room, fresh from the kitchen with a bottle of beer, she nearly chokes on her fury. She springs forward.
"No," Lucas says, grabbing her arm. "No more."
The eyes she turns on him are those of a warrior. "Do you love me?"
Lucas takes a breath and then nods.
"Watch my back," she orders, launching forward to attack. She doesn't have to force her way through the crowd; they part for her, anxious and watering at the mouth. Marlowe strides right up to Nate and roots him to the spot with a glare as frigid as death. "If you had something to say to me, Nate, you could have said it to my face."
Nate sighs as though he's already bored. His beer bottle hangs casually from his fingertips, tapping against his thigh. "Yeah? See, I thought it was on the down low. That's how they do it, right?" he asks with silky contempt, glancing over her shoulder at Lucas. "Keep it in the slave quarters?"
There it is - the cut that should kill. Marlowe flinches against the sting in the corners of her eyes; she clamps her lips together. All of the hateful words that she summons are terribly too small to bandage this wound, so she bleeds silent sullen tears. It hurts; it always will. But it will hurt him even more. "That's your wife, Nate," she declares baldly, slowly, speaking the words like a prophesy. "I don't got a master no more. I got a man." She looks him up and down but she doesn't see anything of the Nate she used to know. He's dead to her now and after this moment, she will utterly dismiss him.
"Whatever, Mo," Nate retorts, turning up his nose in disbelief. But she knows; he can see it in her eyes - it rattles him. "I'm not gonna take any shit from a . . ."
"Don't do it," Lucas chimes in. "Don't finish that sentence." He keeps his post behind Marlowe, holding himself back from overshadowing her moment. But the threat in his voice is as palpable as a blow.
Nate's expression clouds dramatically, almost comically. "Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you still doing here?" he shouts loudly, trying to wring some allegiance from the crowd. "You came between Mo and Roderick and you got the nerve to open your mouth?"
"You did this," Marlowe snarls. She swings around to face the crowd, but her next words crumble on her tongue. They're all staring at her. They don't know everything that happened; they don't understand. And they don't want to - that is the realization that nearly knocks her down. It's just drama. It's just another piece of her life that will be played out like a movie year after year after year. Images persist long after the actors move on, fade, and die. Images never change and never fail. So she heaves a breath and allows the part of her heart that was holding on to die. The real Marlowe Ross takes Lucas' hand and simply walks out, right out the front door. And just like that, an old fear of failure moves irrevocably out of reach.
