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  RENEE AND JAY

  I look into Giovanni’s eyes. How does anyone know for sure about love? I mean, I thought I loved R. J., and look what happened. It’s obvious the man kneeling in front of me is sure of himself. Do I love him? Or rather, will I love him? I love everything about him so far. We’ll just have to see. I mean, he’s quick, sneaky, curious—like me. Maybe I’ve found someone just like me after all this time? My soul mate is white, lives a few doors down, and works at a restaurant?

  “I don’t know if I love you or not, but I want to.” The words leave my mouth, and I’ve realize I’ve just pledged my love to a white boy. My ancestors are rolling over in their graves. “Maybe this Saint Agnes thing is the real deal.”

  “But you just heard him say it was superstition!” Pops yells.

  “I believe, Giovanni.” I don’t cry, and though my eyes are heavy, my heart is light. “Ask me again.”

  “But—” Pops begins, but I shut him off with my hand. Evidently, Italians know what “the hand” is all about.

  “Renee Howard, will you marry me?”

  Instead of using mere womanly words, I pull Giovanni to his feet and give him the longest kiss in the history of Luchesi’s.

  And that’s how I become engaged.

  Books by J. J. Murray

  RENEE AND JAY

  SOMETHING REAL

  Published by Kensington Books

  Renee and Jay

  J. J. MURRAY

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  RENEE AND JAY

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  SOMETHING REAL

  Copyright Page

  For Amy

  Chapter One

  “Thank you for calling Star City Cable. May I have your Tname and account number?”

  I must say that one hundred times a day as I sit in my ugly-ass Post-it-noted, industrial blue-gray, cloth-covered cubicle. I connect most folks with new service. Other folks? Well, let’s say I listen a lot and try not to go off.

  “How far is your trailer from the road, Mr. Williams?”

  “I dunno.”

  Another trailer person. Why are white people so fascinated with trailer parks? Maybe it reminds them of circling the wagons during Indian attacks. I make an L with my left hand, notice another chipped nail, and flash the loser sign (left hand to forehead) to Collette Johnson in the next cubicle. She winks and comes over to listen in.

  “Okay, Mr. Williams, how far is your trailer from the trailer next to you?”

  “Dunno.”

  I hit the mute button. “Collette, this man is trippin’. Doesn’t know how far his trailer is from the road or from his own next-door neighbor.”

  “Ask him how long it takes him to walk next door,” she says.

  I press the mute button again. “Mr. Williams, how long does it take for you to walk next door?”

  “Well,” he says, “I walk kinda slow. And it depends on the weather, too.”

  I need this job, but I don’t need people like Mr. Williams calling at 5:59 P.M. when I’m off at six and I’m hungry and gotta pee and it’s been snowing all day and I know VDOT isn’t going to have the roads clear and a Jetta isn’t exactly a Range Rover.

  “Mr. Williams, if you walk out on your front porch—”

  “Don’t have a porch.”

  I can’t imagine living without something out the front door. “Okay, Mr. Williams,” I say, as Collette tries not to fall out laughing, “let’s say you stick your head out the door.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you were to spit,” I say, and Collette walks away waving her hands. “If you were to spit out your door, would it hit the trailer next to you?” Silence on the other end. “Mr. Williams?” Fool is probably out trying to lay a loogie on his neighbor’s trailer.

  “I’m just doin’ some figurin’.”

  “Take your time, Mr. Williams.” Collette has now collected a few coworkers from other cubicles, each making nasty p-tui sounds. Collette removes one of her dagger earrings and picks up my handset.

  “Well,” Mr. Williams says finally, “I guess if the wind was right, I could hit it.”

  I stifle a laugh, push Collette toward the others, and type “50 feet or less from nearest dwelling” on my computer screen. “Uh, thank you, Mr. Williams. I have all the information I need. The cable technician will be by sometime Monday afternoon, weather permitting. If you have any more questions about this order, please call the toll-free number, and when instructed, dial six-seven-six-eight”—Collette’s extension.

  “No, you didn’t,” Collette says.

  “That’s right. Six-seven-six-eight. My name? Collette Johnson. Thank you, Mr. Williams. You have a nice evening.”

  I quickly log out and push back from my computer. “He says he’d be ‘sho ’nuff callin’ back Monday,’ Collette.”

  “That was cold, Renee.”

  “Oh, like you never done that to me.” I gather my purse and coat.

  “Honey,” Collette says, “I only give your extension to the men with sexy voices.”

  “Right, and every one of them fools is married.”

  “What about that minister?”

  “Puh-lease. Man wanted to lay some hands on me, said he was sorry he couldn’t since we were on the phone.”

  “Just tryin’ to get you a new man, girl. What you got planned for tonight?”

  Another Friday night with nothing to do and all night to do it, nowhere to go and all night to get there. Another date with Mr. Remote Control. At least he’s a slim black man who doesn’t mind getting his buttons pushed.

  When I don’t answer, Collette pouts and shakes her head. “Girlfriend, you gotta stop thinkin’ about that dog. He gone, you ain’t, you got legs and a fresh paycheck. Put on some decent clothes and come out with us.”

  “Us” is Collette and her forever-man, Clyde Dunbar. I call him “forever-man” because Collette says he’s for-evuh doing this, that, and the other. He’s okay-looking in a “Charles-Dutton-as-Roc” sort of way, and he’s funny sometimes. He has a job, a Lex, and his own condo. All paid for. And he’s for-evuh reminding everyone of that.

  “You driving?” I ask, looking at the snow drifting down.

  “You coming?”

  I want to go—really. Well, not really. Clyde will go on and on about being one of the few brothers at the executive level of the N&W railroad, play kissy-face with Collette, dance like a fool, order drinks with names like “screaming orgasm” too loudly, and over-tip the waitress or waiter. Collette will be checking out every breathing or barely breathing dog at the club, trying to find me a new pet.

  The last time we go, she flirts with this dreadlocked Coolio wannabe—right in front of Clyde—until Dread Man comes over. Collette excuses herself, grabs Clyde’s hand, and drags him to the dance floor, leaving me and Ziggy Marley alone at the table.

  “You alone?” he asks.

  I want to say, “Uh-duh,” but I only roll my eyes and say, “My man will be here soon.”

  Then he checks me out. You know what I’m talking about. He steps back, checks out my legs under the table, leans in and checks my titties, all done like I don’t know he’s doing it. It’s nice to get attention now and then, but sometimes these dogs go too far. Whatever happened to a man
looking in my eyes and calling them “limpid pools” or something romantic? I know that’s cornball, but at least it’s better than being felt up by bloodshot eyes.

  “Where he at?” he asks, shaking his dreds in my face. Maybe he’s Whoopi’s long-lost son.

  I don’t need this. “Where he be,” I say, taking a sip of my strawberry daiquiri.

  He gulps his drink, sets it on the table, and holds out his hand. I see rings on every finger, every damn ring with a diamond. Except for a class ring, my fingers are naked. His have to be CZs. “Wanna dance?” he asks. Rico Suave he’s not.

  I curse Collette in my head and catch her eye as she dances with Clyde. She means well. After R. J. left for D.C., Collette decided to find me a hookup. And this is what she finds for me. The black Liberace.

  I hate being cold to people I don’t know, and I’m sure “Rings” isn’t a total dog, but sometimes you have to show who’s master.

  “Sure. I want to dance,” I say with a smile. He smiles and grabs my hand. “But not with you.”

  His hand lingers for a moment, then slides off. “Touché,” he says.

  As he walks away I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. I mean, he’s in Roanoke, Virginia, speaking French. Maybe they are diamonds, maybe he is Bob Marley reincarnated. I gulp the rest of my strawberry daiquiri and think, Naah. Besides, I’d never go out with a man with hair longer than mine.

  “Renee? Hello? Earth to Miss Howard. You trippin’ or something?”

  “No. Just reminiscing.”

  It’s snowing something fierce now. I can barely see my Jetta in the parking lot from Star City’s main entrance.

  “When you gonna get rid of that purse?” She taps my Liz Claiborne purse with a long, curly nail. “You heard what that heifer said on Oprah.”

  I have no intention of getting rid of it, even if it isn’t made especially for my people. “You know Liz will have to change her mind after she loses money,” I say.

  “Whatever,” Collette says. “So, you coming?”

  I put on my coat and pop my umbrella. “I got some groceries to pick up.”

  “You and everyone else in town.”

  “Maybe I’ll get on channel seven at Harris-Teeter.” In Roanoke, a long line at a grocery store becomes the top story. “Then Prince Charming will see me, fall immediately in love with my bomb of a body, and rescue me.”

  “Child, you need Jesus. Besides, Prince Charming was a white boy. You mean Prince, or The Artist or whatever.”

  “You know what I meant. You and Clyde have fun.”

  Collette gives me her “uh-huh” smile. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Oh, there he is now.”

  I envy Collette for Clyde. Yeah, he’s chubby and loud and dresses like he’s on 227, but he takes care of Collette—like tonight leaving early from work to drive her home in the snow. I’ve never known, much less been with, a man who would do that for me. Then again, I’ve never known exactly what I’ve wanted in a man, but whoever he might be, I know I haven’t found him yet because I’m still alone.

  I can’t think of a time that Collette didn’t have a man. In kindergarten, she had the boys helping her paste shit down or do her finger painting for her. Me, I went home with crusty nails. In middle school, they carried her books while I lugged a book bag. In high school, she hooked up with most of the linemen on the football team—simultaneously—while I had only one real date my entire high-school career. And the ho ain’t even all that pretty. Big teeth, big hair (mostly her own), big body, and big feet. She’s keeping Weight Watchers in business all by herself. I tell her she’s in their “Frequent Fryer Program.” As a result, I can’t borrow shit from her, not that I’d want to. Collette dresses like she’s part of a perpetual circus, wearing every damn color of the rainbow every damn day. When she spins around, she looks like a kaleidoscope. The girl is loud even before she speaks, and when she does, daa-em, everybody looks her way.

  I’m no diva-in-waiting like Collette. I know I’m at least somewhat cute, I’m better-educated, I’m soft-spoken, I know how to dress, and yet . . . Collette’s got another man, a good man, driving her home on a snowy night.

  I trudge through the slush, soaking my white Nikes, to my Jetta, kitted out with rims, spoiler, and a bumpin’ sound system. No matter how long it takes to get home, I will be jammin’ to UNV and Babyface, my “dates” for the evening. I know Babyface is married, but what that ho don’t know won’t hurt her.

  I only live six miles from the Star City Cable operations center, but tonight it takes forty-five minutes to get from Hershberger Road to 581 to the Elm Avenue exit to Franklin Road to my neighborhood in Old Southwest thanks to no plowing and a whole bunch of fools in four-wheel-drives thinking they can drive the speed limit. I enjoy watching them leave the road here and there to get around traffic and get ass-deep stuck in the snow.

  Roanoke, Virginia, the Star City of the South. More like the Most Segregated Town in the South. Even the bowling leagues are segregated. Go to Hilltop Lanes any Wednesday night, and you’ll see white folks on the left half, black folks on the right. Population’s less than 100,000 so ’Noke isn’t a city in my mind. “Big Lick” (I love that nickname) is divided off into sections, kind of like D.C. Most of the white people live in three of the four quadrants (NE, SW and SE), and most of my people live in Northwest. One out of every four Roanokers is black, and we live in one of four sections. Nah, we ain’t segregated—just separated. I grew up in Northwest and now live in Old Southwest with Mama. Around here, that almost makes me a traitor to my people.

  Roanoke is an all-American city. Really. We’ve won this award five times to tie Cleveland for top honors. That should tell you something, huh? And no offense to anyone from Cleveland. I mean, at least Cleveland has a professional football team (who thought up the name “Browns” when the team was all-white back in the day?), a professional baseball team (still called the Indians—what’s up with that?), and a professional basketball team. Roanoke used to have a semi-pro football team (the Rush), and now has an indoor football team (the Steam) and a minor-league hockey team (the Express). Steam? Express? It’s a railroad-town thing, you wouldn’t understand.

  Our all-American city council (mostly white) recently built a seven-million-dollar footbridge over the damn train tracks, like they’re scenic or something. The bridge connects the Hotel Roanoke, staffed by my people, to downtown, a place my people avoid. Had a brother pepper-sprayed and beaten for one blown taillight down there. Wasn’t quite Rodney King, but it sent a message: “Y’all just keep to yuh-selves, now.” As for the police, seems like 99 44/100 percent of them are ivory white. They always seem to cruise Northwest, yet when the shit really happens, it takes them forever to get there.

  Whenever I get out of Roanoke, which isn’t often, and I tell people where I’m from, they always say, “That’s in Georgia, right?” I correct them and get asked, “What’s it near?” I have yet to be able to answer that one to anyone’s satisfaction. It’s north of Blacksburg (where the Virginia Tech Hokies play) and south of Lynchburg (where Jerry Falwell lives), about four hours west of Richmond, and three hours north of Charlotte, North Carolina. The border of West Virginia looks like a belly, so consider Roanoke the tip of West Virginia’s “outie” belly button. In other words, we’re in the middle of nowhere, connected to the rest of the world by I-81. Yep, I’m stuck between Blacksburg and Lynchburg, two towns you can get to from Lee (as in Robert E.) Highway, yet I’m only eighteen miles away from the Booker T. Washington National Monument.

  If I were moving into Roanoke from somewhere else, I’d have lots of questions. It was once called Big Lick? Isn’t that a bit suggestive? Oh, it was a salt lick for deer. That’s still kind of suggestive. It’s also an all-American city? In what sport? Oh. The city is all-American. And you have a big star on a mountain? There’s a zoo there? Sounds nice. Just one tiger? What happened to the other one? Oh, Roanoke’s just a one-tiger town. Any other animals, like bears? You shoot bears. Why do you do that? They
tie up traffic. This is a joke, right? It’s not a joke. On Hershberger Road, you say? But never on Carolina Street. Why not? There’s a really big tree in the middle of the road. Why is there a really big tree in the middle of the road? Oh. No one’s thought to cut it down. You say that snakes occasionally get loose and end up in Laundromats? And people have kept pet pigs in their backyards? Within the city limits? Oh, I don’t doubt they make good pets. Kinda puts a damper on barbecues, though, huh? Well, I thought it was funny. How about shopping? I’ll be able to see all the stores as I land at the airport? Especially the sidewalk sales at Valley View? Isn’t that dangerous? Oh, only the prices are falling at Valley View Mall. Catchy. What about places to eat? You recommend Texas Tavern. Sounds good. What do they serve? A cheesy Western and a bowl with. A bowl with what? A bowl of chili with lots of onions. Okay, uh, what’s a cheesy Western? You have no idea. Okay. Tell me about the people. You had a minister with two wives. Isn’t that sacrilegious? Oh, only if you’re caught. I see. And you have a bank robber who dropped his wallet in the parking lot of the bank he was robbing, and another bank robber who went to a local hospital complaining that a strange red dye was burning his skin? Caught red-faced, huh? Any colleges in the area? I’d like to live near one, maybe take some classes. Roanoke College. How do I get there? I drive to Salem. Um, I go to Salem to get to Roanoke College? Oh, I understand. Kinda like going to Philadelphia to get to the University of Pittsburgh. What about R&B or rap shows? Unless I like country or fake wrestling, I have to drive to Greensboro, North Carolina? Why is that? What about cultural events for my people? The Henry Street Festival? So I go to Henry Street, right? No, I go to Elmwood Park. Why don’t I . . . never mind. Has Roanoke ever been in any movies? Crazy People. No shit. But I thought that movie took place in New York City. It did, but Roanoke was cheaper. Any other films? Dirty Dancing, Sommersby, What About Bob?, In a Shallow Grave, and Hearts in Atlantis were filmed around here? But Roanoke is in Crazy People—as New York City.