THE NIKEL chapter 2

The melodic sound of the rain early that morning fell on the trees, the roof, against the window, made Obrey think of the rabbit. The crackling thunder brought the desire for his warm strong arms around her body and the smell of the empty merlot glass at the side of her bed made it even more tempting. Unlike the strong arms, the pink rabbit was always there. Always. Whether she was moody or not, shaved her legs and armpits and painted her nails or not, had done fifty sit ups the night before or not. It called from the cherry wood nightstand with three deep drawers and a lock that held her journals, secrets, bills, prayers, sketches, receipts, taxes, ugh taxes. She rolled over and pulled open the top drawer and wondered where her favorite vibrator could be, then remembered that she threw it away with the box of silk and cotton scarves Amad had given her. On birthday, Christmases, new years days, apology days, just because days.

She was angry and he would pay. She couldn't remember what the figtht was about that day. Or was it a fight? No. It wasn't a fight. Not a fight at all. It was a message. Clear, straight from the trees. Stop fucking with him. Of course messages from Spirit had never come so crass before and maybe this was not from above after all. Still, she would momentarily obey. Whe needed him? Red ones, blue ones, white ones. Not the white ones. The white ones too. They were her favorite of all the scarves he had given her because they reminded her of her mother. But they all had to go in the box and even the rabbit. Yes even the rabbit because this was serious and she needed to teach him a lesson. Obrey needed to show him that she didn't want him. Needed to show herself. But that was then. And on that night when she wasn't angry anymore, but missed him in her bed, wanted him there. Wanted to talk, wanted to not talk and make up. The rabbit was gone too.

The next morning she stood in front of the oval mirror in the bathroom and stared at the large praying hands freshly painted on the walls and black angel that looked down from the ceiling in the pepermint scented glow of the candle still burning from last night. "Help me, Lord." She gently sat down on the toilet and grabbed the sketch book leaning against the tub and flipped through some old sketches. "Too poofey. Too short. Too...something." She slammed the book shut. "Nothing." She lightly stepped over the yoga DVDs and went to the bedroom. "Yoga tomorrow. For sure tomorrow."

Dear Mom,
New Style Magazine is interviewing me here in the house today to be featured in their "Who's on the up and up?" section. I'm excited about it but I have magazines, newspapers and clothes spread everywhere, dishes from the last three days in the sink and dirty laundry out. Davis has been in New York for almost a week showing her work in a gallery. I miss her when she's gone.

I've been frantically working on gowns for a ball coming up soon and I'm still trying to come up with ideas for my own dress, that I'm nowhere with by the way. It's driving me crazy because this is suppposed to be the dress I should have the strongest vision for but I don't have anything. Nothing is right. On top of that I have a lot to do and can't seem to get it together. I'm thankful though because I remember praying to be this busy. Life is so...moment-to-moment. What else is it going to be, right? I feel every moment now. I can hear a clock ticking in my head. Tick. Tock. every moment, every second. Some days are better than others. I miss you so much. I haven't found my proper footing since you've been gone. It's been eight years and I'm not in the same space I was in when everything first happened, but I'm not all better yet either. When is that supposed to happen? Is it supposed to happen? A part of me feels like I need to miss you. I feel guilty on the days that I don't spend an hour or so in Granddaddy's old chair by the front window thinking about you. I wish you could be here with me. I want you to see my dreams manifesting. To see Sivad Designs living and growing.

Davis and I celebrated your birthday last week by driving the coast up to Oakland. You never stopped talking about how much you loved Oakland. Why didn't we ever live there? We saw a photograph of you in Daily Bread. Beverly had it enlarged, framed and put up in the shop. It looks so beautiful there. It was the one of you in the long white cotton skirt and t-shirt and bare feet drinking peppermint tea in the backyard. I miss you Mom. I miss you in the backyard. I still look back there and a part of me expects to see you lying on the hammock with a glass of merlot. I gotta get going. Love you.

As Obrey washed the dishes, she thought about how everything reminded her of her mother. The garbage disposal ran and she remember being ten years old and washing dishes in teh same kitchen. Though it was beightbavk then. Beige adn not lime with new cabinets. Beige adn did not have polished wooded floors or dishwasher and chrome plated stove and matching refrigerator. Back then they had to empty the rice from the pot into th trashcan with the metal cooking spoon. Clink! Clink! clink! Clink! her mother made even emptying the pot a life lesson.

"Baby, make every motion count. Don't just scrape the pot hoping that you get a grain of rice. Be intentional about it. Focus and get what you go after. Otherwise you're just making a lot of noise." Just what she felt like she was doing in ther life. Making a lot of noise. Each dress she sketched for her wedding. Clink! When she and Amad fought. Clink! Catching up on designs for clients. Clinkclink!

Obrey sat there for a moment, in the chair in her room that faced the window, onto the trees, onto the traffic, past the alley onto the park that she could barely see. She took a deep breath and forced herself to the washroom and took the clothes from the washing machine and put them into the dryer. She passed by Davis' room and noticed how neatly everything was arranged. She was always neat like that. Obrey and her mother used to tease and say that when Davis was there the house always looked and smelled like the maid had just left. Her canvases and other art supplies faced the window where she paints from and her clothes were all perfectly aligned in the closet. Obrey thought about how far away she was from that kind of order. Then she stopped as it came to her then that she needed to go ahead and take her walk becasue she could't see when she would fit it in that day.

Every day for the past three months she walked on the two mile trail she carved for herself near the house. Down the hill, east on Stocker, down to Leimert Park and back up the hill to home. Everyday. She usually went after her morning journaling and somethimes again in the evening with Davis. She and Amad had Jewel's talent show to attend at her school at six. Jewel had been talking about the talent show for weeks. She had written a poem that was a "secret" and was going to perform a dance. It usually took just under an hour to complete the walk and the folks from New Style weren't due until one thrity. She alredy had on her walking gear and dropped the clothes right there on teh floor, grabbed the keys and headed out the door.

Down the hill on Stocker, Mrs. Lin's twin seven year old daughters, dressed in pink dressed and checkered vans, looked like they had just made mud pies, were out playing with all those cats, as usual. Mrs. Lin was inside fussing. As usual.

"Hi, Miss Obrey."

"Good morning, girls."

"You don't know what the hell damn you doing! Fix fast and get out my house!" Mrs. Lin was at it with the cable guy. A car passed that blasted Sting's "How fragile we are" and Obrey walked faster to keep up with the music. Sting was one of her favorite singers years ago. She recognized how refreshingly odd it was to hear Sting's voice loud from a red convertible '64 in the neighborhood.

She picked up the pace and made it down to Leimert Park faster than she expected. She loved the shops and homes in that area. Some of the same people were still around since she and Davis were little girls. There was Omar selling his jewelry and Billy Higgins had a drum class for children, the same class she took when she was a child, and Mrs. Pete still had her sweet potato pie shop that never opened before ten and always closed by four.

"This neighborhood is just going to pits." According to her, it had been going to pits since before Obrey was born. That day there was a festival going on but Obrey couldn't tell what they were celebrating. Like it really mattered in Leimert Park. Degnan Blvd. was packed. There were poets on stage and the African dancers were callng in rain, or spirits or good luck, or something and the smell of curry chicken was coming from one of the vendor's tables.

"I wish I had known about the festival because maybe Davis and I could have had a table together selling clothes and art like we did in the good ole days." She said to herself out loud. Of course she was already behind and had an interview and Davis was in New York and they usually only made just enough money to cover the expenses for the booth rent. Next time, she thought. She received the flyer from the young rasta with the big eyes and long pretty lashes who collected dontions for the new Black African Unity private school. The same shcool and the same young boy she donated to every festival for the past three years. When the school was gong to built she had no ida and why they would send a child to do that was also beyond her. Everybody's got a hustle these days.

Apparently it was Carter G. Woodson's birthday. She had never heard of a Woodosn Festival before but...cool. "Black Booth Day" is what her mother used to call the festivals.

"All of them. Just a reason to sell stuff." Her mother was the first one in line dressed comfortable in her signature extra long flowing cotton skirts and tank tops smelling like peach oil. Everyone knew Andrea around there. Enough of this, she thought. Obrey had to make it back up the hill to stay on her time track.

The doorbell rang as she had finished her second cup of tea. She planned to seat everyone in the den and would make sure that every room visible from each seat was perfect. Frankincense lightly burned in the kitchen and the scent fromt the jasmine plants just outside the den windows drifted in sweetly. She practiced her smile in the downstairs bathroom mirror as she applied her makeup. Foundation just under the eyes, a little blush on top of the freckles on her cheeks, green eye shadow, mascara and a soft brown lip gloss. Her hair was finally dry from the shower and was wrapped all up in a white cotton scarf.

"Oh, I've always loved fashion. I designed my first dress when I was in the ninth grade. My grandmother had given me her sewing machine a few years earlier and I made it right here in this kitchen. She practiced answering questions they might ask and then the slight laugh with her head tilted back and eyes closed just a bit to show the nostalgia on her face as if she was Dianne Carroll and had a cigarette in her mouth with a long black filter stick. Daaaahling.

She had done these intervies before and they always seemed to be more about her personal life then they were about works she'd one. She answered the door wearing her own creation. A pair of soft peach genie type pants that rested comfortable and low on her hips. A silver belly chain and a cream backless top that tied behind the neck and at mid back. She had two silver ankle bracelets on her right ankle and rotated her position during the interview between having her legs crossed showing her bare feet and siting crosssed leggged on Granddaddy's big brown swing back chair. She tried not to fidget too much as they asked about the someone special in her life. She would seat them across fom her on the white couch so that they would get the wall of Davis's art in the photo they took of her. Everything was well laid out. The cut apples and soy cheese with strawberries, cantaloupe and grapes on the coffee table with the wine glasses and pomegranete juice and water.

"Hello there. Come on in."