A Blessing & a Curse Read online

  “Are you anybody?” Ms. Leopard asked.

  “She’s my sister.” Jasmine shoved the bag into the lady’s hand before she turned away once again.

  “Wait, I got one more question,” Ms. Basketball Player said.

  Jasmine was two steps away from the front door and had no intention of saying another word, until the woman asked, “Do you think you can hook us up with Oprah?”

  She couldn’t help it; Jasmine stopped. “What?”

  “You know, can you hook us up?” she asked, pointing first to herself and then to the shorter one. “Can you call Oprah and tell her that you know two women who really need to have their own show.”

  “Yeah,” Ms. Leopard joined in. “Oprah needs to give us a show ’cause we’d be better than the Housewives and the Basketball Wives and the Hip-Hop Wives combined. We’d do that!”

  The tall sidekick added, “Not that y’all weren’t good, but we’re the real deal. We’d bring all the drama and make her network number one.”

  “Yeah. And she’d get even more money after we signed a book deal, and then made a movie, and traveled to other countries like Europe and Africa.”

  For a moment, Jasmine stood there waiting for one of them to shout out, “April Fools,” even though summer was just a couple of weeks away. She waited for them to tell her that they didn’t really expect her to call Oprah (even if she’d had her number) and vouch for two women she’d met on a street corner in New York. And she waited for them to say that of course Europe and Africa were not countries.

  But they just stood there, their eyes wide with anticipation.

  “Okay,” Jasmine said.

  The two women cheered, high-fived each other once again, and began skipping down the street. Jasmine watched Dumb and Dumber for a second, then she and Serena exchanged a glance before they busted out laughing. Just as they stepped into the restaurant, though, one of the women shouted from halfway down the block, “Wait, you don’t even know our—”

  The door closed on their words and when Louis, one of the restaurant’s managers, greeted them, Jasmine explained the situation in fewer than twenty words.

  He laughed. “Don’t worry, I got you,” he said as he began to lead them across the room filled with afternoon diners. “I got a table for you already.”

  Already? She had no idea what he meant by that since she hadn’t called ahead. But then, as she neared the group of tables in the far corner, her steps slowed while her eyes widened.

  “Mae Frances?” She whispered the question as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “Mae Frances!”

  Jasmine trotted the rest of the distance, leaned over, and wrapped her friend in a hug. “What are you doing here? When did you get back? How did you know that I’d be here?”

  “Jasmine Larson,” Mae Frances began, even though she was still inside Jasmine’s embrace. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to touch people when they’re eating?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jasmine said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m just so glad to see you. What are you doing here? When did you get back?” Then, she grabbed Mae Frances in another tight squeeze. “And how did you know I’d be here?”

  “First of all, I thought you recognized by now that I know everything.”

  “You must’ve spoken to Hosea.” Jasmine laughed.

  “And second of all,” Mae Frances snarled as she wiggled away from Jasmine’s arms, “why are you acting like this?”

  Jasmine scooted onto the long leather seat next to Mae Frances. “Why? I haven’t seen you in . . . how long has it been?”

  “Three weeks, one day”—Mae Frances glanced at her watch—“and nine hours and about twenty-three minutes.”

  “Hi, Mae Frances.” Serena laughed as she slipped into the chair across from them.

  With a grin that made her cheekbones rise high, Mae Frances reached for Serena’s hand. “It’s good to see you. How are you, baby?” she asked in the gentlest of voices. Then, Mae Frances turned to Jasmine and her gravelly tone was back. “See, that’s the way you’re supposed to greet people. Just say hello, not ask them fifty-eleven questions.”

  Jasmine leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “That’s better,” Mae Frances said.

  “So, now are you gonna tell me what you’re doing here?”

  Mae Frances sighed. Then with movements that made time seem like it had slowed down, Mae Frances pushed her plate filled with fried catfish fillets aside, wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin, then cleared her throat. She looked into Jasmine’s eyes and said, “I came home because I need you.”

  Jasmine and Serena both leaned forward.

  “Mae Frances”—Jasmine took the hand of the woman who, over the last decade, had become like her mother—“what’s going on?”

  Mae Frances lowered her eyes and that set Jasmine’s heart pounding. Was something wrong with her friend?

  “I had to come home,” Mae Frances began.

  Jasmine’s imagination took flight. Mae Frances was sick! What kind of illness did she have? How much time had she been given? Tears rose within her. She’d lost her biological mother; she couldn’t lose this second one whom had been such a blessing from God.

  “I needed my family.” Mae Frances’s voice was still soft.

  The tears reached Jasmine’s eyes.

  “I wasn’t sure that I could get through this without you, Hosea, and the kids.” She looked up at Serena. “And you, too, honey. You’re my family, too.”

  “Mae Frances.” Jasmine’s voice, like the rest of her, trembled as a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “I had to come home because . . .”

  Jasmine wanted to close her ears; she didn’t want to know.

  “Muhammad Ali died!”

  Jasmine sobbed, “Oh, no!” But then the words Mae Frances just uttered reached her brain and Jasmine blinked a dozen times. “Wait,” she said, her voice still shaking with emotion, “what?”

  “My Muhammad Ali.” Mae Frances pressed her hand on her chest. “He passed away,” she wailed.

  “I’m so sorry,” Serena said. “You knew Muhammad Ali?”

  Mae Frances nodded, her own eyes glassy. “I met Cassius right before he was leaving for the Olympics. But we spent the most time together when he was about to fight Joe Frazier. Everyone thought he was sure he was gonna win because of all the things he said. But that was his public persona. In private . . . he just wasn’t sure.”

  “Wait!” Jasmine held up her hand. “Do you know how scared I was? I thought something had happened.”

  “Something did happen! You didn’t know he’d passed away and now he’s lying in the arms of the Lord?”

  Jasmine swiped the wasted tears from her face. “So, you’re telling me this is about Muhammad Ali?”

  She nodded.

  “You knew him.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Mae Frances nodded anyway.

  “And you came back here because he passed away?”

  She nodded again.

  Jasmine’s trembles had turned to anger. “There’s just one problem with that: you’re in New York, his funeral is going to be in Kentucky.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Jasmine Larson!” she snapped. “I’m not going. It would be too emotional. And I just want to be home here with my family because it’s times like this when I just want to hug and be close to the ones who mean the most to me.”

  All her anger began to roll away. How could she be mad at that? And she didn’t need to waste any time being mad anyway. Jasmine had missed this woman who was to her what Maya had been to Oprah.

  For the past year and a half, she’d only seen Mae Frances every three weeks or so, since Mae Frances had been splitting her time between New York and Atlanta. She’d moved down to Atlanta part-time to take care of Natasia Redding, Hosea’s long-ago ex-fiancée, who was suffering from advanced stages of lupus.

  “Wow! You knew Muhammad Ali,” Serena said as if she were impre
ssed.

  Jasmine was not. At least not anymore. From the moment she’d met Mae Frances, she’d learned that this woman had connections. She knew everyone from Newt Gingrich to Herman Cain, and when Jasmine had asked her why she didn’t know any Democrats, Mae Frances had picked up the phone and, seconds later, Jasmine was talking to Joe Biden. She’d danced with Alvin Ailey and had helped Martin Luther King write some of his speeches—or so she said.

  There was little that surprised Jasmine about her friend anymore. “So, how long are you going to be here?” she asked.

  “You are always up in my business, Jasmine Larson,” Mae Frances said. But then she continued, “I’m home permanently.”

  More blinks from Jasmine. “What?”

  Mae Frances cut a little piece of catfish and slipped it into her mouth as she shrugged. “I’m not going back to Atlanta. That roommate thing with Natasia didn’t work out.”

  “So, you just moved out? And left her there?”

  Mae Frances leaned back and snuggled into the leather cushions like she was getting comfortable, so she could tell a story. “See, what had happened was Natasia called me out of my name. And you know I don’t play that.”

  “What’d she call you?” Serena asked.

  “An overbearing fool. She said I was an overbearing fool who needed to get some.”

  “Wow!” Serena said. “That’s so rude.”

  “And so wrong. I told that heffa that all that screaming she’d heard the night before hadn’t been from my TV; I was getting some, and what she needed to get was going so I could get some on the regular.”

  Jasmine cracked up. Not because of Mae Frances—she was used to her friend’s adventures—it was the look on her sister’s face that had her buckled over with laughter. Serena was one of those good Christian girls who kept her words, thoughts, and deeds clean and pure. Serena had been a widow for almost two decades and Jasmine was sure she hadn’t “gotten some” since her husband passed away.

  Mae Frances shrugged again, and popped another piece of catfish into her mouth. “That was last week. And Natasia is gone.”

  “Where’d she go?” Serena asked. Even with all her shock, she was into what Jasmine had come to call Mae Frances’s Fantastic Stories.

  “I don’t know and ask me if I care.”

  “Wow.” It was like that was the only word left in Serena’s vocabulary.

  “What are you ladies having today?” The young waiter interrupted them, and for a moment Jasmine wondered what he was doing there. She’d been so into her friend she’d forgotten about ordering.

  Jasmine didn’t need to glance at the menu; there was only one reason why she trekked up to Harlem every chance she had to feast at Melba’s. “I’m going to have the grilled jerk shrimp as an appetizer, the pecan-crusted tilapia as my main course, and for my sides, cheddar-grits cakes and candied yams.”

  Serena gave her own order: the salmon salad.

  When the waiter left them alone, Jasmine asked, “So, is Natasia back in Chicago or what?”

  Mae Frances took her time putting down her fork and wiping her lips before she said, “Didn’t you get the memo—I don’t care. Living with that”—she glanced at Serena—“that young woman was enough for me.” She paused and, with a sideways glance, added, “I’m sure if she has any problems, she’ll be calling your husband.”

  Mae Frances laughed, but Jasmine didn’t find a bit of humor in those words. The problem was, Mae Frances was right. Hosea’s heart was too caring, and for a moment, Jasmine’s thoughts turned to Natasia. That woman had brought more than enough drama into her life. She was going to have to find a way to keep Natasia from Hosea.

  “But I don’t want to talk about her anymore.” Mae Frances waved her hand in the air, her words forcing Jasmine back to the present. “I have more exciting news.” She pushed her plate aside as if she didn’t want anything to get in the way of what she had to say. She looked at Jasmine, then Serena, and back to Jasmine.

  She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I was contacted by a literary agent. Someone saw me on your show and now . . . they want me to write a book!”

  “Oh, wow!” Serena said. “Congratulations!”

  There was no cheer in Jasmine’s voice when she said, “Write a book? About what?”

  “What do you think, Jasmine Larson? They want me to write a book about my life.”

  “That’s fantastic, Mae Frances!” Serena said.

  But Jasmine’s thoughts were just the opposite: No. There was nothing fantastic about this. Mae Frances would never tell anyone anything about any part of her life. She had more secrets than she had connections and Jasmine had always believed that one or two of those secrets could land her in jail.

  Still, Mae Frances said, “I think the title will be The Autobiography of Mae Frances.” She grinned. “What do you think about that, Jasmine Larson?”

  Inside, Jasmine said, Whatever. But on the outside, she gave Mae Frances what she wanted to hear.

  She said “Wow” before she took a long sip of water.

  Chapter

  3

  Jasmine

  Jasmine stood on her toes to get a final glimpse of Serena before the top of her sister’s head disappeared down the escalator leading to Track 11. And even though hurried New Yorkers bumped her on her left and right, she stood in place for a moment. Just in case Serena changed her mind, just in case her sister decided to stay for just one more day because one week had not been enough.

  But, after a couple of minutes and too many shoves, Jasmine pivoted and headed toward the Eighth Avenue exit. Tears spilled from her eyes, but she knew no one in Penn Station would notice. This was New York. Maybe if she were walking down the street crying and naked, someone would see her tears.

  Outside, the June sun still hung high and bright, even though it was after six. As rush-hour commuters pushed past her, Jasmine searched for the end of the taxi line.

  “Excuse me, miss. What’s your name?”

  If there was one thing that Jasmine hated most about the city she loved, it was that there was always some strange dude stepping to her in the middle of the street. She’d cursed out plenty of construction workers, messengers, and ordinary guys just hanging out on a corner as if harassing women was their job. With the way she was feeling today, all kinds of curses were ready to spew from her mouth.

  Except Jasmine knew this voice. And just the tenor of his tone made her crying heart sing.

  She spun around and though her eyes were still filled with tears, she smiled.

  “Baby!” she said as she wrapped her arms around Hosea’s neck. “What are you doing here?”

  He held her tight and his embrace wiped her tears away. “I knew you’d be feeling some kind of way with Serena leaving. I just wish I could’ve been there when you two left the apartment.”

  “I knew you had that meeting,” Jasmine said, stepping back. “No worries. But you came all the way down here to get me?”

  He nodded. “ ’Cause I knew you’d be crying.” With his thumb, he wiped a single tear from her cheek. “And, I can’t have my darlin’ crying in the middle of New York City.”

  That brought new tears to Jasmine’s eyes, but this time there was no sadness.

  “I love you so much,” she said, holding on to her husband once again.

  “Okay, enough making out in the street. Remember, I’m a famous pastor. We’ll handle this tonight in our bedroom.”

  Jasmine laughed as he took her hand and led her to the curb, where the taxicab line was so long it wrapped around the corner. But he stepped past the waiting people, and that’s when Jasmine noticed the stretch limousine. When Hosea grabbed a door handle, Jasmine said, “All of this for me?”

  With a smile, he nodded and motioned for her to get inside.

  She stepped in, looked up, and gasped. “Mae Frances!”

  Her best friend leaned against the door on the other side. And with an attitude, she said, “Would you get inside, Jasmine Lars
on? We’re blocking all this traffic!”

  Jasmine scooted across the seat. “What are you doing here?”

  Settling into the seat across from them, Hosea answered for Mae Frances. “Nama came by the church and scooped me up because she said you needed us.”

  “Yeah,” Mae Frances said. “I knew you’d be a mess, so I figured you could take me out to dinner.” Then, to Hosea, she said, “Tell the driver where you two are taking me, Preacher Man.”

  Jasmine chuckled the way she always did when Mae Frances called Hosea by the name she’d given to him more than a decade ago. And she chuckled because as she sat in the back of this limousine with these two, her heart didn’t hurt as much as it had five minutes before.

  “So, you called for a limo? Just for me?” Jasmine asked as she placed her hand over her heart.

  “No.” Mae Frances shook her head and frowned as if she couldn’t figure out what Jasmine was talking about. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I called the limo so you could take me out to dinner.” Then she did a little wiggle, snuggling into the seat. “And I called it ’cause I got it like that now.”

  Jasmine frowned.

  “The book I’m writing. Remember?”

  Sitting back in his seat, Hosea said, “Nama, you’re writing a book?”

  Jasmine’s first thought: had there even been a time when Mae Frances’s grin had been so broad? Even though she smiled back at Mae Frances, in her mind, Jasmine rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah, you didn’t know?” To Jasmine she said, “Why didn’t you tell Preacher Man, Jasmine Larson?”

  Jasmine folded her arms. “Because I can’t believe you’re gonna write a book.”

  “Why not? I can read, you know. I got a couple of college degrees.”

  The way Jasmine pushed her eyebrows together made her forehead hurt. But she ignored the pain because Mae Frances had just shared something she’d never told Jasmine—she went to college? Had a couple of degrees? Even though Jasmine had known this woman for more than ten years, even though Mae Frances was Nama (the name for grandmother that her children had made up for Mae Frances) to Jacqueline and Zaya, even though she had been a mother-sister-friend to Jasmine, there were so many holes in her life, so much that Jasmine didn’t know and Mae Frances never shared. And Jasmine reminded her of that.