Naughty or Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey Page A

opened the door. The television was on. Down the hallway, I heard another noise. Roomba was humming back and forth across the hardwood floor. Roomba was one of Tony’s robotic toys, an automated vacuum cleaner for lazy people. Our house was filled with his gadgets from every Sharper Image and Brookstone in L.A.
    I called out, “Tony?”
    No answer.
    I rolled my luggage into the foyer, then went into the family room. Nothing in there but white walls and African artifacts bought at Ross and made in Mexico. Our furniture was soft and earth tone. Lots of decorative mirrors and plants throughout the house.
    A glass was on the island in the kitchen. Two plates and silverware in the sink.
    Tony wasn’t down here.
    I called his name again. No answer.
    I stepped around Roomba and went upstairs.
    He wasn’t in the bedroom or the office either. I went back downstairs, lowered the volume on the television and went to the refrigerator. That was where we posted our work schedules. Tony’s work schedule said he had had a long day yesterday and was back at the hospital tonight. He’d left the television on so there would be noises in the house.
    I picked up the home phone, dialed his cell phone, let it ring once, enough for the home number to show on his caller ID. Again, communicating without talking. I’m home.
    Then I went outside to the mailbox. Tony never brought the mail in. That never used to bother me. Tonight it added to my irritation. There were the usual bills and bulk mail.
    A large white envelope was crammed inside, turned sideways and pushed all the way to the back. It was stiff, made of cardboard, had the words PHOTO MAILER and DO NOT BEND inlarge block letters along each side. It had a Marina Del Rey postmark. No return address.
    I went back inside, opened a drawer looking for scissors. The knob came off the drawer. I stood there, holding it, eyes wide open, my hand shaking. They had advertised these homes as the Black Beverly Hills. Outside, they were eye-catching, but inside they were falling apart.
    I took a breath, rubbed my temples, stood at the counter, ripped the package open.
    Baby pictures. She had sent pictures of the baby. Her name, Miesha. Pictures of the sonogram, photos of the baby wrapped in a blanket. There were other photos, several close-ups.
    Roomba bumped into my foot. I kicked it as hard as I could.
    I slapped the pictures on the counter. Stared at them for a long while. My trance was broken when the phone rang. Tony’s cellular number lighting up the ID. I let it ring.
    I washed dishes in total silence, dried them, and put them away.
    I went back to the pictures, stared at the magnet of my humiliation.
    I wrote a simple note: She looks like you.
    Then I packed more clothes and headed for my truck. I’d driven down the hill, away from my home before I gave in and allowed the tears to cloud my eyes.

L ivvy
    S an Diego was less than a two-hour drive from my life in Los Angeles. The same for him. If things didn’t work out for either of us, or if there was simply a change of heart, if I didn’t like the way he looked, or if for whatever reason he didn’t like my hair, or if I wasn’t thin enough for his taste, we agreed to be honest and go our separate ways, as if we never met.
    My cellular rang. It wasn’t the man I was planning to meet. Frankie’s number was on my caller ID. She’d called at least ten times and wasn’t going to stop until I answered.
    I answered, “Hey.”
    â€œDon’t make me put your picture on the side of a milk carton.”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    The first voice was Frankie. The second was Tommie. They had me on a three-way.
    I adjusted the bags in my hand, said, “At Fashion Valley Mall. Stress shopping.”
    I loved them, but hearing them did nothing for me right now.
    Tommie asked, “How many pairs of shoes you buy?”
    â€œWho said I bought shoes?”
    Frankie tisked.