The Donor: When Conception Meets Deception Page 3

  “No!” Chase and Jenae yell.

  “Damn. Babe, what time is it?" Chase whispers.

  Jenae shrugs her shoulders in annoyance as she rifles through the closet. "How is he knocking on the bedroom door anyway, Chase? How did he get in the house and all the way up the stairs?" Chase grabs a pair of knee length athletic shorts socks and a tee from his dresser.

  "I have no idea how he got in. I totally forgot I switched my day with him from Sunday to today."

  “Yeah, okay I get that part but—“

  “Shhh, not so loud babe,” Chase whispers. “He’s been opening up more lately. These group home kids have been through a lot. Don’t spook him.”

  “Okay, okay,” she hushes as she squeezes into a crisp new pair of black, Ralph Lauren jeans. “You gave him a key to the house or something?"

  “No, of course not. I just said that I don’t know how he got in didn’t I?”

  “Chase, can I come in now?”

  "No!" They both scream.

  "Ugh. Come on Chase. Them other dudes gonna claim the court like the last time you was late. Then we gonna have to wait behind like a gazillion other teams.”

  "Gimme a sec Devantay I’m almost dressed," Chase says in his knee length, nylon shorts and ankle high, white cotton socks. “Babe, toss me my basketball shirt please.”

  "Oooooh, you got a female in there or something? I heard some nasty noises," Devantay says.

  “Hush little man. Jenae is here. And you’re being a bit too nosy for a twelve year old," Chase says.

  “Oooh, tee hee hee. Heeey Miss Jenae,” he says, puckering his lips through the crack of the door.

  "Hi Devantay,” Jenae yells back with a stern stare towards Chase.

  "So what y'all doin' in there anyway? Y'all taking way too long. Like waaay too long,” the boy says.

  "You sooo owe me for this one Mr. Tease," Jenae says to Chase.

  She fluffs her soft natural curls in the mirror with a wire red, black and green afro pick. The one with the power fist.

  ”I’ll make it up to you,” Chase says.

  “Hmph,” she shrills.

  They mirror one another, inspecting each other’s appearance. Chase finally opens the bedroom door. Devantay falls through the entrance and almost lands on his face. Under the boy’s left armpit is a brand new Spalding basketball. He smiles as if he knows something naughty was going on.

  “Hi, Miss Jenae,” he says with too happy of a wave.

  “Hello Devantay,” Jenae replies.

  "Hey there little man get back in the hallway. This room is off limits to anyone not named Jenae Monique Dixon."

  “Wow, I ain’t never been in a room like this before.” His eyes circle the cavernous bedroom. “Dang, Chase you got a phat crib yo. I could be straight flossin' in this spot. For real though,” he says.

  Chase nudges him out.

  "The only thing you're flossing are those teeth. And what did I tell you about the slang?"

  Chase escorts Devantay out of the bedroom and down the spiral steps to the second floor. They walk down the crimson and cream hallway, which was decorated by Jenae. To their right are three recessed shelves. They are home to three Senegalese wicker baskets filled with conch shells and a Kenyan ebony-wood sculpture of interlocking lovers. They reach the end of the hall. Devantay looks up at the 24x36 inch framed parchment of a quote painted in Arabic calligraphy. It was gifted to Chase by an old mentor. The translation’s meaning reads…”there is no superiority of one race over another. God distinguishes humankind only by righteousness and good deeds.” He bounces his ball once. Chase taps his shoulder and shakes his head, no.

  The final staircase leads to the first floor. They walk into the living room. Devantay drops the basketball on top of the mahogany coffee table. Chase sneers. The boy whisks it off and sandwiches it under his arm. He flashes an Oops grin. His puffy brown cheeks dimple with the sort of cuteness prepubescent boys despise.

  "Devantay, how the heck did you get in here?" Chase asks.

  "I don't know, I didn't break in,” Devantay says, sounding like someone who did break in.

  "I know you didn't break in. How did you get in was my question? Wait, I couldn’t have left a door open in the middle of Brooklyn last night, could I?”

  Devantay rubs his basketball and fidgets.

  "I-I-I don't know. I mean it wasn't open, percy.”

  "Percy?" Chase says. "Oh you mean per sé, not percy."

  “Right, per sé," Devantay says.

  “Okay, so what does, not open per sé, mean?”

  Devantay doesn't respond.

  "Stop bouncing that ball in here. How did you get in?"

  "I didn't break in okay?"

  “We have established that already Devantay…So?”

  "So um, I…"

  "You what? Come on.”

  Devantay's eyes start to well.

  "It's not like before okay. I'm not doing that anymore. I'm not sneaking into houses and stuff."

  Chase sees the unintended consequence of his interrogation.

  "Relax, relax it's okay,” he says with a light pat on the child’s shoulder. "I'm not upset with you. I apologize for how I sounded. You're not in trouble, okay? Hey, look up at me. You’re not in trouble…okay?”

  Devantay nods with his bottom lip poking. Chase takes him by the hand and sits him on the walnut and beige fabric chair near the fireplace.

  “Listen little man. What’s the Chase and Devantay motto?” he asks.

  “If you feel something say something," Devantay says.

  "Okay good. Now I know I locked that front door. I always do. But I'm not accusing you of anything. And that's because you have made a lot of progress. I'm proud of you for that. And with progress comes what?"

  "Trust," Devantay mumbles.

  “Say it like you mean it, Devantay.”

  “Trust.”

  “Good. So I trust you. And why is that?"

  "Because I’ve earned it?”

  Chase folds his arms and squints one eye. He waits patiently.

  "Earned it, earned it. Because I earned it.”

  “That’s better. You say it as a fact, not as a question. And I agree with you. You have earned it. But…sometimes people backslide. Two steps forward and then one step back. So it’s okay if you went back to doing what you used to do. Even if for just this one time. So just tell me the truth. Did you pick the lock?"

  "No, I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. Chase really, really, really, I—“

  “Shh, shhh it’s okay, it’s okay. I believe you,” Chase says, hugging Devantay. “So, just tell me how you got in."

  "I...I just turned it. I mean I knocked a couple of times, and when you didn't answer, I just turned it and walked in. But I didn't break in Chase. I didn't."

  "I know, I know, chillax,” Chase says.

  “Nobody really says chillax anymore Chase. That’s like for old people.”

  “Now is not the time. Stay focused young man.”

  “Okay, okay. I just walked in though. I know I probably shouldn’t have. Just please don't report me to Mr. James.”

  Chase clasps Devantay's hand.

  “Stop with that. You're my dude. I'm not going to go running to the program director at the group home. Snitches get stitches right?" Chase winks. Devantay beams and high fives him.

  "You're welcome here anytime Devantay. Just don't go walking all the way up into my bedroom next time."

  Devantay chuckles.

  "I got it Chase. I got it."

  "Okay let me just grab some hydration for us from the kitchen, and we can be on our way to schooling this suckers on the basketball court," Chase says.

  "Okay cool. Is your friend coming too?” Devantay says.

  "My friend? What friend?” Chase says as he grabs two water bottles.

  “The really tall, really fat dude. The one who kept asking me questions on the stoop. He was right at your top step.”

  "What? Some guy was outside my door ask
ing you questions about me? Devantay? You should have started this whole discussion with that right there.”

  Chase grabs Devantay's hand so quickly that the basketball falls from his lap and rolls into the hall. They scoot past the poster prints of sports legends on the kitchen wall featuring: Muhammad Ali menacing over a fallen Sonny Liston, Jesse Owens in Berlin, Serena Williams with a victory bicep flex at Wimbledon, and a Usain Bolt lightning pose. Devantay scoops the ball as the two of them fly through the brownstone’s nineteenth century double doors, and outside onto the top step. Chase holds his palm to his brow like a visor. He scans the neighborhood for the trespasser. All he sees are hipsters on vintage bicycles and his nosy neighbor from across the street, Ms. Mahone, sweeping her cement stoop.

  "Where is this guy Devantay? I don’t see anyone that looks like what you described.”

  ”Well he was right there, where you’re standing. He wasn't your friend?"

  Chase doesn't answer.

  "A fat guy you say?" Chase asks.

  "Yeah"

  "Yes, not yeah," Chase admonishes.

  “Yes," Devantay says.

  "What was he asking you?"

  "He said 'Hey kid, you're Devantay aren't you?'"

  "He said Devantay? He knew your name?”

  ”Yeah. I mean yes, I guess so.” Devantay shrugs. “But I don't remember him from nowhere. I mean dude was huge. Like Rick Ross I'm a boss, I'm a boss, I'm a boss.” He starts dancing and bobbing his shoulders.

  “Hey,” Chase says with a finger snap. “Stay focused.”

  “Oh, sorry. He thought I was your son though."

  "Hmmm. Okay. What else?"

  “Ugh, Chase we gonna miss reserving the dang court!"

  "First of all, watch your tone. Secondly, we’ll be fine. Now did you say anything else?"

  “Like tell all your business and stuff? Nah I ain’t no snitch. Can we go now?”

  Devantay steps down toward the small arched metal gate that separates Chase’s property from the sidewalk. Chase hears footsteps coming from inside the brownstone.

  “Okay, shhh Devantay. Jenae is coming. Listen, you keep this between us okay? Guy talk only."

  Jenae walks through the glass and oak doors. She squints and shields her eyes from the sudden blast of sunlight.

  "So what are you two handsome men shushing about?"

  Silence.

  "That's right. I heard all that shh,shh, shh,” she says and side-eyes Devantay.

  "Us? N-N-Nothin'. We wasn’t talking about nothing." Devantay has the rapid fire reply, and petrified stance, of a child hiding a cookie. Chase interrupts.

  "So listen honey. Me and little man here have a game to—"

  “Hush," she says raising her index finger.

  "Devantay, come here baby" she says with arms wide.

  He stands at the front gate, frozen.

  “Devantay?” she warns.

  "Yes Ma’am,” he says, and walks up to her. Jenae smoothes his shoulders with her palms.

  "Let me ask you something,” she says.

  “Yes," he replies.

  "You know I'm a lawyer right?"

  “Yes."

  "And what do lawyers do?"

  "Scare little kids?"

  Chase busts a belly laugh. Jenae cuts him a stare. He zips his mouth.

  "Now look here Devantay. I have some questions for you," she says pretending to be angry.

  "More questions? Ugh," Devantay says tossing his hands up in the air.

  "More? What do you mean more?" she asks.

  "Chase already asked me a bunch of questions about the fat ma—“ Devantay fails to catch himself.

  “Devantay!” Chase yells.

  "Devantay," Jenae purrs.

  "Uh Oh,” the boy says.

  Chase cozies up to Jenae and hugs her from behind. He kisses below her earlobe.

  “Honey, we got to bounce," he says.

  “That would’ve worked earlier," Jenae says as she unravels Chase’s arms from her waist. “Now what’s this about a fat man, Devantay?"

  The boy sighs.

  "It was just this big guy asking me some questions about if Chase lived here and stuff, and we didn't want to tell you because we didn't want you to get scared and stuff."

  “Awww, aren't you two sweet,” she says and raises one eye at Chase.

  "It's okay Devantay. I'm a lawyer but I'm from Bed Stuy. I can handle myself. But you two go ahead to your little basketball game. I won’t keep you.”

  "Finally," Devantay huffs. He grabs the basketball and hurries out the gate.

  "Sorry babe. Um, so you and I are good right?" Chase says with a cheese grin. Jenae folds her arms, twists her hip and smirks while rolling her eyes. He saddles up to her, cradles her soft cheeks in his solid palms and tickles her nose with his.

  “Hmmm, I don't know Chase Archibald. You know how I don't like secrets. You might have to make it up to me this weekend," she says, sliding her hands down to the small of his back. “Maybe tomorrow night since I have to be in D.C. during the day for a criminal law seminar."

  Chase closes his eyes and presses his lips to hers. The calm Brooklyn breeze wraps around them. Their lips release but their noses nibble. Chase presses his forehead onto hers. He traces his finger from her temple, across her cheek and rests it on her bottom lip. He plucks it like a guitar string. Jenae grins.

  “Love you,” he says.

  “Love you more,” she replies.

  As Chase walks toward the gate he feels a small POP on his right butt cheek. He looks back at Jenae.

  “What? I can’t smack my man’s yum yums?”

  Chase smiles and shakes his head. Jenae nods for him to catch up to Devantay. The boy is now halfway down Henry Street heading towards Pineapple. Chase does a brisk jog to reach him.

  “Dang, little man. You let Jenae punk you like that?" Chase says.

  "Sorry yo, but she's good," Devantay replies.

  They power walk towards the courts.

  "Hey?" Chase says.

  "Yeah?"

  “How about I race you to the court."

  “Yeah cool,” Devantay beams.

  "Alright I'll count off" Chase says. “Ready? On three. One…two…." Chase grabs Devantay's shoulders, holding him back, bolts in front of him and then yells…

  “Threeee…Ha, Ha.” Chase is now a good five paces ahead.

  “Hey, that’s not fair," Devantay shrieks and sprints to catch him.

  

  Smooth soles squeak against the urban blacktop. The weathered, orange leather sphere bounces and echoes like a studio beat. Young men and old boys crash bodies, grunt throats, spit phlegm and talk smack. This is the court. It is the place where a bruised ego bleeds more than the peeled skin on a scraped knee. It is where the pretty girls leaning on the chainlink fence bring out the man, or more accurately, the showman in men. On this asphalt stage, a bare chested Chase, and a wide-eyed Devantay press, shoot and swish in their fourth full court game of the afternoon.

  "Like butter baby boy. You might want some toast with that," a slender pea-eyed teenager brags to young Devantay.

  The older boy has just stroked another jump shot from beyond the yellow arc. Devantay clinches his fists, and grits his teeth, as he watches his opponent's ball sail through the iron basket. Chase whistles at Devantay; he hovers his palms chest high signaling the child to keep his cool.

  “Our ball,” Chase says. He passes the ball to Devantay. The young boy dribbles towards the basket but it is stolen by the older teen who again strokes a clean shot.

  “Nothing but net youngin’,” the skinny kid says. He brushes nonexistent dirt off of his wiry shoulders. Devantay's lower lip puckers. His nostrils breathe heavily. Chase senses his young mentee's frustration and calls for a time out.

  “Aww, fake Daddy gotta dry your tears now?" the teen says.

  Chase glares at the youth. The boy smirks and joins his teammates in a huddle. Chase turns his attention towards Devantay. He kneels b
efore the youngster.

  “Devantay, keep cool. The score is tied. We’re not losing,” Chase says

  "I know, but I keep messing up. He's better than me."

  The child's eyes well up. Chase grabs both of Devantay's shoulders with a jolt.

  "Hey. You listen up. No one is better than you. He's made a couple of shots. Big deal. And he's being cocky and disrespectful about it. That’s called poor sportsmanship. And he's in for a rude awakening in life. People will form opinions of you based on your attitude and your behavior. That can mean a job promotion, an invite to a networking dinner, or an introduction to the girl of your dreams. You want to be like that guy?"

  “No…but...but I'm not as good."

  “Little man, as long as you play to the best of your ability that's all that matters. "

  "But I don't want you to be mad at me Chase."

  Chase pauses.

  "Devantay look at me. This game doesn't matter. You hear me? But me and you? We're not a game. We matter. You matter. I’m not your fake anything and I'm proud of you. No matter what. Look at me." He lifts the child’s chin with his index finger. "I'm proud of you."

  Devantay's eyes smile.

  Chase rises and turns to his other teammates and says confidently "All right y'all let's do this. Next point wins." He turns to Devantay. “We about to do this right?”

  "Heck yeah,” Devantay pumps his fist.

  Chase cups his hand around the boy's ear and whispers something. Devantay's face lights up. He leers a smug grin at his teen nemesis and strides onto the court. Devantay inbounds the ball to Chase. Exhausted, sweat drenched bodies of various hues, heights and stomach circumferences, scramble to various positions. T-shirts flap in the humid air as players attempt to keep up with Chase's ankle breaking crossovers, and his behind-the-back passes. Chase is a playground legend. His teammates fixate on him being the hero. The score is tied. The next basket wins but Chase has something more profound on his mind than shooting the game winner. He dribbles in place with his left hand and makes a motion for his teammates to clear out of the way. Two opposing players run up to double team him. He slices between both players. With no defender in front of him he stops to pop a mid-range shot from the foul line. The tall teen who had been harassing Devantay all afternoon breaks away from the boy in attempt to block Chase’s shot. As Chase jumps and releases he does not shoot the ball in the basket; he fires it across the court into Devantay's chest. The preteen catches it, cuts to the basket, and clanks the ball off the metal backboard and through the hoop for the game winner. Devantay's eyes burst. His arms fling. He springs to the sky like a kid on a trampoline.