Love in a Carry-On Bag Read Free Page B

celebrated her fiftieth birthday last year and Erica didn’t understand why she couldn’t get it together. Every conversation with her was the same, beginning with a need, ending with what she wanted, and Erica was exhausted.
    “It’s so cold in here, I’m wearin’ my coat. ’Member that red one Aunt Mavis gave me with the big black buttons?”
    She remembered.
    “Well, Mr. Handy won’t fix the heater without the money. Tues-dee’s first of the month and I told you I’m selling my pills. I’ll pay you then. Promise.”
    Promise? If Erica had a book for every time her mother broke a promise, she could build a library.
    “I don’t have it,” she responded flatly.
    “Come on Slim, I’ll pay you back.”
    “Ma, I’m with Warren.”
    “He’ll understand. Will take you ten minutes then I’ll be outta your hair.”
    Erica tapped her foot against the floor.
    “Come on Slim, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it. I tried all of my friends but everyone I know is broke til Tues-dee.”
    It took effort for Erica to control her tone. “I don’t know why you think I’m an ATM. I had to spend an extra seventy-five dollars to get here because I missed my train.”
    “Warren don’t pay your way?”
    “Ma, that’s not the point.”
    “You right. Well just do it for me one more time. I’ll help you with a little extra to get you through next week,” she hiccupped again. “Thanks baby.”
    Warren sat in the leather recliner, working a soft cloth in and out of the front valve of his trumpet. A piano soloed in the background and a single tea light burned on the coffee table.
    “Everything all right?” he looked up from his horn.
    “Yeah,” Erica said, fumbling with the buttons on her shearling coat. “I’ll be right back.”
    “Where you going?”
    “To the bank. Keep practicing, I’ll be right back.” She closed the door behind her with more force then she intended. Anger was percolating inside of her like a strong pot of coffee. Her mother was a damn leech and once again Erica had found herself trapped in her bloodsucking clutches.
    Warren was still coddling his horn when she got back to the apartment. Her mother had completely killed her buzz, and since she had a headache she was debating between ibuprofen and water or a glass of chardonnay. Then she opened the refrigerator and saw the frosty bottle. The chardonnay won.
    “What do you want to eat?” she called out.
    “I know you love Tex-Mex, so I just ordered. Is that okay?”
    “Yeah, fine,” she mumbled, uncorking the wine. Everything inside of her was tense and after a few sips she was still restless and decided to do a word search puzzle, a habit carried over from adolescence that she found soothed her nerves. She reached for the top left kitchen drawer where she stored her book, but it would not open. She gave it a yank but the drawer only slid an inch forward, which surprised her because nothing was out of order in Warren’s apartment.
    He was Mr. Fix-it and organized almost to a compulsion. Vintage records were coordinated alphabetically, toiletries stowed in labeled baskets, shoes stuffed with shoe trees and stored in the original boxes, and take-out menus arranged by the specialty of cuisine. With the flat of her palm she reached inside and after a brief tug-of-war pried the culprit loose. It was a thick envelope that bore Warren’s company seal and Erica knew what it was without opening it.
    Warren was a software engineer by day and a jazz musician by night. They had only been dating a month when his father scored him the very lucrative position in D.C. When he left New York, he promised that it would only be temporary. But when the first six month contract ended, another one popped up.
    Just then, Warren entered the kitchen whistling a tune. “Pour me some water, babe?”
    The package had gained weight in Erica’s hand and she didn’t move. When Warren’s eyes adjusted to the situation, he rushed to explain.
    “I was going to