I Saw Your Profile Read online

  I SAW YOUR PROFILE

  Rhonda Swan

  10th Anniversary Edition

  Conscious Mind Press

  Published by Conscious Mind Press

  Copyright © Rhonda Swan, 2004, 2014

  All rights reserved

  ISBN 978-0-9742645-6-1

  Library of Congress Control No. 2004093757

  Printed in the United States of America

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For single women everywhere

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to Fredrick Fletcher, my friend and partner, for being the inspiration behind this 10th anniversary edition of my first novel. And thanks to DeAndre Mingo for his many hours of hard work collaborating with Fred and me on the new cover design. I am very grateful to the two of you for making this happen.

  Rhonda Swan

  Chapter One

  Arianna ambled into the funeral home as though she had ten-pound weights tethered to her ankles. She’d promised to stay away, but she couldn’t help herself.

  As she headed down the long hall, a young attendant handed her a program. She gave him a half-smile and thanked him, wondering why he’d want to surround himself with death.

  He asked for her jacket. She declined. The chill of the crisp, October night air still ran through her. Besides, she didn’t plan to stay long.

  She glanced at the program, a thin sheet of white paper with a black and white picture of the dead man. She rolled her brown eyes, shaded under brows waxed to a perfect arch, at the sight of him grinning from the cover.

  She sighed as she folded the program with her long, slender fingers, cutting his smile in half, then in quarters, before stuffing it in her designer purse.

  Her hands fumbled inside the large shoulder bag as she searched for a compact to assess the damage inflicted by the biting wind during the four-block walk from where she parked.

  Her cinnamon skin was flushed and her eyeliner slightly smeared. The tight curls in her cropped, chili powder

  red hair were still neatly gelled in place. Her full lips still moist with the expensive gold gloss she never left home without.

  She licked the tip of her index finger and wiped the black smudges from beneath her eyes. As she returned the compact to her purse, a memorial book sitting on an oak table against the hallway wall caught her attention. There were only twelve names scribbled in the white book. All women. Linda. Cynthia. Nina. And nine others.

  A gold pen sat in the holder, but she did not pick it up. Arianna Singleton wasn’t going to be number thirteen. There would be no record of her presence there.

  She continued down the hall trying to tune out the somber tones of the dirge being piped in through the speakers. Once inside the small parlor, she stood in the back, hoping to go unnoticed. That was difficult. There were few mourners.

  There were six rows of white metal folding chairs. Three women sat in each of the two middle rows. Arianna figured the dead man slept with all six, in addition to her.

  Three family members stood at the toe of the casket awaiting condolences. In the middle was a stern looking, dark-skinned woman Arianna assumed to be his mother. To her left was a younger female she took to be his sister; to the woman’s right, a handsome brown-skinned man she figured to be his brother.

  It’s ridiculous the way Catholics expect the family to stand through two or three hours of a wake to shake hands with people.

  Arianna, a lapsed Baptist, had been to Catholic services when relatives of her white co-workers died. This was her first experience with black Catholics. She knew there were many in the West Indies. In fact, the guest of honor was from Barbados.

  She surveyed the room. No one was crying. Chauncey would hardly be missed.

  When he was alive, though, his many women gave him plenty of attention.

  Arianna’s palms went sweaty when she saw her former lover’s baldhead propped against the satin pillow. She became acutely aware of the heavy air. Her heart thumped underneath her black, silk blouse. Breath struggled to fill her lungs.

  Her crimson wool pants began to cling to her legs. She shook them to loosen the fabric.

  Get it together, girl. You’ve seen plenty of dead people.

  She removed her red leather jacket and took one of the chairs in the back row. She hoped her heart would return to its normal rhythm. The secondhand on her Movado watch ticked three hundred times as she sat staring at the head on the pillow.

  The casket was a plain, dark plastic. Cheap and fake like its occupant.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. That devious grin appeared in the darkness behind her lids. She jerked them back open and gazed at the casket.

  You ain’t got shit to smile about now.

  The casket stood out in the sea of white that engulfed the room, from the eggshell Priscilla curtains and valances that hung from the tall windows to the plush, cream carpet.

  The snow-white fireplace against the wall in the back of the parlor was surrounded by pearl, brocade wallpaper. A sparkling chandelier dangled from the opal ceiling.

  Arianna tapped the air with her red leather boot. When she was scared, nervous or bored, she shook. At that moment, she was nervous.

  The chair was uncomfortable. She fidgeted from side to side as she tried to get the nerve to get up.

  His mother looked amazingly stoic. If it had been her child, Arianna was sure she’d be passed out on Valium.

  Arianna felt sorry for her. Losing a child, even one as bereft of morals as Chauncey, had to be the hardest thing in the world to live through, she thought.

  As she stared at the casket, a lady slid in the seat next to her.

  It was Nicole, the woman who had almost become Chauncey’s widow. She was five feet, ten inches tall and wore a size sixteen dress. Her shoulder length, chestnut colored braids were pulled into a bun on top of her head, making her look even taller.

  “You know you shouldn’t be here,” Nicole whispered.

  Arianna sighed. “I know. I’m so nervous, but I needed to see him one last time.”

  Nicole frowned. “The day he died wasn’t good enough?”

  “Everything happened so fast. It was almost surreal.”

  “So being here makes it for real?”

  “Yeah. He’s definitely dead.”

  Nicole rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “Sometimes, I wonder if there’s a heart beating under that fancy blouse, Arianna.”

  “Why would you say that?” Arianna asked with hurt in her voice.

  “Forget it. It’s a good thing I know you better than that. I think. Let’s just go pay our respects.”

  “Respect?”

  “That is what people do at a wake. Some people actually come to grieve the deceased.”

  They walked to the front of the parlor.
<
br />   Arianna stared. “He’s so gray.”

  Nicole nodded. “People lose their color when there’s no blood flowing through their veins.”

  “His blood ran cold when he was alive.”

  The nervousness Arianna felt a few moments earlier disappeared as she stared at his prone, lifeless body. She bent over and whispered in the dead man’s ear.

  “There are no computers in hell, asshole.”

  She raised her head and looked at Nicole. Tears were flowing from her slanted, brown eyes down her golden cheeks. Nicole had loved him once. And even though he betrayed her, she never wanted to see him dead.

  For a moment, Arianna felt guilty for her callousness. She took Nicole’s hand and held it between hers.

  Six months before, Nicole was a stranger. In fact, as a public relations spokesperson for a municipal agency in D.C., she was someone a reporter like Arianna would try to avoid. Nicole was used to putting out fires and making bullshit smell like roses. In other words, she was the dreaded flak, the person that kept reporters from talking to the real people in charge.

  Arianna wrote stories on people like the ones Nicole worked for, exposing their dirt on the front page of the Philadelphia Press Herald.

  What they had in common was Chauncey, and discovering that was how they met.

  Arianna whispered. “Are you okay, Nicole?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? You don't have to pretend for my sake. It wouldn’t be natural not to feel something.”

  “I know. But I don’t know what I feel. Loss? Sorrow? Vindication? I just don’t know.”

  “Let’s just get out of here.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to pray for him?”

  “He’s dead,” said Arianna, her voice laced with sarcasm.

  “I know. But don’t Catholics pray for their dead?”

  “They would pray for his soul to go to heaven, but the illusion in this bright ass room is the closest he’s gonna get to the pearly gates. Let’s go.”

  Nicole walked over to the mother and Arianna followed.

  Nicole grabbed her hand. “Hello, Doris. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Nicole. I’m sorry we have to see each other again under these circumstances.”

  She acknowledged Chauncey’s siblings. “Alicia. Patrick. You have my sympathies, too. Is Junior here? I never did get a chance to meet him.”

  Alicia answered. “No, his mother couldn’t afford to send him.”

  Nicole and Arianna weren’t surprised since they’d learned that Chauncey had been nothing more than a sperm donor to the boy.

  Nicole continued to speak to the family as Arianna listened quietly, her head slightly bowed because she didn’t want her eyes to meet theirs.

  “I’m afraid we won’t be able to make the funeral tomorrow, but I’ll be praying for you. Take care and have a safe trip back home.”

  The mother nodded as her son and daughter smiled with gratitude.

  By that time, the other six women in the parlor had gathered in a group to talk. They stared as Arianna and Nicole made their way between the rows of empty chairs and headed toward the door. Arianna walked faster. The weights had fallen off.

  At the bottom of the stairs leading to the parking lot, they met Janelle, a plus size woman whose straggly hair was in bad need of a perm, a hot comb, or braids. Arianna sucked her teeth, thinking, Why is it the hairdresser’s hair always looks like shit?

  Janelle approached them. “Well, I see you two couldn’t stay away either. Anything going on in there?”

  Arianna put back on her jacket. “It’s a wake, Janelle. What do you think is going on in there?”

  Janelle frowned, wrinkling her flawless walnut complexion, and folded her arms across her forty-two double Ds. “I figured you two might go back on your word and go to the funeral. I didn’t expect to see you at the wake.”

  Nicole spoke up. “Obviously, none of us could stay away. No sense making a big deal about it.”

  “I’m not. I’m just –“

  Arianna interrupted. “You’re just what? Look, Catholics don’t usually have open casket funerals and I wanted to see the bastard. No, I needed to see him. To have some closure. To put this mess behind me. Why are you here, Janelle?”

  Janelle snapped. “I’m the only one here who actually loved him. Why don’t you tell the truth, Arianna? Admit that you killed him and you’re here to gloat.”

  “We’re back to this shit again? I told you that I didn’t kill him. Why don’t you just go in there and cry over him like you usually do. Only this time, I won’t be there to wipe your nose.”

  Nicole wrapped her arms around Janelle.

  “Janelle, you’re hurt. We all are. But, let’s not do this. Not here. Let’s go somewhere, maybe get something to eat and talk about this rationally.”

  Janelle pulled away and put her hands on her wide hips. “There’s nothing rational about murder, Nicole.”

  Arianna walked up to Janelle and pointed her finger in the short woman’s face.

  “There’s nothing rational about this whole situation, especially you accusing me of murder after I’ve done nothing but be a friend to you.”

  Nicole grabbed Arianna’s hand and gently pulled her away. “Can we respect the dead here? This is a funeral home.”

  “You need to get a life,” Arianna spat out, ignoring Nicole. “Just because I said I would get revenge on the son of a bitch doesn’t mean I killed him. Besides, what do you care? After everything he did to you, you ought to be happy he’s dead.”

  Janelle started to cry. “How can you be so cold? He didn’t deserve to die. You act like you don’t care that he’s dead.”

  Arianna exhaled loudly.

  “Why? ‘Cause I don’t whine and cry all the time like you? You reap what you sow, Janelle.”

  “Arianna and I have been there for you,” Nicole said. “Why are you doing this?”

  “’Cause Arianna killed him,” Janelle said. “You know it just like I do. Murder is wrong. I don’t care who does it or why.”

  Arianna tied the belt around her jacket. “Let’s go, Nicole. I’m not going to stand here and listen to this anymore.”

  Janelle walked up to Arianna and stared her in the eye.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to listen to me anymore. But you will have to listen to the police after I tell them what you did.”

  “And your word is going to mean something?” Arianna asked sarcastically.

  Janelle smirked. “No, but the emails I saved will.”

  Chapter Two

  The stereo was blasting so loudly Arianna could hear it from the car as she pulled in the driveway of her West Mount Airy home.

  Inside, she called her son’s name over the noise.

  “Amir! Amir! Turn that crap down!”

  She slammed the door and stood at the bottom of the staircase, glaring upwards. She planted her hands on her hips as if the stance and her gaze were enough to quiet the thunderous beats booming from Amir’s room.

  When silence didn’t come, she threw her jacket and purse on the plum love seat by the front door and stomped upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. She banged on his bedroom door. “Did you hear me?”

  As he opened the door, a combination of underarm and dirty sock funk assaulted her nostrils. She backed away and waved her hand in front of her face. Inside there were half a dozen teenage boys of various ethnicities.

  Mount Airy’s diversity was one of the reasons she chose the urban suburb in Northwest Philadelphia.

  “What’s up, Ma?” Her sixteen-year-old’s pecs bulged underneath a tight wife beater. A look of agitation was smeared across his bright yellow face. His male bonding session had been crashed.

  “Hi, Mrs. Crawford,” the boy-men said in unison.

  “Singleton. Her last name is Singleton,” said Amir, reminding his friends that his mother didn’t share his last name.

  “Hey boys.” Arianna was used to answering
to Amir’s father’s name even though they were never married. She didn’t bother to correct them.

  “What’s up Amir is that damn noise you call music. Turn it down. And what are all these boys doing over here? Did you do your homework, yet?”

  “We’re just listening to music and I didn’t have any homework.”

  “This place smells like a locker room. Light incense in here or something. How can you stand it?”

  “I don’t smell nothin.”

  “That’s ‘cause you’re used to it. Anybody call?”

  “Yeah. I wrote it down. Here.”

  Amir handed her the telephone bill. Detective Dennis Mitchell was scribbled on the back along with a California phone number.

  “It’s a school night, Amir. Your friends need to go home in an hour.”

  “Come on, Ma. It’s only seven o’clock.”

  “You heard me. An hour.”

  She went across the hall to Akilah’s room.

  “Hi Mommy.” Her daughter’s face lit up when she saw her mother. She was combing the hair on one of the many dolls spread across her bed and watching a movie on her TV/VCR combo.

  “Hi baby. How was school?” She kissed her daughter’s butter colored cheek and stroked the long, brown braids that cascaded down her back. Akilah didn’t have her father’s complexion, but she had his features. Large, deep-set eyes and a nose that peaked like a mountain at the tip.

  “Okay. How was work?”

  “Fine. How did you do on your spelling test?”

  “I got a hundred. Wanna see?”

  “Sure.”

  Arianna was proud of her daughter. She got good grades and had a sweet personality when she wasn’t mouthing off to her brother. Arianna had nobody to blame but herself for that, though. Akilah got her smart mouth honest.

  She shared credit for the little girl’s brains with Michael, her dead husband and Akilah’s father.