The Lycan King's $7.99 Contract

Chapter 4:Rent Due

Day thirty-six, rent due tomorrow, and I have $188 in cooking pot under mattress.

I counted three times on thin mattress on floor in Queens. Four by four room, curtain door, brick window that looks at brick wall. $400 a month. I have $188. $134 saved for three months plus $54 tips plus $20 pay from yesterday minus $5.80 train to Manhattan to return jacket that he said donate minus $1.35 vanilla spray I bought for Mama Njeri because she ran out.

$188. Need $212 more by tomorrow 5pm or landlord locks curtain door with padlock. He does that. He did to Somali girl last month. Padlock big like fist.

Black wool jacket hangs on plastic chair. Elegant. Expensive. Black wool that costs more than my mother's clinic bill in Aga Khan Kisumu. I touch it every morning before work. Smell of winter, expensive cologne, something wild underneath that makes my neck mark warm.

My neck mark is small, strawberry bite where he bit me night contract tore. Not kissed. Bit. On day one. I cover with hair when I work at Mama Njeri's cafe. But when I smell jacket, it throbs. Gold warm. Like it remembers his teeth.

Day thirty-six, I woke at 4:30am, before alarm. Thin mattress hurts back. But I woke because I always wake at 4:30am to roll mandazi dough with Mama Njeri. Even when rent due. Especially when rent due.

I walked to cafe on Jamaica Avenue in dark. Jamaica dark is loud, buses shouting, same as Kisumu market but different language. I opened cafe with Mama. She is Kikuyu, loud, mother to everyone in Queens who has no mother here. She came from Nakuru in 2004. She knows my mother sick in Kisumu. She knows I send $100 to Aga Khan every month. She knows I have $7.99 jeans with hole at knee and sneakers sole peeling.

We made mandazi, 40, and chapati, 40. Dough soft like baby cheek. My mother taught me in Kisumu to roll chapati thin like paper so it puffs. I rolled thin. 40 chapatis. My hands knew work even when head counted $188, $212, $400.

At 5am, Mama sprayed vanilla air freshener. Cheap $1.25 spray from dollar store. I love that smell. Because my mother used same cheap vanilla spray in her small kiosk in Kisumu before she got sick. Same smell that made Queens feel less far. Home. I breathed deep. Home for one minute before rent thought came back.

"Emma, you quiet today," Mama said in Swahili, rolling dough. "Pesa ya nyumba?"

"Rent due tomorrow," I said in English, because if I answer Swahili about rent I will cry. "I have $188."

She nodded. She knows. She has cafe rent $3,000 due same day. We both count.

We opened at 7am. Bronx customers come for chapati. Two chapatis, extra kachumbari, $5. I made $18 tips by 10am. Good tips because I smiled even with $188 in head.

At 9am, black car came back. Same black Range Rover, license ending 88, same driver black cap, black jacket. Parked across street under tree on Jamaica. Same spot as day five and six.

He did not come inside. He sat in car. Watching cafe. Window down small, even though October cold.

I tried not to look. But I looked every ten minutes while wiping tables. Car still there. My neck mark throbbed every time I looked. Warm.

Mama saw car too at 10am. She wiped same table twice looking at car.

"Gari ile tena," she said low. "That car again. Two days now. Who?"

"Maybe city inspector," I said. Small lie.

But city inspector does not sit in Range Rover for six hours and not come inside for chapati. Bronx customers come inside and shout. This driver does not come inside. He watches.

I wiped table seven. Chipped table where CONTRACT MARRIAGE AGREEMENT was slid across nine days ago. Where I signed Emma Amara Jones because $3,000 would save cafe. Where his gray eyes turned gold like lion. Where he tore contract slow, loud tear down middle, and said disappear elegant.

There is faint ring where whiskey glass sat that night. I wiped with yellow rag wet. Ring stayed. I wiped three times. Same ring. Like it is painted. Like memory that does not go.

At 2pm break, I sat on floor behind counter where customers cannot see, knees to chest, backpack with black wool jacket inside. I did not wear jacket inside because too elegant for cafe. But I held it for one minute. Smell of winter, cologne, wild. My hands stopped shaking when I held it. My chest tight about rent loosened for one minute.

Mama watched from kitchen door, rolling mandazi. She said nothing. She gave me two chapatis free and tea with extra sugar. She does that when she worries.

"Eat, Emma Amara," she said. "You think too much."

I ate two chapatis. I love chapati. Thin, soft, puffed. I ate with appetite. Because even with rent due, I love chapati.

At 3pm, door chimed. Bell that Mama put on door, small bell that rings when customer enters. I looked up from behind counter, hands with flour.

He entered.

Damon Black.

Elegant suit, black, not wool coat today, suit that costs more than my cooking pot savings. Gray eyes, not gold now, gray like storm. Hair neat. He did not look at me first. He looked at table seven. Chipped table. Empty.

Cafe went quiet. Two Bronx customers eating stopped eating and looked. Because man in elegant suit in Mama Njeri's cafe on Jamaica is not normal. Jamaica customers wear thrift, jeans hole like mine. Not suit that shines.

Mama Njeri stood at kitchen door, hands with flour, eyes wide. She knows suit. She saw suit nine days ago when he came first time and slid contract.

He walked to table seven. Slow. He sat. Same chair as nine days ago. He placed phone on table, screen down. He looked at me.

"Emma Jones," he said. Voice low. Not loud. But cafe is small, so everyone hears. "You returned jacket, then kept it because you paid $5.80."

My face hot. How does he know $5.80? I told doorman. Doorman told him. My $5.80 train waste is now in his mouth.

"I did not return," I said, small voice, standing behind counter with flour on hands. "Doorman said donate. I said I keep because I paid train."

He nodded once. Slow. Gray eyes never leaving my face. He looked at my $7.99 jeans hole, at sneakers sole peeling, at flour on hands, at hair covering neck mark.

"Rent due tomorrow," he said. Not question. Statement. Like he knows $188 in cooking pot.

Mama Njeri stepped forward, mother to everyone. "Sir, you want chapati? Or you want to talk outside? This is cafe, not office for contracts."

He looked at Mama. Then back at me.

"I came to buy cafe," he said simple, like saying "I came to buy chapati." "Mama Njeri's cafe. $3,000 rent due tomorrow for you too, Mama. I buy."

Mama's mouth open. Bronx customers mouth open. My mouth open, flour on hands.

He slid paper across chipped table seven again. Not CONTRACT MARRIAGE AGREEMENT this time. Paper says LEASE TRANSFER.

"I pay rent," he said, looking at me, not Mama. "Both rents. Your $400 and cafe $3,000. You keep working. You keep jacket. You keep wiping table seven."

He stood. He left paper on table. He left $100 bill under paper, tip, for chapati he did not order.

He walked out. Door bell rang. He went to black Range Rover across street, got in back seat, car drove away. Same driver black cap.

Cafe quiet for ten seconds. Then Bronx customers started talking loud, Swahili and English mixed. "Nani huyo? Who is that? Rich man buying cafe?"

Mama picked paper, hands shaking, flour on paper. She read. She looked at me, long look, Kikuyu mother look that sees everything.

"Emma Amara," she said low, in Swahili so customers don't hear fully, "This rich man comes back for chipped table, not for cafe. He comes for you. And you wear his jacket that you paid $5.80 train to return. What did you do in Manhattan that night contract tore?"

I did not answer. My neck mark throbbed gold warm. I touched hair covering it.

I had $188 in cooking pot and rent due tomorrow and paper that says he pays rent and $100 bill under paper and black wool jacket on chair and gray eyes that said "You kept it because you paid $5.80" like he knows train cost.

After shift, 10pm, I walked home slow, Queens cold, October wind. Jacket over shoulders, big, swallowing small body, sleeves covering hands, warm. I walked past building where landlord lives, light on. He will come at 5pm tomorrow for $400.

I have $188 plus $100 bill he left = $288. Need $112 more if I take his tip. If I do not take tip, need $212.

At four by four room, I hung jacket on plastic chair. I sat on mattress. I counted $188 again, plus $100. I put $100 on chair under jacket, not in pot. I did not decide yet.

I took small paper calendar from apron pocket. Blue pen marks for rent due tomorrow, circle big. I did not mark red. I marked blue. Rent due.

I touched neck mark, strawberry bite warm.

I did not know yet driver in Range Rover reports, "Girl took $100 tip, did not put in pot, put under jacket. Girl touches neck in window."

I did not know yet in penthouse on 59th, Damon Black stands at window, gray eyes flickering gold without control, hand holding receipt from doorman trash that says VANILLA AIR FRESHENER $1.25, because he told doorman to keep any trash small girl leaves.

Because Lycan King does not buy cafe for cafe. He buys chipped table seven where ring from whiskey glass stays and where girl in $7.99 jeans wipes ring three times and still stays.

And Emma thinks rent is biggest problem tomorrow at 5pm. It is not. Biggest problem is elegant man who says donate and then buys whole cafe because she said she keeps because she paid $5.80.

Because $5.80 is slow. Real life slow. No baby hint yet. Only rent and jacket.