A Change is Gonna Come

A Change is Gonna Come

Written by Jeremy Phelps

copyright 2013 jeremy phelps

smashwords edition

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Tamara James

Meet the Parents

Gone South

A Troubled Night

Hey There Lonely Girl

Happy Birthday

Dirty Diary

You Again

The Rose

Love Jones

The Leading Lady

Get Here

Crazy

The Wildflower

Independence Day

Overcast

Carried Away

Where Do We Go From Here?

The New World

Ever After

About the Author

Follow This Story

Follow This Author

prologue

She opened her eyes to the voice of gentle waters. The calm steadied her nerves and made reality distant. But that lasted only a moment, and heaviness soon pressed against her heart. The reason lie beneath her, and she felt its heart drum against her ear.

Quiet as a thief she arose and clothed. Imagery of the night before flashed through her head while she fastened her pants. She kissed the lips of a sleeping man, placed a note on his chest, and made for her car.

Halfway there she slowed, eventually coming to a stop. Don’t look back, she whispered. Again she started forward, and again she slowed. This was impossible.

Before she could cry, poetry blazed across the morning sky and memories of a twelve-string ballad brought back the magic from the Fourth of July.

Don’t look back, she repeated. Looking back meant more than physically gazing the beauty behind; it was synonymous to staring this ugly situation in the face. Nevertheless, she turned with awe and took one last look at what life allowed her to find but not to keep.

But as he showed signs of waking, there was no more time for thinking, only action. She hurried to her car, started the ignition, and retrieved that withered rose from the passenger seat. Perhaps it could smooth things over. She kissed it, let it fall to the road, and then peeled off against the sunrise.

This is a love story. This is a tragedy. This is whatever you’d call a story that cuts to the gut.

You will laugh. You will cry. You will touch every emotion in the spectrum of feeling. And when it’s all said and done, you might find room in your heart to love the unlovable Tamara James.

Tamara James

It was late spring of 1996 and a perfect time to be a Chicagoan. Michael Jordan’s return to the Bulls set the city on fire and the team had just begun the conference finals against Shaq and the Orland Magic. The first game in the best of seven neared conclusion - Jordan and company had this one in the bag.

The game illuminated a poorly lit living room on the city’s south side. Between every timeout and at the close of every commercial the room faded to black. An old and clumsy floor lamp stationed close to the couch, if used, would only disclose the ugliness of the home, and so it conveniently remained unplugged. However, no darkness could disguise the years of New Ports forever trapped in the walls and the couch and the carpet.

Come here Baby, why don’t you sit a little closer? You know a girl likes to feel comfy, said seventeen-year-old Tamara James, wondering why in God’s name this boy was sitting on the other end of the couch. If this is the best he has to offer then it’s going to be a long night.

Girl you sure your mama ain’t coming home? I’m not trying to get cussed out.

"Quit acting like a punk. If you scared, we can . . .

Hell nah, he interrupted. Girl, I’ll have you screaming my name in different languages. And that’s real.

I’m sorry, Tamara giggled, amused by his ridiculous boast. He makes a statement like that from the other end of the couch? What a gangster, she thought. She turned the television off via remote control and scooted towards him until they joined at the hip, "I just want to play. I just want to pin you down and kiss you all over, all over. Will you play with me?"

He quickly changed topics, You know Shanice is pregnant by Dwayne again, and the bitch is having another abortion. Tamara got up and walked away, agitated.

"I’m going upstairs. If you want to come, or, when you decide you’re man enough to come, come on up." She went up to her bedroom and slammed the door. To be fair, his inaction is somewhat understandable considering Tamara’s, how shall we say, eagerness to give. More on that shortly, but for now let’s get back to poor what’s-his-face sitting on the couch trying to put the current situation into perspective. Waiting at home is his pregnant girlfriend and their two-year-old son, but waiting upstairs is a raging nymphomaniac who’d never speak a word of the night’s happenings. Minutes later, he came to his senses and did what any respectable young thug from Southside Chicago would have done; he went upstairs.

Chasing a reggae tune by the Fugees, he opened a screeching door and found Tamara stretched across her bed wearing an unfastened bathrobe. A tinted bulb dulled his vision but he could make out what appeared to be black panties. Oh yeah, and scattered, dirty clothes everywhere.

Welcome to my bedroom, she teased, moving her legs with a serpent’s charm. A brief silence befell the room and Tamara realized this boy wasn’t going to do anything more than what he’d done already: nothing. So, she decided to take control of the situation. She strolled across her room, shoved him against the wall, and forced her tongue into his mouth. Hormones-gone-wild, Tamara unbuckled his belt and baited him backwards: stopping at the bed. In stripper fashion, she slid off the robe and let it fall to the floor, then posed - hands on hips.

Tamara was bad. You know the type: five-seven, thin but curvy, perky breasts and a pretty round bottom. Her skin amalgamated old-brick brown with beach-tanned sand. Mr. I’ll have you screaming my name in different languages circled her, watching, lusting. This was not the plan. He said it plainly Friday after school, I don’t wanna fuck; I just want my dick sucked. Period. So, Tamara promised to give him exactly what he wanted, no sex required. But now he empathized with the fly trying to escape the spider’s web.

See, rumor had it that Tamara was after semen. That she wanted to trap boys. Another rumor said she was dying, and naturally, it just had to be sex related. But even with all the gossip, she remained high on the boys’ hit list.

My girl can never find out about this, he warned. Despite the smirk, she knew he was serious. Tamara raised her eyebrows in agreement, she understood.

Like a rap video girl, she jiggled her hips to the music. And like a rap video girl gone porn star, she grabbed her panties near the hips and hypnotically worked them down. The boy was done. We need not go any further. All that needs to be said is that sex took place, unprotected, and that she was very disappointed when finished. Dissatisfaction - nothing new in the life of Tamara James.

Undoubtedly, Tamara James had sex quite a bit more than your average teenage girl. She rarely went a week before hopping in the bed with, or for, someone new. Sometimes, when done, she would feel like more than the names everyone called her, sometimes she would cry and feel alone, and then sometimes she would just go to sleep. And then there were nights like this, when she’d lie on the couch and drift away in natural thought. Whatever the case, she was happy . . . or so she thought.

"Tamara, wake your sleeping ass up," mama yelled, drawing back the living room curtains. She spoke an interesting blend of ghetto and angry black woman, no doubt a product of the late sixties/early seventies.

Tamara rolled over on the couch and received the sun intruding from the window. The light scourged her eyes so she turned back.

Girl get your ass up, out, and go to school, mama yelled louder.

Tamara turned partially and rubbed both eyes with her knuckles, What time is it?

Time for you to get your ass up and go to school.

Ma, Tamara demanded.

Nine-thirty, alright. You over an hour late already, Mama shouted, grabbing the vacuum from the closet. Please don’t start messin' up now; it’s just two weeks till graduation. You, she stopped mid-sentence with the look of a kid who caught mama and daddy unloading gifts, supposedly from Santa, under the Christmas tree. Eyes thinned, she tilted her head from Tamara without breaking eye contact, "Have you been drinking again? I swear, if you have, I’m going to . . .

Nah, Tamara interrupted, laughing. Why you always got to be saying drinking? Like I’m a damn alcoholic.

Then what is it cause, her eyes squinted further. Hold on. Mama took note of her cleaner-than-usual living room. Hmmm, Tamara hates to clean. Unless . . . yep, that’s got to be it. You got some last night, didn’t you? And don’t lie to me; I know when you’re lying.

Why I got to be doing all that? Tamara replied.

Girl don’t play with me; I’ll tell your daddy. You know how much he hates you with them boys.

Okay, okay, Tamara answered, artificially embarrassed. Yeah.

And?

And?

"Yeah, and?"

And . . . it was weak with a capital W. She looked around, Where’s daddy?

That fool out with his bum-ass friends playing cards or doing whatever the hell they do.

So, how was the family reunion? Tamara asked, rising from the couch.

"Fucked up. They can all just go to hell for all I’m concerned. I don’t give a . . . oh let me calm down, Lord please.

First we got there and your grandma brought up garbage from like, brief pause, ten years ago, so everybody got to arguing. The second day she said something she ain’t have no business saying, so her and your daddy got into an argument. I told him, I was like - let’s just go home. But he went on and on about how we were already there and I should spend some time with my mother. That just goes back to him not being in favor with his crazy-ass mama when she died.

After getting a weekend of mamma-drama off her chest, she lightened the mood, Good for somebody that we didn’t come back early.

However, Tamara did not smile. It was me, wasn’t it?

What? mama asked, pretending to not understand the question.

It was me they were arguing about, wasn’t it?

Ring . . . Ring . . . the phone rang but they stared at one another. After the fifth ring, mama left the room to get the phone.

Tamara sighed and retreated to the bathroom. She looked intently in the mirror, hating the person that looked back. Don’t get the wrong impression; she was arguably the finest girl on the block. All the boys wanted her. Tamara knew this as well as anyone, but occasionally despised it.

Not everyone found her adorable, though. Rival girls at school teased, calling her a mutt for her odd blend of ethnic traits. She had thick, collarbone length, coffee colored hair that showed possible traces of Indian heritage, dark picturesque lips common among Ethiopian women, and Asian eyes. The only predominately African-American features were her full lips and nose. Her eyebrows sat high but fell as they moved outwards. That, plus her narrow mouth and its descending corners, made her sometimes look conceited. Yeah, girls called her hideous, but she didn’t care. What mattered were grandma’s disparaging words, most certainly aimed at her sex life. That hurt. Grandma was both mentor and inspiration and Tamara felt closer to her than anyone else in the world. So, when she felt grandma hated or despised her, she hated and despised herself.

After finishing in the bathroom, at least on mornings like this, when she did not go to school, the next stop was the fridge. Sharp pains shot through her side as she bent down to look inside.

Mama, she paused, mama.

Girl would you leave me alone, I’m in here on the phone.

Yeah well, we ain’t got no eggs.

Make some sausages then.

We ain’t got no sausage either.

Make some pancakes then.

"We ain’t got no pancakes neither," she laughed at kitchen-only volume.

Girl, you better leave me the hell alone.

"Ain’t shit to eat up in here," she mumbled.

What the hell you in there mumbling? mama demanded. She heard nothing but knew her daughter too well.

Nothing Mama. Bent down, arm extended to the fridge handle, Tamara smelled something foul. She checked herself, yep - it was her. Partially. Her deodorant did the Judas and the boy from last night smelled better, well,