by Tina Martin
What a joke! Is that what men did to get women now?
I shake my head and attempt to dismiss all thoughts of him. I’m home – a place where the heart is – and that for me is my father. It’s a place where I should find relief and have all the woo-sah moments I need. A place to de-stress and unwind. Instead, when I pull in a deep breath, my nostrils are assaulted with the smell of burnt toast – and I’m not talking about the salvageable kind where you can take a butter knife, scrape off the dark areas and keep it moving. I’m talking toast that’s burned so black, the walls should have soot on them.
Papa is at it again, trying to cook and watch Bonanza at the same time like he hasn’t seen those episodes time and time again. I still live with him since he’s not well. I – we – can’t afford to hire an in-home health nurse. Shoot, I can hardly afford to pay the bills with my waitressing job. And I can’t rely on my sisters for anything. The only time Selah showed her face around here was when she needed money. Other than that, she was like dust in the wind – somewhere in the mix with the otherworldly crowd – livin’ it up, doing any drug that’ll get her to nirvana.
And then there’s Shelby – my stuck-up half-sister who lives in New York City. We have the same mother but papa isn’t her dad. Her father’s white and wealthy. I recall her being around when I was younger, but Shelby moved out and went to live with her father after she graduated from high school. She was always closer to him than she ever was with any of us like she identified more with the white side of her family. Maybe she did. I wouldn’t know. I don’t talk to her at all. She doesn’t call me. I don’t call her. Sometimes, it’s best to leave folks who want to be left alone, alone.
“Lo, is that you?” Papa asks.
I hear his raspy voice fill the hallway so I gather he’s in his bedroom.
“Yeah, it’s me, Papa,” I say back.
Papa needs a kidney transplant – needed one since the year after mom died. He goes to dialysis two times a week, which I take him to, but he can get around pretty good by himself. He could actually drive there, but sometimes he uses his ailment as an excuse not to live life. Most of his pessimistic attitude came after mom died. When he lost her, he clocked out, didn’t have the drive to do anything, well except burn food, watch old westerns and junk up the house. I cleaned up the place yesterday morning before my shift and now, the living room looks like a herd of cattle ran through here. There’s an overturned laundry basket. Clothes are everywhere. Figurines knocked over. Table, crooked. And my suspicion was right about the burnt toast. When I step into the kitchen, I see nearly a loaf of charred bread scattered across the counter with an opened container of peanut butter. Globs of jelly are splattered on the old laminate flooring.
I’m disgusted. The house looks like we’ve been robbed, but who robs you and then makes ten failed attempts to make a toast before leaving?
He’s your father, Shiloh. Be easy on him.
I walk to my father’s room and lean against the doorframe with my arms crossed, seeking answers. “Papa, what did I tell you about trying to cook?”
“Don’t come in here sassing me, lil’ girl. I knows how to cook just fine.” He coughs, never takes his gaze from the TV.
“Papa, I’m serious. You’re going to burn this place to the ground. You can’t cook.”
“Dropping some ol’ dried-up bread in the toaster ain’t cooking.”
Even though I’m irritated, I try hard to keep myself from laughing when I respond, “That bread wasn’t dry. I bought it yesterday, remember?”
“Well, it wouldn’t toast right is all I know—had to go through the whole loaf to find something that wouldn’t burn. Ol’ cheap bread. Listen here…don’t buy no mo’ of that expired bread. You gotta read them labels more carefully and make sure the date is good. Some stores sell expired bread and won’t think nuttin’ of it.”
I sigh. The bread wasn’t expired, but leave it up to Papa Winston to blame the bread for being burned when he was the one who overcooked it. To death. In a toaster. Twelve pieces, up in smoke.
“I’m going to start preparing your meals,” I tell him. It’s an argument we’ve been having for some time, but since he refuses to leave the house – and I don’t consider sitting on the porch waving at winos leaving the house – I have no choice but to fix his meals.
“You ain’t fixin’ me nuttin’.”
“Papa, I can’t have you in here ‘bout to burn the house down.”
“Girl, I ain’t fenna burn no house down. Calm yo’ spirit. That’s what you need to do.”
“No, Papa, you really need to—”
“I said calm yo’ spirit. I’ve been on this earth longer than you, Lo. Have I not?”
“Of course, but—”
“Well, I think I know a thing or two about life. And bread. I know what I’m doing. Don’t concern yourself with me. I’ma be alright.”
“Papa—”
“What you need to do is get yo’ own place and live yo’ own life and stop busy-bodying about mine. I’ll be fine right here where I am.”
I don’t have the energy to argue with him so I offer up a goodnight and continue to my bedroom. I briefly sit on my twin-size bed and think about all the work I have to do tomorrow thanks to him. In addition to taking him to dialysis, I have to clean the living room and the kitchen because I don’t have the energy to do it tonight. All I want to do is shower and go to bed.
I hate living this way.
My life has been at a standstill after my mother passed of a heart attack ten years ago – the year after I graduated from high school. My father has been waiting for a kidney transplant but after she passed, he didn’t much care about getting better. He wouldn’t go to dialysis unless I drove him. He made no effort to be independent besides burning toasts and junking up the house.
And there I was, taking care of him when I could’ve been doing what he’s preached to me so many times to do – live my own life. Get my own place. Be happy.
I’m not happy here. It hurts me that Papa knows it but it’s hard to hide. Honestly, I don’t remember the last time I’ve been happy about anything. I used to want so much – a husband for starters, a family, children, a nice home full of love. A place to make memories. A place where my children would grow up happy. I wanted those things. But being stuck in a cramped, stuffy, three-bedroom house with my father was all I had, and there’s a certain feeling of contentment that comes with getting used to the way things are.
It weighed heavily on me because I know living here is detrimental to my mental health. Every day, I wake up thinking something amazing is going to happen to change my life and get me out of my current set of circumstances – kinda what Dakota brought up in the alley earlier tonight – but even if I did meet someone, what will happen to papa? I couldn’t just leave him. Mom wouldn’t have wanted me to.
After my shower is over, I get dressed in pajamas and peep inside his bedroom again. Papa’s sleeping on top of the covers.
“Goodnight, Papa,” I whisper before turning off the light. I return to my room and once again, bury my face in my hands.
My life sucks.
Work is horrible – hard work with lousy pay.
My father is becoming increasingly unbearable, and somehow I caught the attention of a handsome customer who thought I was going to have his baby.
As I’m about to plug the charger into my cell phone for the night, Dakota calls.
“Hey, girl,” I answer.
“Hey. Why you leave early?” she asks.
“I had to. I’d already splattered cocktail sauce on my shirt and then that guy—the one you call my sugar daddy—was giving me a hard time. Can you believe this fool had the nerve to catch an attitude with me because I brought him four lemon slices instead of two?”
“Oh, I can believe it. He flagged me down and asked me to send his waitress to the table. I knew you were swamped, so I told him I’d help him, right? You think he would’ve been grateful, but nope. He insisted I fi
nd you because he knows that’s your section. I told you he only sits in your section because he has a thing for you.”
“I hate to admit it but you may be right.”
“I know I’m right. Why else would he pick on you about some stupid lemons?”
“When I left, tonight, he left right after, came to the bus stop and insisted I get in his car. So I got in—”
“In the Bentley?” she asks. I hear the excitement in her voice like she wished she was the one offered the invitation to get into his car.
“Yes. The Bentley. So, I get in and he takes me home without me having to give him any directions. He already knew where I lived. And on top of that, he propositioned me.”
She laughs. “He propositioned you?”
“Yes. Said he wanted me to have his baby. Said we had the power to change each other’s lives and all that nonsense. Crazy, right?”
“Well, did you accept?”
“Dakota!”
“What? Look at it like this—if you have a baby by him, you’re set for life, girl.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“Oh, it’s not? You don’t want money? A baby? A man that fine? He may be a little unhinged but some things can be overlooked.”
“You think it’s that simple, Dakota?”
“It can be. Don’t complicate it, girl. The man has a thing for you. He wants a baby and you gon’ turn that down? If you have his baby, you’re an instant millionaire, if not billionaire. Google his net worth.”
“Dakota—”
“Google it.”
“Money isn’t everything.”
“That’s what rich people want broke folks like us to believe so they can stay getting rich without the threat of anyone else cutting into their money. Look, all I’m saying is, it’s worth a conversation. Plus, you and your sugar daddy will make some cute, green-eyed, caramel babies. I can see them wearing Gucci onesies right now.”
I laugh at her, picturing her chain-smoking on her way home.
“You’re neglecting one thing, Dakota.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know this guy from Adam.”
“Then, get to know him. He obviously has some interest in you. I mean, he didn’t pick me to be his baby mama. He picked you.”
“So that’s supposed to make me feel special?”
“Yes!” She chuckles. “Lo, we were just talking about how we were going to be stuck working at the bistro forever. Maybe this is your way out. The universe heard your complaints, and it answered. Think about it—you said you waited on him before. He’s never asked you anything about a baby, right? And he’s never been so nitpicky about a freakin’ lemon, but tonight he was—the same night you declared to the world you wanted a life.”
“I didn’t declare anything.”
She laughs. “The universe always listens. It hears our rhythms and binds our souls to whatever it sees fit that’ll make our dreams come to fruition but only after we speak our desires into existence.”
“Dakota, chill with all that nonsense. The universe doesn’t make a doggone thing happen. You make things happen for yourself.”
“I beg to differ, my dear.”
“And, that was you back there in the alley talkin’ ‘bout you wanted a sugar daddy,” I remind her. “He said he was coming back Friday. I’ll tell him you’re down for whatever. It’ll be you, him, the universe and y’all’s baby.”
She laughs wildly. Her cackle nearly deafens me. “Girl, I ain’t having nobody’s baby. I ain’t got time for no kids and maybe that’s why the guy—your guy—wasn’t aligned with me. He was aligned with you. You want kids.”
“I do, but not like this. I want marriage. I want the fairytale. Some guy walking up to me and telling me he wants a baby isn’t a fairytale. It’s disrespectful and outrageous. Some women might like that, but it’s a turnoff for me.”
“He doesn’t look like the kind of man who’d take no for an answer, so you better have you’re A-game on Friday, love.”
I recline on the bed and close my eyes after hanging up with Dakota. Now, instead of being relaxed, instead of being comforted by the safe haven of home, I’m nervous about going to work. My woo-sah moment never comes, and now I can’t sleep. What if he comes back? Then again, what if he doesn’t? It’s possible that between now and Friday, he’d find some other woman to grant his preposterous request for procreation. If he was brave enough to bring his offer to me, I know he’s done it before.
Chapter Three
Magnus
Friday, I arrive at Bistro Le Bon around the same time – six o’clock. Again, I sit in Lo’s section and when our eyes connect as she comes out of the kitchen, she frowns slightly.
I smile.
It’s not that I take pleasure in her discomfort. Wait – if I’m being honest, I actually do. I feed off of her nervous energy. It’s like a drug. I need this kind of natural high to her reactions even if she thinks I’m insane. After all, this is the woman who’s going to bear my child. That, I’m sure of.
She has a tray full of food when she breezes pass me without speaking – almost as if she didn’t see me sitting here. I smell her perfume. The deep, luscious scent has me in a spell. I have no idea what it is but I wouldn’t mind spraying it all around my house to have constant reminders of her.
I patiently wait for her to unload the tray and turn around to stare at her as she does so. I’m sure I’m making her nervous. Surprisingly, she doesn’t spill anything on anyone including herself. She walks back my way after telling the people to enjoy their food, but again, she doesn’t say a word – just walks right by like she doesn’t see me.
I don’t trip. She knows I’ll get her attention when I want it so I wait to see how she wants to play it. It’s up to her. The longer she ignores me, the more irritated I’ll become.
I get my answer when she approaches me with a glass of water, two lemon slices and a glass of wine. She places everything on the table. It’s all neat. Orderly. No spills. Just the way I like it.
“Is this Zuccardi Chardonnay?” I ask simply to hear her voice. I know what this is. I drink it three times a week.
“Yes,” she answers, “And I’ve already put your appetizer and dinner order in. Not bad for a woman with no waitressing skills, huh?”
“Depends on whether they both come out at the same time again.”
She walks away. There’s no eye roll. No sigh. No nothing. She’s probably determined not to let me get under her skin today but I know I’ll wiggle my way there, eventually.
Before I arrived, I called Rico and informed him he’d need to add an extra waitress to cover the rest of Lo’s shift. At seven, Lo would be at my table, either having dinner with me or watching me eat – her choice – but either way, we’d have time to talk. I’m sure she has questions about my proposal. I have all the answers.
When I see Rico talking to her, I imagine he’s telling her about the slight change in her work schedule for tonight. I compensated him for this change with a few thousand dollars in addition to paying the extra money for the substitute waitress so, in essence, I purchased time with Lo.
She begrudgingly walks my way, takes off her apron and flops down in the chair across from me like she’s defeated. Like I already won.
“What do you want?” she asks me, straight-faced. There’s no expression of discontent. Just a matter-of-fact demeanor. A woman seeking answers. Doing what she has to do.
Instead of answering her, I flag down the waitress who I’m sure is the one who took Lo’s shift. “Excuse me, can you please bring the lady a glass of Zuccardi Chardonnay as well as an order of Swedish meatballs?”
“Sure. I’ll put that right in for you, Sir.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says and walks away. All smiles.
I glance over at Lo. She’s probably trying to determine how I know she likes Swedish meatballs. On several occasions, I’ve witnessed her stuffing them in her mouth
while on break. I’ve never seen her drink any form of alcohol, though. Probably against the rules while she’s at work, although she doesn’t come across as much of a drinker. She’ll definitely need one for the discussion we’re about to have.
“What do you want with me?” she asks again sounding more impatient than curious.
“I told you what I wanted Wednesday night when I dropped you off at home. Today, I’ll explain myself and give you an opportunity to accept my offer.”
“You mean decline.”
I smirk at her nonsense. Decline. I take a sip from my glass. No one turns me down for anything – not American Express, women and for doggone sure not a waitress at a tapas bistro. The truth of the matter is, I can pick any woman to give a baby. She should consider herself fortunate instead of looking at me like I disgust her. I’ve never had a woman look at me the way she’s looking at me right now.
“For starters, I want to know more about you—things I don’t already know.”
Her drink arrives along with the appetizer I ordered. She doesn’t touch her glass or the food.
“How do you know me when I don’t know you from any of the other customers that come up in here?” she asks. “I just know you like to eat here.”
“I don’t like to eat here. I only come here so frequently because you’re here.”
“And what is it about me that makes you want to eat at a place you don’t like?”
I eat and sip while she looks at me.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Excuse me?”
“What’s your name?” I ask again. It irritates me to do so, but she doesn’t leave me much choice.
“My name is Lo. You know that already.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Shiloh. They call me Lo for short.”
“I see.” Shiloh. I like her full name – not the shortened version of it.
“And what’s your name?” she asks. “I’ll need it when I file the police report.”
I chuckle. She’s funny. “Why do you need to file a police report?”