On the Line

by Donna Hill

  The balance of the night was tame in comparison to some. We were flooded with e-mails and phone calls offering advice to our bisexual honeypot, everything from keep the man to stay with the woman and anything in between. The consensus was that she was in over her head and that Ms. Yolanda would never mean her any good. Nobody needed that kind of loving, I don’t give a hoot how great the sex is. She could smack it, flip it, rub it down, but killing somebody over some booty—that’s where I draw the line.

  “Going straight home?” Macy asks as we meet in the corridor.

  I yawn. “Yeah. I thought about hanging out for a while, but I want to actually sleep tonight.”

  We walk to the elevator, waving good-night to the graveyard shift.

  “You decide what you’re going to wear to the banquet?” Macy asks me once we are down in the parking garage.

  “I’m pretty much decided on the red number. I’ve been dieting my ass off to make sure I can fit in that bad boy.”

  Macy laughs. “Girl, you need to diet like I need a bigger behind.”

  I had nightmares and daymares about one day looking like the other women in my dysfunctional family—unable to wear anything other than a flowered shift and open-toed, rubber-soled shoes. I shiver at the image.

  Since we took Macy’s car earlier, she drops me off in front of my building. I lean over the gears to share our usual parting hug then, out of the blue, I ask her, “Hey, Mac, you ever think about being with a woman?”

  She cocks a brow at me. “Uh, no. I’m strictly dickley as the saying goes. You?”

  “Naw. But I’m just thinking about that woman’s letter tonight. Could it be that good?”

  “Ain’t nothing that good, and if it is I don’t want to know about it.”

  We high-five and I get out. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Lata!” She jets off as if the judge just fired the starter pistol. I shake my head, walk inside. Another day bites the dust.

  When I reach the front desk, the night watchman stops me.

  “Ms. Newhouse, there was a delivery for you earlier.”

  I frown. I wasn’t expecting anything. I’d sworn off of shopping online for a while, so I couldn’t imagine what it would be.

  He goes behind the desk and comes up with an enormous arrangement of the most exquisite roses in a rainbow of colors. I actually gasp like they do in those romance novels. I can’t even see the watchman’s face as he brings them to me.

  “Would you like me to take these up for you?” he huffs.

  “Uh, yes. Please.” I try to see if there’s a card but can’t through all the flora.

  We get up to my place and I instruct him to set them down on the long table in the foyer. I dig in my bag for a five and hand it to him. “Thanks. I want to call him Jeeves, but don’t. The minute he’s out the door, I rifle through the blooms and locate a tiny white card.

  Dear Joy, These in no way compare to your beauty but do enjoy them. Randy.

  I drop the card on the floor as if it had caught fire. Frantically I look around. No sign that anyone has been there. WTF. Randy was beginning to give me the willies. Shit, that word made me think about Wufferts. Jeez. I rub my brow. Suppose he was some crazy loon like Yolanda? Maybe Macy was right about me letting strange men up in my apartment.

  I pick up an umbrella from the rack and tiptoe to the back of my apartment—just in case. Between the nutty listeners and now Randy…I needed a vacation.

  Needless to say, I’m sleeping with the light on.

  CHAPTER 12

  The previous night left me so rattled that I didn’t even bother going over any letters for the evening’s show. Let the intern earn her non-salary. I’m grumpy and irritable when I arrive at the station and in no mood for chitchat. On the entire ride over I kept checking my rearview mirror, thinking that at any moment a strange black van was going to pull over, snatch me out of my ride and I would disappear forever. I don’t even bother with pleasantries for Macy, who could tell right off that I was not in the mood. That’s the good thing about having someone who knows you like the corns on their feet.

  I settle myself down, adjust my headset and wait for my cue. Whoever had the balls to call in tonight was going to get an earful, that’s for sure.

  The track “On and On” from Erykah Badu fades as I bob my head. We’re off commercial break and on to our show. I prepare my oh-so-pleasant on-air voice for another go at it.

  The broadcasting banquet is tomorrow and yours truly is nominated for the fourth consecutive year. I keep that on my mind and push the other crazy mess “to the left, to the left.”

  “Today’s topic is…” I look at Macy as my mind comes back to business. She shrugs and glares at the intern, who puts down her bag from Mickey D’s where I know she forgot my salad dressing. I need some flavor with my rabbit food. On a McNapkin, she hastily scribbles…

  “I have it. How could I forget? People in relationships where they’ve discovered a secret…” I pause.

  She didn’t forget the dressing. I grin at her. She smirks.

  “Something unknown about their significant other that has just come to light. So, let’s hear it, people. What’s on your mind? What do you have to say? All lines are open. You’ve got the number, so use it.”

  The board lights up. Our intern has been screening. Macy and I know the regulars by heart. We give the intern that list to compare. We want someone new to break in on the show. Virgins are fun. She finds them and gives me a thumbs-up.

  That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.

  The first ones are the usual assortment of the unusual—brothers on the DL (Thank you, Oprah), a pregnancy not attributed to the spouse (Thank you, Maury), a woman in the dark about her boyfriend’s bad credit (Thank you, Judge Mathis. And thank you, broke brothers, too). Daytime television, I tell you.

  At the top of the next hour, the intern hits pay dirt. This caller is different.

  Nervous. Pensive.

  Scared?

  Scared equals fun.

  “Hello? Joy?”

  “Please. Call me ‘Miss Newhouse.’ I hate it when first-timers try to get all cozy. Don’t you?” Macy nods and cues the sound effect of screeching brakes.

  “Well…I apologize.”

  “I forgive you this time.” I sigh, looking at my nails. The tips need some filler. “Now. What is your big revelation for the listeners? I’m sure they are on pins and needles.”

  “It’s not so much a revelation as it is a concern.”

  “And you called here? On the Line, the numero uno radio show in the country? I am so honored.”

  “Really?”

  Is she really this dumb?

  “No. Now speak…um…what is your name?”

  “Margot.”

  Margot. Okay. Fake name. “Can I call you Maggie? I just feel in a Maggie mood today. Do you ever have those moods? Know what I mean?”

  “No. I can’t say that I do.”

  “You don’t listen to this station on the regular, do you? I can tell.”

  “That is correct. I was changing stations and heard you.”

  “And you were drawn in by my voice,” I assert. “You can admit it. I hear it often.”

  “Yes, but more by what you were asking. I know of you, Miss Newhouse.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, but please call me ‘Joy.’ You’re so slow to get to the point that I feel we’ve known each other forever.”

  “Thank you, Joy. And I’m sorry about stumbling along. This is unusual for me to call in to these kinds of shows. I have something I just discovered about my husband.”

  I sigh heavily into my mic; a rumble reverberates through the studio. “Is he gay? ’Cause that is so…”

  “No,” she chuckles. “He’s not gay. As far as I know.”

  “Then what, dearie?”

  Her voice lowers. “He’s black.”

  “Come again?”

  “I think he’s black…um African-American.”

  “
Whoa.” Macy gives me that shit-eating grin. I run with it. “And by your statement, I assume you are not.”

  “Correct.”

  “Are you white?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, well, well. Someone was ‘passing’? Is that what was going on, Maggie? Did your hubby fool ya? Did he pull that ‘I got Sicilian in my family’ card?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I just don’t see color when I deal with people.”

  “Oh lawd. Here it comes. I don’t see color,” I mock. “Kumbaya, Kumbaya! Uh-huh. We are truly in an enlightened age. But now that you’ve suddenly noticed, you decide to call Miss Joy. Well, you know what…”

  The intern waves her hands frantically. I’m about to end it, but callers are swarming to get in. Rather than wrapping this one up, I let it ride for a second. Ratings are ratings.

  “Listeners, we are in the middle of a bona fide therapy session. I’m about to get all Dr. Phil with Maggie. Let’s help her come to grips with the fact that her husband’s black, y’all.”

  “I don’t know for certain. I said that I thought he was.”

  “Whatever,” I reply. “What’s his name?”

  She pauses. “Kendall.”

  “Is that his real name? Or did you just make that one up, too?”

  “That’s his real name…but he rarely uses it.”

  “Oh hell naw! The name didn’t tell you, girl?”

  “No, it didn’t. Like I said, he rarely uses it, Joy.”

  “That’s ‘Dr. Newhouse’ now. Our friendship ended abruptly when I began billing you for this therapy.” Yeah, I’m in a funky mood.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Continue. How long have you known Kendall?”

  “Since college.”

  “How did the two of you meet? College Republicans? Rib joint across the tracks?”

  “That’s not funny. He bumped into me outside a library and helped me with my books. You don’t have to be so insulting.”

  “So you have listened to my program before,” I squeal. “No, let me tell you what’s insulting. That you expect me to believe you didn’t realize that your husband was black when you met him.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Who does he look like? That guy from Prison Break? Maybe Vin Diesel? I know! I know! Mike Bibby from the Sacramento Kings. That’ll make you scratch your head. Matter of fact, I’m scratching mine as we speak.”

  Macy laughs as she hits another sound effect.

  “I don’t know what those people look like.”

  “Damn. You really are isolated. He must’ve been on the hunt for someone like you.”

  “His color doesn’t matter to me. I’m in love with the man inside.”

  “Okay,” I whistle, going along with the second verse same as the first. “So can I refer to you as Miss Colorblind?”

  “Do I have a choice, Dr. Newhouse?”

  I’m under her skin. Love it.

  “You’re learning. It is my show, after all.”

  “And I don’t know why I called your stupid show in the first place.”

  She hangs up.

  I’m astonished.

  How dare she? I do the hanging up around here. I shake it off and continue with the show, but that doesn’t stop me from being pissed. Some of the other callers make a couple of cracks about Margot. Everyone knows I am the queen of hang-ups. I can’t believe I let that woman beat me to it.

  “Margot, if you’re dusting and happen to have the radio on, I want you to listen. As a doctor, I hate leaving the patient on the operating table. I know you’re a virgin to my graces, so I can be a little hard to handle. But I forgive you. Please call me back, so we can finish your story.”

  I go on with the show, centering on a new topic. The calls are wild and entertaining, putting me back on my game.

  Then the intern stands up, waving at me from behind the glass. I motion for her to put them on.

  Someone’s breathing.

  “Margot, is that you?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Good! Good!” I squeal. “Confession time, dear. I’ll admit it. The doctor messed up. A lot of our listeners want to know more about your and Kendall’s history, so I want to give you that chance now.”

  “I don’t know if I should be talking to you. Not only were you rude and offensive to me, you were downright obnoxious.”

  I grimace, wanting to shoot her. I promised, so I bite my tongue a while longer. Macy motions me to remain calm.

  “It’s just us girls, Margot. I get that way sometimes, but only because I thought you were BSing. But you weren’t, were you? You really didn’t know your husband was black.”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. How long have the two of you been married?”

  “A year.”

  “Okay. And the two of you never discussed race? What about at the wedding? You had to have looked at his side of the church and said, ‘Hey, maybe Kendall’s got some Dominican branches on that family tree or sumthin’.’”

  “No. We were married in a courthouse ceremony. He never discussed his family.”

  “What about yours?”

  “I don’t discuss mine, either. As a child, I had some difficulties and they…”

  “Kicked you to the curb?”

  “If you want to phrase it that way, yes.”

  “That is totally messed up, Margot. But back to hubby…What did it for you? What were the signs? Copies of Jet magazine on the coffee table? The TV channel always on BET? You called Affirmative Action a quota system and he slapped the hell out of you?”

  The intern motions that I’m crazy. I shrug my shoulders. I don’t know how to be any other way. And the ratings prove it.

  “I thought you weren’t going to belittle me.”

  She wants to run again.

  “Relax, Margot. I’m just joking. That’s what I do.”

  Cue the circus music.

  “But to make you more comfortable, I’ll ask it more professionally. Were there any hints that your man might be something other than what you originally thought?”

  “There were a few hints, but I ignored them. I was more focused on the man than his ethnicity. One day I mentioned visiting the South. That’s when he told me he was from a small town in rural Alabama.”

  “Honey, I’ve been there. All of Alabama’s rural. Trust me on that.”

  Macy scowls. I forgot she attended Tuskegee. Still true. I stick my tongue out at her. She probably won’t buy me salads for a week.

  “May I finish?”

  “Sorry.”

  “When I said I’d like to meet his family one day, he became agitated. He said he had no plans on returning there under any circumstances. Then he added that we might get some funny looks from some of his less sensitive kin.”

  “Big clue. Big.”

  “I didn’t take it like that. You see, I—”

  “Then you are a dumb one. But don’t be offended, Margot. I’m not calling you dumb. It’s an acronym for Doesn’t Understand Most Basics. Any other hammers upside your head?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Anything else that clued you in to this big revelation you’re dazzling us with?”

  “Last week. He found out he was nominated for an award at his job. He called his grandmother. Something I’ve never known him to do. He was on the phone with her in the bedroom when I came in. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I overheard him mentioning how much it meant to him to be nominated as a black man in his industry.”

  “Did you tell him what you’d heard?”

  “No. I was afraid that maybe I misunderstood. And it shouldn’t matter to me anyway.”

  “Please. I’m getting sick of this game. I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. I just can’t, dear. And I’m sure my listeners are rolling their eyes and sucking their teeth,” I admonish. “This is ridiculous no matter how you put it. You proclaim you don’t care, but it bothers you when you ‘find out’ that Kendall is a black man. Mag
gie, you’d have to be blind not to have noticed these things about your husband all these years, no matter how pale he may be.”

  “That’s just it. I—”

  “…am saying goodbye!”

  Cue the toilet flush.

  Nobody hangs up on me.

  “Uh-huh,” I say to my listeners. The ones who stuck around for this foolishness. “I’ll bet you were yukking it up. Thought I let old Maggie get me, huh? If so, then you really don’t know Lady Joy Newhouse. Recognize. I ain’t the one to play with.”

  Macy smiles.

  “Well, folks, another night of reality radio at its best. For those who don’t know tomorrow, all I can offer you is the best of On The Line as me and the crew will be attending the broadcasting banquet. I’m up for another award, so keep your fingers crossed. And on that note, fam, until next time, always remember life is what you make it. This is Joy Newhouse, lata!”

  I leave my show on an emotional high, my swagger returned. Just in time to claim my award tomorrow night.

  The ballroom is packed, the gents in their penguin suits and the ladies sparkling from head to toe. As usual I’m doing the solo thing, better to sample the pickings. I spot Macy at the table reserved for our station and I wind my way around the adulation and adoration, the red dress I’d sprung for showcasing the negative fifteen pounds. All the whispers and the surreptitious looks in my direction assure me that I will be taking home the plaque once again.

  Well, me and the show’s production staff. Couldn’t do it without them. And if I keep repeating it, I won’t forget when I’m accepting my award.

  I’m rehearsing when I bump into a man I’ve never met at these gatherings of our parent company. He turns around, interrupted from his conversation with other dark suits. Tall, confident and younger than me by about ten years.

  Scratch that.

  Five years.

  I ain’t that old.

  “Pardon me,” he says. Soft-spoken and articulate. Must be one of the front-office types milling about for attention. Aquiline nose accentuated by his deep brown skin. Black curly hair and uncharacteristically thin lips. Maybe some Indian or Caribbean roots in his family by the look of things. Negative fifteen pounds is a positive in this situation.