My Sister’s Ex: A Novel

by Cydney Rax

  Sleazeballs usually feel too guilty to say anything. It’s all good.

  I’m sure I’ll find out the truth one day. What the hell does she think she’s doing?

  Early this morning Marlene showers and leaves for work before I even have a chance to fully get up. I lie motionless in my bed so I can hear her in case she’s whispering on her phone (she isn’t). Listening to see if she prays to the Lord like she normally does every morning (she doesn’t). Hmm. And I prick up my ears to notice if she’s singing “My Sweet Lord,” or if she’s belting out “Sexual Healing.” She sings neither. Thank God she didn’t, because although the girl won’t admit it, she’s no Mary J. Blige, and she definitely wouldn’t make the top thirty-two on American Idol.

  So I am actually very relieved when Marlene finally pulls herself together and rushes out the door. As soon as she leaves I go directly to her room, fling open her door, and invite myself in. I sure do.

  As usual, her bed is unmade. Typical. Fat and slobby. Why can’t Jeff notice these little details? I go straight to her dirty clothes basket and carefully examine the pile of clothes.

  Hmm, bingo. Her panties. Rather, a thong. Can you believe that mess? How can someone who’s damn near two hundred pounds and built like a Minnesota Vikings linebacker squeeze her thunder thighs into an itty-bitty thong? That’s like King Kong trying to wear shorts designed for a Barbie doll. Nasty. I can imagine that the crack of her ass swallows up the thong so much it’s almost like she’s strung dental floss up her butt. Ughhh!

  My eyes dart about, and I spot a ruler sitting on her desk. I make a face and, using the ruler, carefully pick up her panties so I can take a closer look. They’re purple (Marlene’s favorite color) and see-through. Frowning, I lift the ruler up high over my head so I can inspect the evidence from every angle.

  Unfortunately, the thong is so damned skimpy and stringy that I can’t tell if there’re any sex stains on them. She probably wore the thong on purpose, trying to be cute and sexy. If I don’t find out if she had sex with Jeff this way, I certainly can find out another way. Just go ahead and call me Columbo, or Kojak, or any one of those Charlie’s Angels (nineties version).

  Doesn’t matter. I will figure out this mystery so we can all come clean one day. Me, Marlene, and Jeff.

  I reach back into the laundry basket and search through dirty clothes, trying to find the outfit she wore last night. A purple and lavender dress with a plunging neckline. When I saw Marlene twirling around in the dress last night, I didn’t think anything strange.

  I remember she asked, “You like this? You think a man would like it?”

  “Why you asking me if a man would like it? I thought you were going to church.”

  “Men are at church, too, right, Rachel? Jeez, let me get out of here. I don’t need all this drama over a simple question.”

  She left in a huff, and I figured there was someone at church she was trying to impress. Boy, was I ever wrong.

  I glance in the woven wastebasket that is perched next to my sister’s end table. There’s nothing in there: no movie ticket stub, no receipts, no concrete evidence to explain where she was with Jeff.

  The alarm on my watch goes off, so I know I have no time to be prying in Marlene’s stuff. It’s time for me to be somewhere, and, considering the circumstances, I am glad to be going out and getting away from the apartment.

  A half hour later I am sitting in the front row of my women’s self-defense class. My best friend in the world, Alita, comes in late. I can hear her clearing her throat. She’s sitting right behind me, in the second row, where we normally sit. Today, though, I’m sitting in the front row.

  “Hey, why are you up there?” I hear her whisper discreetly in my ear.

  “I’ll tell you about it during break.”

  “Damn.”

  My girl knows me like the back of her hand. We met five years ago at the iFest, one of Houston’s annual international cultural festivals that are held downtown. Each year features a different country, and there are dozens of booths that sell colorful clothing, spicy food, and unique items that represent the country. I remember seeing her and doing a double take because she is a dead ringer for Halle Berry. Caramel-colored complexion, petite, bony, beautiful dark eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and that famous short precision haircut Rihanna wears these days. I couldn’t resist saying hello to Alita and, of course, telling her she looks just like the famous actress.

  “I know. I get that all the time. I wish I had her money, though, you know what I’m saying? Wouldn’t mind having any of her exes’, too, ’cause they all fine as hell and richer than all my exes put together.”

  “Me, too, girl.”

  We’ve been tight ever since. And although my girl is attractive and gets lots of attention, I call her Hardly Berry, just to make sure she doesn’t get the big head.

  The self-defense class was her idea. She believes women need to protect themselves and be strong in every area of their lives. I wasn’t hearing it, didn’t feel like sitting in on the classes, but she promised to buy me a ticket to the Kanye West concert if I signed up. I said cool.

  So here we are. Our instructor, Floyd Manchester, is a big bulky white guy with puffy eyelids. He looks like he should be in bed asleep, but surprisingly he has a loud voice and lots of energy, and he loves teaching the self-defense class.

  “If you ladies go hang out at the club, never, ever leave your drink unattended. If you have to go somewhere for a minute, order yourself a fresh, new drink. Dump the other. It only takes a second for a man to slip the date rape drug in your martini, and it’s all over after that. You’ll wind up passed out and naked before the night is over.”

  “But Floyd,” says Monica Gordon, a petite white girl with an irritating high-pitched voice. “What if you don’t drink alcohol?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Don’t trust an unfamiliar man’s sodas or even bottled water. If someone wants to do you harm, they’ll use anything they can, even something as innocent looking as water.”

  Floyd continues the class by giving us warnings about how to secure our homes with double-bolt locks, and how we shouldn’t let a guy in our house at the end of a first date.

  “What if he asks for a kiss?” shouts Monica.

  “Kiss him on the cheek outside your home, tell him goodbye, and watch him go to his car, get in, and drive away before you let yourself in your home. I’ve heard cases of women who naively let a man in because he claimed he has to pee, and the next morning the woman wakes up with bruises all over her body and her vagina sore and bleeding. You gotta protect yourself by not falling for everything a man says. I don’t care if he looks like Denzel and Brad Pitt put together.”

  “Hmm, I’d love to see that,” says Alita.

  “Anyway, seriously, ladies, don’t be so weak by a man’s outward appearance; it’s what’s inside of him that counts,” Floyd says with firmness. He then suggests we take a ten-minute break so we can use the ladies’ room before we start practicing our self-defense moves.

  Alita grabs my arm as soon as I stand up. “Okay, what happened? You’re sitting in the front row and clapping just because Floyd says we’re about to learn some new moves, and you weren’t that enthusiastic about this topic two days ago.”

  “Two days ago my sister wasn’t stepping out on a date with …”

  “Who?”

  “Jeff!”

  “Noo!”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, have you called the bastard to see what’s up? Oops, I probably shouldn’t be calling him that, but in my opinion, only a bastard would try to push up on his ex’s sister.”

  I describe how Jeff’s cell phone accidentally dialed me when he was out with Marlene, and how unbelievably angry I felt when I overheard their conversation.

  “And girl, I don’t know what to think, but, considering my circumstances, I figure paying close attention to these self-defense moves may come in hand.”

  “Oh, so now you want to kick a Negro’s ass
?”

  “Stop grinning, Alita. This isn’t funny at all. I just feel like I have to let out my aggressions, and learning how to kick ass is one good way to do it.” Water rapidly springs in my eyes when I imagine those two being together. I remember when Jeff and I were dating. Jeff would come to the apartment, and Marlene would be super chatty. She’d joke around and playfully tease Jeff a few times, but I would be in on the fun, too. Playing, laughing, and shooting the breeze. I never remember their ever being alone together.

  “But why Marlene?” I plead with Alita.

  “Hmm, girl, who knows why some guys do what they do. All I’m concerned about is that my guy stays on the up-and-up.” Alita has finally met her match in her current beau, Henry “Big Hen,” who says he will kill for her. She’s so happy in her relationship right now and is gunning for me to hit the jackpot, too. She really thought I messed up when I broke up with Jeff but has since respected my decision.

  “Well, if Big Hen asks you to marry him …”

  “I’ll take my time and think carefully before giving him an answer.”

  “I wish I would have done that with Jeff.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Alita, remember I told you how scared I was? I mean, of course I’m crazy about the guy, but to be his bride? I’m so young. I feel like I haven’t lived enough life yet. I haven’t yet come into a strong sense of self. I don’t want to have any regrets.”

  “But life and love are about taking chances, girl.”

  “You don’t have to preach to me. It’s too late now, Alita, don’t you think?”

  “No, not really.”

  “If he’s kicking it with Marlene, it is too late.”

  “You and Jeff need to have a conversation.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You gotta. You need to let him know how you feel.”

  “He’s still pissed at me.”

  “But do you know that for sure? Have you asked?”

  “I doubt he’d answer if I call him.”

  “Sneak and call him using Marlene’s cell. Then he’d answer.”

  “Ouch, that’s unimaginable. Crazy. Dang, I can’t stand this. How can Marlene do this to me? I would never, ever do anything like this to her. Why can’t she understand how I feel?”

  “Girl, you’re a trip. She doesn’t even know that you know, so … you’re not making much sense.”

  Floyd returns to the classroom, so we’ll have to continue our conversation later. He instructs everyone to stand up, and we move the tables and chairs out of the way so that the center of the room is clear and accessible. Floyd then asks all twelve women to stand in a circle so we can first do stretching exercises.

  For the next thirty minutes, Floyd and his coteachers take us through a series of self-defense moves. How to block. How to stand and where to place our feet in preparation for an attack. They explain why it is important to yell and scream when you’re being attacked. Floyd tells us, “The louder you yell, the more power and strength you give to your body.”

  “No! Stop! Stay back!” We yell these words so many times my throat grows sore and begins to hurt. I have to stop and sip bottled water a few times.

  And before we know it, class is over. I’m hot and sticky and want nothing more than to jump in the shower and clean the dirt off my body.

  “Alita, is it all right if I come home with you? I don’t want to be at my place with Marlene tonight.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “I think I’ll just wear a pair of your shorts and a T-shirt when I go to bed.”

  “Jeez, Rachel. Are you sure you don’t want to go home and pick up some overnight clothes? Are you that afraid to face your sister?”

  “Girl, she’s still at work so it’s not like I’ll run into her … I just don’t want to be at the house anytime soon. I need to chill out with you. No telling what I’ll do to her the next time I see the wench.”

  “For real? Have y’all had physical fights before?”

  “Ha, I remember when were young, she’d sit her big butt on my back many times. She’d grab my hair and yank at it. She was so heavy I could barely breathe, felt like I was about to die. My mama would have to pull Marlene off me. And then I’d get beat with a belt because Mama felt I should have taken the closest thing to me and knocked the hell outta my sister. Not easy to do when it feels like the Empire State Building is sitting on top of you.”

  Alita chuckles. “Your mama is a trip.”

  “Oh, baby, you have no idea. Mama’s like that because she had to be. But I think she’s trying to do better. Man, I gotta talk to my mama. Tell you what, I know I have some old pjs over at her place, so that works out perfectly. I’ll pay her a little visit and then meet you at your spot later.”

  Alita and I share a warm hug and go our separate ways.

  When it comes to how I view myself, my life purpose, and who I am, things can get fairly complicated. Sometimes I don’t know where I fit in. I’m not as bad as a sinner, yet I’m not pure enough to be a saint. My feelings get so twisted up that it’s hard for me to say how I feel sometimes, but the one person who I think understands me is my mom, Brooke.

  My mom lives way across town in Third Ward, near Texas Southern University, Houston’s only HBU (Historically Black University). For early March, the temperature outside is an unusually pleasant seventy degrees. The sun shines with such brilliance that it makes me feel happy inside, good enough to drive with my windows rolled down. I pull up in front of my mom’s two-story house and park my car on the street. I walk along the side of the house and use my key to open her side door. Seconds later I find Mama in the spacious yet cluttered living room. Three mismatched couches and two love seats, plus scratched-up wooden tables covered with vases holding fake roses, fill the space.

  “Hey, Ma, don’t do that.” She’s standing on a utility chair trying to hang curtains.

  “Hey, Little Bit, what brings you over to this side of town?”

  “I was missing my mama, that’s what.”

  I walk over to her and hold out my hand to help her get off the little ladder. I close my eyes briefly and squeeze her in a tight hug. She smells like gardenias, and her skin feels as soft as flower petals. My mama is middle-aged perfection. Her flawless brown skin makes her look ten years younger. Her fine grade of hair is usually kept in a nice traditional style, but today it is flying about. I feel tempted to find a comb and help her look prettier.

  “You’ve been working hard, Mama. Your hair is looking crazy.”

  “Oh, it’s just hair.”

  “Mama, what’s wrong? You always try to look good.”

  “Looking good all the time doesn’t mean anything … sometimes it’s not the biggest priority.”

  I feel guilty. Sometimes I forget moms are human, with tough issues they have to deal with. I wish that I would remember to call her more, find out what she needs, and stop unloading all my drama on her.

  “Mama, let me finish hanging those curtains. I think you should go put a comb to your hair. Or, if you want, I can style it for you. I did Marlene’s hair last night, flat-ironed it.”

  “Oh, yeah, what was the occasion?”

  I can’t help myself. “This trick had a hot date. You’ll never believe who it was with.”

  “Who, girl?”

  “Jeff.” I can barely say his name.

  Mama’s eyes widen. She looks taken aback, and she walks away from me muttering things I can’t hear.

  “Yep, can you believe those two?” I say. “It must be some kind of a joke.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Oh, Mama, you don’t think …”

  Mama stops walking and turns around to stare at me. “I don’t think; I know. I am living proof of strange things. You have no idea.”

  “Is this what happened with you and Loretta?” Loretta is Marlene’s mama.

  “I don’t know what you’re going through with Jeff and Marlene. And I don’t know how serious th
ey are. All I can say is, I hope she doesn’t get pregnant by him.”

  Mama turns and walks away from me toward her bedroom. Right then, I know it isn’t right for me to burden her with my silly relationship problems. I can’t share my hurt when I know how much she’s still hurting. So I quietly finish mounting the curtains, making sure they properly fit on the rods. When I’m done working, I traipse through the house and find her upstairs, napping in her bedroom, where it smells like bleach. I pinch my nose and give her a kiss on the cheek and drop a crisp twenty on her nightstand. I leave her house with more questions than when I came.

  Later that night I swing by Alita’s. I notice Big Hen’s pickup parked in front of her town house. Not surprised. If she’s not with me, she’s always with her man.

  The screen door to the town house is locked, but I can see directly into the living room. My cheeks turn red and warm the instant I spot Alita cozily sitting on Big Hen’s lap. She’s pressing her lips against his neck and cradling his head in her hands. I want to close my eyes, turn away, and leave unnoticed, but I can’t help staring. Immediately I become even angrier at myself. That’s exactly what Jeff and I used to do. He was so affectionate. He loved to play with my hair, gently grab my face in between his hands, and kiss my lips, my cheeks, my forehead. At times he made me feel so loved.

  “Hey, you two,” I yell, “can you stop your freaky porno show for a second and let a sista in the house?”

  Alita hops off Big Hen’s lap and races to open the door for me. Henry is right behind her, grinning.

  “Hey, girl, I don’t mean to interrupt.” I giggle. “What’s popping, Hen?”

  “You got it,” he says and winks. “Come on in, make yourself at home. So you’ll be wearing my girl’s clothes tonight, huh? I hope I don’t get you two mixed up.”

  “Ha,” I say and follow them inside the town house. “That shouldn’t be too hard. I don’t look like Hardly Berry. Plus, I will be sleeping downstairs. You two will have the entire upstairs to yourselves.”

  “No, girl, it’s cool. I can spend some time with you, and then I gotta rush up there and take care of my baby. But it’ll be good to make him wait. Let him anticipate what’s to come.”