My Daughter's Boyfriend

by Cydney Rax

  I swallowed deeply.

  “I don’t know, Indy. I think I’m starting to learn that no man over the age of sixteen is truly single. I mean, they say they’re single, but . . . all men either have a bed buddy, an ex-wife, a former shack-up mate, or some drama-queen residue somewhere in their lives.”

  “I’m telling,” Indira laughed, yet her eyes twinkled with a knowing sadness.

  “What can you tell me?” I sniffed and looked at her, hoping she’d have some type of wisdom since she’d been out there, hubby-less and alone, for the past couple of years.

  “Well,” she said, her smile disappearing, “these days being single don’t mean what it used to mean back when I was in my twenties, which was a good hundred years ago.”

  I smiled and popped her on the forehead.

  She swatted me in return. “Back then it meant totally solo, no girlfriend, no lover, nothing.”

  “Right,” I told her. “Fast forward to now. Men hallucinating and talking ’bout ‘Yeah, I’m single.’ Interpretation: ‘I got somebody, I’m just not claiming her right now,’ or telling you, ‘Yeah, I’m single,’ but he’s really sleeping with two, three women who he don’t plan on marrying, so . . .”

  Indira and I gave each other a been-there-done-that nod and kinda reflected on what was instead of how we wished things could be. The weird thing about it was even though I saw how dreary the man situation looked, I knew that the desperate and egotistical parts of me would still bend in spite of circumstances. It seems when you don’t have much to start off with, you might be open to doing all kinds of things to make up for what you can’t have. Realizing that scared the hell outta me; my lack of good alternatives invited parts of me to emerge that I really wouldn’t know about otherwise.

  “Tracey, do you have any personal belongings at Steve’s?”

  “Uh, probably. He said he had a couple pair of new shoes waiting for me over there.”

  “Ha, girl, you can kiss those shoes good-bye if there really were any shoes,” she said, and waved bye-bye with her hands. “Anything of relevance?”

  “Oh, I have several photos over there that I’ve always wanted to get back. And I did loan this punk some money a couple of times, but I’m not worried about that.”

  Indira hooted, laughing with mouth wide open like it was Saturday night at the comedy club.

  “Oh, you never told me you loaned Steve money.”

  “Because I knew what you’d say. He’s a grown man working, and if anything he should be giving me money. And he did sometimes. But then he’d turn right around and borrow it back.”

  Indira yelped with laughter again, this time louder, shaking her head and apologizing to me with her eyes. It was like we were sitting in her game room at eleven o’clock in the morning instead of late at night. I hoped Regis, her fifteen-year-old daughter, couldn’t hear us.

  “Where’s Miss Regis?”

  “With her relatives. One of her cousins is having a sleep-over, so she’s out of my hair probably, hopefully, until Sunday,” she said, smiling and popping her fingers.

  “Good for you,” I said.

  “Which reminds me,” said Indira. “Regis is having her own little slumber party in a couple of weeks. I’d planned on mailing the invitations tomorrow, but since you’re here . . .”

  “Indy, you mean to tell me I’m not worth the price of a stamp?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ll make sure and put a stamp on the doggoned invitation before I hand it to you.”

  I laughed and thought about how glad I felt to be with Indira and how grateful I was to count her as a close friend.

  I SAT UP IN INDIRA’S HOUSE UNTIL a minute past midnight, talking in spurts and trying to force genuine laughs and smiles. And I did all this without being upset by the lateness of the hour. I figured that Lauren was out with Aaron. They’d gotten my permission to be out beyond curfew in the past, and most times I didn’t worry. But after becoming a bit sleepy, I stood up. I gave my friend a tight hug, and began making my way home.

  THE NIGHT AIR WAS BRISK, and the November darkness erased Houston’s skyline. The engine of my two-year-old white Chevy Malibu made soft tapping sounds as I drove through the front entrance of Williamstown’s Apartments, our home of the past several years. Located near the busy intersection of Bissonnet and the Southwest Freeway, it’s an enclosed community of blacks, whites, and a ton of Hispanics.

  Our apartment unit is at the far end of the property. After driving past the guardhouse, I made a sharp right and then headed left until I reached my building. Aaron’s Legend was backed in so that the rear of his vehicle rested near a rickety wooden fence. Looking up at my apartment’s windows, I shivered when I noticed all the rooms seemed pitch dark. When I got to the door, I made sure to rattle my keys, sticking them in the lock and twisting and turning the key as loud as possible. The darkened apartment was cold and smelled musty, like soiled laundry. After two flicks of the light switch, I saw Aaron’s burgundy suit coat resting on the arm of the couch. Lauren’s slingbacks and purse were abandoned in the middle of the floor.

  “Oh no, God. Please, please.”

  I squeezed both sides of my face until it hurt, and forced myself to step out of my shoes. Waited another couple minutes before I tiptoed down the hall to Lauren’s bedroom. The apartment layout is split: my bedroom is on the right, the living room, dining room, and kitchen are in the center, and Lauren’s bedroom and the main bathroom are on the left.

  Standing outside her room, I wanted to tap lightly but said, “To hell with that.” I opened her door, turned on the light, and saw a lump in her bed covered by a queen-sized comforter. When I went to her bed and pulled back the cover, the only thing I saw was a balled-up blanket.

  Backing out the doorway, I stepped into the hall and heard voices coming from inside Lauren’s bathroom, which was directly across the way from her room.

  I cupped my right ear and pressed it against the door.

  “Mmmm, no, stop. Remember, rain check?”

  “What’s wrong?” I heard Aaron say.

  “Stop,” she pleaded.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

  “Stop,” I called out, and rattled the doorknob. All conversation ceased. I heard nothing except the drip-drop of a leaky faucet. The dripping stole away the noises of what could have been, yet it sounded empty, making the moment appear innocent.

  I forced myself to step away from the door and wrung my hands, hoping that whatever I couldn’t see wouldn’t betray me. Then I wondered if my past conversations with Lauren, my insistence on her remaining a virgin, had created a bigger problem. I hated second-guessing my decisions when it came to her, but after all I’d been through as a teen mother, I knew I had to make the tough choices and stick to them.

  I went to my bedroom dragging my feet and leaving tiny imprints on the carpet. The sounds of doors opening and closing held my rapt attention. I sat on the edge of my bed, eyes shut and toes curled so tight they clustered upward as if they were bruised and swollen.

  After a while I heard a tap on my door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Aaron, ma’am.”

  I snorted and opened the door to the degree that my eyes could only see his. He pushed his head through the crack as much as the tiny space would allow. His lips and mustache were inches away from my own lips.

  I sniffed, not the I’m-about-to-cry kind of sniffing, but the kind that your body allows when you want to inhale the scent of a man who doesn’t belong to you but that tiny detail still hasn’t registered.

  For a second something inside asked me, Why do you insist on checking out Aaron? Does the name Steve Monroe mean anything to you?

  Why should his name mean anything? I thought, and winced at the memory of Steve’s sorry-ass tactics.

  I squinted at Aaron, who had a blank yet sexy look on his face.

  “What you guys doing?” I asked in a low, deliberate voice.

  “Nothing,” he said, looking st
raight in my eyes, “Ab-so-lute-ly nothing.”

  “Wh-where’s Lauren?” I questioned in a hushed tone, and tried to peek through the door just in case itching ears were near.

  “She’s in her room.” He shrugged. “Her door’s closed,” he said, still eyeballing me.

  “Oh.”

  He kept staring and I didn’t know how I was supposed to react. My legs twitched every few seconds. Even though I was nervous, I looked back at Aaron. I didn’t want him to think he could intimidate me, but right then, our staring at each other felt bizarre yet soothing.

  I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Tell his ass to go home. Tell him.

  My heart sank like a million gallons of tears weighed it down. I swallowed real hard, hoping that all my illicit thoughts might drown within my body, disappearing, and canceling out whatever bad-girl things I was thinking at that time.

  What exactly had Lauren and Aaron been doing behind closed doors? I pictured this guy sucking her lips and fondling her tiny breasts. And for just a second I wondered if he’d enjoy the experience better if I was my daughter and his hands were all over me.

  Stop that, Tracey. Stop.

  “Hey, uh, I need to get something, please?” Aaron said, and snapped me out of my mental bondage. His voice sounded more normal, more sincere.

  “From here? You need something from my room?” I asked.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “What is it? I’ll get it,” I snapped.

  “My paaaas,” he mumbled.

  “Speak up, what did you say?” His tongue got in the way of his words, and he was acting strange, a little too annoying for my tastes. I couldn’t wait for him to get whatever he needed and then get on out.

  “Pants,” he said, his voice laden with edginess.

  I whirled open the door, smirking in doubt, but sure enough the guy only had on a white undershirt and a pair of tight-fitting BVDs, but no pants.

  How utterly stupid, I thought, looking from his eyes to his midsection to his eyes again. He could at least have the brains enough to let Lauren sneak in here and get his pants.

  I widened my door and let him brush past me and he retrieved his slacks, which were crumpled on my bureau.

  I kneaded the corners of my forehead with my fingers. It was one of those moments when a parent knows she should ask, but just doesn’t want to hear the details right then. I just didn’t want to know.

  Moving my hands from my temples, I stood there looking at him yet not really seeing him, but he waved his arms at me rapidly as if to say, “Do you mind?”

  Appalled, I spun around, heard him slipping his legs inside his trousers, zipper zipped, and he brushed past me like a whir of light once more. I didn’t say good-bye, didn’t want to. He didn’t say anything either. I followed him to the door and locked it behind him. And in his departure I sniffed again, battling the unsettling feeling he gave me, then taking in a long, deep breath.

  In Aaron’s absence, and with the settling down after all the drama that just happened, I noticed how my body ached, how my muscles felt tender and sore, how my throat was parched, and how it felt like everything hurt, on the inside and out. I stepped back inside the doorway of my bedroom and it seemed all my movement came to a complete stop the second I detected the tantalizing scent of a man’s cologne talking to me.

  Tracey 6

  “Mom, how old was you when you started having sex?” “Hmmm. I know where this is going, and the answer is no.” “But, Mom—”

  “ ‘But, Mom,’ my butt, Lauren. We’ve been over this far too many times for us to even be having this discussion, and I just don’t wanna talk about it.”

  It was Saturday evening, and Lauren and I were in the car on our way home from shopping at the IKEA on the Katy Freeway. Recently my collection of books had been growing, growing, growing. I had some extra cash and decided to pick up two sets of bookshelves. But soon after writing the check, I thought about how I just wasn’t in the mood to assemble them.

  “But, Mom, this isn’t fair. You started having sex with Daddy when you were fifteen.”

  “I wish I’d never told you that,” I said, trying to fuss and drive at the same time.

  “And I’ll probably be on Social Security by the time I find out—”

  “Believe me, it’s overrated. These music videos and movies and Dawson’s Creek stuff makes your little hormones think they’re missing out. But you aren’t missing a thing.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet you weren’t thinking that when you and Daddy conceived me.” I could feel her staring at me from the corner of my eyes.

  “Look, Lauren. Only reason I’m telling you this is because I’ve been there and done what you think you want to do. Now, I hope you and Aaron haven’t gone there yet—”

  “No, we have not, thanks to you.”

  “You ought a be thanking me. I’m trying to save your life, girl.”

  “I don’t need my life to be saved.”

  “Lauren, at this point you don’t know what you need and I’m not down for you crawling in some guy’s bed when you’re just a teenager.”

  “So it was good enough for you to know about sex firsthand at a young age, but not me?”

  I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I’d already told her a thousand times how it was for me. How my body was never the same after I’d had a child. Belly puffed out like a loaf of bread, no amount of sit-ups ever making any worthwhile dents. And all those nights my mother and I were forced to rush Lauren to the hospital because her four-year-old self would be running around and boom—she’d slam into the corner of a table and then yell, scream, and suffer scrapes and bloodied gashes on her forehead. Just little things here and there which advertise the fact that you’re a youngster raising a youngster and trying to survive in a grown-up world. As far as I was concerned, I only wanted to tell my daughter about those types of experiences; she shouldn’t have to live through them herself.

  “Mom,” she said, with hope lifting her voice. “What if we use a condom? I don’t even think you and Daddy used one.”

  “Now hold up. You can whine and state your case all you want. The bottom line is, safe sex isn’t even an option for you. No sex is more like it.”

  “Well, what if I sneak and do it?”

  I laughed. “Ain’t no such thing as sneaking. Parents always find out stuff sooner or later.”

  She groaned and turned away from me. “I guess my stuff will be found out later, huh, Mom?”

  “I guess so,” I replied in such a way that she knew the conversation was over.

  We rode along in silence for a few miles, but then turned into the parking lot of one of those Burger King combo gas stations and drove up next to the take-out speaker.

  “What you want, Lauren?”

  “Onion rings. Fish sandwich. And a large cola.”

  “Hmmm, okay. I think I’ll just get a strawberry shake.”

  Five minutes later we arrived in front of our apartment unit. I grabbed my shake and Lauren reached for her soda.

  I paused.

  “What about the rest of your food? You gonna bring that in the house? You know I don’t like you to leave half-eaten food in the car.”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” she mumbled and reached for her paper bag.

  AT MIDMORNING THE NEXT DAY, Lauren’s dad picked her up fifteen minutes late to take her to worship service at Solomon’s Temple. Lauren had on a cute little beige pantsuit and was tossing keys, a pen, comb, and some cosmetics into her church purse.

  “Have a good time. Say a prayer for me,” I called to Lauren, who hustled through the front door.

  It was nearly twelve o’clock. Overcast outside as well as inside my mind. I had nothing on my agenda. No plans for lunch, no prospects to be sitting on some guy’s lap. Feeling abandoned and restless, I glanced at the unopened boxes of IKEA bookshelf materials and felt a familiar lump of loneliness in my heart. No matter what bad things go down between a man and a woman, she’s always good for remembering the t
imes. And at that point my mind was clogged with memories. And minutes later those recollections had me snatching my handbag and locking the front door.

  During the well-traveled route, my ears burned and my heart screamed. Yes, I remembered what happened the other night. Yes, I knew I’d smacked him across his lying face, but if he was self-introspective, maybe he’d realize he deserved it. Better yet, maybe he missed me.

  Besides, I had those bookshelves and I needed a handyman.

  Twenty minutes later I came to a stop in front of the town house. The tan brick building with yellow and white shutters looked peaceful and clashed with the emotions that raged inside me. With my heart thumping like a time bomb, I plodded toward Steve’s door and tapped. Several minutes passed before a guy I didn’t recognize opened the door and peeped through a slight crack. He yawned, then cleared his throat.

  “Yes?” he mumbled, like talking was a struggle.

  “Steve here?”

  He frowned and thumped his fingertips across the back of the door, then let me in.

  I tiptoed into the living room, observing every piece of furniture: the sectional that I helped Steve pick out a few months ago; the thirty-two-inch console we used to camp in front of like TV was going out of style. Then I spotted the fish tank and shuddered at the memories of what Steve and I used to do next to his big aquarium. Running my fingers against the chilled glass, I wondered if the fish remembered me.

  “Steve’s upstairs. I’ll go get him.”

  The guy turned and paused. “I’m Joseph, by the way. Steve’s second cousin.”

  “Oh yeah? So glad to meet you,” I said, but actually I could care less.

  I inhaled when I entered the kitchen. No female aromas here.

  I allowed myself a small grin . . . especially when I noticed a gray box of Aerosoles.

  Were these mine, I wondered. Running my hand across the box, I lifted the lid. Hmmm. Cute shoes. Replacing the lid, I blushed and raised the box.

  Size eight? My feet can’t squeeze into a doggoned size eight. I dropped the shoebox and sat my dejected butt on the couch. I felt like a stranger in his town house, a place I’d been to that used to feel like home. Parts of me wanted to run from there as fast as my pride would allow, but the stupid and insecure parts of me won out, and I remained cemented to my seat.