Frost on My Window

by Angela Weaver

  “Anybody home?” I shouted. The only response was the familiar thud of Simba jumping down off the windowsill.

  Unstrapping my sandals, I turned to check the answering machine and saw a white envelope perched on top with my name on it.

  I pulled the paper from the envelope and turned on the halogen lamp to read Rena’s hastily scrawled handwriting.

  Leah,

  I’m taking Nina home to her parents in Bermuda. I should be back in a couple of days. I left a message for Mom and Dad telling them I was going on a quick vacation. Don’t worry, everything’s okay and I’ll call you when I get her settled.

  Love,

  Rena

  PS. Please don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. (That includes Trey!)

  Sighing, I went into the kitchen and fixed a sandwich. Waiting for the microwave to finish up, I stared out the window, uneasy. Mom and Dad were leaving for their anniversary cruise in two days and Leah was missing-in-action for reasons I couldn’t guess.

  Don’t worry, I told myself. That’s about all I could seem to do.

  * * *

  “I am so tired of that mess,” I growled, losing my smile.

  Here I was after having gotten out of the office while the sun was still shining and I was mad at a talk show. Rena had gone with Nina to the Bahamas and I was missing my cousin.

  “Girl, what are you talking about?” Carol asked as she took another bite of the artichoke spinach dip. The margarita had done its job and washed away all my desire to think about work. I was with my girl at Houston’s and the only thing on my mind stood ten feet away.

  I raised my salt-crusted glass towards the television screen. “ ‘Marry me or else! Baby mommas speak out.’ ”

  “I can’t believe you watch that garbage,” she commented.

  I raised my eyebrow as Carol took another bite. “Don’t even try it. You were the one telling me about seeing your former classmate on an episode of Ricki Lake.”

  She patted her mouth and let out a loud laugh. “Too true. The girl used to be Ms. Thing at our school. I know it’s evil, but seeing her sitting up on stage begging this no-good man to give her a ring made me feel good for a moment.”

  “And then…” I waved my hand.

  Carol sighed. “Then the embarrassment sets in. I’m just tired of seeing black women degrading themselves on national television. It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid to watch anything but Oprah. Harold likes to watch People’s Court sometimes.”

  I snorted. A couple of days after moving back to New York had been long enough to let me know that airing dirty laundry on national television had become the new African-American pastime.

  Carol shook her head, sending her razor-cut bob bouncing. “I wonder about that man I married. He’ll sit there and watch that stuff like it’s better than the Super Bowl. I have to leave the room sometimes ’cause I get so disgusted.”

  I dipped the fresh-baked chip in the thick artichoke and spinach dip. “I know it must be close to impossible for these shows to find black women who aren’t unmarried with three kids, on welfare, fighting with their baby’s father, and sleeping with their best friend’s man,” I sarcastically added.

  “Something you want to talk about?” Carol really looked at me. Like I’d grown a new head or something.

  No, I wanted to do something. I wished I had a giant eraser and I could wipe out the image of the bitter, angry, young black woman screaming expletives at a just as messed up black man.

  I finished off another chip. “Maybe being back on the East Coast is starting to mess with me.”

  “Girl, you haven’t been here a hot minute. What’s really on your mind?”

  “I’m just irritated. One of the assistants broke down today. I thought it had something to do with her family. I pulled her into my office and shut the door and gave her some tissues.” I sat back on the soft leather bench and crossed my legs.

  “What happened?”

  “She had an argument with her boyfriend. The man hadn’t paid a dime of rent in the past three months. He told her last night that he was leaving her and wanted her to contribute to the cost of renting a moving truck.”

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  I took another sip of the margarita, savoring the bittersweet taste of lime on my tongue. “That’s not all of it. She asked me what she should do.”

  “Go out have a drink and thank God his sorry ass is gone,” Carol suggested.

  “No, she wanted me to give her advice on how to get him back.”

  Carol’s mouth dropped to the table and then she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “So that’s what’s got you in such a funk.”

  “She’s about five years older than me. Lives in a nice section of Queens and is the best assistant in the whole office. This woman sat there looking into my eyes and expecting me to understand. I don’t understand. The last thing I hope I’ll ever do is to beg a man to stay,” I proclaimed.

  I shook my head and picked up my fork and knife to dig in to the entrées the waiter placed on the table.

  “That’s because the only man you’ve gone out with recently happens to be stuck on your cousin.”

  “True.”

  “By the way, what’s up with Rena?”

  “She had to go out of town. She should be back this Sunday.”

  Rena was going to have her hands full with Trey when she got back. He had called every day that she’d been gone, hoping to hear something about Rena or Nina. I smiled, thinking it was about time my cousin met someone that she couldn’t wrap around her little finger.

  “Leah, there’s no shortage of eligible black men in New York.”

  “I know this…”

  “So why haven’t you taken advantage?”

  My lips curled. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, it’s like that? Do tell.”

  “Sorry, girlfriend. Nothing to tell…yet. But I’ll definitely let you know if I find him.”

  “I just read another article asking where all the good Black men had gone. Makes me glad I got married when I did,” she responded.

  “I don’t think there’s a problem,” I said after taking a bite of chicken.

  “You know you’re in the minority, don’t you? My hairdresser almost broke her neck agreeing with the writer.”

  “Seriously, Carol, where have all the good black men gone? Nowhere.” I waved my hand towards the bar where men milled around watching the NCAA. “I’ve dated them and liked them. They just weren’t him. The one that my grandmother told me about, the one Billie Holiday raised hell about. That’s why you see articles like that one. I want more, and so does everybody else. So when we black women can’t find that one man to turn our world upside down and inside out, we think all the good black men have dropped off the face of the earth.”

  Carol nodded her head in agreement. “On to more important things. How’s the food?”

  The roasted chicken dripping with honey and wine was so tender I could eat it with a fork. I sampled the mashed potatoes and let out a groan. The flavor of garlic and butter made me wanna holler. One of the things I liked about New York, besides its fascinating mixture of people, was that it had the best food outside my mama’s kitchen.

  “All I can say is that these dishes put my cooking to shame,” I confessed.

  “Not to mention your cholesterol level,” Carol added.

  “And the waistline.”

  We both took large bites out of our respective mounds of mashed potatoes.

  “A girl has to live a little,” I chuckled.

  “Shoot. With this,” she waved at the food on the table, “we’re living a lot.”

  “Remind me of how good this was when we have to do ten extra minutes on the treadmill,” I laughed.

  “All right. You just remember to bring that CD you bought.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one you picked up on the corner in Chinatown.”

 
“The studio mix?”

  “Yeah…I don’t understand a word they’re saying, but the beat keeps me from thinking about the pains shooting up my legs or the fool that walked into my office this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “This sawed-off, baldheaded, big-lipped black man came into my office thirty minutes late for his first appointment.”

  “Carol…” I laughed, trying to sound like I was shocked.

  “Leah,” she waved her fork, “he strolled in with his about-to-be wife number three and she wasn’t bigger than a fried fart. The girl had watermelon-sized breast implants and unbelievable blonde hair extensions.”

  “Your Southern roots are showing, girlfriend. Now what did he want?”

  “Fool had finally picked up a clue and decided to get a prenuptial agreement.”

  “You are crazy,” I laughed.

  “No, I’m not.” She shook her head while taking a sip of her drink. “That big-gold-ring-wearing man was sporting a cowboy hat. This ain’t the Wild West and he sure as hell wasn’t the Lone Ranger. Negro thought he was Big Pimping.”

  I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes and my stomach started to hurt. I laid my head down on the cool wood table and just tried to breathe.

  “Miss, are you okay?” came the voice of our waitress.

  “She’s fine,” Carol replied. “Just needs to catch her breath. Poor girl’s getting old.”

  I fell into laughter again and almost choked. I had finished off my drink earlier so instead I sipped on the ice water.

  * * *

  On my way home, I sat gazing out the subway car window, watching the blue tunnel lights streak by. Single, medium maintenance, independent, successful professional, well-rounded, non-money hungry, heterosexual black woman with a bachelor’s degree, fluent in two languages, no kids, no debt, no obsessions, no diseases, no self-destructive behavioral patterns.

  Where did I fit in? Sometimes I felt like a rare exotic animal prowling the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn. Where was the guide to dealing with my loneliness? I opened the door to an empty apartment wondering when I would get to read Being Black, Female, Single, and Happy for Dummies?

  Chapter 10

  “I envy you sometimes, Leah. You’re young, successful, and free.”

  Putting down my sandwich, I looked at Bahni in puzzlement. The last time I checked the young Indian woman was still single. She caught my puzzled look.

  “I don’t mean single,” she explained. “You can go where you want, date who you want. You get to call all your own shots.”

  “You can’t?” I tried to keep my surprise from showing.

  Bahni smiled and pushed back her long black hair, revealing gold hoop earrings.

  “My parents are in the process of looking for a husband for me. They’re afraid that if I don’t marry soon I’ll be too old.”

  My appetite took a nosedive even as Bahni reached for another French fry. I took a sip of lemonade. Some things you just don’t want to know. When you think you’ve got it bad, someone else has got it worse.

  “Do you at least get to choose amongst the potential candidates?” I tried to keep my tone light. I couldn’t condemn the idea of arranged marriages. Growing up in Philly had taught me to keep an open mind.

  She nodded her head. “Yeah. My little sister says they’re nice looking, but if I’ve got to spend the rest of my life with someone, good looks take a backseat to personality.”

  I nodded my head. “No kidding. So when is all this going to take place?” What can I say? I just had to be nosey.

  “Not for another year. One of the potentials is in medical school and the other works at General Electric’s Mumbai office.”

  “Will you stay in New York?” I was selfishly hoping she’d say yes. Bahni wasn’t only a great member of the team, she brought her unique kind of cheer and graphic artistry to every project.

  “I’m not sure. I want to stay. I’ll be finished with my degree in May, and I’m already thinking about starting my masters. But if the one I pick doesn’t want to leave India…” She shrugged.

  I studied her face and saw the yearning in her eyes. I remembered when I spoke so indecisively about returning home, torn between complete freedom and the seductive call of home with its familiar people and places.

  “I don’t envy your decision.”

  Bahni shook her head and polished off the chicken sandwich. “I have a favor to ask.”

  I wiped my mouth with the napkin. “What can I do for you?”

  “I know it’s last minute, but the women’s group I belong to is having a round table discussion tonight. We’re discussing successful women in the twentieth century. I’d really love it if you could participate.”

  “Wow.” I sat back. I’d paid my dues. I really enjoyed my job. But was I what you’d call a success? “Are you sure I’m the right person for this?”

  “Of course.” Bahni leaned forward. “Leah, you’re one of my role models and a kick-ass mentor. You’ve given me excellent advice and senior management loves you. You’re so together. I think that makes you the perfect person to talk with us.”

  “All right, enough of the snow job, I’m sold. What time and where?”

  * * *

  What time and where? I shook my head. I’d expected to walk into a small windowless room in the basement of an old building like the meeting rooms we had at school before I graduated and the million dollar donations started pouring in. Instead, I entered into an auditorium of sorts. Shorts-clad and suit-wearing women of all ages mingled over a table of refreshments.

  “Hey, Leah. Glad you could make it.” I turned to see Bahni.

  “Sorry I’m late. Got pulled into a conference call.”

  “That’s okay. Want something to drink? We’re about to get started.”

  “Thanks. I’ll just have a bottled water,” I said, following her down the sloping aisle.

  “So where are you sitting?”

  “We,” she pointed towards the students, “are sitting down here. You get to sit up there.”

  She pointed to the row of chairs on the raised dais. I looked back at her.

  “You’re kidding.”

  Bahni flashed me what I think she thought was a reassuring smile. “No.”

  “You realize I’m going to remember this when bonus discussions come up,” I said, trying to keep a serious face. Her grin only got wider.

  “Just think of this as an early wedding gift. My professor’s giving me extra credit.” She patted my shoulder.

  She ushered me to the stage and I had no choice but to turn and greet the other participants before taking my seat.

  After the introductions and speeches, the meeting really got started. The questions came hard and fast. What had begun as a low-key networking how-to turned into an all out bashing session against the glass ceiling, old boys networks, and white corporate America. From time to time I put in my two cents. After going at it for over an hour, the session seemed to be winding down when a young black student sporting dreadlocks Rena would have drooled over approached the microphone.

  “I have a question for Ms. Russell.”

  I sat up straighter and waited for the question I had dreaded to hear.

  “In comparison to white women, is it harder being a black woman in the workplace?”

  I had paused, considering if I really wanted to answer her question, when I caught the glance of another young black woman sitting forward in her chair.

  The truth came out before I could stop it. “Hell yes.”

  I waited for a moment until the murmurs died down. “It’s subtle. Just being a woman takes all of your focus, but my mentor, a very senior black executive at a software company, opened my eyes. I could tell you about the racial discrimination black women face, but that’s something that is very obvious and gets a lot of press. What doesn’t, however, are the hidden time bombs.

  “Let me explain. Although slavery ended well over two hundred years ago, some of its
vestiges remain embedded in the corporate world. The mammy figure still follows black women. On Southern plantations, black women were expected to raise the kids, cook, and be the one person that anyone in the white household could lean on. This still holds true throughout most of corporate America. Even in leadership positions a black woman is expected to do more, be more, often on a more informal personal level.

  “For example, my mentor, a woman whose academic and professional credentials are very impressive, was frequently put into situations to act as a counselor between subordinates and managers of her own and other divisions instead of being able to concentrate on the more formal tasks that she had been hired for. Her senior management expected her to take control of emotional situations rather than the business situations.

  “On a more personal note, I’ve got to admit that balancing my formal and informal roles as a manager when senior management comes calling gets tough. I can’t say for certain I’m pushed more towards the Human Resources role because of the influence of race or sex. I’m inclined to see it as a combination of both. The key is that as a black woman you have to be aware that these issues are out there. If you’re not watching out you may wake up and find that the glass ceiling has enclosed you in a cage.”

  * * *

  “Excuse me!”

  Hearing the man’s words, I kept right on walking. I was becoming more and more of a New Yorker every day. Loud voices no longer bothered me; the beeping of horns didn’t make me want to cuss. I had more on my mind than ever after that impromptu discussion about sexism and racism in the corporate arena. I sighed. Even in the nice section of Brooklyn where I lived you still get the men who think that they have license to talk to any woman they meet.

  “Excuse me? Lady.” The voice and the touch of someone’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

  “Get your hands off me!” I shouted as my heart jumped with fear. I clutched my purse and took two steps back as the big hand released my elbow.

  “My bad. Is your name Leah Russell?”

  “Why?” I asked guardedly, prepared to run at the first sign of him moving closer.

  “I’m looking for Rena Mason, and I was told that you might know where she is.”