If This World Were Mine

by E. Lynn Harris

  “Where have you been? I’ve been worried about you,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. I had to take a later flight. You forgive me?”

  “Of course, but why didn’t you call me?”

  “Didn’t have my phone. I must be losing my mind ’cause I put that girl in my luggage. And then this jerk I was sitting next to on the plane tied up the phone the entire trip. You would have thought that phone was attached to his ear when he came on the plane,” Yolanda joked.

  “It’s good to see you, but a diva like you wouldn’t have a phone problem if you were riding up in first class,” I said.

  “I know that’s right, but I don’t have enough clients to have first-class money,” Yolanda said.

  “One day … one day very soon. What’s the big news?”

  “Hold up, Leland. Let me catch my breath and place my order. I’m starving,” she said as she lifted her leather shoulder bag from around her neck.

  “I’ve already ordered. What would you like to eat?”

  “You oughta know. One Sweet Thing, please,” Yolanda shouted toward Thelma. A “Sweet Thing” was two fried chicken legs on a syrup-covered waffle. I noticed one of the security guards escorting the sequins and tux outside, so Yolanda and I grabbed their empty table.

  “Yogi, what’s the big news?”

  “My news will have to wait. I’m waiting on some real food!”

  Chapter 3

  One look at her lavish surroundings, and it appeared that Riley had it all. Her friends and family were certain she was living a charmed life. She lived in a spacious twelve-room residence in a tony gold-coast condo, with Lake Michigan facing her office window and downtown Chicago sprawled beneath her bedroom balcony. She had her choice of not one, but two luxury cars to drive, every credit card known to man, a maid, wonderful teenage twins … and Selwyn, the perfect businessman and husband. Riley had bulging bank accounts, trust funds for the twins, a safe full of expensive jewelry and papers documenting the wealth she and Selwyn had accumulated, and her own manically organized walk-in closet full of designer clothes and shoes.

  But in reality Riley Denise Woodson was living the life her parents had dreamed of and planned for their firstborn daughter. She was also living her life according to Selwyn’s latest ten-year plan. Her reality had little in common with her dreams, which were filled with drama and desire. Since she quit her job as vice president of sales for a minority-owned cosmetics company, she viewed herself merely wife and mother—a kept woman with kids. Born and raised in Chicago’s Pill Hill area, Riley had lived in the Windy City all her life with the brief exception of five years at Hampton Institute and three more years she spent in Cambridge while Selwyn studied for his J.D. and M.B.A. degrees at Harvard.

  Although Riley was the perfect wife and the perfect mother, the mask of perfection was slipping. She was neither a famous singer nor a world-renowned poet, but these were her aspirations. Riley Denise Woodson was living a lie.

  It was early Sunday morning. Sire, her maid, was singing an upbeat song in her native Spanish and busying herself around the apartment in preparation for the journal group’s meeting. The catering people were setting up the buffet, arranging flowers, and doing some last-minute cooking in the kitchen. Five hours to show time, and Riley felt none of her usual excitement when she was planning a party.

  Riley closed the massive mahogany doors behind her. The library was quiet and she found comfort in the silence. Her footsteps were muted by the Oriental rug as she walked to her antique cherry-wood desk and placed her crystal juice glass on the silver coaster. She slumped heavily into the leather wing chair and retrieved a small key from its hiding place under the lamp on top of the desk. She unlocked the top left-hand desk drawer and pulled out two leather-bound journals. The group kept one journal to share and another personal diary that remained confidential. She opened the group journal and stared at her own neat handwriting, then turned to the first available blank page.

  July 14, 1996 was all she wrote before closing the journal and reaching for her private diary. She stared blankly at the bookcase-lined walls filled with gold-trimmed books that neither she nor Selwyn had read. She picked up her black ball-point and began to write:

  I’ve been looking forward to this meeting for months, but, as usual, Selwyn has put a damper on my special day. He says he’s stuck in San Francisco with a client—again. It’s not like I really expected him to be here for me. It’s not like family comes first with him. Besides, he thinks the group is childish and a waste of time. I could be doing something for him with my time. I’m sure that’s what he really thinks. It’s just that I thought his being here would lay to rest the rumors that our storybook marriage is in trouble. It’s not. It’s way past trouble.

  I want romance back in my life. I dream of a passion like we once shared. What if I wrote in my journal that I haven’t had sex with my husband in close to two years. The last time we made love, Selwyn didn’t even look at me afterward. He pressed his head deep into the pillows and moaned, to let me know he had finished. I guess to call what happened as making love would be inappropriate. I can just see their mouths drop open. They would never believe that Selwyn and I were the same two people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other in college. But the skinny boy I fell in love with my first year of college has become a grown man I don’t even know anymore. Maybe they wouldn’t be shocked at all? Maybe I should write a poem, no, a song, about how love once beautiful can gradually become boring and brutal.

  I don’t think I’ll write about rejection letter No. 10 I just received. I’ll just tell them I’m still waiting to hear something about the last batch of poetry I sent out. I’m not so certain they believe I can really write poetry. Right before Selwyn left for his trip, I tried to read him one of my poems, like I did in college, but he gave me a quick and firm “Not now, Riley, I’m busy.” But I know one day I’ll be as popular as my she-roes, Maya, Gwendolyn, and Nikki. Maybe this time someone will ask me to read one of my poems at the end of the evening. Maybe if I plant myself at the baby grand, they will ask me to sing.

  I could write about my children. I haven’t talked about Ryan and Reggie for a while. Ryan is so bright. She’s going to Hampton on an academic scholarship and Reggie on an athletic scholarship. I make sure I tell the group that even though our children are going there on scholarship, we still send a generous check to Hampton every year. I’ll be the first one in the group to have my children attend our alma mater. Third-generation Hamptonians. Reggie is especially going to love that beautiful campus with its historic buildings and Hampton Creek. Selwyn and I used to have poetry-sharing picnics near the creek. My kids have never given Selwyn and me an ounce of trouble. No gangs. No drugs. They’re polite, obedient, and independent. I’m not really sure they even need me around. I wonder what would happen if I didn’t come back when I take them to Hampton. I wonder how long it would take Selwyn to notice I was gone.

  My weight. Now, there’s a subject I could write about ad nauseam. I have a new plan to get rid of the same fifteen pounds I lost last year (plus the five of friends they brought back with them) before I go to Virginia. I’m beginning to feel like I will always be just one biscuit away from permanent Jenny Craig membership. But I hate talking about my weight with Yolanda looking me dead in the face. She still looks like she just made the majorette line at Hampton. She wasn’t a majorette, I was. No, if I’m going to really lose the weight in time, I’d better keep it to myself.

  Somehow I will make it through the day without Selwyn being present. If only I could do that every day. Be alone but not feel lonely. I see my loneliness as solitude, not punishment. I guess a live body next to me some nights is better than no nights at all. Besides, who else would want me?

  Riley laid her pen down momentarily and felt the tears well up in her eyes. She sipped some iced tea and hoped it would quell the sob rising from her chest. She had an urge to call her mother but didn’t feel like praying for approval, let alone under
standing. Her mother would tell her she needed to be in church, making social connections, instead of planning some party for friends who had not managed to move up to Riley’s social class.

  These depressive periods in her life were when she felt she wrote her best poetry, but today she picked up her pen and wrote in her group journal about her perfect children, her perfect husband, her perfect life. When she was finished, she locked her diary in her desk, hid the key, and took her journal and glass into the kitchen, where a white-aproned, white-faced caterer’s assistant was putting the final touches on the hors d’oeuvres and uncorking the wine so that it would have time to breathe. Maybe that’s what Riley needed—time to breathe, but appearances were everything, her image more important than her tattered feelings. Riley had a party to dress for, and even if she didn’t feel it, she would at least look great.

  As Riley was walking to her dressing area, her private phone rang.

  “Hello,” Riley said.

  “Riley, this is your mother.” Riley was thinking this was one voice she could always remember.

  “Hello, Mother. How are you?” Riley braced herself for a typical no-win conversation with Clarice Elizabeth Wade. Her mother tended to dominate and manipulate every situation and every relationship she was in. Riley always felt like a three-year-old when she had to talk with her mother. Though she occasionally rose to the level of a rebellious teenager, she doubted she would ever be on an equal adult level with Clarice.

  Clarice had dangled her love and approval before Riley like a carrot on a stick, and Riley felt she had never been quick enough or smart enough to catch the carrot whole, only small pieces every now and then. Her mother had a subtle way of letting Riley know that she was neither as good a mother nor as good a wife as Clarice. When Riley complained about Selwyn’s long and frequent absences, Clarice simply told her that it was a wife’s place to be patient and keep the home fires burning until her husband returned. Clarice also told her that complaining was probably what kept Selwyn away.

  Clarice knew what to do with her idle time. She controlled people. She was an officer in both the National Council of Negro Women and Links. A lifetime member of Zeta Phi Beta Sorority, Inc. She had a closet full of size-seven pastel suits and tasteful evening wear. Her hair, which she had dyed a honey blond long before any of her friends did, was always beauty-parlor fresh. Her lips and nails were always perfect, painted in pale peach and deep pink shades to accent her oatmeal-colored complexion.

  Riley had long ago given up on ever winning her mother’s approval, and certainly her mother’s respect was out of the question. But Riley had her moments of sweet revenge. At Hampton, where Clarice attended, Riley pledged Delta instead of Zeta. In her early thirties, when Clarice said the Links were interested in Riley, she rushed to the arms of the Junior League. For Riley it was One Hundred Black Women, not the National Council of Negro Women. While Clarice always wore Mary Kay, Riley went to work for a minority competitor, Wanda Mae Cosmetics. Clarice was not impressed when Riley was named executive vice president in charge of marketing after only five years. When Clarice became close friends with the real Wanda Mae, Riley knew it was time to leave her powerful position. Riley convinced herself she no longer agreed with the direction the company was taking with marketing. Wanda Mae sounded like Clarice when she chastised Riley for hiring a white woman as her executive assistant, instead of the Black woman Wanda Mae preferred.

  Clarice got on Riley’s last nerve each and every time they spoke, but she had yet to summon the courage to tell her mother to butt out of her life.

  “Listen, Riley. The reason I’m calling is to tell you to be sure and wear something to your little party that will accentuate your pretty face. You know, you’ve gained quite a bit of weight, and if you emphasize your one good feature, well, maybe no one will notice. Wear a dark shade, something loose-fitting. And don’t slouch! You tend to slouch when you’re overweight.”

  “Yes, Mother, I’ll try and remember that,” Riley said.

  “Have you tried that new shade Wanda Mae sent you? That stuff you’ve been wearing is going to break your face out as sure as I’m standing here talking to you,” Clarice said.

  “I’ve been using a product by Iman, and it’s working just fine,” Riley said.

  “What does some former model know about makeup? Wanda Mae just hired a new chemist who’s come up with some great products. I’ve been using them and you should see my face. And Wanda Mae asked if you were working and if …”

  Riley interrupted Clarice.

  “Mother, for the last time, I quit Wanda Mae because I didn’t like the way she does business. I know she’s your new best friend, but I’m fine with things just the way they are. Thanks for calling. Give Daddy my love. But I’ve got to go. I think I hear someone at the door.”

  “Where is that maid of yours?”

  “Good-bye, Mother.”

  “Good-bye, Riley. Have a nice time.”

  Riley muttered to herself, yeah, right.

  Dwight Leon Scott sat at the desk in his cluttered Hyde Park studio and decided it was time to write something for the group. Just like in college, he had waited until the last minute, which usually meant Sunday morning. He had never been fond of journal writing in college, but since he had joined the group, he noticed how writing things down helped extinguish his anger. Dwight’s ex-wife, Kelli, had been right about something, he thought when he realized how soothed the writing left him. Before Dwight told Kelli he wanted a divorce, he wrote in his journal how unhappy he was with marriage. Dwight felt the differences in their upbringing were more than he could handle. Kelli didn’t understand why Dwight was more interested in buying a house for his mother, rather than building the new house she dreamed of in Lake Forest.

  He had already had a long telephone conversation with one of his basketball buddies, and he had turned down an insistent offer to go shoot some hoops while his buddy’s wife was at church. A place he should have been. His mother had just asked him when was the last time he had been inside a church. She didn’t understand his joke when he told her he attended Bedside Baptist regularly. Dwight looked around his apartment for his cellular phone. It was time to make his Sunday-morning call to his mother, Sarah, who lived in Oakland, California, where Dwight was born and raised until he left for Hampton Institute in 1974 to study computer science.

  Dwight’s studio was a large space divided by partitions of wood that had been painted a brown-orange color. The kitchen-dining area was separated by a small bar, where Dwight would pull his meals from the microwave and eat alone most mornings and evenings.

  There was only one picture on the dull gray walls—a high-flying Michael Jordan—and no photographs on the two low-standing bookshelves. Thin, dusty miniblinds hung from unwashed windows. Dwight spotted his phone on the windowsill, picked it up, and dialed his favorite girl’s number.

  “Miss Sarah, this here is ya boy, Dwight Leon Scott,” he said in a teasing southern drawl. Sarah was originally from a small town in Texas.

  “Hey there, baby. I was just thinkin’ ’bout you. Wondering what time it was there in Chicago and if it was okay to call you. I know how you like to sleep on your day off. It wouldn’t hurt you to get up and go to church though,” Sarah said.

  “I told you I’m a member in good standing at Bedside Baptist,” Dwight joked.

  “I hope the good Lord knows about Bedside,” his mother joked.

  “I think I’ve seen him there,” Dwight said.

  Dwight and his mother spent about thirty minutes reviewing each other’s week and Sarah gave him the 411 on everybody in the family in California, Texas, and the few living in Oklahoma. When Dwight noticed what time it was, he told his mother he loved her and he was still working on buying her a real house.

  “Don’t you worry ’bout me. I’m fine right where I’m at. You just take care of yourself and that helps me out. And I love you too, Mr. Dwight big shot Scott.”

  When Dwight clicked off the phone,
he decided to write in his personal journal. The journal he kept on his personal computer. He took a swig of his orange juice, clicked on his PC, and began to type.

  I know the group is sick and tired of hearing me rant and rave about white folks. Too bad. I get sick and tired of hearing Riley go on about Selwyn and their great middleclass adventure. I know she was separated at birth from my ex-wife, Kelli. Sometimes I feel kinda sorry for Riley with her lame poetry and can’t-sing-a-lick ass. Yolanda’s pretty cool with her fine self. But she won’t give this brother the time of day. I mean, she gets all up in Leland’s gay-ass face. Talk about separated at birth. The doc is okay, he’s cool, but no way can he do for her what a real man can do. I really do not get the gay man/straight woman thang. What’s the big attraction? Maybe I’m just not assimilated enough to hang with the in crowd. I shoulda left when I dumped Kelli. She’s the one that got me in this mess. Fuck ’em! Today I don’t give a shit.

  Dwight turned off his PC, stood up and stretched long and hard. He took a deep breath and picked up his pen and journal to write one more angry Black man story he knew would annoy the entire group of sell-out Negroes:

  There I was, sitting in first class, minding my own business, when this overdressed, plump white woman sat down next to me. Of course, she didn’t speak, but gave me one of those what-are-you-doing-in-first-class looks. She got situated and pulled out a fancy laptop computer. I figured she was some kind of computer guru with her thick glasses and frumpy wannabe-a-man business suit. Now, even though I don’t like engaging in personal conversation with white folks, I will on occasion break my rule if I think I’ll learn something that will help me in the white man’s business world. I started to ask her about her PC, when she asked a stewardess, I mean flight attendant, to watch her computer while she went to the rest room.

  I’ve gotten used to that kinda snide racist shit from other passengers and from the airline personnel. They always ask me if they can help me find my seat when I slow down in the first-class section and try and store my luggage. They always want to see my boarding pass, which I never show them. I just give them my seat number in a low, deep voice, and they leave me the fuck alone. But I like first class, it’s one of the few luxuries I allow myself I’ve met some kick-ass, good-looking sisters in first class, even though most of them were stuck up like my ex and other people I know. But every now and again I’ve met a sister who is good-looking, smart, and hasn’t forgotten her people. Of course, when they’re all that, they’re usually married too. I ain’t with that married-woman shit.