A Price to Pay for Everything

by Kameisha Jenkins

  While she pulled back her mane of black ringlets into aight bun, she planned her day of meetings with the florist, lighting technician, and the newly hired jazz band that she flew in from New Orleans. It was her way of giving back to Hurricane Katrina victims. After reviewing herself several times in the floor length mirror, Ilene attempted to map her route. Maybe she could squeeze in a Swedish massage if time allowed. “Thank God for this little black baby.” Ilene said as she tucked the card into the side pocket of her Fendi Spy Bag.

  “Hell, I might even stop by and let Charles drool over what he’s missing. Yep, right after I stop by Elsa’s to pick up my gown for my bash.” Ilene said to herself as she rose to her feet and surveyed her body in her newly purchased La Perla undergarments that set Charles’ card back a mere $400.

  “You still got it going on girl.” She grinned at herself as she dressed in her expensive clothes and shoes, ready to conquer the world.

  Ilene stepped out onto the circular driveway of the plush Ritz Carlton in Buckhead just as the attendant pulled around her new Mercedes S 500. The lingering aroma of her Yves Saint Laurent fragrance teased the waiting valet as he inhaled her. She slipped a ten dollar bill in his hand and hopped into the waiting cabin of her newest luxury item. The peanut butter colored brushed Corinthian leather and wood grain interior was custom created in Germany and one of only twenty-four in production in the United States. It’s $84,000 price tag afforded many amenities, including voice command ignition and body contoured ergonomic bucket seating through out.

  Ilene regularly lied to her socialite friend-foes and told them that it was an early birthday present from Charles. They would have laughed her out of town if they knew it was a lease. Ilene found ways to convince herself that Charles would have approved of a few “creature comforts” in lieu of their dismal marital arrangement. She reasoned that when things worked themselves out, she would simply pay off the debt with the money that she would undoubtedly earn from Verve by Ilene.

  Ilene zoomed down Peachtree street being serenaded by Miles’ Davis’ eclectic sound. The songs on Davis’ Kind of Blue cd reminded Ilene of the first day she met Charles in Trinidad at a jazz festival. They met and had lunch at an open air restaurant that kept playing the cd, trying to boost its sales. The promoter had offered the owner of the restaurant money for every cd sold. Ilene secretly bought one and listened to it every time she wanted to remember their meeting.

  The nostalgia moved Ilene and compelled her fingers to dial the phone number to the place that used to be her home. The phone rang continuously as Ilene recalled that Charles was likely still a little miffed about their “disagreement”. She hang up and dialed his cell phone. Annoyed that the call went straight to voice mail, Ilene decided she would not leave a message. Instead, she would stop by to see the look on his face when he saw her and remembered what he was missing. Determined that she would not allow Charles’ little tantrum alter her plan of action, she phoned the florist and told him that she was on the way.

  “Yes I want the orchids. End of story.” Ilene was absolute. The flamboyant florist was concerned that Ilene did not

  understand that the price for orchards to be shipped overnight from Okinawa, Japan would be stifling. He would attempt fruitlessly to clarify for her.

  “Certainly, zey are beautiful, darling. But zey are not necessary for our motif. The calla lilies we have are breathtaking and with the lighting you have arranged, everything will be elegant. Besides we can save the money from shipping the orchards and use it on something more fabulous. It will be… how you say in America? It will be bling, bling! ” He clamped his hands together in celebration of his mastery of American pop culture and it’s jargon.

  “Peter, perhaps you didn’t hear me. I don’t care how much it costs. I want my damned orchads. What is it that you do not understand? Money is no object!”

  Peter stood aghast as he witnessed the persona of class and breeding melt away and reveal a ‘new money’ regalia that he had only eyed while working with an over-the-top, homo-curious professional football player who commanded a full body replica of himself created out of multi-colored roses. He couldn’t bear to think of losing his ten thousand dollar commission over a few orchards and lack of finesse and decided to acquiesce for the sake of his demanding and wasteful client.

  “Very well, mon cherie, I will contact zhe wholesaler in Japan immediately. Hopefully, zhey can get us a rush order of six dozen orchards in two days.”

  Ilene’s face lit up as she savored the power that money wielded. A few weeks ago, this very same florist who stood before her wearing a couture Armani shirt and Ungaro knit slacks would have tossed her out of his Buckhead floral boutique. Now he was at her beck and call. It was becoming intoxicating to Ilene, who now more than ever, knew that this was the lifestyle she should become accustomed to.

  “Oh and Peter, there is one more small thing I need you to handle, dear.”

  Peter cringed at what he was sure would be another gaudy display of tastelessness. He covered his disgust with an exaggerated gasp and a decidedly femme French accent that he utilized gainfully since opening his European menagerie.

  “Oui, madame! Qu’elle est-ce que ?”

  Ilene pretended that she understood what he said and proceeded with her request.

  “Okay, I need you to send a dozen yellow roses to this address…”

  Peter, anxious to get rid of her before she asked for something else, addressed her.

  “Very well, I shall have it delivered first thing in zhe morning. Magnifique!” Ilene quickly interjected.

  “NO! I need it delivered today. It must be there today.”

  Peter rolled his eyes as Ilene awaited confirmation that her demand would be met.

  “Of course, madame. Right away. I shall work on it right now.”

  “Good. I guess I will be seeing you in a couple of days.”

  “Certainment. Au revoir, madame.”

  Ilene felt she was being rushed out of the quaint Parisian inspired boutique, but delighted in the underlying rudeness of her Parisian florist. It spoke to everything about her that she would complain to her friend-foes of how difficult her European florist was to work with.

  “Those low class hussies have no idea how fabulous this will be.” Ilene thought as she walked out of the boutique and into her waiting car. The valet had it warmed and ready for her. “Now, time to make Charles eat dirt.” Ilene pointed her car in the direction of Alpharetta and attempted to call her former home again. No answer. Ilene grimaced, more determined than ever to win Charles’ resistance over. She adjusted her new bra enough to reveal a generous amount of cleavage and spritzed on a light layer of her perfume. She was convinced that Charles would see just how much he needed to have her as his wife, rather he wanted to or not.

  Ilene drove her new Mercedes up the driveway of their family home as she had done countless times in the years she had been married. She reached for the visor to click the garage door open only to realize it was not there. She forgot to remove it from her old car when she traded it in. She made a mental note to call the dealer to make sure that he retrieved it for her. Then she looked down on the steering wheel and realized that there was a button for the garage door and she forgot to have it programmed to her vehicle. Maybe she would have Charles do it for her once they made love and she got him back on her team, Ilene reasoned.

  As she parked, she eyed a few of her neighbors outside watering their lawns. Undoubtedly, they were watching in envy as she stepped out of her new luxury vehicle. Ilene never bothered with chores as mundane as watering the lawn. When Charles asked her to do it a few times, she happ agreed. The moment he left for work, she called the landscapers and quickly signed a contract to have them water it daily. Charles was so pleased with her upkeep of the lawn, he had bragged to the neighbors about Ilene’s green thumb. One particularly cunning resident informed him that True Green Chem Lawn was leaving a mess every morning they came to maintain his lawn and wondered if
he could speak to them about the noise and the mess they brought with them. For that minor deception, Charles didn’t speak to Ilene for a week. Ilene was accustomed to Charles ignoring her when she made missteps, but she couldn’t afford to have this little riff between them destroy her event, and more importantly, her plans for the future.

  She shimmied up the driveway, smoothing her couture dress that seemed to ride up each time she moved. Ilene refused to admit that it was too small for her. As she lifted her wrist to ring the doorbell, she remembered her audience of watchful neighbors and chuckled as she retrieved her house key. She was praying that Charles wasn’t particularly vengeful this time and changed the locks. He wasn’t.

  She quickly entered the foyer of their home that now seemed humdrum compared to the lavish appointments of her hotel suite. She disarmed the alarm system and started for the bedroom. “Charles, it’s me dear. I was hoping we could talk…” Ilene’s calls were unanswered. When she got to the bedroom, she found the bed unmade. “Ah, he’s miserable without me. He doesn’t even bother to make the bed.” Ilene thought. As she explored the room further, she found that Charles had his toiletries scattered on the vanity in the bathroom, something she would have severely scolded him for, had she been there.

  She then ran to the garage to see if his car was there. When it wasn’t, Ilene grew puzzled. She then recalled that it was the day for him to teach at the university and dismissed her concern. She walked into the kitchen to survey what take out boxes would litter the once immaculate kitchen. Charles had feasted on everything from pizza from the Mellow Mushroom to smothered chicken from Gladys Knight and Ron’s Chicken and Waffles.

  Tickled by Charles’ apparent misery in her absence, Ilene thought it would be cute to leave him a note. First she would call the maid service and have them clean up this mess. As Ilene reached for the cordless phone to dial the numbers, she saw the message light blinking. Knowing that she had already left four messages for Charles on that very line, she was instantly bothered that he didn’t even invest time in listening to them. She pressed play as her annoyance grew by the second. “Six new messages” the machine announced.

  Ilene was puzzled by Charles’ disregard. He was normally particularly meticulous when it came to checking the voice mail, and even scolded her a few times for her nonchalance about it. As the messages played, she immediately recognized her own voice and the emerging desperation in each call. She deleted them immediately. The next message was from a travel agent, calling to confirm his flight to St. Martin. Ilene reeled as she realized that Charles was gone for at least a week without even mentioning it to her.

  Vexed that Charles was capable of such sizable deception, Ilene pressed delete and waited for the next message. An undeniably feminine voice that was vaguely familiar to Ilene spoke. It was his ex-wife. Ilene’s mouth dropped open.

  “Hey Charles, it me Jeanine. Got your message. Sorry to hear about you and Ilene divorcing, but hey, I told you that witch was up to no good. Anyway, I will be in Atlanta tomorrow at seven. I am staying at the Marriott in downtown. Call me on my cell. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat. Talk to you soon. Bye.” BEEP. NO MORE MESSAGES.

  “Hell no, this bastard didn’t!” Ilene screamed to no one as she paced the floor of the kitchen. Her body grew hot with anger as she ripped her jacket off, sending her delicate mother of pearl buttons flying. /p>

  “Divorce, is he fucking nuts? And when the hell did he start talking to this bitch again? Fuck you Chuck!” Ilene ranted as she shook with anger.

  She moved over to the sink to steady herself and attempt to calm down. As she braced herself on the counter and looked at the soiled dishes in the sink, she flew into hysterics again. This time, she eyed two wine glasses with what looked like the residue of champagne in them. One had lipstick imprinted on its rim. She didn’t resist the urge to grab them and slam them onto the floor. As she watched them shatter into a thousand little crystals, Ilene chuckled at the irony of the situation.

  “Really Charles, your ass just couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Making me feel like I was the biggest whore in the world and here you are with these bitches in MY house…” Ilene was halted by a thought that emerged.

  She quickly sprinted up the stairs and back into their bedroom. She closely surveyed the sheets and found long brown hairs on the pillow where she once rested her head. The hair was not hers. She leaned in closer to smell the pillow and was repulsed by the amalgamation of sweat and “Happy” by Clinique that lingered. The smear of the stranger’s rid lipstick on the pillow seemed to incite calm in Ilene as she continued to take in the scene. She walked over to the trash can in the master bath and saw used condoms and their hastily torn wrappers.

  “Yeah right motherfucker, like you need Magnums.” Ilene thought to herself.

  The tears that rolled down her perfectly made face defied Ilene’s rage. After a few deep breathing exercises she learned in yoga, she managed to bring herself back to her center. She decided that she would deal with Charles after Saturday. No need to ruin her event on theatrics.

  She calmly dialed her dermatologist and told her she was on the way. She just had to make one stop. After re-applying her make up, Ilene emerged from the home she once knew. Her plan of action was in effect. She had already contacted her divorce attorney and told him that she had some more information for him. While in the house, Ilene retrieved all of her jewelry that she had locked in their safe…she would need it as collateral for the deal that she was about to make.

  Chapter 29 Marc

  When Marc and Reggie arrived at Ben’s Chili Bowl on the historic U Street Corridor in D.C., they partook in their normal ritual. It involved standing in a line while short order cooks shouted out orders of half smokes with chili and cheese over the glare of a local go-go band’s latest hit.

  Today, it was an ode to Chuck Brown, the godfather of DC’s unique go-go sound. The two men bopped their heads as they moved closer to the front of the line.

  Reggie would predictably order a half smoke with chili, onions and cheese and a side of cheese fries. His 6’4, 260 pound frame was mostly bulk muscle and he would spend hours at the gym working off his chili jones.

  Marc was now scanning the specials on the black and white menu curiously.

  “Man, you notice aint nothing healthy on this menu?” Marc asked Reggie incredulously. Reggie answered Marc’s question with decidedly exaggerated fervor.

  “Dude. This is a damn diner, not B.Smith’s. Just order the damned chili fries and cry over the shit later.”

  “True. But you would think with all of the heart disease in our community, they could at least have a low cal menu or something like that. Why do all of OUR restaurants have to be greasy spoons that clog up our arteries and crap? Jewish people don’t let shit like that go down in their restaurants.”

  Reggie’s eyes stretched wide as he struggled to take in Marc’s comments.

  “Man, look around. Its black cats in here, white folks in here, hell even Asian folks up in here. And what they doin’? They all chompin’ down on a damned half smoke drippin’ with grease and processed cheese. I don’t know about you, but when they ask a brother what he wareas I aint getting no damned chopped salad.”

  Marc shook his head at Reggie’s dismissal of his social commentary. Now that the baby was coming, he decided that he would change some of his unhealthier habit’s for fear of passing it on to a child already doomed to have Sherise as it’s mother. It was his way of doing his part. He went on to question himself about how long his friendship with Reggie would last before they parted ways. He loved his boy, but knew that the maturity that a baby required was one that Reggie had been eluding for years.

  $1250. That’s the amount of money Reggie told him, while chuckling, that he had doled out to random females to have ill timed pregnancies aborted. He actually kept a record of it and thought that it somehow made him less of a jerk if he knew how much the procedure costs and at what term.

  By the time the tw
o were seated, Reggie had managed to wolf down half of his chili cheese fries and started on his half smoke.

  Marc reluctantly ordered the same, but lost interest in eating when he considered that he would have to spend at least an extra forty five minutes at the gym to work the meal off. Reggie noticed his hesitation.

  “Man, you gonna eat or what?” Reggie asked while pointing at Marc’s uneaten fries. The question was loaded, as Marc knew how the conversation would proceed.

  “Reg, man you know a brother is tryin to keep his shit tight. I aint even hungry now. You can have that shit if you want it.”

  “Damn right I want it. Look here brah, you know there are two things I don’t turn down. Pussy and food. Dawg, they are life sustaining.” Reggie commented with a grin on his face that made him appear juvenile.

  “And you can eat both, right?” Marc asked with an even larger grin. The two burst into a wide mouth laugh that they sealed with dap over their food. Reggie, still giggling from Marc’s comment, spoke.

  “Speaking of pussy, man you ready for all that cat that is gonna get thrown at you tomorrow?” He was referring to their fraternity’s bachelor auction that Marc participated in every year. Reggie was always amazed at how women would pledge five thousand dollars easily for a night with Marc. He routinely reaped the benefits of being hooked up their friends.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Frat, I don’t know if I can do that shit this year. You know, with the shit I got going on with Sherise…”

  Reggie interrupted hastily.

  “I know you not gonna let this scheming assed, ghetto broad get in the way of some premium ass. I’m talking doctors and lawyers and shit, dawg. Man, aint nothing better than pussy with a pension. What the hell she got to do with your shit anyway? How she gonna even know about it?”