by Curtis Bunn
“You just called me a hoe,” I shot back.
“No. No I didn’t.”
“You used code, but you surely called me a hoe. And that I don’t appreciate.”
“And you think I’m OK with you calling me a bitch?”
“You’re off subject, now, Norman.”
“The subject is this: If we’re going to do this, we have to figure out how to deal with that homeless guy. And by deal, I mean get rid of him. No woman would want to be in a relationship with a bum anyway.”
“That man you call a ‘bum’ is smarter than you and kinder than you and would never be mean to a person who is struggling.
“At the same time, I agree with you that we have to deal with this situation. I actually dealt with it before you ever arrived here. I just wanted to tell you to your face that I’m done. I had to make a choice and I chose the homeless man with bipolar disorder over you.”
He looked at me with disgust and anger. And before he could respond, I hit him again: “And for those friends of your ex-girlfriend who tried to come on to you? What charms you had that would make them put their pride on the line and risk their relationship, I’m sure I don’t know.”
That last line infuriated him because it was a variation of a line of his favorite actor, Samuel L. Jackson, had recited in the movie, The Hateful Eight, which we had watched together a few nights earlier.
He stood up and pointed at me. “There’s a lot I can say, but I won’t.”
“You said all you needed to say this morning to Rodney. When he told me what you said, I knew you were not for me. I don’t deal with mean, hateful people. And you’re paranoid and you clearly don’t trust. I don’t know what happened in your previous relationships, but for sure something happened to make you so untrusting. But I am glad I learned now.”
“You’re going to miss me one day,” he said, heading for the door.
“Yeah, when I need a laugh.”
I was proud that I had a comeback so quickly. Norman did not have a retort, although I knew he wanted to call me what I had called him: a bitch.
Even though it was sad that I had to end it with Norman, the way I did it was confirmation that I had found much of myself that had slithered away in self-pity, pain and fat.
So I did not feel that badly about ending it. Truth be told, I felt reinvigorated that I could stand up to a man, that I could say the things I needed and wanted to say.
I was so tempted to call Rodney and tell him how the conversation with Norman went, how I felt as strong and as confident in myself as I had in years. I felt like myself before my world spun out of whack, only better because I knew I would never go back to that dark, unfulfilling place.
In a very real way, I wanted to see Troy. I wanted to tell him how badly I wanted a divorce and to thank him for leaving me. I hated the cowardly way he had walked out on me, offering no true explanation and basically disappearing.
There were plenty of names I wanted to call him, names that would have been insulting and hurtful. Mostly they would have made me feel better about myself. Troy walked out because I gave in to an age-old idea of allowing the husband to lead, to be the man and to play a secondary role. A responsible man would have appreciated that, not take advantage of it. All that did was grant him the freedom to do as he pleased, and that hardly ever included me.
So I sat at home and watched TV as Troy used work as an excuse to find love elsewhere. For years I knew he ran the streets as if he were a single man, but I did not have the strength to stop it or walk away. And even though I stayed, he still left me.
I was humiliated. I felt like an idiot. I was close to hating myself. I surely did not like who I had become: a weak, sniveling patsy. I would have walked away from myself if I could have.
Still, it would have given me so much joy to tell Troy about himself. And to thank him, for if he had stayed, I never would have met and become friends with Rodney, and I never would have found myself.
I would have remained a dummy in a marriage that benefitted me not at all. I would have been miserable, lazy, unfulfilled. And I would have deserved it. Not because I was a bad wife or bad person, but because I had stayed and I knew my husband had no respect for me.
Troy did me a favor. He allowed me the chance to save my life, and with Rodney’s influence, I did. It was strange how the dominos had to fall in order for me to grow stronger as a person and as a woman.
Pushing aside Norman did not cause me anxiety. I did what I had to do. I loved having that power over myself. What dating him for that short time did was reawaken my need for male companionship, though. And it helped me feel a need to reconnect with people.
So, I joined Facebook. I heard people talk about it and would see people at work, on the elevator, pretty much everywhere posting photos and information. Maybe I could find my girlfriend, Gail, who moved to Australia, and some of my high school and college friends. I was not sure how I would find anyone, but it was exciting to experience something new.
I put in names of people I was friendly with and found a few profiles and sent friend requests. I had taken a selfie with Rodney before I gave him his gifts after the meeting and used that as my profile photo.
The whole time I reviewed friends’ and strangers’ Facebook profiles, I smiled. Some of my old friends looked fabulous, better than they had when I had last been in contact with them. Two of the classmates from college, women who were stylish and petite, hardly resembled their younger selves. The extra weight made them seem a little older than they were.
It was familiar because I saw it in myself. I guessed those women were burdened by something that charged them to not maintain their weight. Or it was just a slowing of metabolism. Or sometimes it happened so gradually that you didn’t really notice until one day, it hit like a hammer to the head.
Actually, it was unfair for society to require a woman to remain her weight from her youth when so many elements take over: metabolism slows, eating habits change, desire to work out diminishes. And suddenly you go from a size 6 to an 8, and 8 to a 10, a 10 to a 12 and on and on.
I hoped they could find an inspiration, a Rodney, or find it in themselves to get healthy. Physical health improvement would improve their mental health. I knew all about it.
Still, Rodney was all I had in my life, and that was just fine with me. I was excited about myself. And I was excited that I could sense Rodney was coming around, too—and that I had played a role in his development.
But I would not be as I was with Troy. And even though there was no romantic connection with Rodney, I would not put so much into him that I ignored myself. The new me understood the value of being happy with myself in order to embrace anything good in life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: READY FOR RECOVERY
RODNEY
With the earphones on, I slept as well as I had when I was in the hospital on heavy medication. But this was better because although I was asleep, I could hear the music playing. And maybe that’s why I did not recall any dreams for the only time I could remember.
I told Brenda that as we walked down Monroe Drive the next day.
“The music probably made you think about good things,” she offered. “Music can do that.”
“Could be,” I answered. Really, I did not care to figure it out. I knew one thing: I would not sleep again without the music playing in my earphones.
“So what happened with that guy?” Rodney asked about Norman.
“I ended it. He seemed to think it was OK to talk to you and be mean to you. The bottom line is that he was jealous of our friendship. He said if I wanted to be his woman, that I couldn’t have any male friends.”
“I knew insecure fools like that,” I told her. “They are dangerous because you would never know what would set them off.”
“The only thing worse than an insecure woman is an insecure man,” Brenda said. “It’s worse because a man’s ego drives him.”
“You think that? Well, I had a girlfriend once. This ch
ick would get upset if I missed her call. She was so insecure that she took my car to the grocery store one day and got a duplicate key made to my apartment. And one day, when cell phones first came out, I had one. And I get this call on my cell. I’m confused because the number looks so familiar. Then it hit me—that’s my home number.
“I answered and she had no shame, talking about ‘Where are you? Who you with?’
“I knew then I had to walk away. As they used to say, Who does that?”
“Wow. I guess women can be just as bad,” Brenda said. “Soon as you told me he found you and was talking crazy, I knew something wasn’t right. It was crazy how he could act normal and then be so insecure that. . .”
“Go ahead. You can say it.”
“You get the point.”
“Be so insecure to think a homeless man would be a threat. That’s what you were going to say. Listen, I understand. It’s OK.”
“I didn’t get him. We were just getting started. But he literally asked me to make a choice between you and him.”
“I didn’t want that. I told you he came to me because I thought you should know and because of the way he came at me. I hope you don’t feel bad about ending it. He was not good enough for you.”
“You know what? About five months ago, I wouldn’t have agreed with you. But now, I know who I am and what I’m worth and I know who is worthy of me.”
I was proud of Brenda. I had seen her for months looking meek and disconnected from the world. But she had become a new person, almost unrecognizable from her physical appearance and mental outlook.
And in our friendship, I saw the growth, too. Where she was hesitant to ask questions when we first got together, she now tossed them at me regularly and with ease.
“You know what you’ve never talked about,” Brenda said, “is your children, your daughters. Is it too painful to talk about them?”
I looked away as we approached Amsterdam Avenue, where we took a left turn toward restaurants and shops at the bottom of the hill.
“It’s not easy, that’s for sure. But Diana and Joy were tough kids, but they worried about me a lot—and I worried about them. Would they be bipolar, too, when they got older? They worried about me being able to stay on the meds to let them help control me.
“We were close. Diana was older by two years over her sister, Joy. It’s so interesting how they could grow up in the same household, have the same parents, get treated the same way, but be two totally different people. I guess they have their own personalities.”
“Who was more like you?”
“Diana, definitely. She was inquisitive and outgoing. She could be friendly and she could get along with anyone in any circle. Versatile. But tough. And she would make hasty decisions based on her feelings in that moment. She was emotional.
“Joy was more reserved and quiet. She said only enough to get her point across. She wasn’t like me or her mother in that regard. She was tough, probably tougher than her sister. She grew to be taller than her sister, so people couldn’t tell who was older because Joy always carried herself like an old soul. And there were no rash decisions with her. She’d dissect people and she’d think things through before making a decision. That’s why she was a better golfer than Diana. Diana had more talent, but Joy was more patient and played the percentages, didn’t take unnecessary risks.”
“Wow, you taught them how to play golf? That’s great. I wanted to play about five years ago. Troy told me that was the only time he had to himself, so I should pick another hobby.”
“That was pretty cold. But yeah, we played a lot of golf. My wife played, too. It was a family outing to drive to Stone Mountain and play a round of golf on a Saturday morning and then take the trolley to the top of the mountain after lunch and enjoy the view.”
Apparently, Brenda could tell I was getting lost in the reminiscing, so she changed the subject before it became too much and sparked an episode. She could not have handled that—and I did not want that.
“You know, I never wanted children,” she said. “Let me take that back: I never wanted children with Troy. I didn’t always feel that way. There was a time I considered him my ideal man. But after a few years of marriage, I knew I would be raising that child alone. And I knew that child would not feel love in the house the way it’s supposed to be. So I stayed on the pill.”
“That’s smart,” I said. “But I will tell you this: You’d make a great mother. I see a lot of Darlene in you: nurturing, genuine nature, caring, smart. True. That’s what a child needs. So don’t give up on being a mom. That kid would be lucky to have you.”
“Awww, Rodney. That means so much. Thank you for that. I can tell you were a good parent . . . You hungry?”
We stood outside of Loca Luna, a Mexican restaurant with a good reputation. I had not sat inside a restaurant and dined in a long time.
“I don’t go inside restaurants,” I told Brenda.
“What? Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to upset people’s meals. I usually smell and don’t look so put together. And nobody—”
“But that was then. Look at you now. You look great. You wouldn’t upset anyone’s meal. Come on, let’s eat.”
It was not a comfortable feeling. I had entered restaurants in the past to use the bathroom, but I could feel the stares at me. And the reservationists treated me badly because I would sneak by them when they left the front station.
“What if we ate right here, outside on their patio? I can go in through this gate and not the restaurant.”
Brenda agreed to my condition. I entered through the outside gate and she went inside to the hostess stand. We met at a table with an obstructed view of Piedmont Park. We sat outside in the sun and sipped water with lemon before the food came. “So, your wife—what was she like? Wait, before you answer, I have another gift for you.”
“Brenda, no. I have taken charity from people long enough.”
“No, really, this is small. You need this.”
She dug into her purse and pulled out a pair of sunglasses.
“You need these. And sitting out here, in this sun, these will help you. And you’ll look cool.”
She was right. Wasn’t sure how cool I looked, but the blocking of the sun directly in my eyes cooled me. It probably was psychological, but I felt better with them on. Brenda grabbed her phone and asked me to pose for a photo. I looked at her. She clicked.
“Nice,” she said of the photo. “I’m going to text it to you.”
“Why? I know what I look like.”
“You need to see how you look.”
Her Samsung 8 took a clear image of me. “Blushing is healthy,” Brenda said. “You can blush. Heard those words before?”
“Touché,” I said before smiling. Brenda took a second photo.
“So now,” she said, “tell me about Darlene, the love of your life.”
I was glad to have on the dark sunglasses because my eyes were on the verge of tearing up. “We met in a strange situation,” I began. “Along Camp Creek Parkway in Southwest Atlanta, not far from the airport, there is the place marked with a cross and stuffed animals, flowers, etc. It’s where a friend of mine died in a car accident. Belinda.
“I stopped there one Saturday afternoon to put flowers on the memorial of flowers and cards people created. Before I left, Darlene pulled up. I wiped my tears and spoke to her. She was crying before she actually got to the site.
“Instead of getting into my car, I waited for her to pay her respects. I cannot say why I waited. It wasn’t that I was interested in her. It was not a place to pick up a woman, you know? But she came toward me when she was done and I asked her, ‘How did you know Belinda?’
“She told me they were coworkers at the Delta Airlines corporate offices. I told her she and I took golf lessons at Charlie Yates Golf Course together. We stood there and talked about Belinda for at least twenty minutes.
“When we finally left, I said: ‘I hate that we’re meetin
g like this and in this situation. But I’m glad I met you.’ I handed her my card. I was working at IBM then. ‘Please stay in touch,’ I told her and went on.
“About two weeks passed before I got this call from a strange number. It was Darlene. She said, ‘I feel kind of guilty calling you. But maybe it was meant to be for us to meet as we did. I talked to my mother about it. I told her, ‘I didn’t go there to meet a man.’ She said, ‘But you did.’ That’s how her mom was—direct and no-nonsense.
“We went bowling that night. I liked that she was athletic and would try anything. She liked to swim and bowl and golf and dance. Anything that required movement. I knew then I had gotten lucky.”
“How?”
“Because it was all so easy and natural. We did not have a quiet or awkward moment. We had fun. We had serious conversation about the plight of the country and young black men. We laughed at ourselves and told stories about our lives. We talked about rap music and debated between Biggie and Tupac. We looked up and the bowling alley was almost empty. We didn’t even notice. That’s how into each other we were.
“That was in the early 1990s. We got married the next year and our kids came soon after. We enjoyed the Summer Olympics in Atlanta and built our family.”
“Somewhere in there, you got the bipolar diagnosis, right?”
“You do pay attention. That’s a good thing. Yeah, a few years later is when it started to show up. But Darlene was there for me. She was scared, but she loved me, and that’s what got us through. I fought her about taking the meds and getting second opinions and talking to a therapist.
“I wish I could tell her now how much she meant to me. Means to me because she’s still in my heart.”
Our food came.
“I can tell, Rodney. And Darlene, Joy and Diana are the reasons I say let’s get you fully together, so you can live the life they’d want you to live.”