Nappily in Bloom

by Trisha R. Thomas

  “Mama D, it’s old-fashioned and archaic, and you know it. Keisha picked out my tux, yet I don’t have a say in what gown she wears? Come on, you see how it’s a little sexist? Shouldn’t the groom have a tiny bit of say?” He squeezed two fingers together.

  Keisha nodded, slowly dropping her guard and lowering her arms. Gray had a way of talking that made everything look easy. Everything he said sounded like it made complete sense. Delma was sure he could sell ice to Eskimos with a 1,000 percent markup. The combination of good looks and a killer smile was intoxicating, and the worst thing about it: He knew it.

  “You’re right, Gray.” Keisha faced him, taking the full flare of fabric with her. “Your opinion is really the only one that matters. What do you think?”

  “Like I said—amazing.” He smiled with approval. “But let’s see the rest of our choices.”

  Delma’s stomach lurched, pulling into a knot. She shifted left and then right hoping to alleviate what might’ve been a simple case of flatulence. Stomach problems had been regular . . . ever since the engagement.

  Nikki stood up. “You’re not going to be needing me, then,” she said, taking a peek at her cell phone. “I have an appointment, and it’s clear across town. I better get a move on.” She blew a kiss in no certain direction and then tried to hug Delma. Tried is the operative word. Delma wasn’t feeling all the fake and phony love in the room. “One big happy family” felt like a noose around her neck.

  “An appointment, is that what we’re calling dates nowadays?” Delma asked. “More of what I’m out of touch with, I guess.”

  Nikki’s eyes shifted side to side. “A date? I didn’t say I had a date.”

  Having spent enough time looking for the truth in petulant defendants’ faces, Delma knew when someone was trying to shake her. “You spent the entire afternoon talking about the gorgeous new man who just happens to be a prince in his country—what was the name of it again?” Delma snapped her fingers a couple of times for recollection.

  “No . . . I wasn’t serious.” Nikki cut her eyes toward Gray, then back to her smartphone. “I have a hair appointment. Really, Morell Evans is like the Prince of Hair. If you’re late, he makes you very sorry.” She hurried, picking up her satchel and straightening her too-tight pencil skirt. A cool breeze was left by her swift exit.

  Delma was an expert observer. “She’s a sweet girl, way too sweet to be single.” Gray Hillman was uncomfortable with the subject. His practiced, unfazed expression only confirmed her suspicion. Those two were the ones with history and, Delma would bet, a few stories to tell.

  Keisha spoke, but kept her eyes on herself in the mirror. “I don’t know what that was about. You’re right, Mom. She was giggling in the phone like a schoolgirl. When I asked her who she was talking about, she said her prince—literally—and went on to tell me how they met and his mega-millions’ worth from an oil-rich part of Africa.”

  “I heard the exact same thing.” All the while, Delma kept a peripheral watch on Gray. He seemed to find the wall more interesting than the conversation. “Wonder why she’s changed her story. What do you think, Gray?”

  “The only thing I care about is the precious minutes wasted discussing my assistant’s love life. Time is always money, my love.” He approached Keisha and kissed her bare shoulder. “And though you are priceless, I really have to get back to the office.”

  “I thought you wanted to see my choices,” Keisha protested, bustling the full skirt of the gown. “Now I don’t know which dress to choose. I’m going to be worried that you won’t like it more than this one.”

  “Then the choice is made, isn’t it?” He brushed against her ear. Their reflection in the mirror was wedding-portrait ready.

  Delma’s stomach lurched and bubbled. “I’m . . . going to the restroom.” She took a step and realized her water-swollen feet hurt. In fact, her head, eyes, neck, shoulders—hell, every part of her body—wilted with fatigue and exhaustion. Pretending was a lot of work. Pretending to be happy when she was not. Hudson had begged her last night to just come out with it, tell the universe how she felt and be free. Not a chance. She’d even drawn a mock line across her lips to vow her silence.

  “Bathroom,” Delma squeaked out before moving toward the center of the bridal salon. “Bathroom,” she said this time to the consultant sitting at the round glass table.

  She eyed Delma over her spectacles. “Oh, yes, past the back wall, through the center of the salon.”

  Delma looked up where Keisha and Gray were still huddled. She’d have to pass them to get to the restroom. “Please, this big ole place only has one bathroom? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Arlene raised an eyebrow, curious but not swayed. “The stress of weddings can do that to you. Bathroom.” She pointed.

  Delma waddled carefully, keeping her head down.

  “Mother, are you all right?”

  “Fine, sweetie.”

  The walls were thin as paper. Delma could hear Gray’s voice and then Keisha’s soft agreeing laughter. His influence over her daughter was toxic, as if Keisha had lost all the good sense Delma planted in the child. What had happened to her independent, no-nonsense daughter? Led around by the pinkie by this man, like she’d swallowed silly pills.

  She should speak, as Hudson advised. Say her piece and then go on and let the chips fall where they may. Say what? Delma had to ask herself—exactly what was it she wanted to point out? The fact her daughter had fallen in love with a real man who wasn’t afraid to make decisions and take the lead. The fact Gray Hillman had too much testosterone. Too much take. Not enough give. The type unwilling to bend. “His way or no way” usually ended in the wife being beaten down and squashed to fit neatly into his box of wishes.

  Delma flushed, washed up, and situated herself. She leaned in to the mirror and observed the redness in her eyes from lack of sleep. The deep lines curved around her mouth. She was tired. Even having taken a month off from work to help organize the wedding hadn’t helped. Hudson had convinced her it’d be like a vacation, a much-needed vacation. More like a perpetual nightmare. Morning to dusk, it was all about Gray Hillman.

  “Mother, you all right?” The knock was a surprise. Especially since she’d felt invisible. Surprised that Keisha had even noticed she was missing.

  “I’m fine, sweetie. Be right out.”

  When she opened the door, to her amazement the room was clear of Gray Hillman. She smiled to herself and wondered if she’d made him disappear with the will of her thoughts. And if she could do it here, could it work anywhere—say, on the day of their grand nuptials? Just a thought, wish, and a prayer—and poof, like smoke . . . he could disappear.

  Bad News Travels Fast

  Trevelle

  Airic and I sat together in silence, reading the morning paper. We had very little to say to each other besides the necessary good morning, hello, or good night. Still, I had a feeling it was going to be a good day. After all I’d been put through in the last twenty-four hours, I deserved something to go right.

  “More coffee, missus?” Marcella was already pouring before I could answer. “And for you, sir?” Airic put his hand out to defend his cup. He drank only one serving of coffee and didn’t like to readjust the milk and sugar once it was perfect. So of course, the hot coffee landed on his hand.

  “Damn it.” His gritted teeth were enough to make me smile.

  “Sorry.” Marcella rushed to get a towel.

  “Get him some ice,” I said, still perusing the paper. “That works to keep it from blistering.” I gave up on the newspaper and picked up the remote control to the built-in television. I flipped from one station to the other until I saw the caption. POPULAR TELEVANGELIST’S HUSBAND CAUGHT ON TAPE.

  “Oh my goodness.” I turned up the volume. “Oh my gosh, what are we going to do? My life is ruined!”

  He took the remote and turned it up even louder. His face flushed with anger.

  “The tape is definitely Airic Fisher wi
th a young woman named Chandra McKinney. The young lady was three days shy of her eighteenth birthday, according to the date stamp on the tape. Authorities are looking into filing statutory rape charges.”

  I covered my mouth in shock. This time true, paralyzing shock left me stammering, “What . . . what are they saying? Of course she was eighteen. I hired her—she filled out an application.”

  “She must’ve lied about her age,” Airic said woefully. “My God.” His face fell into his hands. “You’ve got to show them the application, where she lied.”

  This was not supposed to be happening. This was not the plan. I stood up and paced.

  Airic reached out for my hand. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how all of this has happened, how everything could’ve been so perfect one moment and then fall apart the next.”

  “If everything was so perfect, you wouldn’t have slept with her in the first place. This is your entire fault. Everything is your fault.”

  Marcella made a point of letting the dishes clang in the dishwasher rack when she closed it to remind us she was still in the room. Her eyes darted in our direction. “You need anything else, missus?”

  “No, we’re fine.”

  She left quickly, not wanting to hear the rest of our heated argument. I faced Airic directly. “This changes everything. We can’t reconcile under this type of scrutiny. I have a million-dollar empire to think of. If I’m seen as a wife who would stick by a man who likes young girls, I’ll be ruined like that.” I snapped my finger. “You know I love you. You know I do, but this changes everything. You’re going to have to move out, just until this blows over. Then we can start over.”

  Airic calmly walked over and poured his coffee down the sink. As he was walking past, he said one last thing: “I’m glad it’s over. None of this is worth it. There won’t be a new beginning, because I’m sick of you.”

  For some reason, it hurt me to the core. I reached out to touch his shoulder, and he jerked away.

  “I beg your pardon. How are you going to act? You’re the one who slept with an underage girl. Am I the one who sent that disc to the news media?”

  “Who knows? Maybe you did. I’ve seen you do worse things. I know who you really are underneath your white angel robe. I know you’re a lying, manipulating control freak who can’t stand when things don’t go your way.”

  With that, I reached for the butter knife that sat on the kitchen table. Airic twisted my wrist until it fell to the floor. When I tried to swing my fists, he put out his arm, knocking me off balance. My head hit the table. Pain sprang from the side of my face, and I cried out. Airic tried to help me up.

  “Stay away!”

  Marcella ran in to see Airic leaning over me. She went into protection mode. Her short arms came down with powerful blows. “No, stay away from Missus!”

  Airic pushed Marcella, trying to get away from the attack dog. She began cussing at him in Spanish. I stayed on the ground with my arms over my head. Airic made his escape. Marcella had surprising strength. “I call la policía.” She rushed off before I could stop her. As if I needed more drama than what I’d already created for myself.

  Within minutes, the security guard from downstairs, accompanied by two police officers, entered the penthouse.

  “Since when do you not knock before entering someone’s home?” I had a pack of frozen peas pressed against the side of my face. Every time I tried to rise up from the chaise, my head went into a dizzying spin. “Oh God.”

  “Call an ambulance,” one of the officers said to the security guard.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “She’s very dizzy,” Marcella added. “Maybe you need to go.”

  “Where’s your husband, ma’am?”

  “He’s in his room packing. We had a fight. It was an accident.”

  “Mister.” Marcella pointed at Airic’s bedroom door. “He hit her,” she said with conviction. “I see everything.”

  “Did he hit you?” the square-jaw officer with arms big enough to swing on asked gently. His hands rested on his belt, too close to his gun.

  “I would like for you all to leave. Please. Please, everything is fine. Really, we’ve settled everything. It was an accident.”

  Airic was rolling a small suitcase behind him with his overcoat in hand. He looked from the officers to me lying on the chaise like a damsel in distress. “Oh, what now? Telling more lies? She attacked me with a knife. I defended myself by pushing her away. That’s all.”

  “Sir, you want to put your hands behind your back.” The thick officer said this with pleasure, grateful for Airic’s arrogance.

  “Wait a minute. I just told you what happened.”

  “It was an accident. Please, don’t do this.” I must’ve sounded like the same old story officers always hear once they showed up for a domestic abuse call. Always crying it was an accident or he didn’t mean it or I fell. And I really had fallen, only with a little shove as he defended himself.

  I felt so guilty for all the trouble I’d caused in that moment, watching my husband being escorted off in handcuffs. Yes, he’d slept with my assistant. Yes, he’d threatened me—extortion, if you wanted to give it a proper name—but he didn’t deserve jail. It was a filthy place. I’d spent enough time ministering to inmates to know nothing good happened in those places. Murder, rape, or abuse of a child were the only real offenses that deserved that kind of treatment.

  Marcella followed the men to the door, then gratefully shut it and locked the bolt. She dusted her hands off and then said a small prayer in Spanish—either that or a curse.

  I knew immediately what I must do.

  She saw me trying to reach the phone on the glass coffee table. “No, no, you stay.” She handed me the phone.

  I held the phone to my chest and prayed for the room to stop spinning. I dialed. “Eddie, I have a situation. My husband, Airic Fisher, has been arrested. Please handle his bond. Make sure he doesn’t spend a night in jail.”

  I listened for only a moment and didn’t like what I was hearing. “No, not now. I don’t care what those tapes have to say. Right now, I’m just praying for a minute of peace.” I closed my eyes, and the swirling in my head quickened. I leaned over the side of the couch and threw up. That was the last straw for Marcella. The paramedics arrived quickly. I was carted off in a gurney with the sound of cameras clicking. I’d wanted attention. Sometimes you just have to be careful what you wish for.

  Knock, Knock—

  Who’s There?

  Venus

  Like clockwork, every other weekend Airic showed up, no matter how many dreams I’d had of his demise. No matter if I lied and said Mya had a birthday party to attend, Girl Scout meeting, or tummy-ache, he was ringing the bell by 6 P.M. Friday evening, exactly as the court order stated. I dreaded these visits. He would ring the doorbell while Trevelle sat in their white Jaguar, keeping watch in case the ex-rapper and crazy mama made any false moves. Although I had to admit, lately Trevelle had fallen down on her job. She’d been a no-show for the last few visits. I was beginning to think there was trouble in paradise. I wouldn’t be surprised. That they’d lasted two years was shocking.

  Mya and I sat in the living room, waiting for the doomsday bell to ring. She played on her toy piano, and I played with her hair. Correction, there wasn’t much playing involved. This was serious business, requiring much attention to detail. Every strand of hair required spritz, gel, and deep stroking. I didn’t dare send her alone with Airic in her natural state, for fear he or his wife would stop off and get her a kiddie perm while they were out. Perfect hair was a requirement for Trevelle—hers and everyone else’s if they were going to be in her presence. Needless to say, my unrelaxed hair made it hard for Trevelle to maintain more than a second or two of eye contact with me. In fact, on the days she was coming I made it a point to forget the conditioning gel altogether, giving my hair a large moon eclipse effect just to get under her skin.

  I didn’t want her mean-mugging my baby with
the same disdain she showed me. So for Mya’s sake, I kneaded, combed, and brushed her hair until a silky shine arose on each spiraled strand.

  Mya banged away on the colorful keys, drowning out the television. “Mommy, want to hear a song?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She pounded away.

  “Beautiful, sweetie. What’s the name of that song?”

  “It’s called, ‘Mya’s Happy.’ ”

  I leaned over and gave a soft nuzzle on the side of her face. “I’m happy, too.” All too true. I really couldn’t have been more thankful in spite of the losses of the past. Life had been on the upswing. When it all boiled down to what was left in the scalding pot of life, having my husband and daughter was my only real joy. I felt like the lucky one for a change.

  “Okay, your turn. I’ll make you a song.” Mya’s long four-and-a-half-year-old fingers covered every key as she commenced with a new creation.

  Not more than a few seconds later, she asked, “Did you like it?”

  I wish I could’ve answered, but I was too busy staring at the evening news on the television screen, my mouth gaped open. On the flat screen was Airic handcuffed, being placed into a police car like an episode of Cops. My hand fumbled for the remote. It slipped out of my grasp. The caption underneath read, TELEVANGELIST’S HUSBAND CHARGED WITH STATUTORY RAPE AND DOMESTIC BATTERY.

  “Mommy, did you like it?” She twisted around to face me.

  “Yes. I loved it, play it again, sweetie.” My hands were gummed with the banana hibiscus cream I’d used on Mya’s hair. This time I got both hands around the remote, but not soon enough.

  Mya stopped playing when she caught the image on the plasma screen. Of course, she recognized Mr. Entertainment. That’s what Jake and I called him because that’s all he was good for while we did the hard work, the real work. Late-night shifts, cleanup on aisle two after she’d been fed too much ice cream and cotton candy from their trips to amusement parks and movie theaters. Airic had never had to sit up all night monitoring a 102-degree fever, cough, or monsters under the bed.