“If you ask me it’s that dang ol’ Irish Moss cologne you bought him for Christmas. Ever since he first smelled it, he’s been asking me to dab it on him every time he leaves the house. It’s crazy!”
“Ha! I told you that scent was the truth. That mess will make a grown woman catfight in an alley over the bum wearing it,” I boast.
“All I know is your little wannabe Casanova will only be wearing Auntie Amaya’s present on very special occasions from now on.”
“I hear ya, sister. But remember, don’t hate the player, hate the game,” I remind her as I slowly stand up and stretch my back.
“Trust me, ain’t no game going down as long as I rule 2201 High Ridge Road.”
“I know that’s correct.” I cosign on her declaration of parental control. “Shoot, I wonder if Damon was wearing some on the night of Elise’s engagement party…”
“Ouch, that’s cold. You wrong for that one, Amaya.”
“What?” I question sheepishly.
“Don’t you ‘what’ me,” Viv chides playfully.
“I’m just saying. There had to be a really good reason for Trista to cut up like that, is all,” I persist.
“Amaya, if you don’t stop!”
“Okay, okay,” I giggle. “I’m going straight to hell in a handbasket. I know.”
“You, my dear, are a trifling mess and need Jesus in your life forreal, forreal. But seriously, I was calling to see if you’d checked your email recently. Your girl sent us some homework and wanted to know if we were free for dinner tomorrow night at our spot. It’s about time we catch up and trade war stories…”
“Ugh, Trista stays trying to give somebody some damn instructions,” I grumble as I amble over to my Dell laptop.
“Stop complaining and check your email,” she instructs.
“All right, all right, I’ll do it now,” I concede.
“By the way, why didn’t I see you at the Bruckheimer premiere last Wednesday? I worked the red carpet, and Trista was there with her new boy Jared Greenway. Shoot, seemed like all of Hollywood was there except you and your weirdo agent…”
“Girl, if you don’t leave Clarence alone! Actually, we discussed attending but decided that it wasn’t an event that would really help my visibility, so we opted out and had dinner with a couple of indie producers who submitted a script for me to review.” I lie, hoping that Inspector Gadget will accept my answer and not force me to admit that once again I hadn’t been in the loop to be invited to a major premiere.
“I hear ya,” she answers suddenly distracted. “So what’s up for today? Wait, let me guess, you’re going to get yet another facial, or maybe have your entire body waxed?”
“First of all, don’t hate on my flawless skin. Secondly, I don’t do wax—that’s so five years ago. It’s all about permanent removal now. Electrolysis. Third, my schedule is much more hectic than you think.”
“Poor thing, I can only imagine how you find the time to breathe between all the spa treatments, Kabala for Dummies courses at the temple, workout sessions with your fine-ass trainer…”
“Phillip’s gay, Vivian.”
“He’s a man.”
“Give me a break. I’m lunching with Benita at the Four Seasons this afternoon.”
“Aww, well, why didn’t you say so? I love your mom! She is so great. How sweet are your little monthly mother-daughter lunches? You two are so cute together…”
Humph, if she’s so damn cute, then please feel free to take her yourself, I immediately think. As far as I can see, there is nothing even remotely cute about my mother. In fact, ruthless, calculating, demanding, gold-digging bitch are adjectives far more likely to come to my mind when I think about Benita.
“I wish my mother was as cool as your mom,” Vivian sighs.
“Whatever—now I see how you do! Benita gets preferential treatment over Phillip,” I joke. “So much for the fair and unbiased reporter in you, huh?”
“Um, how did you put it? ‘Phillip. Is. Gay.’ He can’t do shit for either of us.”
“Actually, I beg to differ. Between my thighs is a much better place to be now that Phillip is a part of my life. And if you would just sign your lazy butt up, he’ll gladly do wonders for you…”
“Ugh, Amaya. You know the last thing I want to hear from you is about the condition of my thighs, thank you very much,” says Viv, quickly cutting short all conversation about exercise.
“Dang, don’t be so sensitive, Viv. You know I love your shape. But the reality is that all the big booty that you could get away with down in the dirty South is just not cutting it here in LaLa-land,” I insist in what has become a recurring riff between us since she moved to Los Angeles.
“Anyhoo,” she responds, refusing to acknowledge my last remark, “tell your mama I send my love.”
“The only thing I’m going to tell her is that you made me late for lunch if you don’t let me get off this phone,” I retort as I glance at the clock.
“Oh no, don’t you blame me for your inability to motivate! Stop worrying about the role and get cracking. Don’t forget to check your email, and I will talk to you later.”
“Hugs and kisses, hot mama,” I answer lovingly as I hang up the phone.
I take a deep cleansing breath and exhale; talking to Vivian can be exhausting. Regardless, she’s right. I don’t have anything to be concerned about. That Soular Son role is in the bag. As I start to log onto my computer, my Sidekick vibrates in its cradle. Without even bothering to look I already know who the caller is—Keith. Since getting stood up in Atlanta, I have refused to answer any of his calls or return his insistent 911 pages. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve had just about enough of Keith and his worthless words; it’s time to put his sorry ass on time out. I’ve decided to let my silence speak volumes. And if the daily bouquets of fresh lilacs, lilies, and yellow roses, not to mention the jewelry—so far I’ve received a pair of black pearl earrings, emerald chandelier earrings, a matching emerald ring, a pair of diamond hoops, and a platinum charm bracelet with our initials together on a charm—are any indication, Keith is getting my message loud and clear: Playtime is over.
AS THE VALET at the Four Seasons opens the door to the silver E-series Mercedes Benz Keith bought me for our last so-called anniversary, I run a quick last-minute appearance check. Skin glowing, check. Eyebrows arched to perfection, check. Makeup flawless, check. Although it seems on the outside that everything is in place, I can’t help but feel sick to my stomach. Lunch with Benita is a mandatory monthly torture that I dread like a pimple on my back. To make matters worse, I’m twenty minutes late. Now, in addition to her usual rants about my inability to find “a nice, wealthy man to take care of me,” I’m going to have to hear about my tardiness. Just great.
It’s not that my mother doesn’t mean well. After all, she is the main reason I’m so driven to succeed. When she became pregnant at the age of fifteen and my father refused to claim me, she made a conscious decision never to allow herself to be screwed over by a man again. To say my mother is bitter is an understatement. But I can’t knock her hustle, because so far she’s managed to keep that promise. I can still remember every single one of her lectures about the shortcomings of the opposite sex…
“Men are only capable of accomplishing one thing on their own, Amaya. You know what that is? Well, let me tell you what that is. Making a baby. That’s right. Shooting out semen is about the only thing that men can handle on their own—and, quiet as it’s kept, they’re barely able to do that right. For everything else, it takes a woman to lead them around by the nose. So if you’re going to spend your entire life raising someone else’s grown-ass child, he better have the money to make you comfortable. Do you hear me? You don’t need to be with any man that can’t take care of you as much as you’re going to have to take care of him. Don’t believe that love bullshit, it’s for broke motherfuckers. You are gorgeous and you should never have to work or want beyond what your man brings home. So you better get
you a very wealthy man. And if you’re really lucky you’ll land yourself two. The more the merrier, dammit, ’cause ain’t no man ever going to be faithful. Fuck feelings, look out for yourself.”
Over the course of the years, her daily diatribes stuck with me. As I watched her go from wealthy man to wealthier man, from Section 8 to suburbia, I started to understand the method to her madness. Eventually, instead of trying to block out her rantings, I committed them to memory and depended on them as much as my Bible.
As I was graduating from UC and preparing to permanently move out to Los Angeles, my mother was in the process of finalizing her third divorce. Caught up in her immediate need to distance herself from everything that reminded her of her latest “no-good, tired-ass, lame-game but extremely rich ex,” she decided to follow me out to L.A. for a fresh start. Upon arrival on the West Coast, she dyed her hair strawberry blond, got a breast lift and tummy tuck, and requested never to be called “mother” again. None of which bothers me quite as much as the newfound free time that Benita has on her hands. Since work is a non-issue (her alimony payments keep her covered), Benita has now taken up managing my social life as a hobby. Many a night I’ll receive the midnight call that consists of her check on the status of my love life and her not-so-gentle reminder that with every day, more of my eggs are dying. As if I don’t know. Yet all of the phone calls combined are relatively painless compared to this mandatory monthly assessment—or, as she has affectionately dubbed it, our mother-daughter tea. It’s at these face-to-face meetings that, without fail, Benita will break me down both mentally and physically under the guise of ensuring that I am on the right track to my “Mrs.” title. However, with each passing lunch, it becomes increasingly clear that regardless of what I accomplish, nothing will ever satisfy her.
I zip up my bag, jump out of the car, and snatch the parking ticket from the valet. Enough procrastinating—it’s time to meet monster dearest. As I rush into the leaf-covered entrance of the hotel, I run smack into a very chiseled set of abs.
“Whoa, whoa, take it easy, ma. The hotel ain’t goin’ nowhere,” laughs a strangely familiar voice.
I step back and remove my dark tinted Christian Dior sunglasses so that I can take a better look at the owner of this rock-hard midsection and find myself locking eyes with the hot new rookie and starting center for the Los Angeles Stingers, Troy Bennett.
“Oh my, please excuse me. I certainly didn’t mean to hurt you,” I reply coyly, taking in his flawless butterscotch complexion and soft curly hair.
“Aww, it ain’t nothing, pretty girl,” he quickly replies as his eyes appreciatively travel up and down my body and get stuck somewhere between my breasts. “In fact, I should probably be thanking you for providing a reason for us to speak.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, suddenly very glad that I decided to wear my lowcut mango Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he enthusiastically replies with a sly grin on his adorable face. “So, Speedy Gonzales, my name is Troy. And yours?”
“Amaya,” I answer and slowly run my fingers through my hair. In the blink of an eye, I forget all about my waiting mother and go full throttle into seductress mode. This man is simply too fine for his own good in his white Brooks Brothers oxford shirt, khaki slacks, and Todd’s driving moccasins. I easily envision wrapping myself around him like a chocolate-covered pretzel.
“Amaya, huh? That’s a beautiful name. It fits the owner perfectly,” he says softly as he reaches out and pushes back a stray hair from my face. “Have we met before? You look so familiar…”
“Why, thank you, Troy,” I respond without breaking our gaze. “Perhaps you’ve seen some of my work, because you would remember if we’d already met.”
“That’s it! You’re that Dead Straight hair chick! I see you in the hair commercials all the time. And weren’t you in that movie Bad Chicks or something?”
“You mean Bad Girlz,” I correct him, pleased he recognized me. And if he saw that bullshit, then he has to remember my prison shower scene. He’s hooked.
Just then the valet pulls a shiny black Porsche Cayenne up to the entrance, hops out, and looks over toward Troy.
“Well, Amaya,” he starts slowly, “since you bumped into me, it seems only right that you make it up to me by accompanying me to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Well, if it’ll make us fair and square…”
“Well, let’s just say it’ll be a nice first step toward restitution,” Troy smirks.
“And just so you know, I’m all about providing full restitution for my wrongs,” I toss back.
“I like that. Here’s my number,” he says as he hands me a business card and walks toward the truck. Before he gets into the driver’s side, he stops and says, “I look forward to tomorrow.”
“As do I,” I reply without a moment’s hesitation, and pivot on my gold sandals. As I slowly walk into the lobby of the hotel (to give Troy a lasting and ample view) I remember Trista and Vivian’s request for dinner tomorrow night at Koi. Shoot, Trista’s going to trip, because I already emailed her my confirmation. Oh well, they’ll simply have to understand. I’m already in the heat of my battle.
Still thinking about how to diplomatically back out of my dinner plans with the girls to get with Troy, I hear my mother call out, “Amaya you’re late! I was just about to leave you.”
“I’m so sorry, Mom…” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Didn’t I tell you about calling me that? My name is Benita. I’ve raised my child, I ain’t nobody’s mama no more.”
“My bad, Benita.”
“‘Your bad’? Why must you insist on speaking like that? Just because you came from the ghetto doesn’t mean you still have to act like it,” she snips as she examines her freshly done manicure in her signature Ballet Slippers color.
As I stare at her chiseled caramel-colored face, perfectly dyed hair, Tahitian pearl set, and Chanel tweed suit, I am reminded again of what a stunning woman my mother is and just how far she’s come from our days of dressing like sisters, instead of mother and daughter, in Miami’s Magnolia Keys projects. “You’re right, Benita,” I apologize and settle back into the plush banquette, “we’ve both come a very long way.”
“Well, I don’t know about the both part, but that’s neither here nor there…”
I shake my head and signal the waiter. Once we place orders for our cantaloupe soups and goat cheese and arugula salads, she gets right down to business.
“So how are things?” she inquires with a tight smile.
“One day at a time. Still waiting to hear back about that Soular Son film,” I answer cautiously.
“Hmmm. Well, I certainly hope you didn’t go in there looking like you do today,” she responds. “I can see your roots from a mile away, and what’s going on with your skin? Is that a pimple on your cheek?”
“No, Benita,” I sigh. “Jean-Claude straightened my hair the day before the audition, and you can trust that my face was flawless.”
“Well, good. At least we know you got one thing from me…”
“Oh, and just what might that one thing be?”
“Don’t get smart, Amaya,” she answers as she locks her almond-shaped eyes on mine in the deadly stare-down that I never win.
I avert my gaze to my own neatly manicured hands and nervously play with the coral and twenty-four-karat rose-gold bracelet dangling from my wrist.
“That’s what I thought,” she gloats. “Like I was saying, at least we know you got my good skin out of the deal, since you damn sure got your father’s black-ass complexion.”
Although it isn’t the first time I’ve received an unwarranted lash about my undeniable resemblance to my father, it hurts nonetheless. “Benita, you should really spend less time worrying about my skin and more time applying sun block,” I coolly reply. “I hear skin cancer is killing you old high-yella ladies in droves nowadays.”
“And who, may I ask, are you calling old?” she questions,
glaring across the table.
“If the shoe fits…”
At that exact moment, our waiter arrives with our appetizers and we retract our talons, put our public smiles back into place, and thank the man. “Anyway, enough about that acting nonsense,” Benita starts after a couple sips of her Pellegrino and a minor adjustment of the cuffs on her jacket. “How was Elise’s wedding? Did you and Keith have a good time?”
One night my mother called after I’d had a particularly heated argument with Keith and, in a fit of absolute despair, I spilled the beans about our clandestine relationship. To my surprise, instead of berating me for my scandalous behavior, Benita totally supported me. In fact, she encouraged me to keep seeing him. As she so eloquently put it— “You don’t know Keith’s wife or her kids, so you don’t owe her anything. There’s a reason that Keith comes to you, and only time will tell what God has in store for the two of you.” As much as I’d like to believe that my mother simply had a moment of pure unadulterated love and caring for her only child’s happiness, I’m much more inclined to believe that her recently seeing Keith’s picture on the cover of Black Enterprise had more to do with her unusual empathy for my situation.
Either way, since that fateful night, she’s been the third party in our relationship. In truth, she’s probably done more to talk me off the ledge each time I threaten to leave than he has. Benita is Keith’s one-woman cheerleading squad. Which is all good and fine except, last time I checked, she was my damn mother.
“The wedding was fabulous. I looked stunning, as did Elise,” I reply. “But as usual, at the last minute Keith stood me up.”
“Stop being dramatic. Did he call you before the wedding started? You have not been stood up if he calls and informs you ahead of time.”
“Fifteen minutes before he’s supposed to arrive?” I ask incredulously. Even a cold-hearted woman like herself had to agree that this was not entirely acceptable.
“You know he’s a busy man, Amaya. Things come up and he has to handle them. What are you going to do when the two of you are married and he has to go out of town at the last minute? Are you going to act up and be ungrateful then?”
The Vow Page 8