The Vow

by Denene Millner

  Of course I had ulterior motives; despite the fact that we hadn’t spoken since the unfortunate club run-in with the blonde, Sean agreed (through Corey) to come by the house to celebrate his son’s birthday, along with his sister Jalene and his mom—so I knew I had to put my whole foot in it. And to do that properly, I needed to pick up a few last-minute accoutrements from Wal-Mart, which got me to thinking about what it would be like to walk down the aisle. It was the dress on the cover of Modern Bride that made me float over to the store’s magazine rack and run my fingers over the cover. By the time I made it to the checkout, I was halfway through the magazine, and had already imagined how I’d change that satin, floor-length, off-the-shoulder wrap dress the model was wearing to suit my taste. Maybe I’d switch up the color to ivory, for an old-world, antiqued feel, and rim the train with cowry shells instead of rhinestones to make it Afrocentric. By the time the attitudinal checkout chick finished tossing around the groceries of the customer in front of me and announced to the woman behind me that she was the last customer because it was “way past time for her break,” I’d worked out how much it should cost to reproduce the dress (about $500 if I let my mom sew it), what style shoes would look best with it (slingbacks, for sure), how my hair should be styled (textured afro, for the Afrocentric theme), and what color the bridal party should be wearing (bronze with ivory accents). I was still torn between whether we should exchange our vows by the beach at sunset or if we should keep it black and get married in a formal ceremony in the New Hope Baptist church in Compton.

  Hey, I’m a firm believer that positive thinking begets positive results, and if I just envisioned my wedding to Sean, it would happen. It wouldn’t hurt, either, to show him what he’s missing by being somewhere other than with me. If throwing my son a slamming birthday party can help facilitate that, then a slamming party it’s going to be. And Amaya wasn’t about to mess it up by mis-seasoning my food.

  “Why don’t you sit with your hands on the table, where I can see them?”

  “Why don’t you tell me why there’s a bridal book over there on the counter?” Amaya shoots back. “Or is Trista the only one in the room who’s going to get the blow-by-blow of your hot date with Daddy? Did he ask you to marry him yet?”

  I give Trista an “I know you didn’t tell that girl all my damn business” look.

  “I got a big mouth, don’t I?” she laughs, raising her hands in surrender. “Totally guilty.”

  “I want the dirty details. Let’s go,” Amaya says, rubbing her hands together.

  I turn back to my sink full of chicken parts and continue to shake Lawry’s Seasoning Salt over them. “Nothing really happened,” I say. “I think that Negro’s catching feelings or something, though.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Amaya says, jumping out of her chair to high-five me. She thought better of it when she saw grease and chicken fat on my hands. “Um, I’m going to take a rain check on the high five. But, girl, you know you got to give the kid some details. You whipped it on him good, huh?”

  “I went out with him a few times, but I insisted he take me to places without VIP rooms and without all his little men,” I say. “When he’s around the circus, he likes standing center ring and performing for anyone who’ll watch.”

  “That’s what stars do, Viv,” Amaya says matter-of-factly.

  “But I don’t like Daddy the rapper. I like Jerome Houston the man, who happens to be quite sweet, much smarter than his public persona would have you believe, and not at all the thug lover you see in all those videos running up and down the BET schedule.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah—get to the juicy part,” Amaya rushes. “Did you whip it on him like a porn star or what?”

  “Amaya!” Trista says, shushing her. “Lil’ man might hear you!”

  “My bad,” she whispers, giggling. “But seriously, did you put some of those tricks you learned in the Blow and Get Low class to good use?”

  I suck my teeth. “Amaya—how would it look, me giving a blow job to a man I have no intention of marrying? Unlike some of us in the room, I’m saving my bag of tricks for the person who’ll accompany me down the aisle.”

  “But you just said you’re whipping it on ol’ Daddy-o,” she shoots back.

  “Not on purpose,” I say. “I like him, but I’ve only got eyes for my baby daddy.”

  “And your baby daddy is coming to the party today, right?” Trista asks.

  “That’s what he told Corey,” I say.

  “Ooh, one big happy family!” Trista says dryly.

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” I said, ignoring her. “So everything has to be perfect.”

  “Tell me this,” Amaya says, calling out from the next room, where she’s folding napkins. “How much did your little interlude with Daddy have to do with Sean’s renewed interest in his baby’s mama?”

  “Amaya! Keep it down before my godson hears you!” Trista says.

  Amaya tips back to the doorway and sticks her head into the kitchen. “Hey, he’s my godson, too. But for real, what’s up with that?”

  “You know what? It hasn’t come up. Sean and I never talked about it; in fact, the only communication we’ve had with one another has been through our answering machines, because we keep missing each other,” I say. “I was sure he was going to call and say something about it, but he didn’t.”

  “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t on his mind,” Amaya says.

  “Well, I’m sure that it probably was, which means that your plan worked, right?”

  “Yup, it sure did. Who knows how to play a player?” Amaya asks, before turning on her heels and heading back into the dining room to resume her napkin duties.

  “Well tell me, playa playa,” I say, as I toss the chicken into my Hefty bag full of flour and then my frying pan of hot cooking oil. “How exactly do I handle Daddy? Because that boy’s acting like he’s in love or something.”

  “In love?” Trista asks incredulous. “Love would require a bit of sensitivity and emotion. I figured he was pouring all that into his latest booty single.”

  “Ha ha,” I say, mocking Trista. “He’s definitely sensitive and emotional. In fact, he was quite upset that I couldn’t make it to his video shoot today in San Francisco. I don’t know, you guys—he’s not the man the image stacks him up to be. He calls when he says he’s going to call, and he hasn’t so much as tried to kiss me, even though we’ve actually gone out a few times. If he’d be just a little bit more sincere and drop the bad-boy thug thing, he might actually be able to revive that career of his.”

  “Never mind the sensitive-thug crap—you turned down a chance to be down in a Daddy video?” Amaya calls from the dining room.

  “Um, I’m throwing a birthday party for my son,” I deadpan.

  “And her baby daddy is coming over—not that that’s any improvement over a Daddy video,” Trista says sarcastically. “Ms. Thing’s trying to be Martha Stewart up in here, not the lead video ho.”

  “Hey,” I shoot back at Trista, “don’t be hating on Sean, and don’t be throwing negative energy on my Vow,” I say. “As hard as it may be for you to do it, think only positive things about me and Sean, okay?”

  “I’m just saying—you’re a beautiful woman, and I’m not quite sure why you’re going to waste the ten months you’ve got to find a man on a man who hasn’t given anyone reason to believe he’s worthy,” she says. “I’m just looking out for you.”

  “Trista, save the drama for your mama and worry about getting your own man,” I say quietly. “I’m not trying to go through this with you today.”

  “Right, right, true,” says Amaya, “but the next time you get invited to a video shoot, you need to holla at your girl.”

  “I’ll be more than happy to let you have him for yourself. I’ve got to focus my attention on what’s real, and the only thing that makes sense for me right now is Sean and Vivian and Corey together again,” I said. “Daddy’s going to have to get his brown sugar from s
omewhere else. This deep throat is taken.”

  “I know that’s right!” Amaya laughed.

  MY MOTHER ARRIVED first—came with her homemade biscuits, a yellow-bellied watermelon, three elaborately wrapped presents for her grandson, and a bunch of questions about why that damn bridal magazine was on the counter. I forgot to move it, so it served me right that I’d have to explain that, no, I wasn’t getting married and, no, Sean and I hadn’t gotten back together. I’d brought it on myself but I was still in no mood to hear her lecture about how I was going to get my heart broken chasing after a man who didn’t have the sense of a billy goat to stop running from what was tangible and real: the ready-made family he had in me and his son. “I honestly don’t understand why you don’t just get you somebody who’s going to appreciate all the love you and my grandbaby have to offer,” she’d say whenever she sensed I was fretting over Sean, which was often. “You can’t make a man love you, but you can walk away and find you a new man who’s willing.”

  She was right, but mostly the venom she reserved for Sean came from two things: for one, he got her only child, the first in the family to attend college, knocked up in her senior year, just as she was preparing to be somebody; and, for two, his mother acted like Mamie Evans’ daughter was some ghetto bitch who purposely got pregnant to trap Lily Jordan’s well-to-do-and-going-places son. If there were two things my mother couldn’t stand was the idea that her daughter wouldn’t live a better life than she, and that Sean’s mom, who didn’t have two nickels to rub together until her son became a prosperous doctor, dismissed her child as nothing more than a lazy ’hood rat looking for a meal ticket. When the two of them were in one room, it was always hotter than the Fourth of July. I’d started preparing myself for the show the moment Sean said he and his mother were coming to the party.

  “So,” my mom says, picking up my platter of fried chicken and placing it gingerly on the dining room table between her basket of biscuits and a bowl of cucumber and tomato salad, “Sean and you getting cozy enough for you to be buying bridal magazines?”

  I try to sound as measured and even-toned as I possibly can. “We’re quietly working some things through and taking our time to figure out where we go from here,” I say simply. I toss a “save me” look in Amaya and Trista’s direction, but I see through the kitchen window over the sink that they’ve both ducked out back and left their girl hanging.

  “Well, where else is there to go? You done had his baby, and that obviously didn’t mean anything to him. What else you going to put yourself through to get him to realize where his butt shoulda been all along?” Just then the doorbell rings. Saved.

  “I’ll get it,” I shout as I practically sprint for the front door. What I find on my front stoop leaves me dizzy.

  Sean clears his throat. His mother stands there with her lips pursed, like she smells something foul. His sister, Jalene, waves a weak hello. I don’t really register the words coming from anyone’s mouth—I just remember the blonde extending her hand as if she actually expected me to shake it, and Trista stepping in to help me as she invited my “guests” in. My mother, unaware of the drama that is unfolding at my entryway, but sensing by the look on my face that something is wrong, is all loud with her inquisition. “Vivian? What ails you, girl?” she calls out as I rush past her. Amaya, having peeked around the corner to see what all the fuss is about, widens her eyes, takes one look at Trista, another at me, and lets it rip: “Oh, somebody please tell me he didn’t bring blondie to the party!”

  “Amaya! Shh!” Trista mouths, pushing her finger to her lips.

  “He wrong for that,” she stage-whispers, shaking her head. “Dead wrong.”

  I walk calmly over to the sink, not quite sure what to do as I process what’s unfolding in my foyer and brace for the showdown that’s sure to come. I turn on the water in the kitchen sink and squirt a few drops of dishwashing liquid into my hands. I start rubbing—first my palms, then my fingers. But I can’t really feel them. Tears well in my eyes. I can’t see. My mother’s voice is what I hear first. “Well, ain’t this nothing?” she says, disgust ringing her words as the foursome settle in the kitchen. There’s silence. I can’t see her face, but I know her eyes are shifting back and forth between Sean, the white girl, Jalene, and their mother. “And she got the nerve to treat us like garbage when her own son drags trash into other people’s houses.”

  “Now, hold on a minute, Mamie Evans,” Lily says tightly. “There’s no need to be disrespectful.”

  “No, honey,” my mother says, shutting her down with a quickness. “What there’s no need for is your son bringing strange women to my daughter’s home, my grandbaby’s party—around family. This here is a private affair for Corey, not a high school house party for your son and his little friends.”

  “Who says she’s not family?” Lily shoots back.

  “Well, she damn for sure ain’t no kin to me,” my mother says through her teeth.

  Amaya lets out a snort, but quickly covers her mouth. Trista, ever the politician, steps between the two women and tries to settle things down. Jalene tries to help, too.

  “How about we all go into the dining room, have a cool drink and remember what we’re all here for,” Trista says.

  “Ain’t but four people in this house confused, and they just walked in the door,” my mother says, nodding toward the foursome. The doorbell rings. More guests are arriving. Just what I need—a pack of seven-year-olds walking into the middle of the Evans-Jordan family feud. The tension is palpable; my son’s voice shatters the silence.

  “Mommy! Mommy! Daddy’s here!”

  For the first time since I opened my door for him, I look Sean in the eyes. He stares right back at me; defiance and disgust settle around his brows. I swear, if I could reach into my good knife drawer and grab my biggest Cutco stainless steel and stab the shit out of him—and get away with it?… He’d be in a bloody heap in the middle of my kitchen by now. The blonde and his mama, too. But I’ve no more time to consider such folly; my child is calling my name.

  “I know, sweetie, he’s in here,” I say, trying to control the quiver in my voice, my eyes still locked with Sean’s.

  “No, Daddy’s here, and he brought me a car!” he says, running out the front door.

  Now my brows are wrinkled. This Negro bought my child a car? What the hell? I push past Sean (making sure to brush his shoulder hard with mine) and make my way to the foyer, my eyes searching for Corey. “Baby, what are you…”

  For the second time in a matter of minutes, what I see on my front stoop leaves me speechless. There he is, Daddy the rapper, slapping my child five and grinning from ear to ear. Just beyond the porch, sitting on the brick overlay leading to the front walk, is a shiny-yellow child-sized Corvette convertible. C-O-R-E-Y is painted on the door; music is blasting from what appears to be a radio in the dash.

  “Yeah, little man. Happy birthday,” Daddy says. “It’s good to be seven, huh?”

  “It sure is,” Corey says, fingering the steering wheel.

  “You got your license?” Daddy asks.

  “No!” Corey giggles. “I’m too little to have a license!”

  “Maybe I can pull some strings down at the DMV. In the meantime, check with your moms to see if you can take it for a spin, all right, little man?”

  “Okay,” Corey says before he turns to me. “Can I get in, Mom? Pretty please?”

  I force a smile, and toss a look at Daddy before I move in to give him a hug and a proper greeting. “I thought you were in San Francisco today.”

  “My video shoot got postponed—something about the director not having the right permits to shoot on the bridge or some madness. We postponed it until next week,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind me crashing the party.”

  I don’t say anything, just stare for a minute.

  “Um, can I come in?” he says, half-joking.

  “Oh, no, no—it’s okay, come on in,” I say, taking one last look at Corey and his fr
iends crowding around the Corvette before turning around to open the door. Sean is taking it all in—standing in my way. I shoot him the evil eye and push past him. “Daddy? Sean. Sean? Daddy.” Then I turn my attentions back to my thug love. “You hungry?” I ask.

  “It smells good up in here—is that fried chicken?” he says.

  “Sure is,” I smile. “Been slaving over the stove all morning for my baby.”

  “Beauty, brains, and a good cook, too? Somebody better snatch you up quick,” he says, walking into the kitchen to a waiting audience.

  Amaya speaks first. “Well, if it isn’t Young Daddy MC,” she says, extending her hand for a shake. “Viv has told us so much about you. Welcome. I’m Amaya.”

  “Hey, Amaya, and don’t hold anything Viv told you against me, okay?”

  “Not a problem,” Amaya says. “This is Trista, Viv’s mom, Miss Mamie, Jalene, and some other guests of Corey’s,” she says, dismissing Lily and the blonde. By now, Sean is in the kitchen, too. He’s seething.

  “We’re going to go out back,” he says.

  “Bye,” I say without hesitating.

  “Yeah, bye,” Amaya says just as quickly.

  Lily sucks her teeth and turns on her heel. Sean shoots a look at the blonde and signals her with his chin to head for the door. Daddy watches them walk out, still oblivious to the showdown at the Evans corral. “All right, man, I’ll holla at you later,” he says to Sean. Sean doesn’t say anything back—just pushes right past him.

  “Girl,” my mother says. “You got something on your hands right there.”

  Jalene grabs my arm. “Can I speak to you for a minute?” she asks.

  “Jay, I have to get the food on the table and get the games together,” I say, sure that she was only going to try to make excuses for her brother bringing the white woman to the house. Jalene, with whom I’d become fast friends while I was dating her brother in college, has a kind of power over me; no matter what Sean and I were going through, she’d willingly jeopardize her friendship with me, and her kinship to her brother, to try to get us to reach some understanding. Usually it helped. But today I am in no mood to have her try to explain why I shouldn’t be mad about the white girl.