“You really like what about him? The money he’s gonna make? I know your kind. I can smell you. Just looking to cash in.”
“I don’t need to cash in on anything,” I said defensively. “I have—”
Jamison cut me off with his stare.
“Well then, what can you offer him?” she asked. “Can you cook? Clean? What can you do besides spend other people’s money?”
The room became even more quiet. Even the babies seemed to stop cooing and crying. The men fixing the car in the driveway poked their heads in the windows.
“Mama, this isn’t the time or place for this,” Jamison said.
“No, let her answer,” someone said. “Dottie is right.”
“What can you offer?” his mother asked again.
“Well, I can offer a lot. I’m going to be a doctor too . . . and then I’ll learn how to cook and clean and I’ll . . .” I couldn’t even believe what I was saying. I wasn’t about to cook and clean for anyone. That was where I drew the line in the sand. But it sounded good. So I thought.
“Don’t give me that shit about no med school. He done already told me you didn’t get accepted to none of those med schools you applied to, so you can stop lying to me.”
I looked at Jamison hard. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the letters.
“Stop putting on airs and shit,” she went on after reloading by having a sip of her beer. “You ain’t got nowhere to go and you thinking you about to cash in on my baby.... But it ain’t gonna happen. My Jamison is going to Cornell Medical School, where he done already been accepted, and leaving your ass right here in Atlanta. I promise you that.”
Jamison jumped up from his seat and reached for me.
“Mama, you know I’m not going to disrespect you,” he said, “so I’m just going to leave. You didn’t have to do this.”
I didn’t even wait for Jamison. I was in tears. I ran out of the house and walked right past the car, toward nowhere, I guess. I’ve seen and heard of humiliation, but never once in my life had it come at my expense.
“Where are you going?” Jamison called.
I stopped in my tracks but kept my back to him. While I was angry, both Jamison and I knew I wouldn’t get far. I’d never been on public transportation and I was wearing two-inch heels.
“I want to go home,” I said with my back still to him.
“Baby, I’m sorry. I had no idea she’d act like this,” he said. “I’ve brought girls home before and she was always . . . agreeable.”
“I feel like crap,” I said with my voice cracking. “She made me feel like crap.” I could feel Jamison close behind me.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why did you have to tell her?” I asked. “About my letters? That was private.” I turned to see that he was closer than I thought.
“I was confused. I didn’t know how to comfort you, and I asked her for advice. I don’t even know why she brought it up.”
“I know why . . . she obviously doesn’t like me. She thinks I’m a spoiled little rich girl.”
Jamison was quiet.
“Is that what you think, too?” I asked, stepping away from him. “That I’m spoiled . . .”
“Well, there are some things about you that I . . . that I’m not used to.” His face scrunched up so tight, I could tell he was nervous.
“Are you kidding me? Not used to?”
“You’ve never worked,” he said, “and you have a brand-new car, you dry clean all of your clothes . . . and you can’t cook . . . anything.”
“How is that different? Everyone I know is like that. How is it so different? It’s just me . . . and if that’s not enough for you then . . .” I started crying again. I knew my points were empty. I was suddenly feeling embarrassed about the things I owned, ashamed for the things I couldn’t do.
“Baby,” Jamison said, cupping my face with his hands, “you are all I need, you’re all I want, but we’re different. You know that.”
“But how can we survive, get along if everything I am you hate?” I asked.
“What if everything I am, you hate?” He held his hands out and looked around the street. “You don’t even want to be here . . .”
I was quiet this time.
“But all of that doesn’t even matter, Kerry,” Jamison started. “Not this place, not the differences, not even our mothers. What matters is that I love you.” He wrapped his hands around my waist. “I love your dry-cleaning-for-no-reason, no-cooking-skills ass.”
I could see the sincerity on Jamison’s face beyond my tears. It was the first time he’d ever said I love you and it came from deep within him. It was as if I’d never heard the words before, not like that. And while love had never crossed my mind where he was concerned, the fortitude in his tone, the seriousness in his eyes awoke within my young body a flame that set me on fire. I believe it was what Marcy had said was “going crazy.”
My mother had always told me that a real lady never initiates a kiss, but I heard none of this that day in the middle of the SWATS. I stepped up on my tippie toes and kissed Jamison so passionately that much of what happened after that was a blur. Suddenly I was back in his car, then in his dorm room, and then, right there on the twin-sized bed I once secretly said I would never lose my virginity on, Jamison made love to me for the first time. “I love you,” I said to him so many times that night. “I love you, Jamison, and nothing will keep us apart.”
E-MAIL TRANSMISSION
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 4/16/07
TIME: 9:47 AM
Girl, where are you this morning?????? Are you even coming to work? I NEED YOU! I have to tell you what happened this weekend with my Sexy Morehouse Man! We were supposed to go for dinner on Saturday, but something happened with his wife, so he suggested we meet to watch the game on Sunday (I guess she doesn’t like sports like most women—you know how that goes). Anyway, I swear I fell in love with this man. He is EVERYTHING the woman at my church said he would be . . . and more. She was right; we’re perfect for each other. He’s nice, funny, smart, successful, and fine as hell. What more could a woman want? I wanted to jump his bones right there at the bar! But I have to keep playing nice.
Speaking of which, after I got a few drinks in Jamison, he admitted that he hasn’t had sex with his wife in like a month! I’m trying not to pass judgment, but what kind of woman is that? How could she resist his fine ass? If I had him, he’d get it like every night. And twice on Sunday! All that money he brings home and all Ms. Perfect can do is hold back in the bedroom. If she don’t want him, I’ll take him. Anyway, what should I do? Hit me back ASAP! I NEED YOU!!!!!
P.S. He kissed me when he walked me to my car! OK . . . he was drunk and it was on the cheek, but he did linger there for a while. Am I being trifling? I didn’t make him do anything.
E-MAIL TRANSMISSION
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 4/16/07
TIME: 10:15 AM
WHAT! I can’t believe I’m missing this. Dumb-ass Piper sent me to the Kennesaw office because one of the paralegals here went on maternity leave, so I’m helping them catch up. I guess I’ll have to get the rest of the Sexy Morehouse Man story when I get back downtown on Monday. This might call for drinks! Sounds juicy.
And you know how I feel about the unhappily married folks.... If she won’t treat him right, someone else will. And why not you?
There’s nothing trifling about it, Coreen. It’s simple mathematics. We’re in our thirties and there aren’t exactly millions of available black men out there. Even Oprah said it. Not ones with degrees and million-dollar businesses! The man already told you his old lady doesn’t respect him. And now he’s not getting any ass! They won’t last.
Who wants to be around all that? It’s only a matter of time before he cheats anyway. You know how men do. I’m not saying you should cheat with
him and be some type of one-night-stand whore, but maybe you’re the kind of woman he should be with in the first place. I don’t see why you should miss out on a man you really like just because he has a piece of paper connecting him to another woman from when he was like 22. I say have some fun. You deserve it, girl!
Love ya,
dablackannanicole
P.S. The real question about the kiss was whether he licked you! You know I like my men freaky.
P.P.S. Who is the woman at your church?
Ain’t No Party Like a Buckhead Party . . .
It’s funny how happy days can go by so quickly and sad days seem to evolve minute to minute like a perpetual Groundhog Day. By the time Marcy’s house was ready for Damien’s party and I was up in the guest room trying to figure out which one of Marcy’s old dresses I’d put on if I decided to venture outside the room, I realized that the worst day of my life was taking forever to end. Maybe it was because it began with me in the car at 5:35 AM. Maybe it was because my heart was breaking and drama seemed to intend for this to be a slow process. Either way, I was done with Friday and praying for the same Friday one year ago, when things at least seemed perfect, to somehow find me again. This process might not have been as difficult if Marcy hadn’t had most of her “big days” when she was pregnant with Milicent in the summer. Most of the dresses were pastel and the only black one had a plunging neckline. I firmly believed that pregnant women shouldn’t show cleavage and my cleavage was at an all-time high.
Now if I was my regular size, I would’ve tried on all of the dresses and picked the best one, but putting on one dress at eight months was a hassle in and of itself. It took way too much energy to wiggle in and wiggle out.
Aside from my clothing obstacles, the other important factor slowing me down was the fact that I wasn’t sure I wanted to see anyone at the party. In addition to being sad and in an utter state of shock, I just didn’t feel like talking to anyone and hearing them ask, “Where’s Jamison?” This question alone would send me into tears, for sure. But, a master of gossip, Marcy was right . . . appearances were everything and absence would be just as bad. While normal people might think that I was not there because of the baby coming, everyone knew that we wouldn’t miss it—Damien and Marcy were our best friends. And that was enough for them. In this world, people love to contrive their own renditions of reality, and it was better to be there to catch poor gossip in the making. I learned that the hard way with Marcy in college. When we lived in the dorm our first year, I’d sit on my bed across from her and listen to people come into the room telling story after story about this girl and that girl. The stories would change several times throughout the hour and by the time Marcy got on the phone to spread the word to the next dorm, it would change again. I’d had my share of this in prep school, but Spelman was on a whole different level. Gossip shaped and shredded lives. It was the undercurrent that pushed college life along. Luckily, I had the wave maker in my dorm room.
“You gonna come out?” Marcy said, poking her head in the room.
I’d managed to pull the black dress over my head, but as I predicted my breasts looked like I was expecting an entire litter of babies to feed.
“Whoa, stripper lady!” Marcy joked.
“Very funny,” I laughed. “I don’t know; I’m still contemplating it. I think it might be too soon.... But I also need something to take my mind off of everything,” I looked in the mirror at my puffy eyes, “so I can stop crying . . .”
“Well, how about you make an appearance and then come back up here? I’ll tell people your feet hurt or something.”
“Hum . . .” I put a dab of concealer beneath my right eye. “I guess so . . .” I started but didn’t finish my thought. I wanted to say I wished none of this was happening, that I hadn’t carried my behind over to that woman’s house this morning, and that I still had my husband by my side, but this would only send me back into hysterics. “You think he’ll come?” I asked.
“Jamison promised Damien he wouldn’t come by,” she said firmly. “Look, Kerry, I don’t see why you should be the one hiding in this thing. You didn’t do anything wrong. Let his behind sit in the house and think about the fact that he’s messed up his marriage. Let him be the one forced out.”
As the crowd grew, the chatter coming up the stairs escalated from a few spurts to what sounded like a mob of two hundred or so. Hiding my cleavage with a pink sash I found in the closet, I stood by the door of the bedroom practicing my entry: how I’d smile and say Jamison had a stomach virus. He really wanted to be there. But I had to come to share in our best friends’ glory. I’d smile again and change the subject. Perhaps I’d bring up the new exhibit at the High Museum, that always shut up the fakers.
When I finally found the nerve to open the door and make my way down the stairs, I could see from the third step down that the foyer was full of people. Laughing and smiling as if not one person was missing, they seemed so content and full of themselves. There were men in black suits and women in knee-length cocktail dresses in the appropriate seasonal colors. Real pearls and diamonds sparkled from the women’s extra-slender necks as the men held their hands in the smalls of their backs. Everything was so fixed, so on key with how things were supposed to be. They’d learned well.
But who were these people really? I couldn’t help but think this as I questioned my own existence. Climbing farther down, I noticed a senator I’d been to college with. She was the first in her family to go to college. Her husband was the same. You’d never know it by how they laughed and traded secrets in the circle of spectators. They would never have been accepted at one of my mother’s gatherings. They had no name, and even in politics, little money. Like most of the people there, they were new to this crowd and had no clue that they’d never be accepted elsewhere. Mixed in here and there were a few of Marcy’s sorority sisters—all skinny, all light skinned, all married, all exceptionally successful in their careers. They were the girls at Spelman everyone had to know. When we were there, they ran all of the student organizations, and when I didn’t run, they were nominated for homecoming titles. I’d never really clicked with these women. There was something about the competition between us, the way they seemed so surprised at my beauty that just rubbed me the wrong way. They insisted on complimenting me about my dark skin, fingered my hair but seemed surprised that it was so long and not extensions, and always seemed to follow up compliments about both with “. . . to be so dark” as in “You have such a nice complexion . . . to be so dark” and “Your hair is so long . . . to be so dark—I mean, you’re not even mixed.” To make matters between us worse, they knew that my great-grandmother and mother had pledged their chapter and perhaps wondered why I wasn’t signing up. As one girl put it, “I was a paperwork shoo-in.” But I wasn’t hearing any of this. I’d grown tired of the old color thing when I was a child and my mother made it seem as if my skin, which was much darker than both hers and my father’s, was some type of genetic experiment gone wrong. It was the ’90s, for God’s sake. We had to get over it someday.
“Is that you, Kerry Ann?” Piper Muck, one of Marcy’s line sisters called when my eyes caught hers. A former big bitch on campus, she was now a big somebody in the room. She was a third-generation attorney and had just made partner at her grandfather’s firm.
“Yes,” I said, smiling as I wobbled down the last step.
“I thought so.” She smiled and as she made her way across the foyer to me, five or six other sisters came along cooing.
“The baby,” one said, touching my stomach—I hated that. “When is it coming?”
“Soon,” another said who I knew was a gynecologist. “I’d say in three weeks at the most.” She placed her hand on my stomach without asking and nodded her head “yes” to the other ladies.
“Well, that’s it,” Piper said. “When Wilma says the baby is coming, it sure is.”
They all laughed and Piper, whose oddly thin body was the reason so many women became bulimi
c, shifted the wineglass she was holding from one hand to the other.
“A boy, I bet,” she said. I could feel Jamison’s name coming up in the next sentence. There was only one way to handle the attack.
“Yes,” I said smiling. “His name will be Jamison. . . . Oh, you’re probably wondering why he isn’t here. He’s sick. He sends his best.”
They all sighed with a look of fake desperation. One could only wonder why in the hell they even cared.
“The poor thing has a stomach flu or something. . . .” I went on, beating them to the punch. “You know that bug has been going around up North.”
“Aunt KeKe,” a sweet voice called. It could only be my goddaughter.
“Milicent,” I said, turning to find her cute face. A complete replica of a young Marcy, Milicent had dimples and the most adorable little bow tie nose. She was eleven and nearly taller than me, but in my eyes the girl would always be five. She was standing beside another little girl who was the same height, but she was white with blond hair and light green eyes. They were both dressed in ballet leotards.
“Look at your belly,” Milicent squealed, touching my stomach with the other little girl. While most of the black families I knew insisted on connecting to their culture with a kind of shrewd militancy—attending black art shows, seeing Alvin Ailey every year and attending a small list of HBCUs—this was not the case for Damien’s family. We were both of the same position, but his family was a bit “bluer” than mine. With a fourth-generation European education and a blue bloodline that led right to the front steps of a plantation, Damien still held ties in the black community, but like many in his lineage, he believed in maintaining close ties to whites. For this reason, Milicent attended a white private school where she was one of eight black students, played with mostly white children, and didn’t belong to Jack and Jill or the Debutantes.
His First Wife Page 8