Millionaire Wives Club

by Tu-Shonda Whitaker

  “Understand this”—Chaunci tucked her clutch under her arm—“I’m not giving you shit.” She rose from her seat. “As far as I’m concerned you don’t exist.” She walked toward the exit.

  “Chaunci!” Edmon called, walking swiftly behind her.

  “Leave me the hell alone!”

  Chaunci stepped out the door and hailed an oncoming cab, slipped in, and was gone.

  The Club

  The evening sun was the color of crisp amber and its reflection made streaks of crimson on the melting and muddy snow piled on the curb. A homeless man was leaning against it and rattling the go green metal garbage can with his feet as the bus doors opened and Milan stepped off, her hobo Coach bag sliding off her shoulder and the hem of her garment bag dragging on the ground. She walked over to the homeless man, dropped fifty cents in his Styrofoam cup, and went into Luca Luca boutique.

  Milan was thankful that she was early because she didn’t want anyone to question why her clothes were in a bag and instead of designer digs she rocked a nurse’s uniform.

  The last thing she needed was for the producer to question why she was riding a city bus with the common folks. The whole point to the show, along with it being an investment for Milan, was to make America jealous, and she had yet to give even a plain Jane a reason to salivate.

  When she walked into the boutique she was greeted by the store’s manager, as the rest of the staff busied themselves in the background preparing things for when the cameras would arrive. Milan ignored the strange look the store manager gave her as she looked down at her white opaque stockings and biscuit-toe nursing shoes. “Can I use your restroom?” Milan asked quickly as the manager continued to study her feet.

  Caught off guard, the manager responded, “Of course, yes. Yes, of course.” She escorted Milan to the back, where the bathroom was a slither of existence and could easily be lost among the sea of clothing surrounding it. “Help yourself,” the manager said as she opened the bathroom door.

  As Milan hurried to get dressed, she had no time to dwell on how her paycheck wasn’t even enough to purchase one of the boutique’s blouses. Doing her best to outrun her thoughts, she quickly zipped up her hip-hugging black Zac Posen jeans and slid on her tangerine V-neck sweater. Her four-inch Manolos enhanced the pep in her step as she looked in the mirror, shook her hair out, and popped her lips together. Soon she was stepping out from the back of the boutique to the front, where Kendu was now sitting in one of the cream leather chairs, leafing through a magazine and glowing like a piece of beautiful black art.

  Milan leaned against the door frame and stared at him. From past experience of placing her lips there, Milan knew there was a tattoo of a clawing lion on his left pec, the number thirty-six on his forearm, the brand of Omega Psi Phi on the back of his right shoulder, and in the space between his left thumb and index finger was a flying eagle.

  He wore a black sweater and a pair of baggy jeans. On his left wrist was an iced TAG with a diamond link bracelet draped over it, and on his feet were black Marc Jacobs leather sneakers.

  “Shopping?” Milan asked, finally calming the butterflies in her belly and giving Kendu a half smile as she headed toward him.

  “Damn…” He sighed in amazement. He put the magazine down and stared at her. He could tell that she was nervous by the way she kept leaning from one foot to the other.

  He stood up and without hesitation or obtaining her permission he curled his index finger into one of Milan’s belt loops and pulled her directly in front of him.

  “Where is your wife?”

  “On her way.” He placed his hands on her hips.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “She forgot her wallet, and since I was on my way into the city I told her I would drop it off.”

  “Oh…” Milan nervously smiled, feeling his hands roam all over her ass. She turned toward the staff, who were too busy to pay the two of them any attention, and then back to Kendu. “Don’t you think this is a bit much?”

  Kendu hesitated. “Tell me to stop.” He pulled her even closer to him. “I need you to tell me to stop so I can do it. Otherwise I can’t help myself.” Without thinking twice he placed kisses along the violin curve of her neck.

  “Okay,” Bridget said, bolting into the store, “I want a camera at every angle.”

  Milan looked toward the door and she knew guilt was written all over her face.

  Kendu quickly walked over to Evan, who was just entering the boutique, and handed her wallet to her. “Have a good time,” he said.

  “Milan,” Chaunci said as she walked over to her friend, “we need to do lunch ASAP.”

  “Why, wassup?”

  “You will not believe the shit that has been going on with me.”

  “May I have your attention, please?” Bridget clapped her hands. “This is how we will do this. The attendant will place a pile of clothing on the counter and either you buy it or act as if you are buying it. Everyone has to stand next to the cash register for a mock total. Understood?” She snapped her fingers. “Okay then, let’s begin.”

  Chaunci and Milan stood back and watched Jaise and Evan begin to pick out clothes and stack them on the counter.

  “What is your problem?” Bridget asked Milan and Chaunci. “Snap, snap.”

  “Listen,” Chaunci said, looking at Bridget as if she were crazy, “you are getting on my nerves. Every time I turn around you are in my business. Do you want us to do the show or are you auditioning?”

  “Okay, ladies,” Jaise said, walking out of the dressing room with an obviously too-small and definitely not-the-right-color puke green dress on, “let’s retreat to our corners.” She pointed to the cameras. “This is supposed to be a shopping spree not the WWE.”

  “Please don’t mention anything about the WWE,” Milan said wearily.

  Chaunci looked at Jaise. “You would be okay if you would let those who don’t get along, not get along.”

  “Whatever,” Jaise said dismissively, and turning around in her dress she asked, “How do I look?”

  Evan cleared her throat.

  Milan did her best not to snicker. “Girl, you look … sooooo … sharp.”

  “That dress is so hot,” Chaunci said. “You’re on fire.”

  “Oh good, I might get it.” Jaise returned to the dressing room.

  “That trashbox looks stupid,” Milan said.

  “Trashbox,” Bridget mumbled and scribbled a note on a piece of paper.

  After an hour of the women continuing to browse the boutique and doing their best to keep the bickering at bay, one of the boutique associates walked over and said, “Ladies, we would love for you to be the first to try out our new spring swimline collection.”

  “Oole, I need a swimsuit,” Milan said, taking a black lace bikini from the woman’s hands. “Oh, this is really cute.”

  “I’m so over this,” Chaunci complained. “Milan, hurry up so we can catch a cab out of here.”

  Milan, Evan, and Jaise all went into the dressing room with bikinis in their hands. Milan was the first to come out and show hers off. “Girl, you look cute,” Jaise said as she handed back the one she had to the associate. “I don’t like this,” Jaise said. “Milan,” she called, turning back to her, “that looks really nice on you … Oh wait”—she turned to Evan, who’d just come out of her dressing room—“you two have on the same bikini.”

  “Oh, there must be some mistake,” Evan said. “I don’t wear plus size.”

  “Would you give it a rest?” Jaise snapped at Evan. “She looks fine.”

  “I forgot that subpar was right up your alley.” Evan rolled her eyes.

  “And that’s your friend.” Chaunci laughed. “Yeah, okay. Back to you, Milan. I think you should get that.”

  “I think you should too,” Jaise said, staring at Milan. “What is that?” She pointed to her left breast.

  “What are you talking about?” Milan looked down. “It’s a tattoo.”

  “Of a
n eagle?” Jaise asked and then answered her own question. “Yeah, that’s an eagle. I’ve seen a tattoo like that before.”

  “Yeah, on Kendu,” Evan said, doing her best to hide her shock.

  “You have matching tattoos with Kendu?” Jaise asked. “So anybody up for coffee?” Jaise attempted to change the subject.

  Evan laughed. “So typical and so pathetic.” She shook her head. “I have had enough of you. When did you get that? Last week, after you came to my home and realized that my husband actually loves me?” She stepped up close to Milan. “Don’t you have a husband? Then why are you trying to get with mine? You’re nothing to him. You need to wake up and see that.”

  “Evan,” Milan said, brushing her off, “I don’t have time for your jealousy. We got the tattoos in college. They mean nothing. Hell, if you want one, help yourself. I wouldn’t give a damn.” She turned to Chaunci. “Maybe we need a drink with lunch.”

  Evan felt heat washing over her body. She needed another pill in order to calm down and treat this peon like the nothing she was. She snatched Milan by her shoulder to turn her back around. “I tell you what,” she said, pointing her finger in Milan’s face, “your friendship with Kendu is over, you desperate, low-class bitch.”

  “Focus, Carl,” Bridget said. “Focus.”

  Evan continued, “I am sick of you pretending like you are so important when you aren’t shit. Nothing. If Kendu really wanted you he would have married you. But you weren’t good enough.”

  This was the second time Evan had slid an invisible knife into Milan’s chest.

  “What happened, Milan?” Evan continued to jab at her. “Did he fuck you and leave you for me? Is that why you’re so desperate to always be around? Was Yusef your second choice and you didn’t even get that right?”

  Milan looked Evan directly in the eyes. “I’m not going to cause a scene,” she said evenly, “because what I have to say is quite simple: If you have a problem with me being in your husband’s life, ask him why it’s so important to him for me to be there. Ask him how well we really know each other. Ask him. I dare you.” She took her cell phone out of her purse. “Ask him how he feels about me. Can he ever see not talking to me, seeing me? Ask him. Otherwise shut the fuck up. Because if I wanted him, I’d have him. And in a minute if you keep talking shit, I will be seeking to take him back.”

  Milan stood silent for a moment and when Evan didn’t say anything in response, she looked her up and down and said, “Now stay away from me.”

  “Can you redo that line?” Bridget said, as if the argument had been scripted. “But this time, stand real close to her and look up into her face, point your finger, and tell her just how much you will kick her ass.”

  Milan and Evan ignored Bridget. “None of what you said fazed me,” Evan said, laughing. “If you are such a staple in Kendu’s life, then why aren’t you his wife? I mean, hell”—she snickered—“impress me.”

  “I’m done.” Milan walked back into the dressing room and quickly changed. “I’ve had enough.”

  “About damn time,” Chaunci said as they walked out of the boutique together.

  Bridget clapped her hands as they left with the door swinging behind them. “Perfecto! You ladies are naturals!”

  When Them Jones Come Down

  (A month later)

  Milan

  Milan was overcome with exhaustion as she sank into the last seat on the subway train next to an old man who smelled like old and hot piss. Usually when there were no other seats left she would’ve stood on the train, but this morning she couldn’t. She’d worked a double shift, hadn’t had any sleep in close to twenty-four hours, and if she didn’t sit she was due to pass out at any moment.

  As the train began to chug along, Milan looked out the window past the graffiti-covered bridge and at the neighborhood she’d grown up in. She wondered how much it would cost to live there again.

  She hated to think about how her paycheck didn’t even begin to cover her expenses. Her credit cards were hundreds of thousands of dollars behind, she and Yusef owed back taxes up the wazoo, and there was no way, since she hadn’t been paid yet for being on the show, that she could continue the façade of being a millionaire’s wife when the money had run out. She couldn’t wait for Friday so she could have the momentary high of having a nice sum of money in her hands, before she had to divide it up among her bills and fall even deeper in the dumps.

  The only thing paid in full was the apartment, but the tax liens stopped her from being able to sell it, and the money she made from working barely covered the fees for the building. She couldn’t win for losing.

  Yusef refused to do anything other than dream, talk about a wrestling career, and map out a failed plan of how he was going to prove to a coach who wouldn’t even take his calls that he deserved another shot at playing ball again. Milan knew she was the only one dealing with reality, so when Yusef started staying out all night getting high, she became proactive. Since her material items were all she had left and she didn’t want him stealing her shit, she’d leave him twenty dollars on the dresser every morning, and she held no ill feelings because at least when he was gone she was at peace.

  Her head pounded with a migraine and her feet ached. She’d been working the emergency room all night and she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, wrap up in her goose-down comforter, close her eyes, and drift to sleep.

  Before she knew it she had nodded off and was awakened by the homeless man knocking her on her sleepy ass as if a ghost had forced him from his seat and was making him flee the train. He never said “excuse me” or “pardon me, ma’am,” as all the contents of her purse splattered across the floor of the train.

  No one on the train offered to help her pick up her belongings, and except for a few wide-eyed children no one looked to see what had happened to her. She quietly picked up her things and sat back down in the seat. As the train arrived at the next stop and more people boarded, Milan couldn’t believe her eyes. She saw Yusef with his arm draped around another woman, who looked as bad, if not worse, than he did. When the two of them sat down a few seats away from her, it was obvious that they were both high.

  “Yeah,” Milan could hear Yusef scream, “I’m Da Truef, baby. Number twenty-three on the New York Knicks, and any day now I’m expected to get a new contract.”

  Truthfully, Milan didn’t know how to feel. Was Yusef being here with another woman the North Star she needed? It wasn’t that her husband was sitting with his arm draped around another woman; she didn’t care who he showed affection to. This was bigger than that. This was about reading the writing on the wall and seeing that the curtain had fallen, the spotlight had died, and her ride to fame and fortune had ended. This was the moment when she realized there were no more dreams and all she had left was real life, and real life was kickin’ her ass.

  The next stop was hers and she exited through a back door far away from Yusef and the woman, who both stayed on the train.

  The winter wind cut across Milan’s face and sent chills through her. She swore she was going to start wearing her furs on the train, because her hooded Burberry peacoat was no match for thirty-degree weather.

  After the two-block walk from the subway she arrived at the all-glass entrance to her building with her face frozen and her eyes feeling like slits. She’d noticed some of her neighbors looking at her strangely, but she’d grown used to the double takes and questionable glances, especially since more times than not she was seen with a camera crew following her.

  “Milan!” Bridget yelled. “We’ve been waiting on you. We haven’t filmed you all week. You’ve been working too much,” Bridget said as she and the camera crew boarded the elevator with Milan. “In a moment everyone’s going to think you’re doing more than charity work at the hospital. We called to confirm your status there and they refused to give us any information.”

  Milan ignored Bridget as the cameras started to roll on their way to her apartment.

  “
I hope Yusef is here. Perhaps he’ll start banging his chest and calling himself Da Truef again, ’cause other than that your ass is boring.”

  “Excuse me?” Milan snapped.

  “I don’t mean any harm, you know,” Bridget said. “I mean, boring in the best possible light.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You know you’re my favorite.” She patted Milan on the arm. “But this is all about a second season.”

  Once Milan arrived at her apartment, she noticed something odd about the door. There was a padlock on it, a pink paper that read ORDER TO VACATE THE PREMISES, and a court-ordered foreclosure notice taped to her door like an advertisement.

  “Get a close-up,” she heard Bridget say behind her.

  Immediately Milan’s head started to spin. She snatched the papers off the door. There was no way they could be foreclosed on. The apartment was paid for. Yusef swore that he paid cash for it at the closing. It was his wedding gift to her, a place of their own. On their honeymoon night he handed her a white box with a red bow on top and inside was a pair of keys to their four-bedroom, five-bathroom, exclusive apartment with a terrace and a stunning view of the New York City skyline. She saw the paperwork, the apartment was in her name … There was something wrong… This couldn’t be. She leaned against the wall as the drumbeat in her head turned into a tuba. Unpaid taxes. Tax liens. Fuckin’ taxes. She couldn’t believe it. She sent them checks every month… every month … There must be some mistake. There had to be. There had to be a way to clear this up, because after this … there was nothing left.

  Suddenly the cameras and a smiling Bridget seemed to fade from her vision as she focused on what she needed to do next. She took out a letter from the IRS she had in her purse. She pulled out her cell phone and started dialing their number. Then she quickly hung up and decided that she needed to run to the bank instead. If she could get copies of the checks she had sent them, then she could show the IRS that they’d made a terrible mistake. And besides, where were the letters from them letting her know they were taking her home away? They couldn’t just invade her life like this. Certainly they had to give her notice. Hell, even Yusef had given her notice that their life was about to be fucked up.