“I spoke with my attorney this morning,” he tells me.
I turn on the lamp on the nightstand and face him. I am totally alerted to his tone of voice. I instinctively know that Jett is dead serious. “What the hell is this about?”
“I’m considering a legal separation.” His voice is stern and I know that he’s been thinking about this for some time. “I love you, but I can’t tolerate all of the pressure I’ve been under. I feel ten years older than I am. My blood pressure is high, as well as my cholesterol. If I continue to live this way, I’m going to end up in a nursing home.”
I hold my breath. If this is a dream, somebody please wake me up. When I look at him, his face looks like the auditor’s at the Internal Revenue Service.
“Why, Jett?” I am too hurt to ask the unspoken: Have you stopped loving me?
“Like I said, my health, for one. Number two is money. I’m sick and tired of being broke. We’re in debt up to our nostrils. You should have saved money from your contracts and then we wouldn’t even be in this mess. I’m tired of you being so selfish about your writing career—”
“But—”
“Let me finish.” He gets up and put on his robe. “I’m going to say this one time: Either you give up writing books and sell this house, or I’m outta here.”
“Have you forgotten that it was my career and my money that provided us with this lavish lifestyle? A lifestyle that I know you’ve come to love.”
“You’re wrong. I want a normal life. I don’t need this huge house.”
He was telling the truth; he had never been as excited about our house as I was. He didn’t even want to live in this state at first.
We built the house when Mitchell and Montague was paying me well. I was the one who insisted we go to Memphis. Lord knows I didn’t want to build our home in Mississippi. When I was in grade school in Port Huron, Michigan, the students from the North used to laugh at the kids from down South. The myth was that they were slow, and were usually put back a grade or two.
I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.
Since the 1980s, the schools in Mississippi have been the worst in the nation. You rarely see a recording artist perform in Mississippi. And going to see a play? Forgetaboutit. And to make matters worse, there are no professional sports teams. Both Jett and I love to watch football, basketball, baseball, boxing, and golf.
We settled on Memphis, Tennessee, and purchased 4.1 acres of land in an exclusive subdivision in Shelby County to build our dream home.
Eighteen months later, our 12,500 square foot home was finished. Neither Jett nor the twins and I could comprehend our good fortune. The house made a statement and our builder, as well as several of our neighbors, thought so too.
Our four-level contemporary brick home, built high on a hill, boasts six bedrooms, a library, dining room, nine bathrooms, two kitchens, three family rooms, exercise room, six fireplaces, a huge office, and a six-car garage. There are two saunas and an indoor hot tub. In the foyer, there is a twin staircase with wrought iron railing that borders a granite star design that cost over twenty grand. Jett argued that it was overkill, but I insisted that I had to have it.
Jett did agree to one more extravagance, the wrought iron fence that frames our lot. Two electronic gates that are interlaced with prancing lions secure the circular drive. An intercom for entrance to our property is a short distance away. Because our home is so elevated, we designed two circular wrought iron staircases installed in the rear of our home, to gain access to the backyard from the kitchen and master bedroom.
I was so excited about the work the wrought iron company completed on our home that I had to share it with someone. Of course, I called Lynzee. At the time, she was considering building a new home too.
I conveyed to Lynzee that the same wrought iron company that worked on Jett’s and my home completed the ironwork on John Grisham’s home in Oxford, Mississippi. “Can you believe it?’ I asked her.
“Uh-huh, that’s nice, Charity.”
I should have known she’d be jealous. However, my feelings were still hurt. Couldn’t she be happy for me for once in her life?
I shake the ugly memories of Lynzee from my mind to focus on the issue in front of me. My husband wants a separation. I am stunned. Now that we might be facing divorce court, even I’m not sure how I feel about our dream home anymore. Maybe we never should have built it. But there is one thing I am sure about: my career as a writer.
I tell him, “I will never give up on trying to become a New York Times bestselling author.”
“Even if it means our marriage will suffer?”
I roll my eyes at him. “Our marriage has never been in jeopardy. You’re beginning to sound like Lynzee.” Oops, I didn’t mean to say that.
“What has Lynzee got to do with our marriage?”
I haven’t had a contract in over a year, and Lynzee keeps telling me to give up. Now here Jett is telling me to choose between our marriage and my writing career. I’m blindsided by his talk of separation, because as far as I’m concerned, we’ve had a calm, normal marriage.
Our weekdays always begin at six with fresh-brewed coffee, bagels, and the morning paper. We exercise between eight and nine. Then I change and go to my office, and Jett works on his two motorcycles, works in our yard, or does volunteer work with high school basketball players. Dinner is served at five, and we’re in bed by nine. I pay the bills and shop for groceries on the first of every month. This has been our schedule for the past seven years. Up until last year, we had more than $190,000 in the bank. We have season tickets for the Grizzlies basketball team. We attend plays at least once a month at the Orpheum Theater, and can’t wait to go to a concert at the Fed Ex Forum or in Tunica, Mississippi, where artists have finally began to perform at the crowded casinos. We vacation twice a year, once with the twins and then by ourselves. Our last trip was eight days in China.
We’ve built a life together out of these little routines. Now all that I love is being threatened.
Just to know that Jett is thinking about a legal separation is enough to piss me off to no end. Who does he think he is, leaving me? I made him the man he is today: a man who is now world traveled; a man who plays golf with celebrities; a man of leisure who was able to take an early retirement from his job as a superintendent from Champion Motors. It wasn’t some skank welfare bitch who made him. Not somebody who only knows how to buy Happy Meals from McDonald’s and doesn’t know how to use a vacuum cleaner. No, Jett got the top of the line. And if he doesn’t respect who and what I am, then some other man will. Hell, maybe I should be thinking about a separation. After all, he’s damn near sixty. Why shouldn’t I give a man in his forties a whirl?
I refuse to continue this conversation with him. I will not talk about a separation. I roll over and turn off the light. Maybe he’ll wake up in the morning and have forgotten all about this nonsense.
2
“Charity, it’s me.” She’s whispering.
“Lynzee?” I’m sitting at the computer in my home. Dozens of research papers and character profiles litter my desk.
“Yes, fool,” she says scathingly. “I’m at Memphis International Airport.”
“At the airport? Why?” It’s ten-thirty in the morning and I’m typing away at my computer, working on my new novel, Shattered Illusions. I’m highly irritated that she’s interrupting my flow. With the ultimatum Jett gave me, I’m writing at a feverish pace now, trying to get a new contract.
“I need you to come here right away.”
What the hell is going on now? Is she ready to apologize so soon? It’s only been a week. “I’m really busy. Can’t you rent a car and drive out here?”
“No!”
“Why not?” I finally stop typing.
“Jett might be home. Is he there?”
“Yes. He’s mowing the lawn.” I stretch and yawn.
“Why am I not surprised? Look, I’m at the Rendezvous Café in Concourse A. Be here in thirty minutes.�
�� She hangs up.
That Bitch! What the fuck is it now?
I grab my purse and keys, get into my car, and head for Memphis International Airport. It’s twenty-three miles from our house, and I make it there in seventeen minutes.
The flowers are in perfect bloom in June. The air is heavy with the scent of floral magnolias and crape myrtles. Birds are chirping louder than ever, and my beautiful surroundings nearly make me forget where I’m headed.
Besides, my mind is on why Jett wants a legal separation. I wonder how much is really my fault. He wanted us to put a third of my salary from my two contracts in the bank. I didn’t listen, and only managed to save a tenth of what I’d earned. It wasn’t enough to pay all of our financial obligations without the benefit of a new contract.
I am too embarrassed to tell Jett that since last September, I haven’t paid my credit cards on time. I don’t want to withdraw any more money from our dwindling savings. Since I haven’t been able to make any deposits, I don’t feel that any of the money is rightfully mine. When Jett isn’t at home, I manage to intercept the creditors’ calls and make payment arrangements.
Presently, my finances are so bad I don’t even have the credit to finance a doghouse. Even so, I can’t let my current situation reduce me to living like a panhandler.
I’m so preoccupied that I don’t notice until I get inside that I’ve lost my parking ticket, probably somewhere in the parking lot. I don’t know how I’m going to cash out when I exit the airport today. I make it to the Café with two minutes to spare.
Lynzee is sitting there with a casual smirk on her face. She’s wearing a Donna Karan olive green suit with a white knit T. She has on caramel Ferragamo pumps that I guess cost about twelve hundred bucks. And the purse she’s carrying is a Hermes. That’s at least thirty-five hundred. She oozes money and doesn’t make any excuses about it.
I’m told that fame is the perfume of heroic deeds. If that’s true, I haven’t caught the scent.
I, wearing my jeans and pink T-shirt, take a seat next to the rich bitch and park my sixty-dollar purse on the table between us.
Lynzee has magnificent, warm cognac coloring. Her skin is smooth and clear, except for tiny lines around her eyes and mouth from years of smoking. She has a small, pointy nose, large eyes with lush lashes, and bubble gum lips. Her best feature is her apple cheekbones. They make her look youthful. She has a beautiful cleft in her chin that I have always been jealous of. Some people say we look alike. That is totally untrue. I wish I could look half as good as Lynzee does.
On the phone we sound exactly alike. She’s four inches taller than I am, but we wear the same size shoes, a nine medium. Unlike me, Lynzee has long legs, a short torso, and a small waist. She usually keeps her hair dyed black with blond highlights. Whoever told her that this look was attractive on her is a liar. She looks much prettier when her hair is a rich cayenne.
Lynzee is fifty-two years old, four years older than I am.
Lynzee is taking her time to speak. Finally she says, “I’ve got something important to talk to you about.”
“Is it about my last name?”
“No. Something a little more important.”
“Good. I’m not changing my mind.” I cross my arms and stare right into her cold eyes.
A waitress stops by our table. I order hot tea with lemon. The small café is filled with customers, and I’m uncomfortable talking about personal matters in such a public setting. I wish she had come to my house like I’d asked. “Please tell me why you couldn’t talk to me over the phone.”
She stalls for a minute. I debate getting up and leaving. She finally says, “This needs to be said in person.”
I gesture with my hands. “In front of all of these people?”
“They don’t know who we are.” Lynzee signals the waitress and orders a double vodka with orange juice.
Until now, I hadn’t noticed the empty glass beside her. Apparently, she’s already had one drink. Now, I observe that her eyes are reddened a bit. Has she been crying? I’m immediately in sister-mode. What’s wrong with my sister?
“Thank you,” I say to the waitress after she places the hot tea before me.
“I don’t know how to say this,” Lynzee says. I notice that her hands are shaking as I empty two packets of Equal into my brew.
I burn my mouth as I take a sip of tea. Something inside me begins to churn, and I can sense that Lynzee is going to be melodramatic. “Just say it, Lynzee.”
“Jett and I had a daughter together.” She can’t look me in the eye.
Now my hands are shaking as I lower the cup from my lips. “Is this some kind of sick joke? Because I don’t like the implications.” Is it my imagination, or are the people sitting around us suddenly listening in on our conversation?
She raises her hand and crosses her heart with her index finger. “I’m not lying. Jett and I did the wild thang in my senior year in high school.” Her face suddenly looks grotesque to me. “The only reason he began dating you four years later is because he couldn’t have me.”
That does it. I jump up and throw my hot tea dead in her face. “You low-down cunt. I hope you die.” I grab my purse. I have such an intense feeling of hate for her, I feel like I’m on fire. We hate some people because we do not know them, and we will not know them because we hate them. I will never know Lynzee. My hate is raw. The incident with Siegfried and Roy and the white tiger was like a minor scrape in comparison to what I’d do to Lynzee.
“Sit down, Charity,” she demands. “I said sit down.” She retrieves a napkin and begins wiping the tea from her face and blouse.
Now everyone is looking at us and whispering. I take a seat. No matter what happens next, the damage is done.
“Jett doesn’t know about our daughter. I never told him because I put the baby up for adoption.”
I barely hear a word she’s saying. I am envisioning Lynzee and Jett making love, and the snapshot I see is making me nauseated. I focus on the words “doesn’t know” and “adoption.” I feel numb. I feel betrayed. Jett has lied to me. He has never told me that he dated Lynzee before we got together. A feeling that I’m not familiar with surfaces: I feel threatened. My marriage is in jeopardy. Sooner or later, I will have to confront Jett with the truth. What if he denies it? What if he doesn’t? Will his confession kill the trust between us, or will the humiliation of being second best trump my feelings toward him? And since this is a girl child, will he leave me so he can be with the daughter he has always longed to have?
My words sound hollow. “You say that Jett doesn’t know about the child?”
“No. He doesn’t.”
“Where is the child? This girl?” I calculate that this girl must be about thirty-four years old now.
Lynzee drinks the vodka in one long gulp. “She’s trying to locate me. She’s left several messages with my agent. I’ve been avoiding contacting her. Eventually, we’ll meet and I’ll have to tell her the truth.”
“Why?” I plead. “She doesn’t have to know about Jett. You could lie and tell her that you don’t know who her father is.”
“Why should I lie?” She screws up her face and her pointy chin suddenly looks like a witch’s.
Tears fill my eyes. My entire life is at stake. I can’t let this lovechild come between Jett and me. I can’t let Jett and Lynzee’s sleeping together come between us either. Can I?
The waitress is back. “Would you like another cup of tea?”
“No. Thank you.” She looks at Lynzee, then back at me. “Can I get you two anything else?”
“No, just the check,” Lynzee says all businesslike.
When the waitress is gone, Lynzee just stares at me. She doesn’t say a word. Her stare says so much. It says, “See, you’ve never been better than me at anything. See. I’ve got proof: birthing his first-born child. See. See.”
The blood in my veins feels like acid. I am so hot, I can barely breathe. What in the hell am I going to do?
“Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Charity. You’re going to tell Jett about our daughter. I’ll give you a few months or so. By then, I’ll have met with April.” She smiles. “Did I tell you that her name is April?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Well, I’ll have met with April by then. She, Tyler, and I, have a lot to talk about. Eventually, we’ll get around to discussing her real father. I expect Jett to come to California and meet with us.”
“You can’t be serious. What if he refuses?”
“He won’t.”
The waitress returns with the check, and I sit with my mind reeling. There are so many questions I want to ask Lynzee. How long did she and Jett date? Why did they break up? Why didn’t she ever tell me about them? Did our mother know? Then it hit me. Mama had to know. Why didn’t she tell me?
In truth, I don’t want to know the answers to these questions. Truth hurts, and my mind is still in denial. Lynzee has no proof that she and Jett had sex. But the proof is the child, isn’t it?
“Lynzee. I have a solution. I need to see the child for myself. I want to talk to her before I tell Jett.”
“No.” She picks up the check and grabs her purse. “You do what I ask, or I’ll have to resort to Plan B.”
My heart is leaping. She’s thought this shit out. She already knew what I’d say. Ain’t that a bitch?
I follow behind her to the cash register and wait while she pays the bill. When she finishes, she heads out into the concourse.
“What’s Plan B?” I ask timidly.
“If you don’t tell Jett, I will.” She walks away and leaves me with my mouth hanging open.
3
I move through my small world as if I’m on remote control. I can’t write. I can’t look Jett in the face, and I can’t make idle conversation with my twin sons.
I find myself doing deep soul searching. I’ve got to think about my possible courses of action and their ramifications. At my very core, I want to confront Jett, go off on him, cuss his ass out, yet something holds me back. I think I’m afraid of losing Jett.
We Ain’t the Brontës Page 2