“Lynzee, I need more time.”
“Why?”
“Because this could end my marriage. Is that what you want to happen?”
She hesitates for a moment. “No.”
“Then…” I start crying. “Then give me some respect. I know my man, and I know when to talk to him about something like this.”
“You’re stalling.”
“No, I’m not.”
Every time I think about having a heart-to-heart with Jett, it seems to be bad timing. Since our money is running short, he had to start a new job. He hasn’t worked in years, and he is exhausted every night. This is really the wrong time to talk about an illegitimate child. And again, I know my weakness. I really don’t want to know the truth. I don’t believe that I can stand the lurid details.
Tears sneak into my voice. “Jett’s going to hate me for keeping this from him.”
“That’s not my fault.” Her tone is curt.
“No? Then whose is it?”
“Ask your husband. He’s the one who didn’t wear a condom.”
I clamp my hands over my ears. I don’t need to hear this, nor do I need to visualize them being together. Right now, I hate both of them for creating this situation. “That’s too much information, Lynzee.”
“My bad.” She sounds like she’s about to laugh.
In my mind, I see Jett packing his bags. I see him calling me a bitch and then slamming the door in my face. My heart aches at the thought. “I need a little more time, Lynzee.”
“How much time?”
I can’t help it; I break down in tears. “I just need… I just need another…month. Then I’ll tell him.” My tears are flowing freely and my words are thick. “I promise.”
“Fine, you’ve got a month. Then no more excuses.” She disconnects the call without a good-bye.
I crumple over into a small heap on my desk and have a good old cry. I know that I can’t take too much more of this. Telling Jett will mean that there will be an ultimatum. Will I be willing to file for a divorce if he insists on making this niece/cousin/daughter/she-devil a part of our family?
8
Up to this point, Jett hasn’t bothered to tell me how much he hates his job as a car salesman. Now he decides to tell me about the politics of the business, the sales managers giving certain salespeople the house deals and so forth. I had no idea. I don’t know diddly-squat about the inner workings of a car dealership.
“Those sons of bitches are giving me ulcers,” Jett shouts one evening when he comes home from work. He removes his tie and stalks into our bedroom.
“What’s wrong, Jett?”
“My sales manager cut my deal in half. The whole deal was mine.” He walks into the closet and begins to remove his work clothes.
I don’t know what to say. I know he’s pissed. I’m waiting for him to put on his exercise clothes and rush downstairs, but he doesn’t. He stands there in his skivvies and scowls at me.
“Charity, why can’t you find a job?”
Honestly, I’d never thought about it. But what absolutely crucifies me is the look on his face when he says, “I knew this would happen.” He means that I’ve gotten us into too much debt.
Do I have what it takes to fight back? To redeem myself in my husband’s eyes? My ego won’t admit that I’m on a roller coaster ride to hell and don’t know how to push the stop button. Lord knows, I do not wish to see the devil anytime soon.
I ask myself the question that my deceased mother would ask me: “What are you made of?”
My answer would be, “Premium stock.”
“Well, by God,” she’d say, “show me.”
Charity, why can’t you get a job? Those seven words that Jett uttered are my call to action. They challenge me, give me a reality check. They force me to come to terms with my situation and realize since I had such a huge hand in creating this predicament, I need to play a part in resolving it.
The same night, I have a conference with my sons. I admit to them that I’m planning to look for a job. When they get over their shock, they say they have a friend who will be able to help me write a resume.
The friend turns out to be Jamone’s girlfriend, Holly. She agrees to come over the following day. With Javed and Jamone’s input, we work for six hours, until we feel we have it perfected. Thankfully, Holly won’t accept any money, since I don’t have any to give her anyway.
The following day, I log on to several online employment sites. Then I fax my resume and cover letters to more than seventy-five companies. Preferably, I hope to find a job as a writer at a newspaper or magazine. I can see Lynzee’s finger wagging at me when I apply for a creative writing teacher’s position.
“You’ve got some nerve,” I can hear her criticizing. “If you didn’t send your books to a book doctor, you wouldn’t get published. You don’t even have a degree in English, creative writing, or journalism. How in the hell do you expect to teach a class about the mechanics of writing when you don’t even understand them yourself?”
With my maverick attitude, I would look at that efficacious heffa and say, “Fuck you, Lynzee. A published author doesn’t need a degree to teach, and I do know good fiction when I read it. I also love people, and I know that with my enthusiasm, I’d make a great teacher.”
My cockiness doesn’t abate when I apply for jobs as a manager or an assistant. I don’t qualify for a lot of the positions because I don’t have a degree. Over the past twenty-five years, I have only taken English and literature classes and have about forty-seven credits. I can’t stand math or science, so the likelihood of earning a bachelor’s degree is slim to none.
While I wait to hear from employers, the twins and I begin to pack up the house. It is an endeavor that I never want to repeat. We’re running out of cash and might be forced to sell the house. I pray on my knees nightly that I won’t have to give up my home. It’s been my dream since I was fourteen years old.
Jett’s experience at the car dealership is getting better. His sales have improved from five cars a month to nine. He’s even received a $1200 bonus for selling five F-150s in two weeks.
Jett decides to celebrate. He offers to take the twins and me out to dinner. This is a real treat for Jett because he doesn’t think anyone can cook better than I can, and rarely wants to frequent a restaurant.
Back home in Detroit, where we lived for the first part of our marriage, Jett and I would on occasion dine out at Steve’s Soul Food Restaurant. They served excellent food that even the mayor bragged about. In my opinion, finding that type of quality soul food in Memphis is an arduous task. I can’t think of one that’s as classy as Steve’s. That said, we settle on Bonefish Grill, a very popular seafood restaurant.
“I have your table ready for you now,” the waiter says after an hour.
The instant we are seated, I spot an acquaintance of mine, Elizabeth Spherion, three tables away. She owns a local magazine, Queen. While Jett and the twins are checking out the menu, Elizabeth and I chat. I want to hit her up for a job at her magazine, but I can’t bring myself to ask. She’s always been a bit of a gossip, and I don’t want her broadcasting that I’m basically broke.
“When’s your next book coming out, Charity? I’d love to do an article on you.”
“Maybe next year,” I say in a hopeful tone.
“Good. Say, have you forgotten about calling Lynzee for me? You promised me that you’d ask her about attending the Women’s Sisterhood Convention this fall.”
I feel like a total hypocrite. “Excuse me, Elizabeth. Jett’s waving me over. The waiter is there to take our order.” I leave, telling her I’ll call her soon.
“Mom?” Jamone asks. “Isn’t that Ms. Spherion from Queen Magazine?”
“Yes,” I say, taking a seat.
“Word. That’s dope. Can’t you ask her to do a feature about me and Javed? We could really use the publicity for our artwork.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Javed presses. “Getting a feature in her magazine could possibly get us s
ome sponsors. Can you feel me?”
My smile is weak when I say, “Okay. I’ll try.”
Jett cocks an eyebrow at me and I immediately know that he knows what I am thinking. When you ask for favors, you have to return one. What do I have to offer Elizabeth? Maybe I can suggest a story about starving artists who’ve lost everything they owned. Or maybe she’d like to hear about a sister having a baby by her sister’s husband. I’m sure that would sell a ton of copies.
It’s the annual Memphis in May, and news of the barbecue contest has been splattered all over television, especially by Al Roker on the Today Show, who comes to Memphis every May. People come from all around the country to sample what is reputed to be the best barbecue in the nation. Unexpectedly, Lynzee flies to Memphis to devour the barbecue and visit for three days.
Her actions keep me guessing about her intentions, because in spite of the deadline she gave me, she let it pass without a peep. I don’t know what to think now that she’ll be in the same city as Jett. Part of me is nervous that this might be the beginning of the end of my marriage, but I choose to live in denial. Since she hasn’t told him already, I choose to believe that she won’t do it now.
I’m waiting at the curb in front of American Airlines when I spot Lynzee waving at me. I have mixed emotions. Aside from the issue about Jett and April, I’m also not sure if I want to confront Lynzee about the blacklisting issue. I worry that if I piss her off, she’ll finally enforce her deadline and tell Jett about his daughter. I feel stuck, like I can’t go forward and, at the same time, I can’t go back to the rose-colored glasses I used to wear. I’m trapped, at the mercy of my jealous sister.
I pull up, get out, and open the trunk. We hug, tentatively at first.
Lynzee says, “You look good, bitch.” When we haven’t seen each other in a while, we always refer to one another as bitches. Her greeting me like this now helps me relax a little. Maybe this will be a peaceful visit, like none of the past year ever happened.
I tell her, “You look good too, for a rich bitch. Been to the plastic surgeon lately?”
She hugs and kisses me. “Fuck you, Charity.”
“You too,” I cut back.
Neither one of us mentions April. She’s in the background like a bad seed. Right now we’re loving each other again, and neither one of us wants to spoil the flow. Instead, Lynzee talks about the good news in her life. Her daughter, Tyler, is waiting to hear about her scholarship from Harvard any day now.
After we gorge ourselves on dozens of barbecue plates, we talk about old times, laugh, drink tea, and shop. She buys me several outfits. Scrabble and Boggle are the games that Lynzee and I have played for years. Both of us are very competitive. I kick Lynzee’s ass in Boggle, and she does the same to me in Scrabble.
“I can see that the twins and Jett are doing well, but how about you? How are you feeling?”
“Defeated.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to tell Jett, but we’re almost out of money.”
“Didn’t you get an equity loan?”
“Yes, but it’s been almost a year. I thought I would’ve had a new contract by now.”
Lynzee opens up her purse and pulls out her checkbook. “Here,” she says while she’s writing. “I hope this helps. It’s all I can afford right now.”
She hands me a check for $20,000. I hug her. “Thanks, Lynzee.”
“You’re welcome. Now I need something from you.”
“Name it.”
“Tell Jett about April. This has gone on long enough.”
We both look up when we hear the shuffling of feet at the back door. It’s Jett.
“Hello, ladies.”
“Hey, Jett,” Lynzee says and stands to give him a hug.
Inside, I’m cringing. He kisses my forehead and asks, “Why are you two looking so serious?”
Before I can open my mouth to tell a lie, Lynzee speaks up. “We were talking about Charity’s writing contract.”
Jett puts his hand on my shoulder. “Wow. So, you’ve got a contract, honey?”
“No,” Lynzee interjects. “She just needs a few months to secure one. You’ve got faith in Charity’s talents, don’t you, Jett?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then give her a little time. She deserves your support. After all, she’s already proven that she can land a good contract.” Lynzee winks at Jett. “Let her agent do her job. Charity should be getting that call anytime now. Will you give her a little time to prove herself?”
“Yes. Sure.”
I cross my arms over my chest. I don’t like this little scene one damn bit. How dare they speak about me as if I’m not even here? And Jett just caved in like a domesticated spouse. When Lynzee leaves, Jett and I are going to have a talk, and it’s not going to be pretty.
“Why would you talk like I’m not present?” I demand as soon as Lynzee’s plane lifts off the ground and we’re sitting in our car at the airport.
“What are you talking about?” Jett says, looking all innocent.
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play games with me.” I know that my reaction to the scene with Lynzee has more to do with jealousy over their past relationship, but I can’t tell him what I know, so instead I say, “Don’t you ever patronize me again about my writing career. Do you understand?”
Jett shakes his head. “Hey, you’re the one who didn’t tell me about your upcoming contract.” He turns away. “That’s your dream. I’ve tried to be supportive.”
Later that evening, I receive a call from Lynzee to let me know she arrived home safely. “Don’t forget,” she says, “I still expect you to tell Jett about his daughter.”
A few days later, I call Lynzee. “I told Jett about April. He doesn’t believe it.”
Lynzee believes me, even though I’m lying through my teeth. I’ll have to think of another lie when she asks me again.
When Lynzee calls one Saturday afternoon, Jett is off riding his motorcycle and the twins are in their studio painting.
“Hey, Lynzee. It’s good to hear from you. How’s Tyler?” I try to be friendly, and hope she hasn’t called to start trouble.
“Giving me the blues. She and her boyfriend, Raymond, are seeing too much of each other. The more I try to intervene, the tighter they get.”
“Oh, I’m so glad that I have boys.”
“I’m calling about something else, though.”
“Oh, what?” My knees are shaking. I can see Lynzee’s face glaring at me.
“I just received my royalty check from my movie. It’s double what I thought it’d be, so I put a check in the mail to you for twenty grand.”
I still can’t understand her. One day she’s giving me ultimatums that might destroy my marriage, and the next she’s giving me money. One thing about my sister: no one could ever call her predictable.
“You didn’t have to do that, Lynzee. I still have money left.”
“Good. I don’t want you to get broke.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“No need. Consider it an anniversary present.”
“You remembered our anniversary?”
“Of course. It’s the same day as Mom and Dad’s. How could I forget?”
It’s moments like these when I regret that sometimes I talk about Lynzee behind her back. I feel like a two-faced traitor.
Lynzee even takes the time to read three of my chapters of my new book. She’s never done that before. I’m confident that she’s really trying to help me this time.
Then the old Lynzee resurfaces. One day, when she finishes reading the second draft of my third chapter, she says, “Charity, this chapter is horrible. There are so many mistakes, I’ve lost count.”
“Maybe I sent you the wrong version,” I offer weakly. “I’ll e-mail it to you again.” Before I send it, I carefully read over the pages. I find a few mistakes and resend it.
“Is this the best you can do?” she shouts in my ear afte
r I say hello.
“What’s wrong this time?” I’m starting to get angry. I’d bet my life that she hasn’t found a mistake.
“You have no voice!”
“No voice?”
“You’ve read too many books. And by bad authors. Your writing sounds like a hodgepodge of all of them. You need your own voice.”
You mean I need a voice that mirrors yours.
I’m so angry I could spit gasoline. Michael Crichton is a great author, and so are Patricia Cornwell, John Sanford, Scott Turow, and Dean Koontz. What in the hell is she talking about? Although these authors write thrillers, I feel that the pacing of their novels helps me when plotting my contemporary novels. I want my books to read like a movie reel.
I’ve finally had enough of her attacking my writing. I’m so sick of her sabotaging my career. I muster up the nerve to confront her. “Lynzee,” I start, “I heard a rumor a while back…”
“Go on.”
“I’m told that you and my old agent had me blacklisted. Is that true?” Tears wobble in my voice.
“How dare you ask me such a stupid question? Why would I do that?”
“Because you don’t want to compete with me.”
“Listen, Charity. I don’t know how to break this to you, but you’re not a good writer. You’ll never enjoy the success that I have. I suggest you find a new career, because you’ll never make it as a writer.” She hangs up.
I know she’s my sister, but with everything she’s putting me through, I hate Lynzee. I’m going to hit that New York Times bestsellers list one day just to spite her. Let’s let the public decide who the better author is then.
9
The twenty thousand dollars that Lynzee claimed she was going to send never arrives. We have run out of money from the first loan and desperately need another one.
“Mrs. Evans, I understand your reservations, but if I can’t get your home equity loan approved, no one can.”
That’s exactly what the loan officer from Consumers Bank tells me. There are very few people that I dislike, and a few that I detest, mainly loan officers. I truly try not to hate people. Presently, I hate banks and bank tellers who try to smile at me when they handle my money—or lack of it. I hate broke tellers who look at my credit card being over the limit and kindly broadcast that fact loud enough so that two people behind me in line will hear.
We Ain’t the Brontës Page 5