Destiny Lingers

by Rolonda Watts

  This humongous wedding was sure to be the talk of the town, maybe the nation, as folks across the country were into lavish fantasy weddings after Princess Diana had just floated down those cathedral steps in the longest train any of us had ever seen on TV, much less in real life. Glued to the international news, people all across America and the rest of the Free World dreamed of the “perfect wedding.” My mother was determined to throw one.

  “Oh, they are going to be talking about this one for years!” she gushed one day over her morning coffee and her forever-growing invitation list. “It’s is going to be the talk of the town, I tell you.”

  Mother was dressed in a flowing lavender caftan, her thick black hair tied up on top of her head and wrapped inside an elaborate silk scarf, making her look like a bold African queen. Sitting at her throne at the end of the family breakfast table, she was using a no. 2 pencil to modify my wedding registry list.

  “I marked off those silly pottery plates you listed here,” she said as she struck another line through the word “pottery.” “I listed a beautiful set of china for you instead—Wedgewood. It goes with everything.”

  “It doesn’t go with burgers, Mother.” It was too early in the morning for the you-are-a-lady-and-don’t-forget-it speech. “Garrett and I don’t need china. We like pottery. You know, earthy stuff.”

  Mother jerked her head up, staring me down with dogged disdain. She pushed down the sides of her mouth into a deep frown, as if something smelled bad.

  “Well, then eat off the ground, for God’s sake!” she snapped. I could hear her mumbling something about us being a couple of heathens as she shook her head, pursed her lips, and returned to slaughtering my registry.

  “Mother,” I pleaded, “please don’t turn this into a circus. Garrett and I envisioned a small, intimate wedding with just a few close people we love and lots of candlelight and bunches of roses.” I could feel myself float out of my body on my bubble of a dream—until Mother popped it.

  “Well, that’s ridiculous.” She looked up from my list. “You come from a prominent family, remember. Your father is a doctor. We are not a bunch of hippies, for goodness’ sake.”

  Had Mother heard one thing I’d just said? Did she even care? Did it always have to be about her? How did I suddenly become so insignificant in my own wedding?

  “No, Mother, this is ridiculous,” I proceeded with caution as I noticed that “you’d-better-watch-yo’-step” look come across her face. “It’s my wedding, Mother, and you don’t even acknowledge that. It’s my day, you know.” I prayed she wouldn’t shoot off like a ballistic missile.

  “Look, I am doing this for you.” She whipped off her reading glasses, scolding me with one of the stems. “Your father and I worked too hard around here and doled out too much charity money not to have this whole damn town come out and support you.”

  Clearly, this was no longer about Garrett and me.

  “But they don’t have to give us china, Mother; that’s all I’m saying. We don’t need china.”

  “Well, what will you serve your guests on when you have dinner parties and such?” She looked at me like I was crazy. “Now look, you have eaten on china from birth. I will not even consider your not having a complete and decent set for your wedding.” She snatched a frilly floral hanky out of her watchband, blew on her reading glasses, and started wiping the lenses clean.

  “Trust me; you’ll need a touch of class, living with that beast you’re marrying. I bet he’s the one talking about ‘pottery.’” She popped her glasses back on top of her nose and peered over the rims at me. “Don’t you let that man make you less of yourself, now. You hear me?”

  “Mother, please …”

  “I’m serious. Don’t you let that man turn you into a heathen and take away all your father and I have taught and given you. We fought for that. Sacrificed everything. You are pedigreed—of a certain class—and don’t you forget it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I bowed my head in my usual obedience.

  “Oh!” Mother snapped her manicured fingers into the air. “I thought about the wedding march too. ‘Trumpet Voluntary’ by Purcell. It was the same one Princess Diana used for her wedding. Oh, you will love it,” she gushed. “The piece is so full of grandeur—simple but elegant.” Lost in the moment, Mother circled her hand around in the air like a musical conductor. Then, with a squint of her nose, she went back to my registry.

  “China, a thousand people, and, now Princess Di’s wedding march? Mother!” I wailed. She was barreling out of control. “What are you doing?”

  “I am giving you the gift of a lifetime, madame.” She glared across the table. “And you will shut up and appreciate it, and put on a good face for this family as you go ahead and marry that man you know your father and I do not approve of! It might as well be a good show.”

  “A good show?” I couldn’t believe the coldness of her remarks. This is not what a mother is supposed to say about the best day of your life. “It’s not about you, Mother,” I said sadly. Her words hurt beyond belief. Was this beast in a caftan really my mother? I sat there staring at what I swore were two horns growing out of the top of her head.

  “Not about me, you say?” she scoffed. “Not about me? Oh, yes it is! Ha! When you come home crying to me when he screws this thing up, I bet you it’ll be about me then, won’t it!”

  “Excuse me,” I said as I lifted myself from the table. I knew there was no need to reason with her. Mother was on a wedding-day mission—her own—and no one was going to stop her, not even the bride.

  “You didn’t eat anything,” Mother said.

  “Not hungry,” I replied. I headed back to the safety of my childhood room, where I was staying for this “wonderful weekend of wedding planning.” I suddenly had a rushing feeling that no place in this house was safe. I thanked God again and again for allowing me to forge a new family for myself and to move on with my life. It was the most important thing in the world to me. I survived that weekend with my mother just out of knowing that finally my family life was going to change and for the better.

  “I tell you what …” Mother’s suddenly cheery voice stopped me in my tracks. I slowly turned to face the monster.

  “How about I list both the china and those pottery plates you like. You can use one for your burgers or whatever and the china for special occasions.” She sat there so confident and satisfied and pleased with herself. Even though I thought this too was a bit much, I could not take such glorious elation from Mother at that moment. More important, I needed peace.

  “Not too much, you sure?”

  “Oh no, no, dear. Not too much at all.” She smiled her reassurance. “We’ve invited a thousand people, for God’s sake!” She chuckled. “You can surely have two dinner sets.” She settled back in her chair with the satisfaction of a fat cat. Periwinkle blue was one of only a couple of ideas that Garrett and I suggested that actually made it into our wedding. It didn’t matter what we felt, as long as Mother was happy. Our wedding was a huge political and social success for her. Daddy, naturally and obediently, agreed, although he was so drunk when he walked me down the aisle that he almost danced a jig. I’m not sure he even remembers it. I know he was drinking to forget I was marrying Garrett—and who knows what else.

  Old Miss Coon directed the wedding. Folks say it was the only one in town that year that started on time. In fact, we had to beg Miss Coon not to start the nuptials ten minutes early. God knows I needed that time.

  “There’s a lot of fancy white folks sitting out there,” she whispered to the wedding party as we waited in the church vestibule. “We can’t start this wedding on CP time!”

  I remember at that very moment, wondering if I was doing the right thing. Perhaps all jittery brides go through second thoughts just before the wedding, but I recall all of a sudden remembering Chip, the golden boy from my childhood who stole my heart. I fe
lt a deep sadness at the unfairness of it all. I could never have been with Chip, never imagined him waiting for me at the other end of the altar like this, and only because the boy was white and poor.

  Why would I wonder about that boy on my wedding day?

  While my parents were still not happy about my marrying Garrett, they pretended to be elated as they floated through the wedding crowd, accepting praise and congratulations. The champagne reception was held at the Little Theater, where years ago as a child, I had performed in my first play. It took more than an hour for everybody to get through the receiving line. Garrett and I cut the cake. I fed him a piece as we posed for the cameras. We laughed at how much our jaw muscles ached after all of that smiling. We could barely flex our faces for the photographers.

  Back at my parents’ home, company came from all over the southern region just to gawk at my high-falootin’ wedding and our hundreds and hundreds of exquisite gifts. Mother’s helpers—women from her bridge and social clubs—had erected long folding tables along the walls of our basement, covered them with the family’s finest linen tablecloths (handed down over the generations), and placed each wedding gift on display with a name card noting the giver. Everyone could see who was invited and what gift they gave the happy couple. Mother designed this to be the wedding of the decade. You would have thought it was hers.

  We received a sterling silver serving tray from Dr. Maya Angelou, with an elaborate “N” for Nelson engraved in the middle. The president of Duke University gave us a beautiful porcelain Swiss clock, and we received so many place settings of Wedgewood china (thirty-six to be exact) that we had to take some back to the store in exchange for the practical things a young couple needs—like a toaster, a blender, a frying pan, and wooden spoons.

  “Look at all of those gifts.” Garrett stood wide-eyed and open-armed in the middle of my family’s basement. He was grinning from ear to ear at the expensive wares. Garrett never again complained about Mother having invited a thousand mostly unknown guests to our wedding. As far as Garrett was concerned, her involvement finally paid off.

  We made Jet magazine—a huge honor in the black community, as the historic magazine sits on just about every black family’s coffee table around the world. Our wedding news also hit our hometown newspapers, the New York Times, and some of the tabloids as well.

  I have not thought about periwinkle blue since our wedding day. Have not even considered the color—until now, as I stare down at this piece of periwinkle lingerie that my husband has lovingly selected and laid out on a rose-petaled bed for his girlfriend—his lover—my so-called “best friend.” He clearly knows what periwinkle blue is today.

  I stand here, once again, seeing red.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I think you should put that damn thing on and lie across the bed and surprise his ass when he walks in here,” Kat hisses as Hope and I huddle around her. We all stare down at the lingerie as if it’s some kind of strange fish that washed ashore.

  “That would sure surprise him all right,” Hope adds with a squinched-up face as she imagines the sordid scene.

  “Fuck that!” I spit, not even sounding like myself. “I’m not stooping that low.”

  “No, you’re right.” Hope waffles back to my side. “But what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I confess. “But Eve could be downstairs right now, telling that man behind the desk that she is Mrs. Nelson.”

  “Okay, okay, just hold up.” Kat begins pacing the plush carpet like a panther. “Let me think.”

  “Well, we better do something fast,” Hope urges. “If Eve is coming, she’ll be here any minute. We’re running out of time.”

  “And ideas,” I interject. I am really scared now. At any moment, anything could happen. And whatever does is probably not going to be pretty.

  Kat snaps her finger. “Okay, here’s the deal.”

  Hope and I huddle back around her, eagerly anticipating our next game plan.

  “Remember my fat friend downstairs at the curb?”

  “Yeah, your boyfriend?” Hope rolls her eyes to the heavens.

  “Yeah, well, I’m about to ask Big Boy for a little favor.” Kat flashes a sly smile.

  Hope and I lean in closer.

  “I say we ask the nice gentleman if he would be so kind as to ask ‘Mrs. Nelson’ to go directly to her husband’s suite instead of stopping at the front desk as planned. I’ll put the key in an envelope, leave it with the fat guy, and have him give it to her as soon as she steps out of the cab.”

  Hope sighs heavily, losing patience and faith. “What? And what are we supposed to do then, Kat? Let her in?”

  “How will he even know it’s her?” I ask, not completely sold on her plan.

  “Oh, he’ll know,” Kat says. “Who could miss all that red hair?”

  Of course. The red hair is what started this whole thing in the first place.

  “I know that doorman will be all over that girl and her booty with his big ol’ fish eyes.” Hope exaggerates the man’s lusty look and bulging eyes.

  “Okay, then what?” I ask, getting back down to business.

  “Hope and I will wait around the corner just down the hallway, and you …”

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “We’re putting you in the closet,” Kat says matter-of-factly. “We came here to catch a cheat, and that’s just what we’re going to do. Proof, plus two witnesses!”

  “What?” I am about to explode. “You have got to be kidding me! Have you lost your damn mind?”

  Kat crosses her arms and looks at me. “Well, do you have a better idea?”

  I stand, mouth open, looking back and forth at my two best girlfriends. But the truth is—I don’t have a better idea, and I have to know the truth. Leaving is not an option. We have to do something fast.

  “But what if he opens the closet door, Kat? What then?” I ask.

  Kat swoops over to the double closet doors and swings them open by their elegant brass handles. Inside, Garrett’s garment bag hangs down to the floor. Next to it hangs a plush terry cloth robe, compliments of the Ritz. He has a couple of suit jackets lined up—the green one his folks brought him back from Paris two years ago and the one his eldest brother handed down to him. It’s his favorite—chocolate brown and green tweed with leather buttons and suede elbow patches. It smells like Garrett.

  “Here. Stand behind the asshole’s garment bag,” Kat firmly directs as she pulls it back. I dutifully step behind it. “He’s already emptied it, so chances are he won’t even come over here. Just don’t move anything. You don’t want him getting suspicious by seeing something out of whack.”

  I stand still, stuffed in the back of the closet. I can’t believe we’re doing this. My mind is twirling around so fast, I can’t even think. I’m becoming claustrophobic for the first time in my life. I have to get out of here.

  “How about I get under the bed instead?” I plead. “They wouldn’t think to look there, would they?”

  “I already checked under there,” Hope chimes in. “Not enough room.”

  “Dear God,” I say, slowly shaking my head. “Has my life really come to this?”

  “We don’t have time to talk about that right now,” Kat says as she slams the closet doors shut in my face, leaving me in the dark. “C’mon, Hope, let’s move,” she orders. “Wait down the hall around the corner. I’m going downstairs to talk to Big Boy.”

  “Kat …” I hear Hope’s voice crack. “Are you sure about this?”

  “No,” she snaps. “But it’s the best stuff I got right now, and I don’t hear nobody else coming up with any ideas. So let’s go.”

  I’m left in the closet behind Garrett’s garment bag, in sudden and deafening silence and fear. I can smell Garrett’s cologne. It’s that new one he bought himself just a few weeks ago. I loved it—until now. Tonight,
it is the stench of my husband’s illicit love den.

  I feel sick at the thought of all that Garrett has planned for this room—not for me but exclusively for my best friend who is literally playing me. I’m dizzy at the thought of all the special things my husband has planned to do with and to Eve tonight. I think of how she lied to get out of dinner with us girls, just so she could instead have dinner and “dessert” with my scheming-ass husband behind my stupid-ass back.

  That skank ho!

  I want to jump out of this closet and annihilate this room, throw those roses out this twelfth-floor window, and rip that goddamned periwinkle teddy to shreds. I want to shove that cold bottle of Moet up Eve’s ass and all of these fucking red petals down her throat. How dare she make fools of us like this? How dare she use our sacred friendship to deceive us all? And how dare my husband let her?

  I suddenly jump at the sound of two loud pounding thuds on the door.

  “Heads up!” Kat calls, breathing heavily. “We’re all set. Red should arrive at any moment. Stay cool!”

  I hear Kat scuttle down the hallway where Hope is waiting. The two will stand by for whatever is bound to happen next.

  I am counting on my legs to hold up; it’s as if I’m covering another long, grueling hostage situation. If I suddenly have to jump out at somebody, I don’t want to do it from down on the floor, so I continue standing behind the big garment bag, happy that I am only five foot four, so if I bend my legs a bit, the top of my head won’t show above the bag, and I can easily spring into action. I see a dirty towel thrown on the closet floor. I stick out my foot to pull it in closer, forming a high pile underneath the garment bag to hide my feet.

  I am ready. So now, I wait. I take a few really deep breaths, fearing I may not get to breathe very much when they get here, as I might be heard. I wait and I wait. I hold my breath and release. Hold. Release.

  Suddenly, my whirling thoughts are chased away by a sound at the door. I hear a key slowly sliding in the lock and then the hushed click of the door opening. I freeze. I tremble. I am scared.