“There has to be limits and constraints to our spending. Each household should have a money manager. Brothers and sisters,” Deacon Tripp said, bowing out of courtesy to Mrs. Blain, “as a manager, you can’t complain about excessive spending of your wives or husband if you’re not setting the ground rules and are not having regular reviews of the family finances.”
“You’ve got to stop talking at each other and start talking with each other. Make decisions in a loving consensus,” Mrs. Tripp pleaded as her husband cosigned.
“How many of you have a working budget?” Deacon Tripp asked. He raised his hand himself to show he was teaching by example.
Corey raised his hand with everyone else, even Pill, although he knew the operative word was “working.” They couldn’t finish Marriage Prep without something in place.
“How many of you have only one bank account that you share?”
One by one, hands began to fall, some immediately and others reluctantly, like Corey’s. Pill’s hand dropped like it was weighted with lead when she realized hers was the only hand still up. She suddenly took an interest in Corey, searching his face for what that silent poll revealed. She might not have known about his savings account, but his savings account had bailed her out of debt on more than one occasion.
Mrs. Tripp tsked like a parent standing in judgment. She huddled together with her husband as they catered a game plan for this group. Corey took a look at the wall clock and was surprised that their class time had elapsed so quickly. The Tripps were probably discussing a shortcut to closure.
“The article we ran off talks about the fallout of financial infidelity, but it also leaves you with helpful steps to becoming financially compatible,” Deacon Tripp said, holding up the article that had been handed out earlier.
“It warns against separate accounts especially. A secret breeds mistrust in a marriage. I say if you share a bed, you can share a household account,” Mrs. Tripp added, the mother in her apparent.
Mrs. Blain raised her hand to half-staff and waited to be acknowledged. “What about individual retirement accounts and investment portfolios?”
Deacon Tripp turned the article around to face him as if the answer to Mrs. Blain’s question would jump right out at him. “I think some of that is addressed in the article. I wish we had time to read and discuss this. Sister Tripp and I decided that we should all read this at home and come next month prepared to take ten minutes to discuss it. Is that all right?”
Most people motioned or mouthed an agreement with their instructors’ plan.
“Oh, Brother and Sister Taylor, it says here you’ll be coming up on your six-month anniversary before the next meeting date. I guess we will see you all sooner in our individual counseling session.” Sister Tripp sang, “Happy Anniversary.”
Corey nodded his acknowledgment as Pill stuffed their session materials in her oversized bag. People busied themselves, putting on coats and fetching purses as if the school bell had rung. Corey snatched up Pill’s heavy ruffled shawl so that he could play the gentleman and help her put it on. She turned her back to him so that he could drape it on her shoulders. When he did, he hugged her from behind. He held on. She sighed heavily and waited a moment before whispering, “Get off me, Corey.” He released her because he knew with that tone a shove couldn’t be that far off.
“Wait, wait, we want to pray,” Sister Tripp announced. Everyone stopped as if playing a game of freeze tag.
“Lord, God grant us traveling grace,” Brother Tripp began immediately so not to extend the class any further with one of his wife’s wordy prayers. “Sustain our marriages and Father, if there are any harsh feelings or misunderstandings derived from our discussion today, may we leave it here so it won’t follow us to our front door. Amen.”
As his classmates were saying their amens, Corey was saying his own prayer. Lord, help me take control of our finances and this relationship. Hear my prayer because I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need an all-access pass just to get in my front door, let alone the bedroom.
Chapter 8
Pill entertained her best friend, Shae, at the pub table off of her modest kitchen. She was making grits and had a pan of farm-raised catfish frying for their brunch. They would leave the rest for Corey who was still upstairs. After yesterday’s gripe session at Marriage Maintenance class, Pill and Corey had managed to stay out of each other’s way the entire night. Argument or no argument, she still enjoyed cooking for him.
He had always gone into work late on her day off, which would have made this the opportune time to work things out, so she invited Shae over as a buffer.
“So, I heard after I left on Saturday that Carmen wanted you to rescue the ten or fifteen strands of hair left on Ms. Vivian’s head,” Pill said followed by a chuckle.
“It’s not funny. That was a pure setup,” Shae said, pushing her small ruby-colored frames up on her slightly chubby face. Her twist-out hairstyle sprang to life like a thousand of Medusa’s snakes all over her head as she laughed. “Oh my goodness, Pill, I personally blame all of you at Carmen’s Epic Beauty for allowing that to happen to that woman’s head.”
Pill got up from the table to flip her fish in the pan one last time. She continued the conversation from her post at the stove. “All she wants is perm, color, or a weave that her hair it too weak to support. Her hair is so overprocessed. Did you feel it? It doesn’t even feel like hair. She has not one living follicle left.”
“And all she kept saying is, ‘I can’t come home to my man with no hair,’” Shae said, her voice going up an octave with each incredulous syllable.
Pill had seen it all before but had to reflect that Ms. Vivian was a most extreme case of delusion. “In actuality, we give her the allusion of hair.”
Pill drained the last of her fish and made available paper plates and a cup for Shae to serve herself. She motioned for her friend to get up while she heaped a spoonful of heavy cheese grits on her plate.
The mall wasn’t the only place Pill shopped incessantly. She faithfully went to the grocery store on her day off. There was something about making sure a meal was on the table that she held dear. Hunger bred desperation. She had been at the doorstep of both and would rather not visit either destination again in her adult life. Every misguided step she witnessed growing up was always attributed to the fact that “they had to eat,” which she internalized as somehow her fault.
Shae got up, pulling her Caribbean Carnival T-shirt and belted yellow sweater down over knit pants that clung to her like leggings and black high top Converse. Pill’s friend had always been wide, but flat with her own eccentric style that matched her personality: bright, bold, and colorful.
“I told her that she could be Tina Turner if she’d let her hair breathe and wear a wig for a while. She hated that idea also, like she had some type of stigma against wig wearers,” Shae continued, returning to her seat after making a plate. “I mean, if these are the type of clients you all are going to send my way, then I might have to reconsider working at the shop.”
“No, Shae, watch and see. We’re going to have so much fun working together again like at Beauty,” Pill whined. “So tell me, what did you end up doing to her hair?”
“I braided it. I used this technique where you add in a dark yarn that blended in with her hair to hold up the style,” Shae said, demonstrating with her fingers. “Now she can go home to her husband with some hair. I told her and Carmen I was into natural hair care, healing, and therapy, and that she was not to return to me unless she was willing to let those old styling habits go.”
“That’s how you do it, Shae. Snag you a returning customer by providing them a signature style they keep coming back for,” Pill said, using her fork tainted with grits as a pointer.
“But I don’t want her as a regular customer,” Shae said very pitifully, shaking her head at what could only be a memory of the ordeal she went through with Ms. Vivian.
“You don’t want her?” Pill stared at her frie
nd until Shae looked up from her untouched plate.
“You told me we have to pay for our own specialty supplies. There is not that much money or yarn in the world.”
They both laughed. Shae’s entire body shook like each giggle reverberated within before being released. Pill tapped the table several times with the flat of her hand as she choked out her laughter, hoping she wouldn’t choke on her meal. Shae slapped her playfully on the back, but her heavy hand sent grits hurling from Pill’s mouth, which caused them to laugh some more. Pill placed a napkin over her mouth to contain herself, leaving laughter no recourse but to come out as a snort. Shae was the only one she routinely got undignified with. She realized she hadn’t laughed like that in a while.
They quieted as they heard Corey trudge across the floor above them. They had awakened the sleeping bear, and it temporarily took away Pill’s sense of humor. She hoped he wouldn’t come downstairs just yet and spoil the mood.
“What are you waiting for? I just realized you’re not eating. We are not in Mosby Court. Don’t even think I am giving you any foil.”
This time they smiled uneasily at each other at the practice of eating modestly or not at all when invited to someone else’s house, but wrapping a more generous plate to go so that they could gorge on it in private or share with their family later. Pill worried about Shae’s nomadic ways. Although they were far from the Mosby Court projects where they both grew up, old habits died hard, especially when in survival mode.
Shae spent most of her formative years nursing a terminally ill mother. When her mother died, Shae’s mom left her a dilapidated house that was paid for and had been in her family for generations.
Shae has had many crafty ways of making a living, mostly vending her homemade lotions, potions, and beaded jewelry she made in her free time. Pill knew she always braided a head or two around the way, but wanted more than anything for her friend to fit in and find stability at Carmen’s Epic Beauty.
“Are you okay?” Pill asked, which was their code words for do you need any money.
“Yeah,” Shae said, tooting her lips and waving her concern off with her hand. “I got class. C’mon, Pill, let me take this and another piece of fish for the road.”
Pill got up and stepped in front of her friend as if to stop her from leaving, “You can’t leave. I need you. Corey is about to come downstairs and . . .”
With her thumb that had been dipped in grits in her mouth, Shae immediately shook her head in pity. “What are you and Corey mad about this time?”
Pill shrugged. “He’s been a grump lately, and you always lighten the mood, you know? Put a smile on his face.”
“I’m thinking making Corey smile is your job. You are the one married to him. Isn’t that in your vows or something?” Shae stepped around Pill’s petite frame and went straight to the pantry to find the foil. When she did, she ripped off a piece to cover her carryout.
Pill tried to playfully grab the plate from her friend’s hand. “Oh no, you’re not.”
Shae was quick and grabbed Pill’s hand instead before it reached her plate secured now with foil. She looked at Pill so seriously it halted her countermove. “I love you, girl, but you are like Ms. Vivian sometimes. You live in a very complex and sometimes delusional world in your mind. I was there when you crowned yourself Queen of the Universe when we didn’t have enough money for the senior class trip and you ended up sleeping over at my house, remember? I know you meant that literally. Cut Corey some slack. When the two of you argue, I suspect he doesn’t even begin to know the root of your issues. He just sees the queen.” With plate still in hand, Shae let Pill’s hand go and curtsied.
“Whatever, Dr. Phil, I asked for company, not advice,” Pill said, rolling her eyes before returning to her stool at the table. She thought about what her friend had said. Her bangs hung over her head like a weeping willow as she leaned over her plate to break apart a piece of fish before shoving it in her mouth.
Pill didn’t appreciate being called delusional. Was she delusional because she chose to detach herself from her past? She couldn’t face it or anyone connected to it, except Shae. She didn’t want to lose Corey, and she feared disclosing every detail about her past would make him unbearable to look at as well. He doesn’t need to know it all. He knew enough—enough to leave it alone.
Shae laid her plate to the side of Pill’s before pulling on her military-style jacket over her ensemble. She looked at Pill before saying, “It’s time for you guys to have some healthy marital discourse. Give my man the grand tour of Pillville, then bump him up to VIP status where he belongs. He’s a good guy, not like those hustlers and sugar daddies you tried to attach yourself to in the past.”
Pill was through trying to convince her friend to stay and tired of her commentary. “Enjoy your three-hour class at Empire.”
There was a silence that suggested deceit as Shae laced her hands through fingerless gloves. She picked up her plate and proceeded to the front door. Pill knew something wasn’t right, so she followed her. Once again she blocked her friend’s exit, folded her arms across her chest, and silently demanded some sort of explanation for her friend’s curt exit.
“I’m not in beauty school, okay? Well, not at Empire like everyone thinks,” Shae finally admitted. “I commute to the D.C. area on Mondays and stay with a classmate until Tuesday to attend the Walker School to become a certified loctician.”
“Unlike you, I’m not passing any judgment, but Carmen, our boss, has given you every Tuesday off and excused you from monthly meetings on Mondays, thinking you’re in class to finish your standard cosmetology license.”
“Why should I? I did my hours in high school, like you. Remember, I was one year behind you and Carmen. Besides, pioneers in the trade of natural hair care say it’s slavery to pad the pockets of industry regulators, taking courses and getting licenses in a trade we’ve been doing since the motherland.”
Pill started to reiterate to Ms. Militant that going to school was a contingency of her booth rental when she looked up to find her husband, shoebox in hand, about to descend the steps. She said nothing to acknowledge him when their eyes met. He looked like a boyishly handsome giant with a serious case of bed head from that elevation. She watched him tread heavily down the stairs in a long sleeve shirt, lounge pants, tube socks, and flip-flops. All that was missing was the Spiderman bathrobe and teddy bear.
“Hi, Corey, bye, Corey,” Shae said, waving with both her greeting and closing.
Corey gave Shae the peace sign as he crossed between them at the entrance and proceeded into the kitchen.
“Wait, we’re not finished,” Pill said to Shae, more for Corey’s benefit.
“What?” Shae whispered. Their eyes were playing a tug of war. “Don’t worry about me and Carmen. She is behind the times. I know laws regulating a natural hair care stylist have changed and been reversed again. We’ve got crusaders working for us, girl. Standards of those who intend to help heal and maintain hair naturally are different than those who intend to perm and dye hair with chemicals. By the time Carmen is expecting me to finish, I will have two certificates and be a more versatile stylist.”
“Something tells me Carmen is not going to fall for the okeydokey. You work for her now. When the shop is backed up, she wants to be able to send any client to you.”
“Like I said, don’t worry about me. You need to be worrying about what is in that box of his,” Shae said, taking her voice down a notch further while pointing. She had the other hand on the front doorknob, opening it for her exit.
“I know, right,” Pill agreed.
Corey must have been fixing a plate at the stove because all she could see when she peered down the hall was that shoebox atop the table. Pill imagined that this must be what it felt like to have a father in her life and have to face his wrath.
Chapter 9
Corey waited for Pill. His back was to the front entrance as he started his breakfast. He could hear the click of his wife’s hee
ls approaching.
“Want some eggs?” she asked, passing by him to the refrigerator. Her tone indicated her question was more out of obligation than for his gratification.
Before he could answer, he watched her take the jumbo carton of eggs from the refrigerator to the stove top area anyway. She was fully dressed in a pair of stonewashed jeans, a coral-blue scoop neck sweater with several necklaces of varying colors, lengths, and designs contrasting against her dark skin. He scanned her entire body from behind. She was the complete package, fulfilling his classic TV show fantasy of a wife dressed up and in heels, cooking his meal, a culinary Clair Huxtable. She was ruining it now by scuffing the hardwood with those boots.
“I don’t want any eggs; I want you to sit down so we can talk.” He tore into a piece of catfish he picked up with his hands in an attempt to consume some of his food before The Great Talks began.
He watched her replace the eggs in the refrigerator with a huff before coming over to the table, where she placed the heel of her boot in the bottom rung of the stool to push herself up on it. She positioned herself sideways to face him, crossed her shapely legs, and stared at him as if to say, “Well?”
They looked at each other. Suddenly, everything he wanted to say was temporarily a blur. Although he knew he had something important to establish that might entail an intense debate, he’d gladly forget a rift even existed between the two of them for a midmorning romp. The craving was stronger than his desire to eat. All she had to do was say the word.
She smirked and shook her head as if she could read his mind. “So, are you going to say something, or am I supposed to guess what it is you want to talk to me about?” Pill finally asked sarcastically, dashing his hopes of moving the peace talks bedside.
He remembered thinking when they first met that this petite-sized woman should have a small peep of a voice. He came to find out that her voice, like everything with Pill, was strong, confident, and full-bodied.
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