I fumble through my purse for my ID and the account number. If Lamonte left half the money, I’ll be grateful. I slide my ID to Keith and recite the account number as he punches away at his keyboard. He tilts his face toward the screen. “Whoa!”
My heart palpitates as he turns the screen toward me. I stare at the amount. One hundred and twenty-five dollars. “Bastard!”
Keith’s eyebrows do a Groucho Marx. “Bad break-up?”
“Bad is an understatement.”
Keith investigates further and scrolls through the account history. “Appears the withdrawal was made early Saturday morning. Lamonte Dunlap received a cashier’s check in the amount of $74,875.” I sit back in the seat and ponder my next move. “Would you like to close the account, Ms. Williamson?”
“Yes. Please.”
I wait as Keith retrieves the last of my money and places it in an envelope. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“No. You’ve been most helpful.”
I exit the bank, enraged by Lamonte’s cruelty. He thinks so little of me as a person he didn’t even want to give me one percent of our goal. I’m not even worth one percent? Not a tear will fall from my eyes today.
I look in the mirror and declare, “I am Antoinette Maria Williamson and I will survive.”
I open my purse to stuff the envelope inside and notice handwriting on the back.
You don’t deserve this situation. Keep your head up, Beautiful. KJ.
Keith’s note makes me smile.
I head home and imagine how wonderful a hot bath will be. My knees and hands tremble as I drive. Half of that money was mine. I’m in good financial standing, but thirty-thousand plus is thirty-thirty plus. Period. Good thing I’m a homeowner. A man is the last thing on my mind, and Giovanna can find another place. This is the A, after all. Properties abound. I’ll break the news to her gently. I will return her deposit, first two months’ rent, and give the money back with interest.
Giovanna instructs two men carrying a decorative dresser as I park in my driveway. Her flowing hair blows in the slight breeze as she waves her arms toward the door. The yellow sundress she wears makes her look fifteen instead of twenty-four. Her bronze skin says Sao Paulo. She’s a true Brazilian girl.
She spots me and runs to my car, pearly whites sparkling. “Ms. Toni! Como estamos?”
I lean from my window. “Giovanna, Não falo português.”
She bends to face me and her hammered, gold-spiraled nose cuff glistens. “Well, you spoke that phrase I taught you. How are you, Ms. Toni?”
The two men go inside with the dresser. “I thought you’d already moved your things in.”
She opens my door, awaits my exit, then hugs me. I feel her appreciation as she presses me close. “My dad and brother arrived from Sao Paulo Sunday, so we’re moving the last of my things in now. Mom’s inside. I want you to meet her.”
I follow Giovanna up the stairs and I’m welcomed into my own home by the most delicious smells. My eyes beeline to the kitchen as a middle-aged version of Giovanna rocks her hips to a samba tune in snug jeans and a hot-pink fitted tee. Her hair, like Giovanna’s, flows down her back and over the apron string tied around her neck. Her hot-pink leaf sandals sit next to the dishwasher. Immediately, I think of my trip to Rio with Lamonte. She hums along with the tune as Giovanna lightly taps her shoulder.
“Mãe, Esta é a minha amiga, Toni.”
The tap startles her mother and she grabs her chest, wipes her hands on her apron, and extends her right hand to me. “Boa Tarde. Coma Vai?”
Giovanna translates. “She says good afternoon and how are you?”
I shake her hand and recall phrases Giovanna taught me when she frequented my building on her photography projects. “Estou bem, obrigada.”
She turns to stir the contents of the Dutch oven and redirects her attention to me. “Você se junte a nós para o almoço?”
“Mom wants to know if you’d like to join us for lunch. We’re having coxinhas and feijoada.”
“Sounds delicious. What is it?”
“Coxinhas is like a chicken croquette and feijoada is black bean stew.”
I remind myself this isn’t a social visit. “May I speak with you in private in the basement?”
Giovanna speaks a phrase to her mother and we head downstairs. I sit on her furniture and marvel at how quickly she’s made my space hers. She joins me on the couch.
“Is everything okay, Ms. Toni? Is it the money? My mom and dad want to pay the rent each month, but I’m doing well with my photography gigs right now.”
“What’s your major again?”
“Photography is my side hustle, but my major is Digital Filmmaking and Video Production at the Art Institute. I’d love to edit videos, maybe work for a television station someday. With all the studios cropping up around here, I’m sure I’ll find something.”
I clear my throat. “I stopped by because things have changed with my situation.”
“Wait? Did you move the wedding up? I knew Mr. Lamonte wouldn’t wait until October to marry you. I could tell during the engagement photo session how much he loves you. You eloping?”
The unintentional punch hits me to the core. “I…um…the wedding is off for now. So, I may need to—”
“No! What happened?” Giovanna slips next to me in little sister mode and wraps her slender arm around my shoulder. “Luis and I look up to you guys so much. Please tell me it’s a short break and not a final one.”
“We won’t be getting back together. It’s for the best.”
“Oh.”
I look around at the basement again and see how Giovanna has transformed the walls with her beautiful photographs. The most striking photo is one of Luis standing in front of Emory University. Giovanna calls Emory his mistress because his days and nights are spent maintaining A’s so he can get into medical school. They both spoke of making their parents proud when they had dinner with us. Lamonte thought it was would be a good idea to take the couple under our wing since my path kept crossing with Giovanna’s. It’s not fair to make her move because I lied.
“It’s not the money, Giovanna.” I search for the right pastel lie, since I don’t want to toss her on the streets. “I’ve never had anyone rent the place and I want to make sure you take care of it. I’ve heard rental horror stories and this house is my baby.”
Relief washes over Giovanna’s face. “I’ll take care of it like it’s my own. I’ll take better care of it, actually. Thanks for trusting me with your baby.” She squeezes me tighter. “I thought you were putting me out.”
“No. I know how close the house is to your school.”
I stand to leave. Either Giovanna hasn’t read the AJC, or she’s unaware of the situation with my mom. For this I’m grateful. “I came downtown to check on my storage unit on Virginia Avenue. Since I was so close, I decided to swing by the house.”
Upstairs, Giovanna’s parents and her brother are enjoying lunch and engaged in lively conversation. I wave to them as she walks me to my car.
“I’ll call you if any problems arise. Luis is very handy, but I won’t let him touch anything without your permission.”
“You know how to get in touch with me.”
Giovanna hugs me again and walks back inside to her family. I get back in my car and plot my next move. Mama always called me delicate. The encounter with Giovanna made me feel spineless. Why didn’t I kick her out, move back home, and close the blinds and eat ice cream day and night? Thirty pounds, a bad lace-front, and a drab wardrobe could make me a new person. I wouldn’t have to explain anything and be brand new. I start my car as Giovanna runs down the steps with a P.F. Chang’s bag.
“I forgot to give you this.”
The bag contains lots of mail. I filled out a change-of-address form over a month ago for the Conyers house, but mail continues to arrive here. I scan a few bills, advertisements, and the latest issue of Architectural Digest. Hidden between the envelopes is a l
etter from the AJC. I open it and skim its contents. What good is an apology going to do now? I place the letter in the envelope and toss it back in the bag.
Giovanna peers through the front window at me. I bet her family is enjoying their meal, laughing, talking, and discussing how great it is to be one. A whole, intact family enjoying each other. I don’t make it out of my subdivision without slamming my fists on the dashboard. I have no place to go and I can’t believe I’m in this predicament. My engagement CD taunts me again. I place it in the changer and listen to “Sunny” as I ease onto I-75S. I’ll find a hotel for the night and regroup. Being alone is the best thing for me. I change lanes and assess which downtown hotel I’ll spend the next month having a pity-party. I can work from my room. Free Wi-Fi, room service, and cable television will soothe all that ails me. Someone out there wants my expertise; I just have to retweak my marketing efforts.
The traffic is worse today. Not only are cars creeping along on the interstate, I imagine a dignitary must have passed, because only a funeral procession would slow cars this much. I switch lanes again and look for the hearse. I can’t believe my eyes. Not only is it not a hearse, but traffic is suspended by a white van. The sight of it makes me want to curse Richard Pryor under a table. Bold, black-and-green magnets affixed to the vehicle mock me—Slow Moving Vehicle Due To Wedding Cake On Board. Other drivers admire the van’s careful delivery of its special guest. I wonder if the bride ordered buttercream or whipped icing. What fillings layer the cake? Strawberry? Key Lime? Chocolate? I look closer and see the bakery’s name. Let Them Eat Cake Bakery. This was one of the bakeries Lamonte and I visited for wedding cake samples.
Try as I might, I can’t concentrate anymore. Everything flashes before me like a movie as I drive. The 3D movie is of October and the wedding that will never be. Lamonte plants a big kiss on my lips after Pastor Worthen says, “You may now kiss the bride.” Lamonte holds my hand as we jump our handmade broom. Lamonte carries me over the threshold of our home. Lamonte raises Lamonte Dunlap, III’s glistening naked body to the sky and spins him around in a ritual of spiritual blessing in our backyard. Cookouts, double-dates, new contracts, and refurbished homes sail past me. I pull alongside the interstate and with shaky hands, I manage to dial Aunt Mavis’s phone number. Her voice is like soothing waves at the beach on a clear day as she says hello.
I barely manage to speak. “Come. Get. Me.”
Chapter 9
Uncle Raymond agrees to drive my car to Sparta. I wobble along as they help me into the passenger’s side of Aunt Mavis’s car. Whiplash laps at my legs again as Mavis motions for her to sit in the backseat.
“Are we going straight home or stopping for food?” he asks Aunt Mavis.
She looks to me for guidance.
“My storage unit is at the next exit. I need to get a few clothes. I’m not hungry.”
Whiplash barks, shooting down my lack of hunger.
“We’ll get you fries at the McDonald’s drive-thru, Whiplash. Hold tight.” Aunt Mavis pets her as she nestles in her booster seat. She removes a bag of treats from her purse and hands a few to Whiplash.
Uncle Raymond follows us to the unit. I draw a blank with my gate entry passcode, then remember it’s a combination of my mother’s birthday and my driver’s license. I grab a few items, mainly clothing and one of my laptops, and get back in the car. Whiplash’s panting is a nice distraction from my troubles. I’ve never been an animal lover, but something about her makes me feel like I have a friend.
“You can stay with us as long as you like, Toni.”
“Aunt Mavis, this is temporary until I can get back on my feet. Maybe one month, tops.”
“It will take you longer than that to get back on your feet. Home’s been calling you for years.”
“I didn’t have a reason to answer then or now.”
“Will you at least visit your mother?”
Beautiful trees and houses command my attention as I turn to the window. “It’s been so long, Aunt Mavis. I don’t know.”
“At least think about it. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.”
Whiplash barks again as we near the next exit. “What’s going on?” I ask Aunt Mavis.
She chuckles. “She sees the golden arches on the food sign for exit ninety-one.”
“How’d she get the name Whiplash, anyway? That sounds like a male name.”
“Your mother gave it to her on one of her short stints from the hospital. Your cousin Brenda’s sons—”
“Brenda has kids?”
“Yes, ma’am. And a handsome husband named Charles. Anyway, we took a family trip to Callaway Gardens one weekend when Whiplash was a pup. The boys kept tossing her up and down and annoying your mother. She asked the dog’s name and they shrugged. Your mother said, ‘The way y’all throwing that dog up and down, she oughta be named Whiplash!’ The name stuck and that’s what we’ve called her ever since.”
“I forgot how funny she can be sometimes.”
“She is a lot of wonderful things when she takes her meds. I wish you would embrace that fact, Toni.”
“I’ll embrace that fact when you tell me why you gave us away.”
The request silences Aunt Mavis. “You’re too fragile right now. I promise you’ll understand it all later.” She rubs my leg as we pull into the McDonald’s drive-thru.
Aunt Mavis’s words ring true: my mother was lots of wonderful things when she took her meds. Before her diagnosis, I proudly rode to school with her each day. My mother’s third-grade class ran out to greet her every morning. She coasted into her parking space at Sparta Elementary School, and before she opened her door, one student grabbed her piping bowl of grits sprinkled with butter and black pepper, one took her coffee, and one carried her briefcase inside. She favored pantsuits over dresses and skirts, unlike the other teachers. They fit her shapely frame. She walked me to my fourth-grade class and always waved to her fellow teachers in the lounge. By the end of my fourth-grade year, the waves and smiles became turned backs and snickers. I thought they were jealous of her, until a playground incident.
Lisa Jones, our class bully and Principal David Jones’s daughter, gathered all the girls in a circle to play a game. We were her servants and she sat on her makeshift throne—a beanbag chair she brought from home—at recess every day. She kicked Annette Cousins in the back. Annette yelped and allowed her access to the middle of the circle. Satisfaction covered her face as she made us bend to her will. Her beaded braids clanked as she moved them to one side. Wielding a legal pad and a fat number two pencil, she sketched a picture of a house, and a mom with kids minus the dad. Above it she wrote, Whose Your Hollywood Daddy? My grammar flag flew at half-mast after she killed the usage of the word whose. Cousin Clayton had drilled the difference between whose, who’s, there, their, and they’re over the past few weeks. I snatched the pad, struck a line through the word whose, and replaced it with who’s.
“Why did you do that?” she snapped. She snatched the pad back and looked at the new replacement.
In fluent Claytonese, I recited our latest grammar lesson. “Whose is the possessive of who. Who’s is a contraction that means who is or who has. As in, who is your Hollywood daddy?”
“Oooooo weee, she told you!” said Annette as she high-fived three other servants.
Lisa pointed the pencil at Annette. “Shut up before I take your lunch money!” She shoved the pad in Annette’s face. “Since you have so much to say, write your Hollywood daddy’s name.”
Annette scratched her head and scribbled Eddie Murphy. “My mama said he is so fine she wants to meet him.”
“That’ll never happen,” said Lisa. “Your mama barely comes to the school for your PTA meetings, so how is she going to Hollywood?”
The sun glinted off the aluminum foil on the end of Lisa’s braids as she passed the pad to Cathy. Cathy wrote Michael Jackson.
Lisa’s face scrunched. “He’s not going to let you live with those animals in his mansi
on.”
“He could teach me how to dance, though. I could feed Bubbles and do things around the house.”
Lisa waved off the notion and handed me the pad. I remembered Willa’s crush on Dick Anthony Williams, but decided against listing him. The only reason she liked him was because Aunt Mavis thought he was handsome. There was only one man I idealized as a good father after my parents started having problems. He was loving, accepting, and made room for children that weren’t his. He was a good provider and he was handsome. In all the reruns I watched with Willa, he solved problems and made sure the children were civil toward each other. The best part was that he worked at the house and in an office as an architect. He had drawings in a home office that he’d show the kids. His work even took them to Hawaii for a construction assignment. I wrote in capital letters.
ROBERT REED/MIKE BRADY.
Lisa laughed at my response. “You’re not mixed. You can’t have a white daddy!”
Another Claytonese phrase sailed past my lips before I could stop it. “Nuts are mixed, not people.”
Lisa flipped the pad to the next page. “Just as well. You’ll need a mother and a father soon, since your mother won’t be teaching here much longer.”
“What did you say?”
She dropped the pad, stood, and moved closer. “You heard me. Everybody’s talking about how crazy your mother is. She can barely make it through third period without laughing and talking to people that aren’t there. Why do you think she leaves at one every day?” She placed her hands on her non-existent hips and faced me, a grape Now-and-Later coloring her tongue. “The only reason my daddy hasn’t fired her is because he’s doing your Aunt Mavis a favor. Your aunt went—”
I reared back and punched Lisa in her mouth. BAM! She fell back, her head narrowly missing the monkey bars. I pounced her, slapping her face as blood trickled. I would move heaven and earth for my mother, and no one was going to disrespect her. Vickie Kendricks and Doris Hargrove pulled me off her while the other servants shouted, “Beat her!”
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