“After dinner, perhaps we can visit some friends,” said Emory.
“What did you say?” asked Victoria. Engrossed in past thoughts, she didn’t hear anything Emory said. She held his hand and fell in stride behind the waiter.
The waiter opened the doors to a private area in the restaurant. When he stepped back, Victoria’s eyes widened as a sea of familiar faces smiled and said in union, “Welcome.” She looked at Emory, unsure of what was going on. He planted a kiss on her cheek.
“This is a special party for the most beautiful, magnificent lady I know,” said Emory. Emory extended his arm as if to encourage Victoria to mingle with their relatives and friends.
Victoria’s aunt, Marguerite, stepped toward her with a glass of wine. “Do you know how hard it was keeping this secret? Foster just about put masking tape on my lips to keep me from speaking.”
“What is going on?” Victoria whispered to Marguerite.
Marguerite opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by her sister, Lillith. “It’s about time you got here. My knee has been bothering me, and I was wondering when Emory would get this thing going. I have plans tonight with one of my gentleman friends, and I can’t hang here too long,” she said.
Victoria looked at her mother. In Lillith’s mind, she stopped aging at thirty, and her outfit was an indicator of her fantasies. She donned a tight, red mini dress that needed relief from hugging the rolls of fat on her stomach. Five-inch stilettos help boost her short stature, but rings on each finger and too much perfume reminded Victoria why she kept her distance from her mother. She held tightly to the cane she’d been carrying since suffering a mild stroke. “And before you ask, Emory asked me for those photos of you when you were little,” said Lillith. She tossed her shoulder-length weave to one side and flashed Victoria a wide, veneered smile.
Victoria hadn’t noticed the wide-screen television displaying images of herself and Emory on dates, as children, with friends, and alone. She looked to Emory for an answer, but he worked the room with his usual magnetism as he greeted guests.
“Go on and say hello to everyone,” said Lillith as she grabbed a glass of Moscato from one of the servers. Lillith bopped her head to the rhythm of the smooth jazz playing.
Victoria worked the room greeting people from her church, the gym, and her office. Two co-workers, Jasmine and Cassidy, gave her the thumbs-up sign and nodded their heads in Emory’s direction. When she approached Yvette and her husband, Carl, she hugged her, enjoying the warmth and sincerity of Yvette’s joy.
“You look so lovely tonight, Victoria,” said Yvette. “I told Carl if I had to pretend I didn’t know what was going on for another week, I’d die.”
“I’ll let it slide this time, but you know I don’t like secrets. The last time I was at a surprise party…” Victoria’s voice trailed off.
“What happened?” asked Yvette.
“I don’t have enough time or liquor to tell you about it,” said Victoria.
Yvette observed Victoria walk away with the sullen face that appeared when the past came up. They’d been acquaintances three years, going back and forth to each other’s homes, double-dating, and attending Nicolette’s games. Yet, there was something missing from their time of fellowship. Yvette couldn’t put her finger on it. The few things Victoria shared, she kept them in confidence. She was quick to listen, slow to speak. She wanted Victoria to know she could trust her, but somehow, she couldn’t get the message across.
“Carl, did you see her face? I wish I knew what made her so sad sometimes,” said Yvette.
“Give her some time, baby. Didn’t you say she was divorced?”
“Yes, but I don’t know much about it. Whenever the subject comes up, she becomes evasive or stops midsentence about the topic of divorce. I want her to know she can talk to me about anything—especially after tonight.”
Carl and Yvette smiled at each other and reflected on the reason they’d all gathered at the restaurant.
Emory stepped to the makeshift stage built a week ago for the occasion. A server handed him a microphone as guests gathered together in a semi-circle. His business partner, Pearson Loft, escorted Victoria to the stage.
Emory held Victoria’s hand. He gazed into her eyes and lifted her chin with his free hand. “Your birthday is two weeks away, but I wanted to do something special for you because you deserve so much. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and everything I prayed for in a woman.”
Victoria looked around at their enthralled guests, still unsure of Emory’s motives. He captured her attention once again. “I can’t erase all the things that happened to you in the past, but I wanted tonight to be a new beginning for you, for us.”
Emory slowly removed a Tiffany ring box from his pocket and got down on one knee. “Victoria Faulk, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? To share my world, to share my life, to share my vision?”
Victoria’s blank stare caught Emory off-guard as did the fresh tears flowing down her face. He knew the surprise would overwhelm her, so instead of waiting for her yes, he slid the ring on her finger.
She took several deep breaths, snatched her arm away, and yelled in a voice unfamiliar to Emory, “How could you be so insensitive?” She plucked the ring from her finger, tossed it at Emory’s feet, and ran from the restaurant into the street.
The stunned guests looked at each other, then Emory. Lillith, satisfied that her chit-chat with Victoria two weeks ago had been effective, sipped her Moscato with a smirk, and checked her text messages to see if Bobby responded.
Chapter 6
Tawatha held her urine six hours before realizing the unlocked guest bathroom was safe. Glued to the sectional with her legs crossed, she feared moving. Royce texted to let her know he’d ordered Jimmy John’s for her, but she refused to open the door for the deliveryman when he rang the bell. After five rings, he left the food on the doorstep. She sat on the sofa thirsty, hungry, and angry. Royce remembered her favorite sandwich from her Hinton and Conyers days, yet fear kept her stuck to the sofa. What if the deliveryman recognizes me from the news? She had been out of jail for eight hours and hadn’t decompressed. She waited for a guard to call out her inmate number. She listened for a catfight between inmates whose families didn’t visit, or whose families didn’t put money on the books. She waited for the hard bang of a steel door closing, which was accompanied by the clanking of keys. She looked around and found only tranquility. Royce had taken great care to make sure her surroundings were soft, genteel. If only I could move.
Tawatha knew the real reason for her paralysis: the duffle bag letters. She received many letters in jail from angry mothers, fathers, and siblings who freely spoke their minds about her incompetence and selfishness. After reading several letters, she stopped opening them. The raw language grated her nerves. She collected the letters and brought them from prison as a reminder of past mistakes. The last letter she received two weeks before her release scared her most. The writer researched her mother’s name and addressed the letter with Roberta’s address in the sender’s corner. Thankful her mother reached out to her, she ripped open the letter and found the cryptic words:
Hello, Tramp,
I bet you thought I was your mother, didn’t you? Well, think again. Matter of fact, think of the kids you killed who’ll never get a chance to have a mother, a basketball game, a snowball fight, a high school graduation, and a wedding. And for what? Just because you were selfish enough to be caught up with a man. That man didn’t want you and probably never did. You were an easy lay to him and he moved on to something new. The news didn’t say it was about a man, but any time a woman gets a wild hair up her ass and kills her kids, a man is behind it. You messed up bad! You left your oldest daughter alone in the world, and you weren’t even woman enough to think about the consequences of your actions. I thought you’d rot in jail and be gone for good, but I look up and see that biracial slut, Attorney Jamilah Greg, has the nerve to be an advocate for your freedom. I’ll te
ll you what. If you see the light of day on the streets, it won’t be for long. I will find you and kill you myself for what you did to those kids. Watch your back, Child Killer.
Your Worst Enemy
The sound of Royce’s key in the door startled Tawatha. He stepped into the living room and raised an eyebrow at her sitting position on the sofa. He placed his keys and the Jimmy John’s bag on the coffee table and sat next to her.
“I’ve been calling you for hours. Why haven’t you answered the phone?”
Tawatha stared at the iPhone Royce purchased for her so they could communicate. He handed it to her, paying careful attention to point out the missed calls. She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Let me run to the bathroom. We can talk when I come back.”
Royce noticed the pained look on her face. He leaned back and wondered what he’d gotten himself into. Maybe it was a midlife crisis. Maybe it was the fact he’d be turning sixty soon and missed having a wife and a daughter. His divorce felt like the final blow to a once perfect life. His daughter, Ramona, died in a car accident, leaving Royce and his wife strangers. Ramona, a twenty-three-year-old graduate student at Indiana University, died en route to Millicent’s birthday party. She was the victim of a head-on collision by a semitrailer. Numbness set in after her funeral as Royce and his beloved Millie tried to get back on track. Sure, the sincere, empathetic clichés comforted them for a moment, but their lives were forever altered. When Tawatha walked into Hinton and Conyers, Royce’s construction company, he felt alive again. She looked so much like Ramona he avoided her for the first three weeks she worked. Slowly, he got to know her, admonished her for the skimpy attire she wore each day, and encouraged her to rise up and be a young lady. Her four children became his surrogate grandchildren. He showered the children with clothes, money, and tickets to Pacer and Fever games. When she killed them in the fire, he knew he couldn’t abandon her as everyone else had. He knew her temporary lapse in judgment was the result of being overwhelmed with the children. There could be no other explanation.
“Royce, how was your day today?”
Tawatha rejoined him on the sofa and grabbed the food bag from the coffee table.
“I had some business to take care of with Millie. We finally sold our last piece of property in Winona Lake.”
“Does she know I’m here?”
“No, Tawatha. Only my business partner knows.”
“Bet Mr. Conyers isn’t happy, is he?”
“Well, he thinks I could have used better judgment, but the last time I checked, fifty-nine was old enough to handle my own business.”
Tawatha stopped mid-chew, placed her sandwich back in the wrapper, and sidled next to Royce. She rubbed his leg and nibbled on his ear lobe.
“You’re also old enough to handle business with me,” said Tawatha.
Confused, Royce removed her hands from his thigh. “Tawatha, what are you doing?”
“Earning my keep,” she said. She attempted to kiss his lips this time, but he tucked his lips inward so she’d be unsuccessful.
Royce stood. He was embarrassed his body betrayed him. He couldn’t hide his erection and wondered why he hadn’t anticipated this.
“See, you want me.” She stood to hug him, but Royce stood his ground.
“Sit down so we can talk,” said Royce. Tawatha pouted and fell back on the sofa. Royce paced until he could calm himself. “We have to establish some ground rules. I never meant to mislead you in any way, Tawatha. My generosity isn’t some sick bid to have sex with you. The only regret I’ve had outside of losing my daughter is not helping my childhood cousin, Quenton. We grew up together, were scholars, and got full-ride scholarships to IU. Something went wrong our freshman year. Quen was arrested for theft. He never bounced back after the first arrest, and the family tagged him The Habizzle, or the habitual offender.
“We turned our backs on him, never letting him stop by for food, showers, or anything. He stopped by Hinton and Conyers one day to ask for one hundred dollars, and I treated him like gum on my shoes. I may have tossed him a ten and told him to get lost. He looked awful and smelled like he’d fallen in a hog trough. Last I heard, he walks up and down New Jersey Street panhandling people for change. People call him Lean on Me for some reason. I’ve never been able to find him. I vowed after our last encounter that if I could help someone, I would.”
Tawatha cupped her hands over her mouth. She remembered hearing the name Lean on Me from Lasheera’s crack days. “My how the tables have turned,” said Tawatha.
“Excuse me?” Royce asked.
“Nothing. I know Lean on Me through a former friend. I mean, I don’t know him, but I’m aware of his activity on the streets.” Tawatha decided to tuck that golden nugget in her memory bank until the time was right.
“Small world, isn’t it?”
“It gets smaller every day. Listen, I guess I owe you an apology, Royce. I’ve never known a man to not want something from a woman. Everyone has a price and I thought…” Her voice faded.
“You need a paradigm shift, Tawatha.”
“A what?”
“Paradigm shift. It’s a change from one way of thinking to another.” Royce stood. “I have to get to the house. I have some consulting contracts to flesh out, and then I’m going to bed early. Call the main house if you need anything.”
“Royce, thank you again for all you’re doing. I’ll find a way to repay you. I promise.”
“If you want to repay me, be here when your parole officer comes around. He came by the house and did a top-to-bottom inspection last week. Since my address is your new residence, he said he’d be doing a once-a-month mandatory check on you. It could be at any time, so stay near the house.”
“What if I need to get around?” Tawatha thought of the unexpired license she still possessed.
“The keys to the Ford Focus are in the main house. Millie bought the car for her nephew in high school but took the keys from him when his grades never rose above C’s. You can drive it if you like.”
Tawatha walked Royce to the door and gave his back a fatherly rub. She felt ashamed of how she came on to him. I have to change my old ways. Every man isn’t about sex. “Royce, after this sandwich and the news, I think I’ll turn in early, too.”
Tawatha reclined again, uncertain of how she would fill her days. She’d tried with no success to reconnect with her loved ones. No one wanted to see her or believed she had changed. There would be no three musketeer action she once enjoyed with Lasheera and Jamilah. Jamilah was still in her corner, but skipped town after the trial with her new boyfriend. They wouldn’t reconnect for at least two weeks.
She took one more bite of her sandwich, placed it back on the coffee table, and grabbed the remote. Since becoming a mainstay in the news, Tawatha didn’t enjoy watching headlines as she did before going to jail. Tonight, however, she wanted to reacquaint herself with local events. She appreciated Royce’s generosity as she aimed the remote at the huge flat-screen TV.
Andrea Morehead of WTHR-13 stood outside Easley Winery anchoring an event. She stopped individuals as they went inside the building. Tawatha noticed several faces from local publications as they milled around in black-tie finery. Tawatha turned up the volume when she spotted a tall, thin woman speaking with Andrea. Andrea held the microphone closer to the woman as she smiled for the camera.
“Shandy, what does tonight mean to you?”
“Andrea, this is a chance to give back to the community and help the youth of the city obtain scholarships.”
“What items are you auctioning off tonight at the banquet?”
Shandy motioned to a man whose hand gestures conveyed that he was the life of the party. Tawatha did a double-take when the love of her life neared the camera. Shandy whispered something in his ear as he ran his fingers through his curly mane. To Tawatha’s chagrin, he had cut his locks years ago.
But looking at him now, she warmed at his model looks. He was the best lover she’d ever had, and she
never got over the fact they couldn’t be together. She sat back on the sectional and wondered what the child they’d created looked like. The Indiana Department of Corrections forced her to give up their daughter, Jameshia, for adoption. She wondered if Jameshia had her father’s eyes, creamy skin, and beautiful smile. Did Jameshia have a mass of unruly curls, or did her new mother keep it braided or plaited with bows? Awash in memories of their past, she scooted closer to the screen to hear him speak. Her stomach flipped as he kissed Shandy on the cheek and looked at Andrea to answer the question.
“Tonight, we’re auctioning off gift certificates in various denominations for services at our four salons. The smallest amount is one hundred dollars, and the largest amount is twelve hundred dollars.” Shandy moved closer and wrapped her arms around him. “We want to make sure the ladies and men of Indianapolis are looking their best. Every Dixon’s Hair Affair salon is equipped to do that and so much more.”
Forgive Me Page 3