The Night Before Thirty

by Tajuana Butler

  Allen huffed a bit, then gave in and awkwardly mounted the trampo-line. He put his hands out to maintain his balance. “This doesn't feel right,” he said. “I'm getting off this thing.”

  Elise threw his keys and check onto the floor, and then bounced over to him and put her hands in his. She said, “Come on. You can do it.”

  “I guess this is funny to you?” He jumped once, and a smile came over his face. “Man, you got me feeling like a kid or something.” He jumped again.

  “Isn't it fun?” Elise said, jumping up and down alongside him. Then she let go of his hands. “How often do you get to let go like this?” she asked.

  “Never,” he answered, giggling.

  Elise was glad she'd egged him on. There was a cute and cuddly fun side to Allen. Seeing it was refreshing. He could have reacted in many different ways to her pushing him to let loose, but he was a sport about it, and that turned her on. It was exciting, but a little disturbing, too.

  The two jumped and laughed until they both collapsed on the trampoline.

  Breathing heavily, Allen said, “Elise?”

  “Yeah, Allen?”

  “Now can I have my check?”

  ASHAWNDA DAVIS ADJUSTED the volume of her desktop radio. She wanted to make sure the off-the-wall comedy of Melvin Green and the Morning Show Crew wasn't so loud that it could be heard by people who walked in for their appointments with her boss, Dr. Cicely Hayes.

  Lashawnda had been working for Cicely as her receptionist and personal assistant for three years. Dr. Hayes was a psychologist, and the majority of her clientele were women dealing with clinical depression. Lashawnda's secretarial duties included light bookkeeping, typing, answering phones, setting appointments, and greeting and signing in patients. She ran errands for Cicely, like keeping regular maintenance on her car and picking up her dry cleaning. She also set up appointments and sometimes joined her boss for manicures, pedicures, and whatever other personal maintenance Cicely required.

  For Lashawnda, her job with Cicely was a godsend. Before working for the doctor, Lashawnda had gone through nearly every existing fast-food chain and grocery store, working as a cashier or grocery bagger. She had no real skills and had never expected to be more than a cashier until a chance meeting with Cicely one day when she was working as a bagger at a local grocery and Cicely had come through her line.

  Lashawnda had been talking to the cashier about how she was catching the blues from her current boyfriend.

  “Girl, we got into it again, and his ass locked me out of our apartment. Can you believe that shit? I had to spend the night with my mom.” As painful as the episode had been for her, Lashawnda was joking about it, trying to make the best of the situation. “If I had of known he was gonna kick me out, I wouldn'a cooked dinner for him.” She and the cashier laughed.

  Cicely didn't say anything. She simply paid for her groceries and followed Lashawnda, who was carrying her bags out to the car. As she always did when she was nervous or upset, Lashawnda talked the whole way to the car. “I don't know how we live with them,” she complained.

  Cicely didn't say a word but stopped and opened her purse, pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, and tapped the bottom of the pack on the back of her hand. She pulled one out and put it between her lips. In one continuous motion, she flicked the lighter and lit the cigarette, puffed, pulled the cigarette from her mouth, closed her eyes, and then blew as if relieving all the pressures from her day. But Cicely didn't look like the kind of lady who had any pressure that she needed to relieve. Lashawnda had been around smokers, but never had anyone made what she considered a disgusting habit seem so glamorous.

  Lashawnda was for once at a loss for words. Cicely had her total attention. Very few black people came through that grocery store who didn't look beaten down, overworked, or lacking in confidence. But Cicely was different. She seemed refreshed. Long, slim, and graceful, she embodied sophistication. She was about something. Lashawnda wasn't going to rest until she knew more. “So what are you doing getting your groceries from here?”

  Cicely puffed on the cigarette. “Why would you ask me a question like that?” she responded nonchalantly.

  “Well, you don't look like you're from around here.”

  “Last time I checked I was black. What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I mean. Why are you buying groceries from here?”

  “Well, if you must know, I'm coming in from Birmingham, and I needed to get gas. While I was filling up, I noticed your grocery store and decided to pick up some things so I wouldn't have to when I got near my house.”

  They walked up to her Jaguar. Cicely opened the trunk. “You can put them in here,” she said.

  “So what do you do?” Lashawnda inquired, placing the bags into the trunk.

  “I'm a psychologist,” Cicely responded.

  “Oh!”

  They shut the trunk. “So do you like what you do?” Lashawnda asked, still wanting to know more.

  “You certainly have a lot of questions,” Cicely responded, sounding a little annoyed. Then she looked Lashawnda in the eye. “Do you like what you do?”

  “Well, I never thought much about it. I just know that I have to work to pay my bills.”

  “How much do you make here?” Cicely asked her.

  “Minimum wage and not a penny more. No overtime, nothing. How much do you make?”

  Cicely laughed. She seemed to find Lashawnda's honest probing quite amusing. “I make seventy thousand dollars.”

  “A year?”

  “Yes, a year.” Cicely laughed again. Lashawnda must have seemed so naive to her.

  “Seventy thousand dollars!” Lashawnda exclaimed. “If I made that kind of money … I don't know what I'd do if I made that kind of money. You know, I wonder how many years I'd have to combine to make that kind of money.” She thought long and began to pop her knuckles. Then she looked away into a distant place. “I guess I'd have to win the lottery.” She smiled at Cicely and put her hand out to shake. “Well, miss, it was nice to meet you,” she said, shook hands with her, and began to walk away.

  “Wait a minute,” Cicely said. “I can tip you, right?”

  Lashawnda turned around and grinned. “Tips are always accepted.” Cicely threw her cigarette on the ground and put it out with the heel of her shoe. She reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. Then she grabbed a ten dollar bill and handed it to Lashawnda.

  “Thank you,” Lashawnda said with genuine appreciation. “You know, I'm twenty-six, and I've never gotten a tip like this one before.” She turned away again.

  “Hey,” Cicely said. “Do you have a car?”

  Lashawnda turned around slowly, surprised that Cicely was continuing a conversation with her. “Well, my boyfriend—or soon to be exboyfriend—lets me use his car whenever I need it. Plus, I take the MARTA sometimes. Why do you ask?”

  “How attached are you to your job?” she asked.

  “Like I said, it pays the bills, but I'm not making seventy Gs.”

  “If I give you a job, not making what I'm making, but more than what you're making here, do you think you could get downtown by nine a.m. sharp every morning?”

  “You want to give me a job?”

  “Can you type?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Are you willing to learn?”

  “Are you serious about giving me a job?” Lashawnda asked.

  “Yes, I'm serious.”

  “Well then, yes. I can catch the MARTA, and I am willing to learn to type.”

  Cicely handed her a business card with her downtown Atlanta address on it. “Just be at the address on that card first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “You're kidding, right?” Lashawnda said, staring at the card.

  “No, I'm not. My assistant quit on me two days ago. Plus I've got a good feeling about you.”

  Lashawnda continued to stare at the card and then shoved it in her back pocket. A solemn look came over her
face, and a wave of fear swept over her. There was no way something this fortunate could happen to her.

  “You'll be there tomorrow, right?” Cicely asked, pulling another cigarette out of her purse.

  “Yes, I'll be there,” Lashawnda replied, unsure what to think. She walked back into the grocery store feeling a range of emotions: happy that she'd met Cicely, but fearful that it was a big joke.

  She didn't quit her job that evening but waited until the next day, after she saw that she actually had another real job with Cicely. From that day, Lashawnda had been a loyal assistant to Cicely, and Cicely had trained her or sent her to whichever computer or secretarial classes would make Lashawnda more efficient. Lashawnda absorbed her training and eventually became indispensable to Cicely in more ways than one.

  That morning, they were going to be extremely busy with traffic. Tuesdays were one of their group-therapy days, and four groups of up to twelve women each would be in and out before the day was over. Plus, they were getting the office computers networked and linked to their new laser printer. To gear up for her day, Lashawnda enjoyed listening to the Morning Show. The host, Melvin Green, had been in rare form all morning. He was joking with one of his cohosts, Louisa Montero, about being twenty-nine, intelligent, beautiful, and single, with no marriage proposals in sight.

  “There has to be something wrong with you that we don't know about,” he joked.

  Lashawnda laughed along as she pulled out her to-do list for the day. It wasn't too bad. She'd have to send out letters to all of their patients, informing them of a price increase that would go into effect at the beginning of the year. Then she had to write and mail out checks for their operating expenses. She'd also have to order monthly office supplies and call the travel agent to make arrangements for Cicely to go on a weekend vacation with several of her old college friends.

  Lashawnda was not at all happy about that item on her list. She was disappointed that Cicely hadn't invited her to join them, for several reasons. The trip was scheduled for the first weekend of December, which was the weekend of Lashawnda's thirtieth birthday. Besides, Lashawnda had never been to a tropical island—as a matter of fact, she had never even been to Florida. Finally, most everybody else was bringing their significant others, so why was Cicely hesitant about introducing Lashawnda as hers?

  As she put out the sign-in sheet for the first group, “Women Conquering Manic Depression,” she couldn't help but feel a little depressed herself. She had expected her new relationship with Cicely to be a change for the better. After giving in to Cicely, whose sexual advances she'd spent nearly two years dodging and overlooking, Lashawnda had thought that things would be better for her. Once they expressed their feelings for each other, Cicely had asked Lashawnda to move into her four-bedroom house out in Alpharetta. They'd shared that arrangement since the beginning of the summer.

  She was confident that sharing a relationship with Cicely, who had been so generous to her, would be better than any of the dead-end abusive relationships, one after another, she had been stuck in—which was why she crossed the line and decided to give Cicely a chance. And why not? She was a much better catch than any of the lowlife, ghetto-assed, trifling, inconsiderate, broke men she'd fallen in love with. And for what? They never gave her anything but a hard way to go, a headache, and a trip to the clinic for penicillin. Since Cicely had been in her life, she'd finally gotten the opportunity to experience what it felt like to be showered with gifts, nice dinners, and new, good-quality clothes.

  Her way of thinking and way of living had improved. She could run that office blindfolded. In the spring, she would be taking her first college courses. She was becoming cultured and was actually reading for enjoyment. Before Cicely, none of that would have been possible or worth her time. Back then, she was only trying to survive. So whenever she thought about there not being a “she and Cicely,” she thought about who she had been before she met Cicely and remembered how lucky she was to have such a terrific girlfriend. So what if she'd never met any of Cicely's friends or family?

  Cicely walked through the doors of her office. “Lashawnda, could you turn the radio down, just a little?”

  Lashawnda sighed, certain that she had the volume properly adjusted, but it was Cicely's office, and Lashawnda didn't want to do anything that would be distracting to the environment.

  “I asked Mrs. Bland to come in a few minutes before group. She got into it with Bernard again. Could you send her back to my office as soon as she gets here?”

  “Okay,” Lashawnda said.

  “I'm so excited about this trip. Let me know as soon as you get my travel arrangements made, okay? And I do want to fly first-class.” Cicely floated back into her office like she was on top of the world.

  “No problem,” Lashawnda responded, but she cringed inside. She hadn't really been attracted to Cicely since she'd moved in with her. That magical mystique, or whatever it was that had caused Lashawnda to be drawn to Cicely, was gradually wearing off. Some days, Lashawnda couldn't believe they actually shared a bed. She cared about Cicely—it might even have been love at one time—but the thrill was definitely gone. Not even the memory of their first night together worked anymore.

  Nonetheless, she would never forget it. Cicely had invited Lashawnda over to her house for a working dinner, but it wasn't the meal or the sexy gown that Cicely was walking around in that enticed her. It was a mixture of the wine and the words that Cicely said to her that touched her heart and opened up her soul to Cicely. After dinner, Lashawnda joined her in the living room, where she put on contemporary jazz music as they sat around talking about relationships and people and life while sipping on good wine.

  Cicely continued pouring wine into their glasses. “Lashawnda, I know you've had a tough life,” she said empathetically, “but I would like to commend you on the progress you've made over the last two years.”

  “Thanks, girl,” Lashawnda replied.

  “I remember when I first met you. You were rough around the edges. But look at you now. You're absolutely transformed. No one would believe that you were ever a grocery bagger.” She lit a cigarette.

  Lashawnda knew that she had come a long way, but it made her uncomfortable when Cicely talked about it. It always made her feel like she owed Cicely something.

  “Look at you—you're so beyond those lowlifes you used to deal with, but they never deserved you anyway.” Cicely stared at Lashawnda, who was lounging on the sofa. Cicely eyed her legs, curvaceous figure, and young, pretty-girl face. Most people thought Lashawnda looked like a teenager. She was nicely dressed in a pantsuit that Cicely had bought for her, and her hair and makeup both looked great, thanks to the pointers from her hairdresser, Leon, who Cicely hooked her up with.

  “Yeah, I know, and right now I'm not in a hurry to jump into another dead-end relationship. Shit, I'm thinking about becoming celibate.”

  Cicely laughed. “I don't think you need to go that far. You just need to make sure the next time you give yourself to someone, they appreciate the gift you're offering them.”

  “Yeah, you have a point.” Lashawnda always talked candidly about relationships with Cicely, even though she knew her sexual preference was for women. “But I believe that the emotion or love thing only deals with the way two people feel about each other and is separate from the actual act of sex.”

  Cicely blew one last puff and put out her cigarette. Then she slid closer to Lashawnda, “From what you're telling me, Lashawnda, you've never made love.”

  She moved closer, put her arms around Lashawnda's shoulder and whispered, “But that's okay. One day you'll get the opportunity to experience what it feels like to exchange sensual pleasures with someone who will have your heart in mind.”

  Lashawnda's first thought had been to move away, but the wine convinced her that it would be okay to stay, that there would be plenty of time to get out of Cicely's grip. In the meantime, having a caring body close, even if for a short period of time, felt good.

/>   “Lashawnda, you are a beautiful woman and you deserve to be touched and caressed and kissed in all the right places. You deserve to have someone listen to your body and answer its every call.”

  Her heart raced. Cicely was right. She did deserve those things, and she longed for them. She took another drink.

  Cicely put her other arm around the front of her and rested her hand on her shoulder, allowing her elbow to drape over her breast. She whispered, “Don't you want to feel good? I mean, really good?”

  Lashawnda closed her eyes. The answer was yes, but she didn't say a word. She sat there, debating the pros and cons of giving into Cicely's sensual seduction. What did she have to lose? She would give in to Cicely, get it over with, and never go there with her again. Then she would never have to wonder again what it would be like to be with a woman because she would know. It would be her little secret.

  But what if she liked it? What would her life be like if she fell for Cicely?

  Two glasses of wine later and Lashawnda let go of all inhibition, opening herself to experiencing what Cicely was dishing out. As she promised, Cicely was attentive and pleasing. Being intimate with her was intense, yet soft and endearing.

  When Lashawnda had left for her own apartment the next morning, she couldn't get the sweet feeling of being with Cicely out of her mind. She'd never before experienced that kind of intimate closeness with any man. She wanted more of that feeling, and she kept going back to Cicely to receive it. Now she was beginning to wonder if she'd made a mistake.

  One of Lashawnda's favorite songs came on over the radio, and she nudged up the volume a bit. Just then, Mrs. Bland walked into the receptionist area. She had a black eye. Lashawnda turned the radio back down.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bland. Dr. Hayes is waiting for you in her office. You can go on back.” Trying to ignore how hideous her eye looked, Lashawnda buzzed Cicely to inform her that her patient had arrived. She learned early on that it was better not to ask the patients questions.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Bland said, walking to the back.