Man Swappers

by Cairo

  Paris huffs. “Persia, stop being such a bitch; damn. We haven’t even gotten to our table and you’re already picking a damn fight.”

  “I’m not looking for a fight. I’m stating a fact. But, whatever. I don’t even like this stuffy ass place. I would’ve preferred Sweet Basil’s instead.”

  “Well, get over it,” Paris says as we walk into the restaurant. “It’s not always about you.”

  Our mother is already inside, waiting. She glances at her timepiece when she sees us. It’s twelve-twenty five. We have a twelve-thirty seating. “You must’ve driven,” she says to Paris knowingly, as Paris walks over and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Otherwise…” Paris shoots her a look that keeps her from saying more.

  “Hello, Mom” I say, kissing her. She greets me, kissing me back.

  “Hello, Mother,” Persia says, half-heartedly.

  I can tell Mother’s taken aback that Persia doesn’t give her a kiss as well. Paris squints at her. I raise my brow. And she acquiesces. Mother smiles and says, “The three of you look beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” we say in unison. There’s a nervous energy between us, the four of us apprehensive and cautious. Remembering the last time we met for brunch at Galloping Hill in Union and how it ended. Everything was going good up until Mother, being her opinionated self, felt it necessary to remind us of how nasty she thought we were for still sleeping with the same men. Well, that didn’t sit well with Persia.

  “No, Mother,” Persia had said through clenched teeth. “What’s nasty is you staying with a man you knew was a whoremonger. So what if he was your husband and our father? You still knew he was shoving his dick in other women. What, were you that damn dick-whipped? Or were you so desperate to hold onto him? You have a lot of damn nerve, always judging us.”

  Needless to say, Mother was embarrassed. Persia stood up and practically told her to kiss her ass, then spun on her heels and strutted out the door with Paris and I following right behind her.

  So today, we try this again, hoping for a better outcome. I bring my attention back to Mother; tell her how lovely she looks. Even Persia agrees. She’s wearing a beautiful cream pantsuit with a silk emerald green blouse. Her neck is adorned with the emerald and diamond choker the three of us bought her for her fiftieth birthday. Her shoulder-length hair is neatly coiffed in a French-roll.

  After two rounds of mimosas, Paris, Mother and I are relaxed, having lively banter while we feast on shrimp and lobster. And Persia is sitting here being…shitty. She keeps glancing at her watch like she has someplace better to be and rolling her eyes up in her head anytime Mother opens her mouth to say something. This childish shit is starting to really get on my last nerve. Mother also notices it.

  “Persia, so how are things going with you?”

  “Fine,” she answers curtly.

  “How’s the web design business going?”

  “Good,” she answers, shifting in her seat. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “Your father’s home,” Mother offers, squinting at her. “Were you—”

  I cut her off before she says something to escalate the growing tension between the two of them. I ask her how Aunt Fanny and Lucky are doing. Ask her when’s the last time she’s spoken to Aunt Harriett. She tells me everyone is doing well. That she spoke to Felecia and Pasha’s grandmother a few days ago. How she wants to have all of us attend Sunday service the day after Pasha’s wedding.

  Paris and I start shaking our heads. “Gotta love her,” I say.

  Persia grunts, mumbling something under her breath as she pulls out her cell. She starts texting.

  Mother stares at us and smiles. “I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but I’m really glad to have…” Mother looks at Paris and me, then cuts her eyes over at Persia. “…the three of you here with me,” Mother says, lifting her flute. “Hopefully this is a good start to a new beginning.”

  Paris and I raise our glasses. “Hopefully,” the two of us say in unison, watching as Persia scoots her chair back and stands up.

  “I feel like I’m gonna be sick,” she says sarcastically. “I’ll be back.”

  The three of us watch as she walks off to the front of the restaurant. Mother waits until she’s out of view, then says in a hushed voice, “I’m done trying with that girl. She could have kept her nasty ass—excuse my French, home. I’m tired of her shit. All she—”

  Paris gives her a disappointed look, cutting her off. “Mom, don’t. Not today. So far everything’s been good between us. Let’s not…” She hops up from her seat, holding her stomach with one hand and her mouth with the other. She races toward the bathroom.

  I excuse myself, pushing my chair back and getting up from the table. “I need to go check on her.” I don’t wait for her to respond.

  I walk into the bathroom and find Paris in one of the stalls, leaning over the toilet throwing her guts up. I walk in; rub her back. There’s a film of sweat on her forehead. “Ohmygod,” I say, rushing out of the stall. I grab paper towels and wet them. Go back and place them across her forehead. “Paris, we need to get you to the hospital.”

  “No, I’ll be fine,” she says, standing up. She looks pale.

  “Sweetie, you don’t look good,” I say, touching the side of her face. She feels warm.

  “I need to lie down,” she says, walking over to the sink. She splashes water on her face.

  “Girl, I hope it isn’t food poisioning,” I state, handing her three paper towels.

  “No, I don’t think that’s what it is. You and I had the same thing. I’m coming down with something; that’s all.”

  “C’mon, girl, let’s get you out of here.”

  When we return to the table, Mother is at the table with a concerned look on her face. And Persia is still missing in action. “Is everything alright?” She gets up from her seat. “You don’t look well at all.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Paris says, grabbing her purse. She apologizes for having to leave. Tells Mother she’s going to have me take her home. That she’ll call her later. Mother gives her a hug, kisses her on the cheek.

  “Don’t worry about it. You get home and get some rest.”

  “Have you seen Persia?” I ask, scanning the room.

  Mother tosses her hand in the air, dismissively. Says Persia walked toward the table but turned on her heels when she noticed Paris and I weren’t there. “Check the men’s room. She’s probably up in some man’s face as usual.” Paris shoots her a look.

  I roll my eyes, pulling out my phone to text her. Bitch, where r u?

  I reach into my clutch and pull out a hundred dollar bill. “Mother, here’s money toward the bill.” She hands me the money back. Waves the waiter over and tells him to bring the check.

  “Brunch is on me. You get your sister home. I’ll call later to check on her.” She gives me a hug, kisses me on the cheek, then whispers in my ear. “Thanks for coming.”

  It is in that moment that I realize how much I’ve missed her. How having a better relationship with our mother is just as important to me as it is to Paris. I smile. Hug her back. “I had a nice time. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Mother closes out the check, then gathers her things as well. Tells us she’ll walk out with us. Persia texts back. Says she’s with Royce heading home. I huff. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  “Where’s Persia?” Paris asks.

  “On her way home,” I tell her, looping my arm through hers and helping her out of the restaurant. She gives me a confused look. “Don’t even ask. I’m so over her ass right now.”

  Paris

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A week after brunch with our mother, I’m downstairs in the den with my laptop propped up on my lap catching up on season one of The Good Wife online, anxiously awaiting season two, when Persia storms through the room disrupting my moment. I’m still annoyed with her for how she acted, but she’s not fazed. Persia only cares about what Persia cares about. Herself, first; Porsha and me, second; and
President Obama, third.

  She plops down next to me. “I’m so sick of these tea-bagging motherfuckers fucking with Obama. Girl, they need to leave that man alone and let him do his damn job.”

  I press PAUSE on the screen, and look up from my PC, shaking my head. The way Persia carries on anytime someone says anything negative about Obama, or does anything to undermine him, you’d think she was related to him. She takes the shit way too personal, like it’s an attack on her. “Who’s fucking with your boy now?”

  “Who else, them snake-ass Republicans! They make me fucking sick. They’ve been fucking with him from day one, and the shit’s getting old. Hating-asses. They’re a bunch of bigots and shady motherfuckers.” She shakes her head. “I swear. This is one fucked-up country. It’s no wonder motherfuckers laugh at us. Instead of trying to work as one government, they’d rather tear us down just to be fucking spiteful.”

  Ohmygod! All I wanna do is watch the rest of The Good Wife. Not get into a long, drawn-out debate with her ass. I’m so not in the mood for this. Not tonight.

  She leans forward, clutching her stomach. “Ohmygod, I’m gonna be sick. If the Republicans end up back in office, they’re gonna fuck us over worse than they already have.” h

  I laugh. “Girl, hopefully that’ll never happen. “But to be on the safe side, we all better be out at them polls to ensure it doesn’t. Obama has been catching heat from day one. Everything going wrong in this country is his fault. They fail to see the shit that he’s already done since being in office. But, it’s not enough. No matter what that man does, there’s always going to be someone pointing a finger at him, blaming him for something. As long as he’s President, he’ll always be under the microscope.”

  She frowns. “Why? Because he’s black?”

  “No. Because he’s a man who isn’t taking sides. For him it isn’t simply a black thing, or a white thing. It’s a people thing. And he’s about holding everyone accountable, particularly those in politics and other positions of power.”

  She grunts. “Mmmph. And you mean to tell me that nothing them haters put him through has anything to do with the fact that he’s black?”

  I shake my head. “No. Not all of it.”

  “Yeah, right,” she replies indignantly. “You and I both know it’s all about race. So don’t even try to sugarcoat it. This is a racist country, boo. It’s what it was built on. And you know it.”

  Porsha walks in. “What are y’all in here talking about?”

  “President Obama, who else?” I tell her, shaking my head.

  She backs out of the room. “Oh, no thank you. I want no part of this conversation. Call me when y’all are done.”

  I laugh. “Girl, take me with you.”

  “Mmmph, whatever,” Persia snorts at the both of us.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To fix me a damn drink,” she huffs over her shoulder, switching her way out the door. “Talking about this shit has got me hot.”

  I laugh, pressing the PLAY button and resuming my show. “Well, you might as well fix me one, too, ’cause listening to you is gonna give me the shits if I don’t have one.”

  She laughs. “Well, get over it. I’ll be right back with it.”

  “And don’t come back in here with any more of that Obama mess. I don’t wanna end up going to bed with a damn headache. I want to catch up on my show, have a drink, and take it down for the night, peacefully.”

  She flicks her wrist at me. “Whatever.”

  The doorbell rings. I glance at the time on the lower right corner of my laptop. 8:24 P.M. I wonder who’s coming here this time of night. And I know we’re not planning on fucking anyone tonight. I go back to watching the rest of the show without giving it another thought.

  Fifteen minutes later, Porsha comes waltzing back into the room, saying, “Girl, look what the wind blew in.” She’s carrying a tray with a pitcher of white sangria and four wineglasses on it. I glance up to see what she’s talking about.

  “Heeeeeeeeeey, Diva,” Felecia says, spreading her arms wide open as she struts in the room. I’m surprised to see her. It’s taken her almost two months to finally get over here so we can get the gossip.

  I slide my laptop over onto the sofa, getting up. “Ohmygod, girl, where in the hell have you been, Cuz? It’s been ages.” We hug.

  “I know,” she says, kissing me on the cheek. “It’s a damn shame we don’t stay in touch. It’s so good to see you.”

  “Yes, it is. Good to see you, too.” I give her another big hug, then step back, taking her in. She’s stylishly dressed in a denim dress that grazes her knee and a pair of black, four-inch ankle booties. She’s wearing a black lace front wig with strawberry blonde highlights. It’s bone-straight with baby hair around the edges, and hangs past her shoulders. “Girl, you’re looking fierce as ever. And I’m loving the do.”

  “You know how I do it, boo,” she says, flinging her hair over her shoulder. “It’s the silky Yaki, girl; got it on sale for three-hundred-and-four dollars.”

  Porsha cuts her eyes over at me, filling the glasses with wine. I’m sure she’s thinking what I’m thinking: Why the hell is she always wearing wigs? I don’t think I can ever recall a time when she’s worn her own hair out. Not even as a teenager. Weaves, wigs and head wraps; that’s all we’ve ever seen. Shit, now I have to wonder if she even has any hair of her own.

  “And you’re wearing it well,” I say. “So how are you? What’s new? I’ve been meaning to get over to the shop but every time I plan on coming down there, I end up getting sidetracked.”

  “Girl, you know I understand. But, umm, everything is everything. Things down at the salon are good. Pasha’s busy with getting ready for her wedding. And as you can see,”—she spreads her arms open—“I’m doing faaaaabulous.”

  I smile, taking her all in. “So it seems. We really need to do better with staying in touch, though.”

  “I know,” she says, taking a seat on the sofa. I close my laptop, moving it off the sofa and sitting it on the floor, then sit next to her. “It really makes no sense.”

  “Well, you’re here now,” Persia says, waltzing in the room. Porsha hands Felecia a drink, then Persia and me.

  “Yes, I am,” Felecia says lifting her glass. We follow suit. “To us.”

  “To us,” Persia, Porsha and I say in unison, clinking our glasses with hers. And for the next hour we sip and chat it up about little shit. Vacation spots, the boutique, the salon, family, mutual acquaintances, and the upcoming wedding. But, outside of talk about the salon and the upcoming nuptials, she’s still very tight-lipped about anything else that has to do with Pasha.

  “And I know I’m gonna see y’all at the wedding, right?” Felecia asks, downing the last bit of her wine.

  “Oh, yes, we wouldn’t miss it for the world. Here, let me top you off,” Persia says as she graciously gets up and refills Felecia’s glass. A sly smirk curls her lips. We all know Felecia’s an undercover lush, so we’ll keep her glass filled until her tongue starts to loosen. In the meantime, we keep the conversation light.

  “How’s Aunt Harriet doing?” Persia asks, settling back in her chair.

  “Chile, Nana is Nana; still feisty as ever.”

  And spewing scriptures I’m sure, I think, smiling.

  Porsha asks, “Is she still forcing you and Pasha to go to church with her?”

  Felecia laughs. “Girl, you already know. Every chance she gets.”

  “Some things never change,” Persia replies, shaking her head, laughing with her.

  “Isn’t that the truth? I love Nana dearly. I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for her. I try to spend as much time as I can with her.” She takes a sip from her drink, then asks how our parents are doing. I tell her they’re doing well; that they’ll be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary in November. “Wow, forty years. That’s amazing. I don’t think most couples last longer than four to six years these days.”

  “Mmmph,�
�� Persia grunts, leaning up and setting her glass up on the coffee table. “You better try four to six months. You know like I do that most people in relationships are in the wrong relationships with the wrong people, trying to make it right, doing all the wrong shit.”

  “Giiiiiiiiirl,” Felecia says, shaking her head, “you better preach. I don’t understand that kinda shit. I mean, if you’re with someone who you know is bringing stress into ya life, why put yourself through all the aggravation? Let that ass go.”

  Persia replies, “Because misery loves company. And the fear of being alone outweighs the need for peace of mind.”

  “And common damn sense,” Felecia adds.

  “Speaking of relationships,” Porsha says, reaching for the pitcher of sangria and refilling her glass. “What’s up with you and your man, Miss Lady? Y’all still together?” She pours more into mine as well.

  “Thanks” I tell her, taking my drink, then shifting back into my seat to get comfortable.

  “Chile, Andre and I are doing wonderful. Four years strong, and still counting.”

  “Wow, four years,” I say in between sips of my drink. “Time sure flies.”

  “Yes, it does,” she agrees. “Half the time I don’t know where it goes.” Persia wants to know when he’s going to put a ring on it. “Who knows when that’s gonna be? That’s on him. Don’t get me wrong. I would love to marry Andre. But I don’t put any pressure on him. I love him, and I know he loves me, so whether we get married or not isn’t gonna change anything. We have a really good relationship.”

  Hmmm, that’s what they all say, I think, pressing my lips to my glass. Until they find out he’s fucked her best friend. “Well, it definitely sounds like you’re in love, girl. I wish you nothing but happiness.”

  She reaches over and grabs my hand. “Thanks. I truly am.” She glances around the room at us. “Now what’s going on with you divas? Who y’all loving or should I say doing? ’Cause I know how y’all like to get it.” She laughs.