Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl

by Carolita Blythe

  “Something smells good,” he says.

  “Yeah, I bought some oxtail the other day and left it out in the fridge, so I figured I should cook it before it spoils. And you know oxtail is not cheap.”

  “Oh,” Daddy says. “See, the thing is, Jeanne, I was thinking Faye and I could just go out. To Faye’s favorite. Red Lobster.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait,” Mama says, twisting her curls and acting even weirder than she’s been acting all night. “I mean, I have all this food. Everyone’s hungry. Why let it go to waste? Come on, sit down.”

  Daddy doesn’t look so sure.

  “Then you can tell me about this life change you mentioned over the phone. This big news. And I don’t want to have to wait till you two get back from Kings Plaza to hear it. We’ll all talk. After we eat.”

  Before Daddy can say another word, Mama is taking him by the arm and leading him over to the table.

  “Now sit,” she says. “There’ll be no restaurant when we’ve got perfectly good food right here.”

  “I don’t know, Jeanne. I wanted to do something Faye wanted. Something different.”

  “Oh, but she loves oxtails,” Mama says. “And talk about different. I can’t tell the last time we had them. She doesn’t want any Red Lobster, right, Faye?” Her lips are smiling when she says this, but her eyes are not.

  Daddy looks at me. “Faye, it’s up to you, baby. You say Red Lobster and we’re out of here.”

  My lips are ready to form the words Red Lobster, but I see Mama shooting me her death rays. I guess it’s going to be oxtails.

  I truly hate my life. Why didn’t I just defy Mama’s will for once and say what I really mean? Now instead of sitting across from Daddy at the restaurant, enjoying some shrimp scampi and a Shirley Temple, I’m staring at Mama in her ridiculous gown.

  “You sure about that?” Daddy asks once I give my half-assed answer. I just nod without any enthusiasm.

  “Oxtails you want, oxtails it is,” he says before turning to Mama. “By the way, what’s with the dress, Jeanne?”

  “Oh, this?” And she does this weird fashion-model turn. “I was going through my closet. I have a few beautiful pieces. This one I got when we first got together, remember? Anyway, where do I have to wear them to nowadays? So Faye and I decided we would do like the rich people and play dress-up when we had dinner.”

  I look up, ’cause unless I’m losing my mind, I don’t remember ever having such a discussion. And Mama’s not really the type to play anything.

  “Hmm,” Daddy says. “Hope that giant bow doesn’t get in the way of your food.”

  I giggle, because I figure Daddy thinks this is as ridiculous as I do—Mama getting all dolled up in her ball gown to have dinner in our small Brooklyn apartment, where the roaches outnumber us a million to two.

  “I suppose it is a nice dress,” he says. And Mama smiles her smeared lipstick smile. “You got something on your teeth, Jeanne.”

  Mama brings her napkin up to her mouth. When she removes it, she smiles again, only with her lips together this time.

  Daddy takes off his leather jacket and his orange-and-blue Mets cap. Every time I see him he looks thinner, and he was never all that big to begin with.

  “You’re growing a beard,” I say.

  “It’s a goatee. You like?”

  “It’s got some grays in it. Makes you look older.”

  “Personally, I prefer the word distinguished. So, how you doing in school?”

  Things start out normal enough, but it doesn’t take long for the conversation to take a turn and for Mama to completely go off the deep end. The “change in plans” Daddy needed to talk about comes up way before the end of dinner. Mama starts babbling about how nice it is for the three of us to be eating together, and how like a real family it feels, and on and on and on. And I start noticing just how uncomfortable this seems to be making Daddy. I mean, his eyes are shifting about. He’s poking at his food and chewing on the same piece of oxtail for like ten minutes. Finally, he takes his napkin, wipes at the corners of his mouth, and pushes the plate away a little. Then he just sits there, quietly staring at his Seven Natural Wonders of the World placemat.

  “Jeanne, maybe we can go into the living room and talk.”

  “Whatever you have to say, you can say it right here,” she says. But Daddy looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Maybe we should go into the living room,” he says again. And Mama’s face clouds over. She actually looks a little scared. She clasps her hands together and sits up really straight. Then she just plops out of her seat like she’s lost all control of her muscles, and she’s kneeling on the cold linoleum floor in her fancy gown. She grabs Daddy’s hands and starts laughing.

  “I’ve changed so much over the last couple of years, Charlie. I’m more secure with myself, I’m happy. I’ve learned to laugh. You know I don’t want to sign those papers. I mean, you’ve been out there. You see how hard it is. We had something good. Why don’t we just give it another shot?”

  “I’m going to be based out of Fort Lauderdale from now on, Jeanne. I’ve met a really great woman. Her name is Melba, and, well … we’re getting married.” And Daddy turns to me. “Baby, I’m getting married again.…” Then he turns back to Mama. “I’m really going to need you to sign those papers this time. No putting it off any longer.”

  “Fort Lauderdale? Florida?” I say. “Why do you have to go there? Couldn’t you just get married and stay here in New York? I mean, it’s not like I can hop on the forty-four bus and go visit you there. It’s not like I can get on the number two train or ask Uncle Paul to give me a ride.” I hardly see Daddy now, when we technically live in the same state, so I can just imagine how those visits will dwindle once he’s based out of Florida. My stomach sinks. And all of a sudden, the oxtail in my mouth becomes like rubber. I just keep chewing and chewing, but I can’t seem to swallow it.

  I figured with Daddy traveling around so much for his music, he must have had other girlfriends, but none has been serious enough for him to come and talk to Mama about.

  “Jeanne, one of the things I wanted to discuss with you … Maybe Faye could come live with me awhile. Give you a chance to maybe do some of the things you’ve always wanted to.”

  “Really?” I say. And I almost jump out of my chair. A new life away from Mama? It couldn’t get any better than that.

  “Live with you?” Mama says softly. “But she’s all I got.” I’m sure my head snaps around, because I’ve never heard Mama say anything like that before. She’s still kneeling on the floor, and in that one brief moment, she seems so much smaller.

  “If not all the time, maybe summers and holidays. Look, I know you’re the one who’s been holding things down for the past few years now. I know you’ve shouldered a lot of the burden while I’ve been out picking at my bass, but I’ve stumbled on a nice full-time gig at a hotel down there. I’ll have some stability.…”

  Mama begins rising from the floor. Only, it takes a lot of maneuvering, ’cause there’s plenty of green dress she has to work with. She walks back over to the table, grabs Daddy’s plate, which still has some food on it, and flings it into the sink, breaking it into a hundred pieces.

  “Melba? What the hell kind of name is Melba?” Then she grabs his glass and does the same with it. And then the words just start spilling out of her mouth. She’s talking so fast and her lipstick is smearing so much, it looks as if somebody has taken the time to paint each of her teeth red.

  “You come in here after six years, wanting to be some hero and take my daughter away to Florida to stay with some woman named Melba, show her the good life, what she’s missing by living in some cramped little Brooklyn apartment with me. Since you’ve been gone, you’ve done what? Given a couple dollars here and a few cents there. Just because you throw money at that Catholic school of hers doesn’t mean you’re really contributing shit. I’ve had to pick up all the slack while you’ve been going around, trying to become a
bass player, running around acting like you were a single man. But now that you’ve got things on track and you’ll finally start earning a little money, you don’t reward the one who’s done all the work. You reward some Melba who probably just popped up, saw you for what you are this moment, not for what you’ve been all those years. And now you’re gonna try to take my daughter away from me while you play house with this whore?”

  And there’s this big giant vein in the center of Mama’s forehead that’s bulging and throbbing. And I’m wondering if it’s not going to explode and coat the entire kitchen in a deep, gooey red.

  “Faye, go to your room,” Daddy says. “And don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Okay,” I say quietly, even though I don’t want to go. This was supposed to be about me and Daddy catching up and having some fun. How did it turn so nightmarish? I’m not getting a good feeling about how things are going to end. Even though I shut my door, I can still hear Mama’s voice coming harsh and loud. Daddy’s is softer-sounding, but just as intense.

  “Everything you do in this life has consequences, Jeanne,” Daddy says. “Everything. You just remember that. You can’t do bad to someone and not expect it to come back around to you.”

  “Then when will you get yours?” Mama yells. “ ’Cause I’m not the one who walked out on this. I’m not the one who stepped out with some fast-ass supermarket cashier girl—the first of your many little slipups—six years ago.…”

  And this goes on, back and forth, until I become aware of only Mama’s voice still ranting and raving. I ease out of my room and over into the hallway, before stepping quietly into the kitchen. Mama is standing with her back flat against the broom closet, as if she’s been glued to it. Her eyes are all glassy and bulging, her bun has come undone, and with what’s left of her red lipstick, she looks like some deranged clown. And she starts breathing really, really hard, like she’s going to pass out. She suddenly separates from that closet and starts moving toward me. I just freeze. Too scared to move. Too scared to take in a breath. But Mama doesn’t even see me. She just brushes past and walks into her room. The door slams behind her. I hear some things being thrown against the wall, then there’s silence.

  I start picking up pieces of broken plate and wrapping them in newspaper. Only, I make sure to do it real quietly so as not to disturb her, so I don’t cause her to remember that I’m still here. About ten minutes later, she emerges from her room with a coat over her green dress and the big bow pushed up from her shoulder into the side of her face.

  “Come on,” she says to me. “We’re going to the church!”

  “But Mama, it’s not open now,” I say softly.

  She stands there for a second. I think my words are registering because she slowly begins to take her coat off. But then she rushes at me and connects with an elbow to my temple.

  I fall against the table, knocking over two of the chairs. But it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt so much. It doesn’t hurt because I can see Michael Jackson dancing toward me in his rhinestone suit from the “Rock with You” video. And he’s smiling like an angel.

  Girl, close your eyes, let that rhythm get into you.

  Don’t try to fight it, there ain’t nothing that you can do.

  Easter finally gets here. I say finally because I couldn’t come up with anything to avoid having to spend twelve and a half hours at Ms. Viola’s every day for the four days we had off for our break. From six-thirty in the morning, when Mama left for work, to seven in the evening, when she returned, I was forced to perform slave labor. That’s a total of fifty hours of being subjected to whining and crying, and feeding and burping and cradling babies. Fifty hours of horse-toothed Gerald cracking corny jokes and snickering. Fifty hours of my own personal hell. Only break I managed to get was on Good Friday, when I insisted Ms. Viola respect my religious yearnings and allow me out for Mass. Once I got a taste of freedom, I hightailed it over to a McDonald’s, where I treated myself to a Big Mac lunch and considered taking the F train to Coney Island and flinging myself into the Atlantic.

  Easter Sunday finds me seated next to Mama, trying to keep my eyes open during the longest Mass ever. There’s all this pomp and circumstance surrounding it—which is not completely horrible at first. The lighting of the Easter candle is kind of cool, and there’s a full choir singing, but that gets old quickly enough. First of all, they really need to funk things up, like the choir does at the Baptist church Aunt Nola goes to—although I guess you can only get so funky when you have to sing songs named “The Strife Is O’er, the Battle Done” and “Regina Coeli Latare.” Secondly, one less reading from the Old Testament wouldn’t kill them.

  Somewhere around the Gospel according to John, a little gray-haired white woman dressed from head to toe in Easter yellow exits her pew, and my mind runs across the old lady on Parkside Avenue. I start wondering if she’s even religious. Does she go to Mass? Maybe she’s Jewish. I don’t know. I always think of old white people as being Jewish, old Hispanic people as being Catholic, and old black people as being Baptist … unless they’re from the Caribbean.

  Maybe if we hadn’t gotten into that fight I would have snuck out from Ms. Viola’s and gone back to see her, but she’s completely ungrateful. If she’s so happy being alone, then good for her.

  When that dreadful service is over, Mama and I catch the Flatbush Avenue bus over to Cortelyou Road, then walk the five or so blocks to Aunt Nola and Uncle Paul’s, which is where we spend every Easter. I always have a good time there because they’re a real family. They’re forever telling jokes and laughing and hugging and kissing each other. Well, three quarters of the family is cool. Then there’s my cousin Lisa.

  I used to get confused when I first started visiting my aunt and uncle by myself. All the houses on their block look the same. They’re all two-story attached row houses made with either red or brown brick. Fortunately, Aunt Nola’s a bit peculiar, so for half the year, her house really stands out. Her Christmas decorations go up just after Halloween and stay there until Easter.

  The doorbell goes ho, ho, ho when Mama rings it. Aunt Nola is all smiles and hugs as she greets us. She even says something complimentary about my “sassy new hairstyle” once I take my hat off. I’m pretty sure she’s just trying to make me feel better, but I’ll take it. Uncle Paul sips his rum and Coke and laughs in the background while my cousin Andre waves from the kitchen. And the house smells like baking bread and roast beef.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Lisa sneaking up the stairs, acting as if she doesn’t see us.

  “Hey, Lisa,” I say as I catch up to her. “What’s going on?”

  There’s the loudest sigh before she mumbles “Nothing” through gritted teeth. Lisa’s one of those stuck-up beauties, someone I’d get a whole lot of pleasure dishing out a spoonful of misery to. I mean, there’s never a blemish on her face or scar on her knee or hair out of its beautiful place. And she’s all too aware of this. She’s the sun and we’re just itty-bitty planets trying to get a little of her glow. My very presence seems to annoy her to no end. I guess it takes her out of her beautiful thoughts and distracts her beautiful mind from whatever it is beautiful people spend their days thinking about—butterflies and unicorns and jelly beans and stuff like that. But this is the thing I don’t understand: if you’re so pretty, what do you have to be so pissed off about all the time?

  She looks at my hair with the slightest bit of interest. I know she wants to say something about it, but doesn’t want to risk the possibility of it maybe turning into an actual conversation.

  “I need to go upstairs,” she grumbles.

  “I’ll just come and keep you company.”

  “No. I have my period. I need to be alone.”

  I find it interesting that since I started getting my period, it only comes once a month. Lisa’s seems to show up every time she has to do something she doesn’t want to.

  As we all get ready to sit for dinner, the bell rings, and Uncle Paul excha
nges a weird look with Aunt Nola before he heads for the door. A few seconds later, he’s back with …

  “Jerry Adams, everybody. Jerry, we were just about to have some dinner. You’re eating with us, and I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

  “I guess I have no choice, then,” Jerry Adams says. And this is followed by the loudest, cheesiest laugh I’ve ever heard: “Hey, hey, huh. Hey, hey, huh.”

  Jerry gets seated right next to Mama and immediately begins stealing glimpses at her from the corner of his eye. I try not to stare, but his name couldn’t be more fitting. The man has the wettest, juiciest, drippiest processed curls I’ve ever seen. It’s as if someone dipped his hair in Vaseline, then straightened it all out, then curled it back up, then dipped it in baby oil. I think I’ll call him Jheri curl Jerry, or JCJ for short. I’m trying to eat Aunt Nola’s lamb, but my eyes keep drifting back to the little beads of liquid just barely hanging on to the very end of each strand of hair. I can’t understand how they don’t drip down into his food and poison him. I’m waiting and waiting for one to fall, but nothing. They just keep dangling there, like he’s put a spell on them and they don’t dare defy him.

  “So, Jerry, Jeanne is an amazing chef,” Uncle Paul says. “Prepares food for very influential people in Manhattan.”

  “She’s a pretty one too,” Jheri curl Jerry says. I see my cousin Andre rolling his eyes and giggling.

  “I’m a glorified maid is what I am,” Mama says nastily before turning to JCJ. “Mr. Adams …”

  “Oh no. Unless you want to insult me, please call me Jerry.”

  Mama sips some water, puts Aunt Nola’s pretty crystal glass back down on the table, and continues.

  “As I was sayin’, Mr. Adams, I’m not stupid. Why don’t we cut to the chase and call this what it is … a setup. But the thing is, I don’t need any help getting a man.”

  “Then why haven’t you had one in all these years?” Uncle Paul says under his breath. Mama shoots him a look.