The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel

by Jill Conner Browne

  “Everything’s so…green,” I said with a frown. Ever since Marcy Stevens had dubbed me the Jolly Green Giant, I hadn’t been overly fond of the color.

  “Avocado,” the real estate agent corrected me. “But if you don’t like them, we have models with appliances that come in Harvest Gold.”

  The real estate agent was named Neecie Harrison, and she exuded feminine perfection—shoes matching bag, brows plucked into a perfect arch, hair curled into a neat bob.

  Could I be a real estate agent? I definitely liked poking around in other people’s houses. I pictured myself wearing a navy blue jacket and tossing around phrases like “Isn’t this an adorable alcove?”

  Sonny was in the den, sticking his head up the fireplace. He wanted me to go to college to be a health teacher, but I wasn’t too hot on the idea. It’d take four years, and I wasn’t particularly keen on school. Well, the truth was, I was dying to go but ever since I nearly failed Algebra II, I’d been too afraid to try it.

  I was about to ask Neecie how long it took to be a real estate agent when Sonny emerged from the den.

  “Is this the Phoenix?” he said.

  “No, this is the Flagstaff. The Phoenix has an extra half bath and a foyer,” Neecie said.

  There were five models of houses in Oasis Flats, a brand-new subdivision in Jackson, and for some inexplicable reason, they were all named after cities in Arizona.

  “That extra half bath might come in handy, but I like this floor plan better,” Sonny said. “What do you think, hon’?”

  Whenever I looked at Sonny I had to remind myself that though he was merely “nice-looking” as opposed to “handsome,” there were several of his individual body parts that I adored. He had strong, square, decidedly masculine hands and perfectly honed forearms. His teeth were straight and white, he had well-shaped ears, and his calves were nicely sculpted even if he was bowlegged. He was also, truth be told, hung like Paw Paw’s pony. Even so, while Sonny was well-intentioned enough, sexually speaking, it seemed as if he didn’t even know about “the little man in the boat,” if you catch my drift.

  I smiled at Sonny—thinking of his more pronounced attributes—and said, “Whatever you think is best.”

  I was tired of looking at houses with small, claustrophobic rooms with low ceilings and not a lick of character. But, as Sonny had pointed out, they were reasonably priced, well built, and, most important, located in a good school district.

  “Would y’all like to discuss it on your own for a bit?” Neecie said. “I have some paperwork I could do out in the car.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Sonny said.

  “Jill,” he said after she left. “There’s something I want to show you in the master bedroom.” He took my arm and led me down the hall. We stood hand-in-hand on the powder-blue shag carpet, and he pointed to the blank wall. “Wouldn’t that be the perfect place for an armoire?”

  I frowned. Was it normal for a man to use the word “armoire”? Wouldn’t it be more masculine to call it “one of those things that holds clothes”?

  “Forget the armoire, Sonny. Why don’t we try out the carpet,” I said, toying with his belt buckle. “See if we like it?”

  He batted my hand away. “Jill, I want you to concentrate. This house is an enormous decision. We’re going to be living here for a few years, and I want you to be happy.”

  “Okay,” I said with a pout. It was just as well. The shag carpet would have given me some god-awful rug burns.

  “I think this house is cute as a button, hunny,” I said, giving his arm a squeeze. If I could fake orgasm, I could certainly fake house-lust.

  “Our home. Imagine the bed here,” he said, pointing at a spot near the window. “The TV across the room. You and me watching Johnny Carson every night, and then afterward…” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “You know what.”

  “And the mirror goes here,” I said, pointing up at the ceiling.

  “Jill,” he said, with the embarrassed smile of a guy who liked to dip his wick without having to discuss the urge with his future wife. She, apparently, should be more like Mary Poppins than Mae West.

  “It all sounds perfect,” I said.

  “I also think the living room is the ideal size for entertaining.”

  “Who would we entertain?” I asked. We’d yet to make friends with other couples.

  “People from the accounting firm. Clients.”

  Sounded like the opposite of “entertaining” to me, but being a good little fiancée I held my tongue.

  “You’ve haven’t said anything about the most important room in the house,” he added.

  “I just said it was perfect!” I said, gazing around the small, blue cube that was the master bedroom.

  “I mean the kitchen!” he said, playfully poking me in the ribs.

  It was more of a galley than a true kitchen, but as Sonny had pointed out many times, this was just our starter home. In the next few years, Sonny would be made partner at his firm, and we’d move to a bigger house. Sonny had our whole life plotted out on a legal pad: how many children we’d have (three), how we’d space them out (two years apart), and when he expected promotions. Before I met Sonny, my life had been like a pony on a carousel—measured ups and downs, all in the same little circle but amusing enough; now it was beginning to feel more like a mule, pulling a covered wagon doggedly across the prairie, with no trees in sight.

  After a few minutes of discussion, we decided to make an offer. Sonny wrote Neecie a two-hundred-dollar check for earnest money.

  We were going to celebrate by doing “you know what” at Sonny’s apartment. As Sonny shed his jockey shorts and folded them into a neat square, I was reminded of the first time I’d ever had sex with him. We’d been dating for about four months and after one particularly sweaty and scintillating make-out session, he grabbed my hand—which was slipping down the waistband of his khakis—and said, “Jill. Let’s stop for a minute. We need to talk.”

  He sounded so serious I spat a piece of hair out of my mouth, tucked an errant titty back into my bra, and trained my eyes on him.

  “I’d like to make love with you, but I want it to mean something. I want it to be a step toward strengthening our commitment.”

  I’d never heard a guy actually say “we need to talk” before. That and “commitment” coming out of a guy’s mouth within sixty seconds of each other sent my mind reeling.

  “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  There was a smooth click in my mind, like a key turning the tumblers of a lock. This is a relationship. This is what braces, hair curlers, Mark Eden breast exercises, and reading Harlequin romances had been leading up to.

  Of course, once I knew what I was dealing with, I stepped right on up to that plate.

  “Yes, Sonny,” I said. “I think I do.”

  “Good,” he said, tenderly touching my cheek. “I would like you to spend the night with me tomorrow, and we’ll consummate our devotion to each other.”

  I flinched at the word “consummate” (it sounded like a kind of soup to me) but figured I just wasn’t accustomed to a man using real words. This one had a whole six letters more than I was used to hearing from any guy.

  I showed up at the appointed hour, and Sonny greeted me at the door, smelling like he’d performed a full-immersion baptism in cologne.

  “Jill,” he said, awkwardly pecking my cheek. “You look wonderful!”

  He led me into the apartment. Henry Mancini was playing on the stereo, and champagne cooled in an ice bucket on the coffee table. From the living room, I could see into the bedroom, and I saw that the covers were pulled back. The only thing missing was a glowing neon sign blinking TONIGHT’S FEATURE: SEX!

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, his forehead shiny with perspiration. “I originally thought we should eat first, and then it occurred to me that we might to be too bloated afterward and—”

  Don’t say bloated! I wanted to shriek. Bloated was not a sexy precoital word.
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  “We’ll eat later,” I said quickly.

  “Would you like a glass of champagne?” he said, shifting into debonair gear.

  “Champagne would be just lovely.”

  “Champagne it is,” he said.

  He returned with two glasses and handed one to me. Peering over the top, he said, “I’ve been thinking about you all day long.”

  We finished our champagne and he wordlessly led me into the bedroom.

  It would be the first time I’d ever made love on a bed. My previous sexual encounters had taken place in the backs of cars, in a storeroom, and once hanging off the swim platform of a ski boat in the middle of a lake (which I discovered is a lot better in theory than in practice. Who woulda thunk there was such a thing as too much moisture?).

  Foreplay ensued, sweet-little-nothings were exchanged, and disrobing went without a hitch. I’d purposely worn a dress with a zipper, so I’d slip out of it like a greased pig. (Stop it! Don’t think about pigs, greased or otherwise.)

  I remember feeling extremely relieved when it was over. Sonny held me in an awkward way, as if his embrace was motivated by something he’d heard—“women love to cuddle after sex”—rather than something he really wanted to do. And apparently the cuddling thing was about the only woman-pleasing kinda thing he’d heard about.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, extracting myself from his arms. I started to take the sheet with me—like I’d seen women do in the movies—not being at all interested in him having an unobstructed view of my ass this early in the deal. He didn’t seem too keen on lying there splayed out nekkid either, so I just sort of backed out of the room while he pretended to be otherwise distracted while I performed this ridiculous maneuver.

  “Did you climax?”

  I was so young and self-conscious about my body that his question seemed overly intrusive, as if he had asked me, “Do you fart much?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “I’m glad,” he said, and the delight on his face was so apparent that fibbing seemed like the right thing to do.

  Now I had no idea how to break the truth to him and here we were, buying an avocado tract house and about to get married.

  “Just think. This is the first time we’re doing it as property owners,” Sonny had said, just before he entered me. And a little mortgaged piece of earth moved that night—at least for Sonny.

  Sometimes when we were making love I’d try to think sexy thoughts, hoping something climactic actually would happen for ME, but unfortunately nothing ever did. I tried so hard, one night I nearly called him “Elvis,” which clearly would have stirred things up but prolly not in a good way.

  Still, I mostly enjoyed making love with Sonny—it was just sorta comfy. His body was firm, and he smelled like Lifebuoy soap. I liked being close to him and having our limbs tangled together. My favorite part was when Sonny reached orgasm. For a split second, I’d look at his face and think, that’s the real Sonny, but then he’d melt away as quickly as he’d appeared.

  Later, as Sonny was reading Time magazine in bed and I was filing my nails, I said, “I wonder how long it takes to be a real estate agent.”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I’m just weighing different options. I’m not sure if teaching is for me.”

  “Real estate agents work nights and on Saturdays,” Sonny said, lowering his magazine an inch to glance at me. “That would be a problem with children. We really should stick with our original plan.” The magazine went back up, as if that was the end of the discussion.

  Chapter

  7

  There’s something I want to show you,” Tammy said, giddy with excitement.

  She startled me. I’d just gotten back to our apartment from the Piggly Wiggly and was stashing a box of Little Debbie Swiss rolls behind a row of tomato soups in the pantry. I hid my treats because Tammy had a terrible sweet tooth and would gobble them up in a single day.

  Tammy didn’t even notice the Little Debbies, she was so worked up. She seized my hand and said, “Come on. I just got it today, and it’s just so beautiful.”

  I followed her into her room, which looked like a shrine to Dr. Dick. Photos of the two of them covered her dresser and were thumbtacked to a bulletin board. In all of them, Tammy had her hand pressed to Dr. Day’s chest, as if claiming him as spoils.

  There was a small table near her bed where she kept all her Dr. Day mementoes—movie ticket stubs, matchbooks from restaurants, dried flowers, and a stack of greeting cards he’d given her over the years. I also knew that her two top drawers were stuffed with teddies, panties, and nighties that she donned exclusively for his benefit. Around the house she wore an oversized “Archie Bunker for President” T-shirt, holey granny-panties, and a ratty butt-sprung bathrobe.

  Despite sleeping with a gynecologist, she wasn’t having any orgasms either. I’d asked her about it a few months after I first started having sex with Sonny and she’d said, “I’m not sure. Sometimes I get a pleasant tingling during sex. That’s probably an orgasm, don’t you think?”

  “No,” I’d said. “I think it’s like sneezing—you’ll know it when you’re having it.”

  “Look!” Tammy said, holding a long white dress encased in a see-through plastic garment bag. “I have to take it out for you to really appreciate it.”

  I blinked in confusion. “Is that a fuckin’ wedding gown?”

  “Not just any wedding gown,” she said, unzipping the bag and pulling free the dress. “It’s my wedding gown, and it’s the most beautiful one they had at Marla’s House of Brides. Look at the detailing. There must be a million seed pearls.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said, sinking onto her twin bed and knocking to the floor a three-foot pink teddy bear, a Valentine’s gift from Deke. “He did it. Dr. Dick actually left his wife. I’ve been wrong all along.”

  “I told you not to call him that!” Tammy said, spreading out the train. “Of course, it’s not exactly official, but I know—”

  “Wait a fuckin’ minute. Whaddya mean it’s not official? Has he left her or not?”

  “Jill! Deke’s still in Boston at that medical conference,” she said, with a thin laugh. Dimples dented her cheeks. “I told you that when he comes back, I’m positive he’s going to give me an engagement ring.”

  “So why in the world do you have a wedding dress?”

  “Well, it’s inevitable that Deke and I are going to get married, so I’m just thinking ahead. Marla’s was having a sale, so I bought it.”

  “Tammy—”

  “I’ve decided that when he comes home, I’m going to wear it.” She shook the gown at me. “It looks so pretty on. I’m convinced that when he sees me in this dress, he’ll understand how badly I want to be his wife.”

  “Oh, God, Tammy,” I said softly. “I think he already knows that.”

  “He wants to marry me,” she said, stroking the dress with her hand. “I know he does. I can hear it in his voice.”

  “Let’s put the dress up,” I said gently. “You don’t want to spoil it.”

  “I know you have doubts, but you just don’t know him like I do.” Her eyes were bright and hard, like quartz crystals.

  “I bought some Little Debbies, and Laugh-In’s on tonight,” I said. Tammy had clearly crossed some line that made it impossible for me to argue with her. “You wanna watch it with me?”

  “No, I think I’ll tidy up in here,” she said, tugging on the sleeve of her blouse. “Besides, I don’t want to get involved in a show because Deke is gonna call tonight.”

  I left her alone and ended up reading the latest issue of Good Housekeeping (Sonny had given me a gift subscription) instead of watching television. I couldn’t believe Tammy was doing this. Through her door I could hear occasional snatches of “Lara’s Theme” coming from the music box that Deke had given her. The evening passed quietly with not a single phone call. When I glanced at the clock and saw it was eleven, I decided I’d check on her.

&nbs
p; “Tammy,” I said, lightly knocking on the door, “I’m going to bed.”

  I thought she’d fallen asleep because she didn’t answer, but then she said, “Good night. Sleep well.”

  “Tammy, are you all right?”

  “I’m great,” she said, but her voice sounded thick, as if she’d been crying. “I forgot that Deke had a dinner function tonight. I’m sure he’ll call me tomorrow at work.”

  “’Night, Tammy.”

  Chapter

  8

  I have one final question before I can perform your wedding ceremony,” Reverend Mixon said, his kind watery eyes searching mine.

  Shit! Here it was—the question I’d been dreading ever since we’d started the premarital pastoral counseling. He was about to point a finger at me and say, “Have you remained pure before marriage or become the devil’s harlot?”

  Should I lie, confess, or plead the Fifth?

  “No need to look so alarmed, Jill,” Reverend Mixon said. “I just want to know how you feel about the word ‘obey.’”

  I let out a long sigh of relief.

  “Obey? You mean as part of the wedding vows?” Sonny asked. He and I had been holding hands for so long that both of our palms were slick with sweat.

  “Some women have asked me to omit the word from the ceremony,” Reverend Mixon said. He chuckled. “They think it’s old-fashioned.”

  Sonny let go of my hand and squeezed my shoulder. “Jill’s very traditional. She’s not one of those wacko women’s libbers.”

  His comment irritated the shit out of me. While it was true I considered bra-burning a fool’s errand, I absolutely agreed with the whole premise of the movement—how could Sonny be so oblivious to that? But, since this was our last counseling session, I didn’t want to make waves.

  “I suppose it’s just a word,” I said, the very picture of a dutiful fiancée.

  A twinkle of approval came to Reverend Mixon’s eyes. “I guess I’ll see you on Sunday, then.”