P. G. County

by Connie Briscoe

  Bradford rolled his eyes skyward, walked into the kitchen and dumped the rest of his coffee down the sink.

  How dare he turn his back to her in the middle of their conversation. She stood up so quickly she bumped into the coffee table. Her cup rattled and coffee spilled out. She set her cigarette in the ashtray, grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the spilled coffee.

  “I mean it, Bradford. I’m not some pawn in a chess match that you can jerk around at will. You might get away with that at work, but I’ll … I’ll walk if this keeps up.” There. She bet she had his attention now.

  He returned and stood in the doorway between the kitchen and solarium, his face contorted with anger. The change in his expression was so abrupt that she forgot about the spilled coffee and stood up straight. She’d seen this many times before, but it always startled her. He would be calm and then his mood would change suddenly.

  “Walk?” he said, sneering. “Where the hell to? You don’t have any damn place to go. Your father was dead before I met you. Your mother drank herself to death. And your aunt is senile.”

  He waved an arm in the air. “You’re lucky I married you and took you away from all that. So, tell me, Barbara. Just where the hell do you think you’re going to go?”

  She picked up her cigarette and noticed that her hand was shaking. That always happened when he used that nasty tone of voice with her. He could be so harsh. “I … I can get my own place.”

  “Ha! You’ve never been out on your own. You don’t have any skills, you’ve never bought a car by yourself, never handled taxes or paid bills. You don’t do anything around here except supervise all the help I pay for—a housekeeper who comes almost daily, a weekly gardener, lawn maintenance. You’d be completely lost in no time at all, Barbara, even with my money. Shit, you’d have your head back in the bottle before your feet hit the pavement.”

  She stubbed the cigarette out. “I don’t have to listen to this. You weren’t exactly born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

  His face softened a bit. “Look. You’re the one who started this, Barbara. No, my childhood wasn’t a hell of a lot better than yours. Why do you think I work so damn hard all the time? So you and the girls can have nice things. The least you could do is show some appreciation.”

  “I do appreciate everything you’ve done, Bradford. But yesterday with that woman here was too—”

  “I said it was over with her, but you can’t accept that. No, you want to start a fucking interrogation. So if you want to leave, fine. Go right ahead. But I promise you, I’ll fight you on every dime in court. This house, the cars, the boat and condos. Everything. You think you’re so miserable now? Hell, you don’t know miserable.” He snatched his briefcase off the floor. “I won’t be home for dinner.” And with that, he calmly walked off.

  Barbara paced back and forth in front of the sofa. She could barely catch her breath. How could he throw the drinking in her face like that? She hadn’t had a drink in two years. Bradford had never been the warmest man, but lately he seemed downright cold, cruel even. How did this happen? When did it happen? With all the drinking, she had been in a fog through so much of their marriage and had never seen this coming.

  The scary part was that he was right about so much of it. He handled everything, made all the major decisions. That was fine with her in the beginning. When they met, she was only eighteen and was a lowly sales clerk in a department store. He was twenty-four, had just gotten his M.B.A. and even then was talking big. He was going to get them out of Smithfield, Virginia, and start his own business. They would live in a big house and drive nice cars. They would have all the things money could buy.

  He eventually did everything he said he would do and more, with one conquest after another. She began to think he was a god and they were living in paradise. When it slowly dawned on her that he had to conquer beautiful women, too, she took to the bottle rather than face up to it.

  She sank back down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Now she was older, wiser and sober. And she didn’t like what she saw around her. Her children were grown, and “all the things money could buy” weren’t enough anymore. She wanted love and kindness. She wanted respect.

  She picked up her cigarette case, opened it and stuck a Benson & Hedges in her mouth. Her life would change drastically if she left him. She would probably be able to keep the house, but what about everything else? What about the condos in Nassau and Wintergreen? The boat and cars? It wouldn’t be easy to walk away from all of that.

  And their friends. Most of them would side with him, of that she was certain. They were politicians and businessmen and their wives. They needed Bradford and his business. They didn’t need her.

  She couldn’t even count on Marilyn, even though they had been friends for nearly thirty years. Marilyn’s husband, James, owned a small technology firm, and Bradford had thrown a lot of contract work in his direction over the years. James worshiped Bradford.

  But that didn’t mean things couldn’t change. Marilyn was a top-selling real estate agent in Prince George’s County, and was always bragging about her latest million-dollar sale. Barbara often thought she could do that. She knew about sales, and she and Bradford had built this house from the ground up. What was to stop her from going for her license?

  And immediately she knew. She had just turned fifty. That’s what would stop her. A fifty-year-old in school, just starting out on her own—what a joke. Bradford was right. She was nothing without him.

  Her hand trembled violently as she picked up her gold lighter and tried to light her cigarette. She soon gave up and threw the lighter on the floor. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. In the old days, she would have headed to the kitchen cabinet for a shot of vodka right about now. That would soothe her rattled nerves almost instantly. There wasn’t any liquor in the kitchen cabinet now, but her secret stash was still in her nightstand.

  She stood up and smashed the unlit cigarette out in the ashtray. She didn’t know what she was going to do about her marriage, but she was not going to take a drink. That wouldn’t solve anything.

  She squinted and looked out over the lawn. Emilio, the gardener, wasn’t coming until tomorrow, and she needed fresh flowers for the solarium. She would change into her sweats and do some gardening. That always calmed her. The garden was the perfect place to think—quiet and cheerful—just what she needed to clear her head.

  Chapter 11

  Jolene walked faster. She was up to four miles per hour and had been at it for forty minutes. Her body was sweating from head to toe. She could feel herself getting stronger, tougher. God, she loved this power-walking stuff.

  A morning at the health club always did wonders for her mind and body. It was just what she needed, especially after fussing with that cheap, penny-pinching husband of hers. Since they had started building the new house, there was always something to argue about. This morning it was the roof. After spending time at the Bentley house the day before, she wanted tile so badly—it was different, exciting, expensive. Patrick wanted dry old asphalt shingles for one lousy reason only. Money. They were cheap and boring, just like him. Hell, Patrick would put straw up if he thought it could withstand the cold Maryland winters.

  “Probably ninety-nine percent of the population has a plain old asphalt shingle roof,” Patrick had pointed out to her earlier. “But nah, you can’t be happy with that. You gotta go find the most expensive roof material known to mankind to be happy. Well, guess what? We can’t afford it.”

  Yak, yak, yak! The man was so frigging cheap she could scream. She pressed a few buttons on the treadmill and upped the incline.

  Sometimes she wondered why she had stayed with him for so long. There were days when she felt like pulling out every single strand of the weave on her head. He was too damn much aggravation.

  Come on, girl, she told herself, breathing deeply as she walked. You know why you stay. The main reason could be summed up in one word: Juliette. Even though the child behaved l
ike her mother, she worshiped her daddy. Juliette would often go to her father to talk about things like boys and music. They had the kind of close relationship that Jolene always wished she’d had with her own father. And she didn’t want to break that up.

  Besides, if they separated now, Patrick would have to find another place to live and that would mean additional rent. They couldn’t possibly afford that along with the mortgage for their house and the note for the construction loan on the house they were building. Separation would most likely mean giving up the new house or at least postponing building it for a while, and she couldn’t have that. That big baby shaping up on the hillside in Silver Lake, North, was her dream come true.

  She was going to have to put up with Patrick for the time being. Living with him wasn’t all bad. He didn’t beat her or anything like that, or she would have been gone a long time ago. He didn’t even cheat with other women, at least not to her knowledge. He came home by seven every night. Hell, she wished he would put in more hours at work. They could certainly use the money.

  Patrick just wasn’t the right man for her, and she had known it for a while. They had learned to tolerate each other by staying away from each other much of the time, coming together only when needed, such as for the Bentley wedding and for some dry, quick sex about once a month.

  She had gotten used to their boring life together, but that didn’t mean she planned to live this way forever. No way. She was only thirty-six years old. Much too young to be stuck in this dull, predictable life.

  Terrence was exactly what she needed to spice things up. But she wasn’t going to waste a whole lot more time on him, period. She was starting to feel like she was being jerked about, and she hated that.

  She would give Terrence a few more months to come around and that was all. If he was still making sorry excuses, she would have to move on. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She really thought Terrence was the perfect man for her. He had so much going for him.

  She remembered the first time she visited his office on a trendy block near Dupont Circle in D.C. like it was just yesterday. Patrick was being his usual cheap-ass self. He thought hiring an architect was a ridiculous waste of money and had refused to even go into town to meet with Terrence. Fine, she told him. Be that way.

  So she went alone on her lunch hour and almost flipped when Terrence Turner strolled into the waiting room to greet her. He was tall and handsome enough to be a movie star. When they sat down in his office, she kept asking him questions so she could stay longer and just look at him.

  Their second meeting went straight from cold salads at lunch to a steamy tryst at the Hyatt hotel. She had to tear herself away late that night and come up with an excuse for getting home past midnight.

  She smiled. Damn. She was getting horny just thinking about the man. She punched some buttons on the treadmill, and it slowed to a stroll as she patted her face dry with the towel draped around her neck. She reached for her cell phone and dialed the Hyatt.

  Terrence always went to church with the wife and kids on Sunday morning. But they were due to hook up that afternoon for one of their little escapades, and she wanted to have a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, her favorite champagne, chilling at the bedside when they arrived. A bit of bubbly would help Terrence loosen up, and she’d have better luck convincing him that she was the best woman for him.

  Pearl removed her black wide-brimmed hat and patted her short natural hairdo in place. Then she cocked her ear toward the stairs and listened for the sound of rap music that would tell her that Kenyatta was home. Sometimes Pearl could coax him into going to church with her, although most mornings it was impossible to get him out of bed after he had spent a late Saturday night partying or visiting friends. She didn’t even try this morning. After the wedding reception, he and that new girl went to Blues Alley in D.C. to listen to some jazz. Now what was her name? Oh, right, Ashley. Humph! The child’s name even sounded white.

  Pearl didn’t hear music. That meant he was either out or still dozing, even though it was now after eleven in the morning. Chances were that he was still in, since he knew she always fixed a big brunch on Sundays after church—bacon and sausage, grits and fried potatoes and scrambled eggs. But she wanted to check before she got started. Kenyatta could eat enough for two, and she wanted to be sure to fix plenty if he was in.

  She climbed the stairs and walked to her bedroom. She tossed her hat on the bedspread and slipped out of her black dress and heels and into a long cotton shift and slippers. Then she went to Kenyatta’s door and knocked softly.

  “Yeah,” came his sleepy voice from the other side.

  She cracked the door open. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and wiping his eyes with his fists. Pearl smiled. He looked just like he did when he was about six years old, rubbing his face like that. It was so good to have her boy back at home, even if only for a short while.

  “Late night, huh?” she asked.

  He yawned. “Tell me about it. We got back, like, three A.M. I was beat.”

  Too beat to hang up his clothes, obviously, she thought, eyeing yesterday’s wrinkled suit and shirt lying across the back of a chair. She entered the room and picked the clothes up one by one, slinging them over her arm. She didn’t know how he had ever managed living away from home by himself. “You worked late every day last week. That’s why you’re so tired.”

  He shrugged. “I need the money so I can get my own place and be out of your hair.”

  She waved a hand at him. “Oh pish. You can stay here as long as you like, you know that.”

  “Thanks, Ma. But no thanks. I need to get my own place.” He stood in his briefs and stretched leisurely. “So what time will breakfast be ready?”

  “Sooner than you will, judging from the look of things around here,” she teased as she placed his shoes in the closet.

  He chuckled and sat back down. “Good, ’cause I’m starving, and I got a big day ahead. Ashley and I are going to a cookout in Northwest, and then to a concert out in Columbia, Maryland, tonight.”

  A chill went up Pearl’s spine. He was seeing that girl again? So soon? “I see,” she said slowly. “This sounds like it’s getting serious.”

  “You mean with Ashley?”

  Pearl nodded.

  He smiled broadly. “Yeah, I really like her.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Pearl paused. She knew she had better approach this gingerly. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Kenyatta, getting involved with this girl?”

  “What do you mean exactly, Ma?”

  “Well, I only met her for a minute, and she seems fine as far as I can tell. It’s just that, well … you know, she … she’s …”

  “She’s white?”

  Pearl caught her breath. “Well, yes.”

  “And your point is?”

  “I mean, life will be much easier for you if you stick with your own kind.”

  Kenyatta grunted. “Easier? How?”

  “With society. With other people. You—”

  “Ma, I go for the person, not their skin color. Ashley’s sweet and down to earth. I couldn’t care less what others think.”

  Pearls lips tightened. “Maybe you should care. I mean, black men have been killed for messing with white women.”

  Kenyatta waved his arm in exasperation. “C’mon, Ma. Not these days. Not around here. Why are you tripping?”

  Pearl smacked her lips with impatience. Kenyatta was too young to remember such things. With all the fancy homes going up, it was hard to see that Prince George’s was once Hicksville—pure redneck country. Some parts of it still were.

  “Oh, it still happens. Maybe not as much as when I was your age, but it still happens. Believe me.”

  “It’s so rare, Ma. She’s the one who catches all the flak, mainly from black chicks. Sometimes I think you just never got over Daddy and Holly.”

  Pearl felt her body go tense. She hadn’t heard that woman’s name in years and she preferred it that way. She placed her h
ands firmly on her hips. “Boy, don’t you throw that up in my face. This has nothing to do with your father or that white woman. It’s not that I don’t like Ashley. I just don’t think she’s right for you. Is she going to stand up for you when you’re butting heads with white society? I don’t think so.”

  “How can you be so sure?” he protested. “You hardly know her. You never like it when I date outside our race. You always wanted me to take advantage of their schools, their recreational facilities, but—”

  “Excuse me,” she interrupted. “If you think of those things as their things, or as white things, then you have a problem, young man. We have just as much right to them as anybody. I pay my taxes just like they do.”

  “You know what I mean, Ma. You think it’s OK to mix with them up to a point, even to be friends with them. But when it comes to getting involved romantically, it’s like, hey, stay away. Not my son. I don’t get that.”

  “Blacks and whites don’t mix romantically without trouble.”

  Kenyatta scoffed impatiently. “I give up.”

  She shook a finger at him. “Listen, I’m going to tell you exactly how I feel when I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “Don’t I know it. We’ve always been up front with each other, Ma, and I value that. But you don’t have to worry about me all the time.”

  “You’re my son. I’m always going to worry about you. And I’m not—”

  He held up a hand. “Look, Ma, can we finish this discussion some other time? I need to get cleaned up now.”

  “Fine. I’ll go fix you some breakfast before you go.” She reached for the clothes on the bed. “I’ll take these and throw them in the washing machine.”

  Kenyatta grabbed the clothes before she could get to them. “I’ll do it.”