At nineteen, Thandy’s life was on fire, burning like a cane field in a high wind. She was broke and out of work. She went hungry most nights, subsisting on black coffee and saltine crackers, and the small rented house she wound up being evicted from was infested with rats. Montana was still in state foster care, sent away the night of the bust.
Thandy spent most of her days searching for a job, never able to turn up anything, too proud to put in an application at the local coffee shop where she used to buy a tall caramel macchiato. Phillipa, who until then had just been the girl in the rented house next door, brought over some poison and traps from the local hardware store. She poured small dishes of water and strategically placed them inside the holes in the floorboards, under the kitchen sink, and in the cupboards.
“What you’ve got are roof rats,” Phillipa explained. “They walk right over the power lines and into the attic. They like screwing and waste no time making a nest for the babies. But this will take care of them. Once they take the bait and drink some water, the poison will activate and tear up their insides.”
Thandy was glad to have a friend who was an expert on rodents. Together the women painted the kitchen chocolate brown and hung a pretty border. Thandy never invited anyone else inside. She was too ashamed. That was then.
She hadn’t told the firm about her stint in jail and it didn’t come up in the routine background check. In 1994, Monty’s lawyer petitioned federal court to expunge her name from the court records, and got it. The drug arrest and the prior probation for minor drug use in North Carolina evaporated into the sealed records of the juvenile court system. The eviction record had been acquired and destroyed by an especially crafty friend who had gone down to the Fulton County courthouse and paid off a clerk. No reputable firm would hire an executive with a spotty financial history, let alone a conviction for drug running and conspiracy. But that was behind her now. As part of her deal to testify against her husband, details of Thandy’s life as Mrs. Monty Boykins were kept out of the newspapers. And the welfare records were cloaked under federal privacy statutes. There was no trace of the life she had led.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Over Susan’s objections, Thandy drove herself home. She had been in Chicago only a week before she purchased a 2006 silver Mercedes SL500, her first and only extravagance, which beat the hell out of the Honda Civic that had been repossessed twelve years ago. Enjoying the smooth ride of the car, Thandy remembered the purchase. The gaggle of salesmen had ignored her at first. She had calmly reached into her purse and drawn out her checkbook. Thandy tapped the Louis Vuitton leather booklet on the hood of the car until one of them noticed.
“Welcome to Mercedes-Benz of Chicago. How can I help you?” he said, extending his hand.
“I want this one. Iridium silver metallic with ash leather interior, seven-speed automatic, AMG sport package.”
“If you’ll step this way, I’ll get an application going.”
“Not necessary. I’ll be paying cash. And by the way, get me a list of your preowned C230s. Two years, twenty thousand miles max, with immaculate service records.”
The salesman was immediately ashamed. He disappeared into a corner office and emerged with his sales manager.
“Good morning, Mrs.?”
“Malone. Ms. Thandywaye Malone.”
“Welcome, Ms. Malone. If you will give me a moment, I will have a porter pull them both around. I have a certified preowned C230 we took on trade yesterday. It’s blue.”
“The color doesn’t matter and I don’t need to drive them. How much?”
“With tax, tag, and title, that will be—”
“I’m not paying the list price,” she interrupted, placing her left hand on her hip, shifting her weight. “I want your best number, the one you’d give your mother. Drive out with all the bells and whistles. If you come correct the first time, we’ll deal today. If not, well, I understand there are dealerships in Naperville and Hoffman Estates. Am I right?”
The sales manager delivered the vehicles personally.
The next day, Thandy purchased a three-bedroom house in Hyde Park on the corner of Ellis Avenue and Fifty-third Street. She could well afford one of the sprawling mansions in Naperville and Waukegan, but she had fallen in love with the stone-faced, century-old home. She wanted to live in the center of the city. The house still had its original crown molding, copper wiring, slate roof, and hardwood floors. A two-story penthouse on Lake Michigan with twelve-foot ceilings was certainly appealing, but she wanted Montana to feel some sense of permanence. Thandy needed it, too.
She was home less than fifteen minutes before she changed into her running shorts, laced her newly acquired Jordan running shoes, and went to stretch on the sidewalk outside the front gate. Maybe Mr. Blue Shorts was out there tonight. The thought alone brought a deep, broad grin to her face. It was better to fantasize about a man she didn’t know than to stew over the decade of bad choices she’d made with Jack.
She took off with a strong stride, quickly covering eight blocks. She dipped through the business district with her ponytail bobbing in the wind. A wave of cramps hit before she made it to Hyde Park Boulevard. At first she pushed on, then gave up when she couldn’t take another step. She turned and walked back home. Her legs trembled. Even her fingers were shaking. All she wanted was to make it upstairs to a long, hot shower. She made it as far as the sofa and collapsed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Thandy stood in the shower stall weeping. Not for what life had become, but for what it had been. Not for what others had not given, but for what she had been forced to take for herself. They were grateful tears. The struggle was over. Thanks to a mouthful of pain relievers, the cramping was now cooking at a low simmer.
She remembered the cold brown-tinged water she used to have to bathe in. The gas heater in the daylight basement would conk out all the time and the pipes were rusty.
Back then, baby Montana was hungry. The monthly ration of food stamps was often sold off for fifty cents on the dollar to pay the light bill. A bill collector would call six times a day about a 1985 Honda that was sitting on bricks in the backyard. Even if she had the means, she flat out refused to pay the note when she had to take two buses and a train to school. She was almost glad when the phone was disconnected.
The landlord promised to send a serviceman to see after the water heater and the pipes if she stuck to the arrangements to pay the rent and late fees. When the plumber arrived, he took one look at then three-year-old Montana and eyed an opportunity. He could fix the unit, he explained, but it needed a new part. If she’d give him a little something extra for his trouble, he might be inclined to order it and return the next day.
If she was especially generous, he could get new pipes, too, and flush the lines. Thandy didn’t have any extra money, she explained. Everything she had was promised to the landlord. He unzipped his trousers and his pants fell down to his knees. Thandy grabbed a butcher’s knife and chased him out. He tripped on the pavement as he tried to get back to his truck.
When he was gone, she went next door to Phillipa’s house and called the landlord again. He was unmoved. Phillipa told Thandy to report him to the county housing authority. She did, but the old man found a way to pay her back for causing him trouble. He filed an eviction notice and shut off the power. That day, Phillipa, the one friend she was willing to tell, helped her move into an extended-stay hotel. Even then, she was too proud to take the spare room in Phillipa’s basement.
The hotel was just temporary, she promised herself.
Later that night, alone in the hotel, she broke down. She cried like it was her first and last time to do so. She promised herself it would be over soon, like she knew it for certain. She told herself that she was destined for greatness. But Thandy knew the truth was that while she was waiting on God, He was waiting on her. He was waiting for her to make a decision to either get on with the life that was meant for her or be choked to death by the one she was living.
“Pick up your mat and walk,” she heard Him say. She heard it as clear as the sunrise.
Her father-in-law refused her pleas for help and even went as far as to blame her for his son’s imprisonment. Her own mother didn’t return her calls. Before he died, her father had answered once and promptly hung up. She’d sent dozens of letters over the years and none had been answered. She was too proud to call her sister, Yvonne, who was sadly not much different from saintly Yvetta.
Thandy still had nightmares of Monty’s arrest on their living room floor and Montana’s screams. She still had pangs of guilt about what she’d had to do to save their daughter.
Montana had been sent to foster care while Thandy sat in jail. She called Big Boy’s lawyer. Getting Montana back would mean cutting a deal against her own husband, finding a job and a decent place to live, the attorney explained. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t represent them both. His advice, he said, was friend to friend. He gave her a number for one of his colleagues.
On the advice of counsel, she testified for two days, choking back tears as her husband sat at the defense table.
“Forgive me,” she mouthed.
“It’s all right, baby,” he said back.
She lost everything. She packed all she could into the backseat of the Honda she bought at a “buy here, pay here” lot and drove off to nowhere. Several months later, after the eviction, after a four-week stay in a hotel, she found a new apartment and went back to school, reenrolling at Georgia State, completing another two semesters funded by Federal Pell Grants and guaranteed student loans.
On a leap of faith and at the urging of her academic adviser, Sloane Faulkner, she filed a transfer application at Emory University. The form didn’t ask if she had ever been charged with a felony. Thandy didn’t feel compelled to tell them. She spent weeks writing and rewriting the required personal essay.
“I am a welfare mother,” it started. “Those words alone evoke a whole host of vicious stereotypes. But more than that, I am a dedicated mother and a scholar. My name is Thandywaye Mbeki Malone.”
A few months later, she clutched the acceptance letter; excited and scared, she ran straight to Sloane with the news. She couldn’t afford the books and fees, let alone the twenty thousand in tuition. Georgia State had been free, thanks to the government aid, which she wouldn’t have qualified for if she had been convicted. Thandy read and reread the phrase “need blind.”
Sloane explained that since she had been accepted, the university would marshal the resources to pay for her tuition. Scholarships, grants, and work-study programs would all be cobbled together to meet the bill.
She enrolled in classes that fall and landed a job at the A & P grocery store a few blocks off campus, earning a little more than minimum wage. Health insurance would have cost half her small paycheck, so she checked a box declining coverage. Montana was back at home where she belonged. Nothing else mattered.
No insurance meant Montana would have to get her immunizations at the public clinic. But she was feeling liberated then. She was just happy to have her baby home. It was an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, just as Granddaddy Cump had advised. She moved into University Apartments off Clairmont Road, where the rent was more manageable and included in her school fees. Although no one noticed it at the time, Thandy was far and beyond smarter than her high school peers. The rudiments of basic algebra and English composition presented no significant challenge. Despite her natural brilliance, she’d been written off early as she gazed out the window of the classroom, unwilling to participate in the charade of acting as if she was learning something.
She regretted that now.
The only thing that stood between her and the stability she craved for her daughter was a collection of advanced math classes and seminars in international business. Thandy had no one to please but herself. She completed undergraduate studies with a major in finance the following year, then applied to law school. She didn’t really have an interest in practicing law, but her life with Monty had taught her one thing: If money is involved there had better be a clean, enforceable paper trail.
Fellowship offers came from across the country. She wouldn’t leave Emory, not even if Harvard called. She took a job as a staff accountant at a small but prestigious firm run by a former Atlanta mayor while attending Emory Law and dually enrolled in the Business School. Despite the demands of her new job, she graduated third in her class.
Over the next two years, she rose quickly through the ranks. When she was later offered a new position at a larger firm, the former mayor wished her well and called from time to time to check in. Thandy made her mark fast and was named chief customer officer at McDonough, Press, and Sweet Asset Management.
It was then that she met Jack. She was twenty-seven.
He was tall, outrageously handsome, and completely caught up with her. She had been hesitant at first. After all, he was very much married. It wasn’t long before Jack gained her trust, won her heart. Charismatic and something just short of brilliant, for a while, Jack simply lost himself in Thandy and she let him. She marveled at the things he knew, the places he had been. Night after night, she laid her head in his lap as he took her on a tour of the world she had not yet seen. He was full of promises then. She learned to deal with his marriage and never once pressed for a divorce. A man does what he wants to do every day, she told herself.
In the beginning, Jack was overly supportive, and for a while she was satisfied with the time he carved out for her. He purchased and moved her into a high-rise condominium and bought her a new car, payment for some indiscretion she had no clue he’d committed.
Resting high above Peachtree Road, Park Place Towers remains one of the city’s most prestigious addresses. Home to Sir Elton John, Janet Jackson, and Coretta Scott King, Thandy at first felt uneasy with Jack’s generosity. The three-bedroom, two-story unit boasted crisp white walls, cherry-stained hardwoods, and granite countertops. The wraparound balcony looked out onto the Atlanta skyline. As her career progressed, she applied for a mortgage and attempted to repay Jack for his kindness. He declined the money and told her it was a birthday gift.
“But my birthday isn’t for another three months.”
“Every day is your birthday when you’re with me,” he declared.
Thandy longed for the days when he would cancel his appointments and spend the day with her walking the trails of Piedmont Park or taking a drive all the way to Savannah to stuff their mouths with crabmeat and low-boiled shrimp. She wanted to cook for him, to watch him eat. She missed his laugh, the way he gently kneaded the knots out of her neck. Jack had been particular about what he wanted. So she gave up eating red meat and let her hair grow even longer to please him. There was no room for imperfection, no room for exceptions. She had let him see nothing less than the best of her.
When her father died in the summer of 2001, Jack drove her to North Carolina to attend the funeral services. As then twelve-year-old Montana slept in the backseat, they quietly talked about a future, maybe more children. They held hands for nearly the entire drive. Thandy allowed herself to stop talking and fall asleep. She felt safe with him. She hadn’t felt so safe in a very long time, not since before Monty went away. But that was then. Thandy now believed that the talk of marriage and children had been a ploy meant to keep her in close quarters. The house and car were expensive bribes, she reasoned. As long as hope was alive, he could keep stringing her along.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Hyde Park was a long way from Decatur, Georgia, Thandy realized, as the warm water ran over her. Montana was now sleeping comfortably in a bedroom at the far end of the hall with an early-admission acceptance letter from Yale taped to her bathroom mirror. The house she lived in now was not a gift, but something she had earned for herself. She was careful not to bring anything with her that Jack had purchased. The vestiges of their life together had been donated to the Atlanta Furniture Bank in his name.
In time, she hoped, Jack woul
d become a distant memory, as inconsequential as a late-night infomercial. She didn’t even have a picture of them together. Jack would never allow one to be taken.
Thandy knew Monty would be proud of them both. He was still locked up downstate in Marion, not more than four hours away. She never visited him. Monty didn’t want her there. He didn’t want his daughter to know him that way. Although she never avoided the conversation, she and Montana simply hadn’t talked about him much over the years. But she wanted Montana to know her father and to know how good he had been to them.
She lathered and rinsed her hair, letting the warm suds run down her body. She stayed there for a while, thankful for the clean hot water, glad to be alive, glad for the little things. She heard music coming from down the hallway. The bathroom walls pulsed. Montana was still awake, blasting the new Kanye West CD from her stereo.
Now I ain’t sayin’ she a gold digger . . . but she ain’t messin’ wit no broke niggas . . .
A parental alarm went off in Thandy’s head. While she herself was young enough to have been raised on hip-hop, there were still some things she could not stomach. She hated the word nigger.
“Turn that crap off! Montana!”
The music went down. “What did you say?”
“I said, turn that stereo off!” she said, sticking her head through the shower curtain.
“But, Mom!”
“But, Mom, nothing! I said turn it off!”
Two seconds later, the music changed.
God show me the way because the Devil trying to break me down.
Thandy caught herself bobbing her head despite herself. The long, wet strands of dark hair flapped against her back. She danced in the warm, clean water.
Thandy shook her head. It was always “nigger this” and “nigger that.” Cump, a child of the Jim Crow–era South, never allowed anyone to utter that word in his presence. No one would be brought low by that word. But now she had a top-floor view. She could hardly believe what she had accomplished. If someone had told her even fifteen years ago that she would become the president of a world-renowned wealth management practice, she would have called them a liar. But her day had come and she loved the very taste of it.
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