It's All Love

by Marita Golden

  She didn't know that the reason I kept my head down was that husband number two had filled me with shame one drunken night while one of their parties roared on below my bedroom. That was something no charm lessons, Borghese products, or tennis bracelet could ever erase. And silently I carried it with me for years.

  And Laurence was the only one I'd ever told. I'd carried that burden so long, and he bore witness to it. So whether he liked it or not, he was stuck with me forever.

  Duke was just as lonely for me as I expected. Laurence was happy, though. He had friends from the team, and tons of people on campus knew him directly and me by association. I'd been used to being a standout on my own, but as Mom had told me countless times, “There's always someone prettier.”

  That advice had done absolutely nothing for my self-esteem and had only bolstered my seemingly absent but realistically present insecurity. And vultures started swarming as soon as we landed on campus.

  He smiled and laughed them off at first, holding my hand a little tighter, but the rumors began during sophomore year.

  Black students were few and far between, so that enabled me to keep people at arm's length, maintaining the superficial relationships I was used to having. So there was a lot that got by me. But then I overheard two female students snickering as I passed them on my way to a finance class. (I'd selected finance as a major, as my mother suggested, so that I knew how to handle a rich man's money.) A few days later Laurence was waiting for me after class, and some guys were giving him high fives and dapping him up. When I approached him, his smile froze, and the guys grinned broadly and nodded hello to me before walking away.

  “You look like you've just seen a ghost,” I teased, standing beside him.

  “Naw. You just threw me for a loop, sneaking up on me like that.”

  “What am I supposed to do, wear a bell around my neck?” I joked.

  He smiled absently but said nothing as we walked out of the building.

  “Let's go off campus to get something to eat,” he suggested.

  “What's the occasion?”

  “Our win over Louisville,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  As we walked to the parking lot where my BMWX5, a gift to me from Momma via husband number three, was parked, people congratulated Laurence on the team's away game. More than a few of them called him a nickname I'd never heard before.

  “So what's up with the name Pancake?”

  “It's because I flip ‘em over like pancakes when I'm on the field.”

  “Cute,” I said.

  But over the next week I heard a different reason. I had just entered the suite where I stayed, and I overheard my suite mates talking.

  “… and when he's done, he flips them over to hit the other side. Like he's flipping pancakes.”

  “Oh my God. Do you think she knows?”

  “I doubt it. She's such a rigid ice princess she'd never let him …”

  “You never know what people do in private.”

  My breath caught in my throat, and I felt my heart thumping like it wanted to break through my chest.

  I backed quietly out of the living room and rushed down the hall to the elevator. I tried to maintain some semblance of poise, for Mom always said, “Even if you have to cry, do it behind Chanel frames.”

  I made it to the parking lot, jumped in my car, and screeched off the campus, having no idea where I was heading. I drove for hours with tears blurring my vision, and I wished that I had someone to talk to. Laurence had been my best friend for the past two years, and it hurt like hell not being able to reach out to him since he was the one responsible for my anguish and pain. The only other person who I could think to call was my mother.

  Her cell phone rang and rang, and I cursed every time I hung up. “Why have a cell phone if you're not going to pick it up?” I shrieked, throwing mine into the passenger seat. I was sitting in the parking lot of the mall, and the backseat was loaded with shopping bags—a lesson in therapy I'd learned at home.

  Finally, my cell phone rang.

  “Mom,” I said into the mouthpiece after checking the number on the incoming call.

  “Darling, is there something wrong? I see that I missed your call.”

  Call! It was just like her to minimize my seven frantic calls, condensing them into one.

  “Laurence is cheating on me,” I said.

  “Wait a second, honey,” she said.

  I heard her murmuring hellos and other greetings to people as she moved to a quieter place.

  “Sorry, sweetie. I'm at a dinner party at the Nelsons'. I only saw that you called when I looked in my purse for a pen.”

  I was silent as she blathered on.

  “Now what did you say, sugar?”

  “I said that Laurence is cheating on me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that he's fucking someone else.”

  “Cheyenne,” she said calmly, “did I teach you to curse like that?”

  “No.”

  “Is it appropriate for you to curse at your mother?”

  “No.”

  “Be glad that you're all the way down there.” Yes, ma am.

  “Okay, so is he having these dalliances with any one particular person?”

  Dalliances. Leave it to my mother to turn into Danielle Steele while my heart was crumbling.

  “I don't know.”

  “Is he doing it right under your nose?”

  “Not that I know of. I think it's happening on road trips for football.”

  “That's good.”

  “What's good about it?”

  “At least he's trying to spare your feelings. He's being respectful.”

  “Respectfully cheating? You're killing me, Mom.”

  “No, baby, it's time for you to grow up. Rich men, poor men, young men, old men, all men have the potential to cheat. What are you willing to tolerate?”

  “What? None of it, Mom. This is insane.”

  “Cheyenne, listen. Laurence is a nice guy, and he's got a wealth of potential. Right now he's just—how do you say—smelling himself because he's really popular. Trust me, women can smell money. It's actually not a bad trait—like a sixth sense.”

  “Mom?”

  “What I'm saying is that with a high-profile man, you've got to expect some of this.”

  “Does that mean I've got to accept it, Mom?” I whined, my voice climbing to a pitch at which a dog could hear it. “I mean, is there an acceptable price tag at which I should feel comfortable selling myself?”

  “Honey, you're being irrational.”

  “Mom, I need real guidance. I need your help.”

  “I'm trying to help you. You don't want my help.”

  “You're trying to turn me into some submissive—”

  “Who said anything about being submissive?”

  “You want me to just roll over and take it as long as the price tag—”

  “Cheyenne, I will not do this now. I'm out at a party. I'll call you when I get home.”

  I was thinking, Don't bother. Instead, I just mumbled, “Bye,” before I turned my phone off.

  When I returned to my suite, I breezed in with a smile plastered to my face, a good show for my vicious suite mates. Thank God they weren't there. I unpacked my purchases and tucked them neatly away. No one needed to know that I'd tried retail therapy to get over Laurence's humiliation. As long as I could hide my shame, layer myself in perfection, they'd never have to know what I was really feeling.

  As I washed off my mask of makeup that night, I still wasn't sure what I wanted to do about Laurence. I loved him, but was love worth my self-respect? I didn't have much experience with love, but I knew that I wasn't supposed to feel like I was bartering my dignity just to be with someone.

  I slept fitfully that night, trying to stifle my tears so that my roommate wouldn't hear, and morning found me puffy-eyed and disheveled.

  “I tried calling you all night,” I heard Laurence say
as he stood in the doorway.

  I looked at my roommate's side of the room, and I was happy to find her gone.

  “I got into it with my mom, so I hung up and turned the phone off,” I muttered, pulling my hair down from its ponytail so that it would fluff around my face and hide my eyes.

  “Is everything okay with you two?”

  “It will be,” I said, swinging my legs around to the floor and scurrying around the room, trying to look busy

  “Do I get a kiss?”

  “Ooh, it's morning. I didn't brush yet. Why don't you go ahead and I'll meet you after class?” I suggested, heading toward the bathroom.

  “Okay. I'll see you later.”

  “Toodles.”

  In the shower I cursed myself for my cowardice. My brave self said, “You should have told him to go to hell. You were the one who he called every time his crackhead mama showed up. Your mother brought you both to college. You are the one who types his papers and does his laundry. You've made him who he is.”

  Yeah, a man who doesn't respect you. I skipped my first class that morning and headed over to an apartment complex near the mall. I filled out an application and wrote out a check for the deposit. I planned a move-in date for the second week in January, a week before classes resumed. If I was going to debase myself by keeping Laurence in my life, I sure didn't need anyone to bear witness to my humiliation. A single apartment with unfamiliar neighbors would help me save face.

  The next two years breezed by in a flash, and I was virtually shielded from Laurence's indiscretions. With his own key to my place and a car to get around, we practically lived together. Officially, he had a ratty old apartment, but he kept more stuff at my place than at his own.

  But there were moments. Once I returned from a weekend trip to St. Kitts with my mom and found a tube of lipstick under my sofa. Another time I skipped a morning class because of cramps, and I overheard him whispering on the phone in the kitchen. On yet another occasion, when I was finishing a project with a partner, I found him having a “study group” with three female students in my living room. It wouldn't have been so bad if they'd actually had their books open, but a bottle of tequila sat where those should have been. And one of the girls had already had one shot too many.

  Over and over I'd swallowed my words and bitten my tongue. My self-esteem was shattered, but I had the official title of girlfriend. Whatever that meant. But during spring break of senior year, Laurence took things to a different level. With a ring.

  After the bowl games, he'd been drafted to play in the NFL, and to celebrate, he'd invited me, my mom, and her husband out to dinner with him, his aunt, his uncle, and his siblings. His mom had even pulled herself together for the event, probably smelling the dollar signs from whatever alley she'd been using for her hotel. We were gathered around a long table at the Chart House overlooking the Delaware River. The lights from Camden twinkled in the distance. From the other tables, our scene probably looked most amicable. Celebratory and fun even. But inside, I was as twisted as I had been for two years.

  Laurence had been kind to me and decent enough, and we'd had few arguments, probably because I let him do what he wanted. But inside, I crumbled every time he touched me. I'd tried to be more seductive and adventurous, but it came off badly. As poised as I was, I couldn't master hooker heels, and I twisted my ankle trying. I must have given terrible head because he stopped me during my first attempt, telling me, “No teeth, baby, no teeth.” I felt like a sexual failure, frigid like my suite mates had said, and part of me understood his desire to find someone more experienced. So I said nothing about his philandering, glad that he was at least respectful enough to always wear a condom with me. If I turned a blind eye to his cheating, and acted as if I didn't see a thing, I could ignore it all.

  But there was no ignoring the ring that beamed from the top of the strawberry in the center of my creme brulee.

  “Four karats, princess-cut …” my mother began whispering to me as she clutched my hand beneath the table. She leaned over and hugged me before holding my face in her hands, saying softly, “You've invested the time. Now reap the reward.” She cleared her throat and said loud enough for all to hear, “Say something.”

  “He didn't ask,” I said, smiling and turning to look at Laurence.

  “That's a question if I ever heard one,” his mother said, smiling and showing all of her gums.

  Laurence said, “So what do you say? Do you want to jump the broom?”

  “Yes,” I responded with a slightly embarrassed smile.

  He stood and walked over to me, pulling me in for a kiss.

  My mother had kicked into socialite gear, setting a date for us to be photographed before we went back to finish senior year. She sent announcements to every newspaper and local magazine within an hour's drive. The engagement party was planned for the weekend after graduation, and she'd host it at the hip new Sino-French restaurant in Center City, Philadelphia.

  She was in her element, calling florists, doing tastings at various reception sites, previewing wedding souvenirs, sampling wedding cakes, and beginning the search for a gown. In between our appointments, she doled out advice.

  “No long engagements. You don't want to give him too much time to think about it.

  “Get pregnant right away. You'll secure your place early on.

  “Cut off any of your unmarried associates. You don't want to invite temptation right into your door.”

  Her excitement was infectious, and I could almost see myself getting caught up in the anticipation of it all. But something was missing, and if she had stopped and focused, she could have seen the vacancy in my eyes.

  A month before our February nuptials, the round of bridal showers began. The first one at church for the congregation members who watched me grow up. The second one for family and old friends, for surely they couldn't mix with the new, polite, highbrow crowd who attended the third shower. I was glassy-eyed through it all, and Laurence was blissfully oblivious. He just signed checks, for Mother smiled, telling me, “You have to show him early on what his role is. Check signer.”

  But none of it felt right, and even with my minimal experience, I knew that.

  So a week before the wedding, my bridesmaids, a motley crew of my peers who were the children of Mom's friends, and I sat in a spa in Center City. Mom had cornered the wedding planner, twisting her arm into coming too, and the two of them sat, reviewing the dizzying details of my wedding, which was sure to be the social event of the season. With her face scrubbed clean, my mother looked angelic, like Dante's Beatrice leading him on a journey. And watching her, I felt my throat closing as the lower rims of my eyes filled with tears.

  “Mommy,” I whimpered.

  She looked up from her conversation with the wedding planner. “Give me a moment, Vivian,” she said to her.

  When Vivian left, my walled-up emotions completely crumbled, and tears splattered into the plush robe that was the spa-goers’ uniform.

  My mother rushed over and sat on the divan with me.

  “What is it, baby?” she cooed.

  “I … I … don't want to do this,” I sputtered.

  I'd been envisioning what my life would be like as Laurence's wife, and the thought of it terrified me. During the season I'd be the dutiful, perhaps even enthusiastic wife at the games, proudly watching my man do his thing with the pigskin. If I followed my mother's advice, I'd have a baby early, so I'd be stuck at home while he traveled to away games because, nanny or no, my conscience wouldn't allow me to leave my child out of my care for too long. And while he was away … hell, it wouldn't have to be while he was away from me. He'd been doing dirt right under my nose for years, and I hadn't said a word. And in my silence, I'd lost my self-respect and his respect too.

  My mother looked into my eyes before looking down and grasping my hands.

  “Baby, I'm sorry that I haven't always given you the best advice about love. The truth is, I don't know a lot about it. Hell, you se
e that. I'm on husband number four, and I don't know how long he's going to be around. He hates me, and I suspect that his attorney is trying to find a loophole in the prenup before he serves papers on me.”

  “I'm sor—” I began.

  “Don't be. I'm a big girl. I'm finally figuring it out, after all of these trips down the aisle. So after all of that instability, I owe you some love lessons because I want you to be luckier in love than I was.”

  “If this is more of your advice about marrying well and living like a diva—”

  “No, no. What I'm about to share is the real stuff. The stuff that love legacies are made of. Are you ready?” she asked with a smile.

  “Mm-hmm,” I sniffed.

  “Okay. Thing number one—the way you start off is the way things will stay for a very long time. That's with housework, sex, everything. So you've lost a little ground with turning a blind eye to his loose-zipper syndrome. First things first, make him get tested and you go too. Acknowledge that you know about it, and tell him that with the ring, you expect that things are going to change.

  “Thing number two—the only third person in your marriage should be God.

  “Thing number three—communicate constantly. Men don't know what you're thinking, so you have to make it plain for them. Spell it out and don't make them guess. Also, talk about your day—simple stuff as well as big stuff. That way you'll be involved in each other's lives.

  “Thing number four is to make sure that you make time for yourselves individually, as a couple, and as a family. He needs time with the guys, but make sure that you know who his friends are and let him know whose friendship is unpalatable to you. That means he needs to cut off some of those single, ne'er-do-well friends as well as the married ones who make it a habit to cheat.

  “Thing five—don't let the sun set on your wrath. You don't know what can happen during the night, so don't go to bed angry.

  “Thing six. Even with a nanny and a housekeeper, make sure that you share household responsibilities.

  “Thing seven, stand up for yourself. Don't be passive or let anyone walk over you. Some folks will have you, as the wife, submitting all over the place, but you're no one's doormat.