“Can I play on your phone?”
I hand it to him. We sit but I cannot get comfortable. Most of the parents look like they rolled out of bed with fifteen minutes to get to class. They are clutching cups of coffee, fiddling with phones, typing on laptops. I rub my eyes, trying to piece together Shayla showing up at my house. What if Preston had been home? Then what? I’m not giving her two dollars, let alone two thousand. She had better try to run game on someone else because I am not the one.
FIFTEEN
The Sinners Don’t Win
We don’t go to church, but I try to make Sunday our Sabbath day. No children’s classes, minimal running around, I even forbid Preston from leaving us for the office. I’m up before the rest of the house, taking the telephone off the hook in the basement. I also power down my cell phone and toss it in the drawer. Today I won’t be interrupted by anyone, not Gran, not Martin, not Shayla. By the time the kids come downstairs I have made a full breakfast; heart-shaped pancakes, fried potatoes, sausage, and eggs.
“Where are we going today?” Rory looks at me.
“Nowhere. It’s Sunday.”
“Awwww, man. We have to stay in the house for the whole day.”
“We can go in the backyard and play.”
“I want to go somewhere.”
“Eat your breakfast.”
Preston walks in the kitchen, wearing his boxers and a long tee. “Smells good. Paper come?”
I point to where I’ve left it on the counter.
The kids eat, crash their toys, and fall into the rhythm of our lazy day. For dinner, Preston fires up the grill and we eat roasted vegetables, cheeseburgers, and hot dogs. The plastic kiddie pool is filled with water, and the children swim and play. Once they are in bed, I plopped down on the couch next to Preston and zone out on thoughtless television.
* * *
I’m up before the sun, in my basement office working my monologue for the Dames audition. There is something about this time of morning when the house is still and the world not fully awake that makes my creativity flow. I type what I’ve jotted in Rory’s notebook and then let it expand. When I write a scene, I print it, read it, and then retype it. I do this several times until I am happy with the piece. The character that I’ve created is a funny mom who tells the real truth about the behind-the-scenes life of a stay-at-home mom. What I’ve written sounds good to me. I sure hope the Dames get my humor and go with me on this journey. That’s what acting is about, grabbing your audience and taking them on a ride with you. As I rehearse the piece out loud, stage direction, costume, and lighting come to mind.
I haven’t had many personal goals for myself over the past few years, but I want my Dames membership. It’s been a dream for as long as I can remember to be distinguished as an artist and belong to a group of women who share my ambition for creating art. People I can feed off of and network with to take my career and our family to the next level. These women are the connection to my future, and I’m getting in.
* * *
It ended up being one of those rare days when Liv napped late. I was so absorbed in rehearsing that the afternoon got away from me. By the time I arrive at the school, most of Rory and Twyla’s friends are gone, so it’s easy to get them off the playground and to the house without a fight or tears. My plan is to have them fed, bathed, and in the bed by seven thirty. That will give me an hour and a half to work my monologue before Preston is home and demanding my attention. Friday will be here before I know it and I want to make sure my piece is flawless.
The frozen collard greens that I’ve taken out for dinner smell stronger than usual, like they were a second away from going bad, but I have a taste for greens, so I hesitate for only a minute before throwing them in the pan. If anything, I’ll season them up more than usual.
“Give it to me!” Two shouts, drawing my attention from the stove. They are fighting over a pretzel.
“Here,” I say, dropping a few more in front of both of them.
“Mommy, how do you spell karate?” Rory asks.
I spell it. “What are you doing?” I peep at him.
“Writing out my schedule for the week.”
“Oh,” I say. At six, the boy never stops amazing me.
“How do you spell piano, sparring, and swimming?”
“Rory, sweetie, you have to look it up. The children’s dictionary is on the bookshelf.”
He covers his pretzels with his napkin and then runs off.
I’m circling the pan with olive oil and my favorite vegetable seasoning by Goya when Two starts pulling on my pants leg.
“Take this off, Mommy.”
I look down to see what she wants while trying not to forget what I’ve added to the greens and what still needs to be dropped in.
“The baby’s panties,” she says, pushing her doll into my face. “Fix Pamper on.” Her face is tight, and I can see the influx of tears waiting to fall. I’m about to correct her English but Rory is back clutching his children’s dictionary. “I don’t see it.”
“Sound out the next letter.”
“I did.”
I’m pulling clothes off of Two’s doll while I look over his shoulder.
“You’re on the wrong page.”
Two’s after-school floodgate is threatening to burst open, so I rub her belly and fix her baby’s Pamper.
“Here you are, honey. Take this in the living room so you can play with Liv.”
I decide to fry the chicken instead of baking it, since it will be faster. My cell phone dings. It’s a text from Sam, our sitter.
So sorry, Ms. Felicia, but I don’t have school on Friday. My mom is taking me to New York so I can’t babysit for you.
Damn. I try not to panic. Tell myself that it’s going to be all right and drop the floured chicken into the hot skillet. The meat and oil greet each other happily. The bubbling of seasoned skin permeates the air. The doorbell rings.
We have an electric bell, so when my neighbor’s bell rings, our bell rings, too. So I don’t stop stirring the greens. It rings again. The kids flock to the door.
“Who’s coming over?”
“Are you going out?”
“No. Back away from the door.” I look through the window. It’s Shayla. My heart dives.
“Go into the kitchen and color. I’ll be right back.”
“Coloring is for babies,” Rory says with a pout.
“Well, you can watch Liv.” I grab her off the floor. Stick her in her high chair and turn the food down low. Again the bell rings, longer this time.
“Faye, open up!” she shouts from the street.
I open the house door, walk across the enclosed porch, kick mismatched sneakers to the side, and grit on her. “What’re you doing here?”
“You going to let me in?” She cracks her gum.
I unlock the front door. We stand on my enclosed porch. The house door is wedged so I can hear the kids but she doesn’t push me to go any farther.
“You can’t keep showing up like this. It’s not cool.”
“I told you I need to get Brave out of jail.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“The money is taken care of. The problem is collateral.”
I watch her. She flings her long hair over her shoulder and flutters her lashes at me. The bone-straight hair is all hers, but I can tell she’s wearing lash extensions. Shayla is naturally beautiful, so the effort she puts in pushes her to beauty queen, movie starlet, rock star status. I’m wearing faded jean shorts and a Gap V-neck perfect tee. My hair is in two braids, parted crooked, Vaseline on my lips.
“Faye, I really need your help.” She sighs, gives me the lowered-eyed stare. I guess it was her broad with the blues look, but I wasn’t buying it.
“I need you to put your house up so I can get Brave out.”
“Bitch, please” leaves my mouth before I could filter it. She looks hurt but I’m not taking it back. The kids are calling me. The chicken needs to be turned. I want this chick out o
f my house, out of my life. I have enough going on. As if reading my mind, she takes a seat in the rocking chair close to the front door on the porch.
“I’ll wait.”
I navigate my way back to the kitchen, dodging the backpacks, lunch boxes, and toys along the way. I make sure to close the door most of the way behind me. Didn’t want her to follow me.
“What’s the matter?” I look down at Two on the kitchen floor.
“Rory took my last pretzel and I’m still hungry.”
I gave out pretzels thirty minutes ago. Two knows how to make a snack last. I grab a banana from the basket, peel it, and split it in half. “Here,” I said, ignoring her frowned-up face.
Liv beats both hands on the high chair tray. She wants out. Her feet are moving and I have about a second and a half before the storm starts. I turn the chicken and put Liv on my hip.
On the porch, I unlock the door and stand on the front steps. The sun is low and there is a bit of a breeze, like it might rain. I hadn’t noticed the white Mercedes-Benz with blood red interior parked in front of my house. Wheels and rims gleam like polished glass.
“Listen, I need you to make this happen for me.”
“I can’t put up my house for your boyfriend. My family lives here,” I say with a hiss.
“It’s really not that deep.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Faye, all you have to do is sign a piece of paper saying that the house is going to be used as collateral. It’s just insurance.”
“And what if he leaves town? Then I lose my house?”
“Brave ain’t going to skip town on you. I’ll make sure of it. It’s just standard procedure.”
My eyes look at Shayla like she has lost her mind.
“Please, Faye, I need you to trust me on this.”
“Preston wouldn’t let me put this house up for my own grandmother, let alone some man he’s never laid eyes on.”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
I laugh. This girl has really lost her God-given mind if she thinks I’m going to put my house up for her boyfriend without telling my husband.
“The house is in your name only. Preston will never find out.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“I told you, I find out what I need to know.”
And she was right. We bought the house in my name only so that Preston could have room on his credit to purchase his office building. But how could she know that? I looked at her again.
“Shay.”
She takes two steps closer to me and I can feel her energy shift from honey with a heartache to pit bull with a purpose.
“Faye. Listen. We both know what it is. Right? I know the Mr. Straight Up and Down Columbia dude that you married don’t know shit about you. The real you, feel me?”
I take a step back.
“Nothing about where we came from and how far you’ve gone to get this little-stay-at-home June Cleaver life.”
I stare her dead in the eyes. She’s so close she’s whispering. “I don’t want to be the one to bust things up for you. That’s really not my objective. All I want is to get my man out. All I want is for you to sign the form so I can make that happen.”
My eyes are not even blinking when I stare her down. I cannot believe this is happening. I try like hell not to show fear, but I know Shayla. Bluffing is not in her vocabulary.
“I don’t want to have to start singing about the summer of ’89 when you were—”
“Girl, stop.” My head has gone cloudy, making it hard for me to think. I needed a minute.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Think it over. I know you’ll make the right choice.”
Shayla swishes her hips down my front steps, touches the handle of her car, and starts it with no key. With her pinkie and thumb she indicates I’ll call you and then pulls off.
The spot right above my left ear starts pulsing. I need a cigarette. Preston’s car turns the corner. He’s home early, and if I needed him he wouldn’t have been available. I wave, pull the door, and head back into the kitchen.
“Daddy!” the kids shout, jump from the table, and run to him, wrapping themselves around his arms, his legs, tugging him off balance. When they lose interest in him he comes into the kitchen to me.
“Hey, babe.” We peck.
“You mind serving dinner? I need to run to the store for some tampons.”
“You on your period again?” He looks disappointed.
“Not yet, but it’s coming.”
“What’s a period?” Two asks. “Can I go with you?”
“No, I’ll be right back.”
I’m in my sandals and out the door before anyone else can grab me.
People in this town know me. I’m the woman who walks through the neighborhood, always with a baby stroller. Sometimes to the playground, library, supermarket, or just working out. I’m the polite woman who comments on the new flowers blooming in their garden, asks after grandchildren away at school. And I smile, always a smile. When I purchase my first package of cigarettes in eight years from the gas station three blocks from my home, I keep my sunglasses on and don’t look at the gas attendant when I thrust a twenty-dollar bill in his face.
I drive five more streets looking for a safe place to smoke, as if it’s a joint in my handbag and I don’t want the cops to catch me. The baseball field behind the middle school is empty so I park, find a secluded spot on the bleachers, and fire it up.
This cannot be happening. I’ve worked so hard to carefully construct a future with lots of space from my past, and the gap is closing in on me. First Martin, puff, now Shayla. Puff. I feel like a rat hemmed between a trap and a hungry rattlesnake. Damned if I do, double damned if I don’t. Would Shayla have run up on me if I hadn’t contacted her first? How had she been getting on in the streets without me all this time? If I sign the papers and her fool of a man who I don’t even know skips bail, then I’ll lose my house and most likely my husband over this. What kind of name is Brave, anyway?
I light another cigarette and puff it slowly, allowing the nicotine to curl in my throat before exhaling. The sun is going down and the sky holds on to the last light of the day. I slap a mosquito against my thigh and kill it. Why am I even considering helping Shayla?
Because that heifer means business. Growing up, I was always happy to have Shayla on my team because I saw what happened to those who crossed her. There is no way I can let Preston find out about Martin and the baby. Not after all this time. A lump rises in my throat.
Look at you. The one to mess up the happily ever after. Preston has always been too good for you. He should have left you in the gutter where you came from.
* * *
The baby wipes and Febreze are still in my trunk. I clean myself up, hide the cigarettes in the bottom of a duffel bag that I keep the beach toys in, and go home.
SIXTEEN
The Something or Another
Mornings are the best time to ask Preston for a favor, so I wake him up with my lips. He rises and moans. We have a good twenty minutes before the kids’ natural alarm clocks set off, so I ride him until his eyes roll.
“Nice waking up like that?” The covers fall to his ankles. Our scent is strong in the air. “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
I bring two steamy cups back to bed. Five minutes until somebody interrupts.
“Friday is the Dames meeting about me performing at the fund-raiser. Sam can’t come because she’s going into the city with her mom.”
He looks at me over the rim of his cup.
“Do you think you can come home early?”
He rests his head on his hand and props himself up so we are eye level.
“What time?”
“I need to leave here by five.”
“I have two meetings down in Somerset but let me see if I can push them up.”
“Thank you.” I exhale.
“Aren’t the Dames all rich and snobby?”
“No.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Well off, maybe, but connected. Me being a Dame will expose us in a way that I think is important. Elevate the family.”
“You’ve already elevated this family. Just by being you.”
The grin spills from my face, and I splash Preston with it. “Still, this is important to me, honey, so please, please, make it happen.”
He reaches for his underwear. “Whatever will make you happy, but I’m hoping this social climb isn’t going to affect our bottom line.”
Rory walks in, rubbing his eyes.
“Hey, buddy,” Preston pulls him close. While they cuddle, I go downstairs to make breakfast. My monologue for the Dames is running through my head. When Liv takes her first nap, I’ll rehearse today. I already have it memorized; all that is left for me to do is eat it, own it, make the piece come alive. Acting has always been the perfect distraction from my real life, and right now I need the diversion.
* * *
I’m at the door kissing the children good-bye when Gran calls.
“’Bye, Mommy.”
“’Bye.” I prop Liv on my hip and run for the phone in the kitchen. “Hello.”
“Did you hear anything about a superstorm coming to this area?”
“Morning, Gran. No, I haven’t.”
“That’s ’cause you don’t watch the news. Don’t make no sense that you don’t know what’s going on in the world.”
“I know enough from listening to the radio.”
“Well, a storm is coming this weekend, so you need to run down to ShopRite and stock up on some canned goods. Always good to have case the power goes out. You can feed the kids that.”
I ain’t buying no damn canned goods, but I listen as she rants while I clean up the morning dishes.
“Kids off to camp?”
“Just left.”
“Nursing home called. Said your mother’s pressure is up. Would be good if she had some visitors.”
“Okay.”
Gran sucks her teeth. “What I got to do to get you to go visit your own mother? Kidnap you?”
“No, Gran.” How do I explain to Gran that I hate seeing my mother in that state? Not knowing if she’s coming or going, her not recognizing me, understanding me, knowing me. Plus, I feel responsible for what happened, if I had only …
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