“Well then?”
“I’ve got a lot going on. The kids are busy with activities and I have a really big audition on Friday for a group I’m trying to get into.”
“What bougie mess are you working on now?”
“It’s not bougie. It’s an art group that will help me with my craft.”
“Umph.” I can picture her crossing her arms over her breasts and running her tongue over her top dentures the way she does when she’s unsatisfied.
“What you need to be doing is looking for a job. All the money I spent sending you to that fancy college, and you sitting up there playing house. Day care ain’t good enough for your children?”
“Gran, Liv isn’t even walking.”
“So. Kids in Philadelphia going to twenty-four-hour day care centers now so they parents can work. Hope Preston don’t get tired of taking care of you.”
It’s the same argument. Gran doesn’t think being a stay-at-home mother is a real job.
“I worked all my life. Would be working now if this arthritis wasn’t eating me up the way it is.”
“How you feeling, Gran?” I say to change the subject.
“Tired. Crystal is wearing me out. Got the feds calling me talking about taking money outta my little check to cover her taxes. Damn girl done let her little girlfriend claim Derell. Turns out Derell daddy done claimed him too. It’s just a big mess.”
Liv slithers across the kitchen floor and stops in the middle to chew on a rubber bunny. I scrunch up my face at her and shake my head until she smiles.
“I need you to call her and talk some sense into her.”
“Crystal don’t listen to me. Half the time she acts like she doesn’t even like me.”
“She’ll listen to you. Just call her, you hear? And make it a point to come down here and see your mother. I’m giving you till the end of this month.”
Gran hangs up the telephone.
Philadelphia’s problems are the perfect way to start my day. Now what was I doing today? Laundry, dishes, change the sheets on the beds, rehearse my monologue, stop at the grocery store, pick up the kids, swimming lessons, and what else? Oh, dodge Shayla until I figure things out.
* * *
I count my blessings when I open my eyes on the day of the Dames audition. I’m ready to go in and conquer those women. I get the big kids off to school. Sam has offered to watch Liv for me for a few hours this morning, but I need to be home by noon so she can go into Manhattan with her mom. I scheduled an appointment with my special-occasion hairstylist. The one who charges more but makes my hair light and fluffy. She gives me a layered look and blends my curls. Across the street is the nail salon, and I let them take care of me.
I had a hard time figuring out what to wear. I’m not a member, so I wouldn’t dare dress in purple and yellow, the Dames’ colors. I settle on a spring peach sundress with a matching three-quarter-sleeve cardigan. It has pep, and the floral prints suggest artsy but in charge. I don’t own any new stilettos, so I go for a three-inch strappy peep toe that shows off my French pedicure.
For once I’ve planned things right. After the salon, I stop at the library for the new Spy Kids movie, and I allow the kids to watch the show while eating popcorn in the living room, before dinner. They are ecstatic by the treat and have not come up the stairs once while I’m getting ready. The digital clock in our bedroom flashes four twenty-one. Preston hasn’t called. I don’t need to leave until five, but I’ve decided to check in.
“Hey, babe,” I say when he answers.
“Hey.”
“Where’re you?”
“The Garden State. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m moving like five miles per hour.”
“How far are you?”
“Just passed exit one twenty-seven.”
We are exit one forty-two, and even without traffic, that’s like thirty minutes away.
“How come you didn’t leave sooner? I told you how important this meeting was.”
“Sweetie, I canceled my second appointment. I’m doing my best to help you. I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”
I hang up. A dull ache crosses my forehead. Liv starts fretting. I’m dressed and ready to go. I pick her up and walk downstairs.
“Mommy, where are you going?” Two is out of her seat.
“To a meeting.”
“You look beautiful. Turn around?” she says.
Rory is looking at me too, with a twinkle in his eyes. “Who’s going to watch us?”
“Daddy.”
“Awwww, man, why not Sam?”
“She’s is the city with her mom. Need more popcorn?”
“Yes,” they both chime.
I’m happy for something to do to keep my mind off of the problem. I want to call Preston again but I don’t want to annoy him. I make the popcorn and then sit at the kitchen table, looking over my lines. It’s five o’clock. The meeting starts at five thirty. It’ll take me at least fifteen minutes to get there. Butterflies are mating little caterpillars in my stomach. All I feel is stretch and pull. My skin starts itching around my forearms. I don’t scratch. I wiggle my toes instead, willing myself to be calm. It’s going to be all right. I try to get in a round of tapping, but the damn voice won’t stop haunting me.
You should have known Preston wasn’t going to be on time. He doesn’t want you to be a Dame because it will take away from you catering to him. He’s late on purpose. Believe that.
Damn, I wish she would shut up sometimes. A bead of sweat forms above my left eyebrow. I will not sweat over my makeup. The telephone rings. I snatch it up without bothering to let the number register on the caller ID, willing it to be Preston.
“Where are you?”
“I’ll be in Philly next week.”
I freeze. “Martin.” His name is like a sedative to my anxiety.
“Hey, Young Sister. I haven’t been able to reach you lately. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just rushing to a meeting.”
“For what?”
I tell him about the Dames, more to take my mind off Preston being late than anything else.
“Look at you, a woman of class, culture, and substance.”
Martin can say the most ridiculous things and my face will blush.
“You gonna come see me?”
“Oh, Martin. What do you want from me?”
“I told you, I want to see you. We need to straighten things out.”
“There’s nothing to straighten.”
“Just say yes.” His tongue is thick and heavy in my ear. The butterflies have retreated. It’s almost as if nothing else exist but his words in my ears. How can he still do this to me?
“That was a long time ago. A forgotten time. Move on.”
“What we made can’t be forgotten.”
My cell phone rings. It’s Preston.
“Martin, I have to go.” I hang up the house phone and touch the green button on my cell.
“Preston?”
“Traffic’s moving. I’ll be there in ten.”
I’m going to be late. My first impression on the Dames will be lateness. But what can I do but wait for Preston? I’m not close to the neighbors. I click-clack my sandals down into the basement, take the phone off the hook, and go onto the front porch and wait.
Preston walks in the door at five twenty-five.
“Wow, Foxy mama,” he says and whistles.
“Thanks. Kids need to eat.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Daddy’s choice,” I say, allow him to kiss my cheek, and then I’m out the door, in my car, backing out of my driveway before he can ask me anything else. The anxiety knots in my belly. I need to poop. I need to put Philadelphia back in its place. I need to be a Dame, a women of class, culture, and substance.
SEVENTEEN
The Dames
Monroe McKenzie lives at the top of a hill with a sweeping view of New York City. Cars are crammed into her driveway and along her street. I pull up
twenty minutes late. The smells of evening dew, dahlias, and daisies calm my nerves. Breathe, I remind myself as I touch the doorbell. It’s one of those old-fashioned bells that chime five times at different octaves. A graying woman dressed in white with a black apron answers the door.
“Welcome to the McKenzie home. Come right in.”
She leads me to the dining/living room combination, where at least fifty women are comfortably seated, some with small plates in their hands and gold-rimmed goblets. On the center table is a short bouquet of flowers, a tier of three types of sandwiches, and platters of cheese, crackers, and smoked salmon. The food looks picked over. Like folks have been here a while. All eyes are on me. I stand clutching my purse. The expensive bone-colored one Preston bought me for Christmas last year. Now I’m wondering if I should seat myself.
Monroe calls out to me, “Felicia Lyons, so glad you could make it.” She moves across the room with the grace of a first lady. Her lemon crepe dress has an eggplant sash, and her hair is long and flowing. “We were just about to get started. Why don’t you grab a plate and join us.”
I smile politely and thank her. I’m not hungry. Intimidated, but not hungry. I move toward the table as I’m told. Erica Prince is standing there pouring a glass of lemonade.
“Erica!” I shriek with pure joy. Ease washes over me. “I didn’t know you were a Dame.”
“Felicia!” she throws her arms around me. “This is my second year. I just read on the agenda that you are trying out for the fund-raiser. I wish I would have known. I could have given you a quick briefing on the playground,” she says with a wink.
“Is it going to be that hard?”
“The Dames are strict,” she whispers out the corner of her cute mouth. Her hair is flat-ironed and curled today. She’s wearing a white pantsuit with a purple shell. Diamond droplets fall from her ears, and she smells like cinnamon. Not the Erica I’m used to seeing chasing after Coltrane and McCoy.
Monroe rings a small bell. All conversation halts. The women who are standing make their way to their seats. I follow Erica. As I pass Monroe, she hands me a gold-stenciled name tag. The room is seated.
Monroe clasps her hands together and beams. “Thanks so much for coming out tonight, ladies. As you know, our annual fund-raiser is two weeks away. I want to thank the committee for their hard work. To date, we’ve sold more than one hundred tickets to women in our community.”
The ladies clap.
“Thanks to Lourdes Maloney for the beautiful design. I’d also like to thank Priscilla Peony and Tasha Montgomery for securing the Green Lawn Tennis Club in Chatham for the event.”
More applause.
“Before we start our meeting, I have five prospective ladies who have joined us to audition their talent. Please stand when I call your name. Cassandra Youngblood, Felicia Lyons, Beatrice Blackwood, Maritza Lovett, and Tina Chang. Dames, please welcome our visitors.”
Hands move in unison; most women smile our way.
“We will start with Tina Chang on cello, and while she sets up her instrument, I want to remind the Dames that I’d like you to stay for a fifteen-minute briefing once the auditions conclude. Ladies, you should have all received a ballot; please remember to grade each performance by using the number system one to three.” Monroe signals for Tina Chang to begin.
She plays the cello as if she’s moving with a classical orchestra. The next performer dances a modern piece that will rival any member of Alvin Ailey. Then the third woman sings opera in Italian and the fourth plays piano while singing half in English and half in French. I can’t compete with them. What in the world was I thinking? A BFA from Marymount Manhattan College and one Super Bowl commercial doesn’t make me equipped. I am not Dame material. My piece on the overburdened stay-at-home mother is not traditional at all, and my feet go cold as I’m waiting for my name to be called. What the hell is wrong with me? I spend at least half of the monologue on real talk, complaining about the woes of motherhood. This crowd won’t get it. My knees knock into each other. I would bite my fingernails if I hadn’t just gotten a manicure.
By the time Monroe pronounces my name, I have decided to bow out, give up, I am not embarrassing myself. Why do I want this, anyway? Maybe Preston is right. These women are just rich and snobby. I don’t really belong. This whole thing is out of my league.
The damn voice taunts. About time you came to your senses. You ain’t built for this. Run, heifer, run.
I push back my shoulders, and as I’m heading toward the center of the room with my mind on the front door, I’m flooded by this interview I saw on the show Life After featuring Bern Nadette Stanis, the woman who played Thelma on Good Times. She talked about this beauty contest that she had entered in Central Park, but at the last minute lost her nerve. Bern Nadette told her mother that she wasn’t going to do it. Her mother had spent her entire paycheck on getting her ready and forced her to carry through with the contest. At the contest, Bern Nadette met the producer for Good Times and landed the role of Thelma, which changed her life forever. I remember her saying, “Don’t ever let fear get in the way because you never know what’s going to open a door.”
My feet stop moving. When I look out, I’m standing in the center of the room. At least a hundred sets of eyes are on me. I run my finger behind my ear for luck, run my tongue across my teeth, stand in the middle of Monroe’s living room, and perform my panties off.
* * *
I’m the last act, and after thunderous applause Monroe stands, commanding the floor.
“Ladies, thank you so much for giving us your time and talents this evening. It was truly an incredible showing.”
More applause. Standing ovation from the Dames.
“Have a wonderful night, we will be in touch. Penelope, would you mind showing them out?”
Penelope, vice president of the Dames, stands and walks us to the door. I shake her hand and smile. Outside I congratulate the other talent and wish them luck. My phone starts vibrating. I know it’s Preston checking up on me and I fumble through the small clutch for my phone.
It’s Shayla. I let it go to voice mail. By the time I’ve buckled myself into my car, she calls three more times. Then a text message signal dings.
I’m in front of your house. Wait here for you or meet somewhere else?
This chick isn’t going away. I text back.
Meet me at Tanky’s.
I don’t give an address. Since she knows so much, let her figure it out. My foot is on the gas, and as the neighborhood changes from affluent to affordable, I lose the good Dames feeling.
* * *
My package of cigarettes is in hand as I pull open the door. Shayla is posted up at the bar on the backside curve of the U. The Heineken sign flashes above her. Her eyelids are painted in a dramatic cat eye, with the top liner curving toward her hairline. With that tight ponytail pulling on her skin, she looks what we used to call “chinky.”
“Hey, Faye.” She waves me over like we are meeting for a girls’ night out.
I sit. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much.”
Our eyes touch. My fingers tap the box on the bar top. I remove a cigarette and put it between my lips. Once it’s lit, I pass it to Shayla and then light another for myself. We smoke.
“Jack and ginger, doll?” the same bartender as before asks me and I nod.
“Let me find out you hanging at the local bar,” Shayla pipes. “Rum and Diet Coke for me.”
I look at her.
“Got to watch this hourglass figure, girlfriend.”
I snicker. She has not changed.
“So Faye, girl, what’s good? Look at you. Married to a Columbia dude with three kids. You doing it, hon, living that life.”
“How do you know he went to Columbia?”
She gives me her chile, please, look. “I told you, I’m wicked.”
The jukebox is spinning “Peter Piper” by Run-D.M.C. We both move our shoulders. The beat and lyrics take over, my head
snakes, and fingers snap in the air. We are back in Shayla’s bedroom as teenagers wearing our neon T-shirts, K-Swiss sneakers, and asymmetric bobs, looking through Black Beat magazines, drinking twenty-five-cent Hugs, and eating Doritos.
“This was my shit.” Shayla is out of her seat, swinging her hips. Two men at the pool table stop long enough to grit on us. I turn my head and pop my chest. We move through the entire song lost in our faraway worlds, when life was filled with adolescence. The biggest problems Shayla and I had to worry over then was how to convince the grown-ups to let us go to the Sixteenth Street basement party on Friday nights. Simple and easy. We dance until we are both hot and out of breath. A Jill Scott ballad comes on next.
Shayla takes her seat. “Philly girl on the box, woot-woot.”
“Girl, if they played Eve I would lose my mind, up in here, up in here.” We both laugh. I swipe my fingers for the sweat that’s gathered on my brows.
“How’s Gran?”
“Same as always. Calls me just about every morning to give me the update.”
Shayla dishes what she knows about our old friends in the neighborhood. The girl had always been dramatic and animated, and I watch like she is a television program. The cigarettes dwindle from my pack, and the ice cubes have melted several times over.
“Why are you doing this to me, Shay?”
She sucks her teeth and looks me dead in my face. “Girl, you always did take shit too personal. It’s not always about you. This time it’s actually about me. Damn, can I have a chance at the good life?”
I want to slap her. “What the hell does that mean?”
She puffs on her cigarette hard. The smoke leaves through her mouth in a big breezy poof.
“My mother died.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say, meaning it. Even though her mother was mean as piss.
“Ralphie is upstate doing twenty-five years to life.”
Ralphie is her older brother who always tried to freak me in the closet when we played hide-and-go-seek.
“You’ve got your Leave It to Beaver life.” She holds up four fingers and makes the quote signal. “I’ve got Brave. Brave’s got the streets. I need to get him out. It’s hard out here. You don’t even know.”
Second House from the Corner Page 11