Second House from the Corner

by Sadeqa Johnson

  Shayla motions for another drink. I’ve reached my limit and chew on the last cube.

  “Wanna hear something crazy?”

  I turn my face toward her and catch her eyes.

  “After all this time, you‘re the only person I can turn to for help. Ain’t that some shit? After what like ten years, you’re still the only one, Faye.”

  Well, that was me—reliable Faye. But growing up she was sure-enough-Shayla. She always had my back. After the thing with my parents, I stayed at Shayla’s house for a week because I couldn’t bear to enter Gran’s house. I wore her clothes, ate her food, slept in her bed. And that wasn’t the only time. There were others, many others, when Shayla had to come to my rescue. Fight some girl for me because I was too chicken. Hell, Shayla showed me how to use a tampon, and when I couldn’t figure it out she told me to take my panties down and shoved the thing inside of me. She was closer to me than Crystal’s crazy ass was, and she never asked for anything.

  Preston often said that when pity starts to flow from me, I can never find the plug. I could blame it on the booze, but something happened when Shayla’s shoulders dipped defeated, and she looked up at me with her distressed eyes. I saw past the makeup, the cunning shell, and the constant attitude. I glimpsed her soul. She was the same girl I loved. Who I would have given a spare lung to if it meant keeping her alive back when we lived on Sydenham Street. We were two sides of the same coin.

  Shayla and I had shared the same dream, to get out. She used her beauty and wit to climb the underworld society. No doubt Brave was the biggest, baddest dude on the block.

  “Don’t make me beg.” She tugged on my arm. Her eye makeup had smeared.

  I flag for the tab. The room has a hum to it. The jukebox is silent as it waits for someone to play their song.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “You will?” her squeal is loud, and the two men playing pool look our way again.

  “Yes, but under two conditions.”

  “Anything for you.”

  “You better make sure your man does whatever he needs to do. If I lose my house, I will whoop your ass.”

  Her face breaks into a wide grin. “Oh, Faye.”

  “And two, don’t you ever let the summer of ’89 cross your lips again, or I will whoop your ass.”

  She knocks the top of the bar twice with her knuckles.

  “You can just meet me at the bail bond’s office. I’ll text you the address.”

  “All I have to do is sign a paper backing Brave up?”

  “That’s all. And he’ll go to court. Trust me. The bail bonds don’t play. If he doesn’t show they’ll have the bounty hunters after him so fast your head will spin. You won’t lose your house, Faye.”

  I’ve gone stone crazy. My husband would blow a gasket if he knew.

  “Columbia will never find out.” Shayla does that thing again. “I promise.”

  One thing I do remember about Shayla is that her promises were next to golden. Unless something happened that she couldn’t control.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Pretending Game

  When I get home a Honda Civic is blocking my driveway, so I have to park on the street. I’m annoyed. I pull my phone from my purse and see a text from Erica.

  You did your thing at the audition. My fingers are crossed for you, darling.

  That puts a smile on my face as I head up the stairs and unlock my front door. The light in the living room is on, and I know Preston is waiting for me.

  “Why was the phone off the hook in the basement?” my husband asks by way of a greeting.

  “I don’t know, maybe one of the kids was playing with it.”

  Preston looks at me. “Has someone been calling here from Georgia and hanging up?”

  My mind flashes to Martin. Nose can’t take in enough air, but I keep my face blank. “Not that I know of. I rarely answer the phone unless it’s Gran. Too many telemarketers trying to sell something.” I turn away from him and slip out of my shoes.

  “How did it go?”

  “It was fine. I think I did well.”

  He pulls me to him and then lets go. “You smell like cigarettes.”

  “Really?” I step back. “One of the ladies I walked out with fired up right beside me.”

  Preston’s eyes find mine. Holds them a beat too long.

  When did I start lying to him with such comfort? He releases me and I stumble.

  “And you’re drunk. Is this what I have to look forward to?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. It’s late. What time was the thing over?”

  “Not long ago.”

  Preston studies me. “It’s late, Fox. Let’s go to bed.”

  “No, what do you mean ‘look forward to’?”

  “This Dame thing, I don’t want it to change you.”

  I flick my eyes. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Saying what?” Both hands find a hip.

  “I just don’t want you biting off more than you can chew. You’ve already got the kids signed up in more activities than you have time for.”

  “You don’t want me involved in anything that’s going to take away from catering to you.”

  “That’s not true. It’s just that you need to—”

  “How about what you need to do?” I point my finger, fired up. “You put the kids to bed in their clothes, won’t change the baby’s diaper, and why do I have to lug the trash to the street every damn week?”

  “Whoa. Where is this coming from?”

  “You don’t support me, Preston. You leave me here by myself all day. You can’t even watch the baby so that I can go to a freaking audition. How do you expect me to book something?”

  “I have to work! How do you think the bills get paid around here? With magic money that I just conjure up? I’m up and down these highways every day trying to make money.”

  He looks at me. “Maybe you should get a job and I’ll stay home with the kids.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Fuck you.” I push past him and slam up the steps. My face is wet. My head is woozy. I’m overwhelmed. My pretty dress meets the floor, and when I climb into bed it all crashes around me. I wait for Preston’s body to sop me up. But he never comes.

  * * *

  I wake up feeling like I went a few rounds in a street fight and the other person got the better of me. The alarm doesn’t go off because I forgot to set it. Rory tugs on my arm.

  “Mama, do we have camp today?”

  “No, baby.” I pull his body into bed with me and hug him to my chest. He smells like sleep: harsh breath and slob. It’s been a minute since he and I had a chance to cuddle, and I enjoy his bony body pressed into mine.

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  My heart turns over in my belly. “I think the gym. Why don’t you go get a book and I’ll start breakfast?”

  He slides from the bed. I brush my teeth and pretend as I go down the stairs that the room isn’t spinning.

  The water is on for oatmeal and I’m putting the coffee on when the basement door opens. Preston walks through, bare chest and in his jeans from the day before.

  I turn my head when I see him and press down on the seal to the coffee can. He walks down the hall and up the stairs without a hello or a good morning.

  You’ve gone too far.

  Whatever. Forget him. He was as wrong as two left feet.

  NINTEEN

  The Actress Is Out

  I didn’t get the Samsung Galaxy commercial, but I do get to perform for the Dames. Monroe phoned this morning and I am basking in bliss. Preston has been coming home late and leaving early, even on my Sabbath Sunday, so we hadn’t had much time to discuss the argument. Since it’s been two nights, I’m starting to thaw. For dinner I sear a couple of steaks, with butternut squa
sh and scalloped potatoes. I’ve wrestled the kids into bed fifteen minutes early, shower, perfume my skin, and wait.

  When he’s not home by ten, I call him.

  “Where’re you?”

  “Out.” I hear music in the background.

  “Preston, where are you?”

  “I’m watching the game.”

  “With who?”

  “A buddy from work. I’ve got to take this call. See you soon.” He hangs up.

  I hate when he does that, when he does not leave space for me to have the last word. As I plug my cell phone into the charger, a text flashes. It’s Shayla.

  We forgot the mortgage agreement.

  What?

  Standard procedure. I promise, Faye, I’ve got you. Please don’t panic.

  Don’t worry she says as I’m signing papers to the home I live in for a man I don’t know. I’m too exhausted to debate.

  Don’t ask me for another thing for the next ten years.

  Lol! I won’t let you down.

  Better not.

  I try not to think about this crazy house thing with Shayla as I wrap Preston’s dinner in foil, load the dishwasher, suds the pans, rinse out the kitchen sink, and then go to bed. An hour later, Preston slides into the bed beside me. He doesn’t reach for me. There is a thick pillow between us.

  There is too much toxicity in my thoughts to sleep. I’m up before five, pour a glass of orange juice, and head down to the basement to work on my monologue for the Dames. I’ve gone through the script countless times, broken the scenes down into beats, and identified my objective. In college, my professors taught the Stanislavski method of acting, Uta Hagen and Lee Strasberg. With their technique, it’s not enough to memorize the lines and recite them. As the actress, I must identify with something in the character, use memory and experiences in my own life to bring the piece to life. My acting bible, Respect for Acting, by the great Uta Hagen (who trained Robert De Niro), is tattered, dog-eared, and highlighted after years of reading and rereading it. I keep it on my desk to remind myself that I am an actress. Just a glance at the book jars me into transformation, but first I must warm my instrument.

  It’s important to neutralize my body before I start, create a blank canvas so I can adapt and play. My mouth is open wide and I start by yawning with my tongue hanging out. Breathe. Hum. Breathe. Hum. Open and shut my lips and then jaw jiggle. Shoulders back and forth, hand wiggles. I move the energy through my entire body until I feel nimble and free. I end with a spinal roll, stacking each vertebra on top of the other. Ready, set, go.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Jocelyn……………………………………Stay-at-home mom

  TIME: Night—the summer of 2008

  SETTING: Upstage area; suggest a closet, with a beaded cocktail dress hanging from a padded hanger. Peep toe stilettos are on the floor. Downstage is a vanity with an antique and gold mirror. Various makeup brushes, shades, and creams are scattered about, indicating the woman is going out.

  Scene

  (At RISE we see Jocelyn, early thirties, at the vanity applying makeup. She stops to examine what seems to be a gray hair. She gets closer to the mirror and tries to pull the hair out. It won’t budge. Frustrated, she looks out into the audience, as if there is a bigger, better mirror in which to locate and pull out the hair.

  JOCELYN

  Another gray hair. These kids are gonna have me looking like I’m fifty before I even get to thirty-five.

  (She shakes her head; her curls bounce.)

  Yesterday things got so bad that I hid in the back of my closet. I’m talking way back. I was back so far that I was behind the tan wool coat that my mother bought me when I was working in corporate America. The coat that has been covered in plastic for the past seven years, since I traded in my pumps and suits for a wardrobe of cargo pants and clogs. My head bobbed against the slinky, black halter dress that became too tight two pregnancies ago.

  (She stands and then slinks toward the floor to demonstrate.)

  I squatted on top of the tap shoes that I insist on keeping just in case. Just in case I wake up one day and have time to take up a hobby. If I wasn’t so damn responsible, I’d have a bottle of hard liquor hidden here, in a crumpled paper bag to slurp down on days like this when I feel like I’m suffocating in my own skin.

  SCENE BROKEN

  * * *

  I hear heavy feet padding against the basement stairs. It’s Preston.

  I keep my back to him on purpose, like I’m so caught up that I don’t hear him. His legs are long and in seconds he’s behind me, palming the small of my back. It sends a sensation that pulses through and melts my flesh. It amazes me every time, this effect he has on me.

  “Good morning.”

  “Same to you.” He smells of dried sweat and beer consumed last night.

  “What’re you doing?”

  I shuffle my papers. “Rehearsing for next Friday night.”

  “The Dames said yes?”

  “Not only did they say yes, but Erica said that I was voted number one out of all five performers.”

  “Honey, that’s great.” He turns me to face him. I give him a stiff hug.

  “I get to perform on the same stage as Audra McDonald.”

  “Congratulations,” he says, and I know by his tone that he has no idea who Audra McDonald is. “And you were worried. I’m proud.”

  “Are you?” oozes from my lips with plenty of attitude.

  “Of course I am. Stop that, come here.” He pulls me to him and kisses my ear. My engine is revved in a tick-tock. The anger between us for three days has drained me. I lean my body in and meet him so that we can be restored.

  “I missed you.” His fingers are in my hair.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “I told you, watching the baseball game.”

  “You don’t like baseball.”

  “I like beer, and I drank lots of it. That’s why I’m heading to the gym,” he says with a chuckle. It’s a sound that I haven’t heard in a while and I gush. We slob some more. He’s under my shirt.

  “Oh, my,” he says, touching my flesh. I’m not wearing a bra. He feels me up. I laugh out loud.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I feel him back.

  He lifts me, my legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and he walks us to the front of the basement, where the cushiony sofa waits with patience. It’s still dark outside but we have no problem finding each other and fitting, like the centerpieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

  * * *

  His head is resting on my breast.

  “So much for the gym.” I stroke his hair.

  “I guess that’ll count as my workout.”

  “What’s your fantasy?” slips from my lips.

  “I don’t know.” He thinks. “Maybe you and another girl.”

  I give him the look like that’s not going to happen.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know, maybe we need to spice things up a bit. It’s only been seven years.” As I speak, my mind betrays me. Martin.

  “You calling me boring?”

  “No.”

  I draw circles on his arms. “It’s just you on top, me on top, I’m sure the world of sex has much more to offer.”

  “Okay, let’s get freaky.” He untangles himself from me. “You want to get a video or something?”

  I slip back into my sleep shirt and shorts and let the question hang. What I want is for him to figure it out. I kiss his cheek.

  “I’ll go wake the kids.”

  “I’ll put on the coffee.”

  TWENTY

  The In Girl

  It’s 4:32 A.M. when my eyes pop open. It’s finally Dame day. All of my hard work over the past few weeks comes down to my moment onstage tonight. My heart feels trapped in my throat. Lungs are heavy. Hair scarf too tight against my scalp. Bedcovers hot around my waist. My nightgown is bunched and I feel tangled and nervous and something else that I can’t
name. I roll over and Preston is sleeping peacefully, his bare chest rising and falling. I get up and go check on the children. Liv has kicked her booties off and I slide them back over her cold toes. Preston has the air conditioner set too high. It’s a tad cooler than comfortable. Rory has crawled into Two’s bed and is curled around her like a lover. It’s amazing how much they fight throughout the day and then cuddle and cup through the night.

  I settle into the glider and listen to them breathe, smell their sweaty, sleep scents. And I’m all of a sudden overwhelmed with unadulterated love. These are my children. I longed for them before they were born. Carried each of them in my belly, nurtured them in my womb, refused drugs during labor because I didn’t want their first breath tainted. Nothing would matter if I didn’t have them. I brush back a tear.

  From the time I knew what trouble was I wanted my own family, my own children whom I could raise right. Twenty-three-minute television sitcom right. Little carbon copies of me to mold, water, and shelter from what I saw growing up. Rory, Twyla, and Liv deserve for things to be easier. Preston and I have worked hard at giving them a two-parent home, complete with summer vacations and private schools. I want them to live a good, privileged life with all of the trimmings so that they can give their children even more. That’s why I want to be a Dame. That’s what it is all about. Every generation is supposed to take the family to the next level, and I want to do my part. The Dames not only open the door up for me, but also for our entire family. It’s a stamp of approval. It’s what I want for them, for us, and I’ll perform my heart out today to get it.

  The glider eases back and forth and as I watch the tree in our yard sway across the moon. I’m soothed by the thought that I am a good mother. I’m available. I’m present and I work hard. It’ll be fine.

  I look out the window again, and staring at me from my neighbor’s rooftop is a fat black cat. She flashes her tongue at me, then leaps.

  * * *

  My ritual on the day of a performance is to drink hot ginger tea with lemon and honey and be quiet. Preston had agreed to take the kids to camp today so that I can honor my practice. It’s easy to stay quiet with Liv, but Rory and Two have been demanding that I answer them all morning.