Rich Girl Problems

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  “Aunt Cookie—”

  “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?! Now answer me this. What have I always told you? Huh? What?”

  “Not to get arrested.”

  “Hell no!” Cookie mushed Vera on the side of her forehead. “Now say some dumb shit like that again and see what I do to you! You know I have always told you that if you gotta bust ass, then bust ass Monday through Thursday! But what did you do?”

  Vera hesitated. “I—”

  “You went and got your ass locked up on a ma’fuckin’ Friday! Leaving me with that spoiled ass, pain in the ass daughter of yours! And you know my weekends are tied up. After I raised you, me and kids got a goddamn time limit. Called an hour. Now I love Skyy, but she talks too damn much. You don’t know how many times I wanted to yell ‘Shut the fuck up!’ But I didn’t. I was close. But I said a damn prayer and Jesus helped me get through the goddamn weekend! ‘Aunt Cookie this. Aunt Cookie that.’ I promise you, Vera, I wanted to slap the vocabulary outta her ass. Children in my day didn’t talk that damn much! I swear it’s that private school you got her in. All this damn money you got done messed her up. She needs a broke ass-beatin’. That’s what she needs! Too damn grown!”

  “Aunt Cookie, she’s just seven.”

  “I don’t give a damn! When I was seven, I knew how to shut the hell up. And don’t interrupt me again. Now. Make this your last time I have to come and get your crazy ass out of jail on a Monday morning. Are we clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now, where are we going?”

  “I need to make a stop—and I also need to use your cell phone.”

  The rubber soles of Vera’s forest green prison slippers slapped against the bamboo floor of Taj’s private medical practice as she walked in and slammed the all-glass entrance door hard enough to make the pane shake.

  The people in the lobby—patients and two secretaries, one standing and the other sitting behind the desk answering the phone—all froze. Bridget all but lost her balance as she and Carl rushed in behind Vera, who stormed past the secretaries and down the hall into Taj’s office.

  Where the hell is he?

  Vera’s eyes scanned the black-and-white framed family photos that hung on the walls and surrounded Taj’s medical degree and license. She whipped toward the door where Taj’s secretary, Miranda, stood.

  “Mrs. Bennett.” Miranda’s voice quivered. “Dr. Bennett is in a meeting with some of the other doctors and nurses. Please—”

  “Miranda.” Vera popped her lips and cocked her neck to the right. “I advise you to get the fuck out of my way.”

  Miranda stepped back.

  Vera pushed past her, charged down the carpeted hall, and stopped at the closed double doors of the conference room. She placed her hands on the nickel-plated handles, twisted them, and swung both doors open.

  All heads turned and seemed stuck Vera’s way. The only one looking the opposite way was Taj, who pointed to a Power-Point of a cancerous cell. “So you see,” he said as he turned around and locked eyes with Vera.

  “Oh. No. The fuck. You didn’t,” Vera said. “You had my motherfuckin’ ass locked up!”

  “Can everyone please excuse us?” Taj said, and his staff gathered their things to leave.

  “Oh, you don’t have to go no-motherfuckin’-where, ’cause I won’t be here long!”

  The staff gave one another uncomfortable grins and glances.

  “Vera,” Taj called, and she hesitated. “Stop. It.”

  They locked eyes once more and after a few seconds of loaded silence, Vera screamed, “Don’t ‘Vera me,’ motherfucker! You have lost your rabbit-ass mind! Now we can do a whole lot of shit to each other, but jail? Really? Oh, you have taken it to a whole other level! You had five-0 roll up on me—and then they cuff me on national TV? Seriously?” She glances at the camera and then back over to Taj.

  “Vera,” Taj said, loosening his tie as a road map of thumping veins webbed their way up his thick neck, “I need you to step into my office.”

  “Oh, what? You’re embarrassed? I don’t give a damn! You should’ve thought about that before you called the po-po on me!”

  “Listen, you need to stop. Now, I will leave here in a few minutes and meet you at our house.”

  “Our house? We don’t have a house!”

  “I will meet you at your house.”

  “Really? How the hell are you going to get there?” She pointed to the picture window where a tow truck had raised Taj’s silver Lamborghini Veneno onto the flatbed.

  “What the fuck?!” Taj rushed over to Vera and yanked her by the forearm with one hand and with the other hand pushed Carl and the camera pointed at them out of the way. He charged out the back door and into the parking lot.

  Aunt Cookie rolled down her tinted car window. “Keep it clean, Taj. Let her arm go. ’Cause I don’t wanna have to put no sauce on you.” She pointed a hand like a gun and blew at the invisible tip.

  Still clutching Vera by the forearm, Taj ignored Cookie and instead ran over to the tow truck driver. A burly black woman with an attitude, her blond hair dyed the wrong shade for her maple complexion; she jiggled keys and walked toward the driver’s side of the tow truck. “That’s my damn car! Take it off your truck right now!”

  The driver ignored him as she got into the truck and slammed the door in his face.

  “Vera, get my damn car!” Taj demanded.

  Vera snatched away. “Do you have amnesia? That’s my goddamn car! Motherfucker’s in my name!”

  “It was a gift for my birthday. Now get my shit off that damn truck!”

  “Hell no. That’s my shit—and I’m selling the motherfucker. You better get yo’ pretty cop-callin’ ass a cab, get on the goddamn bus, or hitchhike! Punk, snitchin’-ass beyotch! Better make sure that’s the last time you call the po-po on me!” She turned on her heels and slid back into Cookie’s car. The tow truck pulled out of the parking lot, Cookie popped the hydraulics and screeched out behind it, leaving Taj and the camera crew engulfed in a cloud of fumes.

  CHAPTER 5

  JAISE

  Breathe . . .

  Jaise sat in the back of her snow white Rolls Royce, feeling smothered by the lingering stench of the cell she’d been in all weekend.

  Exhale . . .

  Before she left home she’d had a bath for an hour and cooked a soul food feast for two hours, hoping that the stale and musty scent of the inmates and the damp concrete would go away.

  It didn’t.

  It was everywhere. In everydamnthing. The new Prada jeans, white lace blouse, and black strappy Manolos that her stylist had picked out and dropped off this morning for her to wear.

  Even the fried chicken, the rice, the peas, the sweet corn bread, mashed potatoes, collard greens, and apple turnovers that she cooked all reeked of hell.

  Her only vice that seemed able to save her life and help her get her thoughts in order were her Virginia Slims Menthol Lights. She pulled her vintage mirrored cigarette case from her purse and tried to open the clasp. She fumbled. The case slipped from her hands, hit the carpeted floor, and popped open.

  Fuck.

  The case was empty.

  I thought I had at least one cigarette left.

  Jaise ran her hands frantically across the floor and under the seats.

  Nothing.

  Shit.

  Did I smoke the last one this morning?

  Damn.

  She leaned against the butter-soft leather seat and glanced in the rearview mirror at her driver, who she just realized was staring at her, and judging by the look he gave her, he must’ve thought she was crazy.

  Maybe I am . . .

  Jaise and her driver shifted their eyes from one another’s reflection and looked in the opposite direction.

  Relax . . .

  Five minutes into warring with her thoughts, Jaise watched her husband, Bilal, pull into the parking lot in his navy Escalade and park next to the Millionaire Wives Club van, where Bridge
t and Carl sat taping her.

  “Okay, Jackson,” Jaise said to her driver, “I’ll have Mr. Asante drop me. I’ll see you later this evening perhaps.”

  “Have a good day, missus,” Jackson said, getting out of the car and opening the door for Jaise. She smiled and nodded good-bye. When Jackson pulled off, Jaise walked over to Bilal.

  Showtime!

  He stepped out of his truck and she reached up, sliding her arms around his waist and kissing him. Usually kissing her six-foot-four, beautiful, honey-colored husband, with Egyptian eyes etched into his clean-shaven face, calmed her. But not today. She was anxious. Nervous. And she prayed like hell that Bilal couldn’t tell.

  They ended their kiss. “Babe, how was the retreat?” she asked.

  “It was cool,” he said, short, curt, unimpressed by her question.

  She pulled in a heavy breath and released it in a smile. “Okay, well, I’m glad we’re here today.”

  “Yeah?” He arched a brow.

  “Yeah. Hopefully, the counselor will help us get back to the way things once were.”

  Bilal let Jaise’s words dangle in the air as he walked toward the glass door with the name of the practice, New Beginnings Counseling Center, etched into it.

  Jaise followed him as he walked into the waiting room, took a seat, and immediately began to leaf through a Black Enterprise magazine. She sat next to him and her eyes combed the antique coffee table and she guessed that it was at least a hundred years old and worth over a thousand dollars. She smiled. She loved antiques. Their richness, the stories they held, their ability to withstand the test of time, no matter how battered and bruised they were.

  She nervously crossed her legs to the left, then to the right.

  I need to tell him about my weekend.

  No. Now is not the time.

  She eyed Bridget, Carl, and the camera pointed her way.

  I’ll tell him off camera.

  Her eyes swept over Bilal, from the low waves in his hair, to his large hands that held the secret to how she liked to be held—a firm grip around the hips and pulled closely to his chest. She studied his athletic frame that lionized his sex appeal and smiled as her eyes drifted down to his feet, which lived up to the big dick myth.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Asante?” The secretary interrupted her thoughts. “Dr. Johnson will see you now.”

  Bridget and Carl positioned themselves in the far corner of the doctor’s office to ensure the camera had the best angle, while Jaise and Bilal walked in after them.

  Jaise smiled at Dr. Johnson and said, “You have such a beautiful office.”

  “Thank you,” said Dr. Johnson, a tall and lean maple-colored woman with a close-cropped haircut and broad shoulders.

  “The antiques in the lobby are so grand,” Jaise carried on, shaking the doctor’s hand. “That coffee table has to be at least a hundred years old. If you’re ever thinking about selling it, please give me a call.” She handed the doctor her online antiques business card.

  “Thank you.” Dr. Johnson placed the card on her desk and pointed to the black leather love seat. “Have a seat please.”

  “We certainly will.” Jaise smiled as she and Bilal sat facing the doctor on a red, oxford leather chair.

  “What brings you to couple’s therapy?” Dr. Johnson tapped the tip of her pen on her notepad.

  Bilal sat quietly as Jaise hesitated. “We’re separated. I want my husband back home, but first we need to learn to communicate. It’s a struggle. Most times we end up in an argument and neither one of us wants that.”

  Dr. Johnson looked over at Bilal, whose eyes and facial expression revealed a thousand thoughts—but his mouth didn’t say a word.

  Jaise continued, “We love each other dearly.”

  “Okay.” Dr. Johnson nodded. “Tell me, was communication always a problem?”

  “No. Until about a year ago, our life was perfect.”

  Bilal cut his eyes at Jaise, yet still didn’t say anything.

  The doctor continued, “Tell me about that. What made it perfect?”

  Jaise grabbed Bilal’s hand and held it. “Well, let me start with telling you about my first husband, Lawrence, so you’ll understand why my marriage to Bilal was perfect.”

  “Please do.”

  “Well, I married Lawrence when I was seventeen and the best thing that came out of it was my baby.”

  “Why did you divorce?”

  “Because he got the bright idea that he should beat the hell out of me. And that I should let him do it.”

  “So he was physically abusive?”

  “Yes. And before you even ask, my father did not beat my mother. He didn’t beat me. No one ever abused me sexually or any of that other sick and twisted shit that people always assign to battered women. I’m not a victim either. I don’t subscribe to that. Lawrence kicked my ass because he thought he could. I fought back, but next to cuttin’ and killin’ that motherfucker, there was no way I could beat a prizefighter.”

  “You don’t have to curse to make your point, Jaise,” Bilal interjected.

  Jaise turned to Bilal. Relax. She let his hand go and turned back to the doctor.

  “How long were you with him?” Dr. Johnson asked.

  “For seven years. After that, it was just Jabril and me. I dated a few men here and there, but they were all a mess. When I started to give up hope, I met Superman.” She placed her hand on Bilal’s right knee and squeezed.

  “How’d you meet?”

  Jaise chuckled. “He arrested my son.”

  Dr. Johnson looked puzzled. “How old is your son? I thought you referred to him as a baby?”

  “The baby’s twenty.” Bilal smirked.

  Jaise looked at Bilal, raised one brow and dipped the other. Breathe. She glanced at the camera and mustered up a smile. “Dr. Johnson, I had my son when I was seventeen. I was pregnant when my father forced me into a shotgun wedding. And, yes, my son’s twenty.”

  “With two kids,” Bilal added.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” Jaise asked.

  “I’m just helping to give the full picture. That your son’s a man. Not a baby.”

  “He’s twenty. That’s hardly a damn man.”

  “I was a man at twenty.”

  “This is not about you—and furthermore, Mr. Man-At-Twenty, you didn’t have a daddy or a mama who gave a damn!” She read Bilal’s face, which momentarily revealed he was shocked she took it there.” Whatever. She carried on. “I love my son and I will not toss my arms in the air and watch him fall simply because you were the great American dream at twenty! Fuck. That.”

  Bilal scoffed. “I never said I was the great American anything and I am definitely not saying he has to be.”

  Dr. Johnson interjected, “Mr. Asante, what would you like to see from your stepson?”

  “I’d like to see him be more responsible. Take care of his own children and not depend on his mother so much.”

  “What do you think of that?” the doctor asked Jaise.

  “I think it’s ridiculous! Jabril can’t afford to take care of children right now and Bilal knows it! Not too long ago, he was picked up for not paying child support! It’s not as if he has a job and can help himself.”

  “He quit!”

  “His supervisor was nasty to him, Bilal.” Jaise clenched her jaw. You know what, Dr. Johnson, Bilal just doesn’t like my son!”

  Bilal scoffed. “That’s the first thing that you’ve said since we’ve been here that is the truth, I don’t like him. I don’t like what he’s become. He’s lazy and if he can’t afford to take care of his children, then he needs to stop making them! He’s disrespectful—”

  “He’s not disrespectful! You’re the one who told him that you were going to kick his ass!”

  “I meant that. The next time he gets up in my face when all I’m trying to do is help him, I’m going to bust. His. Ass. So you might as well mark the date”—he pointed to a pen and a pad on the coffee table—“ ’cause
that’s a promise.”

  Jaise turned to the doctor. “See, this is why we can’t communicate. Because he makes everything about my son. That’s my son, and a mother knows her child. I cannot and will not wash my hands of my baby. Ever! And I need my husband to support me!”

  “Never.” Bilal shook his head. “I’m never going to support a twenty-year-old being a baby or a screwed up man.”

  Jaise looked at Dr. Johnson. “So you see, he sets limits and conditions on loving me.”

  “I didn’t hear him say that,” Dr. Johnson said. “He appears to be expressing his frustration. I think—”

  “Apparently you don’t think I’m frustrated as well!”

  “I hear frustration coming from the two of you, but—”

  “For you to say you don’t see him setting limits and conditions on loving me—I resent that.”

  “Support and love are two very different things, Mrs. Asante.”

  Bitch, please. “You can’t be serious with this. Support and love are on the same level. You cannot have one without the other.” Jaise turned toward Bilal. “Just like I needed you to support me Friday!” She pointed in his face. “You knew it was the first day of taping and you knew I wanted you there! Instead you went to that damn, stupid-ass retreat! I had to go to the taping by myself and then I had to spend the rest of the weekend in bed and feeling miserable. Why? Because apparently I’m the only one invested in trying to save this marriage!”

  Bilal stroked his chin the way he always did when he was pissed. He sat up straight and looked Jaise dead in the eyes. “This is why we have problems—because you’re a liar! Why would I care about the first day of taping when I told you I didn’t want to be on TV? But, noooo. What did you do? You renewed your contract—”

  “I didn’t know if you were coming home or not. Hell, you’re still not home, and there was no way I was giving up my job—which happens to be on TV—not knowing for sure if you planned on divorcing me.”