The Business of Lovers

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  “Can Nephew get a part-time job at the mall or something, to help with expenses?”

  “I need him to stay in his books. This year is the most crucial year.”

  “Just asking. Don’t bite my head off.”

  She measured me, then asked, “You have kids yet?”

  “Not yet. Had a scare or two, though the scare didn’t scare me like it did her. One day.”

  “Don’t. They’re dream killers.”

  “Well, for some that’s part of the dream. The thing that bonds or breaks couples.”

  “Do you have any idea how many women have given up their dreams so a man can pursue his?”

  “A lot, I’m sure. But men also enslave themselves to work so they can take care of everybody.”

  “All of my friends from my acting days are starring in shows on Broadway, or getting parts in major films, and here I am, following them on Twitter and Instagram, like a groupie. I was supposed to be the next Bernadette Peters on Broadway and be more influential than Regina Baptiste in Hollywood. At least I was in my head. When my old friends pass through here, the ones who remember me comp me tickets. I go to their shows, sit in the audience. In the audience. I’m not used to that point of view. I used to go see them as much as I could, to be supportive, but last time I was introduced as the girl who used to be an actress. Used to be. I was no longer part of the group. My membership had expired. No Golden Globes. No Grammy. No Emmy. No Tony. Just me and my Fela. He’s my award now. I love my son, but kids are dream killers. At least they are for women like me more than they are for men like Dwayne. If I’d abandoned my son and had gone off to pursue my passion, if I had taken that call to go tour, or had snagged a part in a Broadway show, as a woman with a kid, as a mother, as the mother of a black son, I’d be called all sorts of names, least of all being a suck-ass parent. Brick, your brother is a suck-ass parent. No shade. I will tell him that to his face.”

  When she was done venting, I said, simply, “I’m not going to try to argue with that or defend him.”

  “He drops a check once a month, late most of the time, and walks away like he’s done enough.”

  “You know your truth and how you feel. I’d never mansplain or challenge that.”

  “Dwayne tell you what happened? He just got kicked off a show two weeks ago.”

  “He said the show was folding, and that he asked to be let go so he could get unemployment again.”

  “Bullshit. He went off on the lead and ridiculed the musical director.”

  “He was probably stressed.”

  “Stressed or not, he wasn’t professional, not when it counted.”

  “He has depression.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “They let him go.”

  “Yeah. He was sent home. I know someone on the tour and they reached out to me on Facebook and asked if he was all right. Don’t worry, I didn’t reply. People can be so damn malicious. It’s real suspicious he was let go right before we’re going to court, so now he can claim he’s back on unemployment, between shows, and has no income. I bet we fight in court, he gets his reduction, and then magically he’ll be booked in a show the next week.”

  I backed away from that topic. “Where’s Nephew?”

  “He’s sleeping. He ate so much he passed out from the shock.”

  “How much of the food did he eat?”

  “Damn near all of it.”

  I laughed. “Why are you keeping Nephew locked up like a rebellious slave?”

  “You can’t do slave jokes with me. Do those with your brothers or my son, but not with me.”

  “I’m sorry. Why is Nephew on lockdown with no phone?”

  “You’re barely a part-time uncle, if that, so it really isn’t any of your business.”

  “Is he on punishment?”

  “All these hot-to-trot girls are DMing him booty pictures and naked pictures and talking about blow jobs. One girl sent a video of her masturbating. At sixteen. And then there are the horny bitches at our church.”

  “At church?”

  “And when did getting choked become part of sex? Bitch texted my son and said she wanted to drive over when I was sleeping so he could let her sneak in his bedroom window late at night, so he could stroke-and-choke her. I had words with her momma. Shit. I’m keeping my son from making the mistake I made.”

  “Well, I’m going to come pick Nephew up to hang out more often. Maybe this weekend.”

  “Ask me how I feel about that offer after we go to family court and hear the judge’s ruling.”

  “Don’t keep Nephew from his family.”

  “Family? When was the last time any of you Duquesnes came around here, Brick? Who has called me and offered to pick Fela up from school when I’m sick or keep him a weekend or take him for the summer?”

  I almost told her I’d been sick awhile, that André had been on the road, but I kept the excuses to myself. I understood because I’d felt the same way, like I was out there alone, like the world had gone on and left me to suffer.

  “Okay. After you and Dwayne go to court, I’ll swing back by.”

  She said, “Your big brother called the police on me.”

  “I heard.”

  “You know how embarrassing that was? My neighbors saw, and the police saw what I didn’t want anybody to see, looked at me like I was a bad mother, shaking their heads. I should have called Dwayne and cursed his ass out while they were here. It hurt and mortified and scared and disgusted me. I thought they were going to take my son from me. I fucking cried. Dwayne called the fucking cops on me. How low is that?”

  “He was scared. He fucked up. He knows he fucked up. Don’t blast him on social media.”

  “Why would I do that? First, I’m emotionally mature. Second, this is between Dwayne and me, and I have always kept it that way. I don’t even involve my son. I don’t mention how he was supposed to take Fela to do this or that but booked a show and reneged. Third, he’s my son’s father. Like it or not, we’re part of the same family tree for eternity. If I blast him on social and the world hates him, that fucks with his money, and that would fuck with my money, and I’m not doing shit to mess up my son’s inheritance. But don’t tell Dwayne that. Let him think I’m that kind of weak, immature, bitter girl. Let his ass be scared of my Twitter finger. Understand this, Brick: Dwayne and I were friends before all this. I ruined a perfectly good marriage to be with him, and because of the way I left my marriage, I wasn’t entitled to any alimony. I felt like a fool warmed over twice, and I said and did some things that can’t be taken back, wrote things to the court I wish I hadn’t, and now those things are forever part of the public record. I’ve never wanted him to fail. If I am stuck here in mommy mode, I need him to act, sing, dance, and be very fucking successful so he can pay his goddamn child support on time, and not ten and fifteen days late like he’s been doing.”

  It was a lot to unpack. She’d overwhelmed me, left me speechless.

  “So, Brick, I heard you broke up with my play-cousin.”

  “You keeping up with Coretta?”

  “I ran into Coretta at the movies, up at ArcLight. We had coffee after.”

  “Who was she with?”

  “Maserati Mama. She got away from her long enough to gossip.”

  I nodded. “What did she say?”

  Frenchie laughed. “Did you really ask Coretta to show you her tax papers and her credit report?”

  “Is that a bad thing to ask when you’re talking marriage?”

  “What was that lack of trust all about?”

  “Showing that was the ultimate trust.”

  She laughed. “That’s more personal than sex.”

  “Asking for a credit score is more personal?”

  “You ever hear about someone showing a FICO score on a first date? Fucking on a first date? Y
es. Every night. FICO? No. Too personal. Too revealing. And asking that comes off as a bit odd.”

  “When money starts to mix, you eventually need to know things.”

  “Things like?”

  “If your credit is bad, then we need to make all the major purchases on my credit before we get married and yours is taken into consideration. If you’re neck-deep in credit card debt, then I need to get the house before we’re dealing with a combined debit-income ratio and have to pay off all of your cards to get a loan. I need to know how much money it will take me to reach my dreams with you at my side. I have dreams too. Shit like that.”

  “You and your practical thinking will have you living alone until the end of days.”

  “Someone has to be practical. Two fools can’t steer a ship in the right direction.”

  “That part.”

  “From where she stood, everything looked okay, but I was paying the tab on all the bills.”

  “As men should.”

  “If you’re paying for someone to be in your life, that’s not a girlfriend.”

  “What is it?”

  “An employee.”

  “That one of André’s tired jokes?”

  “Shut up. Your no-lights-no-water-having ass. At least I can flush a toilet. You and Nephew are probably doing like the ancient Romans and sharing a poop sponge like they did in public bathrooms.”

  She gave me the middle finger. “My life isn’t perfect, but I’m thankful for everything I have. You may see me struggle, but you will never see me fall down and not get back up.”

  “You’re a strong woman.”

  “My son needs to experience this. He’ll know how life can be and know not to count on other people.”

  “I get it, but there is a line. Don’t let your self-flagellation be his torture for too long.”

  She hummed, thinking, and changed the subject. “How much did you and Coretta have sex?”

  I laughed. “A lot, at first, but it came to a screeching halt when finances came up.”

  “She didn’t look like the type who had sex without looking in a mirror at the same time. She looks like the type of Barbie doll who would get her hair done, have makeup on, record herself having sex, and be looking at her own face in the camera the whole time, like she was making love to herself, and then drink wine and look at the recording all day, smiling, happy with herself and how beautiful she looked while glowing and having an orgasm.”

  “She was in my top three; maybe top two.”

  “Honestly, I thought she left because you weren’t having much sex, or it was god-awful.”

  “We had sex a lot.”

  “Did you trust her?”

  “Trust, but verify.”

  “But why?”

  “Her shopping sprees and spending habits had me concerned. She was buying red-bottom shoes, new wardrobes. She bought a new Benz, then traded it back in for a BMW, did that in three months.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the new BMW was cuter. Cost thirty grand more and was a nicer color, one that went with her complexion. She bought a new car and, on the way home, bought a wardrobe to match the color of her car.”

  “Not good.”

  “She lost at least ten grand on that trade-in deal. She didn’t take me and got ripped off.”

  “Ten grand. Jesus. I didn’t know all that. I could redo my house with ten grand.”

  “I never had no idea how much money she made, never pried, just observed and knew that Monday through Friday she looked like a CEO, but she had over twenty charge cards and used them all.”

  “Okay. Red flags.”

  “I needed to know if she was living off credit.”

  “Everyone lives off credit, Brick.”

  “I wanted to know how much she was saving, what was in her 401(k), and who was handling her investments before we got married.”

  “That’s a lot to ask.”

  “That’s family stuff, Frenchie. It would all have to be addressed at some point. I wanted to sit down and put all the debt on the table, so we could see where we were before we amalgamated our brands.”

  “Your brands? Really? You have a brand now? What’s next? A mixtape?”

  “You know what I mean. I needed to see if the relationship had legs.”

  She chuckled. “A wedding is a smart idea. Marriage rarely ever is, not in the long term.”

  “You should know. I defer to you as the expert in that field; heard your wedding was massive.”

  “If I could’ve had the wedding without the marriage, life would’ve been better. The honeymoon too. Oh yeah, the honeymoon. After the honeymoon, couples should go back to being single, or at least have that as an option.”

  “You went on tour right after?”

  “Which was like going back to being single with a paycheck and my own room.”

  I said, “You’re funny when you want to be.”

  “I’m hilarious and have the reviews to prove it.”

  “You’re not onstage. Don’t push it.”

  “You’re special. Coretta said you don’t own more than three hundred things, you buy wine for resale but never really resell any, and you refuse to get a bigger car.”

  “She had so much stuff I barely had room for one hundred paper clips.”

  “You miss her?”

  “She’s taken her sexual fluidity to Maserati Mama now.”

  She wagged a finger. “You knew how she was from the get-go.”

  “I knew.”

  She chuckled. “It probably excited you.”

  “Probably did.”

  “You hoped she brought home a girl for both to have some next-level sex.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Did she?”

  “Nah. But we talked about getting a random from a strip club.”

  “You didn’t care about a credit report then.”

  “Checkmate.”

  “Answer me. Do you miss her?”

  A hundred images of Coretta flashed in my mind. “I do.”

  She twisted her lips. Her voice cracked. “It hurts to miss someone.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Sometimes it never goes away, Brick. That’s the worst kind. It’s torture.”

  “Been there, done that, bought a ticket, and a T-shirt, then rode the merry-go-round.”

  “With Coretta?”

  “Long before Coretta, and now again with Coretta. So, this pain ain’t new. I know how to deal with it this time, and I’m sure I’ll handle it better next time, and the time after that, and the time after that.”

  Frenchie said, “Coretta’s new boo, it won’t last. Two women that pretty will never make it.”

  “They looked happy.”

  “Coretta misses you.”

  “She’s happy.”

  “She was happy with you.”

  “Now she’s happier.”

  She sighed. “I’ve missed talking to you, Brick.”

  “Same here, Frenchie. Same here.”

  “You met anybody since Coretta?”

  “Saw a girl. She played chess. Pretty, smart, and snarky.”

  “You say anything?”

  “Wish I had. Will probably never run into her again.”

  She whispered, “Thanks for the food. That made me cry, knowing you care.”

  I said, “Let Dwayne see Fela before you go back to family court.”

  “Why should I?”

  “They need each other. If it were a mother and daughter, would that make more sense to you?”

  She paused. “You love your brother.”

  “I do. I won’t defend what he does wrong, but I have to support him no matter what.”

  “You love my son.”

  “I do
. And I love you too, Frenchie.”

  “First he buys me chicken, then he says he loves me.” She nodded. “Okay. I’ll send Dwayne a text.”

  “You’re the best, Frenchie.”

  “Don’t make me regret this, Brick.”

  “You won’t.”

  I reached into my pocket, took out some cash, part of the money Mocha Latte had just given me.

  I pushed it into Frenchie’s hand.

  She pushed it back and said, “No.”

  I said, “Yes.”

  “Brick. Fela is not your responsibility. This is not your mess to fix.”

  “Shut up.”

  She thanked me with a smile, then said, “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “The cost of love. About what you paid to be in a relationship, and my cost of being in a foolish love. You’re looking at your credit cards. We all pay. It’s not money, but we all pay. We get mad when we can’t recoup what we’ve lost financially, but also what we’ve lost emotionally and spiritually. A bad relationship can lead to sleepless nights or sleepless years or permanent insomnia. Love spares no one. We all pay. If men want to get their money back, women want to get back time lost, to unbreak a broken heart, to find a cure for the bitter taste left in their mouths.”

  “So, it’s a wash. Everybody pays.”