Dream Girl Awakened (6 page)

“M
omma, I'm just asking you to come get me in the morning! I've been in an accident. I'm at Methodist.” Tawatha steadied her cell phone in one hand as she turned to secure the ties on the back of her hospital gown.

“Honey, it'll have to be after the kids leave for school. Plus the ‘E' and the needle on my gas meter are close enough to make a baby.”

“Is Mr. J.B. there? Can he give you some gas money? Maybe I can sneak outta here tonight.”

“He's pulling a double at the foundry. I thought you were out with Lasheera and Jamilah. They can't bring you home?”

Tawatha shifted in the small ER bed and fiddled with the admission bracelet on her arm. The night wasn't supposed to go down like this. She was doleful about not convincing James that she and the kids should move in. She didn't try to find him in the hospital, but figured he'd been admitted to a room since his business was so successful.
His wife is probably in his room rubbing on him and kissing those sexy lips. If only we were married. I know things would be better for me and the kids.
She pretended she wasn't in pain and the aches were nonexistent as not to be admitted to the hospital. No health insurance. She'd been meaning to fill out the paperwork at Hinton and Conyers for insurance, but knew the bimonthly payments of $180 would suck the life out of her anemic paycheck. Her life had become a maze of shuffling her pitiful
paycheck, food stamps, and under-the-table jobs that left her unfulfilled and tired. No child support, no contact with her children's fathers, and no prospects for a new apartment. She still had to think of a lie to tell her mom.

“Well, I got in the accident after we left Olive Garden. Sheer and Milah went to Club 7 after we ate to get their dance on, so I bet their phones are either on vibrate or shut off. I'll just try and get a cab or something.”

Roberta paused a moment. She had enough time, gas, and money to pick up Tawatha, but she was tired of enabling her.
Bet she's out with somebody's man or husband. Humph. Letting her stay at the hospital oughta teach her a lesson.
Roberta felt guilty for her thoughts because she realized Tawatha was a branch from her whorish tree. Only dumber. Roberta Gipson remembered all the men in Riverside, California that marched in and out of Tawatha's and Teresa's lives when they were small. She also rued the fact that prior to the twins, she was hopeful about moving to L.A. and owning a clothing shop, meeting a man with whom she could build a future, and providing a stable and nurturing environment for the children they would have. As one of few black students in her business classes at U.C. Berkeley, she was shunned by whites who resented her intelligence and the ease with which she grasped concepts; she was ostracized by blacks for being too white in her thinking. Whoever heard of a sista wanting to have a productive future, land, a stable life, and spouting that stupid scripture about leaving a legacy for her children and her children's children? Her life appeared to be moving smoothly until that breezy afternoon in May as she prepared for her advanced economics final. She was seated outside in the quad near the library, wearing Levi's bellbottoms, a floral peasant top, and leather sandals. She wasn't afraid of basking her dark skin in the sunlight because her color accented the sheen of her Afro that
was meticulously picked out and oiled each day. She fondled her wooden hoop earrings as she read. As her eyes drifted off the page, the sight of a drop-top, cranberry Cadillac convertible with white leather interior and sparkling spoke wheels arrested her. More striking than the car was the butterscotch-complexioned man who emerged from the car and strode across the walkway into the library behind her. Roberta normally associated such cars with hoods and pimps, not ones passing through the portals of a campus library on a Saturday afternoon. Roberta gathered up her books to go back to her apartment. As she grabbed the last book, she dropped two folders, the contents strewn about by the wind. As she hastened to pick up the papers, a polished, shiny pair of Stacy Adams approached her hands, startling her. She stifled a gasp as Mr. Cadillac stooped next to her, hands held out, with a sheath of papers.

“I believe these belong to you, Miss,” he said.

Roberta could not contain the grin spreading across her face. Flustered, she tried to say thank you, but was silent.

“I'm Shirley Gipson. What's your name?”

“A man named Shirley?” was the best response she could muster. Embarrassed, she extended her hand to him. “Roberta. Roberta Lawrence.”

“Nice to meet you, Roberta. Yes, my mother wanted a girl so badly she named me Shirley. I get a lot of attention and mistaken identity with it.”

She spied the book
Business Policies, Text, and Cases
in his hand. “Are you a student here?”

“I've been discharged from the Marines, I'm a part-time student, and next fall I'll be full-time. This is required reading for September. Never too early to start, right?” Not wanting the moment to end, he added, “Would you like to join me for ice cream?”

Damn, a fine brother, driving a Caddy, enrolled in school, and reading to prepare himself for the days ahead? Why wouldn't I say yes?

“I'm there! Just let me get the rest of my things.”

They sped away to Farrell's for vanilla sundaes with chocolate syrup and strawberries. As they swapped stories—his about serving in Vietnam, hers about owning a business—Denise Williams and Johnny Mathis chided them both with the words, “Too Much, Too Little, Too Late.” Roberta would appreciate that omen later.

Theirs was a whirlwind relationship. Shortly after finishing her finals and graduating, Roberta took time off before starting the job search. They traveled up and down the scenic California coast: San Pedro, Marina, Monterey, Yosemite, Big Sur, and Lake Tahoe. They picnicked at the Presidio; they made love at Half Moon Bay; they visited the wine groves of Napa Valley, and went sailing in the Berkeley Marine. September had come and gone, no job search, no job, no mention of school on Shirley's part, and the undeniable ache of Roberta's breasts and two months of missed periods. This couldn't be happening to her. However, unlike the women in her family who'd gotten pregnant, deferred dreams, and abandoned them, she knew Shirley would right this wrong and marry her. As she dressed to go to Shirley's apartment to share the news, a knock at the door halted her.

“Who is it?”

“Carol Gipson.”

Roberta scanned her memory for Shirley's relatives she had heard him speak of during their time together. A Carol didn't register. Roberta would postpone chit-chatting with her because she was on her way to see the Gipson she knew. Shirley.

Keeping the chain secure, she opened the door. “May I help you, ma'am?”

“You've been seeing my husband, Shirley, and we need to talk.”

Roberta paused. Her fingers trembled as she unhooked the chain and stepped aside. Carol waltzed into her apartment, the smell of Opium permeating the room as she took a seat in Roberta's favorite tawny La-Z-Boy. Even in casual attire, Roberta knew Carol was a classy, sophisticated lady. Her hair, swept in a dramatic updo with curls cascading her delicate face, was as perfect as the red crinkled frock she donned. She leaned back in the chair, opened her purse, and pulled out a pack of Viceroys. She smoothed out the full-shape cotton dress, her silver and red bangles jingling as a rhinestone-crusted lighter emerged from her purse. This woman could have easily been headed to a Con Funk Shun concert or a supper club. Carol was someone she would have loved meeting under different circumstances. Instead, she sat in her own apartment, wondering whether to run, call the police, or pray like her grandmother in North Carolina used to do when fierce rains tapped on the tin roof of their family home.

“Mind if I smoke? I don't normally do so inside. We can step out on your balcony.”

Carol's cool demeanor frightened Roberta. What did she want? Roberta would have pegged Carol as Shirley's sister or a cousin, since they resembled each other so much. She sat across from Carol on the loveseat and crossed her arms over her stomach. “Why are you here?”

“Beloved, I'll cut to the chase. I've been following you and Shirley up and down the coast for months now. I'm not going anywhere, so I suggest you leave Shirley alone.”

Roberta stammered, “I don't under . . . Shirley loves me.”

“You and every other Berkeley student he's bedded over the years. I guess I should be grateful he finally found someone black to pass the time with, heh?”

“He's a stu—”

Carol rattled off Shirley's story as she'd done in other women's apartments and houses over the years: “Student. Part-time, but starting full-time in the fall, right?” She let out a bitter chuckle. “You'd think he would have changed the story after all this time.” Carol shook her head, dragged on her Viceroy, and blew perfect smoke rings. She leaned forward near Roberta's face. “Roberta, right? How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Shirley and I are both thirty-nine, have three children, and aren't getting divorced anytime soon.” Carol pulled out her wallet and flipped through photos of the children. She passed the photos, proud of her angels. “These are the triplets, Candace, Connie, and Carson.”

Roberta took the photos and eyed the kids. Same butterscotch skin. Beautiful smiles. Wide-eyed innocence. She passed the snap-shots back to Carol. “He told me he was twenty-nine.”

“More facts for you, Doll. He
was
discharged from the Marines. He
did
serve in Vietnam, and at the core of his being, he's decent. But you've been riding in
my
daddy's Cadillac, enjoying
my
family's money, and have been wearing a lot of
my
clothes.”

Carol was confusing her more and more.

Carol cut to the chase, answered the question she saw on Roberta's face. “Why do I stay, right? Well, in my case, it's cheaper to keep him for now. But as soon as the kids are gone, our union is a done deal. You're young and attractive enough to get a man of your own. I suggest you stop seeing Shirley while there's still time to keep your dignity in check. I'd hate for something to happen to you.”

Carol snubbed out the Viceroy in an ashtray, placed the photos back in her purse, and sauntered out the apartment as elegantly as she'd entered. Roberta, cemented to the loveseat, waited an hour, then called Shirley. When he answered on the first ring, she managed,
“Thanks for telling me about Carol. Don't ever call me again,” before gently placing the phone in its cradle.

Ashamed she'd been so easily duped, Roberta packed her things and moved seven hours away to Riverside. She found a job at a local funeral home, handling the books. Shocked to learn she was carrying twins in the second trimester, she fed and nurtured the babies in her womb. She gave birth to the girls, both darker versions of Candace, Connie, and Carson. The last of the fight inside of her came with the final push that was Tawatha. Her lips swore off men. Her hips said otherwise. In less than a year, she found herself knee-deep in men wanting to help her take care of the kids and have a place in her heart. Rich ones. Poor ones. Married ones. Professors. Mechanics. All promising the same thing: “Roberta, a woman as fine as you needs to be loved and protected.” The men, with their sugary promises, transformed her. She opened her legs a bit wider, faked orgasms longer, and stroked their egos to the point of nauseating herself long after the sheets were cool. In exchange for the theatrics, they paid her rent, kept her and the girls' hair dolled up and her nails pristine. Shirley and Carol had taken her down and she vowed not to be Cupid's victim again. Roberta acquired property, supported her siblings and cousins in North Carolina, and always, always blessed those she loved at Christmastime with stuffed boxes of mink stoles, Sunnyland Farm orange-frosted pecans, Japanese pears, and checks ranging from $100 to $500.

The girls thought of her as a goddess, a queen. She too felt invincible until pneumonia kidnapped Teresa at age eight and released her in death. That was hard to bear. Shirley never knew about the girls, so what need was there to invite him to the funeral? She'd forged his signature on their birth certificates and took on his last name as a reminder that a brief meeting can alter the course
of one's life forever. After the funeral, she made Tawatha close her eyes and point to a new state and city to start anew. Tawatha pointed to Indiana and read I-N-D-I-A-N-A-P-O-L-I-S aloud.

“That's where we're going, baby. That's our new home.”

A new home. That memory, painful and stabbing as it was, reminded Roberta of the importance of self-control. How could she leave Tawatha at the hospital when she knew she was responsible for a great deal of her daughter's foolishness?

“Tawatha, we'll be there in the morning.”

Roberta looked in on her grandchildren, Aunjanue, Sims, Grant, and S'n'c'r'ty. She'd send them off to school in the morning and figure out how to help Tawatha secure a new place to live.

V
ictoria's biggest pet peeve was Winston's knack for RSVPing them for events without her consent. Particularly on holidays. Why couldn't they just enjoy the Fourth of July at
their
house, on
their
deck, flipping brats, jumbo burgers, and marinated steaks on
their
Weber grill with friends from the neighborhood? But no, he had to tell Aruba they'd join them to celebrate James's return to mobility after the accident. She rolled her eyes at Winston behind her shades and continued playing with Nicolette as they drove to Aruba's. She didn't know what had gotten into Winston, but after the cookout, she planned to have a long chitchat about his behavior.