Second House from the Corner (15 page)

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.”

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 squash and scalloped potatoes. I've wrestled the kids into bed fifteen minutes early, shower, perfume my skin, and wait.