Second House from the Corner (16 page)

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.

“Talk, Mommy.” Two pulls on my cotton robe.

I look at Preston with eyes that say
save me
. He's bent over the coffeemaker, measuring the grinds.

“Twyla, honey, Mommy has to rest her voice today.”

“Why can't she just say good morning.” Rory wrings his hands.

“Because Mommy is going onstage today and we want her to be fantastic.” Preston pats his head. “Who wants cereal?”

“I do.”

“Me too.”

Preston pours the cereal. I turn up the volume on the kitchen radio.
Morning Edition
is on NPR, and I listen to the headlines while I finish packing their lunches.

*   *   *

The children and Preston are gone. I'm anxious. The feeling that I woke up with this morning has come back. I can't shake it. It feels like I'm forgetting something very important. I review my props for the performance and go over my checklist in my head. I look around my bedroom for a clue. What is it?

Liv crawls around my ankles. I pick her up and hold her to my chest. She has Gymboree today but we are going to skip it since I'm not speaking. Perhaps I'm just tired. It's time for Liv's morning nap, so I lie down on my side, pull my baby to my chest, and close my eyes.

The ding of my cell phone wakes me up. It's a text message from Shayla.

I'm outside. I need the mortgage agreement.

That girl has the worst timing. I slide away from Liv, prop pillows on all sides of her, and then head downstairs. The painting hanging opposite the dining-room table masks a space in the wall with a safe. Preston is a big fan of old movies where the homes have secret passageways, rooms, stairs, and hidden compartments. When we bought our house he insisted on having a concealed space to store important documents. I work the knob and remove a book that looks like an encyclopedia. It's hollow on the inside and contains our marriage license, the kids' birth certificates, Social Security cards, five one-hundred-dollar bills, and the papers to our home. Preston also has a separate folder with duplicates of everything in case of an emergency, and I reach into that file for what Shayla needs. Once I put the painting back, I text Shayla.

Performance today. I'm not talking. But you better make sure your man goes to court, or else. Don't mess this up.

I open my front door. She kisses me on the cheek and snatches the paper from my hand.

“Break a leg tonight,” she squeals, and then heads down my front steps.

The
damn voice
yawns.
You are a damn fool to trust that broad with your house. Her man is a street hustler. What makes you think they ain't hustling you?

This may be true, but I stow away the reality of it, deadening all feeling that comes along with it. It's done and now I must focus on what's ahead. The Dames.

*   *   *

Preston and the kids are standing in the doorway waving as I walk down the front steps. I'm pressed to get into the car and turn on the AC so that my hair doesn't frizz up. Ten minutes ahead of schedule I back my car down the driveway, then pat myself on the back for making good time. My car is washed and gleaming thanks to Preston. When I arrive at the Chatham Tennis Club, the parking lot is mostly empty, so I have my pick of parking. The foyer is decorated in purple and yellow with flowers. Monroe is standing at the top of the stairs with a flower pinned in her side bun. I can smell its fragrance before I reach her.

“Hi there,” I call, lugging my big bag.

“Felicia. You are the first performer to arrive. The early bird gets pick of the land. Tiffany?” She calls and a redhead with a clipboard turns our way.

“Would you show Felicia to the performers' holding room?”