Second House from the Corner (23 page)

“Hello,” I say and then look down at my phone to make sure I have the right number.

“Hey.” Preston's voice is distant.

“Hey.” I'm not prepared to talk to him and my mind goes blank of what to say.

“The kids left already for their activities with Juju. Rory tried calling you last night but you didn't answer.”

“I went to a movie.” The lie rolls from my tongue.

“Living it up.”

“Making do. I want to come home.”

“No.”

“Why're you punishing me?”

Preston sighs deeply. “Honestly, I'm not sure what to do with you.”

“What to do with me?” my voice rises. “Preston, I am still your wife. Stop making this more than it is.”

“I don't trust you. For all I know you could be sleeping with the dude right now.”

I blink in succession.

“You could have been seeing him through our whole marriage. Why didn't you mention you had a man?”

“Preston, haven't you had women before me?”

“Yes, and I've mentioned them. Sadly, you didn't think to pay me the same courtesy.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“I didn't marry you with you thinking I was a virgin, did I?”

“You believed what you wanted to believe.”

“I believed what
you
wanted me to believe. I've got another call.” He hangs up in my ear.

I hold the phone for so long my knuckles ache.

 

THIRTY

The Sunday Truth

Gran is playing Hezekiah Walker in her bedroom. I have never heard this song before, but a connection happens in the soul. The beat feels like silk on my skin, in my ears, and pumps my heart. When my eyes open, I do not think about anything going on in my life. I just feel the words reach down for the aches in my heart. My shoulders start moving and my feet are on the floor. I don't censor myself, and my hands fly in the air. My fingers snap and my neck twirls from one side to the other. I'm so wrapped up in the magic that I don't hear Gran until she's in the doorway.

“Every praise is to our God. He is merciful. God is your healer, your deliverer. Bathe this child in your blood, Jesus.” Gran stomps her foot and shouts, “Hallelujah!”

The power continues to move through me. Gran is all worked up and puts her hands on my back and prays over me some more. I go with the flow, with the rhythm, with the moment, and when she says “Amen,” I feel peace. Gran gives me a pat.

“That was just a prelude. Wait till you get to church. It ain't like you remember. The young folks done took over.” She chuckles.

“I'm not going to church, Gran.”

“Baby, ain't nothing like fellowship to lift you up and away from that devil. You see how that music moved you? You'll really feel the presence of the Lord in the sanctuary.”

I haven't stepped foot in Gran's church in almost twenty years, and no matter what that song made me feel, I'm not breaking my record today.

“I can't, Gran. I have some errands to run.”

She sighs, reaches down into her bosom, and pulls out a crumpled list. “In that case, I need you to ride up to the Acme on Red Lion Road. They have Perdue chicken breast on sale for a dollar ninety-nine a pound. Can you read my writing?” She hands me the list.

I nod.

“The money will be under the flowered place mat on the dining room table downstairs.”

“Okay.”

“Soak the chicken in some salt water to get the blood out and I'll do the rest when I get home. Ms. Marie gon' carry me to church.”

My mind drifts to Martin and the other night. The aftertaste of sex colors my cheeks.

Gran catches me. “What you thinking 'bout?”

“Nothing.”

She peers at me again. The corners of her lips frown and then she turns out of my room, humming to the gospel hymn coming from her bedroom. Shame seeps from my skin. I've broken my wedding vows, and my family is split at the seams. It's my fault. Grief weighs down on me like mud. When I hear her lower herself into her chair, I walk down the hall and start the shower. The water runs good and hot before I pull the curtain back and step in. It's too warm but it seems right to suffer.

As I move the cloth over my belly, I remember Martin's touch. The way he moved against my body. That man sure knows how to make a woman feel unforgettable. I up the water even hotter and plunge my head under the stream. I've crossed the line, and if Preston doesn't come to his senses soon I'll be miserably worse.

Martin is leaving after tonight and I've promised to see him one last time. It's wrong, but he said he had something important to tell me. While I'm out shopping for Gran, I'll buy something cute to wear for our goodbye.

*   *   *

I spend the late morning doing Gran's bidding and then stop at the Macy's on Cottman Avenue in the Northeast. On the sales rack, I find a cute skirt and low-cut top. Satisfied, I drive down Roosevelt Boulevard, the same boulevard that brought me into Philadelphia a few days ago. I'm overwhelmed by an eerie feeling. What if this is it? What if Preston never lets me come back home? What if I'm banished from my family forever?

Then they'll grow up without a mother just like you and look at how that turned out.

This has to blow over. Preston can't keep this up much longer. My family needs me.

Of course he can. What's so special about you? And this is what you wanted. Freedom. Remember?

I turn up the radio and drown the
damn voice
from my head.

*   *   *

When I get back to Gran's, Crystal is asleep on the couch. The floor creaks as I walk into the dining room, and she looks up.

“Thought you was out.”

“I was and now I'm back.”

“Were you with Martin?”

I drop the bags on the floor and turn my body toward her. “No.”

“Well, when you see him, tell that fool he still owes me twenty dollars.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He was supposed to pay me fifty dollars for your number. Only gave me thirty. Tell him I want my twenty.”

“You did what?” I move back into the living room.

She yawns and scratches her nose.

“Crystal, you sold me out for fifty bucks?”

“Girl, stop your whining. I needed the money.”

I am almost stunned. Almost, but it's Crystal, same old tired-ass, catty, jealous, stupid, stinkin' Crystal.

“Do you know how fucked up this is?” I'm loud. “My marriage is cracked, he won't let me see my kids, I'm stuck here with you, and—”

“Just the way it would have been if Mama ain't choose you over me.”

The front door slides across the living room floor. My knees buckle and I glue my hip to the piano to keep me from snatching out Crystal's weave and eyeballs.

“Praise the Lord,” Gran says. I'm not sure if she notices the tension, but she starts chatting us up about the sermon. Crystal picks up the remote and turns on the television. My chest heaves in and out.

“You do what I say?” Gran eyes me.

“Yeah, the groceries are right there. I'll be back,” I tell her.

“You having dinner, aren't you?”

“I need some air.”

My purse is on my shoulder and I walk out the front door. I can feel my pressure pulsing in my ear, and if I don't keep moving away from Crystal I will do her damage. I pull away from the curb and speed down Gran's little street. The Nissan carries me over to West River Drive, where I park and then walk. The weather is hot, but the humidity is low for a Philadelphia summer day. There is a pleasant gust of air coming off the river, making it a perfect day for outside activities. People are jogging, on Rollerblades, riding their bikes, pushing baby carriages, laughing, talking. Across the Schuylkill River, I gaze at boathouse row, which consists of about fifteen boathouses that have been there for more than a century. At night the boathouses are lit and beautiful like a Christmas tree. My father brought me down here once, for the Independence Day Regatta. I remember the cherry water ices and salted pretzels we ate. He let me take pictures with his camera. I still have the picture that a woman offered to snap of us. He had his arm around me and I looked startled by his affection.

Truth is I didn't know my father well enough to miss him. He spent most of my life out at sea. I used to daydream about him, though. From snatches of overheard grown-up conversation, I'd picture my father on something like a slave ship. In cramped conditions, damp clothing, little to eat, showering for weeks without hot water, worrying over my mother, and writing countless letters that she'd glance at but never take with her to bed.

My parents married quickly, right before he was shipped out to sea with the navy. I was already swollen like a grapefruit in her belly. I heard her tell Aunt Shelly that she only married him for the benefits.

“In case something happened to him at least my daughter would be taken care of for life.”

Their relationship was mostly long-distance, through paper correspondence and a few months out of the year when he was home. After serving for ten years, the navy wouldn't accept his reenlistment because his behavior had become erratic, and he had been diagnosed with stress-related paranoia. That's when he became my mother's problem. They had given him a low-level job at the Philadelphia Shipyard, and he worked early mornings. When he was on his medication he was fine, but when he wasn't, that's when the trouble would begin.

His sun rose and set on my mother's lips, and he couldn't get over her. He'd come to our apartment on Eighteenth and Susquehanna and throw rocks at the window in the middle of the night to get my mother's attention, and then he'd sing his love to her in front of the whole neighborhood.

In the beginning, Gran didn't take my father's mental illness seriously, and said stuff like he'd come around, he'd get over it, give him some time. But time only made it worse. It wasn't until the day of “The Incident” that she saw with her own two eyes how bad it was, and by then it was too late. Crystal got caught with his knife trying to protect my mother and I stood watching like a mute.

*   *   *

I twirl blades of grass between my fingers and try to be soothed by the water and the picturesque view, but that damn girl has ruined my mood. I can't understand why Crystal has to be so selfish. She has always been envious of me. It started even before I moved in with Gran. When my mother was around she would include Crystal in most things, but it was never enough. I often wondered if Crystal was a little touched, like my father. Not a full bottle missing from the six-pack, but maybe a few sips, because her behavior has always been irrational.

One time when she was in high school, she beat up a girl so badly with a soda bottle that she had to be rushed to the emergency room. Why? Because the girl supposedly rolled her eyes at Crystal. She was expelled from more high schools in the city than I could name, and found trouble without effort. I had my one snag, but for the most part I did things right. I learned my lesson but I pay for that mistake every single day. Just because she can't see my scars doesn't mean I don't have them.

 

THIRTY-ONE

The Last Dance

On my drive to Martin, I let the window down and the fresh air in. The full moon is radiant against the backdrop of night. My mother used to say that the moon ruled my moods because I am a Cancer. Who knows if that's true, but agitation is definitely crawling under my skin. I soothe myself with thoughts of seeing Martin for the last time. I've abandoned my plans to be especially cute tonight, because I don't want to go back to Gran's and risk running into Crystal, so I'm still wearing jean shorts and the V-neck shirt I slipped on this morning. I stop at Ms. Tootsie's on South Street and order takeout. There is a vial of perfume in my purse and I dab my throat, ears, and wrist, slap a little gloss on my lips, and fluff my ponytail.

When I tap the door, Martin opens it. He kisses my cheek and then hands me a drink, Jack and ginger ale.

I sip, tasting the extra Jack. “You trying to get me drunk?”

“Just trying to make you happy.”

“I'm a mean drunk.”

“Oh, then give that back,” he teases. “Did you eat?”

“No, but I brought us some fried chicken from Ms. Tootsie's.” I hold up the bag and then carry it into the kitchen. He follows me.

“Thanks, but that's not what I crave, Young Sister.” Martin pushes his hips into me, and the drama of my day evaporates. The kitchen is small, barely enough room for two. His hands kindle me. I am pinned between the countertop and his manhood. He talks shit into my hair.

“You like that?”

I don't answer. It's our game. Martin has always known what brings me pleasure, and before I know it his hand is inside my shorts. One finger stretches my thong as the others go to work on softening me. With his free hand, he unzips his pants, and his belt buckle clunks against the linoleum floor. I can't help it, and the sound heightens my anticipation. He shoves me onto the counter. My head bobs against the cheap cabinet. Martin smells like freshly chopped wood, and it's heady as he plays my body with his fingers, touching each note until the pleasure rips through me.

I cry out.

“That-a girl.”

My foot is on his shoulder, and when he rams into me it takes my breath away. We find our rhythm and flow. I rest my hands behind me and let him do all the work. This is why our tryst works. Martin has allowed me to just receive, when I'm used to giving it all. With him I don't think, prepare, plan. I just take and it makes me float. When I finally come down, it's hard and heavy and we are soaked in my bliss.

*   *   *

Martin rolls the condom off and steps out of his pants. He lifts me and carries me to the bed, where we spoon. This is all I want, peace from the drama of my real life. A freshly lit cigarette passes between us.