The Cheating Curve (12 page)

T
he next morning as Aminah slowly crept down the congested West Side Highway in her Range Rover, she took a small sip of water from the Fiji bottle that was in her cup holder. She swallowed with relief that it was Friday the twelfth and not the dreaded thirteenth. Though she did not consider herself the least bit superstitious, she also didn’t believe in coincidence, and Friday the thirteenth rarely failed to be an unlucky day for Aminah. In fact, just this past August thirteenth she’d caught a flat tire rushing to drop off Alia and Amir at Sean and Lang’s the night before their early morning flight to Hilton Head, South Carolina. As she pulled into a parking garage, she silently thanked God and the ancestors that there wouldn’t be another one until next May.

Behind New York City’s staggeringly tall buildings, the light gray morning sky grew darker and with each minute seemingly more determined to release a chilly November rain on the pavement below. Aminah found dreary days like this one fashionably challenging. She despised lugging around an umbrella. There simply was not enough room in the city for everyone to have their umbrellas opened simultaneously. The one hidden fashion blessing Aminah counted during times of precipitation was the opportunity to adorn her feet in either her purple corset Marc Jacobs rain boots or her pink Polo ones (their purchase benefited Ralph Lauren’s Pink Pony Fund to fight breast cancer). Her pink Polo rubbers did the puddle dance that day.

Aminah arrived ten minutes early for her appointment at Daily Blossom to finalize her floral delivery for Thanksgiving. Each holiday they alternated homes between the Anderson and Philips families. Last year it was at Aminah’s aunt’s home in Maryland. This year Fame insisted the Anderson clan come over to their “estate” in Jamaica Estates, Queens.

Aminah could have easily luxuriated in the chic floral studio all day long if she didn’t have to meet the Benin-born, Cali-based jeweler Chris “The Iceman” Aire for lunch. She left Daily Blossom pleased with her autumn-inspired floral color scheme. Her home would be inundated with hues of peach, coral, orange, burnt orange, pumpkin (both the color and the fruit), and deep, velvety reds for just the right contrast, come the eve of Thanksgiving.

Some thirty or so minutes after Aminah reluctantly tore herself from the fragrant flower spot, she slid into the cushy, sand-colored booth at the back of MoBay. Seated across from her was the jeweler-to-the-stars, Chris Aire. Just seconds prior, the handsome, dark-skinned gentleman had greeted Aminah by kissing her lightly on both cheeks.

The soothing earth tones on the walls and natural wood trim throughout the polished restaurant served as a nice backdrop for her meeting with Chris. Before he made his presentation, they both ordered the spicy jerk chicken salad and, upon Aminah’s insistence, MoBay’s famously potent Rummy Rum Cake for dessert.

The Andersons had been great customers of Chris’s since he’d first opened his custom jewelry company 2Awesome International back in ’96. Chris appreciated their loyalty so much so he’d personally greeted and seated them at his spring show just two months ago during New York’s Fashion Week.

While Chris could easily have insured and shipped Fame’s $95,000 red gold watch smothered in diamonds, he’d almost always rewarded the Andersons, especially Aminah Anderson, with personal delivery service and a substantial discount. Chris smiled confidently as he handed Aminah the exquisite Aire Traveler chronograph. Aminah beamed in awe. Fame would absolutely love it.

Slightly buzzed from the Rummy Rum Cake, Aminah hugged Chris and wished him safe travels. Amir would be getting out of school in exactly thirty minutes.

As Aminah maneuvered her way across 125th Street, she aimlessly pushed the radio control button on her steering wheel. Damn, she thought, way too much money begging on Jazz88, and Aminah’d just donated $1,000 during their last listeners’ drive a couple months ago. Switch. Destiny’s Child lost their breath for the tenth time that day on Hot 97. Switch. Michael Baisden told black women they needed to take better care of their bodies if they wanted to attract better-quality men on KISS FM. Switch. A commercial on Power 105. Pause. WBLS was the next preset radio station.

Aminah had promised Fame she wouldn’t listen during Cindy’s time slot, but try as she might she simply couldn’t resist. Aminah secretly found her radio show hilarious as long as she wasn’t putting her husband on blast. Switch…

Two blocks down from Amir’s school, Aminah sat numb for exactly seven minutes before flipping down the driver’s-side visor mirror. The reflection of pretty brown eyes strewn with wavy red lines surrounded by smeared black eyeliner startled her. She felt ugly.

Crazy that just some ten hours ago, waking up to Fame’s arm wrapped around her thigh with his head resting comfortably between her legs had started Aminah’s day off so wonderfully. She’d felt adored.
How quickly things change with the push of a button,
Aminah thought, momentarily captivated by her pathetic reflection.

She reached for the eyedrops and the Pond’s facial cloths inside her oversize Marc Jacobs Venetia bag and the tissue box she kept in her glove compartment. She refused to greet Amir with a tear-stained face. He deserved better, and with a couple squeezes of Visine, a few dabs of the Kleenex, some wipes of the cloth, a fresh stroke of eyeliner and mascara behind a pair of Fendi frames—oh, and three deep, cleansing breaths—he got it.

Aminah tuned in and out of her conversation with Amir on their forty-minute congested drive back home to Queens. Friday-afternoon traffic swelled typically and predictably like the transition stage of labor. Exiting off the jam-packed parkway brought the same indescribable relief as finally delivering your first child.

Aminah managed to laugh at Amir’s recount of something “mad funny” that had happened in phys ed last period. Exactly what that was, Aminah wasn’t sure, but she knew her son’s sense of humor well enough to pacify him with just the right chuckle that led to a giggle and then a full-out guffaw. The crescendo of his mother’s laughter tickled Amir.

“Hey, Amir, what do you think about spending the night at Grandma Glo’s tonight?” she asked, pushing the button above her rearview mirror, opening the tall, wrought-iron, automated, monogrammed driveway gates.

Amir loved the idea. Friday nights at his paternal grandmother’s home meant fried fish and coleslaw and cool old ladies cursing and laughing and singing off-key to the sounds of Earth, Wind & Fire, Al Green, and the Stylistics. Grandma Glo might even let him and Alia play out one of her hands in spades.

“Sounds good to me, Mom,” Amir said nonchalantly, not wanting to sound too excited and tip off his mom to all the fun he was about to have.

Aminah drove home to pack the children’s overnight bags before taking them to their grandmother. She told Gloria she was going out with Lang. Glo didn’t require an explanation though. She loved having her grandbabies around, didn’t matter that it was “girls night in.” She might even let the children take a little swig of her beer after her daughter-in-law was well on her way.

After spending all week in them uptight, fancy private schools, Gloria thought they could benefit from some pure, uneducated fun. Plus, it was the only time her grandbabies got to drink Kool-Aid and soda, as Aminah and Fame kept only one hundred percent fruit juice and triple-filtered water stocked inside their stainless-steel forty-eight-inch side-by-side Viking fridge for them.

Aminah kissed her children and hugged her mother-in-law before climbing back into her Range. She immediately pulled off from Glo’s only to pull over just a quarter of a mile down. She sat.

Aminah wasn’t sure what she was doing or where she was going. She needed some unconditional loving sans a lecture, which ruled out her own mother for now. She got lost in the mere thought of where to go for almost an hour. It was just about nine o’clock when Aminah rang the doorbell of Lang and Sean’s brownstone.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Sean greeted Aminah quickly, kissing her cheek and rushing back downstairs. The Sixers were playing the Pacers, and Sean didn’t want to miss a minute of the game. “Your girl’s not home yet, but I’m expecting her in the next hour or so.”

Aminah followed Sean downstairs to his entertainment room, Sean’s favorite space in their brownstone. He had complete autonomy over his territory. Lang wasn’t even allowed to straighten up downstairs, and Sean maintained it to his liking—clean and comfortable, not sanitized and orderly to the point of trepidation and intimidation. This time of year, Sean ideally started his weekends off with his remote control in hand and NBA League Pass on-screen, giving him a smorgasbord of basketball entertainment viewing options via cable television.

“Help yourself to some water,” Sean said, plopping down on his cognac leather sectional in front of his sixty-one-inch plasma. Even with her hook-up, Sean had thought Lang was crazy for spending so much money on the flat screen monitor but had quickly ended his protest the second he’d powered it on.

“I know you like Fiji, but we’ve got some smartwater down there,” he said with eyes fixed on the game.

“Actually, I’m feeling more like a glass of wine,” Aminah replied, scanning the well-stocked wine rack behind the bar as well as the freestanding Miele wine cellar unit next to it.

“Gorgeous is turning down water for wine,” Sean said, getting up from the couch during a commercial-break time-out. “Uh-oh, tell me all about it.” He pulled one bottle from the rack and another from the cellar unit. “Red or white?”

“Red,” Aminah replied, taking a seat on the leather and chrome bar stool. Aminah and Sean had been mutually and openly “in like” with each other since they’d met at the same barbecue at which Sean had first encountered Lang some six years ago.

Sean had fallen in like with Aminah from the moment he’d seen her patiently and successfully rocking an overtired two-year-old Amir to sleep while absorbedly listening to a bubbly four-year-old Alia read out loud from a Camille Yarbrough children’s book. Sean had felt a tinge of jealousy when the five-carat emerald-cut diamond ring on her left ring finger had nearly blinded him that day. In spite of the fact that Langston had already captured his eyes and mind earlier that day, the maternal vision of Aminah tugged at his heart a bit. Still did.

“I’ll take a pinot noir if you have one,” Aminah grunted, trying to force off her left rain boot by pushing on its heel with the toe of her right.

“You know, I’ll help you get your boots off, Aminah,” Sean said, pulling out a California red. “So stop struggling over there before you hurt yourself.”

Aminah giggled and stopped battling with her boots. Sean showed her a bottle of Vision Cellars 2002 Chileno Valley Marin County from the African American winery, and Aminah nodded enthusiastically in approval as Sean poured her a glass.

“So, what brings you around these parts on a Friday night, and who’s minding my godchildren?” Sean asked, sliding Aminah’s boots off effortlessly and then rushing over to the couch. The game was back on.

Aminah took a couple sips and then a big gulp of her pinot noir, barely tasting the delicious fusion of berries and cherries before answering. It was strong, just like she needed; still, Aminah thought she detected hints of something else, rose petals maybe.

“They’re out in Hempstead with their grandmother,” Aminah said, bringing the bottle and her empty goblet over to the tempered glass coffee table in front of the couch.

“Damn. You’re thirsty, huh?” Sean asked with equal parts jest and concern, slightly distracted from his game. “Hey, aren’t you driving?”

“Just because I drove here doesn’t mean I’m driving home,” Aminah replied defensively. “I can always call a cab or a car or, or—”

“Hold up,” Sean said, interrupting Aminah. “Now I know something’s wrong.” Sean muted the surround sound, immediately snatching him out of his “floor seats” atmosphere. He rubbed the side of Aminah’s cheek with the back of his hand. “What’s wrong, gorgeous?”

Aminah held Sean’s hand against her face for a minute. She bit her bottom lip. “I’m just tired, Sean,” Aminah finally said as a single tear ran down her cheek.

“You wanna talk about it?” Sean asked, gently brushing the tear away with his thumb.

Aminah shrugged her shoulders.

“What’s got you so tired, Aminah?” Sean asked, concerned.

Aminah said nothing as she continued to hold Sean’s hand against her face.

“Is it the children?”

Aminah shook her head.

“Is it Fame?”

Aminah didn’t respond right away. Fame was more than draining her energy. He was chipping away at her self-esteem, leaving only bits and pieces of her pride intact. Years of wear and tear with only Band-Aid repair left Aminah with a gaping bloody hole in her heart that required trauma surgery at this point. All the years of stuffing bandages just to stop the flow without actually tending to the wound itself left her feeling rather septic.

“I don’t wanna talk about it right now, Sean,” Aminah finally said, letting go of his hand and resting her head on the armrest of his sofa.

Sean knew better than to push Aminah when it came to Fame. He figured she’d eventually get over whatever he’d done this time, like she always did. The many times Sean questioned Aminah’s “proactive surrender,” she usually hit him with, “It takes a strong woman to stay and a weak one to leave” or “My marriage is good and worth fighting for” or simply “I love my husband.”

“You wanna watch the game then?” Sean asked, flashing his brilliant smile and unmuting the TV. “It’s a good one. Philadelphia and Indiana are playing.”

Aminah laughed hysterically. She needed that. Sean was truly a basketball fiend. “Only if you pour me another glass.”

“All right, but promise me you’ll let me or Lang drive you home.”

“What if I’m not going home?” Aminah asked with the seriousness of a Barney’s warehouse sale.

“Okay, then one of us will drive you out to Hempstead to pick up the kids,” Sean said, pouring her a second glass of wine.

Aminah nodded her head in agreement. “What about to the studio? Would you drive me there?”