The Ex Factor: A Novel (20 page)

“You scared the shit out of me!” she cried, jumping.

He kissed her on the back of the head and caressed her behind. “What's wrong?”

“I just feel sick. I think it was something I ate. What are you doing here?”

“Kayla called me earlier when I was at work to come and get them. She wanted to see my mother. But I ended up working later than I thought—and to think, today was supposed to be my day off. So I stopped by your mother's and when nobody was there I came here.”

“Okay.” Monica splashed more water on her face. “Damn, I feel flushed.”

“Daddy! Daddy!” Kai called. “Come mere.”

“Go see what she wants,” Monica said, “I'll be there in a minute.”

“Aunty,” Kayla called, “telephone. It's Aunty Imani.”

Monica rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Tell her I'm coming.” She walked into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and picked up the cordless phone. “Y'all want popcorn?” she asked the girls before saying anything to Imani.

“Yes!” they screamed.

“Hello?” Monica said, putting the popcorn in the microwave.

“What, my son can't come over your house?” Imani was pissed. “The Desperate Housewife does us all a favor and blesses Brooklyn with Raven Symone and the Olsen twins and all of a sudden Jamal can't come around? What, my son too gully for you?”

“What are you talking about?” Monica opened the window; the smell of the popcorn was killing her. “Red had a gig, that's how the girls ended up over here, thank you.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“I don't have time for this. What is it?”

“I just called to talk. Now I have to have a reason to call?”

“No, but don't call here questioning me about why I don't have my nephew, who by the way I keep all the time. I have a headache, my stomach hurts, and I'm not in the mood to deal with the kids in my house. So no, Jamal can't come over here. Call his daddy— Mr. Wonderful.”

“We broke up,” Imani paused, “the same night of the wedding.”

“Again? Well good, time to take the trash out. But what does that have to do with Jamal? Jamal is still his son. Now call him.”

“He won't answer when I call him.”

“Wait a minute, Imani, say that again.”

“He won't answer when I call him.”

“That sorry son-of-a-bitch. I can't stand his fat cheatin' ass! And what is this about Walik and some baby girl?”

Imani hesitated. “How did you hear that?”

“Don't worry about it. But the person told me that he was holding a newborn baby girl.”

“Oh.” Imani felt like she wanted to break down and cry. “Shante must've had the baby.”

“What? She and Walik had a baby together? This sorry-triflin'-good-for-nothin' niggah had a baby on you? Wait a minute… didn't he just get out of prison after two years?”

“So?”

“So? How the hell is he making babies in prison?” Monica couldn't believe what she was hearing.

“He was fucking her in prison. Believe me, whatever you do out here, you can do in prison.”

“Well, I have heard it all. Either you gon' have to leave him alone or you need your ass beat. With his fat-ass self—oh I can't stand him!”

“He's not fat,” Imani said defensively.

“He's not fat? Well I know what he is, he's a no-good, inconsiderate, cheatin'-ass deadbeat bastard. Let his ass go! Jamal don't need him either. I'm sick of this!”

“How do you think I feel?” Imani started crying. “You would think that his mother would be on my side. As much as I have done for her, loaning her money, going with her to the doctor, anything she asked me to do I did. And when I called her to talk about what Walik was doing, she told me that she had nothing to do with our nonsense. That a man will be a man and that I should just either understand him or leave him alone. And then come to find out, Walik's mother has been babysitting and she and Shante are now hanging out.”

“Imani,” Monica said, “what did you think Walik's mother was? Your girlfriend? I told you about men and their families. His mother will like you and any other chick he brings to her house. Stop falling for the okeydoke! And get it together!”

“This is why I don't like telling you nothing,” Imani sobbed. “Because you're always judging me.”

“Oh shut the hell up! And be quiet. You're my sister and I love you but I don't like the shit you're doing. I don't care about Walik. I care about you and Jamal. Now, school is starting in a few weeks, do you have money for Jamal's clothes?”

“No.”

“When do you get paid?”

“My check”—Imani sucked up snot in the bridge of her nose— “doesn't come until the first of next month. It's the fifteenth of August and we don't have no food either.”

“Oh come on, Imani, what are you doing with your money? Damn, you work and get welfare.”

“I don't work anymore. I quit my job.”

“You did what?” Monica chuckled in disbelief. “I know yo' ass is lyin'.”

“No I'm not,” Imani snapped. “Humph, my supervisor got on my damn nerves, she was always telling me what to do.”

“She…was…your… supervisor. What the hell do you mean, she was telling you what to do?”

“Well, I ain't like her attitude when she was telling me to do it. So I told her she could kiss my ass because I had had it with her and her fuckin' job.”

“Oh no you didn't.”

“Yes I did,” Imani said. “And then I got my shit and told her to pick up her lip and go suck a big black dick!”

“And now since you've told your supervisor off, you've proved what?”

“Well, I was going to ask you to help me out and loan me some money until next month.”

“How much money?”

“A thousand dollars.”

“Oh hell no. I'll never see it again.”

“Yes you will. I wouldn't do you like that.” “Whatever. After this I'm not loaning you any more money—” “Monica.” Sharief walked into the kitchen. “The girls said you made them some popcorn?”

“Excuse me, Imani. It's in the microwave, Sharief.”

“Sharief!” Imani screeched. “What the hell is he doing there? Ain't his wife home tryin' to get her coochie knocked out?”

“How do you know that?”

“When I spoke to Celeste this morning she told me.”

“
You
called
Celeste
?” Monica couldn't believe it.

“Yeah and? That's my sister.”

“Oh, you must really need somebody to talk to.”

“Whatever, and like I said, why is Sharief at your house instead of at home hittin' his wife off? He don't have nothing else to do but to be in your house talkin' about popcorn and shit? Is that niggah gay? I'ma tell Celeste she better watch him.”

“Oh Imani please, he is not gay. But I can't make him go someplace he doesn't want to be.”

“What, that sounds wack as hell.”

“What you mean that sounds wack? I didn't tell him to come here!” she said defensively.

“Maybe not, but you need to encourage him to go home. Believe me, Celeste is waiting for him.”

“I bet she is. Look, Imani, I have to go.” Monica hung up and rubbed her aching stomach.

C
ELESTE SAT AT the dining room table and watched the trees blow outside the picture window. She was dressed in a black trench coat with a white fur-trimmed see-through negligee underneath. The negligee stopped midway on her thighs; underneath she wore a pair of white crotchless panties. She sucked on the tip of her cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.

She was beginning to sweat with the coat on. The ensemble was actually a surprise for Sharief. Something he'd been begging her to do for years. He'd told her that one of his fantasies (besides simultaneously fucking two women, which he'd fulfilled in high school) was to see her come to the door with a black trench coat on pulled tight around her waist with a see-through negligee underneath. He swore to her that she would feel beautiful, but she knew that was another one of his lies. Because instead of feeling beautiful at this moment, she felt stupid sitting in the house in ninety-degree weather wearing an oversized trench coat and a too-small negligee that squeezed her E-cup titties and made her thighs look as if cottage cheese had taken control.

She tooted up her lips as the saxophonist, whom she'd hired for a serenade, looked at her like she was ridiculous.

“Don't worry.” She lit a cigarette. “I won't burn this ma'fucker up, at least not with you in it.”

The saxophonist blinked. “Miss. I'm just wondering if he's coming.”

“What the fuck do you think?” Celeste snapped, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Why are you asking anyway, you want some pussy? Here, take your money.” She placed her cigarette in the ashtray and reached for her checkbook. She wrote him out a check for two hundred dollars and handed it to him. “Now get the fuck out!”

After the saxophonist left, Celeste paced from one end of her living room to the next, nervously shaking and peeking out the window like a paranoid crack addict.
I could kill him. I asked him this morning to please come home. “Sharief,” I said, “I have something special for you—for us—please come home as soon as possible. The kids will be at my mother's.”

“Okay, Celeste,” he nodded and said. “I have to get my stitches taken out, after that I need to run to the station and then I'll be back.”

Celeste stopped pacing and walked back in her dining room. She looked at her table. The bowl of whipped cream now looked like sour milk, all of the frost had slid off the chilled bottle of wine and made a puddle underneath it, and the candles that once lit up the table were down to the last of their wicks.

“I'ma end this bullshit tonight! Tonight! I'ma find his ass. Fuck staying in the house crying, heart aching, pussy dry, titties need to be sucked. Fuck it! This time I'ma confront him in the bitch's face!”

Celeste slipped on her pink Old Navy flip-flops, wrapped her hair in a scarf, grabbed the keys to her Cherokee, and stormed out the door. She was determined not to cry; besides, she had no tears left. She didn't exactly know where she was going; all she knew was that whatever it was, whoever it was, that kept Sharief away
from her was in Brooklyn. And if she had to search from one end of the borough to the next she was determined to find his ass and make him pay for all of her lonely days, horny nights, and never-ending heartache.

I'm here sucking my own goddamn titties
, she thought,
and I'm married to a man with a big and functioning dick. Oh hell no. I've been in love with this man since I laid eyes on him. I was the one who cultivated him into being the marrying type. Now somebody else will reap the benefits? I cooked his food, washed his shitty-ass drawls. Stood by him when he fucked up and needed help. It was me and not this ragamuffin that he wants to run all over town with. I had his babies. I smelled his farts and heard him strain when he had to shit. Me. Celeste. I've seen slob slide out of his mouth when he was sleep and turn into crust before he wakes up. I've seen his pants up his ass, holes in his T-shirts, and I've seen him scratch his balls and then want some head. Me. Celeste. Not this two-bit tramp that he's galloping around Brooklyn with. Not her, but me!

An hour's drive suddenly felt like five minutes as Celeste flew up the turnpike. She lit a cigarette and let down all the windows in her Cherokee. The back of the paisley Jackie O scarf that she wore wrapped around her head and tied under her chin floated in the air. Once she hit the Brooklyn Bridge, her phone rang. She peeped the caller ID. It was Kayla.

“Kayla,” Celeste snapped, “what did I tell you about using that cell phone when you're in the house?”

“I know, but Daddy was on the Internet and Aunty Monica has dial-up.”

Celeste slammed on the brakes, causing the cars behind her to scurry, screech, and suddenly halt. As the passing cars started blowing their horns and flipping Celeste the bird, she picked up speed. “What did you say, Kayla?”

“I said”
—Kayla was probably rolling her eyes at the ceiling— “that Daddy's on the Internet and Aunty Monica only has dial-up. Did you hear me?”

Celeste couldn't believe it. “Monica?”

“Oh boy…,” Kayla whined. “Now you don't know who Monica is? She's your sister.” Kayla spoke slowly. “And your sister is with your husband… and your children, Kayla, Kai, and Kori. Do you hear everybody laughing in the background?” Kayla held the phone in the air then put it back to her ear. “That's us. Do you know who we are now?”

As Celeste tried to respond, visions of Monica and Sharief started to flood her mind. “I'm on my way!”

… … …

CELESTE STEPPED ONTO Monica's porch feeling numb. All her thoughts about Monica and Sharief fucking around raced into her mind like jolts of lightning. As much as she tried to shake it, she couldn't stop envisioning Monica and Sharief having sex. Celeste pressed on the bell as hard as she could and tapped her foot. She needed something to calm her nerves, so she pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag, still tapping her foot steadily as she pressed the bell once more.

“Celeste!” Imani called from the front seat of Tasha's car. “Celeste.”

Celeste looked back and saw Jamal walking onto Monica's porch. “Tell Monica that I'll pick Jamal up in the morning.”

“ 'Sup, Aunty?” Jamal grinned. Celeste didn't answer. Instead she resumed tapping her foot and ringing the bell again.

“Who is it?” Monica asked as she turned the locks. Once she opened the door, she and Celeste locked eyes and then they looked each other up and down. Instead of a sisterly look it was one that said,
This is what he wants?

“What are you doing here?” Monica asked, wondering what the hell Celeste had on. Monica was so busy staring, she didn't realize Jamal was standing there. The wind blew Celeste's trench coach open and revealed her white negligee.

Celeste peered at Monica, who was dressed in a short baby-blue nightgown and leaned against the door with one leg stretched forward to reveal a tattoo of a butterfly. It was the same tattoo that Sharief had begged Celeste to get and located in the exact spot where he wanted it.

Instantly everything went black for Celeste. When she came back to her senses, she'd slapped Monica through the front door of her house. “What the fuck! You fucking my husband? You fucking my husband!”