The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (6 page)

I rose to my feet, glass in hand, and demanded they all join me in a toast. “Repeat after me,” I said, “HERE'S to US…” They echoed it back to me, in tones more dutiful than enthusiastic, until they heard and roared the ending—of what was to become our battle cry—“and FUCK EVERYBODY ELSE!”

Y
ou're up four pounds, Mrs. Mitchell,” I said to the portly woman with a poodle cut who stood before me in an overtaxed satin slip. I'd guessed the news was going to be bad when she removed almost everything, including her bobby pins, before her weigh-in, hoping she'd somehow cheat the scale.

“I don't know why,” she said, all red-faced and flustered. “I followed the diet to the letter.”

Boy hidee, if I had a nickel for every time one of my clients said that, I could have bought my own weight-loss center.

One or two pounds up didn't necessarily indicate a cheater. Water retention could account for small fluctuations in weight, but
four pounds
? Mrs. Mitchell had definitely been face-first in the feedbag—frequently.

I consulted my clipboard. “So, you didn't have cookies, cakes, chocolates, or doughnuts?”

Her cheek twitched a little at the mention of “doughnut,” and I knew I'd hit pay dirt.

“Now that I think about it, I recall I may have nibbled on a doughnut or two.”

Make that one or two
dozen
doughnuts,
I thought.

“But they weren't those heavy cake doughnuts. They were Krispy Kremes, and they were just light as air. I assumed they didn't count.”

Ha! The things dieting women thought they could get away with! Snacks eaten on the run didn't count, and neither did “tasting” food while cooking it. Cokes and alcohol surely didn't count. “I just tinkle it right out,” said one clueless client, who claimed ice cream didn't count either as long as it was nearly melted.

If women consistently deluded themselves about something as simple as the food they put in their mouths, what other gigantic lies were they telling themselves?

“Mrs. Mitchell, this diet is so scientific and delicately balanced that the slightest deviation can throw it clean off track.”

“I'll try to be more careful,” she said, slipping back into her blouse. “But it's hard to imagine that a couple of slices of cake would—”

“Cake?” I said with a raised eyebrow.

“It was
carrot
cake, which I assumed was perfectly acceptable since you people are always foisting vegetables upon me.”

“After you get dressed, go in and see the nutritionist. She'll tweak your food list, and remind you of which ones aren't allowed.”

People are always attracted to forbidden fruit,
I thought as I closed the door to the weighing room.

“Speak of the devil,” I said softly as I saw Tammy in the reception area, wearing her white nurse's aide uniform with her purse tucked under her arm.

“I was just coming to see if you were ready to have a little lunch,” she said. “Wanta go to Miz Coleman's?”

Tammy never made it to Nashville after graduation. For the last several years, she'd worked in a gynecologist's office a couple of blocks away from the Quick Weight-Loss Center. She'd only intended to work there the summer after graduation, and take off for Music City in the fall. But then a teeny-tiny complication came up.

“It's going to happen,” Tammy said breathlessly as the two of us left my office and trudged to Mrs. Coleman's Dream Kitchen, which was three blocks away. “He's going to leave his wife!”

The “he” Tammy was referring to was Dr. Deke Day, tanned, blond, and preppy—a poster boy for country-club living and therefore powerful juju to Tammy.

“Is the special today pork chops or country-fried steak?” I said. We'd only been outside for a minute, and I already felt a trickle of sweat at the back of my neck.

“I could see it in his eyes,” Tammy said, taking fast steps with her size-five feet to keep up with me. “This time he really means it.”

I stopped short and straightened my body to its full six feet one inch. Maybe she'd listen for a change.

“You mean as opposed to the fifty zillion times before?”

“He's at a medical conference for a few days, but he said as soon he gets back he wants to talk about the
future
.”

“That doesn't mean a damn thing,” I snapped. “Maybe he just wants to talk to you about giving him more blow jobs in ‘the future.'”

She blushed, and tucked her hands into the pocket of her smock. “I don't care what you say. This isn't about sex.”

“Bullshit, hunny! It is ALL ABOUT sex,” I said in a low voice. We'd reached the entrance to the Dream Kitchen, which was a small gray building with loose roof shingles and peeling paint. The rule in the South generally is, the more pitiful the restaurant on the outside, the better the food was apt to be on the inside. That certainly was the case with Miz Coleman's.

We curtailed our conversation while we joined the cafeteria line. Two rather large women named Mamie and Caroline served up the food, and they didn't stand for the least bit of dilly-dallying. If you didn't say your order fast enough to please them, they'd likely scream, call you names, or short you on portion size. No one ever questioned their reign of terror—their food was just too damn good.

When I reached the head of the line, I hopped to attention and rattled off my order: “Country-fried-steak-fried-green-'maters-collards-corn-bread-sweet-tea-to-drink.”

“You want lemon in your tea, sugar pie?” said Mamie in a saccharine voice as Caroline ladled up the food on my tray. If you followed orders and didn't bottleneck their line, Mamie and Caroline were gentle as lambs.

Tammy and I walked with our trays in hand, looking for an empty seat. We found a place beside the window and, as soon as I sat, Tammy proceeded to douse her food with pepper sauce without even tasting it first.

“By the time the others get to town, I'll probably be announcing my engagement,” Tammy said.

The Queens were due in three days. I hadn't seen any of them (except Tammy) since the summer following graduation, although we talked on the phone and exchanged letters.

“Suppose hell freezes over, and Dr. Dick actually does leave his wife. What then?”

“We'll be together for always, instead of sneaking around,” Tammy said, her eyes dancing like candle flames. “And I'll be the wife of a doctor! And please don't call him that.”

I laid my fork down. “That's what it's all about, isn't it? It's not Deke you're interested in. It's that he's a
doctor.
Hang a stethoscope around a guy's neck and you're ready to drag his ass down the aisle. How can you give up your dream of being a country-western singer for a married man?”

Tammy shook ketchup on her home fries. “Honestly, Jill, I wish you'd stop nagging me about that whole Nashville thing. Do you know the odds of me succeeding? Talk about wanting the impossible.”

“Yet you think it's more probable that your horny little doctor will leave his wife. Don't you read ‘Dear Abby'? They NEVER leave their wives!”

“Keep your voice down,” she said, looking about nervously. “And he
is
leaving her, I tell you. And, for your information, I'm very much in love with Deke. Yes, I like the fact that he's a doctor. And it's true I crave the security of a Professional man—with money. You would too if you grew up living hand to mouth the way I did.”

“Even if he does leave her, it won't be the fairy-tale life you've been dreaming of,” I said in a fierce whisper. “Everyone will treat you like a home-wrecker. Men will flirt with you in inappropriate ways, assuming you're a loose woman. Women will treat you like trash, because you've broken up a family. Meanwhile, the entire time you're married to your darling Dr. Day, you'll have to be on guard, because once a cheater, always a cheater, and pretty soon, you'll be the one finding lipstick on his collar.”

Tammy violently shook her head. “The only reason Deke cheats on Linda is because she's completely frigid, and she doesn't understand him like I do.”

“Gawd, Tammy. I can't believe you're swallowing the absolute oldest line in the whole book of ‘Lyin', Cheatin' Sacks-of-Shit.'”

Thank heavens I'd met myself a steady-Eddie fellow. I took a quick glance down at my diamond engagement ring. It was dinky as all get-out, but my fiancé, Sonny, promised he'd get a bigger one down the road.

Tammy must have noticed me looking at my ring because she said, “Just think. We
both
might be brides this year.”

“You wanna LOOK at food or you wanna EAT some, mister? Get outta my line 'til you decide what you want!” came a booming voice from the serving line. Mamie's metal spatula went sailing and made a noisy clatter when it hit the floor. The customers at the Dream Kitchen were so used to her outbursts, hardly anyone looked up except, of course, the guy she was aiming at.

I shoveled collards into my mouth and glowered at Tammy. “You'll be marrying Dr. Day when the last wild monkey flies outta his ass.”

T
he appliances in the kitchen are all from Sears and Roebuck's,” the real estate agent said, sweeping her arm in front of a refrigerator as if it were a prize on
Let's Make a Deal
.

“Everything's so…green,” I said with a frown. Ever since Marcy Stevens had dubbed me the Jolly Green Giant, I hadn't been overly fond of the color.

“Avocado,” the real estate agent corrected me. “But if you don't like them, we have models with appliances that come in Harvest Gold.”

The real estate agent was named Neecie Harrison, and she exuded feminine perfection—shoes matching bag, brows plucked into a perfect arch, hair curled into a neat bob.

Could I be a real estate agent? I definitely liked poking around in other people's houses. I pictured myself wearing a navy blue jacket and tossing around phrases like “Isn't this an adorable alcove?”

Sonny was in the den, sticking his head up the fireplace. He wanted me to go to college to be a health teacher, but I wasn't too hot on the idea. It'd take four years, and I wasn't particularly keen on school. Well, the truth was, I was dying to go but ever since I nearly failed Algebra II, I'd been too afraid to try it.

I was about to ask Neecie how long it took to be a real estate agent when Sonny emerged from the den.

“Is this the Phoenix?” he said.

“No, this is the Flagstaff. The Phoenix has an extra half bath and a foyer,” Neecie said.

There were five models of houses in Oasis Flats, a brand-new subdivision in Jackson, and for some inexplicable reason, they were all named after cities in Arizona.

“That extra half bath might come in handy, but I like this floor plan better,” Sonny said. “What do you think, hon'?”

Whenever I looked at Sonny I had to remind myself that though he was merely “nice-looking” as opposed to “handsome,” there were several of his individual body parts that I adored. He had strong, square, decidedly masculine hands and perfectly honed forearms. His teeth were straight and white, he had well-shaped ears, and his calves were nicely sculpted even if he was bowlegged. He was also, truth be told, hung like Paw Paw's pony. Even so, while Sonny was well-intentioned enough, sexually speaking, it seemed as if he didn't even know about “the little man in the boat,” if you catch my drift.

I smiled at Sonny—thinking of his more pronounced attributes—and said, “Whatever you think is best.”

I was tired of looking at houses with small, claustrophobic rooms with low ceilings and not a lick of character. But, as Sonny had pointed out, they were reasonably priced, well built, and, most important, located in a good school district.

“Would y'all like to discuss it on your own for a bit?” Neecie said. “I have some paperwork I could do out in the car.”

“Yes, thanks,” Sonny said.

“Jill,” he said after she left. “There's something I want to show you in the master bedroom.” He took my arm and led me down the hall. We stood hand-in-hand on the powder-blue shag carpet, and he pointed to the blank wall. “Wouldn't that be the perfect place for an armoire?”

I frowned. Was it normal for a man to use the word “armoire”? Wouldn't it be more masculine to call it “one of those things that holds clothes”?

“Forget the armoire, Sonny. Why don't we try out the carpet,” I said, toying with his belt buckle. “See if we like it?”

He batted my hand away. “Jill, I want you to concentrate. This house is an enormous decision. We're going to be living here for a few years, and I want you to be happy.”

“Okay,” I said with a pout. It was just as well. The shag carpet would have given me some god-awful rug burns.

“I think this house is cute as a button, hunny,” I said, giving his arm a squeeze. If I could fake orgasm, I could certainly fake house-lust.

“Our home. Imagine the bed here,” he said, pointing at a spot near the window. “The TV across the room. You and me watching Johnny Carson every night, and then afterward…” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “You know what.”

“And the mirror goes here,” I said, pointing up at the ceiling.

“Jill,” he said, with the embarrassed smile of a guy who liked to dip his wick without having to discuss the urge with his future wife. She, apparently, should be more like Mary Poppins than Mae West.

“It all sounds perfect,” I said.

“I also think the living room is the ideal size for entertaining.”

“Who would we entertain?” I asked. We'd yet to make friends with other couples.

“People from the accounting firm. Clients.”

Sounded like the opposite of “entertaining” to me, but being a good little fiancée I held my tongue.

“You've haven't said anything about the most important room in the house,” he added.

“I just
said
it was perfect!” I said, gazing around the small, blue cube that was the master bedroom.

“I mean the kitchen!” he said, playfully poking me in the ribs.

It was more of a galley than a true kitchen, but as Sonny had pointed out many times, this was just our starter home. In the next few years, Sonny would be made partner at his firm, and we'd move to a bigger house. Sonny had our whole life plotted out on a legal pad: how many children we'd have (three), how we'd space them out (two years apart), and when he expected promotions. Before I met Sonny, my life had been like a pony on a carousel—measured ups and downs, all in the same little circle but amusing enough; now it was beginning to feel more like a mule, pulling a covered wagon doggedly across the prairie, with no trees in sight.

After a few minutes of discussion, we decided to make an offer. Sonny wrote Neecie a two-hundred-dollar check for earnest money.

We were going to celebrate by doing “you know what” at Sonny's apartment. As Sonny shed his jockey shorts and folded them into a neat square, I was reminded of the first time I'd ever had sex with him. We'd been dating for about four months and after one particularly sweaty and scintillating make-out session, he grabbed my hand—which was slipping down the waistband of his khakis—and said, “Jill. Let's stop for a minute. We need to talk.”

He sounded so serious I spat a piece of hair out of my mouth, tucked an errant titty back into my bra, and trained my eyes on him.

“I'd like to make love with you, but I want it to mean something. I want it to be a step toward strengthening our commitment.”

I'd never heard a guy actually say “we need to talk” before. That and “commitment” coming out of a guy's mouth within sixty seconds of each other sent my mind reeling.

“Do you understand what I'm trying to say?”

There was a smooth click in my mind, like a key turning the tumblers of a lock.
This is a relationship.
This is what braces, hair curlers, Mark Eden breast exercises, and reading Harlequin romances had been leading up to.

Of course, once I knew what I was dealing with, I stepped right on up to that plate.

“Yes, Sonny,” I said. “I think I do.”

“Good,” he said, tenderly touching my cheek. “I would like you to spend the night with me tomorrow, and we'll consummate our devotion to each other.”

I flinched at the word “consummate” (it sounded like a kind of soup to me) but figured I just wasn't accustomed to a man using real words. This one had a whole six letters more than I was used to hearing from any guy.

I showed up at the appointed hour, and Sonny greeted me at the door, smelling like he'd performed a full-immersion baptism in cologne.

“Jill,” he said, awkwardly pecking my cheek. “You look wonderful!”

He led me into the apartment. Henry Mancini was playing on the stereo, and champagne cooled in an ice bucket on the coffee table. From the living room, I could see into the bedroom, and I saw that the covers were pulled back. The only thing missing was a glowing neon sign blinking
TONIGHT'S FEATURE
:
SEX
!

“Are you hungry?” he asked, his forehead shiny with perspiration. “I originally thought we should eat first, and then it occurred to me that we might to be too bloated afterward and—”

Don't say bloated!
I wanted to shriek. Bloated was not a sexy precoital word.

“We'll eat later,” I said quickly.

“Would you like a glass of champagne?” he said, shifting into debonair gear.

“Champagne would be just lovely.”

“Champagne it is,” he said.

He returned with two glasses and handed one to me. Peering over the top, he said, “I've been thinking about you all day long.”

We finished our champagne and he wordlessly led me into the bedroom.

It would be the first time I'd ever made love on a bed. My previous sexual encounters had taken place in the backs of cars, in a storeroom, and once hanging off the swim platform of a ski boat in the middle of a lake (which I discovered is a lot better in theory than in practice. Who woulda thunk there was such a thing as too much moisture?).

Foreplay ensued, sweet-little-nothings were exchanged, and disrobing went without a hitch. I'd purposely worn a dress with a zipper, so I'd slip out of it like a greased pig. (Stop it! Don't think about pigs, greased or otherwise.)

I remember feeling extremely relieved when it was over. Sonny held me in an awkward way, as if his embrace was motivated by something he'd heard—“women love to cuddle after sex”—rather than something he really wanted to do. And apparently the cuddling thing was about the only woman-pleasing kinda thing he'd heard about.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, extracting myself from his arms. I started to take the sheet with me—like I'd seen women do in the movies—not being at all interested in him having an unobstructed view of my ass this early in the deal. He didn't seem too keen on lying there splayed out nekkid either, so I just sort of backed out of the room while he pretended to be otherwise distracted while I performed this ridiculous maneuver.

“Did you climax?”

I was so young and self-conscious about my body that his question seemed overly intrusive, as if he had asked me, “Do you fart much?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“I'm glad,” he said, and the delight on his face was so apparent that fibbing seemed like the right thing to do.

 

Now I had no idea how to break the truth to him and here we were, buying an avocado tract house and about to get married.

“Just think. This is the first time we're doing it as property owners,” Sonny had said, just before he entered me. And a little mortgaged piece of earth moved that night—at least for Sonny.

Sometimes when we were making love I'd try to think sexy thoughts, hoping something climactic actually would happen for ME, but unfortunately nothing ever did. I tried so hard, one night I nearly called him “Elvis,” which clearly would have stirred things up but prolly not in a good way.

Still, I mostly enjoyed making love with Sonny—it was just sorta comfy. His body was firm, and he smelled like Lifebuoy soap. I liked being close to him and having our limbs tangled together. My favorite part was when Sonny reached orgasm. For a split second, I'd look at his face and think, that's the real Sonny, but then he'd melt away as quickly as he'd appeared.

Later, as Sonny was reading
Time
magazine in bed and I was filing my nails, I said, “I wonder how long it takes to be a real estate agent.”

“I don't know. Why?”

“I'm just weighing different options. I'm not sure if teaching is for me.”

“Real estate agents work nights and on Saturdays,” Sonny said, lowering his magazine an inch to glance at me. “That would be a problem with children. We really should stick with our original plan.” The magazine went back up, as if that was the end of the discussion.