by Vera Roberts
“TMI, bitch, TMI.” I shake my head. Hayley keeps it a little too real sometimes. I love her for it, though. “Cam wants to meet Daddy.”
“Oh.” There’s a small frown on her face. Hayley knows how my father is. He wouldn’t care that Cameron is white, but he might care who Cameron is related to. “You think your dad will be okay with Cameron?”
“I don’t know.” After the conversation we just had about Cameron’s and Que’s potentially illegal dealings, I know for a fact my father would want nothing to do with Cameron no matter who he is related to. “I think it’ll be okay.”
“So, Ms. Thang…” Hayley turns to me. “Are you in love with Cameron? Is it serious?”
“It’s serious but I don’t know how serious.” Once the uncomfortable conversation from the dinner dissipated, it was like that particular moment never happened at all. “It’s only been a few weeks. We’re still in that new stage.”
“The new love is fun. The when is he going to call? And the I hope I can see him this weekend!” Hayley sighs. “And you wake up next to funky breath and you have to wash his equally funky draws, and then you think, ‘Thank God you have a big dick.’”
“Okay, you and Que are clearly comfortable with each other.” I take a bite of the prosciutto and mozzarella. I push the worry aside and focus on the semester ending and looking for an internship before I graduate.
I’ll worry about my father’s reaction to Cameron later.
Thirteen
My father wants to kill Cameron; he just haven’t figured out how.
As we’re driving to Cameron’s parents’ estate, Daddy is being awfully quiet. He’s normally talkative and can’t shut up about something – be it his business, a woman, or some sports. Now he’s barely saying a word.
Rick James is serenading us about the ghetto life and here is my Daddy, in the blackest car he could possibly drive as we head into Buckhead. He has a small selection of cars – the Toyota Matrix for business, a Mercedes to impress the ladies, and a low-rider to bring around family and friends.
Of course, Daddy chose the low-rider to go meet Cameron’s parents. The candy-apple paint along with the 20-inch rims is shined to perfection. He’s bumping “This is America” as loud as he can.
Other protest songs are also on the playlist – “Fight the Power”, “Whitey’s on the Moon”, “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised”, and the all-time favorite, “Fuck Tha Police.”
It seems my father wanted to go Super Black for this visit. I don’t think he’s trying to break us up, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the thought didn’t cross his mind.
The GPS takes us to a neighborhood where the streets are wide and the sidewalks are neatly paved. It’s clear we’re not in East Atlanta Village anymore. The vibe is different. Neighbors are outside chatting with each other, holding their respective expensive full-breed dogs and just as expensive full-breed children.
Nothing mixed, just the way they want it.
The homes are two and three-story tall with manicured lawns and blindly white picket fences. Some of the homes are a special type of wealthy with the street numbers spelled out instead of numerals.
Seventeen Ninety.
Rose bushes adorn many pathways, as with other plants I can’t figure out as we drive past. There are Adirondack chairs on the grass and wide, open porches. I can already visualize the apple pie baking and fresh lemonade being made somewhere.
The men are talking with arms folded and a humorous smile across their lips. Their wives are dressed in their J. Crew, Gap, and Nordstrom finest while their pulled-back and Botox faces try to smile and laugh. Dishwater and peroxided blonde hair means they all look like each other and try to one-up each other in the same weird fashion. They don’t have a care in the world.
They briefly look over at Daddy driving his car and point, but none of them are familiar with him inside the car. That was Daddy’s intention. He probably knows those people when they visit his coffee shops; he doesn’t need to associate with them outside of that.
My Daddy isn’t prejudiced by any means, but he’s been around enough white people to know how they operate. The slick smiles followed by even slicker comments when you’re not in earshot. The polite racist digs that seem harmless on the surface until you realize the true intention when you’re not around them.
When Daddy wanted to open his coffee shop, several banks told him it wasn’t a viable business idea and they denied him. Of course, we all know what the real reason was and Daddy knew too. He saved, cut many costs, and worked his butt off to get the capital needed for his shops. He even borrowed money from my grandparents to open it.
Those same white people who denied him are the same ones who always come in and ask for the Obama special, talking about how they wish he ran a third term. They’re also the same ones who somehow discover Black Lives Matter despite the numerous nannies and butlers they hire of a melanated hue.
So, when Daddy has reservations, I don’t blame him.
We pull up to the gate and Daddy turns down the music to press the button. He speaks to someone on the other end and the gate opens a short time later. We travel a long, winding road that seems to be more a bridge than a driveway to the home.
The home is exactly how one would picture if it were a museum. It’s a mansion with at least three floors and a plantation feel to it. It looks presidential and furthermore, rich. We parked along the cul-de-sac with the other expensive vehicles – a station wagon Mercedes, a Cadillac Escalade.
And around the corner, Cameron’s BMW.
I felt sick and calm at the same time. I wanted to bolt while my father popped in a breath mint, brushed over his fade one last time, and then stepped out of the car. My father had been around enough rich people to know a lot of their wealth was smoke and mirrors.
The rich were too busy trying to one-up each other on who got what. If someone bought a Chanel, you know her frenemy had to get at least two. If someone got a Mercedes, someone had to get a model that was better.
Of course, the true wealthy didn’t have to boast on what they owned. They were the ones that owned the corporations and banks. While own petty stuff when they own the world?
“We can always go home, Daddy.” I tell him as I meet him by the steps. “We don’t have to do this.”
My father is quiet for a long moment before he speaks. I wasn’t sure if he heard me until he said something. “You need to get used to being the only one in the room. It may not just be tonight, but also in the future. You’ll be the only employee. The only business owner. The only mother at the practice. The only one at the recitals. The only one in the fancy grocery stores. The only one at the dealership as you buy a newer car. The only one at the bank as you make those huge deposits and they wanna know exactly what it is you do for a living.” My Daddy finally turns to me. “You need to get used to being the only Black face in the room because trust, they’ll quickly know you’re the only one and they’ll use it to their advantage.”
My Daddy speaks from experience and time. He knows how everyone operates behind closed doors and to your face. Sometimes, you’re treated the same. Sometimes, it’s completely different. The worst is when it’s friends and family.
“What do you want me to do?” I cautiously ask.
“My Daddy shakes his head. “Nothing,” he then turns to me, “just be alert.”
“Lamont,” Cameron’s father, Eric, comes out and greets my father with a firm handshake and bright smile. Eric is a tall man and has the stature of a former athlete. He walks in long strides and has the trademark used car salesman smile plastered on his face.
His career in politics started by accident. While Eric was in college, he interned at a local law firm. He did typical abusing-the-help errands such as coffee runs, mail sorting, and occasionally sitting in on meetings if he was a good boy.
One night, Eric forgot his jump drive so he went back to retrieve it at the office. As he walked into the firm, he saw the head boss fuck
ing the co-partner’s wife on his partner’s desk.
Instead of Eric being horrified at what he saw, he decided to pull out his videocamera to record and used it as leverage to get paid benefits and a sweet parking space. Years later when the firm’s owner ran for office, the video resurfaced on the web, and he quickly dropped out.
While the public were shocked about the video, Eric knew he was the culprit behind it. He gave a copy of the video to his friend who worked for the local TV station, who in turn, gave it to a friend who worked for a cable news company.
Eric began his political career being a snake and doing everyone’s dirty bidding. If a candidate wanted some dirt on their opponent, they went to Eric. He hung out in strip clubs, ghettos, trailer parks, community centers, to find out everything he could.
At the time, Eric was only 25.
He became a lobbyist, talking with various people in Congress about laws he really didn’t care about but would somehow benefit him and his friends. He was known to be a conniving asshole back then, but he was charming enough where he was well-liked at the same time.
He met Cameron’s mother, Heather, during a dinner over at another senator’s home. She was the nanny and not-so struggling college student. They hit it off that night and an innocent to the public courtship began.
I say innocent to the public because Eric and Heather were everything but. Coke parties, threesomes, drunken stupors while presenting an innocent and conservative front to the public. They married in a lavish ceremony paid by both families and attended by 500 people.
Keeping in line with the public image, the children followed in quick succession. Robert, the oldest, followed by Cameron, and then their sister, Jamie. There have always been question marks if Jamie was Eric’s daughter, but he never treated her any different.
All of this was relayed to me by Cameron himself, speaking with a combination of amusement and disgust as he told the story.
As I watch my father being cordial and Eric getting the best grip on my father’s dick (figuratively speaking) to stroke it, Cameron wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in for a kiss. “Nervous?” He whispers in my ear.
“Very.” I whisper back. “I’ll be on my p’s and q’s tonight.”
“You don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not, Tay.” He pulls back and caresses my cheek. “I want you to be you – all fine, sexy, and good.”
My cheeks are on fire and my eyes widened. We’re still within earshot of our fathers. “Stop it,” I say through gritted teeth.
Cameron kisses me like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Never.”
Fourteen
The inside of the Page home is just as impressive as the outside. The old money feel is evident with every step and I don’t doubt I’m in a multi-million dollar home. High-vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a small staff catering to the Pages every whim.
Every room has a diffuser with a small set of essential oils. Every room also has its own scent. The bathrooms smell like sweet orange, lavender, and peppermint. The living room smells like cinnamon, and nutmeg. The bedrooms smell like ylang-ylang.
The library is very much just that. Books upon books stacked in various bookcases. I don’t know if those books are for show or if any of the Pages have read those books. I gather it might be a little of both.
The luxury is showcased throughout every room. One wall has family photos in custom frames that clearly didn’t come from Wal-Mart. Another room is in Asian-inspired décor, with low tables and sofas. Every room has a different theme and I don’t feel like I’m in the same home at any given time. I feel that was the intention.
The estate is so large, there’s a backyard pond and four-car garage. They also have a tennis court because what’s a rich White family without a tennis court or golf course on their property?
The house is pristine, and that’s what really stands out about it. It’s like a museum where you can’t touch anything or you’re afraid you’re going to turn around too fast and knock something expensive over.
As Cameron leads me throughout the home, he speaks of his parents with pride like a proud son. He talks about his mother’s gardening and how she has the freshest spaghetti sauce. He reminisces with laughter about how his father took him swimming and shelled out a lot of money for expensive lessons when he didn’t learn how to kick.
He speaks fondly of his siblings, and there is no underlying anger or stifled emotions. A family truly loves each other despite everything. I’m jealous because I never had that from my mother. I’m resentful that Cameron probably doesn’t realize how great he truly has it.
“So, what do you think?” He asks as we finally stop by one of the bedrooms and it has a 1001 Arabian Nights feel with bold colors and a dark setting. I have to give Heather credit – she definitely has an eye for decorating.
“It’s…” My eyes glance around what is the sixth bedroom in this home. None of the children live there anymore and I honestly don’t see the reason to have all of that space, but rich people problems. “…it’s a lot.”
Cameron nods as if he’s used to the comment. “That’s my parents. They never go small, always big.”
“I see where you get it from,” I look over at him, “is your home this nice?”
“Well, definitely not this big and extravagant. But it’s pretty nice, I think so.” His eyes twinkle for a split moment. “Would you like to see it?”
“I would love to but I came with my father so I have to leave with him.” The thought is disappointing but I wasn’t trying to be in a situation explaining to my father I was going to spend the night with my new boyfriend instead of going back home with him. That would not go over well at all.
“I’ll pick you up later.” He winks at me before he walks over to the window and stares out. “I like your father a lot. He’s a good man.”
I meet Cameron at the window and look down. Our fathers are having beers and conversing about whatever. My father seems to be in a good mood as Eric wildly gesticulates about something. I can’t tell if my father truly likes Eric or if he’s just humoring him because he’s a guest at his home. Maybe both.
“He’s a great man,” I politely correct Cameron as I study the interaction. “He seems to be having a good time.”
“Your father doesn’t fake genuine happiness. Either he feels someone or he doesn’t care.” Cameron continues to study the men. “He’s doing you a favor by being here.”
“A big one.” I mention and Cameron turns to me with a smile.
“He really loves you.” He says as if it’s an assessment, and not just a random thing. “He wouldn’t have bothered to come here if he didn’t.”
There’s a reason Cameron is telling me this, though it’s unclear what exactly. “You’re the first boyfriend I’ve brought home. The first one he knows about. So, it’s a big deal that he’s here.”
Cameron studies my words just like he did with our fathers. “We haven’t been together that long.”
“It doesn’t matter if we’ve been together for years. Daddy wants to know who I’m with and where I’d be at night.” I reply. “He doesn’t trust a lot of people.”
Cameron glances out the window again, facing our fathers. “And if something happens to you, he would know who to blame.” He says it before I could think it.
“I’m sure your parents are the same way.” I counter at the risk of sounding like a bitch. “They would want to know who is responsible.”
Cameron’s shoulders do a slight shrug. “They would have to care first.”
Smoke and mirrors. The appearance of a happy family but hidden and deep secrets abound. It occurred to me Cameron may love his family, but it’s not clear if he actually likes them. He’ll never go against them in public no matter the reason.
It explains his friends and even our relationship in comparison to his father’s policies. There is a clear disconnect somewhere.
“Oh, there you two are!” Heather comes
in and joins us. She’s dressed straight out of a J. Crew lookbook, with a silk scarf wrapped around her neck. Her slacks are perfectly creased and she’s wearing a cashmere sweater. Pearl earrings are in her ears with a matching necklace. Kitten heels complete her look.
She has silver-blue eyes and always wears just enough makeup to considered natural, when she knows it’s not. Her lithe frame is due to genetics and Pilates, with some plastic surgery. She might consider her look casual but it’s clear she’s wearing her wealth.
She wants everyone to know who she is, what she is worth, and the power she has with just a simple phone call no matter what situation she is in.
“I was just showing Taylor the home, giving her a tour.” Cameron turns and faces his mother with a smile. “We were about to head to the kitchen.”
“I’m glad you gave her a tour!” Heather smiles and pinches her son’s stomach before she turns to me. “I hope you enjoyed the tour, especially the African room.”
I was waiting for the racist comment and Heather didn’t disappoint. “The “African” room was from their safari a few years back. Cameron claimed the artifacts were given to the family for their hospitality but I’m not entirely sure I believe that. “It was lovely.” I smile.
“Good, good!” Heather smiles at me. “Tonight for dinner, we’re going to have roast beef, fried okra, skillet cornbread, and my famous green bean casserole! I also have peach cobbler with vanilla bean ice cream for dessert! I hope you enjoy!” She walks out of the room with an extra pep as if she’s happy she accomplished something.
Cameron waits until his mother is out of earshot. “The original menu had fried chicken on it and I had to convince her why that wasn’t a good idea. She argued everyone loves fried chicken, but I told her serving fried chicken to our Black guests just wasn’t smart.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “Baby steps.”
~~~~~~
Dinner was uneventful. We all sat around the expensive oak table and conversed on everything that wasn’t about race relations, injustice, or politics. It seemed like everyone – my father included – didn’t want the first meeting to go sour.
