by Donna Britt
Yes, riverboat. NABJ’s 1988 meeting was in St. Louis, Greg’s hometown and where he’d lived since our breakup.
After checking into the convention hotel, I dropped off Mani and Darrell at Greg’s parents’ suburban home and listened warily as my estranged husband suggested we try again. My satisfying work life notwithstanding, I was weary—of shouldering too much alone, of beating myself up for having separated my boys from the daddy who loved them. Greg said he had stopped using drugs, and something about his manner made me believe him. Our total incompatibility seemed less important than our children’s welfare. I said I would consider it.
Not so fast, a kind God interjected. Climbing onto the bus to the riverboat, Jeanne and I sat behind two guys, one of whom turned, spoke to Jeanne, and blinded me with his dimples. Kevin Merida was a Washington, D.C.–raised political reporter for the Dallas Morning News, whom Jeanne hoped to lure to the Post. As she chatted with Kevin’s seatmate, I put this new prospect through my first-meeting mental checklist. Attractive? Oh yes. Interested? Almost certainly. Holds up his end of a clever, preparty conversa—wait, what did he say? Damn that smile!
By the time we got to the boat, the night’s blessed trajectory seemed assured. Then Jeanne inexplicably morphed into Recruiter Girl, pulling Kevin away to discuss careers at the Post. That left the field open to a smarmy editor I’d been avoiding. It took twenty minutes to shake him; Kevin was nowhere to be seen.
Scanning the dance floor, I spied my quarry at the bar, sitting with the guy from the bus. It was now or never.
“Excuse me,” I said, tapping his shoulder. Both men turned. “When you’re done here,” I purred, staring deeply into Kevin’s eyes, “find me.”
Twirling, I slipped away. The men looked at each other. Kevin’s friend said, “Man, I would find her.”
He did—but too slowly for a single mom on a forty-eight-hour crazy-life furlough. Mr. Smarmy had reemerged, pulling me onto the dance floor. By the time Kevin caught my attention, my teasing mood had evaporated. Two precious hours of my dwindling freedom—and my first-ever cinema-worthy opening gambit—had been wasted. So when Kevin said, “I’ve been looking for you!” I sidestepped him as I would a squashed roach.
“Why did you want me to find you?” he asked.
“Because I felt like flirting and picked you to do it with,” I answered truthfully. Shrugging, I added, “But I’ve lost the urge.”
Grinning (those accursed dimples!), he said, “C’mon. You can get it back.”
Another shrug. “A woman can’t turn that kind of thing on and off.”
“So it’s my fault you were dancing with twenty other guys?”
And on it went, for weeks afterward. It didn’t take me long to decide that Kevin was as close to “the perfect black man”—a real-life prince—as any beau I’d had. Intelligence, integrity, and generosity beamed from him; he reminded me more of Darrell than anyone I’d dated. Kevin was a “real brother” whose blackness was vital to him but who was equally comfortable around whites, moving seamlessly between tough urban streets and the halls of Congress. What wasn’t to like?
Suddenly the boys were thriving, and I had a tailor-made job and an exciting, long-distance relationship with a guy whose position—covering the Michael Dukakis presidential campaign—required visits to Los Angeles for campaign events. Kevin cherished traits I valued in myself but that had sent other men fleeing—particularly the Kev-christened “Donna Britt dig-deeper program” of inquisitive probing. I still had financial problems as a single mom receiving a fraction (and during many months, not a penny) of assistance from my ex. Once a month, I felt the breathless discomfort of lining up my bills, staring at each, and calculating which to pay, which to put off, how much I could spare and still feed my kids. Yet life was grand.
There was just one snag: the all-consuming nature of covering a presidential campaign meant that in those pre–cell phone days, half a week might pass before I heard from Kevin. This was intolerable. He’d call, we’d have a great chat, I’d be floating… and days would pass before I heard his voice again. Kev patiently explained his “unbelievable” busyness; I less patiently countered, “Single motherhood’s no joke, either.” When a whole week passed without a call, I told Kevin sporadic talks didn’t suit me. “Call when the campaign is over,” I suggested. “That way I won’t be looking to hear from you.” He seemed miffed, but he’d get over it.
Something else nagged at me: I missed writing. Writing-writing, the kind I couldn’t do at USA Today: long, cunningly crafted sentences that wrestled with insights requiring more than ten words to relate. Washington Post “Metro” editor Milton Coleman had approached me about a position on “Metro,” but I had no desire to cover the kid-crushed-by-school-bus beat. So when I got a call from “Style” editor Mary Hadar about writing for the Post’s legendary features section, it felt like a summons from God.
God, it turned out, was a perpetually smiling brunette with dancing eyes who reminded me of the pre-devastation Judy Garland. Meeting at a journalism event in Nashville, Mary and I attended the Grand Ole Opry, where we laughed and clapped as I tried to make sense of her warmth. Was it a ruse? Just seven years had passed since the Post had endured journalism’s worst scandal: Reporter Janet Cooke’s fabricated article about an eight-year-old heroin addict. Cooke was black, my age, and an adept writer; I’d felt inordinately proud when she won the Pulitzer. Learning that she’d lied felt calamitous. Didn’t black journalists have enough problems? Did white editors understand that Cooke’s lies reflected only on her?
Cooke’s downfall sparked a slew of articles describing the Post as a tense workplace where reporters competed for stories in gladiatorial contests of ego and ambition. But I yearned to write for “Style,” and Mary seemed as genuine as she was smart. So I was thrilled when I was invited to the Post’s Fifteenth Street offices, where I was shepherded from one editor to the next before being led into the sanctum of Ben Bradlee, famed architect of the paper’s Watergate coverage. He and Len Downie, Ben’s deputy, engaged me in an obligatory question-and-answer session that to a dig-deeper girl felt distressingly… polite. I was talking to Ben Bradlee, the legend for whom the scandal that had broken my heart must have been a body blow. Would he subconsciously hold Cooke’s lies against me? The Cooke debacle might be the last thing Bradlee wanted to discuss, but when else would I get such a shot?
“What happened with Janet Cooke was incredibly painful for me,” I began. “Do you think that on some level it might affect how you look at other black journalists?”
Bradlee, who had seemed only semi-engaged, paused. Really looking at me for the first time, he spoke. The Cooke scandal was his life’s deepest disappointment, he said. He described his profound sense of betrayal and disbelief, how attractive and imposing Cooke had been—“She looked like that singer, Diane Ross”—and how tragically she’d snookered his beloved newspaper.
I knew his pain. Cooke’s behavior, I responded, had been nearly as wounding to black journalists. “We took incredible pride in her triumph,” I explained. “How could we not feel crushed by her shame?… Now we have to worry that every editor might judge us by her.” At last Bradlee and I were having a conversation, one as revealing—for a job interview, anyway—as I could have asked for.
Back at my hotel, I weighed whether to phone Kevin. The presidential contest had ended three weeks earlier; I was still awaiting his call. Clearly, I’d underestimated his anger over my inability to handle off-and-on communication. Now I was in D.C., with nothing to do besides ponder my uncertain future. Calling his mother’s home on the chance that he might be visiting, I heard Kevin answer. Sounding thrilled to hear from me, he invited me to dinner that night and a Redskins game the next day.
Days later, I got an offer to write for “Style.” The Janet Cooke exchange, I learned later, had sealed the deal. As excited as I was, part of me hesitated to accept. I loved Los Angeles. The town was about bullshit, but it was fun bullshit. Washington, D.
C., bullshit got nice boys shipped overseas to die in bogus wars. Los Angeles spoke to every shallow, self-involved cell in my being. Abandoning spandex-and-sweats Hollywood for trench-coated Washington felt like leaving a tropical bird sanctuary for a nest of wrens.
But the job I’d yearned for was in Washington. So was the man. Kevin hadn’t just swept into my life; he and the boys had adored each other instantly. He’d brought thrills, fun, and grown-up maleness of the best type into our home. I wanted more. A fear that had long haunted me evaporated. I’d found the ideal role model for my growing sons. Kevin savored the role, which surprised some who’d known him as a serial monogamist with a girl in every career “port” in which he’d settled. I wasn’t worried. Whatever Kevin thought was going on, I knew: He was it. My perfect man.
There were just two problems, neither of them obvious. The first: What wouldn’t a woman who’d given her all to clearly imperfect men give to one who deserved it?
The second: There is no perfect man, black or otherwise. Just perfect intentions.
I rented a cozy, tree-shrouded house in suburban Takoma Park, Maryland. During my final walk-through, its owner, Mark, pointed next door and said that his neighbors, Mary Jo and Tim, “have kids the same age as yours. You should get to know them.” I thought, Yeah, right. What if these white folks (how many black Mary Jos do you know?) were less welcoming than Mark assumed? Mani and Darrell had no such doubts, becoming instant buddies with towheaded Jacob, who like Darrell was four, and his baby brother, Jonathan. Warily watching my boys pal around with them, I took my time getting friendly with Mary Jo, a social worker, and Tim, who ran group homes for developmentally disabled adults.
Every white person, Darrell and the black-and-white footage of beaten civil rights workers reminded me, was potentially dangerous.
Of course with children, there was plenty besides racism to worry about. But not so much with Hamani. If Kevin seemed to be the perfect man, Mani gave every appearance of being the perfect boy. Charming, affectionate, and academically sound, he was so affable that I sometimes wondered if he’d sobbed away every ounce of irritability during his first months. This was a seven-year-old who patted my back when I was discouraged, happily reciprocated Mom’s constant hugs, won numerous school Citizen of the Month awards, and exclaimed, “You shouldn’t have!” when opening gifts, sounding as if he meant it. He was so open that at age eleven he blurted, “Mom, I can’t wait to kiss a girl!”
If Hamani had been my only child, I would have congratulated myself on my parenting genius, assuming that my wisdom—not blind luck—explained his awesomeness.
Darrell cured me of such notions. The opposite of colicky-turned-cheerful Mani, Darrell—who seemed bent from day one on rejecting his brother’s model-kid image—was a tranquil cherub who daily grew more challenging. Never as slippery or as incorrigible as Melech, Darrell was more likely to apologize after he lied, smart-mouthed you, or otherwise mashed your buttons. He was also resourceful. Once when I was out of town, a friend inadvertently dropped Darrell, six, at school before it opened. This tiny boy walked five blocks, crossed the area’s busiest commuter route during rush hour, knocked on Mary Jo’s door, and calmly told her he’d like a ride with her kids. She almost fainted. Darrell inherited his namesake’s convulsive sense of humor and gift for mimicry: he’d put on a wig, toss a coverlet over his shoulders, and become Mom-Mommy King. Driving us to distraction, he’d then make us laugh so hard, we’d forgive him. Until the next time.
My sons made life full, satisfying—and overwhelming. Lacking a spouse or housemate whose interest in our home’s smooth functioning matched mine, I developed the self-defeating habit of doing everything myself. Moms without partners—and that’s black women more than any other group—have no extra time. It’s faster to do stuff yourself than to spend a half hour teaching, correcting, and coaxing reluctant kids to iron or fold clothes. Blind to the problems I was creating for myself, I knew only that with working, cleaning, cooking, helping with homework, ferrying kids, meeting with teachers, managing finances, and shopping for necessities, I hardly had time to breathe. My friends didn’t get it. The single, childless ones hadn’t a clue how it felt, never having a second to yourself. Those with husbands had someone to step up when they ran out of juice.
For weeks after my move to Maryland, Kevin would arrive after work, plop on the couch, and read the paper—while I supervised homework, did chores, and cooked, often still in high heels. Noting the absurdity of my Donna-Reed-in-blackface routine, I started asking Kevin to help out. He did. But whenever my do-it-all nature kicked in, he went along with that, too.
Perhaps he felt he already had his hands full. He’d never courted a full-time mom, let alone taken on an entire family. Dating me meant being involved in three relationships, not one. The dynamic was tricky for me, too. Months after Kevin and I became physically intimate, I was reluctant to let him stay over. Several nights a week, Kevin left late, exhausted. Finally I sat Mani down to discuss it.
“You really like Kevin, don’t you?” I began. Mani nodded solemnly. “Well, Mommy likes him a lot too. How would you feel about him, um, spending the night?” Mani’s eyes became huge.
“Could he?” he blurted. Off he rushed, yelling to Darrell one of childhood’s magic words: “Sleepover!”
If only everything were so easy. As the months passed, Kevin drew ever closer to the boys and me. Yet three years after we’d met, I realized that he’d said nothing about making things permanent. Had I been wrong in my instant certainty about him? Kevin was in his midthirties; maybe he was one of those guys who’d never pull the trigger on marriage—or on taking on a ready-made family. Or was it that he loved my kids but was unsure about me? Discussing my concerns, Kev and I weighed whether we should date others or take a brief hiatus.
About this time, Kevin was assigned to an out-of-town story, leaving me dateless for a major political banquet. I was considering staying home when a fellow journalist—a thoughtful, attractive brother I didn’t know well—offered me a lift. Unwilling to pass up the chance to trade my customary harried-mom sweats for a formal gown, I accepted. The day of the banquet, I dutifully bought a ticket at a school raffle—and won a $600 pearl necklace. My first thought: “It’ll be perfect with my strapless dress!”
The night, too, held surprises—especially my increasing interest in my escort. It had been three years since I’d been drawn to a man other than Kevin, yet there was no denying our attraction. My date, too, was in a relationship that seemed stuck. Feeling I shouldn’t, I invited him in when he dropped me at home. Feeling I really shouldn’t, I let him kiss me—and kissed him back. I’d experienced this instantaneous connection only a few times—the last being when I met the man whose inability to commit was more bothersome every day. What was happening seemed as fated as winning the necklace. Was I supposed to be with this guy?
Bidding this perplexing new love interest good night, I went to bed. The following day, my new flame phoned. When I explained my plan to tell Kevin everything, he paused. “Maybe you should wait,” he said. “See where things lead.” His girlfriend would be visiting soon, he said. “Maybe the four of us could go out.”
Go out? So he and I could play footsie under the table while Kev and his girl exchanged pleasantries? The truth was glaring: I didn’t know this man, and my irritation with Kevin made me place more importance on our attraction than it deserved. I wanted a commitment from Kevin, something more concrete than the attachment he showed each time he helped with homework, took the boys to ball games, bought dinner, and invited us to his mom’s for holidays. My head was still spinning when I picked up Kevin from the airport. We headed to a party we’d planned to attend.
Guess who was standing on the stoop when we arrived? Wrapping me in a friendly hug, my new fling grabbed Kevin’s palm for a “brother” handshake. This was too much. The party passed in a guilt-drenched whirl. The next day, Kevin and I were heading home after buying groceries when I told him everything.
Face impassive, Kev slowed the car, his foot growing so heavy on the brake that he stopped in the middle of the street. Catching himself, he pulled into my driveway. We talked for a long time.
Incensed by my date’s actions—especially the ten-minute “Hey, bro, what’s up?” party chat—Kevin insisted he wasn’t angry with me. The incident, he admitted, had brought a welcome new clarity to his feelings. He did have concerns about commitment; my flirtation showed what ignoring them could mean. I, too, was grateful for the slap-in-the-face reminder of the sexy-but-untrustworthy guys I’d had enough of. And of what I already had. Just like that, it was clear: We were both in this relationship for keeps.
Ghosts
Left to right: Steve, Mom-Mommy, Donna, and Darrell at the Gary train station, 1959.
Awed, I cradled her in my hand—not, as I had envisioned, in my arms. My daughter. The length of my little finger, she was rosy beige, like sand at sunrise. She had emerged lifeless from me after hours of cramping escalated into a labor that couldn’t be. Yet she was perfect: Round black eyes. Blips for hands and feet. The bumpy curve of a spine curled in forever sleep. Four months after her conception, she had arrived, a “she,” I knew, because I’d done the math: Mom-Mommy was twenty when she’d had her only daughter; my own mother was thirty. At forty, I held mine in my palm, the baby I’d longed to conceive so that my new husband could raise a child of his own blood. My heart had expanded when he’d told me he was hoping for a girl because “we already have two sons.” Our daughter. Come and gone.
On the September Saturday before my outdoor wedding to Kevin, rain exploded from heaven like tears from a tantrum-throwing child. Rehearsing between cloudbursts at the riverfront mansion where we’d scheduled our outdoor nuptials, bridal party members walked their paces in soaked-through shoes. With more torrents forecast for Sunday, we anticipated moving the nuptials inside the manse’s peach-colored drawing room.
