Dream Girl Awakened

by Stacy Campbell

  She leaned back, queued Glenn Jones in the CD player, and pondered her circumstances. She thought of Jeremiah and how much better off he’d be with Winston as his father. Vacations. A bigger house. Private school. Legitimate playdates and outings with Mocha Moms and the women she’d charmed in Victoria’s neighborhood. As Glenn Jones gave Toni Braxton a run for her money belting out “Another Sad Love Song,” she superimposed herself in Victoria’s role. Aruba whipped out a note pad, scribbling out house rules for her new life: Greet Winston with a hug and a kiss each morning. Treat Alva, our nanny, with the utmost respect. Give Winston head and sex whenever he wants it, not just for procreation. Be frugal with our finances, so we can retire and travel. She continued scribbling, this time pronouncing her new name. Mrs. Winston Faulk. Mrs. Aruba Faulk. Aruba Aneece Faulk. She rolled the titles off her tongue respectively, settling on the first name. Mrs. Winston Faulk sounded sexier, glamorous. A hell of a lot better than Aruba Dixon.

  “Mrs. James Dixon.” She shuddered at the pronunciation of her married name, her pathetic reality. Not that she always felt that way. She still glowed at the memory of meeting James ten years ago. She’d just slit open a box of Cuisinart toasters in JCPenney’s housewares department. She gazed at the towering display rack lacking Foreman Grills, quesadilla makers, and pizza stones. She dragged a stepladder from the corner, climbing up to make room for the just-arrived stock. As she descended the ladder, a rich, baritone voice below called out, “Excuse me, are you Kenya Moore?”

  Aruba sighed at the tired line she received from men and women. It was true. She could be Kenya’s twin. Same banging body. Same hazel-green eyes. Same smile that made men whip out their wallets and spend cash or swipe credit cards after Aruba convinced them their wife, girlfriend, significant other, or boyfriend just had to have the latest gadget in their kitchen. The same smile either stopped women in their tracks while spitting out the refrain bitch, or made them sidle next to her, and say, “My son in the military will be home on leave next week. Can I bring him in to meet you?”

  Aruba steeled herself to face what she knew was an older gentleman. She formed the image in her mind: Dark. Short and stocky. Horn-rimmed glasses. Balding head. Hoodwinked, she turned to find a totally opposite vision: A dreadlocked god who stood at least six feet seven inches tall. He beckoned her to descend the ladder. He was a little too light for her taste, but handsome just the same. As she climbed down, she eyed the blue Nike warm-up suit that hinted of days spent at Gold’s Gym. The white muscle shirt he wore accented six-pack abs. She got lost in those perfect white teeth, those blue-green eyes that danced. Our kids would have gorgeous eyes.

  “What would a former Miss USA be doing in Penney’s?” she asked, unable to mask her attraction to him.

  “I was serious. You look—”

  “Just like Kenya Moore. I get that often.”

  Not one to allow lapses in conversations, James continued, “I’d love to get my hands in your hair sometimes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Everyone wants a stalker, right?” James smiled and handed Aruba a business card. “I’m a barber and stylist and I’m looking for new clients.”

  She eyed the card. “Wow, do you go around hitting on every woman in South Dekalb Mall?”

  “Only the beautiful ones.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Aruba turned to walk away as James grabbed her arm.

  “Just kidding. Let’s try this again. Hi, I’m James Dixon. And you are?”

  She hesitated as he extended his hand. Something about his spirit made her smile. “Aruba Stanton.”

  “Really, I’m here because my moms sent me to get,” he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, “a Black and Decker Steamer. Ever since Mom’s sugar was diagnosed, she’s been steaming food, watching her weight and whatnot.”

  “Good for her. Several of my family members have diabetes and it’s no joke.”

  Aruba moved the ladder aside and directed James toward the steamers. They chatted, exchanged pleasantries, life tidbits. James shared that he was from Atlanta, grew up in the Bankhead area, and had a younger brother, Marvin; an older sister, Teresa; and dreamed of owning a string of beauty salons one day. He knew he’d succeed because black men and women liked to look good. Aruba sweetened the conversation by adding she was from Harlem, Georgia, a junior at Clark-Atlanta University majoring in mathematics, and an only child. The pleasantries continued until a little old lady called out, “Miss, will you help me find a Wilton cake decorating kit?”

  “So may I call you sometimes, Miss Aruba?”

  “How ’bout you give me your number and I’ll call you?”

  “You gonna brush me off like that?” he joked. He asked for the business card again and scribbled a number on the back. “This is my home number and my cell. The number on the front of the card is the shop I work out of.”

  “Leaving no stone unturned, heh? I promise, I’ll call,” said Aruba, holding up the peace sign.

  He watched her guide the older woman leaning on a cane to a different section of the department. Aruba waved one last time.

  The thought of that wave lulled her back to the present. I should have never called him. Glenn Jones crooned, “Where is the Love?” She eyed her watch. Eight seventeen. She crept out of the hotel parking lot, drove down to the entrance of Half Price Books, stopping as she pressed on the hazard lights. She waited. Hoped. Wondered if the positioning was right. Whether he’d know it was her. Just as she thought she’d lost her mind, that her life with James had in fact created this lunacy attack, she noticed a shiny black Range Rover pass by, slow up, then cruise backward in her direction.

  Showtime!

  [3]

  Cappuccino, Latte, or Me

  Winston recognized the Honda Pilot and the neon bumper sticker immediately: LOVE CONQUERS ALL. A staunch advocate of marriage, he admired Aruba’s long-suffering stance with James. As he backed up to be of assistance, his mind drifted to Victoria’s pillow-talk about Aruba and James. He thought of those conversations as he wondered why Aruba was out in the rain alone. Thought of James’s chronic unemployment, his quick temper, his disdain for the Edomites. Remembered the night Aruba and Jeremiah showed up at their doorstep, Aruba holding her bottom lip as blood trickled onto Jeremiah’s face and their Travertine flooring, and how Victoria stopped Aruba in her tracks, running to and fro for towels, so the floor wouldn’t be ruined. Aruba and Jeremiah slept in the basement that night as the family listened to Jeremiah cry for his daddy. Nicolette sauntered downstairs, gave Jeremiah a pillow and blanket, and they slept arm in arm. Winston, convinced Aruba and Jeremiah deserved a better life, offered financial assistance. Victoria snipped, “How’s he ever going to be responsible if we bail him out?”

  Victoria hesitated when Winston suggested she take Jeremiah along with Nicolette to Mocha Moms outings. She rolled her eyes and refused sex for two months when he suggested she get Aruba’s recipe for Aruba’s by the Sea, a mean dish of baked tilapia, shrimp, rice, and a splash of other unknown but hearty flavors. She drew the line when Winston offered the basement during the month Aruba anticipated divorcing James. “Winston, we have a home, not a hotel. That’s the end of it.”

  “But she’s your friend, Tori.”

  “We all have to live with the choices we make.”

  Now, approaching Aruba’s vehicle, umbrella in tow, Winston tapped on the window. As the window opened, he was pleasantly surprised by the music, the sight of her, her scent.

  “What happened?”

  “Winston, I wasn’t sure it was you. I was headed to an insurance meet-and-greet on Keystone when I ran out of gas. I know I’m too late for the function now. May I get a ride down the street to the gas station?”

  “Need you ask?”

  Winston opened her door, allowing Aruba to join him under his umbrella. Maybe it was the lack of sex, the long hours, the arguments with Victoria, but he noticed Aruba’s stunning beauty for the first time. He offered his suit jacket. As she sl
id it over her fitted black dress, he was amazed by the hourglass figure before him. He’d always seen her in sweats, her curly ringlets piled atop her head. He’d never seen her hair straightened and would remember to compliment her as they headed to the gas station.

  “Oh, I forgot my gas can. Do you happen to have one?”

  “Sure. We can go to BP.”

  They jumped in his ride, Winston taking in the Flowerbomb perfume, trying to contain himself as they drove to BP.

  “So what’s this meet-and-greet you’re headed to? Or should I ask were headed to?”

  “Just trying to drum up new customers. You know the routine: champagne, finger foods, lies, laughs. I hate being late to functions.”

  Winston chuckled at the thought of office parties for the sake of the company. That was one of the reasons he had started his own cardiology practice. He believed in doing his own thing, calling his own shots.

  “I remember those days.” Shifting the conversation, he asked, “What perfume are you wearing? You smell divine.”

  “Oh, it’s Flowerbomb. Victoria gave it to me. She said it makes her smell like something crawled up in her and died. You like it?”

  “I do. It smells good on you.” He tried to hide his disappointment, but he never understood why Victoria was so unappreciative. He went out of his way to buy her trinkets and tokens of affection, but enough was never enough.

  “I asked James to come along, but he didn’t want to mingle tonight.”

  “Too many Edomites,” they said in unison.

  They laughed at that, their banter continuing as they headed to BP. He filled the gas can and they headed back to Aruba’s car. Winston stood outside as Aruba returned to her vehicle. He noticed her nervous smile as he poured gas in her tank. I bet James has taken every dime. She probably doesn’t have gas money.

  He tapped on the driver’s side window. “Follow me back to BP. I’d like to fill your tank.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You didn’t ask me. I offered.”

  “Okay. But you have to promise to let me pay you back.”

  “You can pay me back with one of your great recipes.”

  Aruba blushed. She followed him to BP, amazed at how smoothly things were going. She knew she had to take it slow, to approach the matter delicately. No slips. One day at a time.

  She pulled alongside pump eight, waited for Winston to get out and fill her tank. She eyed him from her side mirror, admiring his chivalry, his drive. He was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever seen next to James. Winston’s boast of being from the City of Brotherly Love was always followed by Aruba muttering the phrase, “city of sexy, black brotherly love,” under her breath. Winston’s rich dark skin, shaved head, muscular frame, and towering six-four stature underscored what really turned Aruba on about him: deep-set dimples. Whenever he smiled, she wanted to stick her tongue in the center of his dimples, kiss him there as a start, and work her way down. She often told jokes in his presence just to make him laugh. Now, as he pumped her gas, she thought of what it would be like to kiss him as a thank-you. She thought of how she’d maneuver that feat.

  When he was done, he tapped her window again. “If I’m out of line, you can say so. I’ll understand. Since you don’t want to go to the function, would you like to join me for a cup of coffee at Starbucks?”

  “Winston, I’d love to.”

  [4]

  Lies Have Short Legs

  “Yeah, James, that’s what I’m talking about. Fuck me harder, James. Damn, this shit is da bomb!”

  James caressed Tawatha’s breasts as she bounced up and down on him. She was a little noisier than he liked, but a good screw nonetheless. He’d met Tawatha Gipson, the secretary at Hinton and Conyers Construction, his first day on the site. She made a point of showcasing her double-D headlights as she pointed out the breakroom, showed him how to clock in and out of the automated time system, and where the steel-toed boots and goggles were located. She tried to present herself as the girl-next-door, but he knew what she was all about when she got up to make copies of his hiring documents and I-9 form, twisting her massive ass, giggling every five words about how handsome he was and how he looked like a pro baller. Even asked, “You ever played with the Pacers?”

  He ignored her that first day, trying to keep his New Year’s resolution of doing right by Aruba. His resolve waned the next day when Tawatha stepped into the office wearing a short, wraparound print skirt; a low-cut, V-neck blouse; and no bra. He figured she placed Band-Aids on her nipples as not to expose them. All the guys on the site made a bet as to which one would sleep with her first. They stood around the cooler or dangled from skyscrapers, chatting about “State Fair.” That was the name Marcus Fullerton had given Tawatha while munching a double-decker ham and roast beef sandwich his wife had prepared for him. “Man, ass like that oughta have its own exhibit at the State Fair. Damn, I wanna get with her.”

  Rodney Lansky added, “Man, I wouldn’t tap that with somebody else’s dick. I heard she got four kids.”

  “Hell, that turns me on even more.” This from Abie Fortner. “I know women with just one child that don’t look that good. Her stomach is as flat as an ironing board. State Fair is a bad bitch!”

  Tawatha ignored their advances. She only had eyes for James. She took special care to greet him every day with a cup of coffee in hand, prepared for him just the way he said he liked it. He pretended he didn’t notice the way her natural, shoulder-length fishbone braids, highlighted with auburn streaks, were twisted in intricate perfection. Or the way her cocoa brown skin always smelled of shea butter or lavender. Or the way her slanted eyes lit up when he was near. She wasn’t as tall as Aruba, which made him fantasize all the more about having a shorter woman to tousle around in bed. She was forever running her fingers through his dreads, telling him she had a closet fantasy of learning to do hair. She honed in on his Samsonesque glory, slipping him a card with the name and number of her cousin who oiled locks at a shop on the eastside. James slid the card in his pocket, determined not to let yet another woman distract him from being a better husband.

  Then Aruba started in on him again. Bitched about him finding and keeping a job. Asked when he’d help with the utility bill, the truck notes, the gas bill. After he’d quit H&C, he knew he had to be on his best behavior. He’d worn out his welcome from siblings Teresa and Marvin. James could only do one thing at that point: housecleaning. He kept things spotless when he was unemployed. He made sure dinner was ready when Aruba came home, the laundry was fluffed and folded, and the smell of lavender and vanilla wafted throughout their home. It was during a laundry session he fished Tawatha’s number from his pocket. Didn’t realize Tawatha had scribbled her office line on the card until he’d dialed.

  “I can’t lose this job,” she said after they chatted a few minutes. “Hell, Mr. Hinton be listening to conversations like he the FBI and shit.”

  They continued that way for a week. Got better acquainted via text messages, online chats through AOL, and during late-night cell calls when Aruba was asleep. Their first encounter at Motel Six on the Southside left James wanting more. It wasn’t until Aruba told him about the insurance meeting that he decided he’d have a quickie in the house. He called Tawatha, found out where she lived, and picked her up at the Phoenix apartments as Jeremiah nursed hot milk and crackers and fell asleep. He tucked Jeremiah in bed upstairs when they returned and allowed her to do a lap dance before the festivities began.

  Now, as she humped up and down on his Johnson on the sectional, screaming and grunting like this would be the last time she’d get some, he knew he’d made a mistake. He hoped she wouldn’t awaken Jeremiah.

  “Come on, damnit, don’t stop now!!”

  James looked past her flopping headlights at the wall clock, trying to time Aruba’s arrival. He had to get Tawatha off of him and out of the house.

  “Smack my ass, James. Smack me!”

  Tawatha pulled James’s drea
dlocks, tightened her muscles around him. She quickened her pace, oblivious to his presence.

  “Damn, I’m coming!”

  Tawatha leaned forward, sweating over James’s chest, the headlights heaving up and down now.

  “Shit, you can fuck,” Tawatha shrieked, rolling off James and covering up with the sheet he’d given her earlier. She breathed heavily, exhausted from the workout. She surveyed her surroundings for the first time since she’d gotten there.

  She checked out the flat-screen, the elegant family photos lining the mantel above the fireplace, the furniture appointed just-so, the five-star-hotel cleanliness of the home. Me and my kids can rest real nice up in this place. “I’ma go get some orange juice out the fridge before we start on round two.”

  Wrapped in the sheet, Tawatha scooted to the refrigerator like a mermaid as James wiped himself down with a wet towel.

  “James, I’ma wash up in the half-bath. You mind?”

  “No, T. Go right ahead. I’ma take a quick shower.”

  “Not without me!”

  “You might try some more of your moves and wake up Jeremiah. Just stay put. I’ll be back.”

  James darted upstairs to the bathroom. He could kick himself for bringing Tawatha home. The only reason he’d planned the tryst at the house and not a hotel was because all bets were off when he picked Tawatha up at her place. No way was he having sex in her apartment. His first clue was the smell that slapped him when she cracked open the door. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he told her he’d wait outside until she was ready. She insisted he come inside, and he tried, but the pile of shoes behind the front door made it difficult for him to squeeze through. He looked at the full and twin mattresses propped against the living room wall and wondered if she had beds for herself and her children. Ants marching in single file crawled atop piles of clothes on the floor and KFC, Home Depot, and Walmart circulars were strewn about the coffee table. The sight made him retreat to the bathroom. After tripping over towels, lingerie, and more clothes, he decided to hold his urine ’til he got home. He wouldn’t piss in that toilet for a reality TV series. It looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in two years.