Dream Girl Awakened

by Stacy Campbell

  The condition of Tawatha’s apartment and his maxed-out Visa made it impossible to get a hotel room. He could strangle Aruba for not paying the bill for him. She claimed she couldn’t do it because she had to take care of the “essentials,” but he knew she was lying. He’d grown sick of her poor-mouthing about how his sporadic employment was getting them further behind and deeper in debt. What really pissed him the fuck off was when she suggested stupid shit like getting rid of one car to save money, turning off lights to conserve energy, washing clothes in cold water, turning off water as he brushed his teeth or washed his face. The way she carried on you’d think she was an Edomite.

  He showered, went back downstairs, and jumped when Tawatha snuck behind him and planted a kiss on his back. As she circled him and knelt to the floor, he pushed her head away from his penis.

  “Come on, daddy, let me suck it right. You know you like this.”

  “Look, Tawatha, I gotta take you back home.”

  “James, my momma’s keeping my kids all night. I thought I could stay with you. You got me all hot and bothered now. I gotta have some more of this dick. You know you got the magic stick, right? That’s what I’ma name you. Magic.” Tawatha caressed his penis, baby-talked to it. “That’s a good boy, Magic.” She planted light kisses on it.

  James moved her hands. “Tawatha, I never said you could stay the night.”

  Tawatha stood to face James, disappointment clouding her face. “Bullshit. You said you and your wife were separated. Sounds like an open invitation to me.”

  Damn. James sat down on the sectional, leaned back. He’d forgotten he’d told her Aruba had stormed out a week ago, leaving him and Jeremiah to fend for themselves. He had to think of something, anything. Nine o’clock was fast approaching and he’d planned to have Tawatha fed, polished off, and back home by nine-forty-five. He expected Aruba home by at least ten-fifteen, and the last thing he needed was another round of ultimatums or a fistfight between his wife and his jump off.

  “Look T, umm, my wife left. But she came back two days ago.”

  “Thought you told me that bitch was old news. Good as you’ve been to her, providing for her and your kid, and she gon’ leave like that. Why you let her come back?”

  “T, she has breast cancer.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah. We found out at St. Vincent’s over a week ago.”

  Tawatha put her head on James’s chest. “I’m sorry to hear that. Man, that’s too damn sad.”

  Pleased with the direction of the conversation, James continued, “We’re starting an aggressive round of chemotherapy within the next two weeks. I know I said it was over, but what kind of man would I be if I didn’t stand by her? You understand, right?” James placed his arms around Tawatha’s shoulders to soften the blow.

  Tawatha’s enthusiasm deflated. “So where is she now?”

  “She went to a support group meeting. Her girlfriend was taking her to a wig store after that. I couldn’t bear the thought of going with her.”

  “So that’s why you needed this distraction. I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to think I used you. I really like you.”

  “Naw, I don’t feel like that. But hell, you better take me on home.”

  Tawatha gathered her clothes. She dressed hurriedly, miffed she wouldn’t wake up to a refrigerator full of food, a clean house, a bed with a cozy mattress and at least six-hundred thread-count sheets. She thought of the mattresses in her living room and wondered how she’d replace them since her youngest daughter’s bedwetting had ruined them. She looked around James’s house once more, ashamed four kids by four different men hadn’t yielded this kind of life for her. I gotta plan this stuff better.

  “James, you got a few dollars I can hold? My EBT card is empty and I need to get some groceries.”

  “What? H and C stiffing you?”

  “Naw. I had to choose between summer camp for my kids and food.”

  “Wait here, I’ll be back.”

  James remembered Aruba stashed extra cash in the bedroom media center, tucked between Norbit and Mona Lisa Smile. He went upstairs to the bedroom, peeled off five twenties from the wad, putting the rest back just as Aruba kept it. He looked in on Jeremiah, smiling at his son. He didn’t want to awaken him. Taking Tawatha back to the Phoenix would take twenty minutes tops. No need to wake up little man. James went downstairs, rejoined Tawatha on the sofa.

  “I got a hundred. That enough for you?”

  “Thank you, James. I appreciate it!” She hugged him and reluctantly grabbed her purse. She stuffed the money in her bra, still trying to concoct an alibi, so she could spend the night. The instant James turned his back, she tossed her thong under the sofa. She sat back, then noticed he was missing something important.

  “Ain’t you gonna take your son with us?”

  “I’ll be right back. I’m just dropping you off.”

  “It’ll only take a minute to get him.”

  “Trust me, I’m coming back home,” said James.

  Tawatha glanced up the stairs. She knew she wouldn’t win a mother of the year award, but she felt uncomfortable about James leaving Jeremiah alone. She thought about the short drive it would take to get back to her apartment, then bit her lip and muttered a short prayer under her breath. “Please let him stay asleep until James gets back home.”

  He grabbed his keys and headed across town to take Tawatha home. Tawatha fished through the CDs and popped in Musiq. She sang now, throwing her hands up, feeling the fierce thump of the sound system.

  “So what kinda truck is this? I’ve been looking for something different ’cause that hoopty of mine is giving me all kinda trouble.”

  “Toyota Sequoia. I love how it rides.”

  James cruised down the street, simmering again over Aruba’s words. “We need to sell that truck. We can get by with one vehicle for now.” She always thought she knew so much about money, about finances. Just cause she had a mathematics degree. So what if the creditors were calling night and day? So what if he had to hide the truck around the corner at their neighbor’s house a few nights a week just to stay two steps ahead of the finance company? Shit, you wade in the water till it calms down, right?

  “James, did you hear me?”

  James decreased the volume of the music. “What? T, I didn’t hear you. I was thinking about my wife’s chemotherapy.”

  Tawatha sidled next to James after hearing this. She knew his wife would be too tired in the days to come to take care of his needs. If she couldn’t be number one, she’d at least relieve him of tension, make the days ahead easier. He’d told her the reason he’d left Hinton and Conyers was to explore entrepreneurial opportunities. James had big dreams and needed a woman like her to see them come to fruition. He never told her she would be that woman, but how long would his wife be around to help him? If she couldn’t start with his stomach—like she planned to do the next morning by preparing a big breakfast—she’d start between his legs. She cocked one leg over his and kissed his right ear.

  “Stop, T. I’m trying to drive.”

  “I’m not stopping you, baby. Keep going.”

  Tawatha made small circles around James’s ear. She nibbled his lobes as she reached beneath his T-shirt, massaging his nipples. She visualized the chipping paint and buckled flooring in her apartment. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t shake the desperation of her surroundings. As she worked her way down, unzipping his pants, licking his inner thighs, Tawatha hoped this time she’d perform a trick well enough to hold on to a decent man.

  “T, come on now. Stop, girl.”

  “Tell me you don’t like it, James.”

  James tilted back as Tawatha leaned over, jimmying his penis from his briefs.

  She removed strawberry-flavored lube from her pocket and smeared it on his penis. She started slow at first, making small circles around the tip, listening to him moan in ecstasy. She licked him softly, increasing her rhythm and speed, t
aking her lips farther down the shaft. She loved hearing him call her name, loved the fact he was losing control. They were both so caught up in the moment, they didn’t hear the screams of the onlookers as a blue Cutlass Supreme crossed the center lane and sideswiped James.

  [5]

  Old School, New School

  “I didn’t know you were a Glenn Jones fan,” said Winston, cutting a raspberry crumb bar in quarters and gazing into Aruba’s mesmerizing eyes. He stirred his caramel latte and marveled at the coincidence of running into her. It had been a long time since he’d chatted with someone who could relate to his musical jones. Most women never entertained his love for music. As if all he cared about was surgery and being glued to his practice.

  “Who wouldn’t be? He’s fabulous!” Aruba raised her voice two octaves, stopping short of rah-rah-ing like a cheerleader. She combed her memory for Googled details.

  “I’ve been a fan of his since high school. He’s a real singer with incredible range, not like the young’uns that lean on samples and misogynistic lyrics. How can women allow themselves to be called bitches and hoes?” asked Winston.

  “Wait a minute, some of the new school can sing. Kem, John Legend, Urban Mystic, Anthony Hamilton, Chrisette Michele have old-school soul.”

  “Never heard of them. Maybe you can introduce them to me sometime.”

  “You’ve never heard of Urban Mystic?”

  “Honestly, the name makes me think of a drink.”

  “He redid a phenomenal version of Bobby Womack’s—”

  “You’re telling me someone had the nerve to sing a rendition of The Poet’s song and live to tell the story?” Winston leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “That’s why I’ve never listened to track ten of Glenn Jones’s Forever Timeless CD because he redid ‘I Wish He Didn’t Trust Me So Much.’ ”

  “Urb, excuse my slang, put his spit on ‘Woman’s Gotta Have It’ and tore it up. He also sang the hell out of Sam Cooke’s ‘A Change is Gonna Come’ on his second CD. He has that Sunday meeting, juke-joint, brown rot-gut liquor singing pouring from his soul. Think James Cleveland merged with Otis Redding meets Luther and K-Ci.”

  “Let me guess. You were a soprano at Mount Nebo Missionary Baptist Church in someone’s Southern town?”

  “Guess again. I can’t hold a tune in a bucket. But I love good music.” She sipped her cappuccino. “Why had I never heard of Charles Hilton Brown until I met you?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Of course, I had to check him out and discovered like so many musicians, he didn’t get his just due back in the day.”

  “And no one has heard anything from him since his one and only album,” Winston lamented.

  “He’s in hiding, so you won’t bother him.” Aruba winked at Winston.

  A toddler two tables over yelled to her mom, “I want a lemon bar, not a blueberry muffin.” The girl pouted, then tossed the muffin at her mom. Before her mom could retaliate, the little girl made haste and scooted under three tables, charging the display wall of mugs, teas, and coffees. Several of them tumbled down as she screamed, “Lemon, lemon, lemon!”

  “Paula, come back here this instant!” her mother shouted as she tried to get Paula under control.

  “No!” Paula crossed her arms, stroked her mane of red curls, and watched as her mother and a barista cleaned up the mess she’d made. Winston, Aruba, and other members of the captive audience anticipated the mom’s next move.

  “Twenty-dollar bet she spanks her,” said Winston, removing his wallet from his suit jacket.

  “Twenty-five she gets the lemon bar,” said Aruba.

  Paula traced circles on the display case with her fingers, leaned into it, and pressed her nose near the lemon bars. Her mother, flustered and embarrassed, pulled a ten-dollar bill from her purse and quietly ordered a lemon bar and a tall hot chocolate. A chorus of no-she-didn’ts and sighs sailed through the room. Students looked up from their laptops and shook their heads.

  “I’d never let Jeremiah get away with that.”

  “Your son is so well-behaved, I don’t think he’d try it,” Winston complimented.

  “Nicolette wouldn’t do that, either. She’s a good girl.”

  “That’s no thanks to Tori. That’s all on Alva.” Winston surprised himself making the stark admission. He’d prided himself on presenting a united front in public, to colleagues, to family, and friends. Now, in the midst of whirring cappuccino machines, Motown oldies drifting through Bose speakers, and a toddler who needed the look and a firm tap on her backside, he was letting his guard down. Get a grip, Winston, get a grip!

  “I think you owe me twenty-five dollars.” Aruba smiled and unzipped her purse.

  “Guess I do, huh?”

  As Winston opened his wallet, Aruba’s purse dropped, the contents spilling on the floor.

  “Paula’s made me all thumbs,” said Aruba.

  As she knelt down to gather her things, Winston was by her side. “Let me help,” he said.

  Aruba lightly placed the belongings in her purse, picked up her phone, scrolled through the five missed calls, then dismissed the unfamiliar number as one of James’s women. She placed the phone on the table. She retrieved the letter from the construction company, offering Winston a pensive look.

  “Aruba, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing you’d want to hear about. What goes on in the family, stays in the family.”

  “You take twenty-five bucks from me, subject me to Toddlers Gone Wild, and now you can’t talk?” said Winston, hoping to lighten her disposition.

  “I’m not stupid, Winston. I know Victoria has shared things about me and James with you,” said Aruba, feeling out Winston to see just how much Victoria had blabbed.

  “I probably know more than I should, but that’s inconsequential. Just talk. I’m here.”

  On cue, the first tear dropped. Aruba had practiced this scene about fourteen times in various places: the office bathroom stall between coffee breaks and lunch; in traffic on her way to work as she played her favorite slow jams; watching chick-flicks in the family room on Friday nights.

  “I’m so overwhelmed, Winston. Some days I feel things will be okay. I pray that if I’m a good wife, James will come around. But other days . . .” Aruba dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “I guess I wish things were normal. Whatever that means. It’s my birthday and my husband didn’t even remember. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

  Do I ever? Winston couldn’t remember the last time he had received a birthday gift from Victoria. Winston also recalled his pastor saying that marriage was a sacred bond between two people. No matter how disastrous, how chaotic, one should never speak against the union. He wanted to tell her she was wasting her time, that there were other single, available men out there searching for someone of her caliber, but he decided to stay the course of appropriateness.

  “Have you thought about going to counseling, Aruba? I know a few excellent family therapists and an awesome psychologist you guys could call.”

  “Oh, I guess I’ll go in between finding a part-time job, since James finds it so difficult to stay employed.” Aruba slid the envelope containing separation notices and the last pay stub from Hinton and Conyers to Winston.

  She watched Winston eye the stub, his eyes registering concern.

  How does a man not work to take care of his family? This paycheck wouldn’t cover one of Victoria’s purses. He slid the envelope back to Aruba and took her hand. He took in a deep breath, waited a few seconds, then gazed into her eyes.

  “I’m being inappropriate again, but I need you to do me a favor. Promise this stays between the two of us.”

  “What are you talking about, Winston?”

  Winston released her hand and reached for his checkbook again. He spoke as he completed the task. “This is just a little something to help you out. Please don’t tell anyone about this, Aruba. This is from my mad money account Victoria doesn’t know about.”

  W
hen he was done writing, Winston handed Aruba the check. She glanced and did a double-take at the amount.

  “Winston, this is ten thousand dollars. I can’t take this from you.” She slid the check toward him, her fingers trembling.

  “You can and you will under the condition you use it to catch up on a few bills and save some for a rainy day.” He slid it back to her.

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say.” Aruba cried sincerely this time, floored by Winston’s largess. She planned how she’d divvy the money. The recession had been the perfect cover for the financial breakthrough plan she had concocted three months ago. She had lied to James and said State Farm had slashed her sixty-five-thousand-dollar income in half. She had deposited half of her salary in their joint account; the other half went to a fund she dubbed TWT/TIN: that was then; this is now. Each time she scanned her bank statement that went to her rented post office box, the guilt she felt disappeared. She wondered why she hadn’t separated her funds years ago. She would deposit eight thousand in the fund for future use, spend a grand on a Fourth of July bash, and treat herself to something nice. She stood to hug him, then stopped after the phone rang again. She knew she had to answer this time. She held up one finger to Winston in a shhh gesture as she snapped open the phone.

  “Hello. Yes, this is she.” She waited, held her head for a moment. “Oh, my God. Where?”