“Who is it?”
“Carol Gipson.”
Roberta scanned her memory for Shirley’s relatives she had heard him speak of during their time together. A Carol didn’t register. Roberta would postpone chit-chatting with her because she was on her way to see the Gipson she knew. Shirley.
Keeping the chain secure, she opened the door. “May I help you, ma’am?”
“You’ve been seeing my husband, Shirley, and we need to talk.”
Roberta paused. Her fingers trembled as she unhooked the chain and stepped aside. Carol waltzed into her apartment, the smell of Opium permeating the room as she took a seat in Roberta’s favorite tawny La-Z-Boy. Even in casual attire, Roberta knew Carol was a classy, sophisticated lady. Her hair, swept in a dramatic updo with curls cascading her delicate face, was as perfect as the red crinkled frock she donned. She leaned back in the chair, opened her purse, and pulled out a pack of Viceroys. She smoothed out the full-shape cotton dress, her silver and red bangles jingling as a rhinestone-crusted lighter emerged from her purse. This woman could have easily been headed to a Con Funk Shun concert or a supper club. Carol was someone she would have loved meeting under different circumstances. Instead, she sat in her own apartment, wondering whether to run, call the police, or pray like her grandmother in North Carolina used to do when fierce rains tapped on the tin roof of their family home.
“Mind if I smoke? I don’t normally do so inside. We can step out on your balcony.”
Carol’s cool demeanor frightened Roberta. What did she want? Roberta would have pegged Carol as Shirley’s sister or a cousin, since they resembled each other so much. She sat across from Carol on the loveseat and crossed her arms over her stomach. “Why are you here?”
“Beloved, I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve been following you and Shirley up and down the coast for months now. I’m not going anywhere, so I suggest you leave Shirley alone.”
Roberta stammered, “I don’t under . . . Shirley loves me.”
“You and every other Berkeley student he’s bedded over the years. I guess I should be grateful he finally found someone black to pass the time with, heh?”
“He’s a stu—”
Carol rattled off Shirley’s story as she’d done in other women’s apartments and houses over the years: “Student. Part-time, but starting full-time in the fall, right?” She let out a bitter chuckle. “You’d think he would have changed the story after all this time.” Carol shook her head, dragged on her Viceroy, and blew perfect smoke rings. She leaned forward near Roberta’s face. “Roberta, right? How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Shirley and I are both thirty-nine, have three children, and aren’t getting divorced anytime soon.” Carol pulled out her wallet and flipped through photos of the children. She passed the photos, proud of her angels. “These are the triplets, Candace, Connie, and Carson.”
Roberta took the photos and eyed the kids. Same butterscotch skin. Beautiful smiles. Wide-eyed innocence. She passed the snap-shots back to Carol. “He told me he was twenty-nine.”
“More facts for you, Doll. He was discharged from the Marines. He did serve in Vietnam, and at the core of his being, he’s decent. But you’ve been riding in my daddy’s Cadillac, enjoying my family’s money, and have been wearing a lot of my clothes.”
Carol was confusing her more and more.
Carol cut to the chase, answered the question she saw on Roberta’s face. “Why do I stay, right? Well, in my case, it’s cheaper to keep him for now. But as soon as the kids are gone, our union is a done deal. You’re young and attractive enough to get a man of your own. I suggest you stop seeing Shirley while there’s still time to keep your dignity in check. I’d hate for something to happen to you.”
Carol snubbed out the Viceroy in an ashtray, placed the photos back in her purse, and sauntered out the apartment as elegantly as she’d entered. Roberta, cemented to the loveseat, waited an hour, then called Shirley. When he answered on the first ring, she managed, “Thanks for telling me about Carol. Don’t ever call me again,” before gently placing the phone in its cradle.
Ashamed she’d been so easily duped, Roberta packed her things and moved seven hours away to Riverside. She found a job at a local funeral home, handling the books. Shocked to learn she was carrying twins in the second trimester, she fed and nurtured the babies in her womb. She gave birth to the girls, both darker versions of Candace, Connie, and Carson. The last of the fight inside of her came with the final push that was Tawatha. Her lips swore off men. Her hips said otherwise. In less than a year, she found herself knee-deep in men wanting to help her take care of the kids and have a place in her heart. Rich ones. Poor ones. Married ones. Professors. Mechanics. All promising the same thing: “Roberta, a woman as fine as you needs to be loved and protected.” The men, with their sugary promises, transformed her. She opened her legs a bit wider, faked orgasms longer, and stroked their egos to the point of nauseating herself long after the sheets were cool. In exchange for the theatrics, they paid her rent, kept her and the girls’ hair dolled up and her nails pristine. Shirley and Carol had taken her down and she vowed not to be Cupid’s victim again. Roberta acquired property, supported her siblings and cousins in North Carolina, and always, always blessed those she loved at Christmastime with stuffed boxes of mink stoles, Sunnyland Farm orange-frosted pecans, Japanese pears, and checks ranging from $100 to $500.
The girls thought of her as a goddess, a queen. She too felt invincible until pneumonia kidnapped Teresa at age eight and released her in death. That was hard to bear. Shirley never knew about the girls, so what need was there to invite him to the funeral? She’d forged his signature on their birth certificates and took on his last name as a reminder that a brief meeting can alter the course of one’s life forever. After the funeral, she made Tawatha close her eyes and point to a new state and city to start anew. Tawatha pointed to Indiana and read I-N-D-I-A-N-A-P-O-L-I-S aloud.
“That’s where we’re going, baby. That’s our new home.”
A new home. That memory, painful and stabbing as it was, reminded Roberta of the importance of self-control. How could she leave Tawatha at the hospital when she knew she was responsible for a great deal of her daughter’s foolishness?
“Tawatha, we’ll be there in the morning.”
Roberta looked in on her grandchildren, Aunjanue, Sims, Grant, and S’n’c’r’ty. She’d send them off to school in the morning and figure out how to help Tawatha secure a new place to live.
[9]
Palm Saturday
Victoria’s biggest pet peeve was Winston’s knack for RSVPing them for events without her consent. Particularly on holidays. Why couldn’t they just enjoy the Fourth of July at their house, on their deck, flipping brats, jumbo burgers, and marinated steaks on their Weber grill with friends from the neighborhood? But no, he had to tell Aruba they’d join them to celebrate James’s return to mobility after the accident. She rolled her eyes at Winston behind her shades and continued playing with Nicolette as they drove to Aruba’s. She didn’t know what had gotten into Winston, but after the cookout, she planned to have a long chitchat about his behavior.
First, it was the music. She knew he enjoyed old-school, but lately he’d been thumping the sounds of Anthony Hamilton, Urban Mystic, and John Legend throughout the house in heavy rotation. Add that to the silly mantras he’d been spewing out—accept the good; let’s give thanks for what we already have; Victoria, when was the last time you counted your blessings and focused on someone other than yourself—and she was sure she’d lose it. Maybe he’d been working too many hours. The final insult was when she didn’t get the Bentley last month for her birthday. He said it was too gaudy and that her Mercedes S600 would have to do for now. Her only consolation was the Harry Winston band she received. At least it was an upgrade from her Tiffany ring. Since he’d held out on the Bentley, she’d decided to hold out on sex a little longer. That would teach him a lesson.
“Babe,
what’s wrong?” Winston stroked Victoria’s face. She ignored the question and colored the poppy fields in one of Nicolette’s Wizard of Oz activity books. Nicolette did the same thing in the backseat.
“Mommy, Daddy’s talking to you.”
“Honey, I don’t hear anything. Since no one hears me, why should I listen?”
Nicolette tapped Winston’s shoulder from her booster seat. “Mommy’s being a bad girl.”
“Yes, she is, Nicolette. What do you suppose we should do to her?”
Nicolette shrugged her shoulders and continued coloring.
“You still sulking over the car? Why is that so important to you, Tori?”
“Winston, I’ve had my car two years now. What happened to getting me a new car every two years?”
Winston tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “There’s nothing wrong with your car.”
“Next, you’ll tell me to drive it until it’s paid for.”
“Victoria, when was the last time you—”
“Counted my blessings and focused on someone else other than myself. I get it!”
She turned her attention to the window and watched the gas prices at each service station they passed. Why was everyone complaining about the prices? Who coined the phrase, “pain at the pump”? Doesn’t every woman’s husband keep the tank filled like Winston? He never allowed her gas hand to go below half full. More importantly, why didn’t she get her dream car? It wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford a Bentley. She didn’t want a yacht, a private jet, or her own hangar at the airport. What was so wrong with wanting to drive a classic car that matched her beauty? She stared at her reflection in the mirror and hoped others at the cookout would find her stunning. The only reason she got excited about the party was the ’80s theme. The invitation, emblazoned with painted red roses and a replica of the My-T-Sharp barbershop, blasted the song “Soul Glow.” The song brought back memories of living in L.A. with her aunt and all those auditions and rounds they made together. Marguerite had snagged the role of Lisa in Coming to America, but had come down with tuberculosis two weeks before shooting began. Too weak to work and quarantined by her doctor, she had bowed out of filming. Marguerite’s agent’s words popped in her mind again as he’d tried to make Marguerite feel better, his East Coast timbre filling their living room via speaker phone: “I know Eddie Murphy is headlining the film, but who’s gonna take him seriously as an African prince? I bet the movie probably won’t make big box-office sales anyway.” Victoria remembered Shari Headley coming by their rented apartment in Queens with chicken soup, Tylenol, and steamy gossip from the movie set. That’s how Marguerite rolled in Hollywood and the Big Apple, acquaintance to all, friend to few. She taught Victoria that women were to be tolerated, not trusted. Victoria half listened to her aunt’s rationale, though, because she knew there was no woman in the world who could wrest Winston from her grasp. He’d be a fool to leave someone so beautiful. Who else could spend his money, look good on his arm, and ride the ups and downs of his career as she had?
“Mommy, do you smell that food?” Nicolette asked. She scooted up in her booster seat and leaned forward to catch the sights and sounds emanating from Aruba’s house.
“I love eating here,” Winston added.
“Mommy, promise me you’ll eat a plate with me and Daddy. Meat this time. Not all the vegetables.”
“I’ll think about it, Nicolette. I promise.”
Winston parked on the curb because cars crowded the driveway. They headed toward the front door. Winston felt silly wearing the Michael Jackson Thriller jacket and jeans, but he didn’t want to disobey the invite. He passed on the Jheri Curl wig Victoria suggested. Victoria spied the license plates as she smoothed the carbon copy dress worn by singer Pebbles in the video Mercedes Boy and took note of how many friends and relatives had joined the party. They’d traveled from Georgia, Louisiana, California, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Maryland. Morris Day and the Time’s “Jungle Love” floated from the backyard with a rousing “Oh-eee-Oh-eee-Oh” being yelled out by the crowd. Nicolette snapped her fingers, wondering if Jeremiah was eating a hot dog or playing his Wii.
Winston rang the doorbell, anticipating James. When the door swung open, Aruba took his breath away. Aruba, donning a V-cut dashiki that accented her sun-kissed skin, bopped her head to the music. She beamed when she saw Winston, then remembered he wasn’t alone.
“Come on in!” She hugged them and stepped aside for them to enter.
“Miss Aruba, where’s Jeremiah?” Nicolette asked.
Aruba motioned the Faulks to follow her to the kitchen. She peered around Winston.
“Where’s Alva? I thought she’d get out the house today.”
“Rube, you know she doesn’t get out that often.”
“Hey, it’s not like we didn’t offer,” Winston added. “She said she had reading to catch up on.” He continued to smile at her as if they were the only ones in the room.
They were interrupted by a clearing throat. “I have a name, too.”
Aruba looked at her mom, Darnella, who’d stopped dicing onions and bell peppers for the potato salad. “Mom, these are my friends, Winston, Victoria, and Nicolette.”
“You know I know Victoria from the last time I was here. Don’t you dare ask for my cobbler recipe this time, either,” Darnella joked with Victoria. She hugged each of them, then sat back down at the island. “I’m almost done with this potato salad. I hope you all enjoy it.”
“I promise I’ll try it this time,” said Victoria.
Aruba gathered Nicolette in her arms, kissed her. “May I offer you guys something to drink? James is manning the grill. We’ll be eating in thirty minutes or less. Everybody else is out back. Come on.”
“I’ll have some of your lemonade if you whipped up some.” Victoria couldn’t deny that Aruba knew her way around the kitchen. She could take the simplest items and make a feast. In Aruba’s presence, she wished she’d learned to cook when she was younger. Marguerite insisted she not learn to cook because she might burn her hands or ruin her back bending up and down near an oven. During those moments they hung out together, Aruba regaled her with tales of learning to cook when she was nine years old. The last time Darnella was in town, they’d tried in vain to show her how to prepare a soul food feast. Victoria cut her finger slicing tomatoes and got tired separating collard greens from the stems. She felt dizzy right now at the thought of cooking, taking care of a child, satisfying a husband, and staying sane. Thank God for hired help.
The four of them stepped through the patio door, onto the deck, and into the backyard where three white tents were set up. Most of the crowd danced as others sat at tables decorated for the occasion. Instead of traditional red, white and blue Fourth of July adornment, each table held a remnant of the movie Coming to America.
“Everyone, these are my friends Winston, Victoria, and lady Nicolette.”
“Hey,” the crowd sang in unison, returning to D.J. Cheese’s spinning and scratching grooves.
A man rocking a Reverend Ike finger-waved ’do shouted to Victoria, “Marry me and come back to North Carolina! I’ll take real good care of ya!”
The crowd laughed and his wife, Ida, seated next to him, jerked her neck around. “Shut up, Herbert!”
James slathered barbecue sauce on the ribs as he sized up Winston in his jacket and jeans. He still didn’t understand why Aruba had invited them. It’s one thing for a man to make a mistake in the heat of passion, it’s another thing to be exposed. By someone like Winston no less. Now he had to step up his game, so he wouldn’t look like the unemployed villain to this bourgeois muthafucka. Luckily for him, he’d been under doctor’s care for the last two months. That was at least enough time for Aruba to stop riding him about finding work. She even had stopped talking divorce the last two months since the accident. Hell, she was almost like the woman he’d married. Running around, changing the gauze on his injuries, not bitching about the bills, at least letting a brother see her
curves in those sexy negligees. His leg injury prevented him from being intimate, but he knew she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Her new attitude even made him forget about Tawatha for the time being. Maybe, just maybe this was what he needed to be faithful. He was even pleased that Aruba wasn’t so uptight about money these days since the company salary cuts. Last year this time, she wouldn’t have dreamed of throwing a party for everyone, but this year, she must have seen the light and realized how good she had it at home.
“Hey, need some help with those ribs?” Winston interrupted James’s thoughts.
“I got it. What’s up, man?”
“It’s good to see you up and about, James. I was a little worried about you at the hospital.”
Yeah, right. “Staying off my feet has been good for me. I think this is what I needed. Spending time with Jerry and Aruba has been good for us.”
“I meant what I said at the hospital, James. If you need anything, just let me know.”
Like I’d fucking ask. “Thanks, man. Good looking out.”
Victoria nursed lemonade spiked with vodka and wondered what James and Winston were talking about at the grill. Her slumped shoulders were not lost on the older women at the tables. They gossiped about their husbands, the presidential election, and why such a pretty girl was shrouded in that ugly don’t-bother-me countenance. Victoria offered to help Aruba and Darnella in the kitchen, but she’d been shooed away, told to go mix and mingle with the crowd. She knew Aruba’s friends Bria and Renae would be arriving later with their husbands. Since marrying and disappearing into Winston’s world, she felt rusty and out of place in social settings. She shook off those thoughts, scanning the crowd for a familiar face, someone with whom she could trade barbs. When she turned right, a woman one table over looked up from a half-eaten tangerine and winked. She spat seeds in her hands and tossed them in the tangerine peels. She pointed a finger at Victoria. “Come here.”
Dream Girl Awakened Page 5
