I didn’t know, as Mama used to say, “Who’s lying and who’s telling the truth?” I hoped the gun found by those kids at the hotel wasn’t it. What made that six-year-old boy shoot his twin sister in the head was probably his mama’s fault for letting him play violent video games.
My son was going to be raised the way my mama raised me and my brother. “Y’all go outside and play,” she’d tell us.
I whispered back to Beaux, “All right. When you say your last good-byes, fall into the casket and cry like a baby. I’ll cover you. Slip the gun under the lining. When you’re done, look at me. I’ll hug you then and help you sit on the pew, until it’s time for us to carry her out.”
We’d given some thought to how we were going to do this. Had gone over it many times. But now that the moment was here, could my brother follow through with his plan?
I hadn’t gone through with mine. I still hadn’t opened the briefcase, more like a suitcase, that the man gave me. Inside was supposed to be $1 million in cash, a gun, and an iPhone. There was a Facebook account for me, but it wasn’t under my real name. The e-mail and password weren’t linked to me either. Under this account, Chicago was my friend and I could track his every move as long as his locations were on. I didn’t want to go back to jail for shooting that man again. Might not be so lucky this time if I represented myself again for attempted murder or worse, murder.
The pastor started closing the service by reading my mom’s eulogy.
“Sarah Lee Washington was a woman of God. She had a full and fruitful life. This here is a celebration of her life. She moved her family out of the projects of Port Arthur and into a great neighborhood near the tracks.”
The pastor wiped his face with his cloth, then continued speaking. “Sarah Lee moved, but she never stopped being neighborly. Whatever she could do to help others, or help out here at the church, she did it until her health wouldn’t allow her to do it no mo’,” he said.
This man didn’t know my mother. The preacher who knew Mom best had gone to glory years ago. He’d died of cancer too. Mama was with Daddy now. He’d died of cancer too. Seemed like everyone who lived close to the refineries in our town, all their lives, got some kind of cancer.
I nudged Beaux in his side with my elbow. If we were carrying out our plan, now was the time.
“We’re going to miss Sarah Lee just as much as her family. Sarah Lee was family. She leaves with us her two sons, Granville and Beaux Washington, and her sister, Wilma Sims,” the pastor said.
Beaux stood. I stood too. Side by side we walked up to Mama’s casket. Forcing himself to cry, my brother fell over Mama’s dead body. When he reached into his jacket, I leaned closer.
“Hurry up, bro,” I said as I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I faked the kind of cry that was more sound than tears.
“It’s going to be okay,” someone said. “Your mother is no longer suffering.”
Aunt Wilma came up, just as Beaux finished covering up the gun. “Okay, boys. Sarah don’ gone home. I’m here for you now,” she said. “You know my sister don’t want y’all doing this. Get yourselves together.”
My aunt was there to take charge, all right. She was being nice—that is, until she’d receive the long list of things she wanted out of Mama’s house. Then things would return to normal and we wouldn’t see her for years.
Mama had on a beautiful, long white lace dress that Aunt Wilma had picked out from Mama’s closet. She wanted to put jewelry on Mama, but Beaux and I didn’t want to give anyone a reason to dig up Mama’s body, so we insisted no jewelry. Mama’s hands were folded at her waist; her Bible lay on her stomach, right underneath her palms.
Standing, Beaux and I tucked the white satin liner deep into the casket. The guys from the funeral home rushed over. “We’ll do this. That’s our job.”
“We want to do it,” Beaux said.
When I slammed the top, the coffin slid. People in the church gasped; then somebody laughed.
What’s funny?
Beaux caught Mama’s casket before it hit the floor. “Bro, you still clumsy,” Beaux said, laughing too. “Mama probably got a kick out of that.”
I should kick him. What if the gun was on top of Mama’s Bible? It was a good thing we didn’t have to open the casket again. I locked it.
It was time to go to the cemetery. Beaux got into my Super Duty truck. We didn’t want no fancy limo driver. We followed the hearse.
“What’s in the suitcase?” Beaux asked.
I said, “A million dollars.”
Beaux laughed. “Yeah, right.”
While he was busy laughing, I’d just come up with another brilliant idea.
CHAPTER 3
Madison
“Hush, little baby, don’t you cry. Daddy is gonna buy you whatever you want.”
I whispered to Zach, “Your daddy will be here soon. His football game is over.”
I’d watched from kickoff until the last second of the fourth quarter. Houston won by ten, but I felt as though I was losing. When the cameras flashed to Roosevelt’s suite, Sindy was there. She tucked her long cinnamon hair behind her ear. The diamonds were more brilliant than the lights in the background. Her teeth were perfectly straight and superwhite. The harder I tried to find a flaw, I noticed this woman appeared ideal for Roosevelt. Plus, there was another thing—she seemed to have a glow of happiness that I didn’t.
I was home with Roosevelt’s baby, and Sindy was on national television with my husband. The holidays were starting next month. Thanksgiving. Soon would come Christmas. Roosevelt and his family would want to share these joyous occasions with my baby and his mistress. Where would I be? None of them liked me.
I had all intentions of dragging out our divorce long enough for Roosevelt to change his mind. Signing the papers didn’t make it final. We still had to go to court. I had my plastic surgeon on standby for breast implants.
“Shhh. Hush, baby,” I said, rocking in the chair I could never nurse him in.
My lawyer had been prepped. When Roosevelt’s attorney set a court date, I’d set my surgery for the same day. The day of the hearing, we’d let Roosevelt show up; then my guy would request a continuance. That should work two or three times, granting me ninety to one hundred eighty days. Add another three months from surgery to recovery, and I could stall for almost a year. If that failed, I had a trump card or two.
I kissed Zach’s feet and wiggled his soft toes. Fingering his full head of dark, wavy hair, I loved my baby’s pecan tone. Zach’s skin was a combination of Roosevelt’s tan and my nearly white complexion.
I was fortunate not to have a whining child. Whenever our baby fussed, something was wrong. I’d just finished feeding him. Peeling back the tape from his diaper, I saw it was wet. I’d learned in a bad way not to stick my finger inside his diaper if I wasn’t sure what was in it.
Laying him on the changing table, I opened his diaper. His penis and balls were growing faster than the rest of his body. Maybe that was my imagination. The darkness of his genitals wasn’t fading. The only thing that reassured me Granville wasn’t the father was the paternity results Roosevelt and I had taken. That, and Zach’s silky hair. Granville’s head was bald, but he had pubic hairs that could be plucked and used as a scouring pad.
“Thank You, Jesus.” God had granted me the one thing I’d prayed for: the right father.
My doorbell rang. Tisha was on the monitor. I taped a fresh Pampers diaper to Zach’s bottom, snapped his onesie, and then we headed downstairs.
After I opened the door, Tisha instantly took her future godson out of my arms and lovingly placed him in hers. I handed her his receiving blanket.
“This has got to be the most attractive baby. Madison, you should get him an agent and put him in commercials,” Tisha said, hugging Zach to her shoulder.
We sat in the living room. The doorbell rang again.
“I got it.” Tisha handed me the baby and the blanket, then opened the door. A florist handed her a bouque
t of long-stemmed white roses. Before signing, Tisha sniffed them. “Oh, wow! These are nicely scented.”
“Who are they from?” I asked.
Signing, she closed the door. “Smell.”
I shook my head. She placed them in the center of my coffee table. Tisha took Zach. I read the card: White represents purity (for Zach) and new beginnings (for us). Please forgive me. I love you.—Loretta
I ripped the card into as many pieces as I could.
“Dang, Madison. You don’t have to make confetti. She’s trying to apologize. She wants to see the baby.”
“I don’t want her around my child or me. In fact, I don’t want to live next door to her. Just in case Roosevelt is serious about leaving me for Sindy, I’m going to buy a condo where he lives. That way, I won’t need his permission to get access into the building.”
Tisha shook her head. “That could backfire. What if he remarries and you have to see his new wife all the time?”
“I’ll make her wish she hadn’t. I have his firstborn son.”
My doorbell rang again. I glanced at my monitor.
“I got it,” Tisha said, handing me Zach.
When she opened the door, my dad walked in. “Madison, sweetheart. You’ve got to stop him. Roosevelt gave me notice. He’s stealing my company.”
“Papa, don’t be rude,” I said, tilting my head toward Tisha. “Here, hold Zach.” I wasn’t looking for his response. I placed the blanket and his grandson in his hands. “Hold his head.”
Papa sat on the sofa, placing Zach on his lap. “Hi, Tisha. How’re the boys and your mom?”
“Ever ybody is fine, Mr. Tyler. I’ll tell my mother that you said hello. Madison”—Tisha held her hand to her ear—“call me later so we can continue. Take care of my baby.”
I was glad Tisha had left. I needed to speak with my dad in private. “Papa, he’s not stealing Tyler Construction. He’s putting it under new management, pending our divorce being final. He can’t sell without my consent.”
Zach spit up on Papa’s suit jacket. My dad kept the blanket; then he handed the baby to me. “What am I supposed to do? Sit around the house all day with your mother? If I’m forced to do that, we’ll be next to get a divorce.”
“You worried about not having a twentysomething suck your dick? Or are you seriously concerned about the company?”
I didn’t ask about Mom. Papa wasn’t going anywhere. After I walked in on my father having sex with what he called his “personal assistant,” who was on payroll, I was in favor of his replacement.
Papa paced the full length of my ten-foot area rug. Back and forth he marched, as though whatever he came up with would work. “You can’t stop him.”
Women were much smarter than men. Roosevelt visited me in the hospital seventy-two hours after my double mastectomy surgery. But I was months ahead of him. The second I saw Sindy on his arm, I had to make certain every decision he made was in my favor.
“Papa, would you agree that women are more intelligent than men?”
He frowned. Stared at me. Nodded. “Most, not all.”
“Do you believe I can outthink you?”
I wasn’t challenging my dad. He didn’t come from money. He grew up in Port Arthur. His parents were poor. But I can proudly say my papa had a field full of dreams and a heart filled with love.
The harder Papa tried to get one of those “good jobs” at one of the three refineries in town, the more they gave him the run around. “Come back tomorrow,” or “We’re not hiring right now.” They lied to his face and hired workers the same day. Workers from Houston, Lake Charles, and even New Orleans were given a golden opportunity to earn a decent salary.
The people those toxic fumes were killing slowly couldn’t get employed by those companies and provide health care for their families. When I turned five, Papa decided to move Mama and me to Houston and start his own company. That was almost thirty-one years ago.
“Sweetheart, my ego says ‘no.’ My head knows better.”
“You think you owe me an apology for leveraging my house, selling my car, and pawning my eight engagement rings?”
“You know I did those things to save our company. Tyler Construction would’ve gone bankrupt if I hadn’t taken charge.”
I only had one Papa. No amount of money could make me disown him, no matter how ruthless he was at times. That didn’t mean I agreed with what he’d done. If it weren’t for Roosevelt, our baby and I would be living at home with my parents.
Papa sat on the sofa beside me and patted Zach on the back. My dad shook his head and stared at the floor. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But—”
“No, ‘but.’ ”
“Let me finish—”
“It’s not necessary. I spoke with my attorney. I’ve got a plan to change Roosevelt’s mind.”
“But—”
Interrupting him again, I said, “I signed those papers under duress. He was stupid to come to the hospital and force his wife to sign over her company and grant him a divorce. I—and you’re really going to like this—requested pain meds every four hours so there would be a record, but I wasn’t taking them.”
I wasn’t sure how far my husband would go, but I knew he’d come while I was in the hospital. “Couple that with all of what Roosevelt had done, and consider Sindy’s alienation of affection. You know I can sue her for that. And I’d recently had Roosevelt’s baby—”
Papa smiled. “I guess you are smarter.”
I kissed my son’s stomach. “ ‘Guess’?”
My dad had a strange look on his face.
“What now?” I asked, praying he hadn’t done something again.
“Sweetheart, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you about the baby.”
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by Mary B. Morrison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2013936490
ISBN: 978-0-7582-7302-4
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: August 2013
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-7309-3
eISBN-10: 0-7582-7309-6
First Kensington Electronic Edition: August 2013
I'd Rather Be With You Page 26
