Maneater

by Mary B. Morrison

  I sat at my mother’s feet, placed my head on her knees. “I’ll take care of you, Mom. I promise. You can move into my new house with me.”

  The needles stopped clicking for a moment. She looked at me. Looked down at her lap, started knitting again.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I asked, not giving a damn, wishing he’d die.

  “Can’t say. He told them not to release any information. Didn’t want me to worry. I think his cancer is flaring up again.” Her eyes remained fixed on the yarn, which was unraveling from the spool.

  “Can’t say or won’t? You’re his wife. You have a right to know. You must know, Ma. You shouldn’t have to guess what’s wrong with him.”

  “Why don’t you go see?” she said. “Then come back. Let me know if he’s going to die in that place or come home. I’d appreciate that.” Her eyes closed, then opened. Why wouldn’t she look at me? I was sitting at her feet. How could she not see me?

  My mother had no idea what she was asking. “For you, Ma, I’ll do anything,” I said. I stood. Kissed my mother on her cheek, then headed to the hospital. The same hospital on the South Side where I was born.

  Bypassing the busy nurses at the desk, I swiftly strolled down the hall, scanning the patients’ names on the doors. When I got to his room, I refused to knock. I entered.

  Stood over him. His body, skeletal. Flesh clung to bones. Tubes flowed. One tube connected to the needle in the back of his hand. The other, clamped inside his nose, lay on his sunken chest. Oxygen tank beside his bed.

  “Why?” I asked, waking him up.

  Slowly, his eyes, almost the size of golf balls, opened at the command of my voice. He didn’t scramble. Lay there. No response.

  “Wish I had my gun right now. I wouldn’t shoot you. I’d beat you with the handle until your fucked-up head caved in. Wouldn’t be here if my mother hadn’t asked me to check on you.”

  Feeble, he reached toward the call button.

  Bam!

  I knocked his hand away. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen. I asked you a question. I demand an answer.”

  Gasping, he fumbled to adjust the tube in his nose; his arm trembled. He mumbled, “Had to protect you, son.”

  “Me? Don’t give me that bullshit! Protect me?” I grunted, one inch from his face. “Your sorry ass didn’t give a fuck about me, and I want to know why. Are you my real father?” I asked, wanting to push the needle deep into the back of his hand. But I couldn’t.

  Whimpering, tears streamed down his face. Nodding, he whispered, “Son, I’m gay. I haven’t had sex with your mother in over twenty years. I lied to her. Told her I had prostate cancer. Didn’t want to infect her.” Closing his eyes, he said, “I’m ashamed of how I treated you. I wanted to protect you. Better for me to disown you than to have you find out about my secret life and disown me.”

  That fucked me up. Infected? Gay? “Please tell me you’re lying.”

  He pressed the button connected to his IV, administering what I assumed was a painkiller. He held his finger there.

  I snatched his finger away.

  His head wavered. “Don’t touch me, son…I…I…I have full-blown AIDS. Didn’t want your mother or you to know.” His mouth opened wide. “I want to die. I’m ready. Don’t want to live this way. I deserve to die,” he pleaded, closing his eyes.

  How would I have felt knowing? How would my life have been different?

  He’d fucked up every day of my entire life. The first day he called me son, he mentioned AIDS. How could he do that to me?

  “Take the pillow. Cover my face,” he pleaded. “I’m useless. Don’t want your mother to have to take care of me. Tired of suffering.”

  Ain’t this some shit. He was tired of suffering?

  Before I got here, I thought I could kill him. Now that I knew we were more alike than different, I couldn’t hurt him. I sat beside his bed. I had so many questions. Didn’t know where to begin. “When did you first know you were gay?” I asked him.

  His voice was weak. He struggled to say, “For certain, when I was sixteen.”

  “Did you love my mother?”

  “Still do love her,” he said, closing his eyes. “Best thing that ever happened to me was your mother.”

  My mother, not me.

  “I need you to look at me,” I said, giving him a moment to reopen his eyes. “Why did you want to kill me?”

  He shook his head. Closed his eyes. Opened them. I stared, waiting for his response, praying he’d help me to understand why I was so angry.

  “Misdirected anger. Don’t be like me, son. Accept the fact that you’re gay. You deserve to live your life with whomever you’d like. Don’t marry that girl. Marry the man you love. Don’t ruin her life like I ruined your mother’s by hiding my sexuality. And whatever you do, don’t birth innocent kids into your confusion.”

  So now he had a fucking conscience? Probably found the Lord since he’d been hospitalized.

  I fluffed the pillow behind his head, then walked out.

  Stopping at a pay phone, I dialed his number, filled with dread.

  “You make up your mind yet?” he answered.

  “Yeah. It’s a go. On my wedding day. At exactly twelve noon,” I told him. “One small change of plan. Don’t kill him. Kill me,” I said.

  “Can’t do that. You’re confused. I’m canceling the contract,” he said, then hung up.

  I was relieved. I didn’t want to die at my wedding. Leave Seven with haunting memories. I desperately wanted to be loved for who I was, a gay man.

  Couldn’t face my mother. She’d get the call about my father soon enough. I went home, found Danté sitting in his limo in front of my building. Foyer windows still boarded up from his outbreak.

  I parked in the garage. Met him outside. “Come up. We need to talk.”

  Quietly, Danté followed me onto the elevator. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a gun. Whatever he had planned, I was not resisting.

  “Found this in Seven’s laptop bag,” he said, handing the gun to me.

  Unlocking my front door, I said, “You don’t have to lie on Seven. She’d never touch my gun. If you want to shoot me, go ahead.”

  Danté placed the gun on the table in the foyer.

  Angry all over again, I held open the door, told him to leave. He passed me, went upstairs.

  I followed him to the fridge. He grabbed two beers, sat on the sofa, bit his bottom lip, turned on the television. If he stayed, he’d get what he deserved. At the moment, I hated everyone, including myself.

  Danté slid his hand inside his sweatpants, pulled out his dick, held it in one hand, his beer in the other. My dick hardened instantly.

  I took his beer; poured it over his head, his chest, his dick; dropped to my knees; then wrapped my mouth around him. Tears streamed down my face, blending into the beer. Danté remained silent.

  Holding his hand, I stood, led him to my bedroom. Undressed him.

  Quietly, he undressed me.

  “Ride me rough,” I insisted, submitting to him.

  Danté pushed me face forward against the wall. Grabbed his dick.

  “Maverick, you asleep? Oh, damn. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Seven said, standing in the doorway.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I said, “Could my life possibly get worse?”

  Seven replied, “Maverick, I already know. You need to stop lying to yourself. Carry on. I just came for my car. I’ll be back to get my things tomorrow.”

  Chapter 24

  Zena

  “Hello! Surprise! I’m back.”

  I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Seven was in my living room, and Deuce was asleep beside me.

  Scrambling to find my robe, I rushed to greet Seven.

  “Don’t tell me you’re in the bed, too,” she said, sitting on my white sofa.

  I was so happy to see her, I couldn’t stay upset. I fell on her, hugged her like we hadn’t seen one another in years.

  Leani
ng back, holding her shoulders, beholding a true goddess, I said, “Hot damn! Where the hell did you go?”

  Golden complexion. Seven’s ankle-length cotton dress was tapered to her perfect body. Her grin stretched across her face.

  “Come with me. I’ll show you where I went,” she said.

  “I’ve never seen you so happy. Let me get us something to drink,” I said, disappearing into my kitchen. I stood in the middle of the kitchen floor for a moment. That bitch looks fucking fantastic! I knew I should’ve gone with her. I wouldn’t be trapped with this baby inside me if I had.

  I poured two glasses of cran-apple juice, then made my way back into the living room. “Girl, we have so much to catch up on,” I whispered.

  “I hear you have company. I’m going to get out of your way,” Deuce called from the bedroom.

  Seven’s eyes widened. “Girl, who is that? Seems like I’m not the only one who has a few lifestyle changes going on.”

  Deuce entered the living room. His eyes froze; he stared at Seven. “Hello. I’m Deuce Callahan. How long have you known my Zena?”

  Seven cut me a look, then answered, “How long have you been knowing my best friend, Zena?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You are the one with that gay fiancé,” Deuce said.

  I interrupted, “Baby, don’t. That’s not proper. Seven is my friend, not yours.”

  “Well, she is one hot, sexy friend who doesn’t have to marry a gay man, that’s for sure. I will find you a husband,” he said sternly.

  “I’m good,” Seven said. “Real good. Don’t need a man to define me.”

  Grabbing his bicep, I ushered Deuce out the front door. He was infringing upon our time. After closing the door, I sat on the sofa with Seven. We hugged for a long time. “I seriously missed you. I’m so glad you’re back,” I said, crying.

  “I missed you, too. Sorry I wasn’t much of a friend while I was gone, but, girl, I had the most amazing time. But what I want to know is where you’ve been hiding that fine-ass Nigerian man.”

  Quietly, I said, “He’s my husband.”

  “Your what? How long? Wait. Reverse. I missed a whole lotta shit,” Seven said.

  “That’s the least of my problems. I’m pregnant.” I said, sipping on cran-apple juice, wishing it was a magical abortion serum.

  “Preg…what? When did this happen? You don’t want kids. You never wanted to have kids. You did this for him?”

  “Accident,” I said. “Not his baby. Danté’s.” My stomach churned.

  “Whoa. What? Wait. Back up to the very beginning. I’m all ears,” Seven said.

  As best as I could, in between tears, I gave the overview of how and why I’d married Deuce. How I had ended up in bed with Danté and was now carrying his child. How I planned to let Deuce believe it was his child.

  “Stop crying,” Seven said. “Right now we have to think. First, do you want to have this baby? If you do, I’ll be here for you. If you don’t, we’re going to the abortion clinic in the morning. It’s your body. The one thing you can’t do is let Deuce take care of another man’s child, believing it’s his. That’s trifling. You’ll ruin your life, his life, and your child’s life. Lying is the one thing you are not going to do, you hear me?” she scolded.

  Terribly confused, I asked, “Should I divorce Deuce? Does Danté have a right to know I’m pregnant?”

  “Hell no, girlfriend. On both. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. My mother used to say, ‘Better to ask the Lord for forgiveness than to ask a man.’ And that’s exactly what you are going to do.”

  “Would you say that if I hadn’t sent you those photos of him with Maverick?”

  Seven smiled, then said, “I just walked in on them booty grinding again. Danté had Maverick pressed against the bedroom wall, getting ready to ride him. I walked in by accident. I didn’t trip. I got in my car and came over here. I’ll get my other things from Maverick’s house tomorrow. He wants to talk, but there’s nothing he has to say that I want to hear. I wish him well. Them well.”

  “I’m going to have an abortion,” I blurted, not believing the words I’d spoken.

  Seven smiled at me. “See, aren’t you glad you voted for Obama? McCain would’ve made you have that baby.” We laughed as she continued, “Zena, your body is your temple. There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to spend the rest of your life regretting one night of pleasure. Don’t trip. I’m your best friend forever. After you recover from terminating your pregnancy, I’ll take you to this new spot I found. We’re going to D.C. for six weeks.”

  “You’re not getting off that easy. Where did you go?” I asked.

  “I went to Punany Paradise,” she said, grinning. “Met this guy named Jagger. He is absolutely wonderful, but I’m not ready to get serious with anyone. You know the shit men do to us. Fuck us. Kick it with some other chick. Travel all over, bragging about how they had sex with the finest woman in the world. Emotionally and physically detached, that’s how I’m living my life, and it feels great. See if they can handle the stories I’ve got to kick back at them.”

  Forget all that. I had to stay focused so I wouldn’t get left behind. “Oh, so you went to Punany Paradise, and you wanna take me to D.C.? I’ve been there too many times to count, and let me tell you, the men there are not all that,” I said, frowning.

  Shaking her head, Seven said, “We’re not going to Washington, D.C. Girlfriend, we are going to Dick City. My treat.”

  “Hallelujah!” I said, kicking my feet in the air. “I’d better start repenting right now for my sins.”

  Suddenly, life didn’t seem so gloomy. My best friend had changed my heart. I wondered if we’d run into Oprah and Gayle in D.C. Probably not.

  All I knew was I could not wait!

  …To be continued in D.C.,

  Dick City

  * * *

  Are You a Maneater?

  (Score yourself here.)

  No

  No

  No

  Yes

  Yes

  Yes

  Yes

  Yes

  Yes

  Yes

  Yes

  Give yourself 10 points for each of your answers that match the answers above.

  0–50 You are close to becoming a maneater but have work to do.

  51–80 Your maneating skills are good.

  81–100 You are a true maneater.

  101–110 You need to come with a maneater warning label. Congrats!

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  It’s Monday, November 3, 2008.

  First, I’d like to thank my Creator for blessing me with an honorable character. I live my life bettering myself while encouraging and helping others. In one hour, I’m heading to Obama headquarters here in Oakland to make phone calls to voters around the country. Tomorrow I’ll do the same. Perhaps I will call you.

  I love my editor, Selena James. Adore my agent Claudia Menza. Am grateful for my Kensington family: Laurie Parkin, who is never too busy for me, Karen Auerbach, Adeola Saul, Jessica McLean, Steven Zacharius, and Walter Zacharius.

  My Grand Central Publishing family, Karen R. Thomas, my editor, Linda A. Duggins, my publicist, and LaToya Smith, you are absolutely beautiful. Thanks for your generous support. And to my agent Andrew Stuart, thanks for taking special care of me.

  In Character of a Man, I allowed Seven, Zena, Maverick, and Danté to be true to themselves, hoping you will understand that our deepest internal struggles shape the core of who we are.

  Do me a favor. Select one person in your life, open up to them, share with them who you really are. Share your fears, your goals, and your dreams. At the same time, get to know the same about another individual. I mean, really get to know them.

  What I learned from writing Character of a Man is, like the characters, most people, myself included, don’t have anyone who truly understands who they are. That could be because we don’t open up, or the people we open up to don’t he
ar us, or we simply don’t understand who we are.

  My pride and joy and love smile and shine through my eyes whenever I think of my one and only twenty-two-year-old, six-foot-nine, super-handsome, intelligent, and talented son, Jesse Bernard Byrd, Jr. He’s a young man of great character. I love my son with all my heart, and that’s the same way I love myself.

  I want to thank another man with upstanding character, Barack Obama, for giving me hope that Americans will become united throughout all the States. I’ve already noticed a positive change. Some of you have opened your hearts, shared your personal experiences with me, and I appreciate you. From Gary, an eighty-year-old white man who openly told me about his sex life, to my dear friends Ed Fitzpatrick (owner) and Bill Gaines (the man) @ Coliseum Lexus of Oakland (I have bought three Lexus cars and am looking at the convertible now), to the married woman @ the Blackberry Bistro who shared intimate details of her marriage. Each of you has helped me to grow.

  Obviously, without my parents, there’d be no me or my wonderful son. I’m eternally grateful to Elester Noel and Joseph Henry Morrison. Both of my parents have made their transitions, my mother when I was nine years old and my father when I was twenty-four years old. For those of you who are blessed to still have your parents, give thanks.

  My parents also blessed me with the greatest siblings in the world—Wayne Morrison, Andrea Morrison, Derrick Morrison, Regina Morrison, Margie Rickerson, and Debra Noel. I love my siblings.

  I hate that one of my sisters stopped speaking to me because she didn’t like the way I asked her to repay me. Truth be told, she has a husband, and if she accepts his doing less than his part, personally that isn’t my concern. If he’d done his part, she wouldn’t have needed to borrow anything from anyone. Bottom line, I’m always going to love my sister, no matter how she feels about me.

  For Tasty Tuesdays in the HoneyB VIP Suite, we come together at Arsimona Lounge in my hometown, Oakland, California, every third Tuesday of the month to discuss relationship issues and challenges. If you find yourself in Oakland during this time, e-mail me and become my personal guest.