Man Curse

by Raqiyah Mays

  At this point we were screaming in the mall, standing in front of the food court. I swerved my neck as he circled around me.

  This was our thing. Zero to one hundred in a second. One minute lovey-dovey, the next enraged.

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” I said, turning on my heel. “I’m going back to work.”

  “Cool, I’m going to talk to Paul.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re leaving.”

  “Why don’t you want me to talk to him, Meena?” he said, walking past me, accusing me. “You fucking him?”

  I was used to his jealousy by now. “What? No, he’s married.”

  “So, that doesn’t mean anything. I remember what happened with your Jamaican fling that summer.”

  I ran in front of him and put my hand on his chest. “If you talk to Paul, I will break up with you. Leave, Dex.”

  Suddenly his eyes were teary. “You would do that? Why? I love you.”

  “Because you’re making a scene in the mall. We’re arguing. This is where I work. You’re embarrassing me, Dexter. Please leave.”

  Then he began whining. “But I need you in my life. I love you.”

  “I know,” I said, walking close to kiss him on the lips. “Pick me up at six p.m., outside the mall. Don’t come inside, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, holding in his tears like a toddler. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you.”

  “It’s obvious.”

  Dexter was always saying how much he loved me. The problem is that love is not enough to make a relationship work. Even once we moved in together, making candlelit dinners and having loud sex every night, our situation continued to implode.

  Chapter 5

  You know that moment when you blow up a man’s phone. Send multiple pages. Text messages. Calling so many times, hoping the back-to-back ringing beats him between the ears so hard that he can’t help picking up and replying.

  I could hear the exasperation in Dexter’s voice. “Meena, I told you I had a meeting.”

  “Well, where are you?”

  “I told you,” he said, sucking his teeth. “I had to go to the office.”

  “But it’s Sunday,” I whined. “Why are you at the office on a Sunday?”

  “Meena, I can’t do this right now. I have to call you back.”

  “But wait . . .”

  “What?”

  “Just . . .” I sighed, and elongated an exaggerated pause as I strained to hear something in the background.

  “Hello?” he asked, tense and impatient.

  “Call me when you’re leaving.”

  “I might be a while.”

  “You didn’t say that earlier. I thought we were having dinner.”

  “Meena, I will call you back.”

  I threw the phone down, screaming, “Asshole!”

  Brooding on the couch, face turned up, I stared at Grandma Fey’s picture on the mantel. All the yelling Dexter and I did reminded me of Grandma telling one of her stories at the reunion.

  The life of the almost-retired side of the party, she talked at an escalated volume, cracking up at her own jokes. With a tendency to recount the details of a family fight involving knives, cussing, and screaming, Grandma Fey and her happy giggles brought contagious laughs and discomfort.

  “I watched Mama pull a knife on my daddy. Yeah, Daddy hit her while she was cookin’. And Mama grabbed a butcher knife, put it to his neck, and said, ‘If you hit me again, I’ll kill you.’ Mama didn’t take no crap.” Grandma laughed loud and boisterously, swaying back and forth. Her bright purple dress swept the ground with each move. A gold tooth glistened as she opened her mouth extra wide. “Uh-huh,” she’d add with a nod, before taking a finger to scratch the dry scalp flaking under her curly tight wig.

  Grandma Fey’s mother, or Ma Betty, as we called her, had died like her daddy, Great-Great-Grandpa Marcus. Like her father, Ma Betty passed with no memory of who she was and what she’d been born on earth to do. The Alzheimer’s was so severe that she was placed in a nursing home where visits from family members became as uncommon as married black women. She died alone, under covers stained by infected bedsores oozing puss. Her death caused a rift in the family between those who’d regularly visited and ones who hadn’t.

  As usual, the family curse had touched her. Decades before Ma Betty became sick, she was an upbeat go-getter, proud voter, skilled baker, and soul food chef. Traumatized by disappointment and heartbreak, Betty decided to spend the rest of her days without a man. Ironically, her three younger sisters followed this same path, remaining single till their deaths.

  When random family reunion time came and they all got together, the matriarch Mitchell ladies would find themselves on familiar relationship ground.

  “Want a man, but don’t need one. Probably won’t get one,” I remembered hearing Ma Betty say during one of our holiday family visits to her home in Brooklyn. “Hand me that towel,” she’d instructed my mother, who was in the kitchen, watching her drizzle lemon glaze frosting over a moist, bundt-shaped pound cake. “Mitchell women are cursed. Gon’ be all alone, forever.”

  Sitting at the kitchen table next to me, sipping a tall cup of Pepsi while watching an old Western, Grandma Fey yelled without taking her eyes off the TV, “Don’t put those things in Deena’s head.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Ma Betty snorted. “I know.”

  “It is not,” Grandma spit back. “I been married.”

  It was the first time I’d ever heard that Grandma Fey had married. As I found out, she was eighteen when she’d met a charming, light-complexioned man with curly black hair—Bill Boone. They dated two weeks before jumping the broom. Six months later, she was home pregnant when a woman knocked at the door.

  “Hi, does Billy Boone live here?” A short, plump woman waited for an answer. She wore a large sunhat with a daffodil pinned to the side.

  “Yes, Bill lives here,” Grandma Fey said. “May I help you?”

  “Who are you?” the little lady asked, putting her suitcase on the steps. “Do you live here?”

  “I’m his wife, who are you?”

  “His wife.”

  Grandma says she almost passed out when those words came from that woman’s mouth. But still, Southern hospitality was upheld as she invited her inside for tea. Over sips of Earl Grey, Grandma found out that Bill had disappeared from his other home in Raleigh, North Carolina, leaving behind a pregnant, penniless wife. This lady, Peggy, had eventually found out where Bill lived by tracking a postmarked envelope he’d sent containing five dollars and a handwritten letter with three words: “For your troubles.”

  Fey and Peggy cried together, sharing dates, experiences, similar occurrences, anguishing over their pain. And when the meeting was over, Fey prepared for the confrontation.

  “I’ma kill his ass,” she said, as Peggy smiled and replied, “I understand.”

  Hours later . . .

  “Motherfucker, where you been?” she asked as her drunken mate faked a smooth swagger through the front door, before tripping over the edge of the living room rug. He held himself up by digging his nails into the plastic coating on the arm of the couch.

  “I been out, I told you,” he slurred. “Why you worrying?”

  “’Cause I smell your breath. And you said you’d be home by ten. It’s three a.m.”

  “Damn, you always questioning me, woman. I don’t question you when you out at your church events all day long. Let me be.”

  SMACK.

  The slap across his face caused sideways slobber to fly across the room, splattering against the window. Stunned, he pushed himself up off the chair to receive a beating of words.

  “What kind of man leaves his pregnant wife home without a call? You ain’t shit. I knew I shouldn’t have married you,” she
screamed, right hand steady on her hip. “And you got the nerve to bring my church into this? You need Jesus.”

  “Bitch,” Bill replied slowly, stumbling up straight. “I don’t care who the hell you are, the mother of my child, my wife, whatever, don’t you touch me.” He balled up his fist and punched her so hard that she fell into the living room shelf. Family photos in their frames tumbled to the floor. Blood-soaked tears streamed down her face as a gash oozed from her forehead.

  “See what you done made me do?” he said. “Damn!”

  “I hate you,” she screamed back, one hand rubbing her pregnant belly. “I hope you go to hell for what you did to me and your other wife.”

  Bill paused, shaken, before saying, “I don’t know what you talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. Peggy? Your other wife?” His mouth opened slightly. “Yeah, the one from Raleigh. She came to visit today. You left her pregnant and had the nerve to send her five dollars ‘for her troubles,’ ” she said, holding a porcelain angel that had slipped off the shelf. “You remember that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t need this,” he said, waving his hand in the air. Stumbling toward the front door, Bill stopped before leaving, staring through the screen in shock at a woman walking quickly up the sidewalk, grabbing a boy’s hand. The four-year-old tried to keep up as his tiny legs dragged behind. His mother clenched his fingers and the straps of a large black purse, holding it tightly to the side of an oversize pregnant stomach.

  Turning to help Fey stand, he caressed her arm, easing her up off the shelf, lifting his woman high. And with the angel figurine, she bashed him on the side of the head.

  “Owww!”

  Grandma Fey always laughed when she told this part of the story. “Owwww,” she’d say in a high-pitched voice, mocking Bill’s pussylike whimper. Continuing the saga, she told the parts where he cussed and held his throbbing head. And then the final moment, when he stared at Fey’s bloated belly, turned without a word, and left. Decades later, my mother, who was a fetus at the time of the fight, had yet to meet her dad. And the story, as it always did, left an awkward moment of silence, which Grandma Fey broke by looking up and yelling at me.

  “Meena, don’t you bring no crazy boys home. Get you a nice one,” she said, pointing at me. “Smart. But don’t let him hit you. Or I’ma beat him.”

  I’d never had that problem, I thought, sitting alone on my couch, staring through the blinds. The sun dipped behind clouds casting shadows across the horizon that opened up to torrential rain showers. I picked up the phone to dial, pausing to look at the numbers, before throwing the cordless back on the couch. Glancing out the window for signs of a green Hyundai, I grabbed the phone again and dialed Dexter’s number. Once. Twice. Voice mail a third time. The anxiety strangled my stomach, tightening muscles into gassy contortions. I decided, as I tossed the phone down a fourth time, I was ready to do something about this situation.

  Chapter 6

  During moments of idle time, when the store was slow, when seconds felt like hours, I could see Dexter’s cute face. His smooth, caramel skin and shiny bald head bopping down the hallway. Those lips I loved to kiss, whimpering and shaking as he rubbed them up and down my body. His licking and sticking his tongue down my neck, onto my nipples, inside my belly button, and around my clit. I throbbed at the thought of him ripping through my underwear, pushing inside, stabbing me there. I was addicted. A week seemed to be our peace record. Accord and love and calm till the seven-day mark hit.

  We had actually gone over the limit by the next Sunday, when he announced, “I’m going to get gas.” We were lounging on the couch, preparing to watch basketball. “And I’ma pick up some chips.”

  I didn’t want him to go, and he didn’t need to. “We have Doritos in the cabinet,” I said, pulling him back down to the seat. “Why do you have to go get gas now? The game is about to come on.”

  “Because I probably won’t have time in the morning before work.”

  That triggered a memory, and I asked, puzzled, “Didn’t you just get gas yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t see the tank half-full?”

  “Maybe, but that was yesterday.”

  This was getting weird. “Well, where have you been driving? This isn’t a big town.”

  “Why the hell are you asking so many questions?”

  “Why do you have a problem with that?”

  “Because I feel like you’re accusing me of something.”

  A light began flashing inside my mind. “Well, why do you feel like that?” I stood up, looking down at him. “Is it guilt?”

  “I’ll be right back, Meena.”

  “How are you gonna leave in the middle of me talking to you?”

  “Why do you always want to beef? Damn, I’m getting sick of that shit.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No, you’re not, Meena. You take too long to get ready.”

  Now we were getting to tired old excuses. “Whatever. I’m going.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “How come? What are you hiding?”

  “I’m not getting into this. I’ll be back.”

  He walked out the door and drove off.

  The liar vibe made my intuitive sixth-sense antenna shake. I ran into the bedroom to check his pants pockets, thinking I might find a phone number scribbled across a tiny piece of paper. At the same time I was praying my thoughts of his deception and cheating were simply ludicrous mind tricks of an abandoned girl gone cuckoo from lusty love. I almost believed it was all in my head when I heard a buzz across the room and turned to see his pager vibrating on the bed.

  My heart palpitated as I walked slowly over to it. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I sat down, picked up the black pager, and looked at the digits lighting up the screen.

  I didn’t recognize the number. Holding the pager in hand, I wondered whether I should return the call. Wondered whether he’d walk in the door and catch me in the act of snooping. I looked out the front window. No sign of Dexter. So I grabbed the cordless and dialed.

  “Hello,” a female voice answered. I could hear a basketball game playing in the background. “Hello?”

  I hung up. My stomach did cartwheels. A tiny ping made me breathe harder and harder, my heart pound faster. I waited five minutes, still staring out the window. Praying. Breathing. Saying to myself, Lord, if there’s anything I need to know about this man, please let me know.

  I picked up the phone and called back the last number dialed.

  “Hello,” said a female voice. I could hear the echo of a commercial jingle, mimicking the channel on my TV.

  “Yeah, did someone call from this number for Dexter?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “This is his girlfriend. Who’s this?”

  Dial tone.

  I sat still in shock as Dexter’s key fought to open the front door. “Babe, we gotta get this lock changed,” he said in the hallway. “It’s broke as hell. Can you please unlock the door for me? I don’t have time for this today.”

  I walked to the door and promptly bolted the second lock.

  “Uh, Meena, can you take the chain off, please?”

  “Are you cheating on me?” I asked, opening the door slightly and speaking through the tiny space the chain allowed. “Tell the truth.”

  “Oh, my God. Again, Meena? No.”

  “Tell the truth, Dexter. Are you cheating on me?”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “Who paged you today?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His voice didn’t sound innocent in the slightest. “Who the fuck is the bitch answering that number?”

  “You called it?”

  “Maybe.”

  He had the nerve to cop an attitude. “Did I give you permission to retur
n calls to my pager? Why are you so fuckin’ nosy?”

  “And you’re a lying bitch. Who the fuck is the chick answering that number?”

  “Meena, open the door. Your mind is playing tricks on you again. Come on, I gotta pee.”

  “Pee at that bitch’s house.”

  “Let me the fuck in or I will break this door down.”

  “And I will call the police on your black ass.”

  With one heavy push, Dexter banged into the door. The force tore the chain off the wall, making it fly across the living room. Exposed to his anger, I threw the pager at him. He ducked to the side too late. Wincing in pain, he firmed his lips and walked toward me.

  “Get the fuck away from me,” I said, putting my hands on his chest. “Get up off me.”

  “Why did you throw that pager at me? Look at my head.”

  A tiny knot had risen on the left side of his temple.

  He moved to grab my arm, but I pushed him away, picked his car keys up off the floor, and made a stabbing motion toward him that scratched his arms.

  “What the fuck! Meena!” he screamed, throwing a right hook at the wall, leaving mangled plaster and an imploded hole.

  Turning to run toward me like a linebacker, Dex grabbed both my arms, pinning them behind my back as I fell to the floor.

  “Get off me!” I screamed, struggling as he raised his fist. “Get off me!”

  I looked up at him from the floor. His face was a mixture of anger and confusion.

  “Go ahead. Hit me!” I screamed. “Hit me! Do it, motherfucker. Do it!”

  His fist behind him, ready to pelt me with tight punches, stayed raised in the air as a tear came out the corner of his eye. I kicked and pushed myself free of his hold.

  “Fuckin’ bitch,” I said, eyes glazed with rage. “Can’t even hit me. Pussy-ass motherfucker.”

  I could see myself saying these things. Standing outside my body, observing the scene, being my own audience. And as much as I knew that what I was saying was wrong—a horrible, dysfunctional display of love—I couldn’t stop. It was like something wired in me; I was like a robot activated by words to move into action, displaying hate, violence, and pain. I didn’t know where that crap came from. But it was like an awakening of lava that had been festering and simmering, hidden inside an unknown deep volcano.