Man Curse

by Raqiyah Mays

  “I’m so sick of this song,” she said. “I mean, I miss Biggie. But damn, every hour? This song depresses me. Messing up my high.”

  She popped in Missy Elliott’s latest CD, Supa Dupa Fly.

  Weed became my weekends, with a hip-hop soundtrack. Getting in Meredith’s car, driving to the park, smoking, and rapping while high. It was the greatest pastime ever.

  On Monday, I returned to Merrill Lynch’s creative services department. It had been my summer internship since sophomore year. I’d only applied because my professors kept stressing how I needed an internship for my résumé. So I submitted my application, interviewed with a recruiter who was visiting my college campus, and was offered a paid summer internship proofreading company brochures. They loved me so much that I was able to freelance whenever I wanted. Dressed in a pair of thin navy blue pants, black pumps, and a silk white shirt I’d bought from The Limited, I reported for duty to learn the ins and outs of working in a corporate publishing department—from copy editing to art design, management, and production. I lunched with gossipy, nosy white people, wanting to know my background. Like whether my mother was married, whether I had siblings, and where my family was from. I smiled, politely answering with one-word answers. “No.” “Yes.” “South Carolina.” I did this in the spirit of my mother echoing sternly, “What happens in this family, stays in this family.”

  So although I didn’t share much, I did get to know my coworkers through company functions, socializing, mingling. I loved my job. But I quickly learned that I never wanted to work anywhere I was required to dress up every day. It was expensive and I hated sweating out my blouses during the summer New Jersey Transit commute to South Jersey. I’d wait on the platform—sun beaming, humidity melting—hoping to pile into a crowded train car where the air conditioner worked. The tomboy in me craved jeans, sneakers, and cheap T-shirts. Yet, despite the dress code, the checks were good for someone in their twenties. And I knew having a company like Merrill Lynch on my résumé would impress employers and take me to a respected level.

  Now that I was out of school, I switched from working in Merrill Lynch’s editorial department to shadowing designers in the art department, where I met Emmanuel. He was a manager and one of the only black men on the job; we naturally gravitated toward each other. With his fine chocolate skin, a tiny gap between his two bottom front teeth, muscles bulging through his suit shirt, and his fresh Jamaican accent, he seemed to move nicely among the powers that be.

  “Is that your family?” I asked, glancing at a picture of him standing between a redhead and a little boy with a wild, fuzzy Afro.

  “Yeah, that’s my wife, Susan, and my son, Weston.”

  “Do you want more kids?”

  “Well, she’s actually pregnant now,” he said, nodding his head.

  “How many months?”

  “Six.”

  “Well, congrats, Daddy.” I smiled, shaking his hand. “That must be exciting.”

  “Not really,” he said, and he started stroking the back of my palm. “You know, I’m a man.”

  Nervous yet turned on by the sudden aggression, I suddenly became conscious of his finger working its magic. I slowly moved my hand. “So what does that mean?”

  “It means that I have my needs.”

  “Uh-oh.” I laughed. “Sounds like a problem.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re a pretty girl, you don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Worry about what?”

  “You know, causing a man problems. I’m sure you know how to handle us.”

  “And I’m sure you know how to handle a woman.” I grinned.

  “I know what they like.”

  “I know what you like.” I felt a wet throbbing in my vagina, as I crossed my legs and looked him over—his eyes, his pecs, the seat of his pants, then back to his eyes again. It had been weeks since I’d had sex. Dexter was gone. Wet dreams were on replay.

  A tiny smirk creeped onto Emmanuel’s face. I bit the side of my lip and blinked slowly, careful to maintain eye contact. That’s all a woman needs to show a man she’s interested. Steady eye contact and a smile.

  “Ooh, you need to stop,” I said, pointing to the computer screen. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  “I do need to get on it,” he said. “You wanna help?”

  “Maybe,” I said, getting up to walk away.

  “Where you going?”

  “Lunch,” I answered, slightly twisting my hips, knowing he was watching. “I suddenly have a taste for a hot dog.”

  Chapter 9

  I knew better than to get involved with a married man. My fear of bad karma haunted me with visions of my future husband cheating on me. Lurking beneath the confidence I exuded in responding to Emmanuel’s flirty advances was a woman conflicted between the vulnerability of being fresh out of a relationship with Dexter, raw with the angry pain of love gone wrong, and the hunger for testosterone-filled attention, the yearning to feel the sweetness of a man strung out after sipping the juice oozing from between my legs. And the fact that he was twenty years older than I was made the thought of this particular conquest even more exciting.

  Over the next few weeks, the flirting episodes between Emmanuel and me became more intense and frequent. He’d see me at the Xerox machine and make an excuse to brush past, or hand over a stack of papers that needed to be copied. He’d try to take lunch the same hour as I did, and verbally flirt with me the entire meal—how he loved my lips, eyes, body, the way I chewed, and the pinkie I lifted when I drank from a glass. He’d talk to me about smoking weed, and I’d hang around after work so he could drive me to the train station while we puffed a joint together.

  Yet after months of foreplay, as summer green turned to autumn gold, I wasn’t taking the next step. I’d seen the future path of situations like this. Because my mother had already walked that road with a man named Larry.

  The truth is that the times I liked being around my mother were when she had a man. Those were the moments I recall her being happiest. I remember when she brought Larry home. He was a tall, skinny, milk chocolate–complexioned brother. Tiny freckles spotted his nose and a gruff goatee blanketed his chin. He was the only tall man I’d ever known not to play basketball or even like it. Hating the height-inspired stereotype, he chose instead to play with cars. Tinkering in classic rides like 1960s Mustangs and Corvettes, Larry drove a vintage ride with a classic rock music system. I usually knew when he arrived, because I’d hear the loud giggles coming from the back of his throat. It sounded like a laugh clogged in a mucusy sinus infection.

  Despite sounding of sickness, his humor was contagious, and the jokes made my mother crack up. The anticipation of his coming filled her with delight, lifting the heaviness of life and stuffing it away into a secret baggage claim. She’d fly through the house, humming sweet melodies. And float into the kitchen to whip up a light buttercream frosted cake. Pulling out pots, pans, and special plates, Mom would prepare an elaborately soulful feast of Larry’s favorites: golden fried whiting, spicy collard greens, creamy macaroni and cheese, and moist yellow corn bread. She’d slip on heels, squeeze into a fitted dress, curl her hair, retouch her makeup, and head to the door to let Larry in.

  “Honey, I’m home!” he’d always say as he walked in with an overstretched grin.

  “Hey, Meena!” he shouted, seating himself at the head of the dining room table. A hot plate waited next to a cold beer. “How you doing?”

  At first I didn’t reply, instead staring at my fork, cheese clinging to my teeth.

  “Somebody’s talking to you, Meena!” my mother snapped.

  “Fine,” I answered, cutting my eyes at Larry. “I’m done. I’m going to do my homework.”

  “It should’ve already been done,” she hissed. “Get on my nerves . . .”

  At the time, I didn’t understand the resentment boiling my bl
ood, bouncing from Mom to Larry. I was annoyed by her jaunts in Wonderland, coordinated with his visits. I wondered why she wasn’t as happy with me as she was in his presence. She never laughed out loud, eyes closed, head cocked back when we were alone. She never whipped up a holiday-size meal for me. And as relieved as I felt that the abuse and neglect stopped upon Larry’s arrivals, I hated the truth. How she would morph into a smiling Stepford wife and then switch back to her evil alter ego the moment he pulled out of the driveway. I understood enough to dare not take my mad Meena world out on Mom. So I found ways to project it onto Larry, mostly through one-word sentences and silence.

  It took months until I began warming up to him. Things changed the day he arrived with select company.

  “She just jumped inside my car,” he said, holding the screen door open. “I don’t know her name.” Walking outside, I saw a small black and brown dog, peeing on the sidewalk. It looked like a tiny version of a rottweiler, but its tail and ears weren’t clipped.

  “She must like me,” he said, looking at my mother from the side. “I got out to get gas and she just jumped in.”

  “Yeah, right,” Mom said, rolling her eyes with a slight smile.

  “It’s the truth!”

  My mother had always been firmly against having a pet, thinking I wasn’t responsible enough. She complained of paws scraping her shiny wooden floors. And pee soaking into the living room rug.

  “This dog is not my responsibility, Meena,” she said with a furrowed brow. “You have to get up early in the morning to walk her. Do it again after school and before you go to bed. Feed her, wash her, keep her in your room, and in the basement or outside when you’re not home. I don’t want my house smellin’ like dog.”

  “I can keep her?” I screamed, smiling, chasing the puppy as it scurried into the house. “I’ma name her Lady!”

  “And keep it out of my kitchen!” Mom yelled after me.

  I scooped up Lady, ran to my bedroom, and caressed her on my bed. I’d wanted a dog since I was three, but never imagined having one while living under my mother’s neat-freak roof. I sat back, watching Lady acquaint herself with the room, realizing that I actually liked Larry. He was like God to Mom: when he spoke, clouds scattered, opening the way for sunlight to shine a loving glow upon our hearts, transforming my mother from wicked witch to benevolent peacemaker. I hoped they’d get married. I dreamed of having a real daddy.

  Until I overheard a phone call one night.

  “When are you coming by? You said you were coming this weekend.”

  My mother’s deep, husky voice was raspy, dragging, lethargically trying to recover from botched heart surgery by Dr. Love. The sound of concerned emotion in high-pitched vocal cords awakened me. So I snuck to her bedroom door and stood stiff as a mannequin to listen.

  “Larry, will you listen for a minute? I need you to fix my car. I . . . I . . .” Her voice drifted into a sob. “What? I don’t care what she needs. Acting like you have a wife. You said you were separated.”

  My mind raced with questions, disbelieving what I’d just heard. Married? Larry? Since when? Had Mom known when they first started? She couldn’t have. They seemed like the epitome of perfection. So happy and loving, never arguing. Larry would come home to dinner. She’d sit on his lap, stroking the goatee rooted with gray hairs curling from his chin. He’d crack a corny joke and she’d damn near fall on the floor laughing. I was both confused and sad, wanting to gain answers to my questions while giving hugs to show comfort.

  But I didn’t want to get slapped for eavesdropping. So I stood in place, stiff by the door, slightly crouched over, sore in my right leg from standing still enough not to make the floor creak.

  “You’re not going to divorce her, so stop lying. I am so tired of this shit. The lies, the bullshit . . . I knew what? Uh-uh, don’t try and make it like . . . You know what? Fuck you, Larry! Fuck. You.” And she slammed down the phone.

  I didn’t move. Stuck in shock, too scared to breathe, muscles in my body aching for a stretch. I wanted to hug her. Then I was surprised by a sound I’d never heard before. I could hear the bed squeak as she sat on the side sniffling, trying to muffle depressed moans with a tissue. When the phone rang, I ran back to bed, synchronizing and camouflaging my footsteps with each ringtone.

  This breakup went on for about a month, until one Sunday, I walked in the house and saw Larry sitting at the dinner table. Smiling, he and Mom lovingly gazed at each other, like two honeymooners. After dinner, as they washed dishes together, I saw him smack her butt, grab a belt buckle hole, and pull her close to kiss.

  I ran upstairs to my bedroom, angry, bothered by questions racing through my brain. The first person I called was Meredith.

  “He’s back.”

  “Whaaat?” She stretched out the word, enunciating the t. “Did he apologize?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Did your mother say anything about him coming over?”

  Silence.

  “And then they just started making out?”

  “Yes.” This time I enunciated, stressing the s, full of surprise.

  “That is gross,” Meredith said. “I’m sorry, girl . . .”

  I didn’t reply. Tears bubbled up, coating my pupils. Confusion glossed my eyes. Betrayal and bewilderment glazed my heart. How dare he act as if everything was okay? While he played house with his part-time wife, leaving broken promises on Lincoln Street. Like the one where he promised to take Lady and me to the park, leaving us to silently cry, staring out the bedroom window, waiting for his car to pull up. Like the lie he told Mom. Stealing her heart. Masking his matrimony. Taking advantage of a young single woman and her child. Larry was the Devil shaped with four legs and a horn between his eyes. He was one of those dog men I’d heard about in family discussions—high on promises, low on reliability, prone to letdowns, and scarce truth. Leading women to a shit-filled destiny: fallen, broken, begging in a dusty cloud of disappointment. His trickery was painful treachery.

  That night, after changing into a nightshirt and dozing off, I was suddenly awakened by the faint sound of a woman in pain. I’d always been a light sleeper, often waking to the faraway chirps of birds in trees from the neighbor’s lawn. The whimper came in steady intervals, making me sit up still, careful not to move, hoping to make out the sound. I looked at the clock, which read 2:00 a.m., and listened. Every thirty seconds, slight gasps of breath creeping up the steps, under the door, down my spine, curling into chilly goose bumps.

  Tiptoeing out my room, I felt the blue, body-length Mickey Mouse T-shirt I was wearing sweep the floor. I tried to squeeze through the crack of my bedroom door without fully opening it, causing the bolts to squeak.

  Someone might be hurting Mom.

  The thought petrified me.

  Maybe she left the TV on.

  I tried to force myself into positive thinking as violent screenshots from horror films like Friday the Thirteenth and Psycho bounced blots of bloody scenes across my brain.

  I stood at the top of the stairs, listening for the moan again, on alert for that sound of illness and pain. Standing on my tiptoes, thinking it might make my footsteps lighter and quieter, I crept halfway down into chilly darkness. Refusing to turn the hallway light on, I strained to see through the living room blackness, managing to make out something that looked like two bodies. As my eyes focused, clearing up the postsleep daze, I knew exactly what I was seeing. The sight made me bite the right side of my mouth and fold up my lips in shock.

  There in the darkness of two in the morning, on the floor, next to the sofa, lying faceup on the beige rug, was my mother. She sat twitching and wincing, with nasty farts coming from her ass. She moaned intensely, wiggling, as she opened her legs wide for Larry, who was facedown, slurping out her vagina.

  I didn’t know what to do but sit on the steps and cry. Pulling at the soft rug comforting my sh
ivers, quietly I wept, sniffing up snot rolling from my nostrils. I used the backs of my hands to wipe the tears, blurring the graphic triple-X scene. I don’t know why I didn’t run back to my room and lock the door. I just sat there, twelve years old, watching, bawling, and sniffing. My crying became noticeably louder, until I heard my mother call my name.

  “Meena,” she said through the dark, sitting up, arms crossed over her breasts, looking in my direction. “Meena, come here.”

  Larry scrambled for his jeans, nasally giggling and grinning as he accidentally placed his foot in the wrong pant leg. He threw my mother her bra.

  “Meena,” she said.

  I could’ve sworn she was laughing at me, too, a tiny smirk on her face, perhaps straining to find humor in the discomfort and embarrassment.

  “Meena . . .”

  But I ran. Crying out loud, rushing up the stairs and into my room. No one followed. No one came to comfort me. No one talked about what I’d seen. And even when I overslept the next morning, I expected my mother to be up screaming at me like she usually did. But when I peeked out my bedroom, her door was shut. Not even the sound of the morning radio blared as usual. Hoping she wouldn’t catch me before leaving, I dressed as fast as I could, wolfed down a couple of slices of jelly toast, grabbed my book bag, tiptoed around the spot where I’d seen Mom and Larry doing it, and ran out the house to catch the 7:20 bus to school.

  Outside, a satisfying cool fall breeze relaxed my hot body as I ran down the block. Happy I’d made it on time. Relieved Mom wasn’t able to catch my sleeping late. Haunted by visions I wasn’t ready to speak on. I was embarrassed to have seen it, ashamed for not stopping myself from watching. Swearing to tell no one; perhaps Mom and I made the same promise, because to this day, she has never talked to me about that night.

  That memory continued to haunt me even as I flirted with Emmanuel. But I wasn’t Mom. I was better. Smarter. Careful to keep a wall around my heart, have fun, and not fall victim to stupidity. The curse on my family had showed up in a way I refused to repeat.