Man Curse

by Raqiyah Mays

  The night before, I’d seen Denise laughing loudly in VIP, guzzling down glasses of red wine. I was sure there was no way she’d be in the office at nine thirty. So I aimed to be there by ten—or rather, 10:11, which was on time in Meena world.

  When I walked in, the office was a vacant room of silence. Late nights didn’t work well for magazine editors, or their assistants. I dragged myself to my desk and sat down; my phone rang. Clearing away the tired, overnight cobwebs in my throat, I smiled to adjust the tone of my voice and answered, upbeat, “Denise Banor’s office.”

  “Meena.”

  “Hey, Denise.”

  “You on vacation today?”

  “No, why are you calling the office line?”

  “Because I’ve been ringing your cell phone and paging you for the past thirty minutes.”

  I looked at my cell. It had five missed calls. None I heard, because I’d forgotten to take the ringer off silent from the night before.

  “You didn’t tell me my nine o’clock breakfast had been moved,” Denise continued. I could hear the siren of a fire truck in the background. “I’m in the street, rainy as hell, looking like a fool, lost.”

  “Where was the meeting moved to?”

  “You’re supposed to tell me, Meena. That’s why you’re my assistant.”

  I suddenly remembered the call, the day before, from Clive Owen’s assistant, requesting the meeting be changed. But after being on the phone with Sean, caught up with his three-way to Kelly Jones, and his telling me I was his girl, I’d forgotten to write it down. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered. Gas bubbles formed.

  “It was changed to Café Jule on Forty-sixth Street,” Denise said. “But I was at the Kitano on Park. So I was thirty minutes late, and looked like a fool walking in. This was an important meeting, Meena. I need to confirm this Whitney cover. But we only got to meet for fifteen minutes because I was late. And now he’s leaving the country on vacation and I won’t be able to meet with him again until next month. After July fourth, damn near two months, Meena.”

  “I’m sorry, Denise. My phone was on silent, and I overslept and—”

  “Meena, your phone should never be off when you work for me. And you know I don’t like being late. We’ll talk about this when I get to the office.”

  And she hung up.

  An hour later, when Denise arrived at work, she didn’t address me directly. Her communication came through memos and to-do lists she’d throw at my inbox. They all came with Post-its stuck to them and instructions in capital letters written with red pen: “PROOF THIS.” “PASS THIS OUT.” “READ THIS.” “REMIND ME OF THIS.” “SAVE THIS.” “FILE THIS.” I was happy to leave at five for my doctor’s appointment.

  “Meena Butler.”

  I’d nodded off after filling out the health insurance paperwork. During that groggy daze, I sort of watched Jeopardy. Alex Trebek questioned a contestant who answered, “What is sleep?” Or maybe that was a dream.

  “Meena Butler.”

  The second call of my name made me jump out of my seat into an upright position, where I instinctively wiped slobber off my face. Stumbling toward the nurse, I picked sleep out of my left eye and mumbled, “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  Her reply: a fake smile.

  She led me down a pristine white corridor to Dr. Patel’s office. His room was clogged full of book cabinets stacked with old medical manuals. The dark, olive walls featured crooked framed certificates of degrees and specialties. Atop the desk were stacks of papers, pens, pencils, sitting next to tiny trinkets and colorful toys that looked out of place in a medical room decorated with various vaginal diagrams. Next to the toys sat a bowl filled with shiny peppermints and other candies.

  In an effort to stay awake, I popped a red-and-white-striped candy in my mouth. The smell of it opened my eyes and nose, helping me breathe deeply and awaken to my surroundings.

  “Hello, Ms. Butler.”

  “Hey, Doc.”

  Dr. Patel had been my gynecologist since I first got my period at thirteen. He was my mother’s gyn and knew all the intricate family details, vaginally, that a family gyn should know. He was a short, skinny brown man with two patches of gray hair on both sides of his head that framed a brown birthmark shaped like a halo. His eyes were small and beady, and he had a large gap between his front two teeth. I always made my yearly appointment at the beginning of summer.

  “Well, you’re all healthy, blood work came back fine.” He pulled out the paper to read from. “Negative for HIV, HPV, chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “But the images from your uterus came back showing you have a growth.”

  I sat up straight, chewing the mint. “A growth?”

  “Yes, something on your uterus. A mass of some sort.”

  “Do I have cancer?”

  “I don’t think so. But you’ll need to go to a specialist. She’s a good doctor, I know her father. She’ll tell you more. But you may need to get a laparoscopy.”

  “A lapa what?”

  “A laparoscopy. An exploratory test where they’ll make small slits on the sides of your stomach,” he stood up to use his pelvis as a diagram, “slip tubes in, and see what that growth is.”

  “Whoa, Dr. Patel.” I was nearly standing now, wide awake. “I just started a new job a few months ago. I can’t take off.”

  “Well, you need to have it sooner than later. And it may be nothing. But the laparoscopy will help us know for sure. You’ll be out a week, two at the most.”

  A week or two was like an eternity in magazine land. That was one-third or half of the period it took to close a magazine from Word document to final shipment to the printer. A week or two was the period of time it took for Denise to realize her last assistant sucked. And now, with her pissed at me after messing up the last meeting with Clive Owen, that teetering feeling—Denise miraculously made everyone feel they were her most loved, yet still on the edge of losing their jobs—had my stomach doing backflips.

  I massaged my temples as Meredith pulled up. Her car huffing and puffing like the anger I felt at life’s monkey wrench. Like the aftereffects of the blunt sizzling in the ashtray that I was happy to see and need. We pulled into our usual spot at the playground near my house. I kicked my feet up. She popped in my advance copy of Outkast’s new CD. Aquemini. The funky Southern drawl of weird loops and psychedelic pops fit my scattered mind, half-tired, half-high, half-confused about what to do about my latest health dilemma.

  “Well, can you avoid the surgery?”

  “I guess, but it’s a damn mass. Fucking tumor. What if I have a tumor?”

  “What if you don’t?”

  “What if I do? Cancer at twenty-five. That’s some bullshit. Still living at home. I need to move. I’m moving to Brooklyn.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I get this surgery shit over with. I have the money saved. I don’t need a car in Brooklyn. I was saving to buy some old used thing when I can have my own space and peace of mind, instead of buying a ride.”

  “And you can be closer to Sean . . .”

  Sean. The other reason being away for two weeks scared me. More than a week was too long not to sleep with a man. That was more than enough time for him to miss me, get horny, and run to what’s-her-face, Kelly Jones. My being around made it harder.

  “If he wants to cheat, he’ll cheat,” Meredith said, shrugging her shoulders with a lip turned up. Exuding the throw-away-a-man confidence I always admired. She never held on too long. Never had drama. Was always ready to walk away the minute they acted up. The lucky product of a functional two-parent household. “You can’t make a man stay. You can’t make a man not cheat. But you can definitely push them away by being all on top of them. Calling and texting all the time.”

  I let the words seep in
as Andre 3000 rapped so fast, I couldn’t understand what he was saying.

  “You think I’m chasing?” I blinked slowly, already knowing the answer, but in a mirage of dry, parched, weed-induced famine that made me hunger for Doritos flavored with answers to my problem. I was thirsty for juice that contained vitamins of common sense.

  “I mean . . . yeah. That’s what you do. But you don’t know it, and I really think you can’t help it. I mean, even when you aren’t physically chasing, you’re mentally doing it, thinking about him with this scheme on how to get him. Wondering if he wants you,” she pointed out to me. “I say, fuck him. If he wants you, he’ll come get you. Easy. You don’t have to do much of anything but be yourself. Mind your business. Return his calls. My mother always told me that. She said she didn’t have to do a thing to get my dad. He always just kept showing up. Calling up. Hanging around like a little puppy. Making plans. Treating her nice. Giving her attention. So she finally picked him.”

  I let the words sink in. “She finally picked him.” Wondering why I always felt like I was the one being chosen. Like I had to prove myself. Elated over some guy liking me and wanting me and noticing I was pretty. Where did I get that from?

  Meredith dropped me off at home and I walked through the door.

  Mom laughed loudly. Cackling through the corridors. Not even acknowledging I’d gotten home. I knew who she was on the phone with. After all these years, she and Larry were still going strong. She was still the side chick. He was still about to leave his wife.

  “Oh, baby, you are so funny.” She giggled as she closed her bedroom door. “You better call me back this time. Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . excuses. Okay, well, then call me Saturday.”

  A minute after she hung up the phone, I heard her pick up and dial.

  “You didn’t tell me you loved me.”

  Silence.

  “Say it!” She giggled like a high school kid.

  “Okay, okay . . . I know you gotta go. I love you, too.”

  And she hung up.

  I called Sean. The phone rang five times. Voice mail. I hung up and dialed again. He picked up on the third ring.

  “Hello.” He was short. Exasperated.

  “Heyyy . . .” I said, trying to sound relaxed. Wanting to jump into spilling the breaking news on my surgery. But needed to build up to it. “What are you doing?”

  “Writing.” Short again. Attitude.

  “Why do you sound like you have an attitude?”

  “I don’t,” he said, aggravated. “What’s up?”

  “Yeah, so I just came back from the doctor.”

  Silence.

  “And . . . well, yeah. I have to have surgery.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I could hear him stabbing a computer key. Repeatedly. Killing a button. “Delete, delete, delete. Shit!”

  “You all right?”

  “I just can’t get this together. I’m just . . .” He sighed. This time it was frustration. “Yo, can you come over?”

  “Well, I’m home. It’s already eight. I wouldn’t make it out there till eleven if New Jersey Transit acts right. And you know MTA runs slow at night.”

  “Yo . . . lemme call you back.”

  “Um . . .” My words trailed off. “Well . . . okay.”

  I turned the ringer up, ready for Sean’s call. Laying back, I closed my eyes and visualized a Brooklyn brownstone with my dream apartment on the second floor, before drifting to sleep.

  Chapter 18

  The surgery took place in July. Right after July fourth. Even though the mass was found to be nothing but an insignificant growth of tissue left over from birth, I was out of work for two weeks. Spent three days in the hospital. And a week and a half lying in bed with stitches on my pelvis and large sterile pads taped to me. My mother played nursemaid.

  “You hungry?”

  She brought a tray of pancakes. Scrambled eggs. Potatoes on the side. Biscuits. I sat up in bed and smiled.

  “Wow. Thank you.”

  “You know you’re my baby.”

  My mother was a sucker for helping people. Saving the downtrodden. Codependent at times. But it was all about love, in her own way, of course. If you fell? She might not give a hug, but she’d bandage you up and make you a nice meal. If you cried? She might not kiss your forehead, but dinner would feature your favorite entrées. Took me years to realize this and understand her love language and figure out that cooking food and the act of doing someone a service were her ways of showing love. Rolling out of bed to whip up pancake batter, scrambling a few eggs, buttering a pan of biscuits, and frying a few potatoes was the equivalent of “I love you.” Some gave gifts, others complimented or showered you with affection, many like myself preferred quality time and attention, but my mother’s love language was an act of service. I remembered reading about it in Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages.

  She went downstairs and I picked up the phone tucked under my covers; I sucked my teeth when I saw a missed call from Dexter. Damn stalker. I hadn’t spoken to him since his crazy sighting at the train station months ago. He didn’t call as frequently as he had. But every few months, I’d see a little check-in and missed call just to spook and remind me of his presence still lurking somewhere.

  I dialed Sean. Said I wouldn’t. Said I’d wait for him to call me. Chase me. Check in on me. But it was like an annoying addiction. I couldn’t wait. The anxiety was overwhelming. The yearning to dial seven digits and talk to him. Go to him. It was like a crackhead hearing a pipe calling his name. Abandonment issues. Insecurity and the fear of feeling the disappointing possibility that he might not call me. I had to take control.

  “So you coming to see me today?” I asked, sitting up in the bed, waiting for an answer. I hadn’t heard his voice in a week.

  “Nah, I’m on deadline,” he said to the tap of a keyboard. A bag of chips ruffled in the background as he crunched on the phone. “But you’re better, right?”

  “If I was better, I’d be at your house,” I snapped back. “And you said that last weekend, ‘Nah, I’m on deadline.’ ”

  “Well, this is what I do, Meena. I’m a writer. I have deadlines. What the fuck?”

  “What the fuck? Um . . . maybe your girl had surgery and she’s in need of the same TLC you give your damn computer. Maybe if I had circuits I’d get some attention.”

  “Oh, come on now. Are you on your period?”

  “Don’t insult me with that sexist bullshit.”

  The truth was that I was menstruating. The first day was the worst, heavy, bloated, crampy, and irritated. The insecurities that hormonal shifts evoked were uncontrollable. I was horny as hell. Couldn’t have sex. But needed some love. Some quality time. Tears welled up in my eyes.

  “I miss you and you don’t care. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever, you don’t call, you work all the time. You haven’t come to see me once. You say you care, but you don’t. I’m all alone.”

  “I do care, Meena. Come on. And you’re in another state. Jersey. I care, I mean . . . why are you crying? I can’t talk to you like this.”

  “Like what? What is ‘like this’? Explain that shit. What am I like?”

  “Nothing. I mean, like crying . . . and sad. Like . . . Meena, come on, babe. Not now. This is a cover story for Buzz. Your people. I’m almost done. Don’t do this to me right now.”

  “You know what? This is why I’m moving to Brooklyn.”

  “You’re moving to Brooklyn?” He sounded nervous suddenly. Serious. “When?”

  “Soon. Because Buzz is my job. You are my boyfriend. But no one would know since I just had my uterus dissected and stitched back together with a million threads, big-ass gauze of puss oozing on my stomach, and you keep talking about yourself. ‘I’m on deadline . . .’ ”

  “Listen, if I can finish this draft today, I’ll try to
come out there tomorrow, okay? Since you way in Jersey and all. Is that all right?”

  “No, it’s not! Fuck!”

  And I hung up.

  Tired of the monotonous murmur of TV voices, I needed to see my man, my love, needed the quality time with his presence and touch. That was my love language. But I didn’t know how to express it; my naggy insecurities came out in jumbled, wrongly positioned words fueled by frustration and uncontrollable emotion.

  The next day Sean didn’t call. I sent him a text.

  Hey you.

  No reply.

  A day later. No reply.

  As much as I wanted to pick up the phone and blow him up, I didn’t. I wasn’t going to act crazy. So instead, I suffered the misery of burning separation anxiety on the insides of my stomach, consuming it with a fear of loneliness because he hadn’t called. Because he hadn’t come to see me after surgery. Because he wasn’t trying. I sat in bed full of heated fury. Finally, I grabbed the phone and turned off the ringer. Silencing the alert signal, ending the bells and whistles when someone texted or e-mailed. I was tired of waiting for him. Tired of wanting him. I scrolled down my contacts list and deleted Sean’s number from the call log, incoming, outgoing, contacts, everywhere, so I couldn’t call him. I was tired of chasing and needed to make sure I couldn’t follow, even when the urge erupted. But twenty-four hours later, the first thing I did was wake, turn on my phone, and eagerly check texts and voice mails, looking for signs of my missing man, missing me, missing the sound of my voice and heart and warmth and spirit. But nothing. When the phone did suddenly ring, a burst of anxiety traveled through my valves. Making them pulsate and leap like a classroom of kids anticipating Santa’s arrival. It came from an unavailable number.

  “Hello,” I said calmly, trying not to sound excited.

  “Hey, sick girl,” said Meredith, the only one who called regularly just to say hello. “What’s up?”

  “Oh,” I said, deflated. “Hey.”

  “Well, damn, you could at least fake like you’re happy to hear from me. Damn.”