My Married Boyfriend

by Cydney Rax

  “True, but the money is still funny. And I’m not joking.”

  Nicole wondered if she should believe him or not.

  “Does that mean I shouldn’t expect a nice gift from Santa?”

  “It means that Santa’s attorney told him do not buy any girlfriends expensive presents right now. Kiara’s attorneys are going to be all over my bank statements and cash withdrawals. And if I am caught buying diamonds and gold, it could be categorized as community property. Kiara doesn’t play that. That’s hardball, so you gotta wait till I’m single again before I can splurge on you. I can buy the baby nice shit, but not you.”

  The words “splurge on you” rang loudly in Nicole’s ears. She heard future, she heard desire, and she wanted to be patient and hold on until her married boyfriend officially became her man.

  “Hmm, that sucks,” she replied, “but I hear you. Let’s forget about me for right now. Somehow I will manage. But I’m mostly thinking about your mama, and with this little bit of money you gave me I’ll have to do the best I can. What type of things does she like?”

  It had been a while since Rashad bought his mother a decent gift. And that was because every time he did do it, she rarely said thanks so he said forget it. And the only reason he agreed to buy her something now was because Nicole insisted on it.

  “Damn, I dunno. But one thing she likes is fruitcake.”

  “Ugh, fruitcake? Are you sure?”

  “What do you mean am I sure? I know what my mama likes.”

  Nicole ended up buying a couple of two-pound fruitcakes from Three Brothers Bakery; she thought that if they were really the woman’s favorites, she would score major points.

  Rashad called Beeva Reese to get the address of where she had moved six months ago. He and Nicole went on an hourlong drive to Bryan, Texas, late that afternoon. When Rashad rang the doorbell of the attractive brick house located on a hilly street, a man whom he’d never seen before answered the door. He had salt-and-pepper hair and was small in stature and build.

  “Hi,” he said. “Welcome.” Then a woman appeared from behind him. She had short reddish blond hair, round, fat cheeks, and wide hips. She was a couple of inches taller than her man.

  “Well, hello there,” she said in a booming voice.

  “Hi, Mrs. Eason,” Nicole replied in a respectful soft tone. “I am Nic—”

  “I can tell your husband doesn’t tell you much. You know everyone always calls me Beeva Reese, but I’m about to become Beeva Murphy. And this is Winston Murphy.” Her man greeted them and disappeared inside the house.

  “Merry Christmas, ma’am. Here’s your gift. I-I hope you like it.” Nicole proudly displayed the fruitcakes.

  Beeva barely suppressed her frown. “Umph. You shouldn’t have.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t nothing.”

  “I wasn’t being modest. You really shouldn’t have. I’m allergic to these nasty-ass stinky things, but it doesn’t matter. We can feed them to our dogs.”

  Beeva grabbed the packages from Nicole and went into the house.

  Nicole felt like punching Rashad. How could she make a good impression with his mom if he didn’t even know a few of her favorite things?

  Nicole followed the woman into the house; she went to the left, which took her through a simple but elegantly decorated dining room. Nicole admired family photos on the wall then continued on. She found Rashad’s mother in the kitchen screaming.

  “What’s taking you so damned long?” Beeva yelled at her microwave oven.

  The sounds of kernels popping filled the air.

  Rashad shrugged. “Popcorn,” he said. “Beeva loves the hell out of some Orville Redenbacher. I just should have bought her eight packs of microwave popcorn and called it a day.”

  “Are you joking?” Nicole argued. “That is no type of gift for the woman that gave birth to you.”

  “The way we get along, sometimes I wonder if she’s my birth mom.”

  “Rashad, I’m standing right next to you so don’t think I didn’t hear that,” Beeva grumbled. “You know damn well I’m your mama. You look just like me.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The second the microwave timer sounded, Beeva pushed the button to open the door. She sprinkled a little salt right inside the bag, grabbed a handful, and was about to toss some popcorn in her mouth. She paused.

  “Oh, I’m so rude. Want some?”

  When no one answered, Beeva shrugged and shuffled across the hardwood floor to the family room; it had a high slanted ceiling and a stone fireplace. Rashad and Nicole followed behind her. There was a large picture window in the rear of the two-story house. The view allowed them to see the huge backyard, which was full of lemon trees. Rashad noticed two white barking Yorkies playing with each other. Nicole took a seat on a recliner and listened in.

  “What’s been happening, Beeva?”

  “Can’t kill nothing and won’t nothing die,” she declared. She grabbed a few more pieces of popcorn and shook them around in her hand like dice.

  “I haven’t heard you say that in a long time. Must be them Georgia roots coming out of you.”

  “Ain’t nothing shaking but the beans in the pot, and they wouldn’t be shaking if the water wasn’t hot.”

  “I know that’s right,” Rashad answered with a hearty laugh. There was nobody quite like his mama. It felt good to be home. And family was everything, even if the family wasn’t as close as it should have been.

  “Anyway, it’s sure good to see you, Beeva. This is a real nice place you got,” Rashad told her. “You got yourself a nice husband, too. Seems like you hit it big. Again!”

  “What he’s trying to say is that I’ve upgraded,” Beeva volunteered while nibbling on her snack. “Yes, I’m on my fourth husband. So what? Who’s counting? Don’t answer that! Anyway, we decided to combine households to save on bills; we living together like sinners, but we’ll be married real soon. Did my son tell you, Kiara?”

  “How the hell can I tell her what I didn’t even know?” Rashad protested, so annoyed with the question that he couldn’t think clearly.

  Suddenly Beeva squinted and cocked her head. “Wait one minute. This ain’t—” She frowned. “This ain’t your wife.”

  “Not yet,” Nicole said under her breath.

  “No, Beeva, Nicole is not my wife. Kiara and I are separated. We headed to divorce court.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, Beeva.”

  “I know we only see each other about once or twice a year, but that’s no excuse not to tell me news like this, son.” She turned to Nicole. “I’m sorry for thinking you were the other woman—”

  “Beeva!” Rashad said. “Wow, awkward. She’s tripping,” he said, referring to his mother. “You and I know you look nothing like Kiara,” he said to Nicole.

  “Mmm mmm, my son.” Beeva gave a spirited laugh. “It’s been so long I barely remember what Kiara looks like. But what I do remember is that little woman of yours could cook her ass off. Remember that one Christmas a few years ago when y’all had me over? Ooo wee. I ate the shit out of those greens.”

  Rashad winced. “Glad you enjoyed her cooking.”

  “So who is this new lady?” Beeva looked Nicole up and down. “Is she any good in the kitchen? Or is she like most twenty-year-old women these days that eat fast food every day and can’t fry eggs?”

  Nicole, who quietly observed the happenings between Rashad and his mother, stood up.

  “Ma’am, my name is Nicole Greene. I’m a southern woman and I can cook pretty well if I say so myself. Your son likes to eat whatever I make for him. And he and I are . . . together.”

  Beeva finally noticed Nicole’s bulge. “I can see that. Shit!” She eyed Rashad. “Is that why Kiara filed on you?”

  “Why would you assume she filed on me, Beeva?”

  “Excuse me, may I ask you something?” Nicole butted in. “Why do you call your mama by her first name? Why can’t you just call her ‘mama’?”


  “She’s sitting right in front of you,” Rashad replied. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Before Nicole could do just that, Rashad kept talking. “You probably can tell that I come from a slightly dysfunctional family.”

  “Oh, hell, not that shit again,” Beeva roared. “Your family was like most other black American families. We niggas through and through. Niggas with money, but still niggas.”

  “I guess if you gonna be one, at least have some money,” Nicole said, amused.

  “That ‘dysfunctional’ shit is a fancy-sounding made-up word that some psychiatrist invented just to take people’s money. Everybody and they mama running around thinking something’s wrong with themselves, and before they commit suicide, they go and jump on some strange old man’s couch. They open up, put their business on the street in an attempt to feel better about themselves, just because of that fucked-up word that is supposed to describe their family. And that doctor gone end up writing a book about all his clients’ cases and make even more money off these fools. Ha! Now that is dysfunctional.”

  “Beeva, you may have your little theories about families and what not, but Nicky needs to know that about me. Our family situation wasn’t The Cosby Show,” Rashad said. “Life was kind of rough for me in spite of the money.”

  It was rare for Rashad to want to admit weakness and vulnerability, but he felt if he was going to be with her, he might as well let her see the good and the bad of his kinfolk. He continued, “She’s already finding out shit left and right. And Kiara, man, I think I really turned her into a whole other woman—” He stopped talking.

  Nicole came over to him and held his arm. “Go ahead, babe, get out your feelings.”

  “I’m cool. I’ll be all right.” He walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. “What y’all got good to drink in here?” He grabbed a tiny bottle of beer. “Is this all? Where’s the hard liquor? I know you hiding it somewhere in this house. It’s almost New Year, too?”

  Beeva released a spirited laugh. “That’s my son for sure. II have missed you, Rashad. And you know you’re free to call me besides on my birthday and Mother’s Day. Sometimes I think you hate me or something, the way you avoid me.”

  “Beeva, I do not hate you. I just . . . I dunno. I-I. Been real busy.”

  Nicole watched mother and son. His excuse for not seeing his mom sounded so lame. She knew his mother fussed because she needed him.

  Rashad awkwardly patted his mother’s red hair.

  Nicole felt like crying. The man whom she loved and cared about was incredibly human. She was seeing another side of him, a vulnerable side that she didn’t know existed.

  Nicole puckered her lips and gave Rashad a kiss as he came and sat beside her. “It’s gonna be all right, babe. Take your time. You can say whatever you need to say when the time is right.”

  Beeva burst out laughing. “Oh, shit, y’all enjoying the honeymoon before the honeymoon. Let me tell you something, sweetie. You look very young. This your first baby?”

  Nicole nodded.

  “All that supportive shit only lasts so long—”

  “Beeva,” Rashad pleaded.

  “No, she needs to face reality. Now, my son is a man. A hardworking man but still a man. And although I hate to hear that he and his wife busted up, I ain’t surprised. Rashad takes after his daddy. His papa was a rolling stone. Now, to my knowledge he didn’t have any stray kids running around, but he sure was acting like he was trying his best to make some, if you know what I mean.”

  Beeva closely peered at Rashad to see if he was hiding any of his father’s secrets. “I wasn’t stupid. I knew that he’d step out on me here and there. I didn’t like it. I wanted to fuck him up quite a few times while he was in bed next to me in a deep sleep. But I chose to keep my hands to myself. And we stayed married till the bitter end. Marriage is good but it ain’t easy. Not assuming that y’all two gonna get hitched. ’Cause babies ain’t a good reason to get tied down.”

  Rashad coughed and stared at Nicole. “We haven’t really talked about that yet. I’m not sure what’s going to happen. First things first.”

  “How Kiara feel about you having a second baby on her?”

  “What do you think, Beeva?”

  “I think you’re more like your father than you ever realized. Hell, for all I know, he has a stray running around somewhere.”

  “He does not, Beeva.”

  “All right then, but one never knows now, do they?”

  Beeva never minced words. It was one of the things that made Rashad nervous around his mother. On one hand, he remembered how much his father’s actions had hurt her when he was alive, but once he died, it was as though she transformed into a different woman.

  After his daddy died, it seemed his mother started collecting husbands like welfare checks. It made him feel sad and sorry for her. Yet he understood how everyone needed to be loved. He knew he needed to be better at expressing love to her. How could he give affection to another woman if he had trouble loving his own mother?

  “Well, Beeva, I need to apologize for taking so long to come see you and I must congratulate you on the new future husband and all that jazz.” He hugged his mom. Her skin was soft and warm and she smelled of mint. She scowled like she didn’t want to be bothered, but he knew Beeva. She thrived on his attention. She craved his love. Rashad vowed to try to do better. God knows he dreaded having every woman in his life angry at him for not meeting their simple expectations.

  The ice had been broken and Rashad felt more at ease.

  “This is starting off to be a good holiday. Let’s make a toast,” Rashad said. He went and found Winston, a quiet, humble man who enjoyed hiding in his room watching television. After Rashad coaxed him to come out, Beeva stood up and started singing a Motown song while she snapped her fingers.

  Her smile looked sincere, and Rashad actually felt good that he managed to come and see her instead of changing his mind.

  Beeva got some glasses and broke out the champagne that she’d been saving for months.

  Rashad took the liberty of pouring everyone’s drink and they raised their glasses.

  “To my mother, the only mother I know. The one I love and the one who I know loves me, too, even though she may not get a Mother of the Year award.”

  “That’s the worst toast I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard a lot,” Beeva said.

  “I’m just playing. I know you love me in your own way.”

  “Who can define love and say how love is supposed to act?” Beeva asked. “If I fed you, kept you clean, bought you what you needed, and taught you right from wrong, I loved you, son. I still do.”

  “And I love you too, Ma—I love you, too, Beeva.”

  She clicked glasses with Rashad and took a sip. A warm feeling that she hadn’t felt in ages flowed through her. Beeva coughed a few times, pretending like she had a cold. And if there’d been a box of tissues nearby, she would’ve discreetly wiped her eyes. She thought of Rashad every day and wondered how he was doing. She prayed for him and knew if he needed anything he’d call. But he rarely did. She figured either he was living his life or life was giving him hell. Whatever the case, it hardly mattered. Her prodigal son had found his way home and she couldn’t be happier.

  The fact that he was an only child made her feel bad. Beeva always wanted to give him a sibling, but it just never happened. She felt guilty that he had no brother or sisters to play with and worried he’d grow up feeling lonely and isolated. Beeva Reese worried about Rashad more than he ever realized.

  Rashad Quintell Eason was a part of Generation X. He was born in the late seventies. He was five years old when he first saw the Thriller video; he was scared to death of it at first, but he felt better after Beeva tried to teach him the dance moves of Michael Jackson. Ever since he was seven he had a keen interest both math and mechanics. He liked to tear apart his father’s radio. He wanted to know how the voices got in the radio and he wanted to see if little people were inside of it sing
ing and making harmony. He could have become a computer whiz, but his father insisted that he use his hands more than his brain.

  “You will always have a job if you know how to use your hands, son,” his dad told the little boy. “The computer industry sounds good now, but I don’t trust those things. They’re probably designed to destroy the world.” Little Rashad listened to his father. He played football in middle school and he even wanted to try out for the team when he was a high school freshman. But his father told him they could enjoy the sport by being a spectator, not a participator.

  “You need to protect your hands and your body, son. They will make you money if you take care of them. Sports are too risky. The women, the potential injuries, aren’t worth it.”

  So his father told Rashad everything he knew about the construction and renovation business. As he grew older, he became a quick learner, accompanying his dad all around the city to various jobs. They entered musty, smelly houses that looked like they were ready to be demolished and turned them into livable places where families could move in and start new lives.

  As the years went on, Rashad knew he would follow in his father’s footsteps. By the time he graduated high school, he knew more about his father than he ever wanted to know. He saw the other women, the ladies his daddy flirted with at the job, the woman he often visited during lunch breaks. As a teen, Rashad would sit in the van with the AC running after his father pulled up in the driveway of his “lady friend.” Rashad would wait and occupy himself playing with his handheld video game. Thirty minutes later, his dad would return to the van, clothes disheveled, unable to look Rashad in the eye.

  By the time his father passed away (his mother claimed that one of his girlfriends poisoned him when he told her he couldn’t take her on a day trip for her thirtieth birthday), Rashad was ready to assume the role he’d been prepared for concerning Eason & Son.

  He knew he was now “Eason,” and that little Myles was “son.” He didn’t exactly care if Myles became part of the family business, but he still wanted to have a close relationship with the child, just like his father had with him. He yearned for Myles to know he was a good father who wanted to be involved. He wanted Myles to know who he was for himself, instead of the boy learning about his father based upon what his mother said about him.