When the Fairytale Ends

by Dwan Abrams

  As for Cheyenne’s portion of the money, Cheyenne received a $200,000 distribution check when she turned eighteen. A portion of her money went toward her college tuition, books, and a Honda Accord. Most recently, they used some of her money for the deposit on her apartment and furniture. The rest of the money went into their family trust, from which Cheyenne received a monthly stipend to help with living expenses. Because of that, she didn’t have to work. All she had to do was focus on her studies. She’d receive the rest of her money in equal installments at ages twenty-two, twenty-five, thirty, and thirty-five.

  Feeling relieved to have gotten that off her chest, Shania faced forward and blinked. When she glanced into the rearview mirror, she saw Jonathan’s cheeks puffed out like a blowfish, and then he blew out the air and started working his jaw. Just when she thought she’d explode if he didn’t say what was on his mind, he finally opened his mouth and spoke.

  “You think you know me, but you don’t know me,” Jonathan said to the back of her head.

  She put one hand on the steering wheel and used the other to put the car in drive. She waited until she had enough space between cars before easing her way back into traffic.

  “If that was the case,” he continued, “I wouldn’t have been with her this long.”

  Shania cut her eyes at her sister and then looked straight ahead. Cheyenne didn’t utter a word. The tips of her ears were red, and she continued to stare forward as she gnawed her nails down to their nail bed.

  “I know that you can’t stand the ground I walk on,” Jonathan continued, “and I’m sure it would make your day if I would just disappear out your sister’s life forever.”

  Before she could stop herself, her head nodded on its own volition.

  “But you know what?” he added. “Whether you like me or not, you should have enough respect for your sister to respect her decision. You think you got me all figured out, but you don’t. You think you know me, but you don’t know the half. What I do know is that I love your sister, and as long as God allows me to be on this earth, I’m going to do everything I can to keep her happy. And if that’s not enough for you, then, hey, it is what it is. But as long as that’s enough for Cheyenne, then that’s all that matters.”

  “Okay.” Shania smirked. “Let’s drop it.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Cheyenne added in a soft voice, still nibbling on her nails and staring out the passenger window.

  No one spoke for the rest of the ride, which suited Shania just fine. She appreciated the quiet, and used the silence to force herself to calm down.

  Once at the house, Greg joined them outside and he seemed a little less disturbed than he had been at church. Jonathan nearly tripped out of the car when his eyes landed on Greg’s bike.

  “Man, is that a BMW motorcycle?” he exclaimed with his hands on his hips as he gave the bike a good looking over. “I ain’t even know BMW made motorcycles.”

  Cheyenne looked at her sister with her mouth hanging open. “You actually let him get a bike?”

  Shania rolled her eyes. “I didn’t let him do anything, but that’s a whole other can of worms that I don’t feel like opening right now.” She opened the door and hopped down from the Rover. “Come on, Cheyenne. We’ll leave the boys out here, and you can help me put something on the stove.”

  Greg was more than a little ready to show off his new motorcycle and explain all the gadgets to Jonathan. He and Jonathan spent a few moments in the garage doing some male bonding while Shania and Cheyenne went into the kitchen.

  Shania looked into the sink and removed the bowl of thawed shrimp and the bag of thawed lobster. Cheyenne went straight to the bar stools and straddled one. She looked up at the small flat-screen television hanging on the wall above the bread box and said, “Where’s the remote?”

  Shania gave her sister an exasperated stare. “I thought I said come help me put something on the stove.”

  Cheyenne rolled her eyes and searched the countertops, then began pulling out cabinet drawers. She searched through their contents for the remote. “Shania, you know I can’t cook. Found it!” She grinned as she held up the remote, then settled atop the stool again.

  As Cheyenne flipped through the channels on the small plasma-screen TV hanging on the kitchen wall, Shania heated a skillet on the front eye and said, “You’re married now. Don’t you think you should learn how to cook?”

  She shook her head. “No. Jonathan looks through cookbooks almost every day. He’s always coming up with meals to cook for us, and when he doesn’t cook, we go out to eat or order pizza.”

  Shania shook her head while she lifted the pot top and used the tongs to lower the lobster into the steamer.

  As a child, she used to sit in the kitchen and watch while her mom prepared meals for the family. Since Cheyenne hadn’t had that same opportunity, Shania didn’t want to pressure her, so she continued preparing dinner alone.

  The men came in about an hour later, and even though Cheyenne hadn’t lifted a finger to help with the meal, she at least had the decency to set the table. They sat at the table; Greg said grace; then they dug into the food. Not many words were said, just a lot of chewing, swallowing, and fork tines scraping against the ceramic dishes. Whenever they did speak, they seemed to tiptoe around the elephants in the room—the huge explosion that happened in the car, the rekindled tension between Shania and Jonathan, and the white elephant sitting on Greg’s chest.

  After they finished eating, Jonathan and Cheyenne went home, and Greg hung out in his office. Thankful for the peace and quiet, Shania disappeared into her basement kitchen and began making another batch of cupcakes to finish off the wedding’s showcase cupcake pyramid. She wondered if she’d ever be able to accept Jonathan into her family.

  Six

  Greg woke up Monday morning a bit earlier than usual. He wanted to get an early start in the office since he had paperwork to complete and meetings with a few clients scheduled. Today, his plan was to make up for lost ground. For the four policies that were canceled over the weekend, he challenged himself to sign at least five new policies today. That would definitely be no easy feat, but he planned to give it his best shot.

  Having beaten the usual morning traffic, when he arrived at the office, he turned on the lights and brewed a pot of coffee. Since he was the first person there, he figured he could get a lot of work done before the crowd.

  The coffee finished percolating. There was nothing like the smell of fresh coffee to awaken the senses, he thought. He poured himself a cup and made his way to his cubicle. Once at his desk, he took a few sips of his hot drink, then went through his file cabinet in search of clients who had canceled their insurance policies within the last year or so, and who might be interested in reinstating their policies at a lower monthly price and with a contractual agreement that locked them into a three-month agreement, rather than six.

  First, he pulled up a new spreadsheet and created a field for names, numbers, and insurance policy type. After he inserted all the data from the pulled files, he picked up his phone and began making the calls.

  Half the clients didn’t answer or numbers were no longer in service. Those who did answer either rudely rejected his offer or politely told him they weren’t interested and curtly ended the call. Out of the thirty numbers he called, he got one yes and one “Maybe, but call me back next month when my funds are looking a little better.” Dispirited, he dialed the last number on his list and sighed aloud when he got the no-longer-in-service message.

  “Why such a long face?” Franklin said, inviting himself into Greg’s cubicle with his own cup of straight black coffee. He took a seat in the empty chair with his legs spread wide apart and the cuffs of his dress pants rose high, showing off the lower portion of his ashy, hairy legs. “You look like your puppy died.”

  “I don’t have a puppy.”

  “Well, if you had one, you’d look like he died.”

  “Shut up, Franklin,” Greg said, and clicked his pen closed bef
ore tossing it on the desk. “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

  Franklin sipped on his coffee, then sat it on Greg’s desk. He crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “A’ight, man. Spill it. You still thinking about that girl?”

  Greg lifted an eyebrow. “What girl?”

  “The girl you told me about that was at church Sunday.”

  Greg pulled at his chin hair and shook his head. “No, I’m over that. She just looked real familiar, but she wasn’t who I thought she was,” he said.

  “Well, if it’s not her, then what’s got you so stressed? I ain’t seen you look this tense in a while.”

  Greg smacked his lips and tapped a tuneless beat atop his desk. “You remember those five new policies I opened?”

  Franklin nodded emphatically. “That’s good news, Greg. Five policies in one week? That’s great news, especially for you. You only get about one or two policies per month—okay, okay, I’m overexaggerating—but for you, at least one or two policies per day is good news. You doing good, my brother, so what’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” Greg said, staring at the discouraging data on his computer screen, “is that all the policyholders canceled over the weekend, except for one.”

  Franklin’s face flip-flopped. “You joking, right?”

  Greg groaned and held his head, which was beginning a slow, dull ache at the spot directly between his eyes. “Man, I wish I was but—” His office phone let out a shrill ring, and he held up a finger at Franklin while he answered it. “Mutual Living, Greg Crinkle speaking, how can I assist you? Yes, sir, Mr. McDowell, how are you today? Glad to hear it.” Greg listened to the man speak, and then his heart dropped. “Yes, sir, today would be the last day that you could do it, but—yes, sir, we do offer a full refund, but—well, before you do that, Mr. McDowell, at least consider opening a different policy. We have a special going that you can open a new policy with no money down, your first month insurance would only be seventy-five dollars, and plus, you’d only have to agree to a three-month contract rather than six.” He crossed his fingers and glanced over at Franklin. “Is that something you think you might be interested in, Mr. McDowell?”

  His face dropped as he listened to the man shoot down his offer. He thanked him for doing business with them, then ended the call. Greg held the phone in his hand for a few extra seconds after the call ended, then finally dropped the phone on the receiver.

  Franklin wasn’t smiling anymore. “Let me guess. Another cancellation?”

  “Yep.” Greg smiled a humorless smile. “All five policyholders. Now what do I do? If that rumor about downsizing is really true, I can kiss this job good-bye.”

  “G, don’t say that.”

  “Don’t say what? The truth?” Greg held his hands out to either side of him. “Let’s just be realistic here. They want to cut back on employees because of the struggling economy. We have too many seasoned reps in here close to retirement, and I’m not one of them.”

  “True,” Franklin said, “but look at your track record. You have your faithful policyholders that have been with you for years. And you even talked them into opening new insurance policies.”

  “Yeah, but the boss is not interested in long-standing clients. He’s only worried about how many new names we can add to the roster. And that’s not something I’m good at. But you, Frank”—Greg pointed at his friend—“you don’t understand where I’m coming from because you’re so good at what you do. You sign about ten, fifteen new policyholders every day. The boss isn’t going to let you go. You’re like gold to him. But me . . .” Greg splayed his fingers over his chest. “I’m dispensable.”

  Franklin finished off his coffee and crushed his Styrofoam cup in his hands, then leaned forward and dropped it in Greg’s wastebasket. “You are what you speak.”

  Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, Greg reflected on the thirteen years he had invested in the company. He wondered if his job could be in jeopardy. He then rationalized all the reasons why he shouldn’t worry. Franklin was right; all workers had their strengths and weaknesses, and even though acquiring new clients wasn’t a strength for him, keeping good, long-standing policyholders was definitely a plus for him. And even though he didn’t have a roster full of names, he was still a top performer. His name had consistently appeared in the President’s Circle. Not only did he have good relationships with his clients, but they trusted him, and that’s what mattered the most.

  Snapping out of his reflective state, Greg said, “You’re right. I’m over here speaking death when I need to speak life. I just have to trust and believe that God is in control and that He has it all worked out. To be honest, I think we’ll both be fine. We don’t have anything to worry about.” He tried to sound confident as he convinced himself that he was telling the truth.

  “Mind if I switch the subject for a minute?” Franklin asked, and Greg nodded before he could finish asking the question.

  Greg was ready for a change of topic; no matter how confident he tried to seem, if he reflected on the issue too long, he knew it was just a matter of time before he found his spirits in the dump again.

  “You remember when you came by yesterday and I told you I didn’t come to church ’cause I was under the weather?”

  Greg nodded, then added, “You lied, huh?”

  Franklin lifted his eyebrows. “How you know?”

  “’Cause it was written all over your face. How long have I known you, Frank? Thirteen, fourteen years? When you’re lying, I know it. You slept with her, didn’t you?”

  Again, Frank’s eyebrows shot skyward and he lowered his voice, as though God himself was sitting on the other side of the cubicle. “What?” he whispered. “Did she tell you?”

  “No, she didn’t tell me nothing,” Greg said, and held up a finger while he took a transferred call. He filled out a claims form and faxed it over to the claims department, then returned his attention to Franklin. “So what was supposed to be a little ‘date’ turned into you going all the way.” He posed the question as a statement.

  Franklin put his face in his hands and shook his head from side to side. “Man, it’s like she knew that’s all she wanted from the jump. I got over there, Greg, Sister Catherine wasn’t wearing nothing but a robe.”

  “Nothing but a robe?” Greg’s eyes grew wide.

  Franklin leaned forward and added, “And nothing underneath. Not even a pair of socks.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Greg whispered, shaking his head. “And then what happened?”

  “Man . . . man, what you think?”

  “How many times?”

  Franklin’s eyes were full of remorse, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to swallow. Then he gnawed on his fist and finally admitted, “I lost count after the twelfth time.”

  “The twelfth time?” Greg pushed back away from his desk and stared at Franklin in surprise. “Dang, bro, you weren’t playing no games, were you?”

  “No games,” Franklin promised him. “I went in there just to spend time with her, but when she dropped that robe and those big ole breasts went flopping everywhere . . .” Franklin closed his eyes and shook his head as though he were savoring the memory. “After six whole months of uninterrupted celibacy, I sinned, Greg. I fell short. But here’s the whammy. You ready for it?”

  Greg nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Usually, after I lay down the pipe,” he said, “I feel a little bad because I know it’s fornication. But after I finished at Sister Catherine’s house, I felt like I’d been playing in dirt, you feel me? I felt so . . . unclean. And so . . . ashamed of myself. You listening to me?”

  Greg cupped his ear to show Franklin he was listening to every word.

  “And I have never in my life felt that way after sex.”

  “It’s called conviction, Frank. The Holy Ghost makes you feel guilty when you sin. That’s actually a good thing. The only time you should get worried is when you do wrong, you know it’s wrong, and
you no longer feel bad when you do it.” Greg thudded his friend on the back. “But don’t beat yourself up about it. You sinned, you were wrong. Now repent, and go on with your life.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Franklin said, and tilted his chair on two legs while he stared at the ceiling. “But, man, while I was doing it, while I was putting in work—”

  “Please, spare me the details.”

  “I ain’t gonna tell you the details,” Franklin promised him. “All I’m saying is this. While I was doing her, Greg, I felt like crying.” He dropped his chair to all fours and looked at Greg with a very serious expression. “I felt like crying, because I want to lay the pipe to a woman who loves me just as much as I love her. I’m tired of the physical thing, you feel me? I want something on a deeper level. And when I do lay the pipe, I want God to look down at me and be like, ‘That’s right, Frank! Give it to her! Put in work!’”

  If his friend wasn’t looking so serious, Greg would’ve bust out laughing in his face. Even when he was serious, that boy was a fool. Trying his best to keep a sober expression, Greg said, “Basically, while you were having sex with Sister Catherine, you realized that you’re ready to be married, and you’d much rather be having sex with your wife.”

  Franklin pointed a finger at Greg, then snapped his fingers. “I knew you’d get it. Exactly. That’s what I want, Greg. So now what do I do?”

  “For starters,” Greg said, then held up one finger to take another call. When he finished the call, he returned his attention to Franklin. “For starters,” he began again, “you need to leave Sister Catherine alone, because I don’t believe that she’s the one God has for you. And then you need to get on your knees and pray for God to send you a wife. While you’re waiting on her arrival, pray for Him to prepare you to be a husband.”