When the Fairytale Ends

by Dwan Abrams

  Greg felt his neck and ears grow hot, and he wanted to reach across the table and slap that goofy grin off of Franklin’s face. Franklin was chewing his greens and munching on his corn bread like it was a bag of hot buttery popcorn and he was sitting at the cinema, enjoying the show.

  Greg could tell by his mother’s tone and expression that there was no diffusing the situation. A part of him felt like a five-year-old. He wanted to say, “I got a bike, but don’t forget, Neil got one first.” At least that would take some of the heat off of him.

  After mulling over the thought of being a tattletale, he decided against it. What would he gain by throwing his only brother under the bus? he reasoned. Instead, he manned up and handled the situation.

  Making direct eye contact, Greg explained, “I got the bike on my birthday. It’s what I wanted.”

  Mrs. Crinkle shook her head and retook her seat at the table. “I don’t know what’s the matter with my two sons. First Neil, and now you?” She sighed in frustration. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Ever since you were a child, you’ve been following Neil’s lead.”

  She knew about Neil’s bike? When had that happened?

  As if reading his thoughts, she explained, “He sent me a postcard of him and his bike and wrote at the bottom ‘Mom, it’s my bike. Please don’t be mad.’”

  Franklin held his side, laughing. “No, that boy didn’t. Did he break it to you like that, Mrs. Crinkle?”

  “Frank, shut up,” Greg said.

  “You shut up, Greg. You should’ve told mom dukes you got a bike. What kind of sorry excuse for a man are you?”

  “Say one more word and I’m coming across this table.”

  “Boys!” Mrs. Crinkle yelled and hit her hand against the tabletop. “You are grown behind men,” she said through her teeth, “so act like it.”

  “He started it,” Greg said, then wished he could’ve retracted the words as soon as they left his mouth. If he felt like a five-year-old before, now he felt like a three-year-old.

  “How does Shania feel about this?” Mrs. Crinkle pressed the issue.

  Greg didn’t want to keep harping on the bike, but he didn’t want to be disrespectful, either. “She was understandably mad at first, but now she’s okay with it.” He plastered a grin on his face. “I didn’t come all this way to talk about my bike. Where’s Dad?”

  “He’ll be right back. He had to make a quick run to the store.”

  Greg mixed his favorite drink of sweet tea and Sprite. He noticed Franklin’s disapproving frown and offered to fix him a glass. When Franklin declined, Greg said, “Don’t sleep on this drink, man. It’s good.” He held the glass to his lips and poured it down the hatch.

  Mrs. Crinkle said to Franklin, “Greg’s been drinking that since he was ten years old.”

  Franklin smirked and picked up his glass. “I’ll stick with a good old-fashioned glass of tea. Thank you very much.” He winked.

  “So how are you and Shania doing?” his mother asked. “How’s she doing with Eat Your Heart Out?”

  Greg gave her a quick overview of their relationship, leaving out the part about how they both had been pretty testy with each other over the past few days. Then he told her about Shania’s possible catering of the governor’s induction ceremony.

  “Wow, that’s great!” his mother exclaimed. “And what about you, Franklin? Have you stopped bouncing around from woman to woman yet?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Franklin nodded. “I’ve already met my wife. We’re just not married yet.” And then Franklin went into his long spiel about Kaiya, and how they met, and how much they loved vintage cars, and how they rode through town, side by side on their bikes. He went on and on, too excited to realize that he was talking too much.

  Finally Greg cut him off and said, “I think that’s enough, Franklin. She gets the point. You’re in love.”

  “Haters,” Franklin said and looked at Mrs. Crinkle while shaking his head. “Gotta put my blockers on.” He took the pair of shades from atop his head and slid them over his eyes before looking over at Greg. “I left my Haters Repellant Spray at home, so these blockers’ll have to do.”

  Greg laughed and slapped hands with Franklin. “That was a good one, boy. I like that.”

  Not long after Greg and Franklin finished off their lunches, they moved into the den and chatted while Mrs. Crinkle cleaned up the kitchen.

  When Mr. Crinkle came home, he dropped his shopping bag on the counter and acknowledged Franklin, then gave Greg a manly hug.

  “Always good to see you, son.” Mr. Crinkle nodded in the direction of the door. “That your bike out there?”

  “Yes, sir. The black and chrome one.”

  “That’s a nice bike,” he said. “Both of them are pretty good models, actually. When I used to ride, I had a Harley. Black and red Harley. Called her Fire.” Stroking his salt-and-pepper beard, Mr. Crinkle told them about his days as a biker.

  Greg clung to his father’s every word as though he was hearing these stories for the first time. “Tell him about the time you rode cross-country, Dad.”

  Franklin’s eyebrows lifted high. “You rode cross-country, Mr. Crinkle?”

  “Rode almost to California once,” Mr. Crinkle said, and there was a faraway look in his eyes. “Me and Bruno—you remember Bruno, don’t you, Greg?”

  “Yes, sir,” Greg said, nodding.

  Bruno was a good friend of the family, and he kept riding his bike until diabetes took one of his legs. He died of kidney failure just before Greg’s thirteenth birthday.

  “Me and Bruno made it all the way to Vegas. Then my bike broke down in the desert. Got ahold of some bad oil and it locked my engine. Felt like my whole world had crashed,” he said, still stroking his beard. “Know how bad it hurt to make it this close to our destination,” he said and pinched the air, “and fail at the very end?” He shook his head back and forth. Even though he was sitting in the den area with his son and Franklin, he might as well have been transported back into time, all those many years ago, and been standing right beside his bike in the dusty desert where it had broken down. “Bruno’s bike only had one seat, so we were stuck down there in Vegas for a whole month, until we came up with the money to catch a train back.”

  “That sucks,” Franklin said and sucked his teeth. “Did y’all ever try to make the trip again?”

  “We planned to, but . . .” The sparkle in his dad’s eyes seemed to dim, and he looked down at his weathered hands and twirled his fingers. “But then I met my wife, and we had Neil. Then we had Aleigha, and I . . . I kept wanting to ride, but like your mama said, it was too dangerous. And I didn’t just have myself to worry about. I had to live for my wife and my children. So I left well enough alone.”

  Mrs. Crinkle peeked her head into the room. “Darling, your plate is ready.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart. I’m coming.”

  He slapped his hands against his thighs and pushed up out of the chair. Greg noticed that every time he saw his father, it seemed to be more and more of a struggle for him to move around with much ease.

  “You okay, Dad?” Greg asked, stepping forward with his hand outstretched.

  Mr. Crinkle waved his son’s hand away. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” But when he stood to his full height, his back popped and he winced.

  Franklin cleared his throat. “Mr. Crinkle, you know, it’s never too late to start riding again. Maybe now that your kids are grown and you’re retired, you’ll start again.”

  Mr. Crinkle looked at Greg, then at Franklin. “I don’t think so. I’ll leave that up to the youngsters.”

  “But, Dad, if that’s where your heart is, you owe it to yourself,” Greg insisted. “Look at Mr. Bruno. He kept riding ’til he couldn’t ride anymore. He didn’t give up.”

  “Who said I gave up?” Mr. Crinkle stood there for a few seconds, and he seemed reflective for a moment. He cleared his throat. “One night, me and your mama got in a bad argument. So I jumped on my bike and took
off riding.”

  Greg tuned into what his dad was saying. He’d heard his dad’s motorcycle stories countless times, but he’d never heard this one.

  “While I was riding, it started to rain pretty heavily. Something in me told me I should head back, but I was too angry, so I kept on riding. Then I hit a slick spot in the road and had a wipeout.” He winced like the thought hurt him, then wiped his hand in the air like he was wiping rain off his memories. “Whole life flashed before my eyes, and in a matter of seconds, I saw my young bride become a widow and saw my kids grow up without a daddy. That scared me. It wasn’t worth it.” He looked from Greg to Franklin, then back to Greg. “God was giving me a warning, and I took heed to it. I put the bike up, and I ain’t never rode again.”

  Greg couldn’t argue with that. Now he understood why his parents had been so against him getting a bike. He wanted to apologize to his father for misjudging him for all those years. Here he was thinking that his father had punked out for a woman, when in all actuality, he was being obedient to God.

  Mrs. Crinkle peeked her head in the room again. “I made sweet potato pie. You boys come get you a piece.”

  Franklin checked his watch. “As much as I’m lovin’ this family reunion right about now, we need to head back before it gets dark.”

  Mrs. Crinkle pouted. “I sure wished you could stay a bit longer, but I understand. I don’t want you to be on the road at night. It’s already dangerous enough. Let me wrap you up a piece of pie.”

  She hurried into the kitchen, then returned moments later with two huge hunks of pie wrapped in Saran Wrap. She squeezed Greg and kissed him on the cheek. After releasing him from her embrace, she said to Franklin, “You know you’re just like a son to me. So don’t be a stranger. You don’t only have to come when Greg comes with you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Franklin said and stepped into her embrace.

  Franklin and Greg took turns using the bathroom, and Mr. Crinkle walked them out. He admired both bikes and told them to be safe. They suited up and took off to the gas station up the street, where they refilled their tanks and made the journey back to Alpharetta.

  Back at home, Greg found Shania in the bathroom, mopping, and the strong acidic stench of vomit burned his nose.

  “You all right? What happened?” He turned away. Something about seeing throw up made him want to upchuck the contents of his stomach.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “I made some herb baked chicken. I guess it was too greasy for my stomach.”

  “You sure I don’t need to take you to the doctor?” The smell of pine mixed with bleach filled the air.

  “I’m sure.” She finished mopping and flushed the bucket of water down the toilet before returning the mop and bucket to the supply closet.

  “Guess you won’t be able to eat any of this, huh?” he asked, holding up the hunk of sweet potato pie.

  She glanced at the pie and started smiling. “Somebody must’ve been to Macon.”

  “Sure did,” he said and disappeared for a moment to set the pie on the kitchen counter.

  When he returned to the bathroom, Shania asked, “And how are your parents doing?”

  “They’re fine. Dad’s worrying me a little. Seems like every time I see him, he’s slowing down more and more. And Mama just about had a heart attack when she saw my bike.”

  “I bet so.” Shania chuckled, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. It didn’t seem like she was feeling too good. He rubbed her lower back in small comforting circles. “You sure you okay? You want to lay down for a bit?”

  “Yeah, I’m just . . . so tired. Where’s Mother Washington? I thought you were picking her up this morning?”

  “No,” he said. “The doctors kept her because they wanted to run a few tests on her. I’ll have to call over there a little later and see if I can talk to her.”

  He watched her as she brushed her teeth and gargled. Her face appeared fuller to him, and this wasn’t the first time he had seen her look a little wheezy. He tried to remember how long it had been since she’d had her last period. “Is your period on?”

  She dabbed her mouth with a face towel and looked at him through the mirror. He could tell that the thought hadn’t occurred to her.

  Then she whispered, “It never came.”

  Was she serious?

  Twelve

  Convinced that her brain would explode if she had one more random thought about having a baby, but annoyed that she couldn’t shut her brain off for even five minutes to get some shut-eye, Shania yanked two pillows off the bed and made a fort on the front room sofa. She flipped through the channels, stopping at all the black-and-white movies, hoping their dullness would lull her to sleep, but sleep continued to elude her.

  Sometime that night, Greg must’ve reached for her and realized she was gone, because he came stomping through the house, yelling out her name as though an intruder had broken in and stolen her.

  “Greg, I’m right here.”

  He rushed into the living room, wearing nothing but a pair of silk night pants, and he rubbed one sleep-crusted eye with his fist. “What’s wrong? What’s going on? You sick again?” He yawned while he talked.

  “I couldn’t sleep. And I didn’t want to wake you with all my shifting. Go back to bed, honey.”

  “I can’t.” He yawned again. “I need to hold you.”

  She smiled. Even in his half-sleep state, he was a total sweetheart. Though she didn’t want to, she turned off the TV and held on to his hand as he led her back to bed. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and within seconds, he was snoring softly in her ear. She counted everything from sheep to baby booties, and finally, around six-ish that morning, she drifted off to sleep—only to be awakened an hour and a half later by her alarm clock. Had she not needed to finish the finger foods for the induction ceremony the next day, she would’ve unplugged the clock and drifted off back to sleep. Instead, she forced herself out of bed and into the bathroom, where she tried to vomit as quietly as possible so Greg wouldn’t wake up worried. It didn’t work.

  Every passing second felt like a minute and each minute felt like an hour waiting for Greg to get back from the drugstore with a pregnancy test. But she didn’t need to see the results to confirm what she already knew to be true. With the frustration of finishing everything for the wedding and with Greg’s job loss, she had blamed her missed period on stress.

  While she waited for him to return, her empty stomach began to feel ravenous. She slipped on her bedroom shoes, went to the kitchen, and fixed herself a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, buttery grits, and raisin toast. At least that was the plan…until she smelled the aroma of the bacon. The smell that once made her mouth water now made her queasy. Back to praying to the porcelain god she went.

  Shania hated being sick. She hated the nasty taste that had developed in her mouth even more. Certain that she couldn’t handle feeling nauseated and fatigued for the next nine months, a part of her hoped that she had caught some twenty-four-hour bug instead.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror and shrieked. Little red veins decorated the whites of her eyes, and she had bags underneath. She shook her head as she turned on the faucet and used her hand as a cup while she sipped, rinsed, and spit.

  She turned off the faucet and dried her hands and mouth on a hand towel. With her stomach still feeling unsettled, she decided not to eat the breakfast she had prepared. She instead opted for some saltine crackers and orange juice. For some reason, when the citrusy drink hit the back of her throat, she felt less like throwing up.

  She stood at the kitchen island, munching on one crunchy, salty cracker after another, thinking about how much her life would change with a baby. She had figured that she and Greg would have children someday, but the thought of that “someday” possibly being now made her heart flutter.

  Was it too soon to have a baby? What about the timing? If she was pregnant, Greg definitely wouldn’t want to go to Jamaica now. H
e’d want to save every penny for the baby. Furthermore, what kind of example was she setting for her sister? She and Greg hadn’t even celebrated their first wedding anniversary, and there was a possibility that she might be with child already?

  If Cheyenne found out she had allowed herself to get pregnant so early in her marriage, she’d probably assume that it gave her the right to do the same. And what would Greg’s parents think about the situation? Would they think she moved too fast? Oh God, oh God, what had she done?

  Then she remembered a conversation she’d had with Mother Washington. The older woman had said, “You’re married now. Anytime married folks wanna start havin’ babies is fine. Don’t let people try to convince you to wait, if that’s not what you and your husband wanna do. That’s between you and him. Keep folks out your business. What happens in your house needs to stay right there, in your house. Marriage is what you make it. It takes work and commitment, especially after you start havin’ babies. Forget about the fairy tale, because when the fairy tale ends, real life begins.”

  Shania felt like her fairy tale had ended days ago. Yet and still, she pondered the words of wisdom and stuffed another cracker in her mouth. She swallowed hard when she saw Greg come through the door, carrying a plastic bag and wearing anxiety in the creases of his forehead. As he walked toward her, he removed the pregnancy test from the bag and held it in the air.

  “Here you go,” he said as he placed the test on the counter in front of her.

  Shania stared at the test in utter disbelief. She had to ask herself if this was really happening. A few months ago, she was a virgin. In a few short minutes, her entire world could change.

  Trying to get rid of some of her nervous energy, she twisted the sleeve of crackers and put the remaining crackers back in the box. She pressed her hands against the edge of the island and sighed.

  “Don’t be nervous.” Greg placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed. “No matter what, we’ll be all right.”

  With that vote of confidence, Shania picked up the test and read the instructions. When she felt comfortable, she went into the bathroom, peed on the stick, and waited.