by Mary Monroe
She had even set her sights on Mr. Clarke, the elderly man who worked part-time for Daddy at the store. A relationship between Mavis and Mr. Clarke was highly unlikely. Not as long as there was a massage parlor at his disposal. Every payday Mr. Clarke was up to his receding hairline in Asian hookers. And even though he’d made a few passes at me, Mr. Clarke often said, “When it come to women, I don’t want nothin’ black but a Cadillac.” I repeated those words to him every time he came on to me. And, I reminded him of my plans to marry James.
Some people told me I was lucky that Mavis had sanctioned my relationship with James. Others told me the exact opposite. I was glad I had James to turn to after a hard day at the office.
The evening after the panty hose incident with Ann, I went to James’s apartment before I went home. As dull as he was, every once in a while he provided the sexual healing I needed. However, that evening when I let myself into his place with my own key, Mavis was standing in the middle of the living room with her hands on her wide hips. She had on a floor-length flowered dress that made her look like a float.
“They tell me you done quit your job at your daddy’s liquor store and hooked up with some outfit in San Jose,” she said in a gruff voice, looking at me with small, slanted black eyes. The thick layer of makeup she wore didn’t do much to hide the deep wrinkles and knots on her face this particular day. The fact that she was standing in some bad light made her appearance seem even more disturbing. And she was so heavy-handed when it came to perfume, I always had to breathe through my mouth when I was around her. It was no wonder she couldn’t get another man.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said sharply, quickly rerouting the conversation. “Uh, is James home?”
“Where else would he be this time of day? He got sense enough to come straight home from work like he supposed to every day.” The false teeth in Mavis’s mouth clicked like castanets. “You ought to know that by now.” Mavis didn’t make such remarks because she was a smart-ass. The things that slid out of her mouth, no matter how harsh, did so because that was just the way she was. Basically, she was a nice woman who would give you the wig off her head.
“Oh,” I said, looking at my watch, then over Mavis’s shoulder just as James exited his bathroom. “Hi, baby,” I yelled. “Uh, I didn’t know you had company. I thought maybe we’d go out for pizza or something.”
“Sounds good to me. As long as it don’t have no garlic on it,” Mavis said quickly, raking her spotty fingers through her fuzzy gray and black wig. “Let’s go now so we can get back in time to watch the Golden Girls.”
When Mavis visited James she almost always stayed until the next morning, stretching out on his couch bed with enough pillows to prop up a horse. Even on the nights that he had to go to work the next morning. Tonight was no different.
After our visit to Round Table, and as soon as we got back to James’s place and devoured the pizza, Mavis slipped into one of her many gauze nightgowns. She vacuumed James’s carpet and dusted a few items with the tail of her gown, all within ten minutes. She spent the whole time mumbling about how she hoped I’d keep a clean house once I married her son and volunteered in advance to help me do just that.
Finally, wheezing to catch her breath, she turned to me. “Trudy, if you want to get jiggy with my son, don’t let me stop you. I’ll go in the bathroom and rinse out my hair. Tee-hee.” For an old woman, Mavis could get quite bold at times. I didn’t know if that was the way she really was, or if it was just the way some old women acted when they had been without a man for too long. She often crossed the line when it came to talking about sex. Like, I saw no reason for her to confess to me that she had not been fucked in twenty years. I had been praying for some man somewhere to crawl into her bed. I thought maybe it would make her behave more like a woman in her position should. Until then I would always be uncomfortable in her presence. Lately, when people made me uncomfortable, it compelled me to go do something expensive.
Last weekend Daddy got upset with me and complained of “severe chest pains” because I told him I was planning to spend that weekend in Vegas.
“Lost Vegas?” he hollered, looking at me like I’d just announced that I was going to Iraq.
“Las Vegas, Daddy,” I said calmly. “Just for a couple of nights,” I added casually.
“Oh. I won’t live through the night,” he whined, rubbing his chest and wheezing like a dying mule.
“You can stop talking foolish right now because it’s not working!” I snapped.
Daddy gave me a defeated look, then blinked a few times before he spoke again. This time he used a voice that was so weak and low I could barely hear him. “Can you leave a telephone number where you can be reached?”
“Yes, I’ll leave you the hotel phone number.”
“Can you help me . . . get to the bed?” he asked, wobbling toward me. “And before you go to that Lost Vegas, make sure you leave Dr. Mason’s telephone number where I can reach it.”
I put my trip to Vegas on hold. I spent most of the weekend spoon-feeding Daddy chicken soup. As soon as he was able to get out of his bed, I fled to the mall and charged myself a new dress and shoes. “Thank you, Miss Oliver,” the clerk had said. By now I was used to clerks and waiters calling me by Ann’s name.
But during a telephone conversation with Mavis last Tuesday night, when Mavis had called the house looking for James, she referred to me as “Miss Ann.” I had just told her in detail how exciting my new job was and how much fun I was having working with people who traveled all over the world and wore nothing but designer clothes. I almost choked on the pork chop I’d been gnawing on. “What did you just call me?” I asked, my hand trembling so hard I could barely hold the telephone still. It seemed inconceivable that Mavis would know Ann Oliver.
“I called you ‘Miss Ann,’ ” she snapped, chuckling under her breath.
“Why did you call me that?” I asked, a thousand thoughts running through my head.
“Back home, that’s what my mama, and all the old sisters, used to call them snooty White women they worked for behind their backs. That’s written up even in some of our books. They called us Sapphires behind our backs, and probably still do. Didn’t your mama tell you . . . oh, I forgot.”
There were times when Mavis made it seem like me being the daughter of a White woman was one of the worst things in the world.
I had let that comment go, as I did with most things when it involved Mavis. Like tonight.
CHAPTER 22
“Mama, please,” James said, clearly embarrassed. “Please don’t make a scene in front of Trudy again.” I had to feel sorry for James for having a mother like Mavis. But my situation was not much better. James often told me how sorry he felt for me when Daddy said something stupid in front of him. With Daddy and Mavis both breathing down our necks, James and I had our work cut out for us. I figured that it was one of the things that kept us together.
One reason I was able to tolerate Mavis was because I didn’t have a mother of my own anymore. The emptiness in my heart was sometimes so overwhelming that I would have traded places with James at the drop of a hat. In my mind, a mother like Mavis was better than no mother at all. That’s why I was able to look at her with a smile on my face.
Mavis cackled. “Trudy know I don’t mean nothin’. I’m just havin’ fun with y’all.”
It had been a long time since I’d experienced a night as uncomfortable as this one. The pizza that I’d eaten rose in my throat, almost choking me.
“I was just about to leave,” I said weakly, coughing to keep from throwing up. “James, can you drive me home?” I didn’t have a problem getting jiggy with James in the backseat of his car. We’d done it before. Before James could answer, I read Mavis’s mind. The anxious look on her face, and the way she glanced at her purse, told me that she planned to come along for the ride. “Mavis, I need to talk to James about something private, if you don’t mind . . .”
James snatched his jacket off a wall ho
ok and ushered me out the door before Mavis could react, putting it on in such a hurry he buttoned it wrong. As soon as we drove around the corner to a dark alley we had become quite familiar with, James took the jacket and the rest of his clothes off. We could have checked into a cheap motel or gone to my house to do our business on the couch, or even in my room, as we often did. Daddy was no doubt fast asleep—if he was home. Unfortunately, with Mavis waiting for James to return to his place we didn’t have enough time for a real rendezvous.
Climbing into the backseat of a car and fumbling around in the dark like a couple of teenagers was one thing; getting naked was another. James and I rarely got completely naked when we made love. Even at his place. I figured it was because when we’d first started having sex, when I was eighteen and he was twenty, I would only agree to remove my underwear. Even though he knew about the scar from where my appendix had been removed—slashed across my lower abdomen like a cruel smile—it made me self-conscious back then. Once it was decided that we would marry one day, my scar didn’t matter so much.
But that was only part of the reason why I’d removed my clothes tonight. The fact of the matter was, wearing clothes on such an intimate occasion when the weather was hot was just too uncomfortable. Between the two of us we already generated enough sweat to wax a bus. Tonight was one of the hottest nights of the season and summer was still several weeks away.
“One thing I can say about that new job of yours, it’s changed you in some ways,” James noticed. He had turned on his car radio to a jazz station we both liked. There was just enough light from the dashboard and a dim streetlight for me to see the satisfied glow on his face as he bobbed his head to the beat of Grover Washington.
“What do you mean?” I asked, tweaking his nose and brushing pizza crumbs from his cheek.
He kissed my hand and sighed. “I don’t know. You just seem . . . you know . . . different. Ever since you started that new job.”
“Well, I am more relaxed than I was at the liquor store. I don’t have to worry about getting robbed.”
After we got back into our clothes, we tumbled back to the front seat, fanning our faces with the same napkins we’d used to sop up the juices still oozing from our crotches. Safe sex? I didn’t have to worry about condoms. I didn’t sleep around and I knew James didn’t either. I was on the pill so getting pregnant was not one of my concerns.
I looked at the side of James’s head as he started the motor. Sometimes my mind wandered. I could be in the middle of a serious conversation with somebody and be thinking about everything except what we were discussing. At that moment I was wondering if my children would inherit the shape of James’s head. It was too long and narrow for my tastes. A boy could get away with having such a mean head, but a girl would suffer until the day she died. I had attended junior high with an unfortunate girl who had been teased and tormented so much about her elongated head, she committed suicide during the Christmas break. A sharp pain shot throughout my entire body.
“Did you hear what I just said?” James asked, still breathing as fast and loud as he had in the backseat.
“Yeah, I heard you,” I replied, still buttoning my blouse and still wondering about the shape of my future children’s heads. “What’s that suppose to mean?” He was facing me now. His face was a much more pleasant sight.
“Well, the way you look, for one. And even the way you’ve been acting these days. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were . . . seeing another man or something.” James shrugged. “Mama always says that a guilty conscience is one of the strongest motivators in the world.”
“I don’t have anything to be feeling guilty about,” I mumbled, my hands up in the air defensively. That alone made me look guilty of something.
James laughed and tapped my head. “Girl, you know I am just fucking with you. I’m trying to make you laugh. I know you are still tense about that robbery.”
“I’m fine, James. If I am acting different it’s because things are different in my life now. I’m . . . we’re getting older.” James gave me a guarded look. I couldn’t imagine what was going through his head. But my head was about to explode with all the thoughts piling up in it. And it seemed like they all involved Bon Voyage and Ann Oliver. I couldn’t even begin to think what James would say or do if he knew about me using Ann’s credit card for my own personal use. “I’m almost thirty, James. You don’t want me to stay the same way I was when I met you, do you?” I asked, looking out the window. I pulled my jacket tighter when I noticed a light go on in the building in front of us.
“That depends,” he mumbled.
I whirled my head around to face James. He was looking at me with such a strange look on his face, I got defensive.
“Depends on what?” I snapped.
“I fell in love with you back then because you seemed like the kind of woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. You were the sweetest, most humble woman I’d ever met.”
“That part hasn’t changed, James.”
“You might not think so.”
I looked away but I could see out of the corner of my eye that James was still staring at me.
“Trudy, if you ever fuck me over, I’ll never forgive you,” he said evenly.
“What in the world are you talking about, man?” I hollered, whirling around to face him again. “I have never cheated on you.”
“I didn’t say you had.” He let out a deep sigh and rubbed my shoulder. “Just don’t change too much more on me, Trudy.” I was glad I couldn’t read his mind. He looked at me a long time before he let out a laugh. “Girl, I know you wouldn’t fuck me over. I guess Mama just got me riled up.”
“That makes two of us.” I grinned. “Now will you take me home? I have to lay out something nice to wear to work tomorrow. Some big shots from IBM are coming to discuss opening an account with us.”
“Uh-huh. Well, don’t wear nothing too sharp. You’ve hooked up some mighty sexy outfits lately. I know some dudes at IBM and they can really mess with a pretty woman’s mind. I don’t want you getting yourself involved in something you’ll regret. That would be a crime.”
I did not consider myself a criminal. At least, not a real one. I laughed when I realized that the only “real” thing I was, was a real fake. It helped knowing that the world was full of honest people who straddled that ultra thin line between right and wrong on a regular basis. My daddy was one of the most honest and dignified men I knew but that never stopped him from modifying the truth when he filed his taxes.
Then there was James and that mother of his. They had told a few lies—they called them fibs—to the Medicare folks about Mavis’s “failing” health. Then they’d dug up a shady doctor who added a few lies of his own to Mavis’s application so she could get better medical coverage.
I realized that the degree of the crimes other people committed varied from one crook to another, but a crime was a crime. I truly believed that I had nothing to be ashamed of so I kept telling myself that my real “crime” wasn’t really that bad. At least it didn’t involve me fooling around with other men. Nobody was getting hurt, physically or mentally, and the bills were being paid on time every month. I made sure of that. The best part was that it wasn’t my money paying the bills that I racked up. But even with that, nobody was getting hurt. I’d seen the records so I knew that Bon Voyage was getting paid big time with all the tour groups and companies using their travel services. A few extra thousand dollars a month wouldn’t even put a dent in a golden egg–laying goose like them.
I had everything under control so far. I ignored a little voice—along with a laundry list of other annoying things—that had settled in the back of my mind like a sore that wouldn’t heal. The voice assured me that I was on a runaway train and it was just a matter of time before it crashed.
CHAPTER 23
Of all the people at Bon Voyage, Mr. Rydell was the one I liked the most. The fact that he owned the company and was filthy rich had a lot to do with
his appeal. That surely got my attention. To me his wealth represented power, even though he cowered like a scared kitten when he was around Ann. But lately, having unlimited resources of my own to buy whatever I wanted made me appreciate power even more.
But it was more than that with Mr. Rydell. He was certainly no Adonis in the looks department. His round face, sad droopy eyes, and thick rubbery lips were all parts of a big knotty head sitting on a big body with no neck. He was barely five feet tall and looked to be as big around. But as hard as it was to believe, there was something about this troll that I found strangely appealing. He had a nice deep voice and I loved a man with a deep husky voice. It gave him presence. Even though he was in his fifties he still had a head full of hair. Unfortunately, all of it was as white as snow. When he spoke to me, with his eyelids lowered to halfmast, his hands clasped in front of his low belly, he made me feel important. Even when the subject was something mundane. “Trudy, did you get my memo regarding the Burrows account?” he had asked a few days ago. The way he had licked then pursed his lips made me recall a comment Wendy had made about his mouth: I bet he gives damn good head. I nodded at Mr. Rydell with a shy smile, recalling a convoluted memo suggesting that I organize a potluck to celebrate our landing a huge new account. Including Mr. Rydell and sex in the same thought embarrassed me. He was definitely not a man who I wanted to sleep with. Even though I found him strangely appealing, he also reminded me of a puppy that nobody wanted.
I didn’t know why Ann was so fond of Mr. Rydell. But she glowed like a lamp when he came near her. And the feeling appeared to be mutual. They would strut out of the office to lunch or a nearby bar, arm in arm. Mr. Rydell was not that friendly with any of the other women he employed. “I bet Ann’s sucking Mr. Rydell’s dick,” Wendy suggested at least every other day.
Mr. Rydell could afford to dress like a prince, but he always wore a black suit. I didn’t know if it was the same suit or if he had a dozen of the same kind in his closet. As the owner of Bon Voyage, he had a lot to be thankful for, but all he did was whine about everything, from his two ungrateful sons and their children to his wife’s spending habits. He kept a big white handkerchief in his hand to mop his face because he was always sweating.
