by E. N. Joy
“It sounds good, Mother, but I have to take this thing one step at a time.”
“Is that what God told you to do, or is that just how you want to do it?”
Tamarra had never really stopped and asked God exactly what He wanted her to do. She didn’t ask just in case she didn’t like His reply. She was giving new meaning to the term ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.’ If she didn’t ask God about her situation, then maybe He wouldn’t tell her.
“Look, Mother, I have to go. I’m sorry I snapped at you and all.”
“It’s okay. I know this is hard for you, dear. Seems like you get over one bridge and another is waiting. But we’ll get through it. With God’s help, we’ll get through it.”
“Thanks, Mom. I love you.” Tamarra ended the call then said to herself, “I don’t want to get through it. If at all possible, I’d prefer to go around it.”
Chapter Ten
Everything Literary: To answer your question, Mr. Born, if I were to write the greatest love story ever told, my ideal leading man would be, first and foremost, believable. The tall, dark, and handsome thing is played out. How about a tithing, delivered, and holy man? What about you, Mr. Born?
Born2Write: Well, I’m two out of three.
EverythingLiterary: LOL. That’s not what I meant. I meant what about you as far as if you were to write the greatest love story ever told, what would your ideal leading woman be?
Born2Write: Hmmm. Well, like your leading man, she’d have to be believable. I can’t do the fake thing. Like God, she’d have to be the same tomorrow as she was yesterday and today.
EverythingLiterary: Are you saying she has to be perfect like God? No woman could meet those standards without being fake.
Born2Write: No, I’m saying that I want her to be herself whether she is at home, at church, with her friends, with her momma and daddy, with her man, or without her man. Some women have a different face and personality for every place they are or for the different people they are with.
EverythingLiterary: Sounds like you speak from experience.
Born2Write: I do. I’ve met women before who are absolutely nothing like the people they presented themselves to be the first month I met them. By month two, I feel like I’m with a stranger, or auditioning for the remake of Fatal Attraction.
EverythingLiterary: Had your share of crazies, huh?
Born2Write: Don’t get me started. What about you? I’m sure a woman like yourself has had her share of relationships gone bad.
EverythingLiterary: Wait a minute… I thought we were talking fiction here. How did we go from make believe characters to ourselves?
Born2Write: And what’s so wrong with that? Getting to know a little bit about each other? You never know; the two of us just may have a lot in common. For example, I like to write; you like to write. Maybe we can get together sometime and brain storm. Who knows? Between the two of us, we may just get that greatest love story ever told written ourselves.
EverythingLiterary: Sorry, Mr. Born, but I’m not in the habit of meeting up with guys I meet over the Internet.
Born2Write: So you’ve NEVER met up with a guy you’ve met over the Internet before???
EverythingLiterary: Well, only for business.
Born2Write: Who said it would be about anything other than business? The last I checked, we were talking about writing. That is your business, right?
EverythingLiterary: To some degree, but something tells me, Mr. Born, that your idea of business and mine might not be the same. And just like my two main characters, if I were to write the greatest love story ever told, they’d have to be equally yoked.
Born2Write: What makes you think that we aren’t—I mean, that they aren’t?
EverythingLiterary: You ever heard of something called spirit of discernment?
Born2Write: I might have heard of it a time or two. What about it?
EverythingLiterary: Mine tells me that I like my eggs boiled until the yoke is that greenish color. It tells me that you like your eggs over easy.
Born2Write: Actually, I like mine scrambled with cheese.
EverythingLiterary: See, you don’t get my point, Mr. Born. And, unfortunately, I’m really busy today. Still have a lot of catching up to do.
Born2Write: I see. Well, thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to chit chat with a wretch like me.
EverythingLiterary: Cute.
Born2Write: Thank you. I think it’s the new haircut. I got my Rick Fox thing going on.
EverythingLiterary: I meant your comment was cute, not you.
Born2Write: Wow. That hurt. That was a… What would you call it? An un-Christlike thing to say.
EverythingLiterary: LOL. I didn’t mean it like that. I apologize. But I hardly believe your feelings are the least bit hurt. You don’t need me validating how handsome you are. I’m sure every day when you look into the mirror-mirror on the wall and pose your question, it gives you the reply you long to hear.
Born2Write: Are you calling me vain?
EverythingLiterary: Your words, not mine.
Born2Write: Ouch.
EverythingLiterary: Put a Band-Aid on it, Mr. Born. I’m sure it will be okay.
Born2Write: You’re relentless.
EverythingLiterary: Says the pot calling the kettle black.
Born2Write: Okay, I bow out gracefully. You’re the champ.
EverythingLiterary: Nobody likes a quitter, Mr. Born.
Born2Write: Trust me, I’ll keep that in mind.
Good day. Hope you get caught up.
“OMG, what am I doing?” Deborah laughed out loud as she spun around in her home office chair.
For the past few days, she and Lynox, a.k.a. Mr. Born, had been sending e-mails back and forth. Even now that it was out in the open that Lynox was the infamous Mr. Born, the two, in an unspoken agreement, decided not to make mention of it. They continued the charade, sticking to literary topics of discussion. They’d managed to talk about everything from the increase in African American New York Times bestselling authors over the last few years to the untimely deaths of some of the more popular African American authors such as Octavia Butler, BeBe Moore Campbell, and E. Lynn Harris.
Today was the first time they had ever come this close to veering off course into personal matters. “Maybe I should just nip this in the bud now before it goes too far and he starts getting the wrong idea,” Deborah told herself as she stood up and slowly paced the floor. But she really couldn’t see the harm in just a little fun on the Internet. Besides, she had to admit that she had never really given Lynox an honest chance to woo her, and he must have really found her to be someone he could see himself being with, considering nothing she did or said convinced him to give up on her. “Just like you, God,” she thought out loud. “The same way, in spite of myself, you have never given up on me, neither has Lynox.”
Perhaps that was a sign from God that maybe she was supposed to give Lynox a chance at love. She plopped back down at her computer to check her other e-mails, secretly hoping that the next one to pop up would be from Born2Write. After all, as she saw it, she had nothing to lose and only a possible future soul mate to gain.
Chapter Eleven
Paige had to admit that she’d been thinking about the accidental kiss she and Norman shared ever since he laid it on her. She’d been thinking about it a lot. She was thinking about it now. When she should have been thinking about her husband’s show of affection, she was lying on the living room couch thinking about Norman’s. Perhaps if her husband had been showing her any signs of affection lately, that wouldn’t be the case.
She hadn’t even realized her mind had wandered off in that direction as she replayed the scene in her mind over and over. Like she was directing the scene from a movie, she added parts: a few more seconds to the kiss, a slow parting of Norman’s lips, the two of them staring in each other’s eyes, Norman confessing his secret love for her. Once her thoughts had gone that far, she shook her head and sat upright on
the couch.
“Too much time on my hands,” was the vocal excuse Paige made for her inappropriate daydreams.
Only minutes before, her thoughts had been consumed with checking the clock every ten minutes. She’d stopped checking the pot roast more than an hour ago, once she realized its original heat could not be restored, especially after she’d removed it from the warming oven for fear it might dry out. It was now freezing cold as it sat in the middle of the dining room table. The Corningware could keep it warm but so long. It had already been sitting on the table close to two hours.
Two hours ago was when Paige had expected her new husband to walk through the door, but now here he was, walking through it two hours later with a bundle of “I’m Sorry” flowers he’d picked up from some twenty-four hour grocery store on his way home.
Well, Paige was sorry too. Sorry she’d spent the entire afternoon shopping for all the ingredients her mother had told her she needed to prepare the meal. Sorry she’d wasted $69.95 on a new lounging outfit in her husband’s favorite color of crimson. Thank God she hadn’t splurged for the matching clear house pumps with fur lining at the top. She was also sorry she’d spent the entire evening on the phone following her mother’s instructions on preparing the pot roast. But what she was most sorry for was that she’d waited up this long for her husband to join her for dinner—her husband who hadn’t even had the decency to call and tell her he would be late.
“I told you that you didn’t have to wait up for me, honey.” Blake glanced behind Paige and into the dining area after closing the door behind him and setting down his briefcase. He could see the spread on the table and the place settings. “Did you eat already?”
“Did I eat already?” Paige was trying her best not to get indignant. “I’ve been waiting for you…” She looked at the clock on the wall. “For two hours now.”
A puzzled look raced across his face. “But didn’t you get my message?”
“What message? I checked my cell phone repeatedly to see if I missed your call or something. There was no call and there was no message.”
“Well, maybe next time you might try checking the home phone.” He nodded toward the cordless phone that sat on the couch next to her. She’d kept it close just in case he had tried to call. He hadn’t—at least not to her knowledge. “I called earlier. You didn’t pick up, so I left a message.”
Paige picked up the phone and turned it on. Placing it to her ear, sure enough it made the beeping sound that it makes when someone has left a voice message. “But I’ve been home. I don’t know how or when I could have missed…” Her words trailed off when she thought about the couple of times she’d put the phone down while talking to her mother in order to retrieve an ingredient. The other line must have beeped then without her knowing.
“I think your other line was clicking when you had me on hold,” she recalled her mother saying. She’d forgotten all about it by the time they’d hung up, so she didn’t think to see if the missed caller had left a message.
“Anyway,” Blake continued, “I’m sorry, honey. And it looks as though you really went out of your way with tonight’s meal.”
“Well, I had the day off, so I wanted to spend it doing something for you.”
Blake felt bad. Paige could tell by the look on his face.
When her stomach grumbled, she said, “I suppose we could still have dinner. It probably won’t taste as good nuked, but I’m sure it will be appetizing nonetheless. It’s an old family recipe.”
Blake hesitated for a minute. “Actually, I already ate. That’s what I was telling you in my message. We had dinner with a client, Klyde and I.”
“Oh.” Now Paige was even more disappointed, but she didn’t want to show it. She didn’t want to be the angry black woman. Not yet. It was far too early in the marriage. But if Blake thought she was going to sit back and allow him to take her for granted, he had another thing coming.
“But hey, I can keep you company while you eat,” Blake suggested right before yawning and looking down at his watch. It was ten o’clock.
Trying to keep it together, Paige took a deep breath, then walked over and kissed her husband on the cheek. “That’s okay, honey. You’ve worked long and hard today. Go ahead and get your shower and go to bed. We’ll have it tomorrow. I’m sure it will still be just as tasty as leftovers.”
Blake smiled and moved in close to his wife. “That’s why I married you. You are so considerate and selfless. I love you, Mrs. Dickenson.”
Paige closed her eyes and leaned in to close the minute gap that was between her and her husband. She puckered her lips just as Blake puckered his. She waited to feel his soft lips touch her lips. Instead, they touched her forehead.
“See you upstairs, sweetheart,” Blake said before climbing the steps, headed for their bedroom, no doubt.
Paige stood there dumbfounded and confused. “What the heck just happened here?” she questioned herself, feeling slighted. She looked down at herself, donned in her new lounging outfit. Heading toward the dining room to put away the food, she covered as much of her upper body as she could with her arms. She hugged herself until she realized that if she was going to put away the food, she needed the use of her arms.
Slowly, Paige picked up her main dish and proceeded to put the food away. As she did, she almost subconsciously engaged in picking and eating away at the dinner. A hunk of pot roast. A potato. A roll. Another hunk of pot roast. Another roll, this time dipped in the roast’s gravy. A handful of carrots. More roast. Another handful of carrots with a couple of peas mixed in. Yes, that’s right, she was pecking away at the food with her hands while putting it away. She was gnawing away at the food the same way her husband’s neglect was gnawing away at her.
“Looks like leftovers will be out of the question,” Paige told herself as she turned off the kitchen lights. She belched and then headed for the stairs. Making her way up the steps, a part of her still felt that the night might not be a total bust. And she had a receipt for $69.95 plus tax that agreed with her.
Reaching the top landing of her steps, she adjusted her outfit and then entered her bedroom. The scent of Blake’s after shower smell-good lingered in the air. She felt her way through the dark room until she reached her bed. She climbed in and scooted close to Blake, prepared to consummate the marriage…again. Just as she went to whisper his name and put her arm around him, a loud snore almost scared her half to death.
She shook her head in pure disbelief. This night had turned out nothing like the way she had planned.
She flopped down on her side of the bed, her lips poked out. The pot roast may have gotten cold, but it seemed as though their bed had gotten even colder. If Blake kept this up, among all the other things she’d been sorry for that night, he’d better hope she wouldn’t be sorry she’d married him.
Paige pulled the covers up to her neck then let out another belch. Her husband may not have filled her up, but at least the pot roast had.
Chapter Twelve
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Sakaya. Happy birthday to you!” Everyone clapped as Sakaya stood in a chair over the cake that was lit with four candles.
Sakaya closed her eyes tightly to keep the wish inside her head. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and blew out all the candles in two breaths. “Yay!” she shouted and clapped for herself along with the other guests in attendance at her fourth birthday celebration.
Maeyl snapped a picture of his little girl gleaming over the Black Barbie cake. Her mother stood beside her, helping her to balance.
“Let me get another one,” Maeyl stated while aiming the camera at mother and daughter.
“Let’s at least let her cut the cake,” Sasha said as she held Sakaya by the waist.
“Just one more,” Maeyl insisted. “I want to make sure I get a picture with the cake in it this time.”
“Okay, Daddy, just one more,” Sakaya said with a pointed finger. “But you get in the p
icture this time. Me, you, and Mommy.”
“Yeah, you get in one this time,” Sasha agreed. She then looked over at Tamarra. “Would you mind?” Sasha took the camera from Maeyl and handed it to Tamarra.
“Uh, no, not at all.” Tamarra, appearing quite uncomfortable with the task at hand, walked over and took Maeyl’s spot as he went and stood next to Sasha and his daughter.
“Get in close,” Sasha said as she released one of her hands from around Sakaya’s waist and put it around Maeyl’s.
Tamarra peered through the camera lens at what looked to be a perfect, happy family. She couldn’t help but visualize her head attached to Sasha’s neck, thinking it should be her in that type of picture instead. How she longed to be the one and only matriarch of such a happy family: mother, father, and child—birthday celebrations, proms, and graduations—but she’d been robbed of that thanks to her brother.
The more Tamarra thought about it, maybe deep inside she had forgiven her brother for raping her. Perhaps it was the fact that his actions robbed her of the ability to bear children for her husband and be that happy family that she couldn’t forgive him. And looking through that lens only reminded her of it more. She didn’t even realize several seconds had passed, her hand was trembling, and she’d yet to snap the picture.
God, help me, Tamarra thought. And He did; He sent help her way.
“Here, let me take the picture,” Zelda insisted as she walked up and relieved Tamarra of the duty.
“Oh, no. I can do it!” Tamarra insisted after taking note of the look Zelda had shot her. She couldn’t distinguish whether or not it was an I-told-you-so look, or an I-can’t-believe-you-are-going-to-go-ahead-with-this-charade look. Either way, it was a look, and it was one Tamarra wasn’t too pleased with. She and Zelda had had a private conversation about how Tamarra truly felt about Maeyl’s situation with his daughter. For some reason, she felt as though Zelda was reminding her of the conversation. She didn’t need reminding. She’d made up her mind, and now she had to follow through. She took the camera back from Zelda.
