“I’m Karen. Welcome to the family, Antoinette. We’ve talked on the phone a few times, but nothing beats meeting face-to-face. I’m glad Lamonte found the love of his life.”
I smell more than champagne on her breath. Clay taught me how to mix a mean Rob Roy. Karen may as well have said, “Smell that scotch and sweet vermouth, don’t you?” She releases me and I regain my composure. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Ms. Karen.”
“Call me Aunt Karen. You’re practically family.” She whispers in my ear, “Don’t you let my high-faluting sister bother you. Everybody’s got crazy running in their family tree.”
Lamonte sees my face flush and intervenes. “Aunt Karen, where is Uncle Hunter?”
“Still in Jersey. He had some business to handle, but he’ll be here for the wedding in October.” Karen flags a waiter, takes a champagne flute, and sits on a white bench.
“What did she say to you?” Lamonte asks me.
“Baby, it doesn’t matter. We promised each other we’d get through this, and we will.”
He plants a kiss on my forehead as a colleague waves to him. “Be right back. I’m going to speak with Stan Mitchell.”
As he walks away from me, I run to him and whisper one of Clay’s favorite sayings in his ear. “Look at the swing on that back porch!”
He shakes his head with a playful smile and continues. I speak to a few more well-wishers before I head to the games area. On the way, I feel a slight jerk on my arm.
“Let’s speak in private for a moment,” Brooklyn says.
“I’m going to check on the—”
“I said a quick minute!”
I follow her to the back of the restaurant, gearing up for a war of words. Whomever said respect your elders didn’t know Brooklyn. She’s always been terse with me. I never say the right words, wear the right clothes, or use the right utensils.
She spins around before we reach our destination. “I’ve had it up to here with all of this!” She makes a wide, circular motion with her long arms. “The only reason I’m here today is because Senior insisted we honor our son’s wishes. But I will never accept you as a daughter-in-law. Ever!”
“You don’t have to accept me.”
She points her long, manicured nails in my face. “Idiot, when you marry someone, you marry their family as well. Their history and their struggles. Unfortunately, you bring too much to the table. My son deserves better, and her name is Christina Garrett.”
Christina’s name is a sucker punch. Though Lamonte and Christina were on the outs when we met, he said they broke up because she was on the fast track to becoming Brooklyn 2. Brooklyn 1 felt a woman’s place was beside her husband, not in the workplace. Christina was willing to put her impressive credentials on a shelf to be Mrs. Lamonte Dunlap, Jr. To birth his tall sons—the Dunlaps are boy breeders—and keep his house. I always have and will continue to make my own money.
“My independence is what Lamonte loves about me.”
“He’ll grow tired of a neglectful wife soon enough.”
“Christina doesn’t have the ring, I do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She shouts at my back, “I give this marriage a year, tops. He’ll toss you in the wind like the confused trash you are. Bad enough you have a crazy family, but living with those…homosexuals.”
“Listen—”
The jazz band dies down and I hear Lamonte’s voice speak into a microphone. “Toni, where are you, baby?”
I roll my eyes at Brooklyn. “We’ll continue this later.”
I continue to the front lawn, and to my surprise, the crowd has gathered in a large semi-circle in front of the restaurant. Lamonte has taken the microphone from the vocalist and he beckons me to join him on the front porch. I smirk at Brooklyn who takes her place next to Aunt Karen and Senior.
Chapter 5
A man assists me as I climb the steps and stand next to Lamonte. He pulls me close again and my pride swells at the way he gazes at me. I hold his hand as his eyes scan the crowd.
“When I was thirty-one, I met the woman of my dreams. I never thought I’d find a woman to complete me. The last five years with Toni have been magical.”
Take that, Brooklyn Lucille Dunlap!
Russ and Clay are closer to the porch now. The times they interacted with Lamonte were always positive, and they literally gave their stamp of approval. Russ created a T-shirt with Lamonte’s picture that contained a circle and the words Russ and Clay-approved. I wore the shirt to bed when I spent the night at Lamonte’s house in Conyers.
“Antoinette Willamson is phenomenal. If the virtuous woman in the book of Proverbs had a photo, it would be a picture of Toni, her face beat with MAC, wearing a flirty dress by Angie and Carlos Santana wedges, and cleaning our place top to bottom. Now, the cooking…”
I punch his shoulder as our guests laugh.
Russ yells, “That’s our girl!”
Lamonte pulls me closer and his heart thumps. I rub his back in hopes he relaxes. I breathe in his Versace Man and wonder how I snagged such a good guy. Loving, forgiving, and responsible. He responds to my soft pats by facing me. A slight tremor in his right hand challenges his grip on the microphone. He caresses my face and turns to our guests again.
“To sustain the magic of our union, Toni and I have decided to postpone our wedding at this time.”
Brooklyn mouths Thank you, Jesus to Senior and Karen. They look as shocked as I feel. My Spanx close in on me and I feel them tighten. A collective gasp fills the air and my plastered smile fades as I grab the microphone.
“What he means is—”
He snatches the microphone back and gives me a sharp, fall-in-line expression. “We wanted you to hear this from us instead of others. We plan to work through our difficulties and ask for your thoughts and prayers.”
He drops the mic and heads toward his vehicle in back of the restaurant. Our guests whisper and I spot Clay cupping his oxygen mask. I chase Lamonte to the back of the building and catch him as he dips into his SUV. Several guests join us to witness the sideshow. I pull on his door, but not fast enough. He locks it.
I tilt my face close to his. “Lamonte, why go through with this if you weren’t sure?” I will tears not to fall, but they are noncompliant.
“Why lie to me for years if you love me?”
“Lamonte—”
“Mom can handle things here. I’m leaving.”
I spot a huge bottle of Absolut next to his wallet on the front seat. He revs his engine and barrels out of the parking lot. Russ appears like a ghost to comfort me, but I’m too furious to accept his reassurance. I spot my vehicle and dash. Russ gives chase.
“Toni, stop!”
I call over my shoulder, “Why?”
“You’re in no condition to drive. Calm down. You can talk to Lamonte later.”
I yank my door open and pop the trunk. My forgetfulness has cost me some lovely bags, so I always keep my purse in the trunk when I travel. My routine is a godsend today.
“Toni—”
“No one makes a fool of me!”
Russ touches my shoulders. Our eyes meet and he understands. “Do what you have to do.”
I pull out of the parking lot toward I-20 West. Lamonte’s home is thirty minutes away, so I have time to gather my thoughts. He is going to face me like a man and tell me something! Through my tears, I eye our giveaway CD case on the floor. Our engagement photo serves as the cover. We created this memento in January as a party giveaway, compliments of Giovanna. I pick it up and flip the case to the list of love songs that represent our romance. Atlantic Starr’s “Send for Me.” Brian McKnight and Vanessa Williams’s “Love Is.” Marvin Gaye’s “Sunny.” I toss it back on the floor and veer onto the interstate. V-103 is what I need to soothe my nerves. The CD love songs will only make me cry worse and beg. Not happening today.
My best friend, Jordan, would be my shotgun rider if she weren’t in Italy on business. I can see her pulling her long locks behind h
er ears and cursing Lamonte like he stole something. She would have blocked him at the Blue Willow Inn parking lot and made him explain himself. Theirs is a love-hate relationship I enjoy watching. She couldn’t make the engagement party, but threatened me with death if she wasn’t my maid-of-honor. I want to call her, but embarrassment fills me. I can’t dial her number. She’ll probably reject me when she returns to the States and realizes her ace is an impostor.
I spot Lamonte’s X5. I speed up and pull alongside him, hoping to get his attention. His head bops, and I know he’s tipsy and listening to music. I blow my horn. He looks at me, adjusts his Bluetooth, and switches lanes. I follow suit, tailgating to irritate him. This doesn’t work either. His arms thrash as he leans to the side. This is his pose when he talks to Brooklyn. I’m sure she’s soothing her poor baby and congratulating him on keeping the family tree unpolluted. I pull back a few spaces, realizing he’s heading home. I’ll keep my cool until we get to my second home, or at least what I called my second home.
We make it to the subdivision entrance in record time. He coasts through the gate and I wait my turn to go past the massive, wrought-iron fence. As I punch in the code, I notice a Georgia State Trooper behind me. I ignore him at first, then panic. He’s following me. I pull into the driveway, anxious and horrified at the sight on the front porch. Lamonte stands mountain tall, arms folded. He looks at me with disgust as the trooper approaches us.
The officer takes off his hat and addresses me. “Ma’am, Mr. Dunlap called and said you are stalking him. He asked that you be escorted off the premises.”
“Since when is coming home with your fiancé stalking?”
Lamonte gestures to the items on the porch. I look at the boxes and see my clothes, shoes, design software, and souvenirs from past outings.
Mrs. Porter, Lamonte’s neighbor, strolls across the lawn, wrapped gift in hand. “Toni, Lamonte, is everything okay?”
The site of a state trooper would surely have the Woodland Hills tongues wagging. I’m sure she means well, but Lizzy is the neighborhood gossip and thrives on drama. The neighbors call her Diahann Carroll behind her back because she is the actress’s double. Today, bouncing, silver curls frame her flawless face. A trip to the makeup counter is her Saturday indulgence. She brushes her elegant, lavender dress with her hands and gives me the gift.
“I had every intention of coming to the party, but I got tied up with a friend. Please accept this gift as congrats on your engagement.” She awaits a response from us.
“Thank you, Lizzy. I’m sure I’ll love it.”
She hesitates. “Well, I’ll be going back inside now. I look forward to the wedding in October.”
Lizzy walks backward toward her house, anticipating some action. She enters her garage and looks at the three of us once more before closing the door.
“Officer, would you please help Ms. Williamson load these items into her car?” Lamonte makes the word Miss sound like leprosy.
“That’s not everything I have here. At least let me—”
Lamonte stretches his arms across the front door. “I’ll ship the rest of your things to you. Just leave, Toni!”
I back away from this stranger. This is the thanks I get for investing five years of my life in a committed relationship. I know I lied, but I had my reasons. Lamonte promised me in the beginning of our relationship we’d work through everything. Sickness. Morning breath. Career moves.
I see Russ and Clay’s stamp of approval T-shirt on top of my clothes box. I hoist the carton in my arms as the state trooper brings the shoes and souvenirs. Three steps into my journey, the voice of pre-emphysema Clay fills my head, saying, “Don’t you ask that man another damn question! You are Antoinette Maria Williamson. I raised you to hold your head high and be proud!”
I nod at the words. I hear them, want to absorb them, but the box slips from my arms and everything goes blank.
Chapter 6
Greta
Mavis and Clayton were dead wrong for giving away my children like they did. They didn’t discuss the matter with me and didn’t care about my feelings, one way or the other. After one of my breaks at the Hatcher Square Mall back in the 1980s, they made the choice to separate the girls, claiming I was a bad influence on them. I didn’t find out about Toni until after the deed was done. Who does that to someone? I was and still am capable of taking care of my children. I may be a resident of the Georgia Mental Hospital, but I have a right to see my children.
I know Mavis’s saddity self is mad because I took my story to the AJC. What started out as a how-do-you-feel-about-your-treatment-here story turned into my personal rant on how family treats the mentally ill. Not that I’m mentally ill, I just get a little crossed up sometimes. The only reason I’m crossed up is the medication they give out around this place. They act like it’s cotton candy at the State Fair. How is a person supposed to make rational decisions if you feel like you’re floating on the moon all the time? Just call me Sally Ride and give me a white spacesuit, because some days, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. Wait, Sally’s deceased. I’m sorry, Jesus, I didn’t mean to mock the dead. I’m waiting. I’m waiting. Whew, Jesus just winked, nodded, and said the comment wasn’t mocking Sally.
I took to hiding pills under my tongue and pretending to swallow them while the nurse is standing over me. Annalease, my roommate, taught me that trick. I slip the pills in my pocket when the nurse turns her back. My latest drug is Depakote. I know I’m in trouble when they give me a pink one, because it renders me helpless and keeps my visitors away. Abilify, Remeron, and Haldol do the same thing if I take them on schedule. I get more visitors when I take the Zyprexa. I have three people who come to see me on a regular basis: Jesus, Mahalia Jackson, and Clark Gable.
I know the doctors and nurses make fun of me all the time when I say Jesus is with me always. The first time I shared my Jesus secret with Dr. Wells, he asked, “Do you mean Hay-Suess?” I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Jesus is a celestial being; Hay-Suess is Latino.” I pointed to Jesus sitting on Annalease’s bed. Dr. Wells said he understood, then upped my medicine dosage.
Don’t you believe that carpenter mess. Jesus has a coat of colors, Brooks Brothers’ suits, hiking gear, all kinds of clothes. Not once has he come in my room with bib overalls or paint-stained boots. He’s a Renaissance man. He truly is everywhere at the same time. He comes through the window most days when he visits. Plops right down on Annalease’s bed and asks me how I’m doing, if my arthritis is flaring up, how the doctors and nurses are treating me. He is my friend, indeed He is.
I fell out with Jesus when Paul left us in 1982. Felt like He ran for the hills and took His time coming back. Then I lost my teaching job. Then the house. Then the few friends I fellowshipped with from time to time. Then the children. In a span of nine months, everything secure in my life disappeared. I’m talking David Copperfield-poof.
Mahalia came to me different. She’s been with me since 1980. Paul and I double-dated with Mavis and her husband, Raymond. Mavis, a nurse and my sister-in-law, and Raymond, a stern military man, always entertained at their house. Plantation is more like it. All that acreage and a big, old white antebellum house that sits off from the road, begging for a horse and buggy to pull around the circular drive.
We had gone to a concert at Georgia College to see Rufus and Chaka Khan. I was shocked Mavis came out with us, since that wasn’t usually her kind of entertainment, but she sipped a Bud light and swayed her bottle to Chaka Khan like the rest of us. She didn’t want to go to the Blue Note afterward, so we went back to their house. She convinced us to watch movies, and before we could protest, she played Imitation of Life. Paul put his arms around me and stroked my hair as we watched the movie.
Before Mahalia sang, “Trouble of the World,” she winked at me. Honey, she belted out that tune, stepped out the pulpit in that angelic black-and-white robe, ran her big hands over Annie’s sparkling white spray and coffin, and came right out of the TV
and sat on my left side. She told me not to tell Paul she was sitting there, said we had a few things to talk about regarding relationships. I got stiller than Lot’s wife, because I didn’t want to hear Mavis’s mouth about medication or my hallucinations. Mahalia looked to her left and right like she was about to expose the world’s biggest secret and told me to call her ’Halia. She said we had more in common than I knew. I winked back at her as assurance her secret was safe with me. I wasn’t telling a soul she was with me. She still guides me through so many struggles. Turns out her marriages weren’t perfect either.
Clark is a mystery. He’ll come in my room, but he never talks to me. He’ll stand back in the corner, coal black hair and mustache shining, and smile. That’s it. I wonder who sent him and what they told him to tell me, but I can’t get him to talk.
Back to my children. My girls are different as day and night. My baby girl, Antoinette, is my delicate flower. She’s short with a little gumdrop nose and pretty brown skin. She puts me in the mind of those energetic waitresses who run back and forth from the kitchen getting lemon wedges and extra bread for customers. She’s a peacemaker, always wanting everybody to be happy. Smart as a whip too. She cheered me up when I had my moods. I taught her how to braid hair, and when I’d fight with Paul, she’d grab my red-and-green jar of Royal Crown grease and find us a spot in front of the den TV. She’d part my hair, scratch and grease my scalp, and faster than a cat could lick his ass, my hair would be in these chunky French braids. Mavis tried to help me teach her to cook, but she was always up under me, like she was scared something would happen to me if she closed her eyes. The best she mastered was the Easy-Bake Oven. She never could get the hang of slinging cast-iron skillets and Dutch ovens.
We had Fish Fry Night every Thursday. Paul, a cabinetmaker, stopped by Macklin’s Seafood on Milledgeville Highway to pick up catfish, perch, and hushpuppy mix. I kept potatoes on hand for French fries. I cleaned the fish outside at a table Paul made for me and brought it back in the kitchen to marinate for a while. While I washed and dipped that fish in my secret seasoning blend and special meal, I’d walk back and forth to the den and watch Paul, Willa, and Antoinette dancing. Paul fired up the record player and always played Antoinette and Willa’s favorite song, “Sunny.” If you ask me, Bobby Hebb’s version was better than Marvin Gaye’s, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Beats me what was so special about Marvin’s rendition, but they danced like they were at a family reunion.
Wouldn’t Change a Thing Page 3
