Most people did a double take when they heard Cheryl speak, but Catara had been around that voice for twenty-nine years. When they had both been five years old, their vocal tones were about the same, but as they grew older Catara's tone matured, but Cheryl's didn't. Cheryl had microbraids, full lips, and soft round eyes. You'd never believe that her squeaky, mouselike voice would come from that adult body.
“That means we have to be up at four a.m.?” Catara said as she took a seat on the futon in the bedroom. She breathed a deep sigh.“Are we catching a cab?”
“No. My friend Lamont is going to take us. You're going to love Lamont. He's something else. I'll pull out sheets for the futon. There are towels already laid out in the bathroom.”
Catara looked around and noticed that with the exception of the futon the room was empty. Cheryl never was much on decorating. Then her eyes moved to her cousin, who rambled on as she always did. Cheryl Washington's body was basically the same as it was when they graduated high school; she was five-five, slightly curvier and with a more defined cut in her muscles, the picture of athleticism. Fitness was her life. Cheryl was a manager at a health club and had been since she graduated from college with a degree in marketing. She had gotten into fitness in college and had taught numerous dance and aerobics courses through the years. She'd even considered becoming a weight-training instructor.
“I have bath beads if you want to take a warm bath. Otherwise, the water pressure is incredible in the shower.”
“I'll probably take a shower,” Catara replied, and then continued to stare at Cheryl as she pranced gracefully around the room. Catara couldn't help but wonder how it could be that she loved Cheryl so much but at the same time felt envy surfacing as she examined her from head to toe. Catara hoped Cheryl wouldn't notice her obvious scrutiny, but she couldn't help it. Catara compared everything about their physical differences.
Both Catara and her cousin shared the same paper-sack-brown complexion, and even the same basic facial lines and eyes. Only, Catara's body was fuller, much fuller. Watching Cheryl made her even more aware of the fact that she too had curves. They both were full-busted, and had “sista” rear ends, inherited from the family's gene pool. Only, Cheryl's curves flowed in and out, while Catara's went out and out.
Cheryl lay back on the futon beside Catara. “I can't believe it, C and C are back together again.” They hadn't been able to spend much time together since high school.
“Neither can I—we have so much catching up to do.”
“Tell me about it. We have to do it tonight, because once we get home the moms are going to put us to work in that kitchen.”
Catara didn't respond.
“You seem a bit preoccupied. What's up?” Cheryl asked.
“Girl, I'm just tired. The day has drained me. It's been a long week with work and trying to get my career together.”
“Tara, you've always been a planner. I know everything is going to work out for you. You're taking a risk by delving into the fashion industry, but sometimes the road less traveled is the road to success.”
“You're right,” Catara said. It was only a matter of time before her talent was discovered.
She knew she was destined for success, only the world wasn't aware of it yet, and neither were her parents. After receiving a degree in marketing, Catara had shocked her family when she told them she had been accepted at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising and would be moving to Los Angeles to get another undergraduate degree and a master's in fashion design. The family always knew she wanted to pursue a career in the fashion industry, but they never expected her to go back to school, especially in California. Catara and Cheryl's was a close-knit Indiana family and no one ever moved west— maybe north, or south, but never that far west.
She left Los Angeles after graduating from FIDM and headed to New York to become a renowned fashion designer, or at least open her own boutique in SoHo. Although she lived in New York, she was far from realizing her dreams. She was having a tough time making it happen. She wasn't sure if it was because of the protective rein her family kept on its members, or maybe because of fear of failure—or maybe it was because of her weight, the one thing she never wanted to admit would ever stop her from pursuing her dreams. Maybe it was a combination of everything that had forced her to temporarily push aside her goals and alter her plans. It wasn't lack of talent—that she was confi-dent of. So she continued to persist in trying to get recognized by a designer, and continued to create new designs.
“I couldn't wait until you got here. I know we have to get up early, but Lamont and the rest of the crew from the health club are going to be hanging out. They asked me to bring you. I always have a good time with them. Do you remember how much fun we used to have when we would sneak out to the clubs back in Indy? Remember the Horseshoe?”
“Uh-huh, but that was nearly ten years and fifty pounds ago.”
“I know you're not trippin' on your weight.”
“No, I'm not. I'm dealing with reality, Cheryl.”
“Girl, I don't care what you say, you look good.”
“If I look so good, tell me why the only man that I've dealt with over the past year has been Rondell, and you know the story on him.”
“Your being dateless has nothing to do with your weight. When was the last time you went out to a nightclub?”
“A little over a year.”
“That's exactly what I'm talking about, Catara. No strange man is just gonna walk up to your apartment door, interrupt you watching TV, and say, 'Excuse me, I know you're trying to get your relaxation on, but I just couldn't help but notice you through your closed blinds. Would you like to go out on a date with me?' ”
“You're right, but I do get out. I'm always shopping. I go to work, to the grocery store, the video store, to the fabric shops, the newsstand. I go to the bank. I see men, but they're not looking at me.”
Cheryl looked at Catara as if her words were absurd. “It's not about your weight. It's about you stepping outside of that little comfortable box that you've taken residence in within your mind. And Catara, if you want to lose weight, I can set up a workout plan for you.”
“That's cool and all, and I want to do that, but I've been in and out of gyms for the past five years. Instead of losing, I've continuously gained.”
“I can make some calls to our gym in New York. I know people there. I can get a weight trainer to work you out. Someone owes me a favor, and I'm sure I can get you some free sessions.”
“Okay, that'll be good,” Catara finally said, more to shut up Cheryl than anything else. She always was a Ms. Fix-it—what did she know about Catara's thoughts, anyway? She wasn't living in a “box.” She was much too tired to explain to her cousin that her weight issue couldn't be that easily solved. If that were the case, Catara would have slimmed down by now, with all of the miles she'd put on treadmills, stationary bikes, and stair climbers, not to mention the numerous diets she'd tried with hopeful expectations but failed at. Her weight was like a yo-yo: Just when she thought she had a handle on it, that she was losing the pounds, one setback would send her in reverse, and her weight would go on the incline again.
Catara felt her cousin could never know the pain and struggle she'd endured daily. After all, Cheryl never had a problem getting dates, and never experienced going to a department store to buy an outfit for a special event only to find out that they didn't have anything in a size 20 worth purchasing, let alone displaying in their store. Yes, she was a designer, but who had time to create her own clothes every day?
“I'll make the call as soon as we get back from Indy.”
“That's cool,” Catara replied, attempting to appear enthusiastic.
“Well, let me show you the rest of the apartment. You have to see the pictures that I have in the living room. You are going to get a kick out of them.”
The two got up for the tour. Though Cheryl was not big on interior design, she had nice mix-and-match furniture, a black leath
er sofa, and a papasan chair with a beige cushion. All were arranged around an elegant glass cocktail table. The walls were bare except for a lone Ansel Adams print, but family snapshots were scattered throughout the house in nice frames.
Catara picked up each frame one by one and stared at the images. There was a picture of her parents, Dorothy and Mack, and Cheryl's, Auntie Earlene and Uncle Joe. Dorothy and Earlene were sisters— Cheryl and Catara called them “the moms.” Born and raised in Indianapolis, they both had met their husbands, built homes, and raised their families there. In the photo, the two couples were dressed up and posed around a wicker chair in front of a red Valentine's Day–themed backdrop. It was a scene from their partying days. Several pictures of the four of them at various parties and nightclubs they'd attended throughout the years had circulated between the two families.
Perusing the other photos, Catara came upon a picture of Cheryl and herself. They were wearing matching yellow-and-green bathing suit tops and tacky, cut-off jeans shorts.
“Oh my God, Cheryl, look at us. I remember spending long hours puff-painting our names and other little designs on those shorts.” Catara handed the picture to Cheryl. “And remember, I ripped the outside seam and braided them back together with bright-colored ribbon.”
“Yep, you had the yellow and I had the green to match our bathing suits. And look at those ponytails. Even our bows matched,” Cheryl said, and gave the picture back to Catara.
“We thought we were looking good, and I know you remember why we both had those goofy grins on our faces.” Catara laughed.
Staring at all the photos, especially at her and Cheryl as ten-year-olds, Catara became flooded with memories of the day the picture was taken. It was as if it were yesterday. She'd never forget. She even remembered how she felt about herself back then.
She had always been confident. Her parents praised her appearance, especially when her mother used to dress her up for church or when she had ballet or piano recitals. She had always been recognized for her thick, long, wavy hair and superlong eyelashes. And when she was a kid, all her mom's friends seemed to get a kick out of squeezing her cheeks. Although she didn't exactly love the pinching, she adored the attention.
Cheryl slapped her legs in excitement. “Of course I remember, that was at one of your parents' backyard barbecues. I used to love those things. Uncle Mack would grill on the patio while my dad stood beside him talking shit all day. The moms would hook up the dishes they'd spent all morning sweating over,” she said, her eyes glazed over. A reminiscent smile overcame her face. “We were bad, girl. Remember? We came up with that plan to sneak half-empty beer cans from the card table.”
“Yeah, girl, I remember walking over to where they were playing bid whist, pretending to be interested in who was winning. I stood next to Aunt Earlene, and she said her usual, 'Hey pretty girl,' and then she pinched my cheek and showed me her cards and said, 'Look at this hand. Your momma dealt me this mess, and we're on the same team.' ”
“Momma always complained when she played cards, smoking all the while.” Cheryl smiled.
“Dad yelled, 'Up jump the devil from the groundhog's den!' and then threw out his card. When all eyes were on his card, I cued you to crawl under the table and get ready for my next signal to steal a beer. I proudly announced, 'Auntie Earlene, will your king beat Uncle Joe's ace?' ”
“The whole table was in an uproar. By that time I had grabbed a beer and taken off. Someone yelled, 'Redeal!' ”
“I can hear Daddy now: 'Tara, shit! Come on, now. What are you doing over here in grown folks' business, anyway?' ”
“Yeah, but you had him wrapped around your little finger. All you had to do was say, 'Sorry, Daddy,' and give him a kiss on the cheek.”
“You're right. Then he'd say, 'It's okay, pretty girl, but next time remember not to share the cards in people's hands with the whole table.' I'd say 'Okay, Daddy,' and tell him I loved him.”
“You knew how to make him blush for showing his soft side,” Cheryl said. “He'd say, 'I love you too.' Then, to change the subject, he looked at my dad. 'And this hand better be as good as the one I just had!' ”
“I remember the look on my face when you pulled the beer can from out of the paper towel you used to cover it. We shared two or three beers.” Catara placed the picture back on the table. “We both barfed that night,” she said, frowning at the memory.
“The moms immortalized us that day with that picture.”
“Yeah, those were the good ol' days, back when I was confident and self-assured. I felt beautiful. I knew I was a pretty girl. Nobody could convince me there was a single problem with my appearance, because there wasn't,” Catara said.
“You're still pretty,” Cheryl said.
“Maybe. Only, the few additional pounds that I've picked up over the years are covering some of my beauty. Plus, my self-esteem is on vacation, and my ability to flirt has disappeared.”
“We have a lot to talk about tonight! I'm gonna get you right before the night is over.”
“I'm sure you'll break your neck trying,” Catara said. After seeing them in that picture, she appreciated how much her cousin had been in her corner for all those years.
“I'm going to pop us some popcorn, and we can talk about it all, the good, the bad, and the ugly.”
“That works, cousin,” Catara said, and followed Cheryl into the kitchen.
CATARA WAS AWAKENED early the next morning by the doorbell being continuously buzzed. It was still dark out.
“Cheryl!” she yelled across the apartment. “Someone's at the door.”
“I know—it's probably Lamont. If we don't answer it he'll go away.”
“Isn't he supposed to be taking us to the airport?” Catara asked.
“Yes, but he's here too early. I'm not ready to get up yet. What time is it anyway?”
Buzz from the bell again and again.
“It's three forty-five.”
“But we don't have to be up for another fifteen minutes.”
The bell sounded again. So Catara jumped out of bed, put on her robe and slippers, and went to the door. Cheryl obviously had no intention of budging.
When she opened the door a tall, slim attractive guy was standing there. “You must be Catara,” he said, with the widest grin on his face. “I'm Lamont.” He reached out and gave her a big hug.
She stood there, speechless. Lamont walked past her. “And just where is Ms. Cheryl? I know she's still in bed. Sleeping beauty, time to get up!” he yelled as he walked toward her room. Catara followed. He crawled into bed next to Cheryl, who had thrown the covers over her head. “Come give your daddy a hug,” he said, and began tickling her.
Cheryl yelled at the top of her lungs, “Stop, Lamont!”
He continued tickling.
“I'm not playing, leave me alone, I'm trying to sleep.”
“You know you want me,” he said, then pulled the covers off her face and began kissing her cheeks and forehead.
Catara watched from the door. She wasn't sure if she needed to stay or go. Cheryl never mentioned to her that they were seeing each other. She always thought they were only friends. Plus, from the tone of his voice and the presence he commanded when he entered the apartment, Catara was under the assumption he was gay—attractive, but just a little soft.
The two horseplayed, and as they settled down Cheryl said to Catara, “So, I guess you met Lamont at the door.”
“Yeah, we met,” Catara said, and became suddenly aware of her appearance. Her hair was wrapped in a scarf, she was in pajamas, and there were still traces of sleep in the corners of her eyes.
“So, ladies, you have a plane to catch, right?”
“That's the plan,” Catara responded.
“Well Big Papa's here, and I'm gonna make sure you two get to the airport on time.”
“Thank you,” Catara said.
“Okay then, my BAPs, let's get you two dressed for the day. Although your pajamas are so nice, Catara, that yo
u could probably get away with wearing them all day.”
“Thanks, I made them myself.”
“You got a gift,” he said casually. “Now, go get dressed!”
Cheryl threw the covers over her head.
“You have thirty minutes or this train is leaving without you,” he said, then got out of the bed and turned on the radio full blast. Destiny's Child's “Survivor” was playing, and Lamont started grooving to the beat. He had such energy, such enthusiasm, that Catara's eyes were glued to his every move. She couldn't turn away.
“That means you too, Miss Missy,” he said to her, continuing to dance all the while.
Catara smiled and looked away, embarrassed for the way she was gawking at him. Looking for comfort, she glanced at Cheryl, who was getting out of her bed and had caught her glimpse and smiled. Catara shrugged shyly and went to get dressed.
By the time Catara was dressed and in the living room, Cheryl and Lamont were sitting around talking health-club politics.
“You'd better be glad I'm just meeting you today, or I'd be all over your case. You took forever,” Lamont said, noticing her.
“My bad. The shower just felt so good that I didn't want to get out,” Catara said.
“I told you,” Cheryl replied.
“Well, you can't rush beauty. And you made it happen, my dear. You're working it,” Lamont commented.
Catara looked down at herself, then back up at Lamont, who was still staring at her with a proud grin on his face.
“Let's do this!” he said.
LECIA LAY IN bed, moping. It had been nearly two weeks since she'd spoken to William. Although flowers came every day, he didn't call, probably because he was avoiding the inevitable conversation he knew he couldn't get out of. She, on the other hand, refused to call him. She was determined he was going to have to put in extra time and work to get her back. Flowers were not enough.
The Night Before Thirty Page 9
