by J. J. Murray
“I am entitled to some time off, Nurse Sprouse,” Trina said. “I haven’t used a vacation day since I started working here.”
“Are you sick?” Nurse Sprouse asked.
Of you and my “stepsisters,” yes. “No. I need some time off, that’s all.”
“Times like these make me wonder if I can count on you, Woods,” Nurse Sprouse said.
What times? “I have not missed a day of work for the last ten years,” Trina said. “Even when I was going through my divorce, I was always here for my shift. That’s over twenty-five hundred straight days without an absence. Name anyone else on the nursing staff who can say that.”
Inez and Danica exchanged puzzled looks. They share the same brain.
“It’s the impulsive nature of your request, Woods,” Nurse Sprouse said. “Had you given me a week’s notice, I could have adjusted the master schedule to avoid the problems your absence will create.”
“It just came up,” Trina said. “Couldn’t be helped.”
Nurse Sprouse frowned. “Inez, do you have a time-off form handy?”
Of course she does. Inez has every form known to the medical profession on her clipboard. It’s why Inez’s left arm is bigger than her right.
“Right here, Nurse Sprouse,” Inez said. She handed the form to Nurse Sprouse.
Nurse Sprouse whipped out a pen. “What is the purpose of your time off?”
“I am not required to tell you that,” Trina said.
Nurse Sprouse checked a box. “Would not disclose reason for absence. When will you be back?”
I already told you. “The day after tomorrow.”
Nurse Sprouse wrote a short narrative on the form. “Before you leave today, I need you to arrange adequate coverage for your absences.”
Say what? “Isn’t that your job, Nurse Sprouse?”
“I make the master schedule,” Nurse Sprouse said. “This little adventure you’re taking is not on the master schedule. You will have to find someone willing to work in your place during your absence.”
“That’s not in any of the regulations, Nurse Sprouse,” Trina said.
“If you don’t find someone to cover for you, I will have to mark this absence as unpaid,” Nurse Sprouse said.
Inez and Danica shared a soft giggle. Idiots.
“You can’t do that, Nurse Sprouse,” Trina said, “and if you do, I will file a grievance. I have sixteen weeks of vacation saved up. That’s four months. I am legally entitled to use them whenever and however I want to.”
“You’re not a team player, Woods,” Nurse Sprouse said. “I shall note that on your next evaluation.”
Whatever, ES. Trina smiled at Inez and Danica. “At least I do nurse work. Oh, is that a paper cut on your finger, Danica? You better not let it get infected.”
Before Trina left for the long but happy walk to the Greyhound bus station, she went online and read critical reactions to Vincent St. John’s suspension of the show:
“Rich Man, Lucky Lady caters to the least common denominator in our society. We revel in the fall of others, and some of the falls last night are bound to be permanent. How many privacy laws did Mr. St. John break last night? Why is it so wrong for us to have secrets?”
Because secrets don’t remain secrets forever, and people can often get hurt because of them.
“While these women did wrong by lying, Mr. St. John has also done wrong by giving all women a bad name on the basis of two dozen misguided souls. Those women were in no way representative of the American woman.”
Um, well, sad to say, they kind of were—for what networks choose to put on television.
“This is a man who has it going on! If every man investigated the women he dated the way this guy did, the divorce rate would plummet overnight. Forget eHarmony.com or Match.com. Hire yourself some private investigators.”
If you can afford to.
“It is sad, so sad that a man of means has to resort to Jerry Springer–type tactics to find a wife. Isn’t he trying to buy love? What does this say about our society? Where has romance gone?”
Romance no longer exists. I don’t know why people keep looking for it.
She laughed.
And here I am about to go to LA for the second chance to find it.
I’m either the last romantic soul left on earth . . . or I’m the most foolish woman who ever lived.
10
After sleeping most of the night as the bus sped south through San Jose, Santa Cruz, Salinas, San Luis Obispo, Santa Maria, and Santa Barbara, Trina woke up somewhat wrinkled but hopeful when the bus crept through Oxnard and North Hollywood. She took a cab from the Greyhound station in downtown LA to West Pico Boulevard in Century City.
The cab fare cost more than the round-trip bus fare from San Francisco did.
Once inside the studio, she looked at about one hundred women there for the audition and didn’t see a single black woman.
I know I shouldn’t stare or check other women out, but I can’t help it. They’re obviously checking me out. What is she doing here? She’s black, and she’s not even that cute. This is a white show. She can’t be Spanish. She’s too dark. With her pores, she won’t look good in HD at all. How bad could her life be? My boo left me at the altar in front of two thousand wedding guests while Zamfir played the pan flute and Yanni played the piano . . .
Trina was one of the last women called into Chet Davis’s office. After Trina posed for several photos against a tropical beach background, Mr. Davis motioned her to a comfortable chair in front of his massive desk.
“I’m glad you could make it, Trina,” Mr. Davis said.
“I’m glad to be here, Mr. Davis.”
“Do you have any questions for us?” Mr. Davis asked.
I thought they were supposed to interview me! “You don’t have any questions for me?”
“Your application was complete and thorough,” Mr. Davis said. “You checked out one hundred percent.”
“I . . . checked out,” Trina said.
“You told us the truth,” Mr. Davis said. “About your job, your divorce, your educational background. After what happened on Rich Man, Lucky Lady, the network made us go over the applications again. You are who you say you are.”
And all the others who auditioned before me checked out, too? That horde of plastic surgery, tummy tucks, and boob jobs out there? They all checked out?
“So, do you have any questions for me?” Mr. Davis asked.
“Um, when would the show begin?” Trina asked.
“Next week,” Mr. Davis said.
Wow! I made it just in time. “I have plenty of vacation days saved up,” Trina said. “I’ve, um, never been able to take a vacation since I started working. I worked double-shifts so my ex could get through med school without him worrying about the bills. And I’m the one who’s paying. Still paying.”
“Any other questions?” Mr. Davis asked.
Did he hear a word I said? “When will I find out if I, um, make the final cut?”
“You have already made our final cut, Trina,” Mr. Davis said. “You are officially one of the final twelve ‘Second Chancers.’”
I am? “On the basis of this interview?” Which really hasn’t been much of one.
“Yes,” Mr. Davis said. “This interview and your background check.”
I guess having a low credit score doesn’t stop me from getting a second chance in television romance world. “Do you think I have a real shot?” Trina asked.
“Every one of our twelve finalists has a shot,” Mr. Davis said. “And you’ll find out soon. The online voting begins in a few hours.”
The . . . online voting. “What online voting?”
“Online voters will determine who gets a second chance,” Mr. Davis said. “And people can vote as often as they want to for the next twenty-four hours. It’s one way we gauge interest in the show. The more votes, the more potential viewers.” He stood and extended a hand. “It was nice to meet you, Trina. Goo
d luck.”
Trina stood and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”
As she sullenly rode the bus out of LA a few hours later, Trina took stock of her situation. I will have ridden eight hundred miles in a stuffy bus in less than twenty-four hours to be photographed for five minutes and talked to for two minutes, selected as a finalist, probably because I was the only black woman to apply, only to find out that online voters will select the woman who gets a second chance. What a waste of time and money! There’s no way this country is going to vote for me. Maybe the producers had to have one black finalist so they didn’t get into trouble with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.
The woman sitting next to her played some strange candy game on her smartphone.
“Excuse me,” Trina said. “Are you online?”
“I can be,” the woman said.
“My phone is pretty basic.” She showed the woman her phone. “It’s the latest thing in twentieth century technology.”
“I had one of those fifteen years ago,” the woman said. “Yours still works?”
“Most of the time,” Trina said. “Could you go to the Second Chances Web site for me?”
The woman found the Web site and scrolled down. “Hey, isn’t that you?”
There I am, looking wrinkled and tired. Not a bad smile. I didn’t know I still could. I wish they had put some makeup on me. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Nice to meet you, Trina Woods,” the woman said. “I’m Clara.”
“Nice to meet you, Clara,” Trina said.
A flashing VOTE NOW! banner crawled across the screen.
Clara clicked on the banner. “I’m going to vote for you.”
At least I’ll have one vote. “Thank you.”
“It says I can vote as often as I want to,” Clara said. “I’m on my way to Vancouver. I wonder how many times I can vote by then.”
“Don’t go to any trouble,” Trina said.
“It’s no trouble,” Clara said. “And if you win, I can say, ‘I sat with that woman on the bus.’ ”
“Thank you.”
A few hours later a little north of San Luis Obispo, Trina’s phone rang. “Hello?”
“I didn’t know you were using your maiden name now,” a man said.
Robert. “Hi, Robert. How’s Dr. Too White today? Has her skin blinded you yet? I’d recommend wearing sunglasses. Wouldn’t want you to go blind. Blind surgeons don’t make any money.”
“Putting our business out there like that,” Robert said. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He’s ignoring my every word as usual, but at least I’ve pissed him off for a change. Trina smiled. “What business, Robert?”
“Our marriage,” Robert said. “On the Internet of all places!”
I’d ask how he found out so quickly, but I don’t really want to know. “I didn’t lie about a single thing, Robert.”
“Dr. Francis called me,” Robert said. “The chief surgeon, Katrina, my ultimate boss. He told me there’s this nurse from San Francisco on some reality show Web site named Trina, and she looks an awful lot like your ex-wife. You could have warned me, Katrina. I have a reputation to protect.”
Kuh-trina. I have always hated how he said my name. “You could have warned me that you didn’t love me, Robert. You could have warned me that you were sleeping with a skinny albino. If she were a star in the sky, she’d be the brightest one. You could have warned—”
“Telling the world that I did you wrong,” Robert interrupted.
“You did do me wrong and you’re still doing me wrong,” Trina said. “How about being a man and paying me back for paying your way through med school?”
“The judge said that—”
“I know what the judge said,” Trina interrupted. “I should have said much worse in that online bio. I could have kept my married name and named you and Dr. Too White. I wonder if that would have affected your careers. Hmm. I think I’ll call the producers and make some changes in that bio.”
“What are you trying to do?” Robert asked. “Shame me? It won’t work because you won’t get on that show. You think America is going to vote for your black ass?”
No, though my ass is still fairly decent. “It doesn’t matter if they do or don’t. I am a finalist for that show. I’m one of twelve women America is voting on right now.”
“And you’re proud of that?” Robert asked. “The people who run that show saw your black face and said, ‘Hey, we need one of those.’ I thought I taught you better than that. Didn’t you listen to me at all during our marriage?”
“I couldn’t help listening to you preach at me day in and day out, Robert,” Trina said. “That’s how you communicated with me. Preaching. You never once simply talked to me.”
“You know one of those white girls—”
“That you love so much,” Trina interrupted. “I’m not stupid, Robert. I know I don’t have a chance, and I didn’t learn the reason why from your black ass. But how is Dr. Too White? Is she going to marry you? I mean, now that our divorce has been final for so long and all. I thought you’d be calling me from your honeymoon in Ireland or Scotland or one of those Scandinavian countries.”
“That’s none of your business,” Robert said.
He normally likes to throw her in my face. Yes! “She dumped you, didn’t she?”
“She most certainly did not,” Robert said. “We are still together. She appreciates how we enhance each other’s careers.”
“Oh, I know what it is,” Trina said. “She won’t marry you, will she? That’s the problem with cheating on your first wife, fool. The second wife already knows you’re a cheating asshole. She can’t trust you, can she? I’ll bet you’re banging some other pigment-challenged woman now. Am I right? I’m thinking East Coast WASP with a name like Kitten.”
“You’re talking gibberish as usual, Katrina,” Robert said, “and you’re making a fool of yourself for even trying to go on that show.”
I probably am. “Better a fool for a little while than a fool for life like you.” She turned off her phone completely.
“You told him,” Clara said.
Trina shrugged. “Not really. He didn’t hear me for ten years. I doubt he heard anything I said now.”
Clara patted her leg. “Don’t you worry, honey. He’ll mess up an operation and get sued to the poorhouse.”
“I hope it doesn’t happen,” Trina said. “I don’t ever want to feel all the sacrifices I made were a complete waste of time. There aren’t that many black doctors in this country, much less black surgeons. I helped make one.”
“I hope you get voted onto that show,” Clara said. “You deserve a second chance.”
“Thank you.”
Clara smiled. “I think I’ve voted for you seven hundred times. I hope it helps.”
“I hope so, too.”
As the sun rose to her right, Trina lay back and closed her eyes. I know I won’t get enough votes to win, but maybe I can win me a doctor or a surgeon one day, too. She sighed. But the only doctors at Saint Francis who are remotely interesting are gay, married, philandering, married and philandering, or socially backward.
No. I am in need of an ordinary guy, someone I can trust.
She bowed her head and prayed: God, how are You? I’m . . . here. Just sitting here on a bus on the way from a pipedream back to reality. I know I said some harsh things to You the last time I prayed two years ago, and I’m sorry. It wasn’t Your fault Robert cheated on me. I still wish You would have struck him with a bolt of lightning or something or at least given him and Dr. Too White one of those Old Testament plagues. And forgive me for hating on Dr. Too White. She saw an opportunity, and she took it. It’s my fault I married a weak-minded, spineless, sniveling coward of a man.
Okay, God, it wasn’t my fault. I just had to remind you of all that Robert is, You know, in case You want to send some thunderbolts or plagues his way.
And God, if You’re not too busy, could You
maybe have me cross paths with an ordinary guy someday? He doesn’t have to be buff or superintelligent or rich. He just has to be honest, faithful, and true to me. Thanks. Amen.
She opened her eyes and smiled at the sunrise.
She closed her eyes. Oh, one more thing, God. He also has to love me for me. But You already knew that because that’s the way You made me. And that’s the way You expect all of us to love each other.
Brooklyn, New York
11
Tony Santangelo adjusted so quickly to Aika Saito’s arrival at the Castle that it seemed she had always lived there. They ate Cap’n Crunch with bananas every morning while watching the Weather Channel—and later SportsCenter—before she went to work. She sat with or near him while he studied his maps and she edited manuscripts in the library. Tony even stayed in the theater and watched Aika while she and Angelo watched television shows. She said “Good-night, Tony,” and he said “Good-night, Aika” every night before he went up to bed. At times, Tony couldn’t keep his eyes off Aika and did his best not to let her see him staring.
On a snowy night in early January, Tony stared at Aika’s soft lips while she and Angelo curled up on a massive black leather sectional sofa watching a Knicks basketball game.
“Are you trying to flirt with my future wife?” Angelo asked.
Tony’s eyes dropped quickly to Pacific Heights, yet another section of San Francisco. “I do not know how to flirt.”
“I saw you looking at her,” Angelo said. “What were you staring at?”
“Her lips,” Tony said. “Aika has soft lips.”
“How do you know they’re soft?” Angelo asked. “Has she been kissing you?”
“No. They look soft.” Tony glanced briefly at Aika. “I am sorry I stared at your lips.”
