I joined them on the opposite side of the breakfast bar with a snack and a glass of milk of my own. Everything was cool and we’d giggled our way through a good three minutes’ worth of girl talk when, with her mouth partially full, Renee just up and out of nowhere said, “Ms. Faye, are you mad at my daddy about something?”
“Now, what would make you ask something like that?” I said, trying my best not to get rattled, even as the other child started coughing and shaking her head, like something might have gone down the wrong way.
Renee said, “I don’t know. I was just wondering why you guys didn’t seem particularly happy to see one another. I hope he didn’t cheat on you like he did my mama.”
That did it for Renita. She jumped off her stool and snatched her sister by the arm. “Renee! Don’t mind her, Ms. Faye. She runs off at the mouth like she don’t have a lick of sense sometimes. Come on, girl. It’s time for us to go.”
I was like, uh-uh, hold up. “Is that what your daddy told you? I mean, that he and I were boyfriend, girlfriend?”
Renita’s eyes got all big, bless her heart, and she took it upon herself to try and answer for the both of them. “No, ma’am. Our daddy’s never said anything like that.”
Renee, who’d already proved herself perfectly capable of speaking for herself, said, “But my mama did say you guys were probably more than just friends.”
I told them, “Okay, look, I’m not mad at your father. But sometimes people don’t always agree on things. And that’s what happened between me and your dad. We had a disagreement of sorts. You understand?”
They both nodded and yes ma’med me, but Renee still wasn’t ready to let the issue die. She said, “I understand, but I guess what I really want to know is if it’s the kind of disagreement that’s going to keep you from coming to see us in the wedding?”
Renita slapped her forehead. “I don’t believe you. Renee, you’re gonna get us in trouble.”
I asked them, “Is that what this is all about? Me coming to the wedding? Did your father put you up to this?”
Renee said, “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am. I mean, he didn’t put us up to anything. Tell her, Renita.”
Poor Renita looked like she was about to hyperventilate.
I stopped and thought about it for a moment before I told them, “I guess I did kind of promise to do you all’s nails.”
“You also said you’d come to the wedding,” Renee reminded me. “Will you? Please, Ms. Faye. Please, please, pretty please?”
I told them I’d have to talk it over with their father.
Renee seemed satisfied enough with my answer, but as I escorted them to the door I overheard Renita tell her twin, “You know Dad’s gonna flip when he finds out about this. He specifically told us not to say anything to Ms. Faye about our nails.”
“And we didn’t,” Renee said. “All I did was ask her about the wedding. Ms. Faye brought up the nail thing herself. Isn’t that right, Ms Faye?”
Girl, I was much too busy trying to piece together what I was going to say to Carl to come up with any kind of child-appropriate response.
HIM
I should have known something wasn’t right when my daughter Renee came in and tossed me a package of Twinkies she claimed had been sent to me by Ms. Faye. The first question in my head was why after all that had transpired between me and chick would she still be interested in sending me goodies? Besides, I knew enough about the chick’s ways to appreciate that a trick of some sort generally lurked behind her generously tendered treats—and any indulgence on my part would most certainly come with a price.
On the other hand, I also knew that not unlike myself, my daughter Renee has a slick side to her. Consequences be damned, she’ll run a con in a minute, especially if she thinks there’s something worthwhile in it for both her and her sister.
I zeroed in on her and said, “You were over there doing exactly what I told you not to do, weren’t you?” After confirming the obvious, I’d barely launched into the opening lines of my “I’m terribly disappointed in you” speech when they both fell all to pieces and amid an intense shower of snot and tears, began blubbering their apologies.
“It was all my fault,” Renee admitted. “But all I really wanted was for Ms. Faye to come see us in the wedding and for you guys to be friends again.”
Then my other daughter, Renita, who’s always striving hard to be the good girl, had to up and ask, “Daddy, you aren’t going to say anything mean to Ms. Faye, are you?”
It’s hard to stay mad at folks whose motives are that pure—especially when they’re two cute, precocious ten-year-olds with eyes deep enough to swim in. I was standing there trying to decide how to handle the situation when I got the call from Faye, asking if I’d mind joining her outside for a second.
So I went out only to I find ol’ girl in her usual patio pose, butt backed up into a lawn chair, romance novel and cigarette in hand. I’d braced myself for the worst, but right away I detected something different in her demeanor. Not only was her cigarette unlit, but absent too was any sign of the bad attitude she generally keeps on simmer, just beneath the surface. Still, not wanting to take any chances and hoping to beat her to the punch, I stepped to her with, “Look, if this is about the girls and the whole nails and wedding bit, I gave them specific instructions not to be up in your face with any of that.”
She nodded for me to take the seat next to her. After I did she said, “First, let me just say that I know you’re not solely responsible for what jumped off the other night. I heard Scoobie out here doing his best to egg you on. I hate that it went down like that. But as far as your girls are concerned, well, I did make them a promise. And if it’s okay with you, I’d really appreciate the opportunity to make good on it.”
To be honest, after the blowup between me and her boy, Faye’s willingness to take the civil route wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I took it as a sign that maybe—just maybe—ol’ girl was having second thoughts about the decision she’d made to be with dude. Never one to bypass what has all the appearances of being a legitimate opening, after we agreed that I would drop the kids by her place after their rehearsal dinner on Friday night, I went ahead and told Faye that the invitation to the wedding was still open if she cared to join us.
Before she could piece together some feeble excuse to tell me No, I assured her that my sister-in-law had already given me and the girls the okay to bring a guest if we wanted, the ex was fine with it, and she didn’t even have to go with me, if she thought it would cause problems between her and dude. I’d be only too happy to give her the address and directions. As a final bit of enticement I said, “You know, it would really mean a lot to the girls if you came.”
HER
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but the only reason I went was for the girls, okay? Even though I never let Carl in on my plans, one way or the other, when I got to the church, he was the first somebody I spotted when I walked through the door.
And I must admit, he looked exceptionally dapper and dignified standing up there in his charcoal-colored, Sunday going-to-meeting suit, even though he almost ruined the effect with the stupid reflector, aviator-like glasses he had perched on his nose.
“Glad you could make it,” he said, grinning at me as he peered over the rims of the shades.
“Just remember,” I told him, “I’m only here for the girls.”
His sunny disposition disappeared and he was like, “I know the deal, Faye. I’m good with rules, remember?”
After escorting me inside and leading me to a seat, he said, “It is okay if I sit next to you, isn’t it?”
No, I didn’t snap back at him. Things having gone down between us like they had, I guess I sorta felt like he was entitled to cop some kind of an attitude. Actually, I had expected as much, if not worse.
We must have sat there side by side, neither of us saying a word, for a good four or five minutes as we waited for the wedding to get under way. I’m so used to Carl
running off at the mouth, I just knew at any second, he’d be the one to break. But as fate would have it, I was the one who made the first attempt at breaking the ice between us, mainly because I’ve been raised to believe that God don’t like ugly. And being ugly is about all Carl and I were really accomplishing, sitting up in the Lord’s house with our lips stuck out, not speaking and acting like we hated each other’s guts.
On braving a peek in his direction, rather than tell him how silly he looked, sitting up there with those durn blind-man glasses on, I told him he had what looked like a couple of grease smudges on his lenses and offered to clean them for him.
When he pulled off the shades and raised his gaze to meet mine, the softness I saw there stirred the reservoir of ice I generally kept around my heart.
“What?” he said, in response to the smile I couldn’t for the life of me keep from creeping across my face. “I got a booger hanging out my nose or something?”
“No,” I told him. “I was just noticing how well our color choices complement one another. You in your gray and white pinstripes, me in my peach and cream. We probably couldn’t have done any better coordinating wardrobes if we’d tried.”
He smiled and I felt him relax a little. But after stretching one arm across the pew behind me, he reached down with the other and took the glasses in order to slide them right back onto his face.
It wasn’t until all the bridesmaids and groomsmen had marched in and the ceremony had started in earnest that I finally grasped the reasoning behind Carl’s protective eye-wear. This guy with this great voice had taken the stage and he’d barely finished belting out the first few bars of Kenny Lattimore’s “For You” when I heard all this sniffling.
Girl, I glanced over at Carl and there he was with all these big ol’ crocodile tears just pouring down his face. I’m like, I know this man is not sitting up here next to me boo-hooing like some big ol’ baby. Please, that’s exactly what he was doing. And when I realized he was either too ashamed to dig out his handkerchief or else had neglected to bring one, I whipped out a couple of tissues and passed them to him.
While he dabbed at his eyes and cleared his nasal passages, I looked away in order to keep him from feeling any more embarrassed than he already did, and that’s when I locked eyes with one of the bridesmaids.
Even though I called myself checking out each of the five ladies in the bridal party when they’d first strutted in, it wasn’t until that moment that I realized one of them was Betty—you know, Renee and Renita’s mom, and even more to the point, Carl’s stunningly gorgeous ex-wife. Yeah, you heard me right, Ms. Betty has got it going on. And I’m not talking about your average pretty-girl good looks. No, I’m talking that Halle Berry, Vanessa Williams, “make a sister wanna hate your ass” kind of looks. As if that alone wasn’t enough, girlfriend also appeared generously blessed with all the curves the brothers like.
I could tell she recognized me too, but before I could start getting paranoid about the possibility of her trying to trip, the little grin I saw twitch across her face assured me that she was more amused than perturbed about seeing me there.
That’s when I started pondering the likelihood of Carl still being in love with the woman who’d been his wife for eight years. A wedding is always good for stirring up painful memories of what woulda, coulda, and might have been—even for someone like myself, who’s never even been engaged. Excusing the fact that the brother is sort of a sentimental sap anyway, that was the only other reasonable explanation I could come up with for the way he was carrying on.
HIM
Yeah, I cry at weddings. I’m an emotional kind of guy, all right?! Besides, I don’t think it makes me any less of a man than the burly macho sports figure who breaks down after his team loses the game. And to some degree that’s how I felt that day—like a player who’d flubbed up several times during the course of a big game and who in the end cost the team the win.
I couldn’t help but think back on me and Betty’s wedding day, our marriage, the promises we’d made and in turn, all the promises I’d broken, like they were little more than dry spaghetti noodles destined to be tossed into a pot and boiled until they were no longer fit for consumption. Hey, if that makes me a wuss, I’m sorry, but I’m just the kind of guy who deep down truly does respect the institution of marriage and all that it’s supposed to represent.
Then there was Faye sitting next to me looking like some fine, ripe Georgia peach, waiting for the first right somebody to come along and take a big bite out of her. Man, as hypocritical as it may sound in light of all my past and previous behavior to the contrary, I actually do want a stable, loving, committed relationship with one woman. Now why I can’t for the life of me seem to make that happen is, I suppose, just another one of the many grand mysteries of my all too pitiful existence.
As touching as the ceremony was, I couldn’t wait for the doggone thing to end. Even for an openly emotional guy like myself, there’s a limit to just how long you’re willing to sit up somewhere with your eyes watering and your nose dripping.
I have Faye to thank for coming through with a steady supply of tissues, even though every few minutes I’d catch her cutting her eyes at me, as if to ask, “What’s up with this fool?”
I’d just finished blowing my nose and was in the process of pulling myself together when who but my girls should come prancing down the aisle, looking cute as they wanted to be in all their ribbons, bows, and frills while swinging their little baskets and tossing flower petals every which-away. Man, you know I started blubbering all over again.
Finally, after all the “I do’s” had been said and the blushing bride had been thoroughly tongued, I wiped my face one last time before turning to Faye and venturing to ask if she planned to go on home or if she’d like to stay for the reception.
To my surprise she opted for the latter, and on agreeing to partake of each other’s company just a little while longer, we were on our way to the reception area when I heard an all too familiar voice behind me. “Carl? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Now, had I a real say in the matter, when I turned around and saw my ex, Betty, standing there, my answer would have been “No! Oh, hell, no!”
Bet, who’s always been quick to read my mind, stepped forward and initiated the honors herself. “Hi, you must be Faye. I’m Betty. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you from Carl and the girls …”
I stood back with my arms folded and watched as the two exchanged a good forty-five seconds’ worth of pleasantries before Bet got called away to rejoin the bridal party for pictures. “Sorry, got to run,” she said in her little cutesie-pie voice. “But it was so nice meeting you, Faye. Are you staying for the reception? Great! Hopefully, we’ll get a chance to talk again.”
Before running off to strike her pose with the others, Bet paused to extend me a smile and what was supposed to pass for a parting pat on the cheek but went over more like a quick smack to the jaw.
We went downstairs to the reception area, where I had the pleasure of introducing Faye to several members of my former wife’s family. Man, you know I got some sho’ ’nuff crazy looks, don’t you? But the attitude I copped was one of “Yeah, that’s right. I’m here with somebody. So what! Later for all y’all player-haters.”
Everything seemed to be going along fine. We’d gotten our grub, found our table, and were sitting there eating, making light conversation and having a fairly decent time. The twins stopped by briefly to swirl and twirl and get our praise-filled feedback on their joint performance, before racing off to cut up with all their other little badass cousins and friends.
I’d been sitting next to Faye thinking how nice it might be to slow-dance with her one more ’gain and wondering if she’d go for the idea, when the time came for the bride and groom to have their first dance together as newly-weds. The song they’d chosen turned out to be Luther Vandross and Cheryl Lynn’s rendition of “If This World Were Mine.” Even though I personally think t
he version by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell is the better jam, I was still digging it. I reached under the table and on finding Faye’s hand I gave it a squeeze and said, “One last dance. You and me. What do you say?”
She smiled. But right as she parted her lips to give me a reply, the twins redescended upon our table, screaming and climbing all over me like a couple of overdressed and much too excited chimpanzees.
“Electric slide, Daddy! It’s electric slide time!”
You know it, man, the newlyweds’ dance had ended, and the electric slide line had begun to form. At my darling daughters’ insistence, I took off my shades and shifted into boogie mode. But before storming the dance floor, I asked Faye if she cared to join us.
She told me, “No, you all go on. I’m going to sit this one out. Check back with me on the next one.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I took the last part of ol’ girl’s statement as a clear indication that her answer to my previous question was a resounding “Yes. Yes, I’d be honored to dance with you, Carl dear, just as soon as the next slow jam comes on.”
HER
No, see, I had every intention of dancing with Carl. What happened was, while I was sitting there, trying not to get too tickled by the sight of him and his girls grooving together on the dance floor, this big muscle-bound stud of a brother parked himself in Carl’s empty seat and commenced to getting up-close and personal.
“Hey there, Miss Lady. The name’s Lenny,” he said, while licking his lips and eyeballing me all up and down like I was a pork chop dinner with generous portions of rice, redeye gravy, and buttermilk biscuits on the side, and it just so happened he was a hungry man with a country boy’s appetite. “And who,” he asked, “might you be?”
After shaking his hand and telling him my name, I quickly shared with him the fact that I was there with Carl.
The fool grinned and bobbed his head like he’d just heard a good joke or something before he up and asked, “So, ah, you here as Carl’s guest or his girl?”
After The Dance Page 19
