by Cydney Rax
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“Love you, Mommy.”
I want to say “I love you, too,” but suddenly Dani is bounding down the stairs, beaming.
I give her the eye. “I am assuming you found whatever you were looking for.”
“Yep.” She waves a credit card. “I always put these in the pockets of my jackets, and yep, my jacket was here, and so was my card, thank goodness.”
“Good. Where was the jacket?”
“Lying on a chair in Brax’s room. But guess what else I found?”
I freeze.
“What?” I ask, annoyed.
“Is this something that you’ve seen before?”
She opens up a closed fist. In the center of her palm is my diamond ring. I yelp and jump a foot in the air. “Give me that. Oh my God! Where’d you find this? I gotta call Neil.”
I run to the phone, heart joyfully lifted, and dial up my husband on his cell.
He sounds relieved and tells me, “Some things you lose you find them again. Other things you lose are lost forever.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, and I just laugh and hang up the phone.
“Whew, Dani, you just don’t know…” I place the ring on my finger and the corners of my mouth draw upward.
“It is gorgeous,” she says, eyes flickering with admiration.
“Well, I guess I must’ve taken it off one day,” I tell her, and glance at my hand. “I was cleaning the walls up there. God, I almost had given up.”
Dani smiles, nods absently.
“Well, uh…” I frown. “Hmmm, jeez.”
“Oh, I better be on my way. I’m sure Audrey is counting the minutes till I come back. She does that, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. But I’ll let you go. Thank you sooo much. I mean it. I don’t know what else to say.”
“You’ve said enough, Anya. Good-bye. And bye, Miss Reesy.”
Solomon’s Temple.
I cannot stand bell-bottoms, but that’s what Neil decides to wear. Bell-bottoms that are part of one of those seventies ugly Angel flight suits. It has the tan jacket, vest, flared pants, and silk shirt with the pockets. Pure D ugly. Then there’s that huge, floppy Afro wig. Ridiculous. I can’t talk, though. Check me out with my button-down shirtdress, complete with a wide metal belt. I’m sporting some black fishnet stockings and these short black boots with a two-inch heel. I feel silly yet wild. There’s a disposable camera in my purse, and I can’t wait to see what everyone else looks like. Then I want to settle in and listen to the concert.
Neil and I haven’t been out together in weeks. His fault, not mine. Whenever I suggest we go somewhere, he’s not up to it. But tonight, we’ll see what happens tonight.
“Anya, look over there.” Neil is talking to the back of my head. He is a few steps behind me trying to keep up. I am walking fast trying to locate our seats.
“Anya!” he yells louder. But the pre-concert music is louder than he is. A great excuse to continue walking, huh? I am gripping this big old purse, clutching it to my side while it bangs against my thigh. I’m partly trying to get away from Neil, and peeking at the other concertgoers’ outfits.
Platforms. Long-sleeve flowered shirts. Dashikis. Some kids are wearing Afro wigs covered by apple hats, looking just like the Jackson 5, but not as adorable. I don’t feel as silly now that I know there are other self-possessed people here willing to dress the part.
Lights are flashing across the room like we’re at a nighttime football game. This oughta be fun.
Neil stands next to me. Stares. “Whatcha think so far? You feel like running out of here screaming?”
“Not yet, silly,” I tell him. “I’ll be all right. It doesn’t even feel like church. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Hope nobody starts stripping.”
“Don’t even worry about that. Nothing that crazy is gonna happen in here.”
As soon as the concert begins, I sneak out my mini tape recorder and turn it on.
“You know you aren’t supposed to have any recording devices in here,” Neil says, pressing his mouth against my ear.
I smile at him and shrug, then bob my head and clap my hands to the music. A woman is singing a Tramaine Hawkins favorite, “Change.” The music takes me back years, makes me feel nostalgic about all the fun Neil and I had attending other concerts. Stevie Wonder, CeCe Winans, Kirk Franklin. And now that we’re at this concert, I am focused on enjoying the singer perform “Change.” I love this song, even though I’m not sure what’s so great about change.
After the concert we head out to China Bear, a popular Chinese-food joint off the Southwest Freeway in the city of Stafford. It is so packed, you rub shoulders with people whenever you get up to walk somewhere. When we were at the concert and had settled in, I didn’t feel self-conscious about my clothing. But now?
“Jeez, Neil, people are staring at us.”
“What? No, they aren’t.”
“Yes, they are,” I insist. “I think we’re scaring the Chinese people. They might think we belong to a gang or something.”
“People in gangs get hungry, too. Don’t worry about it.”
“Easy for you to say,” I huff, and lower my eyes, avoiding all eye contact with the people who are filling their plates at the buffet. I get some shrimp fettuccine, octopus, sushi, rice, and fried clams.
Neil gets four times as much food as I do. His smiling and waving at people makes me want to slink to the floor.
“So, did you like the concert?” he says.
I nod. My mouth is too full to respond with words.
“I’m glad.” He nods. “I enjoyed myself, too. The music was banging, the singing was top notch. It felt kind of good being there with you. You need to get out the house more.”
“Would that keep you at home more?”
Neil stares at me.
I squirm in my seat and lower my voice. “I want you to do something.”
“What?”
“Promise me first.”
“Anya…”
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. I really want you to do this.”
“Do what?” he asks.
I retrieve the mini tape recorder from my purse and hold it up.
Neil grins. “You want me to start singing? La-la-la-la.”
“No, silly,” I laugh. “Wait a sec.” I fast-forward the tape a little bit. “Okay, Neil,” I say, getting serious. “I am recording right now. This has to do with our arrangement. I want you to verbally promise me you will never sleep with you-know-who again.”
Neil lays his fork on his plate, which is half-filled with shrimp and veggies.
“Neil?” I prod. I feel like a snake with feet and big breasts, but maybe this effort will trigger vital changes in our relationship. Maybe in this regard, change can result in good.
“I don’t do that, anyway,” he claims, and resumes eating, “so why are you trying to make me promise not to do what I don’t do?”
Lying punk. I want to rise to my feet, but hesitate.
“Neil, if what you’re saying is true, then you won’t have a problem vowing on tape not to do that, right?”
Neil stops chewing. He peers far beyond my head and plays with an imaginary piece of paper. I want to place my fingers around his neck and choke him. What’s wrong with him?
“Neil, remember the first time we had sex after I had the second miscarriage?”
“Not really.”
“I remember…the bleeding, the pain. I thought I was having another miscarriage even though I wasn’t pregnant anymore.”
“Well, uh…”
“I’ll never forget how you didn’t look directly at me, you kept your eyes closed.”
“Isn’t that what people do when they have sex?”
“But this was different, like your mind wasn’t on me, but on something else. And it took too much of my energy to get in the mood. It was like you let down the curtain during the middle of the act, and it fell on my head. Kaboom, all o
ver. So I felt like…like I failed you. Again.”
“But Anya,” he protests, “you didn’t fail—”
“Ah, back then you probably wanted me to think that you weren’t affected, probably because you knew how much I was.” I pause and suck in my breath. “Neil, you might not realize this, but your attitude grew a little cold toward me, even though you tried to act like everything was the same. But everything wasn’t. You changed.”
“No, Anya, you changed. You acted like an anaphrodisiac, and you somehow thought I didn’t want sex, even though that wasn’t true.”
“But Neil, remember the first time we argued a few weeks after the loss? You felt like enough time had passed, and you didn’t have to be so polite anymore? Y–you told me you loved me, but you would have loved to have another baby even more. I mean, that was very insensitive…”
“It’s not like it sounds,” he remarks, lowering his eyes.
“If it wasn’t how it sounds, then why’d you say it? I took you at your word, Neil, whether the words came out wrong or not. I mean, for God’s sake, you might as well have chopped off my head, or threw acid in my face. I never told you how I felt, but I never forgot. Your words hurt, Neil. Yet your drive is always strong, and sexually you were able to rebound. But me? Whether you realize it or not, words like that don’t exactly make a woman want to start doing a lap dance.”
“Okay, that was so long ago I barely remember.” He rubs his eyes like the ceiling lights have suddenly become brighter. “I thought we were trying to eat.”
“Nothing stopping you from eating,” I say, jaw firm.
“And what does all that have to do with right now?”
“The fact that you refuse to do what I’m asking you right now doesn’t make me want to run and do a lap dance, either.”
Neil simply stares at me, lips pressed tight.
“Now, can you just make a little effort,” I say, and gesture at the recorder, “so I know where you’re coming from?”
His eyes are blank and his stare drifts right past me. “I–I’m s—,” he mumbles.
I turn off the recorder and throw it inside the purse.
“I’ll be waiting in the car,” I tell him. And this time, when I walk past all the booths with all the curious people, I could care less that they’re staring at me.
13
* * *
Dani
I’m at home. Neil is about to come through my apartment door, a door he hasn’t walked through in several weeks. I am dressed in a lilac-colored loose-fitting long-sleeve shirt that extends over some flimsy old navy sweats. They’re somewhat funky-looking, but I am too in love with them to pitch them just yet.
I haven’t had a chance to take a shower. I’ve been diligently cleaning up, something I hate doing. I’m so pissed right now that I’m scrubbing areas of the apartment I didn’t even know existed. Sticky scum on the window ledges. Puffs of dust behind the TV units.
The doorbell rings and I hear a few light taps. I look at myself. Patches of dirt are dotting the front of my shirt. And I’ve run out of laundry detergent.
Another light tap. Why’s he doing that?
I open the door. Neither Neil nor I can muster up a heartfelt grin.
“Can you hurry up so I can come inside?” he fusses.
“Come inside—”
“In your home, Dani. Stop acting silly.”
“Fine, okay, all right, Jesus,” I say, and let him in.
Neil is carrying two large Dillard’s shopping bags. When he just stands in the middle of the room acting like he can’t do what he normally does when he comes over, I tell him, “Have a seat, you,” and point to the couch.
The stereo is on. A Minnie Riperton song plays softly in the background, talking ’bout “Do you wanna ride inside my love?”
“So,” I say, “I suppose all those things are for the baby?”
He nods and starts pulling colorfully wrapped gifts from the bags.
“But Christmas was yest—”
“Dani, she wouldn’t let me out the house, so…”
“I don’t believe that. Anya is big but she’s not that big. You could’ve pushed past her. Wrestled her to the floor…”
“Look, I didn’t think getting here was that critical. Brax is only a few months old. He doesn’t even know it’s Friday, let alone that yesterday was December twenty-fifth.”
“I’m sorry, Neil. I am. I—”
“Don’t.” He stares at all the gifts. “Let’s get this over with.”
I rise to my feet and help place the goodies on my dining-room table. There are eight boxes in all. Seven are wrapped in silver metallic paper. One is wrapped in gold paper. It has DF on it. I’m shocked he had enough guts to write my initials on the gift card.
“I jotted that on there on the way over here.”
It’s like he’s reading my mind. Well, since he can read minds, does he know how freaking pissed I am? Sure he does. Neil knows me. He knows.
“Where’s Brax?” he says.
“Leave him alone. I’m happy he took his nosy butt to sleep finally.” I smile, thinking of my son and how he enjoys sitting in his swing staring at me while I prance around the room mumbling to myself and wanting to pull out chunks of my hair some days.
“I can do the honors,” I say, and begin ripping gift wrap off Braxton’s presents. Two sweaters, a baseball short set, striped sleepers, cotton rompers, and an adorable denim outfit with matching hat. Quality things that Brax will outgrow very soon, but of course, that doesn’t matter to Neil.
“Awesome, Neil. You are too good.” I am grateful for Neil, realizing that some kids wouldn’t get this much attention from their father.
“I–I didn’t get you anything.” I shrug.
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why not, D?”
I laugh. “What you call me?”
“Look, I don’t care that you didn’t get me anything, Dani. Go ahead and open your present.”
He doesn’t have to plead. I pick up the gold box. Shake it. “Hmmm, it sounds very light, Neil. And it’s too big to be something small and expensive. What you get me? House slippers?”
“Yep, you are tooo smart, Dani.”
“Stop lying. This big ole box isn’t even shaped like…whatever. You’re insane, Neil. And you’re a liar, too.” He steps up to me again, looking down into my eyes. I lift up my face and he kisses me quickly on the lips, then turns and looks cautiously at my front door.
“Look, if that’s how it’s laying now…I don’t know, Neil.”
“Me either. I don’t have long, though. Anya probably has me on a timer. I told her I’d—”
I cover my ears and shake my head.
“Let’s get to my present,” I tell him, ripping the paper off the box. Inside the box is another box, and another box, and another box.
“You are insane, Neil.”
I am giggling with hysteria by now. Whatever he bought better be worth all the trouble I’m going through.
“Ahhhh!” I scream when I open the final box.
Seven sets of lace cheeky pants. One for each day of the week. Orange, turquoise, lemon, black, leopard, crimson, and a scandalous hot pink. Mmmm.
Neil looks at his watch, then at me. “I’ll race you to the shower,” he yells, and takes off running. I follow behind this solid hunk of a man, removing my soiled shirt and sweatpants, and giggling like a fool while he strips off his clothes and gets the shower working: steamy and hot…just the way we like it.
It’s one hour after our shower episode. My phone has rung three times within that hour, and caller ID indicates that all calls are coming from Neil’s home. But Neil’s not at home, he’s with me. Brax is being held by his dad. Cuddled and fed a bottle of juice. The baby fluctuates between screeching and humming. And his mouth keeps opening and closing because he’s so greedy he wants more.
I’m slumped next to Neil, my head pressed against his shoulder.
“Wh
at we gonna do?” I mumble, the question I’ve not wanted to ask.
Neil gazes into his son’s piercing eyes.
“Something’s gotta give, don’t you think? She keeps calling,” I complain. “I’m not answering…”
“Turn off the ringer, Dani.”
“I want to take that phone and rip the jack out. Does she want anything important or are these social calls?” I’m yelling by now and my face is no longer pressed against my baby’s father.
“Dani, let’s go back, okay?”
“Nooo.” I shake my head furiously. “No going back.”
“But we have to,” Neil says, and kisses Braxton’s lips. “We gotta. If we understand how we got here, maybe it’ll help us understand what we need to do.” He looks me square in the eyes. “Because we do need to do something.”
“No, we don’t. We can go on like this. I don’t mind. I don’t. Really.”
He groans and stands up, still holding Brax. I watch father and son. A mixture of feelings settles inside my heart. I have no regrets about giving birth to my precious child. I realize that even if the baby wasn’t planned, and the circumstances surrounding his birth weren’t perfect, he has a right to exist and have a proper upbringing with supportive parents holding him up. I feel thankful Neil loves Braxton, sacrifices for him.
“You may not wanna hear it,” he warns, “but I’m about to recount our history.”
I hear a car horn screaming outside my window and sit up with a jolt.
“Does she know…where I live, Neil?”
“No, we’ve never discussed that. I don’t have your address written down anywhere, except mentally.”
I lean back. “Good. Let’s keep it that way. I mean, I feel somewhat safe, but you never know. You won’t let Anya hurt me, will you?”
Neil keeps pacing and rocking the baby. I spring to my feet, rush to his side, tug his elbow.
“Promise me you won’t let her—”
“Look, I can promise till you’re sick of my voice. The Secret Service can promise to protect the president of the United States, but the president can still get hurt, right?”
“Oh, really. Hmmm, so should I start wearing a bulletproof vest or something? Hire a private security firm?”
