Wednesday Nights With Jamie

by Daisy Dexter Dobbs

  Wisely stifling the urge to respond with a hearty Well, whoop-dee-doo for Marcia!, Lyla nodded and smiled instead.

  “They’ve known each other since they were babies at Jack and Jill together,” Catherine forged ahead.

  “Jack and Jill?” Lyla asked, noting that her face muscles were beginning to twitch from smiling so much.

  “It’s a national organization for black children,” Julie explained.

  “For upper-middle-class black children,” Francine elucidated with a lift of her chin. “We all belonged.” The way she said it made Lyla feel like one of those kids nobody wanted to choose to be on their team at recess.

  “It’s basically in place for well-to-do families,” Jamie added, “with enough money to routinely vacation in enclaves at places like Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “Very lah-de-dah.” Julie winked. “But we had a good time there.”

  “Well, that sounds nice. Very nice.” Lyla smiled, breathing a silent sigh. “Lovely.” She scooped a portion of buttered broccoli from her plate, bringing the fork to her mouth.

  “What programs did your parents enroll you in as a child?” Catherine asked.

  Pausing with fork in midair, Lyla’s thoughts immediately flew to the charm school class Virginia made her join when she was ten. Her mother said it was necessary for a young woman to learn manners, poise and social graces if she wanted to hook a rich husband one day. Lyla thought perhaps it would be better not to mention that at the moment. She put down her fork and smiled. She was just going to be herself. Maybe she’d win them over. Or, at least, maybe they’d stop blabbing on incessantly about dear, adorable, perfect-for-Jamie Marcia.

  “I didn’t go anywhere like Jack and Jill, Mrs. Donlon,” Lyla offered. “But I was a Brownie and was later in the Girl Scouts, where I learned how to carve a duck out of a bar of soap, make blueberry syrup from scratch…oh, and I learned how to make sit-upons, water-resistant pads for sitting on cool, damp grass at camp.” Lyla smiled.

  “That sounds like fun,” Julie said. “I always wanted to be a Girl Scout and go away to camp. How did you make the sit-upons?”

  “We sandwiched folded newspapers between two big squares of oilcloth and sewed all the sides shut with yarn. It kept our butts warm and dry.” She and Julie both chuckled. “I almost forgot,” Lyla added. “One year I even earned a badge for selling the most cookies.” She cleared her throat when her soft laughter was met with stony silence and disagreeable glares from Catherine and Francine. “The oatmeal and peanut butter ones were my favorite,” she felt compelled to add for some unknown reason, probably because she tended to babble when she got really nervous. “My sister Dawn liked the chocolate mint ones best. I love chocolate, I’m practically a card-carrying chocoholic,” she laughed, “but I don’t like mint with my—”

  “How charming,” Catherine finally acknowledged, cutting Lyla off in mid sentence. Breathing a sigh of relief, Lyla was actually glad someone had stopped her before she prattled on any further, making herself look like an even bigger ass than she already had.

  “Is your father a professional man? Doctor? Lawyer?” Francine asked.

  Indian chief? Lyla mentally added, watching as Francine cut into her broccoli, pushing the crown to one side with all the others as she brought a stem to her mouth. “Actually, my dad was blue collar,” Lyla answered without a trace of embarrassment. She noted Francine working to mask the distasteful expression that had briefly crossed her features. “An ironworker. He—”

  “Where did your family vacation?” Catherine threw at her.

  “Oh…uh…” Lyla’s thoughts whirred, trying to remember going anywhere other than for a visit to her grandparents downstate. And then she remembered. How could she have forgotten? It was one of the best times in her life as a kid.

  “The one vacation I remember as a child, Mrs. Donlon, is when Dad took my sister Dawn and me camping out in the woods. He taught us how to grill hot dogs on sticks. Dawn made sliced potato foil packets the way she’d learned in scouts and Dad tucked them at the base of the fire to roast. And I showed him how I learned to make s’mores, in Brownies.” She noted Catherine’s blank look. “You know,” Lyla explained, “the treats where you put pieces of chocolate on a graham cracker and then top it with a hot toasted marshmallow, more chocolate and another graham cracker. It gets all gooey and—”

  “I’m not familiar with that,” Catherine said.

  “They’re sheer heaven. I’d be happy to show you how to make them some time. Anyway, the three of us laughed and told scary stories around the campfire at night before going to sleep under a makeshift blanket tent. Mom stayed home because she hated the outdoors. It was one of the best times I ever had.” Catherine arched an eyebrow. “Oh…not because my mother stayed at home,” Lyla explained, “I meant—”

  “It all sounds very…rustic,” Catherine said, sipping from her glass of white wine. “So tell me, Lydia, what university did you attend? Did you graduate with honors? James did, you know.”

  “It’s Lyla, Mrs. Donlon. I went—”

  “And so did Marcia,” Francine chirped before Lyla could finish. “Were you involved in any sororities or other organizations?”

  “Well, I was—”

  “What type of degree do you have?” Catherine added.

  “Whoa, slow down there,” Jamie said, his fork dropping to his plate with a clang. “Since when do we ask guests in our home such personal questions? That’s just plain rude. Ease up on Lyla, okay?”

  Catherine stiffened in her chair. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, James. “Your sister and I are simply making an effort to get to know your…friend.” She looked down her nose at Lyla.

  Oookay…clearly there were underlying subtexts here Lyla didn’t understand. Her gaze dropped to her hands, wringing the linen napkin in her lap, then drifted to the slab of untouched grilled salmon on her plate. There was definitely more being grilled than just fish tonight.

  “We don’t mean any disrespect to your guest,” Francine said unconvincingly, “but we’re your family and we have to keep your welfare at heart.”

  “By interrogating the poor girl?” Julie asked, a sharp crack of laughter escaping her throat. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “There are plenty of white women who pass themselves off as racially open-minded when all they really want is an exotic partner in the bedroom,” Francine offered. “I’m just trying to see that’s not the case here.”

  Heat radiated in Lyla’s cheeks as she fantasized about grabbing Francine by her bird-boned frame and snapping her in two like a brittle potato chip. Perilously close to losing her composure, she drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes and holding it a moment before easing it out. She opened her mouth to respond but Jamie beat her to it.

  “My relationship with Lyla is none of your business, Francine,” he retorted. “I’m ashamed that you and Mama would embarrass the woman I love the first time you set eyes on her.”

  Oh no. No, no, no… Lyla cringed. Jamie didn’t really just blurt that out to his mother and sister, did he? She picked up her fork and shoveled in some salmon, terrified to see the reaction on their faces.

  “Mmm, boy this salmon is delicious. Very flavorful,” Lyla said, her gaze never leaving her plate. She popped another forkful in her mouth and chewed as if her life depended upon it, murmuring her satisfaction. “Not fishy at all. You know, the only sort of fish I’d eat as a kid was fish sticks,” she blathered nervously, hoping that maybe they’d forget Jamie’s pronouncement and get caught up in a discussion about the merits of fish instead. “And then when I grew up and ate—”

  “Love!” Catherine gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “Dear God in heaven, you can’t be serious.”

  Lyla froze and then she made the mistake of glancing up. Pinned in place by both Catherine’s and Francine’s hellfire glares, the threat of a firing squad never seemed more real. Lyla took a sip of wine to wash down the salmon, but after swallowing she rea
lized the fish hadn’t been causing the lump in her throat at all.

  “I’ve never been more serious,” Jamie said, taking Lyla’s hand in his and giving her a smile so warm she felt it to her toes. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that,” he said to his mother, “but you gave me no choice.” He growled in frustration. “And since you’ve pushed things to this point I may as well let you know right now that I’m going to ask Lyla to be my wife and I just hope to hell she’ll have me after what you’ve both put her through.”

  “Wife?” Lyla said, drop-jawed. “As in married?”

  “Married!” Catherine, Francine and Julie chorused.

  “I love you, baby, you know that,” Jamie told Lyla. “I was going to propose over champagne and chocolate truffles next Wednesday.” Boasting a dimpled smile, he leaned close to kiss her cheek. “‘Cause Wednesday’s our special day. But it’s something I needed to get out now.” He glared at his mother and sister. “For obvious reasons.”

  “Well?” Julie said, clutching Lyla’s arm and shaking it. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Are you going to say yes?”

  “I’d kind of like to hear that answer myself,” Jamie said with a hopeful grin.

  Lyla looked at Julie and then at Jamie. She knew she had to answer fast before Catherine and Francine had a chance to fire their weapons. “Yes,” she said quickly. “I’d be proud and honored to be your wife, Jamie.”

  Rising from his chair, Jamie scooped Lyla into his arms and gave her a chaste kiss on the mouth.

  “Wahoo!” Julie shouted, jumping up to make a three-way hug. “Congratulations, bro.”

  “No!” Catherine pushed up from her chair, her chin trembling. “No. I will not have this. It’s inconceivable, do you hear me?”

  “I don’t know how you could do this to Mama,” Francine chimed in, “especially after what Daddy put her through.” She got up, wrapping a supportive arm around her mother.

  “I am not my father,” Jamie stressed, his arm firmly around Lyla, holding her close. “And I will not be held responsible for his mistakes. Furthermore, Lyla is not the woman Dad cheated on you with, Mama, so get over it. This is going to be your daughter-in-law. The woman who’s going to bear your grandchildren.”

  A curious mix of heady emotions whirled inside Lyla. She was part overjoyed, part pissed off, part frustrated and part scared shitless. Each time he opened his mouth with his proclamations of love it was like Jamie was sealing her coffin with another six-inch nail but Lyla didn’t care. The joy she felt at his brave declarations was definitely beginning to overshadow the abject terror of dealing with the two-member firing squad.

  A look of horror crossed Catherine’s features. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, Mama…I know exactly what I’m saying and neither Lyla nor I are naïve enough to think it’s going to be easy. We love each other and we’ll face any obstacle that comes our way—including our families—together.” He smoothed his hand over Lyla’s arm.

  “You are being naïve,” Francine spat. “Your privileged girlfriend has no idea what she’s in for. White people aren’t like us. They don’t have to consider race, Jamie. That freedom allows them to look at the world with rose-colored spectacles. When the going gets tough, when the ugly racial slurs start, she’ll be gone so fast it will make your foolish, lovesick head spin.”

  “Okay, if I could just say something in my defense,” Lyla started, “I’d like to point out that—”

  Slamming one hand on the tabletop and positioning the other on the back of her chair, Catherine adjusted her posture until she stood proud and straight. “Here I’ve been, Afrocentric your whole life,” she said, her voice wavering, “spotlighting the beauty of black women, the importance of black culture and history. Starting you off at Jack and Jill, with our kind of people, and even vacationing in the Caribbean and Africa so you could experience what it’s like to be the majority culture. And after all that, after all I’ve done for you, all I’ve sacrificed on your behalf, who do you bring home as your intended wife? Some inane little white girl!”

  “Now listen, Mama—” Jamie began.

  “It’s good that you’re proud of your background, Mrs. Donlon,” Lyla said. “I’m proud of mine too, although I’m afraid it’s not quite as illustrious as yours. My paternal grandfather came over on a boat from Ireland, a dirt poor immigrant who made a meager living repairing shoes. My grandma helped out by being a washerwoman. My grandparents were proud of my dad for learning a trade. Dawn and I were always proud of both my grandparents and my dad. Growing up we weren’t wealthy by any means but we always had food on the table and a roof over our heads. And my dad always made us feel loved.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Lyla,” Jamie said.

  “It’s okay, I want to give your mother and sister some insight to my background.” She patted his hand, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Catherine and Francine had taken their seats again. Lyla did the same and tugged on Jamie’s arm so he’d sit too.

  Lyla paused a moment, the next memory making her eyes sting. “Unfortunately, Mom felt differently about Dad and his roots. She hated the fact that he was happy being blue collar and that climbing the social ladder held no importance for him. That’s why she divorced him.”

  “Aw.” Francine folded her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes. “Poor little downtrodden white girl. I suppose this is the part where we’re expected to cry because you had it so hard.” She huffed a laugh.

  “Not at all, Francine. In fact, I’ve had a very happy life,” Lyla said with a smile. “Anyway, my mother caught the eye of a rich older man and saw it as an opportunity to elevate herself. Dad was ever hopeful that he’d win her back until he met someone who liked him just the way he was. Two years later, when Mom’s second marriage went stale and she wanted Dad to take her back it was too late because he was getting married. Mom begged, Dad refused and Mom’s been berating him ever since. The part that does make me cry, Francine, is that two days before Dad’s wedding he fell to his death from a high beam on a construction site.” Lyla’s eyes brimmed with hot tears and she blinked them back.

  “Oh what a shame,” Julie said, patting Lyla’s hand.

  “Thanks, Julie.” Lyla smiled at her. “I put myself through college working as a waitress and doing telemarketing for a home builder,” she continued. “My mother didn’t believe in educating her daughters, preferring instead that we snagged ourselves rich husbands. My mother is a racist and generally an all-around bigot. My sister is open-minded, like you, Julie.” Lyla clasped Julie’s hand. “And I love them both, flaws and all. So, Mrs. Donlon…Francine, is there anything else you’d like to know about me or my background or any possible skeletons in my closet?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Catherine said, clearly incensed.

  “I should think you would, Mama,” Julie said, shaking her head. “Come on, future sis.” She grabbed Lyla’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “I have a feeling you could use a good stiff drink. I know I could. We’ve got a bottle of pricey cognac in the library that I’ve been looking for a good excuse to open.”

  “Sit down, Julia,” Catherine demanded. “We haven’t finished dinner.”

  Jamie rose to his feet in one smooth, powerful movement, slapping his napkin on the chair seat. “Oh yes we have.” He followed Lyla and Julie into the living room.

  “I know you’re probably waiting for me to tell you that Mama’s not really so bad once you get to know her,” Julie said as she poured the golden liquid into snifters.

  “Yup, and I have a feeling that’s not what you’re about to tell me.” Lyla chuckled.

  “And you’d pretty much be right.” Julie laughed. “But you’ll get used to her. She’s bitter and angry and guarded and a terrible snob, but Mama honestly believes it’s all for a righteous cause. She means well. In time I think you’ll even get a few glimpses of the real woman underneath that brittle façade.” Patting Lyla’s back as she passed a glass
to her, Julie added, “It’ll take a while but I’m sure she’ll come around.”

  “Thanks, Julie.” Lyla drew her future sister-in-law into a hug and kissed her cheek.

  “For what?”

  “Just for being you.”

  “I second that,” Jamie said. “Thanks for trying to make things easier in there.” He held his snifter aloft and the three clinked glasses.

  About ten minutes later Lyla was already feeling the effects of the cognac because she’d barely touched her dinner. Sinking back against the sofa cushions, she let out a tuneful sigh, resting her head and gazing up at the high ceiling. A moment later she chuckled. Before she knew it, the chuckle bloomed into a full-blown laugh.

  “Know what I was just thinking?” she said.

  “No,” Jamie answered, “but whatever it is I’m sure glad it brought a smile back to your pretty face.”

  “I was thinking about your mother being my mother-in-law.”

  “And you find that funny?” Julie asked. “At least the girl’s got a positive attitude, Jamie.”

  “And then I was thinking about my mother being your mother-in-law, Jamie,” Lyla added, starting to giggle again.

  “Ouch.”

  “Evil white woman?” Julie asked her brother.

  “Oh she’s bad,” Jamie admitted. “Real bad.”

  “But the part that makes me laugh the hardest,” Lyla concluded, “is trying to picture the first time our mothers meet.”

  “Ooh, double ouch. That’ll be brutal,” Jamie said, cringing. “You put her and Mama in the ring together,” he explained to Julie, “and I doubt either would come out alive.”

  Now Julie cracked up laughing.

  “What was so funny about that?” Jamie asked.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking how happy I’m gonna be ’cause now Mama and that bony-assed sister of mine will be too busy picking on you and Lyla to bother getting in my face.” The trio enjoyed a bit of tension-relieving laughter together.

  After another ten minutes had passed, Lyla started yawning and didn’t object when Jamie suggested it was time to take their leave. After a farewell just as distressing and uncomfortable as her welcome, she and Jamie headed for their car.