by Mary Monroe
Floyd didn’t know the half of it, and I couldn’t tell him. Yes, I was in love with him, but I was in love with Paul, too. Knowing that would have destroyed Floyd. I had to let him think what he wanted to think. And right now he thought that the glow on my face was because of him. The lust in his eyes was so thick you couldn’t slice through it with a Texas chainsaw. He slid his tongue out real slow and made a sexually suggestive gesture by sticking it in and out a few times. Then he slid it across his lips and made slurping noises into the telephone. The reception on that cheap-ass telephone was bad today, so there was a lot of static. It spoiled the effect.
After Floyd gritted his teeth, he put his tongue back into place, winked at me, and shook his head. “Baby, I know you miss my loving, but this is the best I can do for you right now,” he stammered, his voice cracking.
My guilt was already raining down on me in a storm that was gaining more strength by the minute. What he’d just done made me feel even guiltier. I had something he wanted but couldn’t have, but another man was getting enough of it for both of them.
“I’ve lost five pounds since last month,” I announced, hoping to divert his attention. A puzzled look crossed his face, like he was wondering where I was going with this conversation. “I went on one of the diets Oprah used,” I added dumbly.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why you need to be losing weight? You ain’t fat. You ain’t never been fat.” Floyd smiled and winked. “You just the right size for me,” he said, still smiling.
I shrugged. “Compared to some women I was fat. You know how I love me some pig’s feet, greens, and cornbread. I had a few jelly belly rolls, lumps, and knots hanging and bulging and poking out in all the wrong places. My body had begun to look like a pear. Now I can wear all those new string, thong bikinis I picked up in Cabo San Lucas. You wouldn’t believe how stiff the competition is on the cruises these days.” I let out a loud groan and casually shook my head, closing my eyes the way the women did in those annoying hair commercials on television. I slowly opened my eyes as my fake hair fell down around the sides of my face. I was hoping that I looked as sexy as that little gesture made me feel. My breath almost caught in my throat when I saw how fast Floyd’s smile faded. There was now a grimace on his face that made him look as if he’d been sucking on a lemon. “What?”
“And another thing—when did you start wearing wig hats?” he asked in a gruff voice, his eyes looking up at the top of my head and then to the sides. He snorted and looked me in the eyes.
“Huh? Oh this,” I said, gently patting the sides of my wig. “You know how humid that L.A. heat can be. It can be murder on a black woman’s hair. The wig is so much easier to deal with, and I have to look good these days. There are a lot of pretty younger women jumping off and on my ship.”
“How many more times are you going to let me know how great your life is without me? You think I want to hear about how you have to keep up your looks so you can compete with other pretty women? Exactly what are you competing with these other women for?”
“I’m just making conversation, Floyd. What do you want me to say? You brought up the wig. I’m just trying to keep it real. You asked me about it, and I told you. I have to keep myself looking good. It’s hard out here for a black woman.”
Floyd leaned back in his seat and gave me a weary look. “Want me to have the guard bring you some more nails to hammer into my coffin?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I threw up my hands and let out an impatient breath. “Look, I don’t want to bring up anything that might depress you, so I talk about all the good things going on with me. Would you rather hear about who died, or who else went to jail, or got divorced? Or do you want to hear something worse? I’m trying to give you something to smile about,” I wailed. “What do you want to hear? What do you want from me? You need to tell me because I really don’t know anymore.”
“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean that shit. I’m just so fucking—frustrated up in this bitch-ass place!” he hollered, pounding his fist on the counter. “All I want is for you to be . . . I just . . . I just want you to be happy, Lo. When you are happy, I should be happy. Me getting all crazy jealous only hurts me more. So, like I just said, I’m sorry for talking crazy. The thing is, I . . . I don’t care what you do while you running around on the Love Boat in them string, thong bikinis you picked up in Cabo. And even if I did, I couldn’t do a damn thing about it,” he said in a flat voice.
“I am happy, Floyd. I’m happy that I can see you. I am happy that you are where you are and not sitting on death row waiting on the executioner like that prosecutor wanted you to be.”
Floyd scratched his chin. “I’m sorry. I need to think before I speak. I know this is hard on you. Maybe even harder on you than it is on me. I want to make love, but I can’t. I know you want to make love, but you won’t.” At this point, a look of uncertainty crossed his face. I wondered just how sincere he was in his belief that I was being faithful. I guess he gave it some thought, too. He shrugged and lifted his chin, looking at me with his eyes half closed. “Baby, I wouldn’t be a man if I asked you to do what I know I couldn’t do, if I was in your shoes. I can’t give you what a woman like you needs. If”—Floyd paused and laughed—“and I do mean if you need some . . . uh . . . attention, go for it. I just don’t want to hear about it.” He gave me a dry look, then a dry smile.
“Are you encouraging me to find another man?”
“Hell, no! I’m encouraging you to do what comes naturally.” He paused and laughed some more. “If you are not doing it already,” he added with a wink.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t know what you mean by all that,” I wailed defensively.
“I ain’t never been on a cruise ship, but I grew up watching The Love Boat reruns, and a few of my friends took a few cruises here and there. I know what kind of hanky-panky people get involved in on the high seas on them ships. And I know you still go to the clubs and shit, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. My roommates and I like to get out and let our hair down from time to time,” I said, my eyes everywhere but on his face.
“You do more for me than a lot of other women would probably do for a man they’ll never be able to call their own again. I appreciate whatever I can get from you. But I can’t, and I won’t expect you to give up everything on my account. I don’t want you to forget about me and stop coming to visit. But I do want you to get on with your life, too. Do it for me; do it for yourself, Dolores.”
I nodded and offered him a broad smile. The guilt that had been raining down on me in big drops had just turned into hailstones the size of golf balls.
CHAPTER 37
Floyd had been in prison for more than two years before somebody other than me paid him a visit. It was one of several ambitious young lawyers he’d been writing letters to, begging them to help him get a new trial. I had not met Brian Leventhal yet, but as much as Floyd talked about him, I felt like I knew him already. “Brian’s a good-looking white boy. Looks a lot like Elvis,” he told me.
“Elvis? That’s not saying much,” I said with my eyebrows raised and a disgusted look on my face. From what I could remember about Elvis Presley, he’d looked like Shamu, the famous killer whale.
Floyd laughed and waved his hand. “Brian looks the way Elvis used to look, before he got hooked on them fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches and got all fat and lumpy. And before he started squeezing into them white jumpsuits.”
“Oh. That sounds much better.” I laughed. “Elvis Presley was all right for a white boy when he was young.” When I met Brian on my next visit the first thing I said was, “You look the way Elvis used to look.”
“Before he lost his shape and started wearing those white jumpsuits, I hope,” Brian laughed. “I hear that all the time.” He rolled his eyes and tossed his head back, making a thick jet-black curl flap across his forehead like a visor. After a few minutes, he left Floyd and me
alone.
I liked what Brian was trying to do for my man. “I know I’m probably beating a dead horse, but I have nothing else to lose,” Floyd said with a smile so weak his dried, cracked lips hardly moved. It also pleased me to know that Floyd and Brian had become friends. “I never thought I’d see the day that a white dude was the only dude that I could call a friend. And it’s my luck that this dude’s so rich, he can afford to work for me for free.”
“Do you really want to go through another trial, baby? What if things turn out even worse?” I asked, scratching my ashy neck. I had on a brown shapeless flannel dress that I wore when I helped Valerie and Moanin’ Lisa clean the house. I had dressed down on purpose. I made myself look like a frump when I visited him now.
One thing I had learned over the years was that Floyd didn’t appreciate me looking too “good” when I came to visit. Even though he kept telling me he wanted me to be happy, his demeanor told me something different. If I showed up with a fresh hairdo and a stylish outfit, and my face all made up, he greeted me with a puppy dog look. He greeted me with a smile only when I arrived with my hair in a flat bun and full of lint, no makeup, chapped lips, and in outfits like the one I had on now. He didn’t have to worry about me. My appearance didn’t provoke some of the convicts and guards enough to make them whistle at me and make lewd comments out the sides of their mouths like they did to some of the other female visitors. Even the most desperate-looking convicts stared at me with disgust, no doubt wondering what a handsome dude like Floyd saw in a dowdy bitch—that’s what I’d heard one of the guards call me—like me.
Floyd reared back in his chair and gasped. “Worse? What do you mean by that? What could be worse than where I’m already at? Even if they find me guilty again, I probably wouldn’t wind up on death row—but how much worse could things get for me?”
“They could send you to a real bad prison,” I muttered.
This time Floyd reared sideways in his seat, gasping even louder. “A real bad prison? Sister, let me tell you something: every prison is a real bad prison.”
“I meant the kind of prison where they send the real bad convicts. Like Charles Manson or the Hillside Stranglers.”
Floyd gave me such a horrified look I thought he was going to scream. But he surprised me by speaking in an unusually calm voice. “I got news for you, girl. As far as the system is concerned, all convicts are real bad.” He leaned back in his chair and smoothed his hair back, giving me looks that made me wonder what was really on his mind. “Anyway, I gave Brian your phone number in case something comes up and I can’t get in touch with you.”
I nodded. “Tell Valerie she could send me a postcard every year or so. I would appreciate hearing from her,” Floyd said with a wishful sigh.
“I will,” I lied. I didn’t have the heart to tell Floyd that that would never happen. I still had not told Valerie or anybody else that I was still communicating with a man in prison for life.
“Now, how’s your love life?” Floyd laughed, then shook his finger at me. “And don’t lie because I know better.”
“Huh? Who me? Uh, I’ve been on a few dates, nothing serious,” I said quickly and clumsily, the lies spewing out of my mouth like fresh puke.
“Uh, I guess your men friends don’t have a problem with you coming to see me every month, huh?”
“Uh-uh. Like I said, I’m not involved in anything serious.” That lie left such a bitter taste in my mouth, I had to clear my throat. But it really haunted me the following weekend, when over dinner at the famous Mr. Chow’s in Beverly Hills, Paul asked me to marry him.
“Dolores, if you will be my wife, I promise that you will never regret it.”
Paul’s proposal caught me off guard and startled me. My mouth was full of steamed rice and I almost choked on it. I swallowed the huge lump as fast as I could, which was a mistake on my part. Doing that, I almost choked again. I took a quick sip of water and I wiped my greasy lips with my napkin. “Did I just hear you ask me to marry you?” I asked dumbly.
“You must be deaf because we heard him all the way over here,” said a woman’s voice from the side. Paul and I turned at the same time. The white couple at the table next to us smiled and saluted us with their glasses. They seemed more anxious to hear my response than Paul.
I cleared my throat first. “Yes. I would love to spend the rest of my life with you!” Right after my eager response, the same nosy couple clapped and insisted on paying our check. I couldn’t eat another bite after that. And I had to drink my way through the rest of the night.
I knew that if I wanted to marry Paul and continue my relationship with Floyd, I was going to have to get real creative. And the way things had worked out so far, I didn’t think I’d have a problem doing that. Paul was the kind of man that didn’t have to have his nose up under my fucking skirt twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He had a lot of friends and family who he liked to spend time with. He loved his job and I loved it, too. Mainly because it required him to go out of town a few days each month to conduct training seminars. One thing I was convinced of was the fact that periodic absences in a relationship helped keep everything fresh and exciting.
Paul had no problem with my going to visit a “mentally unstable female friend in Monterey” one Saturday out of each month. As a matter of fact, he applauded me for being so compassionate and selfless. Early in our relationship, I told him the same lie that I had told Valerie and everybody else. “Dolores, bless your heart. I’ve never known a woman as caring as you when it comes to her loved ones,” he told me. “Your unfortunate friend is lucky to have you give up a Saturday every month so you can visit her,” he added.
Paul was a patient and understanding man. I was grateful that he never tried to get too deep into my business. But as understanding as the man was, I knew that he would not tolerate my visiting a convicted rapist and murderer. And since he’d accepted the story about the mentally ill female friend without too many questions, there was no reason for me to tell him about Floyd.
I was surprised that Valerie wanted to be so involved in my wedding plans. She wanted to plan the whole thing—the location, the cake, and everything else. It seemed like odd behavior for a woman as lonely and desperate to get married herself.
I didn’t want a big church wedding, or anything else that was too fancy and might attract attention. There was always a chance that I would run into somebody who knew somebody who might get word to Floyd about me. I wanted to trot down to city hall and do the deed there. But Valerie and Paul vigorously opposed that.
“There is no way in the world that my mama is going to let her only boy, and the baby in the family, cheat her out of one more chance to enjoy a big wedding,” Paul told me.
Valerie and Paul ganged up on me, but it didn’t do them any good. I still didn’t want to have a big wedding, especially after I flew up to San Francisco with Paul to meet his mama and some of the rest of his family.
CHAPTER 38
“You don’t have any folks to speak of, Loretta?”
Paul’s mama, Miss Thelma, asked me within minutes after we’d first met. We were in her spacious, antique-filled living room with a view of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. Despite all the expensive-looking furniture and other knickknacks, the room had a cold and impersonal feel. I felt like a fish out of water. I had on a simple blue cotton dress and flat heels. Except for Paul, everybody else’s attire was as loud and outlandish as a Mardi Gras costume. One man had on a green suit. And they had the nerve to look down on me!
“LoReese,” I corrected, forcing myself to keep the weak, fake smile that I had conjured up on my face.
“Say what?” she said, looking at me down her nose. She wore a bright yellow cape over a black-and-yellow striped dress. She looked like a huge bumble bee. Miss Thelma was a more fair skinned, older female version of Paul. Unfortunately, even down to the goatee. Hers was very faint, though. I could tell that she’d just either shaved or used some of that hair removal
cream that I used to do my legs and underarms, because I recognized the smell.
“My name is LoReese, not Loretta,” I said. My smile got bigger this time because Paul was walking in my direction.
“Whatever,” Miss Thelma said with a dismissive wave. “My poor Sweet P. That boy of mine is going to have a hard time dealing with that. He’s all about family,” she said with a sniff. “Your hair looks real nice. Is it all yours?”
“No, ma’am. I own several wigs and hairpieces. My hair gets really frizzy,” I admitted in a stiff voice. I knew then this was going to be a four-glasses-of-wine night, and maybe something even stronger.
“You must have some of that Kenyan African blood. I went on safari in Nairobi, Kenya, last year with my church bingo club members. I swear to God, the hair on the heads of some of those natives looked like barbed wire. I bet they’ve ruined more pillows with all those naps—”
“Mother, let me get you another drink,” Paul interrupted, attempting to rescue me by grabbing my hand.
“Make it a double, Sweet P.,” Miss Thelma said, grabbing my other hand. “Let Loretta stay here with me. We were having such a nice conversation.”
Paul gave me an apologetic look and shuffled across the floor to the bar.
“Now. Where were we?” my future mother-in-law said. She released my hand, then wiped hers with her napkin. If that didn’t make me feel dirty, nothing could. “Your folks from Kenya?”
“They could be. Since I grew up in foster homes, I don’t know for sure. My mother told me a lot of things before she left me, but nothing about my ancestors. However, I know that somewhere down the line, I had family members from Africa. Just like you and everybody else.” It was my turn to smirk and I did it with style. It must have had a profound effect on this old battle-ax because she gasped and rotated her neck.
“My folks are from Martinique,” she snapped.
I nodded. “By way of Africa,” I insisted, glancing across the room. I was glad to see that Paul was heading back in my direction with two glasses of wine in his hand.
