Now back to why I was late today.
I had not come in the house until two that morning. Mack and I had a late after dinner snack at his house, got it on again and then he had his driver bring me home. Even then we both didn’t want to leave each other.
I really enjoyed myself with him. He was charming, romantic, and thoughtful. Different for a man like him, but a bonus for me. He even sent me a text message when I arrived home to let me know he had really enjoyed himself.
I stayed up the rest of the night going over résumés for my assistant position. Then I emailed Lisa to let her know my choice without an interview. I really didn’t have time to go through all that crap. I just chose the one that looked good on paper and who Lisa had found great references for.
Finally, I made it to bed.
Then about six o’clock in the morning, my sister Lauren knocks at my door, looking as if she had just found anything to throw on her body. Large bags sat under her eyes.
I immediately thought something horrible had happened to my mother.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, wrapping my robe tight around me. “Are you okay? Is momma okay?”
“Everything’s fine, Sheryl, I mean health wise.” Lauren was almost an exact replica of me, except she looked like a ten year older version of me. Though she was just three years older, she had this kinda frail look about her. Like if you raised your voice at her, she’d pass out.
“So why are you visiting me at this time of morning, Lauren?”
Tears welled in her eyes and she wailed - I kid you not – WAILED, as if she were dying, “I’m leaving Mitchell!” Then she collapsed in my arms.
This took me aback because Mitchell was Lauren’s world. He’d eat dirt for her. I knew if she ever left him, they’d both be tore up from the floor up.
I tried my best to comfort her, but she began to get louder and louder. I coaxed her over to the couch and we sat down.
“Why would you want to leave Mitchell?” I asked.
Lauren looked up with tears streaming from her blood shot eyes. “I- I can’t be married to him, Sheryl. I just can’t.”
“Why not?”
She sat up and even moved a little away from me. “I’ve been having these weird dreams. Like… well, like bad dreams.”
I frowned, not understanding her. “I don’t comprehend you, Lauren. Just spit it out.”
“I think I was raped.”
My heart stopped. I could feel an old sisterly protectiveness stir in me. Something I hadn’t felt for Lauren in a long time. “When?”
“When we were little.”
I knew then that Lauren was trying to get into the “victim role” again and thus didn’t take a word she said serious. “In the dream you were raped?”
“Yes, but I think it happened for real, Sheryl.”
“When?” I demanded to know.
“Remember when we were kids and Momma use to send us to Uncle E’s house?”
I was like six or seven when we use to have to go to Uncle E’s house every other week. I hated it because it messed with the Barbie parties I’d have with my neighborhood friends. And even though Uncle E was nice to me, he treated Lauren like she was a sore spot on his ass. I didn’t care. By the time I was eight though, Momma told us Uncle E had died and that was it.
“You think Uncle E raped you?”
“Yes!” Lauren hissed.
“And you’re just remembering it? Have you told Momma?”
“I did, and she said I was talking crazy. She said pregnant women always had crazy dreams.”
I was shocked again. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yes,” she replied, as if I should already know. “But I really don’t think it is that.”
“Okay, so what did Momma say about Uncle E?”
“She said I needed to put it to rest. That whether it happened or not, I needed to put it to rest. But you know what that means, right?”
Shaking my head, I really didn’t know what that meant. “What?”
“That Mitchell’s not my first. All this time we relished the fact that we were each others’ first, but as it turns out, he’s not mine after all. I know in my heart that Uncle E took my virginity.”
I sighed and tried my best to comfort her by rubbing her back and arms. “I think you should go to a doctor, Lauren.”
“I don’t want to.”
“What about a preacher?”
“Sheryl, don’t play with me. If I was raped, then Uncle E could have raped you, too, and you’re repressing the memories.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, but its okay.”
I hated being accused of something that wasn’t true. “I wasn’t raped. All I remember about Uncle E was that he would try to buy me stuff all the time and I wouldn’t let him. I never understood why Momma made us visit him so much.”
“What do you mean you never understood why?” Lauren asked frowning. She snorted in disgust. “Please don’t tell me that you don’t know why Momma forced us to do that. You’ve been ignorant all this time?”
She was pissing me off. “Okay, Ms. Smarty Pants, why?”
“Uncle E was our father, stupid.”
If I had been standing up, I would have fallen down! “Our father?!”
“Yes, the other contribution of your DNA. Momma just made us call him Uncle E because he wasn’t worth being called a Daddy.”
This was news to me. I stood up, frowning. All this time and I never knew. But why wouldn’t my mother want to remind me of something like that? And how had Lauren known?
“How did you find out?” I asked.
“When Momma decided not to send us over there anymore, I started crying about it and I told her I hated her. She slapped me and told me I should hate Uncle E instead since he wouldn’t live up to his responsibility of being a real father like he was supposed to. And then she covered her mouth like she’d let the wrong thing fall out. That’s when I knew. Well, I put two and two together, looked around the house, and saw stuff that told me that Uncle E was indeed our father.”
“So you think you were raped by our father?”
Lauren stood up. “I know I was raped by our father.”
“And Momma just said you were talking crazy?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you feel that way, Lauren, you need to find a way to prove her wrong.”
“That’s why I came to you.” She reached in her purse and pulled out some papers that were printed off the Internet. “I want you to help me find this man.”
“What man?” I took the papers she handed me.
“Uncle E.”
I wanted to ask her if she was smoking crack, but then Lauren could go off the deep end.
“He ain’t dead, Sheryl,” Lauren said. “Momma and I went toe to toe last night and I know he ain’t dead, just by the way she was talking.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want her to know I’ve involved you.”
I handed the papers back to her. “I don’t want to be in a tug of war with you and Momma, Lauren. You go on your crazy hunches by yourself.”
She shook her head. “He’s alive and I want you to find him. I don’t have the resources, but I know you can do it. Anything you’ve put your mind to you’ve done it, Sheryl. And I don’t want Mitchell to know, either.”
“What? That you’re going crazy?”
“Shut up.” She gathered her purse over her shoulder and sighed. “I don’t want him to know I’m leaving him.”
“So if I find this man you think is alive, what then?”
She stepped to me and gave me this long warm hug. I thought I heard her sob and prayed she wouldn’t start wailing again. When she moved away, Lauren said softly, “I need to know the truth. I can’t go forward until I know the past, Sheryl. Help me.” She looked very sincere and I just knew she was on a borderline wail.
“And if I prove you wrong?
That this man isn’t alive?”
“Then I’ll seek professional help, but I’ll still leave Mitchell.”
“So I have to find this man alive and find out if you were raped or not.”
“Yes.”
“And then you’ll stay with Mitchell?”
“I promise.”
“And tell him the truth about how crazy you are?”
“If I am.”
“Fine, Lauren.”
She kissed my cheek. “Thanks Sheryl. I knew you’d help.”
I let her out and allowed her to hug me again. I wasn’t helping her because I was being a good sister. I had a feeling that if she left Mitchell, she’d need somewhere to stay and Momma wouldn’t let her stay with her.
A pregnant woman under my roof? Oh lawd, hell naw! To keep that from happening, all I had to figure out was how to prove my sister crazy. That might be easy.
I crawled back in bed and told myself that I was just going to sleep for one more hour.
Entry Seven
When I arrived to work Friday morning - late, like I told you - I found two-dozen roses on my desk from Mack. I smiled to myself and read the card:
Thanks for just being you. Too bad I had to leave the country on business, but I wanted to let you know you are thought of. I’ll see you when I return. Mack
I smiled to myself and sighed. Now that I had a lot of time to think about it - on my drive to work - I would have to rate Mack at a seven and a half as a lover. I didn’t expect him to be perfect (because no one is and I know that). Nor did I expect him to be Rick (that’s a nine, LOL.)
The problem was, though Mack knew how to get the job done, he had some reservations. Reservations that now bothered me in the light of day.
Last night when we fully explored each other’s bodies, I saw that he had some inhibitions about kissing me after I kissed him below his waist. I was too caught up in the moment to take note of it then, but as I really thought about it, it did kind of bother me. But then I won’t think too much into it.
Peter cornered me as soon as I got settled into my office. He was about two inches taller than me and had a black man’s lips - all thick and juicy. But since he was married, I never say anything about his lips. I just enjoy seeing him talk.
“You’re the best!” he exclaimed, coming in my office.
“Oh really?”
“Yes! Mackeroy happily signed on the dotted line before he left on his vacation to Europe. He got me looking like I’m the shit.”
“So you’ll be cutting me a check, right?” I teased.
He laughed. “Give me something else to give you, Sheryl.”
“Tickets to a great concert?”
“Brian McKnight is coming in next week,” he suggested.
“Two of them, good seats,” I said firmly.
He kissed me on the cheek and started to leave the office.
“Peter,” I called.
“Yeah, Sheryl?”
“Congrats to you.”
“Thanks.”
“I meant on being a new father.”
“Oh yeah.” He flushed embarrassed. “Thanks on that.” Quickly he rushed away.
By the afternoon, Cassandra Stanton, my new assistant, was sitting in the seat reserved for such a position. Soon as I walked up to her, she jumped up and outstretched her hand in greeting.
She was a nice black woman - although I hadn’t known I had chosen a black woman at the time. Usually all my assistants were white, young and eager. I like those because they were always hardworking and focused. Black women usually harbored a lot of jealousy towards a sista with power, so I choose to stay away from the drama and hire people who really wanted to come and work.
“I’m Cassandra-”
“I know your name.” I cut her off briskly, set in the fact that I’d be choosing another assistant in about a couple of weeks once I wore this one out and pissed about it. “And I’m sure you’re aware of mine.” I nodded toward the door with my name on it that she’d been staring at before I walked up. “Look, could you take my palm, upload all my appointments until next week and then download my meeting notes for today, format them and then get them on my desk in the next hour. I have a dinner appointment with James Kaffey and-”
She cut me off as politely as possible. “He canceled.”
“What?” I snapped.
“Mr. Kaffey called while you were gone and said his daughter had to be rushed to the hospital. He wanted to know if you could move the dinner ‘til next week.”
Fuck! I said to myself. I had to fly to New York next week to present the information Mr. Kaffey was going to give me to some clients.
“No, I can’t move the dinner. I’ll be in New York next week,” I told Cassandra.
“I know that, Ms. Banks. I saw the plane tickets on your desk, so I asked if he could at least see you quickly tomorrow afternoon, if everything’s okay with his daughter,” Cassandra replied.
I was mildly impressed, but I didn’t show it. “And did he accept?”
“Not until I threw in that you were personally sending over to the hospital a great get–well-soon basket from Neiman Marcus that would be every nine-year-old’s dream.”
“I did?”
She laughed. “Well, you are if you’d just sign the petty cash receipt.”
I smiled, but only a little to show how proud I was of her. “Thanks. Keep on top of that, so I won’t overbook. I really need that information.”
“Yes, Ms. Banks. Would you like me to get you anything else?” Her spirit shone through. She made me feel like she could take care of things.
This was the first time I felt like that with a black woman at a job.
“No, I’m fine,” I replied. “Let me get this report through and I’m waiting on a call from the Florida office.”
“Yes, Ms. Banks.”
I assessed her all over. She was about a buck fifty, with short hair like Halle Berry. Except she reminded me of Gabrielle Union in Breaking all the Rules, trying to look like Halle Berry. Instead of black, Cassandra’s hair was naturally light brown and honey golden. I like to watch it as I dictate my letters.
It had always been a habit of mine to just stare as I concentrated. Usually my assistants would say it creeped them out, but Cassandra didn’t seem to mind. Matter of fact, I think she kind of liked knowing I was staring at her.
In the first day we worked together, not only did I find myself impressed by my new assistant’s intelligence, but also by her ability to get the work done without me reminding her all the time. I hate that.
We worked until midnight and then we found a Coney Island to get a chicken salad. I dropped her off at her home about three in the morning, hoping she didn’t get in trouble with her husband because we had found so much to speak about.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Banks. He’s just happy I’m making some kind of money,” Cassandra reassured me. “And I’ll help you with your sister’s stuff, but maybe we won’t call her crazy just yet.”
Somehow I had let it slip about my sister, but I didn’t know who else to turn to and Cassandra really made me feel comfortable.
“Thanks, Cassandra,” I said. “See you Monday.”
When she was in the house, I drove off.
Now my weekend was a whole different story.
Entry Eight
I woke up early Saturday to do a walk around the block. I had a lot of running around to do, so I didn’t get in my regular five miles. I promised myself I would do them later on tonight. I do try to keep my body alright, even though it seems I will never lose the thirty pounds needed to push me down to a size ten, but c’est la vie.
The party store near my home was just opening up. I decided to grab a bottle of water and check it out since no one was in there. This very quiet Arab guy with bright blue eyes was behind the register. Unlike the majority of party stores in Detroit that had the counter covered in bulletproof glass, this one didn’t. That was mainly because this was a borderline store and beca
use Eastpointe was a relatively safe city.
The Arab at the counter was about thirty in age. He respectfully nodded at me when I entered the store. It suddenly dawned on me that I’d never slept with an Arab guy before, though I’d grown up with them because the Metro Detroit area had the largest population in the United States.
There was a weird relationship between the blacks and Arab community. We don’t talk to them and they don’t talk to us. If we have to do business together, we just do business and don’t try to get personal. Bad things always seemed to happen when it became personal.
One exception was when the eastern blackout happened. I was in
Florida at the time, but my mother said that the Arab business owners stayed open in the community even though there was great fear that they would be robbed or looted.
Who knows? There might be another black/Arab exception today. And that’s a big might.
When I grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and looked up in the back mirror, I saw the Arab clerk leaning awkwardly over the counter to check out my “assets”.
I pretended to look at something at the bottom of the cooler. I took an abnormally long time perusing just to give him a nice long look at something he would never have.
When I returned to the counter, he pretended that he was busy putting price stickers on some items.
“Did you find everything you needed?” he asked politely with a slight Arabian accent. His voice was smooth and silky. Yes, he was very cute and I really liked his large blue eyes.
I didn’t look away from his direct eye contact. “Yeah, I guess. But I see you don’t have anything but diet grape Faygo.”
“That’s all you like?”
“That’s all I have to choose from.”
“I’ll see if I can order another kind, okay? What’s your favorite kind?”
“Peach, but if they have the red, I’ll settle for that.”
“Anything for my beautiful customers,” he said with a wink as he took my dollar for the water.
“My name’s Rahem,” he said, handing over my penny change and the receipt for the water.
Diary of A. . . Page 3
