I remember how I ran around asking my acting teacher, Ms. Diane, how to get an agent. I was ready to throw my wings in the sky and fly toward Hollywood, but she just looked me over and said, “Learn your craft first. Study acting. Don’t just imitate what you see, feel it.”
* * *
It’s not until I’m in line that I decide on a film about a woman, played by Nicole Kidman, who has an affair. It starts in eight minutes. Perfect timing. I shove my ticket into one of my breast pockets and head for the almighty concession stand. Nachos smothered in cheese and jujubes will make everything all better. With my goodies in hand and my mind two-stepping over what’s stashed in my purse, I make a beeline to the theater. And then I hear my name called. It’s Monday night. No one I know should be cracking at the seams but me.
I spin on my sneakers and see Monroe McKenzie, president of the Dames and Culture Club. Just my freaking luck. I plaster some remnants of something I hope says pleasant to see you and move in her direction. Monroe looks dazzling in a spring pink suit and over-the-top pumps. Her cherry-blond hair is pulled into a side bun, and her cheeks are round and plum. Under normal circumstances it would be great seeing Monroe. As an artist, Dames and Culture is the club that I’ve been wishing myself into with obsessive osmosis for the past two years, but they haven’t even given me so much as a finger wave. Membership is restricted to women who have distinguished themselves in art, music, literature, philanthropy, or just enough wealth that none of the above matters. It’s an invitation-only club and Monroe, with her perfectly painted red lips, can unlock the door with her key. I push my shoulders back and pretend that I am not standing in the middle of the movie theater dressed like the cleaning lady.
“Felicia Lyons, is that you?” her tiny eyes disappear altogether when she smiles. I touch my frizzy hair with my free hand as if to confirm it is still in a frazzled snatched back. My lips smack against each other in search of moisture. I could have at least remembered to put on some damn lip gloss before I got out of the car.
“Are you here alone? What’s going on with your hair?” she grabs a loose strand and flips it back, grinning.
I shift my goodies to the side. “Yes, alone. Just catching a breather.”
“Well, I’m glad I ran into you. I have a favor to ask.”
I look at her.
“Rumor has it that you are a celebrated actress.”
I wouldn’t exactly say “celebrated,” but the compliment remedies her flicking of my hair. White girls should really know better.
“As you may or may not know, the Dames’ annual fund-raiser is in three weeks and I’m the chair. We call it the Afternoon of the Arts. We have our headliner. Are you familiar with Audra McDonald?”
“Am I?” My mouth gapes open.
“I figured you would be. Well, she’s the headliner.” Monroe claps her hands. “It is such a coup to have her. I’ve been working with her manager for over two years to secure her.”
“That’s amazing. I saw her on Broadway a few years ago and she’s just awesome.”
“Tickets are practically sold out. Now we just need to fill in with our supporting cast. I’ve already contacted an opera singer, cellist, and a modern dance group. What’s missing is a dramatic interpretation of some sort.”
“Are you asking me to perform?” My doe eyes widen, revealing too much glee, but Monroe continues on as if she hasn’t noticed as she runs down the business.
“Proceeds will go to the underserved girls at Cross River High. We are trying to extend their library by two thousand square feet and put in a media center. What’s the commercial you had running? Bounty?”
“Bounce fabric softener,” I say, letting it roll slowly off of my tongue. It’s the one thing that people know about me because it ran during the Super Bowl. That was more than two years ago, and I haven’t booked a job since. My agent doesn’t even call regularly because I missed so many auditions after Liv was born. I’m still ten pounds over my headshot picture weight and can’t remember the last time I had my mane colored and cut. But I’m about to work on some changes. Felicia Lyons is making a comeback.
“We need something funny, of course,” Monroe continues on, like she’s reading a checklist from her clipboard. “Needs to resonate with the two hundred and fifty women in the audience, something to which we can all relate.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Great. I’ll put your name on our nomination ballot and be in touch with more details.”
My face slips.
Monroe pats her lips. “Darling, the Dames vote on everything. But with your celebrated accomplishments, you shouldn’t have a problem.”
“Sounds good.” I take a step back.
Monroe turns on her heels and gives me that toothpaste grin. “Ciao, darling, and be careful eating all of those nachos,” she says with a wink.
Not at all what I was expecting when I stormed out of my house today, and my mood improves a bit. The theater is half empty and I let my mind wander over the excitement of performing for the Dames. Perhaps this could be my ticket in. An incredible show could earn me the coveted purple and yellow pin. The pin I’d never take off. The pin that would finally elevate me to …
Girl, please, the Dames are not letting you in their posh little club. Not with your history, the damn voice interrupts my happy thoughts, and as usual I hate her logic, reason, and timing.
I sink lower into my seat, dipping a salty nacho into the warm cheese and then shoving it into my mouth. My cell phone vibrates from inside of my purse and I see Preston’s name flash across the screen. I send the call to voice mail.
The Dames will see right through this little facade you’ve created and see you as the fake that you are. You are a wannabe. Always have been and always will. She cackles.
My knees knock against each other. This is why I liked my happy pills, because just one would have kept her demonic voice away. Just one would have let me enjoy this small moment of victory. Just one would have let the past be forgotten and forgiven and I would have been glad to feel the fake glee. My hand gropes the jujubes.
Nicole Kidman is bent over the sink with her lover’s hand in her hair and I will myself to be lost in her story. My sleeve sops the raindrops from my chin and I swallow small sips straight from the bottle.
THREE
The Good Husband
Preston is waiting up for me. It never fails. No matter what time I come home, my husband is always waiting. I polished off two of the four miniature bottles of merlot in the theater, and I’m all cried out. When I saunter into the living room I feel toasty and relaxed.
“Where have you been?” Preston looks up from his tablet. His brown eyes darken beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. The History Channel is on, as usual.
“Hello to you too, darling.” I stand in the middle of the floor with my hands on my hips.
“You went out dressed like that?”
“I know. The kids were so out of control tonight I didn’t even realize that I hadn’t changed until I was damn near at the movies. Least you know I’m not cheating on you.” I bend down for a peck.
“You went to the movies?”
“Mmm hmm,” I move to pick up Rory’s yellow dump truck and carry it into the dining room/playroom. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“You didn’t answer your phone. I had no idea where you were.”
“The picture had started.” I grab his hand and pull him up from the sofa. “It was a hard day.”
Before he can pout further, my lips are on his. My yoga pants are old but tight and it’s not long before Preston’s hands glide over my ass like he’s a horny teenager.
“Next time send me a text.” He moans in my mouth and rubs his groin against mine. Preston is easily four inches taller than me, but somehow we fit. My husband is the sun, and I am the flower stretching toward his ray.
“I didn’t even know what to pay Sam.” He tugs me tight.
“You paid her, right?”
�
��That’s not the point. I don’t want to find out my wife’s whereabouts from the babysitter.”
I push back. “Oh, Preston, get over it. I’m entitled to some time alone.”
Sam is usually good about having the kids clean up after themselves, but tonight toys are all over. Preston must have walked in before she had a chance. I open the toy box that we keep in the corner of the dining room and start shoving toys in. Honestly, I give my husband a long leash. I don’t check his whereabouts. He comes and goes when he pleases, but my leash is short and tight. My unbuttoned mood tightens back up.
“Good night,” I say, with Rory’s shoes in hand.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Come here.” Preston is on his feet and cuts my path before I can make it out of the living room.
“So dramatic.” He breathes on me. “Can’t a brother be concerned about his wife?”
His lips graze mine and I thaw. Preston smells like sand and something smoky and I inhale until I’m full. Breathing me out, I take him in, all of him.
On the sofa, he’s right next to me. Arm wrapped around my shoulders.
“How was your day?”
“I picked up two new accounts in Sparta.” He lifts my shirt over my head.
“Oh,” his breath cinches. I’m wearing the pink satiny bra that smashes my breasts together.
“One is a big fish that I’d been working on for weeks.” His tongue teases over the length of my cleavage while he unhooks my snaps.
“So proud of you, honey.” I move my arms and thrust my boobs forward so he can have full access. Preston traded in his nine-to-five and started The Lyons Group when Rory was born. He represents companies for health, life, and disability insurance. A traveling salesperson with a small office at the foot of our town, and he rarely makes it home before the children go to bed. Long leash.
“What are you thinking about?” He has come up my body and we are eye-to-eye.
“You.”
Preston’s lips feel like pillows of marshmallow. His hands move with grace and I lean back so he can touch all of me. Even after ten months of dating and seven years of marriage, it takes him only about thirty seconds to make my mind turn to fuzz, to erase all of the bumps in my day.
“You taste so sweet,” he purrs against my stomach.
I bubble. Arch my back. Hug him with my knees. My womanly parts are swollen, panting for our connection. My fingers are in his hair. Preston crawls up my body.
“Foxy, you are so beautiful,” he whispers against my bottom lip. I gasp as his fingers work my pleasure. My leggings are around my ankles and the thong I by chance wore is shoved to the side. My husband claims me, devours me, does me good.
“This is what I’ve been waiting for.” He groans as we find our connection and swim. Long, deep strokes. The couch rocks on its tiny hoof heels.
“Should. We. Close. The door?” My brain floods with watery images of sleepwalking children. I lick his neck and squeeze his lower back. My thighs are soaking wet.
“They’re gone. I just checked. Relax, baby.”
But the thought is in the air and now I can’t let it go. His tongue finds my ear, my cheek, and his breath feels like warm cider as it rushes down my throat. Preston grabs both of my hands, placing our palms against each other, and we dance. He drives my body into the sofa and talks that stuff that I like, but my mommy brain won’t fade. I lean into his waist, give a push, and then slip away.
“Foxy,” he whines, hands out like one of the children.
“One sec.” I swing my hips hard as I move through the room, closing the living room shutters and turning off the television. My fleshy ass wiggles and I know I’m giving him a show. The light from the cable box gives just enough blue so that Preston can see me.
“What you want, baby?” I put my hands on my hips so he can see all of me. My curves, my stretches and pulls, the map of my life on this body. I stand like it’s a curtain call.
Preston is sitting up. Legs ajar. His eyes glow with greed. “Come.”
I fall into his arms, sink, sigh, surround him.
Warmth courses between us. He clings to my hips and I undulate. The friction is automatic and in no time I grip the back of the sofa and spill.
His patience has waned and I am tossed on my belly. Teeth are on my back, fingers where I like them. I sense the quickening, feel the urgency in his rhythm, paw the sofa, and then surrender to the release of my husband’s storm.
Spent, we lean with our legs crisscrossed. My head is listening to Preston’s heartbeat. His fingers draw circles on my arms.
“Better?” I say.
“Yes.” He adjusts himself on the floor, with his back resting against the sofa so that I am sitting between his legs.
“What made you go to the movies?”
I tell him about the fighting car ride, forgotten keys, commotion over dinner, and the hair-conditioned bathtub.
“I’ll drive them to camp tomorrow for you.”
“Really? Tomorrow’s Wednesday.” Preston only drives the kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
“My morning meeting got pushed back so I can do it.”
I squeeze him tight and kiss his chest.
“You’re too good to me.”
FOUR
The Aftereffect
The next morning, the tempest has passed. The water has receded. I can’t even remember what the storm was all about. I tighten the strap on my cotton robe and move into the girls’ room to start their day. I kick some dolls and crumpled tutus out of my way to reach the beds.
Two has climbed into Liv’s crib and is wrapped around the baby like a lover. Rory also abandoned his room in the middle of the night and is snug in Two’s bed. Our nights are filled with mattress movement.
“Two,” I rub the small of her back.
“Rory, good morning,” I call. He wiggles away from me so I sing, “Good morning, good morning, little chinchilla.”
I’m on the second verse when Two pops up.
“Monkey!” she shouts and Liv raises her messy head.
“Good morning, little monkey, good morning, kitty cat and colorful peacock. Good morning.”
With that we are on the steps, Liv on my hip, Two’s hand inside of mine, and Rory right beside me. At the bottom of the stairs, Rory scrambles into the kitchen. He dashes into the chair next to the window. Two is right behind him.
“That’s my seat, Rory.”
“I sat here first.”
“It’s my turn. Move.” She pushes.
“Twyla, sit here,” I point to one of the three other chairs at our table. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what makes that particular chair so special.
“That’s not fair.” She crosses her arms over her chest. Her ponytails have come loose and she looks rested and beautiful.
I kiss her cheek and then whisper, “Tomorrow will be your turn. Promise.” She’s mollified for a moment and gets distracted by the Cheerios I’ve left for them on the table.
I serve my normal diner-style breakfast: waffles and bacon for Rory, a bagel for Two, and oatmeal for Liv.
Preston comes into the kitchen wearing long sweats and a fitted T-shirt. His eyes look sleepy and his mouth twists into a shy grin.
“Morning, Fox.” He kisses my lips with his hands on my waist. “You felt good last night,” he says, only loud enough for me to hear.
I blush.
“Here.” He stuffs my thong in my hand and then closes it.
The basement door is open so I toss the panties down the steps. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Love me.” His eyes twinkle.
“Don’t forget you promised to drive the kids.”
“Awww, I want you to drive us,” the kids chime from the table, but I pretend not to hear them. I shoot Preston a you-got-this look, and then head upstairs to lay out their clothes.
Before I am finished, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the house. I lo
ve that Preston makes this his morning task.
“Kids, finish up,” I call down from the top of the stairs. While I wait, I make their beds and put the dolls and stuffed animals away. Rory dresses himself, but I help Two button her blouse.
“Brush your teeth and no fighting.” I give them a hard look and then head down to the kitchen.
“Smells good.” I pour two cups and hand one to Preston. He is standing at the counter bent over the newspaper.
“Are you checking the lottery again?”
“I forgot to play yesterday. I hope my number didn’t come out.” He flips the page.
“You sound like an old lady.”
“I’m serious.”
“You know, all you’d get back is the money you’ve put in.”
“This is my po’ black man’s stock market. You won’t complain when I hit big.” He rolls the paper and swats me on the butt.
I stick out my tongue. Preston has never hit for more than a few hundred bucks, but whatever makes him happy. We all need something to believe in.
* * *
I’m at the door waving good-bye when the telephone rings. I know its Gran before I answer it. She phones the same time every day, and starts in on her constant chutney of chatter before I croak a proper good morning.
“Oh, didn’t expect you to be home. Ain’t it your day to drive the kids?”
I wonder then why she has bothered to call, but I say, “Yeah. Preston took them. They left a minute ago.”
“Well, I’m glad I caught you. Wingdings on sale at ShopRite this week for seven ninety-nine. Should get two or three bags and put ’em in the freezer. I ain’t seen them lower than nine ninety-nine in months. They good to have.”
Second House from the Corner Page 2
