Our fingers touched as I handed back the Playbill. I didn’t care for Yolanda. She played the part of the girl with the egg. I wanted that part and when she got it, she flicked her nose up at me. I stayed away from her after that.
“Felicia, ready?” It was Serena, impatient for her liquor. I motioned to her to give me a second.
“Let me see that Playbill again.” I took it from him and wrote my telephone number on it. “So we can continue our conversation. What’s your name?”
“Preston, Preston Lyons.”
“Felicia Hayes.” I extended my hand. “See you around.”
* * *
The cast and crew went around the corner to the Dive Bar, a favorite hangout for Marymount students on Third Avenue. Serena had to stop at the ATM for cash and refused to go to the Citibank on the corner because she banked with Chase.
“I’m not paying those high fees for taking my money from another bank. It adds up,” she scoffed.
So we walked five blocks to the Chase and then back to the bar. When we walked in, Preston was already there. He spotted me immediately, came over, and offered to buy me a drink. I ordered a Jack and ginger. It was my cool grown-up girl drink, the one that let the boys know I could get down like them. We tried to get up a conversation while the DJ spun G Love & Special Sauce, but then he switched to hard-core metal. The white girls ran to the bar top, kicked their high heels off, and danced berserk, as was the norm in Upper East Side bars such as the Dive. It was time to go. I cornered Serena and told her I was leaving. She was wrapped up in the guy who worked the stage lights and waved me off.
“I live down the block. Walk me home?” I shouted into Preston’s ear. He took my hand.
* * *
Outside, the fall breeze felt good. It was a few weeks before Thanksgiving, and the air had a mild quality to it with no bite. Preston and I walked two blocks down Third Avenue and then cut across Seventieth, heading toward York Avenue. I lived in a dumpy fourth-floor walkup with Serena and another friend. It was a two-bedroom that we converted into a three, by dividing the living room with a curtain and a Chinese screen. I decided when we got to my building that I wasn’t going to let him come up. We’d just met, I liked his straight-up demeanor and I didn’t want him to think I was easy.
“Want to sit?” I pointed to the bench near the corner.
We watched the headlights of the cars and cabs race back and forth up York Avenue.
“Foxy.”
“Excuse me?” I said, lowering my eyes at him.
“Sorry, did I say that out loud?” He looked sheepish. “You just, I don’t know. You’re name should be Foxy.
My eyes found his, so brown and gentle.
“You have that reddish-brown skin and onstage you seemed so clever, so crafty, so sure of yourself. Made me think, Foxy.”
He got all of this about me from a first encounter? I wasn’t sure if it were entirely true because there wasn’t much that I was sure of and I often felt myself coming apart at the seams. But it sounded good coming from his lips and I bought into it on the spot. On my thigh, I traced Preston and Felicia and drew a heart around it. On our third date, we headed to Spice, my favorite Thai restaurant, near NYU.
It was over crispy basil spring rolls and massaman curry shrimp that Preston trusted me with a part of his past.
“I was raised in downtown Newport News, affectionately known as ‘Bad Newz’ by the neighbors. Have you ever been to Virginia?”
I willed my eyes to stay focused. “Yeah, ’round Lynchburg.”
“Well, the city is basically nondescript urban sprawl—shipyards and ports.” What he didn’t have to say was violent crimes, drug-addicted neighbors, and fast-food joints on every corner, because all of our black neighborhoods were the same.
“The city got a little fame when Michael Vick’s dog fighting made national news. My godmother would see Allen Iverson’s mom every weekend spending his NBA money at the bingo.”
“Really?”
He shook his head. “What most people don’t know is that my hometown is also the hometown of Ella Fitzgerald and Pearl Bailey, but I guess that’s for the history books.” Preston sipped his Thai iced tea, and I could tell by the way he clenched his jaw that this trip backward wasn’t breezy.
It wasn’t until our fifth date that he revealed, “I was raised mostly by my godmother, Juju.”
Preston’s mother, Peaches, was a misguided orphan raised in the group home where Juju worked as the director. Peaches was sixteen when she gave birth to Preston, and Juju took a liking to him. His young mother was in and out of foster care, juvenile detention, and jail for everything from prostitution to writing bad checks to selling drugs. You name it, Peaches did it. None of it stopped her from having children.
After Preston came Patrik, who lived with his grandmother on his father’s side, and then a set of twin girls who were raised mostly by their father. Peaches wouldn’t let Preston see his father because she wanted him and he didn’t want her. When Preston was eight years old, Peaches wanted to follow her new man out to Las Vegas to live.
“Juju always tells me she said, ‘You aren’t taking Preston more than five miles from me. If you want to go, then you need to sign him over so I can give him a proper home.’” Preston removed his glasses and wiped them with a napkin.
We had just seen an indie movie at the Angelika Film Center. I nursed a latte and we shared biscotti.
“She was gone about six months, and then after that I saw her now and then.”
“Juju drilled into me, ‘The only way you going to be something is to get out of Newport News, baby.’” He imitated his godmother with a southern drawl. He went on to tell me how Juju wrote letters to local organizations and programs for funding. When Preston entered fifth grade, she got him into an elite private boarding school, Randolph Macon Academy, seventy miles west of DC, on a full scholarship. When he graduated with honors, it was off to Columbia University for his undergrad degree.
I deposited my empty cup, and Preston grabbed my hand as we walked outside onto Houston Street. “What about you?”
“Well,” I bit my bottom lip.
Just then, an African American family strolled past us on the street. Mother, father, two boys, and a girl. You could look at them and tell they were all from the same family, strong bloodline.
Preston kept his eyes trained on them and squeezed my fingers. “That’s what I want.”
“Me too,” I confessed, admiring the mother as she held the younger two children’s hands in hers while they crossed the street.
“I mean the whole package. One woman to have all of my children, no divorce, no step-anything. I want the holiday card, the summer vacations, and the picket fence.”
I nodded for two reasons; first, because I realized as sure as the New York wind was blowing through my hair that if I wanted to move forward with this man, I could never tell him about Martin or the baby. Second, I wanted the same exact thing. It was all I ever wanted since losing my parents at twelve. A redo of childhood, but this time as the parent I could make it right and sidestep all of the mistakes.
When I let Preston up to my apartment that night for the first time, he reached for the zipper of my jeans, but I removed his eager hand.
“I’m a girl who likes to save something for later.”
His eyes got big, like a boy being promised a coveted toy. “Like marriage later?”
It hadn’t occurred to me to hold out that long before he said it, so I surprised even myself when my lips parted with, “Yes.”
“Oh, damn. A virgin. Foxy, I knew you were the real deal.”
All I could say to that was nothing.
* * *
Preston and I dashed through the winter months like a sleigh on snow, giggling every step of the way. I enjoyed being with him because he liked going to concerts and comedy shows, eating exotic cuisines, and chasing art exhibits throughout New York City. We were at the Metropolitan Museum looking at King Tut’s artifac
ts when he pulled me close to him.
“Growing up, I looked at my younger siblings’ fathers or whoever my mother was dating at the time with hunger, asking them to raise me. Love me. Throw the football with me. And I hated being that desperate. With you, Foxy, I want the fairy tale, the old days. Will you be my wife?”
He had dropped down to a bended knee, and my one-and-a-half carat sparkled with promise. It wasn’t the most romantic proposal but it promised security, suburbs, and me as a stay-at-home mom, where I could nurture our family close and personal. With tears burning in my eyes I said, “Yes, yes, yes.”
Yes, I’ll save you from the demons of your past if you save me from mine.
We were married three months later. Preston picked the date. Since I wasn’t putting out until marriage, he said he couldn’t wait. When Gran found out I was engaged, she insisted that I have the wedding at the Daddy Gracious Church. Was she crazy? That was when I decided that it would be a destination wedding in the Bahamas. Gran said, “I ain’t gettin’ on no rickety plane to see my only grandchild get married.”
I told her I’d take lots of pictures and bring back a video. She said she would never forgive me for cheating her out of that moment, but I didn’t care. Planning a wedding anywhere near Philadelphia would have threatened everything I built in the past few months with Preston. I couldn’t take that chance.
On our first night together as husband and wife, Preston was clumsy with his rhythm, quick and awkward, but when we finished I felt as if I had been washed of my sins. Locked away were the deeds of Miss Hayes. I was now Mrs. Felicia Lyons.
FOURTEEN
The Saturday Fever
Preston is not in the bed when I wake up. The house is too quiet. I check the clock. It’s after nine. What’s the schedule for today? I scratch my head and sit up in my bed. Two has ballet at eleven. I turn my neck to the right and then to the left to stretch. That’s when I hear laughter coming from downstairs. I walk to the top of the stairs to listen. The television is on. I brush my teeth and then head down.
“Good morning.”
“Mommeeee.” Two runs to me and throws her arms around my legs.
“Hi, sweetie.” I lean down and kiss the top of her messy head. Liv is in the ExerSaucer with drool down her neck, soaking through her pajamas. Rory doesn’t look my way. His favorite show, The Backyardigans, is on, and he is absorbed. Preston walks from the kitchen fully dressed, with a cup of coffee in his outstretched hand.
“Morning, Fox.” He kisses my lips and whispers. “You were great last night.”
I blush. Take the coffee. “Where’re you going?”
“I’ve got some paperwork to finish up at the office. It shouldn’t take long.”
“When are you coming back?” I hate when he works on Saturdays. It’s supposed to be family day.
“I’m hoping to finish up and be back early afternoon.” He pecks my cheek and is out the door. I want to chase him, make him stay, but I sip my coffee.
“After this show I’m turning off the television so we can get ready.”
“Ahh, man, where are we going?” Rory turns.
“Two has ballet.”
“I don’t want to go.”
I pretend like I don’t hear his protest as I lift Liv from the ExerSaucer and carry her upstairs.
* * *
The children and I are coming down the front steps of our home. They are asking me questions that I’m not answering because I’m going through my mental checklist, confirming that I have everything for our journey to class. Ballet slippers, water bottles, snacks for the car ride home, sippy cup for Liv, books—and that’s when I see her, stop dead in my tracks. You’ve got to be kidding me.
She’s toothy as she moves up my block toward me with long strides. Her eyes hold mine like magnets. They seem to say, Oh, my goodness, I can’t believe I’ve just run into you out of the blue. How does this heifer know where I live? She wants something. I can feel it.
You were the one foaming at the mouth over Martin and needed someone to talk with. Should have let sleeping dogs lie. Ain’t that what she told you?
I grit my teeth.
“Faye,” she calls.
“Who is that, Mommy?” Two plucks her finger from her mouth.
“Oh, my God. Twice in one week.” Her glossy lips are on my cheek. She’s leaning her hip into mine, smelling of the same expensive perfume she wore to lunch.
“Shayla. What are you doing at my house?”
“Where you heading?”
“To ballet.” Twyla looks up at her.
“Ballet.” She widens her eyes at me. “Ain’t that something.” I have Liv in my arms, Two is clinging to my leg, and Rory is leaning into me, watching.
“They are cuter in person than on your phone.” She kneels down so that she is eye level with them. “You can call me Auntie Shay-Shay.”
“Auntie Shay-Shay, great seeing you again, darling, but we’ve got to go. I’ll hit you on Facebook.” I use attitude to make my point, but Shayla cracks up, shows all of her teeth.
“I need a ride, baby. My car is in the shop.”
“Why are you even in my neighborhood?”
“Working.” her voice trails. “So ride, yes?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer as she struts to my car in her four-inch heels and skin-tight jeans. Where the hell is she going dressed like that on a Saturday morning? I’m wearing the crumpled clothes that I found at the foot of my bed this morning in the laundry basket.
The car is unlocked and I strap the kids in, handing them their books to read on the way.
“We have to read,” Rory protests.
I bore my eyes into him to let him know this is not the time. He opens the book.
Shayla slides in next to me and places her high-end designer bag at her feet. I turn the key in the ignition. Drop all of the windows down to let a bit of her out and fresh air in.
“Stop touching me,” Rory moans from the backseat.
“Twyla, stop it. Mommmmeeeee.”
“Twyla, please keep your hands to yourself. Guys, it’s quiet time.”
“Mommmmeeee! She’s still doing it.”
“If I have to say it one more time, no dessert tonight!” I screech, putting all of the venom in my voice that I want to use on Shayla.
“No dessert? I’m scared of you.” Shayla starts digging in her purse and pulls out a packet of gum. It’s a fresh pack and she undoes the wrapping.
“Here, cuties.” Shayla hands a stick to the kids without asking me first.
“It’s ten thirty in the morning.”
“It’s sugarless,” she says with her phone in her hand, texting.
“Where are you going?”
“Just drive to ballet. I have to talk to you.”
I back out of the driveway and steer my car toward the Garden State Parkway. It’s the fastest way from my house to Montclair. Twyla loves to dance, and even though there are three dance schools in the town where we live, I drive her thirty minutes every Saturday to the studio, where the director graduated from Juilliard. If this is Two’s calling, I want her to start with the best.
I turn the radio on. Flip from NPR to 107.5 FM. Something pop-like croaks from the speakers. I turn it up to drown out our voices.
“What’s up?”
“Brave got locked up last night.”
“Who’s Brave?”
“My man.”
I switch lanes.
“I need to bail him out, but he has the money stashed where only he can get it. I can give it back to you when he gets out.”
I don’t want to be involved. But I asked the question anyway. “How much?”
“Two stacks.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, my God, stop acting brand-new. Two grand. Two thousand dollars. I’m good for it. You know I am.”
I cough. Choke. Hold the wheel tight. “I don’t have it.”
“Faye, come on.”
“Shay. Before lunch, I haven’t see
n you in like forever. Just because you bought me lunch doesn’t mean you can show up at my house and start asking for money. Seriously, how do you even know where I live? Why are you stalking me?”
“I’m wicked with information-gathering.”
“You’re a hacker?”
“That’s illegal.”
I turn onto Bloomfield Avenue. Regretting my impulse to reach out to this girl in the first place.
“You owe me.”
“For what?”
“We don’t have to go there now.” She gestures with her neck toward the kids. “It’s just a loan. I’ll get it right back.”
I spy a parking space a block away from the dance studio and start backing into it.
“Are you helping me or not?”
“Not.”
Shayla grabs my phone from where I keep it in the cup holder and starts punching away. Her phone rings.
“I saved my number for you. Think it over and give me a call.” She hops out of the car. “’Bye, cutie-pies.”
“’Bye,” says Two, all goggle-eyed. She’s a sucker for pretty women.
Shayla comes onto my side of the car, where I am now standing in the street.
She whispers, “I need your help. Just like you needed mine once upon a time.”
“This is not the same thing.”
Shayla winks at me and then gestures with her finger and thumb, call me.
“Mommy, how do you know her?” Rory asks.
“Mommy, what time is it?” Two is clutching her dance bag. “Am I late?”
“We have five minutes, so let’s hurry.” I drop three quarters into the parking meter. I look up and see Shayla turn the corner.
“How, Mommy?” Rory asks again. Liv is in the front carrier and I grab hands as we cross the busy street.
“Just a lady I knew from before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you were born. Watch where you’re walking, Rory. Pay attention.”
I lead the kids into the dance school. What have I gotten myself into? The sheer nerve of that chick. Where does she get off thinking that buying me lunch entitled her to anything?
We get off the elevator and I lean down to help Two into her ballet slippers. She waves good-bye and bounces into her classroom.
Second House from the Corner Page 9
