Damsels in Distress (14 page)

Ginger exhaled then said, “This is the best night of my life.”
So this is what being in love feels like,
she thought. It was wonderful and finally she was happy. Ginger closed her eyes and silently thanked God for sending Joseph to her. And she was especially thankful that Joseph's late model Mercedes-Benz coupe wouldn't turn into a pumpkin at midnight. Her fairy tale was real.

* * *

Joseph drove his car into Ginger's driveway, then got out and walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. He grabbed her hand to help her stand. Immediately Joseph pulled Ginger into his arms, held her tight, and spoke the words, “I love you, Ginger. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, 'til death do us part.”

Ginger's knees buckled. She pulled away from Joseph and looked into his eyes. “Joseph, I—”

He silenced Ginger by placing a finger on her lips. “Shhh, don't say anything. Just go inside.”

Ginger obediently walked to her front door and inserted her key into the lock. Before she turned the knob, she looked around and saw Joseph still standing by the passenger door looking at her. She started to say something to him but he stopped her.

“Just go inside, Ginger.”

Ginger turned the knob and went inside. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it. “Oh, my God,” she said. “What just happened?” She hurried to the telephone on the cocktail table and dialed Portia's number. When Portia answered Ginger told her to hold on and then dialed Celeste's number.

Anthony answered on the first ring. “Celeste is asleep, Ginger.”

“I don't care, wake her up. Trust me, Tony, she doesn't wanna miss this.”

In the next ten seconds Ginger and Portia heard Celeste's groggy voice. “Hello?”

“Y'all ain't gonna believe what just happened,” Ginger said excitedly.

“What?” Portia asked.

Ginger screamed into the telephone. “He married me in my driveway!”

“What color are we wearing?” Celeste and Portia asked at the same time.

Friday, Celeste's last day at work before she took her maternity leave, was an emotional one. When she arrived at her assigned teller station, she was surprised to see pink and blue paper-cut booties decorating the counter top. The word C
ONGRATULATIONS
in mint green and yellow letters was spelled out across the wall behind her desktop computer.

For most of the morning, Celeste's fellow coworkers rubbed and patted her large belly every chance they got. Everyone wished her, her husband, and her new baby well. Early on in Celeste's pregnancy the senior mother of her church had instilled a belly-rubbing phobia in her. She told Celeste to be careful of whom she allowed to touch her pregnant belly. That not everyone would be happy for her. She convinced Celeste that some folks could possibly rub her belly and whisper horrible things under their breath to try to put a root on her unborn child.

Ever since Celeste heard that advice she flinched each time someone, especially a stranger, touched her belly. Anthony told Celeste that roots were mythical and the mothers of the church needed to get saved.

It was almost 2:00 p.m. Friday and not only were Celeste's ankles swollen to the size of tree stumps, the top portion of her back was aching due to the heaviness of her enlarged breasts. She had just come from a fifteen-minute break when an elderly Caucasian man approached her window.

“Can I have change for two hundred dollars?”

“Absolutely,” Celeste responded with a forced smile. She looked forward to the next three hours passing by; then she could go home and wait for her baby's arrival. Celeste made sure the two hundred-dollar bills the man had given her weren't counterfeit before giving the man six twenty dollar bills, four ten dollar bills, six five dollar bills, and ten one dollar bills.

After the man patiently waited for Celeste to count the money and lay it on the counter in front of him, he spoke. “I want it all in coins.”

Although it wasn't likely, Celeste thought she hadn't heard him correctly. She looked the man directly in his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I need fifty-six dollars in quarters, sixty-four dollars in nickels, thirty-one dollars in dimes, and the rest I want in pennies.”

The pain in Celeste's back kicked in overdrive. She shifted her weight from one tree stump to the other. “Sir, I don't have that much change in my drawer. Can I give you all singles?”

“No, I gotta have coins,” he stated firmly.

Celeste massaged the back of her neck and exhaled.
Lord, you better check me right now 'cause I'm getting ready to snap.
She forced herself to stay calm. Up to that moment Celeste was proud of herself that she had gotten through the day without incident. “Sir, as I've stated before, I don't have that much change in my drawer.” Celeste could have gone to the vault and gotten the change to fulfill the man's request but she was being lazy. She just didn't want to.

“Isn't this a bank?” the man asked loudly.

The teller on the left side of Celeste stopped what she was doing and looked at them. She watched as Celeste stretched her arm across the counter to point her finger in the man's face. The teller pressed the alarm button to alert the manager.

“Yes, it is a bank. But who do you think got the time that it takes to count out two hundred dollars in coins?” Celeste asked the man.

The man raised his voice an octave higher. “Get your finger out of my face. It's your job to give me what I ask for. I pay your salary.”

Apparently the man thought by raising his voice, he could intimidate Celeste. But she wasn't the least bit fazed. Celeste sang first soprano and could hang with the big dogs.

Just as she was ready to go beyond the highest key the most expensive piano had, her immediate supervisor was at her side. “Is there a problem here?” he asked Celeste.

“Look, Maurice,
you
serve this ignorant, illiterate fool because I'm not doing it.” Celeste slammed her cash drawer shut and walked away. She went into the employees' lounge and lay on a chaise chair. Ten minutes later, Maurice came and sat at her feet.

“How many times do I have to tell you that the customers are always right?”

Celeste exhaled. “Maurice, I was not about to stand there and count out two hundred dollars in change. The man was ignorant and illiterate.”

“Do you know who that ignorant, illiterate man was?”

“Nope, and I don't wanna know.”

“Well, I'll tell you anyway. He's the rabbi at our CEO's synagogue .”

Was that supposed to mean something to Celeste? “I don't care if he was the pope. He was ignorant and I didn't want to deal with him.”

Maurice massaged his temples. He didn't feel like dealing with Celeste and her constant mood swings. Ever since she announced her pregnancy Celeste had become unbearable to work with. In the past eight months not a week had gone by without a customer complaint to Maurice about Celeste's attitude. If she wasn't yelling at the customers, she was behaving in a hostile manner to her fellow coworkers.

A customer had filed a complaint one morning that, only twenty minutes after the bank had opened for business, Celeste placed the
NEXT WINDOW
placard on her work station as soon as the customer stepped to up to Celeste. Celeste had spoken extremely nasty toward the customer and stated that she was taking a break.

And Maurice would never forget the day when, at five months pregnant, Celeste had threatened to do bodily harm to a customer. The customer had asked for two cashier's checks in the amount of one hundred dollars each. To save herself some time Celeste presented the woman with a single cashier's check for $200. After going back and forth with the woman on why it was unnecessary to waste a cashier's check, Maurice came to Celeste's station and ordered her to void the checks and give the customer exactly what she wanted. Fit to be tied that her lunch hour would be delayed, Celeste looked at the woman and said, “Don't let me catch you on the street.” Maurice sent Celeste home, without pay, for the remainder of the day and she was forced to endure a five-day suspension.

Maurice knew that Celeste's pregnancy was nothing short of a miracle. Over the years she had shared with her fellow coworkers that she longed to become a mother, and how she prayed daily that God would bless her womb. Maurice had authorized Celeste's days off so that she could attend countless doctors visits. According to the bank's rules and regulations, Celeste should have been terminated from her duties long ago for poor work performance and for conduct unbecoming of an employee. Maurice had shown pity on Celeste and gave her chance after chance to correct her attitude.

But pointing her finger and disrespecting a rabbi, Maurice couldn't overlook. And because it was the chief executive officer's rabbi, Maurice knew he had no choice but do what needed to be done. “This is your last day before you take your maternity leave, right?”

“Yep, and I can't wait 'til five o'clock.”

“Why don't you go ahead and call it a day? We'll see you in eight weeks.”

Maurice didn't have to tell Celeste twice. She immediately called a taxicab. Forty-five minutes later she was at home lying across her bed in a comatose-like sleep.

* * *

The next morning Anthony woke Celeste at seven o'clock with a soft kiss on her cheek. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Celeste lazily turned from her side to lie on her back. She yawned and stretched. “Morning.”

“What's on your agenda today?” Anthony asked.

“Portia and Ginger are finally taking me to register at Baby World for the shower. What are you doing today?”

“Pastor Ricky Harris is speaking at a men's prayer breakfast this morning. I'm going to pick him up and head over to Alpha Omega Baptist Church on the west side. Can I trust you to take your pills at one o'clock?”

Celeste watched Anthony slip into a shirt and tie. “If I remember,” she said nonchalantly.

“Babe, you gotta do better when it comes to taking the prenatal pills. We want a happy and healthy baby.” Anthony was the responsible one. Every day, at 1:00 p.m., he would text Celeste to remind her to take her medication. “I'll just text you again. How's that?”

“Thank you, Tony. You know my mind ain't worth two cents these days.” Celeste rubbed her gigantic belly irritably. The joy of being an expectant mother had worn off months ago.

She didn't care for the morning sickness so late in her pregnancy. Her swollen ankles and constant sleepiness were symptoms that Celeste couldn't get used to. At eight months pregnant it irritated Celeste that she had to empty her bladder nearly thirty times daily.

Truth be told, Celeste had become angry that another human being had taken over her body and stolen her strength and energy. “I want you to know that I really don't like being pregnant, Tony. The only reason I'm going through this is because I'm in love with you and I want to see you happy but don't ask me to do this again.”

Anthony chose to ignore Celeste's mood swing. During her pregnancy, Celeste had constantly blamed Anthony for her fingers becoming swollen. She had taken her wedding band off months ago. “You did this to me,” she told him.

When she was six months along and Celeste could no longer see her feet when she stood and looked down, she had blamed Anthony for that as well. “Why do I have to be the one who's inconvenienced? I don't think it's fair that men don't have to suffer as much as women do.”

Oh, I'm suffering all right,
Anthony thought. “Well, you can take that up with God,” Anthony retorted.

“I'm taking it up with you!” she snapped.

Out of frustration Anthony had thrown his hands in the air. “What do you want me to do, Celeste? Huh? Tell me what you want me to do? I massage your back when it's hurting, I rub your feet and ankles every night, and I get out of bed at three in the morning to go look for cottage cheese and crushed pineapples. I'm doing all that I can to keep you happy and uplifted because I know you're uncomfortable at times but you're gonna have to chill with treating me like a stepchild. I'm your husband. I ain't the enemy.”

Anthony walked to Celeste and kissed her forehead. The sooner he left her presence, the better off the both of them would be. Clearly Celeste wanted to argue about nothing, anything, and everything. Anthony wasn't going to feed into her temper tantrums. “I gotta go because I'm running late. Pastor Harris is waiting on me.” He looked at Celeste lying in bed. “You need help getting up?”

“You know I do, Tony,” Celeste answered sarcastically. “When have I not needed your help getting out of bed or getting out of the tub? Why would you ask such a stupid question?”

Celeste sat up, placed her feet flat on the floor, and stretched her arms toward Anthony. He grabbed her wrists and planted his feet eight inches apart and pulled Celeste forward. Veins on Anthony's face and neck bulged as he strained and made a grunting noise as though he was using every ounce of energy he had.

Celeste knew he was teasing. “Ha-ha. You ain't funny, Negro.”

Anthony playfully wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Whew, now that was a workout.”

It was late January and two inches of snow had fallen in Chicago the night before. Portia avoided the expressway and chose to take the scenic route south on Cicero Avenue. She and Ginger were in the front seats grooving to WGOD, the FM gospel station. Edward Primer and the Voices of Joy Community Choir was blasting the speakers in Portia's Escalade.

Ginger was impressed with the interior gadgets and fixtures that decorated the dashboard of the late-model SUV. The wood grain shined so bright it could almost pass for granite. “I never thought I would see the day come to pass when jump-offs live better than most wives do.”

“I ain't nobody's jump-off,” Portia stated.

Celeste stretched her legs across and took up the entire back seat. She admired the moon roof and the two high-definition flat-screen televisions embedded in the headrests of the front seats. The black leather interior was as soft as silk. “So, what is your title then, Portia? Sidepiece, booty call answerer, unwed gold-digger, chickenhead, clean-up woman, what?”

“It's all the same,” Ginger added.

It hadn't fazed Portia one bit how Celeste and Ginger ridiculed her. She was content with the way she lived her life. What she did was between her and God. “I offered to drive today because I wanted to make sure that Celeste was comfortable. But if you prefer, Ginger, I can drive back to your house and the three of us can hop in your broken-down, beat-up, rusted hooptie. And hopefully we won't get shot at when it backfires when we roll down the street.”

Ginger looked at Portia. “You don't have to be nasty.”

“It's small and Celeste is obese but we can shove her in the trunk and raise the hatchback to make room for her belly.”

“Watch it, heifer,” Celeste commented.

Portia positioned the rearview mirror and looked at Celeste. “Or how about we go back and get your car? Oops, my bad. You gotta share a car with your husband and it's his turn to drive today, right?”

Before Celeste could respond, Ginger chimed in. “You know what, Portia? You got a real jacked-up attitude.”

Portia was offended. “
I
have an attitude? You're telling me that I have an attitude? I was fine until you and Miss My Life is Perfect and I Do Everything Right Number Two started on me.”

“We're not saying that we're the perfect saints, Portia. What we're saying is that we don't set out to purposely hurt others just to get ahead.”

Portia frowned and shrugged her shoulders. “Celeste, what do you mean by that? Who do I purposely set out to hurt?”

“How about the wives of the men you screw? Does the name Tamara ring a bell?” Ginger asked.

“Ding, ding, ding, ding,” Celeste chimed from the back seat.

“Aw, heck, here we go down memory lane again.” Portia sighed. “Look, I can understand how some folks may think of me as a self-centered, arrogant, and egotistical witch, but—”

“Uh, correction,” Celeste interrupted. “That would be a self-centered, arrogant, and egotistical bi—”

Ginger hollered out to drown out Celeste's expletive.

“Y'all know what?” Portia started. “I ain't gotta be subjected to this abuse. I will be perfectly fine with driving the two of you back to your homes. That way you can enjoy the rest of this day without having to be in my presence.
”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic, Portia.”

“You stop being so dramatic, Ginger!” she yelled.

“Don't yell at her.”

Portia looked in the rearview mirror. “Who died and left you in charge of what I do? You ain't the boss of me.”

“Clearly,” Celeste said. “Because if I was, you would be driving a vehicle that you could afford yourself and not enjoying the luxuries of men who are in matrimony with other women.” Celeste was careful not to say “holy matrimony.”

“Right is right and wrong is wrong,” Ginger added.

Portia had enough of their self-righteous attitudes. It was about time she put both Ginger and Celeste in their places. If they thought it was “gang up on Portia” day, they had another think coming. Portia needed to remind her best friends that they were not perfect and that all three of them were rotten apples that had fallen from the same tree.

She pulled the Escalade over to the side of the street and put the gear in park. She turned her upper torso around and faced Celeste. “Was it right for you to lie and deceive Tony for years about why you couldn't have a baby?”

“That's my business.” Celeste rotated her neck and gave off much attitude.

“My point exactly.” Portia focused on Ginger sitting next to her. “And was it right for you to call the police and act like Ronald was trying to kill you when it was the other way around?”

“I was defending myself and you know it.”

“No, you were not, Ginger. You told us that Ron was drunk and high. So you decided to eat some spinach and turn into Popeye. You took advantage and beat the crap out of Ronald because you knew that he couldn't defend himself.”

Ginger folded her arms across her chest and looked forward. Her only response was, “Humph.”

“Humph,” Portia added.

“Humph,” Celeste said.

“Humph,” Portia said again.

Celeste wasn't going to allow Portia to have the last word. “Humph.”

Portia put the gear in drive and pulled away from the curb. “I'm just saying that all three of us have done dirt. You two are no better than me. So, you can keep the self-righteous comments about what I do because Portia is gonna always do Portia.” With that being said, the ladies rode in silence for twenty whole minutes.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Pull over!” Celeste hollered hysterically from the back seat.

Ginger nearly jumped out of her skin. At Celeste's outburst, Portia's heart rose to her throat and she slammed on the brakes. She stopped the Escalade at the crossroads of Cicero Avenue and 147th Street, in the city of Midlothian. Thank God the three of them were wearing their seat belts. Ginger's and Portia's heads would have gone through the windshield had they not been.

Ginger turned around in her seat and looked at Celeste. “What in the world is wrong with you?”

Celeste ignored Ginger's question and repented frantically on Portia's behalf. “Forgive Portia, Lord. She didn't mean to do it. She doesn't know any better, Lord.”

Portia looked at Celeste through the rearview mirror. “What are you talking about? Forgive me for what?”

“You drove past a Krispy Kreme!” Celeste yelled.

“What?” Portia and Ginger asked at the same time. Drivers in cars had started to blow their horns. Portia was blocking the flow of traffic. She glared at Celeste. “I know darn well you don't have us sitting in the middle of a busy street, hollering about a doughnut shop.”

Celeste veered back at her. “You know doggone well that you can't drive past a Krispy Kreme without stopping in. Who does that?”

“We're gonna do it,” Ginger answered irritably. “Let's go, Portia.”

Portia stepped on the gas pedal and drove forward.

Celeste panicked. “What are you doing, Portia? We gotta get some doughnuts.”

Portia screamed, “I'm going around the block. Would you shut up?”

Ginger looked at Portia. “You're such a pushover.”

“Anything to shut her fat behind up.”

“I heard that,” Celeste said.

Portia pulled into the parking lot of Krispy Kreme but before the truck came to a complete stop, the back passenger door opened and Celeste hopped out and practically ran inside. Portia and Ginger saw her holding the bottom portion of her oversized belly.

“I guess the heck with us if we wanted any, huh?” Ginger asked Portia.

“Look at her run. For doughnuts. That's a darn shame.”

When Celeste returned to the truck, she was already finishing the last of a glazed doughnut. She sat in the back seat and licked her fingers clean. “Y'all didn't want any doughnuts?”

“Well, heck, before we could give you our orders you were already inside standing at the counter,” Ginger fussed.

“Oh, I'm sorry. You want me to go back in there?”

Portia saw two boxes that held six doughnuts each sitting on Celeste's lap. “Nah, you ain't gotta do that. We'll help you eat yours.”

Celeste looked at Portia like she had two heads. “Does the devil have you thinking that? If he does, I'm here to tell you that he is a liar. Y'all ain't getting none of these. Now, if you want me to go back in there, I will. But don't think I'm sharing my doughnuts, 'cause I ain't.”

Ginger turned around and looked at her. “Are you serious, Celeste? You're gonna eat a dozen doughnuts by yourself?”

Celeste cocked her head to the side and glared at Ginger. “Is English your primary language, Ginger? Aren't you a schoolteacher? What part of ‘y'all ain't getting any of my doughnuts' are you not comprehending?”

“I don't believe this. Are you really that stingy?”

Celeste answered Portia's question by putting the last of a jelly-filled doughnut, her second doughnut, into her mouth and licking her fingers.

“You're gonna eat twelve doughnuts?” Ginger asked again.

“Yep. Do y'all want me to go back in there and get you some?”

Portia put the gear in drive and cruised out of the parking lot. “Don't do us any favors.”

“We're gonna remember this, Celeste,” Ginger said.

They could write it down, record it, or announce it on a billboard and show it to folks driving by on the highway for all Celeste cared. They could even put a message in a bottle and throw it in the Atlantic Ocean. What Ginger and Portia would remember was the least of her concerns. The only thing that mattered to Celeste, at that moment, was the fact that she got her Krispy Kremes.

When Krispy Kreme came to the Chicago area, Celeste had a dream that God made it a commandment that saints must stop in and have a filled day. She heard Jesus say, “I come that you might have life more abundantly.” Celeste interpreted the dream to mean that it would be a sin to pass a Krispy Kreme and not make a purchase.

Portia and Ginger could join the devil on a group bus over some doughnuts if they wanted to, but Celeste got hers. She was obedient to God's Word and her seat at the right hand of the Father was still reserved. She buckled her seat belt, extended her legs in the roomy Escalade and bit into a lemon custard–filled doughnut. “Mmmm,” she moaned. “I should've bought milk.” She looked at the back of Portia's head. “Portia, can you stop at the 7-Eleven up ahead? I need milk to wash these doughnuts down.”

Portia's eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open.

Ginger looked at the expression on Portia's face and laughed out loud. “Uh-oh. Here it comes.”

Portia glanced in the rearview mirror. “You got a lot of freakin' nerve, you know that? After the way you just treated me and Ginger, I wish I would stop anywhere else for you. You sit back there and choke on those twelve doughnuts.”

When they arrived at Baby World Celeste refused to exit the Escalade. “The two of you can go ahead and register me. Y'all know what I like. And if you are not sure just choose one of everything.”

Ginger was fit to be tied. “Oh, heck no, Celeste. This is for your baby shower.”

Celeste sat in the back seat and rubbed her protruding belly. “I don't feel so good. I think I'm sick.”

Portia saw that both boxes of doughnuts were nearly empty. Celeste had left a half-eaten doughnut with sprinkles. “Well, if you hadn't inhaled all the darn doughnuts, you wouldn't be sick.”

Ginger wasn't having it. Sick or not, Celeste was going to register for her baby shower herself. “Let's go, Celeste. It won't take that long. The three of us can split up and go through the store much faster.”

Ginger and Portia exited the Escalade. When they stepped outside and started walking toward the store, they noticed that Celeste wasn't with them.

“What the heck is she doing?” Ginger asked.

They went back and opened the rear passenger door and saw that Celeste had made herself comfortable. She was laying down on her side.

“Celeste, come on,” Portia said.

“I told you that I don't feel good, Portia.”

“You are faking and we know it,” Ginger said.

Celeste patted the right side of her belly. “I think I'm having minor contractions.”

Clearly Celeste was putting on a show. Ginger and Portia knew she was being lazy and trying real hard to not go inside and register for her baby shower.

“Well, if you are having contractions, I'm gonna drive you to the nearest hospital.”

“I don't need to go to a hospital. This has happened before. The contractions will pass once I rest awhile.”

“Rest? Why are you so tired? All you've done today was lie on this back seat and eat doughnuts,” Ginger stated.

Portia's patience had run out. “Look, ain't nobody got time for your foolishness, Celeste. Get your behind out of this truck and in the store!”

Celeste sat up. “You and Ginger are the hosts for the shower. Why can't the two of you go into Baby World and select a crib, swing, highchair, bassinette, bottles, and Pampers?”

Ginger looked at her wristwatch. “This is ridiculous. I ain't got all day to stand here and fight with you, Celeste. I have plans with Joseph tonight.”

“I'll let you and Portia in on a little secret. I'm having a baby boy,” Celeste revealed. “Just go in there and select everything blue.” Up until that moment Celeste had kept the gender of her baby a secret. She lay back down. “Now shut the door because it's cold.”