I'm Your Girl (5 page)
Authors: J. J. Murray
You should trim them
.
Yeah.
They look like claws
.
They do, kind of.
And get a haircut. You look like a hippie.
Thanks for the compliment.
Mr. Williams takes out his wallet. “What can I give you for your trouble?”
Well, you gave me your word, and look what happened. “I don’t want anything from you. This is a solid car, and I don’t want you to think I was trying to put one over on you. The gas is enough.”
Mr. Williams looks at his wallet. “I’m going to do some more investigating on this car. I might still buy it.”
How can you investigate the car
without
the car? If I don’t see you or your no-driving grandson again, I’ll be a happy man.
Mrs. Williams can come, though. She seems apologetic.
I nod to Mrs. Williams, close the door, and take the key from the grandson. “Good-bye,” I say, and I walk back into the house.
“Merry Christmas,” Mr. Williams says.
I don’t return the phrase.
Why not? It’s Christmas Day!
It’s a rotten thing to say.
On the day after Christmas while others are standing in line at the malls returning gifts, I’m giving slightly used toys to the Salvation Army, and I’m not the only one waiting in line at the loading dock. There are other dads and moms with boxes of “last year’s” toys and clothes. I guess they’re making room for the new load while I’m just…making room.
When it’s my turn, I hand Stevie’s toys to a stranger, a young guy in jeans and a red flannel shirt.
Let go of the box
.
The man tugs a little on the box, saying, “You need a receipt?”
Let go
.
I release the box, my hands shaking. “Uh, no.” I look past him and see huge piles of clothes inside. “Um, do you need women’s and children’s clothes?”
“Sure do, especially boys’ clothes.”
You have some of those.
“I’ll, uh, see you later today.”
“Sure thing, chief.”
I get into the truck, but I can’t take my eyes off that box, still in—Oh! He’s just thrown it down! There are
years
in that box! There’s a little
boy
in that box!
Get a grip on yourself.
“I’m sorry, Stevie,” I say, starting up the truck. “I’m so sorry.”
Back at the house, I wander around upstairs for a few hours, avoiding Noël’s door. The toys were hard enough. But her clothes?
You can’t possibly wear them.
I know that.
Though you’re certainly skinny enough now.
Very funny.
They’ll make someone happy
.
Not me!
This isn’t about you. It’s Christmas. It’s about others. It’s about giving gifts
.
I go to the door to Noël’s—
our
—room and extend my hand.
Just turn, pull toward you a little, and push. You’ve been doing it for years.
“Not today,” I whisper.
Go in.
“I just…can’t.”
The furnace chooses this moment to whirr to life in the basement, and Noël’s—
our
—door rattles. I had replaced the doorknob, and it had never worked right after that.
Open the door.
I grab the knob, turn it slowly, pull back, push gently, and then hear the familiar creak as it swings inside. The curtains are still pulled back, light filtering in through the miniblinds, to reveal dust on the TV, on the mirror on Noël’s vanity, and on the candles resting on the headboard. I look up at the ceiling fan and see more dust.
You need to dust this room.
I know that.
On instinct, I tiptoe between the bed and the dresser, knocking a knee into a drawer that never would fully close.
When are you going to fix that drawer?
As soon as I dust; now be quiet.
I lift and push in the drawer, but it stays put. I never got around to fixing much in this house, and I never got around to building Noël that closet organizer she wanted. They make it look so easy on the box, proclaiming “simple, easy installation with only a few household tools.” It’s still in the box next to the washing machine. Maybe I’ll—
One step at a time. Dust and fix the drawer first
.
Right.
I open Noël’s closet and see…
twenty
or more bags from various department stores, some with flattened white boxes.
Merry Christmas, Jack.
Most of them are for Stevie.
But some of them are for you.
I pull out all the bags, and arrange them on the bed, the receipts folded neatly in the bottom of each bag.
She always saved the receipts.
Stevie would have gotten a new wardrobe complete with four pairs of new shoes, a new church outfit, and…a belt. He used to take my belt and wrap it around him twice. He was such a good mimic of me. I remember one time—
Look in
your
bags, Jack.
I’m having a memory.
We
are having a memory, but
you
have work to do.
I open the first bag and see some brightly colored “teacher shirts,” collared knit short-and long-sleeved shirts, with matching pants.
So colorful
.
Before I met Noël, I only wore gray, blue, and brown Oxford shirts and corduroys. She said my outfits made me look “dispassionate.”
You did. You looked more like a funeral director than an elementary school teacher.
I wasn’t in a fashion show.
But the kids noticed the change.
Yeah. They did. They didn’t make as much fun of me.
Except for that Baxter kid. He could probably find something wrong with Jesus.
The second bag contains a new belt, two packages of underwear, and an economy pack of brown and black socks. The last bag contains…a watch.
She knows I don’t wear a watch! This has to be a gag gift.
You’re rarely on time.
I like being fashionably late, and now that I have new fashions…
But when I open the box and take out the watch, I flip it over to see an inscription: “Ecclesiastes 3: 1–8 I love you, Noël.”
There is a time for everything
.
A time to be born and a time to die.
Still so negative! Why not “a time to mourn and a time to dance”?
All this…
this
is a mourning dance.
Put it on.
I put on the watch. I don’t fiddle with setting the time. There will be a time for that. Just not now.
I pull out a bright red and green shirt and put it on, wiping dust from the mirror.
Now you’re in tune with the season
.
I look like death warmed over.
With claws, Mr. Claus
.
I need a haircut, a shave, and about thirty pounds added just to my face. How did I get so skeletal?
You’re an anorexic Santa.
And wrinkled? Only my eyes are unlined, those hazel-blue eyes Noël liked so much. “Drink to me only with thine eyes,” she used to say. She liked that old-fashioned poetry. But would she like this old man in the mirror? Would anyone?
Get to work.
I’m getting, I’m getting.
And take off that wedding band.
Not yet.
You’re not married anymore.
I spin the ring around my finger, a nervous gesture I have been performing ever since we got married. I had never worn any jewelry before, and I’m constantly losing things, so I check often to see if it’s still there.
It’s still there, and it shouldn’t be there.
Lots of…widowers—what a crummy word—wear their wedding rings.
Lots of
old
widowers. You’re not old.
I feel old. I slide the ring up to my knuckle and see a calloused circle. I wouldn’t even take it off to do the dishes or work in the yard. Why would I take it off now?
You used to call it “the world’s tiniest handcuff.”
That was before I got married.
And you’re not married now, so…
I slide the ring back down, spinning it. I still feel married, so as long as I
feel
married, I’m keeping it on.
At least you feel something
.
Yeah. At least I can still feel.
I hoist Noël’s clothes from the closet onto the bed, and for a moment, I feel guiltier than I’ve ever felt before. These are
her
clothes. These are clothes she spent hours shopping for, finding the best sale, getting the best deal, even waiting for the price to come down. Do I have the right to just…give them away? She would give them away in a heartbeat if she thought it would brighten someone else’s day, but—
It has to be done
.
It has to be done.
I rip open all her drawers, tossing her clothing behind me, trying not to think of her wearing any of it…and failing. The tears won’t stop. Noël used to be inside these clothes, and I used to take these clothes off her, tossing them up into the ceiling fan, and they would shoot around the room while we—
She’s in a better place.
And where am I?
You’re here.
Yeah, I’m here crying over some clothes.
I leave the dresser, clutching a silk red robe Noël used to wear after a shower, and it still smells faintly of Dove soap and herbal shampoo. I look out the window at the backyard, clutching that robe. God, that swing set looks as if it’s going to fall down. I was never mechanical.
The backyard isn’t level.
Stevie didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t even mind sliding down the slowest slide ever built while Noël and I sat in the wooden swing and watched him…
grow
before our very eyes. One of his shoes would just…fly off, and it was next to impossible to get it back on again. His feet grew so fast!
He’s in a better place, too.
I know, I know. But—
A single snowflake dances by the window. Snow? I wonder if it will stick. Even a thin blanket of snow would be nice. Stevie’s snowsuit, which swamped him last year, would have fit just right this year. We would be running around in the snow, Noël would be in the kitchen making hot chocolate for us, and then we’d eat grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup. Stevie would say something like, “You know, Daddy, drinking hot chocolate is like drinking kisses.”
Drinking kisses.
I rest my head on the windowsill.
I miss that boy. God, how I miss that boy.
You’ll see him again.
I look out at the yard, as more snowflakes drift down.
That’s the problem. I can’t stop seeing him
now!
He’s right
there,
trying to get a snowflake to land on his tongue! And over there, he’s chasing after a firefly! He’s running through the sprinkler and pushing that plastic bubble-making lawn mower on the other side of the yard!
Then don’t stop seeing him. See him as the happy, healthy boy he was, and get on with your life.
How? By boxing up my wife and son and giving their memories to someone else?
It’s a start.
I don’t want to forget them.
No one’s asking you to forget them.
I don’t want to…put them on the shelf somewhere to dust off and look at every once in a while. I want them back!
Then give them away.
I can’t, and I won’t.
They aren’t yours to keep anymore. They belong to God
.
They belong…to God?
They belong to God.
Yeah, God can be greedy that way. Only the good die young, right?
Nothing gold can stay
.
Right. Nothing gold—or golden—can ever stay in this overcast world.
Except you.
I’m not golden.
You could be.
I’d rather be overcast.
God moves in mysterious ways.
Well, sometimes He doesn’t move fast enough or at all.
The snow is starting to stick. The roads will be slick, but the truck ought to do fine. I wonder if I have enough boxes for all these clothes. I could use garbage bags…. No. That wouldn’t be right. They deserve better than garbage bags.
I’ll just have to make a couple trips and get my boxes back each time. Geez, the four-wheel-drive vehicle I bought to replace the van that cost me my family is going to be used to safely deliver their memories to the Salvation Army. What could be more ironic?
It can’t be considered ironic if it’s expected. You aren’t the only one who has ever lost a spouse and child. This is all part of the process.
The process sucks.
Only for a little while. But when you’re done with this part…
And when I’m done with this part…
Don’t think too long, now. Do something fun.
And when I’m done, I’ll…
Think sunny thoughts, now.
I’ll make Stevie a snowman.
Diane
I
nstead of going into the library on the day after Christmas, when no patrons come to the library anyway because they’re all out standing in lines at the mall, I use my last remaining sick day. And since it’s snowing—okay, it’s not
really
snowing like it used to in Naptown—I don’t want to drive anywhere.
“Too much partying last night, huh, Diane?” Kim “Prim” says when I call in to tell her I’ve developed a nasty cold.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. Why spoil her stereotype of me? At least
she
thinks I have fun.
Somebody
should be thinking I have a fun life.
“See you bright and early tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.” I’ll be early, but I doubt I’ll be bright.
I hang up and blow my nose into an imaginary tissue. Then I pick up the next book,
P&Q
, by J. K. Growling. What kind of name is “Growling”? I can only hope for the best.
1: Venus Dione
Oh no she didn’t!
I clutch the latest copy of
Maxim
and see Psyche’s flawless body glistening with sweat on the cover, one scrawny towel barely covering her unnaturally natural “yes-they’re-real” breasts, one scrawnier towel lying along her caramel thighs, toned to perfection by daily aerobics, her stomach so tight lint would bounce off of it
.
So far, I hate Psyche. This is so fake. Venus has an interesting voice, though. But what’s up with these names from Greek mythology?
I hate her beautiful ass, I hate her blonde highlights, I hate her perfect uncapped teeth, I hate her darker-than-Mississippi-mud brown eyes, and I hate that trademark orange and black monarch butterfly tattoo on her arm
.
I still hate Psyche. She’s too perfect. This might be lucky to get one star, though I like Venus’s attitude. Maybe I’ll give it two stars for Venus hating Psyche, too.
Psyche was only supposed to be quoted, and she was only supposed to be inside the magazine in a pictorial on all of Aphrodite Incorporated’s models, including me. I barely get a black-and-white head shot on page 128 in a sidebar
.
Here she is on the goddamn cover
.
Bitch
.
“Bitch,” I say with a giggle. Oh, like Psyche really exists. But here I am, yet again, echoing a fictional character. I hate it when this happens. I start talking back to a book, and the book hooks me. I’m curious about Grandpa Joe-Joe’s jungle, but…I’ll keep reading this one for now.
Nearly two million men of all ages and races will be drooling and jerking off over Psyche, and where is my latest full-body shot? On page seventeen of the latest JC Penney fall catalog. Not many men check out hot black women in itchy-ass wool blazers and turtlenecks on page seventeen of the JC Penney fall catalog, and if they do, I don’t want to have anything to do with them.
Neither do I! They’d have to be perverted to get their “pleasuring” that way. Even Mama would agree with me. But was the phrase “jerking off” absolutely necessary? Is the author a man or a woman? I can usually tell. If the women’s voices sound authentic, it has to be a woman. I’ll bet J. K. Growling is a woman.
This has to stop! I knew ten years ago that Psyche would be trouble when she was only Ginger Dane, skinny brown wench with high cheekbones and a perfect smile from Athens, Ohio, sister to Rosemary Dane, another skinny brown wench whom I let model for me because I felt sorry for her. I have tried to snap Ginger in two on many occasions, giving her shitty shoots near the equator, where I had hoped she would turn black as night or get yellow fever, but the bitch came through with flying colors—and fame. That damn
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue catapulted her to glory. I never should have let her do that. And when I wanted her to get sleazy in a rap video to damage her holier-than-anyone image, she flipped the script on those rappers, dressing in a formal white gown instead of some coochie-cutter hip huggers—and sent that single platinum. And last year I thought I could ruin her for good by rumoring her into a tasteless affair with that fat, sloppy comedian, what was his name? Fat Daddy? Pudge Daddy? Whatever. No one believed the rumor at all, not even Jay Leno, who said Psyche was just too “pure to be with a porker” on
The Tonight Show.
Damn, the bitch is giving supermodels a bad name, being as pure and healthy as she is. She isn’t high-strung, isn’t anorexic, isn’t popping pills, doesn’t drink, and she somehow manages to stay out of most of the tabloids.
Pure and beautiful.
But her purity and beauty will be the end of her
.
A main character has to be flawed in some way, right? So far, Psyche is the all-American black girl with…with…a conscience? This is an interesting twist. Or is this book supposed to be a satire on the modeling industry? If that’s the case, Psyche is going to get hers in the end, proving, I guess, that purity isn’t
chic
in American society.
I am still Venus, I am still head of Aphrodite Inc., and I am still the world’s delight. I am a classic beauty with bronze, luminous flesh. My beauty is intoxicating and suffocating. I still do four, five covers a year, and I’m nearly twice that wench’s age. In other words, for a middle-aged sistuh, I am still da bomb. I am a weapon of mass destruction, atomic, neutron, and hydrogen bombs all rolled into one
.
And since I sign Psyche’s paychecks, Psyche is about to have a bomb go off in her trifling little life
.
Yes. Psyche is about to realize that I am ugly to the bone
.
And now I hate Venus. She sounds straight off some soap opera, like some Texas matriarch on
Dallas
. So one-dimensional. And jealous? Hasn’t jealousy been overworked as a basic conflict in women’s fiction?
And when I want things to get ugly, I call on my wayward son, Q. After I buzz him, I’ll only have to wait a few seconds for him to come into my office. Men, as a rule, obey me, and my boy is punctual. I’ve had that boy on lockdown since the second he was born. He’ll do anything for his mama
.
Mainly because I sign his paycheck, too
.
Hmm. What kind of a name is Q? If “P” stands for Psyche, “Q” has to be the main love interest. His name sounds wimpy, like some name from a James Bond movie, and we’re not about to talk about those ridiculous movies.
2: Quentin “Q” Dione
Mama’s buzzing me again
.
Hmm. A new voice. This could be a challenge after all. Let’s see if the author can give Quentin—and who on earth would give any child this name?—more than one dimension.
Must be time for a little mischief.
I smile at the little mirror on the back of my office door and see my white daddy, a male model named Adonis from way back in the day, staring back at me. It’s unmistakable. Adonis, who now raises show dog Alsatians, gave me good hair, gray eyes, a straight nose, and perpetually tanned skin. Yet Mama swears I’m Festus’s boy. Not a chance. My “daddy” Festus is blacker than coal dipped in Hershey’s syrup plastered with tar and covered with dirt, and I’m light skinned as a feather.
More intrigue. Q is mixed. He’s rare in literature, and I don’t know why. This country has been the melting pot for a couple of centuries nearly everywhere except in novels.
Not that I’m angry, you understand. Being in between has its advantages, particularly with the ladies. Yeah, being mixed lets me mix with all shades of beauty, and no one grits on me when I have, say, an Asian doll on one arm, a fiery redhead on the other, and a dark chocolate bunny in front of me beckoning me with her silky brown finger. Because I am a rainbow, I can talk to and taste any flavor of the rainbow.
And the rainbow tastes
good.
America: the melting pot that melts in your mouth.
I don’t like his “player” attitude at all. Why can’t he be a normal man? I hope Psyche, even though I can’t stand her yet, puts him in his place. If she does that, I might like her a little bit.
I fly by Grace, Mama’s third replacement secretary this month, and open Mama’s greenish blue seafoam door. Mama has this thing about seafoam that borders on the psychotic because some “certified fashion color consultant” once told her that she looked good in seafoam.
She doesn’t, but no one tells her that.
I see Mama looking over Manhattan through her seafoam contacts past some roosting pigeons while sitting in her seafoam chair behind her seafoam desk, one finger curled around some seriously dark extensions tied up with a seafoam scarf. A few pigeons roost outside her window as if readying to fly her chair out over New York. Mama is still fine as hell, but I know her age is taking its toll on her. If it weren’t for Botox, collagen treatments, and cosmetic surgery, she might look like someone’s hot, gray grandma.
This is
sick!
“Mama is still fine as hell”? And what’s up with the seafoam? My own mama has a thing for dark blue ducks, but…seafoam contacts? Grandpa Joe-Joe is sounding more
functional
the longer I read this.
“Q?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“I have a job for you.”
“Yes, Mama.” Who are we firing today?
She tosses a magazine over her head, and it flutters like a butterfly into my hands. “Check out who’s on the cover.”
Daa-em, Psyche is looking finer than fine, as usual. And on
Maxim.
I always knew she’d be a crossover hit with the white boys since that
Sports Illustrated
cover. Psyche’s been playing hard to get with me for ten years and barely gives me the time of day, but when that girl smiles at me…shit, she’s the finest woman on earth right now. Luckily, I have a subscription to
Maxim
so I don’t have to sneak this copy out of Mama’s office.
“Not much left to the imagination,” I say, trying to remain noncommittal, my arms folded.
I have learned never to compliment one of Mama’s models in her presence. I once said that a model was “cute,” and that’s all I said, though she did have this ass, ooh, that would make you smack your mama with a stick. The “cute” model went from Cover Girl commercials and a bit part in a James Bond flick to posing with a “neck massager” on the back pages of some smut magazine almost overnight. Mama ruined her cute little ass big-time simply because I said she was cute. I cringe at where she might have ended up if I had said what I was really thinking about that ass. She’d probably be in the maternity section of the next Sears catalog, flaps down with a lost look on her face.
That is
so
true! What woman in her right mind would pose for those kinds of pictures? What is she thinking? Is she thinking,
Well, I’m pregnant, so I’d guess I better go get my picture taken with a flappy bra?
Mama spins around in her chair, her fingers knitted together, her elbows on her desk. “I want you to fire her, Q.”
I try not to blink, but I can’t help it. Psyche has been the flavor of the month for nearly ten years, ever since she was sixteen. She is the hottest hottie on the planet, billboards and ads everywhere, even a doll marketed by Mattel. Mama must be trippin’. I mean, Psyche is responsible for at least 30 percent of Aphrodite Inc.’s annual revenue.
“Um, fire Psyche?” I manage to ask.
“I don’t stutter.”
This is serious. The board of directors, a bunch of wrinkled old men and women Mama uses to rubberstamp her ideas, are going to freak out. “Um, the board of directors—”
“Fuck ’em.” She spins around. “She is to be fired by the end of the day today, a copy of her pink slip in my mailbox by six sharp.”
Too much profanity. Proper ladies of color should never use the F word, especially foxy femme fatales who sleep around and wear seafoam contacts. I know it’s part of her character, but…it’s so unnecessary and a waste of ink. Now I know black women
do
curse. I just don’t want to “hear” them curse in books. It’s so…permanent in the reader’s mind.
I could argue with her, but it won’t do me any good. When Mama gets just a tiny bit mad, whole departments lose their jobs, and security puts them and their shit out on Madison Avenue for the entire world to see.
“Yes, Mama.”
Mama flips a Rolodex card over her head, and I snatch it out of the air. “Those are her home and cell phone numbers, and when you’re through with that card, burn it.”
After I memorize those numbers, of course. “Yes, Mama.”
I take one more look at that
Maxim
cover. Damn, Psyche is fine, and I bet she’d put a hurtin’ something fierce on me.
And if I’m lucky, that’s precisely what I’ll get her to do. A hurtin’ so good.
And then I’ll fire her.
I have to. I’m a mama’s boy.
Oooh! I hate him and his mama and Psyche and—I flip to the back and don’t see a picture of J. K. Growling. I keep forgetting that most advance review copies don’t have pictures like real books. Shoot. I wanted to sass her to her face. How can you write a romance where the reader despises every character in the book? I mean, it’s funny at times, I’ll grant that, but it’s dysfunctional, trifling, and totally sensationalized. Venus is a model. Q sounds like a model. Psyche is a model. What, models represent 0.0001 percent of the population, and here they are hogging all the pages of a romance? How ridiculous! If I wanted to have this stuff fill my head, I’d watch
Entertainment Tonight
or read
The National Enquirer
. I’ll give this book one more chapter, and if it doesn’t improve, I’ll have to write my famous “I couldn’t even finish this book and I got my money back” review…even though I do get these books for free. Who’s going to know? Get ready, Grandpa Joe-Joe. We may have a date in your jungle in a few minutes.