Live and Learn (8 page)

“W
hat’s more important, love or good sex?”

Moët asked as the four friends all lounged at Dom’s after an afternoon of getting their ’dos done at Compliments Hair Studio on North Maple Avenue in Irvington. The name of the salon was on point because every time they stepped out of the joint, they got nothing but compliments.

“Definitely good sex, ’cause love is a nasty little four-letter word just like shit and fuck,” Alizé immediately chimed in, rising to walk into the kitchen.

“Don’t listen to her, Moët,” Cristal told her, staring her naive friend in the eye. “If you find the right man, you can have both, and you won’t have to choose.”

“Bullshit.”

Cristal and Mo looked to Dom.

Alizé sat back down on the sofa with a soda in hand. “Preach, Dom,” she boosted her friend.

“Uh-uh. Don’t group me with your man-hating ass, Alizé. No harm, no
fuck-ing
harm, but I love men.”

“So what’s your point, Dom?” Cristal urged.

“If I do recall, Miss Find a Right Man, didn’t you love Erick?” Dom asked boldly.

Alizé took a sip from her soda. “Oooh, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”

Cristal looked uneasy. “I loved him…so?”

Dom lit a cigarette, her eyes squinted against the smoke. “And didn’t you say he was good in bed?”

Cristal fidgeted. “Yeah, and?” she snapped.

“Guess love and good sex with Mr. Right went out the damn window when you kicked his broke ass to the curb, huh?”

Cristal raised a finely shaped brow. “Neither love nor good sex pay the bills, baby.”

“D
o these shoes match, Cris?”

I turned my head and looked at the Stuart Weitzman stacked sandals Moët held in her hand. I moved over toward her, lifting the edge of the Macy’s embossed plastic garment bag to reveal the hem of the FDJ denim trench coat I had purchased.

They matched perfectly and I told her so.

“Excuse me. Can I have these in a nine and a half?” I asked the slender salesman standing nearby.

It was not until he disappeared into the storage area that I peeked at the sales price on the sole of the shoe. They were marked down to one hundred and five dollars and with the twenty-five-percent-off sale, the shoes would be about eighty dollars. That was not bad at all, and I figured I had that much left on my Macy’s credit card.

We were at The Mall at Short Hills, taking full advantage of Macy’s one-day sale—which really was a two-day sale since the sales price always went in effect the day before—just a little hint from the shopping diva.

“You did not see anything else, Moët?” I asked, moving to take a seat beside her.

“Those Via Spiga boots killed my little one hundred dollars,” she joked, raking her fingers through her jet-black, chin-length bob.

I noticed that ever since the abortion she did not have spending money like she used to. I assumed that whoever the faceless and heartless baby daddy was had also ended the relationship. She did not seem to be in any rush to replace him either. In fact, she was not in a rush to do much of anything.

“You’re graduating soon and will be making all that big money,” I told her as the salesman handed me the box of shoes.

Moët just shrugged. “I’m so tired of pretending to be something I’m not. Hell, I’m tired of not really knowing who I am.”

“I know that is right,” I chimed in, moving toward the register with my charge card already in hand.

“Will this be all for you, Ms. Johnson?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I watched as he rang up my purchase and swiped my card, bagging my shoe box as he waited for authorization. I was busy picturing myself in that coat at work. Professional but feminine.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Johnson, but your card was denied.”

Oh, hell no.

“Excuse me?”

He handed over my useless card. “The purchase was denied. Would you like to use another charge card? Check? Cash?”

I felt like the women in line behind me were staring.

“There must be a mistake on your company’s behalf. I need to speak to someone—”

“You’ll have to step out of line and use one of our customer service phones.”

Gone was his polite and pleasant disposition to be quickly replaced with cool indifference once he realized his chance at a commission was fading fast.

“I’ll just pay cash,” I asserted, opening my Coach wallet to remove five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

It was my car payment money that I had no real intention of dipping into, but he had no way of knowing that.

“Very good, Ms. Johnson. I’m sure you’ll look just lovely in them,” he fawned, his kiss-ass attitude back in full effect once he saw the cash.

I just smiled coldly as he rang the purchase again.

Spitefully, I waited until he had bagged the shoes once again to push the money back into my wallet. “You know what? I changed my mind, but you have a blessed day.”

I walked away, head held high, to retrieve my packages from Moët.

“Where’s the shoes?”

“I decided not to get them,” I lied. “Let’s go find Dom and Alizé.”

Dating a white man was not as perplexing as I thought it would be. Winthrop and I were just two adults enjoying each other’s company. Just two friends. Uh, friends
without
benefits.

I enjoyed our dinner dates, going to the theater, and sightseeing like a tourist around New York, but I just could not bring myself to be intimate with him. And so far, he had not pressured me for more than what I was willing to allow.

Winthrop Blanchard IV was a prominent divorce attorney practicing in Livingston. He graduated from Harvard Law at the top of his class. Single at thirty-three, he leased an apartment in my building, wanting to be close enough to visit his parents in his hometown of Maplewood but far enough for his privacy.

I would see him in passing while entering or exiting the building or underground parking garage, but it was not until a tenant meeting on the newly enforced security measures that we had our first real conversation. I found him to be charming, handsome, and funny, so when he offered to take me sailing, I easily said yes, surprising myself.

In our short time together I had had more culture-filled dates than I had had in my entire life. Museums, art galleries, historical tours. It was all new to me, and I actually enjoyed myself because this was how I envisioned wealthy couples.

Of course, I wished it was Sahad and me enjoying each other. He still starred in my sexual fantasies, and the more I saw him saunter around the offices, the more I wanted him. Unfortunately, he was still deep in his relationship with Tyrea. Winthrop was just a diversion.

Tonight he was fixing me dinner in his apartment, and I was trying to decide what to wear. I finally opted for casual elegance: an ivory silk blend, off-the-shoulder sweater and matching slacks, both by Ellen Tracy.

I was twisting my shoulder-length hair up into a loose chignon when my telephone rang. I recognized Townsend’s cell phone number on the caller ID, so I let the answering machine pick it up. I had moved on from him once again.

I decided to cut him loose for good when I saw him and a light-skinned beauty on the red carpet of a televised awards show. I did not play second fiddle to another woman. So I cut him and his money loose, thus my return to bad creditville.

Slipping my feet into a pair of Unutzer flats, I snatched up my keys from the marble table by the door and left my apartment. I tapped the button for the elevator. Seconds later it slowed to a stop at my floor.

“How you doin’, Ms. Danielle?”

Startled, I looked up from the piece of lint I was removing from my clothes. It was Mohammed Ahmed. “Hello,” I greeted him shortly, stepping onto the elevator beside him. I pushed the button for the fourteenth floor.

I did not miss the curious look he gave me at my selection, but I ignored him anyway.

Mohammed was the handyman for the building. He was a nice enough guy and even attractive with his over-six-foot muscular physique, but the Jamaican flirt was not my style, no matter how much he wanted to be.

He didn’t make over thirty thousand a year. (Huh?) He owned a home, but it was on Stuyvesant Avenue in Newark. (Big deal.) He had a head full of shoulder-length dreads. (Haircut anyone?) He drove a dilapidated 1994 Chevy Blazer. (Hello, it’s 2007.)

The elevator slid to a smooth stop. “Have a good evening,” I told him politely, not bothering to look back as I glided off the elevator toward Winthrop’s door.

“Only if I can follow you,” floated through the steadily closing doors.

“Negro, please,” I mumbled, pushing Winthrop’s doorbell.

“Winthrop, I really love your apartment.”

“Thank you. I take that as quite a compliment from such a stylish woman.”

I smiled at his compliment as I carried my wine goblet from his rugged dining room table to the wraparound leather sectional of his living room. “The neutral tones are fabulous.”

“I hired an interior decorator,” he said, coming to sit on the sofa beside me. “All I had to bring were my clothes and a toothbrush.”

“Here’s to hiring good help,” I told him, raising my goblet in a toast.

A comfortable silence fell between us as we sipped on his vintage wine. I could not remember the name of it, and to tell the truth, I didn’t know the difference between it and Mad Dog 20/20, but I did not tell him that.

“How about a movie?” he offered, setting his glass down to move over to the large mahogany armoire in the corner. He opened the doors, and there had to be hundreds of DVDs on the bottom shelf. “So what’s your pleasure?”

Knowing full well that he did not have any of my all-time favorites in his collection—like
Imitation of Life—
I left the selection up to him. I silently prayed to be able to grin and bear it. “Whatever you choose is fine with me.”

I watched him over the rim of my goblet.

Winthrop was handsome with deep olive skin and jet-black wavy hair. His blue eyes seemed illuminated in his face. His features were model worthy.

I didn’t want to be attracted to him.

So what in the world was I doing here?

“Y
our grades have slipped considerably, Miss James,” Dr. Frost said. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

I looked at my psychology advisor where he sat behind his desk in his cramped, book-filled office. Then I looked down at the red letter D on the final exam I took last week.

Since my days at University High School, I had been a straight-A student. This was my lowest grade ever.

And I didn’t give a damn.

I shrugged my shoulders, the look on my face blank and nonchalant.

Dr. Frost studied me with his dull brown eyes before shaking his head sadly.

Standing, I slipped the paper into my Coach satchel before leaving the office.

I left the building and debated whether to go to work at the Student Center or not. To hell with it. I had already missed every day this week so far. I just didn’t want to go. I didn’t give a damn.

I passed the chapel on my way to the front of the campus. Two robed seminary students walked ahead of me.

The same God that allowed a devil like Reverend DeMark to walk the earth and use his position to seduce young, impressionable women. Seduce. Impregnate. Desert.

I hated that sacrilegious son of a bitch.

Just the thought of him made my feelings plummet. That was how much of a rollercoaster ride my life was these days. Depression. Furious anger. And back again.

I kept walking until I left the front gates of the campus on South Orange Avenue and crossed the street to the bus stop. I didn’t have to wait long before a #31 bus headed in the direction of Livingston Mall pulled to a stop in front of me.

I sat in the front near the bus driver. A group of teenagers got on about three blocks up from the campus. As they flashed their bus passes and moved to the back, one of them stepped on my favorite Christian Louboutin boots.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry.”

Instead of getting angry, I just shrugged and thought,
Shouldn’t be wearing four-hundred-dollar boots and riding the bus any damn way.

As soon as I got to Cristal’s apartment, I changed into my ankle-length skirt and blouse, slipping into Latoya the Christian. I lay down on the couch, feeling sleepy as always.

I put on a front for my girls, but most of the time I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t deserve fun. I didn’t deserve an education. I didn’t deserve friends.

I didn’t even deserve to live.

Hours later, after I finally found the strength to get off Cristal’s couch, I went home.

“Look who’s here for dinner, Latoya.”

Closing the front door to my parents’ house behind me, I headed straight for the stairs. “I’m not hungry,” I called out, just wanting to go to my bed and sleep some more.

“Latoya!”

My father’s stern voice echoed around me on the stairs. I paused before I turned to face him where he stood at the foot. The anger on his face was evident.

It’s always amazing to me that I can feel the same pains of “daddy hunger” as a child raised without a father’s presence in her life. I used to feel starved for his affection, craving the hugs and kisses most little girls got from their daddies. He never came to any of my school functions, or read me any bedtime stories, never taught me to swim or ride a bike.

Nothing.

His devotion to the church far outweighed his devotion to his children in my eyes. My father just didn’t have time to be a daddy. And there was a difference.

With dull eyes I gazed down into a face that I’d inherited, knowing my hunger would never be fed.

“Yes, sir?” I finally answered.

“Come into the dining room,” was all that he said before turning to do just as he instructed me.

I wanted nothing more than to go to my room, but I knew they would nag me and interrupt my rest, so I made my way to the dining room.

“This sure is a mighty fine meal, Sister James.”

What…the…hell?

I froze in my tracks at the sound of
his
voice. The Good and Honorable Reverend Luke DeMark. That conniving snake in the grass had the fucking
audacity
to show his face in this house I was forced to call home?

After the pregnancy, he stopped his weekly dinners here. No more signals from the pulpit for our freak sessions. I only suffered through his presence in church, being sure to avoid his no-good ass.

“Sister Latoya. It’s good to see you.”

My eyes locked with his, and I didn’t back down. In fact, he looked away first. And you know what, I kinda felt a little surge of power. Maybe I’d make this demon squirm.

I smiled softly at my two younger sisters, Latasha and Latrece, before taking my seat next to Satan. The scent of his Gucci cologne blended with the aroma from the steaming bowls of collard greens, white rice, macaroni and cheese, and fried pork chops. I had long ago lost my appetite, but I fixed myself a plate to keep away a hundred questions.

“Bless your food, Latoya.”

The fork paused midway to my mouth at my mother’s words. Closing my eyes, I pretended to say grace.

“Reverend DeMark, our Latoya is graduating from college this next week. God is truly good,” my mother gushed, closing her eyes and thanking God right then.

“In this age of promiscuity, teenage pregnancy, and an escalating high school drop-out rate, that is truly a blessing.”

I froze, about to force another bite of food down my throat. In the words of Dom: “Ain’t that ’bout a bitch?”

“I’m proud of her. I’m proud of all my girls,” my mother continued.

I looked down the table at my father, who was busy shoveling food into his mouth.
What about you, Daddy? Are you proud of me?

“Now that she has her education out of the way, she can find a nice young man, get married, and start a fami—”

“Ma! Uh, could you pass me the rolls…please,” I shouted out, cutting her off before she could finish.

She looked at me oddly. “There’s no need to yell, Latoya,” she said, passing the napkin-covered basket.

“I’m sure Sister Latoya will make someone a beautiful wife and an excellent mother,” the devil piped in.

Unable to hold my tongue, I turned my head to look at his handsome, lying face. “Do you really think I’ll make a good mother, Reverend?”

It pleased me to no end to see him flush with color.

“Latoya, first you have to become a wife,” my mother added somewhere in the distance.

“Oh, yes, Ma. I’m a good Christian. I would never sin and have a baby out of wedlock. Right, Reverend DeMark?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, right…right,” he stuttered.

Tears threatened to fall, but I blinked them back as I focused my attention back to the food on my plate.

“Are you all right, Latoya?” my sister Latasha asked.

I looked up at her and smiled, giving her a wink at the look of concern on her face.

“Reverend DeMark, how are the preparations for the annual convention coming along?” my father asked.

Leave it up to Daddy the Deacon to be concerned only with church business.

My sisters began to fill me in on their school day, and I forced myself to look amused when all I really wanted to do was be alone. I was taking a sip of my lemonade when I felt a familiar hand warmly grasp my thigh beneath the table. Without blinking an eye I pretended to accidentally drop my fork on the floor just as he slid those probing fingers beneath the band of my underwear. I bent to pick up the fork and held it like a weapon as I sharply dug it into the fleshy meat of his calf.

“Ow!” he yelled out in pain.

I calmly cleaned my fork with a napkin and continued forcing myself to eat. My parents questioned the devil with concern, and he made up a quick excuse of a muscle cramp as his hand slid away from my body.

That’ll teach the son of a bitch!

For the first time in a long time, I felt a little peace.