Millionaire Wives Club (17 page)

“Yeah,” Milan could hear Yusef scream, “I’m Da Truef, baby. Number twenty-three on the New York Knicks, and any day now I’m expected to get a new contract.”

Truthfully, Milan didn’t know how to feel. Was Yusef being here with another woman the North Star she needed? It wasn’t that her husband was sitting with his arm draped around another woman; she didn’t care who he showed affection to. This was bigger than that. This was about reading the writing on the wall and seeing that the curtain had fallen, the spotlight had died, and her ride to fame and fortune had ended. This was the moment when she realized there were no more dreams and all she had left was real life, and real life was kickin’ her ass.

The next stop was hers and she exited through a back door far away from Yusef and the woman, who both stayed on the train.

The winter wind cut across Milan’s face and sent chills through her. She swore she was going to start wearing her furs on the train, because her hooded Burberry peacoat was no match for thirty-degree weather.

After the two-block walk from the subway she arrived at the all-glass entrance to her building with her face frozen and her eyes feeling like slits. She’d noticed some of her neighbors looking at her strangely, but she’d grown used to the double takes and questionable glances, especially since more times than not she was seen with a camera crew following her.

“Milan!” Bridget yelled. “We’ve been waiting on you. We haven’t filmed you all week. You’ve been working too much,” Bridget said as she and the camera crew boarded the elevator with Milan. “In a moment everyone’s going to think you’re doing more than charity work at the hospital. We called to confirm your status there and they refused to give us any information.”

Milan ignored Bridget as the cameras started to roll on their way to her apartment.

“I hope Yusef is here. Perhaps he’ll start banging his chest and
calling himself Da Truef again, ’cause other than that your ass is boring.”

“Excuse me?” Milan snapped.

“I don’t mean any harm, you know,” Bridget said. “I mean, boring in the best possible light.”

“I’m sure.”

“You know you’re my favorite.” She patted Milan on the arm. “But this is all about a second season.”

Once Milan arrived at her apartment, she noticed something odd about the door. There was a padlock on it, a pink paper that read
ORDER TO VACATE THE PREMISES
, and a court-ordered foreclosure notice taped to her door like an advertisement.

“Get a close-up,” she heard Bridget say behind her.

Immediately Milan’s head started to spin. She snatched the papers off the door. There was no way they could be foreclosed on. The apartment was paid for. Yusef swore that he paid cash for it at the closing. It was his wedding gift to her, a place of their own. On their honeymoon night he handed her a white box with a red bow on top and inside was a pair of keys to their four-bedroom, five-bathroom, exclusive apartment with a terrace and a stunning view of the New York City skyline. She saw the paperwork, the apartment was in her name … There was something wrong… This couldn’t be. She leaned against the wall as the drumbeat in her head turned into a tuba. Unpaid taxes. Tax liens. Fuckin’ taxes. She couldn’t believe it. She sent them checks every month… every month … There must be some mistake. There had to be. There had to be a way to clear this up, because after this … there was nothing left.

Suddenly the cameras and a smiling Bridget seemed to fade from her vision as she focused on what she needed to do next. She took out a letter from the IRS she had in her purse. She pulled out her cell phone and started dialing their number. Then she quickly hung up and decided that she needed to run to the bank
instead. If she could get copies of the checks she had sent them, then she could show the IRS that they’d made a terrible mistake. And besides, where were the letters from them letting her know they were taking her home away? They couldn’t just invade her life like this. Certainly they had to give her notice. Hell, even Yusef had given her notice that their life was about to be fucked up.

Milan hustled down the long and cold New York blocks with Bridget and the camera crew galloping behind her like a team of Clydesdales to Chase Bank.

“May I help you?” A smiling young man walked over to Milan as she entered the bank and extended his hand.

She was oblivious to his gesture as she said, “Yes,” more as if she were talking to someone from space than to someone standing before her. “Umm.” She did her best to hold back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “I have a problem here.” She handed him the paperwork. “This can’t be so.”

The young man scanned the papers. He glanced up at the cameras and then back into her face. “Ma’am, we have nothing to do with this. This says foreclosure papers due to tax liens. You need to go and see a lawyer, not a bank employee.”

“I don’t have any money for a lawyer.” She shook her head. “But… I pay my taxes. I mean … we’re behind, but I pay them what I promise every month.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t enough,” the young man said sympathetically.

“It was.” Milan did her all not to cry. “I know it was.”

“Well, I really don’t know,” he stammered, “what you want us to assist you with.”

“I need copies of my checks so that I can prove to the IRS I was paying my taxes.”

“No problem.”

Milan followed him to his desk, where he pulled up her account on the computer. “Who is Yusef Starks?”

“My husband. He’s on the account as well. It’s a joint account.”

“Well, ma’am”—he turned the computer monitor around toward her—“it appears that Mr. Starks has written… let’s see here, ten thousand, six hundred dollars in bad checks.”

“What?!” Suddenly Milan felt out of breath. “No.” She shook her head. “I was depositing money in this account every month.”

“Well, we’re prosecuting the two of you. This is a joint account, so you two share equal weight.”

“What did you say?” she asked as if the bank employee had suddenly started to speak Greek.

“I’m surprised you’re not in jail.” The employee quickly turned on her. “This is a crime!”

“A who?”

“Banks are in enough trouble in this economy, and we don’t need thieves ripping us off!”

“Thieves?”

“You owe us ten thousand-plus dollars and we want it!”

“I need help,” she said distantly. “I don’t have anything left.”

“I’m calling security. I’m sure there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

Black was all Milan could see as her palms started to sweat and she felt as if she needed air. This was wrong, it had to be. This shit was crazy. Yusef was a lot of things but he wouldn’t destroy her like this, not when she was trying to save what little they had. Milan turned her head from side to side. On one side she saw the bank employee looking through her with the phone to his ear, and on the other side of her was a smiling Bridget and a beaming Carl. It was official: She was the walking dead.

Milan looked toward the bank’s picture window and she could see an oncoming bus. She didn’t know what bus it was or where it was going. All she knew was that she needed to be on it, because somehow and some way she had to outrun the falling sky.

She bolted out of the bank with the doors swinging behind her and made it just in time to hop on the bus and leave the bank employee, the overweight security guard, and a beaming Bridget and
camera crew standing there filming her as she disappeared into thin air.

It was well into the evening when Milan walked the chilly and ghostly concrete that surrounded the Astroland amusement park, which was closed for the winter. Bits of snow fell from the sky and melted on her head, as she stuck her fingers through the holes in the metal gate and gazed in on the place that encompassed so many memories. Despite how barren it was, Astroland was where she could travel back in time, to a place and a space where all that mattered was having enough nerve to ride the Cyclone roller coaster and how big a stuffed animal you could win.

She smiled and laughed as memories of great times ran through her mind, and then it hit her, the difference between now and then. All she had in her purse were three dollars, a MetroCard, and a cell phone with a dying battery.

She tried without success to hold in the cold tears that continuously slid down her cheeks, and before she knew it she was sliding down the gate, crouching to her knees, and barely able to raise her voice above a whisper.

“So this is it?” A voice invaded her moment of desperation as she crouched on the sidewalk. “You just walking around like you have nothing … nobody…like life is just shit, huh?”

Milan didn’t look up. She knew it was Kendu. It had to be. Who else would know where to find her? “How’d you know I was here?”

“I know you.”

“So you have ESP now?”

“Nah, Bridget ran to our house and filled Evan in. I overheard.”

“Oh, so now my life is a bunch of he said, she said.” She shook her head. “Bridget is the fuckin’ worst. No matter what goes on in my life … she sees it as ratings.”

“And when it airs the people who’ll be watching will see it as TV. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is it’s my goddamn life!”

“You signed it away for reality TV.”

Milan had gone from feeling desperate to being pissed. Kendu was horrible at being sympathetic. He was strong, and he expected everyone else to be the same way. Though he was a good friend, he was terrible in the pity department. “You’re so fuckin’ inappropriate.” Milan laughed in tearful disbelief as the back of her thighs started to feel numb from the cold concrete.

“I’m inappropriate,” Kendu said, taken aback. “You’re sitting on the ground in a three-thousand-dollar coat carrying a thousand-dollar bag, looking like somebody stole all your fuckin’ candy, and I’m inappropriate?” He arched his thick eyebrows. “Okay.”

“I didn’t ask you to come here and rescue me.” She stood up and pointed to his chest. “I don’t need you!”

“You need somebody.”

“And you’re it? Furthermore,” she said, wiping her eyes, “I have your number, and if I didn’t dial your digits then what the hell are you sweatin’ me for? Don’t be worried about me. Worry about that looney-ass wife of yours.”

“Evan is at home. You the one on the ground.”

“Would you get the fuck out my face, please? Because in a minute I’ma reach up there”—she looked at him towering over her—“and check your fuckin’ chin.”

Kendu laughed. “You don’t have a reason to be jealous of Evan.”

“I’m homeless.” Milan squinted her eyes. “And you really think that at this moment I give a damn about that gold diggin’—ass tramp? That’s between you and your pockets!”

“Listen, I’m not about to argue with you in the street. Let’s go—”

“Let me tell you something you don’t—”

“Look, we can talk about this inside.”

“Inside where? Did you forget that quick that I’m homeless? I can’t believe Yusef would do this to me.”

“Yusef?” Kendu asked, surprised. “You share in some of the responsibility. Besides, it’s not as if I didn’t tell you not to marry him.”

“You are really on your own sack right now. You can marry who you want and I can’t?” She rubbed her temples. “This is crazy. I need to find me someplace to live, not stand out here and go back and forth with you. Who gives a fuck anymore what you do and who you do it with! Stay and make more babies with the bitch. What do I care?! This is not about me loving you and what decisions we made and didn’t make. This is about my life being tossed to the wind. About me losing everything, everything!” she screamed at the top of her lungs as tears ran like a marathon down her face. She tried to speak but the words started to crumble in her mouth. “I have nothing but the clothes on my fuckin’ back and three dollars in my pocket! Do you hear me?! There is nothing left! Nothing! I took my goddamn life, married the Jinn, and I got the hell my hand called for … so oh well.” She wiped her eyes. “Milan is a big girl and I am okay by myself…”

Kendu walked over and wrapped her in his arms.

“Get off of me,” she cried into his chest, doing her best to push him away. “You don’t give a damn. Just go on and leave me alone, please. I can’t believe that I don’t even have a place to live.”

Kendu held her in his arms. “Milan, you know I’m not good with this crying shit. All I know is that I’m here and I’m not leaving you.”

“What? You gon’ be homeless with me? ’Cause I’m
not
going to Sag Harbor with you.”

“I wouldn’t take you to Sag Harbor. I have someplace else that I go to. Ai’ight?”

“I guess—” She cut herself short, deciding that whatever else she had left to say wouldn’t change her situation.

“What?” He looked at her, knowing that she’d cut herself off.
“Just say it, Milan. Otherwise you gon’ be hintin’ at this shit all night.”

“Kendu, why is everything so fuckin’ cut-and-dry with you? Sometimes I want you to wallow with me, even if it’s for five minutes, give misery some company.”

“What, you want me to say some soft-ass shit? Some poetry?” He attempted to make her laugh. “You know Common is my boy. I could spit some rhymes.”

“Never mind, Kendu. Just take me to the homeless shelter.”

Kendu laughed. “Come on and just get in the truck.”

The leather seats in Kendu’s Escalade heated the back of Milan’s thighs as she sat looking out at the New York City traffic, wondering when the night had become so loud. This was the first time she’d ever heard it speak and remind her of all the things she had misused, abused, and simply taken for granted.

Now she was stuck knee-deep in a pile of shit wondering why she never thought to keep some money tucked away. It was evident that karma was an unforgetful motherfucker, because this was obviously payback for accepting Yusef’s hand in marriage based on his NBA contract.

“Kendu,” Milan said, noticing they were in SoHo, “why are we here?”

“I come here when I need to get away.”

“Get away from who?”

“My life.”

“And what am I supposed to do here?”

“Stay here, and in the morning I’ll give you some money. We can go see my lawyer, pay the bank their money, and then see what else we need to do. After I handle the taxes, you want the apartment back or you want me to sell it?”