Naughtier than Nice (3 page)

The horrible things that adults did had to be explained to children.

“I wanted to dress in white like a princess and be the flower girl at your wedding by the sea.”

As she sat between my legs and I French-braided her fine hair I said, “I know, Mo. I know.”

Mo had asked me that while we were watching
Even Stevens, Phil of the Future,
and
Kim Possible
. We watched those the way my sisters and I were hooked on Shondaland on Thursdays. Monica was kicking it with me to give Tommie and Blue a break and some time alone. Maybe it would be the night they smacked it up, flipped it, and finally put a baby in the oven. One like Monica. I'd thought Tommie would be pregnant at least two years ago. Actually I had guessed she was pregnant when they got engaged but was wrong.

Monica said, “Let Mommy wear your wedding dress and we can all still go to the islands and they can get married and you can be the bridesmaid and I can wear my white dress and be a flower girl.”

“I was married before, Monica. So I can't be the bridesmaid ever again, thank God.”

“I won't tell. You and Mommy can just change places and I can still wear my dress.”

“If only life were that easy, little girl.”

“Maybe Uncle Frankie will come back and say he's real sorry.”

She cried. The kid cried hard. It felt like I had broken a grand promise to her.

Same as I had told everyone I wouldn't get married, now she had to tell all of her friends her truth.

She would not get to be a flower girl. Baby sister Tommie wouldn't get to be a bridesmaid for the last time. In my heart I had wanted to have a kid just like Monica. She was the perfect child.

I needed her company that night. I needed her innocence. Mine was long gone.

He wouldn't leave my mind. I missed Franklin. I missed the life we had been building.

Everywhere we went we had worked out like we were exercise junkies. He had pushed me to the next level. We had planned on running either a half or a full marathon in all fifty states. When the sweating was done we showered together, or bathed together, then massaged each other with oils. We had made love at night on balconies in foreign countries, slept in our birthday suits, limbs intertwined.

I hated him. I missed him. Love had come in a rush, but upon failure, it never left easily.

After I took Mo home, I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't breathe. Same thoughts on repeat. The relationship had been a farce. I would not become Mrs. Carruthers. I would not become a mother.

To be sure, I went to West Los Angeles Medical to see my ob-gyn, Dr. Debra DuBois.

If I were pregnant by another woman's husband, my life would get real ugly.

Edgehill Drive was calm with the weekday tranquility of the shrinking middle class.

Monica was at the circular dining table doing homework and I was at the same table rereading a book by Beale Streets. Monica wore jeans and a
Frozen
T-shirt. I wore skinny jeans and a T-shirt that read THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TEXTURIZED. We heard his hoopty pull up in the driveway and then heard the key rattle in the back door. We were all smiles, glad the man of the house was home.

I yelled, “It's unlocked, babe.”

Blue walked in carrying his gym bag. Mo jumped up and ran to her dad like she hadn't seen him since President Lincoln had freed the slaves—anything to get away from the drudgery of homework. She thought she was slick. I didn't say anything this time. Blue picked her up, gave her a hug, told her how tall she was getting, teased her about having little mumps on her chest and already needing to wear a starter bra, kissed her cheeks, then put her down. He laughed, came over and kissed me on my lips, slipped me the tongue. This moment felt like a dream, the way I had always imagined our relationship would be.

This moment right here, plus a child or two of our own, would be all I wanted. I wanted to be rich in family and love. Money never meant as much to me as it did to others. We lived in a small three-bedroom home, artistic, colorful, bohemian, a cozy space, so every sound any of us made, especially at night, was loud. I loved it like
that. I loved the fact that we shared space day and night, that we were connected.

Blue asked, “How was your day, Tommie?”

“Long. Made us breakfast, dropped Mo off at school, ran the Crenshaw loop with Livvy and Frankie, did some editing, blogged. I worked four hours at the part-time. Picked up Mo. Cooked dinner. Started homework. Kissed you when you came in the door. That pretty much sums up my day.”

He sat at the table, picked up where I'd left off, reviewed Mo's homework. English. Math.

I looked over brochures for the LA Marathon, the registration packet, the course map.

I asked, “How was work?”

“Same old. Students never change. Have a lot of papers to grade this weekend. They don't realize that the more homework they have to do, the more work I have to do grading papers.”

“You smell fresh.”

“Didn't want to come home funky. Showered and changed after the kickboxing class.”

“Thought you were doing weights. Wasn't today legs day?”

“Back and shoulders today with Tyrel and Bobby, then ended up in Taj's kickboxing class.”

“Taj's class ain't no joke.”

“Saw Frankie. She was with Livvy. They were working their core.”

“Who else was up there?”

“I saw Beale Streets's girlfriend. Do you remember her from when I took you to his event?”

“Svelte and attractive Nigerian American who has a pretentious Valley Girl accent?”

“Yeah; she was in kickboxing. I think her name is Tanya Obama.”

“Tanya
Obayomi.
Was Beale Streets up there with his arm candy?”

“Didn't see him, but that doesn't mean he wasn't there. Just saw Tanya
Obayomi
.”

I felt envious. Blue smiled when he spoke her name.

Blue said, “After dinner, I want to try to write a bit before I go to bed.”

“You're back to writing?”

“Wow. I haven't seen that excited smile in a month of Sundays.”

“That's great, Blue. What brought this on? Thought you had given up the screenplay.”

“I guess seeing Beale Streets, hearing him talk at his event a few months ago, that motivated me. I'm glad I took you to that event at the downtown library so you could hear him, meet him.”

“I'm glad you took me too.”

“His talk was powerful. Black man adopted by two white parents. Interesting identity struggle.”

“It was funny how everyone thought you were his brother or something.”

I made Blue a plate, baked chicken and vegetables, became as uxorial to him as my stepmother, Betty Jean, had been to my father, Bernard. Then I took the meal to Blue while he helped Monica with her English. He ate and I took over, helped Mo again, helped her with her math. Soon we sent Monica to take a shower, put her in bed by eight. That was still her appointed bedtime. Put her in bed that early so afterward Blue and I could have some quality time, some adult chill time, before we went to sleep.

I was cleaning up the living room when the phone rang. I looked at the Caller ID. Seeing her name made me frown.

I took a deep breath, forced my lips up into a faux smile, and answered, “Good evening.”

Music blasted from a concert as she yelled, “Let me talk to my daughter.”

I took another deep breath, and this time, with no smile, I repeated, “Good evening.”

“
Look.
Hurry up and put Monica on the phone before Beyoncé finishes her favorite song.”

“First things first. Good evening. It's a greeting, Angela. A courtesy between the civilized.”

Blue came into the living room. “Who is it?”

“You know who it is, Blue. You can tell by this stiff smile and the tone of my voice.”

He reached for the phone. I handed it to him and took three steps back, arms folded.

“What's up, Angela? Well, you know it's past her bedtime. I don't care about the time difference between here and wherever you are right now. Don't go there. What? I know she's your daughter. Do we need to go back to court? Decent hours are business hours, so you need—hold on. Just hold on.”

He went to the hallway and called for Monica. She woke up and came to her door, then came down the hallway. He handed her the phone. She started talking, then walked back toward her bedroom.

Blue looked at me, saw me shaking my head, my tongue behind my upper lip.

I said, “You did it again. You gave in to her.”

“I don't ever want it to be said that I tried to come between Mo and her mother.”

Frustration tightened my throat, burned my eyes. Before Mo could see, I took the book I had been reading, escaped to the bathroom, and locked myself away from the drama. I flipped the novel over and stared at the photo of the writer, Beale Streets. Young face. Pretty eyes. His bio said he had no children.

Back in the living room I put the book down, said, “Blue, I'm going to go by Frankie's.”

“What's going on?”

“
Grey's Anatomy.
Scandal.
How to Get Away with Murder.
”

“Last night you went to watch
Empire
with Livvy. Thought you were staying in tonight.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Why the attitude at such a high altitude all of a sudden?”

Monica came back with the phone in her hand. She had finished her call with her birth mother.

She looked at me and said, “Can I go with you, Mommy?”

“Not tonight. Tomorrow is a school day.”

“Can we have a McBroom sleepover tomorrow or Saturday?”

“I will ask your aunties tonight. Now, go back to bed. I need to talk to your father a moment.”

“Love you, Mommy.”

“I know. Love you too, Mo.”

Blue asked, “What am I, chopped liver?”

“Love you too, Daddy. You know I love you more than anything in the world.”

I wondered if she felt torn, trying to please one mother too many.

She went back down the hall singing “Single Ladies,” dancing and doing hand movements and all.

I told myself that I was overreacting. But I was angry. I felt as if I had no power, as if I weren't being taken seriously. I touched the mark on my face, the mark that was the size of a quarter, where my first boyfriend had burned me. Blue came to me, upset, but only one thing was on my mind.

I said, “Blue, I'm not getting any younger. This uncertainty has left me anxious and scared.”

“I know. I can tell that it's always on your mind, Tommie. I see it in your eyes.”

“When are we going to talk about it? Our future as a family can't be put on hold indefinitely.”

“You're leaving to go kick it with the McBrooms.”

“I could stay, if you want to talk about it, see how we can get past this and finally plan for the wedding, because I am tired of
people seeing this ring, knowing we're engaged, that we live together, and we haven't circled a date. People think we're going to end up like Frankie and Franklin, that something is wrong, that maybe you have some secret. I'm playing the role of wife and stepmom in public, and then I'm the Shay to your Roc at night. I love you, Blue, and I need to . . . I want us to be on the same page, in agreement. Let's make a plan, see how we can fix this, marry, and become parents, give Mo a little brother or sister before she gets older and the age difference puts them in separate generations.”

“Do you think about anything else?”

“You should have talked to me first, and you know that left me feeling like an also-ran.”

I had come home one day and found Blue on the sofa, bags of ice between his legs because he had gotten a vasectomy. His unilateral decision had left me in shock and perplexed. I wanted to let it go, but he had done something major and never consulted me. He could get his vasectomy without my consent because we weren't married. From what I had heard, a wife would be asked to sign off on the procedure so the doctor wouldn't end up caught up in a lawsuit; and here in Cali, people sued for everything. Here a wife could sue her husband's mistress to regain community property and win back every dime the old, wrinkled, and racist asshole spent on the affair. No matter how many times we had been together as husband or wife, unless we had been together for seven years and the common-law thing kicked in, I was just a chick living with a dude. He had gotten a vasectomy, and that made me feel like shit. I looked in the mirror and at times I still saw the handprint from that metaphorical slap in my face. I had never told my sisters Blue had cut his nuts. When they asked me if I was pregnant yet, I was too embarrassed to say that rite of passage wasn't a possibility. His sperm was no good.

I was wasting an egg a month.

He whispered, “Are you crying?”

Headache rising, confusion swelling, anger revving up like a deuce, I asked, “What am I to you, Blue? A glorified babysitter? Your wench? I have a ring, but I need you to tell me our mission statement, because I am really, really baffled.”

“Grow up, Tommie. Don't talk nonsense and stop acting like a damn child all the time.”

Feeling that insult, I pulled away from him, had a smile as twisted as the thoughts that had erupted in my mind, and I grabbed my keys, my purse, my phone, then paused at my front door.

I faced him, said, “Maybe you and Angela should get back together and be a happy family. You and she will always be on Mo's family tree anyway. I'm just a fucking asterisk.”

“Stop it, Tommie. You're overreacting.”

I repeated the text message Angela had sent to his phone in the middle of the night, when we were in bed together, years ago, after she knew that Blue and I were involved: “‘
I'm sorry, I don't care who you're in bed with, you'll always be mine, as I've always been yours. You tell me you're seeing someone. Are you in love with her, do you love her like you used to love me? Remember how we made love in the rain?
'”

“Are you ever going to let that go?”

“‘
When you made love to me the last time it was like there was no one else and as if no time had passed. I came so hard, you kissed me so passionately. You will always be the boss of my pussy.
'”

“That was
before
I slept with you, Tommie. We had a moment. I had a lapse in judgment. She brought my daughter back. It was late. I made a mistake. She didn't even spend the night. It lasted no more than five minutes. I came and I felt disgusted with myself. She knows we're done on that level.”

“If you dislike her as much as you claim you do, why did you sleep with her again?”

“I guess I needed to unload.”

“Wow.”

“I gave you the biological man answer. It meant nothing.”

“Blue, you had naked pictures of her on your computer.”

“I didn't even know those were still there.”

“I guess those were to help you on the nights you manually unload.”

“Those are deleted now.”

“Have you seen her Facebook page? She posted ‘A man would break up with his old bitch for a new bitch . . . just to cheat on his new bitch with his old bitch.'”

“I don't keep track of her personal life. I don't care what she does or writes online.”

“Then posts on Twitter, ‘Crazy bitches have the best pussy. That's why I'm still fucking my ex.'”

“You and I both know that since we met she has had more exes than we've had hot meals.”

“I don't know anything right now. All I know is that since you won't get the vasectomy reversed, I'm not going to march down the aisle. That's nonnegotiable. I guess I'm just where you unload.”

He took a breath, rubbed his temples. “Babe, I don't make the kind of money Tony makes.”

“And neither did my father, but he worked, sacrificed, and we had a great childhood.”

He took a breath. “We need to do the numbers, that's all I am saying. Be logical about this.”

“Do the numbers. Sure. You're right. I'm being emotional, not logical.”

“We'll talk about it after we've both calmed down. Not after Angela has changed the energy.”

“Sure. Let's bow down, then allow her to control when we have our conversations.”

“I'm not dodging the issue; it's just that I want to try to write a bit before I go to bed.”

“Whatever, Blue. I'm starting to get sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

“Whenever Angela calls, we end up having an issue. This is getting old, Tommie.”