What a Sista Should Do (12 page)
Breaking the silence, Pam smiles and asks, “So are you going to give me that corn bread dressing recipe, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”
Pam
I
haven’t really had much to say to Troy since I visited him at the studio. He claims that he doesn’t smoke marijuana, but even if he doesn’t put the joint to his mouth, there is enough smoke in the studio to keep him high all day. Even though I’m angry, it is Christmas, and I want to enjoy it.
This year I literally bought enough toys and clothing for ten children. Most of it was for Gretchen and Cicely, but yesterday me and the girls took a huge bag of gifts to the downtown battered women’s shelter. I’m surprised at how generous my children are. They wanted to go and buy more so that even the mothers could have something nice to open.
Since I have nothing but time on my hands, I’m attempting to cook my first full-fledged Christmas dinner. I’m a decent cook, but I’ve never tackled a holiday meal. I don’t know the first thing about roasting a turkey. I’ve been hounding poor Yvonne all day. She says that she doesn’t mind, because even though it’s Christmas Eve, she hasn’t heard from Luke in a day or so. Her helping me is distracting her from her feelings of rage toward him.
I’m busy chopping vegetables when Troy walks into the kitchen. He looks genuinely surprised to see me trying to cook.
“Look at Julia Child!” jokes Troy with a laugh.
“Ha, ha. I’m doing this for y’all. If it was up to me, we’d be eating Chinese takeout for Christmas dinner.”
“Well, I love a turkey dinner, so it will be greatly appreciated!”
I roll my eyes, and Troy pretends to ignore me. He knows that I’m not really happy with him right now, but he’s been trying to keep the peace. Troy’s good at ignoring problems until they go away, but this time we’re going to confront some things head-on.
Troy comes up behind me and puts his arms around my waist. I nudge him back with my elbow, and Troy sighs wearily as he backs away.
“What’s wrong now, Pam?”
“Troy, we need to talk.”
“About?” asks Troy nonchalantly, as if he really doesn’t want to know.
“What happened when I visited your studio?”
Troy frowns. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I thought you visited my studio and met my newest rising star. What is there to talk about?”
“About the fact that you were high?” I enunciate every word angrily, as if each is a blow to Troy’s head.
Troy bursts into laughter. “Pam, you aren’t serious! You smell a little smoke, and you assume that I’m high. Baby, I’m always mellow when I get in my music groove.”
“Don’t play me for a fool, Troy.”
Troy throws his hands into the air. “Look, I don’t do drugs. On occasion I’ll have a little too much to drink. You act like I’m an alcoholic.”
“You’re too old for that mess, Troy. We’re pushing thirty, and we’ve got children. You need to stop being so selfish.”
Troy doesn’t respond. He sulks out of the kitchen like a wounded child. Sometimes it feels like he’s genuinely reaching out to me. Anger keeps me from reaching back. I know this, and yet I have no idea how to get around it. I would love to go back to being the free spirit I was when I was twenty-two. But I grew up, and he didn’t.
I stop what I’m doing when I feel the tears on my face.
Help me, Lord! I love my husband, and I want our marriage to work. Please, Lord, help me not to harden my heart to the father of my children. Help him be a better husband and father. Jesus, take the taste for alcohol out of his mouth and make him hunger and thirst after righteousness. And, Lord, help me to be the wife that he needs. Remind me, Lord, that I need to make room for him in my life. Lord, above all, draw him to You.
Troy and I stayed up all night wrapping the girls’ gifts and placing them under the tree. It reminded me of the Christmases I used to spend at my grandparents’ as a child.
Gretchen and Cicely woke up at the crack of dawn and raced downstairs to open their presents. Troy and I had to pull ourselves out of bed too, so that we could get everything on film. It seemed like I’d only laid my head on the pillow for an hour before I had to wake up again. I make hot chocolate for everyone while Gretchen and Cicely tear into their stacks of gifts.
I emerge from the kitchen with a huge tray, and Gretchen is modeling princess attire for the camera. Cicely is carefully placing all of the tiny combs and brushes from her doll set into a purse so that they don’t get sucked into my vacuum. I usually end up throwing Barbie’s shoes in the garbage before Ken ever gets to see them on her feet.
“Who wants hot chocolate?”
“Me!” is the collective response I receive from Gretchen and Cicely.
Troy takes the tray from me and puts it on the table. The girls sit down and dump an insane amount of marshmallows into their cups. Troy goes under the tree and hands me a package.
“Here, Pam. I want you to open this gift first.”
I wipe my hands on my apron and take the gift. I can tell Troy wrapped it, because there is tape everywhere. The box inside holds a gold-embossed journal, with my name inscribed on the front.
I smile up at Troy. “Troy, this is the best gift. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What made you buy me a journal?”
“A few weeks ago you said that you wanted to do more than be a wife and mother. Did you think I forgot you were a writer?”
I pause for a moment and reply, “I don’t know.”
“Well, I think that a writer should write.”
A slow grin spreads across my face. I didn’t think Troy was listening to me when we had that conversation. Well, if he heard my random complaints, maybe he heard the part about Jesus too.
Taylor
I
was curious when I came into the office, after the New Year, and saw the huge bouquet of flowers perched right in the middle of my desk. Aside from Joshua’s joy at opening his ton of gifts from Luke and Yvonne, my Christmas was pretty depressing. I went to the church singles’ Christmas party and felt completely out of place because, surprisingly, everyone was paired off. They’d either brought dates or found someone in the singles ministry. I should’ve been delighted to see the flowers, but I knew they couldn’t be good news.
I immediately assumed they were from Luke. That fool is either trying to con me back into a relationship or butter me up just enough to not ask for child support. I’m tempted to knock the flowers directly into the garbage can.
I snatch the card from the basket. It reads, “Taylor: Next time I’m in your area, we must do lunch. Meeting you was the high point of my day. Spencer Oldman.” Okay, that fine, good-smelling, deep-voiced brotha, who just happens to be a president, is actually interested in me? I can’t even believe this.
A smiling Glenda is walking up to my cubicle. “So, Tay, who sent the flowers? Someone special?”
Okay, first of cotton-picking all, why does this woman insist on calling me “Tay”? That is just a bit too familiar for me. I haven’t even been working for her a week yet, and she’s already given me a new name. Why doesn’t she just call me “Kunta Kinte” or “Toby”? Secondly, I know she doesn’t think I’m about to tell her my business. When did we get to be friends? I don’t bond with my bosses. It always makes it easier if they have to fire me.
“Oh, they’re from a friend.”
“A friend, eh? Well, this is an expensive arrangement. It must be a special friend.”
I just smile at Glenda and change the subject. “How was your weekend? I see you’ve got a fresh tan. Did you have a getaway?”
Glenda’s tan is quite noticeable. Last week she had the complexion of an expensive China doll, and now she looks almost Latin. She tosses her blonde hair and grins.
“Yes. A friend of mine surprised me with a weekend jaunt to Cancún. We left Friday evening.”
“Wow. Now, that’s a special friend.”
“I’ve got a new project for you to start this morning.” Glenda goes back to business. “Let me know if my e-mail is clear. By the way, have you heard from Pam? I heard she bought a fabulous new home, and I was wondering if there was going to be a housewarming.”
“You know, I haven’t heard anything from Pam about a housewarming party,” I say sweetly. “I’ll let you know if I do.”
“All right. You do that.”
I’m relieved that Glenda is going back to her office, because I really don’t feel like shooting the breeze with her. I look at the flowers. No one has ever thought enough of me to send me flowers at work. Luke always said that things like roses would show up on his credit card statement, and how would he explain that to his wife?
I pull up our company’s Web site on my computer and look up Spencer’s profile. His office is in Toledo. That’s good. Distance keeps folk from making impetuous choices, and I am notorious for those.
Spencer’s staff numbers close to one hundred fifty. This I also like. Give a black man some authority in the workplace, and he’s not as prone to trying that old domineering attitude with his woman. I can’t stand a brotha that’s constantly trying to prove his manhood.
Of course, from the company Web site, I can’t tell the most important things about Spencer that I need to know. Like is he married, has he ever been married, and if so, how many times? Does he have any kids? Are they grown kids? I am not trying to tangle with any grown opinionated sons and daughters. Does he go to church more than on Christmas, Easter and Mother’s Day?
Wait a minute, though. I’m getting ahead of myself again. All this man did was send me some flowers and ask me to lunch. He did not ask me to marry him or bear his children. When did I turn into one of those desperate women that start planning the wedding as soon as a man smiles in their direction?
For all I know, Mr. Spencer Oldman could be a womanizer that wants to make sure he has a booty call in every city. I am not the one. I wasn’t even thinking about a man until he popped up out of nowhere. I’ve been doing without, and I can continue. For a while.
Still, I need to at least acknowledge Spencer’s gift. It would be rude and impolite for me not to, and plus, I’m not trying to burn any bridges. If nothing else, this brother could be a valuable business associate or a mentor. I can never have too many friends in high places.
I open up my e-mail and start a message to Spencer. I know that I can’t be specific, because anytime you send an e-mail, it’s no telling who in the company will be looking. I would call his office, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to hear that beautiful voice and stay rational. I decide to write a very, very short, professional note. “Spencer: Thank you. Your thoughtfulness is appreciated. Taylor.”
I don’t know if that’s enough. I don’t even know if I sound interested in him, but that’s all I’m writing. He better read between the lines or something. I hurry up and click the send button before I change my mind and add something crazy.
It startles me when my telephone rings. I’m hoping that it’s Spencer, although I only just clicked “send.”
Using my sexy, professional voice, I answer, “Deposit Assessments, Taylor speaking, how may I be of assistance?”
“Taylor?”
I feel the smile drop off my face. “Hello, Luke.” I do not feel like talking to him or thinking of him. Actually, I feel like hanging the phone up in his face, but the family court advocate advised that I try to work with Luke.
“I want to see my son this weekend.”
I just love how he throws those words around. My son. It doesn’t even sound right coming out of his lying mouth. I wish I never started this mess. Joshua don’t need his sorry behind.
“Where would you like to see him?”
“I want him to come to my house and spend the night. Me and Yvonne have fixed up a nice bedroom for him.”
“I don’t feel comfortable with that.”
I don’t know if I want my son around Yvonne. She seems just a little bit too eager to be a part of my son’s world. She is not and will never be his mother.
“So what, Taylor? I have a right to have my son spend the night. You have him all the time.”
“What? Joshua doesn’t even know y’all. And you don’t know him. You are a stranger to him. We have to work up to this.”
“Taylor, you think you’re running this show, but you ain’t. Now that you’re getting my money every week, I got just as much say as you do. Matter of fact, I’m going to petition for full custody. We’ve got a much better home for him here than you can ever give him.”
It’s only been one week since it was proved to Luke that Joshua is his son, and now he thinks he can be a better parent than me? Maybe Luke thinks that a few hundred dollars in Christmas gifts will make up for being missing in action for two years of Joshua’s life. We have a court date in two weeks to establish a permanent support order and set up visitation for Luke.
At this point I’m about to cuss this fool out, so I just hang up the phone. He’s probably recording our calls, trying to build his case. I’m not going to give him any ammunition to use against me. Plus, I’m not about to lose my salvation over this drama. And he can forget about seeing Joshua this weekend. We’ve got plans, or we will by the weekend.
Luke and Yvonne can just get that whole custody notion out of their minds. I know that’s all her anyway. I’ve never seen a woman so desperate to have a baby. I’m not worried, though. There is no judge in this state that would grant Luke even joint custody. I’m sure his lawyer has told him that too. He’s just assuming that I’m stupid, but that’s what happens when you assume.
My phone rings again, and I know it’s Luke calling back to get the last word. This is all becoming tiresome. Luke has been phoning me two or three times a day for the last week. He’s bordering on harassment. If I was a timid woman, I’d already have a restraining order, but Luke does not threaten me.
“Deposit Assessments, Taylor speaking.”
“Taylor, hello. This is Spencer Oldman. Have I reached you at a bad time?”
I feel my entire face light up. He didn’t have to tell me who he was. His voice has a rich tone that is mesmerizing. I could listen to him read the phone book and I’d get chills up my spine.