Читать книгу Take Her Man - Grace Octavia - Страница 12

In the car on the way to Justin’s, I couldn’t stop thinking about Julian and trying to figure out where our thing fell apart. How did we even get to the “Troy, I need a break” breaking point? Being honest with myself, I had to admit that the relationship was no cakewalk. Julian and I had shared some hard times and disagreements. Most notable, of course, was the time Julian invited my parents to meet his parents. (Note: Why in the hell would this man want our parents to meet if I wasn’t his “girlfriend”? And he says I was the confused one….) Anyway, though I was excited about the parental union (seeing as how it usually led to other unions), I should’ve seen that train wreck coming down the tracks from a mile away.

The highlight of that night came when my mother, a rich girl gone artsy after her divorce from and remarriage to my father, called Julian’s mother a “babbling bourgeois baboon” and stormed out of his parents’ Harlem brownstone.

That insult occurred after my mother wasted what was left of a perfectly full glass of red wine—something I’d never seen her do before—on his mother’s Persian rug. The drama all began when our parents started talking politics during an after-dinner chat. I need to correct that—they started talking black politics. Let me explain why this distinction is significant. My dad, a retired international pilot, couldn’t give a damn about much else other than his money, me, his money, where he’s traveling to next, his money, whether he has to take my mother with him, his money, and his mother (my Nana Rue) and her money, which someday will be his money. Ask him about the war in Iraq and he’ll pull out his BlackBerry and measure Iraq’s distance from Morocco—his vacation destination of choice; ask him about starvation in Africa and he’ll bring up his trips to Dubai and how well he pays the cleaning lady at our vacation home there.

Dad’s goal in life is to not get his “pressure up,” and the man has never had high blood pressure, so I guess he’s doing a good job. Since he retired, Daddy spends his days playing accountant and keeping the two ladies in his life (my mother and his mother) smiling and out of trouble. This disposition fared well on his good looks that had yet to begin to fade even though he was far into his fifties. Standing at 6’2” tall, my father had deep mahogany skin, and even though his eyes were browner than anything I’d ever seen, they shined with hazel flecks that guaranteed he’d catch a few double takes from women in any crowd.

My mother is one of the most outwardly confused people I know. The “drama with mama” was endless, but most of the time we all put up with it because we knew the source—her past. See, my mother was born to one of Manhattan’s black female socialites in the 1950s. Only my grandmother wasn’t really black with a capital B, as in “Black and proud.” Grandma Lucy was mixed. As was her mother before her, her mother before her, and her mother before her—you get the picture. To make a long story short, this twisted past led to my mother (the child of Grandma Lucy’s marriage to a white man who didn’t know my grandmother’s race until he proposed marriage) having serious issues wherever race was concerned. In contrast to what one would think, she turned out nothing like Grandma Lucy. My mother hated the idea of passing and the privilege it seemed to provide her with as the sole heir of the son of a Texas railroad tycoon. The importance Grandma Lucy placed on color, brooding over my mother’s dusky tan skin whenever the sun was high and insisting that my mother was “lucky” to have inherited my grandfather’s straight nose, rose-strained cheeks, and straight blond hair, ate away at her. Sometimes I felt as if my mother was always standing in between the lines of her color—the light side and the dark side. She was too afraid or embarrassed to embrace her light skin for all that it meant to Grandma Lucy, so she kept her blond hair dyed black, frowned when someone praised her light hazel eyes, and always seemed to feel a need to shower people with dark skin, including my father, with compliments. She wanted people to know that she was Black (with a capital B), she was down for the people and not, as they say, still passing.

With all that in tow, fast-forward about twenty-five years and you have my mother sitting in Julian’s parents’ brownstone. Two doctors who came from generations and generations of old Harlem doctors, they believed in self-determination and every man for himself achieving the American dream. Julian’s parents were staunch Republicans. They had money and they wanted to keep it…period. After listening to them share their political philosophies over many dinners in the past, it was clear that they felt that the more poor, ignorant black people there were out there, the less they had to worry about losing what they had.

My mother, who really didn’t have to work or go to school, for that matter, hated Republicans and specifically despised black Republicans for what she called “their nerve.” I know it sounds contradictory, but it was simply the kind of position my mother’s affluence and color afforded her. She didn’t have to worry about people taking what she had or to complain about higher taxes paying for government programs. There was an endless supply of railroad money in her life. She couldn’t spend it all if she tried—I would give that venture my all if someone would let me. But with that kind of good old American money comes a certain amount of shame. Somewhere between her lunches at Saks with other wives and days at the spa, my mother peeks out onto the streets of New York and feels bad for folks who have less than she does, folks who didn’t benefit from the history of having a passing mother and rich father. This empathy, I mean sympathy, leads my poor, guilty mother into the barrios—the ghettos—each weekend to do her part by painting houses with her sorority or the Links. Do good. Give back. It’s all a little pathetic, but hey, other people get to benefit from it.

Needless to say, my mother’s a Democrat. So on that precious night at Julian’s house, the two of us had two Republicans (Julian’s parents), a man staring into his glass hoping his wife didn’t smack someone (my father), and a Democrat who was really trying to make up for the fact that she’s filthy rich (my mother), talking black politics. Black politics.

Yes. Disaster.

Between revitalizing St. Nicholas Park and taxes, I knew my mother should’ve put her drink down. She gets this little white-girl nervous twitch when someone’s pissing her off. Her cheeks flush and then she keeps taking deep breaths to show how annoyed she is. Julian kept looking at me. Suddenly, his charming eyes that I always compared to a chipmunk’s, looked like a deer’s in headlights. He’d heard the stories about my mama drama. I was about to intervene by saying that I had to get to the library to study for my upcoming midterms when my mother had to open her big mouth. After Julian’s mother said, “You black Democrats need to see the big picture,” my mother’s glass hit the floor and she was on her feet. Dad picked up her purse and headed to the door. When my mother stands up, it’s like Oprah rolling up in the juke joint in The Color Purple: “It’s time to go.” Mama’s white-girl side makes her prone to slapping people at random. One time it landed her and daddy in jail. You just can’t go around smacking senators.

“What self-respecting black person calls themselves a Republican?” my mother said, looking up at the ceiling like she couldn’t even stand the sight of the rest of the people in the room. The twitch was growing to an all-time high. Damn near seizure level. “You’re like George Bush. You don’t love black people. You’re just a…you’re a…” I waved goodbye to Julian, I gave him the “I’ll call you later” look and grabbed my mother’s hand, pulling her to the door. We were almost out the door. Almost home free without my mother having said anything that would forever damage any possible relationship between Julian and my parents when the right words came to Mary Elizabeth Smith, a mixed woman from the Upper West Side who stunt-doubles as my mother. “You…you babbling bourgeois baboon,” she hollered somewhere between the threshold and the car.

Did I mention that Julian’s mother told him never to invite me over again? In the car, my mother looked over at my father, who was trying his best to keep his hands on the steering wheel and off her neck, and said, “Tell your daughter, my sweet Troy Helene, that I forbid her to see that man again.” She pushed a lock of stray black hair behind her right ear and turned to look at me in the backseat. “Darling husband, tell my baby Troy that idiots only give birth to bigger idiots and she doesn’t see it now, but Mama knows best. That Julian will only break my baby’s heart. She’s only 26. She can find someone else.”

Daddy peeked at me in the mirror and offered a look of condolence. Sometimes I felt like he was my only ally between my parents. We had an understanding. I stay in school and he pays my bills, calls me once a week at 8 a.m. on Tuesday just before his preferred tee time at our country club in Westchester, and when I need him, when I really need him, he’s there to listen.

Sitting in my car en route to the breakup party, I couldn’t get my mother’s words out of my head. “You babbling bourgeois baboon. You babbling bourgeois baboon. You babbling bourgeois baboon” was playing in my mother’s voice over and over. I was about to scream when my phone rang.

It was Tasha.

“I’m parking the damn car,” I hollered into the phone as I pulled into the parking lot down the street from Justin’s. It was the third time she’d called to make sure I was coming since I left my apartment.

“Well, get your ass in here, hoe,” Tasha said on the other end. I could hear Tamia in the background giggling.

“Time to party,” Tamia said.

Though my heart was in pain, I had to laugh at my girls. Ever since I met them they’ve always been down for a good party, and always down for me. When you mix a good party and me…well, there’s usually a fight over when to open the champagne.

I met Tamia my sophomore year. I was sitting in my first informational for what would soon become my sorority when Tamia walked in decked out in the cutest crimson cashmere sweater I’d ever seen—hands down. I smiled at her, thinking that any sorority with members who dressed so cute must be the one for me. That was right around when Tamia came and sat down next to me. This action, of course, confused me because the big sisters (who were all wearing crimson) were sitting on the other side of the room. As my mother instructed me to do during our morning telephone chat before I went to the event, I wore tan, so as not to “offend anyone by wearing aggressive colors.” Crimson was aggressive; crimson was their color. It was definitely a no-no to wear their color. I left all of my crimson attire at home in New York when I departed for school.

“I can’t wait to pledge Crimson and Cream,” Tamia said, snuggling into her seat. “My name is Tamia. Tamia Dinkins,” she added, reaching out to shake my hand. I wanted to look away and pretend I didn’t see her, but everyone was watching. Though I didn’t want to ruin my chances of pledging, I shook her hand anyway. And I’m so glad I did. Tamia turned out to be a sorority shoo-in. Not only was she directly related to the first black mayor of New York, David Dinkins, but she also had a 4.0 and her deceased mother, who died of a rare heart illness when Tamia was three, once was a member of the chapter.

Tamia Dinkins, after a little grooming, ended up pledging with me and following in her mother’s footsteps by being the next chapter president.

Soon after we graduated, she moved to New York with me to go to law school at NYU.

Tasha, who will curse out anyone who calls her by her birth name, Natasha, is a different story. Though I met her at Howard, I’m still trying to figure out how she got there, and how in the hell she managed to graduate. Tasha was a West Coast escapee who ran away from home when she was in high school. Okay, that sounds dramatic, but it’s Tasha. She did “escape” from L.A., but it was from a Beverly Hills mansion with an American Express card and a BMW in tow. Her mother, Porsche St. Simon, is a black soap opera star who raised what Tamia and I call a “Hollywood brat.” Tasha spent most of her childhood getting to know nanny after nanny after nanny. She got to wear cool clothes, drive nice cars before she was of legal age, hang on the beach, and eat fine food, all of which she despised—along with Porsche St. Simon for giving it to her.

“It’s all so fake. They’re all so fake there,” Tasha explained to me in the lobby of our dorm one evening. She revealed that one morning she got in her mother’s BMW and drove until she couldn’t anymore. Alone and seventeen, she found herself at her grandmother’s house in Washington, D.C., which is only a few blocks away from the university. Somehow her grandmother, talked her into using her AmEx card for good and not for evil and she enrolled at Howard the next semester. While it’s rumored that some strings were pulled by her grandmother, who had a lot of money wrapped up in the school, I can confirm that Tasha did go to class (at least the ones she had with me) and she did buy the books (even though they never really left the bags from the bookstore). If Tamia was the brains of our little threesome, Tasha was certainly the brick house beauty. Porshe St. Simon’s beauty queen/ soap opera starlet genes led to Tasha having a bodacious body that left grown men salivating whenever she passed them by. She had one of those hourglass shapes that demanded attention even when she was wearing a sweat suit and sneakers. Her buttery sand colored skin never revealed the markings of one popped pimple and her smoky brown eyes were mysterious.

Somehow the class diva who refused to pledge with Tamia and me made it through all four years and when we said we were heading to my hometown for law school, Tasha said she was coming too. While Tasha found little work with her Communications degree, she did manage to find a fine catch of a husband. Tasha’s eye-catching curves caught the attention of her new groom, New York Knicks starting player Lionel Laroche.

As a friend, I’d say Tasha evens Tamia and me out. She knows how to have a good time and if you need to curse someone out, she’s your girl.

Love them or leave them, those were my two best friends. We’ve been joined at the hip since our days at Howard when everyone on the yard knew of the 3Ts. We were notorious. Together, we raised hell all over Washington, D.C. From frat parties to road trips, we had a ball. Tasha still can’t operate a vehicle in Washington, D.C. over some stunt we pulled our senior year.

After taking the ticket from the parking lot attendee, I reached into my purse to pull out Julian’s picture for one last look before I said goodbye and delivered it to the ladies for shredding. I decided to offer up my favorite picture of us at Tasha and Lionel’s last New Year’s Eve party. Julian looked so adorable in the black and gray suit we picked out together to match my sexy black dress that would do Halle Berry proud. He was intoxicated by the time Tasha took the picture of us standing by the bar, so his face was a little red. “Smile for our picture, Mrs. Julian James,” he whispered to me. Needless to say, that got my juices flowing and my ass is grinning from ear to ear in the picture, looking like I’d just won an Academy Award.

I shook my head and slipped the picture back into my purse. “I can’t believe this shit,” I said aloud. For one second I thought of turning the car back on and heading over to Julian’s place to talk about things. Then my phone rang. It was Tasha again.

“Get out of the damn car and walk into the restaurant,” she said. “You can’t turn back now.” The phone went dead. It was a 3T intervention. Tasha was right. I had to get moving. Talking to Julian would only make things worse and I was not about to play myself. Walking toward the restaurant, I took a self assuring deep breath and looked down at the sexy copper colored halter dress I decided to wear. I didn’t pick it because it looked more than fantastic on me—although it did. I chose it because the tight, yet forgiving fabric wrapped around me like a second layer of skin—a tougher, thicker layer I needed to make it through the evening. It was the perfect choice for the less than perfect occasion. It certainly didn’t look like a breakup party dress. It looked like a birthday party dress, and the way I saw it, if I was going to celebrate my new birth as a single woman, I may as well look good doing it.