Decadence (33 page)

“While I was married? I had plenty of chances to.”

“Did you?”

“No. How you make yuh bed is so yuh go lie.”

“Do you regret not cheating on him?”

“Sometimes. After it was done, sometimes I did regret being so committed to the marriage.”

“I'm glad you didn't.”

“Why?”

“You're my mother. There are rules a mother must follow. Lead by example.”

“Am I wrong for entertaining his desires now?”

“Do you desire him as well? Are you entertaining your own desires as well?”

“Yes.”

“It isn't wrong. Only if you don't desire him and you give yourself to him, then it is wrong.”

“The daughter becomes the teacher.”

“Not even close. It's just that the eye can't see itself.”

“Much easier to judge others than to see your own faults.”

“You have to explore to see what fits you, and when that coat no longer suits the weather of your mood, shed it, or take on a different coat, one that warms the new mood. Sometimes others see us as we are not, and make expectations or demands based on that perception coupled with their own needs. You don't have to live up to their expectations, for their expectations are simply that, their expectations.”

“My daughter, my daughter.”

“So enjoy it. Go after whatever makes you happy. Seek what makes you smile. You decide if it is right or wrong. Don't ask if I agree. Dad is here. Don't ask me if I want him here.”

“You sure?”

“You're smiling. I'm sure. I rarely see you in high spirits. Rarely see you unperturbed, not rushing, not in the middle of a call or in the middle of a major deal. Never relaxed. I'm very sure.”

When I had come back from the W, after Prada had abandoned me in his rented bed, my stepfather had arrived here that same afternoon. With his luggage. He came in. I smiled and kissed him. Went to the game room and shot pool with him. Friends, celebrities, people who Mom considered her inner circle came over later that day and Mom turned on the popcorn machine and played the film again in the media room. Dad was there. I didn't ask questions. I loved her. I loved him.

I was starting to think that everyone had someone who could show up, married or not, if you're married or not, and take you back to a dark place, a place that was still hot, a place where unrequited love lived, a place of heat and remorse, a person who could irritate and ignite you, bring you back to their sex.

But I didn't like it when we were a fractured family, dysfunctional, emotionally far apart.

During the night, Dad slept in one part of the house and my mother slept in another. When my internal clock brought me restlessness and made me walk the hallways during the hours of writers, the hours when the world was at rest and our brains had clarity, wearing oversize sweats and a sweatshirt and big heavy socks, all that and a housecoat, I would go sit in the kitchen, on my computer, writing, thinking, missing Prada during one moment, thinking about Bret the other, and knowing that my stepfather wasn't in his room. He wasn't in the guest bedroom. I knew because he had left his door wide-open.

The door to my mother's bedroom was closed, a DO
NOT
DISTURB
sign on the knob. It was as if they were in their own little Decadence, their own alcove with the curtains drawn. I knew the rules.

Loneliness was a bitch that taunted us all, especially after dark.

The same might happen tomorrow night. Then he would be gone back to Paris. And my mother would return to being one of those who ran Hollywood. They were adults. They had done adult things together. Things they would never admit. They had done things that a daughter should never know her mother had done.

Mothers were women who used to be little girls in pigtails.

A woman needed what a woman needed. And my mother was an amazing woman. So she deserved all things amazing. But even the amazing carried disappointment and pain.

My mother said, “The Production Company.”

“What about it?”

“They accepted your original.”

“My original offer? They rejected my original offer.”

“You won. I reminded them of a few things. You won.”

I smiled and felt the shadow of nepotism cover my existence.

My mother said, “We can go over it again tomorrow.”

“How did the price go up in my favor?”

My mother grinned. She ran Hollywood. She made shit happen.

It felt good to win at something. It felt damn good. My occupation had never betrayed me.

My stepfather stopped breaststroking and treaded water.

He called out to me, “Nia Simone.”

“Nope. Not gonna happen. I'm not getting in.”

He swam closer and splashed water on me. “Nia Simone.”

“Dad, seriously? Do I look like I came out here to swim? Let me be a girl for a moment.”

“Swim with me.”

“Dad.”

“Daughter.”

“Mommy?”

“That is between you and Francois Henri. And stop splashing water on me.”

He laughed and splashed water. “Nia.”

Dad was a typical man. What he saw in front of him were two women in bikinis, not women in high heels, not two Caribbean women basking in the sun, not mother and daughter bonding.

He splashed water and when he wet my shoes I yelled at him in French. He laughed and splashed more water.

I gave in and pulled my heels off, then put my sunglasses to the side. My mother's cellular rang and she took a call. Her expression changed. It was a personal call. It was a man. I smiled at her and winked. After I sipped the last of my tea I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and jogged toward the pool and did a cannonball. The cool water shocked my system when I landed next to the man who was the only father I had ever known. Not the best. Not the worst. He swam away from me and I chased him, caught him, and pulled his legs. We yelled back and forth in French as we played and had a water fight. The man swam like a fish. Then we swam from end to end of the Olympic-size pool. Soon my mother had ended her call and taken off her heels, pulled her hair back, and jumped into the pool.

The memories of the divorce lived within me. It had been difficult. It had been horrific. It had changed my mother. It had changed me. Now we all pretended that we were able to turn back the hands of time. We pretended that we were able to undo what had been done. Right now it felt good. Right now it didn't hurt. Right now we basked in an ersatz pleasure. We weren't stupid. We knew that fragile eggshells covered the well-manicured ground on which we walked.

For now we behaved as a functional family.

Like we used to do years ago.

Before innocence was lost.

•   •   •

When we entered our humble abode
my cellular illuminated as it had illuminated nonstop since sunrise. The glow was beyond irritating, but I wasn't concerned. Not here. I was in a fully gated home, one fenced for privacy and security. I was in an area that was guarded and patrolled by the Beverly Hills Police Department. No one could simply walk onto the property, ring the bell, and spit in my face. After I had showered, the perpetual glow continued, my cellular a beacon for madness.

As I dried my hair, my cellular glowed; the name CHRIS
EIDOS
ALLEYNE
lit up the display again.

While Mom and I wore battered Old Navy sweatpants and moved around the kitchen talking and arguing over recipes and cooking big pots of pelau, while my stepfather returned wearing sweats and began making sure we had what we needed for more than three dozen salads, Chris's phone number stayed alive on the display of my phone. In the evening we hosted more than thirty people and we played the film again for celebrities and people in the business and neighbors and people who had preferred to avoid the crowd at the theater. Everyone was Hollywood casual, meaning that they wore trendy clothing and sexy boots and Eddie Borgo bracelets and Elizabeth Knight earrings and Tory Burch boots or Zara heels and Linda Farrow eyeglasses and Chloé sweaters and carried Diane von Furstenberg handbags. I wore a USC baseball cap, runner's watch, wrinkled dungarees, and a sweatshirt emblazed with the phrase
TEAM
KRISTEN
FOR
LIFE. Tuna puffs, chicken puffs, cheese puffs, sausage rolls, croissants, currant rolls, cakes, accra, tamarind sauce, pastries, and dips and chips, paper plates and plastic cutlery were all laid out on a long table buffet-style. Deals were being made. In Hollywood every day was a day of business and no one wanted to miss an opportunity. I wasn't comfortable in that environment, in that world where once you were no longer lauded you were no longer well regarded, but I endured, I smiled, I laughed, I danced. Afterward we played the movie
Sparkle
. Then my mother and I pulled long colorful socks over our arms and danced for our friends, danced and lip-synced songs from the movie; this was our compartment of familial love. And almost everyone took a turn at karaoke. It was Hollywood and everyone was infected with either the blood of Watchers or Doers. All night, my cellular glowed. She was determined to make my phone ring from the age of Pisces into the Age of Aquarius. Siobhán. Chris's wife. That humanitarian bitch was crossing another line.

Prada sent me a text.
His message arrived exactly at midnight, the start of a new day, as I boarded a Boeing 757 on Delta flight 1254, my red-eye flight for Atlanta. The flight was due to leave at five of midnight, but it was running behind. Except for that I would not have seen the message until I was on the other side of the United States of America. I had boarded coach with the third grouping of weary travelers toting books and computers and iPads, passengers who wore large winter coats and hauled too much luggage, as we all carried too much baggage. I had just stored my hand luggage, squeezed my frame into my designated compartment, stored my backpack underneath the seat in front of me, exhaled, sat down and buckled up and made myself comfortable at my window seat when my iPhone vibrated.

YOU'RE AN IMPOSSIBLE WOMAN. A DEMANDING WOMAN.

HEAR THIS; A MAN DOES NOT WANT TO BE CHALLENGED IN ALL ARENAS. WORK IS HARD. LOVE SHOULD COME EASY. I KNOW THAT MANY ARE RAISED TO BELIEVE THAT LOVE SHOULD BE DIFFICULT. I DISAGREE, NIA SIMONE. THE THINGS THAT LIFE BRINGS WILL ALWAYS BE UNPREDICTABLE AND TAXING, BUT I DO NOT WANT LOVE TO BE THAT WAY. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. THAT SHOULD BE ENOUGH. THE PROOF IS IN MY ACTION. WITH THE ONE THAT I LOVE I WANT COMFORT AND I WANT TO GIVE HER COMFORT. I DON'T WANT TO SPEND EVERY DAY WONDERING IF I AM NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER NOR DO I WANT TO WONDER IF SHE WILL BE WAITING FOR ME ONCE I RETURN HOME FROM ONE OF MY MANY BUSINESS TRIPS.

And he ended the text with three words; three simple, powerful words.

ALL THE BEST.

I felt the lump in my throat. I took curt breaths to calm that globus sensation. Throat tight, face warm, I eased on my Jackie O shades and stared out from my seat in coach over the wing of the airplane, stared into the darkness, my pointer finger on the tip of my lip, touching my teeth as tears fell from my face in silence. A moment ago I was famished and couldn't wait to sit and nibble from the bag of trail mix that I had bought, but now I had no appetite. There was a fashion magazine in my lap, one that had Anya Ayoung-Chee's exotic Trini face on the cover. My right leg bounced. I turned my trembling body away from the world. As someone sat in the seat next to me, I battled, pretended that I was occupied getting something out of my purse. Swallowed emotion. Didn't want to cry. Lost the fight. The light side of Gemini mourned. As did the dark side. Many tears fell on Anya's face, on her eyes. She smiled up at me as if to say
Trini women we warriors
. I nodded. Loved Anya. Supported her. Always would. I'd slap anyone who spoke her name with a frown. But for now, as cabin doors were locked, as phones were shut off, as the plane rolled and took to the sky, the storm inside of my head made a hard rain fall from my eyes.

On Facebook he had changed his relationship status to single.

That did hurt. Iz a Trini. I strong. But I still woman. I still woman.

By the time my flight landed at seven in the morning, East Coast time, when I powered up my phone to send him a long thought-out message, he had both
defriended
me and blocked me.

Then I would send my thought-out message to someone who cared. I would send it to myself. I would send it to the explicit pages of
Abnormal Desires
, by Anonymous.

If only I had been a simpler woman, a woman who didn't act in her own self-interest, a woman who didn't think for herself, a woman who was not a threat to morality, a woman who didn't reach her own conclusions, a woman not afraid to take chances and walk the unbeaten path of enlightenment.

If only Prada had been a twin. Or was laissez-faire and had a liberal brother as handsome as he, as capable in bed as he, both willing to engage in adelphogamy, having the desire to share beautiful wives.

If only he had been more.

If only I had been less.

If.

If.

The shortest word with the longest meaning.

If.

M&M accepted my request for friendship on Facebook.
My college roommate. It had been years. It had been too many seasons. I sent her my number and asked her to call me so that we could catch up.

“Nia Simone, it's Mona Marshall from back-in-the-day at Hampton.”

“M and M, how have you been?”

She paused, then she laughed. “God, no one has called me that silly nickname in years.”

“It took you forever to accept my friend request.”

“I was so surprised when I saw that you had sent me one.”

I asked, “Are you on Skype? Would be great to see your face.”

She paused again, sounded a little nervous when she said, “I need to get my headset.”

She told me how to search and find her. I was excited. Crazy with joy. It had been too many years. I was ready to see my former roommate, the Shakespeare-loving chemistry major, the rebel who wore natural hair and chastised all who didn't. Within five minutes, I buzzed her from my iPad and we smiled at each other from our computers. She saw me and laughed and smiled. I did the same. I was on my disheveled bed. She was in a modest kitchen; pictures of MLK, Obama, and Jesus adorned the bright yellow walls. I think that she was in the same home she had grown up in as a child. I was surprised to see that she had a lot of hair. It was long and massive. Her face, she wore a lot of makeup as well. The biggest surprise was that the woman I remembered with natural hair now had extensions down to her waist.

She said, “Look at your face. Your hair is long. I'll bet that you are so thin now.”

“You're looking great.”

She touched her voluminous mane. “Oh, please. I have put on so much weight since college.”

“It's not showing.”

“I gain all of my weight in my butt.”

“Me too.”

“Not like I do. Fried chicken and barbecue ribs and corn bread ain't no joke. And I'm about to have another baby. I'm three months, so I'm about to get real big in a minute, like I did the last time.”

“I am so, so happy for you. Are you married now?”

“We're engaged. My husband-to-be is Italian. I met him at Verizon. He's a manager. Over the years I have expanded my options.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Hope this one will be a girl. If not I'll have to try again in a couple of years.”

“Where are you living?”

“I'm in Kentucky.”

“Still in Lexington?”

“I was in Topeka, Kansas, for a while, then I moved to Arkansas, was in Houston and Missouri City, Texas, and Wewoka, Oklahoma, even slept on a few sofas up in DC, but I ended up coming back here to Lexington. I sell hair now. Virgin hair. Mongolian hair. Malaysian. Brazilian. Indian. Burmese. Indonesian. Custom lace weaves. Frontals. Yaky. Mink. Kinky. Silky. I told my new boyfriend that every day I wake up saying hallelujah and I thank the Lord that black women have been brainwashed and love to look like Barbie because it is keeping the lights on and the bills paid. And I can do most of my business online with PayPal. Business is booming. Hair sells faster than crack.”

I didn't ask her about college, if she had ever made it back. That was obvious. She had changed a lot. She was no longer the forward-thinking girl who wore shorts and a T-shirt and turned heads when she walked by Ogden Circle. The Omegas were now dancing around someone else, were wagging their tongues for women a few years younger. She said a few things to her son. He was off camera making a lot of noise. The tone of her voice, her temperament had changed. She had evolved. She was a mother now. She was in the next season of her life. And she had made sacrifices. I smiled, happy for her.

In a mild tone of envy I asked, “So how do you like being a mommy?”

“What do you mean?”

“How is your son? I'll bet that he's a big football player like his father.”

“Junior is fine.” Her grin went away and her tone darkened. “You're calling me because of him?”

Her new tense expression startled me. She read the confused expression on my face.

I said, “That's . . . what was his name . . . the football player . . . that night at the dorm? The night we were . . . you know . . . all together.”

“Eugene Williams?”

“Yeah. That's his baby?”

I said this not knowing if she had indeed had that baby, or if she had terminated and now the son she had was the son of some other man. I tried to remain politically correct.

She said, “You don't know, do you?”

“Know what?”

She called her son to the screen. I had expected that he had had a problem, maybe ADHD, or was autistic, or that he had Down syndrome. I prepared words of compassion and encouragement.

When I saw her child I had a familiar reaction. One that I had had not long ago, one that had stopped my heart when I had ripped open a box and stared into the eyes of an old love. The child had stunning eyes. He had a beautiful smile; his sea-green eyes bored into mine. His hair was in dreadlocks. He was a normal little boy. He waved at me. Sea-green eyes. That was all I saw. Blood drained from my face. My mouth opened wide. I didn't blink. He waved again. I waved at him.

Then he left the screen.

My old college roommate and I sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Her expression was apologetic, but she didn't cry. Maybe all of the weeping, sobbing, wailing, repenting, whimpering, and bawling had happened long before this call, long before her child had walked or talked. All she offered me now was a simple shrug.

Mona moved her long extension from her face and said, “Nia. I'm so sorry that you have to find out this way.”

It took me a long moment, but I asked, “What is your child's name?”

“At first I named him Eugene Anthony Williams, Junior.”

“You said at first.”

“It turned out that Eugene Williams wasn't my son's father.”

“Okay.”

“Christopher. I changed the name on the birth certificate, named my son Christopher.”

“Who is his father?”

“Chris is his father.”

I paused. “Chris Brown, Chris Tucker, Chris Rock, Kris Kringle?”

She took a breath. “It turned out that Chris from Hampton was his father.”

“My Chris?”

“Your Chris.”

“Chris Eidos Alleyne is the father of your child.”

My heartbeat muffled all words for a moment. There was a mercurial change in my attitude.

She took a breath. “Junior is his son. Christopher Eidos Alleyne, Junior.”

Stunned, I repeated, “Chris Eidos Alleyne, Junior.”

“The firstborn son should have the father's name.”

“You and Chris hooked up? While we were roommates?”

“He had come to the room once, looking for you. You weren't there.”

“You and Chris. In our dorm room.”

“It was stupid.”

“You and Chris Eidos Alleyne.”

“I thought that you had found out a long time ago.”

“Had no idea. No idea at all. This was a random call.”

She said, “He came to the room and asked me what to get you for your next birthday. I told him books. Books were always a good present for you. You loved literature. I made him a long list.”

“Plath. Rand. D. H. Lawrence. Henry Miller. Anaïs Nin.”

“Yeah. I gave him specific titles to get. I knew what you liked and what you wanted.”

I asked, “Were you with him on my bed?”

“We were on the floor. Ended up on the floor. I think we started off dancing to a song. Then we put a wet towel down at the bottom of the door and smoked a joint. Got high. The radio was on. ‘Atomic Dog' or something. He came up behind me moving his hips and . . . teasing each other. Passing the joint. Blowing me a shotgun and putting his lips on mine. We ended up kissing. Then we were on the floor. It happened so fast. Then he left. I went to the shower and when I came back in the room, you were sitting on your bed, had earphones on, and were deep into doing your homework. If you had come back ten or fifteen minutes earlier . . . I jumped out of my skin when I saw you on the bed.”

After the shock died down, I straightened my back, leaned away from my screen, and in a voice made for meetings and interviews with strangers I calmly said, “You and Chris made a handsome son.”

“My son is my world now. He's a handful, but I wouldn't trade him for the world. He's definitely going to be a lady-killer.”

“Glad you're happy and living such a blessed and prosperous life.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It is what it is. Everything happens for a reason.”

“No matter how he got here, my son is my blessing.”

“That's good.”

“How have things been for you since college?”

“A struggle.”

“I heard that things blew up between you and Siobhán.”

“Several times. I was almost kicked out, but they worked it out.”

“What kind of work are you doing? Schoolteacher?”

“Small assignments for a publishing company in New York.”

“Like that little side gig you had in college?”

“Yeah. Nothing has changed. Same hustle.”

“You know, hate to say this, but Chris had told me that he didn't think that you would ever amount to much. He thought that you were lazy and when he went to the pros you would be an unsuccessful writer. Writers end up being schoolteachers or living off their husbands and family, he had said that. Said you were used to living off your mother's money, then would try to live off his.”

“I was on scholarship, just like he was on scholarship.”

“Just repeating what he said . . . right before we had hooked up.”

“From the man who never made it to the pros. Best he did was college ball.”

“He lives off his wife now. Her inheritance.”

“Her parents died?”

“They were in some country and they were kidnapped and killed by some dissidents. I guess that it was kind of like the embassy over in Libya only they were in Afghanistan. Wait. Might have been in Bolivia. Not exactly sure where they were. But the rebels killed everybody. That was a while ago. They marched them all out of the place and took them up in some remote area, lined them up, shot them all.”

“Wow. Sorry to hear that. But you said Chris saw me as a slacker?”

“He did. He thought that you were needy too.”

“Wow. Me? Needy?”

“Exactly. But when he met Siobhán he thought that she walked on water and that she was going to change the world. I don't talk to him anymore. Not since we ended up in court in Miami and forced him to do paternity testing. He sends money, but I don't talk to him. Don't want to talk to them and as long as the check gets here every month I won't bother trying to talk to them. Have no idea how they're doing.”

“So, Chris assumed that I was going to be a failure.”

“Just like he had assumed that he would be the next Jerry Rice.”

“Shit. Then why was he with me?”

“You had no idea?”

“I wish that you had told me. I wish that you had told me years ago. You had a baby with him. None of this bothered you at all?”

“I prayed on it.”

“Well, God never whispered it in my ears. When you do somebody wrong, sometimes you need to pick up a phone.”

“Well, by the time that I found out, you weren't with him.”

“It still mattered. He was my boyfriend while you were with him.”

Swimming in awkwardness, while I maintained composure and yielded a smile as fake as her hair, I regarded the time on my phone. I gave Mona ten minutes of cordial conversation. Six hundred seconds. Long enough where I wouldn't seem rude. That would be enough flagellation. I tried not to react to being hit in the head with a brick. But I knew that it showed. My body language had changed, and my voice.

She said, “Life never turns out the way we have it planned inside of our heads.”

“Rarely does it. It rarely does.”

“But it's great to hear from you.”

Struggling, I responded, “Great to see you too.”

“It's like a load has been lifted from my soul. Praise the Lord.”

Despite being horned by my former roommate, I said a few polite things to her, asked her for her mailing address, for my records, and then I wished her well, wished both her and her son well.

“Nia Simone Bijou, since I have your ear, if you know anyone who needs some hair, send them my way. Virgin hair. Mongolian hair. Malaysian. I have it all and I have the best anyone can find. Like my page on Facebook and look for me on LinkedIn and you can follow my updates on Twitter. I'll be in Atlanta in September for the For Sisters Only showcase. I'll have a booth there. We should connect.”

“Seriously? I find out you have a baby by my ex and you ask me to send you customers? What kind of stupid bitch do you think I am?”

Again another awkward moment inserted itself. Denial had weight. She was in denial, or simply had thought that what had happened between her and Chris back then shouldn't matter to me now. She had processed it for years. It was new to me. I regretted this call.

I said, “How could you sleep with him and smile in my face?”

“I tried to say no. He was the most important man on campus.”

“The risk. The adrenaline. And he wanted to test you.”

“I had no idea that he was attracted to me like that.”

“You were attracted to him.”

“I wasn't attracted to him at all.”

“He was the most desired man on campus. Hands down, you had the nicest ass on campus. Not the biggest. The nicest. Five feet tall, very nice shape, intelligent, funny, energetic, Afro-centric, a DJ, a dancer, a chemistry major, a writer for the newspaper, a role model, a renaissance woman. What man could say no to you? And it had to be exciting. Opening your legs for the man of all men. Making love to your roommate's boyfriend, then sleeping in the same room. You had him in our room. Then smiled at me knowing that you had just had Chris. I wish . . . I wish that you had reached out and told me.”