Decadence (34 page)

“I was tripping when I found out. I couldn't tell you. Plus I was too busy dealing with it, dealing with Chris, his wife, my child, the court system. All of it left me with my hair falling out. I was stressed.”

“One phone call. I'm so disappointed right now.”

“I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I am truly sorry.”

“You were my sister. We used to talk about you being in my wedding. We used to talk about me being in yours, if you married.”

With a thin smile, she responded, “I didn't mean for it to go down like that. I was terrified when I was pregnant. I prayed that it was Eugene's baby. It is what it is now, Nia. But my son is here now.”

Her son appeared on the screen once more, sea-green eyes, and his copper skin the same hue as Chris's skin. Her child asked me who I was. With a kind smile I said that I was an old friend of his father.

He asked, “You know my daddy?”

I said that I had known his father long before he was born.

He said, “Can you please tell my daddy to call me?”

“Does he call you?”

“No, ma'am. But I want him to.”

“Has he ever called you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“For Christmas?”

“No, ma'am.”

“For your birthday?”

“No, ma'am. It would be cool if he picked me up on my birthday.”

“Does he send you presents?”

“No, ma'am. I want a football with his autograph on it.”

I almost choked up when he said that.

He didn't know his father, yet he worshipped the man.

He looked solemn, heartbroken, but soon he left the screen. M&M. Mona Marshall. Not until then did remorse cover her face.

We promised to keep in touch, knowing that we wouldn't, and we ended the Skype session. I would never contact her again, but as a gift I might send her son a football. Their illegitimate child was the innocent one. As I had been the innocent one once upon a time.

I would send Chris Eidos Alleyne, Junior, a football and a photo of his father from his glory days in college, a photo that had been given to me while we dated, the words
I love you
erased. All of those articles from days gone by. Maybe that was why I had kept them. Not for me. For that child. Soon, very soon, I would send him all of those as well.

The short French woman wore two coats of mascara,
a glossy nude, and a sweep of light pink blush. She reminded me of Jean Seberg. Her flailing arms and hands revealed her disgust as she said, “Their sex tape was stolen from her boyfriend's computer, so he claims. I would have kicked his ass. And after I had kicked his ass from Moscow to Germany and back, I would have killed him with my bare hands.”

“Should've called my office. I could still sue him. He'd settle.”

They closed their lockers and we made kind eye contact. The second woman looked a lot like Jackie Kennedy, even had the same pillbox-perfect look, only her features were dusky, her figure curvy. Jackie Kennedy's face on Kim Kardashian's body. Both were curvy and had entered with their figures drenched in designer blazer dresses. Jewelry sparkled on them as it did on every woman, as it did on me.

The judge was here. The sassy adjudicator was here wearing beautiful Louboutins and nothing else, her personality strong as usual.

She said, “Since the weekdays can't be laid off, I'm starting a petition to rename the days of the week . . . Moanday. Tongueday. Wetday. Thirstday. Freakday. Sexday. And Suckday. I would be in church all day on Suckday. I would attend all three services. And I'd become a Seventh Day Adventist on the side and even go to Bible study. I hear the black churches have the best Bible study meetings.”

The women laughed and many jokes were told.

The judge headed toward the main area. She waved and blew a kiss at me on the way out. Her name was Clara Parker. I waved at her and she moved through the dozens of vixens preparing for fun.

I had been standing at my locker staring at a folder that I had brought with me. I opened the folder. Browsed its contents. Then I closed the folder and put it back inside of my bag. I closed my locker. I regarded myself. A sheer pop of color on my cheekbones. A layer of nude gloss on my lips. I had been tempted to allow the makeup artists to add a few individual false lashes to enhance it all.

In English that carried the accent of France, the one who resembled Jackie said, “Good fucking.”

I stopped inspecting my face in the full-length mirror on my locker and said, “Good fucking.”

In the same powerful accent, her friend said, “Good fucking.”

“Good fucking.”

The one who had her hair nearly shorn, the one who resembled a very young Jean Seberg in the movie
Breathless
grinned, bit her bottom lip, and whispered, “You're yummy.”

“Thanks. You're looking yummy yourself.”

“Swapportunity?”

“I have made other arrangements. But thanks for the offer.”

They looked at the monitor, took in the video from x-art.com, then they left, nude, in high heels.

Once again doctors, lawyers, born-again capitalists, educators, politicians, members of the clergy, speakers of many languages, and pilots surrounded me. I was in the undressing area of Decadence.

Siobhán was there. She had been six feet away from me for the last fifteen minutes. We ended up being assigned adjacent lockers. Siobhán and her scent of strawberries was one locker away. Her skin was tanned. Her hair was voluminous, flowing in the style of Lana Turner. Her makeup was understated, shades of peach, copper, and light brown paired with hints of dusky pink gloss. She looked like a movie-star beach goddess with red lips. She undressed and prepared herself, ignored me, made me invisible. She lived in my periphery. Music played and women danced and lived in joy around us. Erotic videos played. Drinks were served. Expensive chocolates were being given out. Mrs. Alleyne and I ignored each other. Eventually I stared. Looked at her until she looked at me. She paused. Stopped all that she was doing. Her wedding ring lit up the room like the sun.

Her nostrils flared. She was tense. I took a calm breath. At least I tried, but I felt flames leaving my body when I exhaled.

I said, “Mrs. Alleyne, did you sleep in the same bed with me last night?”

She blinked a dozen times. “What? Did I sleep in the same bed?”

“It's a Southern expression.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“It's really silly of us to stand this close to each other and use this much energy pretending to ignore each other. We're adults. So I'm taking the high road. Good evening, Mrs. Alleyne.”

“Good evening, Miss Bijou. It is Miss Bijou, right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Christopher Alleyne. It's Miss Nia Simone Bijou.”

“You haven't married. I'd assumed that you had married.”

“No ring. No stretch marks. No cheating spouse.”

Her voice was the same, yet it was different. It was more mature. It was smarter. The way she said simple words told me a lot about her. She licked her lips. Touched her hair. Very self-conscious.

I stared at her without blinking. Stared until my eyes wanted to water. So much had changed because of her. And Chris. Because of him, because of the pain that he had brought into my life, I had made subsequent decisions to seek out a life that fulfilled my various needs. And it had been a wonderful life because I chose to make it that way, and I have had my needs fulfilled in ways I never would have imagined. Maybe I had unknowingly embarked on a very calculated and controlled approach to something that was supposed to be liberating. I had lost my balance in college. When you lost your balance, you fell. Not all falls were bad.

Siobhán cleared her throat and said, “Surprised to see you here.”

Russians and Germans were on the other side of her. Italians and Romanians were next to me. We were the only English-speaking women in the area. It felt as if we were the only women in the room. It felt as if we were the only women in the universe.

I grinned. “For me it's just a phase.”

“A phase.”

“I go through phases. I go on personal journeys. I'm still single. I have made no promises to God therefore I had made no lies. While I am young and capable I choose to experience things. Take on lovers and discard them when they no longer fit my mood. When a new season arrives, I let those things go. We all have to know when to let go.”

“Seems as if some of us take longer to let go than others.”

“Seems some still think that they are entitled to the world.”

Then the erotica on the monitors changed again. Provocative sex played on screens throughout the pristine edifice. A suntanned woman was celebrating her sexuality, sucking a young Jamaican boy.

Siobhán asked, “I want to ask you a question, need to ask you woman-to-woman.”

“That's pretty hard to do with only one woman in the room.”

“Okay. I'll accept that. You're bitter.”

“I'm not bitter. Not at all. From what I've heard, I'm very sweet.”

“You know what I mean, Bijou. The things you said to me and my husband while we were in Eros . . . bitter. They were rude, uncalled-for, and bitter. And since I had enough emotional maturity not to engage in such childish behavior, yeah, you're right, there is only one woman in this conversation.”

“It's a new day. Actually I want to congratulate you and wish you the best.”

“Did you sleep with Chris?”

“Did I sleep with my ex-boyfriend?”

“Were you with my husband?”

“Did he obey a particular commandment in the Sinner's Bible?”

“Did you sleep with my husband?”

She had called Chris her husband as if that were the most natural thing in the world. A reminder of who had won him. Inside of me lived the need to fulfill the desire for vengeance. I had to exist on this planet knowing that I was better than the bitch he had cheated on me with. And now, since my flavors had saturated the tongue of her husband, since he had entered me once again, the roles had changed. She was the fool. He had horned her with me. She was the deceived. I wanted to be able to scream
shah mat
, take that, bitch. Take that,
shah mat
,
shah mat
,
shah mat
,
shah mat
. But what happened at Decadence stayed at Decadence. Telling secrets was forbidden. The dark part of my psyche had achieved a Pyrrhic victory, the victory of an egotistical fool.

I said, “With Chris? After he slept with you and got my roommate pregnant? I guess that he had knocked up M and M before you. Or maybe he was juggling all three of us at once. He's an island man.”

No reaction came from her when I mentioned M&M and the baby.

She knew. Like M&M, like my former roommate, my former friend had said, Siobhán knew, had known for at least the last decade.

She said, “So you didn't sleep with Chris?”

I laughed at her like she was mad.

She wasn't amused.

I said, “Do me a favor. Stop blowing up my phone. It's irritating.”

“So that is your number.”

“Stop calling me.”

“Why does he have your number?”

“Draw your own conclusion. A very sweet conclusion.”

It felt like we were as we had been. That night in Chris's room. The fight on the football field. And the unforgettable hamburger fight. Almost being expelled and losing everything. Still, she had sent me on a new trajectory. Only now we were in high heels. Only now we were as naked as we were nude. But it felt like she was wearing jeans and Timberlands and had her hair in a ponytail. And it felt like I had on jeans and trainers and a Hampton Pirates sweatshirt.

Again her nostrils flared. She tensed.

My nostrils flared.

I was ready.

I was ready, willing, and able to fight in high heels.

Others came into the area, laughing, dancing.

They noted the tension between us.

They stared at us.

Then I walked away.

I had wanted to get in her face and scream, “You think your life is so perfect now but I can fuck him whenever I want. I'm happy where I am. I wouldn't want to be you. If I were with Chris, if I had been his wife, he would have you in the background. M and M. You know that she and Chris made a baby and you're fine with that? You have what you deserve and he has what he deserves. Fucking slut monkey.”

Anger, attitude, hate, it was all in my walk, in my body language, in my confidence. Those words never left my mouth. Not all thoughts should become words. I remembered my last fight with Siobhán. I heard the fading echoes from a Caribbean woman and a humanitarian screaming things as others held us to keep us from killing each other. My words had been rapid and emotional and my accent had been thick and only a Trini would understand a single thing that I had said. No one made out a word, but my body language had said it all.

I should have kept walking toward Eros.

But the dark side of Gemini made me turn around.

I said, “Fuck this shit.”

Heels clicking, neck hot, I went back to her.

I wanted to spit in her face.

I went back to her prepared to spew venom in her face.

•   •   •

What I saw made me pause,
made the light side of Gemini take control and slow me down. Siobhán was crying. She had sat down on a pink DECADENCE towel. Surrounded by foreign women, she was crying. In a crowded room she was alone. She looked up and saw me, then lowered her face and shook her head. I was the last person on this planet whom she wanted to see her looking weak. But it was too late. She cursed, tried to pull herself together, failed, looked embarrassed, and went back to crying. She put her face in her hands and cried like I had cried that day when I was in college. After Chris had thrown me out of his room, I had cried so hard. When Rigoberto had found me, I was broken down.

•   •   •

It was her turn now.
It was her turn to struggle to breathe as tears fell.

She was unhappy. She was miserable with her life. The Cinderella story always ended at the wedding. No one knew what Cinderella had to endure once she married the prince, the man all admired, the man all women desired. For a princess or a queen, every day there was a new battle. Once upon a time, I had been the queen.

Once upon a time, I had been her friend. Once upon a time I had trusted her.

And for me trust was a form of love.

When I had befriended her, I had told her my personal demons, had revealed my weaknesses.

She had been a false friend then.

I was too real to be anyone's false friend.

She said, “What do you want, Bijou? What the hell do you want?”

I watched her for a while. I was a Watcher. A Watcher of misery.

I returned to my locker. I opened it and took out the folder that I had been browsing. I handed the folder to her. She took it, opened it, saw dozens of photos of us from when we were in college, from when we were friends. Photos of me tutoring her. Of us partying at the apartments across the street from the college. Laughing, smiling, drinks in hand. M&M was there too. But most of the images were of her and me. The Trini girl with the Halle Berry haircut sitting with the cheerleader wearing a ponytail. I wanted Siobhán to remember what we had had. I wanted her to imagine what we could have had as friends.

She said, “That was the day I met you. I was so skinny back then.”

“You had on nice slacks, a blouse, and heels that day.”

“We met underneath the Emancipation Tree.”

“Emancipation Oak.”

“Right, Emancipation Oak. I remember waiting, standing there thinking about how nervous I was. You were the best tutor. Your reputation had intimidated me before I met you. I had expected you to show up in a business suit or something. I had changed clothes five or six times before I came to meet you. And went super early. I'll never forget. You had on jeans. You had the coolest walk. You were walking toward me and all of the male students were breaking their necks to see you. It was like Natalie Portman at the end of the movie
Closer
. It was like you had some power over all of the men on campus.”