Every Woman's Dream (18 page)

“I am not naïve or gullible. I meet these men in very public and crowded places. Before we get too comfortable, and certainly before we check in to a room, I ask to see his business card and ID. I show them my ID, too, because I could be a criminal myself, for all they know.”

“So what? What if one goes off the deep end and comes to your house?”

“Pffft! They don't know where I live. I always cover the address with my finger when I show them my ID. Where they work is listed on their business cards, but other than the city and state, I don't know where any of them live either. These men are my friends and I consider my relationships with them as a ‘friends with benefits' arrangement. You should use your computer for something other than games and Googling for coupons and other mundane shit!”

“You're a grown woman and I can't tell you how to live your life.” Lola's voice and demeanor had softened. But I knew she didn't approve of my new activity. “I just don't want to see you get in a mess of trouble with a man.”

“Lola, I'm already ‘in a mess of trouble with a man,' and his name is Reed Riley. I am going to leave him soon because I can't go on like this. I have to do what's good for me. I had never been as sexually frustrated in my life as I was before I went looking for love on the Internet. It didn't take long for me to find out that there are a lot of men out there who are just as frustrated with their mates as I am with mine. Well, those men want to be with me, and I want to be with them. I don't intend to keep doing it on the down-low. You know what a free spirit I am. I like to express myself, no matter what it is I'm doing. Shit.”

Lola let out a sigh, squeezed my hand, and gave me a sympathetic look. “You do what you have to do,” she said gently. “I may not like what you do, but I'll continue to watch your back and be there for you. Don't just think about what's good for you. Reed has feelings, so think about what's good for him too. The sooner you let him go so he can move on with his life, the better for both of you. I just hope he doesn't take it too hard. That man loves the ground you walk on. I know he is a major pain in your ass, but I still like him. For his sake and mine, let him down gently.”

“I will,” I vowed. “Reed is a rational man. If I handle the breakup right, he'll politely go his way and I'll go mine. And for our son's sake, he and I can remain friends.”

Chapter 29

Lola

T
HINGS HAD CHANGED A LITTLE
BETWEEN
B
ERTHA AND ME OVER THE
years, but not much for the better. She had become even more dependent on me. Most of her close friends had either passed or moved away. Maxine Sweeny, one of her bingo-playing buddies, had a massive stroke two months ago that left her totally disabled. Her forty-five-year-old divorced son, Douglas, who made Libby and Marshall look like Mother Teresa and Gandhi, promptly dumped her into a nursing home and practically forgot about her. He never visited or called to see how she was doing. She died three weeks later. Bertha was so devastated she didn't eat or sleep for two days. Four days before her stroke, Maxine had warned Bertha that women like them were doomed and would end up getting “tossed out like the garbage” sooner or later. Now more than ever, Bertha was afraid she'd end up like Maxine.

“I just know my kids are going to put me in a home someday,” she'd wail several times in the same conversation on a regular basis.

I promised her that I would do everything within my power to make sure that didn't happen. I assured her that if her kids put her in a nursing home, I would visit her two or three times a week. That always pleased her for a few days. Then she would resume her usual behavior: meddling in my relationships and acting like she couldn't go on without my assistance.

The more Bertha leaned on me, the more creative I got as far as my love life was concerned. Each time I met a man I liked enough to consider having a serious relationship with, I put off letting Bertha know about him for as long as I could.

Libby had had her own phone with a separate number when she'd occupied the bedroom that I had now. To reduce the chances of Bertha answering a call from one of my men friends and spewing a bunch of nonsense, I had that line reactivated. I did it when she was at the beauty shop because I didn't want her to know about it. I turned the ringer off when I had to go out; and I turned it down so low when I was in my room, I was the only one who could hear it. Instead of a traditional answering machine, I had voice mail service through the phone company and a pin number was required to retrieve messages.

I didn't stop there. I came up with an even more brilliant ruse. I opened an independent account with the phone company where people could dial a number at a call center and leave recorded voice mail for me. Joan disguised her voice and left an outgoing message using the name “Liza Mae Ford,” a bogus handicapped friend I frequently “visited” at night when I wanted to be with a new man that I didn't want Bertha to know about. Each time I left the house and used the ruse, she called the number several times and left one convoluted message after another. It was usually something as ridiculous as a “suspicious man” walking back and forth in front of the house, or a “vicious stray dog” lurking around in the backyard.

I didn't like deceiving Bertha in such an elaborate manner, but I couldn't think of any other way that I could live a fairly normal life while I was still living under her roof. She bought the story about the invalid friend hook, line, and sinker. “That poor Liza Mae, confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Tsk, tsk, tsk. She's so blessed to have a friend like you who's willing to spend so much time with her. How long has she been paralyzed from the waist down?” Bertha asked as I stood in front of the full-length mirror behind my bedroom door, dressing to go out one night. She plopped down onto my bed, fanning her face with a rolled-up copy of
Ebony
magazine.

“Uh, since she got hit by that speeding car last year,” I replied, stepping into a pair of low-heeled black pumps.

“Hmmm. I'll bet the driver had been drinking.”

“Uh-huh. And it wasn't his first accident. He'll be in jail for a while.”

“And he should be! It's a damn shame poor Liza Mae has no family. It's a good thing she's got a couple of other friends and that home care nurse coming to see her when you can't be there. If I wasn't so close to disablement myself, I'd offer to go over there with you sometime to help that poor girl out. The Lord blessed me with sweet children, but I wish they were more like you. . . .”

Things had not changed much among me and Bertha's “sweet” children. I was pleased that Libby and Marshall still didn't come to the house that often when they knew I was home. If I answered the telephone when they called to talk to Bertha, they rarely said more than a few words to me.

Bertha had had a few serious health issues over the years, but nothing life-threatening or serious enough for her to consider a drastic change in her lifestyle. Several of the small group of women she still had relationships with had moved into a gated senior citizen apartment complex, like sixty-three-year-old Becky Roberts, who used to live across the street, had done. Another acquaintance, who had some heart problems, had moved into an assisted-living facility. No matter how hard I tried to encourage Bertha to consider doing the same, she balked and reminded me about what had happened to Maxine Sweeny.

“What's wrong with you, Lola? I thought you told me you'd do everything within your power to make sure I don't end up in a home. Did you already forget how poor Maxine died less than a month after her scoundrel of a son put her into one of those places? Your daddy, may he rest in peace until I join him, told you to your face that no matter what happened, don't you dump me into a nursing home. Did you forget about that too?”

We were in the living room that Wednesday evening watching
Wheel of Fortune.
My eyelids fluttered and my face got hot. “No, I didn't forget,” I whimpered. As soon as I said that, Bertha's eyes danced with delight.

“You can do whatever else you want to do—get married and have six kids and a dog—but you can't break the promise you made to your dying daddy, girl!”

“I won't,” I replied with a dramatic sigh. I gulped in some air and continued. “Daddy really put me in a spot, you know.” I had not wanted to add that last sentence, but by now I was sizzling with rage.

Bertha's jaw dropped. “You think your daddy put
you
in a spot? What about the spot he put me in? Do you think I would have married him if I'd known he was going to die so soon and leave me with a young child to raise after I'd already raised two other kids on my own? I'm in a bigger spot than you ever were! At least you're young and still in good health.”

There were days, like this particular one, when I got so agitated I wanted to pack up in the middle of the night and disappear. No matter how much I cared about Bertha and my commitment to her, the reality was that I was not only being played by her, but I was also being played by her children. She knew that as long as she had me under her thumb, she didn't have to worry about being on her own. Libby and Marshall knew that they didn't have to worry about her welfare, as long as I lived under her roof. Lately it had really begun to bother me in a way that was disturbing. Some days it bothered me more than others. When I was in a relationship with a man, it bothered me the most. When I was between lovers, and couldn't catch up with Joan or anybody else, I was almost glad I had Bertha to keep me from feeling lonesome. I'd never admit that to Joan. She would be appalled to hear such a declaration coming from me after all the complaining I'd done to her about Bertha. Just thinking about some of the things that Joan would say made my chest tighten.

After I had composed myself, I continued. “I am not talking about a nursing home. Becky Roberts lives in a two-bedroom unit in a senior citizen building that is very much like the same place she lived in for ten years with her son until he got married.”

“Uh-huh. And I bet she wishes she was still in that same apartment she lived in for ten years—with her son until he married that snooty woman who made him get rid of his own mama. Last week Becky slipped on a bar of soap in her shower in that old folks' home and couldn't get up. She laid there for eight hours before somebody found her.”

“I didn't know that.”

“You know it now. Just about anything can happen to a woman like me in the best of one of those homes!” The fear in Bertha's eyes made me shudder. “The patients are just bodies to the people who work in those homes. And when they're not neglecting and abusing them, they're raping the women—”

I held up my hand and cut her off. “Let's change the subject,” I said with another dramatic sigh. That look of fear was still in Bertha's eyes; so with a whole lot of hesitation on my part, I decided to say something I knew she wanted to hear. “You don't have to worry about something like that happening to you as long as I'm alive.” That statement, even though it was just a smoke screen, was one way to keep the peace for the time being.

Despite what I was feeling toward Bertha whenever we had these tense conversations, my plan was that when I did marry, I was going to leave her point-blank. I didn't think about the promise I had made to Daddy as frequently as I used to, unless she brought it up. The main thing that was keeping me with her now was the fact that I still couldn't afford a place on my own. I had purchased a four-year-old Jetta six months ago, which I still had two and a half years left to pay on. And I had almost maxed out four of my five credit cards. Before I moved anywhere, I needed to get out of debt.

Otherwise, I had a fairly happy life. I still worked at the grocery store and I had a social life that I was comfortable with. My love life was still somewhat sporadic, but I was fairly certain that I would eventually meet my soul mate.

A couple of weeks after Joan had told me about her online romances, I opened a Facebook account. I wanted to reconnect with some of the people I'd been friends with in the past. I had no interest in hooking up with an online lover—at least not yet.

During the next few days, I chatted back and forth with former classmates and a few ex-lovers. It didn't take long for me to get bored. Most of them were living lives duller than mine. I finally decided to try and locate Mariel Odom, my other mother's niece and one of my former best friends. If anybody was doing something interesting, it would be her.

It was not as easy as I thought it would be to locate Mariel. I had no way of knowing if she had a Facebook account. There were several other women in various cities with the same or a similar name. Finally one evening, around five o'clock, a week after I'd opened my account, I clicked on a “Mariel Odom-Porter,” who lived in Seattle. Her profile included the high school she had attended and the names of a few of her relatives, so I knew I had the right Mariel. I immediately sent her a friend request and twenty minutes later she accepted. When I responded, I included my e-mail address and she sent me a message right away, which included her home phone number. I logged off my computer and called her up immediately. She must have been sitting real close to the phone because she answered halfway through the first ring.

“Mariel, I am so happy to hear your voice after all these years!” I squealed. “I wondered what had happened to you. What have you been up to?”

“Well, a lot has happened to me since the last time I saw you. I have a perfect life—an awesome husband, two beautiful children, and a lovely home. I have a great career too. I teach fourth grade in one of the most prestigious schools in Seattle. What about you?”

Just hearing that Mariel was doing so well made my eyes water, not because I was jealous, but because I was happy for her. Especially the part about her teaching, a dream I still had. “Remember that grocery store a couple of blocks from where you used to live?” I replied.

“Yikes! You mean Cottright's, that dingy little place with the gummy floors, the jacked-up prices, and the moldy-looking meat?”

“Uh, yeah. . . .”

“Yuck! What about it? I hope the city has finally closed down that dump.”

“No, it's not closed down. I started working there as a cashier right after I graduated. It's not nearly as gloomy as it used to be.”

“Oh. Well, a girl like you can give a place like that some class.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “Anyway, when I get my vacation, maybe I can come visit you. I've always wanted to see Seattle.”

“I'd like that very much, Lola. We have so much more catching up to do. Since my grandmother passed, I don't visit South Bay City that often anymore. Hey! What's Joan been up to?”

“She's married to a very successful dentist. They have a son and they live in a gorgeous condo facing a lake.”

“A dentist? Humph! I wonder how a ghetto-fied sex addict like Joan landed a dentist. I'm sure he looks like that Shrek character in the movies. What else is wrong with him?”