Homecoming Weekend (31 page)

Barbara smiled. “See, this is the Carter I know and love. I don't know who that other person was.”

Carter pulled out his cell phone to check for calls, raising Barbara's awareness that there appeared to be someone else in Carter's life. He sensed it and quickly generated another conversation.

“So, Jimmy,” he said, “he had to put Regina in her place last night. Apparently, she pretty much threw herself at him.”

“Really?” Barbara said. “And he turned her down? That's surprising. I'm not saying anything about Jimmy. I'm just saying a
man has an opportunity to have sex and there is no way his wife will know about it—Regina is married and lives in another city—and he turns it down? That's not the norm. Plus, we used to spend a lot of time with them in college on double dates. They have a serious past. Why would he not do it? His wife would never know.”

“Because
he
would know,” Carter said. “Some of us—a very few of us—are built differently. We don't have to screw anything that is in front of us. I admit: There are only a handful of men who have those kinds of standards and those kinds of morals. This guy is one of them. I have known him since he was nineteen, maybe twenty.

“When he was with Regina, he had plenty of chances to cheat on her in college. I was with him when he was propositioned by, uh, shit, what's her name? She was the SGA vice president one year. From North Carolina.”

“Oh,” Barbara said, “we, the women, called her ‘Booty Girl' for obvious reasons. And we know it was real because they weren't even doing butt injections back then. Anyway, you're talking about Melissa.”

“Yes, Melissa. But I thought she was from Staten Island,” Carter said. “Anyway, when he was dating Regina and we were living off of Azalea Garden Road, I remember Melissa coming over the apartment. It was a Friday night and Regina went to a party at Hampton with her girls. I don't know how Melissa ended up at our place, but I opened the door and there she was. She liked to show off her body—and her booty. We weren't mad at her, either.”

“Yeah, I bet you weren't,” Barbara said.

Carter smiled. “Anyway, I was surprised to see her there,” he said. “Before I could even ask her anything, Jimmy came from the back and walked her in. I just stood there . . . ”

“Watching her butt, right?” Barbara cracked.

“Can't lie, yes. That girl had the best body—other than yours, of course—I have ever seen,” Carter said.

Barbara curled her lips and looked at him sideways. “Anyway,” he continued, “I stayed in the living room—hey, come to think of it, where were you that night? It was a Friday and we spent every Friday together. Who were you off seeing on the side?”

Barbara curled her lips again and looked at him sideways. “Anyway, a few hours later, they came from out the back. He walked her out, to her car. When he came back, I was like, ‘Dog, what's up?' He said, ‘Nothing. I couldn't do it. Good girl. Phat ass; oh, my God. I
did
squeeze it. I had to. And it felt like it looked—luscious. But I couldn't do that to Regina. I told her about Regina. And this girl said, ‘I know about you and Regina. I
know
Regina. I'm not trying to take you away from her. We're just here in the moment.' I don't know, man. I would have to look Regina in the eyes tomorrow. I don't want that on my conscience.' I said, ‘Dude, you're better than most.' ”

Barbara wondered about Carter. Was he “better than most”? As a woman, she knew Marlena calling him “baby” meant he had been intimate with her. Or they had built something that was headed that way. In a sense, she could not blame Carter; she was married and felt trapped, as if there was no way out. She even told him that because of the children, “I can't go anywhere.”

And the fact that he was having a once-a-year-affair with her meant that he was not above doing the unscrupulous, even if they declared their relationship special.

At the same time, Carter wondered about Barbara. Because she had declared she would stay in her marriage for the foreseeable future, what made her change? He wanted to know.

“I know we have to leave soon to get ready for the party, but I have to ask you something,” he said. Barbara braced herself. She
was not sure where Carter was about to go, but the set-up to the question made her tense.

“You told me more than once that you would not get a divorce because you had kids and you wanted to keep the family structure for them,” he said. “I don't think you were lying. I think you meant it, and you had your reasons for saying it. So what happened? Why now are you divorced?”

Barbara was prepared for that question. She had expected it sooner, much sooner, but Carter never got directly to it after she shocked him with the news.

“You might laugh at this because it's funny. Not comical funny, but ironic funny,” she said. “I found out that he was having an affair—a long, drawn-out affair. Here I was the one feeling guilty and upset about breaking our vows, and he was doing it, too, only longer and more elaborate.”

“Wow,” Carter said.

“Wow is right,” she went on. “We were married for almost nine years. He had been seeing this woman for seven years. They traveled together. He even had her in our house, probably in our bed. I was so shocked. I almost couldn't believe it. But when I started thinking about it, all the signs were right there.”

“How did you find out?” Carter asked.

“It was the eeriest of things,” she said. “We were home. The kids were asleep. It was a Thursday night. We were flipping channels and he stopped at
The Real Housewives of Atlanta
. I said, ‘Keep going. I cannot poison my brain with that nonsense.'

“He said, ‘Barb, you need to open your mind.' He'd never said anything like that to me before. I said, ‘Open my mind? That show is an affront to black people. It goes against everything our culture really, truly stands for.' He said, ‘Loosen up, woman. It's just entertainment.'

“You've got to understand: My ex-husband detests nonsense. For him to defend that show threw me off. Then he said, ‘Well, did you watch
Good Times
? That show was silly and an embarrassment.' Oh, I hit the roof. I said, ‘
Good Times
is an iconic show. It represented the times. It had two parents struggling to make it for their family. Each show had a moral lesson. Was J.J. a buffoon? Yes. But the show was a comedy. It was one of the few places where we could turn on the TV and see brown skin. And you're calling it an ‘embarrassment'? Who has gotten into your head?'

“He didn't say anything. So I said, ‘Who have you been watching that trash with?' He turned the TV off. He got off the couch and went over to the steps to make sure the kids were asleep. When he came back over, he put his head down and put his hand on my leg.

“Then, he said, ‘Barb, I'm sorry. You've been a good wife to me and a great mother. But . . . I have been seeing someone else.' I moved his hand off of my leg. I was totally, totally shocked. I did not see that coming. And then he gave me the details. He was painting at Jack London Square in Oakland, on the dock by the water one day when this young woman came by. She admired his work and they started to converse. Before long, they were going on dates and the affair began.

“She knew he was married and was okay with seeing him only when he was available, which, as it turned out, became more and more as time went on. So, when he traveled to Mountain View and San Jose—towns not far from where we lived—to paint, she would go with him. And when I went back home to Ohio with the kids, she spent the weekend with him at our house. He gave me so many details to where I just told him to stop. I had heard enough. Although I had been unfaithful to him with you, I was
still devastated. I was not going to leave him. I was going to stick it out because of the kids. But when I heard that, I knew I couldn't.”

Carter did not know what to say. “Damn,” he finally uttered. “I'm sorry. You've been through a lot. But you could have told me about this. You should have told me. Trust me, it would have saved me—saved us—a lot of drama.”

“The way my life has been, I figure you're going to run into drama as soon as you step out the front door,” she said. “It's just a matter of how much.”

Tranise, Mary and Charlene

W
hen the cannons erupted following the game, signifying the Spartans' victory, Tranise did not jump. This time, she was ready.

“I didn't watch much of the game,” she said, “but homecoming is a little better if we win. Now,
everyone
is in a great mood. I love it.”

Walking out of the stadium, she hugged Phyllis Simms, an NSU graduate whose book,
In the Name of Sisterhood
, was one of Tranise's favorites.

“I knew it was you as soon as I saw you,” Tranise said. “I really enjoyed your book. It reminded me of my friendships I made here at NSU.”

She posed for a photo with Phyllis. “We have some really talented authors from Norfolk State: Nathan McCall, China Ball, Regina Southall—those are three more I can think of off the top of my head,” Tranise said. “I'm so glad I got to meet you.”

Phyllis hugged her and they departed. Tranise was torn about what she should do that night. Another friend, Kayrn Shepard from Maryland, was encouraging her to step back in time and attend a party called “The Sweatbox.”

It was a concept a group of Norfolk State students had developed in the late 1980s at the old Student Union Building's ballroom. Students would pack the place and jam until they sweated out their
clothes. It was all about one thing: dancing. Dancing hard and long. It was not unlike The Garage in New York way back in the day, where party-goers would show up with a backpack full of a change of clothes. Then they would throw down until the sun came up.

“The Sweatbox is an experience,” Tranise said. “I don't think you ever went. They said it's down at the Crowne Plaza in Virginia Beach. Artie Jarrett, the Alpha, is hosting it. Three floors. Food on the lower level. You just pack a bag of clothes so you can change and get your groove on. They expect three hundred people there.”

“Well, I won't be three-oh-one,” Mary said. “I went to the salon on Thursday. You think I'm gonna undo what I paid ninety-dollars for in ten minutes of dancing like I'm some fool? Not gonna happen.”

“Ninety dollars?” Charlene said. They were walking down Presidential Parkway behind the band and a massive group of people.

“My hair is natural. A press and a trim is ninety. I got off the ‘creamy crack' two years ago,” Mary explained. “Relaxers serve a purpose; I ain't mad if you get one. But I got tired of them.”

“Well, you have a manageable grade of hair,” Tranise said. “Me? If I don't get a relaxer, I'll be looking real crazy right about now.”

“Your hair is fabulous,” Mary said. “You got it done in Atlanta?”

“I tried at least four, maybe five different salons down there until I found one that I love,” Tranise said. “It's called Like The River. Beautiful, professional, no waiting. And my stylist, Najah, is the owner; she's the bomb. In fact, her sister, Madinah, went to Norfolk State.

“But your point is well-taken. How I look sweating out my hair at a party? Shit, I don't even like to sweat at the gym.”

“The gym?” Charlene said. “If I set foot in a gym, I think the alarms would go off.”

“We're laughing, but you're my girl so I've got to keep it real with you,” Tranise said. “I'm really glad you said you are starting to watch what you eat. We have to be mindful of how much weight we put on now while we're still relatively young. We've got to make it a lifestyle choice. If we get it under control now, it will be the way we live and we'll be able to manage it. A lot of teachers in my school—or shoot, just look at some of our classmates—have blown up. It's not healthy. And it's easy to put on but very hard to get off.”

“You're not even as big as Jennifer Hudson was and look at her now,” Mary chimed in. “I want you to be healthy because here's the thing: We're not just talking about having a stroke or a heart attack and dying. Just as common are illnesses that come from weight problems. You don't want to be on medication all your life. I have a co-worker who is thirty-two years old and she's taking all kinds of pills every day—cholesterol, blood pressure, so on and so forth. It ain't cute, honey.”

“Damn,” Charlene said. “I was about to say let's go to the all-you-can-eat seafood place.”

Mary and Tranise punched her in either arm.

“No, I hear you and I appreciate you,” Charlene said. “Looking at you little cute bitches inspired me even more to do better. Seriously. I looked at both of you yesterday and I was like, ‘I've got to come down.'

“So, I'm giving up my butter pecan pint of ice cream three times a week before bed. I'm giving up my double-pattie burger and fries every Saturday. I'm giving up fast-food altogether.”

“That sounds like a lot, Charlene,” Tranise said. “Maybe you should be a little more gradual about it.”

“I don't know,” she said. “But I'm serious. This is how serious I am: After Tyrell and I finished our business last night, he passed
out as if someone took a hammer to his head. I got on my phone and looked up diet and healthy choices. I basically developed a strategy on how I'm gonna attack this.”

“Which is what?” Mary asked.

“Well, I will start my day with an apple for breakfast and oatmeal,” she said. “They are both great for you. For lunch I will eat fish, chicken or turkey and vegetables. For dinner I will have a salad with salmon or chicken and occasionally steak. But no white starches. No white bread or French fries or white rice. It said I could have dessert a few times a week, but I'm going to let fruit be my desserts. And I'm going to walk three or four times a week. This is the vow I made to myself this morning.