I Left My Back Door Open (18 page)

“I gave him that money with no strings attached,” I pointed out. “Sometimes, you have to see things from a child's perspective,” I insisted. “Once you said he had to put the dollar in church, it was the same as taking it away from him.”

Sarita folded her arms and tilted her head. “Okay, so I'm a rotten person because I suggested that Jason give the money to the Lord.”

“No, you meant well,” I assured her. “But, with all due respect, I think you should've taken Jason's feelings into account, that's all.”

Sarita sucked her teeth. “Being a parent isn't always about psychoanalyzing everything before you make a decision. My mother raised five kids, mostly by herself, and she made her mistakes, believe me. But none of us are in jail or on drugs or on the corner. And I've tried to not be as hard on my kids as she was on us, Lord knows I've tried.” Sarita sighed. “But I don't wanna throw the baby out with the bathwater. I didn't bring a child in this world to end up whupping me.”

I was startled and relieved to hear the doorbell. I knew instinctively that it was Jason, despite the timid ring. He usually laid on the bell. At least he'd come home. Better for him to have to deal with Sarita than some drug dealers.

“Let me get it,” I volunteered. “You need to take a deep breath and count to ten. Make that twenty,” I added, rushing toward the door.

I saw Jason's ice-cream-smeared face through the door's glass window. He was such a messy boy. I kept wondering when he'd get old enough to eat without getting food all over himself. When I took him out to lunch last year, I had to roll his sleeves up to his elbows first. He practically needed a bib.

Jason looked relieved to see me, with Sarita nowhere in sight.

I wondered what his strategy was. He must fear that Sarita was about to pounce on him at any moment. I even feared it. But, before I could say anything, Jason barreled past me. I assumed he was headed for his bedroom or perhaps to lock himself in the bathroom. But to my horror, Jason headed straight for the kitchen, toward Sarita. I followed him and watched as he wrapped his arms tightly around Sarita and pleaded, “Mama, I'm sorry! Mama, I'm sorry!”

Sarita grabbed her son's chin and said angrily, “Sorry didn't do it.”

I couldn't believe she'd fallen back on a line we used as kids. I was concerned that Jason's disarming strategy might backfire. But I couldn't help but admire his willingness to run into the arms of the enemy. The longer he held onto Sarita physically, the more the anger seemed to drain from her body.

“Get off of me!” Sarita ordered. “I don't want you in my face right now.” She sounded more tired than angry.

“Maaamaa,” Jason whined, refusing to let go.

“Don't ‘Mama' me. Now you wanna be lovey-dovey. You didn't care nothing about me before.” Sarita pouted. “All you cared about was some daggone ice cream. You didn't care nothin' about me. Showing out in front of Dee Dee like that.”

“Mama, I
do
care about you.”

“Boy, get off of me. It's too hot for this.” Sarita made a halfhearted attempt to push Jason away. “Leave me alone. I can't even move,” she fussed. “Boy, you make me sick!”

Jason continued to cling. Finally, Sarita picked up her nine-year-old son and held his chin in her hand. “You pull a stunt like that again, and you're gonna get a spanking, you understand? Dee Dee says I shouldn't hit you with a belt, so I'm gonna hit you with my hand, okay?”

Jason nodded, and shot me an appreciative look.

“He's always been like this, crazy about ice cream and crazy about his mama,” Sarita bragged. “Remember that first time you kept Jason when he was a baby? Remember how he hollered the whole time I was gone?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“He's always been so attached to me,” she said, momentarily cuddling her son. “Now, boy, go'n get outta my face, so grownfolks can talk,” she ordered, successfully pushing Jason away. For the first time in a long time, I envied the closeness between Sarita and her son.

“I can't even get the door open good before you start,” I fussed at my cat the next night. “You would think you were being mistreated. I wish I had somebody to take care of me. I've created a monster.” Langston rubbed against my leg. “I will feed you after I check my mail and my messages, if you don't mind.”

Langston continued to meow, like he hadn't heard what I said. I bent down and picked him up. “I'm sorry for being so grouchy. I'm gonna give you your food.”

I was playing with Langston, dangling his rubber mouse on a stick, when the phone rang.

“Hello,” I said, plopping down into the leather recliner with Langston in tow.

“Hi, is this Daphne?”

It was a male voice. So far, so good. He hadn't asked for Dee Dee.

“Yes, who is this?”

“I don't know if you remember me, but this is Skylar, the mediator.”

“Oh, yeah,” I answered, like I hadn't been fantasizing about him day and night, a couple of weeks back.

“Well, you said it would be all right if I called. Is this an okay time? I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

“No,” I gulped. “Just quality time with my cat.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “I'm really surprised to hear from you.”

“You have a cat? Of course you have a cat, or you wouldn't have said that, right.”

“Right. He's in my lap right now.”

“Sounds cozy. Well, how was your day?”

“How was my day? Let's see,” I stammered. I wasn't used to talking to anyone with romantic potential. I felt a little rusty. “I led two focus groups on coffee drinkers.”

“Focus groups?”

“My other job is consumer research for advertisers.”

“Oh, go ahead, finish telling me.”

“Our clients are introducing a new brand of coffee.” I cradled the phone. “You sure you want to hear this?”

“Yeah, please.”

“Anyway, one group was comprised of some pretty hard-core coffee drinkers. They sifted through the beans, smelling the aroma, judging the color and the freshness, and coming up with names for drinks.”

“They were serious, huh?”

“As a heart attack. They were not one of your more laid-back groups. I felt like I'd had about six cups of coffee just being around them.”

“Sort of like a contact high?”

“You got it. And at the end of the group tonight, one of the most high-strung ones asked me, ‘What do we do with our name cards?' See, they had long cards with their first names on them that were placed in front of them.”

“Sort of like a game show.”

“Right. So, it's finally the end of a long workday, and I can afford to be nice.

“So I answer, ‘You can take it home with you, if you like.' Would you believe this woman cops an attitude?”

“No.”

“Yeah. She says, ‘I don't need this.
I
know who
I
am!'”

“Why did she ask you about them in the first place?”

“I don't know, maybe she wanted to put it in the right pile or something. A place for everything and everything in its place.”

“Maybe she's just a control freak.”

“Probably. Anyway, enough about me. I must be boring you with these mundane details.”

“No, I'm enjoying this.”

“You're not just trying to be polite?” I asked shyly. I knew that it was tricky being regular with men. You didn't want them to feel too relaxed. Men didn't want to feel comfortable, they wanted to feel excited. I didn't want to remind Skylar of a pair of old baggy pants or favorite house slippers. Because then I'd be taken for granted. There would be no suspense, no challenge, no chase. It wasn't Sunday dinner at Mom's and he was asking for another helping of mashed potatoes.

“I'm not being polite,” Skylar insisted. “I like listening to you. And I like talking to you.”

I swallowed. I felt touched, but was afraid to read too much into Skylar's remarks. “I guess off the top of my head I couldn't think of anything real exciting to say,” I confided. “It's been a pretty routine day. At least up until now.” I was glad that Skylar couldn't see me over the phone because I blushed.

“That's very sweet of you to say that. I mean, what have
I
said that's so exciting?” Skylar asked.

I almost said, “Hearing your voice is exciting.” But instead, I said, “You have a point.”

“Anybody can hold somebody's attention when they have something exciting to say,” he continued. “But it takes a special person to capture your attention with the flypaper of life.”

“Now that's sweet of
you
to say. But I guess I feel a little awkward because I wonder if you're finally calling now because we ran into each other last week in the conference room. That happened completely by accident.”

“I gathered that.”

“And I don't want you to feel obligated.”

“I don't feel obligated. I wanted to call you before.”

“You did?” I exhaled and petted my cat.

“Yes, I wanted to ask you if you'd be up to having dinner with me. But I just didn't feel like I would be good company until now, 'cause I was dealing with something.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “You sure know how to put a nice spin on things. I almost believe you.”

“I'm telling the truth. As archaic as it sounds, trust me.”

“Let me check my calendar,” I said, throwing Langston to the floor. “I'll see if I can fit you in.” I savored the opportunity to play hard to get for a minute. It had been a long time coming. I felt like purring like a kitty.

thirteen

I was kickin' it with Sharon before getting ready for my first date with Skylar. We were sitting on opposite corners of my mattress in my upstairs loft bed. Sharon thumbed through a magazine while I polished my fingernails. Sunshine filtered through the skylight and Langston lay stretched out in the middle of the bed, soaking it up like royalty. But my cat wasn't the only thing between us.

What I couldn't blab to Sharon was that Tyeesha was afraid that she might be pregnant. I'd promised not to rat on her, but I felt torn between allegiance to my goddaughter and loyalty to my best friend.

I'd agreed to let T take a home-pregnancy test at my house next week if she still hadn't gotten her period. I felt guilty about keeping all this from Sharon, but I hoped I was ultimately giving her a gift by being a confidante to her daughter.

Sharon had gotten rid of her braids and was wearing her hair in a short, stylish 'fro. Girlfriend hadn't looked like a lesbian to the trained or untrained eye before her haircut. But now, Sharon told me, she noticed that the trained eye was definitely checking her out. Funny how hair can have a lot to do with who's zooming who.

Generally speaking, black men don't go for women with short hair, especially short, nappy hair. But Sharon predicted that short Afros on women were about to have a rebirth. And soon, provincial black folks would stop deriding them as “men heads.”

I understood Sharon's logic. If you weren't out there trying to catch a conventional brotha, why not choose a short, carefree cut? Besides, Sharon was all hugged up with Michelle these days, and Michelle thought Sharon's haircut was the bomb.

Sharon looked up from my latest
Essence
.

“Don't you just really hate first dates?” she asked, frowning.

“Yeah, but I hate
no
dates even more,” I answered, carefully applying rose-colored polish to my toenails.

“How can you even enjoy a first date?”

“You mean because on first dates your bowels won't leave you alone, and your hands are like ice water? Your stomach is like a butter churner. It's worse than a job interview.”

Sharon nodded.

“You don't have to enjoy a first date,” I explained. “You just have to get through it.”

“Sorta like losing your virginity?”

“Precisely.”

I fretted over what to wear tonight. It used to be simply a matter of what I could get into. Now I could fit into two of the three sizes in my closet and even have breathing room left over.

“I still think you should just chuck
The Rules
and be yourself,” Sharon muttered, setting the magazine aside.

I smiled. “There will be plenty of time to be myself after the honeymoon.”

Sharon shook her head. “You've been reading the wrong books. The key to finding Mr. Right—or Ms. Right”—she pointed a finger at herself—“for women who are more creatively inclined, is to bet on yourself.”

“Sharon, when are you going to get your own talk show?”

“What's not to like about Oprah? Anyway, there must be a man somewhere on the face of the earth who wants to love and cherish the real Daphne Joy Dupree in all her splendor.”

“Tyeesha has wondered the same thing about you.”

Sharon sighed and rolled her eyes as though she were weary from having to explain herself. “I got tired of looking for a needle in a haystack,” she said. “I'm not anti-men. I'll leave that to you heterosexual women.” She smiled.

I gave her a fake grin. “Thanks for your generosity.”

Sharon shook her head. “I don't doubt that there are some wonderful souls out there, disguised in men's bodies. Maybe you'll get lucky and Skylar will turn out to be one of them. So I would advise you to be receptive.” Her laughing eyes shone in the sunlight.

I adjusted the small fan so it would blow on my wet toenails. “Are you giving me advice on how to land a man now?”

“Why not? The auto insurance people say you can learn a lot from dummies. Just imagine what you can learn from lesbians.” Sharon rolled up the magazine and pointed it toward her chest.

“You can learn something from anybody,” I conceded. “But go easy on my magazine. I haven't finished reading it.”