Man Curse (13 page)

“Girl, get in the house,” said Maryland Phillips. My lab partner from the tenth grade. She and her daughter still lived next door. Once a skinny girl with big boobs and a butt, she now wore a size twenty. “What are you doin' out here? It's cold.”

“Combing Tee Tee's hair. We want to see the snow.”

“It's not snowing tonight. Get in the house,” she said, pushing the little girl inside. Looking up at me, she waved.

“Hey, Meena!” She peered at me over her glasses. “What are you doin' out in the street?”

“Oh, just taking a walk.”

“You like this fake spring arctic weather?”

“Not really. I just need to clear my mind.”

“Okay, well, be careful, it's late,” she said, looking up and down the block. “Oh, tell ya mom I want some more of those cupcakes she made for the church.”

“Okay,” I said, slowly walking up my driveway. The minute the screen closed behind her, I broke into a full sprint toward the front porch, speed-unlocked the front door, and slammed it behind me. Walking through the house, teeth chattering, I turned on all the lights, locked each window, and ran upstairs.

Chapter 16

I
couldn't wait for the
Buzz
magazine Memorial Day power mixer party. Timed yearly to take place at the end of May, it was the most-talked-about event in New York, when the new issue was unveiled in a room packed with shakers and superstars of the entertainment industry. The weekend prior, I'd gotten the perfect outfit—all-white fitted pants, fluffy ruffled shirt scooped to the neckline, revealing a tad of cleavage. I'd packed my black heels, with the straps across the ankle, and a tiny clutch to accent.

The party, carefully planned to coincide with when our workload was the lightest, took place after we'd shipped the newest issue to the printer. The office was less crazy and tense. Denise would take out-of-office meetings with long lunches—some business, others personal. Editors would cram into the IT office, fighting for the remote to play the newest video game that hadn't hit the market yet. And I spent my downtime on the phone with Sean. Placing him on hold, in between taking calls for Denise's office.

“I need you to dial a number for me,” he asked one afternoon. “I'll give you the digits.”

“What's this? A three-way call?”

“Yeah, but don't say anything when they pick up.”

“Okay, cool. Who is it?”

“Just someone I was supposed to call and didn't get a chance to,” he said. “This will be quick.”

“Better be. Denise's phone rings like a broken record.”

I dialed the number Sean recited.

“Hi, this is Kelly Jones. I'm away from the office now. Please leave a message.”

“You can hang up now,” Sean said before the beep. “She must be in a meeting.”

“Who was that?”

“I told you about Kelly. She works at that entertainment news company EURweb. I'm supposed to call her about a story.”

Pause . . .

A moment of déjà vu set in. I began to feel the insecurity and remember what my mother had said more than once about women in my family. Most women in general, as a matter of fact. “We always know, feel, or sense when something isn't right.”

In the Mitchell family, a lie is the highest form of insult. It's like spitting at someone, or throwing a shoe at the president. And even “lawyer lies,” passive-aggressive fibs that tell part of the truth, while purposely leaving out pertinent info, didn't escape our loathing.

“Did you have sex with her?” I asked, deciding to be frank instead of playing mind tricks with myself. “I mean, it's cool if you did. I'm not your girl. And I know there were women before me.”

Sean paused. Void of the typical quick-witted response.

“Uh,” he began, clearing his throat. “Well, yeah, we dated a little. But it didn't work out. She said I had too many female friends. And I was busy, and couldn't be there when she needed me. Some emotionally unavailable self-help female bullshit. Blah, blah, blah. Didn't make sense.”

“How long ago was that?”

He paused.

“You can't remember?”

“About six months. Maybe a little less. I don't know.” He awkwardly paused again before continuing. “She said she didn't want to bring me into the New Year with her. She wanted to start the year fresh and clean. I still think she was seeing someone else. I mean, how could she stop seeing me like that? Why couldn't we still be friends? Had to be someone else.”

“Well, for the record, I'd never ask you to call my ex on your phone. That's just rude.”

“She's not my ex!”

“You just said you used to date her.”

“Yeah, but she was never my girl. You're my girl.”

This time I paused, only for another reason entirely. In the nearly four months that had passed since I'd met Sean, he had never referred to me as his “girl” before. We talked for hours and went on weekly dates. The sex occurred once or twice a week, multiple times a night. But I was careful not to think he was my man, since he hadn't mentioned it. I hadn't fully opened my heart to Sean. He was a workaholic. I knew about the female “friends.” And I refused to be hurt again. But his new revelation was a first that made me do ecstatic inner somersaults.

“Oh, I'm your girl?”

“Well, yeah, if you want to be. Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then. You are.”

“As long as you don't have me calling chicks on the three-way for you anymore.”

“Done.” He laughed. “Deal.”

T
he party that night was at Tavern on the Green. White lights adorned trees, hanging with elegance like on an angel's harp. Countless buffet tables filled with assorted breads, shrimp, salmon, beef, salads, crackers, and cheeses highlighted varying spots of the venue. Waitresses sashayed in sexy white heels, carrying platters of champagne. Waiters in tuxedos worked their best to elegantly sweat while rushing to appease the demand of a thirsty crowd salivating for enhanced inebriation.

I arrived with my cousin Bernard, who'd just moved to New York from Philadelphia. Looking to break into the photography world, he'd packed his camera and made a point to take shots of all my coworkers. In between his playing paparazzo, we walked the length of the party, nodding our heads to Biz Markie's live DJ mix. It didn't take us long to find the perfect spot at the bar, situated on a stage of sorts, where the entire view of the party could be had in one glance. Bernard maneuvered, taking pictures of my sexy pose with a glass of champagne. I simply nodded, sipped, admired, and watched the view until my pupils focused in on him: Sean. Standing in the middle of the floor talking to her: unknown. She was fairly cute. A short cut cropped to her head. A beige blouse and flowing skirt that fell below her knees. Something about her style was wholesome and churchlike. From the dainty flats she wore to the frumpy top and matching skirt seated on her calves.

But the way Sean watched this girl, standing less than two feet away, her head tilted, laughing bashfully, made me jealous. He carried a Heineken, whispering in her ear. She held on to her wine, blinking slowly with a seductive stare.

“Who are you looking at like that?” Bernard picked up his camera, hoping to get a good shot. “You look disgusted, like . . .”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to cut somebody.”

“Oh, I'm staring at Sean all over this girl.”

“Which one?”

“See the chick with the beige skirt and red flats?”

“The one with the beige shirt looking like it's a size too big?”

“Exactly.” I laughed. “He's standing way too close to her.”

“Well, go get your man. Take his attention off her.”

“You're right,” I said, putting my empty glass down on the bar. “But you have to distract her. Go flirt or something. Take a picture. Get her number. Something. Just keep her away from him.”

Bernard took his orders, marched over, and like a good photographer asked whether he could take a picture. Of course she obliged, put a hand on her hip, and posed. In the meantime, I walked up to Sean.

“Hey, handsome.”

He turned around. “Wow,” he said, mouth wide open, looking me up and down. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I answered, grabbing his hand. “Let me get you a drink.”

I pulled him as he followed, mesmerized by my smooth, brown legs in super-high platform heels.

“Vodka tonic, right? Here ya go. On me.”

He laughed. “The bar is open, ya know?”

“Oh, is it?” We looked at each other as I maintained my most seductive gaze. “You should take advantage. What are you doing after this?”

“No plans. Figured I'd head home and do a little writing since I am on deadline. I shouldn't even be out tonight, but I needed to get a drink.”

“Yeah, well, don't let Denise see you.”

“What? Why?” He looked around, face full of alarm. “Where is she?”

“In the VIP section, surrounded by too many people,” I said, pointing at a crowded corner blocked off by a red velvet rope. “But she's distracted and she's drinking, so you're good.”

He exhaled and smiled at me. “So what are
you
doing after this?”

“Going home with you.”

Pause . . .

I'd never been this straightforward before. But then again, it had been a long time since I'd been at an open-bar
Buzz
event drinking King Arthur–size goblets of wine and champagne. The fermented grapes affected my confidence, giving me superman-size balls to take verbal risks without a thought. I was feeling myself, Sean, and the moment.

“You ready?” I asked, before guzzling down my glass. “Let's go.”

“Are
you
sure you're ready?” he said. “Because with the way you look . . . and it's a full moon.”

I grabbed his hand and stumbled out of the party. As Sean tried to hail a cab, I texted Bernard.

Gone to Sean's house. Spending night. Thanks for keeping that bitch off my man. Talk to you tomorrow. Gnite.

He texted back.

Damn, you got your man. Ok, cuzzo. Wish I could find somebody as fierce as you. And that bitch's name is Kelly Jones. Works at some entertainment company. You know her?

The minute I got into the cab I was all over Sean, caressing the small of his back, nibbling his ears, unbuckling his pants. I didn't care that the driver was watching from his rearview mirror. Wine, bubbly, and hormones had given me the confidence to be a swinging exhibitionist in a dirty yellow taxi. It gave me the will to ride him as hard as I could, on the floor, next to the futon, and eventually across his bed in Brooklyn. He grunted and moaned. I screamed and scratched, down to do anything to make him, and me, forget about Kelly Jones.

Chapter 17

T
he next evening, I sat in the doctor's office, eyes long and droopy. Half falling asleep. I'd spent the last thirty minutes nodding in and out of rapid eye movement. The day had been a never-ending episode. And the night before with Sean hadn't ended till five. I was thirsty, hungry, hungover, and under-rested. Not one to both cuddle and sleep simultaneously, I found myself having an uneasy rest at Sean's. Tossing and turning, wiggling and scooting, aiming for the far side of the bed, away from his body. Two feet from the stifling sweat of an unmovable snuggle. I mean, I love cuddling in a man's arms. But after the sex is done and the moment has passed, I need my own space and place to sleep—my own side of the covers, corner of the sheet, and long length of the bed.

The night and morning were long. Asleep at five thirty. Up at seven. More sex till eight. Shower. Quickie sex in the shower. And on the train from Brooklyn to Manhattan by ten. Or rather, 10:11. I was blessed to have a job where I didn't have to report at nine o'clock. The entertainment-industry late start was perfect for someone like me who was prone to sleeping in and running ten minutes late. Always rushing.

Denise hated this lateness even though she had a punctuality problem herself. When I was hired, she'd said I didn't need to get to the office before ten. But over the past month, she was in “acting like an editor in chief” mode, getting to work at nine thirty. And I knew I should be the dutiful, diligent, reliable assistant by her side at all times, even before ten. And I planned on it. But this particular morning, it wasn't easy.

The night before, I'd seen Denise laughing loudly in VIP, guzzling down glasses of red wine. I was sure there was no way she'd be in the office at nine thirty. So I aimed to be there by ten—or rather, 10:11, which was on time in Meena world.

When I walked in, the office was a vacant room of silence. Late nights didn't work well for magazine editors, or their assistants. I dragged myself to my desk and sat down; my phone rang. Clearing away the tired, overnight cobwebs in my throat, I smiled to adjust the tone of my voice and answered, upbeat, “Denise Banor's office.”

“Meena.”

“Hey, Denise.”

“You on vacation today?”

“No, why are you calling the office line?”

“Because I've been ringing your cell phone and paging you for the past thirty minutes.”

I looked at my cell. It had five missed calls. None I heard, because I'd forgotten to take the ringer off silent from the night before.

“You didn't tell me my nine o'clock breakfast had been moved,” Denise continued. I could hear the siren of a fire truck in the background. “I'm in the street, rainy as hell, looking like a fool, lost.”

“Where was the meeting moved to?”

“You're supposed to tell me, Meena. That's why you're my assistant.”

I suddenly remembered the call, the day before, from Clive Owen's assistant, requesting the meeting be changed. But after being on the phone with Sean, caught up with his three-way to Kelly Jones, and his telling me I was his girl, I'd forgotten to write it down. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered. Gas bubbles formed.

“It was changed to Café Jule on Forty-sixth Street,” Denise said. “But I was at the Kitano on Park. So I was thirty minutes late, and looked like a fool walking in. This was an important meeting, Meena. I need to confirm this Whitney cover. But we only got to meet for fifteen minutes because I was
late
. And now he's leaving the country on vacation and I won't be able to meet with him again until next month. After July fourth, damn near two months, Meena.”

“I'm sorry, Denise. My phone was on silent, and I overslept and—”

“Meena, your phone should never be off when you work for me. And you know I don't like being late. We'll talk about this when I get to the office.”

And she hung up.

An hour later, when Denise arrived at work, she didn't address me directly. Her communication came through memos and to-do lists she'd throw at my inbox. They all came with Post-its stuck to them and instructions in capital letters written with red pen: “PROOF THIS.” “PASS THIS OUT.” “READ THIS.” “REMIND ME OF THIS.” “SAVE THIS.” “FILE THIS.” I was happy to leave at five for my doctor's appointment.

“M
eena Butler.”

I'd nodded off after filling out the health insurance paperwork. During that groggy daze, I sort of watched
Jeopardy
.
Alex Trebek questioned a contestant who answered, “What is sleep?” Or maybe that was a dream.

“Meena Butler.”

The second call of my name made me jump out of my seat into an upright position, where I instinctively wiped slobber off my face. Stumbling toward the nurse, I picked sleep out of my left eye and mumbled, “Sorry. I didn't hear you.”

Her reply: a fake smile.

She led me down a pristine white corridor to Dr. Patel's office. His room was clogged full of book cabinets stacked with old medical manuals. The dark, olive walls featured crooked framed certificates of degrees and specialties. Atop the desk were stacks of papers, pens, pencils, sitting next to tiny trinkets and colorful toys that looked out of place in a medical room decorated with various vaginal diagrams. Next to the toys sat a bowl filled with shiny peppermints and other candies.

In an effort to stay awake, I popped a red-and-white-striped candy in my mouth. The smell of it opened my eyes and nose, helping me breathe deeply and awaken to my surroundings.

“Hello, Ms. Butler.”

“Hey, Doc.”

Dr. Patel had been my gynecologist since I first got my period at thirteen. He was my mother's gyn and knew all the intricate family details, vaginally, that a family gyn should know. He was a short, skinny brown man with two patches of gray hair on both sides of his head that framed a brown birthmark shaped like a halo. His eyes were small and beady, and he had a large gap between his front two teeth. I always made my yearly appointment at the beginning of summer.

“Well, you're all healthy, blood work came back fine.” He pulled out the paper to read from. “Negative for HIV, HPV, chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes.”

“Well, that's good.”

“But the images from your uterus came back showing you have a growth.”

I sat up straight, chewing the mint. “A growth?”

“Yes, something on your uterus. A mass of some sort.”

“Do I have cancer?”

“I don't think so. But you'll need to go to a specialist. She's a good doctor, I know her father. She'll tell you more. But you may need to get a laparoscopy.”

“A lapa what?”

“A laparoscopy. An exploratory test where they'll make small slits on the sides of your stomach,” he stood up to use his pelvis as a diagram, “slip tubes in, and see what that growth is.”

“Whoa, Dr. Patel.” I was nearly standing now, wide awake. “I just started a new job a few months ago. I can't take off.”

“Well, you need to have it sooner than later. And it may be nothing. But the laparoscopy will help us know for sure. You'll be out a week, two at the most.”

A week or two was like an eternity in magazine land. That was one-third or half of the period it took to close a magazine from Word document to final shipment to the printer. A week or two was the period of time it took for Denise to realize her last assistant sucked. And now, with her pissed at me after messing up the last meeting with Clive Owen, that teetering feeling—Denise miraculously made everyone feel they were her most loved, yet still on the edge of losing their jobs—had my stomach doing backflips.

I massaged my temples as Meredith pulled up. Her car huffing and puffing like the anger I felt at life's monkey wrench. Like the aftereffects of the blunt sizzling in the ashtray that I was happy to see and need. We pulled into our usual spot at the playground near my house. I kicked my feet up. She popped in my advance copy of Outkast's new CD.
Aquemini
.
The funky Southern drawl of weird loops and psychedelic pops fit my scattered mind, half-tired, half-high, half-confused about what to do about my latest health dilemma.

“Well, can you avoid the surgery?”

“I guess, but it's a damn mass. Fucking tumor. What if I have a tumor?”

“What if you don't?”

“What if I do? Cancer at twenty-five. That's some bullshit. Still living at home. I need to move. I'm moving to Brooklyn.”

“When?”

“As soon as I get this surgery shit over with. I have the money saved. I don't need a car in Brooklyn. I was saving to buy some old used thing when I can have my own space and peace of mind, instead of buying a ride.”

“And you can be closer to Sean . . .”

Sean. The other reason being away for two weeks scared me. More than a week was too long not to sleep with a man. That was more than enough time for him to miss me, get horny, and run to what's-her-face, Kelly Jones. My being around made it harder.

“If he wants to cheat, he'll cheat,” Meredith said, shrugging her shoulders with a lip turned up. Exuding the throw-away-a-man confidence I always admired. She never held on too long. Never had drama. Was always ready to walk away the minute they acted up. The lucky product of a functional two-parent household. “You can't make a man stay. You can't make a man not cheat. But you can definitely push them away by being all on top of them. Calling and texting all the time.”

I let the words seep in as Andre 3000 rapped so fast, I couldn't understand what he was saying.

“You think I'm chasing?” I blinked slowly, already knowing the answer, but in a mirage of dry, parched, weed-induced famine that made me hunger for Doritos flavored with answers to my problem. I was thirsty for juice that contained vitamins of common sense.

“I mean . . . yeah. That's what you do. But you don't know it, and I really think you can't help it. I mean, even when you aren't physically chasing, you're mentally doing it, thinking about him with this scheme on how to get him. Wondering if he wants you,” she pointed out to me. “I say, fuck him. If he wants you, he'll come get you. Easy. You don't have to do much of anything but be yourself. Mind your business. Return his calls. My mother always told me that. She said she didn't have to do a thing to get my dad. He always just kept showing up. Calling up. Hanging around like a little puppy. Making plans. Treating her nice. Giving her attention. So she finally picked him.”

I let the words sink in. “She finally picked him.” Wondering why I always felt like I was the one being chosen. Like I had to prove myself. Elated over some guy liking me and wanting me and noticing I was pretty. Where did I get that from?

Meredith dropped me off at home and I walked through the door.

Mom laughed loudly. Cackling through the corridors. Not even acknowledging I'd gotten home. I knew who she was on the phone with. After all these years, she and Larry were still going strong. She was still the side chick. He was still about to leave his wife.

“Oh, baby, you are so funny.” She giggled as she closed her bedroom door. “You better call me back this time. Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . excuses. Okay, well, then call me Saturday.”

A minute after she hung up the phone, I heard her pick up and dial.

“You didn't tell me you loved me.”

Silence.

“Say it!” She giggled like a high school kid.

“Okay, okay . . . I know you gotta go. I love you, too.”

And she hung up.

I
called Sean. The phone rang five times. Voice mail. I hung up and dialed again. He picked up on the third ring.

“Hello.” He was short. Exasperated.

“Heyyy . . .” I said, trying to sound relaxed. Wanting to jump into spilling the breaking news on my surgery. But needed to build up to it. “What are you doing?”

“Writing.” Short again. Attitude.

“Why do you sound like you have an attitude?”

“I don't,” he said, aggravated. “What's up?”

“Yeah, so I just came back from the doctor.”

Silence.

“And . . . well, yeah. I have to have surgery.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” I could hear him stabbing a computer key. Repeatedly. Killing a button. “Delete, delete, delete. Shit!”

“You all right?”

“I just can't get this together. I'm just . . .” He sighed. This time it was frustration. “Yo, can you come over?”

“Well, I'm home. It's already eight. I wouldn't make it out there till eleven if New Jersey Transit acts right. And you know MTA runs slow at night.”

“Yo . . . lemme call you back.”

“Um . . .” My words trailed off. “Well . . . okay.”

I turned the ringer up, ready for Sean's call. Laying back, I closed my eyes and visualized a Brooklyn brownstone with my dream apartment on the second floor, before drifting to sleep.