Man Curse (14 page)

Chapter 18

T
he surgery took place in July. Right after July fourth. Even though the mass was found to be nothing but an insignificant growth of tissue left over from birth, I was out of work for two weeks. Spent three days in the hospital. And a week and a half lying in bed with stitches on my pelvis and large sterile pads taped to me. My mother played nursemaid.

“You hungry?”

She brought a tray of pancakes. Scrambled eggs. Potatoes on the side. Biscuits. I sat up in bed and smiled.

“Wow. Thank you.”

“You know you're my baby.”

My mother was a sucker for helping people. Saving the downtrodden. Codependent at times. But it was all about love, in her own way, of course. If you fell? She might not give a hug, but she'd bandage you up and make you a nice meal. If you cried? She might not kiss your forehead, but dinner would feature your favorite entrées. Took me years to realize this and understand her love language and figure out that cooking food and the act of doing someone a service were her ways of showing love. Rolling out of bed to whip up pancake batter, scrambling a few eggs, buttering a pan of biscuits, and frying a few potatoes was the equivalent of “I love you.” Some gave gifts, others complimented or showered you with affection, many like myself preferred quality time and attention, but my mother's love language was an act of service. I remembered reading about it in Gary Chapman's
The Five Love Languages.

She went downstairs and I picked up the phone tucked under my covers; I sucked my teeth when I saw a missed call from Dexter. Damn stalker. I hadn't spoken to him since his crazy sighting at the train station months ago. He didn't call as frequently as he had. But every few months, I'd see a little check-in and missed call just to spook and remind me of his presence still lurking somewhere.

I dialed Sean. Said I wouldn't. Said I'd wait for him to call me. Chase me. Check in on me. But it was like an annoying addiction. I couldn't wait. The anxiety was overwhelming. The yearning to dial seven digits and talk to him. Go to him. It was like a crackhead hearing a pipe calling his name. Abandonment issues. Insecurity and the fear of feeling the disappointing possibility that he might not call me. I had to take control.

“So you coming to see me today?” I asked, sitting up in the bed, waiting for an answer. I hadn't heard his voice in a week.

“Nah, I'm on deadline,” he said to the tap of a keyboard. A bag of chips ruffled in the background as he crunched on the phone. “But you're better, right?”

“If I was better, I'd be at your house,” I snapped back. “And you said that last weekend, ‘Nah, I'm on deadline.' ”

“Well, this is what I do, Meena. I'm a writer. I have deadlines. What the fuck?”

“What the fuck? Um . . . maybe your girl had surgery and she's in need of the same TLC you give your damn computer. Maybe if I had circuits I'd get some attention.”

“Oh, come on now. Are you on your period?”

“Don't insult me with that sexist bullshit.”

The truth was that I was menstruating. The first day was the worst, heavy, bloated, crampy, and irritated. The insecurities that hormonal shifts evoked were uncontrollable. I was horny as hell. Couldn't have sex. But needed some love. Some quality time. Tears welled up in my eyes.

“I miss you and you don't care. I feel like I haven't seen you in forever, you don't call, you work all the time. You haven't come to see me once. You say you care, but you don't. I'm all alone.”

“I do care, Meena. Come on. And you're in another state.
Jersey
. I care, I mean . . . why are you crying? I can't talk to you like this.”

“Like what? What is ‘like this'? Explain that shit. What am I like?”

“Nothing. I mean, like crying . . . and sad. Like . . . Meena, come on, babe. Not now. This is a cover story for
Buzz
.
Your
people. I'm almost done. Don't do this to me right now.”

“You know what? This is why I'm moving to Brooklyn.”

“You're moving to Brooklyn?” He sounded nervous suddenly. Serious. “When?”

“Soon. Because
Buzz
is my job.
You
are my boyfriend. But no one would know since I just had my uterus dissected and stitched back together with a million threads, big-ass gauze of puss oozing on my stomach, and you keep talking about yourself. ‘I'm on deadline . . .' ”

“Listen, if I can finish this draft today, I'll try to come out there tomorrow, okay? Since you way in Jersey and all. Is that all right?”

“No, it's not! Fuck!”

And I hung up.

Tired of the monotonous murmur of TV voices, I needed to see my man, my love, needed the quality time with his presence and touch. That was my love language. But I didn't know how to express it; my naggy insecurities came out in jumbled, wrongly positioned words fueled by frustration and uncontrollable emotion.

T
he next day Sean didn't call. I sent him a text.

Hey you.

No reply.

A day later. No reply.

As much as I wanted to pick up the phone and blow him up, I didn't. I wasn't going to act crazy. So instead, I suffered the misery of burning separation anxiety on the insides of my stomach, consuming it with a fear of loneliness because he hadn't called. Because he hadn't come to see me after surgery. Because he wasn't trying. I sat in bed full of heated fury. Finally, I grabbed the phone and turned off the ringer. Silencing the alert signal, ending the bells and whistles when someone texted or e-mailed. I was tired of waiting for
him.
Tired of wanting
him
. I scrolled down my contacts list and deleted Sean's number from the call log, incoming, outgoing, contacts, everywhere, so I couldn't call
him.
I was tired of chasing and needed to make sure I couldn't follow, even when the urge erupted. But twenty-four hours later, the first thing I did was wake, turn on my phone, and eagerly check texts and voice mails, looking for signs of my missing man, missing me, missing the sound of my voice and heart and warmth and spirit. But nothing. When the phone did suddenly ring, a burst of anxiety traveled through my valves. Making them pulsate and leap like a classroom of kids anticipating Santa's arrival. It came from an unavailable number.

“Hello,” I said calmly, trying not to sound excited.

“Hey, sick girl,” said Meredith, the only one who called regularly just to say hello. “What's up?”

“Oh,” I said, deflated. “Hey.”

“Well, damn, you could at least fake like you're happy to hear from me. Damn.”

“Nah, I'm fine.”

“I didn't ask if you were fine. But I do want to know how you're doing. Why do you sound like that?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” I paused. “Why is your call coming through as ‘unavailable'?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I found this block-number feature on the phone and I wanted to try it out. I see it works. That's good for if I need to stalk.”

I didn't reply. Making a mental note of needing to see whether my phone had that feature.

She was quiet before continuing. “Sean come see you today?”

“He was going to, but he's on deadline. So . . .” The words drifted off before I sucked my teeth. “And I understand that. I mean, if he doesn't turn in his cover story to Denise on time, he won't be writing for
Buzz
again.”

“Uh-hm.”

“What does ‘Uh-hm' mean?”

“So he hasn't come to see you after you've been in the hospital and had surgery?”

“Well, he's on deadline. And it takes a lot of transcribing and time. I mean, I'm cool.”

“Cool? So you're okay with that?”

“Yeah. I mean, of course I want him to see me. But I also don't want him to resent me because he came, and then got back to his computer and couldn't write. You know when writers get into a rhythm it's hard to really get them out of it.”

She paused for a second.

“That's some bullshit,” she continued. “And I don't like him. I can't wait till y'all break up.”

Meredith. Always quick to call my men out and express her opinion. She'd always been right. Anyone she didn't like typically didn't last. But I never listened.

“I need to take some more painkillers. I think it's been six hours, stomach is starting to sting.”

“No, stay away from that addictive crap. I'm coming over to see you. I got some medicinal marijuana to cure your pain.”

“I could use that . . .”

“I know. See you in a few minutes.”

The hemp smoke tasted fabulous floating through my lungs and out my nose. My head and mind opened up my body to thoughts of relaxation and contemplation. Clarity. A third sensory eye. Meredith and I sat in her car, smoking up the windows. Nodding our heads to Big Pun's
Capital Punishment
. My pink bunny slippers perched on her dashboard as I reclined the seat back to a 180-degree position. I was glad my mother had gone to work. Relieved to be alone to smoke, giggle, and be relaxed long enough to let the truth speak freely.

“Last night, I had a dream that Sean was cheating on me,” I said, after blowing out a long cloud of white. Clearing my throat and pulling again. Smoking in silence was our way of taking it all in.

“I was standing there, watching him hugging this girl. He hugged her, kissed her, put his hand in her pants. And I started crying.”

I took another pull before passing the blunt. Holding the smoke in my mouth, I saw visions of the dream drifting in my head. The fear in my heart skipped along like brain zaps on a hospital monitor.

“And you remember what I told you about women in my family and dreams, right?”

Meredith nodded her head as she pulled on the joint. She'd rolled it smooth and tight.

“Yeah, the women in your family are psychic,” she said. “Y'all see the future.”

“It's crazy. I hate when I have the cheating dream,” I said. “It's always a sign. Always comes true.”

“That's crazy. So what are you gonna do?”

“I dunno, girl. I love him.”

“You are always in love, Meena. You better stop falling in love before you really know and trust these guys. Protect your heart.”

“I know. I try. But the sex makes all the walls I put up come right down if I see relationship potential.”

“And if he's not, you can fuck him forever and not feel a thing. I know. I get it. But love is not enough to make a relationship work. Just because you love somebody doesn't mean you're supposed to be with them,” she said. “Both of my parents told me that. They say it all the time.”

The words seeped into the clouds of smoke. Her mother and father had remarried each other after both of their failed first marriages. Meredith came a few years later.

“Like when you fall before you know someone well. When you don't trust your instincts, sex dulls them even more, love blinds you altogether, making it hard to tell truth from fantasy. You start doubting yourself, doubting your soul. Living without integrity to your own damn self. Literally lying to yourself. We can't do that as women. We always know. I mean, I always know when a man isn't being honest with me. I think every woman does. And I know sometimes you can't control who you feel love for, but you can control who you give love to. You can control who you're in a relationship with.”

Meredith rambled on, making all the sense in the world. She tended to do this when she was high. First being quiet, like a therapist taking notes. Then talking a mile a minute. Morphing into superintellectual weed-smoker mode. Pontificating on the ways of love, where her words ran into one another with no periods, occasional commas; her points ran on. When Meredith finished, she took a long pull, held it in for ten seconds, and exhaled. “So what are you gonna do?”

“I don't know, girl. I'll figure it out.”

“You need to snoop,” she said, smiling. “Get your private investigator on. Next time you go to his house, look around. There are always signs.”

“I need to move to Brooklyn.”

“Whatever. Doesn't matter where you live, if he's a cheat,” Meredith answered. “Just do the digging.”

I could see the sense of that. My dreams usually manifested, like instinctual infidelity premonitions. When it came to the women in my family, we never knew if the nightmare we envisioned meant the cheating would occur in the future or if we were seeing the past. Regardless of when the transgression took place, we always found out, in the most blatant manner.

Chapter 19

M
y first day back in the office at the end of July, and I was greeted with a present—a mile-high inbox. Paper leaned sideways like a raggedy tree. Tiny hot pink Post-its with Denise's red writing twinkled like old Christmas tree ornaments. But I didn't mind, getting to work fifteen minutes early, logging in, and spending all day reading and responding to the hundred e-mails I'd received over the past two weeks. Pure heaven.

I'd missed the loud creative hustle of an office full of artistic minds on steroids. Biggie blasting from one speaker. Mary J. Blige blaring from another. U2 and Bob Marley echoing from the mail room. Someone unabashedly yelling “Fuck!” after hanging up the phone and screaming, “I hate fucking publicists!”

That was the life of working at
Buzz
. This was the real world.
My
real world. Not one of being locked in a house on an empty side street in Jersey, watching
Rap City
on BET. By the end of the day, I'd happily gotten through all of my e-mails when a new message pinged my inbox, titled “Beautiful Return.”

Dear Lovely Meena,

Welcome back. Your missing presence left a gaping hole in my heart. One where my mind craved for the beauty of healing that only comes from the soft caress of a woman such as you.

Sean

I smiled so hard that I didn't realize someone was standing behind me. Timberland boots, a crisp, new tan pair, baggy jeans, and a polo shirt. I nearly fell out of my seat when I realized it was Sean holding a bouquet of mixed flowers next to a crooked smile. He looked half-embarrassed, half-nervous.

“Wow,” I said, wide-eyed. “Just got your e-mail.”

“I know. I just sent it. I was standing over there,” he said, pointing toward the elevators. “I wanted to watch you open it.”

“Are you stalking me, Sean Baxter?”

“I will if you don't pack up so we can go eat.”

“Cool. But I'm still on that medication, so I can't drink.”

“It's okay, more for me. Come on, lady.”

T
he rest of the summer seemed perfect between Sean and I. Romantic dinner dates, boat rides, long walks, days spent sleeping at his house with random clothes stuffed in my own drawer. It was like the surgery and time apart had been a blessing to bring us closer together. I was in love. He was my king. And I was the happiest I'd been in my life.

By the fall, we were in a routine, with Friday date nights to see the newest movie release. On one typical evening, I logged off, grabbed my bag, locked Denise's office, and headed to the lobby with Sean. We stood at the elevator, smiling, brushing shoulders, until the door opened and a girl stepped out.

I recognized that familiar face. Young and bright. Ballerina hairdo with a bun at the top. Flowery ruffled shirt falling from her shoulders. Same church skirt worn at the
Buzz
mixer, hanging below her knees. Kelly Jones.

We stopped short. She paused, gaping at Sean. And out my side view, I could see his eyes stretched wide. He'd stopped breathing.

“Um, hey, Kelly.” His voice quavered. “You know Denise's assistant, Meena Butler, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, forcing a smile. “I heard about you. Hey.”

I thought about not replying. But for the sake of fakeness and professionalism, since we were in the
Buzz
offices, I forced myself to mutter one word.

“Hey,” I said. Blank face. No emotion. Cold, icy, and stiff.

Tense silence followed the end of that one word. She kept staring at Sean, me, and back to him again. Breaking the stagnant energy, I stepped onto the elevator. Sean followed, dropping his head like a kid, mumbling at Kelly without looking at her “A'ight then,” as the doors closed.

Our eyes met, she the bitch in a church dress, me the bitch with the man she wanted. We'd meet again.

“What's that company she works for?” I asked Sean when her face was out of sight. “Did you say it was
EW
?”

“No,” he said, staring at his phone, trying to look busy when he wasn't. “EUR.”

“Oh, right, they're always clogging up the fax machine with their blasts.”

“Yeah, she writes all their little updates,” he said, checking his phone twice for a reply. “They're funny. Kinda quirky. I look forward to those blasts every day.”

“I bet you do.”

“What does that mean?”

“I just thought you weren't into entertainment gossip stuff,” I said, pressing the button for the first floor after realizing we hadn't moved. “You always say it's so trivial and a waste of journalism. What did you say again? ‘A tool to distract the masses'?”

“I mean, yeah, it is. But I didn't say I don't sometimes read them when I need a convenient distraction.”

I sighed at his obvious lie.

“What's wrong now, Meena?”

“What do you mean, ‘now'?”

“I don't know, seems like something is always bothering you.”

“No, something is not always bothering me, Sean.”

It was his turn to be annoyed.

“Listen, I'm hungry,” I said, exiting the elevator into the lobby. “It's been a long day, I got here crazy early. Let's just go eat. I may have to have a sip of wine. I need it.”

A
fter an Italian dinner of ten words and a bottle of wine, I woke in the middle of the night at Sean's house. We were coupled up on the bed, atop the covers, holding hands, asleep in each other's arms. Had to have been the wine. I drank so many glasses after my run-in with Kelly Jones; compensating for insecurity with inebriation seemed the only thing to do. After we got back to his place, made sloppy sex mixed with the taste of fermented grapes and vodka, we passed out, holding each other like cuddling babies.

The discomfort made me sweat. Sean's arm around my neck and his sticky, hot fingers nestled into my palms. I felt a tiny cramp bubbling up my spine. A little woozy from all the wine, I pried myself from his grip and crept to the bathroom. Even on my tiptoes, the floor squeaked. I stopped walking, trying not to wake him. He snored so loud that the pencils on his desk rolled to the side. The movement was a reminder: investigate. A reminder that Sean wrote a biography of dates on his jumbo desk calendar. Each box had an important deadline or meeting. I took a moment to reacquaint myself with a map of where he'd been.

I squeaked to his desk, reading carefully. Due dates for October magazine assignments,
Buzz
,
Entertainment Weekly
,
Rolling Stone
,
Vibe
. And then my eye stopped on the weekends. “Meet Kelly,” read one date outlined twice with a star. The following Sunday, “Meet Kelly for brunch.” I looked at the calendar closer and flipped back to July during the weeks of my surgery. “Meet Kelly. 7:30 p.m.” was written with an exclamation mark on two separate dates. My heart throbbed with infuriation that rammed into my throat, wanting to scream, fighting my need to stay silent. I wanted to be destructive, pull the calendar off his desk, scribble cuss words across it, crumple it up, and light it on fire. But then I heard a loud snore, and Sean coughed himself awake. Bed springs bounced with a tiny squeal as he tossed. And with each sound, I tiptoed back to his bedroom, slid under the covers, and lay on my back with my eyes wide open. Maybe he'd met her for a casual meeting of writers. Perhaps he was schmoozing, hoping for more work with her company. One side debated:
There has to be some explanation.
The other side ached and seethed:
He's cheating. Fuck him!

He turned over and put his arm around me. I wanted to bite it and spit angry venom on his wrists. But instead, I let it lie atop me, feeling heavy, hot, like an anchor confining me to this bed of disloyalty.
Had he fucked her?
I pondered the question until I fell asleep. When I awoke two hours later, I rolled off the mattress, hopped in the shower, double-scrubbed my vagina, and knew for sure what we needed to do: take a trip to the STD clinic.