Man Curse (6 page)

Chapter 9

I
knew better than to get involved with a married man. My fear of bad karma haunted me with visions of my future husband cheating on me. Lurking beneath the confidence I exuded in responding to Emmanuel's flirty advances was a woman conflicted between the vulnerability of being fresh out of a relationship with Dexter, raw with the angry pain of love gone wrong, and the hunger for testosterone-filled attention, the yearning to feel the sweetness of a man strung out after sipping the juice oozing from between my legs. And the fact that he was twenty years older than I was made the thought of this particular conquest even more exciting.

Over the next few weeks, the flirting episodes between Emmanuel and me became more intense and frequent. He'd see me at the Xerox machine and make an excuse to brush past, or hand over a stack of papers that needed to be copied. He'd try to take lunch the same hour as I did, and verbally flirt with me the entire meal—how he loved my lips, eyes, body, the way I chewed, and the pinkie I lifted when I drank from a glass. He'd talk to me about smoking weed, and I'd hang around after work so he could drive me to the train station while we puffed a joint together.

Yet after months of foreplay, as summer green turned to autumn gold, I wasn't taking the next step. I'd seen the future path of situations like this. Because my mother had already walked that road with a man named Larry.

The truth is that the times I liked being around my mother were when she had a man. Those were the moments I recall her being happiest. I remember when she brought Larry home. He was a tall, skinny, milk chocolate–complexioned brother. Tiny freckles spotted his nose and a gruff goatee blanketed his chin. He was the only tall man I'd ever known not to play basketball or even like it. Hating the height-inspired stereotype, he chose instead to play with cars. Tinkering in classic rides like 1960s Mustangs and Corvettes, Larry drove a vintage ride with a classic rock music system. I usually knew when he arrived, because I'd hear the loud giggles coming from the back of his throat. It sounded like a laugh clogged in a mucusy sinus infection.

Despite sounding of sickness, his humor was contagious, and the jokes made my mother crack up. The anticipation of his coming filled her with delight, lifting the heaviness of life and stuffing it away into a secret baggage claim. She'd fly through the house, humming sweet melodies. And float into the kitchen to whip up a light buttercream frosted cake. Pulling out pots, pans, and special plates, Mom would prepare an elaborately soulful feast of Larry's favorites: golden fried whiting, spicy collard greens, creamy macaroni and cheese, and moist yellow corn bread. She'd slip on heels, squeeze into a fitted dress, curl her hair, retouch her makeup, and head to the door to let Larry in.

“Honey, I'm home!” he'd always say as he walked in with an overstretched grin.

“Hey, Meena!” he shouted, seating himself at the head of the dining room table. A hot plate waited next to a cold beer. “How you doing?”

At first I didn't reply, instead staring at my fork, cheese clinging to my teeth.

“Somebody's talking to you, Meena!” my mother snapped.

“Fine,” I answered, cutting my eyes at Larry. “I'm done. I'm going to do my homework.”

“It should've already been done,” she hissed. “Get on my nerves . . .”

At the time, I didn't understand the resentment boiling my blood, bouncing from Mom to Larry. I was annoyed by her jaunts in Wonderland, coordinated with his visits. I wondered why she wasn't as happy with me as she was in his presence. She never laughed out loud, eyes closed, head cocked back when we were alone. She never whipped up a holiday-size meal for me. And as relieved as I felt that the abuse and neglect stopped upon Larry's arrivals, I hated the truth. How she would morph into a smiling Stepford wife and then switch back to her evil alter ego the moment he pulled out of the driveway. I understood enough to dare not take my mad Meena world out on Mom. So I found ways to project it onto Larry, mostly through one-word sentences and silence.

It took months until I began warming up to him. Things changed the day he arrived with select company.

“She just jumped inside my car,” he said, holding the screen door open. “I don't know her name.” Walking outside, I saw a small black and brown dog, peeing on the sidewalk. It looked like a tiny version of a rottweiler, but its tail and ears weren't clipped.

“She must like me,” he said, looking at my mother from the side. “I got out to get gas and she just jumped in.”

“Yeah, right,” Mom said, rolling her eyes with a slight smile.

“It's the truth!”

My mother had always been firmly against having a pet, thinking I wasn't responsible enough. She complained of paws scraping her shiny wooden floors. And pee soaking into the living room rug.

“This dog is not my responsibility, Meena,” she said with a furrowed brow. “You have to get up early in the morning to walk her. Do it again after school and before you go to bed. Feed her, wash her, keep her in your room, and in the basement or outside when you're not home. I don't want my house smellin' like dog.”

“I can keep her?” I screamed, smiling, chasing the puppy as it scurried into the house. “I'ma name her Lady!”

“And keep it out of my kitchen!” Mom yelled after me.

I scooped up Lady, ran to my bedroom, and caressed her on my bed. I'd wanted a dog since I was three, but never imagined having one while living under my mother's neat-freak roof. I sat back, watching Lady acquaint herself with the room, realizing that I actually liked Larry. He was like God to Mom: when he spoke, clouds scattered, opening the way for sunlight to shine a loving glow upon our hearts, transforming my mother from wicked witch to benevolent peacemaker. I hoped they'd get married. I dreamed of having a real daddy.

Until I overheard a phone call one night.

“When are you coming by? You said you were coming this weekend.”

My mother's deep, husky voice was raspy, dragging, lethargically trying to recover from botched heart surgery by Dr. Love. The sound of concerned emotion in high-pitched vocal cords awakened me. So I snuck to her bedroom door and stood stiff as a mannequin to listen.

“Larry, will you listen for a minute? I need you to fix my car. I . . . I . . .” Her voice drifted into a sob. “What? I don't care what she needs. Acting like you have a wife. You said you were separated.”

My mind raced with questions, disbelieving what I'd just heard. Married? Larry? Since when? Had Mom known when they first started? She couldn't have. They seemed like the epitome of perfection. So happy and loving, never arguing. Larry would come home to dinner. She'd sit on his lap, stroking the goatee rooted with gray hairs curling from his chin. He'd crack a corny joke and she'd damn near fall on the floor laughing. I was both confused and sad, wanting to gain answers to my questions while giving hugs to show comfort.

But I didn't want to get slapped for eavesdropping. So I stood in place, stiff by the door, slightly crouched over, sore in my right leg from standing still enough not to make the floor creak.

“You're not going to divorce her, so stop lying. I am so tired of this shit. The lies, the bullshit . . . I knew what? Uh-uh, don't try and make it like . . . You know what? Fuck you, Larry! Fuck. You.” And she slammed down the phone.

I didn't move. Stuck in shock, too scared to breathe, muscles in my body aching for a stretch. I wanted to hug her. Then I was surprised by a sound I'd never heard before. I could hear the bed squeak as she sat on the side sniffling, trying to muffle depressed moans with a tissue. When the phone rang, I ran back to bed, synchronizing and camouflaging my footsteps with each ringtone.

This breakup went on for about a month, until one Sunday, I walked in the house and saw Larry sitting at the dinner table. Smiling, he and Mom lovingly gazed at each other, like two honeymooners. After dinner, as they washed dishes together, I saw him smack her butt, grab a belt buckle hole, and pull her close to kiss.

I ran upstairs to my bedroom, angry, bothered by questions racing through my brain. The first person I called was Meredith.

“He's back.”

“Whaaat?” She stretched out the word, enunciating the
t
. “Did he apologize?”

“Not to me.”

“Did your mother say anything about him coming over?”

Silence.

“And then they just started making out?”

“
Yes
.” This time I enunciated, stressing the
s
, full of surprise.

“That is gross,” Meredith said. “I'm sorry, girl . . .”

I didn't reply. Tears bubbled up, coating my pupils. Confusion glossed my eyes. Betrayal and bewilderment glazed my heart. How dare he act as if everything was okay? While he played house with his part-time wife, leaving broken promises on Lincoln Street. Like the one where he promised to take Lady and me to the park, leaving us to silently cry, staring out the bedroom window, waiting for his car to pull up. Like the lie he told Mom. Stealing her heart. Masking his matrimony. Taking advantage of a young single woman and her child. Larry was the Devil shaped with four legs and a horn between his eyes. He was one of those dog men I'd heard about in family discussions—high on promises, low on reliability, prone to letdowns, and scarce truth. Leading women to a shit-filled destiny: fallen, broken, begging in a dusty cloud of disappointment. His trickery was painful treachery.

That night, after changing into a nightshirt and dozing off, I was suddenly awakened by the faint sound of a woman in pain. I'd always been a light sleeper, often waking to the faraway chirps of birds in trees from the neighbor's lawn. The whimper came in steady intervals, making me sit up still, careful not to move, hoping to make out the sound. I looked at the clock, which read 2:00 a.m., and listened. Every thirty seconds, slight gasps of breath creeping up the steps, under the door, down my spine, curling into chilly goose bumps.

Tiptoeing out my room, I felt the blue, body-length Mickey Mouse T-shirt I was wearing sweep the floor. I tried to squeeze through the crack of my bedroom door without fully opening it, causing the bolts to squeak.

Someone might be hurting Mom.

The
thought petrified me.

Maybe she left the TV on.

I tried to force myself into positive thinking as violent screenshots from horror films like
Friday the Thirteenth
and
Psycho
bounced blots of bloody scenes across my brain.

I stood at the top of the stairs, listening for the moan again, on alert for that sound of illness and pain.
Standing on my tiptoes, thinking it might make my footsteps lighter and quieter, I crept halfway down into chilly darkness. Refusing to turn the hallway light on, I strained to see through the living room blackness, managing to make out something that looked like two bodies. As my eyes focused, clearing up the postsleep daze, I knew exactly what I was seeing. The sight made me bite the right side of my mouth and fold up my lips in shock.

There in the darkness of two in the morning, on the floor, next to the sofa, lying faceup on the beige rug, was my mother. She sat twitching and wincing, with nasty farts coming from her ass. She moaned intensely, wiggling, as she opened her legs wide for Larry, who was facedown, slurping out her vagina.

I didn't know what to do but sit on the steps and cry. Pulling at the soft rug comforting my shivers, quietly I wept, sniffing up snot rolling from my nostrils. I used the backs of my hands to wipe the tears, blurring the graphic triple-X scene. I don't know why I didn't run back to my room and lock the door. I just sat there, twelve years old, watching, bawling, and sniffing. My crying became noticeably louder, until I heard my mother call my name.

“Meena,” she said through the dark, sitting up, arms crossed over her breasts, looking in my direction. “Meena, come here.”

Larry scrambled for his jeans, nasally giggling and grinning as he accidentally placed his foot in the wrong pant leg. He threw my mother her bra.

“Meena,” she said.

I could've sworn she was laughing at me, too, a tiny smirk on her face, perhaps straining to find humor in the discomfort and embarrassment.

“Meena . . .”

But I ran. Crying out loud, rushing up the stairs and into my room. No one followed. No one came to comfort me. No one talked about what I'd seen. And even when I overslept the next morning, I expected my mother to be up screaming at me like she usually did. But when I peeked out my bedroom, her door was shut. Not even the sound of the morning radio blared as usual. Hoping she wouldn't catch me before leaving, I dressed as fast as I could, wolfed down a couple of slices of jelly toast, grabbed my book bag, tiptoed around the spot where I'd seen Mom and Larry doing
it
, and ran out the house to catch the 7:20 bus to school.

Outside, a satisfying cool fall breeze relaxed my hot body as I ran down the block. Happy I'd made it on time. Relieved Mom wasn't able to catch my sleeping late. Haunted by visions I wasn't ready to speak on. I was embarrassed to have seen it, ashamed for not stopping myself from watching. Swearing to tell no one; perhaps Mom and I made the same promise, because to this day, she has never talked to me about that night.

That memory continued to haunt me even as I flirted with Emmanuel. But I wasn't Mom. I was better. Smarter. Careful to keep a wall around my heart, have fun, and not fall victim to stupidity. The curse on my family had showed up in a way I refused to repeat.

Chapter 10

M
en always want what they can't have. Women are the same. But for guys, withholding sex becomes like a fun tunnel-vision game of hide-and-go-seek-to-conquer-the-pussy. Emmanuel was on a mission to win me. He was funny. Sweet. Paid for lunch daily. But the intent look in his eye never changed.

“You need to come see my house.”

“Why? You want me to have dinner with your wife?”

“No, she works,” he said. “I want you to see where I live.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I don't know . . .”

“Yes, you do. We're both adults here. You know the situation.”

I looked at him, impressed and turned on by the aggression.

“I'll get some ganja, straight from Jamaica. None of that yard shit. We'll pass by my spot, smoke, and I'll give you a ride home.”

“I don't want anybody from work seeing me leave with you.”

“Well, we can do it after the company holiday party next Friday,” he said. “There'll be so many people that nobody will notice us leaving together.”

“Maybe,” I said with a smirk on my face. Our eyes met, and I felt the return of the inner leg throb. It felt as if the walls were vibrating, pulsating. I could feel stickiness in my panties. I wanted Emmanuel now. When I crossed my legs, my shoe brushed his foot. He smiled back, looking down at my chest.

“Hello, Meena.”

“Hey, Emmanuel.”

Caught off guard, I jumped when my tender flirty moment was interrupted by Regina and Joan. Regina was my supervisor and head of Merrill Lynch's publishing department. Joan was her second in command.

“Oh, uh.” I coughed a little, after nearly choking on the ice I was sucking. “Hey.”

“Is Emmanuel teaching you a lot about the art department?” Regina asked.

Joan added, “He's one of the best.”

“Oh, yeah. QuarkXPress and Photoshop. I still have to figure out how to use those programs, but I've learned a lot by watching.”

“Well, Emmanuel, you have to see to it that Meena learns all the ins and outs,” said Regina. “She's a fast learner.”

“I noticed. I'm lucky to have her in the art department. Maybe we can get you on a computer tomorrow. One of the guys will be out.”

“Okay,” I said with a smile. “That would be cool.”

“We were just about to leave,” Emmanuel said. “You ladies want this table?”

“Oh, yes, thanks,” said Joan. “See you two upstairs.”

“Meena?” Regina motioned toward me and I quivered inside. I knew I'd been found out. I felt a reprimand coming on. “I left some things for you to proof in your inbox. I need it done by five.”

Relieved by the innocuous request, I got up with Emmanuel and our trays. Dumped them and walked upstairs. But not together. I headed for the bathroom. He beelined back to his desk. And for the rest of the day, all I could think about was him—inside me, throwing my body on a bed, pulling down my thong, and ramming me hard from the back.

The days until the holiday party ticked by slower than the hands on a broken clock. We hadn't gone to lunch together since our run-in with Joan and Regina. He'd been at a weeklong art conference, recruiting new designers. So while I finished the brain-dead work of making copies, I daydreamed about my visit to his house. Visualizing which color underwear I'd slip off. Reminding myself to buy a matching bra. Shaking the nasty thoughts out of my brain until boredom allowed them to creep back in.

On the magical day, I took a cab with a few coworkers to the day party at an indoor sports park. The theme was California Christmas, and it was unlike any shindig I'd ever been to. Tents were pitched all over the venue crowded with hundreds of people, balloons, clowns, sand, volleyball nets, grills, and long buffet tables filled with seemingly unlimited free food and drinks.

At first I didn't see Emmanuel. I looked around amid the flood of folks, feeling like a raisin drowning in milk.

“Who are you looking for, Meena?” A higher-up drone, Sally Donahue, was sipping on a hot coffee. Her blond hair with red highlights brought out the hints of rouge painted atop her cheekbones. “Do you know people in any of the other Merrill Lynch departments?”

“No, just looking,” I said, still surveying. “This is really nice.”

“Actually, it sucks. The same food, same thing every year, but they make us go. It's the politically correct thing to do,” she said, making quote marks in the air. “I couldn't even get my husband to come this time. He thinks everyone is fake.”

I laughed politely, still looking around for Emmanuel.

“Our department tables are this way,” she said, pointing to the left. “Section forty-two.”

I followed her to the tent, and as we got closer, Emmanuel came into sight, sitting on a bench, eating a hot dog. Relish oozed out of his mouth as he bit slowly and smiled when he spotted me walking closer.

“You're my partner in the obstacle course,” he said, wiping the corners of his lips. “I can tell you're in shape. Look at those legs.”

“I used to be. Don't know about now,” I said. “But I'm wearing heels. Wish someone had warned me. I like to play.”

“I bet you do,” he said, looking me up and down. “I've seen your pretty toes. Do it barefoot.”

“Um . . . I just got a pedicure, so I'll be running slowly.”

“That's all right, I got you.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “I'll give you a nice foot massage and touch-up later.”

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. I do remember being horny, drinking bucket-size cups of beer and eating seconds and thirds of chicken, hot dogs, hamburgers, and potato salad. Each time I got a nod of approval from E. “I like a girl who eats,” he said, laughing. “I love that you're not shy about anything.”

“I don't know about that,” I replied, slowly cutting my barbecued chicken into small pieces before placing them into my mouth, conscious of his studying me, aware that I needed to appear delicate, demure. “Maybe I'm shy about some things . . .”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like when the lights come on.”

“I got a nice dark playroom I can show you.”

“I bet you do . . .”

I did a lot of smiling, and sweating, playing volleyball like a competitive medal was involved. Like I was vying for prize money. I jumped up to the net height and hit the ball aggressively, just to show off my athletic prowess to coworkers and, most of all, Emmanuel. I could feel the alcohol beneath his gaze, sticking to me like the sweaty company T-shirt they made us wear, peeling off my chest. He anticipated each move, salivating for the next muscle flex, pining, which made him miss balls bouncing his way. Pausing to give a cocky nod in my direction, the ball served from my team hit him with a blindside smack to the face. He bent over, holding his nose, seemingly expecting blood to run from the nostril. Amid a sea of coworker laughter, he sat out the rest of the game, watching me, again, with a smile. In the end, I walked to where Emmanuel sat and plopped down.

“Ooh, I drank too much,” I said, taking a sip of something he handed me. “I don't even like volleyball.”

“You ready to make a move out of here? I got that smoke in the car.”

Our eyes met. And this time my mouth creeped into a mischievous smile.

“And you know,” he said, staring at my feet. “You still got that foot massage coming.”

“Yeah, but I stink now,” I said, patting a paper towel to my forehead. “And my hair is a mess.”

“Oh, that's all right. You smell good to me.” He gave me another tissue and a cold beer. “And you look beautiful, natural. Plus, you can use the bathroom at my apartment if you want.”

I didn't know about that. Even through my inebriated daze, I still preferred a room at the Hilton. “We're going to your crib?”

“Well, yeah, how am I supposed to give you a massage? In the car?”

“Yeah. But what about your wife?”

“She's at work,” he said, getting up and motioning me to come with him. “Don't worry about anything, it's cool.”

The ride from the company party to his apartment was awkward. Quiet. Bumpy. E and I said nothing as he drove through the streets. We dared not glance at each other as he turned down suburban avenues with meticulously manicured lawns dotted with Christmas decorations. The sidewalks looked newly cemented. The homes were pristine with upper-class statement. As he drove farther into the neighborhood and turned the corner, we eased into a new development of condos. Streets curved and circled until he pulled into a slim driveway.

“This is where you live?”

“Yup,” he answered, turning off the motor. The garage door closed behind us. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Now that we had arrived, his house seemed so real. Suddenly the wet fantasy petrified me. I stumbled out the car, looking around to see whether we were being watched. Butterflies fluttered, flaming up a fire of gassy bubbles in my intestines. With my heart pounding in my throat, I squeezed my butt cheeks and took a deep breath so I could focus and not pass gas. We walked up to his door, he slid in the key, unlocked two bolts, and stepped through. I slowly followed, nervously making chitchat.

“So this is where you live?”

“Yup.”

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“You like it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are the walls thin?”

“No.”

“Are your neighbors nosy?”

“Some.” He paused and gave me a searching look after closing the door behind him. “You sound like a reporter. Are you doing an investigative story on me?”

“No,” I said, with a quavering chuckle. “I just . . .”

“Do you want my Social Security number?”

“No,” I said, before taking a deep breath and exhaling. “I just think I'm nervous.”

“Why?”

“You sure your wife won't come home?”

“I already answered that question,” he said, flicking on the light to his living room. “She's out of town. Come here.”

His voice was inviting. I walked toward him and he pulled me close, lifting my chin up with a finger, looking me in the eye. “You're safe,” he said, before kissing me on the lips. “Relax. Okay?” Then he pecked me on the forehead.

I smiled like a five-year-old, whispering, “Okay.”

“I'm about to roll something to make you feel better. Get comfortable. Take your shoes off.”

Emmanuel's condo was cozy, with a warm color scheme of grays and burgundys splattered across the room. An L-shaped, smoke-hued couch framed a small mahogany wooden table that sat atop a carpet adorned by brushstrokes of merlot and evening fog tones. The carpet was thin and matted, as if a day care of kids had spilled breakfast, lunch, and dinner atop its fibers. Along the walls were tall bookcases and an entertainment center holding a mixture of novels, tiny African statues, diplomas, and frames crowded with photos. I stumbled around and stopped at a collage of family pictures showing a smiling Emmanuel sitting with his son next to an overweight white woman with stringy red hair.

“Her name is Susan, right?”

“Yup,” he said, sitting on the couch rolling a blunt, carefully picking out the seeds from the weed. “That's Sue.”

“How many months along was she when you took this photo?”

“Oh, she wasn't pregnant in that picture,” he said, laughing. “You know we like big girls in Jamaica.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, a touch mystified. “Ain't a thing big about me.”

“Yeah, but you're sexy. Those eyes . . .” His words trailed off as I turned to watch him staring at me while slowly using his tongue to lick and seal the tightly rolled paper around sticky green marijuana. I sat down next to him as he lit up, took a few pulls, and passed the blunt to me.

“You should let me give you”—he started coughing out smoke—“a shotgun.”

Nodding in agreement, I passed the blunt and watched Emmanuel slowly place the lit end of the cigar into his mouth. He curled his tongue away from the ashes as I placed my mouth on the opposite side. He exhaled, I inhaled, and after a few seconds backed up. As I took in the smoke, its ecstasy of herbs floated me to the ceiling. Smoke drifted out my nose and what seemed like my ears. Suddenly, I couldn't bear the overwhelming fumes and began coughing out the remaining smoke.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said, getting up. “This is the good stuff. Straight from Kingston, baby.”

“Thanks,” I said, still coughing, choking on my saliva, sounding like an old man with bronchitis. “I'm okay.”

Emmanuel cracked up as he walked to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Guinness from the fridge. I sat still, embarrassed, eyeing the front door, wanting to leave and at the same time squeezing my vagina, trying to suck in what flowed with every thought of kissing him. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as I felt him approach. Then it began. Softness. Nothing but his moist lips on mine. They felt sticky, yummy, sweet. The flow between my legs grew as he lifted up my shirt and sucked my neck, then my left breast and right nipple. He stopped to take a look. But I kept my eyes closed. Too nervous to make eye contact. Insecure about letting him see the weird faces I made in the midst of pleasure with the lights on. I could hear the elastic of the plastic snap around his genitals. He grabbed my legs, pulled them forward, and within seconds was inside me.
Mmmm
 . . . It felt so good. Hard and thrashing. I could hear the juices mixing. I felt out of my mind. Completely high and groggy. Mad that I'd smoked so much, upset that I'd not kept my head and been more focused on staying sober so I could enjoy the moment. An internal conversation clogged up my brain.
Wait. I didn't want this. He's married. What am I doing? Fuck. I drank too much. Oh, God, this shit feels so good. Fuck me harder.
Dizzy, spinning like a sexual vacuum, sucking secretions and hairs and body and vagina and pelvis all in one. He knocked a family photo down while flipping me over. And then I felt sick.