Should Have Known Better Page 22

  One time at a meeting I traded name tags with Star Jones. I was Whitney Houston and everyone kept making me sing. And I sounded awful, but she didn’t move. She sat there sending texts on her phone. Just quiet. She reminded me of Cheyenne. “You want to be Whitney?” I asked. “No.” She looked at her phone. “She has bad hair.” I nodded. “You could be right. But she’s also not built to break.” I pulled off the tag and handed it to her. “And neither are you.”

  It was then that I finally realized why we didn’t go by our real names at HHNFH. It wasn’t because of the visibility of some of the women who came in the front door covering bulging eyes with Chanel glasses. It was because we were all in the same situation. We were all sharing the same pain. And who we were wasn’t what mattered. It was what we were going through that connected us.

  “So, ladies, today is career day,” the ringleader said at the start of my eighth meeting at HHNFH. “You were all supposed to bring in personal résumés that were updated with your projected career moves. If you want to be the next Oprah Winfrey, I should see President /CEO of Harpo Entertainment as your current employment status. Let’s see what we have.”

  I was noticing something. When the weekly work assignments at the meetings were focused on something driven by anger or pain, the ringleader had to work hard to get folks settled down. They wouldn’t stop volunteering to present their assignments. Some outtalked her and insisted that we continue talking about the top three reasons we shouldn’t hire a hit man to take out our former spouses (which was a comical assignment, yet beneficial and probably in line with what at least three women had secretly considered at one point).

  In contrast, when the ringleader gave us an optimistic or positive assignment, requiring lots of personal reflection—write a love poem, draw a heart on your sleeve, even saying what was once good about your spouse—she had to force us to the floor. The assignments were done, but sharing what she’d requested was like a vocal reclamation of our former selves. It was an outward declaration that we knew we had to move on. And so many people weren’t ready for that. I know I wasn’t. I hadn’t looked at my divorce papers since the twins came to live in the house with me and my mother.

  “Ms. Shaunie O’Neal, I see you have a folded-up sheet of résumé paper in your pad,” the ringleader said, speaking to one of the newer women who’d been coming every other week.

  “I don’t have anything new,” she answered, shaking her head nervously. “I’ll pass.”

  Everyone was quiet. Passing was, of course, allowed and even promoted if you thought you would be put in a position to lie to the group, but it was rare.

  The woman next to Shaunie O’Neal put her arm around her shoulders.

  “OK, what about the rest of you? Where’s my next Jackie Collins?”

  Some people laughed.

  “Come on; don’t be shy. Remember, the only way that you can fully visualize your life moving forward is if you plan for it. You have to know where you’re going or you’ll be stuck in the past.” She went and stood in front of the fireplace. Above the mantel one of Maya Angelou’s poems, “Phenomenal Woman,” was painted on the wall in script. I hadn’t noticed the poem at first, but then, at my third meeting, I went and stood by the fireplace and read it. I’d memorized that poem when I was just a little girl. I’d said it at a talent show at my school. “All of you have the potential to be amazing. To be the best. To be exceptional. This is not the end of that opportunity. It’s the beginning.” The ringleader went on, “I know projecting for your future is scary for many of you, because in your eyes that might mean being alone. And that’s frightening. But you can’t think that’s all there is. Being married, being with someone doesn’t and shouldn’t define you. You can’t let your daughters think that’s all there is. You can’t let the little girl inside of you think that’s all there is. Speak up.”

  I raised my hand.

  “Great, Ivana,” she said. “Why don’t you come up to the mantel and share since you’re so courageous.”

  I stood up and unfolded my résumé. It was a cream-colored sheet of paper with my name on top. I had to straighten my sagging pants once I got to the mantel—another thing I was learning about divorce was that because of the stress, you either gained or lost a lot of weight (I was falling on the weight loss side and none of my clothes fit).

  “Can I say something first?” I asked the ringleader.

  “Sure. Be our guest.”

  I looked around the room slowly and didn’t stop my stare until I was looking at the poem above the mantel.

  “Everyone said I was going to be something special when I was little—my mother, my friends, the people at my church. And when I got accepted into college, they kept saying it. Everyone was so excited about me going to Spelman. So excited about me getting a college education. They told me—told me—I was going to be a doctor or a lawyer. They said that to me. They said I was so smart that I had to be one of those things,” I said. “Looking back, I had no clue what they were talking about. I didn’t feel special. I didn’t feel smart. I had no desire to chase any of those opportunities they said were for me. And that was because I was just trying to get away from my past. I didn’t have the energy to care to know how special or smart I was. I had to just use those things to figure a way out of my circumstance. I only used Spelman to get out of the house. And then, once that happened, I signed up for the next step. The only thing that would ensure that I wouldn’t have to look back. I hate to think of my marriage that way. I loved my husband for the independent man he was. But I also know that independence was only used to make me more dependent. And, as a result, I don’t think I ever really sat and thought of anything beyond him. I went to grad school. I got a job at the library. But it’s just a job. It’s not a career. It’s not something I care to do. The worst part is that I can stand here and say it’s not what I want to do with the rest of my life, but I still don’t know.” I held up my résumé. “This sheet of paper has my name, my current job, and ‘mother’ on it. I wanted to fill it all in. Make it two pages and add a staple. But you told us not to lie.” I looked at the ringleader. “And I couldn’t. I don’t know what more I want out of life and I don’t know how long it’s going to take me being on my own to figure that out. It’s scary to think I can be so old and not really know myself enough to see my future . . . how I can contribute to the world . . . change it. All I have right now is my basic instinct, and that’s to take care of my children. Give them a home. And let them know that Mommy is not going to be beat. And I know that’s not as cool as saying I want to be the next Oprah, but we all know it’s not common to come out on the other side OK. And I think that’s a good enough goal for right now.”

  Five other women spoke after me. We took turns standing in front of the mantel, sharing our stories and being open about what we hoped would come true. One woman took the week we had to do the assignment to get the ball rolling on a small business loan to start her own day-care center. Another woman was just like me. She had no idea what she wanted to do with her career. But she’d always wanted to take a hot air balloon ride. She got up one morning and did it.

  The biggest shock of the five was when the old Star Jones, who was always quiet and sending text messages during the meeting and refusing to switch her name tag with me, got up and volunteered.

  “I tried to kill my husband. I almost did.”

  The ringleader got up to go and stand beside Star Jones to hold her hand, but she refused.

  “I don’t regret it. I’ve always believed that people should pay for the crimes they commit. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. He gave me HIV. I slit his throat.”

  “Oh, God!” some in the circle shrieked.

  “I don’t expect anyone in here to feel sorry for me. In fact, please don’t. I don’t need sorries; I need prayers. This has rocked my soul. And if HIV doesn’t kill me in ten months or ten years, my anger will.” She went into her pocketbook and pulled out a piece of paper. “I was a high
school principal. That’s what this paper will tell you.” She held the résumé up. “I spent thirteen years in the same school system. Worked my way up alongside my husband. He taught math. I taught science. We were at the same school. He didn’t want to go into administration, but I wanted the thrill, the power. Soon, I was driving the ship and my husband was still a mate. I felt guilty. He started fucking my entire staff. He kept fucking me. I was angry about what was going on in closets and back rooms and offices, but I let him fuck me because I was afraid to lose him. I got HIV. He got a slash over the whole of his throat. There was blood everywhere.” She was crying, but still standing with the paper. “If you look above my job as a principal, you’ll see that my eventual goal was to be superintendent of Fulton County Schools. I’d never written that down before, but it was my dream. I thought I’d get there in ten more years. But now, I know that’ll never happen.”

  “Don’t count yourself out, sister,” the old Madonna said.

  “No, I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen for me.” She paused. “I’ve decided to change my plea to guilty. My lawyer first suggested that I plead not guilty. I’m stopping that. I know what the truth is. And I figure that if I can just stand there and tell those people who I am and what happened, I don’t care about the result. I’m pretty sure I won’t be superintendent in Fulton County, but I’m also sure I won’t be a liar and that’s how I got into this situation—because of someone’s lies.”

  “See, I don’t know,” the woman next to me said after we sat there looking at Star for a few minutes in silence. “I don’t think I would plead guilty. Even if I did it. And I know some of you all think that’s crazy, but I can’t take seeing another sister go down for some bullshit a brother put her through. It’s stupid. And this down-low, gay shit, infecting us black women with HIV has got to stop. I commend you for taking a stand.”

  A few people actually clapped. Star didn’t even blink.

  “I thank you for your support, but I assure you, this is no courageous mission,” she said. “And I’m sorry, but my husband is white. And I know he’s never slept with a man. He got this from my best friend.”

  We walked like sheep to slaughter out of that meeting. Eyes forward. Hands at our sides. Silent. Sober and somber. There was nothing to say. I think it was because so much of Star’s story reminded us of the possibilities of scornful courses of action had we not found the Hell Hath No Fury House and been faced with the demons of our own hell. You know, I don’t think Star was talking about her husband when she said someone’s lies had gotten her into her situation. I think she was talking about herself.

  I couldn’t see my mother’s car when I walked outside, so I took a seat in one of the rocking chairs and prayed for Star. She was right. She didn’t need more people feeling sorry for her. Only her God could help her now.

  A white Range Rover pulled up in front of the house. Most of the women had already come out. The ringleader was inside counseling a woman privately, so I was sure the ride was for one of them.

  The driver honked the horn several times, but no one came out.

  “Are you going to act like you don’t see me forever?” I heard this clearly, but didn’t look up, knowing the driver was speaking to someone else. “OK, Dawn. This is your last chance for romance.”

  “Last what?” I looked up.

  A. J. was standing in front of the car in jeans and a buttoned-up shirt. He waved at me.

  “What do you mean my last chance?”

  “Come down off that porch and I’ll tell you,” he hollered.

  A. J. was very proud to tell me how he’d broken down one of my lines of defense. He’d seen my mother sitting outside of the HHNFH with the twins in the backseat. He could tell from across the street they were getting on her nerves and got out of his car to offer my mother twenty dollars to take the twins out for ice cream. He said he was a friend of mine and he could drive me home.

  “And she went for that?” I asked, surprised.

  “She was pretty cool, actually. It was the little girl in the backseat that had the evil eyes routine locked down,” he said. “If looks could kill, I’d be having this conversation with you at my funeral.”

  “That’s my daughter,” I said.

  “Oh, that was easy to discern. She’s adorable. Looks just like you and your mother.”

  I laughed at this.

  “What? I’m funny?” A. J.’s dimples smiled at me. We were standing at the side of the car.

  “No. You just seem to have all of the right lines. Know what to say to a woman.”

  “Lines?”

  “It’s fine. It’s you,” I said. “The smooth-operator type.”

  “Whoa! That’s a new one! You’re judging me?” he laughed.

  “I’m not judging you. I’m saying what I see.”

  “Maybe I’m saying what I see, too.”

  I let what he said set in and then we both laughed.

  “So, that was a line, too?” he said. “I see what you’re saying.”

  “You’re good, though.”

  “How about we just spend a little time together, so you can see that I’m not just all lines?”

  “A. J., I told you, I’m not seeing anyone right now. I’m trying to do something and it’s not a good time.”

  “All right, I guess I’ll take my second beatdown like a man.” He jingled his keys. “I’ll be on my way.” He started walking to the other side of the car to leave. “But there’s only one thing I’m worried about.”

  “What?”

  “How are you going to get home?”

  A. J. wasn’t lying. He was more than his lines. He was funny. And smart. And after a while of being with him, you forgot how fine he was and even who he was.

  I know you’re probably waiting for an explanation of how I got into his car; in a minute you’ll probably wonder why in God’s name I was at that man’s house. I’ll sum it all up by asking a question and giving an answer. First, what would you do? Second, I was tired of saying no. Not just “no” to A. J. and his odd campaign to date me or whatever he was thinking, but “no” to fun. To life. To doing something I thought I wasn’t supposed to do. I wanted to experience something different. Something not me. Something mad. Jump right in, knowing it might hurt and resort to having fun the whole time. I know some of you are on my side. You were probably wondering how long it would take for me to accept A. J.’s offer, but to the rest of you, I offer you this: go outside and make angels in the snow. Wear a bikini with your gut hanging low. Get blond bangs because you like them—it doesn’t matter how dark you are. Date a man half your age and kiss him until the sun comes up. Then, you tell me if this wasn’t worth it.

  A. J.’s house was a bachelor’s pad. I’d never been in one, had only seen one in those “Ladies’ Man” skits on Saturday Night Live, but there I was in a gargantuan house decorated in so much leather and chrome it nearly looked like a sports bar. There was a red leather chaise longue in the middle of the living room floor. It was big enough to seat at least six people. A fish tank stretched from the living room, through the kitchen and into the dining room and pool room. A. J. showed me a trick he’d taught one of his sharks and raced him on foot from side to side in the house. At first, I thought it was a different shark in each room, but then, sure enough, I noticed it was the same shark following him from room to room.

  “He’s just greedy,” A. J. said, laughing like he was R. J. working on one of his science projects. He’d taken off his shoes and was sliding around on the freshly waxed marble floors in his socks.

  When I’d gotten in the car at HHNFH, I’d said again that I wasn’t going out with him and I’d be happy if he’d just take me home. He asked what all I had to do at home for the evening. I, of course, had nothing to say. The kids were getting tired of me following behind their every move in my mother’s house and I knew she’d love having some time alone with them to make them read the Bible and show Cheyenne how to cook; she was surprised Cheyenne was
ten and couldn’t cook anything. A. J. saw the weakness in my plans and asked if coming to his place to help him cook something for his church’s annual men’s day potluck was considered a date. I said I wasn’t sure. He asked if I knew how to make macaroni and cheese.

  “So how did you get involved in this thing at your church?” I asked, sitting on the big red chaise with a wineglass filled with Sprite in my hand. Part of my agreement with the judge to fulfill my DUI probation was participating in a drug and alcohol abuse program. I agreed to stop drinking until it was over.

  “It’s a group for men at the church. We meet once a month and discuss issues Christian men deal with in their faith,” he said.

  “So you’re a Christian?”

  “Born and bred. What about you?”

  “I don’t know right now. Religion and I haven’t gotten along in a while. Guess I’m trying to find what works for me.”

  “I get that,” he said. “It’s better to figure that out than to be a believer not knowing what you’re believing in.”

  A. J. had a way of saying things like that. He made everything sound so simple, so easy.

  “And the potluck? Why would you volunteer to make something? You know what most men do—”

  “Go out and purchase the nearest store-roasted chicken?” he said, leading me into his kitchen. We were both in our socks and sliding across the floor.

  “Yes!”

  “I did that last year and my pastor pointed it out the next week at church. This year I have to go hard. No more Kroger chicken for me.”

  “But you don’t know how to make macaroni and cheese.”

  “That’s why you’re here!”

  That man didn’t know how to grate cheese or boil pasta. And it was a good thing I’d insisted we stop at the grocery story to get all of my ingredients because he originally had a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese on the counter ready to go.

  I stood by his six-burner, gas range stove top, listening to A. J. explain how he decided to go into journalism, and I imagined all of the women who were in love with him. He was perfection. And he didn’t know it. He seemed to have everything in his life figured out. And his kitchen. It looked like something out of a catalog, a mall display. There was a bread warmer. Two ovens. A hidden refrigerator. But he admitted that he lived on nacho chips and salsa.