Should Have Known Better Page 3

  I finished folding a pile of clothes that had been sitting on the ottoman in the living room for two weeks and replayed the episode.

  2

  Reginald made good on his promise to help. He even woke up early to cut the grass and prune the little rosebushes that edged the walkway to the front door. His parents had bought the house in the late ’60s. It was a humble little ranch they’d purchased outright with his father’s veteran’s benefits. Time took its toll on the house though. Wherever something could sag or chip, it did. We never had enough money for repairs—nothing beyond patch-ups. But it was comfortable and it was ours. It was home. Yet I knew it could never compare to whatever Sasha’s place looked like in Atlanta.

  The clock ticked closer to the time Sasha was supposed to arrive. I finished poofing the pillows in the living room, organizing the fruit in the fruit bowl (I’d gone to the supermarket at 2:00 a.m.), and wrestling with Cheyenne’s hair. I got everyone into the living room for a meeting.

  I lined them up and inspected kneecaps and clothing, and reviewed my expectations for the afternoon. No sports. No arguing. No fighting. No Internet. No yelling. No friends over. Everyone was to be on their best behavior. I felt silly for saying these things, but I knew my family. Reginald didn’t want Sasha there in the first place. Cheyenne was annoyed just to be annoyed. R. J. was already finding it hard to understand why his usual Saturday routine of going to the park had been disturbed.

  I noticed a riotous hair between his eyebrows and slicked it down with a finger I’d wet with my spit.

  “Yuck!” Cheyenne groaned as R. J. winced. “That’s nasty.”

  “Cheyenne!” I called.

  Reginald unbuttoned the top button of the shirt I’d laid out for him on the bed.

  “Reginald!”

  Now Cheyenne was scratching at her stockings.

  “Can I take these off now?” she groaned. “It’s too hot for stupid stockings.”

  R. J. rubbed his forehead and the long hair went back into a riot.

  Reginald unbuttoned another button and looked at his watch for the third time.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “You sure she’s still coming?”

  My arms at my sides, my hands in fists, I was completely annoyed. This was getting impossible.

  “Everybody!” I shouted. “Listen, you are all going to have to focus. Just for me. Just for a minute. I told you my friend is coming and I need you all to act right; just for a little while.”

  “Why, Mama? Why do we have to act right?” R. J. asked.

  I looked from R. J. to Reginald, who shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s getting late, sweetie,” he said. “Maybe we should let the kids go outside and call them back when she gets here.”

  “They’ll get dirty and Cheyenne’s hair will—” My list of grievances was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling onto the gravel in our driveway. The kids ran to the window.

  A car door slammed. Reginald and I went to open the front door. There was a limousine idling behind the green pickup. The driver was out and preparing to open the back door.

  “A limo,” Cheyenne gushed, pushing past me to get outside.

  Her brother trailed behind her.

  Two kids from around the corner were outside sitting on their bikes in the middle of the street. I thought to tell them to get out of the road, but then my eyes followed theirs and stopped on a brown hand with long, shiny red nails, holding on to the outstretched arm of the driver. There was a hush as it seemed that everyone, including me, had forgotten that we’d known exactly who was getting out of the back of that car. Our little crowd waited. Another kid stopped short on his bike. One fell.

  My throat swelled.

  Sasha’s head of blond curls popped out from behind the door and everyone gasped—or was it just me?

  “Dawn!” she yelled, breaking the hush over the scene, pushing past the driver and meeting me halfway up the walkway. She took these deliberate long strides in her black heels. She had on a red wrap dress and sparkling diamond earrings I could see into from three feet away. I was happy now that I’d made everyone overdress for the visit. My gray slacks and charcoal blouse seemed just enough standing in front of Sasha.

  I’d watched the taped version of her interview with the cute Indian doctor five times before I’d finished drying my hair. I swear this woman walking toward me looked thinner and younger and even more beautiful than what I’d seen. Yeah, she’d grown up from being twenty-one to thirty-three, but the beauty she’d had when we were young had matured into this dramatic parade of perfection. Seeing her floating toward me like Miss America, I whispered what I was sure most people thought when they saw her in person. “She’s somebody.”

  Sasha threw herself heavily into my arms, wrapping hers around my neck and squeezing tightly. She smelled so sweet, so unmistakably feminine. So not like me.

  We rocked back and forth. I could see Cheyenne and R. J. standing behind her.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” she squealed, tightening her grip. “My college roomie!”

  “Sasha!” I said, still shaking in her tight embrace.

  She let loose and backed up a bit, cupping my face in her hands. She was crying and smiling.

  “It’s been too long!” She pulled me back into her arms and rocked some more.

  Cheyenne’s eyes narrowed suspiciously on her back.

  While I flashed Cheyenne a warning look, I was also a little put off by Sasha’s tearful greeting. It seemed so sincere, and so heartfelt. In her moist eyes, I saw a friend who’d missed me. Though I’d missed her, too, maybe my nerves or surprise that she was visiting stopped me from fully feeling the moment. I told myself to let go. I wiped one of her tears and kissed her on the cheek.

  “It has been too long,” I said, looking into Sasha’s eyes.

  I felt Reginald’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Hello, Sasha,” he said.

  “Oh, Reginald,” she said. “You look great.”

  She grabbed him and pulled him to her the same way she’d done me.

  The kids laughed and pointed at the baffled look on Reginald’s face behind her back.

  I sharpened my eyes on Cheyenne again and they stopped quickly.

  “And Sasha,” I said, lightly tugging Sasha’s arm off of Reginald’s neck. “These are the twins; I don’t think you’ve seen them since their christening in Atlanta.”

  She turned around and crouched down seemingly expecting to greet two little toddlers, but Cheyenne and R. J. towered above her.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she hollered, pulling them down to her. “You two are so big! I can’t believe how you’ve grown!” There was more crying and rocking.

  Reginald hustled over to the driver to get her bags.

  “Come on; get inside,” I said. “I’m sure you’re tired from your conference.”

  “Super tired,” she said, looking up at the house. “Oh, what a quaint little cottage.”

  I’d hardly planned what we would do during Sasha’s visit beyond showing her my herb garden and offering her an apple from the fruit bowl. But by the time the sun was setting, I realized that none of that was necessary anyway. She had a story. I had a story. I had to know. She had to know. And we kept asking whatever happened to this person and that person. Where is she now? What is he doing? We giggled and gossiped like we were back in our dorm room. And, oh, it was so refreshing. Just having company for me. You know? So much of what we’d done in our house was for Reginald. For the kids. And right then I found myself playing with my hair. I told Sasha I liked her perfume. She pulled the bottle out of her purse and sprayed a dash on my wrist.

  “I spray it everywhere,” she said, stashing it back into her purse at the dinner table.

  We laughed, but everyone else just sat in their chairs lazily and rolled their eyes. Cheyenne fingered a meatball on her plate of spaghetti. I would’ve snapped at her, but she was the only one of them who was still showing signs of life. R. J. and Re
ginald were completely worn out by our conversation.

  After surviving a series of Sasha’s questions about what it was like having a twin, R. J. was avoiding eye contact with Sasha. And Reginald only broke his stare to give me a look of disapproval about something Sasha had said.

  “So what’s it like being a big television star?” Reginald asked rather randomly.

  “It’s wonderful,” Sasha answered. “I get to travel the world, meet interesting people”—she looked at Cheyenne and smiled—“learn new things. I couldn’t have asked for a better career.”

  “It can’t be all good—must have some downsides,” Reginald pushed and I managed a half-pleasant smile, afraid of where he might be going with his questions. I knew Sasha could feel the tiny tension, too, and was hoping she’d back down quickly, give him what he wanted, so she could get back to talking to me.

  “I can’t say anything bad about the industry at this point. Of course, I have to work hard—go up against the big boys on bad days—but who doesn’t have to do that?” She looked over at me for agreement and I nodded.

  “Actually, at the library, my coworker Sharika and I always have to try to—” I offered, but Reginald quickly cut in.

  “I don’t bow down to any big boys,” he said. “I have my own business. I’m my own man. That’s how it is when you work for yourself.”

  “Well, of course, I wouldn’t mind running my own business, but I couldn’t exactly open my own television network and have the same outreach that I do at CNN.”

  “Bob Johnson did,” Reginald pointed out.

  “Bob Johnson? He sold his soul to Viacom. Sold our soul. You can’t compare that,” Sasha said.

  “Who’s Bob Johnson?” Cheyenne asked after finally eating her meatball.

  “The founder of BET,” I replied.

  “The man went out there and made something happen for himself. He didn’t depend on white folks for anything,” Reginald said.

  “OK,” I interjected. “Enough of the grown people talk. You two are boring the kids.” I reached over and rubbed R. J.’s back.

  “The kids need to hear this,” Reginald said. “They need to know all about their mother’s friend who works at CNN. What it’s like being on top. Nothing wrong with a little spirited conversation. Right, Sasha?”

  “Of course not,” Sasha agreed. “Do you two ever watch the show?”

  “Once in a while,” I said quickly. “I loved the piece you did about black women serving in Iraq last Thanksgiving. It was so touching.”

  “Oh, you saw that? I so loved working on that feature. I used every favor I ever had to get on that base. Those women were so courageous.”

  “So what brings you to Augusta?” Reginald asked abruptly. “Must be hard to get time away.”

  “Well, as I told Dawn, I’ve been at a journalism conference in downtown Augusta for the last three days and I figured I had to stop through to see you guys before I headed back to Atlanta. I’m actually on a two-week vacation.”

  “And you came to little old Augusta?” Reginald asked. “I’d think someone like you would go to France or Paris.”

  “Paris is in France, Daddy,” Cheyenne snarled. “If she goes to Paris, she’s been to France.”

  Reginald didn’t even look at her.

  “Wow, that was so smart of you, sweetheart,” Sasha said. “What school are they at, Dawn? Westminster? Episcopal Day? Augusta Prep?”

  “Oh, no; we don’t have them in private school,” I answered. “We just can’t do it right now.”

  “What? Are you serious?” she pushed, waving off the bread basket as I tried to pass it along. “You simply can’t trust your children’s education in the public school system. I did a special on it. I’d put them in private school. What, it’s only about $18K a year per kid.”

  “Yeah, Reginald and I have considered switching them over,” I said, avoiding Reginald’s eyes. “But the public schools here aren’t so bad.”

  “Don’t believe the hype,” Sasha said. “Look up the numbers.”

  To this, I smiled and lifted the bread basket again. “Anyone need more bread?” I asked.

  This sort of conversation was what I wanted to avoid. Reginald’s distaste for what he called “you people” the other day was actually a pure disdain for upper-class blacks who enjoyed being . . . upper-class blacks. A self-proclaimed country boy, who exalted the simple life his war-veteran father had provided for his family, Reginald found this sort pompous and ridiculous. He said they were blinded by their desires to be white and measure up in the eyes of the white American dream.

  They all refused the bread and passed the basket around quickly.

  When it landed back in front of me, I jumped up just as Reginald was about to say something.

  “OK, dinner’s done,” I said. “Let’s clear the table.”

  The plates were half empty and no one had touched the bowl of carrots I’d roasted, but I grabbed the bowl of spaghetti from the center of the table.

  “We’re done?” R. J. asked.

  “Yes, baby,” I said. “Now, clear your plate and go and wash your hands. We’re getting ready for bed.”

  I smiled pleasantly and walked swiftly into the kitchen, snagging Reginald’s shoulder to signal for him to follow me.

  “Be nice,” I said once we were in the kitchen. “Just be nice to her. Please!”

  “I’m trying, but she’s a—”

  A curse was interrupted when Cheyenne handed him the bowl of carrots and disappeared back into the dining room.

  “She’s just different,” I said. “She has different views than yours. And that’s OK.”

  “I’m not a child,” Reginald said. “I know people see things differently, but that woman is just a—”

  “Here, Daddy.” R. J. stopped his father this time, handing him the basket of bread.

  Reginald took it and handed it to me.

  “Look, I just need you to make it through dessert,” I said once R. J. left.

  “Dessert? You just said dinner was over!”

  “For the kids. I got some tiramisu and dessert wine for us,” I said. “I thought it would be nice.”

  “Tira—what? And you don’t even drink. Can’t you two do that without me?”

  “That will be odd,” I tried. “Come on. It’ll just be like fifteen minutes. Have one little bit and then you can go to bed.”

  Reginald looked at me.

  “Please. Just be nice. Only a little while longer.”

  “OK,” he said firmly. “But if she starts acting crazy again, I’m going to let her have it. I hate people like that. You know it.”

  “I know, babe,” I said, handing him the marbled tiramisu I’d stashed in the back of the refrigerator so the kids couldn’t see it.

  As I expected, Reginald was much better after he’d had something sweet to eat. While he scoffed at our sweet dessert wine, his third beer had him at ease and I actually saw him smiling at Sasha.

  “So, how are the men in Atlanta?” I asked Sasha as she was in the middle of a speech about how hard it was being a single woman working in entertainment. Her red lipstick had faded a little and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. “I know they’re all falling madly in love with you.”

  “Love? Hardly,” Sasha answered. “The ones who aren’t homosexual are self-sexual—”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Self-obsessed. You know, the ones who work out seven times a week, get mani-pedis, and only date women who look good in pictures with them?”

  “Oh, you mean the new metrosexuals?”

  Sasha and I laughed as Reginald looked on confused.

  “What, you don’t know any men like that?” Sasha asked him.

  “Afraid I don’t.”

  “And that’s a good thing,” I said, patting him on the back.

  “Then there are the married men who are dating,” Sasha went on, “and the dating men who never want to get married.”

  “Come on; it can
’t be that bad,” I insisted.

  Sasha sat back and twisted the fork in what was left of her tiramisu.

  “No, there are some bright spots . . . there was Derrick. . . . We even got as far as picking out an engagement ring.”

  “See, that’s promising.” I winked at Sasha.

  “Yeah, it was very promising. Until I realized I was paying for the ring myself. That joker had five kids and five baby mamas—all of whom were deep into him for back child support!”

  Reginald was the only one who laughed then.

  “Five?” I repeated.

  “Five!” she confirmed. “Well, I only knew about two at first—and you can’t hate a thirty-five-year-old man for having two kids—but then it seemed like every time we had a heart-to-heart his heart needed to open up about another kid. I was in too deep to kick him to the curb. But then, I realized he was broke. That was it for me.”

  Reginald looked at me.

  “Then there was Arthur. He was a painter.”

  “Oh, an artist!” I perked up.

  “Um . . . negative. He painted houses. He was more broke than Derrick, but I’d just turned thirty-three. I was feeling bad about being single and took a chance. He was good to me. Moved in. Painted my whole house—outside and inside.”

  “Resourceful!” I tried, cutting a second slice of tiramisu for Reginald’s empty plate.

  “Yeah, but then he painted my neighbors’ house and slept with them, too.”

  Reginald kicked me under the table.

  “Who knew he could fuck two lesbians?” Sasha added.

  “Lesbians? Well, be glad you got rid of him. He sounds like a jerk.”

  “Or the luckiest man in the world,” Reginald mumbled and I kicked him back harder. “Ouch!”