Shh...Mine (This. Is. Not. Over.) Page 4

  The magnolias are blooming now, the stars are gleaming and the roar of a plane passing through the night grabs my attention. I look up, wondering where it’s going. I look further away into the sky. Another plane. I glance to the left. Another. Three planes in the sky, all at one time. Each going a different way. Seems like my life: wife, mother, me. I love Nicky but I wish I could have more than him to satisfy me. I’m not one of those women who can deny that a male counterpart doesn’t make the days go by sweeter. But let’s face it, Jon never made me feel better about being alive. He was security. I could trust that people weren’t looking at me as though I couldn’t find a husband. I was part of the club. The married women’s club. I had a steady wedding date, dinner date and roommate. I had a permanent escort. Why did I marry him…? God, I need to get away. I look at the planes and they’re nearly out of sight, but there’s one more coming into view. One more. Where’s this one going? Where’s everyone going? Are they happy?

  I inhale and smell the magnolias in the air. I’m too young for this to be my life. I’m too young to be stashed away on Kirby Drive in a magnificent house. I should be on Dallas Street, in a condo or a loft. I should hear college girls going to parties. I should have a doorman who greets me. I should be grilling on the patio. I shouldn’t have a three thousand square foot home to remind me of how alone I am. Where did I go wrong? I turn and head into the house for a drink. No, I think as I reach the kitchen door. No drink. Not another drink alone. It’s becoming a habit that’s hard to break…oh what the hell. I walk into the kitchen, grab the scotch from the liquor cabinet and don’t even bother to pour it into a glass. Fuck it.

  “Dear?” Shit. My mother.

  “In the kitchen.” I say as I struggle to put the cap back on the bottle and quietly put it back in the cabinet. My mother’s one of those people who considers it a mortal sin to drink dark liquor alone. I wipe the remnants of the scotch from my lips with the back of my hand and smooth my hair over with my hands. There, that should wipe away my sins.

  “Did you cook?” She says as she walks in with a casserole dish.

  “Of course, I have a child don’t I?”

  “Don’t be smart.” She places the casserole dish on the stove and then looks at me. I’ve gotta admit, the lady looks damn good. Butter color skin, red hair that’s almost all-natural and white girl boobs.

  “You look nice.”

  “You look thin.” She walks over to me, a wary eye on my shape. Here we go again. “Danielle, your hips are too round for you to lose too much weight. They poke out even more now. And you’re tiny up here.” She runs her hands over her shoulders. “You lose any more weight and you’ll look frail.”

  “Well we all can’t look like Marilyn Monroe.” I say to her as she squeezes me in a hug.

  “Shut up. Ah, are we drinking again?” She says as she cuts me a look from the corner of her eye. I love that song, Drinking Again. It’s a jazz song that Aretha Franklin made immortal. I start to hum it as I turn and grab the bottle of scotch again. Hell, there’s no need to pretend. I’m drinking again, thinking of when you loved me…

  “Where’s dad?”

  “At the office.” She watches me unscrew the cap, toss it on the counter and take a swig right from the bottle. “Danielle!” She says as she grabs the bottle from me. “Pour me a glass, don’t be rude.” She turns to find a glass.

  “Jon isn’t coming home this weekend.” I say to her through a hiccup. “I heard him telling Nicky that.”

  “Well do you blame him? If you said exactly what you told me you said at dinner, I wouldn’t come home either.” She found a Glencairn whisky glass. “It was rude for you to bring up this house in your argument.”

  “Which was ruder, him asking for a divorce or me telling him that he’ll be homeless?”

  “Both.” She pours her glass of scotch and hands the bottle back over to me. “I hate to say this darling but he’s been this way from the very beginning.” She takes a deep swallow of her drink. “From the very beginning, I told you that he was a damn hippy. I mean, the no meat thing?” She rolls her eyes. “Give me a fucking break.”

  “Listen, I was short on time.” I take a swig from the scotch bottle.

  “Oh, you were not. You were on your way to Harvard, you could have met a boy there.”

  “Yeah, a white boy.”

  “And?” She grins shrugs. “They’re terrible in bed but at least they eat meat.” She smiles, I laugh.

  “We just have nothing in common.” I drop my head back and close my eyes tight. Why! Such a shame. Six years of dating and we have nothing in common.

  “So leave him.” She shrugs again.

  “And be the first of my friends to divorce?” I laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  “Danielle, if you know that this won’t work out, I suggest you leave today, this very moment while you’re still young and beautiful.” She takes another swallow of her drink. I do the same. “Because I’ll tell you, you won’t be young and beautiful forever. Get out now while you can.”

  “Easy for you to say. You and daddy have been married for, what, twenty-six years?”

  “Danielle, sometimes you win sometimes you lose. I met the man that I’ll stay married to forever, you didn’t. So what?” I shake my head and adjust the gold chain on my neck, my favorite one with the minute globe pendant. How did I get myself into this mess? I put the scotch bottle down and search for the cap. I need to get out of here for a little while. Lucky for me, my mother and father bought Jon and me a house right down the street from them. My mother can stay here with Nicky while I run out and get some fresh air.

  “Stay here with Nicky for about two hours will you?” I smooth over my hair.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I just need some fresh air. “ I know it’s the liquor seeping through my blood that’s making me feel so emotional but right now I feel like crying. All I wanted was to be married. Nothing amazing. Nothing spectacular.

  “Call a cab.” She slides her heels off and heads to the liquor cabinet.

  Within twenty minutes, I’m in a town car on my way to Starbucks. There’s something about Starbucks and Barnes and Noble that make me feel all gooey inside. Maybe it’s the smell of coffee and the sounds of the folk music they play but right now I just need comfort. I love my mom but I have to admit that I’m embarrassed to talk to her about my failing marriage. Jon and I have only been married for two years! How can someone get divorced after only two years!

  “Which one, miss?” The driver says to me as we pull onto Memorial Drive. The thing that I like about Memorial Drive is that there are two Starbucks right across the street from each other. They catch you coming and they catch you going.

  “Either one.” He makes a u-turn and pulls up to the one on the opposite side of the street.

  “I’ll wait here.” He says before jumping out to open the door for me. Memorial Drive is quiet for a Thursday, not that I mind. If I’m not enjoying life, why should anyone else be? My heels click against the pavement as I walk into the Starbucks. Do you hear that barista? That’s the sound of control, hand me a goddamn latte. When I open the door, the air conditioning damn near blows me over.

  “What the hell?” I say as I walk in and look at the barista behind the counter.

  “I’m sorry, we’re turning it up.” She says with a smile.

  “Good.” I give her a stink eye before walking to the counter and looking over the menu like I’ve never seen it before. It’s like going to KFC and trying to figure out what you want to eat. There’s chicken! Choose! I look over the Starbuck menu some more. It’s coffee. Decide. “Espresso.” I say before walking away and heading to the community board. There are a few stragglers in there that are typing their hearts out. Give it a break. Why the hell are you typing like mad scientists? That reminds me, I have a stack of manuscripts to look over and then eventually tell the authors that they’re shitty. I’ll tell ya, good talent is hard to come by these days. I look on the c
ommunity board…lost kitty (she’s dead), lost dog (he killed her)…garage sell (fucking gross)…I always look over the community board before I take a seat, just to see what’s going on and then judge it.

  My mom and dad moved to Houston three years ago and I have yet to get accustomed to this city. Texas, is not Louisiana nor is it Massachusetts. My family’s originally from Baton Rouge but my father and mother moved to Boston when she was pregnant with me. My father is a lawyer and his law firm needed an associate there. My mother became a professor of Art History at Harvard. My mom eventually received a dean position at Rice University and so my father started his own lawn firm in Houston in order to move with her. They have colleagues and clients and people all over kissing their asses. They have dinner dates and business dinners and weddings and all kinds of shit. I have Nicky.

  “I’m thinking about joining this.” I almost jump at the voice. I turn to see a woman who looks like the spitting image of Sandra Bullock. I squint my eyes to make sure it’s not her. Wow. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She smiles. “I was talking about the Spring Fest at St. Patrick’s.” I look to the bulletin board and see a flyer about St. Patrick’s hosting a celebration that boasts food, fun and family.

  “I go there.” I say to her. I look to her again. She’s Italian, Greek or Jewish. But wait, she wants to go to St. Patrick’s Spring Fest so she can’t be Jewish and if she were Greek wouldn’t she be Eastern Orthodox? Most Greeks are Eastern Orthodox. St. Patrick’s is Roman Catholic. She’s Italian.

  “I’m new here.” She says while smiling. “My husband was just transferred to a law firm here a few months back to help them out with their cases. We’re originally from Boston.” Now she has my attention.

  “Really? I’m from Boston.”

  “Is that right? Which part?”

  “I grew up in Beacon Hill.”

  “No! I did too.”

  We look at each other, wondering if we remember each other’s face. Nope.

  “Well I think I would have remembered a pretty black girl with red hair.” She says. I smile.

  “It’s natural.” I say with a mock roll of my eyes.

  “I can tell. Part Irish?”

  “Creole. Italian?”

  “Of course.” We smile. She seems nice. “I’m Lola.”

  “Danielle. Well if you decide to come to Spring Fest, look out for me.”

  “I hope I’m not being too forward, but do you mind exchanging numbers? My husband works nonstop and it’s just me.”

  “Sure.” She seems nice, my marriage is over, why not? (Yes, all roads lead to my broken marriage.) She takes out her cell phone and I give her my number. “Which firm does he work for?”

  “Rouge and Associates.” I smile. That’s my father’s law firm.

  March 22nd

  “Double or nothing bitches!” Rena slams her shot glass on the table and slides it over to the bartender who looks a lot like skinny ass Taye Diggs. He winks. That excites her. “Yeah!”

  “What the hell…” I say as I take a sip of my scotch and coke. Taye Diggs sexy? Negative. I give out a deep breath and try to forget that I’m at this god awful bar in the slums of Boston. The counters are sticky, the rug…yes the rug…is tan and filled with mud marks and I swear I can see Mac lip glass on my scotch glass. Girls who live in bad neighborhoods only wear Mac. This shit is so disgusting. I just can’t…Rena and Jasmine laugh before high fiving each other over my head. Glad they’re enjoying themselves.

  I’m in Boston visiting friends and family and working from my office in Beacon Hill since it’s clear that Jon refuses to come home to Houston. Instead, he’s chosen to Skype Nicky during the week and then claim that his work is keeping him away on the weekend. Bullshit.

  Once again, Rena has dragged Jasmine and me to some dumpy hole in the wall that cooks fried catfish on Fridays. Don’t get me wrong, the fish is good but the atmosphere is horrific. The music is blaring rap in every ear drum that I possess and the conversations are filled with niggas, bitches and muthafuckas…or maybe they’re singing along with the music. I have no idea. You see, while I’m from Beacon Hill and Jasmine is from the Waterfront, Rena is from Bobby Brown’s side of town. And, between you and me, I can’t stand New Edition so I have no reason being here right now other than to judge people. Though our skin may look the same, this isn’t my crowd. Jasmine likes to rummage with the ‘regular people’ as she calls them before she heads home to the Waterfront and her condo with her fiancé. This isn’t her reality. The truth is, she and I have little to nothing in common with the people here with whom we share racial history, blood and legacy. But while Jasmine can enjoy it, I just feel lost. I never was a fan of rap music. Sure, I’ll listen to the top billboard hits but I’ll never buy a cd. I of course know Jay-Z, Lil’ Wayne, Kanye West and 50 Cent. But if you start getting too deep with me, I’ll tell you to fuck off. I know the commercial successes, nothing new and underground for me. Rena is the complete opposite, Jasmine pretends to be the complete opposite and well me, I’m not a good pretender at all.

  I like ambience; setting is everything for me. Maybe that’s why Jon and I are through. This little dive would be right up his alley. He went to a Beacon Hill bar once. Once. That was enough for him. Every time he comes into Boston now, he’ll only go to the places Rena showed him. How can I be happy with a man like that? Why is it that he can’t seem to assimilate into standard American society? Why must he always have to be ‘down’? And why does he make me feel guilty for not wanting to be down?

  “Oh Danielle, lighten up.” Jasmine says as she drinks her chardonnay.

  “I’m sorry, did I mention that my marriage is over.” I take another sip of my drink, close my eyes and throw my head back. “And it’s been three months since he’s been home.”

  “He’s working!” Rena says. Rena! What don’t you get about this? The man is purposely not coming home.

  “Must you be so loud?”

  “Danielle, Jon has always been…what’s the word Rena?” Jasmine snaps her finger.

  “Indie.” Rena says as Taye Diggs hands her another shot of tequila.

  “Hippy.” Jasmine says. “Indie and hippy.”

  “He works IT.” I say as I open my eyes just to roll them. “He travels from state to state each month fixing computer software. If he were indie, he’d be a poet or some stupid shit like that.”

  “Wait, you’re a writer.” Rena says. No this bitch did not.

  “I’m not a poet.”

  “What the hell is the difference?” She and Jasmine laugh.

  What’s so funny? Let’s be clear, I was the editor of the newspaper in high school. I was editor of the year book. I was editor of the newspaper in college, I worked as an intern for the Times-Picayune during my summers and I have my own literary agency. I am not a damn poet! I was a history and journalism major, not an artsy fartsy English major. I use my brain before I write down a sentence, not my heart.

  “You know what…” I say before I down the rest of my drink. I’m halfway drunk, they’re purposely trying to annoy me and I hear rappers calling me a hoe. I can’t do this. Not tonight. I look at my watch, grab my clutch and stand before I remember that I’ll be bored tonight without these two. I have nothing to do, Nicky’s at his godparent’s home for the weekend and I’m staying in my old condo in Beacon Hill alone but I just can’t stay at this bar any longer. “Gotta go.”

  “It’s only nine!” Rena yells.

  “Rena, stop yelling.” I say as I bend down and nearly touch her nose with mine. That’s Rena for you; drunk as a skunk before the sun officially sets. And then you have Jasmine, Ms. White Wine, who would never get drunk but loves to egg Rena on.

  “Maybe this is why Jon is leaving you.” She grabs my face with her hands. “Maybe he thinks that you’re boring.”

  “Fuck you, goodbye.” She laughs. “Make sure she gets home.” I say to Jasmine.

  “Danielle, in all seriousness, if you want to talk to him, just
call him.” Jasmine says.

  “You want me to beg someone to be with me?”

  “No, I want you to sit down and talk to him. You two have a son together, you should work this out.”

  She’s right, but it isn’t up to me. Jon is a notorious avoider of conflict, trying to have a rational conversation with him about our marriage will be impossible.

  “Okay.” I say to Jasmine. There’s no need to argue.

  “Breakfast at Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, tomorrow bitches!” Rena screams out to me. I take in her long black hair, her coal lined eyes and slinky red dress and decide that I need to hail her a cab myself. Rena may look like a sleaze but she has a master’s in economics from Harvard and is a married financial investor. As a matter of fact Rena, her husband and I all graduated Harvard together and Jon loves those two. They’re a lot like Jon, all are from ramshackle neighborhoods, all are educated, all have nice jobs, all are married to wonderful people, all have a beautiful son, all are extremely successful and all are mad as hell about it. Sad.

  “Come on.” I say to her as I help her up. Jasmine laughs, downs the rest of her wine and hops off her barstool. Jasmine, with her neck full of pearls and her polka dot A-line dress, the quintessential 1950’s housewife. She went to Boston College and majored in nutrition. Nutrition? Really? She’s a house-girlfriend of course, I mean what else could you be with a Nutrition major?

  Rena complains as we drag her out of the bar/catfish place and only perks up when we start to get cat calls. She wants to stay, the men want her to stay, the old ass front doors are hard to open, they want us to stay…everybody needs to take their ass home. It’s late and this bar is shitty. Then I look at my watch, I forget it’s only nine o’clock. Oh well. Rena’s already drunk and I’m sure Jasmine’s had her fill of frolicking with the ‘regular people’. She doesn’t care to stay long, just long enough to be grateful she lives on the other side of town.

  I dump Rena in her cab and throw twenty dollars to the driver. She and her husband refuse to move from this crappy neighborhood filled with women who wear Mac and the men who love them, so they live a few blocks from the bar. Jasmine and I share a cab into the city, as we call it. The real Boston.