Cover Girls (10 page)

Richard and a girl—it was just what she needed to put the cream on the rest of her day. And all Tonya needed to add to it all was to go chasing the two of them down the street as though she had lost her mind.

A new, young girl. That probably made Richard feel good; it probably made him forget his troubles—at least for a moment. But why did what made him feel better have to make her feel so bad? It had been over between them for a while. But seeing the girl reopened the wound. What was wrong with her? Why wasn’t she enough to satisfy him? Why couldn’t she make him feel better?

She looked at herself in the rearview mirror and then down at her clothes.
Look at yourself.
She looked thrown away. She looked unloved.

She felt the tension creeping back up on her. It crawled up her spine to her shoulders and neck. It even found its way down to her ankles.

She never would have believed that her life would turn out like this. They’d had a happy family. They had a lovely home, two lovely sons, and a lovely marriage. She and Richard were, as Ashford and Simpson sang, solid as a rock. She was one of the few women she knew that had been able to be a homemaker while her husband made a decent living. Richard was a good and honorable man. They were the parents of two wonderful sons. It was all lace curtains, dinner parties, PTA meetings, and plays, friendships, Little League games, and barbecues.

Until the accident.

It took all the life out of Richard. The death of their son killed him. He’d tried to hold on; Tonya knew he had tried. But she could see him slipping away. He was surprised himself that the accident and the pain that followed had overwhelmed him. Richard had always been the man, the head of the house, the strong man. She could see it in his eyes—that he didn’t know why he couldn’t hold on, he couldn’t explain to himself why he couldn’t be the man he had always thought he was.

First, Richard began staying longer at work. There wasn’t another woman then. Not being at home kept him from having to walk through the sadness, from having to look at the photographs, from having to look at her and Malik and see that he couldn’t do anything about their pain.

Work was another world. It was a world where there were no dead bodies. At work, all the sons were accounted for in pictures on desks. At work, he didn’t have to imagine his son falling from a bench in front of his school. When he was away from Tonya and Malik he didn’t have to imagine how the bullets, on impact, must have made his son’s athletic body jerk back and forward, side to side. At work, he could pretend the torn, bloodstained lettermen’s jacket didn’t exist. He could pretend that going to school, working hard, and moving to the suburbs was still the answer to keeping his children and wife secure from drugs and guns. Richard could pretend that what threatened little ghetto children each day of their lives couldn’t somehow snake its way into his family and snatch their son from life in his senior year of high school.

At work, Richard didn’t have to face that they still didn’t know who shot their son or why—that they probably never would. At work, he didn’t have to wrestle with reconciling what happened to his beautiful firstborn son, Richard Jr., with the all-knowing, all-wise, all-caring, omniscient God they had visited at church each Sunday.

It was funny—although maybe
ironic
or
strange
was a better choice of words—how Richard had fallen away. Almost like he was holding on to the edge of a cliff, or the rim of a ship. Tonya could see it in his eyes—had seen it coming for months. One day he just didn’t have the strength to hold on anymore. Tonya could still see the shame, the panic, and the resignation in his eyes. Richard had let go.

His hands had reached for her as he descended into a deep, dark pit. He would call or stop by when he knew Malik wasn’t home. He couldn’t stand to see his other son. It was as though he couldn’t bear to hold him, to wait for him to be snatched from life as well. So Richard pretended that Malik wasn’t there. Even when Richard was still at home, he had stopped speaking to Malik or going to games.

It was hard to explain to Malik, but Tonya understood.

Richard tried to grab hold, but it was too late; gravity pulled him deeper into despair. He moved out of the house. He sent money home at first, so that she was able to maintain at least the outward illusion that things were okay. Then the money stopped. He plummeted. He quit his job. Soon there was no contact with him. He was like a tiny dot that grew invisible as it dropped to the bottom of a canyon. He was like a speck in the ocean that disappeared into the blackness at the bottom of the deep. Tonya saw him so seldom now that she had begun to believe that he never existed.

She had expected, after Richard Jr. died, that
she
would dissolve, that all that she was would melt and swirl together into some kind of strange nothingness. She had made a place in her bedroom and prepared to liquefy. It had surprised her, though, that she had instead become stronger.

Each time she had paid the bills or gotten a job or found an apartment, she was always surprised. She kept waiting for the “real” her to appear, and maybe it had. Maybe the real her was stronger than she had imagined. The things that Richard had run from so that he could survive were the things that she had run toward: her remaining son and her God.

“Things are going to get better.”

“You won’t struggle all the time.”

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

The promises spoken from pulpits, from tapes, and from books, kept her going. She grabbed hold of them like a drowning woman and pulled herself upward—her arms shaking and trembling, straining under the weight of what she bore on her shoulders. But she kept climbing, hand over hand—and she kept believing in the promise.

Each time there wasn’t money to buy gas for the car, she meditated on the promise. When she didn’t know how to raise her son to be a man, she leaned on the promise. When loneliness enfolded her and tried to pull her back, to send her spiraling down, Tonya held onto the promise.

For the first few years, it had been easy to wait and believe for the promise. She waited patiently for promotion. It was easy to find an economical way to get her hair and nails done. She even believed that there might be a man coming. So it was easy to buy little nighties and pack them away. The first few years, it was easy to keep shining so that the promise, the job, or the man that was looking for her could find her.

After a few years, it took a little more effort, a little more strength to keep believing. Each time there was a notice posted to the door about the water, the electric, or the gas, it took a little more strength to keep keeping on. Each time she had to pick up the phone and make sure there was a dial tone before she dialed, she had to dip into her reserve. The extra strength it required meant Tonya didn’t have time to roll her hair in rollers every night. She couldn’t spare the energy to lay out her clothes. She couldn’t afford to expend the power it took to keep glowing brightly inside and out.

By the time seven years had come and gone—by the time Richard was a memory she questioned—Tonya had learned to sing “Just Jesus Alone,” like the old folks. She’d learned to take joy in the private life, the private love she shared with the Lord. So she began to pray to Him that she wouldn’t need anyone else. She was used to the struggle, to hanging on, and she had developed muscle.
Just Jesus Alone.
It was easier than hoping, more pleasant than watching and waiting. The Lord was perfect—dependable, steadfast, adoring.
Just You alone,
she whispered.

But somehow, though He strengthened her, God wouldn’t give her leave to stop hoping. He required not only that she cling to Him, but that she keep waiting for the promise—for the fulfillment, in this lifetime, of her joy. It was having to hope—the hope and the anxious waiting—that had seemed to sap the last of her strength.

King David, in the days of old, said he would have fainted if he had not believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. It seemed to Tonya it was the believing that was making her faint. She believed to see goodness for others. She rejoiced when she saw God work His magnificence and splendor on behalf of others. To believe for it for herself was something else entirely.

Perhaps it was fighting so hard against herself—while part of her steeled itself and committed to just holding on, the other part hoped and waited—that took the last energy she had to comb her hair, to go to the gym, to search for fashions, to shine her light. If God was going to keep His word and send her promise or send someone, it and he were going to have to find her dimmed, dulled, tired, and hidden amidst the rubble and the clutter of her life.

Tonya wouldn’t let herself cry about Richard anymore.
I hope he’s happy.
She eased her car back into
Drive
and pulled out into the street.

Michelle was wrong about her. It took more energy than she had to try to be desirable and exciting. Jealousy required an emotional mortgage she couldn’t afford.

Tonya turned right off of the side street onto the boulevard that would carry her home. She started and stopped with the other drivers and moved forward down the street until her taillights became another pair of tiny red dots indistinguishable in the darkness from the others around her.

Chapter Thirteen

T
onya pulled off her pantyhose and reversed them so that the run would be on the back of her leg. That was good enough. She stood in front of the dryer and secured the end of her ponytail with pins to make a bun.

“Mom-bo, you’ve got to get a life!” Malik shook his head and smiled from the doorway. “Really, Mom, you have to stop going out of your way to look like you’ve been thrown away.”

It was too early in the morning for this. She closed her eyes.
Jesus!

“That bun is killing me. For real, Mom. Don’t you remember when you used to get your hair done and fix yourself up? You don’t have to hide, you know. It’s okay for people to see that you’re a beautiful woman. Look at those shoes, Mom-bo—they’re breaking me down. Do something! You could get some new clothes, or just do something to your hair.” Malik smiled, shook his head, and slurped at his orange juice. “I would be satisfied with a hair change. That bun is deadly.”

Tonya started gathering her things—lunch, notebooks, purse. “Look, leave me alone early in the morning, okay? I don’t have time to fool with my hair. I’m not trying to impress anyone anyway. Not to mention that we don’t have—”

“Any money. Not to mention that we don’t have any money.” Malik laughed. “Mom-ster, that’s the biggest excuse in the world. You can always find money for me to get my hair cut, get clothes, or whatever. Just admit you’re hiding.” He pretended to toast her with his glass. “This is freaking me out to say this to you as a son, but someone’s got to do it. You’re a good-looking woman and you still got a few hot years left and a few hot assets to show off. You’re a beautiful person, and you work hard at that. Other people work out their bodies, but you work out your heart to be beautiful on the inside. After doing all the work, though, now you’re hiding. You’ve got to get a life. Really.” Malik made his voice sound like his impression of a professional therapist. “Admitting you have a problem, Mom-bo, is the first step toward the cure.”

She reached into a basket that sat on top of the dryer and threw a clean sock across the room. It landed on top of Malik’s head. “I don’t have time to fool with you, boy.” She laughed as she walked to the door. “If you want to straighten out my life, Dr. Freud or whoever you think are, get to school on time and fold up this basket of clothes when you get home.”

Malik pulled the sock away and shook his head as she walked out the door. “That’s okay. Don’t listen to your offspring. I hope Dr. Phil’s mom didn’t treat him this way.”

The office didn’t look any less like the dead man’s last mile than it had since the blowup with Michelle. Tonya, head down, made her way to her desk. She used to enjoy her job. Now it would be enough just to get through the day. She put her things away then caught her reflection in the mirror glued on the front of her filing cabinet. She patted her hair. It wasn’t so bad—her hair wasn’t really
deadly,
was it?

“Excuse me, can we talk for a minute?” Tonya almost jumped out of her seat. It couldn’t be . . .

It was Michelle.

The elevator doors opened and shut as people got on and off. Most of them were stealing glances, pretending not to be as interested as they were in Tonya and Michelle’s conversation.

“I just thought we needed to clear the air. You know, to bury the hatchet.”

Tonya couldn’t look at Michelle. She looked past her. “I don’t know what that means: bury the hatchet.”
Other than you want to bury it in my back!
“But if you want us to be civil, I always have been and I always will be.” The sooner this was over the better.

“Well, I was thinking that maybe we should have lunch together, or something.”

Tonya had to look. Michelle’s face was drawn, like it was killing her to talk. “I might have made some mistakes. Maybe.” Michelle stopped talking and waited as though she were expecting Tonya to own up to wrongdoing. She was going to be waiting a long time—some really hot places were going to freeze over if Michelle was waiting for her to say anything.

Michelle’s jaws were getting tighter. “So, anyway, like I said. I thought we could get together and try to work this out. Maybe we could help each other.”

Tonya didn’t know how her hands got on her hips, but there they were. She didn’t know how her neck got into motion, but it was moving. She forced herself to keep her voice low. “Help me? Me help you? Maybe you don’t realize it, Michelle, but I’ve been
trying
to help you since you
got
here. I’ve been trying to help you get yourself together so that you can get promoted. Now my own promotion is on the line. Help you? Help you?
Girl
—”

Michelle balled up her hands and put them on her own hips. “Look, lady, I’m just trying to help both of us, okay? I don’t know what your malfunction is, but I’m not the one.” It was so out of character, but Michelle was actually keeping her voice muted.