Dream Girl Awakened (2 page)

She shook her head in disgust as her mind drifted back two weeks. That Wednesday, James ambled into the great room, parked himself on the sectional, and sprinted into his usual discourse on the job market, the Edomites—his term for the oppressors—and how he never got a chance to shine. He grabbed a 40-ounce from the fridge and proclaimed, “Edomites always tryna keep a brotha down!”

She glared at him as he jumped up, then paced back and forth in the living room, his steel-toed boots leaving small tracks in the carpet.

“I'm glad I walked off that fucking site. Ain't no way in hell I'ma settle for fifteen dollars an hour under those conditions.”

“You did what?” she shouted. She counted the cost of his latest job loss, then grew angrier. She knew she'd have some explaining to do since her Uncle Walstine had put in a good word for James at Hinton and Conyers Construction.

“You know how those Edomites do. Segregating
us
to the high, roofing positions while they let the young bloods, the young
white
bloods do the painting and drywalling.”

She counted to ten, then remembered Jeremiah was still at Angels in Halos, near Indianapolis. “Maybe I'll discuss this when I get
our child
from day care!”

“Aruba, baby, I forgot about Jerry. Lemme go—”

“Forget it, James! I'll deal with you when I get back.”

Aruba grabbed her keys, stormed out the house, and rushed to the center. As she weaved in and out of traffic on I-465, she tallied the twenty-five-dollar-per-minute late fee steadily accruing. Just as she approached the Allisonville Road exit, Mrs. Timmons, the day care director, rang her cell.

“Is everything okay, Aruba? Big meeting today?”

“Yes,” she lied, hoping to stay in Mrs. Timmons's good graces. “I've been traveling my region, training for State Farm nonstop. Things have been hectic at the office.”

“Not to worry, Aruba. I'm here with Jeremiah and he's playing with Lyric Austin. They're having a blast.”

Aruba sighed, unsure of how she'd atone for yet another lie told to cover for James. Before she could exhale with relief, Uncle Walstine's name and number flashed on her caller ID. “Mrs. Timmons, I'm around the corner. See you soon.”
Better get this over now.
She swapped from Mrs. Timmons to her uncle.

“Unk, how's it going?”

“You know damn well how it's going! Works-when-he-feels-like-it James just ruined my good name at Hinton and Conyers. I had two more
good
prospects lined up and he goes in there ranting and raving about the Edomites—and Hinton and Conyers are black folks!”

“Unk, I had no idea—”

“Save it. We told you that boy was no good when you brought him around. 'Bout the best thing you got outta that union was Jeremiah!”

“That's not fair, Uncle Walstine. I've been try—”

“Trying. Working like a dog to take care of that . . .” Walstine paused. “I'm just saying, baby girl, I'm tired of seeing you work so hard. You need to be in a relationship where you complement, not supplement.”

“Thank you. I understand how you feel and I'm so sorry about what happened. I'll talk to James about it. I promise.”

With that, they said good-byes. Aruba retrieved Jeremiah, went home, and chose to say only hello and good-bye to James for the next two weeks. His romantic overtures; yellow, long-stemmed
roses; and candlelight, homemade dinners were met with no enthusiasm. The more she looked at James, the more she thought of Winston. She knew she couldn't give James the silent treatment tonight. She had to weave her web, lay a foundation for the new life she and Jeremiah would soon come to know.

Aruba decided tonight was perfect to take what she deserved—her friend Victoria's husband. After all, Victoria whined about Winston morning, noon, and night. Aruba mimicked Victoria's complaints as she applied makeup to her soft cheeks, compliments of an organic honey-almond facial.

“Aruba, Winston's never home.”

“We've moved three times in four years with his practice and I'm tired.”

“He only gives me a three-thousand-dollar allowance each month.”

“You wouldn't understand unless you've walked a mile in my Manolos, Rube.”

Aruba grunted at
that
statement and double-checked the night's game plan sprawled across the bed: MapQuest directions to the conference center where Winston would conduct a presentation on cardiovascular breakthroughs; Winston's favorite CDs—Glenn Jones's
Forever: Timeless R&B Classics
, Boney James's
Shine,
and Charles Hilton Brown's
Owed To Myself
—she had heard wafting from his home office; the last pay stub from James's fifth job in seven months; Winston's favorite perfume, Flowerbomb; photos of her son, Jeremiah, and Winston's daughter, Nicolette, at a Mocha Moms outing. Tonight she had bigger salmon to marinate and pan sear. In one swoop she tossed the plan in her oversized bag and threw on a trench coat. She exhaled deeply when James and Jeremiah reentered the room.

“I wanna come, Mommy,” said Jeremiah. Aruba marveled at her three-year-old's obsession with following her.

“Mommy and Daddy will take you to Great Times this weekend. Okay?”

Jeremiah wiggled from James's shoulders as he reached for Aruba's arms. “Mommy and Daddy gonna talk this weekend?”

Embarrassed that her child had noticed the distance between them, Aruba hugged him, and said, “Yes, we're gonna have lots of fun. Pinkie promise.”

Jeremiah wrapped his left pinkie finger with Aruba's, and said, “I'm happy. Daddy said you were in an itchy mood.” Jeremiah's tendency to drop beginning letters saved yet another fight brewing between his parents.

James, sheepish and remorseful, chimed in, “You know how I get when I'm mad. I'm sorry.”

Aruba waved him off without acknowledgment and headed to the garage. James and Jeremiah followed her, giggling and singing “Sesame Street.”

Aruba faced James before she entered her SUV. “How 'bout this tune, James. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me,” Aruba sang and poked her chest.

James thwacked his forehead, embarrassed he'd forgotten her birthday.

“I was gonna get you a gift, but you know I'm a little light right now. I'll get you something soon. I promise.”

James tried to lighten the mood as she started her vehicle. “Baby, I'm gonna get another job. I promise,” he said, his eyes pleading, sincere.

She backed out of the garage into the driveway, waving to them both. She blew Jeremiah a quick kiss.
Yeah, you'll need a job when I'm done with you. I owe this to myself.

A
ruba circled the Marten Hotel parking lot until she spotted Winston's Range Rover. According to Victoria, Winston wrapped up his speeches like clockwork. The Lilly Conference Center, housed within Marten, was the spot of many lectures and speeches Winston facilitated. He didn't mingle too long with colleagues and headed home when he wrapped up his talks because he wanted to respect his wife and marriage. Since his scheduled speaking time was seven-fifteen, Aruba anticipated he'd walk out the front door at approximately eight-twenty-two. That gave her enough time to swing around to the Half Price Books entrance, turn on her hazard lights, and wait for Winston to cruise by since she “accidentally” ran out of gas. She'd even taken care to leave her gas can home. No need to make his job easier. She had inroads to make. As she waited in the hotel parking lot, she received a nod from the heavens: raindrops. A few sprinkles multiplied, fell heavier, and relaxed her.
I couldn't have planned this any better.

She leaned back, queued Glenn Jones in the CD player, and pondered her circumstances. She thought of Jeremiah and how much better off he'd be with Winston as his father. Vacations. A bigger house. Private school. Legitimate playdates and outings with Mocha Moms and the women she'd charmed in Victoria's neighborhood. As Glenn Jones gave Toni Braxton a run for her money belting out “Another Sad Love Song,” she superimposed
herself in Victoria's role. Aruba whipped out a note pad, scribbling out house rules for her new life: Greet Winston with a hug and a kiss each morning. Treat Alva, our nanny, with the utmost respect. Give Winston head and sex whenever he wants it, not just for procreation. Be frugal with our finances, so we can retire and travel. She continued scribbling, this time pronouncing her new name. Mrs. Winston Faulk. Mrs. Aruba Faulk. Aruba Aneece Faulk. She rolled the titles off her tongue respectively, settling on the first name. Mrs. Winston Faulk sounded sexier, glamorous. A hell of a lot better than Aruba Dixon.

“Mrs. James Dixon.” She shuddered at the pronunciation of her married name, her pathetic reality. Not that she always felt that way. She still glowed at the memory of meeting James ten years ago. She'd just slit open a box of Cuisinart toasters in JCPenney's housewares department. She gazed at the towering display rack lacking Foreman Grills, quesadilla makers, and pizza stones. She dragged a stepladder from the corner, climbing up to make room for the just-arrived stock. As she descended the ladder, a rich, baritone voice below called out, “Excuse me, are you Kenya Moore?”

Aruba sighed at the tired line she received from men and women. It was true. She could be Kenya's twin. Same banging body. Same hazel-green eyes. Same smile that made men whip out their wallets and spend cash or swipe credit cards after Aruba convinced them their wife, girlfriend, significant other, or boyfriend just
had
to have the latest gadget in their kitchen. The same smile either stopped women in their tracks while spitting out the refrain
bitch
, or made them sidle next to her, and say, “My son in the military will be home on leave next week. Can I bring him in to meet you?”

Aruba steeled herself to face what she knew was an older gentleman. She formed the image in her mind: Dark. Short and stocky. Horn-rimmed glasses. Balding head. Hoodwinked, she turned to find a totally opposite vision: A dreadlocked god who stood at
least six feet seven inches tall. He beckoned her to descend the ladder. He was a little too light for her taste, but handsome just the same. As she climbed down, she eyed the blue Nike warm-up suit that hinted of days spent at Gold's Gym. The white muscle shirt he wore accented six-pack abs. She got lost in those perfect white teeth, those blue-green eyes that danced.
Our kids would have gorgeous eyes
.

“What would a former Miss USA be doing in Penney's?” she asked, unable to mask her attraction to him.

“I was serious. You look—”

“Just like Kenya Moore. I get that often.”

Not one to allow lapses in conversations, James continued, “I'd love to get my hands in your hair sometimes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everyone wants a stalker, right?” James smiled and handed Aruba a business card. “I'm a barber and stylist and I'm looking for new clients.”

She eyed the card. “Wow, do you go around hitting on every woman in South Dekalb Mall?”

“Only the beautiful ones.”

“Gee, thanks.” Aruba turned to walk away as James grabbed her arm.

“Just kidding. Let's try this again. Hi, I'm James Dixon. And you are?”

She hesitated as he extended his hand. Something about his spirit made her smile. “Aruba Stanton.”

“Really, I'm here because my moms sent me to get,” he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, “a Black and Decker Steamer. Ever since Mom's sugar was diagnosed, she's been steaming food, watching her weight and whatnot.”

“Good for her. Several of my family members have diabetes and it's no joke.”

Aruba moved the ladder aside and directed James toward the steamers. They chatted, exchanged pleasantries, life tidbits. James shared that he was from Atlanta, grew up in the Bankhead area, and had a younger brother, Marvin; an older sister, Teresa; and dreamed of owning a string of beauty salons one day. He knew he'd succeed because black men and women liked to look good. Aruba sweetened the conversation by adding she was from Harlem, Georgia, a junior at Clark-Atlanta University majoring in mathematics, and an only child. The pleasantries continued until a little old lady called out, “Miss, will you help me find a Wilton cake decorating kit?”

“So may I call you sometimes, Miss Aruba?”

“How 'bout you give me your number and I'll call you?”

“You gonna brush me off like that?” he joked. He asked for the business card again and scribbled a number on the back. “This is my home number and my cell. The number on the front of the card is the shop I work out of.”

“Leaving no stone unturned, heh? I promise, I'll call,” said Aruba, holding up the peace sign.

He watched her guide the older woman leaning on a cane to a different section of the department. Aruba waved one last time.

The thought of that wave lulled her back to the present.
I should have never called him.
Glenn Jones crooned, “Where is the Love?” She eyed her watch. Eight seventeen. She crept out of the hotel parking lot, drove down to the entrance of Half Price Books, stopping as she pressed on the hazard lights. She waited. Hoped. Wondered if the positioning was right. Whether he'd know it was her. Just as she thought she'd lost her mind, that her life with James had in fact created this lunacy attack, she noticed a shiny black Range Rover pass by, slow up, then cruise backward in her direction.

Showtime!

W
inston recognized the Honda Pilot and the neon bumper sticker immediately:
LOVE CONQUERS ALL
. A staunch advocate of marriage, he admired Aruba's long-suffering stance with James. As he backed up to be of assistance, his mind drifted to Victoria's pillow-talk about Aruba and James. He thought of those conversations as he wondered why Aruba was out in the rain alone. Thought of James's chronic unemployment, his quick temper, his disdain for the Edomites. Remembered the night Aruba and Jeremiah showed up at their doorstep, Aruba holding her bottom lip as blood trickled onto Jeremiah's face and their Travertine flooring, and how Victoria stopped Aruba in her tracks, running to and fro for towels, so the floor wouldn't be ruined. Aruba and Jeremiah slept in the basement that night as the family listened to Jeremiah cry for his daddy. Nicolette sauntered downstairs, gave Jeremiah a pillow and blanket, and they slept arm in arm. Winston, convinced Aruba and Jeremiah deserved a better life, offered financial assistance. Victoria snipped, “How's he ever going to be responsible if we bail him out?”