Second House from the Corner (17 page)

“I have some more props in the car.”

“Tiff, be a doll and help her. Thanks.” Monroe dismisses us both with the turn of her shoulder. I don't know Tiffany well, but since I'm preserving my voice, I don't make small talk on the way to the car. When she shows me the green room, I pick the corner farthest from the door and start my warm-up exercises.

My lips go out and in. My eyes go up and down.

“Me, me, me, me, me.” I start warming my tongue, and then I'm on to tongue twisters. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. She sells seashells down by the seashore. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

I'm at this for about fifteen minutes before Tina Chang walks in. We smile in greeting and she sets up her cello. It's been so long since I've been in an artistic space that my inner actress is positively aglow. This is where I belong. I'm back with my tribe.

Audra McDonald will sing as the finale, and the stagehands have her locked away in her own special green room. I'm dying to hear her sing live. I own at least three of her albums and have gone to her shows. While I wait for my turn, I watch the other performers from the wings. The ballroom has ballooned with more than 250 women, all dressed in their fancy best. Monroe McKenzie is a talented host, adding Dames of Culture anecdotes between performances and set changes. There is so much talent in the room, I can feel the energy pulsing from every corner.

Black-clad waiters serve a sit-down dinner. Only those who have performed in the first act eat and mingle with the attendees. The rest of us are too nervous to do anything but mark our pieces, meditate, wait. I am up first after the chat-and-chew intermission. So I am seated, cross-legged with my eyes closed, and block everything around me from my head.

“Three minutes until showtime, Felicia,” Tiffany calls to me.

I give her a thumbs up. My ribs expand as I breathe in and out, focused on transforming into my character. I take my place on the dark stage. When Monroe introduces me, the curtains are closed, and when they whip back I am sitting at the mirror, cheating stage right. My costume is a full silk slip and nylons. I'm working the blush brush across my cheek. I stop and move in closer to the mirror because I've noticed a new gray hair.

Before I open my mouth, I channel the energy of all of the great stage actresses that have come before me: Phylicia Rashad, Debbie Allen, Alfre Woodard, Ethel Waters, Ruby Dee. I ask for inner strength and then I let my voice rip. I give it my all, and they laugh at the right places and give me those mmm hmms, just as I planned. Three minutes feel like thirty seconds. The applause is deafening and I grin until my cheeks sting.

There is an art to exiting the stage and I bow, torso forward, hands clutched in front of me, big toes aligned and together, count to three, and then rise. As if caught up in a wave, the women move to their feet. They clap, cheer, and I hear a few whistles. I soak it in.

This is it. I have arrived. My invitation to the Dames is sealed. I congratulate myself, grace them with an encore bow, and then bring my face back toward the tables and press my fingers together in humble thanks. That's when I see Preston. He's snaking through the crowd, and I smile even brighter. He couldn't resist seeing me perform, even though the event is women's only.

My love for him pulls my smile even wider, and I'm practically levitating. I take a second encore bow, and when I lift up, Preston is looking right at me. It freezes me. His skin is glazed with rage.

The crowd is still electric, so I take an encore-encore-encore bow to mask my confusion. It feels like too much. When I stand again, he is halfway to me, eyes beaded with anger. I give a final wave and move across the stage to depart.

As I clump down the steps, I'm reminded of a line from Martin Lawrence's movie
You So Crazy
. In college I had whole sections of his routine memorized because I watched it every chance I could. It was funny as hell and one of my refuges. When I reached the bottom of the metal stairs, I am face-to-face with Preston. He has that wild look in his eyes that Martin talked about in his act: that crazy, deranged look of a motherfucker who walks into the club with his pajamas and footies on.

“What is it?”

He grabs hold of my arm and squeezes his fingernails too deeply into my skin. The stagehands are running behind the curtains, preparing for the next act.

“Ow!” I yank my arm. “What's wrong with you?”

“You don't want to do this here,” he says with a hiss.

“Do what? Where're the kids?”

“Who the fuck is Martin, and why did he just call my house asking to speak to my wife?” His expression is as black as a skillet, teeth bared but clenched. Then I hear it, his voice echoing throughout the ballroom. I look down and see my microphone attached to my dress and realize that it's still on.

I cough and reach for the off switch. Monroe starts up but I have no idea what she's saying. I drop my mic on a nearby table and cough my way out of the fancy Chatham Tennis Club. When the fresh air blasts my body, I know that everything I've worked for—my marriage, enriching our family, becoming a Dame—has all come crashing down around the toes of my overly expensive pumps. The shoes that never really fit right, but stood for something I bought into.

 

TWENTY-ONE

The Head-on Collision

“Where did you park?” he says with a growl. I point in the general direction, and he takes off, pulling me along with him.

“Will you let me go? I can walk just fine.”

But my plea falls to the asphalt like a heavy raindrop and then evaporates into the concrete. Preston ices me on the walk, and I can barely keep up in those damn shoes. He thrusts open my door and then barks his command.

“Drive straight home. I'll follow you.”

Once my key turns in the ignition I realize my mistake. In my nervousness for the event, I forgot to take the damn phone off the hook. But what could Martin have said to Preston to make him this angry? I feel a pang in my stomach. Oh, God, no.

*   *   *

My husband pulls behind me in the driveway, and as I get out of the car he walks up on me, pins me between the side of the house and my open car door. He's unrecognizable. I've never seen him this upset.

“What, Preston? What?”

“You fucked him, Felicia.”

“What are you talking about?” Fear singes me.

“You told me I was your first.”

“I never said that.” My eyes are big.

“What?” He stares at me like he could chew my face off.

“Preston.”

He moves away from me. “I can't believe you.” His eyes mimic disbelief, then he walks away.

I take off the damn heels. I follow him, feeling as if I have stumbled into a honeybee hive and the stings greet me from all directions.

Sam gets a tight smile as we pass each other on the steps and I hurry inside. Preston has already made it to the basement. I tug off my pantyhose and make it down the steps, clutching the banister to keep me steady.

“Preston, let me explain.”

He doesn't stop making a bed on the sofa.

I rush toward him, my hands go for his chest, but he grabs my fingers in midair.

“Felicia, right now I feel capable of knocking you the fuck out. So for your own safety, I advise you to go upstairs and leave me the hell alone.” The chill in his voice is palpable, the pressure from his hand rough. I know that betrayal can unravel a man. I learned early on from watching my parents that men are capable of doing terrible things to women when they feel deceived. When the bubble of trust and honesty bursts, nothing is off-limits. And even though Preston has never hinted at putting a hand on me before, I turn and go.

In our bedroom I crumble like flaked-off pieces of a stale cookie. My face is wet and I hug my knees to my chest. This can't be happening. Not after all the hard work I've put into our lives. A small sound escapes from the girls' room, and I'm up. Liv hasn't awakened in the middle of the night for a feeding in months, but I'm relieved to go to her. In the glider, I give her my breast and I beg her to grant me some peace.

 

TWENTY-TWO

The Aftermath

Three days have passed and it feels like I've been sleepwalking. Preston has slept in the basement each night and hasn't said more to me than what was necessary. Before the kids left for school today, Two tuned in to the tension. Preston was pouring himself a cup of coffee and I was at the counter, bent over their lunches. She grabbed both of us by the hand and pulled us to the center of the kitchen floor.

“Kiss,” she demanded.

Preston reached down and lifted her off her feet, tickled her belly, and smothered her with kisses until she couldn't breathe.

I wished it were me.

“Eat up, kids. Don't want to be late,” Preston called over his shoulder before disappearing through the hall and upstairs. We don't have a shower in the basement, so he's been dressing upstairs. I followed him up yesterday and tried to talk to him but he wouldn't respond to anything I said.

*   *   *

On the fourth day of Preston not speaking to me, not sleeping in our marital bed, looking through me like a piece of plastic, I am bent over the kitchen sink, cleaning chicken thighs. I hate chicken thighs because they're dirty, and you have to really get under the skin and slice the film and fat from the meat. At least that's the way Gran taught me. It turns my stomach, but I do it because they are his favorite. It's a let's-talk-please peace offering. I'm going to make curry chicken, so I need to get them in the fridge for a while so the seasoning sets in.

Liv has settled in for her morning nap when I hear the front door open. Preston walks into the kitchen. He smells Preston good, and I want so much to wrap myself in his arms and settle this beef.

“Hi,” I turn to him with the stinking chicken in my hand. I know I looked used. My hair is sloppy and pinned away from my face. I've been wearing the same red running suit for three days. I should have put more effort into my appearance, but it's taking all of my energy to stay mobile.

Preston studies me. He hasn't looked at me since Saturday night, and my heart starts to loop. Maybe we can talk now and get this behind us.
I only love you, Preston. I only lied for you.

“You have to go.” He looks at the chicken.

My face slips. “Go where?”

“Away from here. Out of this house, now.”

I wipe my hands on the kitchen towel. “What are you talking about?”

“You're a liar, Felicia, and I can't be around you.”

“Preston, stop this.”

He moves a step closer. “You know what my godmother used to say? If you lie, you steal. If you steal, you cheat. Which means I can't trust nothing I have around you. Including my children.”

He is staring at me with eyes so black I can barely see the Preston I've loved all these years.

“You are being ridiculous. Why can't we talk about this?”

He continues on like I've said nothing. “We can do this the easy way and you go peacefully. Or I can throw all of your shit out on the sidewalk and give the neighbors something to talk about. It's your choice, but it must be done before the kids get home from school today.”

“You want me to leave my kids?” My voice is strained.

“My mother will be here.”

“Your mother? The one who left you to be raised by Juju? That mother ain't doing shit for my kids” I say, like I'm running things.

Preston flinches. I see his jaw working the way it does when his mother issues flare. “Juju is coming, not Peaches.”

I sigh a small sigh but I still don't want to leave my kids. He's taken this far enough. I won't. Where am I supposed to go?

I reach for him but he bats my hand away. “Why are you doing this? Can't we talk about it?”

“Talk about this man who you fucked and who has been calling my house trying to get at you. Is that where you were the night you were supposed to be getting Advil?” He steps closer.

“No.”

“How about the night you were supposed to be auditioning for the Dames but you waltz in here drunk, smelling like cigarettes?”

“No.”

“The movie you so-called saw alone?”

“Will you please stop?!”

He waves his hand in the air. “Felicia, just go. I can't stand to look at you.”

“Preston, come on.”

“Don't make this harder than it has to be. You have thirty minutes to get out of here or I swear on everything that I own, you will be sorry.”

Preston walks upstairs like he is dismissing me. I follow him. “Don't you think you're overreacting? This is insane!” I shout at his back, then I remember Liv and lower my voice. “What the hell did he say to you?”

Preston stops abruptly. We are on the second-floor landing. “Does it matter? I should have known you were too good to be true. Marrying a lying ass actress was the worst thing I've ever done.” His face slips. I see the weight of what I've done to him sag heavily on his body as he walks into our bedroom, then the girls' room, and a few seconds later he comes out with Liv, asleep on his shoulder.

My heart pierces at the sight of her. My head is reeling. Can he do this? Is this even legal? I can't leave my children. I haven't even combed Liv's hair today. Preston has lost his natural-born mind.

“Give her to me.” She squirms in his arms at the sound of my voice.

“The children will be fine,” he says softly, passing me on the landing and down the steps.

“You know what? Fuck you, Preston! Fuck you!” I shout at the top of my lungs. Liv opens her eyes startled and then he rocks her until she closes them.

He calls over his shoulder, “I trusted you and you lied.”

With that I run down the steps and shove him as hard as I can. He holds onto Liv, who starts whimpering. Preston puts his arm up to shield the baby and blocks me from coming at him again.