The Interruption of Everything (3 page)

“It’s fine. I’m fine. We’ll all be fine. If he thinks he’s going to just walk out of my and the kids’ lives because he wants to live on Fantasy Island, I mean, hello? I didn’t hear you flush, Marilyn. What were you doing in there?”

“I’d already flushed. But once Maureen got going, I didn’t feel right opening the door.”

“No worries!” Maureen says. “Look, we were here for the bread-making class, but I just can’t handle it today.”

To show that I understand, I nod. “Wait a minute! You did just say ‘bread making,’ correct?”

“Yes. We’re evolving. Out of the fire and into the pan or something like that,” Trudy says. “Come on, Mo, let me treat you to a mocha nonfat latte with no foam and one Equal?” She winks at me. “See ya next weekend for a little trim, Marilyn.”

After they leave, I drop the book and magazine on the dry part of the sink and put my hands under the faucet. I look down at the silver stream that gushes out, but can still see a shadow of myself in the mirror above. If I look up, I’ll see the truth in my eyes. What the hell am I doing? Here. Not in this store. But
here:
in this world, in northern California, in February 2004. Worrying about my hormone levels? Not only. I need to breathe. To stop pretending.

What I do know is that I’m forty-four years old. That I have been attached to my husband and kids for so long I need to find out what kind of person I’m capable of being as Marilyn Dupree and not just as Marilyn Grimes: mother and wife. But how do you make changes in your life without upsetting everything and everybody around you?

I’m scared. But I have to do something or the spirit I still have left is going to petrify. I just can’t believe that I grew up and became one of those women who got married and had kids and forgot all about my personal dreams. At first I just tucked them away and then as the years passed, they got buried and I felt embarrassed or ashamed to have had them in the first place. I figured after I finished raising my children I’d at least get the interesting man I married back (didn’t happen) and reacquainted with my other self and pick up where I left off.

They call us housewives. But contrary to popular belief, we’re not all trophies like Maureen or as uneducated as Trudy, no malice intended. In fact, I did more than go to college. I got a degree, although I’ve almost forgotten what I majored in. Might as well have been Intro to First Husbands 101 (Gordon) the soul mate I let get away, and after two summer sessions of nothing close to intimacy, was coerced into repeating the class and enrolled in Second Husbands 101A (enter Leon). But then, after I’d barely flipped my tassel and was taking a one-year sabbatical before heading back to grad school because I thought being a social worker would help me steer as many unfortunate folk—black folk in particular—as far from self-destruction and poverty as they could get, but then surprise, surprise, here comes what I thought was only going to be a temporary interruption: Daughter 101 (Sabrina, a.k.a Isn’t-She-Cute-and-Smart-Those-First-Eleven-Years, and then The-Rebellious-I’m-Already-Grown-and-Having-Sex-and-Getting-an-Occasional-Buzz-I-Could-Strangle-Her-Teenager-Years), who is now twenty-two and did a 360-degree turn. She became a vegetarian, got spiritual, and may be her generation’s Iyanla. Next came Fraternal Twin Boys 202 (Spencer and Simeon, nineteen): straight up and down computer and math nerds like their dad, who makes sure buildings are built properly so they won’t buckle during earthquakes. Leon helped build our house a century ago. It’s big and boring. It’s up in the Oakland Hills in what has been renamed The Fire Area since in 1990 almost all the homes up here were lost when some idiot set some eucalyptus trees on fire. Sometimes, I wished ours had burned to the ground so we could start all over. But it didn’t. We only had minor smoke damage. Leon planned on doing the renovations himself, but fourteen years later, I stopped holding my breath.

Being a lifetime wife and mother has afforded me the luxury of having multiple and even simultaneous careers: I’ve been a chauffeur. A chef. An interior decorator. A landscape architect, as well as a gardener. I’ve been a painter. A furniture restorer. A personal shopper. A veterinarian’s assistant and sometimes the veterinarian. I’ve been an accountant, a banker, and on occasion, a broker. I’ve been a beautician. A map. A psychic. Santa Claus. The Tooth Fairy. The T.V. Guide. A movie reviewer. An angel. God. A nurse and a nursemaid. A psychiatrist and psychologist. Evangelist. For a long time I have felt like I inadvertently got my master’s in How to Take Care of Everybody Except Yourself and then a Ph.D. in How to Pretend Like You Don’t Mind.

But I do mind.

“Marilyn? Are you still in here?” Trudy asks, sticking her head in the door. “Your fifteen minutes have come and gone, sister, now get your behind out here and sell some beads or something! And you’ve got a phone call.”

“Did they say who it was?” I ask, pretending to fluff my flat hair. Leon’s out doing seismic studies in a desert down in southern California where his cell never works and he won’t be home until Monday afternoon, which also means he’s golfing. He rarely calls me at work because I’m usually busy demonstrating, hunting for, or explaining something to someone. And…

“It’s your favorite person.”

Shit.

“Say it out loud. I don’t mind.”

“Shit!”

“Line three. Have a nice weekend, Marilyn. I’m outta here.”

I walk behind the framing counter and press the blinking red light. “Hello, Arthurine. What’s going on?”

“Well, you know I wouldn’t bother you at work unless it was important…”

“Has something happened? It’s not the kids or Leon, is it?”

“Hold your horses, chile. No. No. The Lord says…”

“Arthurine, I have a pretty good idea what the Lord had to say about being patient, but could you just get to the point, please? I’ve got customers waiting.”

“Well, you didn’t ask if something could’ve happened to me or Snuffy.”

“Well, you’re in good enough shape to call me so how bad off could you be? And if it was Snuffy I’d think you’d sound sadder.”

“You’ve got a point, except what if I…Oh, never mind. Your doctor called and said you should call her.”

“What?”

“You want me to say it louder?”

“Did she say why?”

“They don’t usually say why unless it’s a matter of life and death and we both know you aren’t dying. So think about it for a minute and call her.”

“Did she leave her number?”

“You want me to dial it for you and make this a three-way?”

“Never mind, I forgot I’ve got it stored in my cell. Thanks for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome. What time will you be getting home?”

“The same time I always get home, Arthurine. In plenty of time to pick you up from Bible study, but I’m going over to Bunny’s tonight to play cards.”

“Didn’t you all just play cards last month over at Paulette’s?”

“We did.”

“Why don’t you never want to play with me when I ask?”

“Because you only like to play solitaire, Arthurine, and it’s hard to play with another player.”

“Well guess what?”

“I can’t…”

“Peggy’s daughter is being a good Christian and has offered to bring me home after Bible study.”

“Well, that’s nice,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved.

“I sure wish I could manage to cook something but my arthritis been acting up all week long and it’s hard for me to open a can.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself. I’ll pick up something on my way home.”

“Could it possibly be Mexican or Chinese?”

“Good-bye, Arthurine.”

She’s giggling when I hang up. She gets on the nerve that runs directly from the left and right sides of my brain. But God
don’t
like ugly and I’m trying not to let ugly register anywhere near my heart or mind because Paulette probably has hidden cameras watching me. When I take my cell phone out of my jacket pocket I realize that it was my doctor who’d called while I was in the bathroom. I hang up and press “calls received” on my cell and get her office. “Yes, this is Marilyn Grimes and I’m returning Dr. Hilton’s call. Is something wrong? Was my blood test abnormal or something?”

“No, no, no,” the receptionist says, almost giggling, which makes me feel a little better. “The doctor just thought you might want to come in to talk about the results of your blood work, that’s all.”

“How soon?”

“How about Monday?”

“What time?”

“She could see you between two and four.”

“I’ll be there about two fifteen. And you’re sure I’m not sick?”

“No, you are not sick, she just wants to explain what your test results mean and then let you weigh your options.”

“Then it’s pretty clear that I’m going through menopause? Are my hormones disappearing?”

“The doctor will explain all of that to you when she sees you, so don’t worry, Mrs. Grimes. You have a nice weekend.”

I hang up the phone. If I get in there on Monday and find out I’m dying, I’m going to strangle this bitch.

Chapter 2

I
beeline it out of work early and pick up Chinese food for Arthurine and run in the house so fast Snuffy doesn’t even have enough time to get up from his bed to greet me as I drop the plastic bag on the counter and sprint back out and get into my sputtering ’98 Audi that’s in dire need of a tune-up. If I run into Arthurine, she’ll want to talk about a scripture they discussed in Bible study and she’ll misquote it and get the interpretation all wrong—like she always does—and then I’ll have to act like I don’t notice and not correct her and try to keep the smirk off my face and present it to her as gratitude for enlightening me yet again. I don’t want to be late for our Pity Party and I don’t particularly need to hear how God doesn’t have a Plan B. Or how part-time faith, like part-time jobs, can’t fully support you. Not tonight. This morning as I was pulling out of the driveway, she yelled out: “Is God your steering wheel or your spare tire, Marilyn?”

“Both!” I fired back, which totally baffled her because she was still standing in the doorway when I pressed the garage door closed.

Arthurine came to live with us for a few months after she’d been in a fender bender that freaked her out but did not cause any immediate or residual harm. She had barely unpacked when she became plagued by one new ailment after another. She swore up and down she now suffered from night blindness whenever she drove, so her son made her stop. Enter Marilyn the Limo Driver. And during the day, she started losing her eyesight (except she had no difficulties whatsoever reading the price tags at every half-yearly and holiday sale at Macy’s and Nordstrom’s), but refused to go to an optometrist. Her self-diagnosis: it feels like its cataracts. Next, her hearing was going in and out except during the highlights of
American Idol
’s auditions when she had no problem memorizing and singing the lyrics to “She Bangs” right along with William Hung. And whoops! She was losing her balance but it turned out she just had bunions and needed to give up high heels.

This was a little more than a year ago and she’s still here. In fact, she’s everywhere. Sometimes I think there’s more than one of her. On special occasions Arthurine is struck by the onset of what I refer to as “voluntary amnesia,” since it mostly flares up on weekends when she claims she’s too disoriented to help me do much of anything around the house. She never, ever, however, forgets to eat. And she is nosey as hell. I know she rambles in my closets and drawers because sometimes I deliberately put things in disarray only to find them neatly folded and in their proper place. I brought this to her attention but she just got defensive and looked so insulted I asked her to tell the ghost who was doing this to cease and desist and stay out of our bedroom. She took the hint. Poor thing. She’s just lonesome. Her husband died six years ago, so I’m trying not to hold all the irritating things she does against her.

Even after she was given a clean bill of health, Leon still falls for her medical outbreaks. Arthurine has made it clear she doesn’t want to move into one of those independent living complexes for seniors and what better way to guarantee it than by laying a guilt trip on her son, who believes everything she tells him?

As I’m heading down our street, I see a car I don’t recognize, but in the front seat is Arthurine’s famous black hat moving like it’s attached to a marionette. She is running her mouth a mile a minute, which is why she doesn’t see me. And for this, I thank the Lord.

“You know,” I yell out, staring so hard at one of Bunny’s mirrored walls that it feels like I can see right through to the plaster. “Sometimes I wish Leon would just go ahead and cheat on me so I’d finally have a good excuse to divorce him.” Bunny and Paulette are in Bunny’s miniature kitchen crushing ice as they try to make a blended drink called “Sex on the Beach” from a recipe book. Don’t I wish.

“Oh shut up, Marilyn,” Paulette says to my feet, which are propped up on the back of Bunny’s beige corduroy sofa. “Did she not say this very same thing at my house four months ago, Bunny?”

“Yes, she did.”

“And what term do they use to describe this behavior in your psych class?”

“We haven’t covered this yet. I’ll let you know when she says something that does. In fact, let me run and get my notes.”

“No, don’t!” Paulette says, but it’s too late. Bunny’s off to her bedroom. The thing I love most about Paulette and Bunny is that neither of them takes insults from the other personally nor do they give a shit what other people think about them. Take Bunny’s party look. Just about everything she wears has sheen regardless of the time of day. Right now she’s in silver satin pencil slacks. They’re tight. And she’s wearing three-inch silver mules. She’s back before we know it. Her hands are empty.

“I thought I brought my backpack home from work. Anyway…”

“Wait a minute,” I say, holding my hand up. “Are your cats incarcerated for the evening or what?”

“They are. Now shut up and let me finish. Your complaints about Leon are getting a little tiresome, if you don’t mind my saying so. He’s a good brother, so you ought to stop with the whining. And get your feet off the back of my couch.”

I don’t move them. “I think I might actually be starting to hate him. No. ‘Hate’ is too strong. I don’t like him anymore.”

“Okay, Cruella, take a chill pill for a minute. We’ll be right out.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll have my ‘Sex on the Beach’ now. I’m serious. I’m bored to death with Leon.”

“What makes you think you landed on ‘I’m So Interesting Avenue,’ Miss Thang, huh?” Paulette asks. “Give us one good reason Leon couldn’t say the same about you, even though we know you’re not as dull as you can be on any given day…”

“Sugar, there’s a whole lot of single women out there that would love to get next to a brother who’s head honcho at an engineering firm, still looks somewhat presentable, can still get it up, his kids are grown and out of the house, which means no child support or alimony payments. Leon is a dream come true.”

“Who said he could still get it up?”

“You did. Remember the engine and engineer jokes?” Paulette says.

“I lied. The engine needs to be at least eight cylinders and have four-wheel drive and cruise control and the engineer should know not to rev the engine and not get his rpm’s so high that he burns up his engine just because he likes to accelerate to prove that his engine can go from zero to sixty in six seconds but if he were to look up or down at the passenger from time to time he might realize that he is not in a race so there’s no need to slam on the brakes when he comes to an unexpected curve or when trying to get up a steep hill. After twenty-two years, he should know when to put it in low, when to downshift, when to put it in fourth gear, cruise control, or neutral, and how to steer smoothly. He should also know when it’s time to pull over and put it in park…This isn’t part of my time, is it?”

“No, but Marilyn I hope you
know
you’ve lost a few ounces of estrogen somewhere.”

“Yeah, are you PMSing, too? Is that what made you bring this ugly attitude in here with you this evening?”

“No. For your information, I didn’t have a period last month and am hoping I skip the next hundred.”

“Did you go to the doctor and get that blood test like I suggested?” Paulette asks.

“I did. I see the doctor on Monday. However…”

“What?”

“There are a lot of things your blood can tell about you, but there are a lot of things it can’t even begin to detect.”

“We know you’re going to explain what you mean by this, so just wait a minute while we get situated. I’ve gotta go to the bathroom first.”

“And I need to call Aretha to make sure she fed the dogs,” Paulette says. “Give us four minutes. And for the record: you still PMS after your periods stop.”

I do not remember reading that in any of the books, but then again, I haven’t gotten past “Symptoms.”

We started this, what we ordained as our Private Pity Party four years ago. It’s not a woe-is-me whining party, but because we never seemed to have an hour when we didn’t feel like we should be doing something else, or had to be somewhere else, or were already thinking about what we had to do as soon as we cut out, we decided that one evening out of every month we would get together—even if it just meant venting, bitching, or lamenting—but mostly to help each other see ourselves more clearly. Where we can even ’fess up to our mistakes and misjudgments. Or admit stupid or embarrassing things we’ve done, should’ve done differently, or not at all.

You don’t want to get labeled a “repeater”: complaining about the same thing over and over and never making a genuine attempt to do anything to fix it, resolve it, or improve your situation, or playing the blame game in that whatever our problems are it’s always someone else’s fault. We want to rise above that, but sometimes it’s just difficult to do and this is where friends come in: to call you on your b.s. We don’t claim to be shrinks and we certainly don’t think we have all the answers to each other’s problems. But what we do have is empathy and we listen and try to be lighthearted when it seems appropriate and also recognize when our hearts are cold and lacking in compassion. Over the years, what has happened among the three of us is an amazing freedom that comes with being able to say out loud what you think and feel without having to apologize for it.

Because Bunny has never been married (not by choice) or had any children (this is by choice) we have come to believe that her taste in men is a lot like her taste in furniture. Temporary is long enough. She’s unhappy pretending to be happy. When she’s ready to face that fact, we’ll be the first to applaud her. Paulette loves her second husband and it appears that the feeling is mutual. She and Roscoe have been together for years and he is the reason she has her boutique. Paulette’s biggest problems are her grown kids. The older one changes jobs every season. The younger one is a criminal. And her daughter Aretha tries to act like she’s searching for the right career, while she jacks up half the neighborhood kids’ hair with those tacky braids, charging $30 to $90, just enough to buy an outfit from Ross or Marshall’s for the weekend and get herself a small bag of something to smoke. Everybody knows my biggest problem is my mother-in-law, my husband, and my daughter, Sabrina, who, as smart as she is, acts like she’s a slave of love. She’s been living with Nevil, a nice British Jamaican, for two years but I think she does everything except breathe for him.

Of the three of us, Bunny is the one in good physical shape but it’s because she teaches two body-sculpting classes and an occasional spin class. Plus she jogs. She also oversees the exercise program at her spiffy health club where most of the men are either gay, high school athletes, or much older and obviously on steroids. Bunny says because they’re in love with their own chiseled bodies, she rarely gets a date.

They finally both come back and sit down.

“Okay, the clock is ticking as of this very minute so make your feelings known, but keep them brief,” Bunny says and looks at her watch which is really a heart-rate monitor.

“Okay. And no interruptions.”

“Start!” Paulette yells.

“Okay. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, so here goes: sometimes I can’t remember what I ever saw in Leon. I mean when I try to think back to what attracted me to him, I honestly can’t remember. I mean, he wasn’t always dull and neither was I. But we never go anywhere or do anything except what we’ve always done, which is pretty much nothing aside from holidays, and those have always revolved around family members who are now either dead or living with us.

“We never have any fun. There’s no excitement in our life. Unless I count taking Arthurine to the doctor or driving her back and forth to Bible study twice a week where I sit out in the car reading with a flashlight until she’s through. Thrill thrill. Or maybe I should count standing in the long line at Blockbuster’s on a Saturday night or praying there’s a movie on satellite that I haven’t seen. All this excitement is enough to give me a heart attack. Stop laughing!”

“We’re not,” Bunny says with her hand in front of her mouth.

“But it was sad-funny, Marilyn. I laughed. But now I’m not.”

“Okay. Even on my birthday I wanted to do something fun, upbeat. I suggested we drive to Carmel and spend the night at a hotel by the ocean or go to the wine country and have dinner on the wine train around the vineyards, maybe take a mud bath or go to the one drive-in that’s left or park at the beach or on a dark street and do it…whatever. You know what he wanted to do? Take me to dinner. He thinks going to dinner is the only way to celebrate anything.

“Leon’s turning forty-six in April and up to now he behaves more like a senior citizen. I’d swear he’s getting Tourette’s. He’s just been blurting out what he’s thinking and some of it is insulting or stupid or embarrassing and he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying it! He complains about so many things I feel like calling him a bitch! Stop laughing, Bunny! He can’t hear worth anything, so he talks to me like I’m across the room or something. Oh. His glasses have suddenly disappeared and his eyes change colors from one week to the next. I’m about eighty percent sure that he’s been dying his roots black. And on top of all this, he’s grown quite fond of those velour leisure suits that zip and has been wearing them to work on casual Fridays.”

Now we all crack up.

“Go, Leon,” Bunny says.

“With his baaad self,” Paulette chimes in.

“I still love him but there’s just no passion. No fire. No rush. I can just about predict his next move, his next thought. I miss the suspense of where we’re going from here, since the kids are pretty much grown. Nowhere, as it turns out. Because once we got ‘here’ I thought we’d be free to do all kinds of stuff. But nope. We’ve settled like our old-ass house. And I just don’t buy all the testimonials by the experts who claim that mature love is more comforting than romantic and that as time passes it’s childish to think you’ll feel the thrills of romance like you felt in the beginning. A tremor every once in a while would be nice. And it should still be possible. It’s one of the beauties of life. To feel the joy and thrill of love. Isn’t it? If it wasn’t, then why does everybody want it? On many a night I have rolled over and wished he was just half the Leon that he used to be: tender and attentive and sexy and a little wild.