The Night Before Thirty (12 page)

Mike held his head in his hands. He'd fallen forward, barely missing the ground.

Elise looked around to make sure the robber had left. She rushed to Mike.

“Are you okay?” she asked, trying to get a closer look at his injury.

“I'll be okay. I'm not bleeding, am I?”

She moved his hands off his head and examined him. “No, thank God! We need to go back inside to call the police,” Elise said.

Mike looked up at Elise with eyes that said, “Why bother?”

“I know there isn't much that they'll do, but we have to report this,” she said through the tears that had started to flow from her eyes.

“Damn, Elise. Why?” he moaned.

Elise looked at Mike. He was a sophomore in college, intelligent, talented. He was the type of guy who saw the good in people and in life. The defeat in his voice sent an uneasy vibration through her.

She shook her head. She was without answers. “Let's just go inside,” she said quietly through the fog of replaying the robbery in her mind.

The two helped each other up, and then Elise reached over to pick up their keys. She stood up, feeling light-headed and having questions of her own, but she wanted to encourage Mike to ease the anger that was settling into his spirit. She handed him his keys and said, “At least he didn't take our cars. And thank God Hattie took the money with her.”

“But, Elise, every book that I purchased for school this semester was in that bag. Plus, I had been saving money to get my girlfriend a watch for her birthday. I just bought it today before coming here this morning. That watch was in the bag, Elise!” he yelled, punching at the air to release some of his frustration. Tears fell from his eyes.

Elise was instantly flooded with guilt. Starting her new business, this was a lean time for her. She had no emergency cash. She didn't have enough to help Mike purchase his books again, let alone purchase another watch for his girlfriend. She knew she had to do something; she felt responsible. A lump formed in her throat. She was without words, without an easy solution, without a way to comfort Mike or herself.

ASHAWNDA OPENED THE
dishwasher and pulled out two travel mugs. She poured coffee into them and put one teaspoon of sugar in Cicely's and extra cream in her own. She walked over to the kitchen island, set the mugs down, and picked up her purse. Before she could pick the mugs back up, Cicely came behind her, slid her arms around her waist, and leaned over to kiss her softly on her neck.

Lashawnda cringed.

“You were extra good last night,” Cicely said.

“I know I was,” Lashawnda said. She had spent the night fanta-sizing about her favorite movie star, helping her performance with Cicely.

She picked up the coffee mugs and handed one to Cicely. “Just the way you like it.”

The two walked through the kitchen to the garage.

“Okay, Lashawnda, what's going on with you?” Cicely asked, unlocking her car door.

“Nothing.”

“Don't lie to me. I've noticed that something has been different with you. I just haven't been able to pinpoint what it is.”

“It's nothing, Cicely.”

They pulled out of the garage. Then Cicely hit the brakes at the end of the carport. “This is the last time I'm going to ask you, Lashawnda.”

Lashawnda gave Cicely a blank stare. She knew that saying something to her about not being invited on vacation with her and her old college friends wouldn't help. But she couldn't hold her tongue. She was upset and she couldn't get relief unless she spoke.

“Can you believe that I'm gonna be left alone during my birthday weekend? Yeah, my girlfriend would prefer to hang with her big-time college friends than to be with a grocery bagger turned secretary.” Lashawnda's best way of confronting issues was to joke through them. “Yeah, maybe once I get my college degree, maybe then I'll be worthy of attention on my birthday. Or worthy of meeting your old college friends.”

“You're being unreasonable,” Cicely replied calmly. But Lashawnda knew she'd struck a chord, because Cicely pushed in the car's cigarette lighter and started fumbling through her purse for cigarettes.

“No, I'm not being unreasonable, Cicely. It's my thirtieth birthday we're talking about. It should be my best party. Someone should be pulling out all the stops to make sure I have a good time.”

“You're right. And I do want to celebrate with you. It's just unfortunate there's a conflict of dates. Maybe we can do something special the weekend before or after.”

“Conflict of dates. Oh, so now the day I was born is a conflict with your life. Oh, so sorry, Dr. Hayes. Maybe I can go back in time and reschedule my mother's labor by a week. Would that allow things to flow better in your calendar of events for December?”

“Is all this drama necessary?”

“Wanting to spend my birthday with my lover is unreasonable?”

“No, but your drama queen antics are,” Cicely replied.

“Why did you ask me to move in with you?” Lashawnda demanded.

“Why would you ask me a question like that?”

Lashawnda folded her arms and waited for an answer.

Cicely responded in her always cool, always calm, always collected tone. “If you must be told again, then I will tell you.” She paused, and then continued. “I asked you to move in with me because I care about you. My place is comfortable, and I thought you'd be happier in this environment.
I want you to be able to build your savings and maybe start investing.”

Lashawnda opened her mouth to speak.

“Wait. I'm not finished,” Cicely stopped her. “And I like holding you at night. Don't you like being close every night?”

She hated when Cicely flipped their conversations with her psychology manipulated responses but had gotten better at comebacks. “We're not talking about how good our intimacy feels. We're talking about you being too embarrassed of me to take me around your fake-ass friends.” Touché.

“See, that's the kind of shit that pisses me off. You don't even know my friends, and you go and call them fake.”

“Well, something must be wrong with them if you're keeping them hidden from me.” Lashawnda adjusted her seat so it reclined. “Or maybe it's me who's being hidden? Funny, I'm good enough to fuck, but not good enough to accompany you to a tropical island, not good enough to know your friends. But it's cool. Don't even sweat it. I'm tired of talking about it anyway.”

“It's not like that, and you know it.” Cicely stared ahead of her at the congestion of the Highway 75 morning rush hour. There was no quick way around the traffic to get to the office, no way for either of them to get a breather from the conflict.

Lashawnda reached forward and turned on the radio to listen to Melvin Green and the Morning Show Crew. She knew there wasn't an excuse for Cicely's disregard for her feelings; she wanted to continue the discussion until she got a clearer understanding of why, if there was a why. No man she'd dated had ever explained why he'd abused her or talked down to her. Why should Cicely defend her shame about their relationship? There was too much going through Lashawnda's mind. Melvin Green was just the distraction she needed.

“Ladies, listen up! If you want to join Louisa Montero in tropical paradise, you've gotta get those letters in. But right now, we're looking for caller number twenty to win an all-expenses-paid trip to the New Orleans Bayou Classic for Thanksgiving weekend. Caller twenty, we're waiting.”

“Sittin' Up in My Room,” a song sung by Brandy on the
Waiting to Exhale
sound track, followed.

Lashawnda heard about the Night Before Thirty contest every day now, but she was sure she had no chance of winning. What would she say in her letter, anyway? But after talking with Cicely and clarifying that she was not going to budge, she thought,
What do I have to lose?

She closed her eyes and listened to Brandy's voice, letting it relax her as she began to formulate exactly what she would say in the letter. Lashawnda felt a smile inside. Her best revenge for Cicely's blatant insensitivity was to plan a trip on her own.
As a matter of fact,
she thought,
even if I don't win the trip, I'll dip into my savings account and go somewhere by myself.

She looked over at Cicely, who appeared to be involved in fighting traffic. Was every relationship that Lashawnda had going to be an equal mixture of love and hate? What made her and Cicely so much tougher than any of her other relationships was their secrecy and her uncertainty about what it meant. Lashawnda didn't know if she was a straight woman involved with a lesbian or a lesbian who would not venture back into the world of heterosexuality. She still fantasized about men, but when a woman walked by with nice breasts, she often found herself intrigued with the idea of touching them. Touching her. Wondering, if she approached her, whether she could make her laugh.

But thoughts about all this had to be pushed aside. They were turning into the parking garage and had to go to work. Cicely pulled into their assigned space. Lashawnda adjusted her seat back to its upright position.

“Lashawnda, listen, I know your birthday is important to you. It's important to me too. I'm going to make it up to you—by celebrating it early, I mean. Better yet, I'm going to show you a good time the weekends before
and
after. We can do a monthlong celebration if you want.”

Lashawnda opened her door.

“Wait a minute,” Cicely insisted.

She closed the door.

“Are we okay, me and you?”

Lashawnda responded with an empty, dry “Yeah.”

“Can I get a kiss before we go inside?”

Lashawnda eyed Cicely, who didn't back down from her request.

“Just a little one,” she pushed.

Lashawnda leaned toward Cicely, who stuck her tongue inside her
mouth and forced an intense kiss on her, showing total disregard for their conversation during the drive over.

She slowly pulled back and stared at Cicely, wondering,
Who is this woman I'm living with?
Then a thought that had never before crossed her mind hit her:
She sees me as her toy.
She hoped her perception was wrong, but Cicely's credibility was beginning to appear shadier than that of a man going through his midlife crisis, looking to find a pretty young playmate to keep around for the sole purpose of stroking his ego and making him feel good about his miserable existence. Was Cicely the same?

Cicely opened her door. “Let's get inside. We have a busy day ahead.

“By the way, remember the flight attendant, Marissa?” Cicely said as they walked through the parking garage. “Well, she's coming in for a two-hour session. She's having a rough time. The girl is a mess. Just make sure we aren't disturbed through the duration of the session.”

“No problem.”

Cicely was the boss, her employer. Duty called and Lashawnda had to push everything aside and go to work. But in between her secretarial duties, she had a letter to write—and a contest to win.

OU'LL BE SLEEPING
in here tonight,” Catara's favorite cousin, Cheryl, said in her high-pitched, girlish voice. She had just picked Catara up from the train station and brought her to her apartment. “We fly out at seven-thirty in the morning, which means we have to be up and out by five o'clock.”