67
Counting Blessings
Stacy watched as Bo played with Darius Jr. Every time Bo made a face, her son would squeal with joy.
“My son really likes you.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Bo quipped. “Like father, like son.”
“Oh, God, don’t make me lose my lunch.”
“C’mon now,” Darius said, putting a casual arm around Stacy’s shoulders. “Bo spent too much time slaving in the kitchen for you to throw up his food.”
“Girlfriend knows she better not act a fool. That lobster was twenty dollars a pound!” Bo said.
“Forget you, heifah!” Stacy replied.
“No, you’re the cow.”
“All right, all right, that’s enough. None of that arguing and name calling in front of my son. Come here, little man. Come here to Daddy.”
Darius Jr. squealed and ran over to his father, who was sitting next to Stacy and Bo on the couch. Darius picked him up and placed him on his lap as Stacy watched. Bo reached for a magazine and began idly flipping through. It wasn’t the typical family scenario playing across America on this late May afternoon, but it was the one that now seemed perfectly normal in the Crenshaw household.
Stacy was content, something she thought she’d never be in a house with both Darius and Bo in it . . . at the same time. But her life had seldom played out as expected. Next to getting cancer, getting Tony—or any other man besides Darius—had been the last thing on her mind just a little over six short months ago. And now here she was, about to get married, and actually getting along with not only her baby daddy but his “wife” too.
“Where’s the remote!” Bo’s high-pitched question shattered the peaceful mood.
Stacy and Darius looked at the television, which had been on mute, at the same time. Shabach’s face was on the screen behind an anchorwoman reporting a story.
Darius reached between the cushions for the remote and turned off the mute.
“. . . best known in gospel hip-hop circles for his platinum-selling album,
Beat Down for the Devil
. If found guilty of these sexual-assault charges, Joseph Reubens could spend the next twenty years behind bars. Reporting live from downtown Los Angeles, I’m . . .”
“God don’t like ugly, and ugly just got his.” Bo was pacing back and forth in the living room. “I told you, baby. I told you they’d get his sorry behind.”
Darius turned his stunned look from the television to Bo. “Did you do this, Bo? Did you talk to somebody and get ’Bach arrested?”
“Hell, no! But I would have if given the opportunity.”
Darius shook his head. “That’s messed up, man.”
“Why? What he’s experiencing now is exactly what he was ready to put you through—bad press.”
“No, what he’s experiencing is worse than my coming out could ever cause. Cy once told me sixteen could get you twenty. . . .”
“I can’t believe it,” Stacy mumbled.
She hugged Darius Jr. as he crawled from his father into her lap. Moments like these made her count her blessings and remember that no matter how bad it had ever looked for her, somebody somewhere was facing something worse.
68
A Different Appetite
Gabriel laughed. Frieda was at it again, mimicking the nurses and other associates he worked with at the hospital. Her impersonation of Amber was spot on, the way she batted her eyes while sidling up to Gabriel at the nurses’ station in an overt flirtation she tried to pass off as nonchalant. Problem was, everyone in the entire hospital knew Amber was in love with Gabriel and longed to assist him with more than surgery.
“Gabe, are you
sure
you don’t have time for a salad?” Frieda aped in a pseudo-suburbanite flair. “I could bring it to your office.” Frieda finished the statement with an exaggerated wink. That she did these impersonations nude in his locked facility office added to the preposterousness of the situation.
Gabriel’s pager buzzed. He didn’t even have to look at it to know it meant time was up. Back to work. He followed Frieda into the shower, and after a quick yet thorough performing of ablutions, swatted her playfully on the behind.
“Come on—out, you. I have to go.” Gabriel stepped out of the shower and began toweling off.
“You go ahead,” Frieda said. “I’ll lock up.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I prefer not to leave you in the office. This is not a social suite, and if the wrong person found you here it could mean trouble for both me and/or the hospital.”
“All right, all right.” Frieda quickly rinsed off the soap, grabbed the towel Gabriel had abandoned, and dried herself. As usual, dressing was quick. She purposely wore as little as possible on these visits, allowing the time-constrained doctor easy access for the office quickies he’d come to look forward to with anticipation and enjoy. Not even the fact that he was fodder for the rumor mill was enough to discourage Frieda’s visits, though he did try to limit them to thirty minutes or so. No, the truth was, Frieda energized him, and the sexual release provided a release of tension that led to greater focus when he went back to work. In short, she was good for him. Even if he did have to limit her on-the-job pick-me-ups to short doses.
“And just for the record, I’m still quite angry with you.”
“Why?” Frieda asked coyly.
“You know why. I always practice safe sex; you’re a bad influence.”
“I told you I’m not fucking nobody but you.”
“Frieda . . .”
“Okay, screwing, making love to, having coital relations with—is that better?”
“That’s not the point.”
“No, the point is you pulled out, nuckah. Ain’t no baby-daddy action happening here. Life’s too short, and I’ve got too much to do.”
Gabriel opened the door. “Really, Frieda. Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Frieda struggled with the straps on her four-inch sandals. “Go on, Gabriel. I have to pee anyway. I’ll be out in five minutes, promise.”
Gabriel’s huff was more chagrin that he had to leave than anger she was staying. “Look, just don’t forget to—”
“Lock the door,” she finished.
Frieda blew him a kiss, finished fastening her sandal, and hurried into the bathroom. When she was ready to pull up her lacy thong panties, she had a second thought, took them off, and smoothed down her tight, midthigh skirt. She turned off the bathroom light, walked over to Gabriel’s desk, left her present in a drawer she knew he’d open, and sashayed out of her man’s office, locking the door behind her.
Minutes later, Frieda eased her new BMW into Beverly Hills traffic. She loved this recent gift from Gabriel—the smooth way it handled in traffic and most importantly how good it made her look while navigating the streets of LA. The custom beige color was a perfect complement to her mocha skin, and she always made sure to wear colors that coordinated with the vehicle. She was the significant other of a doctor. Baby girl had to represent!
She turned on the satellite radio. Tupac’s voice filled the car’s interior and took her back to Kansas City and a much different time in her life.
“Me against the world, I got nuttin to lose just me against the world baby . . .”
The memories this song invoked were from another lifetime when she’d lived in a small apartment in an increasingly neglected area of Kansas City, near 27th and Paseo, and dated men who’s annual salaries were half of what Gabriel made per month. When her hangouts were clubs on Prospect and Troost, and if anybody got cut, it was not in the throes of surgery. Frieda hadn’t been unhappy then. She just hadn’t known there were levels to happiness and that she could aspire to and achieve a higher level. Frieda changed the channel—much like the move to California had changed her life.
“Speak, fool.” Frieda turned down the music as her Bluetooth beeped.
“I’m in town, baby.”
“Giorgio! You were supposed to call me.”
“I wasn’t sure I was coming. My agent didn’t reach me until this morning.”
“Oh, and where were you, between somebody’s legs?”
“I’d rather be between yours. I’m at the Four Seasons waiting on you. That’s what’s up.”
“No, what’s up is that log between your legs. Meet me in the restaurant.”
Frieda made a U-turn and headed back down Beverly Boulevard. Only now did she realize she’d worked up an appetite. She hoped Giorgio was hungry as well and that he’d believe her when she told him the food on the menu was all he was going to eat.
69
The Proverbial Straw
“Oh, girl, thanks so much for rescuing me. I couldn’t take being in that house one more day!”
“Please, no worries. It just gives me an excuse to shop.”
“And your going shopping gives me an excuse to surprise Cy at the office.”
Hope smiled and looked back at the lunch she’d prepared for her busy hubby. She was blessed and knew it. He was caring and attentive and had shown real interest in understanding what pregnant women went through. That he’d read several of her baby books had won him brownie-andchocolate-chip points. She’d responded by trying to control her feelings more, stop yelling at him, and practice prayer and meditation as a way to keep her feelings positive. She’d also hired a yoga instructor and chiropractor, both of whom had employed methods that greatly relieved her back pain. Besides constant trips to the restroom and limited walking, she felt almost like her old self again, plus sixty pounds.
Hope turned from the sunny June landscape and eyed Stacy speculatively. “I still can’t believe you’ve changed your plans for a big wedding and moved up the date. Are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell me?”
Stacy shot Hope a surprised look. “Like what?”
“Look, girl. I would totally understand if you and Tony have become intimate. Goodness knows my months of celibacy while living with Cy were the hardest months of my life. Even so, we, you know, played around a lot and several times came close to doing the do.”
Stacy looked over at Hope but remained silent.
“I guess what I’m . . . Now I feel silly, but . . . is there a baby on the way?” Hope asked.
“A baby? Is that what you think this is about? Tony and I moving our wedding date up because we’re pregnant?” Stacy’s laugh was genuine and continued until she had to wipe away tears. “If you, one of my closest friends in the world, is thinking that, I wonder who else is thinking it. Have you talked to Sistah Viv?”
“No, I haven’t talked to anyone.”
“Not even Frieda?”
“Well, we did discuss it a little.”
“Y’all heifahs. You’ve been talking about me behind my back, thinking I’m getting my groove on, when I
told
you we were going to wait.”
“I’m sorry, Stacy.”
“And you should be.” She softened her tone and continued. “But I’m too happy to let a little gossip bother me. The simple truth is, we don’t want to wait another six months, either to be married or to have sex. We’re both grown and know what we want, and more than a grand wedding, we want a grand marriage. What you don’t know because we didn’t tell anybody is we’ve been in counseling with the Montgomerys for the past two months and will continue even after we’re married. That’s what’s most important to us. Not that I have the right ring or the right dress but that I have the right man and that we’re getting married for the right reasons.”
Now it was Hope’s turn to give Stacy a questioning look.
“Yes, sex is one of those reasons.”
“C’mon now, ’cause a sistah can only take so much of your holy hem-hawing before you get real and break it down!” Hope laughed.
“It’s been so hard to hug that body and not be able to—”
“Baby, you don’t have to tell me twice. I’ve been there.”
“And then the other night I accidentally walked in on him after he’d come out of the shower. . . .”
“Uh-huh.”
“Girl, I had to leave his house.”
“Stop!”
“For real, girl. I couldn’t see him for two whole days. That’s how long it took my cootchie to calm down.”
Stacy wheeled her car into the Century City office building’s circular drive. “You sure you don’t want me to wait on you?”
“Not at all. I talked to Cy earlier, so I know he’s here. Besides, you’re only going to be a couple hours, right?”
“Tops. I just need to go by my wedding-planner’s office and drop off these swatches. Thank you so much for recommending her; she’s been a life-saver.”
“It’s the least I can do, as I can’t be a maid of honor in the true sense of the word.”
“You’re perfect. Now scoot.”
Hope waddled through the revolving doors and up to the elevator. She’d been to her husband’s office only a handful of times, which made every visit that much more special. She liked to hang out in Cy’s world from time to time—feel a part of the mover-and-shaker environment he experienced on a daily basis. Hope would be lying if she said she missed corporate America per se, but there were aspects she missed, such as the feeling of productivity and accomplishment that came from seeing a task from inception to completion.
Guess that task will be my family now,
she thought as she stepped off the elevator onto the thirty-third floor of the high-rise building.
All in all, not a bad trade-off with a company’s bottom line.
She eased open the office door and stepped inside his outer office. His office door was open, which meant he didn’t have clients. Still, she didn’t want to interrupt him unexpectedly. She repositioned the basket on her left arm and walked widelegged to his door.
“Hey, baby—what is
this?
”
“Oh, this. This is nothing, absolutely nothing.” Millicent scrambled out of Cy’s office chair and from behind his desk. “I was just playing a game of solitaire while I waited—”
“Waited for what? Millicent, what are you doing in my husband’s office? And why is it you can’t seem to stay out of what I thought was his and Jack’s business?”
“That’s just it. He and Jack—”
“You know, Millicent, I’ve tried, I’ve really tried. To be a good Christian, to forgive and forget, to accept you with unconditional love. When it was clear my husband wanted to work with yours, I made up my mind to try to get along—that, like you said, while we’d probably never be friends, we could at least be civil toward one another. We’re both adults, and I vowed to act like one.”
“Really, Hope, if you’ll just let me explain—”
“When I caught you with him at the hotel in La Jolla, I jumped to conclusions. And I apologized. I came to you, woman to woman, and let it be known in no uncertain terms that I preferred my husband’s business dealings be with Jack and not you. But every time he turns around, there you are. What’s the deal, Millicent? Is Jack not laying the pipe deep enough? Do you still have some crazed and distorted fantasy about being with my man?” Hope slammed the basket down on the desk and stepped up to Millicent.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t care how much you try to act like the contented, dutiful wife, you aren’t fooling me. You’ve wanted Cy Taylor ever since I’ve known you. God gave him to me, and you can’t stand it!”
“Wait just a minute, Hope. You are way out of line.”
“And you’d better get in line. Because if you think I’m going to let your string-bean, fake-Christian, flat-butt, no-forehead, cross-eyed-looking jealous self come between me and my husband, you’ve got another think coming.”
Hope was standing toe to toe with Millicent, separated by only a large belly. Millicent was trying to maintain her composure but was precariously close to losing her temper as well. She held a hand to Hope’s chest to stop her advance.
Hope jerked back as if she’d been singed. “Get your trifling hands off me!”
“Hope, calm down!”
“I will not calm down until you get out of my husband’s office. That’s it! Get out! Now!” Hope reached for Millicent, swung her around, and pushed her toward the door. Millicent grabbed the purse that was in a chair.
“That’s right. Get your designer shit and get out!” Hope screamed at the top of her lungs.
Millicent backed toward the door. “Once again, you’ve got this all wrong, Hope.”
That was it, the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Hope rushed toward Millicent, her hands ready to strangle the neck of the woman who dared utter one more word before obeying her command.
Millicent ran around Cy’s desk, putting the massive piece of wood between them. Hope would not be denied; she shifted and ran the other way.
Or at least that’s what she had in mind. But as she took a step to her left, a massive rush of warm water gushed into the lining of her pants. It stopped her midstride. Fear replaced anger as she looked at Millicent.
“My water just broke.”
Millicent immediately went into organizer mode. “Sit on the couch. Try to stay calm. I—I’ll dial nine-one-one.”
Hope took a step toward the couch and was met with excruciating pain. “Ow!” She doubled over and reached blindly for anything that would hold her.
“Ow!”
she said again, holding the word like a note in a song.
Millicent rushed from behind the desk and came to Hope. “Can you walk? Let me try to help you to the couch.”
Hope felt intense pressure on her lower abdomen, as if one of her babies had a saw and was trying to cut their way out. “I—I—I can’t move.”
The pain intensified as Hope sank to the floor. Another sharp pain racked what felt like the entire lower half of her body, from her stomach to her knees. Tears sprang from her eyes. She wanted to say the Lord’s Prayer, but the only thing that would come out was “ow.”
“Shhh, deep breaths, Hope. The ambulance is on its way.”
Hope’s eyes grew bigger. “Oh, God help me. Something’s happening down there! Oh, I feel, I feel . . .” Hope began thrashing, trying to get up.
“It’s important to stay calm,” an increasingly panicked Millicent said as calmly as possible. “If you can just . . . Oh, my God. You’re bleeding.”
Millicent raced to Cy’s desk, pressed the speakerphone button, dialed, and raced back to Hope.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency.”
“She’s having the baby!” Millicent screamed.
“Argh!” Hope seconded in the background, pulling frantically at her pants. She rolled to all fours, and, as God was her witness, if she could have made it in that moment, would have jumped out the window to end the pain.
“Ma’am, where is the patient?”
“She’s rolling around on the floor!”
“Okay, stay calm. The President of the United States is in your area, and roadblocks are everywhere. But the ambulance is on its way. We’re going to need your help, here.”
“My help! How can I help?”
“What’s your name?”
“My . . . what? It’s, uh . . .”
Lord, have mercy. Jesus, what is my name?
Millicent paused and took a deep breath. “It’s Millicent. Millicent Kirtz.”
“Well, Millicent, get ready. It sounds like you’re getting ready to deliver a baby.”