Grown Folks Business (3 page)

Sheridan nodded. “And I haven’t even gotten to the worst part yet.”

Kamora frowned. “There’s more? Wait.” She turned her bottle of wine upside down, emptied what was left into her system, and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Go,” she said, signaling Sheridan to continue.

“It’s Jett Jennings.”

Kamora frowned. “What’s Jett Jennings?”

Sheridan sat up on the bed and pulled her knees to her chest. She took another sip of wine, and waited for Kamora to understand.

A moment later, Kamora’s eyes widened. She crawled toward the bed, with her empty bottle in her hand, and then climbed up to sit next to Sheridan. “Your superfine husband is kicking it with that giga-gorgeous man?”

Sheridan nodded. “But I think it’s more than kicking it. Quentin said they’re in love.”

“I didn’t know Jett was gay. Man.” Kamora shook her head as if she was trying to get this news to go down as well as the wine. “But then again, I didn’t know Quentin was gay either.”

When Sheridan flinched, Kamora said, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. This is just a little too much to take.”

“Tell me about it.”

Still shaking her head, Kamora said, “Remember when I told you all I wanted in life was to marry that man? When I met him at your Christmas party last year, I was willing to take my last breath if God would bless me and let me be with him just once.” Kamora paused and fanned herself as if her body temperature had risen. “Whew! He was so fine I wanted to eat him with a spoon. I even started watching golf because of the brotha. I was going to do anything to make him my husband. But I couldn’t get him to look twice at me.”

“Now you know why.” Sheridan took another sip. “But it’s a good thing he wasn’t searching for a wife so that he could hide in the closet, you know? I mean, can you imagine what would have happened if you had married him? Both of us would be sitting here tonight drinking wine.” She paused. “Wait a minute. That’s what we’re doing anyway, huh?”

Kamora giggled and bounced back on the bed. But her laughter was soon gone. “Sheridan, this is some serious stuff.”

“I know.”

Kamora sat up. “What about the kids? What did Chris and Tori say?”

“Do you think I told them?” Sheridan shook her head. She had to take another sip at the thought of her children. “They think Quentin is away on a business trip. I couldn’t handle telling them yet.”

“I hear you. Girl, this is grown folks’ business. I don’t know how you’re going to tell those babies.” Kamora paused. “Chris is going to flip.”

Sheridan took a sip of wine.

Kamora continued, “He’s going to get the business once this news gets out.”

This time it was two sips that Sheridan took from her bottle.

“And poor Tori,” Kamora sniffed. “That little girl is going to be heartbroken.” She was almost crying now. “How are your children going to handle this?” Kamora wailed.

Sheridan turned up the bottle and swallowed until the liquid burned her throat. “You know,” she began, needing to talk about something other than her children, “I used to worry about Quentin leaving me for one of his patients.”

“I remember,” Kamora slurred.

“But when he didn’t after the first few years, I got comfortable.”

“As well you should.” Kamora hiccuped. “He was faithful to you for all those years, girl.”

Sheridan frowned when her friend lifted her empty bottle to her lips. She said, “Still, it was hard at first. I didn’t exhale until Quentin walked through the door every night. But I never thought it would be as bad as this. I thought the worst thing would be if Quentin left me for a white woman.”

“Girl, I hear you. That would’ve been awful.” Kamora licked the lip of her empty wine bottle. “But look at it this way. This could have been way worse.”

“I don’t know how,” Sheridan cried.

“Quentin could have left you for a white man.”

Sheridan squinted, as she pondered Kamora’s words. Then she chuckled. Then she giggled. Then she laughed. Kamora joined her, and their laughter turned hysterical. They laughed until tears came and their watery eyes reminded Sheridan of her pain. Kamora felt it too, and they cried.

“Kamora, what am I going to do? My husband is gay. A homosexual.”

“I don’t know…”

Sheridan frowned and lifted her finger to her mouth, signaling for Kamora to be quiet.

“What’s the matter?” Kamora’s whisper sounded like a roar.

“I heard something.” Sheridan stood and wobbled a bit before she eased toward her door. She straightened her back and peeked into the hallway. Her master bedroom was at one end of the second floor, more than fifty feet away from the other bedrooms.

She stepped into the dark and glanced at Tori’s, then Christopher’s door. It looked as if the lights were out in both bedrooms.

When she returned inside, Kamora asked, “What was it?”

Sheridan shrugged. “I thought I heard something.” She flopped onto her bed. “But it was wishful thinking. I wish I heard Quentin coming home.” Her tears returned. “Kamora, how could I love a man for seventeen years and not know that everything he’s said to me is a lie?”

Kamora cried with her. “Girl, Quentin lied to all of us.”

Sheridan paused. Would her parents and the rest of her family and friends feel as cheated as she did? “What am I going to say? How am I going to explain this?”

“There are no words.” Kamora sniffed as she opened the last bottle of wine.

“And what about church?”

Kamora frowned as she took a sip from the new bottle. “What about church?”

“How am I supposed to go back there? You know the news will leak out, and then…”

“Yeah, you know how church folk can be. Maybe…” Kamora stopped.

“Maybe what?”

Kamora shrugged. “Maybe you should find a new church home. You could always start going with me, but really I think you’re going to be all right,” she said. “You know why?”

Sheridan shook her head, wishing the pain—in her heart and in her head—would go away.

“Because God is going to help you through.”

Sheridan looked at the wine bottle sitting on her nightstand. Her bottle looked empty. “I don’t think God is too happy with me right now.”

“Honey, what Quentin has done is not your fault.”

Whose fault is it?
Sheridan wondered. But she kept her questions to herself.

“You should go home so we don’t wake the kids.”

Kamora stared at her for a moment. “Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not. Thanks for coming over and supporting me.”

“This is just what we do.”

Sheridan wondered why her friend was screaming.

Kamora grabbed the edge of the bed and pulled herself up, still balancing the bottle of wine in her hand. But when she stood, she wobbled.

Sheridan frowned. “Maybe you should stay here.”

“You don’t think I’ll make it home?” But before Sheridan could answer, Kamora glanced at herself in the mirror. “Oh, no,” she said.
“Ssshhh.”
She put her finger over her mouth. “Don’t wake the kids.”

Sheridan wanted to tell Kamora that she was the one being loud. But her aches—more mental than physical—kept her silent. Sheridan opened the door and peeped into the hallway. When she was sure it was clear, she said to Kamora, “You know where everything is.”

“Some host you are,” she said, handing Sheridan the last bottle of wine.

Sheridan waited until Kamora tiptoed down the long hallway and then closed the door to the guest bedroom. Alone, she looked down at the sweat suit she’d worn all day, then pushed away the comforter on the bed before she slipped between the sheets. She turned off the light but, a moment later, turned it back on—the way she did when Quentin was working late. She wanted her husband to know that even as she slept, she was always waiting for him.

Sheridan lay back and stared into the space. She tried to capture every relevant moment of her life with Quentin—the way they lived and loved, laughed and cried. It hadn’t always been easy, but it had almost always been wonderful. No matter what was going on in life, she knew she always had God and Quentin. There was no place she had to go in this world without her husband. He was her protector, her security, her strength.

She held up her hand and watched her diamond wedding band sparkle in the bedroom light. She had just had the ring cleaned; it had been Quentin’s idea when they’d been shopping two days before Christmas.

“I want your ring to shine as bright as the love I have for you that’s inside of me.”

Her husband had never left any doubt that his heart was filled with love. She just hadn’t known—until today—that his devotion was not meant for her.

What did I do, Quentin?

She twisted the band, removing it from her finger, swallowing her emotions.

She fondled the ring between her thumb and forefinger and then tucked the wedding band under her pillow. When she closed her eyes, stubborn tears, refusing to obey her command to stay away, seeped through her lids. She sat up and took a long swallow of the still half-filled bottle of wine. Then she turned off the light. And when she closed her eyes, she slept.

S
omeone was tap-dancing on top of her head.

“Mom.”

Now the stilettos were stabbing holes through her skin.

“Mom.”

The pain deepened as Sheridan struggled to open her eyes. When the morning light accosted her, Sheridan slammed her eyes shut.

“Mom, are you all right?”

She forced her eyelids apart. With the little strength she had in her arms, Sheridan pushed herself up. “Chris, is something wrong?”

He frowned as if those weren’t the words he expected. “I was going to ask you that. Why are you still in bed? Are you sick?”

She glanced at the clock, frowned, and then asked herself the same questions. But as she slipped her legs from under the covers, yesterday’s memory rushed to her consciousness. And then her head pounded. “I was up late last night, Chris,” Sheridan explained as she tried to massage the pain from her head. “I was working.”

“I heard you and Aunt Kamora.” He paused and lowered his head. “Was she helping you with something?” he asked without looking at his mother.

Sheridan glanced at her son and frowned. Why wouldn’t he look at her?

“Was Aunt Kamora helping you with something?” he repeated, still keeping his eyes away from her.

“Yes.” She wanted to say more, tell more lies about something wonderful that she and Kamora had been doing.

“Okay. Go back to sleep; I’ll get Tori ready.”

“But I need to fix breakfast.” This time she moved her legs gingerly, but the pain stayed with her. Her temple throbbed, threatening to push her back onto the bed.

“I’ll fix Tori some cereal and you can go back to sleep. You look…tired.”

She wanted to protest. Assure her son that she could take care of him and Tori. But then she thought of Quentin.

“Okay,” Sheridan said, laying the comforter over her body with as much gentleness as she could. “I’ll be here when you get home.”

Her eyes were closed before Christopher stepped out of the room. She had to sleep to forget the wine. To forget Quentin.

But the dancing on her head began again, and moments passed before she realized that the assault was external. She grabbed the ringing telephone.

“Quentin?” she whispered as she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Sheridan.”

The urgency in her mother’s voice overrode the throbbing in her head. Her eyes opened. “Mom?”

“Honey, I need to speak to you.”

Sheridan couldn’t believe it. How did her mother find out about Quentin already? Impossible. But then she remembered how when she was a child her mother knew everything. Growing up, she was convinced that God tattled on her. But she thought God had long ago stopped that. He was supposed to be on her side—especially now.

“Mom, I…was going to call and tell you.”

Her mother spoke over Sheridan’s words. “Honey, when Quentin gets home from work tonight, can the two of you come over here? Without the children.”

Sheridan blinked. Her mother didn’t sound as if she knew.

“Sheridan.”

And then she heard it—slight tears in her mother’s voice. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Sheridan gripped the receiver.

“Your dad and I need to talk to you and Quentin. It’s important.”

“Mom, uh, Quentin is out of town. On business. It was an emergency.” She felt the need to make it a complete lie. “But I can come over.”

“How long will Quentin be away?”

Forever.
“I’m not sure.”

Her mother sighed. “All right, but we really wanted to see both of you.”

“Mom, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“It can wait, honey.” The cheer Sheridan was used to returned a bit to her mother’s voice. “We’ll talk when you get here.”

“Give me an hour,” she said and then hung up.

When Sheridan swung her legs over the side of the bed, the hammering shifted from her head to her heart.

She pushed herself up and then looked back at the bed. It beckoned her to return. And she wanted to—she was exhausted from sorrow. But her mother needed her.

She took cautious steps from her bedroom to the guest room down the hall. She tapped on the door, but when there was no response, she knew Kamora had already made her way home. Kamora often used wine to wash away her concerns, so Sheridan was sure that Kamora had awakened alert this morning. Kamora’s methods were something the two friends constantly debated. This morning Sheridan knew she’d been right all along. Drinking didn’t solve a thing.

Sheridan moved in slow motion toward the master bathroom. The Jacuzzi tub summoned her, just as the bed had moments before. But she willed her eyes away and focused on the shower, twisting the faucet handles to full blast. Then she stripped and stared into the mirror.

Sadness had partnered with gravity and dragged her skin downward. Her eyes drooped, her cheeks sagged, the corners of her lips hung low. Every emotion she’d lived was engraved inside the creases on her face. She turned away before her eyes could begin to tear.

She placed her body under the showerhead. The pulsing liquid heat was soothing, freeing her from yesterday’s memories and today’s questions. But like a recurring nightmare, the pain-filled scenes returned and played in her mind. She remembered every horrible second—Quentin here, Quentin gone.

She twisted the showerhead to full blast and closed her eyes. She inhaled, then exhaled. Again. And again. The water was her conditioner, washing away the dirt with the pain. She stayed until calm pervaded her. She stayed until she knew she’d be able to walk without swaying and think without crying.

Stepping from the shower, she reached for her toothbrush. But a millisecond later, she snatched her hand back. Startled, she stared at the stand. There was only one toothbrush in place—the one with the pink handle. The blue-handled toothbrush was gone. She grabbed her toothbrush, and resisted the urge to open the medicine cabinet and take in other signs that her marriage was no more.

Inside their bedroom, she jumped into a gray sweat suit, keeping her eyes away from the dresser that now only held her bottles of perfume. She didn’t dare look at the bed, still unmade, with only Quentin’s pillows still in place. She grabbed her leather jacket from her closet and held her breath to keep his scent away. She hurried from the bedroom, dashed down the stairs and out of the house. She needed to get away from all that reminded her that her old life was now new.

Inside her Explorer, she sat for a moment, staring at the house, soaking in the same sight Quentin saw when he pulled away from his family.

How could he do this?

Sheridan eased her car from the driveway and eyed Mrs. James in her rearview mirror. Her neighbor didn’t wave; she just glowered the way she had for the past ten years. Moments later, thoughts of Mrs. James were forgotten as Sheridan zigzagged through the subdivision, and tried not to notice the bare Christmas trees like the one she’d taken down with Quentin and the children just this weekend. At the stoplight, she tried not to see the man and woman who strolled in front of her SUV. But her eyes betrayed her and her glance followed the couple, huddled close, their love apparent.

The light turned green, and she sped away. But then at the corner, her eyes met with the Sizzler where, fewer than sixty hours before, Quentin, having decided she should have a cooking reprieve, had taken them all to dinner. And then a block and a half away, she passed Blockbuster, where on New Year’s Day Quentin had surprised her with six DVDs and they’d laughed and cried their way through hours of comedy and drama. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she remembered that time they’d spent in bed, sharing emotions with the movies’ characters. That was what she loved about Quentin; his sensitivity, never hiding his feelings behind some macho bravado.

Was that one of the signs she’d missed? As she turned onto the freeway, she asked herself for the millionth time what, when, where, how did this all happen? The questions were overwhelming.

She eased into the left lane.

My husband wants a man in his bed.

An eighteen-wheeler barreled down the 405 freeway behind her.

What did I do to drive him into a man’s arms?

She sped up.

When was the last time we made love?

Sheridan slowed her car. It would be declared an accident; everyone would say how tragic it was. But before time could pass, Sheridan thought of Christopher. And then, Tori. And her mother. And father.

The boom of the truck’s horn startled her. She floored the accelerator and screeched into the next lane. Car horns blasted, but she kept her eyes straight ahead, ignoring the obscenities hurled at her.

She breathed, as her heart rate slowed to normal. She couldn’t believe she’d even considered that. Her children needed her. Her parents needed her. No, she’d have to find another way. Do something else to deal with the shame of it all.

Sheridan squeezed her mother tighter than she could ever remember holding her.

“It’s all right, honey. Everything is going to be all right.”

Sheridan nodded, grateful to hear those words. Her mother had no clue how she was soothing her daughter; she just always seemed to say the right thing.

“Where’s Daddy?” Sheridan asked, closing the front door of the home where she grew up.

“In the bedroom.” Beatrice Collins took her daughter’s hand and led her into the living room. The space had barely changed in thirty years. The golden-colored couch with two matching chairs and the walnut coffee table all sat in the same place as when she had entertained her high school friends here almost every day more than twenty years before. “Cameron,” Beatrice called, “Sheridan’s here.”

“So, honey, Quentin is away?” Beatrice asked as she sat on the couch and patted a space for Sheridan to sit next to her.

Sheridan sank into the ease of the old sofa and nodded, not wanting to lie to her mother again.

“You guys didn’t mention that on Sunday.”

“We didn’t know,” she said, glad she was able to speak some truth. “Daddy.” She jumped up and hugged her father, needing his comforting embrace. As she looked over his shoulder, the pictures on the fireplace mantel smiled at her. Photos of her and Quentin and the children—all in yesterday’s life.

“So, Daddy, Mom,” she began, turning away from the memories, “what did you want to talk about?”

Cameron sat in the chair across from the couch and Beatrice joined him, resting on the full chair’s arm. When she put her arm around her husband, Cameron said, “We wanted Quentin to be here. Your mother said he’s away.”

This time she lied with silence.

“I don’t really want to tell you this alone.”

Sheridan’s heart took an extra beat. Her husband would never be by her side again, never be there to comfort her, or protect her, or love her.

Her eyes moved from her father to her mother and then back again. “Daddy, you’re scaring me.”

“Oh, no, baby. There’s no need for that.”

Beatrice stood and sat next to Sheridan again. She glanced at Cameron.

He said, “I have prostate cancer.”

Sheridan gasped.

“Now, it’s not that serious,” Cameron continued.

“How can you say it’s not serious?” Sheridan asked through the lump of fear in her throat.

Cameron leaned forward and squeezed his daughter’s hand. “Because it’s not. The doctor told me they found it early. With radiation—”

“Radiation?” Sheridan squealed.

“It can be treated,” Cameron finished.

“But radiation?” Sheridan looked from her father to her mother. “That sounds serious.”

“Well, my doctor is very optimistic,” her father said.

“In fact, when the doctor told us your father had prostate cancer…” Beatrice paused and chuckled, and Cameron joined her. Sheridan looked at her parents with wide eyes. There was nothing funny about this. “Your father told the doctor he was fine with it,” Beatrice continued. “He said he’d lived a blessed life and was ready to see Jesus.”

Now Sheridan was sure that everyone in her world was spinning on a different axis. Her father was talking about meeting the Lord face-to-face and her mother didn’t seem concerned.