Single Mom (16 page)

“So, does this mean that I have a
curfew
while I’m living here? Because I’m too old for this shit,” she snapped.

“Exactly. And you’re also too
old
to be hanging out in the streets like you do,” I responded.

“Neecy, I wasn’t
in
the damn streets! Okay? I’m not out there like that!”

“First of all, I’d like for you to call me
Denise
—”

“What?!” she shouted at me again. “You know what? I don’t even need this shit! So if you and Mom want me to move out, just say the word. Because y’all not gon’ treat me like some damn kid!

“I go out for
one
night, and then I have to deal with all of
this?
! And it ain’t even fair!”

I was ready to tell her that nothing in life was fair, and that if she thought she could use that as an excuse to fuck up, she was dead wrong! However, before I got a chance to, she walked away from the phone and slammed the door to the second bedroom that she and her daughter were sharing. I had already learned my lesson, but like I kept telling my mother, I could not live
Nikita’s life
for her.

My mother picked up the phone and said, “You see how hardheaded she is? She’s just like you were, but at least you knew how to take care of your own kids.”

I didn’t know whether to take my mother’s comments as a compliment or as a reminder of how irresponsible
I
had been. I was a lot younger than my sister when I got into trouble, though. Sometimes it seemed as if she was playing a destructive game of catch-up. Nevertheless, dealing with her problems, and everything else that was going on in my life, only added to my daily headaches.

I hung up with my mother after she made several more comparisons and contrasts between my sister and me, and decided to call Camellia.

I sighed and said, “Camellia, I’ve been getting my tail kicked from every which way, and I need you as my good friend right now, because I can’t take much more of this.”

“Take much more of what?” she asked me.

“Of everything; my sister, my mother, my sons’ fathers, Brock, work. I just need a damn vacation somewhere!”

“Well, go ahead and take one. I’ve been telling you that for a while. When you have your own business, you can take as many vacations as you want.”

“Yeah, and then you won’t
have
any business,” I told her. “Besides, that would be irresponsible to the people who count on me.”

“Mmm hmm,” Camellia grumbled, “that’s exactly why you’re so burned out now, Denise, you won’t allow yourself a chance to rest. Everybody deserves a vacation, especially single mothers. But we seem like the last to get one. And
you
can afford it.

“But anyway, ah, what’s the problem with Brock?” she asked me, changing the subject. “I thought that he was your knight in shining armor.”

I tried to refer to Dennis by his first name as often as I could, but since he was used to being called “Brock,” the two names became interchangeable. I was one of the few people who actually called him “Dennis.” I guess I was name sensitive because of my own resentment at being called “Neecy” and wanting to reestablish myself as “Denise.” It was just an issue of respect for people’s proper names. Then again, I loved to refer to Walter as
Junior
, in an attempt at slander. However, he
was
a Jr.

Anyway, I answered Camellia’s question and said, “He’s getting serious, and he wants to announce us to the world.”

“Mmm,” Camellia grunted. Then she started to laugh. “I knew
that
was coming. But I bet he ain’t talking about no wedding bells yet, is he?”

“And I’m glad he’s not. That would just make my life
more
complicated. I haven’t even told either of my sons’ fathers about him. I just didn’t think it was any of their business.”

Camellia paused for a moment. “You know, I just had a good discussion about that. And I came to the conclusion that the best thing to do in that situation is to be up-front with your children’s father, or
fathers
, as quickly as you can. That way you don’t feel guilt-ridden when you’re in a new relationship.”

“Yeah, but are you gonna do that every time you go out with a new man? That sounds ridiculous. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m going out with John tonight.’ That doesn’t make any sense to me,” I argued.

“I thought about that too, and the conclusion was that we simply can’t date as many men as we would like to,” she told me. “Most of us should have been more picky about our men in the first place, but now we’re
forced
to be. Because you can’t have all those different men around your kids.”

Camellia was always thinking of single mothers as a whole, including white, Latina,
and
Asian mothers.

“Well, I’m not talking about having every man around your kids. I would
never
do that,” I responded to her.

“But you
do
have Brock around them,” she reminded me.

I said, “Dennis is a good brother, though.”

“And that’s the
only
kind of brothers we should be dealing with,” Camellia said. “I had the same discussion with Monica; ‘If you can’t bring them home for me to meet, then you need to leave them out there in the street. And I
don’t
expect to meet a new one every other month either!’”

I burst out laughing and immediately thought about the talk I had that Sunday with my son. “You’re right about that,” I told her.

“You
know
I’m right. We talked about this
several
times. But see, that’s why you need to keep your faith in our meetings,” she advised me. “Whether these evil sisters are jealous of you or not, they still need to hear your story of success. They need to have a concrete example to emulate. They need a monthly dose of you like taking nasty medicine,” she said with a laugh.

“Yeah, and that’s exactly how I feel sometimes, like nasty medicine,” I responded. I felt better already. Camellia Jenkins was my
girl!
The biggest angel I knew!

“So, are you still recruiting white women?” I joked with her Camellia wanted to reach out to everyone. The SMO had become her mission in life.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” she answered.

Chicago wasn’t known for its racial harmony. White women did their thing and we did ours. White women always seemed to act as if their problems were so different from ours, except of course when they needed us to beef up their number of feminists on certain political issues. Camellia was out to change that.

I chuckled and said, “They wouldn’t let us in
their
organizations unless we were Oprah Winfrey and friends, and only then as their ‘special guests.’”

“Yeah, well, we’ve never been exclusive like them, and we never will be, she insisted.

I had some thoughts about that, but I didn’t mention them. I had been around a few groups of upper-class sisters who
were
exclusive But they were definitely a minority in the African-American community. Most sisters were hardworking, underpaid, blue-collar women.

“I’m bringing Nikita with me to the next meeting, too,” I told Camellia.

“Mmm, how’s she doing?” she asked me.

“I just finished talking to her, as a matter of fact. She’s doing about the same, still denying everything,” I answered. “She told me off and dropped the phone because I had a few words about her hanging out all night and leaving Cheron at home with my mother.”

“Well, bring her on,” Camellia said. “But you need to drag her behind into church, too.”

I chuckled and said, “One step at a time, girl. One step at a time.”

After hanging up the phone with Camellia, I thought hard about calling Dennis. It had only been a few days since we last talked about the extent of our relationship, and I hadn’t called either of my sons’ fathers to break the news. I didn’t know if I really wanted to. I still considered Dennis to be my privacy issue. However, I
had
allowed him around my sons, Camellia was right about that. And deep down inside I guess I really wanted to bring him closer to me through his interaction with the boys.

I looked at the clock and it was close to ten. The boys were still up watching television down in the family room. I had smoothed everything out with them, and promised Jimmy that he could go to the movies with his friends that weekend. As it turned out, his friends had changed their minds at the last minute and decided to go on Saturday after their basketball game. I guess I had more angels working for me than I thought.

Anyway, I walked in the family room to join them, to see what they thought about Brock. I knew they got along with him, but I still hadn’t told them that we were anything more than friends, although I realized they could have easily assumed as much.

I turned the TV down a notch. They knew they didn’t need it up so loud. It seems like everything boys do is in excess. Then they keep the same habits when they become men.

“Can I talk to you two about something?” I asked them. I knew it wouldn’t be their kind of discussion, so I was being polite.

Jimmy looked at Walter and said, “Oh boy, here we go.”

I got pissed off before I even started. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Jimmy smiled and shook his head. “Nothin’, Mom.”

“It meant
something
. You said it, didn’t you? Anyway,” I said, getting back on track with what I wanted to talk about. “How do you two feel about Brock?”

They looked at each other and started to smile.

“What about him?” Walter asked me.

“Well, you know, what do you think about him? Is he cool?” By asking them that, I was attempting to be a “cool mom” myself.

Jimmy grinned and responded, “Yeah, he’s aw’ight.”

“Why, you like him?” Walter asked me.

Jimmy was paying strict attention to that answer.

“Okay, what if I did like him?” I responded.

Then Jimmy started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I asked him.

He shook his head again, still smiling. “Nothin’.”

“My dad was asking me about him this weekend,” Walter told me.

I looked at him and questioned, “He was
asking
about him? What do you mean he was
asking
about him?” It seemed that the cat was out of the bag anyway. I don’t know what made me think it wouldn’t be especially with
Walter’s
big mouth.

“He asked me if y’all were more than friends and stuff, and I didn’t know. But now you’re saying that you like him,” he answered with a grin I guess that was a good thing. I’d rather see a grin than a frown.

“Well, how did your father even know about him?”

“I told him that he took us to play miniature golf, and that he was your friend.”

I just started to smile. I decided right then and there to call both of their fathers and tell them about Dennis the next evening.

“And what about you, Mr. Giggles? Does
your
father know anything?” I asked Jimmy.

He said, “Yeah, he knows.”

“When did you tell him?” I asked him.

“A couple weeks ago,” he answered with another chuckle. My oldest son was getting a big kick out of the whole thing.

“Did he ask, or did you just come out and tell him?”

“He, ah, asked me if you were seeing anybody.”

“And you told him what?”

Jimmy just couldn’t stop smiling and laughing. He was making
me
feel silly.

“I’m serious about this, Jimmy. What did you tell him?” I asked him again.

“I told him that you had a truck-driver friend, that’s all.”

I was shocked. “You told him that Brock was a truck driver? What did that have to do with anything?” It wasn’t funny anymore. I knew exactly how J.D. thought, and me going out with a truck driver was not his idea of where I should be as a black businesswoman. Something like that would encourage him to continue regarding me as some ghetto girl. He already found it hard to refer to me as Denise instead of Neecy.

I shook my head and let out an “Oh my God! I don’t believe you told him that,” I said.

Jimmy, seeing how surprised I was, began to curb his laughter. “My bad, Mom. But he was gonna keep asking me about it until I told him something.”

“So what did he say about it?” I could just imagine.

Jimmy started again with the laughing. “Well, he says stuff like, you know, ‘How’s your mom and her truck driver doin’?’”

Walter started to crack up, too, after that. I felt crushed, but to hell with J.D.! Who was
he
to talk?! Brock was a decent man, and he was just as tough or intelligent as anyone. Plus,
he
knew how to treat a lady!

“And what about you? Did you tell
your
father that Brock was a truck driver, too?” I asked my youngest. Walter’s father would have expected as much. He always considered himself to be of a higher class anyway. He acted just like a white man sometimes. I guess I was the plantation mistress who bore him a mulatto child. The self-righteous asshole! That was exactly why I didn’t tell either of them about my relationship with Dennis. It wasn’t any of their damn business!

“I didn’t tell him that he was a truck driver,” Walter said. He sounded as if he was proud of himself. Then he added, “I just told him that he
drives
a truck.”

Jimmy looked at him and said, “Aw, man, that’s the same thing.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “Well,
I’ll
be telling
both
of your fathers what I need to tell them tomorrow, because I
definitely
don’t need
you two
spreading my business.”

After my sons had gone to bed, I thought again about calling Brock. It was after eleven by then. I didn’t know if he would be in or not, but I called anyway and got no answer. Then his answering machine came on.

“Hello, this is Dennis Brockenborough. As you can see, I’m not in right now, but kindly leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.”

For a minute, I didn’t know what kind of a message to leave or if I even wanted to leave a message. I simply told him that I had called and that he could get back to me at his earliest convenience. After I thought about it, I came to the conclusion that maybe it would have been best to talk to Dennis only after I had spoken to J.D. and Walter. I was sure that he would eventually ask me about them again, so I was hoping he wouldn’t call me back for a day or two.