Lawd, Mo' Drama Read online

  “I understand. Thank you,” I said.

  “This isn’t the only loan that your husband has with our bank. He has another house over on the south side of Atlanta, and those payments are current.”

  “Excuse me?” Unable to comprehend what she was trying to tell me, I was fighting the urge to get an attitude with her for bearing the bad news.

  “He bought that house a little over six months ago. If I had to guess, I would bet he has set up another household there.”

  I was so stunned I could not speak.

  “Mrs. Simmons, are you there?”

  “Uh, yes. I’m sorry. I just caught a curve ball aimed straight at my stomach. Is he aware that his children are about to be put out on the street?” I asked, as if she knew the answer. I felt exactly two inches tall, asking a stranger what was going on with my own husband. But since he wouldn’t return my pages or phone calls, I was grasping at any straws I could reach.

  Mrs. Turner was feeling my pain. “This is difficult for me to say, and I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. When I questioned him about the loan on the house you’re living in, he said that you were a renter and he couldn’t care less whether you were evicted or not because you weren’t paying the rent as agreed.”

  Well, I’ll just be damned. How the hell was I going to pay rent when he forbade me to work after I had his kids?

  “He’s saying that shit because he feels guilty that I caught his lying ass. Now he’d rather avoid me than face me.”

  I flashed back to a conversation with my old friend, Marie. She had warned me to think twice before I committed to a relationship with Kentee. Lord, I wish I had listened to her. I might not have been going through the current changes. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

  Still stunned, I could not move my lips to ask the questions I really needed the answers to. Realizing that the lady would not stay on the phone with me forever, I grew angry and plunged ahead.

  “Renter, my ass! I’m not a renter; that’s my husband!” I shouted, my fear turning into unadulterated rage.

  Speaking louder and enunciating clearly, as if she were talking to a child, Mrs. Turner said, “I know this, and you know this, but he spoke to me like that wasn’t the case. I informed him that if he allowed the house that you’re living in to be foreclosed upon he’d permanently damage his credit rating.”

  “And what did he say?” I demanded, sure that he would at least try to protect his credit rating; if not his own children. I hoped he had said something that would keep us from winding up on the street.

  “Hmm…I don’t recall,” she said, clearly lying, maybe trying to spare me further embarrassment. She changed the subject, putting the focus back on me.

  “Look, I don’t believe, based on my conversation with your husband, that he’s going to be your knight-in-shining-armor. I’m speaking to you woman to woman. My own husband left me high and dry, and to this day, I don’t know what happened to him. He could be dead for all I know, and to be honest, I hope he is. Don’t waste precious time sitting around waiting for his ass to come back, or for the other shoe to drop.”

  Mrs. Turner’s words hit me like a plank of wood against the forehead. She was right. I was the only person who could rectify this situation, and finally I understood.

  “Hey, I appreciate your advice, but I’m still stuck between a rock and a hard place. I have three kids still in diapers. I can’t get a job ’cause I can’t afford day care. I have less than a thousand dollars to my name, and most of it I got from begging at the local churches here in Peachtree City. What am I supposed to do?” I wailed, no longer able to hold back my feelings.

  “Mrs. Simmons, I don’t have an answer for that. I wanted to make sure you weren’t holding out false hope that your husband’s going to fix this. You need to make a way for you and your children because your man isn’t going to be there.”

  I glanced at my watch and realized that we had been talking for over thirty minutes. I needed some time to think about this new information.

  Taking a deep breath, I said, “Thanks for everything.”

  “Hey, I’ve walked in your shoes before. Thankfully, I didn’t have kids! Do yourself a favor. Take the money you do have and try to find some other place to live. I’ll lose your paperwork for a few months, but I can’t hold it off much longer,” Mrs. Turner said, and hung up the phone without waiting for me to utter another word.

  I held the phone in my hands and tried to think. The annoying dial tone prompted me to hang up and I finally obeyed. Deep in my heart, I wanted to believe that Kentee would come to his senses and do the right thing, but the evidence did not support this belief. In the meantime, I needed to think about my kids and make preparations for the rest of our lives.

  I was hurt that Kentee had chosen to be with another woman. I would gladly take him back, given the opportunity. How stupid was that? But it was the way I felt. He was the first man I had ever loved, and my heart wanted to forgive him for the errors of his dick. Dejected, I realized the situation was out of my hands. The only person I had control of was me, and I couldn’t help myself if I didn’t make a move, and do it now.

  I called my mother to bring her up-to-date, and it was one of the hardest calls I’d had to make. She was supposed to be enjoying her retirement and not worrying about what her grown-ass child was going through.

  “Momma, it’s Leah. I’m going to need your help with the kids for the next few months while I try to find a job. I found out from the mortgage company that Kentee hasn’t been paying the mortgage. They’re going to foreclose on this house.”

  “Oh, Lawd!” she exclaimed. “Has that fool bumped his head? Leaving you there with three children? What the hell is he thinking?”

  “I wish I had an answer for that. Sure, we argued when I listened to his voice mail and found out about his pussy on the side, but we agreed to work that out. To be honest, I still feel like he’ll come through the door any day now, but I have to prepare for the very real possibility that he won’t be coming back.”

  I could almost hear Momma’s wheels spinning. I knew she was thinking that we were going to have to move in with her, but her tiny apartment could never house all of us. I had half a mind to pack the kids up and take them to Kentee’s mother, but she was so strung out on crack, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night thinking about what they would be exposed to. Desperate but grateful for small favors, I listened to Mom’s sigh, then quickly relayed what Mrs. Turner told me.

  “Momma, when I called the bank, I lucked up and got a sympathetic sister who’s had similar problems with her husband. She’s going to give me a few months to raise enough money to move into an apartment or something. I still want to stay in Peachtree City, if I can, but you know the rents here are pretty high.”

  “Yes, they are, but maybe you can get some type of assistance; for the children at least.” She was trying to be the voice of sanity and reason in my crazy situation. I was so proud of my mother, and I loved her unconditionally. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever envision us relating on this type of level. As a teen, I was a wild one, and she had all but wiped her hands clean of me. I chose a life of sex and drugs, and she wanted nothing to do with me until I turned my life over to God and got my head on straight. Given our past rocky relationship I reveled in our newfound companionship.

  “Can I drop the hell’s angels off in the morning?” I asked.

  “Of course you can. I’ll see you then,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I whispered as I hung up the phone, shaking my head. Tears rolled down my cheeks, marking the trail of pain Kentee inflicted. Crying was all I seemed to be able to do and I was sick of it. I was a strong black woman and tears did not come easy. In the past few months I had been stripped of my dignity, pride and control of my life and I didn’t like it one bit.

  A loud crash shook me from my private hell, followed by a shriek. I raced down the hall and entered the twins’ bedroom. Mya was laid out on the carpet, flapping around and ba
nging her head on the floor.

  “Stop it!” I yelled, grabbing her and clutching her to my chest. Her brother looked on in fear, as I tried to understand whether I was screaming at my husband or my child.

  Mya was so different from her brother, Malik. He was walking now and saying small words. He said “Daddy” the other day, which really pissed me off, since Daddy was nowhere to be found. Mya, on the other hand, had not uttered a word and barely crawled.

  LEAH

  I dressed the twins as Kayla put on her clothes. Mya’s face was all swollen from where she had banged it on the floor. It hurt my heart to look at her; especially when I knew there was not anything I could do about it.

  “What happened?” Momma exclaimed when she took her first look at Mya.

  “She was climbing out of her crib and she fell out. Then she started banging her head on the floor.”

  Momma’s head snapped around, and her eyes drilled holes in me. I looked the worse for wear, since I had been up most of the night making sure Mya didn’t slip into a coma. I had dark circles under my eyes that no amount of makeup could conceal.

  “Girl, you look like you fell out the bed, too.” She forced a laugh, but I could tell she was struggling to keep from crying. I managed a tight grin that didn’t reach my eyes. Lord, things had changed so much.

  “I was up all night watching Mya.”

  “You should have taken her to the emergency room.” Momma frowned.

  “Momma, you know I can’t afford the emergency room. Plus, they would’ve asked me all kinds of questions about what happened to her. I swear, every time I take her for a physical, they question me about every bump and bruise; as if I would deliberately inflict pain on my own child.”

  “Well, unfortunately it happens every day, and they’re simply trying to be careful. They’re just doing their job when they take you through that drill,” Momma replied. I placed Mya on the couch and she sat there quietly. She could be so docile one minute and a raving lunatic the next.

  I wanted to get mad, but Momma was right. If I were abusing Mya, an emergency room would be the place to catch me. “But if they were doing their job, they’d recognize that something is wrong with Mya; instead of trying to place the blame on me! Hell, if they’re doing their jobs, why are there so many children actually being abused and nothing’s being done until they die?” I was crumbling under the pressure of it all.

  “Look, Leah, I know you’re under a lot of strain, but you’ll watch your language in my house.” She wagged her finger in my face for emphasis.

  “I’m sorry. I got carried away, but you haven’t been there to see their faces. They make me feel guilty; even though I haven’t done anything. I can’t be with Mya twenty-four hours a day. Last night, she was sleeping in her crib. I’m gonna have to put a mattress on the floor since this is the second time she’s flipped the crib over.”

  Momma opened her arms, and I gratefully stepped into them, racked with sobs of despair. I stopped slobbering when I realized I was smearing snot all over Momma’s blouse. Pulling back, I put down all the bags I still clutched in my hands. Going back to the car, I gathered the rest of their things and opened the childproof door for Kayla and Malik to go in by themselves.

  Excusing myself, I went to the bathroom to repair my makeup. I wanted to make a good impression that day and could not afford to appear in my present haphazard state. It had been a long time since I had been out searching for a job, and that wore heavily on my mind.

  Kayla immediately went to the living room and turned on the television. She was suffering the most. She was the only one of my children who actually remembered her father. Every time she entered my mother’s living room her eyes were drawn to our family picture. I did not know whether to take the picture down or explain the situation. Despite how grown up she acted, I doubted that she was ready to hear the lowdown shit her father did, so I chose to keep that information to myself.

  I watched Kayla as she settled on the sofa. Her eyes found the framed picture of our family, and I saw the pain reflected when she saw her father. Her finger reached out to touch his face, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. I had to turn my head away. She was Daddy’s girl, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t around anymore. Not only was Kayla missing her father but she had to deal with the twins taking away all the attention that used to be focused on her. Maybe some of that was my fault.

  I didn’t have the answers. Kissing the kids and my mother, then sneaking out while Mya was quiet was the best that I could do. If Mya sensed I was leaving, she would have a tantrum. I would hate to leave her that way, but I would have to since I was on a mission.

  Finding work was not as easy as I thought it would be. Everyone wanted recent work experience and I had been out of the job market for over five years. Nervous and desperate, I called my past employer—White, Muller, & Stevens—to see if they had any openings. However, if they did, the job would be too far away from my Peachtree City home. Kayla would be starting kindergarten, and I did not want to be too far away. Not to mention that raggedy car I was driving would not make the daily commute to downtown Atlanta. But, if they were hiring, I would take the job. The woman I spoke to in human resources said she would check with the hiring partner and get back to me.

  It was a long shot, but I could not help hoping and making plans. If I did get my old job back, I could ask my mother to watch the kids while I worked. I could make it to and from work if I did not have to drive so far to get there. But, if I lived closer, maybe I could. I suddenly thought of Sammie. My old friend, Sammie Davis, still lived in Atlanta. My car would make it from her place to what I was praying would be my job. I had not seen Sammie in a few years, not since our friend Marie’s funeral, but we had kept in contact over the phone. She was constantly asking me to visit. A visitor was not the same as a roommate, but Sammie was Sammie, and she wouldn’t leave me hanging.

  Sammie and I had become friends through Marie. After Marie’s death, Sammie had become my closest friend besides my mother. I normally didn’t bond with women, but Marie was different. She made you love her; whether you wanted to or not. Sammie and I held each other up in the months following Marie’s murder, so I had no doubt she would offer to help me.

  Momma would keep the kids; they would be safe. I would be working, and everything would be alright. I added that to my silent prayer, flicked my blinker for a left turn, and headed for the Labor Department office. This was an exercise in futility. I was ineligible for unemployment, but in order to get food stamps and WIC assistance, I had to apply.

  Climbing from my car, I smoothed my hands over my hips, straightening my skirt. Moving across the crowded parking lot with purpose, I headed for the big glass doors like I knew what I was doing. I did not hesitate because if I took too long, I would lose my nerve and any chance I had of finding the help that I needed.

  Taking too long should have been the last of my worries. Two hours and a stack of forms later, I was waiting, turning the pages of Pandora’s Box and getting the evil eye from the angry little leather-skinned woman haunting the intake desk. I was so immersed in reading that I was annoyed when I finally heard my name.

  “Leah Simmons.” My name wasn’t an invitation or a question; not the way this nerdy little white guy was calling it. My name was a condemnation, an indictment of poverty and, shameful as it was, I followed his tight little blue-shirted back to his narrow cubicle. His mouth was a thin line as he indicated the wooden chair beside his government-issue desk. He slid into a vinyl-covered chair on the other side of the desk and peered at me through oversized black plastic-framed glasses.

  “I’m Mr. Weiner, and I’ll be your intake worker. How may I help you?” he piped, and my hope drained clean away when his eyes examined the stack of papers he collected from me. His head went from side to side, giving me the unconscious “no,” then, turning a page, he did everything but suck his teeth.

  What the hell had I been thinking, hoping t
o get a sista who may have gone through a similar experience, or a “round the way brother,” maybe one raised by a struggling single mother; someone familiar with the nightmare I was living. That would have taken good luck, but luck was having no part of me that day. I could tell by the “seen the movie and the reviews suck” look on Mr. Weiner’s face.

  He shuffled my papers together and tapped them against his desk. “How may I help you?” he repeated.

  “I need to apply for assistance.”

  “This says your last job was in July 1998.” He raised his pale brows and tilted his head at me.

  Uncomfortable, I squirmed in my chair. “Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

  “And, you have three children. Ages five and under.”

  “Uh. Yes.”

  “Any other hobbies?” he muttered barely loud enough for me to hear.

  “Excuse me?” I said, hoping that he had not gone where I thought he did.

  “What about the father? You didn’t list his whereabouts or his income.”

  That was not what he said, but I was not about to start a fight with him because I knew my shit stank. I fidgeted with the flap on my purse as unwanted tears spilled from my eyes.

  His words were small daggers thrown at my heart as I struggled to regain my composure. I was not used to asking people for anything. As much as I hated it, being honest was the only way he was going to help me. Sitting taller in my chair, tilting up my chin, I tried to be the confident woman I used to be and answered his question.

  “I have no idea where my husband is. I haven’t seen or heard from him in over four months. The rat bastard disappeared and, for all I know, he could be dead. I’m a stay-at-home mother, and he left me without any money, in a house that’s about to be foreclosed on.” As my confession gained momentum, tears streamed out of my eyes.