Diary of A. . . (4 page)

“What do you mean you never understood why?”
Lauren asked frowning. She snorted in disgust. “Please don’t tell
me that you don’t know why Momma forced us to do that. You’ve been
ignorant all this time?”

She was pissing me off. “Okay, Ms. Smarty
Pants, why?”

“Uncle E was our father, stupid.”

If I had been standing up, I would have
fallen down! “Our father?!”

“Yes, the other contribution of your DNA.
Momma just made us call him Uncle E because he wasn’t worth being
called a Daddy.”

This was news to me. I stood up, frowning.
All this time and I never knew. But why wouldn’t my mother want to
remind me of something like that? And how had Lauren known?

“How did you find out?” I asked.

“When Momma decided not to send us over
there anymore, I started crying about it and I told her I hated
her. She slapped me and told me I should hate Uncle E instead since
he wouldn’t live up to his responsibility of being a real father
like he was supposed to. And then she covered her mouth like she’d
let the wrong thing fall out. That’s when I knew. Well, I put two
and two together, looked around the house, and saw stuff that told
me that Uncle E was indeed our father.”

“So you think you were raped by our
father?”

Lauren stood up. “I know I was raped by our
father.”

“And Momma just said you were talking
crazy?”

“Yes.”

“Then if you feel that way, Lauren, you need
to find a way to prove her wrong.”

“That’s why I came to you.” She reached in
her purse and pulled out some papers that were printed off the
Internet. “I want you to help me find this man.”

“What man?” I took the papers she handed
me.

“Uncle E.”

I wanted to ask her if she was smoking
crack, but then Lauren could go off the deep end.

“He ain’t dead, Sheryl,” Lauren said. “Momma
and I went toe to toe last night and I know he ain’t dead, just by
the way she was talking.”

“Let me talk to her.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want her to know I’ve involved
you.”

I handed the papers back to her. “I don’t
want to be in a tug of war with you and Momma, Lauren. You go on
your crazy hunches by yourself.”

She shook her head. “He’s alive and I want
you to find him. I don’t have the resources, but I know you can do
it. Anything you’ve put your mind to you’ve done it, Sheryl. And I
don’t want Mitchell to know, either.”

“What? That you’re going crazy?”

“Shut up.” She gathered her purse over her
shoulder and sighed. “I don’t want him to know I’m leaving
him.”

“So if I find this man you think is alive,
what then?”

She stepped to me and gave me this long warm
hug. I thought I heard her sob and prayed she wouldn’t start
wailing again. When she moved away, Lauren said softly, “I need to
know the truth. I can’t go forward until I know the past, Sheryl.
Help me.” She looked very sincere and I just knew she was on a
borderline wail.

“And if I prove you wrong? That this man
isn’t alive?”

“Then I’ll seek professional help, but I’ll
still leave Mitchell.”

“So I have to find this man alive and find
out if you were raped or not.”

“Yes.”

“And then you’ll stay with Mitchell?”

“I promise.”

“And tell him the truth about how crazy you
are?”

“If I am.”

“Fine, Lauren.”

She kissed my cheek. “Thanks Sheryl. I knew
you’d help.”

I let her out and allowed her to hug me
again. I wasn’t helping her because I was being a good sister. I
had a feeling that if she left Mitchell, she’d need somewhere to
stay and Momma wouldn’t let her stay with her.

A pregnant woman under my roof? Oh lawd,
hell naw! To keep that from happening, all I had to figure out was
how to prove my sister crazy. That might be easy.

I crawled back in bed and told myself that I
was just going to sleep for one more hour.

Entry Seven

When I arrived to work Friday morning -
late, like I told you - I found two-dozen roses on my desk from
Mack. I smiled to myself and read the card:

Thanks for just being you. Too bad I had to
leave the country on business, but I wanted to let you know you are
thought of. I’ll see you when I return. Mack

I smiled to myself and sighed. Now that I
had a lot of time to think about it - on my drive to work - I would
have to rate Mack at a seven and a half as a lover. I didn’t expect
him to be perfect (because no one is and I know that). Nor did I
expect him to be Rick (that’s a nine, LOL.)

The problem was, though Mack knew how to get
the job done, he had some reservations. Reservations that now
bothered me in the light of day.

Last night when we fully explored each
other’s bodies, I saw that he had some inhibitions about kissing me
after I kissed him below his waist. I was too caught up in the
moment to take note of it then, but as I really thought about it,
it did kind of bother me. But then I won’t think too much into
it.

Peter cornered me as soon as I got settled
into my office. He was about two inches taller than me and had a
black man’s lips - all thick and juicy. But since he was married, I
never say anything about his lips. I just enjoy seeing him
talk.

“You’re the best!” he exclaimed, coming in
my office.

“Oh really?”

“Yes! Mackeroy happily signed on the dotted
line before he left on his vacation to Europe. He got me looking
like I’m the shit.”

“So you’ll be cutting me a check, right?” I
teased.

He laughed. “Give me something else to give
you, Sheryl.”

“Tickets to a great concert?”

“Brian McKnight is coming in next week,” he
suggested.

“Two of them, good seats,” I said
firmly.

He kissed me on the cheek and started to
leave the office.

“Peter,” I called.

“Yeah, Sheryl?”

“Congrats to you.”

“Thanks.”

“I meant on being a new father.”

“Oh yeah.” He flushed embarrassed. “Thanks
on that.” Quickly he rushed away.

By the afternoon, Cassandra Stanton, my new
assistant, was sitting in the seat reserved for such a position.
Soon as I walked up to her, she jumped up and outstretched her hand
in greeting.

She was a nice black woman - although I
hadn’t known I had chosen a black woman at the time. Usually all my
assistants were white, young and eager. I like those because they
were always hardworking and focused. Black women usually harbored a
lot of jealousy towards a sista with power, so I choose to stay
away from the drama and hire people who really wanted to come and
work.

“I’m Cassandra-”

“I know your name.” I cut her off briskly,
set in the fact that I’d be choosing another assistant in about a
couple of weeks once I wore this one out and pissed about it. “And
I’m sure you’re aware of mine.” I nodded toward the door with my
name on it that she’d been staring at before I walked up. “Look,
could you take my palm, upload all my appointments until next week
and then download my meeting notes for today, format them and then
get them on my desk in the next hour. I have a dinner appointment
with James Kaffey and-”

She cut me off as politely as possible. “He
canceled.”

“What?” I snapped.

“Mr. Kaffey called while you were gone and
said his daughter had to be rushed to the hospital. He wanted to
know if you could move the dinner ‘til next week.”

Fuck! I said to myself. I had to fly to New
York next week to present the information Mr. Kaffey was going to
give me to some clients.

“No, I can’t move the dinner. I’ll be in New
York next week,” I told Cassandra.

“I know that, Ms. Banks. I saw the plane
tickets on your desk, so I asked if he could at least see you
quickly tomorrow afternoon, if everything’s okay with his
daughter,” Cassandra replied.

I was mildly impressed, but I didn’t show
it. “And did he accept?”

“Not until I threw in that you were
personally sending over to the hospital a great get–well-soon
basket from Neiman Marcus that would be every nine-year-old’s
dream.”

“I did?”

She laughed. “Well, you are if you’d just
sign the petty cash receipt.”

I smiled, but only a little to show how
proud I was of her. “Thanks. Keep on top of that, so I won’t
overbook. I really need that information.”

“Yes, Ms. Banks. Would you like me to get
you anything else?” Her spirit shone through. She made me feel like
she could take care of things.

This was the first time I felt like that
with a black woman at a job.

“No, I’m fine,” I replied. “Let me get this
report through and I’m waiting on a call from the Florida
office.”

“Yes, Ms. Banks.”

I assessed her all over. She was about a
buck fifty, with short hair like Halle Berry. Except she reminded
me of Gabrielle Union in Breaking all the Rules, trying to look
like Halle Berry. Instead of black, Cassandra’s hair was naturally
light brown and honey golden. I like to watch it as I dictate my
letters.

It had always been a habit of mine to just
stare as I concentrated. Usually my assistants would say it creeped
them out, but Cassandra didn’t seem to mind. Matter of fact, I
think she kind of liked knowing I was staring at her.

In the first day we worked together, not
only did I find myself impressed by my new assistant’s
intelligence, but also by her ability to get the work done without
me reminding her all the time. I hate that.

We worked until midnight and then we found a
Coney Island to get a chicken salad. I dropped her off at her home
about three in the morning, hoping she didn’t get in trouble with
her husband because we had found so much to speak about.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Banks. He’s just happy I’m
making some kind of money,” Cassandra reassured me. “And I’ll help
you with your sister’s stuff, but maybe we won’t call her crazy
just yet.”

Somehow I had let it slip about my sister,
but I didn’t know who else to turn to and Cassandra really made me
feel comfortable.

“Thanks, Cassandra,” I said. “See you
Monday.”

When she was in the house, I drove off.

Now my weekend was a whole different
story.

Entry Eight

I woke up early Saturday to do a walk around
the block. I had a lot of running around to do, so I didn’t get in
my regular five miles. I promised myself I would do them later on
tonight. I do try to keep my body alright, even though it seems I
will never lose the thirty pounds needed to push me down to a size
ten, but c’est la vie.

The party store near my home was just
opening up. I decided to grab a bottle of water and check it out
since no one was in there. This very quiet Arab guy with bright
blue eyes was behind the register. Unlike the majority of party
stores in Detroit that had the counter covered in bulletproof
glass, this one didn’t. That was mainly because this was a
borderline store and because Eastpointe was a relatively safe
city.

The Arab at the counter was about thirty in
age. He respectfully nodded at me when I entered the store. It
suddenly dawned on me that I’d never slept with an Arab guy before,
though I’d grown up with them because the Metro Detroit area had
the largest population in the United States.

There was a weird relationship between the
blacks and Arab community. We don’t talk to them and they don’t
talk to us. If we have to do business together, we just do business
and don’t try to get personal. Bad things always seemed to happen
when it became personal.

One exception was when the eastern blackout
happened. I was in

Florida at the time, but my mother said that
the Arab business owners stayed open in the community even though
there was great fear that they would be robbed or looted.

Who knows? There might be another black/Arab
exception today. And that’s a big might.

When I grabbed a bottle of water from the
cooler and looked up in the back mirror, I saw the Arab clerk
leaning awkwardly over the counter to check out my “assets”.

I pretended to look at something at the
bottom of the cooler. I took an abnormally long time perusing just
to give him a nice long look at something he would never have.

When I returned to the counter, he pretended
that he was busy putting price stickers on some items.

“Did you find everything you needed?” he
asked politely with a slight Arabian accent. His voice was smooth
and silky. Yes, he was very cute and I really liked his large blue
eyes.

I didn’t look away from his direct eye
contact. “Yeah, I guess. But I see you don’t have anything but diet
grape Faygo.”

“That’s all you like?”

“That’s all I have to choose from.”

“I’ll see if I can order another kind, okay?
What’s your favorite kind?”

“Peach, but if they have the red, I’ll
settle for that.”

“Anything for my beautiful customers,” he
said with a wink as he took my dollar for the water.

“My name’s Rahem,” he said, handing over my
penny change and the receipt for the water.

“Sheryl,” I said.

Damn, he was getting cuter by the
second.

I leaned over, aware that my low top (that I
had just thrown on to go walking in) showed a slight amount of
cleavage for him to look at. “So when will you have something that
I like, so I can come back?”

He swallowed hard and forced his eyes back
up to mine. “I-I could check my other stores.”

“You have another store?” I asked
impressed.

“I have three stores. The other two are in
Detroit. My father’s gotten sick and I’m running them now. If you
come back tonight, I could have some diet red Faygo. I swear. Even
if I have to run to Faygo to get it myself. I usually run the
midnight shift, but I start about ten.”