I Almost Forgot About You (17 page)

“That would make you Michelle Obama.”

“In all honesty, I'm probably better off by myself, because when I get on my own fucking nerves, I can just change the channel.”

“What are you talking about?” Wanda asks.

“I don't know, but this sake has more kick than vino.”

“Alcoholic beverages sure make you lose your inhibitions and say stupid shit like you just did. Let's order two cappuccinos with an extra shot before we think about getting behind a fucking wheel,” she says.

“You're right,” I say. “Do you think we swear too fucking much?”

“Who the fuck cares? The only time we get to talk this fucking way is when we're together, right?”

“That's so true. Let's never stop fucking swearing, okay?”

“Okay!” she yells.

And we give each other high fives.

“So when is your stupid dinner party again?”

“Next Saturday. And please don't wear that stupid fucking wig. I know you've got a head full of thick, nappy hair under there, so why not let the world see it?”

“Shut up, Wanda. You don't have to comb it.”

“Then cut it off! That's why God made beauty salons.”

“Any other suggestions?”

“Yeah. Bake a fucking cake. I don't care what kind. Wait. Yes I do. Wait. I can't remember. Damn. Oh, yeah. That black-walnut pound cake. Make that one.”

I realize I forgot to eat my sushi and only ate the rice with the teriyaki sauce on it and not the salmon. I wave my hand for the waitress, and she glides over to us and clasps her hands like she's praying. I wonder if she's this timid in bed.

“We'll have two cappuccinos, please, with extra shots.”

“No more sake?”

“Do we look like we need more sake?” Wanda asks. Then she turns back to face me. “Hold on a minute, huzzy. I want to hear about the Niles tragedy and any other juicy stuff you feel like sharing in your slow-motion life. So spill it.”

“Well, I'll start with the house.”

“Oh, hell, I'm getting tired of hearing about your goddamn house. Sell it already! What about those daughters?”

“They're both fucking pregnant. Wait. I don't want to use the F-word on them. They're both pregnant.”

“What? Frankie's only been married ten minutes and her black husband is unemployed, and what's Estelle trying to prove over there: that eight is enough?”

“My feelings exactly. And please stop saying Hunter's black, okay?”

“Okay. How pregnant are they?”

“I don't know. They keep so many secrets and lie about so much stuff that I'll just wait for them to tell me when the little crumbsnatchers are going to pop out of their ovens.”

“This is why I'm glad I never had children.”

“Shut up, Wanda. I wouldn't trade them for the world, even though they get on my last fucking nerve sometimes.”

“So what about Niles?”

“He came to the office.”

“You're bullshitting me! And?”

“I slapped the shit out of him.”

“You're not fucking serious, Georgia.”

“Of course I'm not.”

I try to skip over the details, but she's not having it, so we down our coffee and order another one.

“Well, all I have to say is it's a good thing you only had two fucking husbands,” and then she hands me the fucking check.

I pull into Wanda and Nelson's circular driveway, and it's even colder up here because their house is on the highest peak. They have a five-bridge view, and I find myself staring out at the heavenly fog rolling in.

I don't bother knocking. Nelson spots me before Wanda does. He reminds me of an older Sidney Poitier. His hair is white, even though he's not even sixty. He's about an inch or two taller than me, and Wanda is about two or three inches taller than him, without heels, which is why she hardly ever wears them. Nelson, however, could care less if she towers over him.

“Hi, sugar,” he says after hugging me and kissing me on my forehead. “I thought you might bail on us because you think we're trying to play matchmaker—and you'd be right. We want you happily hooked up and married, and if the two end up being the same, all the better. Richard should be here in five or ten minutes. Get yourself a drink. Wanda's going to strip later.”

I pop him upside the head. He's like a brother, and he's a good man. It's refreshing to see that some folks fall in love when they're young and just know it's the right fit.

I don't see Violet and wonder why. She's usually the first one here. Wanda saunters over, looking pretty and precious in a lacy frock that screams Neiman Marcus Last Call.

Hugs.

“Where's the cake?”

I cover my mouth.

“You forgot it?”

“Well, no and yes. I set it on top of the car, and I'm sure some wild animals are probably getting drunk in the driveway right now. I'm sorry, girl.”

“I know you're just excited, and I see that you can do wonders with gel and a rubber band, and I forgot you have cheekbones, and that outfit at least suggests you might be available. You look nice.”

“So do you, huzzy.”

“Anyway, you know almost everybody here, and the few you don't, act friendly.”

“Where are your adorable dogs?” I ask. She knows I'm being sarcastic.

“I sent them to the Doggie Hotel for the weekend.”

“You must be on something.”

“Nope. Nelson and I are flying to Palm Springs tomorrow to look at more condos and see Gladys Knight. You wanna come? We've got an extra ticket.”

“I love Gladys, but no thank you. Where's Violet?”

“I didn't invite her. Sometimes she's not good with a small audience, and she never shuts up. So please don't slip and tell her.”

“My lips are sealed, even though that's very tacky, Wanda. It's not her fault she looks good and some of your old lady friends get jealous when their husbands feast their eyes on all her feline assets. Okay, so where's Mr. Dream Lover?”

“Coming in the door right now. And be nice, Georgia. Introduce yourself, because Nelson has already told him everything about you that he needs to know. You can lie about the rest.”

I don't even want to look, because I don't feel like being disappointed. I decide to walk through this house of earth and jewel tones, stopping to say hello to folks, mostly couples I've known for years but never have much else to say to except “Long time no see,” “You look good,” and “You just got back from Dubai or Maui or Cape Town,” and “Maybe one day we should,” and “Yes, I had to get my firewood early this year,” and “No doubt I'm excited about the World Cup,” and “Of course I'm going to work on President Obama's campaign if he runs again, which I'm sure he will—oh, my bad, you're a Republican. Wow, I would never have guessed, but we all have our belief systems, and it was nice chatting with you, too.”

I walk out to one of the balconies because I'm nervous about meeting this Richard character, and moments later I hear the door open and a deep voice say, “Why are you out here in the cold by yourself?”

Before turning around, I pretend I'm in a movie and say, “Because I'm so warm inside I don't even feel it, and a woman needs a cool breeze every now and then.” And because it's clear I'm just pulling his leg and having fun, by the time I turn around and see this tall, handsome what looks to me to be a black man who's laughing and showing the most beautiful set of teeth under the shiniest mustache I've ever seen, I follow it up with, “Nice to meet you, Richard. I'm Georgia, soon to be your new wife.”

“It's so nice to meet you. I knew this was going to be love at first sight.”

Then I come to my senses and hold my hand out to shake his, but he simply rubs his on top of mine and says, “That was probably the best introduction I've ever had. It really is nice to meet you, Georgia.”

“I was just having fun and trying to break the ice, and it's nice to meet you, too, Richard.”

“This is a setup, you know.”

“Of course it is. Which is why they never work.”

“Not so fast,” he says. “We're not even married yet. And as a divorce attorney, I know all the right things we should do so we never have to see one.”

“Well, how's that worked out for you?”

“I'm a fast learner. So once.”

I hold up two fingers. “Apparently I was in the remedial class.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“I'm not so sure. I'm feeling slightly intoxicated.”

“That would make two of us.”

On the drive home, I can't wipe the grin off my face, because I can't believe that in less than a week I've met two men who've piqued my interest. Of course I don't want to start thinking about whether we should elope or have a fairly simple but intimate affair, and because all orgasms are not created equal, as I've learned over the years, perhaps I should at least wait until we have sex before deciding which one will become my betrothed.

Santa's coming to town tonight, and I've been invited to spend Christmas Day with my daughters, their husbands and children, born and unborn, over in Palo Alto. I don't have a Christmas tree. I have stars. White, red, and silver perforated paper stars perched on thin white metal poles that light up the windows. I bought a container that emits the scent of pine just for effect and maybe for nostalgia. I know Christmas is about the birth of Baby Jesus, but in my house it was also about baking cookies and making eggnog and watching Frosty and Rudolph and the Grinch and listening to Nat King Cole sing about chestnuts roasting and those velvet notes floating all the way up the stairwell into the girls' rooms. I loved watching them put the poorly wrapped gifts under the tree and on Christmas morning hearing them gallop downstairs in their red-and-white candy-cane pj's with the feet in them. They slid across the floor on their bellies and would sit up not knowing what box to open first. Their delight was contagious.

Years passed, and no cookies were left out for Santa, and it got to the point where they were bored with toys and preferred clothes that they wanted to pick out themselves and then gift cards, which caused the white felt tree blanket to look lonely under the shrinking Douglas fir. They lost interest in Santa and wanted to spend Christmas Eve with their boyfriends and sometimes didn't show up until the afternoon. Kids grow up.

I've already sent the twins two of those gigantic Fathead posters for their wall: Tiana, the first black princess from
The Princess and the Frog,
and Cars, since they love to drive and have miniature versions of real ones in the garage. What a complete waste of money. I also got them one purple and one mint green princess dress even though I have no idea who they're supposed to be.

Estelle and Frankie have insisted on doing all the major cooking, and I'm just going to walk in with a peach cobbler, a bouquet of flowers, gift cards from Nordstrom's and Macy's for my daughters, one from Sports Authority for Hunter—who I've learned is Mr. Outdoors—and a Robert Graham shirt for Justin, who seems to be addicted to them. Between basketball games I will be Mrs. Santa, Grandma, and Mother and take my time setting the table and listening and chatting and catching up while trying not to get in the way as I observe how beautiful my family is and how blessed I am to have them.

“So what are you doing on this unusually cold Christmas Eve afternoon?” Wanda asks me.

It's hard to describe boredom, but here goes:

“Watching
Celtic Woman: Believe.
”

“You're not serious.”

“I am, but I'm not.”

I can't help but laugh as three of the women prance out onto an empty stage in 1980s evening gowns and sway a little bit before singing in soprano voices that make me wonder why so many people like this music.

“Seriously, what are you doing?”

“I'm about to open fifteen bags of frozen peaches and boil them in six to eight inches of water before I add some sugar and butter and vanilla and almond extract and cinnamon and nutmeg and let them soak overnight.”

“If I wanted to learn how to make it, I'd have asked a long time ago, so just be sure you bake a baby cobbler for me and Nelson, please?”

“For a large fee, of course.”

“Leave it in the mailbox, and this time put a Post-it on the door so you don't forget. Anyway, Nelson and I are having a hard time choosing a condo because they're all so gorgeous.”

“This is what you called to tell me on Christmas Eve?”

“You're the one who's watching
Celtic Woman,
so shut up.”

“You guys aren't really planning on living in the desert full-time, I hope.”

“What do you think retirement means, Georgia? You seem to forget I'm almost two years older than you, because
I
didn't skip any grades and Nelson's got two years on me and—”

“Hold on a minute, Wanda. I'm getting another call. Oh, Lord, it's Richard!”

“Don't say anything stupid. You could have a date for New Year's! Call me after you finish talking to him, and I hope it's not in a few minutes. Bye!”

My heart is pounding like a teenager's as I click over.

“Hello?” I say, as if I don't have caller ID.

“Merry Christmas, Georgia! It's Richard. Am I catching you at a good or a bad time?”

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Richard. I just finished taking a peach cobbler out of the oven and was just about to start wrapping a few gifts. How are you?”

“Exhausted, but otherwise I'm fine. I'm officially a Bay Area resident.”

“That's great. So where are you living?”

“Well, I'm staying with my parents in San Francisco until I can find something to buy.”

With his parents?

“It's a buyer's market, that's for sure,” I say.

“I know. But I'm not in any major hurry. My parents own a fabulous Victorian, and they rarely come upstairs because of their health.”

Is he serious?

“So how long have you been here?”

“A couple of months now. I needed to clear up a lot of loose ends before I left L.A., and of course everything takes longer than you think.”

“Of course. Things take as long as they take. My house is going on the market in a few weeks.”

“Why would you want to do something as stupid as that?”

“Excuse me?”

“That came out wrong. My bad. I
meant
in a market this bad, it would be a lot smarter to hold on to your property until things improve.”

“I'm not in any hurry to sell. So. On a lighter note: welcome to the Bay Area! Maybe Wanda, Nelson, and I can take you out for a welcome dinner real soon.”

“To be honest, I would prefer that you not let them know I'm here.”

“What? I thought you and Nelson went way back.”

“We do, but that's part of the problem. Too far back, and though he's truly a nice guy, we really don't have that much in common anymore, so I'd prefer to keep my distance.”

Is this bastard for real?

“I thought you guys were friends.”

“We were. But some friends you outgrow.”

I'm about ready to hang up this phone. Who in the hell does he think he is? Johnnie Cochran and Jimmy Smits combined? He sure doesn't sound like the Mr. Fun Guy and Mr. Sexy that I met. What a phony son of a bitch.

“This is true,” I say. “So why'd you come to their dinner party, which he and Wanda had on your behalf, portraying yourself as a longtime friend?”

“Because he insisted after I decided I was moving up here. Might as well reach out.”

Reach out?

“Okay.”

“So, Georgia, I called because I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner sometime?”

“This year? Next year? Could you be more specific?”

“Is that sarcasm I'm detecting?”

“I think it is, Richard. You came across as a different kind of guy when I met you.”

“And what kind of guy was that?”

“Funny. Quick. Warm. Intelligent. And lighthearted.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint. Good talking with you. Maybe we'll run into each other this year. Or next.”

And the bastard hung up.

I don't call Wanda back. I'm too pissed off, not to mention disappointed. This is why it's so hard to find a decent man. When you finally meet one you feel a twinge of excitement about and it feels mutual, before you get a chance to even start what you think might maybe could possibly end up blossoming into a potential relationship, he does or says something so stupid or arrogant or dumb or ignorant or insulting or reprehensible or disrespectful or all of the above that reflects his legitimate personality traits, which are so unappealing or a complete turnoff that it becomes crystal clear there's not much he can do to make you want to turn that knob back to the On position. Richard is a perfect example. And after years of going through this, it wears you out.

Of course Wanda calls back. I'm now in my pj's drinking a glass of wine.

“So do you have a date for New Year's or what?”

“No.”

“What the hell did you say to blow it, Georgia? I thought you guys hit it off quite well at our dinner party.”

“He's phony as hell. Arrogant as hell. And he completely misrepresented himself. I don't know why Nelson counts him as a friend.”

“To be honest, Nelson doesn't really like him. He was kind of a jerk when they were in business school together, and he was getting his J.D. at the same time, but he was always too slick for Nelson's taste.”

“Then why in the hell did you guys want me to meet him?”

“Because we thought maybe he'd matured.”

“He's aged.”

“Did he mention anything about getting in touch with Nelson and me?”

“No he didn't.”

“Good. Here's hoping we don't run into him anywhere. Be just our luck.”

“So what are you guys doing for New Year's?”

“Probably watching the ball drop. To be honest, we usually TiVo it, because sometimes we just can't hang.”

“Remember when we used to go to one party after another and get home the following day astonished it was a new year?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And we danced all night, and our feet hurt so bad we walked down the street barefoot carrying our pumps?”

“Some of my favorite memories, honey.”

“And we stumbled into some all-night diner, had another drink to wash down breakfast, and then threw up.”

Wanda sighs. “Those were the good old days.”

“Well, I might put on my jammies, make some popcorn, and drink champagne and smoke a joint and dance right along with the young folks partying on television.”

“Did you just say smoke a joint?”

“I was just kidding. It sounded cool, though, didn't it?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I would like to make a promise to you, Wanda.”

“I'm listening.”

“This is the last New Year's Eve I'm sleeping alone.”

“Forgive me for bringing this up, Georgia, but didn't you say the same thing last year?”

Ho, ho, ho.

On Christmas morning I bake two peach cobblers, put one in the mailbox for Wanda and Nelson, and leave early for Palo Alto. Estelle and Justin's street is so perfect it feels straight out of
Pleasantville,
and I'm just waiting for the No Coloreds sign to pop up out of nowhere. The trees look like they're staring at the cars passing by, their leaves so motionless it feels like earthquake weather. Their house is one of the smallest on the block, but still not small. The garage door is up. I park behind their two SUVs and next to Frankie and Hunter's used red RAV4.

The twins must be able to hear through wood, because that door flings open and the purple and mint green princesses run out into the garage and wrap their polyester arms around me and say, “Merry Christmas, Granny!” and then “Thank you for our Fatheads and these beautiful princess dresses! We love them!”

And they both take me by the same arm in an attempt to drag me inside, but my car door is still open because the flowers are sitting on the front seat. When we get inside, my pregnant daughters, who are both finally starting to
look
pregnant, are wearing Santa hats and tight jeans and T-shirts, and we hug and hug. Hunter, who was engrossed in a basketball game, runs to give me a squeeze, and then Justin runs down the stairs to do the same. We are one big happy frigging family.

“Merry Christmas, everybody!”

My daughters are pretending to cook in the kitchen. There must be at least four cookbooks spread out on any empty counter space.

“What happened to the peach cobbler?” Justin asks.

“It's in the car. Feel free to go get it. It's on the backseat, but it weighs a ton and it's still warm, so be careful.”

“I'm hoping some of the juice spills, Mom,” he says.