Second House from the Corner (5 page)

*   *   *

The children don't give me a hard time leaving the school playground, so I'm feeling optimistic that tonight's dinner, bath, and bedtime will be a breeze. My SUV isn't fit for three car seats, but it's my little piece of luxury and I make it work by cramming the car and booster seats together, tight like cigarettes in a fresh pack.

“Can I have a snack?” Rory asks as soon as he's buckled in.

“Excuse me?” I eye him through the rearview mirror.

“May I have a snack?” He corrects himself and I reach into my bag and toss back two granola bars. On the avenue, I ask the children about their day, but neither remembers anything.

A few blocks later: “Stop.” Two shouts.

I look through the rearview mirror and fix Rory with a look that says please leave her alone. But it's too late. Two has started wailing. The baby whines and now I'm pissed.

“What's the matter?”

“She dropped her granola bar on the floor.”

I pull over in front of the Ukrainian church to sort things out. But thrusting the bar in her direction doesn't stop her howling. This is Two's time of day to be wound up, and she loses control in seconds. She doesn't just cry; she screams like someone is drawing blood with a butcher knife. Nothing I say works to calm her. I consider pushing her out on the curb and leaving her to find her way home but realize that's a bit dramatic, so I pull back in to traffic, turn up the radio, and tune her out.

I've barely pulled in to the driveway of our house, and Rory has already broken free of the seat belt and is hopping over Two to be the first one out of the car. This makes her shriek harder.

“Rory, can you please wait.” I unbuckle Two's seat, and pull the baby from her car seat onto my hip. I have both backpacks and Two's hand in mine, but she's still going.

“Stop,” I hiss. “Does everyone on the block have to know that we're home?” Of course they do, and she keeps it up. Rory takes the keys from me and runs up the stairs to unlock the door. We just manage to get in the house when Two throws herself on the floor and continues the tantrum.

Liv's fuss has flamed to a full throttle cry and I know she wants my milk. I'm weaning so she's down to two feedings a day and she only had one before her nap. I send Rory to get his math workbook, lift Liv to my breast while cuddling Two on the other side. Two's tears slow to a sniffle as she pops her pointer finger in her mouth. The evening has just begun and I'm dog-tired. Why is this always so hard? The kids have been with me less than an hour and I already feel like the mother in that commercial; Calgon take me away. It would be easier to manage if Preston were home a few nights a week to help me.

Well, someone has to work while you are playing house with the kids. Bills don't get paid on their own.

I bare my teeth ready to do battle with the
damn voice
but then I remember myself. Remember that I have a toolbox for moments like this. I shift Two onto a pillow, tuck Liv under my arm, and then tap two of my fingers against my hand.

*   *   *

The whiting never got fried. Instead they are munching on my go-to ten-minute meal: chicken nuggets from the toaster oven and vegetable fried rice (frozen peas and leftover rice sautéed on the stove). My salad is an afterthought, and by the time I sit down they are nearly finished and rice is everywhere.

“Would you like some more?” I asked them both while spooning Liv harvest squash and turkey from the Earth's Best jar.

“More chicken nuggets.” Rory chews.

I'm tossing him two nuggets when the telephone rings. Preston's house rule is that no one answers the telephone during dinner. But he's not here and I'm wondering if it's my agent with last-minute notes about tomorrow's go-see. I snatch it up and put my finger to my lips to silence the children.

“Good evening.” I sound cheery.

I hear breathing.

“Hello?”

A man's chuckle.

“Hello?”

“My, my, my, I can't believe it.” His voice is low and baritone. “After all this time, I've finally found you.”

My lips part and if my skin wasn't a decadent brown, I would have turned pasty white.

“Who is this?” I demand, all business-like. Knowing, but not wanting to know.
It can't be.

“Felicia Hayes,” he produces my maiden name. “Come on now, it's me, Young Sister.”

The phone slips down to my shoulder. He always called me Young Sister, and the sound of the nickname that I hadn't heard in ages has me feeling light-headed. My hip presses against the countertop for support.

“Ms. Hayes?”

“It's Mrs. Lyons.”

“Mommy, who is that? Is it Daddy?” Two looks at me with suspicious eyes and I flick my wrist to hush her.

“I don't have much time. I've been down for a couple of years, but I'm on work release now.”

Down? As in jail down? My tongue lays heavily in my mouth and my eyes don't blink.

“They got me in the hot Georgia sun picking up trash and cutting grass along roadsides. Burning up out there in this ridiculous orange jumpsuit. Damn right embarrassing. But I'm being released and will be home in a few weeks. Will you come to Philly to see me?”

My breathing is shallow.

“You have no idea how many nights I've stayed up thinking about you. Wondering…”

“Mommeeee,” Two is up from the table, tugging on my shirt and hollering.

“Hang on, please.” I put the phone down. “Have you lost your mind? I AM ON THE PHONE. Are you finished with your dinner?”

“Yes, ma'am,” she says, all of a sudden remembering her manners.

“Rory, go put the television on and you two sit and watch one show.”

“Really?” he looks up surprised. There is a cardinal rule of no television during the week. Both look at me like I've lost it.

“Go now before I change my mind.”

They scramble out of the room and I let Liv down to slither after them.

“If I hear any arguing, I'm turning it off.”

I run my fingers over my hair before putting the phone back to my ear.

“Martin.” His name feels foreign in my mouth. “How did you find me? My number isn't published.”

“Don't say it like you're not happy to hear from me. How long has it been? Fifteen, sixteen years? You must be as pretty as ever.”

I warm from the compliment, thinking it's been more like sixteen years and five months. But I don't say it out loud. It's not like I've been counting. Or have I? I let the question go as quickly as it came.

“How many kids do you have?”

“Three.”

“Look at my Faye, all grown up. It's so good to hear your beautiful voice.” He pauses. “I remember how you use to walk around the church with your head held high. Couldn't keep my eyes off of you.”

My mind struggles with whether reminiscing with him is right, but the battle is lost, and I'm headfirst with Martin down memory lane to that long-ago place I've forgotten.

His hands on my waist, making me move to his beat.

“Slipping out with you in Daddy Gracious's Caddy was the highlight of my week. You used to like those moments, didn't you?”

Yes, I was a young, hungry girl, sneaking off with this man, who kissed my wounds away and made them all better. This man who is talking in my ears like a lifetime hasn't passed and still having the same effect.

“It's been so long since I've laid my eyes on you.” His voice feels creamy, soft, and hypnotizing. Martin could say anything to me with that voice and I'd quiver.

Get down on your knees and beg, Young Sister.

“When you stopped coming to church I missed you.”

“Yeah, well … things happened.” I snap out of it and my feet are back in reality. Back to why I stopped going to church altogether and Martin had everything to do with it.

“I know all about it, Young Sister,” he soothes. We both pause, letting his words hang in the air.

“What do you want?”

“I have to go now. Time's running. Can I call you again? Is this time good?”

Preston is never home before nine, and when I open my mouth, I'm not thinking. “Yes, this time is good.”

“Perfect,” he replies, and I feel his smile through the telephone. “Sweet dreams, Faye.” His voice fades into the lobe of my ear. I stand there clutching the phone so long that it takes me a few seconds to realize the line went dead.

*   *   *

“To bed,” I call to the kids and never mind their protest. My hands are as shaky as a cup of Jell-O. I thought Martin was buried with my past.

“Mom,
Wonder Pets
is almost over,” Rory calls. I grab Liv from the floor and hold her to my heart in an attempt to slow down the thumping.

“Meet me upstairs as soon as the credits start rolling.”

I take the steps two at a time, wash Liv's face and hands, and rock her against my breast, trying to stay a step ahead of the constant thought
I can't believe Martin called me
. When Rory and Two make it upstairs, I tell them to brush their teeth and get in bed.

“What about our story?” Two's eyes get big.

“I let you watch a show. I'll read extra tomorrow.”

“But Mommy.”

“Don't ‘but Mommy' me.” I wipe the toothpaste from the side of her mouth and then pull the covers over her.

Rory's bedroom is across the hall and I tuck him in, kiss both cheeks, and head downstairs.

“And if I have to come back up here, it's going to be some serious trouble,” I say halfway down. My body hasn't settled, and I'm grateful to find an unopened bottle of merlot in the cabinet. I pour myself a healthy glass, promising to pump and dump the milk before bed. I carry the glass to my gazebo in the backyard, drop the mosquito net, and light the citronella candle. I still cannot believe Martin found me. After all of these years. Who can I call? Who can I tell? The only person who knows everything that happened is my Aunt Crystal, but I'm not dialing her because I don't know what state she might be in. Crystal runs hot and cold, and if I catch her on the wrong day, she's liable to pick up the phone and tell Preston all of my business. This is not the type of thing I'd share with any of my mommy friends. Shayla knows, but …

I take a long gulp. Shayla knows, but …

Would Shayla have connected Martin to me? I scroll through my phone and find her on Facebook. Shayla and I grew up together on Sydenham Street in Philadelphia. She was my best friend, had my back through thick and thin, but it's been years since we've talked. Once I went to college our lives went in different directions and we lost touch. Three years ago she found me on Facebook and tried to meet up but I canceled every time. Blamed my lack of availability on my children and Preston working, but that wasn't it. Shayla knew the before-Preston me, and I wasn't that North Philly girl anymore. I had rewritten my history, so to speak, and I didn't want any ghosts from my past haunting my chance at picket-fence happiness.

She eventually stopped asking to see me and we dropped down to a happy birthday on Facebook, and a like here and there, but nothing real or substantial. That's why I amaze even myself when I send her a direct message.

Are you around? Can we talk?

I hear Preston calling me.

“Foxy?” he looks through the back window.

“I'm out here.”

I put my phone down. Preston comes out with his tie dangling and a beer. He looks worn out and I'm glad to be able to shift my thoughts to him.

“Did you eat?”

“Yeah. I got your text about the chicken nuggets so I picked something up on the way home.”

“How was your day?”

“Ugh, I don't want to talk about it. Yours?”

“Me either.” I put my legs in his lap.

“Good.”

We sit with our thoughts, listening to the crickets and enjoying the fresh air. If Preston had a penny for my thoughts, it would be detrimental. I wonder briefly if it would be the same for his.

 

SIX

The City

I am dressed in all white in the alley of the Daddy Gracious One Church. I slink back behind the fire escape, where no one can see me unless they were determined to find me. There is a draft stirring between the buildings, but I don't feel it. My lips are parted and my skin is piping hot. Martin is pressed against me, working two thick fingers under my skirt, inside the mouth of my thighs. His breath is in my hair. Our hips crash, creating the friction I desire, and I forget to inhale. The tension starts to strengthen in my lower belly, build, build, build. I've sped past shy and can't control myself from smashing into his fingers with so much force that I erupt and spill. Soaked with my fragrance, I collapse against his chest. He holds me tight and breathes a whisper.

“You're ready, Young Sister. Next time.”

*   *   *

As I struggle out of bed to hush the alarm, I'm aware of the stickiness between my legs. The dream is at the top of my memory and I shake my head to let it go, but that hurts. That's when I remember. One drink with Preston turned into three. Three! What the hell was I thinking? Did I say anything incriminating? I think for a minute. I have an audition in a few hours. Christ. I pad into the bathroom and look at my hungover face in the mirror. My lips are cracked and stained red from the wine. My mascara has run and pooled under my eyes. I pop two Advil, sip water from the faucet, and will the wooziness to stop. I'm scrubbing my face when Rory enters the bathroom. Murky water is all over the sink.

“Mommy.” He puts his arms around my waist.

“Hey, baby.”

I can honestly say I don't have a favorite child. Each one touches me in a different place. But Rory's space is special. My only boy. My firstborn. I squeeze him back.