Young Wives. Olivia Goldsmith
have to beg for, that’s given resentfully, is like blood.” Jada had to ask and ask Clinton for even the smallest thing, and then half the time it remained undone. Her house still needed flooring in the kitchen and a dozen other finishing touches. Jada knew that Michelle didn’t have to ask for anything. A moment before she even knew she was thirsty, Frank would offer that girl milk. Jada tried not to resent her friend, but sometimes it was hard.
“Jada, I know you’re hurt. I know you’re frightened.” He climbed back into bed, under the blankets, as if he needed to be shielded from her. That enraged her. She needed protection from him, not vice versa.
Jada opened her eyes wide. “Clinton, I’m not hurt over this. I’m hurt that you won’t work to keep this family together.”
Clinton lifted his head from the pillow and started to say something, but Jada raised her hand and opened her mouth in time to stop him. “And I was afraid when I thought I couldn’t earn a living. But I’m not hurt and I’m not afraid now, Clinton. I’m just telling you again, straight and plain, that you have a choice to make.” She began to strip off her walking clothes but then, suddenly, felt that she didn’t want to be bare in front of him. He was still a good-looking man. His chest was flat and wide. His stomach was tight even with his weight gain. His skin never chapped or grayed, while she had stretch marks and wrinkles. It was a strange feeling—modesty in front of her husband of so many years. “It’s you that’s breaking a commandment, not me. I’m trying to live righteous.” Jada opened the closet door and stood behind it as she struggled into her work clothes.
“Jada, you don’t understand … this thing with Tonya and I isn’t just about the flesh. We have a spiritual connection.”
Jada put her head around the closet door and stared at him. Mercy! Sometimes she couldn’t believe the bullshit that came out of this man’s mouth. Sweet Jesus, you made this man, she thought. Now make him see the light. Or, alternatively, pluck out his eyes. She thought of her parents. On Barbados, a small island where everyone knew everything, people learned compromise as an art form. Not Clinton, though.
“I can forgive you,” she said. “I can live with you. And I can try, even harder than I have, to keep this family together. But not if you talk to me about that woman’s spiritual qualities. Everyone has to draw a line, Clinton. I don’t want to hear one damn thing about her. Don’t insult me with a comparison.”
“I wasn’t comparing,” Clinton began, his version of an apology, then saw her murderous expression and stopped. “My family means everything to me,” he added quickly. “You know that. Maybe we haven’t been getting on so good, but there have been times when it was smooth and times when it was rough.” He rubbed his long fingers through his hair, then held the back of his neck as if it ached. Too bad he was DDG, Jada thought. “It can be smooth again,” he said. “I know that. I hope for that. That is where my commitment comes from. But with Tonya … well, I feel like what happens there is for me. Not for my children, not for the family, not to keep the mortgage paid down. Just for me.” He paused. “And I feel like I deserve something.” He shook his head. “This is making me unhappy. And it’s making you unhappy. And Tonya, she’s a good woman. It’s making her—”
“Don’t tell me how she feels, Clinton. That is not a way to open my heart,” Jada snapped.
“It isn’t easy to be a black man in a white man’s world,” Clinton said.
“Oh, spare me. It isn’t easy to be a black woman. And I’m starting to think it isn’t easy to be a white woman, either. It isn’t easy to be anything in this world, Clinton. That’s why we have churches.”
“Jada, I have prayed over this. Tonya and I have prayed over this together.” Jada rolled her eyes, but Clinton ignored that. “All I want to do is try to explain how hard it—”
“Stop explaining, start deciding,” she said. “Look on the bright side, Clinton. You have the choice—your family or your mistress. That’s a lot more choices than most people get. But I’m telling you, you can’t have both. So if you don’t make a decision, I’m making it for you. And this time, Clinton, there is no flexibility. Next week I move all your stuff out of here and into the garage. I’ll tell the children and I’ll tell Reverend Grant. I’ll go to a lawyer. So by next Wednesday, your decision is made, either by you or by me.” She turned her back on him and tucked in her blouse. She did it so hard she broke a nail and caught it on the waistband of her pantyhose. Well, first her marriage, now her nail was broken. And it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Beside it was a photo of Shavonne holding Kevon when he was an infant.
Her babies. Her family. Jada knew the last few years had made her hard, and she didn’t like it, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Meanwhile, if she could only save her babies, give Shavonne and Kevon and Sherrilee something more to start their lives off with. She couldn’t let this decision be made for her as Clinton dithered and the clock ticked.
She found the strength to turn around and look at her husband. “Clinton, just think a moment. Your daddy ran out on you. His daddy ran out on him. You’re free to run out on your children, too. But that’s not what we promised them. They’re your babies, too. I think you want something better for them. I know I do, but I’ll take what you give me, Clinton. It’s just that I won’t put up with you and Tonya together, and have all of them at church talking. Plus allowing you here, takin’ up space in my house and my bed.”
“It’s my house, too,” Clinton protested. “For Christ sake’s woman, I built this bed.”
“Then take the damn bed over to Tonya’s,” Jada snapped. “And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in this house. Point is, you can live here with me and the children if you want to try again to be a family. Or you can live with Tonya. She’s got kids, don’t she? Two? Three? Four? By how many men? Well, you can have them or yours. You just can’t have both.”
“I don’t want both,” Clinton whined. “I just don’t know what I want.”
As if she cared, Jada thought. “Well, you have a week to figure it out,” she told him. Dressed now, she clicked across the floor in her high heels. She was in the hallway before she remembered, turned back, and put her head back into the bedroom. “Oh, and Clinton,” Jada told him. “You better begin to find your own gas money.” She slammed the door and went to say good-bye to Sherrilee before she left for work.
Economically containing both Michelle’s bustier and bust
Michelle squatted to the floor to pick up yet another Disney action figure, pushing the bones of the bustier she was wearing up into her ribs. Don’t do housework dressed like Nasty Spice, Michelle told herself. This is what you get.
Ah, the pull between passion and prudence. Of course, she could just leave the stuff lying around, but though she sometimes wanted to dress like a high-class hooker for Frank, Michelle knew beneath her uplifted cleavage beat the heart of a very tidy housewife. In fact, she was probably a little neurotic about it. Having grown up with filth around her, as an adult she was constantly cleaning. Maybe she should get a French maid’s costume. She smiled at the thought as she picked up the red plastic toy. Frankie had so many of the things Michelle couldn’t tell who they were anymore. Was it because he was a boy or the second child? Back in Jenna’s day, Michelle had known the difference between a Little Mermaid and a Belle, but now the Hercules/Aladdin/Moses continuum was too confusing. She sighed, and guiltily wished Frankie had stuck with the Lion King. Somehow he had more toys but less attention than Jenna had gotten.
Once down at carpet level, Michelle noticed half a dozen Legos under the ottoman—good thing she hadn’t vacuumed. She’d hoovered up more Micro Machine pieces than any Electrolux could be expected to eat. Pookie was chewing on his plastic bone and