“Exactly. Money doesn’t equal happiness. That’s why I hate those fake-ass Atlanta people who support that status bullshit. I—”
“I know,” I said, stopping him. “I just need to get myself together—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Reginald perked up suddenly. “I can get the kids to bed. Give you some time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I’ll get R. J. He needs to read his—”
“Dawn, I have it,” Reginald said. He pointed to the open door beneath the sink. “As you were.”
After responding to Sasha’s text saying I was happy to hear from her and giving her my address, I dyed my hair and sat in the living room under the dryer watching a prerecorded edition of her show. She was smiling at some handsome Indian doctor, talking about free health care and black women who suffered from fibroids. She held a pen that looked heavy and expensive in her hand and nodded as the doctor spoke. She looked so beautiful and smart and all I could think about was all of the years that had gone by and how much things had changed since we’d pledged Alpha together and sworn to never lose touch.
I finished folding a pile of clothes that had been sitting on the ottoman in the living room for two weeks and replayed the episode.
2
Reginald made good on his promise to help. He even woke up early to cut the grass and prune the little rosebushes that edged the walkway to the front door. His parents had bought the house in the late ’60s. It was a humble little ranch they’d purchased outright with his father’s veteran’s benefits. Time took its toll on the house though. Wherever something could sag or chip, it did. We never had enough money for repairs—nothing beyond patch-ups. But it was comfortable and it was ours. It was home. Yet I knew it could never compare to whatever Sasha’s place looked like in Atlanta.
The clock ticked closer to the time Sasha was supposed to arrive. I finished poofing the pillows in the living room, organizing the fruit in the fruit bowl (I’d gone to the supermarket at 2:00 a.m.), and wrestling with Cheyenne’s hair. I got everyone into the living room for a meeting.
I lined them up and inspected kneecaps and clothing, and reviewed my expectations for the afternoon. No sports. No arguing. No fighting. No Internet. No yelling. No friends over. Everyone was to be on their best behavior. I felt silly for saying these things, but I knew my family. Reginald didn’t want Sasha there in the first place. Cheyenne was annoyed just to be annoyed. R. J. was already finding it hard to understand why his usual Saturday routine of going to the park had been disturbed.
I noticed a riotous hair between his eyebrows and slicked it down with a finger I’d wet with my spit.
“Yuck!” Cheyenne groaned as R. J. winced. “That’s nasty.”
“Cheyenne!” I called.
Reginald unbuttoned the top button of the shirt I’d laid out for him on the bed.
“Reginald!”
Now Cheyenne was scratching at her stockings.
“Can I take these off now?” she groaned. “It’s too hot for stupid stockings.”
R. J. rubbed his forehead and the long hair went back into a riot.
Reginald unbuttoned another button and looked at his watch for the third time.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “You sure she’s still coming?”
My arms at my sides, my hands in fists, I was completely annoyed. This was getting impossible.
“Everybody!” I shouted. “Listen, you are all going to have to focus. Just for me. Just for a minute. I told you my friend is coming and I need you all to act right; just for a little while.”
“Why, Mama? Why do we have to act right?” R. J. asked.
I looked from R. J. to Reginald, who shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s getting late, sweetie,” he said. “Maybe we should let the kids go outside and call them back when she gets here.”
“They’ll get dirty and Cheyenne’s hair will—” My list of grievances was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling onto the gravel in our driveway. The kids ran to the window.
A car door slammed. Reginald and I went to open the front door. There was a limousine idling behind the green pickup. The driver was out and preparing to open the back door.