father too.
—
“George’s fucking some white dude and he hasn’t lived here in a year,” Tosha tells me in the garage. It seems so improbable, illogical, that I just say
who?
, but she ignores me. “He just comes over for breakfast, tells the kids he’s working the late shift. He tells me we’re just separated, but he’s leaving me. I know it, I fucking know he is.”
“Who is?” I ask again, but it’s such a stupid question she doesn’t answer and I don’t expect her to, so I follow with “Who with?” after an appropriate pause.
“I don’t know but I’m going to prove it, too. I’ve got him under surveillance,” Tosha tells me. I look at her, and I try not to smile, but there’s a little hint there because I’m thinking she must be wrong. I’m not willing for her marriage to be in trouble. They have everything I am sure brings happiness. They have two beautiful kids, and one okay-looking one. They have a big house, a big solid six-bedroom house made of fieldstone and old wood and it looks sturdy enough to withstand a hurricane or tornado, even though none of those things happen in Philadelphia. George is a detective. George is a black detective. That’s about as close as you can get to being a superhero. Tosha, her lips still full, her nose still broad and bold, is an African goddess sent tohumble the racists who would mock any aspect of black femininity. She still stuns me, when I look over at her. Tosha’s thick thighs can run half marathons and her red tongue can quote from
Hamlet
in the exact voice of Maya Angelou. If these two aren’t happy, if they can’t make it work with all the tools at their disposal, we are all doomed, and I refuse to accept that. I shake my head
no
, but she doesn’t heed me.
“He’s not supposed to see anyone, that was the agreement. Keep things clean. But when I call him at night? Not there. He says he’s going to the gym when he isn’t at the place he’s renting.
For hours?
Yeah, right. I don’t have, like, prosecutable evidence. But I know. It’s over. He’s just too much of a coward to make it official.”
“You don’t know,” I tell her. She’s filing her nails with an emery board she just plucked from her back pocket. The filing thing: I have seen her do this over the years when she is angry. First time I saw her do it, I thought she was sharpening them to scratch someone’s eyes out. “You don’t know. You’re probably just in a rough patch. Relationships go up, they go down. It’s just in a recess right now. Why would he be with anyone else? Especially another guy?”
“He swore it wasn’t another woman, and it has to be someone. I tried to have sex with him, four months ago, tried to put my head down there. It smelled like hair conditioner. I did the research, Warren. That’s what they do. That’s what lying scumbag husbands do: they wash their cocks with perfumed conditioner so you can’t smell the whore on them.”
“That crackhead: she was actually in my house. She broke in my house last night,” I shoot back at her. “Just in and out. Didn’t take anything, but still.” It’s a horrible transition. It’s supposed to be a horrible, noticeable transition. It’s supposed to signal that I am not comfortable with the chosen topic, so let’s leave it behind. I almost tell Tosha I’m planning on burning the place down just to shut her up, but I really am so keep that bit quiet.
Tosha, grinding with her emery board fiercely enough that I can see cuticle dust pouring down, ignores this response and answers whatever question I should have asked instead.
“Am I ugly now? Am I hideous? You used to say I was attractive. Am I still attractive? I’m a frumpy mom. Look at me. What happened to me?”
“You’re still beautiful. Very beautiful,” I tell her, and she is, but I can’t look at her right now. Instead, I look at the motorcycle, parked on the side of the garage. It’s still never been dropped. There’s some
—
“George’s fucking some white dude and he hasn’t lived here in a year,” Tosha tells me in the garage. It seems so improbable, illogical, that I just say
who?
, but she ignores me. “He just comes over for breakfast, tells the kids he’s working the late shift. He tells me we’re just separated, but he’s leaving me. I know it, I fucking know he is.”
“Who is?” I ask again, but it’s such a stupid question she doesn’t answer and I don’t expect her to, so I follow with “Who with?” after an appropriate pause.
“I don’t know but I’m going to prove it, too. I’ve got him under surveillance,” Tosha tells me. I look at her, and I try not to smile, but there’s a little hint there because I’m thinking she must be wrong. I’m not willing for her marriage to be in trouble. They have everything I am sure brings happiness. They have two beautiful kids, and one okay-looking one. They have a big house, a big solid six-bedroom house made of fieldstone and old wood and it looks sturdy enough to withstand a hurricane or tornado, even though none of those things happen in Philadelphia. George is a detective. George is a black detective. That’s about as close as you can get to being a superhero. Tosha, her lips still full, her nose still broad and bold, is an African goddess sent tohumble the racists who would mock any aspect of black femininity. She still stuns me, when I look over at her. Tosha’s thick thighs can run half marathons and her red tongue can quote from
Hamlet
in the exact voice of Maya Angelou. If these two aren’t happy, if they can’t make it work with all the tools at their disposal, we are all doomed, and I refuse to accept that. I shake my head
no
, but she doesn’t heed me.
“He’s not supposed to see anyone, that was the agreement. Keep things clean. But when I call him at night? Not there. He says he’s going to the gym when he isn’t at the place he’s renting.
For hours?
Yeah, right. I don’t have, like, prosecutable evidence. But I know. It’s over. He’s just too much of a coward to make it official.”
“You don’t know,” I tell her. She’s filing her nails with an emery board she just plucked from her back pocket. The filing thing: I have seen her do this over the years when she is angry. First time I saw her do it, I thought she was sharpening them to scratch someone’s eyes out. “You don’t know. You’re probably just in a rough patch. Relationships go up, they go down. It’s just in a recess right now. Why would he be with anyone else? Especially another guy?”
“He swore it wasn’t another woman, and it has to be someone. I tried to have sex with him, four months ago, tried to put my head down there. It smelled like hair conditioner. I did the research, Warren. That’s what they do. That’s what lying scumbag husbands do: they wash their cocks with perfumed conditioner so you can’t smell the whore on them.”
“That crackhead: she was actually in my house. She broke in my house last night,” I shoot back at her. “Just in and out. Didn’t take anything, but still.” It’s a horrible transition. It’s supposed to be a horrible, noticeable transition. It’s supposed to signal that I am not comfortable with the chosen topic, so let’s leave it behind. I almost tell Tosha I’m planning on burning the place down just to shut her up, but I really am so keep that bit quiet.
Tosha, grinding with her emery board fiercely enough that I can see cuticle dust pouring down, ignores this response and answers whatever question I should have asked instead.
“Am I ugly now? Am I hideous? You used to say I was attractive. Am I still attractive? I’m a frumpy mom. Look at me. What happened to me?”
“You’re still beautiful. Very beautiful,” I tell her, and she is, but I can’t look at her right now. Instead, I look at the motorcycle, parked on the side of the garage. It’s still never been dropped. There’s some
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