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  Kai put photo paper in the printer and clicked print. This photo was sure to knock the smug smiles off the faces of Dr. and Mrs. Kenneth Harding. How dare he leave for vacation without telling her? And, having to be told the news by his secretary was the lowest blow of all. Kai wallowed in self-righteous indignation and preparing the photograph did little to assuage her injured ego. Just whom did he think he was dealing with? Surely he didn’t place her in the same category with the many grateful dull-witted women with whom he had dallied in the past—women who considered him the prize?

  She was the prize, dammit, and Dr. Kenneth Harding with his rarely hard—mostly flaccid—premature ejaculating little dick should have been honored to be in her presence, let alone her bed. The nerve of that bastard!

  Kai walked over to the living room window of her twenty-sixth-floor apartment and stared. Annoyed and feeling exposed by the view she usually enjoyed, she yanked the drapes closed. Throwing on workout attire, she slammed out of her apartment, planning to take out her frustration on the beanbag in her apartment building’s fitness center. Later, when her mind was more settled, she’d focus her concentration on the most effective way to deliver the goods: FedEx, snail mail, or maybe she’d have it hand-delivered. She’d figure it out later, she told herself as she absently pushed for the elevator and stepped in. Deep in thought, she ignored the other passengers. She considered sprinkling the package with anthrax for good measure. No! That would be overkill. Kai burst out laughing, taking great delight in her wicked sense of humor. Her unexpected laughter caused the passengers to jump in startled unison.

  Attempting to calm herself and control her public outbursts, Kai decided that the unimpeachable photographic evidence of the good doctor’s infidelity would be more than enough to rock the lily-white utopian world of Dr. and Mrs. Harding.

  Chapter Three

  The alleged culinary delights scrawled on the chalkboard menu in the cafeteria left Terelle unenthused: chicken tenders, hot dogs, cream of mushroom soup, peas, and mashed potatoes. Don, the cheerful attendant who served the food, patiently waited for her decision. She shook her head and moved toward the salad bar. Nothing appealing there either. If you didn’t get your salad on Monday, you were shit outta luck. It was Wednesday and everything looked wilted and sickly. The bowl containing fake seafood salad looked contaminated. Terelle continued to push her empty tray and stopped at the deli section. She ordered a turkey sandwich on whole wheat, chips, and a soda. There was a long line behind her. The sandwich maker was also the cashier and until the sandwich was made, the line did not move.

  Melanie, who worked in the laundry department, motioned Terelle over to her table. Terelle didn’t feel like listening to Melanie talk a mile a minute; she needed solitude to try to work out some of her problems, but not wanting to appear rude, she reluctantly joined her co-worker.

  “Hey, Melanie. Your hair looks nice,” Terelle said, indicating Melanie’s short blonde weave.

  “Thanks. Girl, how come you don’t do nothin’ with all that long pretty hair you got?”

  “I’ll get around to it one day. For now, pulling it back into a ponytail is easier.”

  “You ain’t gonna catch a man that way,” Melanie added, winking.

  “Whatever,” Terelle said, shrugging Melanie knew damn well that Terelle’s man was in jail. She had probably heard that Marquise was getting out soon and wanted details straight from the source.

  But Terelle didn’t have any details. Those house arrest people didn’t tell her jack shit. They said Marquise was on a waiting list. The only thing keeping him and Terelle apart was the availability of a monitor. As soon as one of those black boxes became available Marquise would be released immediately. The word immediately should have made Terelle feel good, but it didn’t. She felt panicked because without a definite release date she couldn’t even ask for the time off from work. What would happen, she’d asked, if they released Marquise and she wasn’t home? She was told that they’d call first and if she weren’t home, Marquise’s box would be assigned to someone else. She hastily gave them the number to the nurses’ station on her unit, and assured the prison interviewers that she’d leave work the instant Marquise was released.

  “What? Don’t tell me you finally stopped waiting for that guy you was messin’ wit…the one in jail.”

  “Girl, I’m just chillin’,” Terelle said, without really giving up any information.

  Realizing that her half-ass sleuthing wasn’t going to work, Melanie changed the subject. “Guess who got fired?”

  Disinterested, Terelle lifted one brow. The latest victim of the nursing home’s swift and ever-swinging ax was juicy gossip to most employees, but Terelle was absorbed by her own personal dilemma.

  “Malik,” Melanie offered.

  “Who’s that?”

  “You know…the guy who works in Dietary.”

  “I don’t know anybody named Malik.” She really didn’t care either. She hoped Melanie’s lunch break would soon end.

  “Yes, you do,” Melanie insisted. Big guy—bald head. You know ’em. He stays wearing a new pair of Tims. Thinks he’s all dat.

  “Oh, yeah,” Terelle said halfheartedly.

  “Girl, you ain’t gonna believe what his ass was doing?”

  Terelle cocked her head to the side.

  Melanie looked around the room and then leaned forward. “Girl, he was selling drugs to the young adult residents.”

  “You know you’re lying,” Terelle said, laughing despite herself.

  “I swear! They got him on tape. His dumb ass should know they got cameras all over the place.”

  “What was he selling—crack?”

  “No. I heard he was selling weed. And check this out…he been stealing them little cups off the med cart. You know…them little plastic cups they put the pills in?”

  Terelle nodded. “Stealing them for what?”

  “Girl, he was selling the older residents shots of cheap liquor for a dollar a cup. “You know most of those old people—the women and the men—most of ’em been alcoholics since back in the day.”

  “How do you know? You work in Laundry; you don’t read their charts.”

  “And you’re just a nursing assistant; you don’t read the charts either, but you hear things, don’t you? Well, so do I. Ain’t no secrets in this place.”

  Obviously miffed, Melanie looked at the big institutional clock on the wall, pushed back her chair and was positioned in a half-stand when the new social worker walked in. Melanie sat back down. “You like her?” she whispered with a sneer.

  “I don’t know her.”

  “She don’t speak to none of the black people. I can’t stand bitches like her that be hatin’ their own kind.”

  “That’s her business; I don’t give a shit.” Terelle wanted to be alone.

  “Just lettin’ you know before you start acting all Joe friendly with her.”

  “Thanks,” Terelle said. Her tone was flat.

  Leaving the lunchroom, Melanie mixed in with other uniform-wearing women. The uniforms, a rainbow of colors with every department in the nursing home represented by a different shade: royal blue for Housekeeping, light blue for Laundry, beige for Dietary, green for Recreation, brown for Plant Operations, and the nursing staff wore a variety of cheery pastel-colored scrubs.

  When the social worker came into Terelle’s field of vision, she zoomed in on her name badge. Kai Montgomery. Tall, model thin and exotically beautiful, Kai oozed with self-confidence. Terelle took notice of Kai’s chin-length hair. Fashionably coiffed light-brown ringlets with subtle blonde highlights framed her face. Nice.

  Terelle had always felt ill at ease around women like Kai. Kai wore a gray cashmere sweater and slacks. Expensive-looking jewelry hung from her neck and dangled from her wrists. Her black and gray suede pumps looked like they cost a bundle, too. Terelle looked down critically at her own shapeless nursing uniform and beat-up sneakers and felt extremely unattractive and poor. Looking up, s
he watched with great interest as Kai placed a cup of soup on her tray. No crackers. With her back now facing Terelle, the social worker glided toward the cashier. She extracted money from a classy thin leather wallet.

  Someone had told her that social workers didn’t make much money. Well, someone lied because this social worker definitely had it going on. Maybe she should reconsider that eighteen-month licensed nursing program she was going to sign up for and look into becoming a social worker?

  Stabbed by feelings of inadequacy, Terelle looked down when Kai turned around.

  Kai left the lunchroom with her soup. Apparently averse to mingling with the support staff, many of the professional staff preferred to eat in their offices. Terelle bit into her sandwich. Deep in thought, she chewed without much enjoyment.

  She tried to cheer herself up with thoughts of Marquise, but couldn’t. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving—the third Thanksgiving without him. Christmas, she hoped, would be different. It had to be. She was scared, always broke, tired and very lonely. Massaging both temples, she lowered her head.

  Chapter Four

  “I have a migraine, mother! My head feels like it’s about to explode. Please stop interrogating me!”

  “This is not an interrogation, darling. I’m concerned. Your father will be extremely upset,” Miranda Montgomery said on the other end of the telephone.

  “Upset about what? My migraine or that my seat will be empty, ruining your picture-perfect Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm, dear. What’s gotten into you?”

  “How many times do I have to say it: I…have…a…headache!” Kai screamed the last word.

  “Well, it’s no wonder you have a headache. You’re so filled with animosity. Displaced animosity, I might add.”

  “Is that what your therapist told you, Mother?”

  “I have to go, Kai. Please be sure to call your father. He deserves to hear from you.”

  “Does he deserve to hear from me because he pays my rent?”

  “Among other things…,” Miranda said sarcastically, and then cleared her throat. “You should call and wish him a happy Thanksgiving because he’s your father.”

  “So they say,” Kai commented cruelly.

  “I have to go, Kai.” Miranda managed to sound unruffled, but Kai knew she had struck a nerve. Her lips curved into a satisfied smile. God, she hated her parents.

  They said she used to be a happy child, but she had only vague memories of happy times. Unhappy memories were quite vivid and haunted her. She recalled how her mother had cut her hair into a misshapen, lopsided Afro, causing classmates at the predominantly white elementary school she attended to point and ask obnoxious questions about her heritage.

  “Is Kai black?” Eric Raymond, one of her first-grade classmates, asked Mrs. Pauley, their teacher. Mrs. Pauley turned pale with embarrassment. “I’m not really sure, Eric, but that is an inappropriate question to ask and we shouldn’t…”

  “Are you black, Kai?” Eric interrupted.

  “I don’t think so,” Kai muttered, examining her hands.

  “Then why do you have hair like black people?” the little boy wanted to know.

  Kai was silent for a moment and then shrugged helplessly.

  Later that day, Kai tearfully told her mother what had happened. “Am I black?” she asked, her voice filled with fear.

  Her mother admitted that she was adopted and yes…she was part black, but Kai’s color didn’t matter. That she was dearly loved by both her parents was the only thing that mattered, her mother had told her.

  Being told that she was different made her feel less valuable than her parents. She blamed her mother. In her naïve, young mind, her true heritage would have remained a secret had her mother not cut her hair in that dreadful Afro.

  But her mother had felt she had no choice for unfortunately, Kai’s hair had become more wild and unmanageable every day. Sarah, the black housekeeper, usually combed Kai’s hair a few times a week. But Kai was in school now and her hair required daily upkeep. Miranda Montgomery didn’t possess the skills nor was she inclined to comb through Kai’s tangled mane day after day. Miranda’s solution was to chop it off.

  Years later, Kai would tell her own therapist that she felt her mother had disfigured her the day she cut her hair.

  Her hatred for her father began during her teens. She, a privileged young lady from Radnor, was doing volunteer work (a mandatory school project) in the impoverished city of Chester, Pennsylvania. The residents of Chester were accustomed to white volunteers from the Main Line but never a black volunteer. The few blacks living in Radnor had long ago distanced themselves from their country cousins and wouldn’t dream of venturing into the “wilds” of Chester to lend a helping hand.

  Kai’s presence in Chester puzzled the residents. She was obviously biracial, but assumed the attitude and dialect of a white girl. She was there to do her civic duty for the downtrodden blacks, and there was no recognition or sign of kinship in her eyes.

  Folks scratched their heads, trying to figure her out. Her last name is Montgomery, huh? Don’t that name sound familiar? Then old Miss Celestine, a historian of sorts, recalled the white doctor. The liberal. You know, the one who used to volunteer at the clinic a few days a week? Memories were refreshed. Tongues began to wag. The one who knocked up that black girl and then adopted the baby? It was a baby girl, wasn’t it? Uh-huh, she’d be about Kai’s age by now. Hmmm! What happened to the mother? Don’t know. She wasn’t from ’round here anyway. Didn’t she run off with some musician? Uh-huh, that’s right. Never heard from again.

  The gossip and speculations soon reached Kai’s ears; the seeds of suspicion were firmly planted. “How do you disown your own child?” Kai asked her father, years later when she finally mustered the nerve. “You say you adopted me because you love me, but I think you were motivated by guilt. So…if you have nothing to hide, let me see the adoption papers. My birth records. Be honest; tell me who I really am.”

  “Your birth records are sealed. Let’s leave it that way,” her father said, ending the subject.

  Screaming how much she hated her coldblooded lying-ass parents, Kai had pounded up the stairs to her bedroom and slammed the door. The subject was never mentioned again. Her parents never knew the degree of hurt nor the burning shame Kai felt regarding her heritage.

  Chapter Five

  The turkey was baked to perfection, but Terelle didn’t attempt to make the macaroni and cheese; it never turned out right, so Aunt Bennie (short for Benita) brought her delicious baked macaroni and cheese. Aunt Bennie lost points, however, when she tried to pass off a tub of canned Glory collards as homemade.

  “Addin’ some smoked turkey to canned food don’t make it homemade,” Gran complained. “And I still don’t see why we had to have Thanksgiving dinner in this cramped-up little apartment. Had me walkin’ up all those stairs…It’s a wonder my heart didn’t just up and explode.” Gran scowled as she sized up the small kitchen, the even smaller dining area and living room.

  “Mom, you know Terelle doesn’t want to miss Marquise’s call,” Aunt Bennie explained.

  “Oh, God!” Terelle glared at her aunt, chastising her with her eyes for bringing up Marquise’s name. Aunt Bennie shrugged; her expression asked: what did I do?

  Gran looked over her glasses at the phone suspiciously. “Terelle, you still payin’ for that boy to call you collect? You had to work overtime to pay for all those calls while you was livin’ with me. And don’t think I don’t know about all those expensive boots and sneakers and things you was sending him. What the hell he need that stuff for anyhow? He’s in jail! Don’t they have to wear them orange jumpsuits?”

  “Gran, why you worrying about what I do…as long as I take care of Keeta…”

  “Hmph! Lord, you ’bout as dumb as they come,” Gran interrupted. “Look at you! Out here struggling with a child, all on your own, and you mean to tell me you’re still lettin’ that boy run up your p
hone bill?”

  “Let’s eat.” Terelle began scooping collards on Gran’s plate. Best to stuff Gran’s mouth with food before she really became agitated and started aiming cuss words as sharp as an ax in Terelle’s direction. It didn’t matter that Markeeta was present. Once Gran got started, it wouldn’t matter if Christ himself were present at the table.

  Looking guilty, Aunt Bennie busied herself with the task of slicing the turkey.

  “Don’t give me no dark meat, ’cause I don’t like no dark meat,” Gran grumbled.

  “I know, I know. Calm down, Mom,” Aunt Bennie said.

  “How can I calm down? My oldest child is a damn drug addict…”

  “Cassy’s in recovery, Mom…”

  “My granddaughter is working like a mule to take care a man in jail, and my youngest daughter is a goddamn bulldagger,” Gran barked. Aunt Bennie’s mouth opened in wide protest.

  “It’s Thanksgiving, Gran. Please stop!” Terelle pleaded. “Aunt Bennie’s not gay.”

  “I ain’t said nothing about gay. I said she’s a bulldagger. She ain’t foolin’ me with her mannish self—walking around in her bedroom wearing men’s boxer shorts. It’s probably my own damn fault for giving her that nickname.” Gran sighed heavily, then went on, “At the time, I thought it was a cute way to shorten up Benita. But if I knew then what I know now…”

  “How you gonna tell me what I am? Lots of women wear boxers nowadays.”

  There was pain in Aunt Bennie’s eyes that Terelle took no pleasure in witnessing. If her aunt was actually gay, she needed to come out of the closet; hiding her sexual orientation was obviously a heavy burden.