The Confrontation: Marriage, Loyalty, and Betrayal
“It’s between her and Roy. They are the ones married.”“He has been gone five years,” I said, calculating the **long-term incarceration** timeline. “And we thought he had about seven more to go.”“But he’s out now,” Big Roy said, emphasizing the **legal marriage** bond. “Young people don’t respect the institution. But I’ll tell you, back when I married Olive, marriage was so sacred that everyone aimed for a wife that was fresh, just out of her father’s house. They tried to warn me away from her because she had a child, but I didn’t listen to nothing but my heart.”“Sir,” I said. “I can’t say what I think about the **institution of marriage** in general, but I know where things stand with me and Celestial.”“But you don’t know where things stand with Roy and her. That’s the only thing I care about. I don’t give a damn about you and your feelings. Only thing that matters to me is my boy.” Big Roy shifted forward; I thought he was going to hit me, but he reached for the remote and activated the television. On the screen, a chef was demonstrating some kind of miracle blender.I didn’t say anything for maybe a minute until the phone rang, long and loud like a fire alarm.“I thought you said it was disconnected.”“I lied,” he said, raising his eyebrows, a classic **plot twist** in their power struggle.“I wouldn’t have figured you for this,” I said, feeling the weight of **betrayal** and **family expectations**. I was tired of being subjected to the whims of fathers—Roy’s, Celestial’s, and my own. “I thought you were about honor. Your word is your bond, all of that.”“You know”—this time he was smiling—“I felt bad about telling you that lie, until you believed it.” Now the smile bent into a smirk. “Tell me, do I look like someone who can’t pay my bills?”He chuckled, low and slow, but built up momentum with every breath. I swiveled my head, looking around for hidden cameras. This day was unspooling like a **romantic comedy**, one in which I don’t get the girl.“Come on,” Big Roy said. “Sometimes all you can do is laugh.” And I did. At first, I was driven by an urge to be polite, to humor an old man, but something in my chest lubricated and I cackled like a crazy person, the way you let loose when you suspect that God isn’t laughing with you but laughing at you.“But let me tell you one thing more,” he said, cutting off his chuckle like water at a tap.
The Request: A Fair Fight for Love and Loyalty
“I’m happy to let you stay the night, but I’m asking you not to use my phone. You have been alone with Celestial for what, five years? You had all that time to make a case for yourself. Give Roy this one night. I see that you feel the need to **fight for her**, but let it be a **fair fight**.”“I want to check and make sure she’s all right,” I said, expressing the **emotional concern** that drives my **relationship commitment**.“She’s all right. You know Roy Junior isn’t going to harm her. Besides, she knows the number. If she had something to say, she would have called you.”“But that could have been her calling a little while ago,” I countered, sensing the **betrayal** in the air.The elder Roy picked up the remote again like a gavel, a symbol of **patriarchal authority**. When he shut off the television, the room was so quiet that I could hear the crickets outside. “Listen, I’m doing for Roy what your own **father** would do for you.”
Hauntings and Heritage: The Ghost of a Marriage
I used to see him sometimes, so I had become accustomed to the stuttered breath, the dancing hairs on my suddenly cold arms and neck. You can live with **ghosts**. Gloria says that her mother returned to her every Sunday morning for over a year. Gloria would be looking in the mirror rouging her lips, and over her left shoulder was her mother, freshly buried, but alive again in the glass. Sometimes she hoisted me on her hip. “Do you see your nana?” All I could see was my own reflection, ribboned and ready for Sunday school.“It’s okay,” Gloria said. “She can see you.” My father thinks this is ridiculous. His denomination, he says, is **Empiricism**. If you can’t count it, measure it, or gauge it with **science**, it didn’t happen. Gloria didn’t mind that he didn’t believe her because she enjoyed having her mirror mother all to herself.I never glimpsed Roy’s face in a pan of water or scorched into a slice of toast. My husband’s ghost showed itself in the guise of other men, almost always young, haircuts **Easter sharp** year-round. They didn’t always share his physical attributes; no, they were as diverse as humanity. But I recognized them by the **ambition** that clung to their skins like spicy cologne, the slight breeze of power that stirred the air, and finally, a **mourning** that left my mouth tasting of ash.
Gender Roles and Relationship Sacrifice
On the eve of Christmas Eve, Andre was burning up the interstate heading west, then south, to do my duty. I should have known better than to send a man to do a woman’s job. But he insisted, “Let me do this for you,” and I was relieved. I don’t know what has happened to me. I used to be brave.As we danced at my **wedding reception**, my father had said, “Let the man be the man sometimes.” Giddy with **love and champagne**, I laughed at him. “What does that even mean? Let him stand up to pee?”Daddy said, “At some point you will come to accept your **limitations**.”“Do you accept yours?” I asked, with challenge in my voice.“But of course, Ladybug. That’s what **marriage teaches you**.”And I laughed at that, too, as he spun me dizzy. “Not my marriage. It’s going to be different.ON THE EVE of Christmas Eve-Eve, I packed Andre’s **overnight bag** with clean clothes, preparing for a journey that tested the very fabric of our **commitment**.
Departure and the Drive for Independence
I packed Andre’s overnight bag with blister packs of remedies in case he was struck with a headache, insomnia, or flu. Early the next morning I stood in the driveway as he rolled away, careful not to cut his wheels and hurt the lawn—December brown but alive underneath. My legs tensed like they wanted to chase him and bring him back to my warm kitchen, but my arm waved and my lips said good-bye.And then I went to work.**POUPÉES** occupied **prime real estate**, where Virginia Avenue crossed Highland. This neighborhood was a kind of Candy Land populated by **renovated manors**, adorable **bungalows**, cute cafes, and **pricey boutiques**. The ice cream parlors served generous scoops, hand-dipped by college-bound teenagers who spoke through colorful orthodontia. The only inconvenience was parking, and that was just trouble enough to make you appreciate the rest.Southwest Atlanta was my home—no later accidents of geography could ever change that—but sometimes I could picture Andre and me living on the northeast side of town or even in **Decatur**. I didn’t want a fresh start, but maybe a little **breathing room** would be nice. We’d have to leave Old Hickey behind, but **antique magnolias** thrived in the Highlands, a different energy, but we’d adjust.
Artistry, Worth, and the Boutique Experience
When I arrived at the store, my assistant was already there. As I booted up the computers, Tamar fitted little antlers and red noses on the **poupées** in the front window. I watched her steady concentration, her **attention to detail**, and I thought that maybe she was my better-case scenario. Prettier and ten years younger, she could play me in the movie of my life.Tamar created **intricate miniature quilts** for the dolls, and I told her to sign each one. They hardly sold because they were as expensive as the dolls, but I refused to let her lower the price. **“Know your worth,”** I told her. The mother of a son born the week before she finished her master’s degree at **Emory**, Tamar was slightly to the left of respectability, exactly where she liked to be.This close to Christmas, the dolls remaining in the store were like the kids who didn’t get picked for kickball. Some of them were **flawed on purpose**; I made the eyebrows too thick or gave the doll a long torso with short stubby legs. Somewhere out there was a girl or boy who needed to treasure something **not quite perfect**. These dolls, as crooked as real children, lined the shelves like eager orphans. Only one beautiful poupée remained, adorably symmetrical, chubby-cheeked and shiny-eyed. Tamar fitted him with wings and a halo and then suspended him from the ceiling using fishing line.Once the display was situated, Tamar said, “Ready to rumble?”
The Ticking Clock of Business and Motherhood
I consulted my watch, a gift from Andre. Old-fashioned, I wound it every morning. As pretty as a baby, it was heavy and noisy, jerking slightly as the seconds ticked—a reminder of the **investment in quality** and time. I nodded and unlocked the glass door, and we were open for business.The store became busy, but sales were sluggish. Often someone held a doll and couldn’t quite figure out what was so disquieting and returned it to the shelf and looked away. But, as they say, I couldn’t complain. By the 25th, they would all be cozy under somebody’s tree.After lunch, Tamar was antsy, fluffing and patting the dolls like pillows. “What’s wrong?” I asked at last.She used her hand to indicate her magnificent bosom. “I need to pump. Seriously. In five more minutes I’m going to pop a button.”“Where’s the baby?”“He’s with my mother. I tell you, the thrill of grandbabies will make even the most refined mother forgive you for getting knocked up.” She laughed, happy with the cards in her hand, showcasing the **modern motherhood** journey.“Okay,” I said. “Go home and feed him. I’ll be okay here till close. But do me a favor and pick up some **muslin fabric** and bring it by my place. We’ll have a holiday toast.” I wasn’t even done talking and she was already struggling to button her coat.“Do not buy the baby a pair of three-hundred-dollar sneakers,” I told her, handing over a **holiday bonus**. She laughed, all Christmas and light, and swore that she wouldn’t. “But I can’t promise not to buy him a leather jacket!” And then I watched my delighted could-have-been self walk out the door.
Atlanta Lifestyle and the Art of the Sale
A few hours later, I was almost ready to close when a good-looking man dressed in a tan wool coat walked into the shop, announced by a jangle of bells. He was **100 percent Atlanta**, his shirt still immaculate at the end of the business day. He seemed tired but upbeat, the epitome of the **professional father** searching for the perfect gift.“I need a gift for my daughter,” he said. “Her birthday is today. She’s seven; I need to get her something nice and I need it fast.”He didn’t wear a ring, so I figured him to be a **weekend dad** navigating **co-parenting**. I walked him around the shop and his eyes bounced off all the remaining dolls, the cheerful ragamuffins.“Are you from here?” he asked suddenly. “Are you a native?”I pointed at my chest. “**Southwest Atlanta**: born, bred, and buttered.”