the walk-in closet big enough to be another bedroom. Gucci,
Vuitton, Prada, Armani, and more surround her. She grabs on to the built-in dresser to balance herself and gasps for air.
Left foot then right, she kicks off her high heels and slips into her fuzzy slippers. Eyes blurry, she feels for the corner
shelf full of carry-on totes and yanks at a black travel bag. She needs panties; one pair goes in. She needs a bra; five go
in. The charger for her cell phone, a candle, jogging bra, sweats, jasmine perfume, a sweater, a cocktail dress Randall gave
her two years ago.
Lena emerges from the closet wrapped in a wool coat better suited to a winter freeze than this spring night. Her lipstick
is smeared, her face wrenched as tightly as the handkerchief she still holds on to. “I would expect that my husband would
side with me, not with his
colleague
.” She avoids Randall’s eyes, his seeming nonchalance when she crosses in front of him and snatches Tina’s book from the nightstand
drawer. “How can I sleep beside someone who won’t stand up for me? Who gives me an ultimatum that could change my life but
doesn’t even bother to ask what I decided?”
“I take it the fancy gym bag means you’ve decided.” This is the icy tone that makes Randall the great businessman sought after
by corporations looking for more than just a black face to fill some arbitrary affirmative action slot. Lena shivers in the
doorway, her back to Randall. Stay. That is all he has to say, and she will put down her bag. Get up from the chair and hold
her tight is all he has to do, and she will stay.
“I’d think twice if I were you, Lena. You’re the one who’s got everything to lose.”
“Maybe it all stops here.”
“Maybe it all stops. Period.”
Lena prays that her keys are in her purse, her purse in the kitchen so that she does not have to go back into that room or
look at Randall. She pauses, then sets one foot ahead of the other in the same thoughtful way she did when John Henry walked
her down the aisle, all the way down the stairs and to the garage to give Randall time to act. Night camouflages her car while
she watches her bedroom window from the driveway. After ten minutes the bedroom lights darken, and Lena drives away.
Chapter 9
A t the grand hotel on the Oakland-Berkeley border a rosemary bush hedges the front of the building and releases its savory
fragrance when Lena brushes up against it. Fresh rosemary is the herb she loves most, a pleasure for the tongue and the nose.
Sure she looks like a hooker, all dolled up with no place to go, she hands the night clerk her platinum credit card and demands
a room. He examines her from head to toe, this young man ensconced behind the well-oiled, wood-paneled counter in a pin-striped
suit and gold badge, his name and place of birth engraved on it in two lines: Ali from Kenya. His eyes are shadowed by a furrowed
brow as if she should be ashamed of checking in to his high-ceilinged, Oriental-carpeted hotel by herself at midnight, as
if she should be ashamed of her fuzzy slippers, the pooled mascara under her light brown eyes, and her thousand-dollar designer
tote.
Lena grunts from the doubt that cramps her insides; she has no place to go. She has no plan—her tote is evidence of that.
Whether she charges this hotel for one night or a thousand, she cannot pay the bill. She has no real money. Snatching her
upscale credit card back from Ali, Lena turns around and stalks out the lobby; her back dares him to say one more word to
her so that she can scream, “Fuck you and Randall, too.”
When the valet hands Lena her keys, she sits in the car under the poorly lit portico until he goes back into his little booth.
Lena picks through her bag and pulls out her book and lets it fall open to a random page for guidance.
“
Some of these people read cards, some read the stars… Some of them weren’t for real but others gave me something to
Vuitton, Prada, Armani, and more surround her. She grabs on to the built-in dresser to balance herself and gasps for air.
Left foot then right, she kicks off her high heels and slips into her fuzzy slippers. Eyes blurry, she feels for the corner
shelf full of carry-on totes and yanks at a black travel bag. She needs panties; one pair goes in. She needs a bra; five go
in. The charger for her cell phone, a candle, jogging bra, sweats, jasmine perfume, a sweater, a cocktail dress Randall gave
her two years ago.
Lena emerges from the closet wrapped in a wool coat better suited to a winter freeze than this spring night. Her lipstick
is smeared, her face wrenched as tightly as the handkerchief she still holds on to. “I would expect that my husband would
side with me, not with his
colleague
.” She avoids Randall’s eyes, his seeming nonchalance when she crosses in front of him and snatches Tina’s book from the nightstand
drawer. “How can I sleep beside someone who won’t stand up for me? Who gives me an ultimatum that could change my life but
doesn’t even bother to ask what I decided?”
“I take it the fancy gym bag means you’ve decided.” This is the icy tone that makes Randall the great businessman sought after
by corporations looking for more than just a black face to fill some arbitrary affirmative action slot. Lena shivers in the
doorway, her back to Randall. Stay. That is all he has to say, and she will put down her bag. Get up from the chair and hold
her tight is all he has to do, and she will stay.
“I’d think twice if I were you, Lena. You’re the one who’s got everything to lose.”
“Maybe it all stops here.”
“Maybe it all stops. Period.”
Lena prays that her keys are in her purse, her purse in the kitchen so that she does not have to go back into that room or
look at Randall. She pauses, then sets one foot ahead of the other in the same thoughtful way she did when John Henry walked
her down the aisle, all the way down the stairs and to the garage to give Randall time to act. Night camouflages her car while
she watches her bedroom window from the driveway. After ten minutes the bedroom lights darken, and Lena drives away.
Chapter 9
A t the grand hotel on the Oakland-Berkeley border a rosemary bush hedges the front of the building and releases its savory
fragrance when Lena brushes up against it. Fresh rosemary is the herb she loves most, a pleasure for the tongue and the nose.
Sure she looks like a hooker, all dolled up with no place to go, she hands the night clerk her platinum credit card and demands
a room. He examines her from head to toe, this young man ensconced behind the well-oiled, wood-paneled counter in a pin-striped
suit and gold badge, his name and place of birth engraved on it in two lines: Ali from Kenya. His eyes are shadowed by a furrowed
brow as if she should be ashamed of checking in to his high-ceilinged, Oriental-carpeted hotel by herself at midnight, as
if she should be ashamed of her fuzzy slippers, the pooled mascara under her light brown eyes, and her thousand-dollar designer
tote.
Lena grunts from the doubt that cramps her insides; she has no place to go. She has no plan—her tote is evidence of that.
Whether she charges this hotel for one night or a thousand, she cannot pay the bill. She has no real money. Snatching her
upscale credit card back from Ali, Lena turns around and stalks out the lobby; her back dares him to say one more word to
her so that she can scream, “Fuck you and Randall, too.”
When the valet hands Lena her keys, she sits in the car under the poorly lit portico until he goes back into his little booth.
Lena picks through her bag and pulls out her book and lets it fall open to a random page for guidance.
“
Some of these people read cards, some read the stars… Some of them weren’t for real but others gave me something to
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