We Ain’t the Brontës Page 3

  In my mind, I am going over every day of Lynzee’s and my life back in 1975. I can remember most of her friends, and I thought I knew all of her loves. I tagged along after her so much, I thought she’d get sick of me, but she didn’t—until that one time, when Lynzee was crying nonstop. She had started dating this college dude in January, and wouldn’t tell me his name. I remember that she gave up her virginity to him. He was on the basketball team. I was only thirteen then and didn’t realize the seriousness of her actions.

  They dated for several months and then he broke it off with her. I remember the conversation well. We were in the kitchen. I was washing dishes. Lynzee was on the phone.

  I heard her say, “You’re not serious!” Pause. “No, please don’t,” she begged. Another pause, this time longer. She dropped to the floor and covered her eyes. “Please. I deserve another chance.” Pause. “I’m begging you. Please don’t let it end this way.” There was another pause, and then I heard her scream. She hung up the phone, began crying profusely, and ran upstairs. I ran upstairs, too, but she made me get out. I remember her crying all night long.

  Now I wonder, was that Jett she was talking to? Had he been that cruel to her? Then I remember Jett told me that he played basketball in college.

  I remember that Lynzee went missing for a few months in her freshman year of college. She didn’t tell my mom and me where she was going; only that she needed some time to herself. She said she didn’t realize that college would be so stressful. Looking back, that must have been when she gave birth to her daughter.

  I catch myself feeling sorry for Lynzee. Then I think, why should I care? The horny bitch probably deserved every heartache she got.

  But why did they break up? Lynzee didn’t say why their relationship ended, and now the why is killing me. She said that I was Jett’s second choice, but if my memories are correct, that can’t be true. He’d broken up with her long before he and I got together. As far as I’m concerned, Lynzee is lying.

  I think back to our early childhood. We had a few fist fights, which, up until I turned twelve, Lynzee usually won. I guess the sibling rivalry started when I was a child. I was a straight A student and Lynzee was just an average student, making Bs and Cs. She hated the praise our mother always lavished on me. Moreover, Lynzee was the attractive child, so in an effort to compensate, my mother dressed me better. Lynzee was always jealous of the pretty clothes I wore. My mother felt I needed the edge.

  Even so, we were close. When she wasn’t putting me in my place, Lynzee always looked out for me. To this day, she still tries to maintain the role of “the big sister.” Never in a million years would I think I’d be confronted with an issue like this. Lynzee has a daughter by my husband? I don’t want to believe it.

  I think about Lynzee’s recent demands that I stop writing under my maiden name. I truly believe she’s jealous that I’m a writer too. She wants to see my career fail. Have I been blind to my sister’s true feelings about me? Jett has told me she can’t stand that we’ve been married for so long. Does she just want my life? Is her jealousy so deep that she would make up a story as preposterous as this?

  For the next few days, I watch every move Jett makes. I even watch him when he’s sleeping. I can’t sleep. I’m deeply depressed. I feel all alone. I can only reminisce about the bad old days and see ugly pictures inside of my head. Jett really has a temper, and although he’s never hit me, I don’t want to think of how he’ll react if I confront him. If Lynzee is lying, will he be angry at me for believing such a negative story about him? And if he truly does have a daughter he doesn’t know about, will he be angry that I didn’t tell him as soon as I knew?

  Is my marriage over? Who is Jett? Is he the cruel lover who hurts virgins and casts them aside, or is he the kind and benevolent man that I’ve learned to love? Do I even know my husband?

  I toss and turn all night, unable to decide what I should do.

  4

  As if all the drama in my personal life isn’t bad enough, I receive a call from my agent, Arlene Meeks, that throws me for a loop. “Gene liked this proposal much better than the others. He made an offer.”

  Gene Sloan is my editor at Mitchell and Montague.

  My heart feels like it’s going to burst. “Tell me!” I say like a real smartass.

  “Fifty thousand.”

  I have no heart, I have no soul. I feel like I’ve been raped. A part of me feels like I’m dying. “He can’t be serious. They pay first-time authors more than that.”

  Arlene is serious as hell. “Not anymore they don’t. That’s it, Charity. I’m sorry.”

  “But why? You said that he liked my story.”

  “Yes, but their argument is that your sales are down and you haven’t earned out your advance on your last five books. They’re not willing to spend that much money on you again until you prove yourself.”

  I can’t speak. I only envision the bank foreclosing on my home. With Mitchell’s pitiful offer, I can’t pay my house notes, I can’t pay my car notes, I can’t pay my housekeeper, I can’t buy clothes, and I can’t take a vacation. What in the hell am I going to do?

  “If I were you, I’d take it,” Arlene says. “I’ve been checking around, and I don’t think any publisher is willing to shell out another million dollars for your work right now.”

  Damn is she blunt.

  “What about self-publishing?” I ask nervously.

  “I wouldn’t. But can you afford it anyway? Do you have about forty grand lying around?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Then take it.”

  I am humbled beyond words. How am I ever going to face my husband and kids? How are they going to feel about me when I tell them that we’re going to have to move? “I’ll take it, Arlene. Call me back and tell me what happens.”

  Not an hour later, Arlene calls me back. “Charity, this is going to hurt like hell. I’m sorry, honey, really sorry. I don’t know how to say this—“

  “Arlene, will you stop stuttering and tell—?” I stop. Suddenly, I’d rather be horsewhipped than hear the rest. My heart is in knots, and I feel like knocking my computer off of my desk.

  “It’s no deal. Gene said that Mitchell and Montague don’t want to sign you after all. For any amount of money.”

  “Why?”

  “They say that you’re difficult to work with. You’re too much of a diva.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.”

  My tears are like syrup streaming down my cheeks. I can’t speak. My hands are shaking like an addict’s when I hang up the phone. I feel so alone, isolated from life.

  I want a drink. I want to get sloppy drunk and pass out. I want to forget that I ever dreamed of becoming a writer. I want to forget that I’m now considered a failure. I don’t want pity from my husband and my sons.

  I get a call from my friend Herman, who’s a mortician. He’s also what some people nowadays might call my “gay husband.” When he’s not at work, he loves to hang out with me. We’ve been friends since I moved to Memphis. Jett isn’t crazy about him for some reason. He says there’s just something about him that doesn’t feel right. I think Jett is just jealous of all the time I spend with my friend. Either way, Herman doesn’t come to our house very often.

  “Hey, what’s up, Charity?”

  “Life and all of its problems. I can’t seem to get a publishing contract. I can’t understand what’s happening. My work is good. I know it is.”

  “It’s not your work. It’s something or someone else that’s stopping you from getting a contract.”

  “Do you know something, Herman? Tell me.”

  “You’re not going to like this, but I heard that you’ve been blacklisted.”

  “What the hell!”

  “I got this from a good source, so trust that this is true.”

  “Blacklisted! Dammit, by who?”

  “Your old agent.”

  “Oh no, not Hilda.”

  “Yes. And you’re not go
ing to like this, but rumor is that Lynzee was involved in it too.”

  I think about it. Herman is an avid reader, and his former college frat brother/roommate is an editor at Simon and Schuster, who keeps him up on the publishing industry scoop. First Jett and Lynzee’s alleged baby, now the blacklisting. I never had any inclination that Lynzee could be such a cold-hearted bitch. Obviously, I don’t know my sister as well as I thought I did. She’s nothing less than a she-devil, inflicting pain on family because she’s so miserable.

  Suddenly, my heart is on fire. I feel faint, like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Herman keeps talking, but my mind has tuned him out. Does Lynzee really hate me that much? Does she feel that threatened by my writing? Is she trying to ruin me so she can get back with Jett and they can be a happy family with their daughter?

  5

  I decide that the smart thing to do is call a private investigator. One, I want to know if there is a child, and if so, is this Jett’s child? Two, I want some information on Lynzee. Did she blacklist me? If so, how? Sitting in my office at my desk, I pick up the telephone book. I flip through the pages until I find what I need. I check out the big and small ads. Then I spot one that says “Budget.” Lord knows that I don’t have too much money, but it’s something that has to be done. I dial the number.

  “Hello?” the man asks.

  “Hello. My name is Charity Evans. I’m looking for an investigator, but I’m kinda short on cash.”

  “I’m Winston Norman. Please give me an overview about your problem, and then we can talk about costs.”

  “Well, my problem began back in 1975….” For the next fifty minutes, I tell him as much as I know about Lynzee and Jett. Then I tell him about a child that was born as a result of their relationship, possibly in North Carolina, when Lynzee was in college.

  “This sounds like quite a quandary. Tell you what. Can you come down to my office?”

  “Yes. What time?” I check my watch. It’s 1:15 P.M.

  “How about four?”

  “Can you give me a clue as to how much this might cost me?”

  “We’ll discuss that when you get here. Don’t worry. I handle cases like this all the time and my clients are very happy with the results.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there at four.”

  I’m so nervous when I walk up the steps to Winston’s office. My hands and face are sweating like mad. When I reach the door, I knock. He buzzes me in.

  I extend my hand. “Mr. Norman?”

  “Yes, please follow me.” He leads me into his small office and asks me if I would like any coffee. I decline. The room is done up in various shades of brown, with dusty files on the floor and desk. The space reeks of cigar smoke.

  I take a seat. “I hope you can help me.”

  Winston leans back in his chair. “I made a few calls before you came. I’ve got a constituent in North Carolina that can do some snooping around for me. That’ll save me the cost of flying down there myself.”

  “Is this guy reliable?” I hold my purse to my chest.

  “Yes. I’ve known Ralph for over ten years. You’d be surprised how hard he’ll work for five hundred dollars.”

  “That’s my concern, Mr. Norman. How much is this going to cost me?”

  “I’ll need you to write me a check for twenty-five hundred. That’s enough for two weeks’ work. I believe we should have all of the information you need by then.”

  “Wow. Two weeks?”

  “Guaranteed. I’ve been in this business for over twenty-five years. Trust me. Your case isn’t all that unusual.”

  I open my purse and retrieve my checkbook. I fight back tears as I write out the check. This could be the end of my marriage, and it all comes down to a lousy twenty-five hundred bucks. If only I could find the courage to confront Jett; then I could save this money, but I feel so threatened I go ahead and pay this man. Meantime, I’m hoping against hope that this isn’t his child.

  I hand him the check and stand. “You’ll keep me informed with your progress?”

  “Absolutely. I aim to please.” He smiles and I notice brown teeth and an overbite.

  “You’re sure about the two weeks?”

  “Ma’am, I’d stake my reputation on it.” He shakes my hand. “Now, let me do my job. I’ll have some news for you in a couple of days.” He lights up a Black and Mild cigar and the small room fills with smoke.

  I wave away the smoke. “I’ll wait for your call. Good-bye, Mr. Norman.”

  I leave. Once outside the door, I rest my back against it and close my eyes. I want to cry out to my mother. I want to slap Lynzee’s face. I want to spit in Jett’s face. In a matter of days, my entire life could change. What I don’t know is what in the hell I’m going to do about it. Part of me is wavering, wondering if I even want to save my marriage considering the state it’s in.

  Jett was born in Corinth, Mississippi. You know, the sovereign state that has more dirt roads than paved ones and not an office building in the downtown area that’s higher than three stories. He is an old-school Southern soul that believes he’s a woman’s dream. Initially, I bought into this assessment of his self-worth, but now I’m not so sure. I slave like Celie in The Color Purple to keep him satisfied. Am I happy? Who in this world is truly happy? What is happy? Does anyone really know? I sure as hell don’t know.

  What I do know is that I wouldn’t be dealing with any of this if it weren’t for my jealous bitch of a sister. I consider again that maybe Lynzee’s playing some kind of sick joke and all of this will blow over. After all, she’s never even met the child—if there is one.

  Even if the private investigator finds out that Lynzee did have a child and put it up for adoption, I don’t have to believe that the child is Jett’s. Why should I? Lynzee has always been a shit stirrer. On the other hand, if he finds out that this is Jett’s child, is the love for my children, my home, and Jett enough to withstand such a betrayal? Can I face this child and welcome her into our home with open arms?

  I have to say no. I’m hurting too deeply. I’m embarrassed beyond words. How would I ever tell my sons that they suddenly have a sister—who is also their cousin? Did Jett realize that his selfish actions would one day come back to haunt his family forever?

  6

  In an effort to save our marriage, I convince Jett to apply for a home equity loan from Hallmark Bank, enough to last us for almost two years. Hopefully I will get a new contract before then.

  Unfortunately, Hallmark doesn’t approve our loan. That same day, Jett states emphatically that we should be putting the house on the market. I don’t agree. The tension between us is terrible. Is this the penalty I get for not telling Jett the truth about his alleged daughter? I don’t want to do it because it will upset our lives more than they already are. Should I tell him and get it over with, or should I stall?

  To my dismay and heartache, I hear back from the private investigator. He learned that Lynzee stayed at Churchill’s Girls’ Home. It’s a facility that houses unwed mothers. She lived there for five months, from January to May, had a daughter, whom she ultimately gave up for adoption. She then went back to Chapel Hill in North Carolina and continued her studies.

  It hurt to hear the truth, but I had to know. Still, there was nothing linking Jett to the child—that is, until I saw the pictures of April that Winston sent me. I fall to my knees. It’s even worse than I imagined. She looks just like Jett chewed her up and spit her out! She could be his female mirror. As far as I am concerned, these pictures are proof of Jett’s complicity.

  Hurt and angry, I make a decision. I’m going to keep this information to myself. There’s no reason to let Lynzee or Jett know that I know the truth. After all, I need to protect my sons from this farce. I try to convince myself that Jett will not want to be bothered by this turn of events. April could have children, and I know that Jett is too vain to admit that he could be someone’s grandfather. Maintaining my marriage and family takes priority over a mistake that happened m
ore than thirty years ago. Silence is my salvation. Ignorance is my middle name. To my advantage, Lynzee has not followed up with her threat to tell Jett—so far.

  Lynzee hasn’t gone forth with Plan B because she’s facing some type of health challenge, At this point, she hasn’t shared with me what it is. I’m just grateful for the reprieve.

  In addition, Winston has given me the low-down on the blacklisting fiasco. My second agent, Krystal Collier, and Lynzee both colluded to make my name mud. They called every reputable agent in New York and California and told them that I was a bitch to work with and a closet alcoholic. They told the agents that I was loaded on Crown Royal when I did the editing on my manuscripts, and that’s why they had so many errors. In turn, each agent said that they would call the editors that they were tight with and tell them that they should treat me as if I had the bubonic plague. Finally, they told the agents that my last five books didn’t earn out my advance and they would be losing money on me if they offered me a lucrative contract.

  I was outdone with this information. I didn’t know that two people felt so much hatred for me in this free world. I didn’t know that I was of that much importance to any sane soul. Is it any wonder that finding out this information would give me the biggest craving for a drink that I’d had in years?

  But I won’t give in. I’m going to sell my new book if I have to walk on burning coals and drink jalapeno water. I’ll be damned if my career is over.

  I can’t decide if I’m going to confront my old agent and Lynzee or not. I also can’t work up the nerve to tell Jett the truth about my career or the truth about April. In the meantime, I decide I better use what my mama gave me to keep Jett from selling our house.

  Like an entranced feline ready to pounce on her prey, I wait for Jett to come out of the shower. I admire his wet, naked body as he skillfully towels himself off.