Let Him Cry Pt. 01

She ignored the eye-roll and watched them march off down the hall before turning to me. "And what do I owe you for this?"

I hadn't expected that question and didn't answer. I saw her expression harden. "Maybe you're thinking I could take care of a little jungle fever? Is that where this conversation is headed?"

I looked at her in irritation. "Jesus! Just leave my stuff alone, clean up any messes you make, maybe take turns with dinner. Beyond that, show me some common courtesy. That'll cover it." I turned away without bothering to see her response, hefting the groceries I'd brought home when I was uncertain how many I'd have to feed.

A few minutes later, I heard kids' voices protesting. I assumed the washing-up they had done wasn't satisfactory. A firm, "Enough!" and things got quieter. I left the flank steak in the marinade and the rice on low while I went into my bedroom for a quick pee and my slippers.

When I came out, I saw Terrell and Nia watching television in the guest room. Tatyanna was sitting at the table. "Matt, I'm sorry if I offended you." I shrugged and brushed past her into the kitchen, but she followed me. "Let me explain something." She paused as if trying to figure out what to say.

"I've had a rough year. I'm sure that's clear to you. I didn't have to. On three separate occasions, I could have had a long-term place to stay, food for my children, clothes that weren't threadbare. All I had to do was keep some guy's bed warm. None of them were repulsive, and I didn't think they'd mistreat me. I just don't see myself as a whore. If my kids' safety was at risk ..." She shook her head. "Well, it's damn close to the last resort."

She looked to see how I was taking this, but I kept my reaction to the over-sharing off my face.

"So, yeah, I'm worried that you're number four. You don't seem to be, but I'm not so quick to trust right now. It's not personal. It's just that you're a man, and you're helping me for no apparent reason. So, if you are some kind of wolf in sheep's clothing, then I advise you to cut your losses now." She paused a second to see if I'd respond. I didn't, so she made sure she'd hammered it in.

"Not only is the option of being somebody's bit-on-the-side not attractive, but I'm also not in the market for a man in my life under any terms. I've got too many other problems for the foreseeable future. If I'm worrying about nothing, then I'm grateful for everything you've done. Believe me, I am."

"Fine. I need to finish making dinner." I turned away. I wasn't certain why I was annoyed. It wasn't an unreasonable apprehension for a good-looking woman to have. It seemed like every nerve I had was exposed lately: irritation and impatience rearing their heads at the slightest provocation.

It was another quiet evening. Around eight she packed the kids off to bed. When she came back out, I tried to bridge the gap, "Would you like a beer?"

"No, thank you."

"Would you explain your situation to me so that I know what I'm getting into?" I asked.

Her eyebrows rose but she didn't hesitate long. "I had a guy. We weren't married but we were together for a long time. He was Terrell's and Nia's father if you're wondering about that.

"However, about ten, eleven months ago he decided that this teenager he met with a tight little booty and breasts that didn't sag was more his type than the thirty-one-year-old whose body had been through childbirth twice. Just like that, he was gone.

"Except, it wasn't just like that. It was not paying the rent for two months, then cleaning out our accounts, then selling almost everything portable worth selling ... all of which I found out when he left and then two days later when the landlord came around. Suddenly, I was out on the street with two small children and a job that didn't pay enough to handle the bills. And I don't even know where he is to go after child support."

"No family to help out?"

"I'm from Virginia, not around here, and besides, my folks haven't talked to me since the day I took up with a white guy." She saw my eyebrows go up and her smile got bitter, her tone cutting. "What's the matter, Matt? Does that kind of thing offend you? Or didn't you realize that racism could go both ways?"

I took affront. "Actually, Tatyanna, it was disgust at parents who would cut off a child for something as stupid as that."

She had the decency to look abashed. "Sorry," she mumbled after a long moment of silence.

I stood. I was up to season eight binge-watching The Walking Dead and I could do that in my room as easily as out here.

"I'm sorry," she said more clearly. "It's been a bad year. My kids have never gone a day without food and we've never actually slept on the streets, but it hasn't been pretty. I'm doing the best I can, but it's just barely enough for them."

I paused. "What kind of work did you do?"

"I was a receptionist at a spa. But they couldn't keep getting temps while I got my shit together with my kids, so I got let go. I fell back on manicuring, which is what I did to put myself through community college. The trouble is that I don't get paid if I don't work. And, if I miss too many shifts, I'll lose my job. Everyone there has a sister or a niece or a friend who wouldn't mind the spot. Which brings me to where I swallowed my pride and called you because I knew you figured you owed me."

"All right. Thanks for answering. I'll be in my bedroom."

"Wait, Matt. Please, I really am sorry I was rude. I'm embarrassed and nervous, but that was out of line. I ..."

I waited to hear what she wanted.

She looked around the room, evaluating what she was seeing, pausing for a lengthy stare at the photograph, the one that seemed to catch every eye but mine. "I need to know that my being here isn't going to be a problem for some other woman." Her eyes came back to my face as she waited for my answer.

"My wife died a while back. There's no one to have a problem. But you being here wouldn't have mattered. In fact, you could say she's why you're here." I couldn't resist adding a snarky, "And I don't mean as a replacement to keep me warm in bed," because I was still kind of irritated at the whole racism thing.

They started wearing new grooves in the rut of my life. I'd go into the office in the mornings, dropping them off on my way. I'd spend the day going through the motions of writing purchase orders, scheduling employees to handle jobs, maybe going out to oversee or check a job once in a while. I'd come back to the condo to the smell of something cooking. I'd given Tatyanna a key.

"I see her going in and out of your place," Angela said when I bumped into her in the parking lot one morning. "Is she an old friend?"

"No. Just someone I met that I'm helping."

Her eyebrows went up. "And you trust her with a key just like that?" It was just surprise; she was the least judgmental person I'd ever met. But my mind veered somewhere abruptly, the word "trust" aggravating me in a way that I didn't understand.

"More like I don't give a rat's ass if she screws me over." As soon as the words left my mouth, even before seeing the look of reproach they brought, I felt ashamed -- not for how I felt but for how I spoke to her. "I'm sorry. It just ... I just had a flash."

Her ready smile came back, crinkling her eyes. With a toss of the blonde curls and a pat on my arm, she dismissed it. "I know your injury still gives you trouble." She peered up at me. "It'll pass, right?" It was hard not to react to being touched but I didn't. For all her intrusion into my life, for all the surface scatterbrain, part of me knew that there was a canny part of Angela that understood, perhaps better than most. As I forced a smile and turned away, I wondered, was it just the post-concussion irritation?

And now I'd come home after work each day to the smell of something cooking.

"I'm making lasagna. You said to take turns with dinner," Tatyanna had said that second evening. I nodded and went to clean up, glancing at and then dismissing the bourbon bottle on my way past.

The third night, "I found some pork chops in the freezer, and I made some scalloped potatoes and some peas." As I started to protest, she added, "Matt, as long as the kids and I are living here it will always be my turn to cook." Her expression was fierce as if daring me to contradict her. It unsettled me and I let it go.

Two days later we clashed when she tried to hand me fifty dollars. "For food," she said. "It's all I can afford for the moment, but I'll do better when I can. And I still owe—"

"I don't want it."

She looked mulish.

"The three of you cost me almost nothing."

She made a sound of disagreement and, suddenly, I was frustrated. I was trying to do something nice ... would she rather have the ogre who just wanted everyone to leave him alone?

And frustrated meant irritated. The fits of temper were getting better but sometimes it seemed two steps forward, one step back. My mood edged into my tone.

"School's starting soon," I snapped, "and your kids will need supplies or clothes or something." I thought an appeal to her maternal impulses would end it, but she was stubborn, and her mouth opened. I cut it off before she could get started. "I'm not going to change my mind."

I turned to leave and then spun back. "And stop cleaning the place. Nobody but me does that." At her incredulous expression, I blurted, "Liv liked it neat. And she liked kids taken care of."

In the blink of an eye, the pig-headed expression faded, replaced by a solemn one that held ... what? ... comprehension? I heard my own words and felt something well up inside me, something I didn't want to face. I snagged the bourbon bottle from the side table. I didn't make it two steps toward my room before I heard, "Really?"

I spun to retort, the words "Yes, real—" already on my lips, but realized my mistake when I saw Tatyanna's unchanged expression. She hadn't spoken. I sighed and replaced the bottle. How do you win an argument with a figment? It was a long evening spent huddled in bed, flicking from action movie to action movie.

Any hope that the week would end on a happier note died at five o'clock the next day when my partner stepped into my office.

"You haven't been around much, Matt, but I wanted to talk to you. There's something that needs to be formally on the table: I want to exercise the option to buy you out."

I sat there in shock. We both had the right to dissolve the partnership: each of us keeping what we brought into the company, plus a payout based on a fifty-fifty split of the growth valuation. It went back to the time we'd decided to start the company, to when we hadn't known each other that well. But even though we'd never become more than business partners, in eight years I'd never even considered using it. I hadn't thought he had either. Evidently, I was wrong.

"I'm sorry, Matt. It's been a good run, but it's not working as well now." His expression got sympathetic. "And I think maybe a change might be good for you, as well. You could take some time, maybe a trip. Some new scenery might work wonders, give you a new perspective on life."

I bought that sympathetic expression for a minute while he continued in that vein. Then he said, "I've been talking to several of the customers—" and I suddenly remembered who I was talking to: a guy whose job was schmoozing, at telling you exactly what would make you feel comfortable with whatever he was selling.

Up until that point, there was a small part of me that sort of understood. To be honest, I'd have to admit I hadn't carried my weight for months. Now I felt a flicker of anger. I'd had sub-par employees here and there over the years, and the first course of action was not, "Here's your pink slip." It was, "Hey, bud, we've got a problem. Here's what I need for us to keep our working relationship." When had he come to me and expressed his concerns? Never, that's when.

Now my ears sharpened as he finished, "—and they understand. It shouldn't affect business or the accountants' valuation for your share."

The flicker turned to a flare. I kept it off my face. "And if I wanted to buy you out?"

He looked disconcerted. "Are you really in a place to take over both sides of the house?" I wasn't. He knew it, and my face probably showed I knew it too. His smile came back. He started on with some more social grease, but I stood.

"Send the valuation to me," I said abruptly and left.

Five minutes later, I was in the car on my phone with one of the first people I ever did work for.

"I'm sorry you're leaving the company, Matt. Are you going with someone else or starting on your own?"

"I'll probably start up on my own."

"Good luck. Umm, we'll probably stay the way things are now."

"You were my customer before this company even existed," I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

"I know. But we're happy with B&L—"

"It's just L now," I interjected.

"—and he showed us the benefit of the long-term relationship." I tuned out the rest of his apologia as being meaningless.

I climbed the flight of stairs to my floor in an ever-increasing seethe, ignoring the goddam elevator that always took too goddam long to show up. This was fucking cold. My wife died less than one fucking year ago. I just got clobbered by a fucking bus. And now he's poaching customers he didn't have the right to take? Either ethically or per our agreement.

And this "you haven't been around much"? My internal mimicry was snide.

"I haven't taken a single goddam vacation day all goddam year even though he takes every goddam Friday off to play golf." Somewhere about the time my key turned in the lock, my thoughts had started turning verbal. Loudly verbal.

"So what if there have been a few glitches lately? We straightened them out. No one holds it against us. And now the fucking asshole tells me that I'm not helping him pay for this year's new Mercedes S-Class? Fuck him!" Halfway through the curse, I turned to slam the door and saw Tatyanna standing in the kitchen, a wary look on her face.

It brought my tirade to halt. "Not you," I said lamely. She was still watchful, but I could see some of the tension ease from her shoulders. Not all of it. The tiny portion of rationality remaining in my brain told me she was probably wondering if I was the kind of guy that took whatever out on the nearest woman. I wasn't. "Not you," I repeated. Shaking my head in emphasis, I headed to the back.

As I sat on my bed, the rage poured through me. It was way out of proportion, I knew, but I was powerless to stop it. Even the thought that I'd now have a bank balance that let me do whatever I wanted for a while didn't do squat to ease my reaction. The lampshade ended up a casualty of a shoe hurled inaccurately toward the closet. My mood eventually turned: it was no less angry, but cold calculation replaced the heat.

The tentative tap on the half-open bedroom door made me pause in dialing a number. "Dinner's ready." Tatyanna turned to go, then added, "Do I need to leave right now?"

"What?"

"I'm gathering you got fired. We cost you money. Do I need to leave now?"

I snorted. "I didn't get fired. You can't fire someone who owns half the company. My partner decided not to be partners. That's fine! But he's been out there for weeks, maybe months, trying to make sure customers don't go with me," I said bitterly. "Even those I had before him and are legitimately mine."

I shook my head. "You don't need to leave. He's going to pay me a pretty penny to go, and I'm going to make sure I collect every goddam one of those pennies." I waved my phone at her. "I'll be out in a minute."

When I joined her family at the table, I said, "Someone's coming by in a little while. It's business. Would you and the kids give us a half-hour or so?"

An hour later she emerged from the guest room. "Okay to come out?" I nodded. She headed for the kitchen, giving me a little smirk as she passed.

"What?"

She glanced back. "Guys like you don't realize how much space you take up." At my puzzled expression, "You think you're talking quietly, but you're not."

"Oh! What did you hear?"

She sat down on the arm of the chair across from me. "That was a manager of yours."

"Craig, my original guy," I confirmed.

She tilted her head to consider me. "And he had some concerns about whether your head is in the game, but you worked it out."

That embarrassed me but I nodded.

"Well, the gist I got was that, if your partner is going to steal all the customers, even ones he has no right to, you're going for all the employees."

I nodded. "Apparently he is and definitely I am."

"Will it work?"

I smiled grimly. "My partner was sales. I was operations. I hired most of the people, worked with them daily, paid them, gave them time off when they needed it, sent flowers on their wives' birthdays. Yeah, they've been concerned about me. I mean" -- I fumbled a bit in awkwardness over the admission -- "concerned about how I've dropped the ball a few times lately, not just concerned out of sympathy. So maybe it would be fifty-fifty which way they'd jump, but I think probably more sixty-forty my way.

"However, to seal the deal, I told Craig he'd be a partner, with a big raise to match it. Bigger than he'll ever get if he stays. They like him and most will go where he goes. We'll let the paperwork settle, then he'll quit, and we'll start up again. There isn't a noncompete clause in the breakup," I finished with satisfaction.

"And your old partner?"

"Can go fuck himself in the ass." Realizing how that came out and striving to temper the anger that was still spilling out of me, I apologized. "Sorry. Potty mouth sometimes."

"I believe the first night we stayed here, I explained about motherfuckers to you," she said with a faint smile, standing. "I think I'll survive."

"And who will do the sales? You?" she called to me as she rustled around in the kitchen.

"No. I suck at schmoozing. We'll hire someone."

Her head poked out. "Can you live on what's left over if you're paying that guy to do your old job?"

It didn't take a genius to see what prompted that question. "I'm fine for a while. Don't worry; I'm not throwing you out."

Her face turned serious and her head tilted again in that gesture that seemed to mean she was trying to figure out what made me tick. "Why?"

Out of reflex, I reiterated what I had said the day before. "Because of Liv." Like yesterday, the impact of my unconsidered words came crashing in, along with renewed boiling anger at my fuckhead partner and also at ... who? ... the world? I waved my hands as if to say, "I'm done," and went back to my room to stew. I could feel her eyes boring into my back as I walked away.

As we popped cans of beer two days later and took our first sips, Tatyanna asked, "Are you more upset about the company breaking up or just at what your partner's trying to pull?"

We'd started a habit of a beer or a glass of wine each evening. Just one. I was trying to make my drinking a social thing rather than a brooding retreat. Tatyanna had been diffident at first. I'm not sure if it was embarrassment at her situation in my house or suspicion about why I was offering alcohol. But I persuaded her. And made damn sure I never even bumped against her accidentally.

Now, a few days later, she was starting to relax, and I found myself curiously refreshed by the mixture of acerbic and bantering that emerged from behind the wariness. For my part, I found I enjoyed having a person to talk to, something I had largely driven out of my life. Maybe it was because of her state of affairs: not having to deal with someone whose life looked blissful compared to mine.