Pam : Part 2

What a Sista Should Do
by Tiffany L. Warren

(Page 2 of 2)

"All right. Let Mommy take her shoes off, and then we'll see what's in the kitchen. Why don't you two go in there and wait for me. Okay?"

Cicely and Gretchen race to the kitchen at breakneck speed. I know Gretchen is going to be a track star one day, because she's fast with her short muscular legs. She outruns her taller sister every time.

"Troy, have the girls eaten anything since they've been home?"

"I'm not sure, Pam. I think they had a cookie." "A cookie? What do you mean you're not sure?" I hear myself start to rave, but I can't stop myself. "Did you give them anything to eat? They are six and four years old, Troy-they are not capable of preparing their own meals. I left you a note that you were supposed to give them a sandwich. Two slices of bread and some peanut butter. You were too busy for that?"

Troy looks at me as if I'm speaking Greek. I know he saw my note. I posted it on the bathroom mirror before I left for work.

"I guess I was just too busy working, honey. I'm sorry about that."

I don't know how one person could be so selfish. I just roll my eyes and walk out of the room, because anything that comes out of my mouth right now is going to be ignorant.

Troy calls after me. "Wait a minute, Pam. Before you do that, I want you to listen to this track. Tell me how you like it."

Despite the looks of starvation on my children's faces, I go back into the living room/studio. I wouldn't want anybody to think I'm not supportive of my husband, because as much as I complain, that is simply not the case. If anything, I want him to blow up worse than any of these weed-smoking teenagers propped around my living room. Troy plays the song that he's apparently been working on all day, and everyone in the room is bobbing their heads. I can't really get into it myself. Hip-hop soul is not my cup of tea. Give me some gospel, some old-school rhythm and blues, or even some of these neo-soul artists.

"That's tight, ain't it, Pam?" "Yeah, Troy. It's really hittin'."

I cannot stand the way Troy talks when he's around these young wannabe superstars. He acts like he isn't thirty-three years old and a grown man. What I really want to tell him is that the song sounds just like all the other songs he writes.

It takes me all of two minutes to make bologna and cheese sandwiches for the girls. I guess I could make them something warm like a can of soup, but they seem to be satisfied with what they've got. Actually, they look grateful. I'm still wondering when they last ate.

Troy pokes his head into the kitchen. I know he's about to ask me for something. It better not be money. All I have anyway is my tithe, and husband or not, he is not about to get the Lord's money. I made up my mind on that a long time ago.

"Honey, we have a show on Sunday evening. Are you going to be able to make it?"

"Not this time. I've got evening service." Troy looks disappointed, but I don't care. He knows full well that I spend all day Sunday in church. Why would he schedule a show on Sunday if he wanted me to go to it?

"You mean to tell me that Jesus is going to be mad if you miss one service? Come on, Pam. You'll still be saved."

"I know I'll still be saved. I don't need you to tell me that," I say. "That's not the point. Sunday is the Lord's day."

Troy responds sarcastically, "When do I get a day?" I can't believe my ears. "How's Monday through Saturday sound?"

"What? Oh, you mean the days I share with the usher board, the nurse guild and Bible class and prayer meetings. You mean those days? It sounds like the whole week belongs to Jesus. Seems like after you went and got yourself saved and all, you forgot all about me. Am I right?"

I'm not even going to respond to Troy, because he is just allowing the devil to use him. I walk right past him and on upstairs to our bedroom. This is my sanctuary. The comforter may be five years old, and the flower print faded, but it has the alluring scent of my favorite fabric softener. Everything is in order in this room. The mostly empty perfume and lotion bottles on my dresser are lined up neatly, and there's not a speck of dust to be seen. I lie across the bed and let the last of the day's sunlight cover my body.

I hear myself sighing out loud. Why does he always have to throw church up in my face? I've got plenty of things to throw right back at him, like his chronic unemployment-or his phantom music career, for that matter-but I don't.

It's true, I do spend a lot of time at church, but so what? It's not like he misses me around here. He's always got company. If I was home, he probably wouldn't even notice me. He's got a lot of nerve. He should be grateful that I go to church so much. It's the only way I'm able to put up with his sorry behind.

I go to the master bathroom and turn the jets on in the Jacuzzi tub, which is, by the way, the best investment I've ever made. I missed a lot of hair appointments and passed up on several new outfits for this little treat. A grown woman needs to indulge herself sometimes. I'm getting relaxed just looking at the water swirl around.

I can feel a whole day's worth of tension melt away as soon as my entire body is immersed in the scented water. I close my eyes and travel to my fantasy world, the one where I'm a world-famous novelist and socialite. I'm young, beautiful, high-school-senior thin and single. I'm sitting in my luxurious boudoir waiting for my maid to bring me breakfast. She knocks at the door.

"Come in, Olga," I say. The knocking continues, and suddenly I'm jerked back into the real world. Someone is actually knocking on the bathroom door. It never fails.

"Who is it?" "Mommy, it's me, Gretchen. I have to pee."

Copyright © 2005 by Tiffany Warren

About the Author

Tiffany L. Warren lives in suburban Cleveland, Ohio.