Sing A New Song Page 6

  “Tiffany!” Myra exclaimed, dropping the cake to take Tiffany in her arms and offer consolation. She assumed the tears were because of her imminent death. Just for a moment, Myra felt Tiffany curve into her arms, taking comfort, before pulling away. Not caring about snot or other fluids, Myra used her shirt and tenderly wiped her friend’s face. Her foot accidentally kicked a box that was by Tiffany’s feet.

  Curious, Myra asked, “What’s this?”

  “My secret box,” Tiffany said and hiccupped. “I just dug it up. I buried it here, underneath Ben.”

  “Ben?”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany explained. “You know Ben. My tree? I used to spend so much time here when I needed to get away. Don’t you remember?”

  Myra didn’t, but she nodded her head in the affirmative. “Can I look?”

  She saw Tiffany nod her assent.

  Myra picked up a piece of underwear, not knowing what it was. She had it between her thumb and forefinger for several seconds before the realization hit. She dropped the undergarment back into the box as if it were the bubonic plague. “Ugh. Is that what I think it is?” Myra wiped her hands on the grass and spat several times. Spotting the cake, her stomach turned. It was going right into the trash.

  Tiffany grabbed her hands. “I kept that for a reason.”

  “Why on earth would you feel the need to do that?” Myra felt like she was about to heave. Yet out of some sort of sick fascination, she desperately wanted to know.

  “That was evidence. Proof that my stepfather raped me.”

  Myra’s mouth hung open in shock. She was not sure she had heard right. Had Tiffany revealed that Mr. Peterson had raped her? No, she must have heard wrong. She closed her mouth only because drool had gathered.

  “I can see you don’t believe a single word coming out of my mouth,” Tiffany said with major attitude. “I am already sorry I told you.”

  “No,” Myra said, denying the charge. “I do. It is just that Mr. Peterson seemed so nice. He was always giving us candy or money to buy stuff. I cannot imagine him doing something like that.”

  “Yeah, well, my mother did not believe me, either—even though she saw him violating me with her own two eyes and even though I showed her my proof. She said I was lying, but why would I lie about something like that? Clifford Peterson did take me against my consent.” Her passionate words hung in the air between them.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Myra asked. She felt bad for Tiffany, and maybe if she had known . . .

  Seeing Tiffany’s raised eyebrows until Myra answered her own question. “You didn’t think I would believe you.”

  “You were going away, and I didn’t think anybody would believe me,” Tiffany defended. “My mother was the first person I told, and she did nothing about it. Instead, she turned around and accused me of being a slut. She whipped me good too and stuck by him. So if my own mother did not believe me, I figured it would be hopeless for me to tell anybody else. I tried to hang in there, but as soon as I graduated, I left.” Tiffany ended the last statement with a bitter tone.

  “So is Karlie his child?” Myra’s stomach churned from the thought of Karlie being the product of such a violent act. Myra shivered as she waited for Tiffany’s response.

  “No,” Tiffany bellowed. She lowered her voice, but the venom remained. “I hate that man, and in my heart of hearts, I know Karlie—my precious pearl—is not his. I hate him for what he did to me. A child so priceless and full of love could never be the product of something so demeaning and inhumane.” Her acute pain returned, for Clifford’s assault went beyond her physical body. Her self-worth had suffered.

  “How long did this go on?” Myra asked, dreading the answer.

  “He never came near me again. I think it was because he saw how much I hated him and I kept a butcher knife under my pillow.”

  “Thank God, it only happened once.” Myra exhaled with an involuntary shudder.

  “But once was one too many. It should not have happened at all,” Tiffany countered.

  Myra was silent for several moments before she said, “How could you . . . not tell? I just don’t . . .” Myra’s words trailed off, for she knew she sounded judgmental, but Tiffany’s revelation had torched Myra’s mundane existence. Myra’s rose-colored glasses had been smashed to pieces, and she needed some process time to recoup.

  “I just did not care at the time,” Tiffany explained. “Put yourself in my shoes, Myra. What would you have done?”

  “Tell the cops, tell my friends, tell anyone,” Myra countered without hesitation. Her voice grated with self-righteous censure. “I certainly would not have continued on and pretended nothing happened.”

  “Like I said, now you know why I never told you certain things. Not everybody was as lucky as you were, Myra. Not everybody had parents from The Cosby Show.” Tiffany got up and picked up her box. It was time for her to go, because Myra’s thoughtless comments grated on her last nerves. She looked Myra in the eyes and whispered bitterly, “Everybody didn’t grow up feeling loved and treasured as you did. But you know how that made you, Myra. It made you judgmental and a know-it-all. Well, guess what? You don’t have a clue. If you did, you would have known that all I needed right now was a friend. For some unfathomable reason, I imagined you would understand now, after all these years. But I was wrong,” Tiffany snarled. “You are still the same perfect, narrow-minded person I left all those years ago.”

  Stunned, Myra watched as Tiffany stomped off and whispered to herself, “What right does she have to judge me? She doesn’t know a thing about me.”

  Myra picked up the remnants of the cake and held them in her hands. She was never going to darken Tiffany’s doorstep again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Neil dreaded coming home. He acknowledged this as he waited for the garage opener to activate the door that would give him access to his garage. Neil never knew what mood Myra would be in once he put his foot through the door. Sometimes she would be jovial, and Neil would breathe a sigh of relief, silently thanking God. But 99 percent of the time, Myra would be looking sad and depressed, and Neil was at a loss as to what to do. Myra was miserable, and as a result, she was making him miserable.

  Neil groaned, “Lord, I am so fed up. I do not want to get out of this car.” His confession was one that was difficult for him to admit. He usually pretended everything was okay, but his misery bubbled up and overflowed sometimes, to the point where he had to be honest—at least with himself.

  It wasn’t that Neil didn’t want a baby, but he just was not obsessed about having one—as Myra seemed to be. He figured that Myra must think about babies all day, because it was all she ever seemed to talk about. Baby this, baby that. I want a girl. No, maybe a boy. Neil heard Myra’s voice drone on in his head.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” he whispered in the car. His torture was apparent in his whole body stance. Five minutes had passed. Neil reckoned he needed to get inside, and he undid his seat belt but only settled back into the cushy leather seat, content to dwell on his thoughts.

  He had tried to convince Myra that he was truly okay if they did not have a child, but she did not believe him. Slapping his hands on his forehead, Neil shut his eyes. He was so sick of fertility monitors—when they should do it, how they should do it. All of her drilling—“No, do it this way, but do it that way”—was just wearing him down. It was getting to the point where he could hardly perform because everything felt so contrived.

  Neil felt used. God said to be fruitful and multiply, but He never would have designed the female body with certain pleasure spots if its only purpose was for multiplication. Was it too much to ask that he just make love with his wife for a change? Neil craved spontaneous, mind-boggling, earth-shaking intercourse—and he was not shy about mentioning that when he hit knee city. “I just want to make love to my wife, Lord,” Neil said, voicing his thoughts, knowing God could hear him.

  He punched his hands on the steering wheel. “Ouch.” That
stung. Instinctively rubbing his palms, Neil turned the ignition to roll the windows down. “I’d better get out before she comes looking for me.” Neil reached into the backseat and retrieved his work folders. His muscles bulged from the exertion, as he worked out daily to keep his body in shape. He had to, as he was now Myra’s own “robotman” and “on-demand” man—that was him.

  Bringing work home with him served two purposes: it was a good get-out-of-sex ticket and he got a lot done, which was bringing him a lot of positive attention in his company. His boss had even complimented him on his devotion to the job and had revealed that Neil was in line for a promotion. “You’re our man, Neil,” Gary Sneads had said. Neil had laughed along with Gary, but he knew his success had nothing to do with devotion and everything to do with getting out of sex with his wife. Making love would be another thing. Neil wanted to make sweet love to his wife until the sun came up.

  He walked from the garage into the back of the house with the steps of a man approaching a guillotine. In his study, Neil dropped his briefcase and undid his shirt and tie.

  Myra used to be so carefree and abandoned, until they decided to start trying to have a child. Neil smiled, remembering some of her crazy antics and ideas. She had been . . . whew, but now Myra was the fertility police. A firm man of God, Neil was not about to engage in an extramarital affair, so he occupied his time with safer exploits. By escaping sex, his spiritual life had also grown by leaps and bounds. Church provided a safe, healthy retreat. Pastor Johnston had even broached the possibility of getting Neil ordained as a deacon.

  Neil laughed with a touch of self-recrimination. He welcomed the opportunity to work for God, but his increased motivation stemmed from the fact that he was sexually suppressed and frustrated. Neil was not even 100 percent certain God had accepted his offering, but he figured it was better to put his efforts into God’s work—better than getting caught up with the devil’s distractions.

  Neil wandered into the kitchen, searching for Myra. “Might as well get this over with,” he grunted. He stopped when he saw Myra sitting at the table. He could tell that she had been waiting for him.

  Taking a deep breath, Neil furtively scanned the calendar to see if it was “blue star” time. Myra put blue stars on the calendar to mark her fertile times. Neil knew he was “on duty” then. He actually prayed for some red stars.

  “Hey.” Neil cautiously tried to ascertain her mood. He bent over to kiss the top of her head. He inhaled appreciatively. Myra’s hair smelled like roses.

  “Hi.”

  A one-word answer. Highly unusual. “What’s the matter?” Neil asked, concerned. Myra was uncharacteristically subdued. Normally, she would have rattled off her list of “honey do” things by now.

  “Am I a selfish person?” She crooked her head up at him inquisitively.

  He noted her creased brow and questioning eyes and cautioned himself to tread carefully. Yes, Neil thought to himself. Myra could be very, very selfish. In her defense, she was not that way purposely, but Neil knew better than to say that aloud. Her facial expression showed that something had her bothered. “No, I do not think so,” Neil said, “Why are you asking?”

  “Because Tiffany Knightly pretty much called me that today,” Myra sputtered. She poked her lips out, in an obvious funk.

  “Tiffany moved back home?”

  “Yes,” Myra confirmed. “She’s back and terminal from lung cancer.”

  Neil paused. “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” Myra went on. “And listen to this. Her daughter is fifteen. Fifteen. You know what that means?” Myra didn’t give any wait time. “She was pregnant when she left. Oh, and apparently, Mr. Peterson sexually abused her all those years ago.” Her arms flailed in a sweeping motion to emphasize her point.

  “Wow,” Neil remarked. “Poor Tiffany.”

  He must not have provided the desired response, because Myra asked, “That is all you have to say?”

  “Yeah, I feel for her,” Neil replied. “She was pretty shaken up that her mother didn’t believe her.” Uh-oh. I goofed. Maybe she won’t catch on.

  “How do you know that? I didn’t say anything about her mother. I mean, Tiffany didn’t even go into all that with me,” Myra quizzed

  Neil licked his lips to gather his thoughts. “I saw her the night she and Thomas ran off together,” he explained.

  “You never told me,” Myra said accusingly.

  “If I recall correctly, you were not speaking to me, because I tried to make a move on you,” Neil returned cheekily. He reached over and affectionately chucked her under the chin. “Just like I am getting ready to do right now.”

  Neil moved over to Myra and held her hands. Ah. He felt Myra lean into him and curve her body into his just the way he liked. Over her head, a tender look crossed his face.

  Neil shifted to look his wife in the eyes and saw her speculative gleam. He knew that look meant Myra was in the mood. He bent over to kiss her, and she opened her mouth to give him free access. Feeling his passion rise, Neil groaned and intensified the kiss. He reached under Myra’s shirt to touch her.

  Myra broke the contact and placed her hands on his chest to hold him at bay. “We—we can’t,” Myra urged. “It’s not the right time.”

  No, she isn’t, Neil thought. Myra could not possibly be trying to press the brakes on him like this. He stepped back. “Lord, give me patience. What do you mean, it’s not the right time?” Frustrated, Neil demanded, “It’s not like we have any kids running around here to stop us. We can do it anytime we want.” Neil forced her back into his arms.

  Myra pulled away until she was firmly out of his grasp. “Well, that is precisely why it’s not the right time. We do not have any children, and we are trying to remedy that.”

  Neil bit down on his lower lip to keep from spouting an angry retort. Myra was getting on his last nerves with this baby obsession. Fuming, he stomped out of the house to take a walk and cool off. He just wanted to make nasty, hot, scandalous . . .

  “Déjà vu.”

  Neil stopped and turned around, recognizing that voice. He must have walked right past Tiffany’s house, so miffed that he had not seen her.

  “Hi, Tiffany.” Neil’s voice gentled and his anger dissipated.

  “Hey, Neil,” Tiffany said. He saw her get up off her stoop and walk over to him.

  Neil met her at the fence. The two greeted each other with a friendly, loose hug. “So, are you all settled in?” he asked, initiating conversation.

  “Yeah,” Tiffany returned, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. “Myra told you about our little tête-à-tête earlier?”

  Neil gave a rueful grin. “Yes.”

  Tiffany scoffed. “Figured as much. Myra could never keep anything to herself. That is why I didn’t feel comfortable telling her certain things. I don’t know why I thought today would be the exception.”

  “Sorry about that. At least you had me to confide those ‘certain’ things.”

  “I see you kept them too, because Myra was clueless. I guess you never told her about our midnight talks.”

  “No,” Neil confirmed, a little tense. “I never did. I did not think she would understand, you know? Myra, being Myra, would have read more into it. Besides, we were both going through a rough time, and Myra was away for most of the summer, so I was glad you were there. You were a good listener. Still are, actually.”

  “I feel the same, Neil. That night you saved me in more ways than one.”

  “You helped me too,” Neil pointed out. “My parents were splitting up, and I was crying—which is something I never do. By the way, you are still the only woman besides my mother who ever saw me cry like that. I hope you kept that information to yourself.”

  “I have,” Tiffany said with a grin. “And though I know I have said it all before, thank you for being there for me.”

  Neil changed tactics. “So I lived to see something I told you come true.”

  “What’s that?” Tiffany wondered.r />
  “I told you to tell the truth, instead of running off with Thomas Knightly.”

  “You did, and I should have listened. Now I have to rip off the Band-Aid, so to speak.”

  “I do not envy you.”

  “Yeah.” Tiffany sighed and touched her head. She felt a headache forming. “It’s a good thing I paid him well not to ever give interviews or write a book about me, or I would be in some deep dog doo right now.”

  Neil shook his head in commiseration. “How’re you feeling?”

  “I am okay most days. Some mornings, though . . . you know . . .” Tiffany trailed off, but she noticed that she no longer held Neil’s attention. What is he looking at? Tiffany wondered. She followed Neil’s gaze and, seeing Karlie at the door, beckoned for her to come outside.

  Bang . . . creak . . . went the screen door in protest.

  “Neil, this is my daughter, Karlie.”

  Neil looked at the young woman who had come out of the house to greet him. “Hi, Karlie, or should I say Little Tiffany?”

  Tiffany beamed with motherly pride. “Yeah, that is what everybody says.” She looked over at Karlie. “Karlie, this is Neil Jameson, one of my childhood friends. He lives right up the block.”

  “Hi, Mr. Jameson,” Karlie responded shyly.

  Aw. He liked her instantly. Her manners were a true indication that Tiffany was doing a good job with her. “Please call me Neil.”

  “Okay.” Karlie stood for a moment before she waved and made her way back inside.

  “She seems great.”

  “Yeah. I hate what I am doing to her. Karlie didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “If there is anything I can do, let me know. I will be praying for you.” Neil’s sincere behavior was the antithesis of Myra’s supercilious attitude.

  Tiffany noted that. “Thanks, Neil,” she said. “I am okay for now, but I’ll let you know.”

  As Neil returned home, he knew his visit with Tiffany had put everything in its proper perspective. He and Myra did not have any real problems they could not work out. God favored them with divine blessings, so if He chose not to give them a child, then they should not complain. The good outweighed the bad too much for them to be sad. As the saying goes, they really were “too blessed to be stressed.”