Presumption Personified

Alright... please read my short story. A little something from the tomes of LadyLee. This is a story I wrote last Christmas. The title "Presumption Personified" really sucks, but don't pay it any mind, LOL. Don't worry, it's pretty short (well, short for me... You know how longwinded I am.) I'll probably do a separate post of how I happen to come up with the idea of this partially true story...

Just a little something to make you... think.

Presumption Personified

I first saw the mother a year ago, when her baby must have been about a month old, simply a bundle of joy in a puffy blanket. Now, the baby was at least a year old. I could tell it was a boy by the blue hat, blue shoes, baby blue outfits as blue as the blue sky on a bright summer day.

The mother was beautiful, hair silky, flowing down her back like a gently flowing river. She drove an Escalade with black-tinted windows. That Cadillac was black as a starless night deep in the countryside, obviously necessary to shield her from shameless male pursuers who rolled by yelling...

“Hey baby, can I get that number?”

Even my husband Bill noticed her. When my car broke down a few months ago, renting a car wasn’t in our budget. Bill chauffered me to work and our son Junior to daycare for a week. I could see the blank stare on his face the first time we parked alongside the curb behind her. A smile tugged ever so slightly at the corner of his lip as we both watched the woman delicately step from the truck and retrieve the baby from his car seat. “Black Escalade, Limited edition, with the Five star rims and the gold kit,” he’d whispered that cool morning. “Look at that tint. Probably has the new grill, too.”

I knew he wasn’t looking at the truck. He’s a man… he was looking at that woman.

But I didn’t make a fuss.

Bill was a good husband and his wondering eye never caused any harm. He was as consistent as the rising and setting of the sun, more than I could ever say for myself.

On numerous occasions, I’d been in line at the daycare behind the woman, waiting to drop off my restless junior. He was not as quiet and cooperative as that woman’s child. Junior had just learned to walk, but was as spoiled as milk left open and out on the counter overnight. I was forced to hold my impatient child close to my chest, so as not to suffer the embarrasment caused by his piercing screams.

Her hair was dark brown, but I remember how her blond highlights shown in the morning sunlight streaming through the slender daycare windows, and how her good genes, from the Cherokee, I suppose, had given her that “good hair”. I touched my own afro, coarse, short and full of Afro sheen, forever a reminder of my African roots.

The smell of her black quarter length jacket hung strong in my nose, along with the exotic scent of her light perfume, a perfume that most likely had a name that I couldn’t pronounce. Those tantalizing scents left me longing for a life I could not live, or even have for that matter.
She wore perfect black high heels that day, and a cashmere sweater that hugged her body tight like a long lost lover. Her complexion was a soft honey brown, cinnamon-kissed and blemish free. Just looking at such perfection made me more aware of my dark brown oily skin.

As we stood there at the daycare’s front counter, she smiled and joked with the daycare worker, the same worker who never spoke to me unless Junior did something terrible that day. The woman would give a quick kiss to her quiet son and a friendly wave to the daycare worker before gathering her coat tightly about her and heading back to her shiny late model Cadillac.

I’d unfold a screaming Junior from my arms once I heard the daycare door close behind the woman. The daycare worker, eyebrows knitted and lips pursed, would reluctantly take my son by the hand and guide him to the room of other children. I’d slowly exit the building, just in time to see the woman merge the big truck into hectic rush hour traffic. I was always relieved that she didn’t see me open the passenger side door of my fifteen-year-old Honda and slide across the seat to the driver’s side. I’d convinced Bill last year that it would be such a waste to spend money on getting that driver’s side door repaired. On days like this, I’d wished it was fixed.

A slight adjustment in my work schedule allowed me to completely miss the painful daily encounters. I hadn’t seen the woman in weeks. But today, there she was, in all her glamor.

Black leather coat.

Blond highlights.

Hair blowing in the light winter breeze.

Sharp as usual, dressed to the nines.

I decided that day that I wouldn’t sit in the car like I usually did, waiting for her to enter the building with her baby. That would have made me late for work. Instead, I removed an irritable Junior from his car seat, and followed her into the daycare center.

There was no friendly banter between the daycare worker and the woman that day. No frivolous laughter, no well wishes.

“Excuse me, I’ll be back in one moment,” the daycare worker spat, her face all scrunched up like she’d been sucking on a tart lemon plucked too soon from a lemon tree.

The woman and I stood at the pressboard counter in silence. She glanced my way and gave me a curt polite smile. I nodded in return, unable to form my chapped lips into a smile of similar curtness.

Mr. Jones, owner of the daycare, came from around the corner, followed by the daycare worker, and stood directly in front of the woman. He gently rested his hands on the counter.

“Diana, we can’t take care of little Joseph today unless you pay for his care in cash. We’ve had far too many returned checks from each of your checking accounts. I suggest you use the day to make other arrangements.”

The woman actually had a name, I thought, as I watched her shrink in embarrassment. She grabbed her son’s hand and diaper bag and moved to the side.

“Little Billy Junior.” Mr. Jones beamed. “How are you today?”

My son smiled. I didn’t even realize that Junior was there with me, after the shock of what just happened. Mr. Jones took him by the hand and led him to a room full of laughing children.
I signed the sign-in sheet and the daycare worker took my bag.

“You have a wonderful day, Mrs. Adams,” she said.

I nodded, too shocked to respond to such a gracious well wishes.

I returned to my car, only to see the woman, this Diana, sitting on a small bench nearby with her son, frantically dialing numbers on a gold metallic cell phone, obviously looking for a solution to her immediate problem. I could see her watching me from the corner of my eye.

I walked past her, opened the passenger side door of my car, and got in. I slid across the seat to the driver’s side and headed to work... my head held high.