"Having an Affair"

I’m not shocked that she is white. I’ve seen enough pictures of Mrs. Jones around her house to expect the blond-haired, blue-eyed woman at the foot of Meeka’s bed. But I hadn’t counted on her looking like an older version of me. She must have starved herself for those wedding photos because there is nothing petite or delicate about this football-shouldered woman who can easily afford to give Meeka some of her extra pounds. Out of all the reasons that I don’t like Mrs. Jones, her looking like me is right at the top.



“I guess. What does your African American husband say?” I ask and hear Meeka give a short grunt of a laugh.


Mrs. Jones blows out some air like a fish. Good. I’ve offended her. But then she just holds the air in her mouth like she is really considering my question and finally says, “I don’t know what my husband says anymore. Do you Meeka?” Even though she is old and big, the voice coming out of her belongs to a little girl.


Meeka looks up from her magazine and makes a beeline for my eyes. “My father is half African-American, half Indian,” she says and returns to her magazine.


“Meeka knows a lot about her father. Probably, more than me,” she laughs, but it is choked by something I can’t decipher.


It is quiet now and it has everything to do with Mrs. Jones’ big butt still sitting on Meeka’s bed.


“I got you a few things, Meeka. Come and see.” But Meeka only flicks a page of Seventeen and pretends to consider the upcoming winter fashions. “Okay then, I’ll show Amelia.”


I suddenly feel like a pawn in a game of chess. And I’m on Meeka’s side and refuse to look at the goodies Mrs. Jones pulls out of the shopping bags. But my love of Finer Things gets the better of me and soon I am sneaking peeks at the cashmere cardigans and argyle sweater dresses, the light green bag of Clinique just itching to be zipped open and explored, the short and long floral skirts which I can already see hugging her non-existent hips and just-plump-enough butt, and the tasseled cowboy boots in four different colors. “Meeka, I think you’ll want to see this,” Mrs. Jones says and removes three pairs of real Champion sweatshirts, two pairs of baggy cargo pants, three pairs of leggings and one pair of genuine Doc Marteens.


Meeka looks up long enough to see what the fuss is all about. She doesn’t even blink and returns to her magazine. Meanwhile, I am fighting the urge to ask Mrs. Jones to adopt me.


Mrs. Jones shakes her head and sighs. Inside, I am doing the same thing. “It’s everything you wanted, everything you’ll need I suppose…for your job at the—what’s it called again?” She looks at me as if I know the answer.


“Quick-n-Save,” Meeka says to me. If her eyes could speak they’d be yelling at me to stay quiet and play along.


“Right,” Mrs. Jones claps her manicured hands together and salutes a thumb at me. “I think it’s great that you girls are going to be working together. In my day, I didn’t even have a choice about work. There was food to put on the table and I needed to help. You girls are lucky that you have a choice. I mean if you wanted to, you could just call that store right now and tell your boss you quit and it wouldn’t make one bit of difference. Did you ever think of that?” Mrs. Jones looks at me but I know that she is really speaking to Meeka.


I am thinking Meeka’s large bedroom suddenly feels small. And then Meeka tells her mother to get out and the room shrinks to half the size of my closet. I hold my breath, preferring this to making a sound in our space of invisible explosives. Mrs. Jones blows a few fish puffs and gives me a stiff smile with scorched cheeks. She says shalom again, but really, there is nothing peaceful about the way she leaves the room.


We listen to Mrs. Jones’ clicking shoes retreat down the hall and down the stairs. It is not until there is the firm, swoosh of the front door that Meeka tells me the truth behind her fisted heart.


“Mother’s having an affair,” she spits out.


I tell her I’m sorry, that maybe this isn’t true and wait for the storm to leave her eyes. But she just sits there like a pot of water just shy of boiling over. I am thinking of how great it is to have my over-protective mother just a phone call away and how good our cramped apartment is looking right now. “Come on Meeka, your mom doesn’t seem half as bad as you made her out to be. Besides, what proof do you have?”


“She told me,” she says.


Well then. I wrack my brain to think of ways to comfort her and come up with nothing. Because, of course, there isn’t any blanket or Band-aid to make this kind of hurt feel better. I’ve seen pictures of Meeka’s father and he isn’t anything special to look at: a dark male with mediocre beauty, just like me. Meeka’s father was already a doctor when Mrs. Jones met him and I bet his money was the only part she fell in love with. But I don’t share these cruel thoughts with Meeka. She is too smart to already know this in her heart, anyway. Besides, a person doesn’t get to be a Sucuyant without acting like one.


So I invite her to Meadowview and tell her we’ll order as many pizzas as her stomach can handle. When she doesn’t smile I promise that we’ll get those jobs at the Quick-n-Save, even though my mother doesn’t know I want to work there—yet, even though I know Sam Fluchter will threaten her dead body over my employment.


When Meeka squeezes my hand I smile enough for the both of us.