Waiting to Exhale by Terry McMillan Read Free Book Online Page A

crazy hairdresser, who told you that one sure cure for chronic boredom was to get involved in something worthwhile. She belonged to Black Women on the Move, a support group that held workshops for women who wanted to do more with their lives than cook, clean, and take care of the kids; for women who weren't moving but wanted to move; for women who had already achieved some measure of success but wanted to find a better way to deal with the stress that came with it; for women who wanted to be more than role models, who were willing to make the time to do something for black folks whose lives-for whatever reason-were in bad shape. So you joined it.
    Gloria introduced you to everybody she knew, but Robin was the one you hit it off with. She was so unlike you: bold and zany, optimistic about everything, and she talked a mile a minute. She didn't have a drop of class, no sense of style, but it was clear that she tried hard. And you didn't care, because what you liked about Robin was the fact that she knew who she was and what she wanted, which turned out to be a baby. She ordained herself "Auntie Robin" and started taking your kids to the park, the movies, the zoo, roller-skating, to anything "on ice"-and anyplace else she saw in the Sunday paper-so you could have some time to yourself and she could get some maternal experience. You thought she was a little on the fickle side when it came to men, because that boyfriend of hers was giving her a run for her money. He treated her worse than a stepchild, but you kept your mouth shut and your thoughts to yourself, because you now had something you hadn't had in a long time: somewhere to go, something to do, and somebody to do it with.
    When John had eventually refused to give you the money to start your catering business, claiming it was just too risky, you took another boring job, as a controller for a real estate management firm, and lied to him about your salary. You began to put money aside so one day you could start your business anyway. He had a series of fits after you went back to work, because now not only did you have your own money but for the first time in years you had interests outside of him and the kids and this stupid house.
    Erom there everything had gone downhill.
    "I'll be back next Sunday to get my stuff," you heard him say. "You'll be hearing from the lawyer soon too."
    This was entirely too easy for him. And like everything else he did, you could tell that he'd been creating the software for this program for some time. But he'd computed wrong. You wanted to catch him off guard, remind him that you also knew how to exit DOS, how to search and replace, how to merge, but when you thought about it, you realized you didn't have to prove anything to him anymore, so instead you simply moved your cursor. You cleared your throat and summoned your mouth to work. "What about Onika and John junior?"
    "I love my kids," he said. "And I'll make arrangements." "Arrangements?"
    "You'll get some money, don't worry."
    "Money?" That's what this was really all about. Division. Dollars. Divvying. He's scared I'm gonna take his ass to the cleaners. Bernadine felt as if she'd been plugged back in. Her fingers twitched and her feet tingled. But now that she could talk, she didn't have a damn thing to say to him. She turned her back and walked through the living room, up the two steps into their bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it.
    She surveyed the room. A room she felt could easily be part of a funeral home. The mahogany bed was too ornate and looked like a giant sleigh. She had never seen a burgundy flower before in her life, but the comforter was full of them. There were too many goddamn pictures on the wall. Ugly oil paintings of things she didn't give a damn about, in those ugly gilded frames. She wanted white bookcases, but John had insisted on maple. And that Chinese rug. She hated that damn rug because she hated green, and besides, there was nothing in this room, nothing in