Young Wives Read Online Free PDF Page A

rearview to check again on the attendant she wondered how much longer her looks would last in the harshness of these winters.
    The old coot had finally picked up her card and gotten to the nozzle, but now seemed to be fumbling with the Volvo’s gas cap. Jesus H. Christ! It was what she called the RTSYD syndrome: Rush and They Slow You Down. She’d experienced it at the bank. Why was it that, when you were in a hurry, morons were invariably at their slowest?
    Jada jerked opened the door, got out of the car, and moved to the back fender. In a single motion she threw back the gas cap, took the nozzle from the old man’s filthy hand, and inserted it into the gas tank opening herself.
    He probably wasn’t grateful for her help, but she was paying three cents a gallon more for full service and she’d had to do it herself. Jada felt that was the story of her life—she had to do everything herself—and she was ready to burst into tears.
    Sometimes she doubted her faith. Her parents, island people, still had a deep faith. But somehow it seemed easier to believe when you lived in a warm climate. Right now, shivering in the chill of a New York State wind, she wondered if her God loved her. God had created marriage, she figured, to see just how much two people could irritate one another. If her theory was right, she and Clinton had certainly done God’s work. The two of them were barely speaking at this point, and she was pained to realize that not speaking was an improvement in their relationship right now. Of course, they’d have to speak tonight. She’d have to force this issue that had come up between them.
    Jada climbed back into the Volvo. The old man, after too long a pause, came back with her card and receipt. Shivering, she rolled down the window to take the little tray he held out in his greasy hand so she could sign. She grabbed it, scribbled her name, and tore off her copy, thrusting the tray back at him.
    But instead of taking it and pulling back, the old man merely leaned forward. “Pretty car,” he said in a conversational voice. As if she needed to talk to him! Get a grip. It was almost eight-thirty! But he continued. “And a real pretty woman in it,” he said. She was about to say thank you and roll up the window when he added, “Pretty damn uppity.” She hit the window button, closing him off as best she could. Then, as if she couldn’t predict, didn’t know the next word that would come out of his mouth, the “N” word did, followed by his spit on the side of the car.
    The stupid bigoted cracker! Jada gunned the motor and pulled out of the station and onto the Post Road without even checking the left lane. She cut off a tanker truck and was rewarded with a deafening hoot from the diesel’s whistle. Tears of rage rose in her eyes, and she almost missed the left turn she had to make on Weston.
    In the darkness and comparative quiet of that winding road, she tried to calm herself. To be fair, the incident with the disgusting, ignorant old man was her fault: she knew that constant vigilance and never-failing politeness were the price she and Clinton paid—along with high property and school taxes—for living in this part of Westchester County. Being black in wealthy white suburbia wasn’t as hard as it had once been, but it still wasn’t easy. They were not the Huxtables. Despite everything she did, they were barely keeping their heads above the financial water line. But they were giving the children the kind of life that all Americans dreamed of. Still, there was a very real cost involved.
    They lived under constant financial pressure. And they were cut off from their church, back in Yonkers. There were no black families in their neighborhood, and few kids of color at the school. Shavonne’s friends were white, and Kevon spent all his free time with Frankie next door. Sometimes Jada worried that they weren’t just fair-skinned, but also fair-weather friends. Even she had become best friends with