Dreams with Sweet Deceit

By Milana L. Walter

In Dreams and Sweet Deceit, Milana L. Walter weaves the pursuit of dreams, the law of attraction and life's interruptions through a zigzag path of tests and triumphs. This is Garbo Madrid's Wyatt's story, a smart determined, navie - African-American woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 25, 2008
• ISBN: 9781477178911

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Copyright © 2007 by Milana L. Walter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Dedication

To my beloved sister

Christina Faye Walter Waller,

whose love and compassion inspire me

to follow my heart.

Acknowledgments

For my mother, Delorese D.W. Walter, an artist and fashionista, I am deeply grateful. It was from her love for me and for the arts, which exposed me to the beauty of classical piano, ballet, sculpting, theater and interior design at an early age.

Mary Oliver’s opening words in, The Journey: One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice, was just another shove that moved me along.

It takes an entire village of support to write a first novel.

Besides my sister and mother, I was blessed with support from many loving people. My deepest gratitude to my family: my father, Willis W. Walter, Sr.; brother, Dr. Willis W. Walter Jr., sister-in-law, Dr. Alexis Walter; Willis III, William, and Asia; cousins Dr. Cynthia Jordan and Dr. Reulan Levin, Amy SOS Tilly, M. C. Tilly, Judy Goldsmith Walter, Uncles Jimmy and Ed, Starr, BK, and Mozart Walter.

There is nothing like the support of friends who stay in your corner. Thank you Marion Sparkle Stewart-Parrot, Marie Michelle Smith, Carol Ann Taylor, Zoe Lattimer, Ann-Rita Brown, Joye Holmes-Bolton, M.D., Christine and Nick Santoro, Sandy Davis, M.D., Christine Harris, Kurt Marin, Leslie Nadler, Susan Schein, Carol Green, Ignacio Medrano-Carbo,Tananarive Due, Chester Higgins Jr. and Linda Gerber.

And sincere appreciation to Dr. Bill Hayashi, a mentor; Renee Ferguson for giving me the keys to her and Ken’s lovely cottage in Michigan to write yet another draft!

And my virtual mentors Oprah Winfrey, Suzanne de Passe, Cathy Hughes who continue to inspire me by example.

Milana L. Walter

One

I could only imagine what people were thinking and not saying, captivated with reverence and respect for the surroundings for the first fifteen minutes or so. Then the minutes continued to tick away, with their patience. Their extreme posture shifting to slumped curiosity, their heads cocked in sarcasm as their left wrists extended before their inquiring eyes tacitly note the perturbable passage of the designated hour. Their delicate whispers blossoming into agitated murmurs as heads revolved in syncopation toward the front doors at every tenth word, not wanting to miss the grand entrance, if there was still to be one.

Frozen. Five miles south, I stared out the window, my view partially obstructed by substantial ivory moiré drapes accented with gold braid. The haze dangling in the sky and in my caffe latte eyes, epitomized the day. Stone still, I stood as my childhood friend Astra Allen, string bean lean, Oriental-straight chocolate tresses, a commanding Lauren Bacall husk in her voice commandeered the medley of phone calls invading the sanctimony of my presidential suite.

Five miles north, my father, Mark A. Wyatt Sr., contemplated each cobblestone as he paced back and forth in the manicured garden. My sister, Fayana, half-stepped behind him in peach satin baby-doll heels.

Where the hell is your sister?

"Oh she’ll be here, Daddy. You know she’s on her own clock."

Dad had been waiting for almost two hours. Even if I had been only five minutes late, he still would have been annoyed with me. Dad stood just under six feet tall, wavy locks, full mustache, and a passion for B. B. King’s blues guitar. People would remark that he was surely Clark Gables’s twin from the soul side of the tracks.

He always had a strong work ethic just like his dad, Big Papa. Dad was a tireless, well-respected Chicago architect. But his values where rooted in rural America, not the brick and concrete of a major city. He maintained the Arkansas-raised-on-the farm-up-at-dawn-always-on-time-or-even a-bit-early upbringing. Punctuality was a virtue, and the antithesis was trifle. A trait so unacceptable in his mind, lateness could be synonymous with a nasty four-letter word.

Fayana, who knew all the Baby Face songs by heart, attempted to explain my interpretation of what behavior crosses the line and what doesn’t. She was my younger sister by three years and looked incredibly gorgeous in flowing peach floral chiffon that was accentuated by her curly blondish precision crop. Sis always gave me the benefit of the doubt, but by this time I was certain that I had overstepped her boundaries as well.

My mother, Lillian, although a Dinah Washington collector, named me after Greta Garbo. She told me that to her, the name Garbo resonated strength, poise, and mystique. I never considered myself to be as mysterious as my namesake. In fact, other people made more of a fuss about my name than I did. I hardly saw myself as the heir-apparent of the Garbo legend. But I guess at this moment, my unexplained absence did nothing but enhance the mystique of the partly cloudy afternoon.

Joanne, my step-mother and James Brown diehard, was chatting away with newly made friends and at the same time was particularly conscious to avoid crossing Lillian’s perimeters. My mother’s reputation for having a short fuse many times preceded her. Besides, Joanne was hardly one of her favorite people. I guess Mother thought that just because she didn’t want Dad anymore, no one else should want him either. Joanne met Dad over two years after the divorce.

If Mark Jr. could figure out how, he would have been a Temptation. But for now he was only my younger brother by sixteen years (Joanne is his mother) and struggling to find his identity. Mostly he expected the unexpected from me anyway. Mark was an old soul; he was far wiser than his seventeen years and considered himself as my big brother. That rented Armani tuxedo fit him like it was custom tailored. He hardly noticed the clock, munching on anything edible and flashing that charm in the direction of all things female.

The Chapel by the Sea in Palos Verde, California, resembled an enchanting crystal Victorian mansion. The scent of the sea air and the rhythm of the ocean’s voice thundered against the rocks below creating a symphonic blend of intensity, spirituality, and romance. But. Not even that blend of sweet intoxicating elixir was tempting enough to compel me out of my rice-paper-thin sanctuary.

Sign. Both of my big toes were fractured during a freak accident at home a week before today. The vacuum cleaner cord snaked through my big toes as I ran barefoot down the carpeted hallway to answer the phone, lost my balance, and fell to the floor. Doctor’s prescription: no stilettos for at least eight weeks.

Priority. That prescription was not an option. Those fabulous pointed-toe four-inch heel metallic gold crystal and net Charles Jourdan’s that I salivated over were going to grace my feet when I walked down that aisle. The creation of my wedding ensemble was like the creation of art for me. The shoes were an integral extension of the elegance of my body-draping tea-length cream silk dress. Any other shoe, especially a lower-heeled shoe, wouldn’t express or flatter the enchantment of the total image that I sought to experience on my wedding day.

*    *    *

Moment. It was only a little over three months ago when the high-noon sunlight wallpapered the plush silver leather interior of his silver Bentley, with iridescent blue splatters of sparkles, as I slowly opened the gold leather case. Ooooo. Blinding me with its brilliance and vogued in the case so majestically was an exquisite, flawless emerald-cut blue-diamond ring. Ooooo.

My second thought was my own Hope diamond. My first fleeting thought? Was this real or an impostor? Either way, it was a beautiful specimen. The sensation of hundreds of butterflies salsa’d inside my solar plexus, third chakra, the seat of emotional living and issues of personal power.

Then words uttered in alto near my ear dived down to my second chakra of self-esteem, vitality, relationships.

Garbo, will you marry me?

Warren moved closer.

That inanimate object possessed me much like that Barbie doll did when I was five. It was mine; she was mine. Don’t touch it; don’t touch her. Did I want to be Warren’s wife? This would be my second attempt as a wife and his first as a husband.

Beautiful things brought me pleasure, and so did Absolut martinis, Valium—my narcotic—and orgasms. Marriage was quite another issue. But I did love male companionship, and I detested dating.

What did I want? Out of focus. I was clearer about what I didn’t want. I kept staring at that diamond. Warren kept staring at me.

"Yes. Yes, Warren, I will marry you."

The scent of his musky Paco Rabonne seduced me as we kissed and caressed.

My fingertips stroked his defined arms and shoulders under his tan leather baseball jacket. His touch so tender.

Garbo, I’m gonna do everything in my power to make you happy.

It took every ounce of energy to contain myself. I wanted to jump and leap and holler and scream, but all I did was smile. Warren. Warren. Warren. All that tall, athletic, gorgeous, and rich hunk of man was mine.

"Warren, I’m already very happy."

So there, I did it. I rolled the dice and willed that my numeric combinations equaled heaven on earth. Definition? Wealth, validation, and a dynamic man to share them all with. What was there not to love? I would learn to love Warren.

I wanted to be a millionaire by the time I was thirty, I’d expected my bank account balance to reflect my preparation and pursuits—but it did not. My level of experience and expertise did not correspond with the digits on my paycheck. I worked hard, took the necessary risks, did my homework, and deserved all the accouterments of success. I was not going to be denied. My dues were paid.

Standing on the front line, the economic impact of racial and gender bias was too close for comfort. Outwardly, no chip was visible on my shoulder and nor was the anger that stained my heart. What I would come to realize much later was that my psychic response to this devil of an intruder manifested itself as a, low, silent, suppressed, seething rage that drenched my cells to their core.

This evil bullshit was my grandfather clause. My grandfathers, my grandmothers, my uncles, my aunts, my parents—all were subjected to this nefarious edict. Grandfather clauses where created solely as a clever exclusionary device, to exclude a generation, gender, or group from rights and/or benefits that they were only entitled to unless their grandfathers had been entitled to them. In some southern states, people couldn’t own property or vote unless their grandfather’s had had those same rights or privileges. So in order to be grandfathered in, one had to have a history that supported such rights, and if one was only one generation removed from getting off the boat, then his or her grandfather had no such history in this country anyway.

Despite capricious and arbitrary branding, love, determination, and unity, diminished the brunt of those wounds. Clusters of oppressed people excelled in spite of the damning road blocks because like in Invictus, I am the masters of my fate they were bloody, but unbowed. This is the brand of blood that runs through my veins. According to my expectations, I was a late bloomer in my early thirties because bias complicated my journey: glass ceilings, brick walls, sound barriers, mind games. If the playing field had been level, I’d be at least a millionaire by now, and that had nothing to do with ego, just having the total freedom to do and be.

It’s your turn now. You’ve paid your dues. You, my dear, deserve this blessing. Besides, one of your life lessons is to learn how to receive as well as you have learned how to give, Garbo, I convinced my 1980s yuppie self.

Voice. At that very moment I convinced myself that learning to love Warren would be so organic. Was it just a matter of allowing myself to feel him? Hadn’t I been playing defense all along? Guarding my secret self from the thieves of dreams? Many times I became aware of whispered voice waves in my seconds of stillness that dissipated beyond my octave range. Stillness beyond the shortest length was too uncomfortable. To be still and listen would not have nurtured my delicious distraction of zooming via supersonic speed, which fueled my conviction of self-righteousness with high octane. To be still would have forced me to conclude what I already knew, but not what I wanted to hear at the moment.

Warren’s caramel skin and soft wavy black locks reflected his Italian-African but all-American heritage. He was born in Florence, Italy, grew up in New York, where he played high school basketball and remained in Los Angeles after graduating from UCLA with a business degree. He was an established entrepreneur when he rode into my life on the proverbial white horse (a silver Bentley) bearing opulent gifts. I was wealth whipped.

He knew I loved beauty. The fragrance of fresh flowers mingled with the marina air flourished in my waterfront apartment in Mariner’s Village in Marina del Rey. Bo and John Derek lived there too. Every other day, Warren would come by carrying florist-wrapped bouquets of flowers that he selected himself, some beautiful combinations that included orchids, lilacs, lilies, roses, and gladiolas. Various colored vases of flowers accented my cocktail table, the small antique table by the loveseat, the center of the dining room table, the kitchen counters, the vanities in both bathrooms, my dresser, chest of drawers and night-stand by the bed, and even on a shelf in my walk-in closet.

*    *    *

Simpatico. We had not been out of each other’s sight since meeting in The Forum Club, a private club in The Forum stadium, after the LA Lakers lost to the Chicago Bulls over six months before. Mesmerized. Our eyes locked from across the room shooting strands of electricity to ignite the fire within us. The stares lingered throughout conversations with other people as he gradually circled the room and I greeted friends and acquaintances toward the back of the room. Warren was athletically striking in lemon-gold Nike warm-ups. He could have been mistaken for an NBA player. Stunning. He flashed a sardonic smile as he shook hands and gave bear hugs on his way to my side of the room.

Everyone seemed to know him, including the owners of the LA Lakers. His matinee-idol capped teeth and clean, freshly buffed fingernails just enhanced his appeal. My pussy tingled inside my hand-painted red butter-leather pants. My matching jacket draped over my shoulders to reveal a black French lace bustier. My shoulder-length blue-black hair was pulled back into a knot and twisted with two black lacquered chopsticks.

Then he walked directly to me. The anticipation had been so intense my ankles weaken and his words got tied in his tongue. But I stood tall, in spike-heeled black alligator ankle boots to his six foot five inches.

My name is Warren Prodest… Podest… Podesto.

I smiled.

Warren Podesto is my real name. Honestly.

He raised his glass.

"And believe me, this is only ginger ale. Can’t even remember my name. I’m rambling. You are so beautiful you just make me nervous. Who are you?"

Garbo Wyatt.

Garbo? What a great name for you. What are you drinking, Garbo Wyatt?

Absolut martini, on the rocks with a twist of lemon.

Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?

For a little while. I don’t plan to stay out too much later.

We sat at the table. Those pointed-toe boots were killing me. He ordered another martini for me and another ginger ale with no ice for him. People appeared to be benevolent to our need to be alone in a crowded and noisy space.

Within the course of a week, Warren Podesto made the rite of passage from stranger to divine find.

*    *    *

From that night on, he wrapped his charm around my pain, snug and tight like a mummy wrap, and squeezed out the sting. Luscious lust saturated and diluted any sanity residue. I was buoyant, floating on the top of the world without a net.

He told me I captivated him. He held me up to the light with his eyes as if examining a Lalique sculpture. Warren exquisitely pinpointed my vulnerabilities, my strengths; he praised me on my successes, my work ethic, my gumption.

With Warren, it was all about Garbo.

"Garbo, you don’t have to work that hard. I’ll connect you with the right people. You’ve been through an awful lot in the last few years. Look, I just want you to relax."

Sweetheart, I just can’t take off like that. I mean, I have obligations that must be met.

Garbo, just give me a few of your deposits slips.

A few of my deposit slips? Now that’s different.

He smiled. I was offended at first. I was silent for two minutes. Then I opened my desk drawer and gave him a stack of deposit slips to my checking and savings accounts.

My darling, with that small gesture you have crossed the line. It is official. You are now a kept woman, a little voice with a Romanian accent whispered in my head.

My god. A kept woman was I. My independent self fought like hell to retrieve me, but I anesthetized that voice with sinsemilla and chardonnay. Money was at my French-manicured fingertips. For once in my life I had the privilege to decide how to best spend the minutes, hours, days and weeks of time.

I carried myself as a woman with a pedigree, but my spending habits were definitely nouveau riche. I shopped in Paris; spa’ed in Italy and Florida; and flew in for lunch with friends and family in New York, Chicago, Dallas and was home by dinner. I was adorned with diamonds and precious gems in Byzantine settings. It was only money. So what. Just pay. Pay the price.

*    *    *

Timing. You see my soul had been wounded and my spirit scrambled prior to meeting Warren. I just wanted to run, you know sprint like a Concorde on land. Get me out of Baton Rouge, Louisiana! Los Angeles was the chosen venue for my resurrection. So I nursed my wounded ego, ignored my shredded heart, and proceeded on my odyessy to be an entertainment industry mogul who made a difference. The hell with my heartache.

Baton Rouge? Love brought me there. Love kept me there. Stanford T. III, my premiere husband, was another dynamic creature. We met in college. He was the man on campus: a commanding figure, president of one of the most popular fraternities, charismatic and smart. Women were hot for Stan. He was tall, athletic with piercing naughty eyes. He majored in chemistry, both in the bedroom and the classroom. He had intended to study medicine. But in his senior year, he decided to pursue a career in law instead.

Back then, we had to declare a major right away. I was a freshman psychology major and terribly excited about living on my own. In the beginning I wasn’t even remotely interested in Stan.

My high school love was Tommy Tilton. He was the first man to ever enter me. Tommy went to college in Connecticut at Trinity, a private predominately white school. I was in Nashville at Tennessee State University, a public predominately black school. The distance of miles and experiences made my heart grow asunder. Lust was the boss of me. I was in absolute lust with Stan, who introduced me to that crazy mad love: all-weekend long lovemaking only coming up for air long enough to quench our thirst or order a pepperoni pizza with double cheese. Sweat. Screams. Sweet. Cold and lust possessed. The handwriting was on the wall for me and Tommy. Tommy was a man in progress. Stan was a man.

Several months after my graduation, Stan gave me an ultimatum to come live with him in Baton Rouge. I was spending the summer in Miami with Dad and dating a brick house running-back who played with the Miami Dolphins. Apparently, Stan sensed something when I was rarely home to take his phone calls and was distracted when I did.

Law school. I had been accepted to University of Miami and Howard University law schools. Civil rights and family law issues motivated my career choice. I wanted to make a difference. I was determined to be a lawyer, and Stan knew that. Love moved me to Baton Rouge where I enrolled at Southern University Law Center. Wedding bells rang just before finals that November. We exchanged our vows in his parents’ home. Intimate and non-pretentious. I said I do in a red knit butt hugging mini dress. When the next dawn broke, I was cramming for my first semester finals in the stacks of the library.

Was it the burning red dress that provoked the devil in him? As soon as I was legally his, Stan transformed into a fire-breathing monster. Pow! He punched me with disdain, betrayal, and his fists violated my face and soul. Where was I and who was I with? I was embarassed to say. Was all this about my choosing to keep my maiden name? Searching for the reasons why.

I rationalized that his abusive behavior must be from the pressure and stress and unfairness in a world where African-American men were despised and diminished. Invisible. Their credentials deemed useless in many instances. More often than not, black men were perceived as an amorphous group: trifling, flashy, negative, pimp-walking, stupid, lazy, dangerous dudes with humongous penises.

Revealed. Three years into our marriage, the disciplined, ambitious entrepreneur Stan I knew became undisciplined, unreliable, and temperamental. It was a fluke that a creditor reached me at my office. Stan handled all the bills. He told me that he had been trying to contact my husband for months to collect on a debt. His calls were never returned. Since Stan had solid community roots, an outstanding reputation and powerful contacts, he didn’t want to be perceived as rushing to judgment. Then, one day he was watching the news and saw me on-air asking for contributions for The Salvation Army’s program for youth and contacted me through the station.

Louisiana law was based on the Napoleonic Code of 1812. Simply stated, the husband, was the head and master of the marital community, meaning he could sell, assign, transfer, and buy anything acquired during the marriage without the knowledge or consent of the wife. But I, the wife, could be held totally liable for any debts incurred by the marital community whether I knew about them or not. (The law has since been changed, but not in time to affect my situation.) Another sanctioned slavery.

Ignorance is not bliss. Who knew that Napoleon would have his little short self all tangled up in my personal business in the 20th century! Stan had become untrustworthy, which I didn’t know at the time. I never probed him about our money. We were in our twenties and owned an office building in a once-segregated commercial area of Baton Rouge, three cars, were A-list socially and politically active, and had the appearance of up and coming wealth. Stan had a fledging criminal law practice, and I, a much-publicized executive with Governor Edwin Washington Edwards’s New Deal-esque administration.

Le bon temp rolle, Governor Edwards used to say. Let the good times roll.

Louisiana had it’s share of first, when it came to the gubernatorial office. During Reconstruction, Oscar Dunn was the first black elected as Lieutenant Governor of Louisiana. Then P.B.S. Pinchback, another black man, serving as Speaker of the House succeeded Dunn as Lieutenant Governor after Dunn’s mysterious sudden death. Then Governor P.B.S. Pinchback served in that capacity for 48 days during impeachment proceedings of the elected Governor Warmoth. Pinchback went on to become the country’s first black congressman. Then the United States government changed the rules and overturned the Reconstruction elections.

Edwards was the first Cajun ever to be elected governor in Louisiana. Savvy, he campaigned in Cajun French as well as English. That simple gesture unearthed a more deeper and complex implication of Cajun pride. Before then, it was unthinkable for a person of such prominence to expose himself or herself outside their community. Being Cajun carried a stigma, one of being loud and rowdy, different, uneducated, ignorant but also great cooks, Zydeco music, and serious party people. A disastrous mix for a gubernatorial candidate (this was pre-Jesse Ventura). So the more educated and successful a Cajun became, the more Anglo the mask became, the greater the burden to conceal became.

Edwards embraced his Cajun roots (descendants from Nova Scotia), played Zydeco music, and served vats of steaming jambalaya laced with crawfish, handmade sausages, boudain, gumbo at his political rallies. His bold pride dismissed the hand-me-down shame of being different. Being different became a cause de celeb. Edwards became an icon, which guaranteed his campaign a solid and loyal block vote of Cajuns.

It was a campaign of hope and the triumph of the underdog.

He fashioned himself after Huey P. Long, the flamboyant Louisiana governor of the 1930s. The high visibility of black allies surrounding Edwards was unprecedented even in a state where mixing African with any other race such as English, French, Spanish or Native American was as ancient and common as its concubines and quadroon balls of the 1600-1800s. According to the law, all it took was one drop of African blood—no matter how green the eyes or straight the hair—to relegate one to the pits of racial bias. Naturally, this bred deception and evil. Taboo. Whispers that Edwards had some African blood running through his veins were persistent. Why else could he such a name as Edwin Washington Edwards? Mostly southern blacks, as opposed to whites, were known for