Betrayals

By ANITA FOSTER LOVELY

This is the novel that caught the interest of the Oprah Show. It's about a lady who allows riches and material possessions to influence her decisions in finding love. She believes lies although evidences of truths are right in front of her face. It takes her going through a very traumatic harassing experience with her boss to realize a very successful, but also very humble, man was waiting for her to really see him as the love of her life. A couple of serious sub-themes in this novel are bullying someone because of their light complexion, and passing as White while longing to be accepted by Blacks. There's a dramatic runaway slave story woven throughout the main story. How the characters of both stories are related is revealed at the end of the book. The parallels of  harassment between the two eras of  over 150 years apart are astonishing and based on self-loathing!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anita Lovely
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215187661

ANITA FOSTER LOVELY

ANITA FOSTER LOVELY grew up in South Jersey and later moved to Atlanta, Georgia, where she enjoyed a career as an Economist and as a Professor. She is the author of the novel, Betrayals, which caught the attention of The Oprah Show, and she attended the Yale Writers’ Workshop. She is published in the Journal of Research in Pharmaceutical Economics, and she received an award from BET Books/Arabesque for a romantic story. Anita is also acknowledged for editing assistance in the Chicken Soup for the African American Soul. Besides founding & facilitating Writing Critique Groups and presenting at Writing Workshops & Conferences, Anita enjoys traveling and learning about various cultures. She still lives in Atlanta with her husband, not too far from her grown children.

Book preview

BETRAYALS

_______________________________________________________________

Anita Foster Lovely

Copyright © 2005 by Anita Foster Lovely

Library of Congress Number: 2005904044

ISBN:    978-0-9795614-0-5 (previously ISBN 1-4134-9464-1)

Originally published by Xlibris, August 2005

Republished by Lovely Publishing, Inc., April 2007

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.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Lovely Publishing, Inc.

[e-mail]

www.Lovelypublishing.com

Acknowledgments

I THANK MY MUSE, MY heavenly Father, for giving me the gift of writing, which I consider to be my personal ministry. My husband, Gene, showed his patience and support by offering words of encouragement when I stayed up late writing, instead of coming to bed at the usual time. My oldest son, Curtis Foster, provided financial support which afforded me the opportunity to quit my job and pursue this flight of my imagination. His motivational pep talks helped me get through the frequently occurring periods of frustration and doubt.

My curious and generous proofreaders were invaluable in the completion of this novel. They took time out of their busy schedules to read my manuscript and encourage me with constructive feedback. They are my husband, Gene; my sisters, Brinda Taylor, Michele Lucas, Jakki Quattro, and Gail Foster; my brother, Greg Foster; my friend, Valerie McCord-Rutherford; and my niece, Lea Foster.

My mother, Sister Grace Foster, encouraged me like only a mother can. Memories of her mothering me and my siblings fed my imagination, and are the foundation of the Mom character in this fictitious story. Memories of my late father, Bishop Asa Foster, kept me company during some of the wee hours of the morning. Remembering his creed, Go Forward, I wrote this book believing that it would be a blessing to people worldwide. And last, but definitely not least, my son, AJ, encouraged me in his own literary way. With sincere appreciation and love, I thank you all.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1  . . .  Betrayal       4

Chapter 2  . . .  Choices     27

Chapter 3  . . .  1853: The Runaways     42

Chapter 4  . . .  To Abort or Not     48

Chapter 5  . . .  Friends and Adversaries   61

Chapter 6  . . .  Slaves II – Dank Dark Cave   91

Chapter 7  . . .  Girlfriends     97

Chapter 8  . . .  Dakota’s Parents   115

Chapter 9  . . .  Slaves III – Guiding Spirit   133

Chapter 10 . . .  Lincoln    137

Chapter 11 . . .  Khaliyah    162

Chapter 12 . . .  Slaves IV – Waheenee     182

Chapter 13 . . .  Dakota    187

Chapter 14  . . .  Stress Will Kill You   223

Chapter 15 . . .  Slaves V - Courting Asa  258

Chapter 16 . . .  Lincoln Listens   262

Chapter 17 . . .  Consolation    273

Chapter 18  . . .  Slaves VI – Natives’ Camp   290

Chapter 19  . . .  Revelation    294

Poem: Good Morning Father    312

Questions for Book Club Members   313

The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control . . .

Chapter 1 –  Betrayal  (2003)

LET ME TELL YOU A STORY. . . Sadness wrapped itself around me so tightly, I could hardly breathe. That’s why I was surprised to hear myself shrieking at my best friend, Tiffany. The shrieks were hollow, and sounded like they echoed from somewhere other than my weary, melancholy body.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him! I shouted into the phone. 

Oh Alexandria, I know you’re through with him now. Tiffany had a bubble of excitement in her voice. Since being a stay-at-home mom had lost some its thrill, she lived her life vicariously through me. Me, the one with the supposedly exciting, single life. Huh! That was easy for her to say. She’s all snuggled up in her nest, next to a loving husband and a couple of cute kids. I would trade my so-called excitement for the routine of married life any day.

I don’t know. I’m confused. My elbows pressed down on the kitchen table while the pads of my fingers kneaded my forehead. The warped reflection frowning back at me from the mug of lukewarm tea seemed to be mocking the distortion in my life. Why couldn’t I get everything to work right all at the same time?

Confused? Tiffany’s sarcastic voice brought me out of my reverie.

Well, my breath escaped from me loudly. He said he loves me. And if I loved him, I would take care of his needs. Then he wouldn’t have to go to somebody else. A shudder ran through my body and threatened to relieve me of the little bit of dignity that I had left.

And you’re falling for that? she asked. The tone of her voice was starting to irk me, but I didn’t let on because I needed to vent. And Tiffany was the only person that knew about all of my previous problems with Ryan, and the other men that I had dated since college.

Well, it is kind of true.

How is it true Alexandria?

I’m not taking care of his needs. Wrapping a lock of hair around my finger, I twisted it back and forth. A split-end stared at me and begged to be clipped. I tried to concentrate on it.

Oh girl, please. So now it’s your fault? Ryan knew from the beginning that you were a virgin, and planned on staying that way until you were married. Don’t let him play you like that.

Well, if he didn’t love me, he wouldn’t be in a relationship with me? Now would he? He’d be in a relationship with that Miss Halle Berry-Look-Alike.

He is, girl. He’s in a relationship with both of y’all.

I don’t think so. I said emphasizing each word louder and more distinctly than the last.

Well I know so. You’re too old to be so naive.

Don’t say that Tiffany. I’m not naive. I’m in love.

Girl please. You don’t even believe that. You just want to get married, and you think he’s a good catch.

Well, so what. He is a good catch, I said, wincing at the squeak in the crescendo of my voice.

Pipe down girl. I’m just trying to help you see things clearly.

I know. I just don’t know what to do. I pushed the mocking mug out of my way, heaved a sigh, and allowed my shoulders to relax.  I’ve already invested eleven months of my life into this man. I don’t feel like starting over again. I was trying to hold on and see if he’d give me an engagement ring for Christmas. But I don’t know. He makes me feel so ugly. And disrespected.

You said it, not me. Disrespected, Tiffany continued. She emphasized the last word. I bit my lip.

But why would he disrespect me Tiffany?

Because you let him girl.

I don’t know about that.

I do. You’re too close to see things straight. As long as you tolerate his crap, he’s going to throw it at you. You’re too naïve for your own good, Alexandria.

Not after the other night, I’m not. I hate him, A hollow shriek sprang from my mouth again. Bile crawled up into my throat bringing a wave of nausea with it. Overcome, I threw my hair, split-ends and all, over my shoulder and plopped forward on the table.

Five minutes after hanging up, I picked up my checkbook from the wrought iron- and-glass end-table and stared at it. Flipping through the narrow pages, I tried to concentrate on my expenditures. While trying to block out the echoes of Tiffany’s truths, and the ugly visions of Ryan with someone else, the numbers became a blur. Why every thing couldn’t go right for once, was beyond my comprehension. Things were finally looking up on my job; and now my man had to act like a horse’s hoof.

I refocused, and tried to reconcile it once again; trying to find money where I knew none existed. Petunia, my oldest sister, had helped me set up a budget. Little good it did. You see, just like she had planned, she became a big time financial analyst with the Federal Reserve Bank in Philly. But me, I’m a junior web designer struggling to get a promotion to a senior web designer position at the small, rinky-dink technology company where I work.

The only reason the position was rumored to soon be posted, was because someone with a nice salary got laid off. Then senior management changed the title of the position from manager of web design to senior web designer. That way they wouldn’t have to pay the new person as much as they had paid the last. Everybody knew that whoever got this job would be doing a lot more work than the previous person. But that’s exactly what I was counting on to cut the competition. I not only wanted this promotion, I needed it. I was barely making ends meet six months ago when everybody in the company took a pay cut. Now, after paying my share of the mortgage and utilities for the condo that Petunia allowed me to share with her, I could hardly make it until the next pay check. I mean, condos in the area of the Art Museum didn’t come cheap. Then there’s my used car note, food, toiletries, hair salon, and a little pampering every now and then, that I had to squeeze into my pitiful budget.

And I wanted a new wardrobe. As a matter of fact, I needed a new wardrobe. Just in case I decided to continue seeing Ryan. That lady that he was holding on to like his life depended on it was dressed to the nines. And he wears custom made clothes that complement his olive complexion, curly brown hair and hazel eyes. His Italian and Latin exotic genes turned heads everywhere he went. So yeah, he was a good catch for me. It isn’t every day that I got a chance to date a doctor. Or get an opportunity to ride around in a Range Rover and a BMW 760 Li. Therefore, I reasoned, if I planned on hanging out with him for very long, and one day becoming Mrs. Ryan Velázquez, I needed to dress and look the part.

But after what happened the other night, I wasn’t sure if I was going out with him again. I mean, I had suspected him of messing around a few times before. But when I questioned him, he always managed to convince me that it was just my wild imagination. And I’ve never checked on him because he said he doesn’t date women that snoop around and try to get all into his business. After all, he has a lot of women colleagues. And he can’t risk getting embarrassed by some jealous girlfriend. So he said if I dated him, I had to trust him.

And I had trusted him until a couple of nights ago. Floating on a cloud, I had called myself surprising him, and got surprised. Earlier, while lounging at the day spa, splurging on a facial, manicure and pedicure that I couldn’t even afford, I had planned my surprise evening with Ryan. Leaning my head back in the shampoo bowl and smiling up at my hair dresser, I fantasized about the day that Ryan would propose to me. On the way home, I had maxed out my charge card on a tight, low-cut black dress and a new pair of black stilettos. An outfit that I knew I would never wear again. Later, donning a trench coat over my tiny dress and strappy shoes, I felt a quiver of excitement course through my body. The cold air sent goose bumps up my bare legs, changing my quiver to a shiver as I left the condo to embark upon my dream evening.

I was about to raise the knocker on his Rittenhouse Square condo door, when it opened. You should have seen me. He must have picked up on my vibe and knew I was coming. Or maybe he had seen me from the window and was welcoming me in. Not. He hadn’t even seen me. He had his arms around some Halle Berry-Look-Alike; and it looked like he was trying to suck the breath out of her. Her well manicured fingers caressed my man’s head; while his well manicured fingers caressed her round J-Lo bottom. They seemed startled when I finally got my feet to move. I ran down the steps and to my car. Pulling away, I realized that he hadn’t run after me, or even called after me. My rear-view mirror gave me a clear picture of them standing on the stoop looking in my direction. Like they were the couple, and I was the other woman.

I couldn’t help it. I cried. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. But my mascara colored tears continued, blinding me. Turning the corner, I managed to find a parking space and slumped down in my seat. I blew my nose, and then stared straight ahead, oblivious to the people that walked by. Air struggled to find its way into and out of my lungs. I really didn’t care if it found its way or not. I didn’t care if my heart continued to churn blood through its vessels. I didn’t care if my brain continued to process thoughts. As a matter of fact, I wished that it didn’t. Because my thoughts scared me as I felt the last threads of innocence drifting away. 

I couldn’t believe it. He lied to me. He told me that he respected my decision to save myself for my husband. And he told me that although it would be very hard for him because he wasn’t a virgin, he would save himself for me. Although doubtful at first, I had finally believed him.

Now I understood why everybody called me naïve. My mind raced. Wasn’t I supposed to trust my man? He had sworn that he loved me, and would never mess around on me. Why did he say that he loved me if he didn’t? He couldn’t love me and be with someone else. Could he? I couldn’t. But he obviously could because he held her just like he held me. He hadn’t even acknowledged me. I wasn’t naïve. I was stupid. Like a bass drum, my heart pounded heavily. The swooshing sound of my blood almost deafened me.

The red neon sign on the corner beckoned me. Pulling down the sun visor, I looked in the vanity mirror. My eyes mirrored the emptiness that pervaded every cell in my body. With trembling hands, I applied fresh lipstick and brushed my hair. I licked my freshly pampered finger tips, and wiped away some of the mascara that streaked my face. Buttoning the top button of my coat, I grabbed my purse, and stepped out into the night.

Some strange inner energy forced my feet to move forward. To lift up and plant down. It forced my back to straighten up. And it forced me to inhale slowly and deeply; and exhale slowly and thoroughly. Until I pulled on the heavy door of the bar and grill. Time moved in slow motion as I waited on wobbly legs for the hostess to find me a seat in a small dark corner booth. After ordering a blackened salmon Caesar salad and a glass of merlot, I leaned back on the brick wall and curled my feet up on the seat. Once I felt people’s stares move from me to the next arrival, I lifted my eyes and looked around me. Everybody was smiling, chatting, eating, drinking, and having a good time. Everybody except me. Immature, naïve, stupid me.

A piece of salmon sat on my fork in front of my nose. I tried to get it to my lips, but the pungent odor repulsed me. Gagging, I rested the fork on my plate and pushed it away. The smell of the merlot was more appealing. I allowed the dark aromatic elixir to fill in the canyons of my loneliness; of my hollowness. Ignoring my conscience, I ordered another.

I thought about the only other time I had drunk. It was about a month after I had first started dating Ryan. We were at the super pricey Le Bec Fin on Walnut Street. After enjoying a scrumptious five-course meal, we were on the way to his place when he made it very clear that he planned on taking me to bed that night. That was when I made it very clear to him that I was a virgin, and planned on staying that way until I said I do. That was also when I decided that I wouldn’t ever drink again, because resisting him hadn’t been easy.

Blinking myself back to the present, I realized that tears had made their way from my heart and were sliding down my face. Leaning forward, hoping that no one would notice, I wiped them away. A wisp of hair fell out of place and tickled my nose. Blowing at it, I watched it rise quickly and fall delicately back towards my nose. I kept blowing and watching my hair while I tried to decide what to do next.

An hour had passed, but the merlot had done nothing to soothe the hurt that weighed me down. Like a dark fireplace lined with day old ashes, I sat waiting for something to ignite me. The next time the waitress came by, I ordered a rum and coke to buy more time. Not knowing where to go, or what to do next, I sipped my drink and tried not to look pitiful. Finally, a flame was lit in my stomach; and a glow spread all over me. A crooked smile crept upon my face.

Suddenly, everything was funny. Simply hilarious. Laughing to myself, I tried to stand up. Wobbling just a bit, I sat back down to get my bearing. Resting my elbow on the table, and my damp forehead on the heel of my hand, my French manicured nails tapped to the beat of the background music. Shame sidled up and danced over me with a rhythm all its own. Adding to my cloak of misery, my bladder started to pulsate with an entirely different tempo. Here I was, Miss Virginal Me, unsure of how I was going to exit the restaurant with a smidgen of my self-respect still in place.

Holding on to the table, I stood again and steadied myself. Using tables and chairs to balance me, I made it to the door and leaned on it. It wouldn’t move. I pushed again, but it wouldn’t move. Someone from outside opened it; and I tottered out and headed in the direction of my car.

Something twisted and swirled up from the bottom of my stomach. Before I could make it to the curb, sour putrid slush spewed from my mouth onto the sidewalk. Someone stepped aside and made some unkind remark. I laughed. It was funny. They were funny. The world was funny. Life was funny. I wiped my mouth on my tear encrusted sleeve and staggered forward. Logic, memory and the location of my car eluded me. It seemed like I should have been there by now. But a thought did make its way through the murkiness of my mind. I didn’t know where I was. Even though I squinted, the letters on the sign wouldn’t stay still long enough for me to read them.

Blindly, my body kept moving forward. Staggering. Reeling. The scion of intelligence that hung around led me to believe that eventually I had to get to my car. It didn’t matter when because I had nothing but time. Nobody would miss me. Nobody was expecting me. If I took the entire night to find my car, nobody would care. Not even me. Until someone’s presence entered my realm of being. My feet staggered to a stop and slowly I wobbled around. A big dark shadow was way back there coming in my direction, and bringing with it an aura of danger. I tottered on. Faster. A thought occurred to me. Maybe they’d kill me and take me out of my misery. Then Ryan would be really sorry. But then another thought pushed the last thought out of the way: Yeah. Right. Until Miss Halle Berry-Look-Alike came to comfort him. The footsteps behind me approached faster. My heart thumped against my chest wall. I suddenly decided that I wanted to live. My blurry eyes focused on a light blinking in the distance.

Preparing to run, I stepped out of my shoes and bent over to pick them up. Before I could reach them, more of the sour slush splattered across them. Resting my left hand on my knee, I picked up the dripping shoes with my right hand and ran blindly towards the blinking light. Praying desperately and breathing hard, I allowed the twenty-four hour convenience store to swallow me into the safety of its lights. Ignoring the exaggerated sniff of the clerk’s nose, I moved to the back of the store. Resting my weak, smelly body and my slimy, ugly face on the cool window of the beverage cooler, I found my cell phone and called Petunia.

§

Pulling the pillow over my head, I tried to block out the loud scream of the phone. After five long abrasive rings, it stopped. Deafening thumps pounded my head. Each thump sent streaks of pain searing through my eyes. With my head braced against the sofa’s arm, I reached for the phone on the glass end-table. Squinting from the morning light, I dared to check the message. It was Ryan. His voice made me feel nauseous all over again. Hurt and shame just about smothered me as memories of last night came back to haunt me. The Pepto-Bismol that Petunia had forced me to take before I passed out made an attempt to come back up.

Swallowing hard, I listened to the voice that used to excite me; that used to make me happy and hopeful. Talking about he’s sorry. And he’s proud of the way I handled the situation. He was glad that I didn’t embarrass myself, or him either. And yes he had sex with the lady that I had seen him with. Duh. But then he had the nerve to say that it was my fault. Ouch.

If I had loved him enough to take care of his needs, this wouldn’t have happened, he rattled on. After all, he was a doctor and had to make life or death decisions. And not having sex was affecting his ability to concentrate. And he couldn’t take any more chances with people’s lives. Then he said he didn’t love her; he loved me. Huh? My heart thumped wildly against my chest almost choking me. I listened to this thirty-eight year old man’s message. He just didn’t know. I was a different lady this morning.

My pasty mouth welcomed the glass of water from the end table. The tepid fluid pushed the two Sominex that Petunia apparently left for me down into my weak dehydrated body. Listening to the rain and waiting for the pills to take effect, I snuggled down under my duvet and hugged the pillow to me. I thought about how different me and my sisters’ lives were from what we thought they would be.

My younger sister, Peaches, got pregnant right out of high school and got married right away. She was glad at first because she got KC, the finest guy in her class. But it was kind of sad too because everybody knew that he didn’t really want to get married. And he’s been messing around on her ever since. Sometimes I think he was trying to hurt Peaches on purpose. Trying to pay her back for trapping him. 

Then she made the mistake of having two more kids right away. I think she was trying to ensure that he felt obligated to stay. But I think that just made him run the streets more. Now don’t get me wrong, KC loves his kids. And I guess he loves my sister. But he finds every excuse possible to be in the streets. Mom said that’s because he’s still a kid himself. And he’s not finished growing up. They say they are in love, but how can you be in love and mess around on each other. I just don’t understand that.

But then, she messed around too. After she found out about his second affair. His first was while she was pregnant. Both of them said they had used condoms. But I bet they didn’t have their extra-marital partners take an AIDS test first. What I asked both of them was, if you knew this person had AIDS, would you still have sex with them? Even with a condom? They hemmed and hawed, but I doubt it. It’s not like we didn’t know some guy, supposedly on the down-low, who had died from AIDS.

Nevertheless, Peaches is contented with her life in Saviorsville; our quiet, sleepy home town. She doesn’t work outside of the home. She has her friends from high school. And she has Mom and Poppy in walking distance from her. And she says that’s more than enough for her.

Peaches has gained forty pounds, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. That’s Peaches. She just takes life as it comes. She said KC doesn’t mind, so she doesn’t mind. She just cooks,