The Dawn of Nia

by Lauren Cherelle

  “To answer your question,” she says, “Cannon.”

  I’m sort of familiar with northern Mississippi. She’s about forty minutes away from the heart of Memphis.

  “So,” she says, “how was your day?”

  “My day was uneventful but okay. I’m keeping a low profile this weekend, spending time at home.”

  “At home alone? Are you in a relationship?”

  I skip the first question. “I’m single.”

  “Any stubborn exes?”

  I bite my lip. Is Kayla a stubborn ex? The break in conversation is a great moment to be upfront about my past with Kayla, her blood-related cousin. I can even disclose my relationship with Pat and her family, except I don’t want to sour the conversation. And I don’t want to turn her off given I know a deeply personal fact about her while she knows nothing about me. Plus, the information doesn’t seem appropriate over the phone. Some matters are better suited face to face.

  “I’m a free agent,” I tell her.

  She likes my response because she proceeds by summarizing her day’s activities. She assisted her father with killing and gutting a hog that weighed a ton. “I’ll never do it again,” she says. After the massacre, she washed grit and tiny, unidentifiable creatures from a truckload of turnip greens, shucked at least two acres of corn, and baked three of the best homemade sweet potato pies ever created on this side of heaven. I enjoy the lofty storytelling as she recounts her day. “Six hours of slaving for ten minutes of eating.” She chuckles. “It was worth it, though. It’s been a while since I’ve spent a day with my dad.”

  I imagine the young man who impregnated Pat. He’s lean and handsome with smoky brown eyes and shimmering white teeth. A smooth cat that swept Pat off her feet.

  I can’t help but to share a day I recently spent with my father, fishing for small mouth bass in the St. Agnes River. “Did you scale the fish?” she asks.

  “Yeah. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. So when are you coming back to Memphis?”

  “I haven’t decided. But I really can’t handle being in the boonies for more than a few days.”

  An indefinite time frame. Does this mean she’s temporarily off from work or permanently unemployed?

  “Where are your parents from?” she asks.

  After I explain that my parents grew up in ridiculously rural counties in eastern Arkansas, we drift into conversation about our childhood experiences in the nuances of rustic living. One of her most vivid childhood memories is eating red dirt, the thick clay-like kind dug from the sides of hills. “I really can’t say if I liked the taste or just the idea of eating dirt.”

  I glance at the timer on my cell phone. We’re approaching an hour and seventeen minutes and I need to pee. But I won’t let the pressure in my bladder intrude. I roll out of bed and unlock the door. I amuse myself by tiptoeing down the hall like a sneaky teenager, muting the phone as Deidra recalls more food-related oddities. I quickly relieve myself, splash water on my hands, and dash into my room by the time it’s my turn to speak.

  “Did you eat pigs’ feet?” I ask.

  “Ooh, no. They scared me. They still do. I couldn’t touch them earlier today. Did you?”

  “I couldn’t go to the corner store without buying one. I grew out of that. Thank God.”

  “Yes, Lord,” she says and laughs. I like her laugh. It’s a hearty, genuine laugh that creates instantaneous false trust— as if this talk will lead to future ones about things more personal. In the meantime, we reminisce about other country shit we hate but will never erase from our pasts.

  “Nia,” she says before we end the call. “I really, really enjoyed talking to you. This may sound strange, but I needed this conversation. Your call was perfect timing.”

  Her voice is so warm, so new. I don’t know how to respond.

  “Are you there?” she asks.

  “Yeah… I’m glad you feel that way. Let’s do it again, soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “I pull a lot of overtime, and I work a third-shift gig on the weekends sometimes. So…” I can’t mentally pin a free period in my schedule for the next week.

  “Why are you working so much? You got mouths to feed or something?”

  “No. I…” I’m uncomfortable with the real answer. I’m not ashamed about living with my parents. I’m doing what’s needed to move out. But I can’t tell her why I’m living here. “I guess because I’m single.”

  “Well, how about this? I’ll call you, and if you’re free, answer my call. Okay?”

  That’s such a simple question, but it makes me feel so desired. And the anticipation of talking to her again is alluring. I notice I’ve taken teenage reminiscing too far when I catch myself twirling in my curls. I drop my hand and say, “Scratch that. Call me tomorrow.”

  7

  THE SLAP OF MY SANDALS syncs with the beat of the bass drum as we approach the entrance of the jazz lounge, Gillespie. After a string of conversations, I agreed to meet Deidra at the corner of Fourth and Market for an evening of live music and Dezza Reign— the fire spitting, spoken word, one-woman-show extraordinaire.

  Deidra’s demeanor is different from our initial encounter three weeks ago. Now, it matches the casual tone she conveys over the phone— no side eye, no neck roll.

  I considered mentioning Pat before today, but struggled with a definite decision. On one hand, I wanted to wait until Deidra was in my presence. On the other hand, our conversations have weakened my burning curiosity about the extent of her relationship with Pat. Their kinship is a factor, but not my first concern. I’m more interested in Deidra, the woman who tickles my ears with humor. I’m a sucker for witty women with a sprinkle of bad attitude and a generous portion of sex appeal; women that tease my fantasies with a smile alone. Since our third conversation, whenever I close my eyes at night, visions of her nude body cloud my mind. I haven’t fooled myself into believing I can let Pat sit on the backburner for too long. This evening, however, is reserved for just the two of us.

  The Gillespie hostess greets us and requests identification. “How many times are you going to ask for my ID?” Deidra says. “I’m not getting any younger.”

  “Don’t play, Dee,” the hostess says. “You know the deal.” Deidra reaches into her purse and pulls out a red wallet. She unlatches the wallet and flashes her identification so quickly that only a person with supernatural ability could check it. Then the hostess looks at me. “I know she wouldn’t hang with an underage woman, but I need to see yours, too.”

  After she verifies I’m of legal age, we move to the far wall to make room for entering patrons. I wonder why we haven’t entered the lounge, but figure Deidra has a plan. After all, she suggested this place.

  “How often do you come here?” I ask.

  “Once or twice a year.”

  “I haven’t been since it opened.”

  “That was about three years ago.”

  “I know. I work too much. I should get out more.”

  “I’m sure you will,” she says and shifts her attention to the older gentleman approaching us.

  He introduces himself to me and escorts us through the dark and crowded lounge to a private, U-shaped booth with a direct view of the stage. He hands us menus, shares the drink specials, and insists we order whatever we please. When he steps away, I glance around while considering my options. Looks like we’re the only VIP folks in the building.

  Upon his return, Deidra requests sweet tea. I order for sangria. As soon as he leaves I ask, “You got it like that?”

  “Girl, I wish. He’s my cousin’s husband. They owe me for watching their spoiled-ass kids.”

  I’ve met all of Pat’s nieces and nephews and most of the Carter clan, so he must be a paternal relative.

  As the minutes pass, the sangria sparks an urge to scoot closer to Deidra, narrowing the two feet between us so our pheromones can mingle as we talk. I want her to flirt like she did the day we met. I want her to reach over and touch my leg
while throwing her head back in laughter. Instead, she’s guarded, keeping her bubble away from mine. Really, she’s more into the music than me. And once the saxophonist coasts into a passionate solo, it’s like I’m no longer present. Deidra’s adorable face is relaxed, but from her eyes, she’s drifted to another location. Somewhere far from this building. Somewhere serene and romantic.

  When the solo fades, she shifts her focus to me. We talk and share potato skins until Dezza Reign takes the stage with a monologue about women’s oppressed speech. Dezza’s words are swift and distinct. Her hand motions are seductive. She captures the audience through call and response. It’s nice to be away from work and home, surrounded by others with a similar interest. The delicious food, good spirits, and new company are welcomed. However, there’s one little problem.

  I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I’m being observed. I look left to find Deidra shamelessly staring at me. Minutes ago, she acted as if she was sitting alone. Now, she won’t take her eyes off me. “Your cut is nice,” she says, acknowledging her own gaze. “It fits you well.”

  I rub along the waves of my newly shaven and chestnut dyed hair. “I wanted something different. I haven’t had a cut in years.”

  “Caesars are sexy on women.”

  I’m unsure how to take her compliment. She said it so casually that I can’t take her seriously. On the phone she’s sugary sweet. Now she’s lukewarm and unconvincing, and I can’t determine whether she’s feeling me. I can’t figure her out so I turn my attention to the show.

  The drummer cues the band and Dezza exits stage right for a brief intermission. I bob my head to the tempo of the lively jazz quartet and scan the venue for other cute faces during the wait.

  Dezza returns shortly after to engage the audience again. She ends her set with a mix of spoken word and scat before stepping off stage. She makes her way from table to table, greeting admirers and posing for pictures.

  Deidra stands when she approaches us. “You were on fire, as usual,” she says and hugs Dezza.

  They talk for a moment before Dezza greets me. “I enjoyed the show,” I say.

  “Aw, thank you, love. I appreciate you coming out.”

  “She didn’t have a choice,” Deidra states.

  Dezza’s eyes return to mine. “You don’t know what you’re getting into with this one.” She shoots me a quick smile and gives Deidra a farewell hug.

  Was I just forewarned, or was Dezza kidding? Deidra doesn’t seem the least bit offended, so maybe I shouldn’t over-react to a light-hearted comment. I don’t want to assume the worst because we have plans to visit the state fair after this. I have to spend at least another sixty minutes browsing the fair with Deidra. If the remainder of our time together doesn’t go well, at least I’ve blown my Saturday evening with fresh off the factory conveyor belt eye candy, a woman whose figure eight and full D’s put my shallow hips and false C’s to shame.

  As soon as we exit the building, the aroma of heavy rain envelops us. The gray blanket of clouds advancing from the east ruins our plan for the fair.

  “I really wanted that funnel cake,” Deidra whines.

  “Right. We don’t have to go our separate ways. You’re welcome to come to my place.”

  The sound of ‘my place’ satisfies my ears. I’m so proud of finally having my own home that I want a guest to confirm it’s real. I’ve only been in the condo five days, but I’ve already purchased enough furniture to make it livable and presentable.

  Deidra responds with a blank face, making me wish I could renege on the offer. My intentions were good, though. She’s good company. Why call it a night on account of poor weather?

  Deidra reaches into her oversized purse and pulls out a lighter and pack of cigarettes. She props a cigarette between her lightly glossed lips and ignites the flame. She takes a long drag while staring into the distance, pinning the smoke in her lungs for several seconds, as if the fumes will help her make a wise decision. She releases the white haze, letting it float at her face before she looks at me and says, “Where’s your car?”

  “A couple blocks over.”

  She puffs again. “Lead the way.”

  “What about your car?”

  She flicks ashes to the concrete. “I didn’t drive.”

  I consider the risks of inviting a stranger over after we’re in my car. I don’t care for smokers, and for all I know she could be insane. Maybe that’s why the Carters disregard her. My eyes slide to the passenger seat. She’s looking out the window, slightly moving her head to the ballad on the radio. For just one evening, I want to hang out with someone other than Jacoby or Tasha— and I really want to poke into her life— so I push aside all reconsiderations.

  By the time I arrive at my new home, the sun has fallen below the hazy horizon. I haven’t interacted after dark with a woman other than Kayla since March. It’s October and I feel out of practice. I hope my instincts will awaken and lead my actions. I don’t want to seem uptight, only to make her too uncomfortable to loosen up with me. Even if I don’t raise the subject of Pat, our time together is a stepping-stone and has to go well.

  “Hey,” she says when I unlock the car doors. “Give me a minute. I need to make a call.”

  I leave Deidra in the garage and go inside, placing my keys and clutch on the entry table. I sit in the living room as she talks. Traces of her voice make me wonder who’s on the other end of the call. Maybe she has a girlfriend, or maybe not. She wouldn’t have introduced me to multiple people if she has someone exclusive in her life.

  While waiting, I go upstairs and replace my sandals with socks. When I return, she’s sitting on my couch looking at her nails. I sit near her and ask whether she cares for a mixed drink.

  “No, thanks. I don’t drink.”

  A smoker who doesn’t drink? I almost laugh out loud. “Well, I’ve got soda, water, and cranberry juice. I can make some chocolate milk.”

  She grins and turns down all the options as I walk into the kitchen. I scan the frosted shelves in the refrigerator for something to calm my nerves. The thought of mentioning Pat unsettles me. I place ice cubes in a shaker and pour a three-to-one ratio of pineapple juice to mango rum. I top my glass tumbler with a lime wedge to salute a good evening.

  “I noticed that you glanced at my license,” Deidra says once I step back in the room. “What do you want to know?”

  There is so much to ask I don’t know where to begin. We’ve shared casual facts during phone chats, but nothing about who we are in the present. So, I start simple. “No offense, but I assume you’re older than me… I’m curious about your age.”

  “How old are you?”

  My birthday is only three weeks away so I round up. “Twenty-eight.”

  “I’m four years older than you. Is that all right?”

  I nod while calculating. Pat was fifteen, maybe sixteen when she gave birth to Deidra.

  She looks at the broken-down boxes in the dining area and the artwork propped against the wall. “You just moved in?”

  “Yeah, Monday.”

  “And you’ve unpacked and cleaned up already? Were you expecting me?”

  “Does daydreaming count?”

  She laughs. I finally said something to encourage her beautiful smile.

  She drops her eyes and scans the parallel lines I vacuumed into the rug protecting a section of the hardwood floors.

  “I like a clean home,” I state.

  “Or, you like to make a good impression before sex.”

  Excuse me? I’m already trying my best to keep my eyes above her neck while taming sexual feelings, which are growing stronger with each swallow of rum, and here she is inciting my desire. We look at each other and smile, sparking an opportune moment to straddle each other. I keep my hands and mouth to myself and she does as well.

  I mention Dezza and this seamlessly leads to conversation with less pressure. With each passing minute, Deidra becomes more comfortable in my presence with welcoming body language. S
he increases eye contact. She relaxes her back to rest against the couch. She uncrosses her legs and leans in my direction. The likeable personality I experienced on the phone begins to surface. This is a horrible time to bring up anything Carter related. I feel selfish holding on to this secret, but I like where we’re headed. She’s warming up to me.

  As the night sky turns violent with thunder, we drift deeper into conversation. Before I know it, my glass is empty. Again, I ask whether she wants anything to drink and she accepts the offer. I hand her a bottle of water and mix myself a cocktail with less juice.

  I can’t pinpoint what’s transpiring between us as we talk about our most frightening weather experiences. We don’t have the rapport to deem our chemistry romance. This interplay of attraction is fast camaraderie and instant lust, and the latter is undeniable.

  My noiseless condo amplifies the pitter-patter of raindrops on the living room window seals. The storm massages my ears and spirit. I enjoy the stories we share and the fact that no performance, music, or people can distract me from Deidra’s wandering eyes and flirty smiles.

  When I grow quiet, she says, “Am I making you nervous? You’ve stopped looking at me.”

  I lift my head to meet her gaze. “You’re kind of direct.”

  “Kind of?”

  “Very… and that makes me…”

  “Self-conscious?”

  I ask myself whether that’s a fitting term.

  “It can be hard to spend time with a woman who keeps it real when you’re accustom to pretense,” she adds. “Just be yourself.” She leans forward and rotates the overturned pendant on my necklace. The warmth of her fingers forces chills from my chest to the shielded space between my legs.

  “I am,” I respond, just as she rests her hand on my leg.

  “If that’s the case, are you glad this isn’t a daydream?”

  I bite my bottom lip to control my excitement. “Absolutely. You know I’m attracted to you. Who wouldn’t be?”