The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  She turned on her side and his body adjusted to face her, leaning in so close, so close, until contact was unavoidable. Their lips pressed and, from there, everything was sensation—mouths opened, tongues collided; saliva and softness and warmth surrendered to appetite, igniting an inescapable, head-rattling, breath-stealing, reason-rejecting tsunami of need that . . . crashed . . . slowly . . . over . . . them.

  She gasped as he pulled her to him, caressing the length of her body as if he needed to know every inch of the terrain. They broke their kiss only long enough to smile, to whisper each other’s names, to return to heat and wetness until all walls tumbled and there was no going back.

  His fingers traced her cheek, her lips, her throat, trailing down to find an opening to skin. Warm and probing, he caressed her breasts, her nipples, her stomach, her hips, until his fingers were inside and sensation left her breathless. She kept pace, reveling in the smoothness of his skin, the contours of his chest, the curve of his back. She pressed into his hardness as if she couldn’t get close enough, immersing herself in his smell and warmth. They struggled out of clothes, unwilling to let go, taking each other in with the pure pleasure of visceral and sexual discovery. When he spread her legs and enveloped her body, entering her as their eyes met, he smiled, she smiled, and they were swept away.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  HOURS HAD PASSED; IT WAS HARD TO KNOW HOW MANY.

  They lay together in her bed, wrapped in sheets and each other, feeling the high of new and remarkable sex. She’d rejected the moon tonight, pulling the shades closed in a nod to privacy, and in the darkened room they were entwined in the intimacy of post-coital conversation.

  “Is this crazy?” she asked softly, running her hand down his cheek, enjoying the feel of his stubble, his skin, the persistence of his touch in response.

  “It feels nothing but great to me.”

  “Yes, but crazy because, well, first of all, you’re younger—”

  “By one year. Please, woman!” He laughed.

  “And you’re my employee.”

  “Is that how you see it?”

  “Of course not, but I’m thinking Frank might.”

  “Is Frank in this bed?”

  “No, but he is our boss.”

  “Does he have to know?”

  She paused to think about that. “Not right now, no.” She felt an approaching hint of regret. “Do you see this as just a one-off? A little fun between workmates, something we’ll do once in a while and no one needs to know?”

  “I don’t do one-offs, but I do think it’s too new for either of us to know what it is or isn’t. Don’t you?”

  She sat up and pulled the sheet around her. “Yes. Actually.” She began caressing his hair, noting its texture, the tightness of its curls. He reached up, took her hand, and kissed it. She cocked her head.

  He smiled. “Don’t you know never to touch a black man’s hair?”

  She slipped her hand from his. “Are you serious?”

  He grabbed it back. “No. But it would be for some guys. Diante would snap your wrist.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. For him it’s vanity. He takes so long to get his hair just right he doesn’t want anyone messin’ with it, not even his woman. But it’s a cultural thing too. There’s a weird curiosity with some white people about what black hair feels like, like you’re a specimen for their examination. My mom never liked it when white people touched my head. I didn’t understand when I was little, but when I got older, she explained how patronizing, even fetishizing it could be.”

  “Really? People pat kids’ heads all the time. I used to get my head patted, and I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “There’s a different spin with black kids.”

  Sidonie again wondered how much of their disparate worlds would need to be clarified along racial dividers. More than realized, she was discovering. “How so?”

  “Okay . . . so, there was this white woman in my mom’s office when I was a kid, a nice lady from the suburbs, and she’d say things like, ‘Delores, your son is just the cutest little black boy’ and actually rub my head, saying it was ‘for good luck.’ She didn’t mean to be ignorant, she just was, and my mother had to tell her, ‘Please do not touch my child’s head,’ which was always an awkward moment.”

  “But that is creepy. Rubbing your head for good luck? I’d feel just like your mother.”

  “But I actually liked being good luck for someone!” He laughed. “Of course, later on those kinds of things hurt. This white kid in my middle school used to get me in a headlock and rub my hair, calling me ‘Brillo pad.’ Got all his buddies yelling ‘Brillo pad’ whenever they’d see me in the hall. That’s when my dad taught me about breathing.”

  “What do you mean by that exactly, ‘breathing’? You said something about it earlier.”

  “Yeah, it was a thing with him. He read a book at some point about defusing anger, said it helped him develop a coping strategy for when shit got real. He’d breathe in and out, real slow, over and over, whenever he felt the ‘tick,’ he called it, that hit of adrenaline that kicks in when someone’s acting a fool. He said he knew if he didn’t find a way to calm himself down, he’d either end up in jail or dead. It worked for him and what worked for him, he’d teach his kids.”

  “Did his technique work for you guys?”

  “I don’t know about my brother, and surely my sister has little use for anything that self-disciplined. But I use it—I have to use it—pretty much every day.”

  Sidonie peered into his face as he spoke. “It makes me sad that you have to use your father’s coping mechanism that often.” A pause, then she added with a wan smile, “I promise I won’t touch your hair.”

  He looked at her intensely, then laughed out loud—a big, hearty, tension-breaking laugh. He grabbed her hand, placed it atop his head, and rubbed hard. “Touch it, Sidonie, mess it up. I want you to. I want you to touch any part of me you want. Any part, any time . . .”

  He rolled over and met her sad smile with his lips, blanketing her body with his to masterfully change the focus of their conversation.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  IT WAS NOT AN ORDINARY DAY.

  It could pretend to be. It tried. The sun rose in the east. Blue jays squawked their usual morning greetings. Lyft drivers shuffled down below, and the coffee pot dinged at the exact prescribed moment. Still, it took only seconds to realize this was not, in fact, an ordinary day . . .

  THE MORNING AFTER her first night, in a very long time, of ardent sex, profound conversation, and erotically charged sleep, Sidonie sat at the kitchen counter sipping coffee, roiled in a strange brew of anxiety, regret, and elation. Before she could discern which emotion led the day, her sleep-bedraggled bed partner stumbled into the kitchen.

  Having never experienced Chris in such an intimate moment—the classic morning-after encounter—she sat back to fully take it in:

  Chris Hawkins. Standing at her counter pouring coffee. His hair a disheveled mess of puffs and curls, his eyes sleep-bloated and blurry, his face stubbly with morning beard. Clad in his jeans, his T-shirt slung over his shoulder, Sidonie realized he was better looking than she’d previously thought. Maybe it was the afterglow. While he couldn’t claim Theo’s model features, his body was incomparable, his face open and kind, and everything he did with that face and body felt like warm honey. Chris Hawkins . . . here. How strange and marvelous life could be.

  “Good morning,” she said, smiling.

  “Good morning.”

  He leaned in and kissed her, his breath scented with toothpaste and coffee. “This is nice.” He looked around, having his own leaps of awareness. Morning in Sidonie Frame’s townhouse. Coffee in her kitchen. Sidonie Frame. The woman who’d been climbing around his head for months was now here with sparkling eyes, the whiff of shampoo, and every inch remembered. Amazing.

  “Would you like breakfast?” she asked. “I think I have some eggs, I know I have bread for t
oast, maybe a little yogurt?”

  “I’ve got to hit it pretty quick, so coffee will do just fine. Would you like me to drop you at the club early, or do you want to take a Lyft over later? I’m planning to pick up the jumper cables sometime this afternoon.”

  She’d actually forgotten about her inoperable car sitting in The Church parking lot. “Ugh, that’s right. Why don’t you do what you have to do and I’ll head over later? We can get the car jumped then and hopefully that’s all it’ll need.”

  He pulled the T-shirt over his head and patted his hair down as best he could. “I also have to stop by my mom’s to pick up some clothes. Does midafternoon work?”

  “Perfect. I’ll plan to see you about two.”

  “Make it three. That should give me enough time.”

  Logistics set, he slipped his bag over his shoulder and stood there, smiling. “Amazing night. Didn’t think we could rescue it after our encounter with local law enforcement, but I’d say we did a damn fine job.”

  She slid off the stool and leaned into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I’d say we did too.” She looked up at him. “And I hope it doesn’t make things awkward at the club.”

  “It won’t. We’ll keep it private, keep our distance, no problem.”

  “That sounds very professional. We are nothing if not pros.”

  Chris cocked his head. “You realize that’s just at the club, right? Here? You’re all mine.” He grabbed her and kissed her like the man he’d been the night before.

  TWENTY-SIX

  FROM THERE DAYS AND WEEKS UNFOLDED IN THE BLOOM of lust, and the hustle of life and its many assignments: car repairs (Sidonie and Chris), charity events (all staff), pitch meetings (Patsy and Sidonie), celebrity performances (all staff), house packing with Marian (Sidonie and Karen), sibling interactions (Sidonie/Karen, Chris/Vanessa), and, most notably (and specific to Sidonie and Chris), prodigious amounts of sex.

  Sex became their occupation.

  Raucous, relentless, slam-up-against-the-wall sex, enough to fill coffers left empty by years of denial, neglect, heartache, and isolation. Enough to remind them of what it felt to be ravenous and desired. Enough to rub them raw and rip open new sensations, both physical and emotional.

  It was as if they’d just discovered the act and found they couldn’t exhaust it—usually at her house, once in her office between sets (the door was locked), twice on the stage after everyone left, four times in the little cubby behind the sound booth, and half a time in her car when they were taking advantage of a thunderstorm that inconveniently broke midway. They were reckless and adventurous as neither had been, in what they did, where they did it, and how often. It was transformative, the drug of choice—urgent, imperative, exhilarating.

  But while openly besotted in the bubble of their private domain, they were soldiers of secrecy in the nuts-and-bolts world of real life. No one at work had a clue, their families were unaware, and as her townhouse became their haven, Chris rarely found his way down to his mother’s. Reluctant to reveal the reason for his absence, excuses piled up and ran thin—how often could he logically blame working late? After long enough, it was time for truth, authenticity, and the drive to Hyde Park.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE KITCHEN HADN’T CHANGED A WHIT SINCE JOHN AND Delores Hawkins bought their home many decades earlier. In spite of Vanessa’s push during high school to “bring it into the modern world,” the gold and brown diamond linoleum, walnut cabinets with their worn brass handles, and rustic breakfast nook and benches remained exactly as they’d been. Given Delores’s impeccable housekeeping, and despite the activities of three raucous children over a lifetime of growing up, all had endured admirably.

  Chris loved everything about this room; it never failed to inspire nostalgia and a deep sense of comfort. And today it was the place where he sat with his mother sharing confessionals and coffee as the sun shot through the beveled panes of the kitchen window.

  “Is it serious?” Delores had listened to the generalized Sidonie story without comment, and was now intent on defining parameters. Chris couldn’t tell if the question was hopeful or just curious.

  “I don’t know yet. We spent a fair amount of time together as friends before the romance started, so I feel safe in saying it’s got foundation to it. But where it’s headed? I’m not sure.”

  “But you’re spending every night with her. That seems fairly serious.”

  “Ma, I know you think—”

  “Sweetheart, I understand passion. I’m not criticizing you. I’m just saying it’s been a very long time since you’ve had that kind of person— or passion— in your life. I’m happy for you, wondering if it signifies something meaningful. I’ve never known you to be a player.”

  Chris grinned at his mother’s use of the term, grateful for her lack of judgment. “No, I’ve never been much of a player. You’re right about that.”

  “Then tell me more about her. She must be very special.”

  “She is. She’s smart, she’s tough. She’s got this deep, soulful thing about her, which I love. She tends to be intense and very direct. She’s been through her fair share in life, so she knows what she wants and she’s been successful in getting it.”

  “What does she do?”

  He took a pause. “She’s the head manager at The Church. She’s actually the person who hired me.”

  Delores turned abruptly. “Goodness, is that wise, getting involved with your boss? That seems ripe for potential problems. Is she older?”

  Chris laughed. “There isn’t some kind of power dynamic going on, Ma. She’s not even a year older, and there’s a very casual chain of command there. We’re being discreet and professional, so I don’t expect there to be a problem.”

  “Sometimes what you least expect can trip you up. It just seems to me there are enough women in the world who are not your boss, that—”

  “Believe me, this was not something we set out to do. But it’s not easy finding people out ‘in the world,’ as you put it, particularly when you spend most of your time at work. And sometimes the perfect person just happens to be the one who’s most inconvenient.”

  Delores gave him a measured look, as if assessing his candor. “All right. I’ll keep an open mind.” She got up and started pulling food from the refrigerator. “You’re a grown man. I trust you to know what you want and how to handle it. I just hope you don’t sabotage your situation there, especially after working so hard to find balance in your work life.”

  “If anything, enjoying my life more helps with that balance.”

  Delores finally smiled, her shoulders relaxing. “Then I’m glad, sweetheart. You deserve a little love. What’s her name?”

  “Sidonie.”

  “Oh, what a pretty name! So unusual.”

  “It’s French. Her mother apparently has some French in her.”

  Delores took a quiet breath. “And she’s . . . a white girl?”

  “Yes.”

  She finished cutting the sandwich she’d made, put a few carrots on the plate, set it in front of Chris, and sat down. He watched her intently, wondering what comment would follow.

  “I can’t remember the last time you dated a white girl.”

  “It’s been a while. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Delores’s eyes flashed. “No, Christopher, you know me better than that. Your father and I taught you to be your own man, to choose and judge people based on who they are, not their heritage or ethnicity. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I do think life is easier when you stay within your community—there’s no explaining, no defending, no translating this or that, either to the person or those who might be judging her. But ultimately it’s about quality and character. If you tell me she’s a person of quality and character—”

  “She is.”

  “Then I look forward to meeting her.”

  “Let me see how our schedules go in the next couple of weeks, and we’ll figure something out.”
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br />   “Wonderful. So, I guess I shouldn’t expect you around here much?” She suppressed a wicked grin.

  “For now,” he said, catching her expression with a smile. “We’ll see how things develop.”

  “How what things develop?” Vanessa was suddenly at the doorway of the kitchen, still in her business suit.

  “Sweetheart! I didn’t even hear you come in! Sit down, join us. Would you like a sandwich?” Delores immediately got up and started puttering.

  “No, thanks, I just had lunch. Came home for a short nap before I have to head out again.”

  Chris noticed the dark circles were evermore etched in his sister’s face. Her expression of curiosity was the most vibrant thing about her at the moment.

  “So what things are developing?” Vanessa repeated. “Tell me. I need some good gossip.”

  “No gossip, just work stuff.” Chris’s reply was matter-of-fact.

  “Bullshit, motherfucker!”

  “Vanessa!” No matter how predictably crass her daughter could be, Delores always reacted; it was almost a routine at this point. “Comport yourself with some dignity, daughter.”

  “Sorry, sorry!” But her eyes stayed trained on Chris. “You haven’t been home in weeks, you look like you’ve been taking vitamins, and you’re actually wearing something besides jeans and a black T-shirt—”

  “The T-shirt is actually sort of a work uniform—”

  “Don’t play me for a fool, brother. You’re getting laid!” she squealed triumphantly.

  Delores threw up her hands.

  “Sorry, Mom. But am I right? Am I? Oh, happy day! Chrissie’s got a girlfriend. Chrissie’s got a girlfriend.” She grinned from ear to ear, hopping around like a mad twelve-year-old.

  Chris couldn’t help but laugh. “You are such an idiot. Yes! I’m seeing somebody.”

  “I knew it! Tell me about her.”

  “She’s . . . great, it’s too new to talk about, but I’m having a good time. We’ll see where it goes. There, are you happy?”