Original Love

by J. J. Murray

  “But you just said—” Peter stopped. It was never any use to confuse the Captain with his own words. “We’ve been careful, Captain.”

  “Obviously not careful enough if I caught you.” The Captain ground his teeth again. “Wait, we’ve been careful? How long has this been going on, Pete?”

  Peter smiled inside. It was all coming out, and for some reason he felt better about the entire fiasco. “A while.”

  “How long?”

  “Since…January.”

  The Captain closed his eyes and started to speak several times. “Since—what the hell?…since—” He stood, kicking the chair behind him so hard that it smacked against the stove and clattered to the floor. He stalked toward Peter, and Peter pinned his back against the window. “Has this been going on since your mother left?”

  Peter nodded and watched the Captain’s hands clenching and unclenching in front of him. “Since you made her leave,” he whispered.

  The Captain drilled a finger into Peter’s chest. “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You say I made her leave?”

  The Captain’s finger was beginning to hurt Peter’s chest. “Didn’t you?”

  Peter saw the punch coming, but he did nothing to get out of the way, the Captain’s fist thudding into his left eye. He fell to the floor, the Captain looming over him.

  “You’re…you’re grounded! You’re in the brig, Pete! It’s been going on for over six months, you’ll be in the brig for six months, in the house at all times, and no more baseball!”

  Peter felt tears stinging his eyes, but he didn’t whimper like a child. “Baseball season’s over, Captain.”

  “It is? When did it end?”

  “Today. We had the all-star game today.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me today was the last day? I would have been there, and none of this would have happened.”

  “I did tell you. You said you had to work on the Argo.”

  “Well, I’m going to…I’m going to clean up my act. Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do. And I’m gonna watch your every move from now on. I didn’t raise you right for you to do wrong with that…with that…girl.”

  Peter’s eyelid began to droop, the skin on his cheek tightening. He stood, his shoulders square to the Captain. “What exactly did I do wrong, Captain?”

  The Captain’s jaw worked up and down. “You were…you were messing around with that gal under the deck I built with my own two hands!”

  “How do you know we were messing around?”

  The Captain tapped his temple with a finger. “I know. A little birdie told me.”

  Peter smiled in spite of his pain. “You need a new birdie, Captain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your birdie must be blind, Captain.”

  The Captain put his face a breath away from Peter’s face. “What do you mean, Pete?”

  “Just wondering why it took your birdie six months to tell you, Captain.”

  Peter didn’t see the next punch, but it had the same result, leaving him kissing the linoleum. He scooted his butt against the wall under the window as a dribble of blood trickled from his nose.

  “Don’t you sass me, don’t you ever sass me, Pete! No one, and I mean, no one sasses me!”

  So that’s why Mom left. Peter’s lips started to feel like little lead balloons. He pressed his hands against the wall and stood. Both eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t cry out. He clenched his own fists but remained silent, pressing his tongue against a loosened tooth.

  “You brought all this on yourself, Pete. You and your little…girlfriend and your sassing me. All of this is on your head.”

  Peter licked his lip and tasted blood. “I’m not the one doing the hitting,” he said, bracing for another punch.

  The Captain’s shoulders slumped. “I wouldn’t have to…discipline you if you hadn’t been doing anything wrong.”

  Punching your kid is discipline, Peter thought. Bet the police wouldn’t call it that. “But why is it wrong, Captain?”

  The Captain sighed. “Why is it wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “To be with that nigger?”

  Peter’s heart sank. “She’s not a…what you said.” Your picture is next to that word in the dictionary, Captain. “Her name is Ebony, and she’s my friend.”

  “The gal’s even got a name that means she’s black! You blind, boy? She is black as sin! She doesn’t have anything but sin on her mind!”

  Peter smiled to himself. I know! And she isn’t the only one.

  “She is your inferior, Pete. She is from an inferior race. The Bible tells you that.”

  “Where?”

  The Captain blinked. “I don’t know where exactly, but I know it’s in there.”

  It isn’t in there, Peter thought. It can’t be in there. The Bible is the Good Book, and what I feel for Ebony is a good thing. A good thing can’t be a sin in the Good Book.

  “We’ve got to get you back to church, Pete, before this self-destructive behavior of yours…”

  And that’s when I tuned him out completely. That was the moment when I stopped listening to anything the Captain had to say for the rest of my life. Using the Bible to support his racist views was about as unholy as all the sins he was accusing me of doing. And using that word to describe my first love—unforgivable. The blows I took that day healed, but the words…those words will never heal.

  I look at my reflection in the brass horn. “And my appearance is unforgivable, too.” I am a stank, unshaved, greasy-haired man. Destiny will take one look at me and head for the door.

  I use the Argo’s radio to get a water taxi driven once again by Mr. Cutter, and within an hour, I have edged up my beard and showered in the clubhouse. I stare at the wrinkled jeans and Penn State sweatshirt I’m wearing. I have never been God’s gift to women. I flick dead skin off my ashy nose. I comb my hair back, hoping that it stays wet long enough to hide all the gray. Am I ready for my date with Destiny? I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I hope she doesn’t mind taking toast and tea with a sloppy man.

  I drive out to Main Street past Kebali Alem and the Artful Dodger Pub, parking near Village Flowers. Should I get some flowers for Destiny? No. Then she’ll really think we’re on a date, though she probably already thinks that. No need to confirm her hopes.

  I walk to Xando looking side to side for a black woman watching me from one of the parked cars. Maybe she’s outside checking me out before I can get a glimpse of her. I half-expect a car to peel away from the curb. None does.

  I stop in front of Xando’s doors and peer inside. A few men sit in light brown chairs at circular brown tables, exposed pipes above them. Lots of earth tones of brown and rust. Very quadrilateral and Swedish. I don’t see anyone even remotely African. I’m early? No, it’s 7:10. Is Destiny white? The only white woman inside is wiping down a table.

  Deciding to wait outside until her arrival, I read the menu taped to the window and squint often. What’s a Squagel? A square bagel? How…sacrilegious. An Egg Frittata? S’Breadables? Roasted apple chutney? Caramelized onions? Sun dried tomato spread? Where’s the granola and Muesli?

  Just when I decide that I’ll probably have to go out for a burger after eating at Xando, I see a shimmering light-skinned dream coming out of the bathroom inside. Whoa. She sits alone at a table, and I hope she’s my Destiny. She has long hair and a body that just won’t quit. She wears a navy blue denim long-sleeved shirt with a large cowry shell design on the front, cowry shell earrings, and tight white pants. Quite a sailor’s outfit. This woman is a dime in anyone’s pocket. Full red lips, streaks of amber and red in her dark brown hair, dark eyes and eyebrows, strong cheekbones, small chin, cut calves, and sculpted nails—

  She’s now tapping the table with those nails. I am late, and she’s angry. I look at my reflection in the window. I am not worthy of this woman. She is a million dollars covered in liquid pearl, and I am a crumpled dollar bill.
Even under the glaring fluorescent lights, she shimmers. I feel my hands beginning to sweat and check them, only to see Cece’s phone numbers staring up at me. What did Cece use, indelible ink? I try to wipe her numbers off on my jeans, but they only fade slightly. Damn!

  I push through the doors and go straight to her table. “Destiny?”

  She looks up at me, her lips a straight line. “You’re late.”

  “Uh, sorry about that.” I sit opposite her so I can drink her in. “I had some trouble—”

  “And you look terrible. Is that a beard? And what’s up with your hair? Is that gel?”

  “Uh, yes, it’s an attempt at a beard, and no, it’s not gel. Guess it’s still a little wet.” I can’t help staring at her hair, blondish hairs glinting.

  “Yes, it’s my hair.”

  “So many colors,” I say without thinking.

  “You think I look Hispanic?”

  “Are you?”

  “No.” She smiles, a full complement of pearly teeth shining on me. “But in Huntington, I am.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugs. “I get more respect.”

  “Oh.” I stare at her hands for a few moments, not knowing what to do with my own. I place them on the table in front of me. “So, Destiny, what more can you tell me about Ebony?”

  “Can’t we eat first? I’m starving.” She turns over my hand. “And what’s this?”

  I feel the blood rush to my face. “Um, long story.”

  She turns my hand to her. “Who’s…Cecil?”

  “It’s Cece Wrenn.”

  “The singer?”

  I put my hands back in my lap. “Yes. She’s a friend of a friend, I mean, she’s a friend of mine.” Who wants my sperm.

  She purses her lips. “And she writes all her numbers on your hand?”

  “Yeah.” I need to change the subject. “So…what’s good here?”

  Destiny shakes her head and laughs. “Peter the player.”

  “But I’m not a player. Really.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Right. You just happen to have a famous Jamaican singer’s phone numbers tattooed to the palm of your hand.”

  “She’s from Bermuda.”

  “Whatever. Just a friend of yours, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I have to buy some Lava soap soon. “So, what’s Xando’s specialty?”

  “Trying to change the subject?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Their grilled chicken and broccoli pizza is good.”

  I am not having gas around this woman. “Sounds interesting.”

  A waiter finally arrives, handing us menus. “Is this your first time here?”

  “His,” Destiny says.

  The waiter, a blond earringed man in his twenties, smiles at Destiny. She must get hit on 24-7. “May I recommend a pocket of bread filled with eggplant feta spread, with grilled roasted veggies and balsamic vinaigrette?”

  Geez, more gas. Like Drano for my colon. “Um, sure,” I say.

  “And what can I get you to drink?”

  I read the description for Chai Tea Latte: “A combination of black tea, honey, fresh ginger, vanilla, cinnamon, cardamom, and clove mixed with steamed milk and a layer of foam.” I point at the menu. “One of these,” I say, even though I have no idea what cardamom is.

  The waiter cocks his head toward Destiny. “And for the lady?”

  “I’ll have a plate of Squagels and the Tuscan salsa with Bermuda onions.” She smiles at me. “Are the onions really from Bermuda?”

  “Far as I know,” the waiter says.

  “Bet they’re from Jamaica,” Destiny says with a smile.

  “And what can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll have a…skinny half-caf Caramel Iced Mocha.” She’s just described herself, though she’s definitely not skinny. She is a thick dime. “Oh, and two Mocha Kisses for later.”

  I scan the menu and see that a Mocha Kiss is a concoction of Kahlua, Irish Cream, Grand Marnier, and whipped cream. “Just one of those, please,” I say.

  “It’ll be my treat,” Destiny says in a silver sweet voice.

  “Uh, no, thanks. I’m, uh, driving.”

  “Just one then,” Destiny says.

  The waiter takes our menus and vanishes, leaving Destiny staring at her hands and me staring at Destiny’s hands.

  “You don’t drink?”

  “Not anymore.”

  She looks up. “You used to?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been sober for almost two years now.”

  “Oh.”

  More shaky silence. I try not to stare at her, but I can’t help it. Because of her skin tone, eyes, and body, she is every man’s dream, and I’m almost old enough…to be her daddy.

  “They grind their own beans here,” she says to her hands.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She looks up at me. “There is…there was one of these places in the World Trade Center, but all the people got out before…”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is the only one on Long Island.”

  “It’s nice.”

  She sits back in her chair, sliding one leg under her. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

  “I am?”

  “I mean, your e-mails make you seem, um, short.” She giggles. “Sorry, I’m a little nervous.”

  “You’re nervous?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I’m kind of like a matchmaker, right? I’ve never been a matchmaker before.”

  I want to touch her hand, maybe even squeeze it, but I don’t. “You’re doing a wonderful job, Destiny.”

  “Thank you. Oh God, I’m blushing.”

  I don’t see any change in her face. “You are?”

  Before she can answer, the waiter brings us our food and our drinks, and though I’m not exactly sure what I’m eating, it is very good. Every so often Destiny looks up at me looking at her and quickly looks down. Is she flirting with me? And how old is she? She is so polished, so classy. Late twenties maybe. Yet no rings?

  She finishes her skinny half-caf and takes a sip of her Mocha Kiss. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  I sip my Chai Tea Latte. “That’s one of the reasons I stopped drinking. I was missing too much.”

  She doesn’t respond for a few moments. “So…how was your trip up from Fire Island?”

  “Okay. Traffic was heavier than I remembered, and the bowling alley where Ebony used to kick my butt is now a grocery store.”

  She smiles. “She kicked your tail, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not very good at bowling either.” She laughs. “I fall all over myself. So, where are you staying while you’re here?”

  “My father’s boat.”

  “Really. That must be…interesting.”

  “Yeah.” I look at my empty plate. “I must have been hungry.”

  She only raises her eyebrows and continues sipping her Mocha Kiss.

  I look into the bottom of my mug, strange beige lumps looking up at me. Is that the cardamom? “So…how long did you and Ebony work at Alcyone?”

  “Oh, a few years. She liked it. I didn’t. Made my hands hurt with all that twisting.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Well, I’m trying to be a dancer.”

  That explains the graceful way she carries herself. “Ballet?”

  “No way. Freestyle mostly. I audition a lot. Don’t get much work. I wasn’t classically trained…and I ain’t white. Gotta be skinny and white and in toe shoes to get work around here.” She smiles. “But you didn’t come here tonight to hear about me.”

  “No, but I’m still—”

  “It’s okay.” She pushes her empty Mocha Kiss away from her. “So, Peter, what are you doing still wanting to mess with Ebony? I mean, she’s dark as coal, and you’re practically colorless.” She laughs. “Sorry, sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” To the rest of the world, it makes absolutely no sense. But
I don’t focus on the black and white of it, I focus on the love of it. “I know I’m ashy, but Ebony’s not that dark.”

  “Compared to me, she’s darker than darkest night.” She laughs again. “So why her?”

  “Like I said in the e-mails, we grew up together.”

  She leans forward, resting her chin on her hands. “She was your first love, huh?”

  So intuitive. “Yeah.”

  “Aw, that’s so cute. Was your mama okay with it?”

  “She never knew. She, uh, left.”

  “Sorry to hear that. What about your dad?”

  I look away, focusing on a silver coffee dispenser. “He had some…issues.”

  “Made you break up, huh?”

  “Sort of. We didn’t really ever break up…officially.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We just sort of…faded away from each other.”

  “You mean you left her.”

  I turn back to her. “There was more to it than that.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Where is the edge to her voice coming from? “Really. I went off to college and then…we faded away.”

  Destiny tightens her lips. “Just…faded away.” She pats her flat stomach. “I need to walk this off. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  She stands. “For a walk. Lots of places to browse in Huntington Village.” She slides a white jacket over her shoulders. “You’re paying, right?”

  I pay the bill, and we walk out to New York Avenue, past the Ariana Restaurant, which boasts Italian-Afghani cuisine, until we stop at Book Revue Cafe, a massive bookstore rivaling the chain stores.

  “Let’s go in here,” Destiny says, and I follow her inside.

  I pause at a counter to see a display of signed hardcovers from J.K. Rowling, Jimmy Carter, Charlton Heston, Tony Bennett, and Joyce Carol Oates. They all signed here, in Huntington? I never would have guessed that Huntington would be on any author’s book tour.

  “Come on,” Destiny says, dragging me to the African-American section where, miraculously, a trade paperback copy of Ashy rests between Cheris Hodges’s Searching for Paradise and Alice Holman’s The Last Days Murder List.

  Destiny pulls Ashy out and flips to the front cover. “Desiree Holland. Ashy. Like you, Peter. I heard this was good. The cover’s awfully bright though.”