by Carl Weber
“My file? I thought doctors kept stuff on computers nowadays.”
“My computer records contain your insurance information, billing, and stuff like that, but the notes that I write during our sessions are kept in my file cabinet.”
My eyes swiftly landed on her notebook, that damn pad where she was constantly scribbling down everything I said—and who knows what else. Maybe that’s how she stopped herself from sharing her personal opinions; she wrote them all in those notes.
I leaned forward and narrowed my eyes at her. “What exactly did you have in my files?”
She tried to be subtle about it, but I saw her roll her chair backward a few inches as if she felt the need to put some distance between us. “I had some recordings of your hypnosis sessions and my notes from your sessions.” She said it nonchalantly, like she hadn’t just told me that some total stranger now had access to every humiliating detail of my life that Roberta had managed to unearth during our sessions.
“You’re joking, right?” I shouted as I stood up from my seat. She scooted back another foot, this time not trying to hide the movement. “Don’t you keep that shit under lock and key?”
“Yes, I do. Whoever it was broke the lock.” She was still talking in that calm, rhythmic voice that they probably practice in therapist school or whatever. I used to find it soothing, but now it was just pissing me off that she didn’t seem to understand how bad this was.
“Roberta, what exactly did you have in your notes?”
“Everything. Everything we ever talked about.”
My mind raced back to the start of my therapy sessions, then did a quick fast-forward as I remembered some of our more intense sessions. Holy shit. Twice a week for practically a year. That was a whole lot of “everything” I’d shared, all compiled into one very embarrassing file. That folder was full of my confidential information, some of which I hadn’t even shared with Loraine, and now it was out there somewhere.
“You mean to tell me that somebody’s out there with all my personal shit?” My heart was in my stomach. “This is bullshit. If that file gets in the wrong hands—”
“I know it doesn’t help, but I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? What the hell is it with you, woman? Sorry isn’t good enough.”
In a sudden burst of rage, I swiped my arm across Roberta’s desk, knocking her notebook, lamp, and telephone to the floor. She screamed and jumped up from her chair. It gave me an odd sense of satisfaction to see her finally show some damn emotion. With that, I stormed out of the office, wondering if things could possibly get any worse for me.
Loraine
23
I was weaving in and out of traffic on I-64 like a bat out of hell, trying to get home from work before Leon’s imposed 6:30 PM curfew. Usually I was home by six o’clock with time to spare, but today, my late-afternoon conference call went longer than expected, and I didn’t get to leave the building until 5:30. I tried to call Leon and let him know I might be late, but he didn’t answer his phone. Not that it would have mattered. I’m sure he would have flipped out on me, accusing me of meeting up with Michael somewhere, or screaming his usual insult: If you’d kept your damn legs closed, you wouldn’t have a damn curfew.
As I picked up my speed, my cell phone started ringing. I halfway expected it to be Leon, but I wasn’t surprised when I saw Michael’s number on the caller ID. This was his twentieth call today. He sure as hell wasn’t making this easy. I would have loved to know who gave him my new number so I could strangle that person. There was a chance it was this guy Herman we both know, but since I had no proof, all I could do was hit IGNORE for the millionth time.
I had to fight the urge to answer the phone, though. As much as I wanted to speak to Michael, I didn’t dare. Leon had all our phone accounts on lockdown. He checked the online statements and the voice messages practically every half hour to see who I called and who called me. He even had all my text messages, business and personal, forwarded to his cell phone. Every ounce of my independent spirit wanted to protest his jail warden’s mentality, but I knew that the second I did, we would be headed to divorce court, and I wasn’t ready for that.
“Michael, please stop calling, baby. It’s nothing I can do,” I said aloud, as if he could hear me.
By the time I parked in my driveway, it was 6:39 and I was nine minutes late. Dammit, I did not want to hear his mouth. He had me on such a short leash these days that even when I did make it home on time, I had to report to him every detail of my day, at which point I never knew what would set him off.
It was what his therapist called “transparency,” where I had to disclose all my activities until Leon regained his trust in our marriage. I’d had to stop using Facebook, Twitter, and MySpace. So far, I’d been good; however, this whole situation was starting to get old quick—not to mention the fact that I missed the hell out of Michael.
I sat in the car for a few minutes, enjoying my last few minutes of peace before I had to deal with Leon’s bull. Maybe I could shut him up with a quickie. Then again, everything was quick with him. But he did love a good blow job. Yeah, that’s what I would do to avoid a fight.
“Leon, baby, I’ve got a surprise for you,” I called out when I went into the house. I was surprised he wasn’t standing there waiting to go off on me for missing curfew. I called his name again and still got no answer. He was home; that much I did know, because his truck was in the driveway.
As unlikely as it was, maybe he was taking a nap. Wouldn’t that be something? I could sneak into the room and turn the clock back fifteen minutes before I woke him up, and then all would be well in the Farrow household.
I decided that wasn’t such a bad plan, so I tiptoed quietly up the stairs.
When I opened the door, hoping I’d find him asleep in the bed, it took my brain a few seconds to process what I actually saw. Leon was lying on the floor, but his body was twisted in a strange position, not his usual fetal-position rest. Jesus Christ, he’s had a heart attack, was the first coherent thought I was able to put together, but when I rushed to him and tried to move him, I discovered how wrong I was. I put my hand on his midsection to turn him over and felt something slippery and wet. I pulled back and looked down to see my palm covered with blood.
Again, there was that strange moment in time between my eyes taking in the sight and my brain finally figuring out what it meant. And once I knew that it was my husband’s blood I was looking at, my terrified screams shattered the silence.
I barely remember what happened after that moment. The only reason I can say I called 911 is because I heard the tape of the call later. Even as anguished as my voice sounded during that frantic call, I had no way of knowing then that this horrific moment was only the beginning of more pain to come.
Jerome
24
I walked through the door carrying two bags of groceries, smiling from ear to ear. There was nothing like coming home to a clean house, and mine was so clean I could still smell the Pine-Sol. I’d hired this Latino couple, Roxanna and Carlos, after Egypt recommended them, and they did the damn thing. That woman had her husband moving furniture, going up on ladders to clean my ceiling fans…all kinds of work I would have never done myself. I don’t think my house had even been this clean when I bought the place brand-new.
Now all I had to do was cook, and, boy, did I have one hell of a meal planned. The main course would be bourbon brine–roasted turkey legs with honey barbecue sauce, a recipe I’d gotten out of Essence magazine. Side dishes of collard greens and glazed autumn root vegetables would complete the feast. Once I finished preparing the meal and setting the table, I would lower the lamps and light vanilla-scented candles throughout the room.
I used to cook like this at least once a month. I’d prepare all of Big Poppa’s favorites and then present them on a perfectly decorated, candlelit table. I was like Martha Stewart in the body of a gay black man. It was my way of showing Big Poppa how much he meant to me. After a while, though, I star
ted doing it less often. His reaction was never as grateful as I’d imagined it should be, and I started feeling taken for granted. If he was getting this type of service in my house, there would never be a reason for him to take me out to a nice, romantic restaurant. I was making it too easy for him to keep me in the compartment he seemed to want me in: occasional fuck buddy, definitely not someone he’d proudly take out in public.
I shook my head as if it would erase the unhappy memories I was focusing on. I had more important things to do, like prepare this fabulous meal for my friend Hannah and the special guest she was bringing. Hannah was a friend I knew from my old job. We weren’t best friends by any means, but after everything that had happened, I needed someone to talk to. Even more so, I needed someone who could make me laugh, and Hannah used to be able to do that when we occasionally hung out at a happy hour after work. So, I called her and asked her to meet me at a local bar.
It was good to see her and talk about old times—happier times. We stayed away from difficult subjects, especially her boss, who happened to be my ex–best friend Loraine. I still missed her terribly. Hannah didn’t know the details behind why Loraine fired me, but she knew enough not to bring her up now. I also didn’t tell her about Ron’s death. Like Big Poppa, she might have read about it in the papers, but if she did, she was classy enough not to mention it.
I did, however, share with her the news that I had finally broken up with Big Poppa. He was still calling me on the regular, telling me how much he loved me, but I’d stood my ground. I missed the hell out of him, but I made it clear that we were never getting back together as long as he was still with his wife.
Hannah tried to hide a smile when I told her, but I knew she wasn’t sorry about the breakup. She didn’t necessarily have a problem with me being gay, but she definitely didn’t like that I was sleeping with married men. Once she heard that Big Poppa was no longer in the picture, she started jabbering away about this friend she wanted me to meet. His name was Jake, and from her description, he sounded like my physical type. The one thing about him that would be new and different for me? He was a gay man who was out of the closet.
Somehow, the timing seemed right. For the longest time, I had only liked men who were in the closet, especially married men. I don’t know; I guess it was the whole “thrill of the chase” thing, like it proved I was the bomb if I could turn out all these supposedly straight dudes. A shrink would have a field day with me, no doubt.
Now I was realizing that my thing for straight guys was more than just a game; it had hurt a lot of people. Freddie got his ass kicked by his wife because of it. Big Poppa was living in this kind of limbo, and he never really seemed happy with who he was. Peter had gone off the deep end and turned into a psycho stalker. And of course there was Ron, who had paid the ultimate price. Yeah, maybe it was time to give openly gay men a try.
While the turkey was in the oven, I went to my bedroom to put on my best suit. I sure hoped this guy Jake was worth all the effort I was making.
My phone rang, and I smiled when I looked down and saw Egypt’s number on the caller ID. She worked with Hannah, so no doubt the two of them had been gossiping all day about my blind date. Egypt was probably calling to tease me.
“Hey, girl,” I said when I answered the call. “Those cleaning people you recommended were incredible.”
“Jerome,” she said in a voice that was definitely not lighthearted. “You need to get down to MCV right now.”
“MCV? As in the hospital? For what?”
“Loraine needs you.”
I swear to God it felt like my heart screeched to a halt. “Oh my God. Is she all right?” We hadn’t spoken in such a long time, but I still had much love for Loraine, and I always would.
“It’s not Loraine; it’s her husband. He’s been shot.”
I almost dropped the phone. “Leon got shot?”
“Three times in the chest.”
“You lying. That shit ain’t funny, Egypt.” Maybe that sounds like a strange thing for me to say, but if you knew Egypt, you’d understand. When Loraine and I first had our falling out, Egypt had tried everything she knew to get us back together. Now, because I didn’t want to believe yet another tragedy had occurred, I convinced myself this was just another ploy to get me to call Loraine.
“I wouldn’t lie about something like this, Jerome. You need to get down here. Loraine needs you. She needs all the real friends she can get. I know y’all ain’t been speaking since she fired you, but a real friend is always there in a time of need—no matter what.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said before disconnecting the call.
I found Egypt and Loraine sitting in the surgical waiting room at MCV. Loraine looked like hell. Her eyes were red and puffy, and black trails of mascara ran down her cheeks. She stood up when she saw me approaching, and I grabbed her and hugged her with all my strength. It was as if all the drama between us had never happened. She had been my best friend for years, and no matter what we had been through, it felt so right to have my arms around her.
“I’m sorry, girl. I’m so sorry,” I said. These are the same words most people speak when comforting someone during a tragedy, but for me, there were so many layers of meaning. Maybe someday we would repair our friendship and I could truly apologize for everything; but for now, we could deal with only the awful situation at hand. “Is Leon all right?”
“He’s in surgery.”
I could see the tears glistening in her eyes, and that just made my eyes begin to water. We stared at each other for a moment. I was left speechless by the surreal situation, not only because her husband had been shot, but also because I was standing in front of the friend I thought I had lost forever.
“They shot him, Jerome. They shot my husband.” I pulled her into another tight embrace and held her as she cried. “I can’t believe they shot my husband.”
I kept my arms around Loraine but turned my attention to Egypt to try to get a grasp of the situation. “What happened?”
“I don’t really know,” Egypt answered. “Loraine told me that she came home and found him on the bedroom floor. The police are over there now trying to gather evidence.”
“There was so much blood,” Loraine sobbed.
I felt my body tensing with anger. I hoped like hell that the police would find whoever did this in a hurry, and make them pay.
Loraine
25
We’d been sitting in the waiting room for several long, tense hours while doctors worked to remove the bullets from Leon’s body and repair the internal damage. I still felt numb, not able to put all the pieces together in my mind. From the ambulance ride to the emergency room to hearing the doctors say Leon would die without surgery, it all felt so surreal. I don’t know what I would have done without the support of my good friends by my side.
When Egypt told me she had called Jerome, I didn’t protest for the first time in a long time. In the midst of this nightmare, everything Jerome had done in the past seemed minor. This was life or death, and I couldn’t think of anyone I wanted by my side to get me through this more than Jerome.
He was my first real friend. At one time, he was the person who understood me best, the person I could share everything with. When he wrapped his arms around me, it reassured me in a way I can’t even really explain. Egypt had been a wonderful friend and a strong supporter, and I loved her for it, but it just wasn’t the same. Something about the way Jerome held me let me know that he was feeling my pain as if it were his own.
“It’s going to be all right,” Jerome said with a sigh, stroking my arm absentmindedly and staring off into space.
I put my head on his shoulder. “Thanks for being here for me.” I wiped away a tear that had escaped and was making its way down my cheek. “I know you’ve never really liked Leon, so it means a lot that you’re here praying for him now.”
He turned and looked into my eyes. “Loraine, I—”
“Mrs. Farrow?”
I looked up and saw two black men approaching us. My heart skipped a beat in fear that they were here to deliver bad news, but then I realized they were wearing suits, not scrubs, so they weren’t doctors.
The lighter-skinned man spoke. “I’m Detective Tyndale. This is my partner, Detective Ryan. We’re investigating your husband’s shooting, and we’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
I lifted my head off of Jerome’s shoulder. He squeezed my hand to remind me he would be by my side through this. “Okay.”
“We just came from your house. It appears someone broke into your home through the rear bathroom window.”
“A burglar?” I asked.
“I really doubt it. I know you haven’t had a chance to do an inventory, but nothing seemed out of place. You had diamonds on your dresser, your husband had a Rolex and his wallet on the nightstand. Plus there are three plasma TVs in the house. I don’t think it was a robbery.”
“You mean to tell us somebody shot him deliberately?” Jerome bolted out of his chair angrily, but the other officer gave him a stare that sent him right back to his seat.
Detective Tyndale ignored Jerome and remained calm. “We’re not ruling it out. Mrs. Farrow, does your husband have any enemies?”
My hand flew to my mouth. Why hadn’t any of this entered my mind until now? Probably because I didn’t want to face it. I had a sudden flashback of the threat Michael had made at the hotel when we first got back together. He’d told me that if I dumped him again, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Then when Leon pulled up next to us in his car, Michael pulled out a gun. And finally, when he showed up at the house, he’d threatened Leon’s life. I’d never believed Michael had it in him to act on his threats, but now that Leon was fighting for his life, I couldn’t be sure.
“He wouldn’t do something like this. He’s not that kind of person,” I mumbled.
