Father Martin had been standing by quietly, but the smile that decorated his face and the sparkling moisture in his eyes said everything to me. He reached over, took me in his arms, and gave me a warm long hug. That’s why we call him “father.”
I didn’t want to stick around to say good-bye to the rest of the fellas. I figured I’d call them later, once I was settled in at the Hilton and after I had put into motion what I had to do to get Étie back.
Cedric called Emilio and instructed him to drop me off at the Hilton. I said my good-byes to Cedric and Martin and followed Emilio out the front door, just as Sylvester and Edgar were coming in.
“So where the hell are you headed?” Sylvester asked, seeing me with my bags.
“I’m going to get my man!” I said proudly. I then climbed inside the idling shuttle bus and nodded to Emilio, letting him know I was all set to go. We pulled away from House of John, and I never looked back.
I checked into the Hilton, dropped my things off in my room, and walked down the Malecón to the entrance of the colonial neighborhood where Étie lived. I went to the house where he had a room. The lantern above the big wooden door was illuminated. I rang the bell on the outer gate. The door opened and a beautiful silver-haired woman emerged from the big door and came to the gate. She looked at me curiously, taking a fascinated look at my dread locks.
“¿Hola?” she said, curious.
“Buenos tardes, señora. Mi nombre es Jesse Templeton. Yo soy un amigo de Étie Saldano. ¿Está en casa?”
“¿Étienne?”
“Sí.”
“Oh, lo siento, señor, pero Étienne no está aquí.”
“Bueno, está bien, muchas gracias.”
“De nada.”
I then doubled back and headed for Bodega Colonial. Even though I knew he wasn’t working, he might be there with the Trujillos. They were like family to him. Being upset, he may have turned to them for comfort.
I rushed toward the cathedral, and crossed the plaza where the lights were burning brightly inside Bodega Colonial. Merengue music poured from the tiny speakers of the radio while customers drank Presidentes, shopped, danced, and milled about. The Trujillos were joyously holding down the fort, but there was no sign of Étie.
“¡Hola!” Señor Trujillo called out to me when he saw me looking around from the doorway.
“Hola, señor,” I called back, huffing. “Have you seen Étie?”
“No. He go with you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “¡Gracias!”
I stood in the middle of the plaza, lost as a child in the woods, turning to all four corners of the world, and not knowing which way to go.
I had to calm down and think. I had to chill, put my thoughts in order, and get some clarity through solitude.
I plopped down on one of the plaza benches. I bowed my head into my hands, and allowed the warm Caribbean breeze to soothe me.
I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before, but the gentle sound of music, ancient music, sacred music, echoed from the cathedral. I looked up slowly. I could see inside the sanctuary. Amber candlelight seemed to flicker in rhythm with the sacred songs. I stood up from the bench. I slowly walked toward the light, toward the music, toward the sanctuary. I knew it was time to pray. I knew it was time to pray for Étie’s forgiveness. I knew it was time to let go and let God.
I entered the sanctuary quietly. It was evening Mass. I took a seat on one of the middle pews and immediately went to my knees and bowed my head.
“Dear Father God. How do I begin to ask for what I may not deserve? But I call upon Your good mercy to grant me this. I love Étienne Saldano. He is the gift that You have given me. I know how precious gifts are, and how much they must be appreciated and cherished. I ask, Heavenly Father, that You give me another opportunity to let him know how deep my love is for him. I ask, Heavenly Father, that You forgive me, and that he forgives me. I ask You for my future happiness. In the name of Your Son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
I lifted my head, opened my eyes, but stayed on my knees. The beautifully painted ceiling of the cathedral smiled down on me.
Let go and let God.
I stood, stepped into the aisle, and crossed myself. I lowered my head and walked toward the exit of the sanctuary, leaving my love in God’s hands.
And that’s when I saw him, seated on the back pew. How could I have missed him? Was I so deep into my grief that I did not see him? Or did my Lord and Saviour miraculously place him before me?
He looked up into my eyes. Tears streamed down both our faces. He stood up and looked away from me, then dashed outside. I followed desperately.
I found him on the bench in the plaza. I sat next to him, afraid that he would bolt again. He did not.
I didn’t know how to begin. I simply opened my mouth and let the words fall out.
“Étie, I am so sorry. You were so right. I did come down here to just have my way with your people. Whether that was right or wrong, I don’t know. All I know is that when I met you, all changed for me.”
“Stop,” he said through tumbling tears. “I pray to Heavenly Father that He no let me love you, that He kill this feeling I have for you. I pray to Heavenly Father to make me not think of you day in and day out, that He make me not want to spend all my days with you. I pray Him turn back clock and change course, so I no meet you, so I no be in love with you, so I no ache for you, for your smile, your laugh, your dread hair, your kisses, your touch. I pray to Heavenly Father for ignorance of you. But Heavenly Father no answer my prayers. I cannot help me. I love you, Jesse. I cannot help me. I love you.”
He reached up to me and gently pulled me down to him. He kissed me. Our tears mingled. And the cathedral bells tolled.
Epilogue
I am sitting up in our bed, have been sitting up all night, as long glances alternate between the stars that sparkle in the moonless sky and my beautiful man, my partner, my lover, my life mate, my friend, my rhyme and my reason, my husband. Étienne. I am watching him next to me, lost inside a deep sleep, filled no doubt with sweet dreams. It is the dream I am awake to enjoy. His baby whimpers through an unconscious smile make me smile. They always make me smile.
Every once in a while I think about House of John and William and Cedric, Martin, who passed away last year, Sylvester, the Hicks twins, and all the fellas still running down there every year to get their groove on. And, you know, I’m so glad I did go down there with the guys that one time almost thirteen years ago. I met the man of my dreams in Santo Domingo.
I just turned fifty-two and I feel fabulous. And, yes, my ass is a little flabbier. But that’s okay. It’s called gravity. All I know is that Étie still calls me “sexy papi.” He’s thirty-eight now and last week we celebrated his one-year anniversary as a full-fledged American citizen, and he is so proud. He now works as a bilingual voice-over actor in film and television, a hook-up made a few years back by my wild and wonderful sister Frankie, who, by the way, finally landed a TV series. She’s playing a novice opposite Jennifer Lewis’s Mother Superior in an update of The Flying Nun. Go figure. She’s not completely over E. Lynn’s death; probably will never be, but she’s hanging in there.
He’s stirring now. Étie, that is. His eyes open slowly and he catches me smiling at him in the dark of the moonless sky.
“Hey, sexy papi,” he says in a soft sleepy voice. I slowly bend down to kiss him. His smiling lips are soft against mine. His tongue is warm and sweet inside my mouth. He then kisses me softly on the tip of my nose. He then nibbles gently on my ear, and whispers to me, “I needed that.” He tucks himself back under the covers. His back is to me. He reaches back and pulls me close to him. He snuggles his body into mine. He wraps my arms around him. I hold him. He is warm and gentle. In a moment he is baby-whimpering in my arms and we lay spooned as one; still; peaceful. A tear runs down the side of my face to the corner of my smile. And I hear myself saying it, and saying it again. Thank you, GOD. Thank you.
DAFINA BOOKS are pub
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Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10018
Compilation copyright © 2010 by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Foreword copyright © 2010 by Victoria Christopher Murray
“The Intern” copyright © 2010 by Terrance Dean
“Is It Still Jood to Ya?” copyright © 2010 by James Earl Hardy
“House of John” copyright © 2010 by Stanley Bennett Clay
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-6044-4
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