by Pat Simmons
“From across the street. I was jogging when I saw an accident in the making.”
This woman was the perfect poster child for an Amazon woman, which in his mind wasn’t appealing. Parke considered them too long to be shapely and their clothes never fit. Instead of showing off their full height, they stooped when they walked. She had so much dirt and grass in her hair that contestants on the Survivor reality show looked better.
“I’m so clumsy. Sorry to bother you,” she apologized. “I’m okay. Did I hurt you? I’m not exactly petite.”
She was right about that. My muscles are still screaming, a thought he kept to himself. Her soft, melodic voice grabbed his attention. It didn’t match her body. Parke chuckled. This new neighbor was intriguing. Turning, he walked to the trunk of her car. “Let me get those for you. Where do you want them?”
The neighbor waved her dirty glove in the air. “Oh, don’t bother. I couldn’t ask you to help. I don’t even know you.”
“You didn’t ask. I’m offering.”
Her politeness, rather than being flirtatious, got his attention. Somehow he thought it was attractive. Aggressive females wore down his nerves and tested his good manners.
A descendant of kings, Parke was a connoisseur of women—short, shapely, cuddly females. He was also a man driven by the history and profiles of people, places, and things.
Taking his early morning jog through the historic Ferguson neighborhood, he wanted to see the new owner. Personally, he was glad someone bought this eyesore, since vacant buildings attracted the wrong kind of tenants—drug addicts or the homeless. Accosting his new neighbor to the ground was not his preferred way to conduct a proper introduction. Since he wasn’t trying to impress, he felt downright silly.
“Then, let me introduce myself.” He grinned and bowed. “Parke Jamieson VI.”
Amused, she gave him a mock curtsy. “I’m Cheney Denise Reynolds, the first and last.”
Parke unknowingly found himself enchanted with their childish exchange. Most women manipulated their smiles, laughs, and orchestrated struts into an art of seduction, which explained how they became his dates. “Hey, where you want your stuff? I’ll stack them for you.” Cheney pointed to the front of the house where the expertly-crafted landscaping was in progress.
Carrying two, sometimes three bags at a time, Parke didn’t stop until he finished unloading. He moseyed over to Cheney who was at the other end of the lawn planting more flowers. Kneeling, he unconsciously picked up a garden tool and began poking in the dirt.
“Nice, very nice. You didn’t do all this yourself, did you?”
Without breaking her rhythm, she answered, “Yes. I’ve been at it since five this morning.”
“You’re kiddin’?” Parke stared, unbelieving. “Didn’t your husband help?” When she didn’t answer, he cleared his throat. “Oops. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Uh, how many of those things are you planting anyway?”
“About two-hundred. No husband and glad about it,” she said unfazed.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Again, she didn’t look his way.
It was none of his business to know anything personal about Cheney, so he played it safe. “Why so many bulbs since they multiply. What kind are they?”
“Caladiums, peonies, three different colors of begonias, and my favorite, gladioli, to answer your first question, so I’ll have enough to cut and put inside.”
Parke continued to dig as he tried indiscreetly to snoop for more information, but Cheney Reynolds answered sporadically as she worked at a steady pace.
“That’s a beautiful and unique name. Is there a story behind it?”
“Nope.”
After an hour, Parke gave up any hope of getting the scoop on her, so he stood and brushed off his sweats. “Well, I better head home. Welcome to our neighborhood.”
Cheney surprised Parke when she glanced up. At that moment, the sun shone on her face. He had never seen brown eyes as dark as hers with long lashes. Nice.
“I appreciate your help today. Eventually, I’d have gotten all the bags out, without killing myself. Thanks again.”
A genuine smile and the sweet tone of her voice did something to Parke’s heart. It skipped, stopped, and sucked in an extra dose of oxygen. He shrugged to hide his sudden flare of emotion.
If his recently-saved, good friend, Annette, was with him, she’d call him a dog and probably would have hauled him to church. Annette wasn’t there, so Parke could be as carnal-minded as he wanted. That was the problem with Annette’s church. Her pastor expected more from people than God did and that was to live sanctified.
“No problem, any time.” Parke backed away. Doing an about-face, he jogged down the street. It was mind boggling that Cheney Denise Reynolds’s sincerity tugged at him. Meeting her appeased his appetite as a nosy neighbor, but prompted other curiosities.
The following week, Parke guided his SUV onto Benton Street at various times. Instead of house-watching, he found himself watching for Cheney. Parke wasn’t disappointed when male visitors seemed non-existent. “I still can’t believe what she did to the front lawn,” he mumbled and drove off. None of the women he had dated would’ve lifted a finger to toil in dirt.
One Monday evening, as the blazing sun was retiring, Parke cruised pass her house as he chatted on the phone through his OnStar car speakers. Bingo. Cheney was toying with accent lights that dotted the path from the sidewalk to her front door. He parked, locked his vehicle and rudely trampled across her yard. “Good evening.”
Startled, Cheney twirled around, dropping her screwdriver. Frowning, she planted a hand on her hip. “Do you always sneak up on your neighbors, Parkay?”
Throwing his head back, he laughed. “You almost had it right.” The first day, she was adorably quiet; now she wore her attack wings, ready for battle. But in her defense, he did scare her. “I’m sorry.” He gripped his stomach. “I’ve been called many names before, but never butter. It’s Parke, like Parker, without the ‘r.’ “
“Right, sorry,” she apologized as she bent to retrieve her tool.
Dressed in clean white sweats, Cheney’s face was the color of a lemon without makeup. It was flawless and dirt-free. Parke eyed the shape of her black eyebrows. He imagined a painter’s finger dipped in ink tracing a smooth line, arching it to perfection. They were natural. Her hair, pulled again in a ponytail, was neater.
Why did he stop? Parke had no reason for his visit except being nosy. He had another client in a few hours. He needed to prepare his portfolio. Wearing his shirt, tie, and brown slacks, Parke thought about the appointment he just left. His clients had been a distraught young married couple who hadn’t taken his advice to diversify their stocks before the company filed for bankruptcy.
Common sense told Parke he should go, but his feet refused to budge. He didn’t take rejection well. This woman was brushing him off again. Despite not fitting his profile, Cheney fascinated him. If he kept her talking, maybe he would learn more about her this time. “You didn’t install the lights.”
She squatted to adjust a spotlight. “Yeah, I know it made more sense to do it while I was planting, but I couldn’t take the electrical class until last night.”
The jackie-of-all trades, Parke’s jaw dropped as she got up and headed to the garage and flipped a switch. The strategically placed lights illuminated, transforming the former old shack to the likes of a new display model.
“Lady, what can’t you do?”
“You’d be surprised,” she mumbled, then walked inside her house, never looking back.
Chapter Three
The old adage, If you take one step, then God will take two, nagged at Cheney until she woke. The phrase kept revolving in her head. Irritated, she sat up and threw back her cover. Spoiling herself, she had dared to indulge in the expensive super-soft sateen sheets that coordinated with the earth tone colors of stone, topaz and terracotta in her chenille jacquard comforter.
Matching curtains and
an off white recliner transformed her bedroom into a sanctuary. She padded across the cool wood floor, repeating the adage. Once inside her bathroom, she faced her reflection. “I’ll concede to one step, but I can’t to making two.” She hoped God was eavesdropping.
Less than an hour later, she stood in her living room staring out the window. Sipping her coffee, she stalled for time. When the last drop dried in the bottom of her cup, she realized she couldn’t put the task off any longer.
She lifted her cordless phone from its holder. With her other hand, she pulled the tiny yellow post-it note out of her pocket. Despite the tiny scribbling, Cheney had memorized her sister’s non-published phone number as the pen stroked the paper. She had risked her job to retrieve it from the company’s internal phone database system. There were strict guidelines in place to protect customer’s privacy.
“Allen residence,” her young niece answered.
“Hi, is your Mommy home?” She stopped short of identifying herself as her aunt. Besides knowing the child’s name was Natalie, Cheney knew little else, not even who she looked like. Choking back a flood of tears, she gulped a deep breath. It would be okay. Someday a child would call her mommy.
“Hello?” Janae’s clear voice came on the line.
“Hey, sis.” She picked at her sweater until she formed lint-shaped knots.
“Well, well. Cheney Reynolds. Did mother give you my number?”
“I…I.” Cheney grimaced.
“Never mind, you have it now,” Janae sounded annoyed. “What can I do for you?”
Was this the seed she’d sown five years ago? The wound was open and the nerve severed. Now, Cheney was the recipient of reaping the remains of what locusts left behind from the harvest. She cleared her throat. “How about getting together for lunch?”
“Can’t. We’ve got a family picnic. Maybe next time.”
“I could tag…”
Click.
The tone amplified the disconnection. Cheney exhaled, then inhaled to gather strength. Bouncing back from stumbling off step one, she decided to take another one. Luckily her twin brother’s number was listed and hadn’t changed. She punched it in, and relaxed as if the call was part of her normal daily routine.
“Yeah,” Rainey snapped on the first ring.
“Hey, it’s me.”
Silence.
Rainey recovered before Cheney could say anything. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she paused, biting her lip. Where do I begin? Before she could open her mouth, another woman beat her to the punch.
“Girl, can you believe her nerve? Calling my man while I was right there—”
Frowning, Cheney listened and realized the lines were crossed on a party line. “Rainey? You hear that?”
“Who is this? Get off my line,” the woman ordered.
“Hello? Sorry, but we were on this line first,” Cheney informed her.
A loud burst of gum popping preceded the voice of a teenage girl. “Listen…” and she began throwing out profanity and without a click, the two were gone.
“Don’t sweat it, happens all the time,” Rainey said then added sarcastically, “That’s our new millennium phone system at work. Just think, I pay for that premium service every month. Usually after a heavy storm, I use my cell phone. The land lines are so unpredictable.”
Was his remark aimed at her directly, or the phone company that employed her? She made a note to look into the problem on Monday. Someone must be tapping into Rainey’s phone line, or have access to his outside phone box regardless of the company’s lock; or maybe heavy downpours were deteriorating his phone lines.
“So, to what do I owe this call?”
She heard him sigh, but ignored it. “You feel like hanging out?”
“Can’t. I’m going to the Juneteenth celebration this evening.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Are you still with…” Cheney paused, racking her brain to remember the girl he was in love with before she moved to Durham, “Shanice!” She grinned, pleased with herself, considering she was more than out of touch.
“Shanice and I split years ago.”
“Oh, well, I’d love to go with you.”
“Sorry. I’ve got a date. You wouldn’t want to be a third wheel.”
Strike two. She didn’t need a third strike to be out. “No, no I wouldn’t. Well, have fun.”
“Will do. Thanks.” Rainey disconnected.
She considered going to the festival, but somehow a crowd would only make her feel lonely. As Cheney set the phone back in its holder, she took a look around her house. It wouldn’t be hard for her to find something to do, but she had to start getting out. If not, her palace would become her prison.
***
Parke was dreaming about the house on Benton Street when a buzzer startled him, but before he was fully awake he dreamt he heard his mother say, “Don’t dismiss your thoughts while sleeping. Your dreams could be telling you something about the future.”
He chuckled at the absurdity of the statement. There was nothing on that block that could be part of his future. When his doorbell buzzed again, he dragged himself out of bed. In the bathroom, he quickly washed his face and brushed teeth at the same time. A trick he learned as a kid when he got up late for school. After stepping into sweatpants and putting on a T-shirt, he hurried down the stairs.
Opening the door, he wasn’t surprised to see his younger brother leaning on his doorbell without any regard. “Knock it off, Malcolm. I’m not deaf. What’s up?”
“Thought you might be up for a whippin’. Name your poison—slam dunk or one-on-one,” Malcolm Jamieson challenged, wearing a cocky grin and workout clothes. He thrust the ball into Parke’s chest.
“You’re trying to kill me, ain’t ya?”
“Yep.”
“Where’s your better half?”
“Thanks for asking. Hallison’s at the beauty shop.”
Parke smirked. “And I bet you’re like a lost puppy without your woman. Judging from your bulging biceps, you’ve probably already been on the court for hours.” Malcolm’s weightlifting regimen made his body appear thicker and heavier than Parke’s.
Identical facial features, including long noses and dimpled smiles, mirrored the brothers. Each sported short, wavy jet-black hair and thick silky eyebrows. Whereas Parke wore a long, thin mustache; Malcolm preferred a well-groomed beard. Ladies often mistook them for Rick Fox of the L.A. Lakers. The youngest brother, Cameron, was away at college.
“What can I say? Hali and I have a standing gym date every other Saturday.”
“And a non-stop romantic dating experience the other days of the week.”
At twenty-six, Malcolm was three years younger, but stood an inch taller at six-foot-five. His honey skin was a shade darker than Parke’s cocoa-butter complexion.
The Jamiesons were confident Black men in their professional goals. But their similarities ended when it came to the opposite sex. Malcolm preferred consistency in a relationship, dating one woman at a time. Parke lost all his common sense when it came to women, playing them like a deck of cards. The search wasn’t a game he played as he looked for the Mrs. Jamieson to bear Parke K. Jamieson VII.
“You and your Miss Dinkins,” Parke teased, swooping up his keys from a nearby hall table. He nudged his brother out his door and locked it. “I’ve got a better idea. How ’bout we take a short run around the hood? C’mon. You can keep up, can’t ya?”
Parke leaped off three steps, landing on the brick walkway of his turn-of-the-nineteenth-century house. He dashed down the sidewalk for a jumpstart. Malcolm sped by him. Their jog increased to a marathon race as they passed chemically-treated green lawns, luscious flowers beds, and elegant homes. Some houses were too massive to hide behind the aging oaks and spruces lining Darst Avenue.
There was no way Malcolm would figure out Parke’s reasoning for the zigzag route. Two blocks north; two streets east, a shortcut through a pathway, and then one long block south to Benton
Street. For weeks, it had become a nagging habit to cruise five blocks in the opposite direction of where he lived before going home.
Malcolm stopped and bent down, panting. “PJ, wait. What’s with the obstacle course? Why are we going this way? Wabash Park is on the other side.”
“Yeah, I know.” Parke jogged in place. “There’s a house I want to check out.”
As they stood stretching, a cherry-red Chrysler convertible slowed down. Two Halle Berry look-alikes honked the horn, blew kisses, and sped away.
“Women, you’ve gotta love ’em,” the brothers said in unison as their hands met in a high five.
“The market isn’t performing to your expectations? Are you contemplating forsaking your stocks and bonds for investment property? Smart move.”
“Although all my moves are deliberate, my interest has nothing to do with financial investments this time, bro. For a while, I’ve been watching the progress of a neighborhood eyesore. Man, death almost kissed me as I drove past that property.”
“Death?”
“I’m serious. I nearly broke my neck trying to see if the house sold. When I turned around, I was face-to-face with oncoming traffic.”
Malcolm burst out laughing. “It must’ve been a sight to see you almost ruin your Envoy.”
Parke shivered at the thought of that ramshackle house causing his demise and sending his pride and joy to a body shop. “You know it! Plus—” He veered to another side street and emerged into a slow trot. “I wanted a glimpse at the losers who would buy anything to boast an Old Ferguson zip code.”
“Now you’re a nosy neighbor, huh? I’m glad I’m not worthy of your visits or you’d snoop on me.”
As they rounded the corner, Parke slowed and rested against a tree. Crossing his arms, he stared across Benton Street. The house in his dream was Cheney’s. He choked on his own air.
“Okay, what’s so fascinating, or did I wear you out, old man?”
“You wish.” Parke pointed. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
