Guilty of Love

by Pat Simmons

  “I know.” Cheney chuckled as she tapped the table with her fingernails. “I was surfing the Net one night and found a site for interactive games. After playing three tic-tac-toe games against the computer and losing, I opted for a human player. I chose checkers, an intermediate level, of course.”

  Totally absorbed, Parke listened with fascination.

  “Anyway, my partner and I matched wits for a few hours, brainstorming each move. At the end of the game, we agreed to play again at a set time every week. Then he started asking me personal questions like my name, if I had any kids, was I married.” Cheney sipped her Coke. “That scared me a little.”

  “You, scared? Queen Amina. I don’t believe it.”

  She wasn’t foolish enough to think of herself as extraordinary anymore, definitely not a queen. “Cheney, you’re so special to me. When we plan for a baby, I want everything to be just as special as you are.” For once, the flashback of Larry’s words didn’t pierce her heart, so she continued explaining, “I didn’t know what kind of sick person I was dealing with, a stalker or a rapist. I never inquired about any personal stuff nor did my partner ever offer.”

  “How did you find out you were playing against a kid?”

  “Well,” Cheney started, but dissolved into a fit of giggles. “During the middle of one game, which I was winning, mind you, he told me his mother said he had to go to bed.

  “Dumbfounded, I stared at the computer screen. Before Brian signed off, I asked him just how old was he. He had just turned eight years old. I almost fell out the chair.”

  Laughing in earnest, Parke joined Cheney, ignoring the tears that escaped. Waving her hand, Cheney unsuccessfully tried to make him stop, but the moment was contagious. She joined him, laughing harder than before. Incredibly, she felt like she was releasing suppressed anger, depression, and pity. “I don’t know if I was more relieved or disappointed that I couldn’t beat an eight year old.”

  “No one would believe that story, you know.”

  “It’s true. That’s why I better head back.”

  “The new millennium woman plays checkers with an eight year old.” Parke shook his head. “Who would’ve guessed? Hey, how about a pineapple concrete to keep us cool while we walk back?”

  Standing, Cheney gathered her trash. “Sure. That sounds good. I’ve been eyeing everybody else’s.”

  “I still can’t get over it. Your best friend is an eight year old.”

  “Believe it. Friends are hard to come by. Beggars can’t be choosey, although I’m not desperate. One good friend like Imani is worth more than a bunch of fakes.”

  After making the purchase, Parke relayed stories about his family night and the types of games they played. Cheney was going in the opposite direction from her house before she realized Parke had slyly walked her into another house tour.

  Chapter Eleven

  A few evenings later, Cheney couldn’t get her family off her mind. Although the housewarming proved her relationship with her mother and sister was beyond repair, she had faith in her brother. She hoped that the service order she requested on his phone was complete. She couldn’t deal with another party line conversation.

  Cheney arrived home from work to find a note taped to her front door. Stop by as soon as you get home, Grandma BB. She groaned. “Who will I see today, the crazy Mrs. Stacy Adams or the sweet old lady?” Against her better judgment, Cheney strolled across her property line and stepped onto her neighbor’s long, spacious porch. She barely touched the doorbell, secretly wishing the woman wouldn’t hear it.

  Not waiting thirty seconds, Cheney turned to leave, but Mrs. Beacon cracked the door. Busted! A strong fragrance permeated the air. Cheney sniffed; her stomach growled. “Mrs. Beacon—”

  “Call me Grandma BB.” She wagged a finger from left to right.

  “Okay, Grandma BB. Is anything wrong? I got your note.”

  The woman looped her arm through Cheney’s and tugged her inside into a large marble floor foyer. “Chile, I’ve been watching out for you since four o’clock to offer you dinner. Now, it’s after eight. You must be starvin’. I made homemade beef stew with vegetables from my garden and my special lemonade.”

  Mistrusting, Cheney froze in her tracks, causing Mrs. Beacon to slightly bounce off her like a rubber band. “Mrs…ah, Grandma BB, why would you care if I ate dinner?”

  Releasing Cheney’s arm, Mrs. Beacon clunked in her oversized shoes to the kitchen, turning off the fire under a boiling pot. “Because, I admire your determination, strength, and humble quietness.”

  That was the second person to see strength that she didn’t feel. Maybe, just maybe everything would be okay.

  “It’s no fault of your own you’re genetically linked to those stuck-up people you call family, so I adopted you as kin. You’ll be grateful later.”

  Cheney’s eyes could’ve popped out of their sockets. From one crazy family to another; she was horrified. Maybe her hearing had faded for a minute because she knew she hadn’t heard right. She tapped her chest with her thumb. “Me?”

  Dragging her feet to the refrigerator, Mrs. Beacon grabbed a large glass pitcher. “You remind me of myself.”

  Should I seek professional help now? Cheney’s keys slipped to the floor. “Then, I’m in trouble.”

  The phone rang and Mrs. Beacon glanced at her sunflower wall clock, then squeezed her lips together as if she knew the caller. “Hello?” Seconds later, she slammed the receiver back on the wall without saying goodbye. “You would think she has homework or would be watching cartoons,” she mumbled.

  There are strange shenanigans going on in this house. Pulling two floral china bowls from the cabinet, Mrs. Beacon began to set the table. So Cheney flopped down in a leather chair at a small glass-top wrought-iron table. Scanning her surroundings, she noted the updated kitchen was decorated in off-white with splashes of bright colors. “I see we both like pretty colors.”

  “Your mother didn’t know what she was talking about.”

  Cheney’s stomach growled again as if it sensed a feast was minutes away, but she was still curious about Mrs. Beacon’s comparison. “I’ve witnessed you dancing like Janet Jackson. You’re in better shape than some twenty year olds.”

  Mrs. Beacon’s eyes sparkled at the compliment. “Why, thank you, Cheney. That’s our secret. If thugs try to prey on this defenseless over-sixty-something dame, then they got another thing coming—like my fist in their stomach.” She demonstrated her quick reflexes. “Or my shoe in their knee. Or—” Mrs. Beacon grinned, “a strong grip and yank down on his family jewels. You could learn a lot from me.”

  The woman was pure comedy. Cheney almost fell out of the chair laughing. “I might learn something from you, indeed.”

  “No doubt about it,” Mrs. Beacon said, scooping large chunks of beef tips, peas, carrots, and potatoes out of a pot and into Cheney’s bowl.

  Reaching for a hot biscuit, Cheney bowed her head to say a quick silent prayer, then decided to wait on Mrs. Beacon.

  “Go on. I ain’t got much to say.” She waved Cheney on before turning her back.

  “So, that’s why you wear men’s shoes…for protection?”

  “Of course not, silly. They were Henry’s.”

  Okay. She ain’t normal. I hope she didn’t drug this stew so she can cut me up in small pieces and eat me like Jeffery Dahmer.

  Pouring lemonade into two tall glasses, Mrs. Beacon sat at the table. “Ah, Henry.” She sighed. “We fell hard for each other when we were young and married the day I turned eighteen. We were so in love and so happy and did everything together—fishing, cooking, gardening, you name it.”

  Curiously, Cheney listened, sipping the hot broth from her stew. She enjoyed hearing old-time stories and she could tell Mrs. Beacon was itching to tell a tale, but Cheney saw no similarities between hers and Mrs. Beacon’s.

  “Married almost fifty years, then God snatched Henry away from me.” She closed her eyes, sniffing as if she would cry. “I
felt like someone had ripped out my heart.” She peeped to see if Cheney was watching and pumped up the drama. “That’s why I ain’t speakin’ to God today,” Mrs. Beacon confessed with a stern bitterness, sniffing.

  “You have children and grandchildren, right?”

  “Never did…” Her voice faded. “But I had Henry. The lack of children wasn’t as important to us like it was for other couples. We had each other. Then Henry was killed in a hit-and-run car accident. That’s been almost twenty years ago, and the driver was never caught. I’ll never forget or forgive God for that. I’m determined to be bitter until the end. And when I get on the other side, I’ll still be mad.”

  Cheney trembled at the fierceness in Mrs. Beacon’s voice. Although she hated Larry, she didn’t want to carry that bitterness her whole life. She changed the topic. “So why does everybody call you Grandma BB if you don’t have any kids?”

  Staring in a far-away place, Mrs. Beacon’s eyes watered. Cheney recognized the look as genuine, probably resembling her own when she thought about how she had killed her baby, ripping it away.

  “The timing isn’t right. Think of this as a mistake, not a baby,” Larry had tried to console her.

  Cheney patted the old woman’s hand.

  “Years ago, I used to baby-sit neighborhood children all the time. I liked it when they called me Grandma, so I insisted all my friends call me that.” Mrs. Beacon became quiet. “I don’t have anybody now, and with a family like yours, you don’t either.”

  The connection was made. Cheney knew she had found a friend. This woman was a survivor and she really could teach her how. As they ate and chatted, the evening slipped into the night, Cheney stood and stretched. She patted her tight stomach. “That was delicious, but I’d better head next door.”

  Disappointment flashed then lingered across the older woman’s face. “Okay, but take a look at some pictures of Henry and me first.”

  Her eccentric neighbor was stalling. She probably had a library full of pictures. “I’m just curious, you don’t wear any of Henry’s other clothes, do you?”

  Chuckling, Mrs. Beacon’s face lit up. “No, dear, but that’s a thought. Henry was a tall, strong, and very handsome man. Light skinned like you and wavy hair—he would’ve been called a mulatto in slavery times. He had the longest feet I ever did see. I’ve been trying to fill his shoes ever since he died.” Mrs. Beacon closed her eyes. “Whew! Chile, enough of that.” Mrs. Beacon’s nostalgia changed to anger. “God could’ve let me live out my life with my husband. Yep! God is on my do-not-talk-to list.”

  Grandma BB won’t forgive God and God probably won’t forgive me. Cheney shook her head. “C’mon, Grandma BB, show me the pictures so I can go to bed.”

  Mrs. Beacon guided her to several large wall portraits, regaling stories about each pose as if they stood in an art gallery. Cheney didn’t leave for another hour. It was too late to call Rainey.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tuesday evening

  Cheney mumbled and snatched another yellow legal-size paper off the door. “Grandma BB, you’re adding a new definition to the word pest.”

  Are we still on for Bubbling Brown Sugar this Saturday? Your number wasn’t listed, but I was able to get it anyway. However, I won’t call since you didn’t give it to me personally. I’ve never had to ask a woman for her number before, so I don’t know what to do here. I will accept your calls…

  “Ha,” Cheney choked out as she balled up the note without looking at his phone number. “Then you’ll be waiting until Parke Jamieson the hundredth is born.”

  By Friday evening, she still hadn’t called Rainey as she knocked on her neighbor’s door since Mrs. Beacon hadn’t left any more notes.

  Mrs. Beacon’s tired face brightened once she saw Cheney. “About time you came and checked on an old woman.” She bowed her head shyly. “I didn’t want to bug you. If you’ve got an appetite, I made meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn bread, and lima beans.”

  Cheney chided herself for her earlier thoughts as she licked her lips. “Not only do I have an appetite, but I’ve got room. Why did you cook so much?”

  “I was hoping you liked my beef stew enough to come back.”

  She engulfed Mrs. Beacon in an endearing hug. “How about I join you for dinner twice a week and I can bring something?”

  “No need. Probably can’t cook anyway,” she teased. “Just come starving, Heney.”

  “Don’t start, Grandma.”

  Both women laughed as they trekked to the kitchen and talked late into the night.

  Saturday morning, Cheney woke and decided to do something nice for Mrs. Beacon just as her phone rang. “Hello?”

  “You weren’t going to call me, were you?”

  Parke? Cheney stifled a laugh, realizing she’d bested him. He sounded disappointed as his voice dropped an octave. She couldn’t resist. “I’m sorry, but I don’t accept calls from strange men. Who’s calling?”

  “Very funny, this is Parke. Do you mind if I call?”

  She squeezed her lips shut to keep from bursting. “Yes, I mind. What do you want?” Cheney erupted in laughter.

  Sighing, Parke joined in. “Whoa. You had me going there for a moment. Are we still on for the three o’clock show of Bubbling Brown Sugar?”

  “I never said yes.”

  “Your lips said no, but your eyes said yes. C’mon, woman. You know we’re going to have a good time so dress up and get out.”

  My heart says yes, too. This is scary, I’m starting to live again.

  ***

  Parke couldn’t explain why he had tricked Cheney into completing the walking tour or suckered her into attending the play. He had a list of “women in waiting,” but he enjoyed Cheney’s wit and humor. He was curious about the mixed-up feelings she ignited in him. The more she pushed him away, the harder he tried to pull her closer. She was straightforward and put great effort into offending him instead of impressing him.

  “Doesn’t she find me attractive and irresistible?” he asked his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he stroked a razor against his cheek. What did it matter? Parke wasn’t desperate enough to want more than friendship from her. He winked at his reflection. “Although she’s like a jigsaw with thousands of pieces.”

  After he showered, Parke stood barefoot in the middle of a room-size walk-in closet, scanning through shirts and jackets. “Let’s see, what do the ladies like? Black suggests sexy, devastating, and you want me.” He lifted copper-colored linen pants off a hanger. “Yeah, this will make the grandmamas whistle.” He selected a matching shirt and off-white blazer. It was time to stop lying to himself and admit he was attracted to her.

  Parke steered his SUV in front of Cheney’s house on time, expecting Cheney to keep him waiting. But to his surprise, she was dressed—not to flatter—and standing outside talking with her neighbor.

  As he approached, Mrs. Beacon raced toward him and kept going, without speaking. She stopped in front of his vehicle and pulled a small notepad from her pocket.

  “She’s writing down my license plate number?” Parke asked Cheney. He would’ve laughed if he thought it was a joke. “Is she serious?”

  “Yep,” Cheney answered nonchalantly.

  “What!” Perturbed, he gritted his teeth. Who questioned his integrity? “Why?”

  Mrs. Beacon walked up quietly behind him. “First of all, I own guns and well, every once in a while, I like to use them. I’ll just call the police and report that you abducted my neighbor. They’ll track you down using your OnStar GPS.”

  “What!” He couldn’t believe the old woman. Cheney turned her head and tried to hide a beautiful smile, but Parke saw it. This had to be a practical joke, so Parke decided to play along. “I’m surprised you don’t want my finger and footprints.”

  Craning her neck, Mrs. Beacon challenged his stare. “Don’t be silly. Your feet are too big, but I did bring a pad for a thumb print. It’ll just take a second.”

  Cheney laughed hyste
rically while Mrs. Beacon wiped the black dye off this thumb with a towelette. She ain’t jokin’. Grabbing Cheney’s arm, Parke almost dragged her to his Envoy. “C’mon, before she asks about my dental records.”

  In the background, he heard Mrs. Beacon’s voice fading. “What’s your dentist’s name and phone number?”

  Mrs. Beacon’s mistrust put Parke in an uncommonly foul mood. The play was simply an impromptu housewarming gift. Wounded that Mrs. Beacon would think so little of his character, Parke was silent during the drive downtown. Cheney, however, seemed to be in exceptionally good spirits as she listened to his Paul Rozmus jazz CD.

  The closest available spot was a block away from the Black Repertory Theatre. After Parke parked, he helped Cheney out of his vehicle, still fuming and unforgiving. At least she could’ve worn a dress or skirt, so I could’ve seen her legs. She’s got more clothes on than a nun. He guessed she’d never heard the phrase ‘dress to impress’.

  Cheney’s three-piece pantsuit reminded him of sapphire. As soon as the show was over, Parke would ditch her and get a date with a real woman who knew how to dress to entice a man. Did the woman not understand him when he told her to dress up? He fussed inwardly. Forget an elegant sit-down dinner.

  Entering the theater’s crowded lobby, Parke’s eyes met other men who gave Cheney appreciative stares and smiles. Even women watched her moves as if she was a runway model—an unusual occurrence since he was used to garnishing their admiration. Okay. Cheney was pretty when she smiled, which she hardly did until he irritated her.

  Bubbling Brown Sugar was entertaining, lively, but too long for Parke. Once the music started, the songs and dances hypnotized Cheney. She hadn’t said another word.

  A man who boldly admired beautiful women, Parke felt like an idiot sneaking glances at her one-of-a-kind eyebrows. Cheney again wore very little makeup, but he could see where other men would find her lemon-colored skin attractive. Her eyebrows were the focal point on her face. They arched when an attitude was coming, knitted together when she was upset, but when she was at peace, like now, her brows were still, relaxing the look on her face. They were shiny, silky-looking, and naturally beautiful.