by Hannovah
Brandon aimed his voice to the back seat. “He even called me from Iraq a few times.”
We hit I-95 North, and after we got caught up on Joshua’s military time overseas, and about his folks in New York, I noted, “You all have traveled really light.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning forward between us. “The rest of our stuff should get here in three to four weeks. We hope to buy a house by that time.”
“Well, we have a few locations in mind,” I said. “Brandon can take you around to see them since I’ve got full days. But on Fridays when I’m off, I could join y’all.”
The rest of the journey home was filled with light conversation, and as we turned a few corners and were almost in our driveway, Joshua stated, “Your front brakes need changing.”
“I know,” Brandon replied, “but I’ve been delaying it.”
“If you have the tools, I could help you.”
“Thanks, Josh. I’ll appreciate that a lot.”
We were glad for the company because it was just Brandon and me in our three-bedroom home since our two boys were grown and living on their own. Usually, our guests would stay in a little bungalow in the back of our property, but it had been neglected for some time and was in need of renovation. But now that we had the extra room in our house, we welcomed the idea of having family or friends under the same roof, especially if it was for a short visit.
After dinner that night, Joshua asked Brandon, “How do you keep the accounts for your properties?”
“Well . . . umm,” my husband massaged his bald head and blinked unconsciously, searching for the answer because he did not have a clue.
I saved him the anguish. “At the end of each month, I write down the income and the expenditure,” I said.
“By hand?”
I nodded
“Well,” Joshua said, grinning from ear to ear, “consider those days gone. I bought something for you.” He went into the guest bedroom where they had taken up quarters and returned with a CD labeled, Landlord Solutions. “I saw this at an office supply store the other day, and thought about you. Here.” He passed it to Brandon. Why? I don’t know. I’m the one who would ultimately end up using it. But the supportive wife that I was, I went along without complaining.
“Thanks.” Brandon said and immediately began reading the literature on the outside of the case.
I guess I’ll read it later, I thought as I got up and started clearing the table.
Joanne left us briefly and returned with a book, and sat at the cleared table reading. Inconspicuously, I endeavored to read the title: Christian Values for Sisters.
I went to the kitchen sink, opening the faucet to wash the dishes, when I felt someone bump me on the shoulder.
“Edna, go sit down,” Joshua said. “Since we’ve arrived here, you have been on your feet. The least I could do is to wash the dishes.”
Before I had the chance to discourage him, he grabbed up the soap sponge with one hand and a dirty plate with the other.
“Thanks, Josh,” I said.
As I packed the leftovers into a container for the refrigerator, I made conversation, asking about the Brownings’ plans.
Joshua spoke about his G.I bill, the low down payment and low interest rate for purchasing a house, and the free ride for his education. Then he said, “I plan to spend all my time and energy with school . . . doubling up on classes. I need to finish what I started so long ago. I don’t plan to work.”
“Oh no!” Joanne interjected without lifting her eyes off her book. “You have to work!”
“But Jo,” Joshua said, turning to face her, his face reddening as he did so, “you never worked when you were in school. I was the sole bread winner at the time.” His eyes squinted as if he was trying to figure her out.
Still focused on her reading, she informed him, “I’m a woman. That’s my prerogative. You’re a man; you have to work.”
Brandon, still at the table with the Landlord CD in his hand, traded glances with me.
The night ended on a cold note.
Monday afternoon, as soon as I returned from school, the men commandeered my vehicle before I could even turn it off. Brandon had bought new brake pads for the front, so he and Joshua immediately jacked up the wagon and went to work. They finished up the brake job in about thirty minutes: less than half the time that it would have taken Brandon by himself.
Joshua Browning was a very talented young man when it came to car repair – his major was Automotive Service Management. But he did not fit the part of a mechanic because, when off-duty, he looked so clean and sophisticated. One would never guess that he could get downright dirty in grease and oil. A few years ago, when he had come down to visit us, he straightened and painted Brandon’s old, rusty, Ford pick-up truck using limited equipment, and it turned out pretty good. Our boys no longer referred to it as ‘Tetanus Pride.’
True, the old truck did not offer a luxury ride, but it was our extra vehicle, Brandon’s mule, and it worked pretty good. And the Brownings were using it now to move around town, job-hunting for Joanne as she sought employment as a Paralegal.
One afternoon, days later, I was late getting home because our campus president had called an impromptu meeting – something to do with a new policy on emergency procedures – I wasn’t really paying attention – I was grading papers the whole time. To my surprise, when I arrived home, Joshua had fixed us dinner (bake chicken and yellow rice), and served us poolside. Not only did it taste delicious, but it was nice to be catered to. My dear Brandon can’t even boil an egg.
After the meal, we all relaxed under our wooden home-made patio that we had christened D Luv Joint. It was a twelve by twelve rudimentary structure with wooden benches along three sides, and with straw covering the top like a Tiki hut.
Joshua went inside the house and returned with a steel pan and drum sticks. Then he set up the shiny chrome instrument on its stand, and flashed a brilliant smile at us. “Tell me if you know this tune,” he said, and proceeded to tinkle out a melody. The sound of the pan was shrill but pleasant, and we inclined our ears to figure out the song.
Soon, I recognized it and shot my hand up in the air like a child in kindergarten. “The River of Dreams.”
Joshua smiled and nodded at me.
I was awed; I didn’t know this young man – this white American young man was so talented. I turned to Brandon and he was impressed as well, but Joanne was somewhere between ho-hum and bah-humbug.
“How and when did you learn to play the steel-drums?” I asked.
“Jo’s brother is a master at it. He started me off a few years ago with a calypso, Hot-Hot-Hot, and the rest I figured out on my own.”
I was pepped up, so I asked Brandon to go get his guitar and let’s have some fun, because I know he loved to entertain. Why, just three months ago, our backyard had been hopping with people, music and food for his fiftieth birthday party.
My husband obliged me, and brought out his old acoustic guitar which was chipped and dinged all over from years of service. Soon D Luv Joint was jamming. He and Joshua played like a duet and we sang any and everything, from Day-O by Harry Belafonte to Billy Jean by Michael Jackson: we, meaning everyone except Joanne. Maybe it was not her thing. She was not unpleasant though, and I was glad that she stuck around.
I could not help but admire and compare both men as they entertained us. Twenty-seven-year-old Joshua was taller – about six-foot two, slim and buff: a real military man. He, like me, had Canadian roots, but he happened to cultivate a nice tan while I remained pale. While Joshua was good looking, his lack of lips, his sleepy light-brown eyes, and his sharp nose were not my cup of tea.
Brandon Rayburn, on the other hand, though less buff, and average-sized, looked great at fifty. And I’m not saying this because he is my husband, but he is extremely handsome sporting a rich even skin tone (from living in California and Florida all his life), and a bald head and an earring. And even when he kept his straight, salt-and-pepper hair,
he got a lot of attention from the opposite sex; more attention, I’m sure, than Joshua would get when he reaches that age. I had seen women of all ages gravitate towards my man because he was such a charmer, and although style and fashion meant nothing to him, I tried to keep him dapper and trendy.
I was beginning to feel a little puckish and dry-mouthed after all that singing, so I suspected that the others may have been also. “Joanne, could you give me a hand to get some snacks?” I asked.
“Okay,” she replied.
I went into the kitchen, expecting her to be right behind me, but she was not. I fixed one tray of Trail-mix, cookies and nuts, and another with drinks, thinking that by then she would certainly show up. Nope. Ms. Browning still did not come to my assistance. Oh well. I made the two trips to carry the stuff outside, and of course, Joanne was the first to reach for a cookie and a drink. I thought, Gosh, what a bitch.
We continued the fun until cool breezes ran us all inside. Again I solicited Joanne’s help with the snack trays and the clean-up, and again she ignored my request. My fault.
A couple evenings later, I was cooking dinner when the Brownings returned from viewing a house that had sparked their interest. They sat at the dining table discussing their options, and while I was not really paying attention, I gathered that they needed a house with a garage, big enough to hold their cars and Joshua’s motorbike.
My concentration was really on my stove because I had all four burners going at the same time. And I was taking the occasional glance at the TV in the nearby den too, where Brandon was lolling off on a recliner. Oh yeah, I was multitasking.
Suddenly, a chair squealed on our tiled floor.
I turned my head to the noise just in time to see Joanne shooting up from her seat. She slammed both hands on the table. “Make up yuh friggin’ mind!” she yelled at Joshua, and stomped off toward their bedroom. I heard her door slam and felt the house vibrate a little.
Joshua looked at me with embarrassment all over his face, and Brandon emerged from the den and stood at the entrance to the kitchen, shaking his head slowly and searching my eyes and Joshua’s for explanation. By the look on his face, I knew that my husband was having second thoughts about this couple.
The next day, Joshua announced to us that he had to fly back to Texas to tie up some loose ends, after which he would fly to New York to visit his folks. He told us that the trip would take him about three weeks, and that his wife would remain here with us so that she would not miss any job offer that may come up. I thought that three weeks was a bit long for what he was planning to do, but hey, whatever.
Joanne drove Joshua to the airport on Saturday morning with our old truck, and when she returned home later she found me helping Brandon pull weeds from our front lawn.
“You’re back safely,” I said, waving my gloved hand as she exited the truck.
Walking hurriedly, she quarter-smiled at us and entered the home, slamming the door closed behind her.
Brandon looked at me with question lines forming on the front of his bald head which was glistening in the sunlight.
“Bathroom, probably,” I said to him, trying to make an excuse for her.
Brandon’s expression said that something didn’t add up. Poor men, sometimes they just don’t understand our problems. A woman can get a serious infection just from waiting too long to empty her bladder. Taking a deep breath, Brandon brushed the issue aside with a wave of his soiled hand, and we resumed our dirty landscaping work.
Gardening is a funny thing, you know, because while we were pulling out the weeds, I drifted into contemplating and reminiscing about things, and people, and ideas that we had put on hold. My mind felt free to wander aimlessly like a feather in the wind, while my hands worked on automatic, tugging at anything that stood out in our green Bermuda grass. I guess that’s what they mean by a no-brainer. It felt relaxing. Almost therapeutic.
I glanced over at the shining bald head a few feet away from me, and he too seemed to be in his own little world, smiling to himself and mouthing silent words. I trust he was not fantasizing about some woman. Oh well, I thought, let him have his fun.
Through my daydreaming, I thought I heard a ringing noise. I tried to disregard it, but it was persistent, and steady, and becoming irritating as the seconds went by.
“Do you hear that?” Brandon asked.
I realized it was real then. It was someone’s fire alarm banging out a warning. We both straightened up and tried to pinpoint the source. Suddenly, we looked at each other as we figured it out. It was coming from our house.
CHAPTER THREE
Brandon bolted with dirty hands into the house.
I followed a few paces behind, stripping off my gloves. The clanging noise was so deafening when I entered, I was certain that the folks in Cuba were hearing it too. I jammed my palms onto my ears and began turning around in circles like I was going crazy. Heavy blue smoke in the kitchen began to burn my eyes, but I managed to see Brandon grab a smoldering saucepan off the stove and dash it into the sink. My throat felt like I had swallowed acid. Then he wiggled the blaring smoke alarm from the wall and hustled it outside into the fresh air.
Coughing wretchedly, I switched off a burner that was still on, and that’s when I realized I had forgotten to turn it off earlier before going outside to help with the lawn. I felt. So. Awful.
Now that the pandemonium had subsided, I stepped into the den which, being so close to the kitchen, was still swirling with light smoke. I was about to open a window to let some air in when I noticed someone: Joanne. She was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, reading her Bible. Her back was towards me so she did not see the perfect O that my mouth had formed behind her.
I opened the window anyway and returned outside to Brandon and the weed-pulling.
“I don’t know about that girl,” I said, and I told him what I had just seen.
“Whaaat?” Brandon whined. “I thought she was in the bathroom the whole time.” He shook his head slowly, appalled by Joanne’s uncaring attitude, and we continued our lawn care without saying another word.
Later when we returned inside, we were greeted by Gospel music emanating from Joanne’s bedroom, the door of which was closed. The sounds ended after a while, but our guest remained in solitary confinement for the rest of the day. We had company, but we were still alone, and moreover, we felt like strangers in our own house.
Ms. Browning resurrected around seven on Sunday morning, just in time for breakfast which I had prepared with an extra person in mind.
“Morning,” she said gruffly, and proceeded to help herself.
“Good morning,” Brandon and I replied, trying hard to catch her eyes.
She seemed not to see us as she took a seat across the table from us.
“How’s everything?” I asked.
“Good,” she barely grunted, focusing on the food before her.
“Missing Joshua?” Brandon ventured, trying his luck.
Joanne shrugged her shoulders and bit into her bagel without looking at either of us.
Moments later she said, “I’m getting ready for church.” She got up and marched to her room, leaving her dirty dishes at the table.
She never says thank you, I thought. And never cleans up after herself. I’m nothing but her goddamn maid.
But Joanne Browning was a sight to behold when she reappeared later in a well-tailored beige suit and matching high-heels. I was about to say something flattering when she jumped the gun.
“The keys,” she said to me with her eyes downcast.
“Aren’t they right where you left them?” I asked.
“For the Volvo.”
I didn’t mean for it to happen, but my eyes popped open wider than the bagel she had just eaten. I treasured my Volvo and never lent it out because it was my only sure means of transportation to and from work, thirty miles away. I wondered why she could not use the truck like she did all the other times.
Then Joanne looked into my eyes for the
first time that day, and something came over me.
“Okaaay,” I said, hesitantly. “I’ll get them for you.”
“Wait Edna!” Brandon shouted from the den. “I have to finish the brake job. We only worked on the front; I have to replace the back brakes today.”
That was news to me, though I felt a sense of relief at the same time.
The church woman turned abruptly to find the keys to the pick-up truck.
When the old vehicle roared out of the driveway, Brandon came up to me shaking his dead disapprovingly. “Weak as water,” he said. “Weak. As. Water.”
“What? What?”
“You let people walk over you all the blasted time.”
“Oh, you mean there’s nothing wrong with the car?”
“Of course there’s nothing wrong with the car.”
I hung my head, smiling. But the look on Brandon’s face told me that Joanne’s days with us were numbered.
“Lemme tell you something,” he began, taking a seat in the den. “That girl is religious, but she doesn’t like people.” With that, he opened up a newspaper and turned the pages so furiously that they snapped. “That same Bible that she’s reading calls her a liar if she loves God who she cannot see, but hates people who she can see.”
Living with Brandon all these years had been an education. My husband views organized religion like organized crime. He says that no honest human being would open up a church to tell people about God, because an honest person will be honest enough to say, “I never saw, touched, smelled, heard or experienced God in any conclusive way.” Brandon claims that God has too many spokesmen while He Himself says nothing. As far as my husband is concerned we’re on our own, and the only person or persons watching over this planet is the United Nations, and even that, he maintains, is questionable.
Hours later, Ms. Browning returned home from the church service and headed straight to the kitchen searching for lunch. I was worried that she would ask if the Volvo’s brakes were fixed, but she never did. She simply served herself and, when finished eating, she retreated to the sanctuary of her bedroom.
