Like a Fly on the Wall

by Simone Kelly

  If my gut was right, the photo looked like a double date. But how odd would that be? My mother never dated, at least to our knowledge. Must just be a church outing.

  I was starving and needed a little something to hold me over until she came home. I saw fruits, veggies, yogurt, leftover chicken breasts, and three bottles of wine. Wow, not like her. I hoped she hadn’t started drinking again. After Dad died, she began to drink wine a little bit too often. She was never out of control, but would use it to go to sleep. I now know she was most likely depressed and anxious. I remember how dark her aura was.

  My stomach growled and I pulled out a carton of yogurt. I walked around to see what she’d done with the place since I was last here six months ago. The apartment wasn’t half as spacious as our old place, where Hicham resides now. She needed her own space and I think, really, she was ready to let Hicham grow up. It was a modest one-bedroom duplex with small windows on the second floor. With most of her artwork hanging up, there was hardly any bare wall space.

  On the mantel over the faux fireplace was a huge golden cross with a metal Jesus on it. It was rather depressing to look at. Below it were photos of us all when Dad was alive, and nerdy photos of my brother and me in argyle sweaters and ties, with our hair slicked down. Some were in Morocco before Hicham was born, where we lived until I was three. But the majority of the photos were of Hicham and Mom. Hicham skiing with some random girlfriend, Hicham as an altar boy at eleven, in Boy Scouts, and on the red carpet for a Maxim event. Wow, nothing of me past the age of nineteen. Makes sense, because that’s when I reclaimed my power and no longer ignored the messages I was receiving. That’s when my mother and I truly started to butt heads.

  I used to tease my brother that it was the Hicham shrine, because pictures of him were everywhere. He was her special baby, her favorite. He didn’t talk to dead people or see the future. I still wonder if she ever read any of his extremely misogynist articles. I find it fascinating that he hasn’t heard a complaint about those yet from her. It’s strange to think that he was the favorite, since I was less trouble growing up. Hicham was arrested for petty crimes as a teen, cut school a lot, had and still has anger management issues, and hung with the wrong crowds, desperately trying to be accepted. Many of the kids in his circle were Latino or black and were with the “in” crowd. We weren’t really seen as black, but we weren’t white or Latino. Hicham hated that white part of us, Mom’s part. He didn’t speak French as he got older, but he understood it when Mom or I talked to him.

  Hicham tried so hard to be African American. He would never really claim the French/white side. He would say he was African to seem cool and exotic and keep it at that. He wasn’t even born in Morocco, as I was. It was something he struggled with, being the palest in the family. He could actually pass for 100 percent white if he wanted to.

  Growing up, most of my friends were women and the few guys were artsy hipsters. They were kids who were smart in school, but were smoking cigarettes, sneaking beer, and having sex. Some were into dark Goth or grunge. We read about magicians and sci-fi comics. We listened to hip-hop, rock, pop, and even artists such as Portishead, No Doubt, and Res. We talked about deep subjects like past lives, ancient civilizations, government conspiracies, and even aliens from outer space. Many of those kids in my group were outcasts at home just like me, so we stuck together. We saw and experienced things deeply, but we didn’t really understand then that most of us were pretty intuitive. Hicham’s group and mine never crossed paths, because our groups wanted nothing to do with one another.

  I walked into Mom’s bright turquoise bathroom. It was smaller than I remembered, and there was a lot of clutter and no tub—just a shower—and not enough shelves or cabinets. Ever since Dad died she had a fear of tubs and pools. She didn’t want to be near one. “What if that happened to me?” is what she’d say.

  The sink space was tight and she had a host of pill cases. Then there were pink and blue eye shadows, which were her favorite colors to wear, various perfumes, and a few plastic jars with paintbrushes in water. It was a mess. I looked up at the shower and there were a hot-pink lace bra and panties hung up over her towel rack. “Wow!” I looked at them to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. I couldn’t believe they could belong to my mother. They were sexy. Too sexy. Something was going on. A new man? Guess Mommy is getting her groove back. I smiled and washed my face.

  “Living in sin are we, chère mère?” I looked in the mirror and smiled as I rubbed my five o’clock shadow. “I’ll shave tomorrow.”

  As I ate my yogurt I started to feel queasy and frustrated. I sank into the sofa and closed my eyes for a minute. I felt invisible. The Hicham shrine really bothered me! It was like those old feelings of jealousy came rushing back. I didn’t like that side of me, that side that needed my mother’s approval.

  I heard music playing faintly. It was a woman singing in French to a happy upbeat tempo. I felt happy, euphoric even. Then I saw my father and my mother dancing in the living room. Daddy turned her in a graceful spin, then winked at me. I felt like a little boy again and clapped happily. I laughed as I watched. Hicham was in his playpen. He was only about two years old.

  I turned around and opened my eyes as the music seemed to get louder. Then I heard a woman humming. I wasn’t dreaming anymore. I had fallen asleep on my mom’s couch. She was playing “La Foule” by Édith Piaf, one of our favorites. I loved Édith. She played Édith only when she and Dad were in a good mood and not fighting.

  I heard her packing away things in the kitchen, trying to be quiet, but it wasn’t working. The rustling of plastic grocery bags made too much noise. She was wearing a purple dress and her hair looked darker than normal. Trying to dye her grays, I’m sure. She had on bright purple eye shadow and her lipstick had worn off.

  “Mom?” I rubbed my eyes.

  “Hello, sleepy boy.” She bent down as she grabbed my face. She kissed me on my forehead like I was still a child. It felt good. I smelled a familiar aroma from my childhood.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you, but I wanted to get dinner ready. I’m making your favorite! Lamb tagine. And I see you didn’t listen.” She picked up the yogurt carton playfully and then dropped it on the counter. “I hope you have room for dinner. Why are you so tired? It’s the middle of the day!”

  “Travel and work are catching up with me, that’s all. I haven’t been sleeping full nights.”

  “Ah, it must be catching. You know I haven’t slept good in months? I even got a new mattress and it didn’t help. I had to go to Dr. Bennigan to prescribe me something to help me sleep.”

  “Oh, is that what that was in the bathroom? I was going to ask you what was wrong. I got worried.”

  “Oh hush, nothing to worry about, but horrid dreams.”

  “You know I just remembered, I had a dream before I woke up. I saw you and Daddy dancing in our old house. The music that was playing just now is what you both were dancing to.” She dropped one of the cans of beans she was putting away.

  “Jacques, you know it’s your father who I have been having nightmares about? I keep seeing him in the bedroom. I keep seeing him in the tub, in the old house . . . how I found him. He keeps talking to me and I can’t stand it, because it feels so real!”

  I sat up. “Mom, I hate to tell you this, but dreams aren’t always our imagination. Remember how you always thought I was dreaming? It’s just the spirit world trying to communicate with us.”

  I felt her panic. Her chest tightened and her throat was closing in. I picked up her energy instantly. She wanted to say something, but she was afraid. She wanted to ask me something, too.

  “Jacques, please don’t start talking about the spiritual world. Your father wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t haunt me. It’s just some bad dreams or maybe some spirit you conjured up in that work you do. They know I’m your mother.”

  I was waiting for her to crack a smile. She was serious. I tried not to react as she gently rubbed the crucifix on her ne
ck.

  I put my hand up in surrender. “Okay, Mom, no worries. I’ll be right back.” I ran my hands through my hair and got up quickly. I had to get some air.

  She was probably missing a special message from Dad, because of her fear. Now she was drugged up at night and probably couldn’t dream or remember her dreams. I wanted to scream, “WAKE THE FUCK UP, MOM!” but I would never disrespect her like that. Besides, she wouldn’t know what “wake up” meant, since she’s been asleep for so many years pretending none of this is real.

  That’s just how it was with us. The smooth communication would go for only so long before she put up a roadblock. I always smashed right into it. I learned to make a quick U-turn, keep my mouth shut, and ignore her ignorance. It pained me to hear it, but at sixty-two, she wasn’t changing.

  I sat on the stoop outside, texting clients who wanted a session. I was grateful for the high demand, but I had to let many of them know I had a waiting list. Kylie sent me a text, too. Really sweet.

  KYLIE: Hey Jacques, just wanted to thank you again and let you know it was great meeting you! See you when you get back. Safe travels!

  She was adorable. Her playful energy gave my spirits a lift.

  My phone rang as I held it. Dee Johnson showed up on the caller ID. “How is the sexiest psychic ever?”

  “Hey, gorgeous!”

  “Heeeey! I am going to be in your neck of the woods next week, got any room for me? I am overdue!”

  “Wow, really? I’m actually in your town right now. You got the clients’ email blast I sent out?” I asked.

  “What! No! Just my luck! I’m in San Diego right now for a sales conference.”

  I started to walk up and down the block. I like to pace when I’m on the phone and I think Dee made me a bit anxious and excited from her high energy. I said, “Okay, well text me or email some dates and I’ll check my calendar for next week and fit you in.”

  Dee Johnson could make any man uneasy. She carried a strong sex appeal, a New York girl confidence, and she loved flirting. She always told me she had a crush on me and joked that that’s why she pays me the big bucks.

  Dee possessed the kind of brazen confidence that I’m attracted to in a woman. Sadly, her experience of being molested as a child led her to treat men poorly and have serious trust issues. I’ve always admired her strength, but kept her out of my fantasies. Let’s just say I knew way too much.

  The guilt started to creep in as I thought about Dee, so I called Vicky. “Hey, mami!” I said with my horrible impersonation of a Spanish accent.

  “Hola, papi chulo, whatchu doing? I can’t wait for you to get home. I got a new outfit waiting for you. It’s a Catholic school uniform.”

  “Oh really, you gonna turn me into a dirty old man, huh?” I smiled. “Baby, just hold tight. I’ll be home soon.” A taxi horn blew loudly. Someone was taking his parking spot. I put one hand over my ear and spoke louder.

  “Few more days, Vicky.” Damn, she was sexy.

  “Good, I need some of that, papi,” she said in a syrupy voice. “But, baby, on a serious note, I might need your skills. It’s been crazy here. We had a double homicide and the kids were only sixteen and seventeen! Might need your help on a case. Just some ideas, leads.”

  “Wow, you okay?”

  “No, not really. It wasn’t pretty to see the bodies. They were babies. You never get used to it. I’ll be better when I see you. I’m on a quick break. They are working us overtime.”

  “Breathe, baby, breeeeeathe it out. You know?”

  “You’re amazing, Jacques Berradi. You always make it better.”

  “Call me when you get off.” I sighed. “I’m at my mother’s.”

  “Aye, how’s that working out? Did she douse you with holy water yet?” Vicky chuckled.

  “No, but it’s been only thirty minutes and already she’s blamed me for her bad dreams. Apparently, I conjured up spirits and they went looking for her.”

  “What!” She started laughing. “Noooo way!”

  I looked at my reflection in a parked car and ran my fingers through my hair. I heard the window above me crack open and I saw my mom’s reflection in the car window.

  “Jacques, come. Dinner is ready!”

  “Oh, that’s her,” I said.

  “Okay, baby, I gotta get back, too. Muwwwwah!” Vicky said.

  The scent of couscous brought me back to Fridays after the mosque with Dad. Dad insisted that we should know our roots. I went to mass sometimes with Mom and Hicham, but it wasn’t my favorite thing to do. After Dad died, we were 100 percent Catholic. I would still sneak off to the mosque as I got older and I still celebrated some holidays and practices such as Ramadan, when you fast for thirty days. I felt the Muslim faith was also a connection to my father.

  “You and that phone,” she said, shaking her head. I helped her bring the dishes to the table. I looked at the fridge and noticed a blank white spot where the Broadway double date photo had been. Weird. I smiled. I could have been right about her church friend. I had to leave for Miami in the morning, so at least I’d get some time with Mom alone and do some more digging.

  Chapter 11

  Kylie

  I would love to hang out some more, Chauncey, but you said yourself that we are in deep water. I don’t need any more temptation for the night. I want to get my bag and go home with my self-respect intact.”

  I caught him looking at my butt in the reflection of the elevator mirrors. “I hear you, I hear you.” He seemed slightly disappointed, but I could tell he wasn’t going to pressure me. He walked into his room slowly to get my bag, stalling all he could. I stood close to the door. “Kylie, you really don’t make it easy on a brother. I gotta ask you something.”

  “What, Chauncey?” He shifted from side to side like a nervous teenager.

  He furrowed his eyebrows and scratched his head nervously. “I don’t mean to be out of line, but do you have any panties on?”

  I blushed and bit my bottom lip. “Actually . . . umm . . . I don’t, but it wasn’t intentional. I actually forgot them. I couldn’t put my wet bikini bottom back on.”

  “Oh, please, I am not complaining at all.” He pulled me in. Soft kisses were planted everywhere, his hands were all over me. Back, waist, ass, ’fro. I knew I had to put a halt to this train before Madame Butterfly started to make an appearance. We hugged and he whispered, “Kylie, I’m really, really digging you.” His warm breath sent a tingling sensation down my back.

  “Can I . . .” His hands pulled me in closer and cupped my butt through my dress. The thought of no panties sadly made it worse for me. I was about to lose it. He was getting more aroused than I expected and damn, it was catching.

  “Can I what?” I said with a smile, already kinda knowing.

  “Can I . . . see it. You don’t even need to be close to me. Just want to have sweet dreams. I’m going to be dying all night. Let me.”

  “See it?” I grinned devilishly. Well, I guess my mind is dirtier than his, because that’s no big deal. Definitely not what I was thinking he was going to ask me. “Okay sure, but to be fair, let me see it, too. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

  We cracked up at how childish we sounded. I actually got in trouble for playing that game as an eight-year-old with a little boy at school. Curiosity got the best of me then just like it was about to this night.

  “But we have to promise to just do it quick and then I’m leaving.”

  “Sure, it’s just a game. A nasty game,” he mumbled, and sat down on the couch.

  “But a game nonetheless,” I reassured him. We gave each other one last kiss. “Okay, ready?” I said.

  He laughed, but he looked so far gone, like he would attack me. His eyes concentrated on me as I slowly gave him a full-frontal view. I felt like I was onstage at a burlesque show from the 1930s as I slowly pulled my peach dress up from my thigh to my navel.

  “Oh . . . it’s so beautiful . . . oooh, Kylie.” He leaned back on the couch
. I felt like such a whore when the breeze of the A/C vent caressed my bottom.

  “Okay, your turn.” I pulled my dress down quickly.

  Between my legs was moist and I was trying to compose myself. I couldn’t believe we were teasing each other like this. He started to walk closer to me as he unzipped his pants. Oh, man, what the hell did I get myself into?

  “Psych!” He zipped back up and grabbed me.

  We both laughed hysterically and I pushed him. “Oh no, you are gonna show me something, dammit!” He fought me off and we fell into the love seat, playfully wrestling. I tugged on his belt and started opening his pants.

  He chuckled and pretended to fight me off. “Oh . . . oh! I didn’t know you liked it rough, Kylie. Damn!”

  I was on top of him, my dress rising. He unzipped his pants and his dick escaped his boxers and brushed against my inner thigh. Hard, warm, pulsating. He started kissing me and I pulled away and adjusted myself. Shit, I thought, I might as well be naked. That was way too close for comfort, especially with no condom on. “I gotta get out of here. You are soooo not slick!” I said in a nervous voice.

  “What?” He had his hands up and his zipper was still open. “What just happened here? I was tackled to the couch and my pants ripped open by a panty-less vixen, I might add.”

  “Vixen! Don’t try to act so innocent, Chauncey!” I couldn’t take the smirk off my face. I had so much fun with him and, well, he did have a point.

  He stood up. “All right, all right. I’ll take part of the blame. I couldn’t keep the little guy down, he was excited.”

  “Little?” I chuckled, because he was far from that. Thank Gawd for me. He looked down and adjusted himself, zipped all the way up. “Let me walk you to the valet, before I get into any more trouble.”