“Well, I told Riley she couldn’t sing at my function and then added she couldn’t sing anywhere if they wanted a real singer, and I accused Leland of not really being my friend.” I paused as his eyes widened. “You think that could have something to do with them not showing?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Dwight said. “Now, if you told Riley her poetry was just as bad as her singing, and accused Leland of being secretly straight, pretending to be gay to learn what women really want, then maybe I could see the connection.” Then he let out an avalanche of laughter. I don’t think I’d ever heard Dwight laugh out loud myself. His shiny black mustache followed the curve of his full lips and joined a perfectly trimmed, neat beard that highlighted his strong jawline.
“Thank you, Dwight. I need someone to laugh with. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Oh, no, don’t tell me you brought Riley’s cards?” He laughed.
“No, I’m serious,” I said.
“Okay, I’m sorry. What’s your question?”
“You seem kind of different. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but you seem less angry today. You’ve got a whole ‘nother vibe, my brother. Whatsup? You’re not in love, are you? You and Kelli aren’t back together, are you?”
“Kelli and me? No way, no how. But who would care if I was? I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant to say.” For the first time this afternoon, he averted his eyes. “No, I’m not in love, but I am going to start loving myself more.”
“Well, whatever it is, it looks real good on you,” I said, letting the would you care? statement fade away between us. For a moment we just gazed at each other, until the waitress came over and asked did we want to wait for the rest of our party.
“No, let’s order. It looks like it’s just going to be the two of us,” Dwight said.
“What will you have?” the waitress asked. Dwight nodded at me to go first.
“I’ll have the mustard-fried catfish,” I said.
“And you, sir?”
“Let me have the Seafood Trio,” Dwight said.
After we ordered, Dwight told me about his interview in Washington, D.C. I didn’t even know he was looking for a job. He told me it had gone very well and they had made him a very generous offer just before he left on Friday. He said he was thinking seriously of taking the job and moving to Washington.
Then Dwight surprised me with a story of a little white boy at the hotel pool, how he’d saved him and how grateful the mother was. He told me how they had all hugged and cried together. It was a side of Dwight I had never seen. Then he continued and told me about his brother Scooter all those years ago. I knew he had lost a younger brother, but I think we all assumed it was to some type of gun violence. It was so very sad to me that I could only imagine how painful the memory was to Dwight. I felt tears form in my eyes, and I touched him. He said the incident at the hotel had been the catalyst he so desperately needed to finally grieve for his little brother, to start his own healing. Dwight said he had spent so many years in denial, substituting his unresolved grief and guilt over the death of his brother for an inordinate hatred of white folks. He had decided to stop blaming the entire race for his loss.
“They aren’t worth the years of anger I’ve wasted,” he said. “It really wasn’t their fault that he died, and now I know it wasn’t mine either. I loved my little brother, still do. And that’s what I want his legacy to be—love, not hate.” Dwight leaned toward me and the light in his eyes shone even brighter.
“My,” I said. “I don’t know what to say. I’m happy for you. And so very proud of you, Dwight. He looked at me full face for a moment, then down at his hands resting on the table. “It’s hard, I know, to turn around and face yourself honestly. I know it took a lot of courage to just get to this point.”
“I appreciate your support. I want to live again. I want to love again. You know I think my anger and grief had a lot to do with my marriage ending,” Dwight said.
“You think so?”
“It was a part of it. I mean, I know Kelli and I were never really meant to be together. We’re two very different people who wanted different things in life. But that doesn’t mean she was wrong or that I was.”
“I know the feeling. That’s the same thing that happened with Chauncey and me,” I said.
“How is old Chauncey?”
“We have to find out what country he’s in to figure that out,” I laughed.
“Does he know what a great lady he gave up?”
“Oh, yeah. I let him know.” I smiled, then added, “You know, I’m really enjoying this. If you ever want to talk about your little brother, or life, you know you can call me. I’m a good listener.”
“I’d like that,” he said sincerely. “Okay, it’s your turn. Now I’ll be the listener.” Dwight relaxed against the back of the booth as a server brought out our food. “I’m all ears,” he said as he released his silverware from the napkin.
I tried to repeat my conversation with Riley word for word, but gave him the TV Guide version of the John fiasco, leaving out the intimate details and how I was just a few steps away from falling in love with the jerk. Dwight listened to my tale quietly, never even flinching at John’s betrayal, or my unkind words to Leland. In fact, he made no noticeable judgment at all. He interrupted me only once when he asked me to pass the hot sauce. His eyes stayed locked on mine as he listened intently to my every word.
When I finished, he took both my hands in his and held them gently.
“You’ve had a rough time, haven’t you, girl? I’m so sorry. I think you did the right thing with Riley. One day she’ll realize that.” He squeezed my hands a little. “And you don’t deserve to be treated like this John guy treated you. I’m glad you’ve decided not to hang around and take that kinda mess. A lot of women would stay just because he’s a jock. I’m proud of you too. Now, with Leland, I’m going to leave that one alone. You guys are too tight to let something like this break up the friendship,” Dwight said as he placed my hands back on the table with a final squeeze.
“I know. I just want him to think about it for a while,” I said.
“That works two ways.” Dwight smiled.
“I know.”
“I want you to know that if you need anything or just want to talk, I’m here for you. Who knows? I might even invite you over to my crib.”
“Now, this is too much!” I teased. “But you know I’d be honored.”
“You haven’t seen my place.” Dwight laughed.
“You have made me feel better, Dwight. And I thank you for that. But there is something else you can do for me,” I said as I leaned closer to him.
“What?” he asked.
“Don’t move to Washington,” I said. “Don’t move.” Dwight didn’t respond, and for a brief moment he looked away. Then he turned to me and said, “Let’s share some caramel pecan cheesecake. I hear it’s da bomb.”
Chapter 29
I met Lonelyboy. It was Selwyn. At first I was upset, but only for a few seconds, until the shock wore off. Friday night he walked into our bedroom and said, “I loved the poem when you first wrote it, and I love it even more now.” When I asked what he was talking about, he started reciting the old poem I had sent to my secret admirer. Turns out I was not the only lonely person sleeping in my bed.
He told me he didn’t realize it was me until I sent the poem, and he finally understood my pain and loneliness over him being so remote. He said some of the things he learned through our cyber-affair would help him to be a better husband. Selwyn added that every one of my notes to Lonelyboy spoke of my desire to have a friend I could trust with anything. He wants to be that friend. We both admitted we had become lovers so quickly that friendship was never really a part of our relationship. We pretended to be friends.
The last couple of days I’ve felt like I’m in a movie. Selwyn and I are talking like we’ve never talked before, or at least for a good number of years. We talk like when we first met. When eve
ry bit of information was a new discovery. Selwyn told me how he had been trying to find his birth parents for the last two years. When the private investigator discovered his mother was alive and living in Tallahassee, Florida, Selwyn felt he could finally move on from his past. He was devastated when his mother told the investigator she had no desire to meet him. Selwyn went to Florida anyway and had a brief encounter with his mother when she cleaned up his room in a local hotel. She was unaware that it was her son who had left the $100 tip and sat at the suite’s desk watching her clean. Selwyn had hoped they would make some type of eye contact and his mother would realize Selwyn was her son. She didn’t. She cleaned the suite slowly and deliberately, humming to herself. When I asked him why he didn’t tell her who he was, he said she seemed happy and content. He was still hopeful one day she would change her mind. He told me how they shared the same crooked smile and wide eyes. After that encounter and our passionate notes, he wanted to renew our love and use all his energies working on the family he had, to make it better than ever. But I could tell from his eyes that his mother’s rejection had hurt him deeply. In so many ways it explains his distance, and I told him I wished he would have told me and allowed me to help.
On Friday night we made love for the first time in years. It was right after Selwyn told me about the poetry. I felt his eyes gaze into the space between my breasts like he was seeing them for the first time. I felt beautiful, and Selwyn told me I was. Our lovemaking took on an intensity I’ve never known. It makes me melt just thinking about Selwyn. The passion, complete.
I’m writing all this down for me. I think it’s time I move on from the group and pay more attention to myself and my husband. Now, I’m not going to completely immerse myself in making Selwyn feel secure, but I’m going to keep our love growing, all we share close to my heart. I realize how very much I love him and how much he loves me.
When I missed the group’s meeting today, it was the first time I had ever missed sharing my thoughts with my friends, I mean the group. I am beginning to wonder if I can call them friends. But I didn’t miss it, because Selwyn and I spent the entire afternoon at a restaurant located on the north side, Pops for Champagne. We had a wonderful brunch of eggs and baked breads and drank Bellinis as we listened to smooth jazz. Selwyn and I held hands over the table, and almost every five minutes he would kiss each one of my fingers. The waitress asked if we were newlyweds, and we both grinned and said “sorta.” We made plans for a winter ski trip with the kids, and promised to sit down and talk with each other heart to heart at least once a week. Even if that means me getting on a plane to meet my husband if he’s not in Chicago.
The only thing pressing in my life is telling the group my plans to leave and dealing with my mother. I still have some issues with the group. Perhaps its purpose has been served. I wonder if Leland and Dwight feel the same way Yolanda does about me. When I mentioned this to Selwyn, he pointed out that Yolanda didn’t say anything about the friendship, just my singing. He said he understood how her words could hurt me, but pointed out it was only one person’s opinion.
My mother, well, that’s a whole ’nother story. I have talked with her, but only briefly. Each time she says “Riley, we have to talk,” I tell her “I know, Mother, but not now.” I’ll decide when. I don’t know what I’ll say or if she’ll like the new me. I know I will finally tell her why my poetry and music are so important to me. They saved me when she was busy with her work and the two men in her life. I must give her credit for teaching me that when trouble comes, you have to face it head-on. She was the tower of strength when Clayton Jr. was sentenced to prison. It was Daddy who went into seclusion. It was Clarice who went right out into the community, to church, and almost dared someone to say something negative about her firstborn. It was Clarice who was busying herself, by planning a welcome home party for my brother. Like Clayton was a returning war hero. A mother’s love is a powerful thing. I have learned a lot from my mother. But she needs to see me as the strong Black woman she and Daddy raised to be their pride and joy. Not her little girl. Not anybody’s little girl.
Chapter 30
I’ve been sitting here at my desk, staring at my yellow legal pad since the office closed. I hope my last patient didn’t realize how distracted I was. Whether he knew it or not, he sure didn’t get his money’s worth out of me today. I’ll make a mental note to make it up to him next week with a little extra time.
Okay, let me get to this note I’ve been putting off all day. All I have is what I wrote early this morning before my first patient: “Dear Yolanda, Please forgive me for …” For what? For being me? For being the man she knows I am? She’s the one who always praises me for my integrity. She knows I would never compromise my patient’s confidentiality. In fact, she’s always teasing that she wouldn’t go crazy unless she knew she could get an appointment with me.
We’ve never had to say out loud: “Now, don’t tell anyone, but …” We both know how to keep each other’s secrets. I guess that’s what’s so hard. I’ve always told Yolanda everything. But I couldn’t tell her this. As bad as I wanted to, I couldn’t tell her this. But I’m not the one who lied to her. I’m not the one who dogged her. I know she’s hurting, but it’s not fair to blame me. I’ve never treated Yolanda with anything but love, respect, trust, and more love. That’s all. But she’s still mad as hell at me.
I guess I can’t really blame her. How would I like it if the tables were turned? What if she had the dirty lowdown on someone I cared about and she didn’t or couldn’t tell me? Guess I’d be plenty pissed off too. But what if I had told her a patient’s business? Would she still trust me with her secrets? The whole thing is out of hand. Not just because of me, but because she was so hooked on that jerk Basil. I guess it looks like we both betrayed her. I hope that men like Basil Henderson can’t hide in heaven. That there is some special room where you learn you can’t hide from your truth forever. But the doctor in me understands maybe why Basil felt he had to lie. The world isn’t ready for macho football players revealing their sexual secrets.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe we’re both wrong. I’m sick of vacillating. It really doesn’t matter anyway. We need to get past this so I can give her the love and support she needs right now. Yolanda is family.
I decided the yellow legal paper wasn’t right for the note; instead, I wrote it out on the blue linen stationery she’d given me for my last birthday. After hours of agonizing, and it all came down to nineteen words:
Dear Yolanda,
Please forgive me for hurting you. I did what I felt I must do. I love you, that’s all.
L.
I decided to mail the letter on my way home. I found a stamp in the receptionist’s desk and tucked the envelope in the breast pocket of my coat. I turned out the lights, locked the outer door, and decided to walk home. There was a cool wind blowing, and the sky had softened to an amber color that brightened the city. There was a convenience store near my building with a late-night pickup mailbox out front. Hopefully, Yolanda would receive the letter before the weekend. I could buy a microwavable dinner or deli sandwich and unload my heavy heart in one quick stop.
The emotional drain and tension had taken its toll. After walking twenty blocks, I was physically exhausted too. But I managed to enjoy the beauty of Chicago. A beauty that seems most vivid in the cold months. The lights seemed more brilliant and sounds more dazzling and alive. Despite the colder temperatures, the city exudes a real warmth, like a home with a roaring fire. The glare of neon up ahead told me I was almost home. I couldn’t ever recall being this tired after walking from my office.
The fluorescent lighting inside the store cast a garish glow over the rows of snack foods, candy, and personal hygiene items. I headed for the side wall, where a line of glass-doored refrigerator compartments held cold beverages, ice cream, and frozen meals.
I reached for a turkey dinner, and as the door closed, I caught the reflection of a young white man in a black kni
t cap standing directly behind me. I turned to face him as he stood there blocking my path. He was no taller than I was, but maybe twenty years younger. His heavy navy pea coat was turned up at the collar and missing several buttons. His jeans were dirty and ragged, but his thick-soled brown shoes looked brand new, like he had just walked out of a shoe store.
“Watcha looking at, man! You looking at me?” His speech was slightly slurred and his eyes looked wild with a twinge of meanness around the edges. Drug-induced paranoia, I thought. I’ve seen it too many times in my business. But I wasn’t at work, and all I wanted to do was pay for my food, mail my letter, and get on home. His hands were in the side pockets of his coat, and he stood firmly between me and the aisle leading to the cash register.
“Excuse me,” I said, and brushed past him to the counter.
“I said, whatcha looking at!” He followed me to the counter and stood inches behind me. I could feel his sour breath on the back of my neck.
“I’ll just take this,” I said, and pushed my frozen dinner across to the young woman in an orange and brown smock behind the counter. She took my purchase and looked nervously over my shoulder at the belligerent man behind me. I could see the fear in her eyes and looked in the mirrors mounted on the wall behind her for a security guard. The store was deserted. It was just the three of us, and it was beginning to feel a little scary.
“Do you hear me talking to you, punk! Are you deaf or what?”
“How much do I owe you?” I asked the clerk. I could feel the adrenalin pumping through my veins. I needed to get some space between me and this freaked-out fool so I’d have room to land a punch if need be.
That’s when he grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around. “I’m talking to you, motherfucker.”
“Take your hands off me, man,” I said very slowly. I was trying to calm him down like with my patients. “I don’t know you and you don’t know me, and I sure would hate to have to call the police on you. Chill, man.” I turned my head toward the clerk, hoping she’d heard me. She did, and reached under the counter to push what I prayed was a silent alarm. “Now, why don’t you just step back, give me my space, and we won’t have any trouble.”
If This World Were Mine Page 24
