A Good Thing

by Stacey Evans Morgan

  His grin told me that I’d touched on his favorite subject. “Easy. Scarface, The Godfather, Casablanca...”

  “Classic,” I had to add.

  In his terrible attempt at a Humphrey Bogart impression he blurted out, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid... Okay, that was corny. Anyway, oh, Chicago...”

  “Wait, you like musicals?” I asked with delight. “Yes, and?”

  I don’t know why that made me happy but it did. “Uh, that’s cool. You wouldn’t strike me as,” I added Jazz hands for emphasis, “the musical type. But then again, your mother was a singer.”

  He shot a sarcastic look my way. “May I finish?”

  “Sorry” I said, getting more and more comfortable with this brother.

  “Now, you know I gotta add Love Jones to the top of the list.” “Omigod, how much do I love that movie? Let me count the ways... infinity.”

  He broke out in his best impression ala Darius Lovehall played so perfectly in ‘97 by Larenz Tate. “Right now, I’m the blues in your left thigh, trying to become the funk, in your right.”

  I joined him as we both sang, “Is that alriiiiight?”

  We laughed and gave each other a fist bump. Our chemistry was undeniable, his smile infectious. Before he could ask another question I cut him off.

  “I know it’s your turn, but I have another question.

  “Shoot. I’m an open book to you.” he said. I took a breath and asked, “Do you want to get married one day?”

  “Wow, are you proposing Ms. Pilar?” he said as a sly grin appeared on his handsome face.

  I blushed, as I tried to clarify my question. “No, I am not. I just think...”

  “Yes, I want to get married and have children, too. I have a feeling that was your next question.”

  A silly grin spread on my face. “I was just curious. The last time we were on the subject, you mentioned how cautious you were.”

  He grabbed my hand, “Cautious, yes. Scared, no. Any more questions?”

  “Actually I was going to see if you were down for the twenty questions game.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing?” he asked.

  “Well, yes but Twenty Questions is where we both get to ask each other some random but seriously deep questions.”

  “Why do you want to know so much about me, Ms. Pilar?” “Because, you’re intriguing, you’re a nice man and we have a long way to Paris.”

  He looked at his watch then nodded, “Touché’. What’s the prize if I win?”

  “We both win, because we get to know intimate things about each other.”

  Kendall looked me up and down and I liked it. “Intimate things, huh? In that case, let’s go.”

  I thought to myself, This is going to be fun as I leaned in closer to him. “Okay. How’s your credit?”

  “Damn, uh, it’s good. Room for improvement.”

  There was a long pause. I asked, “Aren’t you going to ask me about mine?”

  “No, because something tells me it’s nearly perfect and I want to use my twenty questions about you, wisely.”

  “Go ahead, ask away.”

  As we continued our info gathering, we became more and more comfortable with each other. The questions were clearly things you need to know about a potential mate from faith, family, sex, money, have you ever had any homosexual encounters? Do you want kids, have you been in jail and other background check type questions, to silly personality questions and it was crazy because in the midst of our getting to know each other, I felt as if this moment was ordained and orchestrated by God. A sad event led him to take this flight, but it was great because we were able to make up for the lost time from our brief prior encounters.

  Later that evening, Kendall and I enjoyed engaging conversation over dinner, our third meal on the flight. I finished the last of my meal.

  “Either I was really hungry or this fish is ridiculously amazing.”

  “No, you were really hungry,” he said and went on to tell me about the French cuisine I would soon experience.

  The flight attendant approached to offer our choice of more complementary wine or champagne. I was already full and told her no. Kendall, on the other hand, was enjoying the wine.

  “Oui, more wine, s’il vous plait.” As he made his selection, I quickly stabbed a piece of food off Kendall’s plate and ate it while his attention was on the attendant.

  “So, you’re just gonna steal my food?” “You were not supposed to see that.” “I see everything, gorgeous woman.” “Oh really?” I teased.

  When he answered yes, I pointed across the aisle and asked, “Well, what’s that?”

  As he looked away, I grabbed another bite of his fish. He caught me in the act and grabbed my wrist as I tried to take the bite, but he beat me to it, eating off my fork and chewing victoriously.

  “You know it’s not nice to steal,” he warned while still mid chew.

  “And it’s not polite to talk with food in your mouth, sir.”

  Our playful exchange left us both gazing at each other. The flight attendant passed by and gave me a wink of approval, the way a good friend would do when they thought a new guy was a keeper.

  Later, we entertained ourselves playing online games on his iPad and we shared music and photos of our families on our devices. He allowed me to practice speaking French to him, correcting my mispronunciation of words.

  The plane was quiet as most passengers were sleeping, a few reading and I typed softly on my laptop. Kendall was sleeping and suddenly he leaned toward me. That wine had him knocked out; his mouth was open with a slight snore.

  I liked watching him sleep and started to sing a few lines of Soul Dance as I traced his hairline with my finger. I wanted to comfort him in the midst of the pain of losing his mother, even if it was only while he slept. Soon, I found myself nodding off, so I reached up to turn off the reading light, closed my laptop and my eyes.

  I slept peacefully as the plane began its decent into Paris. I wasn’t sure, but I felt like Kendall watched me as I slept. I heard his voice faintly trying to wake me, but I was still dazed.

  “Pilar… Pilar, wake up.” I felt him reaching across me to raise the window shade. “Pilar…”

  “Hmmmmm, I moaned as I woke up to his smiling face. “Hey, sleepy head.”

  In a groggy morning voice I said, “Hi,” conscious of my morning breath.

  He was unfazed and directed me to look out the window.

  “Bienvenue a Paris.”

  I looked to see the beauty of France as we continued to descend. “Oh my goodness. We’re in Paris. I’m so excited,” I said while yawning. “You should be. It’s a great city. Hey, thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For being you. This flight would not have been as pleasant without you here. There is coincidence and then there is providence and I believe the latter in this case because God really looked out for a brother on this one.”

  I grabbed his hand tightly.

  “I know this must be hard, just take it a moment at a time and know that I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Thank you, Pilar. So, check it out. Here’s my card with my office number, cell phone, email address, and I wrote down my home number along with my blood type, ‘cause you never know. A brother might need a blood transfusion or something.”

  He had me laughing early in the morning and it felt good. “You are crazy,” I said while reaching down for my bag under my seat.

  “About you,” I thought I heard him mumble and when I asked what he’d said, he smiled.

  “What? Just thinking out loud. So, keep in touch and let’s connect when we get back to the states.”

  “I will definitely call you,” I said while the captain announced our arrival into Paris. “I wish we could hang out here, but I certainly understand your circumstances and again, you have my sincere prayers and condolences.”

  “Yeah, it’s going to be a rough, quick trip for me. I have the memorial service, tying up some of Mom
’s business affairs, etc. But if time allows, perhaps we can have lunch or dinner,” he offered.

  I knew that probably wouldn’t happen, but I thanked him for the offer and let him know that I would be staying at Hotel Duquesne Eiffel.

  As the plane landed, Kendall’s demeanor changed. Things just got real for him and all I could do was offer a reassuring rub on his back.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Kendall and I walked through busy Charles De Gaulle Airport customs together and as he helped me retrieve my bags, a short man appeared holding a sign that read ‘Pilar Davenport.’

  I waved at him and in a husky yet friendly voice, the man smiled and greeted me. “Bon jour. Mademoiselle Davenport?”

  I understood that much. “Oh, oui. Bon jour.”

  The driver gathered my bags as Kendall watched.

  “Look at you, private chauffeur in Paris. Okay, I see you.” “No, this is part of the hotel package,” I said as I gave him a hug. “Take care, my friend. If you get a chance, give me a call before you leave. And remember, one moment at a time.”

  He was a little choked up and slowly kissed my hand, in part to keep me from seeing the tears forming in his eyes, but I still felt the warm drops on my hand. “Goodbye, beautiful Pilar. I will definitely be in touch.”

  The driver blurted out something in French and I asked Kendall to translate.

  “He wants to know if you are ready to leave?” Kendall said. Part of me wanted to say no. I didn’t want to leave Kendall, but I was ready for my excursion and answered the man, “Oh, oui, monsieur.” Then, turning to Kendall, I said, “Okay, bye.”

  He took a long stare at me before softly saying, “Bye.”

  As I followed my driver out of the terminal, I kept looking back to see Kendall watching me, but soon the crowds blocked my view of him. He was gone.

  Riding away from the airport, my eyes were fixated soaking up the sights of Paris. The ambiance, art galleries, high- end shops, boutiques, fashionable sidewalk cafes, gorgeous landscapes and unique trees, different from home, mixed with the busy metropolitan hustle gave me an overwhelming sense of anxiousness to explore and create some personal memories. I spotted a McCafe which looked more like an elegant European coffee shop instead of an off-shoot of the McDonald’s fast food chain.

  Paris was everything and more than I had imagined. Although it was the city of love, there were reminders of the unrest and modern tragedies that took place in more recent times: Je Suis, Charlie was spray painted on a city building wall in honor of the massacre at Charlie Hebdo Newspaper headquarters, a billboard that read Never Forget… in reference to the shooting at the Bataclan night club and the Bastille Day celebration that turned deadly.

  Paris has been hit with a lot of sadness but the resilience was evident in faces of the Parisians on the streets and the driver who seemed to enjoy playing tour guide. He seemed to know a few select words of English and tried to make me feel welcome the best he could. He pointed out the L’Eiffel Tower and turned up the radio. An announcement got my attention. My comprehension of the French language was choppy, but I heard Carmen Galloway’s name mentioned and I thought of Kendall as I listened to the announcer: “Et maintenant, un classique de la bien-aimee Chanteuse de jazz Carmen Galloway. Elle n’ou as quitter mais sa musique vivera pour toujours. Que dieu la guide et qu’elle Repose en paix. Un Chants d’oiseaux.”

  I tried to decipher what the D.J. just said. There were a few words that I recognized: beloved jazz singer...her music lives on.

  And then as Soul Dance started to play, the driver looked at me through his rear view mirror. “Carmen Galloway, sa musique, c’est beau, non?”

  Now, that I understood. My eyes filled with tears as I stared out of the window. “Oui,” I quietly answered. “Her music is beautiful.”

  Paris had captured my heart. I saw a couple strolling hand in hand down the narrow, cobbled stone road my driver carefully maneuvered and couldn’t help but imagine what my honeymoon with Jonathan would’ve been like in that romantic city. I was over him, but shaking random thoughts of my ex was still a work in progress. As we pulled up in front of my hotel, the driver hopped out to open my door. I looked around in total wonderment, then followed him and my bags into the hotel.

  Hotel Duquesne Eiffel was located in the heart of the 7th Arrondisement (Administrative District) of Paris and I was fortunate enough to secure a spacious room with the most perfect view of the iconic tower named after engineer Gustave Eiffel, whom I learned was also involved with the construction of the Statue of Liberty in New York. Although the Eiffel tower was literally five minutes away walking distance, I decided to hold off on my visit until the next morning. I wanted to be well rested and prepared for the insane amount of selfi I planned on taking from various angles with the tower in the near distance. There was plenty to see and I decided to stop at a quaint street café before venturing into the 7th district. I sat for a while at a table drinking tea and trying my best to read a local newspaper.

  I noticed an article on Carmen Galloway and the announcement for her memorial service that was scheduled for that evening at RUE DE JAZZ. Thoughts of Kendall and our twelve-hour flight to France immediately came rushing into my mind.

  In the summertime, many Parisians took advantage of their weeks of paid vacation, leaving for the South of France or anywhere far away from the invasion of tourists in the city. A cool young waiter at the café gave me a suggested short list of points of interest and summer festivals to check out and I planned on checking them all off my list, but on that warm summer night I decided to follow my instincts to another part of town. As my cab driver pulled up in front of Rue de Jazz, I thanked the driver and exited the car. I was going to see my friend Kendall in what I could only imagine to be the most vulnerable period in his life. I paced back and forth outside the club where music spilled out onto the street and invited you to enter. Would this be an invasion of privacy? He would’ve invited me to his mother’s memorial service if he wanted me there. I began to think that I should probably keep going and leave him alone to grieve in the private company of family and friends.

  Just as I started to turn away from the entrance, a nice, older gentleman rambled off something in French and the little I understood seemed as if he was inviting me to join the celebration. As I entered the packed jazz club, a quartet of musicians were finishing a set. The audience applauded and Kendall stepped on stage to a microphone.

  I was enraptured by his cooler than cool demeanor, I discreetly took a seat at a cocktail table in the rear of the club as Kendall welcomed the audience with a warm French greeting.

  “Merci à tous qui sont ici pour célébrer la vie de ma mere. C’etait une dame tres sensationnelle. Madame Carmen Galloway.”

  I swallowed back emotions as he thanked everyone for celebrating his mother.

  “Et Aussi tournée d’applaudissement pour la bande. elle aimait bien chanter avec vous.”

  With the rest of the people, I applauded the way Kendall asked us to as he turned to the band and told them how much his mother loved singing with them.

  Kendall got a little choked up but continued, “Donc, si vous connaisez Madame Carmen, vous savez que la vie, la musique et Paris, c’est tout ce qu’elle aimait.”

  I looked around at the people nodding at his words. Kendall was saying exactly what the DJ had said on the radio. That his mother loved life, music and Paris.

  Then, his eyes settled on a tearful woman. “Elle vous direz aussi “vous pouvez garder ces larmes pour un jour de pluie. Je suis trop fabuleux pour la tristesse.”

  I laughed, along with many others in the crowd, though part of my cheer was that I was able to understand what Kendall said. That his mother would have told the woman to save those tears for a rainy day because she was too fabulous for sadness.

  The audience applauded Carmen Galloway’s only child as I smiled in complete admiration.

  He continued, “Son esprit est bien vivant et j’en suis certain qu’elle
ordonnerait ce soirée à rien de moins que de la bonne musique et de réflechissant, donc...”

  I didn’t know Ms. Galloway, but I was sure Kendall’s words were true. His mother’s spirit was alive and she would want this evening to be nothing less than good music and reflection.

  Somewhat blinded by the stage lights, Kendall glanced through the crowd and his eyes settled on me. I sat still as a statue, hoping I had not distracted him. When his eyes looked away from me, I wondered if I should quietly exit.

  “Eh bien, avant de continuer cette soirree avec la belle musique de ma mere, quelques amis veulent partager leurs aimables paroles de réflexion. Souhaitons la bienvenue, son ami de longue date et pianiste favorite, Charles Arceneaux.”