Love Me or Leave Me

by Gwynne Forster

“It must work for them, but it certainly wouldn’t work for me,” Russ said.

  “Me neither. When are you going back to Barbados? Splitting myself between there, Frederick and Baltimore is tiring. I think we ought to consider getting another engineer.”

  Russ sat down in his favorite chair—a big, overstuffed leather one—stretched out his long legs and relaxed his feet on the footrest that matched the chair. “Hiring an engineer would relieve you, but Telford wants this to remain a family business. It would help if we chose jobs more carefully. When do you expect to finish in Barbados?”

  “A couple of months more, if all goes well.”

  Russ sat forward. “What could go wrong? We’ve got a great gang of workers. Drake, it isn’t like you to be negative. If you can’t talk to me about whatever it is, talk to Telford, or Henry, or Alexis.”

  “Thanks. I’m all right. It’s just… You know I never go into anything without nursing the idea before—”

  “Yeah, I know, but you’re nursing it to death. Is it Pamela? I sure as hell hope you’re not considering anything serious with Louise.”

  His head shot up. “That butterbrain? What do you take me for? I dated her twice as a favor to her brother. He had some fish to fry and wanted his sister out of the way.”

  “You sure must think a lot of her brother. The angel Gabriel couldn’t have gotten me to go out with that dame a second time.”

  “Tell me about it. I think I’ll turn in, Russ. I have to catch a nine-o’clock flight, and that means leaving here at six-thirty. Sure you want to take me to the airport?”

  “No problem. You make the coffee.”

  Drake hung up his tuxedo, took a shower and crawled into bed. He didn’t remember ever having thrashed in the bedcovers trying to sleep. But he couldn’t get Pamela out of his thoughts. He reached over to his night table and turned on the light. Twice he dialed most of her number and hung up before completing the call. After an hour of turning and twisting, he sat up. Why should he care that she hadn’t kept their dinner date? Hadn’t he planned to tell her it was best they not see each other? He slapped his palms on his knees and let out an expletive. Did he want to stop seeing her, or didn’t he?

  At the airport the next morning, he checked in, passed security, bought a sandwich for later and went to the seating area at the departure gate. How would you feel if she left the country without saying a word to you? his conscience demanded. At five minutes before boarding time, he capitulated to his conscience and his feelings and telephoned her, and a hole opened up inside of him when she didn’t answer at home, at her office or on her cell phone. He took his seat in first class, thanked God that his seatmate was a woman with good hygiene habits, fastened his seat belt and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to talk with anybody except Pamela Langford. Please, God, I hope she’s not in any trouble. When did I get to the place where I don’t know my own mind?

  Pamela was no less disturbed than Drake about the course of their relationship. Surely Henry gave Drake her message, but Drake hadn’t paid her the courtesy of an answer. She dragged herself out of bed, went through the motions of her morning ablutions, made a pot of coffee and decided she had no appetite for breakfast. After moseying around her apartment for nearly an hour, she threw up her hands in disgust. She couldn’t call Henry and ask him whether he gave Drake her message.

  “Guess I’m the one eating dirt this time,” she said to herself, put on a yellow linen suit with a white-bordered yellow tank, got into her car and headed for work. “The sun will revolve around the earth before I cry over a man,” she said to herself, sniffing to hold it back. “Not even if the man is Drake Harrington, I won’t.”

  At the station, she breezed past the newsroom, went into her office and closed the door, wishing, not for the first time, that their offices had locks. If Lawrence Parker walked into her office, she wouldn’t be responsible for the words that passed through her lips. As if he had extrasensory perception, he knocked once and walked in.

  “How’s my little yellow bird today?”

  She turned and faced him. “Lawrence, do you know the definition of the word nuisance? If not, look in a mirror. I am not interested in your company. I’ve got a man in my life, and I don’t need another one.”

  “Be careful, babe,” he said in what amounted to a snarl. “I may get a promotion, and then you’ll wish you’d been nice to me.”

  She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Your getting a promotion in this place is the least of my worries. Please close the door when you leave.” She turned her back to him and began going through her in basket. After some time, she heard the door close. She figured that he’d find a way to get revenge, because he was a man whose ego needed constant stroking, and she’d just knocked him down a peg.

  “I didn’t have breakfast, so I’m taking an early lunch,” she said to Rhoda, her assistant. “Want to join me?”

  “Sure thing, Pamela, as long as you don’t want fast food.”

  Fast food wouldn’t nurse her wounds. “Not a chance. I want some good catfish.”

  They walked to Frank’s, an eatery frequented by politicians, as well as newspaper, radio and television people, but she went there for the soul food.

  “I’m having fried catfish,” Pamela told the waitress.

  “With or without?”

  “Definitely with. I haven’t had anything to eat today,” she said, savoring the thought of catfish with corn bread and stewed collards.

  “I’ll have the same,” Rhoda said, “but hold those hot peppers.”

  “Not to worry. We only give you those if you ask for ’em.”

  “What’s Lawrence up to these days, Pam? If I turn my back, he’s in your office. Is there… I mean…do you want to see him?”

  “Me? Want to see Lawrence? That man affects me exactly the way a swarm of mosquitoes would, and he’s got the hide of a rhinoceros.”

  “I wouldn’t like to be the object of his affection. He’s too devious. I’d better tell you he’s boasting that you and he are an item.”

  She nearly spilled her ice water. “In his dreams. Put a note on every bulletin board in this building to the effect that Lawrence Parker is lying, that he’s never been anywhere with me outside of the building and that I want him to stay out of my office.”

  Rhoda struggled without success to keep the grin off her round brown face. “That will give me more pleasure than this catfish. And girl, I do love me some catfish.”

  “Sure would quicken my steps, but I guess we’d better not do that. I’ll find another way to make him grow up.”

  She had treated the matter lightly, but the man worried her. A normal man over thirty-five years of age—she was certain of that much—didn’t behave as Lawrence Parker did.

  “I sure hope I’m around when you blow him over. Say, how was your date Friday night?”

  “My date? Oh, you mean… Disaster, girl. I had not one flat tire, but two, and by the time I got to the restaurant, almost two hours late, he’d left.”

  “You didn’t call him? I mean, doesn’t he have a cell phone?”

  “He does, but mine was at the station on my desk.” She stopped eating, lost in thoughts of what might have been.

  Rhoda rested her knife and fork and leaned back in the chair. “But you patched it up later, right?”

  Pamela lifted her right shoulder in a quick shrug. “I phoned his house and left a message. But if he got it, he didn’t return my call.”

  “I see. You sound crestfallen. What’s this guy like?”

  “A tan-colored Adonis. Mesmerizing good looks. A grin that will make you cross your knees, and sweet as sugar. He’s too good to be true.”

  “If what you say is right, he sure is. I’d be scared as hell of him.”

  Pamela ate the remainder of the catfish and pushed her plate aside. “He knows he’s great-looking, but when women fawn over him, it gets on his nerves.”

  “You’re kidding. You mean, he’s not a stud?”

 
“Good Lord, no. If he was, I wouldn’t have gone out the door to meet him.”

  Rhoda looked into the distance, her expression suggesting a sense of wonder. “I wish you luck, but I’d stay away from that brother.”

  It was much too late for that advice, but she didn’t tell Rhoda that. Lecturing herself about Drake Harrington had gotten her nowhere. She knew him well enough to be certain that he was far more than what he looked like—six feet and four inches of male perfection—that he was a serious-minded, hardworking and caring person who loved his family and was generous with his friends.

  “I’m no slouch,” she said to herself, “but what makes me think Drake Harrington is going to settle for me when he can have just about any woman he wants?”

  “I don’t give advice,” Rhoda said, “and especially not to you, since you’ve done far more with your life than I have with mine. Still—”

  “Out with it,” Pamela said. “Who knows? It might be just what I need to hear.”

  Rhoda savored the last morsel of catfish, placed her knife and fork across her clean plate, and leaned back in her chair. “I was going to retract what I said a minute ago. If he’s all that nice, and he’s interested, go for it and enjoy it for as long as it lasts, but don’t fall too deeply in love.”

  Pamela leaned forward as if to be certain Rhoda heard her. “I’d like to see the woman who could bask in that man’s attention and, when his interest cooled, walk away unscathed as if she’d merely said ‘hi’ to him.”

  Rhoda’s eyebrows shot up. “That bad, huh?”

  They barely spoke as they walked down Linden Avenue to Monument Street, each in her own mental realm. “I’ll tell you one thing,” Rhoda said as they entered the building that housed the TV station, “I’d watch my back. Half the women you know will be trying to get close to you, hoping to catch his eye.”

  “Not me. My dad says that if a man wants to go, buy him a ticket. The sooner he’s gone, the better, because eventually, he will leave. You won’t catch me clinging to anyone, male or female. My friends have the freedom to do as they please.” She waved at the desk officer, who checked entrance badges.

  “You two are looking great there,” he said. “Nothing like a couple of fine-looking sisters to brighten a man’s day.” They smiled and kept walking. Ben enjoyed complimenting them.

  Back in her office, Pamela checked her desk phone and her cell phone, saw that she didn’t have any messages, pulled off her jacket and went to work. Twice that morning, she’d changed her lead story for the local evening news, and now this. A woman was shopping in the supermarket, turned her back to select a head of lettuce, and when she looked around her three-year-old daughter had disappeared and had not been seen since. She got busy trying to piece together the bits of information floating in and, once more, rearranged the order of her news item. By five o’clock, she had what she considered a first-class report, but Lawrence cracked the door and handed her a sheet of paper.

  “Sorry, pal. Your producer gave me this a little while ago, but I swear I forgot it. No hard feelings?” She didn’t answer him. His smile, brilliant and false, nearly sickened her. He had deliberately withheld one of the most important items of the day: Station WRLR had just joined the NBC family of stations. She pushed the button on her intercom and got the producer.

  “Jack, when did you tell Lawrence to give me this merger notice?”

  “Around eleven this morning. Why?”

  “Because he gave it to me less than a minute before I paged you, and he knows I’m going on the air in ten minutes.”

  “Okay. Read it straight. I’ll take care of Parker.”

  On her way home, she stopped at a garden center and bought a rubber garden snake. The next morning, she got to work early and glued the serpent to Lawrence’s door. Even if he took it off, the perfect outline of a snake would be there until the door was painted. She dusted her hand as if she were getting rid of something unwanted, went to her office and left it to Lawrence to discover the identity of the donor. She understood now that Lawrence would be even more of a problem as she continued to reject him.

  “I’ve fought worse battles,” she said aloud. She gathered her notebook and headed for the station’s library, wondering why Drake didn’t call her.

  As the big British Airways plane neared Kotoka International Airport in Accra, Ghana, Drake began to wonder what he would find. He disliked such tropical pests as mosquitoes, flies, sandflies and especially snakes. And he didn’t know whether he was going to a thatched roof in a rural area or a skyscraper in Accra. He knew that Ladd belonged to the Fanti tribe—historically the elite of Ghana, not that it mattered what status his friend had—and that meant he’d be somewhere near the coast. The plane landed, and in his befuddled state of mind, he thought that his trip would have been more enjoyable if Pamela had been with him. Try as he may, he could not remember why he wanted to end their relationship. He hadn’t ventured too far with her, not even when he kissed her. More than once, she’d indicated a desire for a little more passion. He dragged his fingers through his hair. He’d known other girls, so why was he focusing on Pamela?

  He disembarked, walked into the terminal and saw Ladd waiting, his face shining with a brilliant smile.

  “Welcome. Man, am I glad to see you! I need a calming influence. Never get married. Women think the purpose of marriage is to spend money and reinvent the world in the process. Man, I’m worn out just watching them.”

  Had he forgotten Ladd’s ability to talk nonstop for hours? He could almost feel the man’s happiness. “Don’t watch them,” Drake said. “Besides, I didn’t know Ghanaian women did that. I thought that was peculiarly American.”

  “Oh, no. Something tells me it’s worldwide. How was your flight?” He motioned to the man standing beside him to take Drake’s bags.

  “Smooth as silk. I slept most of the way between London and Accra.” They stepped out into the heat. “Whew! I’d better remove my coat. Say, I’m anxious to meet your bride.”

  “She’s nice, man. Really nice.”

  “Way to go, buddy.” A question had plagued him ever since he got the invitation and the note saying Ladd wanted him to be his best man. Well, he was paying his own fare, so he could ask if he wanted to know. “What kind of service are you having? Are there a lot of things I have to learn?”

  Ladd stared at him. “What kind of— Oh, we’re Protestants. Everything will be familiar. All you have to do is stand there and keep me from passing out. How long can you stay?”

  “Keep you from passing out?” Laughter rippled out of him, partly at the idea of Ladd fainting, but mainly because he knew what was expected of him. “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d need smelling salts. I’m leaving day after tomorrow. We’ve got buildings going up in two different states and in Barbados, and I’m strapped for time.”

  “Too bad you won’t get to see much of the country. I told our interior minister that you might give him some ideas about the new shopping mall he wants built. Think you can spend about an hour with him?”

  “No problem. Remember that I’m an architectural engineer, not an architect.”

  “Yeah. I told him that. He wants to meet you. I had white trousers, an agbada, a dashiki and a kufi made for you. I’m sure they’ll fit, except maybe the kufi, but you’d better try them on.”

  Drake paused momentarily when he remembered that a few steps away stood an air-conditioned car in which he would get relief from what seemed like taking a sauna while wearing a woolen sweater and an overcoat.

  “I know the agbada is a long gown and the dashiki is a shirt, but what the devil is a kufi?”

  “It’s a matching…you know…cap. We’re having a modern Christian wedding, but to satisfy my grandfather, you and I are wearing traditional dress.”

  “What about the bride?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not supposed to know, but she told me it’s a white dress.”

  The following afternoon, around three o’clock, Drake dressed in th
e traditional clothing worn by a groom and his party and looked at himself in the mirror. “Hmm.” Adjusting the kufi, he wondered if any of his ancestors had worn one, shrugged and rang for the car that would take him to Ladd’s home. As he stepped out of the M Plaza Hotel—palatial by any measure—and into the Ghanaian heat, he wished he’d been going for a swim, but the air-conditioning in the Mercedes limousine immediately arrested his wayward thoughts. Ladd was ready when he arrived, and Drake had only a few minutes in which to observe his friend’s elegant living style.

  At five o’clock, still struggling with the effects of jet lag, Drake stood with Ladd Sackefyio and his bride—who was dressed in a white, short-sleeved wedding gown decorated with white embroidery that was inset with brilliant crystals, and wearing a matching white crown—took their vows before an Anglican minister at the foot of the altar. Deeply touched by the simplicity of the ceremony and the smiles that never moved from the couple’s faces, he wondered if Russ had been right, that he’d begun to feel the loneliness of bachelorhood. He shrugged it off and went through the rituals of his duties at the reception, which included a toast and standing with the couple in case it seemed that they would topple the five-tier cake while trying to cut it.

  Now, what am I supposed to do with this dame? he thought as he looked at the bridesmaid who made it clear to him and everyone at the reception that she wanted more from him than a smile. He had to be gracious. But he’d have preferred to paddle her for her lack of discretion. To worsen matters, she was an American, and the locals probably thought her behavior de rigueur for African-American women.

  “Look,” he said to her when her cloying behavior annoyed him to the point of exasperation. “Cut me some slack here. I’d like to get to know some of the Ghanaian people.”

  When she put her hands on her hips in a feigned pout, he walked away and a Ghanaian man immediately detained him. “I’m John Euwusi. We want to build a modern shopping mall here, and Ladd tells me you’re the man to talk to.”

  Drake extended his hand. “He told me about you. I have to leave tomorrow afternoon, but we could speak in the morning, if you like.”