Fiona Love

by Sherrod Story

  At home, locked in her bathroom, she peed on the stick and paced for several minutes until she could look. She was pregnant.

  She relit the joint she’d half smoked in the car. This was it. No more after this. No more weed for months and months and months. Shit. Fiona sighed and wiped away a few tears. What was there to cry about? She was a single unwed black mother with two children by two different men. She was a fucking statistic. Nothing new.

  “Goddamn it,” she whispered.

  ******

  Daney came over that night with Chinese food.

  “What’s wrong? The girls told me you didn’t eat dinner.”

  Fiona rarely missed a meal deliberately.

  “I brought you chicken fried rice no bean sprouts.” He held out the carton and a fork. She took them and set them down. “I got crab rangoon too. What’s wrong?”

  Fiona opened the carton, forked up a tiny bite and chewed at length.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  There was a sizable pause.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You’re pregnant? We’re pregnant?” He asked, voice growing louder with each word. He fell down beside her in a sprawl. “When did you find out, today?”

  Fiona nodded, staring bug eyed in the face of his excitement. “I took one of those pee on the stick tests.”

  He jumped up. “Did you keep it?”

  Fiona nodded, dazed as he disappeared into the bathroom. He must have gone right to the trash because he shouted something in French, then said, “Christ,” in English.

  Thank God; he’s happy.

  Her spine loosened. She rolled her shoulders, watching but not listening as he spoke. He looked luscious in that shade of grey-green. He favored button down polo type shirts in small checks or very thin stripes. The one he was wearing now was a favorite.

  “Fiona!”

  “Hunh?”

  “Are you fuckin’ listening to me?”

  She shook her head no and grinned at him. She crawled to the edge of the bed.

  “No hug for the mother to be?” she whispered, her voice so soft and sexy his eyes widened in surprise.

  He’d have to be a fool not to realize what she wanted, and his eyes narrowed, wondering at this sudden shift in mood, but he hugged her close, so close she felt their hearts thump together.

  “No kiss?” she asked. “Makin’ a baby’s tough work, you know.”

  “My poor darling,” he crooned, his deep voice like velvet on her ears. “You must be exhausted. Are you feeling all right?”

  She wrapped herself around him. Arms, legs, fingers, lips. She thrust her hips forward slowly, testing, and his breathing accelerated a notch as she rubbed her face against his like a cat and gifted him with a luscious, recently licked pout.

  “All right,” she said softly. “Maybe a lil’ tired.”

  Perversely, his dick stirred with interest. But then again, his dick wasn’t stupid. It knew good and well Fiona wasn’t tired.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, falling into one of their games easily. “Tell me, baby. You know you can have it.” He spoke to her as a father might to a spoiled favored daughter.

  Fiona sighed sadly. She blinked slowly, brown eyes liquid on his face. “I just want you to pet me, daddy.”

  Hearing the word daddy Daney instantly wanted to roll her on her back, and had half done it before he stopped himself. He raised himself on strong arms and looked down at her.

  “Can we even? I mean, is it safe? I don’t wanna –”

  Fiona laughed. “The baby’s just barely there, man. He ain’t gon’ know.”

  “He?” Daney asked, helping her busy hands remove his pants and boxers. “You know that already?”

  “Yes,” Fiona answered, pulling him into her so hard he hissed, and she grunted as his rhythmically moving weight pushed the air from her lungs.

  “You’re so wet,” he groaned. “It always feels so good.”

  Yes. Fiona felt the first curls of her climax coming fast as Daney’s mouth latched onto her nipple. Her breasts bobbed with the force of his thrusts. Fiona tried to hold back, she tried. She tried to ignore the pleasure swelling through her, but could only cry out in a hoarse passion-soaked voice.

  Afterwards she stretched while Daney crawled over her. Crawl being Fiona’s short way to describe one of those squeezing, perfect hugs that touch every part of everything else until your entire skin is buzzing with happiness.

  He kissed her face, gentle rubs of his lips, back and forth, sucking just shy of hurting or leaving a mark. Every once in a while he’d land on her mouth, and those were the best kisses. Soft and warm and wet, they were by turns slow and happy or lovingly ardent.

  You’re having my baby, he seemed to say with each sweet touch of his body on hers. His hands on her soft flesh transmitted laughter, praising her body’s beauty and its capacity to love and provide for him. Or so Fiona imagined. In reality Daney was just plain in love and happy they would soon be a family.

  Chapter sixteen

  She’d been asleep for maybe 30 minutes when Cleo came for her the next night. Fiona almost chastised her cousin for not knocking, but when Cleo collapsed into her arms, the words died.

  “What is it, honey Love?” she whispered, holding her cousin close. “Are you all right?”

  Cleo shook her head wildly, and when Netty came in looking red-eyed and brave, Fiona got scared.

  “Tell me!”

  Cleo just cried harder.

  “Me-Mechante’s dead,” Netty said, sitting abruptly on the bed. Her legs had given out.

  “What?” Fiona asked incredulously.

  “Her mother just called. The funeral’s in a week.”

  “It’s a mistake,” Fiona said flatly. “It’s a mistake, Cleo.”

  “It’s not a mistake, Feef,” Netty whispered, tears thick in her voice. “They sent pictures of Mechante’s body.”

  Fiona let her cousin go, walked slowly to the center of the room and looked around, dazed. “Mechante’s dead?”

  Netty nodded. “She lost control of her car somewhere outside of Nice and drove off a cliff.”

  Fiona shook her head and sat down in the middle of the floor. “It’s like something out of a romance novel. We just saw her,” she said, and began to cry.

  When Daney showed up a few hours later, Fiona was lying silently in bed, Cleo on one side, Netty on the other. The story tumbled out in between teary jags. Mechante had died two days before. They hadn’t known sooner because it had taken her mother a minute to get out to France where she had to deal with the police and coroner, get into Mechante’s apartment and begin the tedious and heartbreaking process of notifying all of her daughters many friends.

  “Please tell Fiona for me,” she’d begged Netty. “Those two were so close, if I try to speak to her I’ll just break down.”

  Netty agreed. She’d told Cleo first, a kind of morbid dry run, and when Cleo had immediately burst into tears and run to Fiona, she was grateful.

  “Feef,” Daney whispered, touching her face with the back of his big hand.

  Fiona sniffled pitifully and raised puffy, devastated eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, and felt his stomach flip when her face crumpled and fresh tears rolled down still damp cheeks.

  Netty and Cleo rose from the bed like old women, and he watched sadly as they shuffled out. He lay beside Fiona, whose shoulders were shaking now, snuffling little cries barely audible around the fist she’d shoved in her mouth.

  “Let it out,” he whispered, and she threw herself into his arms and began to cry in earnest.

  She sobbed so long and hard he got scared, wondering if he should try to stop her somehow. But slowly the storm eased until with a last shuddering breath, she was silent.

  “I’ll go with you to France.”

  “Thank you,” she rasped, voice ravaged from tears. Perhaps five minutes later she said, “She was one of my oldest and dearest
friends, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she said quietly.

  Daney didn’t know what to say, so he just stroked her hair and held her close.

  After a while Fiona broke away and sat up. She looked around the darkened room, then leaned over and fetched her bud tray from beneath the bed. She rolled a quick, sloppy joint and lit it with trembling hands. He watched her inhale in the dark, the end of the spliff glowing briefly before she snubbed it out.

  “I just wanted a puff. I know I can’t smoke. Why did she do this?”

  “It was an accident,” Daney said, following her conversational shift. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Her mother said I’m in the will. The lawyer has instructions from Mechante not to read it until I’m present. Can you imagine Mechante with a fuckin’ will?”

  Daney didn’t respond. He knew it wasn’t a real question.

  “Apparently she had everything in order: instructions for the disbanding of her possessions, money set aside for the cremation, the death taxes, everything. The will’s over three years old. I’ma put my will together, soon as I can get my head around this,” she said, and began to cry again.

  The house phone rang. Someone picked it up in the other room. Daney heard the front door open and muted voices. There was a knock, then Natty poked his head in.

  “Feef,” he said, and it was obvious he’d been crying.

  Fiona stumbled into his arms and Daney clenched his jaw as Natty held her close, their shoulders shaking in time as they sobbed out their grief.

  I am not jealous. They’ve all known each other for years. It’s only natural they’d lean on one another at a time like this.

  It sounded perfectly logical, but he knew that he lied. This man had been Fiona’s lover for months, spent day and night with her. He wanted to rip Natty’s arms from her and toss the too handsome man out on his neck.

  Fiona broke away after a while and swiped a hand over her eyes. She turned, her hand on Natty’s arm. “You two have never been introduced,” she said quietly. “Nathaniel Cambridge, Dane Craig. Daney, this is Natty.”

  Silently the two men shook hands. There was nothing else to do. Whatever feelings they had for one another had been eclipsed by the tragedy of young death.

  “Did you know Mechante?” Natty asked.

  Daney nodded. “She was a beautiful woman, inside and out.”

  “Yes,” Natty whispered. “You know that heffa had the nerve to name me in her will?”

  “Me too,” Fiona said. “You’re going to the funeral,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  He nodded and sighed sadly. “Yeah. My brother said he’d book me a flight. Every time I try I get too choked up on the phone to speak.”

  Two days later they made their way to Paris to join Mechante’s mother for the reading of the will. Fiona felt airy. Disconnected. It wasn’t the weed; she hadn’t smoked another puff. She’d actually given her stash to Netty since she couldn’t trust herself not to dip into it when things got rough.

  “I should have taken it the minute you told me you were pregnant,” her friend said.

  Daney was wonderful. He handled everything, speaking fluent French and easing the journey in myriad ways for all of them. Once there, sitting in Mechante’s early French country office listening to her lawyer read her wishes from behind her Fruitwood desk, Fiona wondered if the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach would ever fill. She knew there was a baby there, but she felt totally empty.

  “Well, my loves, if you’re listening to this, it means I’ve gone the way of the dodo. Hopefully, I went out with a bang, but I don’t want you to be sad. Know that while I’m sadder than hell to have left you alone, I’m not really gone. Not all the way. We’ve all had some wonderful times together, and I’ve thought very carefully about the momentos I want to leave each of you to remember me by. To my mother, I leave my home in Chicago, its contents and my bank accounts there and in Paris. I love you, old girl, and there should be enough to carry you ‘til you can join me.”

  The lawyer paused to tell Mechante’s mother Gloria the business manager had been in touch to say there were a few checks on the way from jobs Mechante had completed recently, and that she would send them as soon as possible. Then he ran through a good 20 names including Natty, Cleo and Netty, even Daney, gifting them with this or that, before he got to Fiona.

  “And to my best friend in the world, Fiona Love, I leave my Paris apartment and its contents. Feef, don’t be sad. I know you’re probably bawling your beautiful brown eyes out right now. Don’t.”

  She was, but quietly, listening to the echoes of her friend that filtered through the old French solicitor.

  “I had a truly wonderful life, lavish and filled with love and so many interesting people. I’m so grateful that you were part of it. We had some good ass times, girl. Coming up in the game together, we kicked ass, took names, and knocked niggas down,” the lawyer stumbled over the controversial word, but continued bravely. “Feef Love. My girl. Remember me.”

  The lawyer began to read some legalese, but Fiona had checked out. She barely noticed that she was sobbing, that Netty and Daney shored her on either side.

  “Fifi,” Daney said.

  She looked up. The lawyer was speaking to her. “What?”

  “Her last request was that you have a party in the Paris apartment before you make a decision to sell it. She says here to call everyone in her phone book and tell them to BYOB, I’m not sure what that is, but –”

  “Yes,” Netty interrupted the man. “We’ll do it.”

  The man handed Fiona and Mechante’s mother small cream-colored envelopes, bowed and left.

  Gloria looked at the thick envelope in her hand and rose slowly to her feet. “I’m gon’ lie down.”

  Cleo walked her to her room.

  Daney kissed Fiona’s cheek, and then he, Natty, Netty and the others left her alone.

  She sat staring at her elaborately curved name on the front of the envelope. Slowly, she reached for the letter opener on Mechante’s spindly little antique desk. Equally slowly she withdrew three sheets of heavy cream-colored paper and with a shaky breath began to read.

  Mechante spoke of growing up together in Chicago, referencing incidents Fiona had almost forgotten from their childhood and later as young adults in New York. Mechante told her friend how much their time together had meant to her, and how Fiona was not to be sad that she was no longer there with her in the flesh.

  ‘I’ve dug my way into your heart, Love. You’ll never forget how deep our friendship went. Never forget how deep. While you’re in my apartment, among my things, arranging the party, never forget,’ she said again, and Fiona’s brow creased. It wasn’t like Mechante to repeat herself. There wasn’t much more. Just a few instructions on the party. She ended the note by asking that Fiona clean out the freezer before everyone arrived.

  Typical Mechante to worry about some trivial domestic task at a time like this.

  Fiona wandered from the den into Mechante’s bedroom. She and Daney had been sleeping there since they arrived.

  He’d worried that the memories, the scent of Mechante that clung to the air, would be too much for her, but Fiona calmed amidst her beloved friend’s things. There was her phonebook, a thick, expensive book bound in soft red leather sitting on a frail glass nightstand, just as she’d said. Mechante had had the thing for years. Fiona picked it up and stroked the familiar cover. She picked up the phone to dial, then realized her French wasn’t good enough to converse by phone. Most of Mechante’s European friends probably spoke English, but she called to Daney, and he quickly took over.

  “When should I tell them to come over?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow night at 9.”

  It would take him a while. She wandered through the room, picking up her friends things. There was a brush with old fashioned white bristles and a few of Mechante’s soft, curly hairs. A whimsically decorated jewelry box
held a crush of costume and real jewelry. How like Mechante to mix tens of thousands of dollars in diamonds, stones and pearls with cheap plastic pins in the shape of butterflies and sunflower-yellow Lucite bracelets. Her friend hadn’t liked a lot of jumble, so the rest of the apartment, while comfortable, was spare and uncluttered. Occasional bursts of color reflected its owner’s eclectic personality and cosmopolitan life.

  Fiona wandered through the kitchen, living and dining rooms looking at the things Mechante had collected over the years from her travels. African masks mingled peaceably with original Annie Lee paintings and Black American movie posters from the seventies. Headless sculptures rested beneath well-framed, peaceful landscapes, and antiques rubbed against plain, yet comfortably feminine furnishings. The textures were endless, wood, plush red velvet on the couch, brocade on a chair, silk and cotton at the windows, glass and metal on tables and shelves.

  Fiona was familiar with most things. She and Mechante had never been frivolous buyers for themselves. Nor had they worried excessively about prices. Mechante always said, better to buy something that you absolutely loved only once a year without looking at the price than settle for something that was a bargain but only so so in your heart. Her red couch, for instance, was at least eight years old, though it appeared new since Mechante was never home long enough to wear anything out. She’d been too busy traveling, working, laughing, loving.

  “Life’s a banquet,” she’d often say to Fiona wearing one of her huge grins. “And most poor suckers are starving to death.” It was a quote from one of their favorite movies, Auntie Mame.

  Netty and Cleo were resting in the second bedroom, Mechante’s mother in the third. She would explore those rooms in her new home later. She’d already made her mind up not to sell. She couldn’t bare the idea of displacing Mechante’s things, and she could easily afford to keep two homes. Mechante didn’t carry a mortgage on the apartment, or the house in Chicago. The taxes had been paid for the year in both places. Netty and Cleo had been surprised to learn that Mechante had very few debts, and those only recent bills.