Talk to Me (A Love Story in Any Language)

by Pat Simmons

  “Nick’s dropped some weight, buffed up, shaved his head, and even had his teeth bleached. At least he can hear God’s Voice. Plus, I know he’ll be there for me today and tomorrow. Admit it, Norton, you’ve been played.”

  I didn’t respond as I chided myself for not keeping my mouth shut earlier. By the time I made it to my car, I had repented, “Lord, I’m sorry.”

  ***

  “Mackenzie, come sit down,” Daddy requested. He pulled a kitchen chair from the table, waiting. I did as I was told without meeting his eyes. His tone hinted this wasn’t going to be a light-hearted morning chat before he left for work.

  Chewing his food, Daddy poured orange juice into his glass. “Want some?” He offered. I shook my head. He took a gulp, and smacked his lips, and squinted. “I haven’t seen that fiasco named Noel in weeks.”

  I nodded and rubbed my hands.

  “Listen, princess, I had tolerated Noel because I love you, but I’ve always felt you deserved someone better. That Richardson fella is not the man that I’d imagined walking my only daughter down the aisle and giving away. Now you know I’m not as churchy as you, but maybe this is God’s way of saying, no.”

  Tears blurred my vision, but I remained silent. Daddy didn’t need to know that I had texted Noel, emailed him, and even sent him instant messages. I drew the line at showing up at his house or job. I wasn’t desperate, and I was too old for that drama. Instead of planning a wedding, I was burying my feelings.

  Scraping up the last portion of eggs, he stuffed them in his mouth and pushed his plate away. “You’ll be okay. You’ll be glad you waited for the man the Good Lord and I wanted for you.”

  If Noel didn’t want me, then maybe another man will. I couldn’t comprehend my father’s last statement, but I had to go forward with my life. “Daddy, I received a letter from Goodman Theatre for a summer project. It’s my open door.”

  He rubbed his chin. “You going?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Good,” he replied, standing. Scooping up his plate, he deposited it in the sink. Without another word, he swiped his lunch bag off the kitchen counter, planted a kiss on my head, and left.

  ***

  A few hours later, I had to get out the house, away from my computer, cell phone, and everything. Otherwise, like an addict, I would drive myself crazy waiting for a word from Noel.

  After showering and dressing, I grabbed my purse and got behind the wheel of my car. I stopped keeping track the number of times I wound up in Heman Park, crying and sitting on the same bench Noel and I shared that picnic lunch. In a blurry distance, a couple strolled hand in hand.

  “Enough,” I said, developing a brain freeze, not from memories of Noel, but from one of my summertime favorites, a 7-Eleven Slurpee—an addiction Noel would never know, or get a chance to tease me about.

  I had to stop torturing myself, which would trigger more tears and trips to 7-Eleven. I could only endure so many brain freezes in one day.

  Standing, I dared my straw to indulge in one last drag of my Dr. Pepper-Fanta Banana-Cherry flavored Slurpee before pitching the cup into a park trash can. My Monday afternoon was empty—no school, no theater projects, and no Noel.

  I was becoming pathetic. I did have other options. On my previous Christmas break, Rhoda and I attended The Black Nativity: A Gospel Song Play in the Owen Auditorium in Goodman Theatre. The pageantry and the characters’ revelation of their faith were a captivating portrayal of Langston Hughes’ poetry and songs.

  The actors had dared the audience not to sway in their seats as the African-American perspective of the Nativity scene welcomed descendants home. I had imagined what it would be like to kneel before the King of kings. Just the thought caused me to shiver.

  Days later, we dragged Rhoda’s fiancé to see the Christmas Carol.

  While some enjoyed Chicago’s shopping district, or thrived materialistically in the financial district, I was at home in the theatre district. Goodman Theatre was my beacon that kept me many times from getting lost downtown.

  For so long, I worried God about an opportunity to say that I once worked on a renowned production. Every night, I had prayed, “Lord, bless me with this desire of my heart.”

  When Noel came into my life, God placed the desire of my heart before my eyes, or so I thought. My mind automatically asked, “Goodman who, what, and where?”

  “Who you talkin’ to lady?”

  I blinked and looked down. I met the curious clear brown eyes of the cutest little boy. His two-piece short set was clean except for a faded pink stain below his chin, the evidence of a Popsicle or juice.

  The child’s brown skin and black hair would make any mother boast for producing good genes. The wandering youngster couldn’t have been any more than four or five-years-old.

  Embarrassed, I grimaced and dropped my head, mumbling, “Nobody.”

  “That’s what I tell my mommy when I’m playing with my friend. He’s invisible.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t hav—”

  Looking around the park, the child teetered closer. “You think your friend wants a cookie?” He didn’t wait for my answer as his small hands plowed into his bulging side pockets. Granules spilled as he presented his fist of crumbs, he whispered, “I’ll share. My friend likes Oreo cookies, so I always get extras for him.”

  Before I could decline his offer, a high-pitch echoed through the park, “Jonathan, Jonathan! Boy, you better get back over here, right now.”

  Jonathan made a quick decision as fear covered his face. He dumped his donation in my lap, and sped off. His feet propelled him faster and farther than a tricycle without training wheels. He was an Olympic medalist in progress.

  Humored, I shook my head, scraping the crumbs to the ground. Alone again, my mood became sober. I never realized how my mind and heart battled for dominance. I didn’t want to think about Noel, but my heart did, so memories resurfaced.

  When Noel proposed, my prayer requests ceased. Nothing else seemed more important. The man was a perfectionist at balancing show and tell. His eyes, smiles, and arms showed me how much I meant to him. His lips told me how much he loved me.

  “Okay,” I mumbled, patting my thighs. One more thought about him would drive me to drink another Slurpee.

  Let it be known, I wasn’t budging. I could be the mistress of hold out. “God, I appreciate every detour that You made in my life. But enough of Memory Lane, I’m ready to get back on the main road.” Deactivating my car locks, I got in. By the time I clicked my seatbelt, my mind was made up. I was packing. Who knows? The opportunity could turn into something permanent.

  CHAPTER 37

  Three days later

  Chicago, home of Cubs, the White Sox, the Rams—oops, that’s the St. Louis sports team. Okay, back to Chicago, home of Garrett’s Popcorn, catfish at Priscilla’s Soul Food, Michigan Avenue, white stretch limousines, and the onslaught of homeless beggars.

  It was also a place where Noel Richardson didn’t live. I plastered a replica of a smile across my face.

  The Windy City also served as a breeding place for artists from all over the world. The Theatre District was home to the Cadillac Theatre—where The Color Purple attracted busloads of folks from across the country.

  Not to mention the Oriental Theatre, the Chicago Theatre, the Ford Theatre, the Auditorium Theatre, and my smothered pork chop—the Goodman. Even Arby’s boasted a red awning that was trimmed in clear lights, tricking tourists into believing it was another theatre company.

  Okay, enough of the history lesson. My predictable and boring four-hour-road trip to Chicago turned into a five-and-a-half hour drama packed with unwanted adventure. Thanks to “Gertrude,” my once dependable car, it picked the wrong time to experience hot flashes.

  More than once, I was forced to the side of the road where I re-evaluated the motivation behind my expedition. Daddy wanted me to fly, but I wanted to bring a few extra things as I considered if I would stay.

&nb
sp; After my Mazda stalled a second time, I prayed, anointed my head and the car’s hood with Holy oil, and drove off as if nothing happened. I refused to accept the mishaps as a sign from God to turn around. Nah. God opened the door to Goodman Theatre, and with my head tilted high, I planned to step through it.

  Forty-five minutes outside Aurora, Illinois, “Gertrude” continued her rebellious streak by inflicting a flat tire. A worker with the Illinois Department of Transportation stopped and assisted, replacing it with my spare. “Think you can make it to your destination, Miss?” a courteous black man asked, frowning.

  Lord, I can make it with Your help, I prayed silently. Once again behind the wheel and my seat belt fastened, I grinned at him. “Yes, sir, I’m good to go. Thanks again.” I cautiously accelerated back on to I-55, cranking up gospel artist, Yolanda Adams’ latest CD.

  When the gages on my dashboard began to synchronize with the drummer’s beat, I groaned. Rolling my eyes, my hand slapped the steering wheel in agitation. My travel checklist had been worthless. “I cannot believe my radiator is running hot! God, in the Name of Jesus, I need Your Help…”

  And God gave it to me until I finally pulled into Rhoda’s driveway. She was standing in the doorway of her townhouse, choking a cordless phone. Seeing me, she dropped it and rushed to my car then backed away as smoke huffed beneath the hood. She hesitated, bracing for an explosion.

  I turned off the ignition and I got out my car and stretched my stiff limbs. Determining the coast was clear, Rhoda barreled into me. For a short person, her arms wrapped me in a brutal hug, almost causing us to lose our balance. Jostling we backed up, released our hold, and screamed our greeting as if we shared a bad hair day.

  Embracing a second time, we added a rhythmic rock from side to side. Our reunion became longer and more powerful until we became unglued. I wasn’t complaining because I needed the extra strength that Rhoda seemed to will me.

  “Mack, girl, you had me worried. I see why now. Your cheap butt needs to dip into your bank account and buy a new car. You could easily afford an Escalade. You’ve been saving money since college. Anyway, when I couldn’t reach you, I called Mr. Norton, who also panicked. Before we knew it, we were praying. I kept calling you.”

  “Oh, Rhoda, I’m sorry. My cell phone had a weak signal and I brought the wrong charger. I’ll have to buy another one while I’m here.” I paused and digested Rhoda’s words. “Back up. Daddy was praying? Well, praise God. I better let him know I made it.”

  “Yes, praise the Lord. Maybe one of Heath’s mechanic friends can take a look at your car tomorrow.”

  Worries set aside, Rhoda peered through my car window. “Ah, Mack, did you come for a visit, or to stay? I haven’t seen this much stuff since we moved off campus, and don’t think I didn’t notice the luggage under your eyes, the weight loss, that dingy half smile, your unkempt hair, wrinkled clothes, and—”

  “Geez, Rhoda, sure you don’t want to check to see if I’ve got on clean socks? I’ve been driving for five hours. How do you expect me to look? I’m not about to walk the red carpet for a premiere.”

  With one hand on her hip, she squinted. “If that piece of rock wasn’t blinding me, I wouldn’t have noticed the other stuff.”

  She lifted my hand as if she was Valerie’s assistant manicurist. “Mack, this is some serious love going on here. This rock is telling me it ain’t over.”

  I snatched my hand back, swallowing the lump in my throat. “At one time, I thought so, too. Rhoda, please. No questions.”

  Looping our arms, we matched our steps as we strolled on the curved pathway to her porch. “So how long are you staying before school starts?”

  “Honestly, I haven’t made up my mind,” I said with a shrug.

  “Well, you know my hospitality is legendary, but I will put you out,” Rhoda joked, followed by the melodious sound of her laughter. The pitch, the tone, and the duration never changed.

  As soon as we walked through the door into her living room, I used Rhoda’s phone to call home. “Hi, Daddy, yes, I made it.”

  “Thank God for something, I guess,” Daddy said with relief. “That car of yours didn’t give you any trouble did it?”

  “A little.” I wasn’t lying. I just wasn’t giving details.

  “It’s time for you to get a more dependable car. Get something like Noel’s Cadillac. I’m thinking about buying one myself.”

  I ignored the reference to Noel’s car. “I’ll think about trading Old Gertrude in for something besides a Cadillac.”

  Leaning against the back of her sofa, Rhoda chuckled at my Mazda’s pet name. Although it was my third car since college, I called all of them Gertrude. I figured if George Foreman could name all five of his sons George, then I hadn’t broken any records yet.

  “Listen, princess, I never had to worry about you visiting Rhoda in Chicago before, but since Noel, I’ve been worried. Your enthusiasm is tamed, it’s almost imaginary. You don’t have to run.”

  “Daddy, I’m a grown woman. I can handle myself. Noel was a diversion. Goodman Theatre is where I’ve wanted to be for years, remember? This isn’t about Noel.”

  “Liar,” Rhoda mumbled loud enough for him to hear.

  Ignoring her, I tried to pacify Daddy. “And while I’m here, I thought about checking out the school systems.”

  “Mackenzie…” his voice peaked with concern.

  I smiled, knowing how much he loved me, and the reason he chased the few men who showed me interest away. Except Noel, he fled on his own. “I said, ‘check out,’ Daddy. I’m just going to look around.”

  After I told him I loved him and I’ll call him soon, we disconnected. I took a deep breath and looked at Rhoda. “Okay, let me grab my stuff and—”

  Frowning annoyance, Rhoda shooed her hand. “Girl, please, Heath can get that.”

  Heath, of all the names to call her man, Rhoda picked one named after a candy bar—a deep, dark chocolate treat. As if hearing his name, William “Heath” Wilkerson’s rich booming voice responded.

  The fantasy voice of a sexy black male radio announcer preceded heavy-hitting footsteps, but a perceived white guy stood in Rhoda’s doorframe. Shirt sleeves rolled up and a dish towel in his hand.

  “I can get what, babe? Hey…Mack, when did you get here?” Taking one step, he grabbed me around my waist and lifted me in the air as if I was a toddler, enjoying a thrill ride or an ice skater.

  “Put her down, Heath,” Rhoda fussed as I screamed in jest. “She has stuff in that raggedy car of hers.

  Upon my descent, William smacked a bruising kiss on my cheek.

  “Little Mack, it’s good to see you, girl. You had my woman worried. Welcome back to the Windy City. I was heading out anyway, so I’ll grab your things.”

  He paused, patting a stomach that was one meal away for tipping over his leather belt. Besides that minor discretion, he was very pleasing to any woman’s eyes. “My baby cooked me some serious oven-fried chicken, mustard greens, and—”

  “Just get my bags, Heath,” I teased. “I can taste-test my own food.”

  Blocking our way, William delivered a tender kiss to Rhoda’s waiting lips. I turned away to keep from becoming jealous of their blossoming love.

  Once in her updated kitchen, compliments of William, Rhoda made a beeline to a steaming pot on the stove that William had probably forgotten about.

  I walked to the sink to wash my hands. Afterward, I climbed on a barstool and balanced myself on the thick cushion. The makeover in the room was phenomenal.

  William’s skills as a homebuilder and eye for remodeling were unmatched. Even though he was designing and overseeing the construction of their new house, he insisted on remodeling Ronda’s townhouse so that she would get the maximum re-sale value.

  “What’s the latest on “Gone with-out-a-trace” Noel?” Rhoda demanded, taking a crystal pitcher from her refrigerator. After pouring lemonade into two tall glasses from the cabinet, she turned around and slid one in front
of me like a bar waitress.

  William’s return kept me from answering. I grinned at him. “I love you, man,” I flirted.

  “Sorry, Little Mack. I’m a one woman man.” He deposited my bags outside the kitchen door and gave Rhoda a smile that could seduce a nun. Rhoda was sucked in, and I became a discarded dish cloth until I cleared my throat.

  “There are children in the room.” He kissed his fiancée, waved good-bye to me, and with his signature bow-legged walk, strolled out the kitchen. His footsteps faded until a whining door opened and closed. “I thought he’d never leave,” I joked. “Every time I look at William, I still can’t get over you marrying a white guy.”

  Huffing, Rhoda rolled her eyes, feigning insult. “Heath isn’t white. He’s definitely got some black blood in him. Now, his brother, Sam, is convinced he is white and will convince anybody of that who’ll listen. The Wilkersons have lost track of him. That man has cut ties with the family. Rumor has it he moved to Ohio and started a small hotel chain or business or something.”

  I shrugged. Everybody had drama. “Can’t they hire an investigator to track down Sam? I mean, he could be dead.”

  “Humph. As far as they know, Sam could’ve changed his name, place of birth, and parents. If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t. You’d think that we were living in Mississippi before the Emancipation Proclamation where it was commonplace for mulattoes to claim they were white to escape slavery.”

  Rhoda shook her head. “Anyway, Heath has a little black blood, maybe about twenty-five percent. Humph. Doesn’t matter to me, I would love that man anyway and he loves me.”

  “I had never questioned it,” I said, standing to grab a plate from her cabinet.

  “Sorry for the genealogy lesson,” Rhoda apologized, shrugging. “Blacks and Whites make too many assumptions. Sometimes, I find myself defending our relationship. I only let you tease me, but don’t push it.”