Within the Shadows

by Brandon Massey

  For two nappy-headed boys raised by single mothers, they’d done all right for themselves.

  Eric’s wife, Pam, answered the door.

  “Hey, Drew,” she said. She beckoned him inside.

  He kissed her on the cheek. “Both of you took the day off, huh? What’s the world coming to?”

  “When you’re six months pregnant with twins, your body needs a lot of rest.” Pam patted her bulging belly. She grinned.

  “As happy as you look, maybe I need to get pregnant with twins, too.”

  “Hush. You sound like Eric.”

  “Where’s the dad-to-be?”

  “Air Jordan’s on the court, says he’s gearing up for a comeback.”

  “Lemme go out there and shame him into permanent retirement.”

  He found Eric in the backyard, on the blacktopped half-court that Eric had added last summer. Dressed in a red tank top, shorts, Adidas, and a layer of sweat, Eric performed post-up moves as if he were practicing for the NBA Finals. The boom box at courtside banged out a Public Enemy song, “Rebel Without A Pause.”

  “About time you showed up.” Eric tossed the ball to Andrew. Andrew caught it and fired a jumper from fifteen feet. The shot clanged off the rim.

  “A few more bricks like that and you can build me a new crib, bro.” Eric mopped his face with a towel. “Anyway, what you been up to?”

  “I think I’m going crazy,” Andrew said. He started to tell Eric what had happened.

  Eric turned down the volume of the music, and listened, without interrupting. Although he was the biggest jokester Andrew knew, he had a serious side; the all-business aspect of him had enabled him to make partner at the law firm at which he worked, in only seven years.

  “First of all, I didn’t stop by your place,” Eric said. “I wouldn’t invite myself in without clearing it with you.”

  “I know. So I must’ve forgotten to turn off the game. And that’s what bothers me.”

  “It’s no biggie,” Eric said. Grabbing the ball again, he pivoted, and threw a skyhook from the free throw line. The shot swished. “You forgot to turn off the game last night or this morning. Happens to all of us sometimes. According to the wife, I forget stuff like that far too often.”

  Andrew got the ball. He took a shot from five feet out. That one misfired, too.

  “But you know me, Eric. I don’t forget things like that. Something about this doesn’t feel right to me. Call it a gut feeling.”

  Eric snagged the ball, dribbled around the perimeter. Andrew guarded him halfheartedly.

  “So who’re you going to blame it on, if not your memory?” Eric asked. He whipped the ball between his legs. “The PlayStation gremlins?”

  “Okay, point made.”

  “You forgot an itty bitty thing. I promise not to tell anyone. I wouldn’t want people to realize that you, in fact, do not walk on water.”

  “And the water running in the bathtub?”

  “Some rambunctious kid.”

  “And the wineglasses?”

  “Simple gravity. Or maybe an earthquake rolled through your crib while you were writing.”

  “Eric, this is serious.”

  “So am I. Look, you’re my boy and all, but sometimes you let minor shit get to you. Now if you wake up one morning butt-naked in the woods and you don’t know how you got there—then we’ve got a problem. Until then, chill out.”

  Eric launched a jumper. Andrew swatted at it, missed by a mile. The ball knocked against the backboard and into the hoop.

  “I guess you’re right,” Andrew said. “I just had to hear someone else say it. I’ll let it go.”

  Andrew fired a shot from three-point range. It hit nothing but net.

  “Nice one,” Eric said. “Hey, what happened with that girl you were gonna mack at Starbucks?”

  “Oh, yeah, I meant to tell you about it.” He gave Eric the highlights of his chat with Mika.

  “Hmm,” Eric said. “Kinda interesting that she happened to have one of your books with her.”

  “It was a helluva coincidence. But it was too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

  “Maybe she was counting on that,” Eric said. He stopped bouncing the ball.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You go to that Starbucks every Tuesday morning, right? Like clockwork.”

  “So? They have lots of regulars there.”

  “So not all of the regulars are famous authors, bro.”

  “I’m not famous, don’t start with that.”

  “Oh, you’re not? Let’s see, Essence did a profile on you, you’ve been on Tom Joyner, your books are in every store in the country, and an actor named Will No-Last-Name-Necessary snapped up movie rights to your first three books for close to seven figs.” He spread his arms. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence is overwhelming. Mark Justice, aka Andrew Wilson, is famous, dammit.”

  Andrew sat on the ground, next to the boom box. He twisted grass around his fingers.

  “Maybe I’m more well known than the average brother, but I’m not gonna stop traffic,” Andrew said. “Few writers are known by face. If John Grisham walked into a room, hardly anyone would know who he was.”

  “We aren’t talking about Grisham, we’re talking about you.”

  “What does me being a little famous have to do with Mika? You think she knew I was gonna be at Starbucks and planned to be there?”

  “You’ve gotta consider it.” Eric placed the ball on the pavement, sat on it facing Andrew. “Some of these sistas out here are so hard-up for a man, they’ll scheme like the CIA to catch a good brother.”

  “But she didn’t so much as look at me when she came in there. Acted like she was gonna diss me until I said I wrote the book.”

  “You used the right word, ‘acted,’ ” Eric said. “If she thinks she’s got a shot to get with you, she’ll do a good enough acting job to win a damn Oscar.”

  “Why are you tripping? You haven’t even met her. She’s cool, seriously.”

  “I’m only looking out for you, bro. There are some serious gold diggers out there. I deal with it on the regular, and I’m married.”

  “All right, I can respect you looking out,” Andrew said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Wouldn’t have to be that careful about Carmen.”

  “There you go.”

  “Had to put in a good word for my girl.”

  “Well, who knows if Mika will call me?” Andrew said. He rose, dusted off the seat of his jeans.

  Eric got up, too. “She’ll call. I’ll bet you a dollar that she does.”

  “You’re on.” They shook on it.

  “Ready to ball?” Eric said. “Play to eleven?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Eric moved to the top of the key. “Before I forget, the wife and I are gonna have a little get together at the lake crib this weekend. You’re invited. Tell Carmen, too.”

  “Sure thing.” Eric owned a second house, on Lake Sinclair. It was the bomb spot for parties or getting away from it all for a weekend.

  Eric bounced the ball toward him. “Check.”

  After Andrew tapped the ball back to Eric, his cell phone chirped. He unsnapped it from the holster he wore on his waist.

  The Caller ID display read, “Private Number.” “Andrew?” a soft woman’s voice said. “This is Mika.” He couldn’t believe she had called. Butterflies fluttered in his gut. “Hey, Mika. It’s good to hear from you. How’re you doing?” Eric grinned. “Gimme my dollar.”

  Chapter 8

  Phone pressed to his ear, Andrew walked to the deck on the other side of the yard. He sat on a patio chair.

  “Have I called at an inconvenient time?” Mika asked.

  “Nope, I’m just at my boy’s house. I can chat.”

  “Good.” He heard her shifting, getting more comfortable. Wherever she had called him from, it was as silent as a soundproof room. “Did you have a productive morning?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t. W
anna know why?”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause I kept thinking about how much I wanted to talk to you again.”

  “Aww, you’re sweet. I hadn’t planned to phone you so soon . . . but I was eager to talk to you again, too.”

  “You were? I’m glad this isn’t a one-way street thing, then.”

  She giggled. It was a cute sound, and he wished he were near her, to see her smiling face.

  “Have you thought about dinner?” he asked.

  “I’ve been considering your offer, yes.”

  “And have you reached a decision?”

  “I haven’t, Andrew. I’d like for us to talk more at length before we agree to meet on such a personal level.”

  She wanted to take it slow. He could respect that; actually, it impressed him. She wasn’t some opportunistic woman trying to squeeze a quick, free meal out of him.

  “What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

  “You. Tell me about you.”

  “What do you want to know about me?”

  “Why haven’t you married? You’re a handsome man, quite successful in your career, and appear to be of good character. I would think that a young lady would have snapped you up by now. Am I missing something?”

  “No mystery to it. I haven’t found the right woman to snap me up.” He propped his feet on a chair. “Nothing is crazier than the dating world these days. It’s rough out there.”

  “I can vouch for that. What constitutes the right woman for you, Andrew?”

  “It’s not that complicated. Honesty, intelligence. Spiritual awareness. A sense of humor, a positive outlook on life. Ambition.”

  “Is beauty on your list?”

  “It’s on my list, but not at the top. Of course, I want to be attracted to the woman, but I’ve learned the hard way that inner qualities are most important. A good heart lasts long after the looks fade.”

  “Quite true,” she said.

  “What’re you looking for in a man?”

  She was quiet. He heard her breathing softly; it was the only noise on her end.

  “Soul mate eyes,” she said.

  “Soul mate eyes?”

  “Are you familiar with the saying that the eyes are the windows to the soul?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When I look into the eyes of that one man, my soul mate, I will know that he and I are destined to be together.”

  “How about sharing common interests?” he asked. “Someone trustworthy, who treats you well—”

  “My soul mate will have all of the qualities that I desire,” she said crisply. “He’ll possess traits that I don’t even realize that I want in a man until I learn about them. He’ll be perfect for me, Andrew, in every sense.”

  “That’s deep,” he said.

  “I will be perfect for him, too,” she said. “Everything he’s ever dreamed of finding in a woman, and so much more.”

  She spoke with unquestionable conviction. He didn’t share her confidence in soul mates—suffering a couple of broken hearts with women whom he’d thought were his soul mates had soured him on the idea. But Mika had made it clear that, for her, there would be no argument on the matter.

  “Since you feel that way,” he said, “then it should be easy to figure out if a guy is the one.”

  “How so?”

  “Just look into his eyes and you know from the start if he’s your soul mate.”

  She laughed lightly. “If only it were so simple.”

  “Why isn’t it?”

  “No one reveals his soul immediately. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, well, in most cases, we cover those windows with thick curtains. The windows are unveiled only in a moment of truth.”

  “A moment of truth?”

  “An instant of vulnerability, of profound honesty . . . or intense passion.”

  “Hmm.”

  Had they experienced what she would qualify as a moment of truth? The idea intrigued him.

  “Do you think I’m strange for expressing these views?” she asked.

  “Your philosophical way of looking at things is refreshing, actually. Different.”

  “I’m a different kind of woman. Unlike any you’ve ever met.”

  “I’m starting to learn that.”

  “And in case you’re wondering, we’ve not yet had our moment of truth,” she said.

  “Funny, I was just thinking about that.”

  “The moment will come, Andrew. In the meantime, I’d like to know more about you. May I ask another question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  And so it went, for over an hour. She quizzed him about his past relationships, family life, friendships. She asked his opinions on a range of topics: politics, film, music, history, society. She wanted to know about his plans for his life, where he was headed and how he was going to get there.

  It was the most extensive, “pre-date” discussion he’d ever had with anyone. He felt as if he had been subjected to what amounted to a relationship interview.

  The only downside was that she asked most of the questions; he didn’t get to learn much of anything about her. Although he gained insight into her inquisitive mind by the nature of the questions that she asked, he decided that if they went on a date, he would take a more active role in the conversation. For now, he’d let her discover whatever she needed to know about him that would help her reach a decision about meeting him for dinner.

  On the other side of the yard, Eric turned off the music and walked toward the house. He pointed at Andrew with mock anger as he went inside. Andrew had come over there to play ball and wound up spending most of his time on the phone.

  Well, Eric would get over it. Twenty-plus years of friendship allowed a slip every now and then.

  There was, at last, a lull in the conversation with Mika.

  “Now, I have a question for you,” Andrew said.

  “Certainly.”

  “I don’t mind your questions. But if you judge whether a man is your soul mate by the look in his eyes at a moment of truth, as you put it, why go through the trouble of covering all this ground ahead of time?”

  “Simple. Engrossing conversation helps us move toward that moment of truth. You only completely reveal your soul to someone with whom you’ve shared much of yourself.”

  “I see.”

  “You’ll get your opportunity to ask questions of me, too,” she said. “When we meet for dinner.”

  He sat up. “You want to do dinner?”

  “I’d love to have dinner with you, Andrew.”

  Yes, yes, yes. He felt as if he had aced a college exam.

  “When are you free?” he asked.

  “I’m available tonight. Are you?”

  Was he available? He would have canceled a pitch meeting with Steven Spielberg to see her tonight.

  “Does seven work for you?” he said.

  “Seven works. Do you like Houston’s, on Peachtree?”

  “Definitely. That’s one of my favorite restaurants.”

  “Is that so? Then it’s settled. I’ll be there at seven o’clock. Please don’t be late.”

  “Never,” he said.

  In fact, he planned to get there early.

  Chapter 9

  Once a week, Andrew visited his mother’s house to cut the grass. His mom lived in East Point, a suburb southwest of Atlanta, in a peaceful, hilly neighborhood of ranch-style houses, leafy trees, and sloping lawns.

  His mother was an elementary schoolteacher. School had recently ended for the summer; it was no surprise that when Andrew pulled into the driveway shortly past three o’clock in the afternoon, he found her outdoors pursuing her favorite hobby: gardening.

  “Hey, Drew.” She rose from the bed of flowers near the house, set down the shears and opened her arms for a hug.

  “Hey, Mom. Your lawn boy is here.”

  In her early fifties, Lynn Wilson was petite and short, standing about five feet tall. But in Andrew’s eyes, she was a giant. She ha
d taught him everything worth knowing about being a good man. Unlike some of his childhood friends who were babied by their moms and had grown into man-children unable to sustain themselves, she’d cut him no slack. “I’m not letting a child of mine go out into the world, shuckin’ and jivin’ and half-steppin’,” she’d always say to him. “I’m going to teach you how to be a responsible black man, whether you like it or not. You’ll appreciate it later.”

  Growing up, he sure hadn’t appreciated it at all. He was her eldest child and only son, and it seemed that she was so much harder on him than she was on his younger sister. His list of household chores was endless; homework had to be completed to her satisfaction before he watched TV; she restricted him from hanging out with the cool neighborhood kids who she’d determined were “bad seeds”; and on it went, ad nauseum. He was convinced that she was the strictest woman on earth and had been appointed as his mom for the sole purpose of making his life miserable.

  But as he grew older, he began to appreciate the lessons she’d taught him, just like she’d said he would. Many of his friends from the neighborhood—those “cool” kids she’d limited his involvement with—were either dead, in prison, or passing their days on street corners, doing nothing productive.

  It frightened him to think of where he might have wound up, if he hadn’t had her.

  “You didn’t have to come over to do the grass,” she said. “I know you’re busy. I can get someone else to do it.”

  She said the same thing to him every week. He always gave her the same response.

  “I don’t mind, Mom. It’s my responsibility.”

  “I don’t know what I’ll do with you, boy.” She smiled.

  He truly believed that the yard work was his job. Although his mother had never married his father, she had been married years ago to his sister’s dad, a decent guy—but after only two years of marriage, he died in a car wreck. Widowed, Mom had never remarried, though she dated from time to time. In his early teens, Andrew had assumed the “man work” of the household—keeping the yard in shape, fixing things around the house, and so on—and had been doing it ever since. During periods when promotional touring for his books kept him out of town for weeks on end, he paid a lawn service to maintain the yard. The last thing he wanted to see was his mom trimming grass. It was unthinkable.