When You Come to Me

by Jade Alyse

  She hadn’t allowed herself to cry in weeks…but it was only after Anthony’s offer to take her dancing at the end of the week and her acceptance to his gesture that she locked herself in her bedroom, wrapped in darkness and silence, that she slid down the closed white door, slumped to the floor like a lazy drunk, and allowed her tears to stain her cheeks.

  She could finally be free, right? Isn’t that what she always searched for? Should she not be glad that Brandon was finally granting her that? Thank the Lord that he was out of her life! She could finally regain her identity, her space, her air! She did not need him, and he made it painfully obvious that he felt the same about her…

  Anthony Jones took her dancing at the end of the week. And he’d smile that charismatic smile that was starting to drive her wild. And he’d hold her unnaturally close while he licked his big brown lips. There were no games with him; there were no secrets, no sneakiness. He had no trouble showing her his attraction to her. The pulsating beat that resonated around them became her impression of him. He was downtown city lights, the stars in the sky, he was soul.

  “So...” he told her, yelling over the music, voice barely audible.

  “So,” she repeated, finding it difficult to look him in the eye.

  “Natalie Chandler,” he told her, gripping her small hand in a way that made her slightly uncomfortable.

  “Hmm?”

  He twirled her around once, long hair wrapped up in a makeshift bun from the sweat, hearing that beat…that beat that had become Anthony so quickly.

  “Why are you trying to be a mystery to me?”

  “I’m not trying,” she told him plainly. “Like I said…just a simple southern girl…”

  He looked at her, nodding slowly. “And what does a simple southern girl like to eat?”

  She found his attempt to get to know her strangely endearing. She enjoyed that fact that he tried for her, enjoyed the fact that he was courteous, and she would allow it to fill the space that his charm could not.

  “Anything that my Mama and Grandma cook…”

  “A family girl…I like those…so do you cook…?”

  “Perhaps…”

  “I’ll take that as a yes…I bet you can’t cook as well as my sister…”

  “Maybe not…but it keeps my family satisfied…”

  “Well maybe you’d like to test that someday…you look like a girl who can burn…”

  She laughed at that comment, figured that if she was light enough he’d be able to see her blush, thinking of the time that she fixed shrimp and grits for Brandon for the first time.

  “Tal, what is this?”

  “Shrimp and grits, you buffoon…you like shrimp…”

  “Yes, but with grits?”

  “It’s a low-country thing, you see,” she’d told him. “Asha taught me…just try it for me please…”

  “Yes,” she told this caramel-complexioned Anthony Jones with a grin. “Someday…”

  She questioned her motives with the man, aged close to thirty, as they walked down the sidewalk of downtown Athens the next night. It was balmy and the skies were clear, and she held onto his arm, allowing the same beat to fill her head as he spoke. She came close to appreciating the smoothness in his voice and the smell of his cologne. It wasn’t too strong, wasn’t too overwhelming, but pleasant, really pleasant. And he was a snazzy dresser, wasn’t he? Yes, he seemed to be a sucker for the bright colors, which looked good on his brown skin. And he didn’t like to pry. He sure did like the surface questions, didn’t he? She loved that he wasn’t pushy like Brandon. For once, someone was on her schedule.

  She was beginning to love the sound of his voice. She equally enjoyed the fact that it was nowhere as deep as Brandon’s, and it didn't pierce her ears the way his always did whenever he felt really passionate about something. But it had the dialect that she was familiar with, that she loved. It reminded her of her mama’s old school music on Saturdays, of the poplars at the end of Green Hill Street, of Grandma’s singing voice…something as smooth as butter…yes, that was it, butter…

  She told Mama about him one night on the phone a month later. She figured it was going somewhere then.

  “What’s his name, Nattie?”

  “Anthony…Anthony Jones…”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a pediatrician at St. Mary’s here.”

  “You sound happy…are you happy?”

  “Yes, Mama…yes, I think I am…”

  “Natalie Savannah…your first real boyfriend…I would love to meet him one day, my darlin’…”

  “And you will, Mama…”

  Asha loved him for his success, for what he could do for Natalie’s career, and the fact that Anthony treated them both to expensive dinners on random occasions, whenever he could get a night off from work. Anthony loved Asha’s humor, loved hearing about her crazy Creole grandma and about dodging black snakes in the bayou.

  Of course, he managed to get her to cook for him…something that took her months to do for Brandon, and still didn’t feel nearly as satisfied as she did with Anthony.

  “Come on, sweet pea,” he’d coax. “I’m in the mood for a home cooked meal…I won’t ask again for another…well, I can’t promise when I’ll ask again…it’s just so good!”

  Yes, fried fish was his favorite of hers…and yes, unfortunately...she was a better cook than his sister…Karen, was her name…Karen Jones-Cameron, a successful real estate agent, living in Peachtree City, the Jones children’s birthplace, recently married to a banker. She’d asked to speak to Natalie one night on the phone as they watched TV at his decently sized house in Winterville.

  “Your name is Natalie?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “That’s a beautiful name, you’ve got there,” the sister said. “Ever wonder why you were named that?”

  “Not really…guess my mother thought it was a beautiful name too…”

  “And you’re taking care of my brother?”

  “Yes, I certainly am…”

  At four months, they went to a church cookout together, ate barbecue on a shared plate under the shade of a pink crepe myrtle, the sun peeking through, gospel in the background, his cousin, the eldest, fifteen, Sierra, coming up to harass her, asking her so many questions that she figured she’d burst.

  “Your hair is pretty…is it real?”

  “Yes…”

  “Where do you get your nails done?”

  “I do them myself…”

  “Do you really like Anthony…?”

  “Yes, I do…”

  “Did you know that he had a bad case of halitosis when he was younger?”

  Natalie thought about all the times that they’d kissed.

  “No, he didn’t tell me that…” she said, smiling.

  “Well, now I just told you…it was really bad…he had to take medicine and everything…”

  Natalie figured that if Sierra were trying to deter her from liking him, then she was completely unsuccessful with it. She didn’t care. She only watched him play with his older brother’s three-year-old daughter, Serena, and knew that she liked him.

  And at twilight, while Mahalia Jackson wailed in the background, and the roar of Anthony’s uncles’ laughter sailed against the cooling breeze of a falling Georgian day, he leaned in to kiss her cheek…just enough to send a special chill down her spine…just enough to appreciate his patience…just enough politeness for a church function.

  At six months, she was walking back to her desk at St. Mary’s with a cup of black coffee between her small hands, and she caught him in Kerry’s room. The five-year-old who only had weeks left.

  Cancer.

  Anthony spoke of her sometimes over dinner; of the funny things that she said, of the cute way that she wrinkled her nose, of the way that Tony passed through her lips. Yes, Natalie walked past the room just as Anthony was tickling her and adjusting her pillow, just as he was reaching for a book by her bed, opening it, and beginning to read
it. Yes, at six months, Anthony became less of a mystery, Anthony became less distant. They’d stolen kisses in a broom closet around the corner during his lunch break. Anthony became her boyfriend.

  At eight months, Ant took her to dinner one night, and gave her an expensive pendant.

  “I want you to wear this everyday, Natalie,” he’d told her. “I love you…I really, really love you…”

  She didn’t say it back.

  Sure, she liked him a lot. There were plenty of things that made Ant so wonderful. But, she didn’t feel it. Wasn’t that obvious? Wasn’t that completely obvious that she wouldn’t be able to feel it? She only pinched the pendant between her fingers as she gazed at it.

  And as they walked out of the restaurant, he stopped her, holding her close that chilly night, his face close to hers, whispering, “Why don’t you let me in, Natalie Chandler? I’m here…I’m only here for you…”

  She nodded, attempted a smile, feeling a sense of déjà vu run its course through her mind and said, “I’m sorry…I know…I’ll try…”

  That night, he drove her home, kissed her sweetly. She stormed into her dark apartment, scurried to her bedroom and almost slammed the door behind her. She allowed her purse to slip through her fingers, and she slid down the door onto the floor. She had the audacity to cry there in the darkness. She then considered it completely unfair that while Ant poured his heart out to her, she only felt Brandon inside of her. And she missed him…she really, really missed him.

  #

  It was at ten months that she fell in love with Anthony Jones. She considered herself lucky to have found him, considered the fact that she enjoyed his eyes, enjoyed the way he danced when he listened to his music, enjoyed the way his face lit up when she presented some of her best dishes before him, enjoyed the way that he talked to her family in Decatur after church. He’d helped her mama take out the trash, had helped her wash the dishes, had helped her slice the eggs for the potato salad. He then retired to the back porch with her uncles to talk fishing and football.

  “I love him,” Mama said. “Marry him, Nattie. He’s a doctor, he’s good-lookin’, he’s Christian…”

  Natalie stood in the kitchen with her mama, her grandma and her two sisters. They stared through the window over the sink, watching Ant and the rest of her family.

  “Marry him? Mama, let Nattie breathe,” Maya told their mother.

  Yes, Natalie thought, let her breathe. Natalie had only newly reentered the world of being in love. Each day needed its own attention. She refused to think so far in the future.

  “I think he’s fine, isn’t he fine?” Sidney said, holding the baby as it cooed.

  “He sure is a smart little negro, isn’t he?” Granny said.

  “He’s fine…really fine,” Sidney said.

  “You already said that, Sidney,” Maya retorted.

  “Well…I’m saying it again...he’s fine.”

  “He’s Christian,” Mama said. “Christian boys are always good-looking.”

  “Not Darius,” Maya laughed. “No wonder he always sat in the back row.”

  “Or under his grandma…”

  Sidney and Maya laughed.

  “He is cute,” Granny said. “A cute little negro…too light-skinned though…he got white folks in his family? He looks like he got white in his blood.”

  “Is he mixed, Natalie?” Mama asked. “He does look a little mixed…”

  “Does it matter?” Maya asked. “He’s cute.”

  “Exactly,” Sidney said. “Like I said…”

  “Looks like your Uncle Gerald has a new fishing partner,” Granny said.

  “Or someone to run his mouth off to about Aunt Miriam,” Maya said. “I don’t know why they aren’t divorced as much as they fight…”

  “They love each other,” Granny said plainly. “If you love someone, you stick it out…”

  That night, while her family played gin rummy in the kitchen, they sat on the couch in the living room of the bungalow on Green Hill Street and watched a movie.

  “Clearwater,” he began awkwardly.

  She turned to him. “What…as in Florida?”

  He nodded. “I hear it’s really nice around this time of year.”

  “Can you afford to take the time off?”

  “I haven’t taken a vacation in years.” He never took his eyes off of the television. “And you look stressed.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve been weighing those med school options for weeks.”

  “I want to go to a good school.”

  A slight pause followed, then Ant said, “We leave next Wednesday.”

  “What? Anthony…”

  “All taken care of, sweet pea…oceanfront room at the Sheraton…dinner cruise that night…maybe a walk on the beach beforehand…”

  “Anthony…”

  “You’ll have fun…we’ll have fun…and I finally want to see what you look like in a bathing suit.”

  They traveled together on a warm day, where the sun was shining, Ant’s smooth music playing over the radio.

  He booked the suite on the top floor overlooking the sea, and she stood on the veranda for several minutes following their arrival, and watched the waves.

  “We should go walking,” Anthony Jones told her, reaching for her hand.

  They held hands on the beach, he made her laugh, and her brown toes dug deep into the sand below her and she strode carefully beside caramel-toned, pretty-smiled Anthony.

  “It’s a cheesy dinner cruise,” he laughed, the sound of the rolling shoreline around them. “Expensive, but cheesy…”

  “I don’t care…I really don’t care…let’s do it,” she told him, surprising herself when she initiated the kiss between them.

  She wore her favorite dress that night; a pretty white one with big red flowers all over it. And she wore her hair in that low, messy bun that Ant loved.

  He was behind her, holding onto her waist as they boarded the StarLite Majesty, a white yacht with tented windows and three decks, the sun setting over the horizon, the balmy smell of salt in the air. They were given an assigned table shortly after boarding on the top deck, beside the hardwood dance floor. Ant sat her down first, him second, a single votive candle between them, and the pink-smeared scope of dusk to her right, falling slowly over Tampa Bay.

  They were handed menus, soft music of the live entertainment began to play, and shortly after, they were setting sail. Natalie began to feel the sway of the ship beneath her, glancing at Ant across the table, who studied his menu silently.

  “I like the chicken,” he said randomly to her, moments later, keeping his eyes glued firmly in the menu.

  She glanced at her own menu, replying, “Yes, that looks good, darlin’…”

  “Is that what you want?” Ant asked her, placing his menu down.

  “Yes, the chicken is fine,” she smiled. “I’ll take the chicken.”

  “And wine? Do you want wine?”

  “Whatever tastes good with chicken.”

  “Pinot…Pinot Grigio, definitely.”

  “Pinot Grigio, it is, then…”

  A waiter handed Natalie a glass of the Pinot Grigio and swallowed the contents of it shortly following its arrival, hearing Anthony talk about his attendees, still feeling that sway, still gripping the empty glass between her boney fingers.

  Tenth months, she reminded herself, summoning the waiter again…yes, that’s right, pour me another glass, don’t be selfish…

  She glanced out towards the bay, saw the falling sun hide beneath the horizon, felt the breeze cool her warm brown skin, wondered how, in the scope of her twenty-one years of life, that she’d ever get to a moment like this, that Anthony Jones, as fine and as brilliant and as talkative as he was, would find her one day. It was hard to believe that one year later, she’d allow herself to realize, somewhat at least, his slight significance, that yes, maybe (just maybe) she loved him too, finally…

  She reached for his hand acr
oss the table as darkness fell, as his brown skin glowed under the warm light of the candle. Yes, she would work with this, wouldn’t she? She would allow him to love her. And she would allow herself to love him too. She would find some undiscovered nook in her soul that could reach out to him.

  Yes, she had to.

  He smiled. “Ten months, Natalie Chandler…”

  “Ten months, Anthony Jones,” she replied with a smile.

  “You look amazing….”

  “Likewise…”

  “I love you,” he told her, squeezing her hand.

  “And I love you too…” she responded.

  “Aren’t you glad that you came to Clearwater?”

  “So far,” she said with a sigh. “We have three more days to go…have any more surprises up your sleeve?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Yes, I would…I’ve come to hate surprises…”

  That didn’t stop Anthony from pulling her out of her chair as soon as the band started, following a long line of the elderly that had already started heading in that direction.

  “Come on, sweet pea,” he said, smiling majestically. “Don’t be so shy…get up here and dance with your man…”

  It was then that she wished she’d finished that second glass a wine, so a third could have been brought out to her, so she wouldn’t have to suffer through the embarrassment of dancing in front of all these people. She didn’t think that her stomach would take it.

  But, she had to remind herself of her mission to love him, to appreciate him, to do whatever made him happy. And, if dancing made him happy, then she’d dance with her boyfriend.

  He pulled her close, smiling, her hair a product of a gale behind her, her dress following.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispered close to her face, his breath warm, her insides churning. “Did I tell you that?”