Madam, May I

by Niobia Bryant

  Desdemona eyed her. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” she said.

  Melissa turned her lips downward and shrugged. “I miss my assistant more than my husband. That slut was really organized,” she said before chuckling.

  “You missed your mark with comedy,” she said, sitting back as the bartender set the plate of oysters on the half shell before her.

  “I laugh to keep from crying.” Melissa eyed the plate of meatballs topped with slices of crusty bread that was set before her as well.

  Desdemona squeezed lemon and dashed hot sauce across the oysters. “Whatever it takes,” she said.

  “I agree.”

  They fell silent as they enjoyed their food.

  She wondered what this stylish and smart ad executive, who probably had a degree from Wharton or the like, would think about having dinner and cocktails with a high-school dropout, former prostitute, and high-end madam.

  “Good sex?”

  “Huh?” Desdemona asked.

  “The younger guy. Was the sex good?’ Melissa asked.

  She had a heated memory of him gripping her hair as he stroked her from behind until she was clutching wildly at the sheets, sweating like a fiend, heart racing, and crying out with her explosive release.

  “Whose pussy?” he had asked.

  “Yours,” she had moaned before capturing the sheets between her teeth.

  Desdemona pressed her thighs together as the bud nestled between the lips of her intimacy throbbed to life. “Great sex,” she said.

  I taught him well.

  “Give the kid a chance,” Melissa said, swiping at a crumb of bread from the corner of her glossy lips. “If the worst he has going for him is he’s younger than you, then enjoy the ride until the wheels fall off.”

  “It’d be easier if I didn’t love him,” Desdemona said, surprised that she admitted that to this woman who was just a little more than a stranger to her.

  “Ohhhh,” Melissa said, drawing it out in understanding.

  Desdemona took a sip of her drink.

  “Well, you gave up yours and somebody took mine, but we found each other across the hall,” Melissa said. “So, here’s to friendship.”

  Desdemona smiled, raising her glass to hers. “To friendship,” she agreed, liking the sound and feel of that.

  * * *

  Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

  Over the rim of her reading glasses, Desdemona eyed her phones where they were charging. She was taking a timed practice test ahead of her actual GED test the next morning, but couldn’t bring herself to turn off her phone. She regretted that.

  For once she just wanted to put herself and her needs first. And she needed to study because she needed to get her GED. Attending college was her next goal.

  But old patterns were hard to break.

  Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

  To hell with new sessions being booked. That she could overlook. But what if someone was in trouble? Safety was her obligation to those women and the few men who worked for her.

  “Shit,” Desdemona swore, closing out of the test and removing her spectacles as she rose and crossed the living room to pick up the phone. Number three. She wished Denzin had been available to be her safety net that night as well.

  She set the phone back down but remained standing there as it continued to sound off.

  Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

  The testing would take nearly all day, and in preparation for it, Denzin was handling any emergencies that arose, but she wasn’t taking on any new sessions and overwhelming him.

  But Francis McAdams and the sadness of his wife’s condition tugged at her heartstrings. She was so tempted to answer him, but she was intent on setting boundaries. She had to put herself first sometimes.

  Cha-ching—.

  She felt heady from the relief she felt when the ringtone ended.

  Releasing a breath, she turned and made her way back to the table. Should I start over or just do some workbook?

  She picked up the can of peach-flavored Perrier she was sipping through a straw.

  Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

  Her shoulders drooped, and she felt like a noose was around her neck pulling her back to the phone. The steps across the room felt weighted. The obligation was tiresome.

  “Hello there,” she said, forcing kindness into her tone as she crossed her arm over her chest in the oversize Versace tee she wore as a dress.

  “My Kimber left me.”

  His wife had passed. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said, knowing his struggle with his wife of more than forty years slipping into a coma after a burst aneurysm nearly two years ago.

  “She’s at peace, but I’m not,” he said.

  “Well, Red is no longer with me, but I have someone else in mind,” she said. “I’m just not scheduling any appointments until the weekends now, and I’m booked until next Friday.”

  “A whole week?”

  “Yes,” she said, feeling it dragged from her like someone breaking up two people fighting to the death.

  “Mademoiselle,” he began.

  She shook her head. “There’s nothing I can do, Francis,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  He began to weep.

  Desdemona tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and held up her hands in exasperation—at herself, not him. Guilt and her inane desire to come to people’s rescue led to that boundary she set evaporating. “For when, Francis?” she asked.

  “Tonight.”

  Well, damn.

  “Let me see what I can get set up for you.”

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle.”

  Pushover.

  She ran through the list in her head of all the courtesans booked for the night—be it work or requested personal time—but paused. She really didn’t feel like it, and she was beginning to feel more and more like that every day.

  Push through, Pushover.

  It took less than five minutes to line up a four-hour session with the Swedish twins. The notification for his dress order came through. Patrice would ship it Monday. The twins would collect the cash once they met at a luxury boutique hotel in Midtown known for its discretion.

  Double his fun. Half the grief. For four hours, anyway.

  “Now,” Desdemona said, clapping her hand. “Back to me.”

  For hours she studied and then completed the practice test in good time with a solid score. It wasn’t until then that she stripped off her clothing as she made her way to her bedroom and went to bed—not bothering with a bath or the à la carte dinner of Ossetra and Kaluga caviar on warm brioche followed by a dry-aged rib eye with caramelized garlic and a side of swiss chard.

  She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. Not even dreams of Loren proclaiming his love for her before they ran away together could stop her from jumping up as soon as her alarm sounded at six o’ clock.

  Her one and only focus was her test.

  It’s time to right a wrong.

  She felt like it was the first day of school. Nervous and excited. Childlike.

  Once dressed and in the back of her Lyft Black, Desdemona stroked her tattoo, played with her diamond butterfly bracelet, and played with the necklace and charm that Loren had given her, which she wore for good luck.

  “I am such a cornball,” she said.

  “What’s that?” the driver, Yusef, asked.

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself,” she said. “I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

  “As long as you don’t answer yourself you’ll be okay,” he said.

  “That’s good to know,” Desdemona said before falling silent.

  As the vehicle turned onto West 125th Street, Desdemona clearly recalled how much she used to love going to school and learning. Even when she ran away and was homeless, she had made her way to school. And even after Majig had her working the streets at night, she went to school during the day until her humiliation sent her running from her education
for good.

  Until now.

  “Thank you,” Desdemona said to the driver as he pulled to a stop in front of the towering building in which the SUNY Manhattan Educational Opportunity Center was housed.

  She climbed from the vehicle and squared her shoulders before crossing the sidewalk to reach its front doors, thinking that for the first time in nearly twenty years her parents were finally proud of her.

  * * *

  Desdemona turned her head this way and that as she studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. Everything about the night was extra, including her appearance. Full-on makeup beat with smoky eyes and pale glossy lips. She wore all of her diamond jewelry, including necklaces of varying lengths and thickness. The jewel-neckline dress she wore had a full, dramatic skirt with the layers barely concealing the black thong she wore beneath it. The northeastern April air was still chilly at night, and she loved the short fur she wore that looked like a fur ball. Her purse, which she treated herself to today once she finished the seven-hour testing, was a Judith Leiber Couture Collection in the 3-D shape of a butterfly with gold, white, and black crystals.

  Desdemona felt as good about the test as she did her look.

  Time to celebrate.

  She double-checked her glitzy purse as she walked down the hall and eventually left her apartment. Melissa was about to walk into her apartment with Frenchie in her arms at the same time. Her eyes widened at the sight of her, and Desdemona did a turn this way and that before wiggling her shoulders playfully. “You like?” she asked.

  “Yes!” Melissa said, clapping her hands as best she could with her French bulldog in her arms. “Where are you headed?”

  “To the Met,” she said, after a pause during which she considered inviting her but decided against it. “I have a love for Chopin, and there’s an opera based on his music.”

  “I’m not an opera type of girl, but you look amazing,” she said as they began walking down the hall together.

  “It’s my first time going, so I’ll see if I love it or fall asleep,” Desdemona admitted. “I better get going. I called a Lyft to avoid the parking.”

  “Stop by when you get back and we’ll have wine while you fill me in on your night of glamour and classical music and I’ll regale you with my poop-filled adventures in dog walking.”

  Desdemona laughed. “I definitely will,” she promised before picking up the hem of her dress and rushing down the hall on her Louboutin heels at the sound of the elevator’s arrival on the floor.

  She joined an elderly gentleman in a beautiful linen suit with a paisley ascot. “Good evening,” she said, inclining her head.

  “Same to you,” he said, tapping his cane on the floor.

  She recognized him as her neighbor but had no clue as to his name.

  “I overheard you’re headed to the Met,” he said.

  Desdemona nodded. “Yes. I’m celebrating, and I honestly couldn’t think of any other place I’d rather be tonight,” she said.

  “Enjoy and congratulations,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  And later, when she sat in her parterre alone, having purchased all five of the seats in the pseudo-private box, she was very clear and proud of her personal growth. To think of fifteen-year-old Desdemona—Desi to her parents—struggling to live on the streets and fight off both hunger and danger now a woman sitting in the Metropolitan Opera about to watch a performance made her proud.

  I been through it and today was huge for me. Huge. And now I sit here, feeling beautiful, feeling a little bit more whole, doing something I want, alone and okay with that.

  “Hello.”

  Desdemona looked to her right to find a tall, slender, brown-skinned man with salt-and-pepper hair and goatee. “How you doing?” she asked, seeing several of the people in the parterre with him looking at them with open curiosity. “Hello, everyone.”

  He chuckled and moved from his plush velvety maroon seat to the one next to the low-slung partition. He cleared his throat and crossed his legs, adjusting the hem of his tailored suit pants. He motioned with her head for her to move closer to the partition as well.

  He was mid-forties and fine. And rich. She could tell. The cut of the suit. The subtle jewelry and Piaget watch.

  She eyed the closed curtains as she set her purse on the seat to her left and shifted over to the seat on her right next to the divider. The scent of his cologne reached her. Nice. Warm. Subtle.

  But not Loren.

  “How can I help you?” she asked, crossing her legs as well.

  “Trevor King,” he said, extending his hand.

  Desdemona shook it with her own. She wanted so badly to present her real name. Step into her own identity once and for all. “Alisha Smith,” she offered instead, feeling a little of her black girl joy dim.

  “This is a work function for me, but I would like to exchange info and take you to dinner,” he said, speaking only for her ears.

  Fresh breath. A plus.

  Her hand was still in his and it felt warm, not offensive. But not Loren.

  This same touch from him would have me palpitating, light-headed, and weak. Our chemistry was dizzying, and my love was lasting.

  She eyed this grown man, already established in the world, and wondered if he was the next to help her get over her ex-lover. Maybe he is just what I need.

  “Your card, please,” she said, loving how refined she sounded.

  He reached in his inner pocket and removed one from a gold metal container to hand to her between his index and middle finger.

  “Okay. Smooth,” she said teasingly as she took it from him. “I’ll be honest—”

  The lights dimmed.

  They both looked to the stage.

  “I’m not sure if I’m looking for anything—even a date—but if I change my mind I will definitely call you, Mr. King,” she said. “Cool?”

  The conductor took his spot before the orchestra.

  The audience welcomed him with applause.

  “Cool,” Trevor said with a warm smile.

  She moved back over to her seat in the center of the parterre and dropped his card inside the leather interior of the bejeweled butterfly as she focused her intention on the music of Chopin now swelling in the air around her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wednesday, May 15, 2019

  I’m done. Madam, may I . . . live my life?

  “Does this make me a stalker?” Desdemona asked as she sat down on her sofa and handed Melissa a glass of her favorite wine.

  Melissa tilted her head to the side. “Eh. A little,” she admitted with a shrug. “But I’m here with you. Your Samoan sister in stalking.”

  “Oh. Samoan. Like the Rock. I’ve been wondering,” Desdemona admitted as she made the live stream play on her laptop in full screen.

  Melissa frowned. “I should go to work and leave you stalking your ex alone.”

  “He’s not my ex.”

  “Your sex then,” she countered.

  Desdemona remained quiet, but she was amused. That was commonplace in her friendship with the woman. She was brilliant and pretty and nice but above all funny with quick wit. She had no regrets welcoming the petite woman with the big sense of humor into her life.

  And what will Trevor think of this?’ she asked.

  “Considering we’re only dating, he should think nothing of it,” Desdemona said. “Ssssh. They’re calling them up for the hooding.”

  Loren had successfully completed his doctorate in creative writing, and the university was livestreaming the convocation.

  “How do you know about all of this?”

  She side-eyed the other woman. “He posted about his graduation on Instagram and I looked up the info on the university’s website. I intended to go, but there were no tickets available.”

  “That good, huh?” Melissa asked.

  Desdemona arched a brow and nodded.

  “Celibacy sucks,” she muttered into her glass.

  “S
ix months? That’s a cakewalk. Try five years,” Desdemona stressed.

  “Five?” she repeated. “Maybe he’s not that good and you were just that horny.”

  “Perhaps,” Desdemona agreed, taking a sip of wine as she eyed Francis McAdams standing on stage next to the podium in his black robe and cap as the president of the university. He appeared happy. She was glad to see that. His night with the twins had been his last. They reported back how his grief that night had prevented much of anything from happening.

  “We will now recognize candidates who have officially met the requirements for a doctorate in the creative writing program.”

  They both fell silent and settled back against the sofa as each candidate was called up onto the stage of the Theatre at Madison Square Garden with the seated professors and deans, all dressed in their academic regalia of caps and gowns with their hood color or trim signaling their degree or discipline.

  One by one each candidate walked across the stage, shook the hand of the university’s president, and then stopped before the dean of their school to be hooded and pose for a picture.

  “We’ve been watching this for over an hour,” Desdemona said, touching her fingers to her lips. “Do you see how few doctoral candidates of color there are across all disciplines?”

  “PhDs so white . . . and Asian.”

  Desdemona offered her a weak smile. “No, seriously, I am so proud of him,” she whispered. “I really am.”

  Several more candidates crossed the stage.

  “Loren Marc Palmer. Creative Writing. Supervisor, Gregor Polk.”

  Desdemona’s heart set off at the pace of a racing greyhound as Loren stepped onto the right of the screen, handed his hood to Francis, who opened it and handed it to the dean to place around Loren’s neck before he turned and posed for a photo.

  Melissa leaned forward to pause the live stream capturing Loren as he smiled.

  “Okay, maybe it was him,” she drawled.

  “Perhaps,” Desdemona said softly.