by Love Belvin
As my eyes involuntarily honed in on the zapping flames, I nodded.
“It’s beautiful.” That came out more like a whisper in my languid state. “Bet you brought all the girls out here to impress them with your fire-making skills.”
“Nah,” he exhaled, eyes fixated on the growing fire as well. “I learned very early that females like the dude that doesn’t chase them.”
That snapped my eyes away from the intense blaze. “What?” I couldn’t help my amusement.
“Yeah,” he returned subdued. “Whenever I wanted a girl and knew I had a chance, I’d invite her over, take her into the family room and turn on old shows like Matlock, Murder She Wrote, or Quantum Leap.”
“Why?”
“Because they would hold my attention, giving the time needed to ignore the girl.”
“And what, oh genius, would that accomplish?”
“A lot by the end of the episode.”
My neck snapped. “Like what?”
“Depending on how freaky she was. Sometimes she’d be naked, some would have my pants down, and others would be on my lap, dry humping by the time the credits rolled.” I could see Jackson’s one-cheeked smile as he studied the fire.
“I don’t know if I can take you seriously!” I trilled as I fought to disguise my chortle. “Are you serious?”
He glanced over to me. “Doesn’t matter. It got you to laugh.”
That furthered my bemusement and increased my curiosity. Why do I care? I didn’t know, but I was intrigued. I was growing uncharacteristically loquacious each moment in Jackson’s presence.
“So, you liked Matlock and Murder She Wrote?” I asked to the side of his face from across the sofa.
“Those were some of my favorite shows coming up.”
“Mine, too. I’m surprised they were still airing when you were a kid.”
“Everything’s on cable nowadays.” He shrugged.
“I remember, one day of the week, flipping between those two to Martin. That was when television was its best to me.”
“Martin and In Living Color.”
“Yes!” I yelped. “You know In Living Color?”
Jackson smiled fondly. “My dad was good friends with Keenan. We hung out with the Wayans’ a lot when I was a baby. I didn’t appreciate their show until it was out of production. It was weird distinguishing their personalities from the characters they acted out on camera. Good times in African American culture.” He nodded, caught up in memory. “And you can’t forget the Arsenio Hall Show. That was unprecedented at the time.”
“Hugely successful!” I concurred with a big grin, caught up in the nostalgia of black American culture.
“Was your dad friends with Arsenio, too?”
“Hollywood is small and black Hollywood is miniscule. If you’re in the industry long enough, you know everybody. My dad was good at networking and riling up the crowds. And from as far back as my memory will allow, I was right by his side as he mingled; professionally and otherwise.”
That was delivered in somber.
“Mystery. That’s another thing we have in common,” he murmured.
And I knew the “other” thing was our promiscuity, a topic I didn’t want to rehash. Not here. Not in this serene moment of peace and undiminished discovery.
“Classic shows and genius creativity transcends time. It sets its own rules. That’s where I’m trying place Dynamic Branding. I want to put us into a space where we set our own rules, we set our own trends…we set precedence all over.” Things grew quiet, telling of our comfort level with silence. “Funny how we both like mystery when that’s exactly what I consider you to be.”
“Touché.” I found my head nodded in agreement. “And that’s what I consider you,” was delivered in almost a whisper.
More silence. More amenable empty space between our discoveries. This experience agreed with my relaxed state. It was painless. Exchanging without the pressure of reciprocity with Jackson was quite pleasant. I sighed, sitting back, relaxing into the padded patio furniture. I wasn’t even bothered by the autumn morning chill. It was…nice.
“So, how long were you married,” snaked around and grabbed me at the neck, closing off my jugular.
“When did I tell you I was married?”
““Fairy Tales” at Q’s Karaoke Joint. Too much conviction to not have lived the lyrics.”
“Almost four years,” spilled out with so much ease, it scared the shit out of me.
“Was it that bad?” His eyes still stapled to the most eventful object; the fire.
“It just wasn’t meant to be. Something I’m certain I’ll never do again. Marriage isn’t for everyone. I’m not even sure it’s for most anymore.”
“Yeah, I’ve been told,” he screeched over a stretch, his arms extended over his head.
“By your father?”
“Not necessarily through words, but certainly through actions.”
“Were you close to him?”
“Close?” he scoffed. “That’s an understatement. Under normal circumstances, every son says their dad is their best friend. Well, I was my dad’s best friend whether I liked it or not.”
“So, was it a bad thing?”
“It’s not good or bad, per se. But the older I get, the more I realize it’s not appropriate to make your child your peer. My dad did a lot of that. He taught me how to be a man before I was ready and that was a gift and a curse.”
“Do you miss him?”
“I’m getting better with it, but for years I struggled. I felt lost. I felt empty. I felt without any purpose. Everything I did was with him. Every dream I had it was for him.”
“Sounds like it still is.” Jackson faced the chimney as he shared, but my eyes were glued to him, intrigued by his story.
Everyone has a story.
“When you have a good father, you want to carry out his legacy. It so happens that his legacy is all I know, because he was all I knew. The way he raised me ensured that. I don’t mind. It’s nothing that stifles me or causes me to feel obligation. It actually distracts me from the grieving.”—his arm circled in the air—“All the people…all the celebrities in the business…that’s what I know. That’s my life. I don’t mind. It took me a while to get back on track of fulfilling his dreams, but I’m back.”
“When did he cross over?”
Jackson’s head swung over to me, but just momentarily before he snorted. “September 18th, 2012, just after three in the afternoon.”
That made me consider my own losses and how I handled them. It made me feel sick to conclude, I’d made some of the best decisions—delayed decisions—since then.
“What did you do after?”
“Went to grad school, traveled in between. I did the one thing I knew he’d be most proud of, but not really taking in the moments, just going through the motions. I partied a lot. Took lots of risks, trying to re-identify myself. Rebrand me.”
“Can’t imagine your mother helping you through the loss.” I knew that was wholly inappropriate when it slipped off my lips, but I also knew I wasn’t wrong.
Valerie was a bitch to Jackson. Thinking about her in that quick instance made me wonder where she was. I had fantasies of knocking her on her ass with words of her evilness toward her own son.
“Nah.” I could see the wry smirk from the side of his toffee face. “I know you don’t have the best impression of her. Her vehemence comes from a place. She’s not without cause.”
Jackson pivots in his seat, finally moving to face me.
“Really?” It was my turn to scoff.
She’s horrible!
“She gives to me what she can no longer give to my father for the shit he put her through. I know it’s hard to look at me, someone who looks just like him—minus the gray hairs—and not feel some level of resentment.”
“No mother is supposed to do that.” My tone was adamant.
“Again. I’ve aged over the years, I understand. Quincy Hunter wasn’t
the most loyal partner.”
That observation, even by his son, had nothing to do with the lack of respect Valerie Hunter treated her son with. And the look on his face when she spewed her animosity toward him. It wasn’t fair. There was no way I couldn’t feel the need to challenge her and to…despise her. Scorned or not, all children deserved to be protected. This was something I’d come to realize over the years with a level head.
“Is that why you entertain her desire of you and Stephanie being an item?”
“Among others,” Jackson gazed off into the distance.
“And what would your dad say about your mom’s choice for you?”
“Funny…” he snorted. “My dad wanted me to marry a woman who is fiery, full of sass and sexually…open.” I caught the undertone.
“Someone with an open mind…lifestyle? Someone like Ashley?” I probed.
“Yeah,” Jackson chuckled at the idea. “Someone I wouldn’t be bored with and who wouldn’t take my need to roam personally.”
Whoa!
“Stephanie doesn’t seem to fit that bill.” I was able to discern that in the short encounter over dinner. “Stephanie seems wholesome.”
“Steph’s a good girl, but we all have our demons.” His eyes arrived on my face, communicating something more.
I tried rebounding from it. “Magreen seems to be down with the arranged marriage for her daughter.” Stephanie’s mother was on board with Valerie.
“Magreen just wants a grandbaby before she dies. She’s had emphysema for a few years now with no signs of improvement.”
“And what does Stephanie want?”
“She wants her mother to be happy and live out the rest of her days stress-free, even if that means being paired with a man who isn’t ready to settle down.”
So, she’s waiting on Jackson? She’s okay with Jackson sleeping with other women? Sleeping with me? I had so many questions firing in my brain from that disclosure. My insomniac delirium was about to have me release it, but someone disrupted my direction.
“Beanie,” I heard from the left of me. How I didn’t make out the approach was beyond me. “I see we’ve had overnight guests.”
It was Helen, the housekeeper. She was dressed in a blue peasant dress and holding a coffee mug.
“Yeah, I guess we do.” Jackson’s thick chords droned.
“Should I prepare breakfast?” Her eyes were kind and she even hinted over a smile of jubilation.
“That would be nice if you’re up to it,” Jackson returned.
“Should I take orders?”
“Nah,” he dismissed vehemently. “Just make a buffet spread and what’s left over, I’ll take to the shelter on my way to the city.”
“Sounds good. I’ll get to it.” Helen nodded softly before taking herself into the house.
“Beanie?” I teased.
He chuckled lightly. “More ammunition for your pubertal jokes. That name is reserved for that woman. It’s just too late or early for me to correct her for letting it slip in front of company.”
I went for my phone for the time.
“Shit, Jackson, we’ve been at it all night,” I trilled. “I need to find my way home.” I’d come up with Marie who so happened to be in the city when we got the mandate to meet at Jackson’s. I knew she lived on the Island, too, and probably wouldn’t be able to give me a lift home.
“Chill,” his throaty chords poured as his arm extended and hand raised behind him, to me. “You’re about to miss my Dad’s response to me.” He pointed ahead, toward the illuminating sky before us.
And then I saw it. The sun was dawning. Its beautiful glowing embers coming in to full view. The routine phenomenon bringing total respite of my former headache and awkward peace to my wrestled spirit. It was a new day. The darkness was coming to an end. There was more life ahead. Light to look forward to. Demons to bury with the light. There was another day to fight. To forget. To hope.
“I see it. I hear him loud and clear,” I whispered in complete awe.
I’d always appreciated the night ending: it took with it all of the nightmares that haunted me. But watching it came with a new level of appreciation. It was a new day. And a new experience. My time alone out there with Jackson wasn’t filled with lust or lewd acts. It was met with shared blemishes and mutual discoveries.
We stayed out there for countless minutes, observing the sun rise. It wasn’t until he took me by the hand, prompting me to return to the house that I realized our time was up. We had to slip on our masks and return to our reality. We had to fight another day. A sharp reminder of that was when Jackson let go of my hand just before we crossed the threshold of the doors of the kitchen. Our moment was over.
Right away, I saw Brad skulking into the kitchen, yawning and stretching with each advancement. Bridgette was on his heels, on the phone, presumably with her fiancé explaining her overnight stay. Marie and Jamie weren’t in sight. I figured they were either still sleeping or in the bathroom where I needed to be. Jackson invited me to scoot into the booth before him, but I declined and gestured my need to go to the bathroom. I also needed to get away from him, feeling slighted by his hand-dropping moments ago.
He’s a kid, Elle!
“So, no angles now that we’ve all slept on it?” Brad asked dryly as Marie ambled lifelessly into the kitchen.
She threw him the look of death.
“Good question,” Jackson followed up. “All of these forward thinkers on my payroll and nothing?”
As I sauntered toward the doorway, on my way to the powder room, I mumbled, “Contact that cousin Todd got the tat with. Also, reach out to the artist who did it. If we can prove his cousin has an identical ink in the same spot, we have an opportunity to deny it was Todd.”
By the time I reached the archway of the kitchen, I realized the room grew quiet. I turned and noticed everyone struck in thought.
“Looks like no breakfast for you, Marie, until you’ve reached out to Todd for his cousin and tattoo artist’s contact information. And I don’t give a damn if he’s still in the dark alleys of Missouri, he needs to be located within the hour.” Jackson commanded, shoulders broadened, chin to the floor.
Doesn’t look like a kid now.
“Yes, Ma, I understand.” He gritted out, neck muscles protruded to the point of popping. “I remember”—he implemented the sacrificial cross over his chest—“Yes, Ma.” His face was red, he looked about to explode. “Yeah, I gotta go. I have someone waiting on me, Ma.” He nodded. “Yes, a woman. No. No one else.” His long lashes met in exasperation. “I’m taking her out to a party.” His necked swayed. “No one you’ve met, Ma. Listen, I’m being rude. I have to go.” His big shoulders collapsed. “Yes. Please kiss Dad for me. I’ll call you soon.” I could still hear a deep tenor, surprisingly a woman rasping from the other end of the car when he sharply breathed, “Yes. Good night, Ma,” and harshly tapped the phone to end the call.
Michael pushed out violent breaths, his forehead misting beneath his jet black mane.
“Shit!” he charged to the air, jerking his head forward.
“Weekly call?”
He nodded while breathing audibly through his nostrils.
“They’re laborious,” I mumbled while looking ahead, adjusting my dress in the seat.
“You seem to have some experience.”
“Haven’t you noticed I don’t have any friends or family around?” I snorted. “I have to make the weekly calls to compensate.”
Things went quiet for a while. I could tell Michael was still reeling from the conversation with his mother. I thought it was odd that he took the call in the first place, knowing what was at the other end.
“You respect her. Reverence her highly,” I tossed in the air, idly gazing out of the window.
“You only get one mother, no matter how much she doesn’t understand you. God only sends you through one set of vaginal lips, you know?”
That was the Michael I knew: crass and sexual.
“She knows you’re bisexual?” He mentioned her not understanding him.
Michael flinched. “Damn, Elle. I prefer the term sexually unlimited. Your reference sounds like a label.”
“Bi—meaning two—sexual—meaning preference. Sounds more like a definition of an orientation to me.” He didn’t come back. Michael just grimaced out of the window, not necessarily taking in the energy of the city.
His neck and cheeks were heated to a shade of red, jaw flexing. I didn’t push, didn’t want to offend Michael, especially when he was doing me a solid by escorting me tonight. Soft jazz whizzed quietly in the car. My phone sounded. I pulled it from my clutch and saw it was Anthony, the attorney. Tapping the red circle on the face, I sent him to voicemail. I hadn’t spoken to him in a week and hadn’t seen him since our coffee date. I didn’t want to spend too much time talking to or dating Anthony. I preferred not giving the impression of a budding relationship or friendship. I had no time for misconstrued intentions, neither did I want to date. My job was wonderfully demanding and that would only increase.
“I haven’t told her outright, but she knows,” Michael murmured, snatching my attention from my rumination. I glanced up and saw him chewing on his thumb. “She’s always known, and probably before I did.”
My forehead wrinkled. “How so?”
“She caught me fucking at least three girls before I was sixteen, and going down on a man on my 18th birthday.”
It was my turn to recoil. “Damn, Michael!”
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Welcome to the life and times of Michael Rosco.” He went back to gazing out of the window. “I could never tell her you’re black…even though”—he turned to me—“you don’t exactly look black, Elle. You look mixed.” His gazed faltered and Michael returned to sulking.
That comment stung. It brought back to mind my struggles growing up as a kid, being teased about my high yellow complexion and fine hair. My skin wasn’t as richly pigmented as my friends, neither was my hair as tightly coiled or as dark. I’d always felt different and out of place, never sharing a feature like my mother’s husband and step-kids. I wasn’t exactly my mother’s twin either, her beauty was unparalleled. I fought hard to fit in, to keep from sticking out—at least for the reasons of my skin tone and hair texture.
