The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue: A Novel

by Barbara O'Neal

  “Something good?”

  “How big your breasts got when you nursed the kids.”

  I laugh. “That was great. So much power. I loved it.”

  “It was pretty sexy, all right. But then I always missed the regular ones and was glad.”

  A ripple goes over my back, and it feels so sensitive that a brush of his hand could give me an orgasm. A single, tiny brush. I try not to look at the length of his thighs, the darkness of his throat. My voice sounds a little husky when I say, “You never told me that.”

  The phone rings and Rick scowls, doesn’t move.

  “Better answer it,” I say. “It might be the kids.”

  “Right.” He punches the button, and growls, “Hello?”

  The glitter lights up his eyes as he listens, making his eyes look like a lake on a sunny day. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll get her home after a while.”

  I start to laugh. “Those schemers.”

  He hangs up, purses his lips. “You know, you didn’t get me a Christmas present.”

  I take a sip of beer. “That’s true.”

  “Open to suggestions?”

  I lean back. “What’d you have in mind?”

  He stands up and walks around the coffee table, kneels down in front of me, and takes my beer out of my hand. He tugs me forward, and I’m already breathing hard, I want him so badly. My hands are even shaking as they circle his shoulders, and we look at each other, close, like new lovers anticipating a first kiss.

  His hands go through my hair, touch my scalp, my ears. I touch his mustache. His mouth.

  He says, “Jesus,” and then we’re kissing for the first time in five months. It feels like a miracle, like rain and sun, like morning. His hands are on the back of my head, and it’s a fierce, hungry kind of kiss, deep and long, and I put my hands on his face, kissing him back, touching those lean cheeks and the edge of his goatee.

  Then I bury my face in his neck, that place where he smells most like himself. I inhale it deeply into my body, letting the fragrance permeate every part of me. His hands are roaming over my back, then tentatively sliding around, edging toward my front. I pull back a little, meet his eyes, take his hands, and put them on my skimpy breasts.

  “Oh, God, Trudy. God.” He kisses me again, wildly, and I’m tugging his shirt out of his slacks.

  His voice is raw when he lifts his head. “Is that a yes?”

  I stand up and take his hand, turning to go into his bedroom, where I’ve never been. It’s dark in there, and cold, and very spare, but it doesn’t matter. I take my shirt off and let it fall on the floor, and I’m reaching back for the clasp of my bra, but he’s there with his big hands. “Let me.”

  He bends his head and kisses the hollow of my throat, oh, so gently, and it makes me want to cry. His hands lift my breasts and his fingers know exactly what I like, the gentle circles, the slow glide. His chest feels hot against me when we lie down on the bed.

  And what it feels like is that light is entering us as we make love, that it’s filling all my cells and his, that it’s healing the ripped and broken places. I tell myself that this is common, divorcing couples who have sex with each other. It happens all the time.

  But do they feel this way? The way I feel right now, touching him, my husband, the only one I ever really wanted from the first time he kissed me?

  Do those women want to weep with the bone-deep honor of their husband kissing their throat like he means it? Do they breathe him in, touch every inch they can reach, and caress his back like it’s a sacred object?

  Does it feel holy when he kisses their chin slowly, their eyes, their lips?

  Traitorous tears leak out of my eyes as his hands cover my body, leaving no inch of it untouched. I weep as I worship his body, too. Weep as we make love, as we join together one more time. I think he’s weeping, too. I feel a splash on my wet cheek, taste salt on his lips. We kiss and move, as we have a thousand times before, and I know the tiniest signals, the sound of his breath, the smell of his skin. I have missed him every single second of this separation and this is as close to heaven as I can be. Back in his arms, loving him.

  It isn’t until we are spent, collapsed against each other, that I see the print on his wall. It’s a Waterhouse, a lady and a knight. He’s kneeling in front of her, and the lady’s hair is long and wavy and red, and I know that he loves this print because he thinks the woman looks like me. I close my eyes and hold him close, not saying a word.

  Lying there, I know there is a difference between me and Lucille. I do have a sense of adventure and passion for new things and new places, but Rick Marino taught me that I am also a woman of deep and abiding passion. I have been so shaken these past months because I had no idea I loved him like this. That I even had the capacity.

  But I cannot speak any of that aloud, not now. Maybe not ever. What I do instead is turn and give him a coy smile. “Well,” I say. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

  A shadow crosses his eyes, but then he’s purring a little, pulling me closer. “You, either.”

  In the other room, the phone rings, and I feel Rick tense next to me. He doesn’t move to answer it.

  “What if it’s the kids?” I ask.

  “It isn’t.” He says it with great certainty, and starts to kiss me again. The ringing stops. Then it starts again. Stops. Starts again. His face goes hard. “Sorry, Trudy.”

  I blink at him guilelessly. “Woman trouble?”

  “You have no idea.” There is great weariness in his words, and as he starts kissing me again, I laugh.

  The phone starts to ring again, and I laugh a little more.

  He pulls up and looks at me. “What’s so funny?”

  I tuck my tongue over my teeth. “Not a thing.”

  When the phone stops this time, he says, “Just a minute,” goes to get the phone, and turns it off.

  Then he comes back, throws the covers over us, and we make love a second time. He takes me home an hour later at my insistence, and I’m glad to find the children are both gone somewhere. I go upstairs and climb into my own bed with the scent of Rick Marino all over me. In the night, I waken and remember and lift my hands to my nose and smell him there, and I fall asleep again with a softness in me that’s been missing for a long time.

  FOXY BOXING ERA

  In 1989, these women would set the trend in boxing in skimpy bikinis. Bikini-clad female boxers punched and pounded their way in clubs like the Coconut Club in Southampton. They called themselves the “Foxy Fighting Knockouts.” The weekly two-hour shows had created a not too favorable response with the community. Apparently before foxy boxing took hold in Hampton, it had been a rage for a long time in other Long Island and New York area nightspots.

  37

  JADE

  Christmas is a strain. All the cooking falls to me, though the relatives bring potluck. They also bring their noise and their children and ten thousand presents, and the house is demolished. By evening, I’m sprawled out on the couch staring at the TV, every bone in my body just dead tired. There’s a kids’ Christmas show on, and I watch it with half an eye, but my brain’s buzzing and jumping, zapping. Here. There. Here. There.

  Little blips of the day show up. Grandmama lying on her bed in the dark, crying and crying. Mama finally showing up to help me get her up and moving. Then the whole swarm of Denver folks down to try to cheer up Roberta. She didn’t take any cheering. She put on her lipstick and sat there pretending to be happy.

  Mama hugged me on the way out. “Baby, I’m so glad you can be here for her. She needs somebody real bad.”

  “I’m worried about her, Mama. She won’t get up some days at all. Just wants to lie there. Or she’s putting all her stuff in boxes to give away. It’s creepy.”

  She rubbed my arm. “Day by day. Keep getting her up, whatever you have to do.”

  “I think she needs drugs, Mama. Antidepressants to get her through.”

  Mama took a breath. “Sit down a minute with me, baby.
” She led me over to the couch and took my hand. “I hear what you’re saying, that you’re worried that she’s going to fade away, but it hasn’t been but a couple of months. Pretty quick here, she’ll start having good days once in a while.”

  “What if she doesn’t?”

  “Let’s give her another month, and then we’ll see, all right?” She brushed the top of my short curls, smiled a little. “She tells me you’ve been keeping company with a real nice young man. That true?”

  “He’s a very nice man,” I said, and stopped, frowning. Not sure I wanted to say any more. But that’s how I got in trouble with Dante, not talking about him to anybody. Probably because I knew what they’d say: Be careful. “It’s hard to know where I stand with him sometimes.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s my coach, my boxing coach.”

  She started to say something about the boxing, but didn’t. “All right.”

  “He’s … um … very straight. Like he’ll only see me right now at church or when we can be ‘chaperoned.’ ” I hung my fingers in the air around the word, widened my eyes. “He had a bad time when he was younger, and straightened himself out. Doesn’t drink or smoke or—”

  “Sleep around?” Mama laughed. Patted my hand. “He sounds wonderful, Jade! Just right. And your grandmama cannot say enough about his manners and how good-looking he is.”

  “Oh, you should see him.” I shook my head, thinking of his fine rear end and that twinkle in his eye. “He is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.”

  “Will I get to meet him?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s always so reserved. I mean, I hardly know what he feels. I’m probably making it all up in my head.”

  Her smile was gentle. “He sounds old-fashioned, that’s all. Is that such a bad thing?”

  “No,” I said in a near-whisper. “What’s scaring me, Mama, is that I keep thinking about babies when I’m with him. Babies and supper and all that. I don’t want to be so serious about somebody. It seems too fast after Dante.”

  “It’s not fast, Jade. You only left California a couple of months ago, that’s true, but you’d done your work of leaving him already, all through his trial and all the betrayals. I know you loved him, and I think he loved you, too, baby, but some men just don’t know how to grow up, and he’s one.”

  I lowered my eyes, trying to hide the piercing sensation that gave me. But Mama, being Mama, saw through it. “Trust your heart,” she said.

  “I’ll try.”

  She hugged me again. “Remember what I said about Grandmama. Call me if you want to talk about it any more, or if she seems worse, all right? Maybe you could take her out to get her hair done.”

  “Okay. I love you, Mama,” I said.

  Now I’m sitting with my feet sprawled out in front of me, watching a television program, wishing I had babies to put to bed, all scrubbed and clean. A baby and a toddler and a kindergartner, bathed and worn out from a long, happy Christmas. I wish they were slumped against me in sleepy contentment. I can feel the empty spot at my side where they should be by now.

  The phone rings and I leap on it, hoping for Rueben. “Hey, baby,” says the snake-smooth voice of Dante Kingman. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Dante,” I say wearily. “Do not call me ever again.” I hang up. When it rings again, I ignore it, and not with any effort. I’m not interested in his games, his player ways, his bullshit. When it rings a third time, I’m afraid it’s going to wake Roberta, and I grab it savagely. “I said never, and I meant it.”

  “Jade?”

  “Oh, Rueben!” I sit up straight. “Sorry. I thought it was my ex. He’s been calling tonight.”

  There’s humor in his rich, deep voice as he says, “Want me to go beat him up for you?”

  “Sure. Would you?”

  He chuckles. Then, “Listen, I was wondering if it might be okay if I came by for a few minutes. I worked all day, but I have a couple of small things for you and your grandma.”

  “I would love it, Rueben. You have no idea.” Then I realize that I have to tell him the truth. “My grandmama’s already sleeping, though. It’d just be me and you.”

  “Is that right.” I’m not sure if it’s wishful thinking that makes me hear the promise in his tone. “Well, I think it’ll be all right, just this once.” A pause. “To tell you the truth, Jade, I been thinking about kissing you all day. Would that be all right?”

  I close my eyes, a shiver running down my neck. “It’s very okay.”

  “All right, then. I’ll be there in just a little while.”

  My weariness evaporates, just like that. I rush into the bathroom to wash my face, put on some fresh lipstick. Change out of the sweater I’ve been wearing all day, into one that’s a little more flattering. I put some perfume behind my ears, alongside my mouth, between my breasts.

  By the time I open the door to him a few minutes later, every cell in my body is primed to touch him. They all shout, Yes! when he comes inside, carrying packages, and puts them down on the couch.

  “Come here,” he says in a growl. Without even taking off his coat, he pulls me close to his big body. I wrap my arms around his neck, and we’re kissing like lovers who’ve been parted through a war. Deep and hard. Then we’re just hugging again. “Damn,” he whispers, his hands rubbing up and down my back, “you just don’t know how bad I wanted to do that all day.”

  “Me, too, Rueben.” I could stand here like this for a hundred years, just holding him. Smelling him. Feeling the solidness of his body, his strong arms.

  But pretty soon, we’re rubbing almost helplessly against each other. Out of deference to his vow of celibacy, which even though we broke he wants to keep, I pull away a little. “Can I make you a plate? Got everything in there.”

  “Now, that sounds real good.”

  “Let me hang up your coat, and we’ll go in the kitchen.”

  He grabs the wrapped packages and follows me. I make him a plate piled high with turkey and dressing, greens and macaroni and cheese, and some of my aunt Ti-Ti’s tender rolls. “It’s a wonder any of these are left,” I say. “She’s the best cook I’ve ever known.”

  He digs into the food like he’s starving. “It’s so good, Jade,” he says after tasting a bite of everything. “I been away from good cooking for too long. You really miss it on the holidays.”

  “I bet.”

  When he’s filled up, he picks up the smaller of the two packages. “I hope it was all right to bring you something. Merry Christmas.”

  It’s jewelry-sized. He leans forward to put his elbows on his knees, tucking his lower lip under his front teeth as I open it. It’s a necklace, a fine gold chain with a charm. I laugh in delight, because the charm is a nicely cast set of boxing gloves. “Golden gloves! Rueben, it’s perfect! Thank you.” I lean over to kiss him.

  “You like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” We fall into some serious kissing, with his hand on the back of my neck, brushing and stroking, and this time he’s the one who pulls back. For a minute, he looks into my eyes with a serious expression. Touches my lips. “You are some woman, you know that?”

  “Thank you.”

  He straightens. “I’d better go. Give your grandma a kiss for me.”

  “You won’t stay for some coffee and pie? There’s pecan.”

  “Don’t think I’d better.”

  I’m going to be adult about this. “All right. How about if I send you home with a piece to eat later?”

  “That’d be really nice.”

  So that’s what I do. Put him a big slice of pie in some Tupperware, and kiss him good-bye at the door. It starts to get out of hand, or maybe it’s our hands getting out of hand. Mine on his beautiful ass, his on mine, then our hips pushing together.

  “Okay,” he says. “Good night, Jade.”

  “Thank you, Rueben. Merry Christmas.”

  And when he leaves, I lean against the door, reliving it all on
e more time. What a man.

  What. A. Man.

  SHANNELLE’S WRITING WALL

  Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking.

  JESSAMYN WEST

  38

  SHANNELLE

  TO: naomiredding@rtsv.org

  FROM: chanelpacheco@hotmail.com

  SUBJECT: money for airline ticket!!!

  I got a $350 voucher in the mail today for an airline ticket. Anonymously. I burst into tears.

  I know it had to be you, and I don’t deserve it, but I thank you anyway. Someday I hope I can repay you for the friend you’ve been to me.

  Love and kisses and many tears, Shannelle

  TO: chanelpacheco@hotmail.com

  FROM: naomiredding@rtsv.org

  SUBJECT: not me

  shannelle, i am so thrilled for you about the airline voucher, but much as i wish i could do such a thing, i’m not exactly rolling in dough. somebody loves you a lot. and you deserve it, girl. you really do. book your flight right now.

  naomi

  TO: naomiredding@rtsv.org

  FROM: chanelpacheco@hotmail.com

  SUBJECT: DISASTER!

  Dear Naomi,

  I’m sorry if this ends up sounding hysterical. I’ve been fighting with Tony for hours and he will not budge on the writing retreat. He’s making it into I either choose the writing or I choose him and I don’t know what to do.

  This is why I was so scared to bring it up with him, because I knew he’d take it like this, like some threat against the Pope or something. God, I’m so mad! And I’m crying and can’t even see the screen half the time while I write this, but I am not going to sleep in the same bed with him tonight no matter what. He can be as mad as he wants about me being on this computer. I’m going to stay on it until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.

  I planned it out so carefully, Naomi! We had this great Christmas, everybody all happy and eating. I baked like twelve thousand cookies and fixed all his favorite things, including, I might add, tamales, which take an entire day if you do them by yourself, which I did because I wanted him to be happy and proud of me. The kids were thrilled with the presents we got for them, and I’ve been saving all year to get Tony a really nice television with a remote and a screen within a screen. He was so happy!