by Warren, Mike
“Like me? Like me how?” I asked, surprised by his confession.
“See, now you playing with me. You know what I meant when I said I liked you.” He flashed his Colgate smile at me.
Chile, my depression, pain, and everything else went out of the window. I found myself getting that tingly feeling, the same feeling I felt ever since I’d laid eyes on him.
Mr. Jamison and I talked for hours. He told me about how and why he became a school teacher. He then started teasing me about the time I was in his gym class when he was teaching the boys how to swim and I pretended to be drowning. He said he felt my erection against his outer thigh when he to save me. Even though I was a little embarrassed, I had to laugh along with him.
After the laughter, a nervous silence filled the room. Mr. Jamison looked at me as though his eyes wanted to know what had truly happened to me.
I began to pour out my heart. I don’t know why, but I told him every gory detail, more than I’d even told my mom or the police, and just reliving it brought tears to my eyes.
When I finished, he held my hand and said, “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I wish I could take it back or erase it from your memory, but I can’t. All I can do is be there for you and see you through it.”
I didn’t understand what Mr. Jamison was saying. He was talking like he had something to do with this, but this had nothing to do with him. I just assumed that this was his way of comforting me. He then said something that really overwhelmed me.
“Cameron, if you ever need to just get away…I live alone and you can come and stay with me.”
“Really?” I asked, excited.
“Absolutely. Whenever you like.” He showed that Colgate smile once again. “But…”
“See, I knew you didn’t mean it.”
“Oh, but I did.”
“So, why did you say but?”
“You have to be legal. You have to wait until you’re eighteen.”
“Yesterday was my birthday. I just turned eighteen, see,” I said like a little kid, pointing to all the birthday cards that sat in the windowsill.
Mr. Jamison looked over at my birthday cards. “So you are. How could I have forgotten that quickly?”
Mr. Jamison and I talked and joked for another hour or so but were interrupted when my mom came in the room.
“Hey, sweetie. How are you feeling today?” Mom asked, looking strangely at Mr. Jamison.
“I’m feeling good, Ma. By the way, this Mr. Jamison. Mr. Jamison, this is my mom.”
Mr. Jamison stood up and shook my mom’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“You too,” my mom said, returning the gesture.
Mr. Jamison said, “Well, Cam, I guess I’ve taken up enough of your time. Call me when you get home, okay.”
“Okay, I will,” I replied like some lovesick puppy.
*
My first week at home was fabulous. My mom waited on me hand and foot. My little sister Keshia even pitched in and helped Mom around the house with the cleaning, bringing me my food in bed and washing the dishes.
Robin was still busy with her SAT, but we spoke every night before going to bed. I told her that Mr. Jamison had stopped by the hospital to see me and had even invited me to come and stay with him. Ms. Fag-hag was floored.
Ms. Fag-hag started telling me about Kurt, her new boyfriend. His name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I had heard it. But she went on and on about how sexy he was and how he gave her money just to go shopping. I was genuinely happy for Robin. She was good people, and she deserved to be happy.
As for my stepdad, we only spoke in passing.
A few weeks later, I caught my stepdad several times giving head to these little boys in the neighborhood. This one little boy who went by the name Crisco, I knew for a fact, was only fifteen.
And the following day, Crisco’s friend Damien, who was only sixteen, had stopped by, and my stepdad serviced him too. My stepdad didn’t know I saw him, because he thought I was still bedridden, but I wasn’t.
What my stepdad was doing made me angry and physically sick. Yet still, he walked around here and went to church every Sunday like nothing ever happened. I could never forgive him for what he was doing and what he’d said to me. And again, the only reason why I’d never mentioned it to my mom was because I knew it would hurt her deeply and I couldn’t bring myself to be the cause of that pain.
The police had stopped by a couple of times. The first time was to get my story again, and the second time was to bring some mugs shots, hoping I would be able to pick out the thugs who did this to me. Of course, my story never wavered, and even though I saw Junior’s picture in the mix, I never pointed him out. I had other plans for Junior.
This one day, when I thought I was home alone, I had come down the stairs to fix me something to eat.
Before walking into the kitchen, I heard a familiar voice say, “Who’s yo’ daddy?”
I stopped in my tracks, tiptoed, and hid behind the dining room door. I peeked in, and my mouth almost hit the floor. My stepdad was leaning up against the kitchen table, and Junior was fucking him. I couldn’t believe it. I became dizzy and thought I was going to faint, so I grabbed one of the dining room chairs just to hold myself up.
I tiptoed back upstairs to my room and closed my bedroom door. I lay down on my bed in the fetal position with the covers over my head and rocked myself back and forth. The idea of Junior being in my house terrified me. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of here.
I peeked out of the covers and grabbed my cell phone and called Robin to see if she was home, but she wasn’t. My mom was at the hospital, doing her volunteer work.
Think, chile, think, I thought to myself. And then it dawned on me. Mr. Jamison. He’d told me to call him when I got home anyway.
“What did I do with his card?” I asked myself. I got out of my bed and pulled every piece of clothing in my closet out on the floor.
After several minutes of searching and throwing my clothes about my room like a mad person, I finally came across Mr. Jamison’s card. I climbed back in my bed, threw the covers over my head, and dialed the number on the card.
“Hello,” Mr. Jamison said.
I whispered, “Ah, Mr. Jamison, this is Cameron. Can you come get me?”
“Who is this again?”
“This is Cameron.”
“Cameron, what’s wrong? Why are you whispering? I can barely hear you.”
“Somebody is here in my house, and I don’t wanna be here. Can you come get me?” I asked, practically begging.
“Sure, no problem. Where are you?”
“Can you meet me on the corner of Centre Street and Malcolm Avenue in twenty minutes?”
“See you then,” he said, and hung up the phone.
I got fully dressed in no time.
As soon as I opened my door, my stepdad was at the top of the stairs. He turned towards me and asked, “Where are you going?”
Chile, I was so scared, I felt like Ms. Celie in The Color Purple. And like Ms. Celie, the only thing that came to my mind was, “Nowhere!” My heart was about to jump out of my chest.
My stepdad walked into his bedroom, so I closed the door and placed my hand across my chest. “Whew, chile! Be still, my heart,” I said, breathing heavily, leaning up against the door. That was too close for comfort, I thought to myself.
I looked at my watch and realized I only had six minutes or so to meet Mr. Jamison. The location I’d given him was a few blocks away. I tiptoed over to one of my bedroom windows and pulled it up as far as it would go. I climbed out onto the roof and looked over the edge to see how far I would have to jump. Baby, there was no way I could jump from there without spraining something.
I started to go back inside my bedroom window, but then I heard someone knocking on my bedroom door. I turned around, walked back over to the edge of the roof, counted to ten, and jumped.
Fortunately, I only got stuck by some thorns from t
he bushes outside my house. I got up, brushed myself off, and walked as fast as my little yella ass would take me.
I reached the corner where I told Mr. Jamison to meet me, and sure enough, I saw him sitting there in his black 2001 Escalade. He must have been jamming to the music because he was bobbing his head up and down and didn’t notice me standing there.
I knocked on the passenger side window to get his attention.
“Hey, shawty,” he said, opening the door for me and turning down his rap music.
“Hey, yourself.” I climbed in and buckled my seat belt.
“What’s going on?” he asked, pulling away from the curb. “What was the emergency?”
“I’m never going back to that house again.”
“What happened?” He looked over at me. I guess he realized I really didn’t want to talk about it.
“Look, why don’t I take you to my house. You can freshen up, get a good meal, and relax. How’s that? Would you like that?”
“Yes, I would love that.”
Chapter 13
We drove on the outskirts of town into a very exclusive neighborhood. I’d been in this area only one time in my life, when my mom had taken a job house-sitting for this old, rich white lady. I started thinking, How could Mr. Jamison afford living here on a teacher’s salary?
We pulled up in front of a black wrought iron gate that appeared to wrap around acres of property. Mr. Jamison punched in a few numbers, and the gate opened automatically. We drove along a brick road with manicured bush on both sides, and a whole lot of lawn to go with it. I didn’t know how many acres of land this property held, but I was in awe. Mr. Jamison knew I was impressed because he kept looking at me out the corner of his eyes and smiling.
As I looked ahead, we were approaching what looked like a mansion. “Whose place is this?” I asked.
We came to a stop at the front door.
“Mine,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Come on, let’s go.”
I opened the car door and walked behind him. I couldn’t wait to see what it looked like on the inside. Honey, Robin gonna gag when she sees where a true diva s’pose to live, I thought to myself.
Mr. Jamison opened the door and allowed me to enter first. I walked in and stood in the middle of the foyer with my mouth hung open in complete awe. The wooden floors were bare and so shiny, I could actually see my reflection in them.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Mr. Jamison walked past me, into the sunken living room area.
“I’m fine,” I replied, trying not to seem too pressed. But the truth of the matter was, I was pressed. Very pressed. I had never seen a place like this other than on MTV Cribs.
I walked down into the sunken living room area, where Mr. Jamison stood behind the bar fixing us a drink.
“Make yourself at home,” he said as he handed me my drink.
I took my drink and sat down on this huge dark cherry-colored leather couch. I began sipping my drink and looked around the room at all the gorgeous pieces of furniture and artwork that hung on the walls. The room was definitely decorated in a manly fashion because, as nice as everything was, it was only in earth tones. No bright pastel colors needed. This was a man’s home, or shall I say castle, but now that I was there, it definitely needed a diva’s touch.
I noticed a fireplace on the left hand side of the wall that seemed to light on its own as Mr. Jamison flipped a switch, and a round cherry wood coffee table sat right in front of the couch. And an identical brown leather couch sat right across from the one I was sitting on.
The ceiling was so high, and it hung a huge chandelier overhead, for a minute I felt like I was in church. On the right hand side of the room, all to itself, sat an all-white upright piano with a silver candelabra on top. The paintings on the walls were not your average paintings that most black folks adorned their walls with. He had paintings of landscapes and some shit I couldn’t figure out, what they called abstract art. But they all had gold-structured frames that appeared to have cost an arm and a leg.
“Ah, Cameron,” Mr. Jamison uttered, interrupting my thoughts.
“Oh my bad. Did you ask me something?”
“I asked if you wanted me to take you on a tour of my home before you freshen up.”
“I would love a tour.” I swallowed the last of my drink and felt a little light-headed as I tried to stand.
“Maybe that drink was a little too strong for you, huh.” Mr. Jamison smiled, as he grabbed me by my waist to catch me from falling.
“Naw, I’m fine.”
Mr. Jamison began leading me by the hand up the spiral staircase, going from one room to another.
“How many bedrooms you have?”
“There are five bedrooms and four and a half bathrooms.”
“Which bedroom will I sleep in?” I asked, hoping he would say his.
“Take your pick.”
The bedrooms were so huge; one could actually live in that one room. And each one had a large flat-screen TV attached to the wall. The bedroom furniture was different for each room.
One of the bedrooms was definitely decorated with a female in mind. The white flower comforter matched the tables and dresser along with the curtains that hung from the windows and a matching ceiling fan. This was definitely the bedroom for me.
Another bedroom had masculine dark-striped wallpaper, with a dark maroon bedspread, along with matching drapes and cherry-wood furniture. The next two bedrooms had a juvenile feel to them. I didn’t know if Mr. Jamison had any children or younger siblings who lived with him, but I definitely needed to find out.
The last bedroom was the master bedroom, Mr. Jamison’s bedroom. I was so blown away when I entered his bedroom. Chile, had you ever seen one of the rooms where you could be happy to die in? That’s the thought I had when I entered his room.
Everything in the room was white or silver. The king-size bed had a white down comforter with the initials KJ embroidered in silver right in the center, and it looked like he had fifty or so white pillows piled up at the headboard. A large movie-like screen projector TV tuned to Sports Channel hung on the wall.
Mr. Jamison must really be into sports, I thought to myself, considering it was on and nobody was watching it. Hell, where I was from, if you ain’t watching it, it needed to be turned off, but I guess Mr. Jamison got it like that.
He also had a silver-and-white chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something about chandeliers that makes a room look so elegant. Mr. Jamison also had white wooden furniture with silver trimming on the dressers, nightstands, and mirrors. Now, this wasn’t like that cheap lacquer furniture, this was real wood of some kind, and I could tell he paid a good penny for it.
“Well, this is my bedroom. What do you think?” He looked at me as though he wanted to throw me on his bed and have me right then and there.
“It’s fabulous.”
“Not the word I would use, but I like it, too.” He chuckled. “So, why don’t you go freshen up, and I’ll make us something to eat.”
“So, I can pick any room I want?”
“Yup.”
“How about I choose this one?” I ran and jumped on his bed like a child.
“Sorry, shawty. You haven’t earned that right yet,” he replied, his arms folded in front of his chest.
“How about I earn the right now?” I started taking my clothes off.
“You got balls, shawty, I’ll give you that, but that’s not what I’m talking about. So, which other room would you like?”
“I guess it would have to be the room with all the flowers,” I said, disappointed.
Mr. Jamison led me back into the flowered bedroom and showed me around. The room had everything I needed, including a private bathroom area with toothbrush, soap, wash cloth, towel, and even a white thick terry cloth robe that hung on the back of the door. As he left, he closed the bathroom door behind him.
I stood looking in the mirror and thought, This is just too g
ood to be true. God had finally answered my prayer in finding me a man that was beautiful.
Instead of taking a shower, I decided to take a bath since the tub was so big. I just wanted to lay my head down and relax. Everything was in here, a small flat-screen TV, a Bose AM/FM radio with CD player, and even a small refrigerator filled with soda, wine coolers, and champagne.
I ran my bathwater almost to the top of the tub and used almost all of Mr. Jamison’s liquid bubble bath. Chile, I had bubbles everywhere.
I poured some champagne in one of the flute glasses that sat on top of the refrigerator and lowered myself in the tub. What was so funny was, I didn’t have a dime on me, but I felt like a million bucks. I drank my champagne while listening to The Quiet Storm program on the radio. I was so relaxed, I drifted off to sleep.
I wasn’t sure how long I had been asleep, but I knew it wasn’t that long because the water was still fairly warm. Mr. Jamison awakened me. He sounded as though he was arguing with someone downstairs. I got out of the tub, dried myself off and threw on the terry cloth robe. I opened the bathroom door and tiptoed out to the main staircase leading down the steps.
I stood at the top of the stairs for a minute to see if I could make out what was being said, and all I could hear was Mr. Jamison yelling at someone about getting him his muthafuckin’ money. I’d never seen him angry, nor had I ever heard him yelling at anyone, and to be honest, it kinda scared me.
I wasn’t sure if I should go and stay in the room or go and see who Mr. Jamison was arguing with. My curiosity got the better of me. I tried to act as though nothing was wrong, so I walked down the spiral staircase and out into the kitchen, where Mr. Jamison stood over the stove, cooking.
He looked at me as I entered the kitchen. “Well, you look refreshed. How was your bath?”
“It was absolutely fabulous. Thank you for asking.”
“You can have a seat, and I’ll fix you a plate of my famous spaghetti.” He pointed to a chair at his dinette set.
“Spaghetti, huh.”
“Yeah. You do like spaghetti, don’t you?”
