The Satyr

by Tiana Laveen

  Moments later, he pulled up to his place, slid his silver parking card into the slot, and waited for the garage gate to lift and allow him inside. Around and around he went until he found a spot on an upper level. Heading to the elevator, he pressed the first-floor button to go grab his mail and packages.

  He scanned the contents of the mailbox. Most was junk mail and bills with one box containing some socks he’d ordered. With his stash in hand, he walked into the lobby of his apartment building, where he was greeted by the familiar sounds of light jazz music, the scent of fresh brewed coffee, and the faint odor of chlorine from the indoor swimming pool. A sense of comfort washed over him.

  He worked out a kink at the back of his neck as he approached another set of elevator doors. He pressed the button for the fourteenth floor and stewed in his own thoughts. Taz’s words hit him hard, as surprising as that was. She doesn’t believe me. She doesn’t think I can do this.

  He made it to his apartment, finding the temperature inside borderline freezing. Setting his jacket, mail and briefcase down on a small table by the front door, he adjusted the thermostat, then washed his hands in the kitchen and turned on some music.

  “Alexa, play ‘Joni Mitchell’s, ‘Help Me.’” The song began to play as he poured himself a gin and tonic, then toed off his shoes. In the living room, he plopped down on the couch and took some deep breaths, smiling.

  That’s her perfume. I can still smell her in here. He picked up one of the pillows and gave it a hearty sniff. Just then, he felt something hard against his back. He turned and noticed Yasmine had left the journal he’d given her on the couch.

  He stared at it for a long while, then picked it up. After a moment of hesitation, he flipped through it. Without actually reading it, he confirmed she’d been writing in it and was surprised to see she’d actually filled up several pages, including even a couple drawings and sketches.

  Before he could see more, he quickly snapped the book closed. Honoring his promise to her. He then ventured over to his briefcase, fished around for his phone, and dialed her up.

  “Hello, this is Yasmine. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now. Please leave your name and number and I will return your call as soon as possible.”

  “Yasmine, it’s me. You left your journal here. If you were lookin’ for it, I have it. I’ll bring it with me when I pick you up for dinner tomorrow. See ya later.”

  He disconnected the call, returned to the couch, and turned off the music. Grabbing a different remote, he switched on the fireplace, then the television, putting it on CNN. Polishing off his drink, he slammed the glass on a coaster on the coffee table and leaned forward, clasping his hands.

  Is this what I want? Day after fucking day, for years and years, I’ve come home alone. Sometimes I have women over, but I always wake up alone. By choice. I don’t blame my parents. I don’t blame anyone but myself. I’m the master of my own destiny, right? All the shit I think a woman wouldn’t understand or like about me, Yasmine does. If she didn’t, she would’ve never come over here. I don’t have to bullshit her, even if I wanted to. She knows exactly who the fuck I am. Hell, maybe I’m believing in karma, ya know? It’s coming back to bite me in the ass. Like, there’s some universal law in effect that is gonna swoop in and pay me back for all the bullshit I dragged so many through. It’ll all backfire… payback. This shit is real. This is happening. It’s not a game or a test. I am trying to get this woman, make her mine. I have demons… lots of ’em. BIG. IRRATIONAL. FILTHY. DEMONS. She’s going to see them. I can’t hide them.

  I like my demons…

  And I won’t stop them from coming to the forefront, marching out, showing themselves before her. They’ve already started and they’re here to stay. I just hope she can take it because I like the shit outta this woman…”

  He rested his forehead on his linked hands. FUCK. I hope she’s built for this. If not, shit is about to get ugly…

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fish Sleep.

  Rivers Run Deep.

  He tossed his linen napkin onto his empty plate, his belly satisfied. They’d both finished their meals, a round of exquisite, unique delicacies. As he casually looked around the restaurant, he could feel her gaze on him. Rather enjoying it, he didn’t return her stare quite yet, until the timing was perfect.

  “Nix, I asked you a question. I know you heard me,” Yasmine stated in a curt, irritated tone. He’d brought her out to Goosefoot, a fine restaurant on Lawrence Avenue, known for its top-of-the-line menu and high-class atmosphere owned and operated by two married chefs. He casually leaned on his chair, then plucked his glass of red wine from the table and took a delicate sip.

  He finally met her gaze.

  “Yes, I heard you, Yasmine.”

  Clad in a sapphire blue dress with matching choker, her hair in a sophisticated ponytail, she looked the picture of perfection.

  “Well? Did you read it?”

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  He’d brought her journal to her, just as he’d promised, and had handed it to her in the car when he picked her up from her home. Now it sat on the table between them like a beacon, the flicker of the candle dancing on the black cover. He smoothed out a slight wrinkle on the linen tablecloth.

  “I enjoyed dinner so very much, thank you.” She seemed pleased with his choice for the night.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I know it takes a lot of work to get in here on short notice. You must have strings you can pull.”

  “I know a lotta people. I have a lot of clients, and those clients have friends and family. You know how it goes.” She nodded in agreement. “You take care of one, you take care of another. Word of mouth is our best business.”

  “Regardless of the strings pulled, and important people you know, I’m grateful for this break from life.” She sighed. “With the work week I’ve had, it was much needed and appreciated.” After a few moments of silence, she grabbed the journal with both hands and dragged it towards her. She surfed through some of the pages, her moderately long natural nails gliding across the pages. “May I read some of it to you?”

  “Sure. If you want.” He had to contain his excitement at her willingness to share more of herself.

  “I believe you,” she said as she slowly closed the journal, Her gaze fixated on it still.

  “You believe what?”

  She met his stare. “I believe you didn’t read it, just as you said. I could see it in your eyes when I finished reading. You didn’t feign surprise, start asking questions, turn away… pretending to be uncomfortable. No pauses or hesitations before responding or touching your face, a knee, shifting in your seat. Of course, you’re an attorney. Many of us know how to hide lies because we hear them practically every day.”

  “You understand word and situational recognition in people? Common traits of deception?”

  “Yes. I am a pretty good human lie detector when it comes to that sort of thing.” She drummed her fingers on the hardbound cover.

  “So, would you like to discuss what you wrote? Or do you want to move on as if I never heard any of it in the first place?” He pointed to the book that sat there like a pot full of secrets. The thick aroma of the emotional brew lingered in the air. She offered a faint smile.

  “I would like to discuss it, but in exchange for information about you, too. Let’s make that deal.” She crossed her arms as if ready to conduct business. On her own terms.

  He burst out laughing and looked briefly up at the ceiling. How gorgeous it was with all of the detailed lighting.

  “You want to barter with me for something I never asked for?” He now directed his gaze at the beautiful temptress, while scratching an itch along the curve of his lobe. “That’s interesting. I never read it, baby. I never asked you to open it tonight and read it to me or at any time, either. Therefore, any negotiating attempts on your part to elicit more information about me are useless.” He leaned forward and grinned.

  �
�Just because someone doesn’t ask for a gift doesn’t mean they don’t wish to receive it. I know you want it though. This is the piece of cake on the counter… You’re hungry.”

  He burst out laughing then. She met that with a proud head nod and a dazzling beam.

  “You’re good.” He shook his finger at her. “I like that. Okay, so let’s say my interest is piqued.”

  “Certainly. Let’s say just that…” With a wink, she reached for her red wine and took a sip. “Would you like to guess what the journal entry means? I mean, obviously it’s a bit of abstract rambling on my part. I’ll admit I was tired when I wrote it… a little emotional, too. Lord.” She shook her head, her cheeks turning ruby red. She put her glass down and crossed her arms on the table, so unladylike yet fitting the moment like a glove. “I can’t believe I even offered to talk about this.” She stared into the distance while he waited, arms crossed. And waited some more. “Aren’t you going to break the ice? Ask me questions about it?”

  “Nope. You’re a big girl. That would let you off the hook. I’m not cheap. To get anything out of me, you’re going to pay. I want you to roll in your discomfort. Be swallowed by it. And then, I want you to come out of it triumphant.”

  She sucked her teeth, her eyes darkening and narrowing to sharp slits.

  “Tamia was the fifth born child of our family. I am the youngest of seven, as you know.” She grabbed her wine and guzzled it, clearly not giving a damn who witnessed such a spectacle. The bottle had only about a half of a serving left. She eyed it briefly, then continued, “Tamia was born with a number of birth defects. All the rest of us were healthy. She had a range of diagnoses… cleft palate, Spina Bifida, to name a couple. She also had some learning disabilities but was able to read and understand what anyone said to her. Despite struggles with verbalizing some things, I believe that she, in fact, was quite smart and… had a wisdom about her.

  “I am certain most people say that about their loved ones in similar situations, but I am telling you it was true, not just to make it sound better. You know, the situation.” He nodded in understanding. “Anyway, she had to have the bulk of the attention as a baby, which of course left my parents exhausted, and they both worked in the school system full-time.”

  She polished off her glass then, which she followed with a deep inhale. She smiled stiffly and stared off into space.

  “Continue.”

  She jumped, as if awakened from a dream. Their eyes met and she leaned back, crossing her legs.

  “You’ll have to excuse me. We don’t, well, I don’t discuss this often. Anyway, I was quite close to Tamia. I was younger, but by the time I was about nine, I was taking care of her pretty much when my parents were busy with my other brothers and sisters, or not home. Tamia was quite small for her age and ate from a feeding tube due to some digestive issues. I knew how to clean that equipment by the time I was ten, I also knew how to wash her. She was mobile, just slow, and had to lean on furniture or use a walker if she wasn’t in her wheelchair. I finally got her completely toilet-trained when she was twelve. That was a big deal, especially since most of the therapists said she’d never be able to go to the bathroom unassisted. It started off with me devising a system. I got her to ring a bell, like the kind at the old hotels, or those used to announce dinner was ready, you know, like in the old movies.”

  There was that uncomfortable smile again.

  “And then, she got to the point where she didn’t need that bell. She’d go on her own, with her walker. Tamia, I discovered, loved classical music. I found out when she was sitting in front of the television, mesmerized while a full orchestra played on some program. But let me tell you, she also enjoyed looking at fish, visiting the aquarium. It was her favorite thing to do.”

  He waved his hand to get the waiter’s attention.

  “Would you please bring a bottle of Rivata Casa Rossa?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Thank you. Go on, Yasmine.”

  “So, uh… what was I saying?”

  “Aquariums. She liked aquariums.”

  “Yes. Once a year we’d go to fish exhibits at the museum. I would show her videos of fish; we’d watch them on television programs and uh… she’d… she’d look at them in big picture books.” She looked down for a spell. “She’d be totally captivated.”

  …And when Yasmine visited my home, she stood there, mesmerized by the fish, saying how she wanted a fish too, but figured she couldn’t care for any because of her hectic schedule. She said they’d all be belly up. I know where this goes. The sister is dead. Somehow, she feels responsible, too. She’ll dissect this and then get to a point where she gets stuck. The truth does that sometimes, makes us hesitate, so we don’t want to admit the shit that lies beneath the folds, the rotten floorboards covered by the expensive Oriental rug of our deceits. We all have to die a little in order to get to the truth. Smell the mustiness. The rot. The stench of death and decay. The fact that this is the very first thing she wrote in that fucking journal is telling, to say the least.

  “So, yes… Time went on, and it got to the point where Tamia began to have nightmares. I never knew quite what they were about; her vocabulary was limited. She’d say key words here and there, but would mostly point to things, or write something down, though her penmanship wasn’t always legible. I learned to read her writing though. She wrote… beautiful things sometimes. She was never depressed. At least, not to me. Smiling, happy. That was sometimes strange to me. It’s like she didn’t understand the severity of her condition. As time went on though, I grew weary of being Tamia’s main helper. I didn’t really stand still long enough to absorb that… and it felt…”

  “Shameful.”

  “Yes. Shameful. Now in fairness, when my eldest sister, Cinje, would try to help, Tamia would become angry and refuse the assistance. She’d go as far as to soil herself in protest. I began to… resent Tamia. She was like a ball and chain. The heaviness, the pressure.” The woman’s voice cracked as she clasped her hands tight. “I wanted to go out sometimes by myself or with friends, but she’d become angry because she didn’t want to be alone, without me. I wanted to go on dates, hang out, hell, just get more than ten minutes to myself. Our house was crowded. Time, food, privacy, all of that was practically nonexistent as it was.”

  “Why did your parents have all of you?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Why would you ask a question like that? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  The waiter soon returned with the new bottle and two fresh glasses, and poured the wine.

  “It’s a sensible question.” He leaned forward, hooking her gaze. “If your parents were educated and reasonable, had many children but money was tight, and one child was clearly in need of special care—which was an additional emotional and financial strain—why did they continue to have more children?”

  “I don’t know, you son of a bitch. I guess you’d have to ask them.” She grimaced and shook her head, obviously enraged and maybe shocked.

  “Don’t you sit there looking appalled and like some damn princess. I know your mind. I understand how it works. I am asking you what you wanted to ask them, Yasmine.” She stiffened. “I am asking you the same thoughts you’re dancing around as you sit here looking beautiful, prim and proper, smelling amazing, pouring your guts out about a sister you loved almost more than yourself, but also hated on occasion. And yet, your hate didn’t only rest with her; it rested with your parents who were more than happy to put that big ass burden on you, to allow you to be her caretaker while your life was severely impacted. Never the same. The grief you suffered was different from theirs. I haven’t even heard the whole story, but I know how this shit is going to roll. You suffered. You all suffered. The food in the house was rationed to the point that some nights you went to bed hungry. All because they wanted to keep makin’ people they couldn’t take care of, then use you as the babysitter of a very sick child.”

  “Fuck you. My parents ar
e amazing people.”

  “Amazingly selfish.”

  “Shut. Up.”

  “Say it… They kept fucking with no regard to contraception, calling their children God’s precious gifts, but all seven of you had to practically fend for yourselves. They justified it by saying that they kept the bills paid when you would have much preferred they worked less, had fewer kids. But then, of course, your existence would have been compromised if that logic were followed and I wouldn’t be having this lovely dinner with an amazing individual. Also, if I were a betting man,” he held one finger in the air, “I’d say there were more pregnancies even after you were born, but perhaps they didn’t materialize. Breeding when one is already at full capacity is selfish as fuck. Sick sister. Hungry and neglected children. Disabilities out the fucking wazoo but it’s your responsibility to care for her. They told you that you had such a way with her, right? That you were a blessing… but soon they expected you to always do it and would race out the door reminding you to give her this and that medicine, with no regard of your mental health. You were a damn kid! Not a nurse! Did you even get a fucking thank you? Oh, I know, you were told God chose you for this, right?”

  “Shut up!” People started to gawk at them as her voice rose. She gripped the white linen on the table, her eyes glossed over with hurt.

  “I will say it because you aren’t strong enough to say it. I’m your muscle.”

  “I am strong enough to say it!” Silence stretched between them then. Admission of trauma sometimes came packaged in the oddest giftwrapping, but it wasn’t easy to acknowledge.

  “Are you? Just in case, I am taking that burden on for you. Do I believe everything I just said to you?” He shrugged. “Definitely not all of it. But you did. That’s what makes me such a damn good attorney. I can get into another person’s mind like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I am quite convincing. You don’t want to say the truth. You honor and respect your parents, and justifiably so. That journal entry had little to do with Tamia – she was a symbol, a representation of you. She was swimming around, even in her own head. She wasn’t actually confined to a wheelchair or her bed. She was free. You were the one who was trapped. It was you in the wheelchair, ringing that dinner bell, swimming in that fish tank. Oh, how the tables had turned…”