I pulled out the driveway and started down Worcester Street before attaching my Bluetooth to my ear. I contemplated dialing his number. I knew I couldn’t talk about everything with him, but if anyone understood the emotions I felt, it would be him.
“I figured I would hear from you when you needed something.”
That’s exactly how I expected DaMarcus to answer his phone when he saw my number appear on his screen. Already, I was regretting this decision. I had kept my number the same just in case he wanted to reach out to Quinton, although this rarely happened. His monthly child support checks were more constant than he had been in Quinton’s life.
“Newsflash, you selfish bastard,” I said.
I loved my son, but I hated that he reminded me of so many secrets. I never thought I would come to despise the one man I risked and lost everything for, including my fiancé and my friendship with Belinda, things I thought weren’t important at the time because I was blinded by the lust I had for this man, ‘cause it damn sure wasn’t love.
“I don’t need you or anything from you, but Quinton does.”
“Is everything ok…?”
“I’m fine,” I interrupted.
It killed me to hear him act as if he gave a damn.
“I was talking about Quinton, my son.”
“Your son,” I laughed. “Listen, DaMarcus. Why don’t we, you, stop acting as if you’ve given a damn about him in, let’s say, the last three years. You’ve been so busy chasing Belinda’s behind, trying to make amends. And to think her announced engagement to music mogul Shedrick Wise has done nothing to stop you from trying.”
“She’s only doing what she needs to get me out of her system.”
I hated to think he had made that comment with a serious face, but I know DaMarcus. I was sure he had.
“You keep telling yourself that.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“You’re chasing your tail, DaMarcus. A divorce and a new man, and might I add an even richer man. I think we can both agree there is no more of you left in Belinda’s system.”
“Taylor, do we have to do this every time you call?”
“Five phone calls in the last three years doesn’t exactly constitute every time, wouldn’t you agree?”
Sometimes DaMarcus sends chills up and down my spine for the wrong reasons, and this was one of those times.
“I’m not going through this with you.”
“That’s just it, DaMarcus. You never want to go through anything.” I wasn’t prepared to argue with him this morning. “I need you to take Quinton for a while,” I said in one breath.
“Where am I taking him?”
“To live with you. I need to sort some things out, and I can’t do this with him around.”
“What I am going to do with him? You know I have football.”
“Be his father, DaMarcus. Raise him like I’ve been doing since birth.”
There had always been tension between DaMarcus and me whenever we talked, that was probably part of the reason we avoided each other like the plague in a small town. I hadn’t counted on our strained relationship affecting the relationship DaMarcus had with Quinton. The last thing I wanted to do was repeat the mistakes my mother made, but here I was following in her footsteps. My father Kendall Duncan was a happily married man until my mother weaseled her way into his bed, and like some women─if not most─she thought if her love wasn’t enough for him to leave his wife, then surely having his baby would do the trick. Apparently, she had missed one valuable lesson: A man, who doesn’t want to be caught, can’t be caught with a damned baby. When one bastard baby didn’t work─‘cause that’s what his wife called me─my mother had the gall to give birth to another. At least I can say my sister and I weren’t mistakes. No. We were deliberate consequences of my mother’s quest to become Ms. Kendall Duncan. I don’t know what he had said to make her think that was even possible. Maybe it was a conversation she had created in her own head. I loved my mother, but not a day went by that I don’t think about the lies she told.
Between three and twelve years old, I saw my father only once. Where was my father? Every time I asked that question, my mother had a different answer─and they were all convincing. As young as I was, I didn’t have any reasons not to believe her. Why would my mother lie to me about my own father?
“I’m sorry, baby. He just doesn’t want to see you.”
That was the lie that hurt the most. When my father ran into me at a local ToysRUs─’cause I surely didn’t recognize him─I’d asked him the same questions I had been asking my mother. Of course, his answers were different. I secretly built a relationship with my father. My mother went to her grave still believing she had me convinced my father wanted nothing to do with me. Unlike my mother, I gave DaMarcus a choice. What he did with that choice was his decision and his to explain to Quinton. I wasn’t going to deny my son a father; that was part of the plan.
I was sitting in a Home Depot parking lot thinking of a way to tell DaMarcus about Dillon, what transpired, and what might have happened if Quinton hadn’t interrupted. If I didn’t have history with DaMarcus, he would have been the last person chosen as my confidant. Why did I trust a man whom I aided and abetted in cheating on his wife? I’ll be damned if I was going to let history repeat. I knew living with Nessa and Dillon was a mistake, but I had persuaded myself that time had erased any feelings I still carried for Dillon, and the fact that he was now married to my sister was an even greater deterrent. Unfortunately, last night had illuminated the truth, and this truth was not pretty. If I couldn’t live with what I had done to Belinda, how the hell was I going to live with betraying my own blood? It was hard living with what I’d already done.
“You’re not telling me something, Taylor,” DaMarcus said, breaking the long silence between us. “You called out of the blue to tell me I needed to take my son to live with me. What are you up to?”
“Why do I have to be up to something?”
“Because I don’t trust you. You’re always up to something. You weren’t supposed to tell Belinda anything. That was the deal.”
I sat up in the car and stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror.
“That was your deal. If you remember, I never agreed to anything. Did you think it was easy for me to look into Belinda’s face and hear her ask me for forgiveness? She hadn’t done anything wrong. I was the one screwing you.”
“Well, you certainly didn’t make it look hard.”
“You think I showed up for me?”
I sat back in the seat. Until I had gotten the attention of a passerby, I didn’t realize I was speaking as loud. I immediately adjusted my tone.
“Even then I was thinking about you and what you wanted. You wanted me, and I gave in. And yes, I wanted you, too. When you wanted Belinda back, I set my morals aside and I partook in your plan. Again, thinking about you. Belinda was love. We were a mistake.”
“Your morals should’ve kicked in before you slept with me.”
“Better late than never, right?” Then I realized this was a perfect lead into what I had called DaMarcus about. “I messed up last night…with Dillon.”
“Your sister’s husband?” he asked with a simper. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? I’m sure you won’t have a problem telling your sister what happened.”
“Are you kidding me? She can never find out,” I said, whispering, as if Nessa were sitting in the back seat.
“Tell her the truth. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“My sister? Understand?” I laughed. “I’m supposed to tell her that her husband of five years─the same man I used to screw years ago─came on to me…that we kissed and fondled, and she’s supposed to understand. And then what…tell her it’ll never happen again? Sure. She’ll believe me, and we’ll skip off into a field of purple hydrangea, holding hands like Celie and Nettie─a good ole nothing-will-come-between-me-and-my-sister kind of ending. Is that what you imagine?”
“Messing around with you didn’t exactly help my reputation,” I reminded him, “and it’s not like I don’t have Quinton to remind…” I paused.
“So, is that what our son is to you, a reminder?”
“You know he is so much more than that,” I corrected. “But you know exactly what she’s going to think.”
“That you came on to him? I’m sure she knows you better than that.”
“That’s just it, DaMarcus. My sister knows me.” I looked at the clock on the dash. I had been gone for more than an hour, and had spent most of that time talking to DaMarcus. I put the car in reverse and pressed on the gas, forgetting even to look behind me to make sure no one was behind me. I needed to get back home to my son. I had left Dillon and Nessa at the house. I wasn’t sure if Dillon was feeling as guilty I was, and I didn’t know how long it would take for him to crack.
“Hey, why don’t you convince her like you convinced Belinda when she walked in on us,” DaMarcus joked.
“I’m happy you can joke about the situation now. You hurt Belinda.”
“We hurt Belinda. You lied, too, remember?”
“You’re right. I was your enabler. But if not me, it was bound to be someone else.”
“Why didn’t you just tell her the truth?”
“I lied to protect you. You had more to lose.” I had to focus on my own situation. “DaMarcus, it’ll be Dillon’s words against mine. Who do you think she’s going to believe? Nessa is one of those women who take their husband’s words as gospel. And I know exactly what he’s going to do.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s going to play into the fact that she thinks he can do no wrong. And I’ll be the bitch who throws her couchie at every married man I think should be mine.” I inhaled. “I have a headache. I need to figure this out because I refuse to let it drive me crazy. When can you get Quinton?”
“I can’t give you that answer right now. Let me check on a few things and I will get back with you tomorrow.”
I hung up the phone and drove back to Nessa’s with thoughts swirling through my head. Maybe it was best to tell her the truth. That was a crazy thought that I dismissed as soon as it raided my mind. All I needed to do was keep my distance from Dillon, and hope he had resolved to do the same. Surely the last thing he wanted to do was lose his wife, and I needed to keep my sister in my life.
Chapter 11
Patrick…
I’ll Drink to That
Restaurant 901 sat directly on the corner of 9th and L Streets, across from the site where the old convention center once stood. When I entered the restaurant, a tall unassuming man with an Italian accent welcomed me. I assumed he was the manager, and I was right. After exchanging pleasantries, I was directed to the hostesses, two African American women who stood almost equal in height.
“I have a 6 p.m. reservation,” I said, smiling.
I was hoping Chance had done something out of character and showed up ahead of me, but that was wishful thinking at its best. That warning I had given him earlier had gone in one ear and out the other. He still had a few minutes to prove me wrong.
“Patrick McKay?” she asked, crisscrossing her French manicured fingertips on the computer screen in front of her.
She was the shorter of the two hostesses. She had a welcoming smile and a friendly personality to match.
“For two?” she continued.
I nodded in agreement. She was still smiling. She instructed her counterpart to take me to Number 83.
Her counterpart grabbed the menus and instructed me to follow her. She attempted to engage me in conversation as she instructed me to follow. Eighty-three was our table location, in the back of the restaurant, about ten feet from the kitchen, which I didn’t mind since I was too occupied by the different aromas coming from that area. I suspected this was an unusually quiet night. I guess people were still satisfied just wetting their appetite with the charcoal smelling hotdogs, hamburgers, and ribs, drinking beers, and laughing with neighbors to whom they hadn’t extended a formal invite, but stopped by anyway.
“Is this your first time here?” she asked.
“No,” I lied.
Before I sat, I admired the furnishings and decorations. Three ball-shaped oriental-looking lamps hung above three bar tables directly in front of the bar. Handmade string blown-glass ornaments hung in the middle of the restaurant, separating one side of the dining room from the other. Sheer white curtains hung along the back, separating a private party area from the main dining room. That was one of two private rooms. The other sat a few feet in front of me behind the bar.
“Here you are, sir.”
She stood at the table with four black notebook-looking menus in her hand, waiting for me to sit. Since Chance hadn’t arrived, she placed two of the menus in front of the empty square-back white chair across from me, and the other two to my right.
“Enjoy,” she said, and walked away as if she knew I was watching her.
The LED backlit menu brightened my face when I finally opened it to peruse its contents. If everything on here tastes as good as those smells coming from the kitchen, I was in for a great night, I thought. My eyes ran down the left side of the menu and then up the right, and in that instant, I had decided that choosing a main course was going to be hard.
The napkins were tightly wrapped in a cone-shaped configuration and sat dead center on black, rectangular plates, which were evenly spaced on the black square table. There were no flowers or candles, or extra decorations to detract from the simplicity, just four wine glasses, and utensils. As I waited, a table of four had quickly become a table of six. A beautiful lady with a blond-colored close cut chatted and laughed hysterically. She smiled as our eyes met. I tried not to stare, but her beauty was striking.
“Can I start you off with something to drink,” the waiter asked, breaking my stare.
He was dressed in all black like the omen, black apron included─not unlike the other waiters. He seemed overly friendly, but I welcomed his attitude. I don’t remember him telling me his name, and if he did, I had missed it. I opened the wine menu and settled on a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet from France to whet my pallet until Chance’s arrival.
The waiter arrived with the bottle of wine and a sampling in a small decanter, which he slowly emptied in my wine glass. I sipped and gave him my approval. He poured my wine glass close to full, and then left me to savor its fine taste. The chipotle cornbread that Romeo, the busboy, placed on the table was spicy, but delicious. I had decided to save some for Chance, although his ass should have been on time. He was already thirty minutes late, but I would have been more surprised if he had been thirty minutes early.
I was halfway through my second glass of wine when Chance came strutting through the restaurant as if he were on time. Actually, he was. He was on his time. I sat back in my chair and watched him exchange a few words with the taller of the two waitresses that had greeted me earlier. She had an ear-to-ear smile, and whatever he had said to her had made her blush. Damn it! That boy always has his charm in his back pocket, I thought. After she pointed him in my direction, he walked up to the table and sat nonchalantly in the chair across from me, with his elbows resting on the table.
“Sorry I’m…” he began.
“Don’t say it, Chance,” I interrupted. “I specifically told you to be on time,” I continued without looking up at him.
He sat back in his chair, smiling.
“I was only…”
He paused and looked at his watch.
“Damn. Can you forgive me?” he asked sarcastically.
He looked at me with a puppy-dog face and laughed. I didn’t crack a smile.
“Man, Patrick. Lighten up.”
“I’ll lighten up as soon as you tell me why I had to fly out here. What’s going on?”
“Can’t I order first?”
I didn’t respond to him. I laughed to myself,
opened my menu, and began browsing again.
When it came to Chance, I had to hold back from showing how disappointed I get sometimes. It baffled me how someone so smart could sometimes act like he doesn’t know shit, as if he walked on the basketball court and become stupid, earning a triple-double in the dumb-ass department.
He was dressed in dusty khaki slim fit jeans and a sunwashed-red utility shirt. His sand-brown eyes were almost completely hidden under the brim of his straw hat. Chance was definitely his mother’s son. He was as handsome as his mother was beautiful. He had nothing from his father but his height. Chance sported a close fade, and often kept his mustache and goatee when he was tired of looking younger than he really was.
Surprisingly, Chance didn’t take long to decide on dinner. When he indicated he was ready, I raised my hand to get the waiter’s attention.
“My apologies,” he said.
The waiter stood with one hand in his pocket.
“I usually introduce myself first, but just in case I didn’t, my name is Jeff.”
I accepted his apology, smiling back at him.
I ordered the grilled summer salmon, which came topped with crab and corn. The scallion beurre blanc sat in a small black dish on the side since my spinach mashed potato, which was presented in a perfect round, was a substitute. Although you couldn’t catch me eating spinach if you paid me, the spinach mashed potato was perfectly prepared. The pecan crusted pork tenderloin with apple marmalade, herbed cream cheese, and fennel apple salad was Chance’s choice for the evening. I’m not sure where all that food goes, but he’s always been a big eater. He used to eat my mother out of house and home. She used to always tell him he was going to have to do two things when he got older: marry a woman who can cook, or make enough money to hire a live-in chef. So far, he had accomplished the latter.
Second Thoughts Page 8
