
Bearing Witness
Short Stories
Eunice Hargett
All rights reserved. © 2011. Dandella Books
Table of Contents
Finish Line
Bearing Witness
Still Waters
21 Days to Crazy (an excerpt from a novel of the same name)
FINISH LINE
Madison wondered how her sisters would react. What would they do when she found the courage to tell them the news? April and June, the twins, would no doubt give each other that look. The one which yelled silent disapproval. Still, the biggest fear was telling Karoline. She had such strong beliefs. Even the other two had trouble dealing with K's wrath when they went against her ideals. This was definitely not something Madison looked forward to.
The year at NC State hadn't produced the desired effect. Despite the distance between herself and her sisters, Madison still felt their influence. It was like everywhere she went, from the Kmart on Glenwood to the Texaco Station on Blue Ridge, even at the McDonalds in Cameron Village, their eyes followed her looking for signs that she'd changed. It was true; Madison had always felt different. Even growing up in Greenwich Village, she didn't feel attached to anyone. All around her, people expressed themselves with such openness, such abandon, but Madison only retreated further into her shell. The only place she could open up was on the track. There she had a single purpose: destroy the opponent. And she was good at it.
At sixteen, Madison won the New York State Championship in the 100m. The next two years she set meet records in the 100m, 200m, and the 100m hurdles. She could have done the same in the relays as well, but she preferred to run alone. She had tried to work her way into the relays during her senior year, but was always the one dropping the baton or leaving the blocks too early. Finally, Coach Pequinnins gave up figuring it was just one of those things.
The summer after winning the State, Madison began to focus all her energy on College Track and Field, with her ultimate goal the Olympics. College scouts were drooling at her speed, a flat 10.2 in the 100, and her versatility. Madison could get a full scholarship at any school in the country. The local papers all predicted she would pick a school in the west like UCLA or a powerhouse like Texas, so everyone was shocked when she signed with NC State.
"Why would you want to go to the Bible belt," Karoline asked in amazement and semi-disgust, when Madison broke the news. "There's nothing in the south to do except watch the grass grow."
"You're so prejudiced K," Madison said in a whimper. "Raleigh's a big city with people from all over the world. It's one of the fastest growing areas in the country. Anyway, I'm not going there to socialize, I'm going to run."
Everyone, including her sisters, eventually accepted Madison's decision. The number of world class athletes the area produced didn't hurt in their changes of opinion either. Before long, their comments moved from disapproving to expectant. Soon, the buzz was Madison Waverly would be the next great Olympic runner. She could almost see her face on that Wheaties box now.
She should have been happy, her future practically mapped out on a golden street, but it was still there. Setting her apart. Making her different. She wanted desperately to be like Karoline and April and June, to have them accept her. Much of her life had been spent trying to fit in, to be like them, but at nineteen she knew it was time to set the record straight.
So, the decision had been made. Now she had to follow through. Madison thought about telling them in November, over Thanksgiving break, but thought better of it. It would be hard enough getting the words out, let alone doing it with a mouth full of stuffing. Still, she knew the moment was approaching rapidly. It was getting harder and harder speaking in pronouns, avoiding leading questions like "Have you meet anyone special," or "Who are you seeing" or "When are you going to bring someone home?" Madison longed to tell them about the person she'd met, about this knew feeling of connection and completeness, but knew they wouldn't understand. Karoline had been living with someone for five years, April and June in and out of the dating pool. They focused so much attention on Madison's relationship it was stifling. For some reason, her love life, or lack thereof, was a constant point of emphasis.
Christmas came and went, as did the New Year, without a word of revelation. Madison felt even more examined during New Year's Eve at the party at Karoline's. All the people from the neighborhood were there, but Madison still felt uneasy. She knew when the clocked struck Midnight, her sisters would look to see who she kissed. As the seconds ticked down, Madison made her way towards the bathroom. She reached the toilet just into time to throw-up, as the New Year rolled in.
Her first year of big-time track and field was going okay, but she wasn't burning up the lanes. Her times were slower than they had been since junior high. Everyone searched for ways to increase her speed, attributing the slowness to the adjustment period of moving from high school to college. No one was panicking yet, but Madison could feel the tension growing as she failed more and more to meet expectations. The outdoor track season was just around the corner, and Madison knew she had to do something to regain her speed or her Olympic dreams would be just that. While the coaches looked at her format, training, and mental preparation, Madison decided to tackle the real problem: the weight of the lie.
She picked up the phone on a calm North Carolina Winter morning in mid-February, dialing the number to April's and June's apartment in the village. Next, she called Karoline, getting her answering machine. She left her the same message she had given April, "I'm flying in tomorrow afternoon. I have something I need to tell you. Meet me at Limbo on 47th Avenue at four o'clock. Madison knew how much Karoline loved the East Village shops, and the coffee at Limbo's was the best. It would be difficult getting the words out. She might as well have a sweet roll and a skinny latte to wash them down.
The flight to New York was uneventful, a simple seventy-five minute jaunt, up, level, down, that's all it took to move from stillness of southern life to the madness of the Big Apple. Madison hadn't even fully digested her peanuts before the fasten seat belt sign came on. The descent into LaGuardia mirrored the sinking feeling in her stomach. The truth, which had been just an illusion, was now moments from reality. She moved towards the baggage claim instinctively, standing for ten minutes before realizing she hadn't checked a bag. This trip was just a one day affair, all her necessities tossed quickly into her backpack.
Madison signaled a cab, staring into the New York skyline looking for the right words. "Karoline, April, June...there's something I want to tell you." No. No. "I guess you're wondering why I called you hear." Shit...too formal! "I wanted to say this for a long time..." Damn! The rehearsal not going well, Madison simply gave in to fate. "What will be will be," she said, as the cab pulled in front of Limbo.
Through the glass, she could see her sisters sitting there deep in conversation: Karoline in her Ann Taylor sweater, April casual and cool in black t-shirt and jeans, June expressing her artistic nature in some wildly expressive dress. Her sisters were so different on the outside, but they shared so much between them, Madison could never complete the picture. She thought about the days when they would sit and discuss their love lives, all the juicy details of their first times, the sensations of having another person's body next to their own, wanting to be a part of their conversation. She wanted desperately to understand their attractions, to experience their feelings, but always felt different. It was like wherever she turned, there was a reminder that the objects of her affection weren't what April or June or Karoline would understand. Now, the time had come for her to tell them the truth. She wondered, as she stepped out of the taxi, what life would be like for her thirty minutes from now.
"Hey sis," Karoline called, seeing Madison standing next to the hostess. "Over here!"
Madison moved methodically, filled with emotions in constant conflict. She watched April whisper something to June, a feeling of envy sweeping over her. Next, she saw Karoline get up, heading towards her like a crossing guard. A few deep breaths later, Madison had composed herself enough to speak. "It's great to see you. It's been a long time."
Karoline embraced Madison, genuinely missing her sister's touch. "Girl, I couldn't believe it when you called. What's up?"
Madison didn't respond, instead hugging April and June, then sitting at the table. She beckoned a waiter, asking for a diet Coke. "So, what's been going on with you?"
Madison shifted in her seat, the moment she dreaded but relished having come. She studied June's face and Karoline's for some evidence of knowledge, finding none. They had no idea what she wanted to tell them. Could she find the words to make them understand?
"Okay Mady, what's the big news," Karoline interjected, sipping on her latte as she asked the question, "What's so important you flew from North Carolina just to tell us?"
"Alright," Madison responded, "there is something. But listen, I don't want you, any of you, to react to this immediately. Think about what I've said before saying anything, okay?"
Karoline and April gave each other a confused look. "You're really starting to make me nervous," June added. "You've never been at a loss for words. What gives?"
Madison took a huge gulp from her diet Coke, spilling a little on the table, and then began. "I've always wanted to be just like the three of you. As long as I can remember, I've wanted to share the same feelings and thoughts as you all seem to share. You understand what I mean?"
April leaned forward, lines invading her forehead, "I thought we all shared everything."
June intervened, "Go on sis . . . continue."
"Well," Madison said, shifting in her seat, "since high school, I've known we were different. You and April and Karoline share something that I can never be a part of. I wanted to for a long time. I wanted desperately to be on your team so to speak. But, I always felt different. Do you know what I mean?"
Karoline looked at April and June, then back at Madison. "No Mady, I have no idea. You're talking in riddles. Did we make you feel left out?"
"No, yes, I mean . . . fuck, I don't know what I mean." Madison let out a few deep breaths. She could feel a bead of perspiration trickling down her face. "When I was in junior high, I realized we were different, I was different. All these years, it's been hard keeping this a secret. I thought you all knew anyway because it felt like you were always looking for ways to change me. But, when I went off to college, I realized who I am is okay. I'm not like you and April and June."
"What are you saying," Karoline said.
Madison pulled herself up, looking each of her sisters in the eye before breaking the news. She felt her breath getting shallow, her heart beating in triple time just the way it always did when she could see the finish line. She didn't know what would happen after she broke the tape, but this was one race she couldn't worry about winning. Biting her lip, Madison swallowed hard and said the words she'd been afraid to say all her life.
"I'm straight."
BEARING WITNESS
Kendra Harris talked endlessly about her mother. No matter the venue, the participants, or the mood, her mother always found a way into the conversations. She would hear herself saying "my mother's the greatest person on earth," or "I love that woman so much" or "she taught me so many things about life," and sometimes forget that others didn't share her experience. It seemed very few people had a mother they liked, let alone admired. Not Shane whom she met in Graduate School in 1999. Not Laura and Kayla, her oldest friends from North Carolina. Not even 80% of the students she now taught in her English classes at Branson Community College. It made Kendra wonder what her life would have been like without her mom, without the strength Della's (her mom's name, though she never used it out of respect) love had infused in her, without the basic foundation she provided Kendra from childhood to now.
Kendra, the forty-some-odd-year-old English Professor who wore only jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers, and still looked under 30, and still got carded, and lived in a $400,000 townhouse in the upscale community of Victoria Park in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, never forgot where she came from. She kept a picture of the less than modest 4 room house she grew up in on the wall in her office. The picture was black & white, appropriate, since there was a lack of color there as well. During a time when even most blacks had some luxuries, her family had no running water, no television, no electricity, and worse of all, no bathroom. Kendra often thought of the ominous outhouse in the backyard whenever she stepped onto the Italian marble tile in her bathroom or heard a toilet flush. Despite the lack of comfort in that house, she kept the picture to remind her of where she came from, of who she was, of who she had and could become.
She rarely gave it much thought, her childhood, as it just was. Every so often, something would spark a memory of it. Like when Hurricane Wilma hit last year and all the power went out. Kendra's mind went back to the familiar sweat of southern summers without A/C. Or, the time she read the label inside her t-shirt and for some reason the word cotton stuck in her mind, as she flashed back on picking the very stuff long before it every became a Hanes. Some memories were good, others not, and Kendra would pause at their passing, but never for long. Until, one day after discussing Alice Walker's short story "Everyday Use," the class conversation took a turn down that dirt road Kendra had walked everyday to catch the school bus. It took a turn all the way to the front porch of the "little pink house on the prairie" where Kendra grew up with her two sisters Sharon & Ann and her brother Daniel Jr. It took a turn smack up against the defining moment in Kendra's life. The moment where she saw beyond the here and now to the there and when.
Her students were an inquisitive bunch. So often Kendra would hear her colleagues suggest that students at community colleges had no potential, had no ability to learn or excel, needing courses to be dummied down. Kendra always rejected that notion and found herself with classes who challenged each other and herself. This class was no different. Dante, a 19 year old outspoken Hispanic kid, a lover not a fighter as he put it, and Celia, a 24 year old Jewish woman who'd lived a very colorful life, even spending several months in Israel at a time when exploding buses were not uncommon, were two of the students who kept class interesting. On this day, the topic had turned from the story to how black people could believe in God when they'd experienced so much despair, oppression, and poverty, since being dragged to America in chains. Even in 2005, Dante had said quite frankly, "black people are still being fucked over."
Kendra sat on her desk, letting her legs dangle; her eyes momentarily focusing on the Nike swoosh on the side of her sneakers. Twisting one of her dreads between her fingers, as she always did when she was deep in thought, she looked out at the class. There were the faces of her students, all ethnicities, all ages, all backgrounds, all waiting eagerly for her answer. "I can't speak for all black people," she said, "but I can tell you a story, a story about my mother, that might help you understand."
The class all nodded their heads, Celia and Dante yelling out in unison, "We love your stories!"
A reluctant smile crossed Kendra's lips. She closed her eyes briefly, as the moment came for all to
witness . . . . .
Growing up without material things may have made me poor, but in many ways I was wealthy because of the richness my mother bestowed upon me. Everything she did, from raising the vegetables in the garden, to kneading the dough to make biscuits, to washing me before I could wash myself seemed to transmit a bit of love and comfort into me. I have stored that love, that comfort, and even now when I'm a thousand miles from her, I feel it just as strongly. There are so many moments to draw upon, moments when life was harsh, but my mother's arms were soft. But, I remember one particular night, one particular moment, when there was no place safer, no place more loving, no place better, than my mother's lap.
It was a very hot night in mid-summer and for some reason the breeze hadn't come in weeks. Sleeping between my two older sisters increased the discomfort, my little body squeezed between them as they tossed and turned. My father, like most black men in the sixties, faced enormous oppression in his day to day life, his manhood minimized by the racist words and unequal existence that was the south. I didn't realize any of this until I went to college and got to know my father through the books I read about his life, so at the time I just thought he was mean. I saw him through five-year old eyes, and what I saw made me tremble. My mother was an angel to me, my father the opposite. So, on this night, when I heard the thumping and yelling from my parent's room, I envisioned Jesus and Satan doing battle.
When the noises stopped, I pushed my way up from the crevice between my sisters who could sleep through the second coming, and crept to the window which overlooked our porch. I knew my mother was there in the swing before I even saw her. I was a tiny person with big fear, so I tiptoed to the window, pushed up the pane, and climbed out.
The night sky was huge, bigger than usual, and a soft breeze had started to blow. "Mama," I said in a hushed voice, "Are you okay?"
"Kendra, child what you doing up," she said, her voice like music. When she reached her arms to me, I jumped in them, the rhythm of her heartbeat soothing and strong. "Don't worry about nothing," she said. "Yo daddy's just sleeping. I don't 'spect he'll wake up anytime soon."
"I love you mama," I said.
"I love you too child. Go to sleep now." As she said the words, her voice cascaded over me like rain drops on a summer day. I lay my head on her chest, her heart beating like the rhythm of the earth. My eyes grew heavy as my soul grew light, and she began to sing:
I'm coming up
on the rough side
of the mountain
and I'm doing my best to make it in. . . .
I lay there in my mother's arms, on her lap, looking up at her face framed by the moonlight. She had so much on her, raising four children, dealing with a husband who, though he loved her and us, didn't know how to handle the world we lived in, often resorting to violence when he couldn't find words to express his pain. Yet, she remained a calm place in the middle of life's storms. I looked up at my mother's face and saw the center of the world. The garden that grew in the backyard, that provided us with an endless supply of vegetables and fruit, grew because of her. The blanket she placed over me, tucking my toes under it to avoid the mosquitoes, was made by her hands and exuded her love.
That night, when I crept out my window and entered her lap, the breeze came and it seemed even the air recognized her power. I looked up at my mother through five-year old eyes, and I swear, I saw God.
Still Waters
Wayward bugs and the occasional chewing gum wrapper bombarded the windows of Jasmine's Wrangler as she weaved her way cautiously through rush hour traffic. Hurricane Irene was projected to brush the coast of South Carolina early Saturday morning before turning upward towards Georgia. The incredible lines in the grocery stores were a testament, Jasmine thought, to the gullibility and predictable behavior of most people. There wasn't an egg, loaf of bread, or carton of milk to be had anywhere by noon. Buying such things when severe weather threatened was an exercise in robot-like stupidity, she thought to herself. When the big one hit, would those who had a full cupboard be spared?
Jasmine chuckled at the thought as she changed lanes without a signal. The cursing and demonstrative gestures of the guy in the Bronco behind her went unnoticed as another bug met its death on her windshield. Jasmine had given a fleeting thought to buying groceries, but dismissed it as soon as the weathermen started interrupting programming during her lunch break. They always had the worst timing, this time pissing her off any more. Jasmine had been waiting for three months to see Lucky and Elizabeth get back together on General Hospital. When she got home, she knew she would have to zoom through endless interruptions on the tape of her soaps.
Thoughts of groceries reminded Jasmine of the pitiful state of her refrigerator. There was a lone slice of cheese, two beers, four Oreos, and a half-gallon of butter pecan ice cream. Jasmine didn't give going to the grocery store a second thought, though. She didn't worry about starving. When shit came to shove, she had someone she could always depend on for a smile and a home cooked meal. Living above a chef who happened to be one of her best friends was a luxury Jasmine couldn't thank God enough for. It was a lucky day, both for her and her stomach, when she met Dexter Payne.
A sudden burst of rain added to the mess Jasmine encountered as she rounded Peach Street. Unaffected, she ran a red light, the lone space in front of her apartment building worth the risk of a ticket.
"This is great," she muttered as the burst turned into a deluge. "I would leave my umbrella inside today of all days!" Even though her hair was in braids, Jasmine didn't relish the thought of getting wet. She could hear her mother nagging, "It's not like you're made out of sugar," in that whiny voice that made the hair on Jasmine's arms stand straight up. "You're NOT going to melt." The thought made Jasmine cringe before opening the car door and sprinting up the steps to safety. Just as she hit the last step, the rain stopped. "Perfect, just perfect," she uttered before stomping upstairs.
Life was like that, she thought as she navigated the four flights to her apartment. It seemed for the last few months she was always a step too fast or a step too slow. From the promotion at Hamburg and Scats that had gone to Marvin Adkins, even though she had two years seniority, to the loss of a $500 security deposit on a condominium ten minutes from Five Points after the place had been condemned by the city for unspecified reasons, to the break-up of her last relationship after only four weeks of commitment, Jasmine was feeling unlucky, unloved, and just plain un.
Jasmine tossed her keys on the foyer table, glancing at the mound of mail, mostly bills, before settling on the couch. She loved the feel of Italian leather, cool and strong, even though the price was one she really couldn't afford. No matter, she thought when handing the clerk at Ethan Allen her Visa, what's life without 14% interest? Anyway, the purchase was symbolic of her new found freedom and independence, though she hadn't quite figured out why.
"How's my baby today," Jasmine cooed as Still licked her face and then meowed fine. No matter what happened to Jasmine in the big bad unforgiving world, the unconditional love of her Persian cat Still could wipe away even the gloomiest days. Still looked into Jasmine's eyes like she understood her importance. "You want some treats baby? Yeah . . . yeah of course I brought you those Pounce things you like so much. Chicken flavor too." Still responded with an affirmative meow.
The sound of Keith Sweat moaning made Jasmine aware of the time. It was 7:30, the precise moment Dexter usually started feeling romantic. He loved him some Keith Sweat. Not the newer stuff, but the old butt swaying, pelvis grinding, begging then begging some more Keith Sweat. Jasmine laughed out loud as the song reached its conclusion and Dexter no doubt found himself giving his friend some special attention. Dexter Payne was her best friend, practically feeding her for the first six months she lived in the building, but he was just as hard up as she was when it came to romance. D., as she called him, could cook a meal that would make the Pope scream "goddamn" but he couldn't find a man. Life was so unfair, she thought.
Jasmine banged twice on the floor to let D. know she was home and in no mood to hear his music. Inside two seconds, he'd gotten the message and Keith was silenced for the night. After feeding Still the treats she'd picked up at the local pet store, Jasmine noticed her answering machine light blinking like a warning sign. She pressed the button hesitantly. "Hello Erica, this is your mother." (Like she couldn't recognize her mother's voice by now.) "Did you forget about dinner with Stewart Jackson tomorrow night? He called and said he hadn't heard from you. For goodness sake, don't blow this. You'll never meet a man as nice as Stewart. Don't break your mother's heart Erica. Remember, its 8'oclock. . .The Clearwater Bistro . . . and for goodness sake Erica, wear a dress . . . beep. . ."
Jasmine shuddered. She hated it when her mother called her by her first name. Worse than that, she hated to be fixed up. Maybe it was time to just come clean. Clean. What an odd choice of words, she thought. There was no reason not to be open, but still, she had chosen to remain silent. It wasn't because she was afraid of being rejected, as she knew her parents would love her no matter what. But the thought of the drama she'd have to endure, the continual looks to see if she'd changed, the sermons she'd have to hear from both her mother and her father, Jasmine thought why bother. But lately, she had begun to wonder just how much it was costing her to remain quiet.
The solitude of a long bubble bath brought a welcome distraction. After 45 minutes soaking in vanilla bath oil and listening to Nina Simone, she emerged refreshed. She moved to her bedroom, the coolness of black and blue always inviting, and slipped into her silk pajamas. She sank into the leather recliner by the window, not Italian but good enough. Outside, the rain had begun again. Jasmine listened to the sound for a minute, and then grabbed her copy of E. Lynn Harris' And This Too Shall Pass. "This nigga can sure write a good story," she said to Still.
Still climbed into Jasmine's lap, licked her face, and got comfortable to listen. I'm ready, Jasmine heard still meow. Four Oreos, a Michelob, and the last four chapters of someone else's love life . . . what a way to spend a Friday night.
Jasmine Waters never considered herself to be anyone special, just a regular girl from a regular family. Her father, Carl Edward, made over $100,000 a year and her mother Rovena didn't have to work, but Jasmine didn't feel particularly special or lucky. From where she stood most of her life, her existence was pretty damned ordinary. To hear her mother and practically every friend from elementary to undergrad tell it, Jasmine should have been on her knees thanking God she'd been born to such a well-to-do family. Funny, Jasmine thought, what exactly did they do well?
Carl Edward had spent the better part of the seventies laying the foundation for his rise at Cybetrix, the most prestigious computer firm in Savannah. He'd started as an intern out of Hampton, then moved to Systems Analysis, to Product Development, and finally: VP of New Technology. He'd always told Jasmine that no matter what the obstacles placed in her path, there were ways around and through them. She could hear his deep grainy voice now, "Erica, you can do anything if you just try. You just have to make a decision to take control of your life. Being Black is no excuse for being a failure."
Jasmine had heard the speech that followed so many times in her life, she had it memorized verbatim. Just the sound of Carl Edward's words and his superior matter-of-fact tone made her want to disappear. Each word he spouted made her feel smaller and smaller until there was nothing left except braids and a black spot on the floor. She wished she could stand up to him and tell him what she really felt. If only she had the courage to say . . .
The alarm clock's insistent racket awakened Jasmine from the nightmare she'd begun. The same dream night in and night out, what a drag. She stood up, stretching her arms behind her head. Still didn't move, only slightly annoyed by the 5am buzzer. She knew what Still was thinking, had worked out the dialogue some months prior:
Only a human would get up this fucking early on a weekend. Where
the hell is she going anyway. It's not like there's some woman banging
on her door or an overnight guest she needs to cook for. Why don't she
keep her solitary ass in bed? Thank God I'm a cat!
Jasmine smiled at the thought, half from amusement half from sadness. After all, Still was right. There was no one in her life now, hadn't been in months. Her life wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either. Nothing every seemed to change. There was no place she really had to get to. No fire to put out or start for that matter. She simply couldn't bear the thought of dreaming when sooner or later she would have to open her eyes.
The day moved slowly, time ticking methodically and loud. Jasmine felt like she'd been up for hours, yet the clock unmercifully read 9:45 am in bold red numbers. Ten hours and 15 minutes until the date. Why couldn't she just tell her mother to stop fixing her up? Everyone her mother chose was way off, even if she was looking for a husband, which she was not. They were all just clones of her father, conservative, white collar, private school educated, in short: bores. All they talked about was why the economy was in trouble or how "We got to learn to do for ourselves" or they would go off on some long monologue on how they pulled themselves to the top of this field or that. After five failed attempts at matchmaking in the last six months, Jasmine thought her mother would get the hint and give up. Unfortunately, Rovena Waters had too much invested in this dream of hers and no intention of letting go.
"So, Still," Jasmine said, rubbing the soft fur under her fingers, "What should I do to pass the time?" She heard Still's response loud and clear. "Okay, you're right. There's no use staying in here all day like some death row inmate. I might as well go down to the office and get some work done. After all, "there's no excuse for failure . . ."
Surprisingly, the day had been productive. She'd gotten a jump on the plans for an office building Hamburg and Scats were bidding on designing. This time, she was determined to be the one who landed the deal. D. would be coming home soon with his weekly grocery haul, and had called her to meet him downstairs. There were no signs of the "natural disaster" the weathermen had predicted as Jasmine emerged into the stillness of a southern evening. Typical, she thought, as she skipped over towards his car. D. struggled with eight grocery bags, no doubt filled with some of Jasmine's favorite things: shrimp, pasta, and Mrs. Paul's fish sticks. D. almost had a coronary when Jasmine told him about her penchant for MPF's as he called them, but friendship had gotten him over professional disgust. Now, no one cooked a processed fish like Dexter Payne.
"Hey sweet thang," D. said as he dropped two bags to give Jasmine a half-hug. "Girl, you looking mighty cute tonight. Don't tell me your momma set you up again."
Jasmine watched D. shake his head back and forth before responding, "You know it girl. My mama can't be stopped. Child, this time she set me up with some boring brother from Johnston Heights."
Dexter didn't respond immediately, his grocery haul the number one priority. Jasmine grabbed four bags and followed him up to his apartment. She watched as he put away the groceries. She didn't dare help as experience had taught her D's kitchen was off-limits. Instead, she plopped down on his faux-fur lounge and watched him put each item in its appropriate place. "I hate these dates D., but what can I do?"
Dexter breathed a few deep breaths before responding. "Tell the fucking truth girlfriend. It's 1997 for Christ sake. People been coming out of the closet so much, it ain't no thang no more. Don't you think you been lying about who you are for far too long? Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if your Mama didn't already know"
Jasmine stared intensely into the floor, sliding her feet back and forth across the shag. "There's no fucking way D," she said, punching Dexter playfully in the shoulder. "The closest my parents have ever been to a lesbian is watching Set It Off. You know that ain't the point anyway. I just don't need the drama."
Dexter stretched his muscular arm around Jasmine's shoulder, kissing her on the forehead. She nestled her head on his chest, always finding a safe place there. She loved the way he spelled, a mixture of Polo cologne and Italian seasonings from La Madre's, the restaurant where he worked. Dexter handed Jasmine a glass of red wine, sipped from his own, then said matter-of-factly, "Honey, that's bullshit."
Jasmine chose not to respond, the beating of Dexter's heart too soothing to give up just yet. She knew the voice anyway. Nothing she said now would matter because D. was in his "I'm right. Fuck you and the man you rode in on" mode. It was 7:15 anyway. Time to make her mother happy . . .
Jasmine arrived at the Clearwater at 7:58; As usual she'd just toed the thin line between punctuality and rudeness. She found Stewart seated by the window facing the street. "Good," she thought, "I can at least people-watch during this damn thing."
Just as she suspected, Stewart lived up to blind-date predictions. Not Jasmine's best date face or her attempts at serious discussion on the state of the NAACP helped. Stewart was beyond dull. He was immaculately dress (Armani Suit), perfect manner, impeccable background (Morehouse then Princeton), was rolling in money (Gold Lexus parked right outside), and was ready for commitment. Despite his accessories, he was dull as dishwater. He had a shiny exterior, but Stewart was empty as a balloon. All Jasmine wanted to do was pop him.
"Can I interest you in a walk in the park," Stewart offered oblivious to Jasmine's mood. "It's a beautiful night."
Jasmine feigned consideration as she reached down to get her purse. "That's tempting Stewart, but I've got to get some work done tonight. Would you mind if we cut our date short?"
"No, of course not. I understand ambition. I think it's very attractive, especially on a woman."
"Nigga please," Jasmine wanted to say, thinking better of it. "Thank you for a great evening, but I really must make a phone call now. Would you mind terribly saying goodnight here?"
"Maybe we can get together again," Stewart said kissing Jasmine like he owned her, "I'll call you."
Jasmine pulled out her cell-phone, dialing the numbers in rapid succession. She brushed his saliva from her lips, disgusted but not showing it. She could feel Stewart's eyes on the back of her neck as he paused before getting into his car. Men are such dogs, she thought as her answering machine picked up. He's probably thinking, "Next time I'm gonna get me some." Like there's gonna be a next time. The sound of her outgoing message ended Jasmine's thought.
Hi, this is J. You know the way. Leave a message. "Hello Still baby. Just checking on you. Mama will be home soon."
Still raised herself up on one paw, yawning. Damn...I was just enjoying the peace. Forty-five minutes! That's a new record.
Jasmine hung up her pretend call, glanced to make sure the coast was clear, then made her way towards the door. A carefree survey of the room stopped her in her tracks. "Oh...my...good...god!"
A simultaneous look and Jasmine moved swiftly, but not desperately, towards the bar. She put her had on the chair next to the most stunning woman seen in a long time. Her long black braids, natural hair no less, cocoa butter skin, and full lips created a picture worth risking rejection for. "Hi, is this seat taken?"
The voice that responded was equally as spectacular, "No. . . Sit."
"Thank you. Are you here alone?"
"Yes. You?"
"I am now. I'm Jasmine, Jasmine Waters."
"That's a beautiful name. I'm Raven."
"Raven what?"
"Just Raven."
Jasmine rolled over, Still licking her lips. The freshness of newly brewed Folgers met her nose as she slipped between dreams and consciousness. She knew her mother would be calling soon to find out how her date had been. Jasmine wondered, as she stepped onto the cool hardwood floor, which date she should tell her about.
Raven, what a perfect name, Jasmine thought as she made her way to the kitchen, turning off the coffee pot's timer, then filling a latte cup to the rim. Black, mysterious, smooth, those were adjectives perfectly fitting this woman she'd spent most of the night with.
After meeting at the bar, Raven had suggested they go across the street to Vibes for an open mike poetry reading. Jasmine, normally conservative and cautious, immediately consented, captivated by an unexpected connection. The Vibes was filled with people courageous enough to open their words up to strangers. Some, Jasmine thought, should have given in to cowardice. When Raven stood up to read her poems, Jasmine held her breath hoping they'd be at least palatable.
She was blown away. Raven's words were like music, thoughts Jasmine kept suppressed in her head, suddenly uncovered through the mike. It was like that Roberta Flack song "Killing Me Softly." Jasmine watched Raven's lips move, feeling the words as they escaped her mouth one bye one. "This is called Rendezvous. I hope you feel it:"
A sweet taste lingers on her tongue
like juice from long sucked berries.
She runs the tip over her lips,
more sweetness, ambrosia from the goddess.
Like a waltz, she slowly dances down.
Four part rhythms moving her along an unseen trail,
where moist walls await
in anticipation of her entrance.
A cool digit met with equal warmth,
melts deep below, embraced.
Trapped in a pleasant prison,
content to refuse the key.
"Goddamn," Jasmine whispered as she rubbed Still's fur, "Goddamn!"
The incessant ringing of the phone next to her bed interrupted Jasmine's memories. Before she could reach down to get it, the answering machine picked up. "Hey J, D.P here . . . I know you there girl . . . pick up the damn . . ."
"Hey D," Jasmine said, happy to hear his voice. "What's up?"
"What's up? What's up? Girl you know I always call to get the four-one on your dates. So what kind of brotha you get stuck with this time?"
Jasmine laughed, sitting her cup on the coffee table. Still moved closer not wanting to miss the conversation, let alone the warmth of Jasmine's hand rubbing her fur. "Well D, his name was Stewart. The typical kind of guy my mother dreams I'll marry. Rich, educated, good-looking. In short, boring. I wish she would get a clue."
Dexter kissed his overnight guest goodbye. James or John or something . . . he couldn't remember. "Listen J, you got to stop this nonsense. When are you going to find someone to be real with and stop living this fake thang you got goin' on. You need to tell your mama you ain't into guys. Better yet, tell your mama I am. Maybe she can hook me up?" Dexter laughed at his own humor, but he was serious and Jasmine knew it.
"Last night wasn't a complete bust," Jasmine added, avoiding Dexter's earlier questions.
"Oh yeah? What's her name?"
"How do you know I meant that?"
"Girl, I feel the heat through the ceiling. Come on, give me the dish."
Jasmine gave Dexter the pertinent details, getting his stamp of approval. "You go girl," Dexter had said before hanging up. That's exactly what Jasmine intended to do with this Sunday afternoon.
Jasmine stood outside the window to Café Roma searching for Raven. The entire drive over, she had prepared herself for the possibility that Raven would stand her up. The two had agreed to meet at three the night before, but Jasmine couldn't help but think it was all a ruse. A cruel joke played on her by the dating gods. She let out a sigh of relief to find the gods, for once, were on her side.
"Hi Raven," Jasmine breathed, as she slipped into the opposite chair. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
Raven smiled as she reached out to touch Jasmine's hand, "You thought I wasn't going to show up, didn't you," she said in clairvoyance. "It's okay, you don't have to respond. I know the answer by the look in your eyes."
Jasmine directed her attention to the latte she had ordered on the way in. She stirred the liquid with focused intensity before looking up. "I just like to be prepared for the worst, that's all. Call it a character flaw, call it experience, call it stupidity, whatever. I just think it's better to be cynical than sorry."
Raven laughed. "I like that about you already."
"What?"
"You are so honest." Jasmine cringed. "I knew last night you were someone I could spend time with," Raven continued. "Tell me more."
Jasmine sipped her latte before giving Raven the skinny. She delved into her adolescence, her loving but difficult relationship with her parents, especially her mother, the last few disappointing years at Hamburg and Scat, and Still. Raven listened like no one Jasmine had met before. Her eyes remained fixed on Jasmine's, following every word, every emotion. After Jasmine finished the microwave version of her life, Raven took over. Her story was different, more focused. The poetry reading at The Vibes hadn't been a one-time thing. Raven was well known in the spoken word underground from Atlanta to New York, and she was on the verge of breaking into the big time. A record label from New York was showing interest and in a month, Raven would be speaking her mind at the biggest venue in the Apple: the Apollo.
Jasmine listened to Raven talk about her life and suddenly she felt ashamed. She'd dreamed of building something all her life, but settled for working for others who built their visions of the world. She'd dreamt of loving someone openly and out, but remained closeted form those closest to her. She had something to share, to say, to do, but still found herself stagnant. Something in Raven's voice, in her being, made Jasmine want more. Something about her gave Jasmine courage. The courage to say "come home with me." Raven, already courageous, came.
Jasmine reached over to brush a stray braid from Raven's eyes. "Are you nervous?"
Raven took Jasmine's hand, kissing her fingertips before responding. "A little. But, once I get in front of a mike, the jitters seem to disappear."
Still edged her way up between Jasmine and Raven, looking for attention. Stroke my fur, she said with a low meow.
"Still is going to miss you while you're gone," she said rubbing her hands back and forth through Still's fur.
Raven added a stroke. This is the life, Still meowed louder.
"So, is Still the only one who's going to miss me?"
"Well, I guess I will too," Jasmine said with a devious smile, kissing Raven softly on the lips. "This has been a wonderful three weeks."
"Yeah," Raven agreed, "And there's more where this came from." She gently nudged Still off the bed, a sudden need to stroke something else. "I don't have to leave for two hours. Let's not waste the time."
Still sat on the floor, putting her head down to take a nap. Jasmine could imagine her thoughts: She got lucky when she met Raven. It's a good thing I'm a cat or I'd give her a run for her money. She giggled as Raven's lips touched hers again and again.
The smell from Dexter's kitchen was nothing short of heaven. Jasmine sat drinking in the aroma of collard greens, pork chops, and his famous corn bread. The growl in her stomach grew louder in anticipation of the meal. "So girl, tell me all about this Raven," D. inquired between turning over the corn bread and pouring the ice-tea.
"Child, she's like hot fudge on a sundae," Raven said as she sneaked a piece of cornbread before Dexter could slap her hands. "She's sweet, brown, and satisfying going down."
"You so crazy Jasmine. So, you like this girl, huh?"
"Yeah D. We clicked right away. I haven't felt like this in . . . I don't know . . . ever."
"Sounds like someone's got her nose wide open."
Jasmine slapped D. on his wrist in retaliation. "Listen here, I am not in love. I'm just in."
"Okay, okay. Whatever you say. So, you tell your mama yet?"
"Oh god, why'd you have to bring that shit up?" Jasmine said, taking a bite of her pork chop. "Can't I just enjoy this fabu dinner you cooked and thoughts of my new woman without you bringing Mama into this?"
"Alright girl, if that's what you want. But you know as well as I do that you can't keep this one to yourself. So, how's the food?"
Jasmine scooped up a fork full of collard greens, bit down on some corn bread, and took a big gulp of tea before answering, "You the man D. You the man!"
"Erica. . .Erica. . .I've been calling you for over two weeks. What's going on? Stewart called and said you never answered his messages. God Erica, do you just want to be alone for the rest of your life? Don't worry. I managed to get Stewart to give you another chance. Saturday. Ben Alexander's Grill. 7pm. Erica for the lord's sake, don't mess this up." Jasmine listened to the message, then hit delete. In a few days Raven would be back in Savannah. The thought of dealing with Stewart or her mother or any of the other men she could think to fix her up with was too much. "Still, I think I'm going to have to set my mother straight. What do you think baby?"
Still licked Jasmine's face, meowing loudly. Call her.
"You'll love me no matter what won't you girl?"
You know it, Still meowed.
"I should really tell her shouldn't I?"
I can't tell you what to do.
"Yeah, I know, it's my decision." Jasmine got up, put some treats in a bowl for Still and picked up the phone. "D, it's me."
"What's up baby girl?"
"I just needed some love right now, that's all."
Dexter kissed Kobe goodbye. "We'll hook up later okay."
"Are you talking to me D?"
"No, no. . .sorry. So, you're going to tell your parents the truth, huh?"
Jasmine checked on Still to make sure she was enjoying her treats. "How do you know these things D? Never mind. Yeah, I think it's time."
"It's the right thing to do girl. You know they might not do back flips about the news, but they'll accept it. As uptight as your folks are, they love you J. Ain't no doubt about that. And just think, you'll be able to bring Raven home to the folks. Isn't that what you want?"
"Yeah D, it is. But, you know as well as I do, it may not turn out that way."
Dexter licked his lips as he watched his new man Kobe drive away. Finally, someone worth calling a second time. He knew Jasmine was right, though. There were no guarantees when you told folks, especially black folks, about your sexuality, but who cares. You gotta be who you gotta be. "J, listen, I'm right downstairs if you need to talk or to eat or to drink or to whatever. I got yo back girl, you know that, right?"
Jasmine smiled realizing again how lucky she was to have D. in her life. "Yeah man, I know. Okay, I have to go. No time like the present to take control of my life."
"I love you J. Call me after okay."
"Yeah, I'll do that."
Still finished her treats, chicken and liver, yummy. Seeing Jasmine dialing the phone, Still jumped into her lap for support, purring approval. Stir up the Waters.
Jasmine listened as the phone rang, her mother picking up after two. "Erica . . . where have you been?"
"Hey mom." Jasmine ignored the question. "Is Dad there?"
"Yes, Erica he is, but . . ."
" . . . Mom, could you tell him to pick up the other line," she said, her voice strong and calm.
"Why Erica? What's this about?"
Jasmine rubbed Still's forehead, her purrs a comfort. "I need to talk to you both. I want to tell you something very important and long overdue."
"Okay Jasmine," her mom said, "your father's on the other line . . . we're listening."
Jasmine looked into Still's eyes as she began, "Mom. Dad. I've met someone . . ."
Still licked Jasmine's hand and then jumped down onto the floor. She curled up next to the couch, suddenly sleepy. The sound of Jasmine's voice cascaded down over her like a satisfying rain. Before closing her eyes, Still looked up and meowed: It's about damn time!
21 DAYS TO CRAZY (A NOVEL EXCERPT)
Reese Harris
I never thought it would end, especially not like that. Relationships come and go, no doubt about it, and I'm certainly not the first person to be blindsided by a tractor trailer driven by someone who was supposedly committed to me, but nine months ago, it sure felt like it.
From the outside, it seemed I had it made. I had just gotten tenure. My partner Angela and I had just moved into our dream home, a 2000 square feet townhouse overlooking the water in Fort Lauderdale. And, to top it off, we were planning an elaborate party to celebrate five perfect years together, confident it would turn into a lifetime (At least I was). I felt like Prince Charming sweeping his princess into the back of the carriage, winding their way up the hill to the palace. Funny, no one ever talks about what happens when the sun rises the next day and the fairytale ends.
What happened between the week before our anniversary party and today is mostly a blur. Some of it I don't want to remember, some covered by the amnesia alcohol can cause when consumed in large quantities. Not anything I really need to get into right now. Just suffice it to say, love can be blind, deaf, ignorant, and dumb. I must have been truly in love because in retrospect, I had all the symptoms.
Still, going through personal tragedy didn't stop the bills from coming, so life had to go on. I went to school every day, put on my Professor face and fooled the world for nine months. Hell, I could have given birth in that time. On second thought, in some ways I guess I did. Just to a new me, though I'm getting ahead of myself. You want to know how I came to be in this place right now, don't you? Well, that's complicated, so bear with me.
I was what you would call a people pleaser. I derived all of my pleasure in life from making other people happy. It was never something I saw as a bad thing. As a matter of fact, I thought it was one of my best qualities. Unfortunately, this was also my greatest weakness. For four plus years, Angela reveled in the gifts, the notes of poetry I slipped in her bag periodically before she went off to work, the way I made sure she came home to a house that was clean, how I took care of all the bills, cooked dinner, walked the dog. . . . on and on and on. Then, out of nowhere like a random lightening strike on a suddenly cloudy day, she tells me she's leaving. Not because she's found someone new. Not because I treated her badly. Not because she fell out of love even. The collective brick she bashed me with was that I did too much for her.
Funny, I thought, she didn't complain the day I took her into Emanuel Jewelers on her birthday and said, "pick out anything in the store." She didn't complain, when I was cooking dinner for her and her Law School friends so they could study for an exam. Funny, she didn't complain when I took care of the house, of Hershey, for two weeks while I worked two jobs, so she could go traipsing around the desert in Egypt in the middle of a school year. I didn't say any of those things, of course, because as I said before, I was in love, and this was the dumb phase.
So, despite the fact that we had purchased a house together less than two years before and our 5 year anniversary was less than two weeks away, suddenly Angela was not happy. Despite our understood vows of until death do us part, she decided she couldn't wait for death and split.
I didn't handle the destruction of my life well, to say the least, at least privately. I could go into gruesome details about the things I felt and did after she left, but this story isn't about all of that. I only give you this little bit of it because you need to know where I was, the emotional place, the feeling of rejection and disappointment, the cynicism I felt about life, about people, love, trust, and commitment, the sheer desperation and loss you can feel when the person you believed you would be with forever, that you loved without thought or condition, looks at you and says adios. Understanding where I was, I hope, will make it easier to understand where I am now. Where I was when Selena knocked on my office door and turned my world right side up.
I remember laying on my platform bed one night, the sound of a newly rented video muffled in the background. I wanted to watch the movie, some flick about a man wrongly accused, blah blah blah, turning into a super assassin, blah blah blah, a good guy who has to kill, blah blah blah. But my mind kept going there to that forbidden place. All I could do was stare at the ceiling fan above my head spinning rapidly until with one press of the remote, it slowly began to come to a halt. The blades once spinning into this amazing blur were now just normal ordinary everyday blades. Amazing what happens when something slows down.
I glanced over at my clock: 9:32pm and wondered what time it was in the air between Spain and America. I wondered what she was doing now. Wished I was next to her, holding her hand, reassuring her that the gentle movement of the plane was just turbulence, nothing to worry about. I tried to picture her sleeping next to some random passenger, her long black hair (just recently dyed the color from her original brown) cascading innocently over some man's shoulder, he reaching out to move the strands but unable to once he saw the beautiful face beside him. I allowed myself to think about her that way, despite all the reasons why I shouldn't. It didn't matter.
It was good that the trip to Spain came when it did. Time and distance was something I needed. It had been twenty-one days since I hugged her goodbye amongst what felt like a million people at MIA. Twenty-one days since she had gotten on that plane so excited, I could almost see the joy oozing from her pores. Twenty-one days since I had seen her smile, inhaled the scent of her body fresh like lavender and peaches, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. Someone else's life.
I grabbed a red pillow and held it hard against my chest, my eyes closed, pulling back the memory of the last time we were alone together. It was the night before she left. I had taken her out to dinner at Taco Loco, an inexpensive Mexican restaurant on Federal Highway. She loved the food there, but even more than that, it was the music that made her happy. Who knew a place that served the best tacos in South Florida also had the best music to eat them by.
As always, the food and company were good. There was something about her that put me at ease, made me forget the pain of the last 9 months, made me smile even when I thought I couldn't remember how. So, we sat there eating gringo tacos listening to Salsa music, laughing, carrying on like teenagers.
"I have a surprise for you," I said, leading her to my burnt orange Hummer, opening the door, watching her slip in with the silver container of leftovers safely on her lap.
She smiled, and said in her way, "awh, you shouldn't have."
"You don't even know what it is," I reminded her as I slipped into the driver's seat. "You might not even like it."
She leaned her head against my shoulder, "if it's from you, of course I will."
I drove the three minutes from the restaurant to my house in silence, but the noise in my head was like a block party. "Don't go there, don't go there, don't...." Before I knew it, we were in my room, on my bed, her sinewy fingers tearing off the paper from her present, pink paper just for her.
"Oh god Reese, this is too much," she said, pulling the Nikon digital camera from its case. "I can't believe you did this."
"Take great pictures in Madrid," I said. "If you do, it's like I'll be there too."
"The first picture I want to take is of you."
"Well, I already charged the batteries, so snap away."
Selena took the picture, admiring her handy work on the camera's screen. "I'll take this with me, but I wish you were coming," she whispered, propping herself up on her elbows, her brown eyes looking so deep into mine, I thought I might drown. "I wish I could share this all with you."
I didn't say a word. Not because I couldn't think of any, I just couldn't put the letters together. Before I could do anything, she was so close to me I could feel her breath across my lips when she said, "Make love to me."
Those were the words that crossed that invisible barrier separating us. The one that defined Professor/Student. The one that was sane. As soon as the words left her lips and met my ears, the air between us seemed to be sucked out of the room. I wanted to say this is inappropriate. I wanted to say, we can't go there. I wanted to pull upon my professor voice, stern but understanding tone, articulating each syllable of my reply, responding in a way that defused the emotional bomb about the explode between us. I tried to be mature, reasonable, strong, but I couldn't. Maybe I just really didn't want to.
She stood there in front of me, the smooth skin and firm curves of a 21 year old body, offering herself to me, and I couldn't stop the words that came from my mouth . . .
What happened after that is hard for me to say out loud. But, I need to. I need you to understand; I need to understand myself. But before I do, I have to go back.
Back 21 days . . . before crazy.
\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*
The sound of the rain was deafening, like a rapid fire of bullets against a metal wall. I sank down in the cool leather chair waiting for the calm that always followed the storms. This time, though, there was no calm in sight.
Thoughts of Selena pushed their way through the storm in my brain, melting my resistance with the warmth of memory. I knew I shouldn't think of Selena that way, but didn't try to resist. After all, Selena was the one who had been the aggressor. She made it clear as crystal that she wanted to be thought of that way, wanted so much more. Maybe too much.
Sometimes I forgot the age difference between us. It wasn't apparent to people passing us by, seeing us smile at each other like lovers with a secret. No one would suspect our real dynamic while watching us giggle over copies of my poetry or the fact that Selena was wearing the black Chuck Taylor's I bought her for her birthday (the same pair I owned in a bigger size). It was a good thing people were blind.
The night we went to see Why Did I Get Married at the Swap Shop Drive-In (one of the last real drive-in theaters in the south), I knew I was taking a risk. Sitting in my Hummer, there would be little space between us. Once the lights went down, it would feel like there was no one there but us, the tint on the windows enough to create the illusion of privacy. I couldn't be sure my voice of reason would be louder than what I wanted. Selena was already touchy feely when we were together, even out in the open. Parking lots at school, my office, restaurants, at the mall. She had no real problem letting me know she wanted more than friendship. The drive-in was the last place we should have gone together, which is precisely why that's where we ended up.
"Can I have some?" Selena reached over into my lap where the popcorn sat, the butter dripping from the sides of the tub.
"It looks like you answered your own question," I said, only mildly kidding. "You can have anything you want."
The look on Selena's face said it all, and I knew I had just experienced a Freudian slip. I watched Selena lick some of the residual butter from her fingertips, and for a moment, I felt myself melting, wanted to melt between her lips, have Selena melt . . . .
"Where did you go," Selena asked, catching me staring, her lips shining from the wetness.
"Just thinking about a story I need to teach."
"Fact or Fiction"
"A little bit of both."
In many ways my life felt like a novel, no like a horror story, over the last few months. I would wake up every morning thinking today's going to be the day things get better. The day I no longer feel like my insides are gone. The day I can smile and mean it. Every day, I was wrong. Sure, I had managed to pull myself together out of the chaos of suddenly lost love, had found a way to go to work, hide the tempests inside, show the world the calm self-assured person everyone had come to know. But, it was getting harder and harder to keep up the front. There were moments when I felt like the world had literally stopped spinning or maybe it was still turning on its axis, and I was the one who had stopped. Whatever. The outcome was the same; I was going nowhere.
Spring Break was a day away, an X marked on the spot on my desk calendar like the north star to a runaway slave. If I could just make it to that day, the pretense could be dropped. It was exhausting trying to portray happiness six hours a day, to feign joy, disguise pain, and lie about the dissolution of my relationship. One more day, and I could peel back the mask like removing makeup and reveal all the scars and wrinkles underneath. One more day and I would be happy to finally be able to be unhappy.
"Good Afternoon, this is Professor Harris, can I help you." I heard my voice, the positive, happy way I answered the phone, and I wanted to throw up. No one could possibly imagine how devastated my life had been in the last few months. On the one hand I felt proud of how strong I was to be able to come to school with a smile on my face and fake enthusiasm in the classroom, but at the same time, I felt weaker than spaghetti against hurricane force winds. I wanted to be able to say fuck it, when my relationship fell apart. When I looked in the mirror in the morning, I wanted to say "Reese, you can go out and get any woman you want, why are you crying over this bitch?" I wanted to say a lot of things, but I couldn't. I was still stuck in the muck of lost love. Still waiting for Angela to come to her senses. Still waiting for the phone to ring. The bad thing about waiting, though, is there are so many hours to fill and nothing to fill them up with.
Despite the blurriness with which I met every morning, I was grateful to have somewhere to go. I loved teaching, loved the students, loved everything about being a Professor. I would shed the weight of woe I felt as soon as I pulled into the parking lot of Warford University. I felt like a dysfunctional Superman, my cape had been clipped, but I could still put on the glasses and function as Clark Kent.
"I'm sorry, you have the wrong number. Let me transfer you to the right place." Wasn't that just the way? I could feel myself sinking into that abyss that always teetered right on the edge of my consciousness, waiting for silence and inactivity to suck me in, when someone knocked on the door. "Come in," I said softly.
The door eased open, and Selena Castle, a student from last semester's African American Literature class stood at the threshold of the door. I was fortunate that many of my students kept in touch with me after classes ended, sometimes just to say hello, others to ask for letters of recommendation. Once in a while, former students would turn into future friends. Selena didn't really fit either category. During classes, she was always prepared, sat in the front row, had interesting things to say about the work we were reading, but she was just another student. It wasn't until one of the worse moments I had during that semester that Selena stood out. It was actually an afternoon much like this one.
I was sitting in my office trying to talk myself into getting in the car to drive home. The thought of it was especially oppressive, and I felt such guilt for my inability to separate my lives. I wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something, break something, certain I couldn't keep up the charade I was living a minute longer, when I looked up and Selena was at the door. She was holding a box with a bow around it. "Hi Reese, (all students called me by my first name), can I come in?"
"Sure," I said turning my chair towards the door. I pulled out the chair reserved for students, and said, "sit down. What brings you by this late in the afternoon?" It was 2'oclock on Thursday. The next week was Christmas Break, so I was surprised to see a student at my door.
"I wanted to give you something," Selena said, as she handed me the box. "It's not much, but I thought you could use them."
"Peanut M&M's . . . my favorite."
"I know," Selena said smiling too. "You seemed so down today in class, I just wanted you to know that the whole class was sorry we disappointed you."
I wanted to keep up the pretense, the scenario I had created to cover up my inability to hide my emotions that day. I had walked into class on Thursday morning frazzled. The night before, I came home to find all of the bedroom furniture gone along with half of the office Angela and I shared together. Angela had moved out two months before, but hadn't taken much that I could actually notice on a day to day basis. I wasn't prepared to actually see the emptiness I felt. It's hard to explain the impact of putting the key in the door of the home you once shared with your "other half" only to find a single desk, where there were once two. And if that wasn't enough, to walk up the stairs to the bedroom where you fell asleep every night content, convinced the person next to you would be there forever, only to find an empty space, with the exception of a single lamp unplugged and on the floor.
I spent the night on the couch with Jack and Heineken, only closing my eyes long enough to have the pain seep into my dreams. When the alarm on my phone went off at 6am, I had barely slept and was probably still drunk. So, I took a long cold shower, drank three cups of black coffee, jumped in my car and sped the 5 miles down 595 to school just in time to make it to class. What I didn't have was time to change. Superman with a hangover entered the classroom. Before I could sit down and put on my "professor face," Jacob Allen said, "what were we supposed to read today?" I was already on the brink emotionally, and I could feel the tears pushing closer and closer to the surface. I didn't want them to see the state I was in, so I flipped it around, and berated the entire class for not being prepared. I don't even remember what I said exactly, but at the end of it, I remember saying, "Everyone can go. There is no class today. Come back ONLY if you are ready to take this seriously." Then, I got up and walked out, the tears following closely behind.
I didn't say any of this to Selena at that moment of course. She was, after all, a student in my class, and frankly, I didn't want to admit my relationship had failed. I still wore the eternal love bracelet on my wrist, diamond encircled platinum, like a fetter. Still spoke about myself as part of two, not a fractured one. Still believed my own lies. So, I thanked Selena for the thoughtfulness, took a deep painful breath, and forced my body into my Hummer and headed home. That was then.
Today, Selena was expected. After our class ended, we had kept in touch over email. Early in the semester, she had an opportunity to go to Madrid with the school, so I wrote a letter of recommendation for her, and she got a stipend to pay for it. That's what she wanted me to know that afternoon. She wanted to thank me for helping her. As she sat there beaming with excitement about her trip, the glow she put out only magnified my lack of light. I couldn't hide it. Couldn't fake it. Just couldn't.
For some reason, I felt the urge to explain. To come clean to this person sitting across from me. Maybe, I was just tired of carrying the burden alone. Maybe I was just ready. Whatever the case, when she asked, "What's wrong? You look so sad," my mouth opened and the truth came spilling out.
About the Author
Eunice Hargett is the author of two novels: Like Molasses in the Wintertime and Jigsaw, and two collections of poetry entitled It's About Love and Shit and blackout. The latest novel 21 Days to Crazy will be available in late 2011.

