Vulnerable

by Bonita Thompson

  It had turned very cloudy, and the intensity of the sky made the island look dark and somber while he sat in the sports bar. On his way home he stopped at G Street Wok for Chinese, a noisy, disorganized and always busy take-away. It was the third time that week he had stopped off for something to eat. Earlier, he was thinking how ridiculous his routine had become: dateless nights, going to bed alone, and eating take-away meals from a carton or that he pulled from a paper or plastic bag. Sometimes leftovers he heated up in the microwave.

  Not long after the school year ended, he found himself signing on to the Internet and having conversations with strangers in chat rooms, starting to rely on pseudo connections instead of developing companionship he could actually touch. At some point it became obvious to him that he began to depend too much on the Internet. Rawn decided he was turning out to be like too many people who fell into a trap and had become socially isolated. When he was with himself, he was fine with that. He did not feel desperate or lacking during times of solitude. But Rawn stopped going online to chat; he no longer wanted to get too involved with, or devote time on, the lives of people he most likely would never meet.

  He always missed teaching during summer recess.

  Being alone was not his choice. Rawn resented the options that were accessible to him. Every single woman he met was too this or too that. She was not only this or only that; she was too something: too chatty; too insecure; too self-conscious; too soulless to retain his attention. While he might have been, as his mother claimed, “too picky,” he was not looking for “the one” necessarily, so he was not as choosy as his mother might have suspected. It did not matter how the relationship, brief or otherwise, evolved; the woman had to hold his attention. Even his friend Khalil, who would lower the bar if he did not want to sleep alone, agreed it was getting more problematical to find a woman who could maintain a man’s attention for any length of time. It could have been the lack of ambiguity, he was not sure. The last time Rawn was in L.A., Khalil told his best friend: “Man, there are some fine women in L.A. Milk chocolat, dark chocolat, nutmeg, cinnamon, cappuccino, vanilla, caffé con leche…But once I get laid, look, I’m done…” Except in Rawn’s mind the single lifestyle was a scary, shot-in-the-dark place to be these days. For Rawn, meeting someone in a bar or club and taking her home for a night of casual sex had become—complicated.

  Trying to find a single woman without children who was likewise smart was a challenge for a single man, especially for a black man. And a woman who was engaging and thought-provoking was equally tricky. A good example of the woman he enjoyed spending time with was Sicily, who was his closest friend in Seattle. Her organic looks alone could pique the average man’s interest. Like-wise, Sicily was intelligent, creative, and captivating. Perpetually, Rawn met women who came across confused, or had an androgynous nature: she was curious about being with other women or she was not sure how she felt about men. With a Ph.D. in psych-ology, Sicily once told him there was something in his attitude—something in his psyche—that drew those types of women into his life. The few blind dates that had been set up by informal friends, by the end of the second date, any appeal that was there had worn off and Rawn did not feel the need to see her again.

  He learned that in one split-second life could be like a strand of yarn that came loose from the sleeve of a sweater. It was the morning he received a call from his mother that forced him to evaluate all the stuff he tried to avoid over the past two years. He was sitting in his office grading papers, and when her voice greeted him, Mrs. Poussaint chose not to beat around the bush. Rawn was always asking his mother about Janelle, the woman he had planned to marry after graduate school. Mrs. Poussaint sensed her son’s conflict with Janelle because he cared deeply for her, but his love for her was not the same as her love for him. When he broke things off, Janelle was beside herself.

  “I read it in the Post over the weekend, Janelle’s getting married.”

  “Married?” Rawn was on his feet before he was aware he was even standing. “To…. Who is she marrying, Mama? It’s not some- one that I know?”

  “I think he’s a Johnson.”

  Not that his being a “Johnson” meant anything to Rawn.

  “William graduated from Penn. He’s a specialist, but I can’t recall what kind. Your father knows him.”

  He’s a doctor? Was he older than Janelle?

  He was not altogether certain if his mother was trying to make him feel jealous or angry, or was this her way of nudging him to finally get over the fact that he ended things with Janelle and broke her kind heart. The truth of the matter—Rawn did not know what to say. He never saw it coming. And even if there were warning signs, he had no idea his reaction would be so—well, visceral.

  “I guess she went on with her life. After all, it’s been…what, nearly two years?”

  More accurately, one year and eight months. Was that long enough to have met and fallen in love with another man? They were once best friends—they were lovers—for four years. They had been publicly engaged. She found—met—someone and fell in love that quickly? Then he was never the right man for Janelle.

  “When is Janelle getting married, Mama?”

  “In May. I suspect you’ll get an invitation. After all, you two have managed to remain friends.”

  “That would be great,” he purposely exaggerated. The news—the blow—was horribly physical. Rawn tried to steady his thoughts. He believed in Janelle; he cared about her. Except the word care, in comparison to love, was small. His leaving Denver, his hometown, and moving on without her was likewise releasing her so that she could explore and grow and experience a sense of individuality. And perhaps some time down the road they could find each other again. Destiny, fate, that sort of thing. They were young, and they had no idea what it was truly like to know themselves or experience the many possibilities that were out there—in the world. Janelle felt more safe than right. Rawn craved a kind of raw love, or was it lust? It was not that he was being insensitive; he had absolutely no idea how it would affect her, but he admitted to Janelle what he wanted and needed. Rawn would never forget the look on her face when he ended it.

  “I suppose she’d invite you to the wedding,” his mother said, but he could read between the lines since Rawn knew all too well how his mother thought. It sounded more like, Do you think you can actually sit through her wedding?

  “I’m happy for Janelle. She must have found what she needed. Janelle wouldn’t marry if it wasn’t right.”

  So the Doctor—a “Johnson”—from Penn would take her to Africa. She would finally see the Ivory Coast, Liberia, Uganda, Niger—and there was Mozambique, where Janelle was dying to go, and where she could speak French. Although Rawn grew up speaking French with his Haitian grandparents and with his Creole family in Louisiana, Janelle had an ear for languages and she spoke French as well as, if not better than, he. They had planned all kinds of trips to places like Paris and Cairo and Budapest right after Janelle was established as an attorney and when Rawn finished grad school. But somewhere along the way, things changed. Forthrightly, Rawn’s feelings changed.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Rawn?”

  That motherly tone yanked him back into the here and now.

  Rawn felt the wailing in his throat; a knot caught at the base, and when he swallowed, it seemed only to make the knot grow, like a tumor developing into an incurable cancer. He wanted to scream at his mother: Hell, no! I am not okay! Why did you call me and tell me this? On the other hand, Rawn understood that his mother was only giving him information that he would eventually become privy to on his own.

  “Mama, I need to go. Tell Daddy and Tera hello. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “ ’Bye-bye, Rawn, dear. Take care of yourself. We love you.” He couldn’t bear to remain on the line and listen to his mother’s oftentimes long-winded farewell.

  His concentration had been destroyed, his nerves shattered. He was wounded by the news of Janelle’s pending wedding.
He had no idea she was seriously involved with another man. As much as he tried to deny it to himself—and in the months leading up to his mother’s call, he had entertained the thought—a part of him had wanted Janelle back.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The temperamental Pacific Northwest sun that tranquilly blended in with steel gray hue defined the sophisticated suite at the Four Seasons. Tamara’s eyes popped opened and she was immediately aware that Henderson was already up. He sat in a chair on the other side of the suite looking over papers. While his back was to her, his body language warned her that Henderson was in a solemn mood. It was not like they did anything, so he had nothing to feel guilty about. She was over Henderson, and Tamara was not fully aware of it until she slept next to him and felt absolutely no urge. While Henderson was over Tamara as much as she thought she was over him, he did not have the same willpower.

  Tamara decided some time ago, hands off—no married men! How many failed marriages did I have a hand in? She pressed her eyes shut, trying not to think about how she most certainly had a hand in nearly ruining Henderson’s marriage. Of course there had been other women besides her, but it was Tamara’s relationship with him that did the most damage. It did not cost him financially, but it took everything he had emotionally to save his high-profile marriage. Henderson fought hard and fought dirty. If Daphne were to leave him, she would need to be very vigilant and maintain a steady look over her slender shoulder because he was a payback kind of guy.

  Like Tamara, Daphne went by one name. She was the ex-supermodel, and the woman Henderson loved beyond any other. The one he chased from one continent to another until he persuasively romanced her away from a British rock star. Daphne stayed in their shattered marriage. But not for the sake of their children; she certainly did not stay for Henderson. Rumor had it she remained in their marriage because she abandoned her own identity to be his wife. Dutifully, she sat at home games and looked breathtaking; looked stunningly gorgeous through three pregnancies despite having gained over thirty pounds with each—the third and last finally producing a son. Ten years ago Daphne was huge! Her earnings provided her with an apartment that offered views of Manhattan’s skyline and the East River, a condo on Wilshire Boulevard, west of Beverly Hills, and an apartment overlooking the Seine. She had not only a career; Daphne was equal to Henderson and all but as controversial. One could only imagine the bitterness she must have felt being placed in the position of being gossiped about because of her husband’s notorious infidelities; the fact that she had to compete with his stable of one-, two- and three-night stands. She was now Mrs. Henderson Payne, and the attention was less on her, something Daphne struggled with, because the public interest was almost always on him. Tamara could only imagine that she resented being her husband’s public appendage. Daphne could not go back to the visibility she had as an in-demand runway model. Not only was she ten years older, likewise she was no longer waif, or what she was referred to back in the day—heroin chic.

  Tamara played with the idea in her head: Why can’t I be attracted to people who are emotionally and psychologically available? Why can’t I like—or fall for—people who liked—or fell for—me? Henderson’s theory still stuck in her head four years later: Daddy issues.

  “Hey, baby,” Tamara said.

  Henderson looked over his shoulder, and instantly his grimace turned into his trademark grin—a set of naturally white and even teeth—was all she even noticed. He is so damn fine. Why are the fine ones always complicated, married, tragic, vain and emotionally bankrupt?

  “Hey,” he said back. Offhandedly, he reached for his classy watch on the table and looked at it fleetingly. “I can’t miss my flight. Are you hungry?”

  “Tea sounds delightful!”

  “Do you mind taking me to Sea-Tac? You know what to do with my ride.”

  Henderson was bare-chested and in a pair of silk pajama bottoms. As a rule, he slept in the nude, even on the road. Actually, hours ago, he took Tamara by surprise when he slipped on the PJ bottoms before he crawled under the fine bedding that draped over the king-sized bed. When he rose from the chair, Henderson reached for paperwork that he had been studying soberly when she disturbed him, and said, “Order me something, okay? I’m in the shower.”

  “Okay,” Tamara said in a subdued voice. “Bacon or sausage?”

  “Surprise me,” he said with a wink.

  Tamara waited until she heard the shower water running before she pulled herself up with her elbows. She squinted at the slice of calm sunshine trickling into the large suite; the bank of ominous clouds that attempted to take over the sky disappeared, at least for the meantime. Tamara noted the time on Henderson’s cellular.

  Hastily, her feet met the soft carpeted floor. Clad in a black lace thong and bra, she slipped into her outfit from the previous evening. She checked herself out in the mirror and finger-combed her cropped hairdo. She looked closer at her image in the mirror. “Oh, God. I’m starting to look…my age. How much longer can I hold the attention of a man like Henderson?” Is he still attracted to me or am I nothing more than familiar? I’ve been hearing lately that thirty is the new forty?

  While walking across the suite to her heels at the foot of the bed, she used her fingertips to remove any sleep in the corners of her eyes. She wet the tip of her pinky and wiped mascara that smeared beneath her almond-shaped eyes. Tamara tucked the heels under her armpit and reached for a pen and scribbled a note to Henderson on the hotel stationery: I’m running late. I need to meet a client. Bisous-bisous.

  Outside his hotel suite, she slipped on her sandals and eagerly trotted to the elevator. Waiting in front of the elevator doors, she thought better of leaving the way that she had. She told herself if, at the count of five, the doors did not open, she would go back. At three the elevator arrived. When the doors closed, in an explicit voice, Tamara prayed: “God, I need you to help me out. I can’t get caught up in drama anymore. Don’t put me in the same place and at the same time with men like Henderson again. Send me a man who’s available—not only physically, but emotionally.” Just when the doors opened, she finished her prayer with a frantic, “Please!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The day was as clear as crystal, and the sky a stunning cobalt blue. Heading eastbound on the twin bridges, the tranquil color of forest green and spots of clouds in the distant horizon blended exotically into one. Imani was hitting about 57 miles per hour when she had to brake fast to keep from slamming into the Land Rover ahead of her. Instantly, the early day traffic began to swerve right and left like there was an earthquake rattling the floating bridge; automobile after automobile came to an abrupt, screeching halt. Imani feared the possibility of the Armageddon at some point in the New Millennium, so she freaked! Catching her breath, she studied the road ahead, trying to ascertain what had happened. She had not heard anything on the radio that would indicate there was a pileup, not even a fender-bender. Through her rearview mirror, she witnessed dozens of cars lined up behind her, and in the accompanying lane. She was running late. I need to break down and buy a cell phone. She switched off the “smooth jazz” station—the music was a distraction. Trouble started barking at a kid making faces at him in the car next to hers. “Shush!” Imani snapped at Trouble. “Stop it!” Trouble ceased barking for a few seconds before he began barking again. “Trouble!” Imani was getting testy and annoyed. She knew she should have left Seattle sooner, but that was not the real issue. From the time she got out of bed she was feeling strange. The elusive sensation reminded her of the day her mother collapsed and Imani called 9-1-1. Within minutes of reaching the ER, her mother’s life—her life story— ended.

  It was simply not avoidable; Imani had to look at the time. I should have taken the ferry. She stretched her torso to get a better look, but cars spread beyond what her eyes could perceive. It was not like she could just pull off at the next exit. Over 6,000 feet above Lake Washington, the closest exit was a good mile, and she could barely see the exit sign from her van
tage point. Trouble barked again. Imani turned and snapped, “Trouble! I mean it, stop barking.” Her warm brown eyes darted to a little boy sitting in the passenger seat in the SUV next to hers, sticking his tongue out at the Afghan hound. When Imani caught the little boy’s eye, she gave him a long stare and held up her hand which implied stop! The kid, reacting like a child whose hand was caught in a cookie jar, snapped his neck in a new direction. Imani exhaled deeply, leaning her head against her fist. The sailboats dotting the aqua-blue body of water caught her eye. Wetting her lips, she cut her eyes away from the sailboats and tried to stay calm. “Come on! What’s going on up there?” Only moments later did she hear a helicopter overhead which made her say to Trouble, “It’s serious. Trouble, and we’re so late!”

  Ninety minutes later she dashed into her Pilates studio, and the receptionist stopped her with, “I take it you didn’t get my message?”

  “Trouble!” The Afghan hound sat obediently. “What message? No,” Imani said. “Take care of Trouble for me. Did Patsi take my one o’clock?” Imani dropped her tote to the floor.

  “No, I mean yes. But…Imani, you got a call. Something’s happened.” The receptionist reached down to smooth Trouble’s soft coat of sable-colored fur.

  “Okay, but…How about my twelve o’clock? Who took over the class?”

  The receptionist reached for Trouble’s collar. Her look was a mixture of dismay and empathy. “I wish you’d gotten my message.”

  Still annoyed for having to sit on the floating bridge for nearly two hours, Imani snapped, “What message?”