CHAPTER TWELVE
The sky was heavy while a dense, temperamental sun shifted through thick and dark clouds. From the corner of his eye Rawn could see a squirrel perched on the windowsill. He reached for the Sunday P-I and began to flip through it, tossing Parade, Pacific Northwest and endless coupons to the floor, and skipped to the sports page. He spent all morning reading and grading eighth-grade essays. Their minds were clever and sharp and he marveled at their wit. Was it the access to so much information, and by merely clicking a mouse, that made them more informed than he was at thirteen?
When they were engaged, Rawn and Janelle agreed to a plan: establish themselves in their respective careers, travel and then purchase a home. Both came from tight-knit families, so for them having children was a done deal. Rawn understood it so plainly now: he was not ready to be married, and certainly not emotionally ready to raise children. How many men met a good woman but at the wrong time?
When the telephone chimed in the distance, he dashed for the ringing cordless on his desk in the kitchen, and anticipated—hoped—that it would be D’Becca.
“Hello!”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
His face relaxed. “Hi, Mama. You know your timing’s always good.”
Rawn cherished talking to his mother. Their conversations were more like two friends and less like mother and son, and Rawn’s day was fuller after their talks. Yet it was not his mother’s voice he had so wanted to hear.
“I can’t believe I caught you. It’s been rather difficult to catch you these days.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Why should something be wrong? Because you’re grown doesn’t mean I can’t still worry about you. I’ve gotten no calls…”
Rawn butted in with, “I’ve had a hectic few weeks, Mama. Since school started, my schedule’s been all over the place. With the events committee meetings the first weeks of school, and then… My schedule’s all nice and neat now…my calendar’s more predictable.”
“You don’t do so well with predictability.”
“Is Tera still in London?”
“She’ll be back next week. By the way, she said she had dinner with Khalil.”
“Yeah, he breezed through here. He mentioned they hooked up.”
“Who is she, Rawn?”
“Excuse me?” Unconsciously, he frowned.
“You’re always distracted when you meet someone new.”
“Mama, come on. That’s not true.”
Mrs. Poussaint exhaled. She said to her son, “Ask anyone who knows you. Ask your father! Ask Tera or Khalil. What’s your good friend’s name there—Sicily? Ask her. You get distracted every time you meet someone, even if it’s not serious or doesn’t lead anywhere.”
Rawn was not going to have this conversation. D’Becca was not someone he needed to discuss with his mother.
“Okay, you’re going to do the silent treatment bit with me. I didn’t call to dig into your love life, Rawn. I wanted to let you know before your father called so you wouldn’t be blindsided.”
“Blindsided about?…”
“He’s going to be in Seattle.”
“Where’s Daddy now?”
“He’s in Portland on a consultation, but he’s speaking at a medical convention in Seattle.”
“And when will Daddy be in Seattle?”
“He’ll call you. He’s probably only going to be there overnight. Although he might stay an extra day if it doesn’t rain. He’ll want to play golf.”
Rawn took a deep breath. “I assume a round of golf won’t kill me,” he said sarcastically.
When he finished talking to his mother, Rawn flicked the channel to the first of two football games he had planned to watch. Second quarter was just starting. At half-time he dashed to Fred Meyer for groceries. By the day’s end he was bored and it was not altogether clear to him at the time, but D’Becca’s presence had reshaped his life. When she was not in town, there was a palpable void. When exactly did that happen, he wondered.
• • •
Rawn met his father at Pier Eleven on a cool and misty Friday evening. They embraced and Stephen Poussaint eagerly began to discuss the conference in the city, and how he wowed Seattle’s elite medical community with his powerful speech. He was a man with a demanding presence. When Lady Sings the Blues was a hit film, Dr. Poussaint was often told he was a striking resemblance to Billy Dee Williams. He was tall and large, and Rawn’s cognac-colored eyes were identical to his father’s, except mellower, kinder. Dr. Poussaint was barely a teen when his parents left Port-au-Prince and made their way to America. They settled in New Orleans.
His father gripped his son’s forearms like he so often did with Rawn. It was his way of testing any control he might still have had over his son, even now when he was his own man and chose his own way in life. He said, “Didn’t I see you a month or so ago?” With a curious brow, he concluded, “Something has changed.”
Laughing, Rawn said, “Come on, Daddy. I made reservations at Rochelle’s.”
Holding each other with manly affection, they walked the pier toward Rawn’s parked Jeep.
Rochelle’s was a popular cuisine on Crescent Island. It attracted clientele from Seattle, Bellevue, and even as far south as Tacoma. Nestled at the end of an abandoned cobblestone street, the best way to secure a table was by reservations, but even then it was a hit or miss. Regulars typically did not bother to reserve a table. The restaurant was semi-full, and Rawn and his father talked through their meals and were now waiting for Rawn’s dessert, the restaurant’s popular soufflé, and Dr. Poussaint’s double-shot cappuccino. Rawn knew that his father had avoided the conversation about his continuing to work at Gumble-Wesley Academy. For months he tried to talk his son into taking tenure at university. Preferably Stanford; it was Dr. Poussaint’s alma mater. But Rawn preferred guiding young minds along the path of knowledge and fresh wisdom.
“So what’s Khalil up to?”
“He was here. Did Tera tell you that when she went over to London they had dinner?”
“She said they went clubbing, too.” Dr. Poussaint reached for his glass of sparkling mineral water.
“I take it you missed that article of him in Savoy?”
“Your mother mentioned something about that. Something to do with his being one of the top twenty-five sports agents in the country. How many black sports agents are there anyway?”
“I have no idea how he managed it. But he’s representing Henderson Payne now.”
Dr. Poussaint finished his glass of carbonated water. “I knew he’d land in a spot that would exaggerate his relevance. Khalil has balls but lacks substance. He’s so much like his father.”
With downcast eyes, Rawn chuckled merely to appease Dr. Poussaint.
“You know, his old man and I bet…it had to be about ten, twelve years ago, which one of you would marry first.”
“Surely you didn’t bet that I’d marry first.”
“Actually, I did. And this was before you and Janelle were engaged. Khalil is…” Dr. Poussaint smirked. “So cocky. You, Rawn, are more… You’re like your mother.”
“Is that supposed to be a bad thing? Because your tone suggests that it is.”
“My tone suggests no such thing. That’s your problem, Rawn. You analyze too damn much. Get out of your head every now and then.”
Rawn reached for his lemon water and took a long gulp.
“So, who’s this young lady you’re seeing?”
“What makes you think I’m seeing someone?”
“Your mother, she’s the one who believes you’re spending time with someone. Of course I told her it was not possible because it wouldn’t be like you not to share something like that with me. But the moment I saw you at the pier, I knew.”
“You knew what exactly?”
Dr. Poussaint looked over his shoulder like he was looking for someone. “Where’s our waiter? I asked for a cappuccino ten minutes ago. Didn’t you order des
sert?”
“The soufflé’s made to order. It takes about twenty minutes. You should have ordered one. It’s good.”
“So where do you think they had to go to get some espresso, Italy? Anyway, I’ll take a forkful of yours if you don’t mind.”
Only moments later the waiter arrived with Rawn’s soufflé and Dr. Poussaint’s cappuccino. “Here you go,” he said, and placed the dessert and creamy espresso on the table. Attentive, he refilled Dr. Poussaint’s glass with mineral water. “Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re fine. Thank you.”
Dr. Poussaint took a good and slow look around the restaurant.
“Bon appétit!” said the waiter.
When the waiter departed their table, Dr. Poussaint said, “We’re the only black people in here.” In a condescending tone, he added, “Well, there’s a busboy!”
“The last time you were here you liked your meal. I thought…that’s why I made reservations to guarantee we got a table.”
“What the hell do you see in Crescent Island?”
Crestfallen, Rawn picked up his fork and started to eat the decadent soufflé.
• • •
The mist from the previous evening produced a striking turquoise sky the following morning. While the air was brisk, it was a stunning fall day. Rawn took his father out for breakfast at Café Neuf, and even though he played golf only when he went home for visits, he decided he could manage a round with his father who played as often as his hectic schedule permitted. Rawn and Khalil never took to golf like their fathers. For Rawn, after twelve holes, he was ready to end the day. The sport was such a bore.
Growing up, golf was how Rawn and his father bonded. He was barely seven the first time his father took him to a golf course. He was a caddie for his father and his colleagues one summer, but by age ten, Dr. Poussaint had his son on the practice range. Rawn could never quite connect with golf, but intuitively he understood being on the golf course was where he spent the most intimate moments with his father. A neurosurgeon, Dr. Poussaint saw little of his children, Rawn and Tera, while they were growing up. Rarely did Rawn see his father at the dinner table or share breakfast with him. It took years to ascertain that it was common for children not to share breakfast and dinner with their father, although the reasons often varied. Were it not for Rawn’s bogus interest in golf, he might have spent less time with his father as a boy.
Before taking Dr. Poussaint to Sea-Tac, he agreed to meet with Sicily and her friend at Union Square Grill for dinner. Rawn, Dr. Poussaint, Sicily, and Sicily’s friend Lorraine were seated at a table in the crowded downtown Seattle restaurant waiting for their orders. Dr. Poussaint flirted harmlessly with Lorraine.
“What do you teach at the university?” Dr. Poussaint asked.
“Comparative literature.”
“What exactly is comparative literature?” Sicily mocked.
“Daddy, did I tell you Sicily wrote Opposites Don’t Attract!?”
“You mean that Broadway play, back in the—it had to be, what, ten years ago?”
“That one.”
“Rawn never mentioned you were a playwright. I thought you were…Was there not some scandal or controversy over the issue of nudity in Opposites Don’t Attract!?”
“In the beginning I guess it was somewhat controversial.”
“It seems I read in Ebony, or somewhere… Did you not fall ill?”
“Daddy…”
“No, Dr. Poussaint’s correct. I didn’t have a nervous breakdown as was erroneously reported in various publications. I was extremely exhausted and needed to…I decided to go back to school. I loved that time in my life, but it was… It was a stressful life. Not to mention, public. You have to be emotionally prepared for that kind of life or it will…let’s say, trick you.”
“I remember it now, yes. In fact, Rawn’s mother and I tried to get tickets. Twice when we were in New York, but it was sold out.” Somber, Dr. Poussaint leaned forward, the gossip surrounding Opposites Don’t Attract! coming back to him unmistakably now. “Yes…you were celebrated. I remember reading about you. You were young—in your twenties when you wrote Opposites Don’t Attract!, were you not?” Dr. Poussaint looked closely at Sicily.
She nodded and reached for her wineglass, diverting her eyes. She met Dr. Poussaint only briefly a year ago. But Sicily understood from conversations with Rawn that his father was censorious, and he sat across from her and gave her that look—like he was critiquing her.
“In your twenties? I didn’t realize you were that young, Sicily,” said Lorraine.
“What? I’m old now? It was ten years ago.”
Contentedly, Lorraine laughed and reached for her wineglass. “I actually caught Opposites Don’t Attract! I haven’t been to New York in years. Is it still on Broadway?”
“It ended its run about a year ago. Rent’s a hot ticket now.”
“So, Rawn, Sicily tells me you’re dating a model. Would I know her?” Lorraine said.
“If you get sexy lingerie catalogues in the mail.” Sicily chuckled.
“You’re involved with a model?” Dr. Poussaint inquired.
Rawn eyed Sicily briefly. After a few seconds slowly passed, he met his father’s chestnut eyes.
“Why would you deliberately lie to me?”
Rawn reached for his glass and took a gulp of the liquor.
“You told me last night you weren’t involved with anyone,” his father said.
“I wouldn’t use the word involved. I’m seeing her. It’s not serious.”
“How can you not be involved if you’re seeing her? Your generation… Who is this model?”
“You wouldn’t know of her.”
“Is she famous?”
“What exactly does that mean?” Rawn said, irritated.
“Is she successful? Like…what’s that model’s name?”
“Naomi Campbell?” Lorraine asked.
“No, the other one.”
“Tyra Banks?” Sicily said.
“Yes, her. That’s what I mean by successful.”
“How can you determine someone’s success when you relate it to fame? Fame is not what it used to be, Daddy. Success and fame aren’t synonymous.”
“You’re patronizing me. You know damn well what I’m getting at.”
“Actually, I’m not sure that I do.”
Sicily and Lorraine were gradually but surely growing uncomfortable.
Sicily, making every effort to be discreet, eyeballed the lively restaurant. Dr. Poussaint was a man of great accomplishment. Only twenty at the time, he marched with Dr. King in ’63. Before he was thirty-five, he had performed brain surgery on a few men considered to be among Colorado’s business elite. Although naturally classy, his charisma transformed into street in one split-second. Not his demeanor necessarily; it was his tone—hostile, belittling. He still had a few scores to settle in life. Sicily analyzed—that type of attitude went way deep.
Her eyes low, Lorraine nursed what was left of her drink. She contemplated on whether she should call for the waiter and order another bottle.
“Is she making a living strictly from modeling? Can she take care of herself? Because if she’s unable to take care of herself, she’ll eventually depend on you. Women like that…they’re shallow and uneducated. They get caught up in drugs and have no self-respect. They’re narcissistic.”
“Daddy, that’s…You don’t even know her!”
Dr. Poussaint studied his son. “How old is this model?”
“What difference does that make?”
“How old is she?” Dr. Poussaint snapped.
“Thirty-seven,” Rawn said, and he exhaled a deep breath.
“I thought models were over the hill by thirty!”
“I’ve met D’Becca. She hardly looks over the hill,” said Sicily, eager to rotate the tense energy at the table by using a bit of off-handed humor.
“Where does she come from, Rawn? Who are her parents? And why isn’t she here
with us this evening?”
“She’s out of town.”
“How convenient!”
Before the meals arrived, Sicily was beginning to feel embarrassed for Rawn.
When their meals did arrive, Lorraine breathed a sigh of relief while Rawn pressed his back against the booth. It was difficult to determine if he was humiliated or merely perturbed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Who was Narcissus?” Rawn asked.
By the very fact that he did not direct his question at anyone in particular, the students knew their laid-back teacher wanted someone to open the discussion. Rawn spent less time testing his students than he did engaging them with fervent dialogue. He loved a good debate.
“He’s like this Greek god or something…and he was very beautiful,” a student volunteered.
“Okay,” said Rawn. He stood in the front of the classroom dressed casually in Tommy Hilfiger, his arms crossed. “Is that it?”
“He was in love with his sister.”
“Really?” Rawn said.
With a shrug, the student said, “Yea-uh!”
“Does anyone else agree that Narcissus was in love with his sister?”
“It depends on how you interpret it, right? I mean he loved her and maybe his feelings were intense. You know, intense for the love of a sister. But I didn’t get it—that he was in love with his sister. You know, the whole Narcissus thing is about him being in love with himself. That’s crazy, right? Because I don’t know anyone who’s in love with themselves.”
“I was more interested in Ovid’s interpretation,” said Richard.
“Who’s Ovid?” a student blurted out.
Not only Rawn, but every other student looked to Luce, a student on scholarship at the Academy. Although she had great potential, Luce had family problems which led to her extreme distraction at school. Her mother and father were going through a very messy divorce and she bounced between homes. All the teachers gave her the benefit of the doubt, but the Academy was a school that prepared its students for Ivy League universities. By ninth grade, each student at Gumble-Wesley had already read a handful of classics. Luce was not prepared to go to ninth grade. Rawn made every effort to work with her, but there was not enough time and attention from him or any other teacher. Luce was confused, and emotionally scarred with a low attention span.
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