Vulnerable

by Bonita Thompson

  Peter, who sat next to Luce and often ate with her during lunch recess, spoke up with some reluctance. “Luce! You know, Ovid had his own take on the whole Narcissus myth.”

  “Oh,” Luce said, and went back to chewing on a fingernail.

  Rawn winked at Luce and said, “Thanks, Peter.” He walked to the aisle where Luce was seated and said, “Luce, tell us about Echo.”

  It was not Rawn’s style to ask a particular student a question. He allowed each student to participate or remain anonymous. For those who chose to sit in silence, he judged them more harshly during tests and mid-terms. Every other student in the class leaned forward. Not so much because they wanted to hear what Luce had to say. No one would disagree: Luce was naturally gifted, which was how she managed to get into Gumble-Wesley. It was because she made the grave mistake of asking a ridiculous question, which led Rawn to believe she had not done her homework.

  “Echo. She was in love with that faggot! She was so in love with the idea.”

  Luce’s friend, Peter, was amused.

  Rawn, standing nearby, nodded. “So, who believes that Narcissus was homosexual?” Rawn was not particularly pleased with Luce’s answer because it would open up a subject he was not prepared to discuss.

  “Homosexuality” was a hotbed topic for thirteen-year-olds. More often than he cared to, he pulled himself back when he sensed he went too far. Rawn understood the importance of emotional intelligence and taught within that framework. He urged his pupils to be curious about what obstacles try to teach you, and to respect diverse ideas and viewpoints. It was important, he often reminded them, to travel, be curious about the world, and to read lots of books. Generally he was conscientious whenever he insinuated his own ideas on his students.

  “It’s a Greek thing,” a student blurted out. “Every Greek story there’s some kinda androgynous stuff going on.”

  “I want you to write down ‘androgynous’ on a scrap of paper, and I want you to tell me what you think it means. Hand it to me before you walk out of this classroom,” he said to the student.

  “The tale is confusing,” another student said, picking the topic back up. “I’m not sure I understand it.”

  “It’s a metaphor,” a student interjected.

  Snickers came from a few students.

  “One thing Greek fables teach us, Mr. Poussaint. They sorta reflect where our head is at different places in our culture,” offered another student.

  “Really?” Rawn walked back to the front of the class. “How’s that?”

  “Narcissus was awed or whatever…When he looked in the lake and saw his reflection, he was like confused and at the same time so blown away at himself. Think about it. Celebrities are a lot like that. Confused with their fame and popularity. You know, trying to reconcile with the whole why me? because of who they really are underneath the façade. I’m sure there’s unresolved stuff going on; like self-doubt. You know, they ask themselves: Why am I so special; what have I done to deserve all this attention? But they’re also like awed by it all at the same time. We’re the ones putting them on pedestals. We’re as confused and awed as they are. It’s crazy. Image. Awe. What does it all mean? That’s kinda what I got from Narcissus.”

  “You’re suggesting that we pump famous people up at the expense of ourselves,” Rawn suggested. “Okay. But let’s not forget the idea of Greek myths,” he said. “Narcissus is one of many.” Rawn leaned against a wall, his arms crossed. “The story of Narcissus stopping to drink water from a lake and seeing his reflection for the first time and being awed by the beauty he sees reflected in the lake—is he spent by his own beauty? Is he the object of his own desire? Is he simply overcome: By an idea, a revelation?” Rawn walked to the center of the classroom. “I want you to really consider the myth of Narcissus in modern popular culture. Craig hinted at it when he brought up the whole concept of image and celebrity, and the subtext that surrounds each. Give me your ideas—knock out three, four pages—of how you see where Greek myth has an influence in modern culture. Choose quotidian influences: the Internet, styles, music. Literature.”

  • • •

  Rawn left the faculty doors on the east side of the Academy, and what immediately grabbed his attention was D’Becca’s sporty Beamer. She took up two spaces in the visitor’s parking lot directly in front of the school. It struck Rawn that she was audacious, if not presumptuous, enough to show up at the Academy. While walking toward her car, he thought it through what he might say to her. Yet as he got closer, he felt a warm sensation flow through him, followed by a sense of raw pleasure.

  The hood to the Z3 was down, and a winter-white silk scarf draped over D’Becca’s head of pulled-back hair and swung loosely around her neck. She could pull off that Audrey Hepburn influence rather well. Rawn bent down and kissed her feverishly; his mouth had the taste of hunger.

  “I’m so glad to see you.” The softness of her olive-hued eyes gave Rawn reason to believe she was quite sincere, and she missed him as much as he had longed to be with her.

  “Are you?”

  A quizzical brow elevated, as if she were questioning him questioning her.

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice soothing and calm.

  Rawn pulled up behind D’Becca in front of her townhouse. On the way to her place, he tried to resolve in his mind what exactly made her suddenly decide at this particular time to show him where and how she lived. They did not make it to the front door before Rawn was partially undressing her. D’Becca’s anxious fingers fumbled with the keys to get into the townhouse. When the door opened, he eased her to the maple-colored hardwood floor and lifted her long and snug-fitted Lycra skirt above her hips. With the heel of her leather boot, she attempted to close the door, but her concentration was hopelessly distracted.

  She was not wearing underwear, which gave him easy access. Every inch of him stimulated D’Becca—he had such rhythm. His thrusts were hard and deep. She bit his chin where a scar—which he received after falling from his skateboard when he was eight years old—left a subtle impression. When his breathing became heavy and his heart rate intensified, she began to feel a thrill, a rush, and her moans were soft and sounded like sad cries of a wounded animal in pain. He moved his mouth to hers.

  She ripped opened his shirt. When she caressed his nipple gingerly with her forefinger, although a different size, texture and color, it was as ripe as her own.

  He went limp inside her. D’Becca whispered, “I missed you.” Her heartbeat was short and swift, and her inhalation and exhalation, long and vigorous. “I missed you.”

  • • •

  The first signs of morning sun irradiated the moss green-shaded room and it was flooded with vivid harvest daylight squirting through shuttered windows, each marginally ajar. It was remarkable that the sun was so sharp; winter was only a few weeks away. Rawn awoke to the aroma of strong caffeine and moved his arm limply to touch D’Becca. Her side of the bed was empty. Although he knew that D’Becca jogged five miles several mornings per week, she had a way of disappearing before he woke up. Because he was a light sleeper, Rawn decided when she got out of bed, she purposely tiptoed, and went wherever she went—some secret life she guarded. He never bothered to bring it up, because when she left his place, what she did on her own time had not mattered; not really. He lifted his head and looked around the bright room. After taking a shower, he went downstairs with his usual morning energy, a towel wrapped around his trim waist.

  “D’Becca!” he called out, and out popped her cat. Rawn forgot the feline’s name. “D’Becca!” he called once more, going from room to room.

  The townhouse was roomy with an elevated ceiling. It was a personally decorated place with art D’Becca carefully selected by talented, albeit struggling, artists, and some she herself sketched. When she was a child, she used to draw and thought she might one day go to someplace like Verona, where Romeo and Juliet fell in love, or Florence and be a starving artist. Growing up an only child in a small town, wi
th parents too emotionally damaged to demonstrate their love, the idea sounded exciting. D’Becca could not wait to traverse famous bridges and see up close and personal all the extraordinary landmarks she read about in paperback novels. But like many things, the idea did not stick with D’Becca. Her talent was strictly dilettante, but she had each artwork—landscapes and mountainsides—preserved in oversized frames that took up two walls. Another wall exposed her work as both a print and catwalk model. In her youth—before her life started getting crowded and out of balance—D’Becca was striking and work was so easy to come by. Back then she had no idea she had taken that time in her life for granted—young, eye-catching, street-wise with a hint of naïveté. Rawn was amused by D’Becca’s art. He entered the kitchen to get a cup of whatever he smelled, and the aroma floated throughout the townhouse. After pouring the French pressed coffee into one of D’Becca’s European-styled cups, he returned to her bedroom and dressed.

  On the drive back to his place, he could feel a gnawing, a sense of frustration he had not been aware of before; although it was too concentrated to not be something that began a while ago. If it had been with him here and there, he was not in the right place to face it until now. D’Becca’s presence, slowly and quietly, re-arranged the patterns of his daily routine, and his life adapted to her schedule. While she was out of town, he analyzed the pros and cons of their relationship. But it was not until his father inquired about his intentions as far as D’Becca was concerned that he began to examine it, or them, with any real sense of focus. He had been too obsessed with the desire and the need; the very thought of anything else with D’Becca was beside the point.

  It struck Rawn how soon into a relationship one partner or another began to fantasize if the relationship had the potential for marriage. Based on people he had known, he came to understand they did not take the time to learn basic facts that, in the long run, would eventually have an impact. For example, what would you die for? What is your deepest desire? What does money mean to you? Would you consider adoption? Do we share the same values and morals? No matter what, can I—will I—be not only satisfied but faithful to this person forevermore? Have you ever donated sperm to a sperm bank? Let’s get tested?

  More often than not, people rarely dug into such details. Perhaps because one would assume such specifics would be shared without having to be elicited. In his mid-twenties, Rawn began to understand why so many marriages failed, and it was perhaps what scared him when he was engaged to Janelle: the fear of not living up to the man she thought he was. Should their relationship not succeed, Rawn would spend the remainder of his life struggling with that failure.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Yeah, I’m meeting up with an old friend. She’s here doing this whole book thing.”

  “You sound like you don’t want to go,” Henderson said.

  “That’s not true.” Tamara was unaware of the defensive pitch in her voice.

  “What did she write about?”

  “A few years back she wrote this book and for whatever reason people bought into whatever the hell she was writing about. I guess this one’s on the same subject.”

  “Which was my question: what’s the book about?”

  “Hell, Henderson. I didn’t read the book.”

  “You said this was a friend of yours?”

  “We were roommates when we were at Barnard.”

  “But she’s a friend, you say?”

  Tamara sighed. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You guess? Damn, girl, don’t you know?”

  “Okay, she’s a friend. Why are we having this conversation?”

  “You can be selfish when you want to be, you know that? Why exactly did you not support your friend’s book?”

  “Now that she’s got this whole following, I guess I need to check out what the fuss is all about, huh?” Her laughter was hearty, but exaggerated. Tamara painstakingly spread lipstick on her slender lips.

  “It was good spending time with you in Portland. If I didn’t do it then, I want to thank you, T.”

  Tamara had Henderson on speaker. She stopped admiring her reflection in the mirror and her eyes darted to the receiver hanging in its carriage. “What’s going on with you?” Tamara pressed her lips together to blend two shades to get the ideal color scheme she wanted: subtle henna. Back when she lived in Amsterdam, she bought a brand of lipstick not available in the States, and the color was called Perfectly Perfectly Berry. Tamara was unable to find it online. On several occasions when she was in New York she stopped in Sephora hoping to find a color as close to Perfectly Perfectly Berry as she could get. It would seem that the shade was apparently no longer popular. That never stopped Tamara.

  “What do you mean, what’s going on?”

  Tamara took a long appraisal of herself in the mirror. She dropped the two tubes of lipstick in the bowl stacked with assorted shades of lip-color. She picked up an eyebrow pencil, and before enhancing her eyebrows, said, “Are you and Daphne having issues again?”

  “We agreed we weren’t discussing Daphne anymore.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. But correct me if I’m wrong: you two are having some disagreements?”

  Henderson heaved. “You must be PMSing. I’d better let you go.”

  “I must be? There was a time when you knew. Where are you, Henderson?”

  “What difference does it make where I am?”

  “Are you at home?”

  “No, I’m driving down Crenshaw.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon. I need to go,” she said with a hint of attitude.

  “Ciao bella.”

  With her hands on her hips, momentarily Tamara stared at the receiver hooked inside its carriage. “He’s tripping,” she said to herself.

  Elliott Bay Books was in bustling Pioneer Square. The bookstore had regular readings and book signings, and authors of every caliber were honored to headline at Elliott Bay. Despite the opening of the mega bookstore Barnes & Noble in Pacific Place, the independent bookstore retained a strong following. When Tamara entered Elliott Bay Books she was taken aback at the swarm of people. The reading was held on the lower level, but the crowd waiting to get downstairs met her at the entrance. Damn! Are these people here to see Pricilla?

  “Excuse me,” Tamara said, making her way to the staircase that led to the bottom floor.

  “Where does she think she’s going?” one woman said.

  “She has nerve!” said another.

  “Hey! You have to get in line.” A large-framed woman stepped out of the queue and gave Tamara the look.

  “The author’s my best friend,” Tamara remarked arrogantly. She was even shocked to hear those words caress her ears as much as the women who heard her speak those words. She never thought of Pricilla as her “best friend,” even when she was the only close female friend Tamara had. On some level, Henderson must have known that, which could have been why he pressed her about Pricilla in their conversation earlier. When she managed to squeeze her way down to the bottom floor, Tamara’s eyes had to be deceiving her. Every chair was taken, and there was barely enough room for standing. I know I’m not standing. Tamara heard something about having to turn people away by a passing bookstore employee. She worked her way into the café to order tea. The queue was long. She met Pricilla’s picture at the entrance, and her “best-selling” book supported on an easel-like thing. Still, she could not help but interrupt two women waiting on line in the small café to make double sure she had the right bookstore. “Are these people waiting for the author?”

  “Yeah,” said the woman.

  “Uh-huh, girl,” said her companion.

  “Pricilla Miles?” Tamara tilted back a bit, her body language suggesting no way!

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you two waiting for the author?”

  “Yeah, but they told us we have to stand. We RSVP’d, too.”

  RSVP’d?

  • • •

  The luxury of living in Pioneer Square was the i
dea that everything was convenient. When she first moved to Washington, Sicily looked at several high-rise condos on Crescent Island. The island had some of the most stunning views, but nothing really moved her. Besides, while Crescent Island was extremely attractive, quite picturesque, even, she wanted to be in the midst of urban life. After looking at a number of short-term apartments on First Hill, Sicily’s realtor called her with a steal: a loft being sold by someone who capitalized off the tech boom and made a fortune. His startup demanded his time in Silicon Valley full time and he decided to let the loft go. It was an “attractive deal.” Sicily was not looking to buy right away. She wanted to get a feel for the Seattle neighborhoods, and decide where exactly her soul felt most serene. But out of curiosity one early Saturday morning, she met the realtor at the loft, and once her eyes touched the stunning, sprawling living room windows, she had to catch her breath. Not to mention the flock of boats sailing along Elliott Bay, and the view—Sicily was in love. Emotional investments were always chancy, and she would have to readjust her cash flow, no doubt. She called her business manager to see if she could make the investment. What attracted her to Pioneer Square was how much it reminded her of Lower Manhattan, in subtle yet striking ways. The baroque buildings, the undeniable charm, the faux European influence. When it did not rain, horse carriages were parked along First, or strolled along the square with sightseers in tow. In spring, the cherry blossoms that lined the square left a hint of its subtle scent on the mild, clean air.

  It was a dry night. Having dinner alone at a neighborhood bistro was beginning to be the norm. Sicily did not mind an occasional night alone, but when it was the rule more so than the exception, it cut deep. With six billion people pulsating on the planet, no one—not one person—should be alone. Wandering along Second Avenue, she decided Rawn was right: I’m pickier than he is. But was that why she was alone? Was it because of her intense selectivity or was it simply that she had not met someone that made her reevaluate the way she looked at the world?