Vulnerable

by Bonita Thompson

  “Good evening,” a gentleman exclaimed, crossing Sicily’s path along the semi-busy sidewalk.

  Somberly, she said, “Good evening.”

  Since Rawn met D’Becca, she could not rely on his companionship in the same way she had in the past. Even when he dated other women, it never interfered with the time they shared. But D’Becca was another matter altogether.

  The square was energetic, principally because the night was dry and reasonably warm. When the weather turned cooler and it rained at least one part of the day, the square was less saturated. The homeless headed for the nearby overpasses to sleep. On impulse, she decided to grab something hot at Seattle’s Best Coffee. She talked herself down at the bistro, even when she had a taste for the three-flavor three-layer chocolate cake that along the way became known as the triple shot. Usually Rawn ordered the cake and she would nibble on it; enough to satisfy her desire for something decadent.

  Before she stepped off the curb to cross the street, Sicily rubbed shoulders with two women that did not blend in with the usual foot traffic. She made an effort to maneuver between them.

  “Excuse…” Sicily began to extend an apology until her eyes met one of the women.

  “Well, hello!” Tamara said.

  Sicily was annoyed by the very fact that, on two separate occasions when her path crossed with this woman, she became uneasy. “Hello.”

  “Didn’t I see you at Kingfish?” Tamara inquired.

  “Oh, right! You have a long memory.”

  “Hi, Pricilla Miles.”

  Sicily and Pricilla exchanged casual handshakes.

  “The author?” Sicily asked.

  “The author, yes.”

  “I have your new book. Well, I haven’t gotten a chance to read it. But I ordered it on Amazon.com a few nights ago.”

  “Tamara.”

  “Sicily.”

  “Hey, we’re going to the Library Bistro for drinks. Join us,” Pricilla said.

  “Oh,…”

  “We’re meeting a few of my friends. Come on. The more the merrier.”

  “Yeah, come along,” said Tamara. “Pricilla has to do an interview. She promised the Seattle Times journalist fifteen minutes. And because she’s the type to show gratitude, she’s even invited a few diehard fans who are meeting us there. Come hang, it’ll be fun.”

  “Unless you have other plans…” Pricilla said.

  “Hey, why not? I can spare some change.”

  “Fabulous!” Pricilla swung her wool scarf around her neck. “This is what I love about Seattle…”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Did you love her?”

  Blaine was sitting at the edge of the antique bed bench, swirling a spoon in a large soup bowl of hot and steamy homemade minestrone. Finally, after weeks of sleeping an hour here, thirty minutes there, Imani was starting to sleep longer through the night. If she slept three hours without waking up, she was doing good. Kenya had called Blaine two weeks ago and said in a frustrated voice, “You have to do something. She’s staring her life away. She owns a business, Blaine. She can’t stare out the window of the loft like time stopped because our father died. She’s got… You have to do something. She’ll listen to you. Please!”

  Blaine, a financial advisor, commuted between Boston and New York. He was in his Boston office at the time Kenya called him. He had said he would try to get back to Manhattan by the weekend, but Kenya had been pushy and persistent. “Look,” Blaine had said. “I care about Imani, but there’s nothing else I can do. She has to go through—she has to grieve on her terms.”

  “Did you love her?” Imani asked.

  He avoided her question. “You’re awake.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “Soup’s going to get cold.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “You need to eat.”

  “Did you love her, Blaine? Why can’t you answer the question?”

  “That was years ago. Aren’t we past this?”

  “Did you love…”

  “Yes. Yes! But not in the way you think.”

  Imani turned on to her side and pressed her eyes shut. “I don’t want any bloody soup.”

  “Come on, you love my minestrone.”

  “I’m not hungry and you don’t have to babysit me. I’m a grown woman. To borrow from something you once said to me, things are never what they appear.”

  “Which means?”

  “I’m not some weakling, Blaine.”

  “What about your life back in Seattle?”

  “Everything’s under control.” She turned on her opposite side, purposely putting her back to Blaine. “You can leave the soup. I’ll heat it up later.”

  Blaine placed the steaming hot soup on the bed bench. He walked over to the side of the bed where Imani rested, and her body stiffened by his closeness. He bent over and touched her. Reluctantly, he began to rub her back with affection.

  “Don’t do that, please.”

  “Come on, Im. Don’t be like this.”

  Irritated, she threw the bedding off her lower body and raised her torso and it took Blaine totally by surprise. In a knee-jerk reaction he moved back, like he was dodging an anticipated blow. “Don’t call me that. I hate that. You and Kenya…every time you get around her you call me Im? My name’s Imani. I-ma-ni!”

  “I get it. You’re angry because Dante’s…”

  “Don’t presume to know what I think or feel or how I might be…”

  “Imani, I’m on your side. Why are you angry with me?” Blaine pressed his large palm against his chest.

  “I am not angry at you!”

  “Really? And you think this attitude is directed at the freakin’ wall?”

  “Don’t be so smug.”

  “Let’s start over.”

  “Start over from?…” She spread her hands.

  “When we were right. When we were friends.”

  “I never knew we stopped being friends.” Imani hugged her knees.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Uhhh, really!”

  “Imani,” Blaine exhaled. “Come on, work with me here.”

  “Why did you come back from Boston? Did Kenya call you? The truth!”

  Not that he wanted to, but Blaine looked into Imani’s stressful but soulful eyes and said, “Yes. I’ll admit, I wasn’t up for this, but I’m glad I did. We need to get some things straight. I think it’s time.”

  Imani folded herself into a ball and reached for the covers. “I’m not in the mood.”

  Blaine slipped off his shoes and gingerly lay beside Imani, spooning her. He whispered in her ear, “I’m sorry, baby. But don’t you think it’s time to forgive me?”

  • • •

  When they first met, Rawn and Sicily hit it off straightaway. She was so impressed with him she made the decision to hire Rawn without his having to meet directly with the board of trustees. It caused a bit of a ruckus, but Rawn’s CV and his references from Denver were so exceptional they let her decision stand. Sicily expected Rawn to make a play for her in due course; it happened enough in the past for her to predict that it would most likely happen. But in truth she never actually gave him the opportunity. Their relationship came with one clear understanding: remain low-key while at the Academy. The trustees, and most of the faculty and staff, knew they were friends but had no idea how close they were when they were off campus. Sicily, not necessarily Rawn, wanted to keep it that way.

  With raven hair flowing over her shoulders and velvety mocha skin, Sicily came across so poised. The average man would not make a play. It would take someone very comfortable in his own skin, because Sicily threw off a persona that suggested she was not accessible. When Opposites Don’t Attract! won several Tonys, she was celebrated in New York and in her hometown, Philadelphia. What she did not see coming was that her public life would be the thing to out her. Someone—a so-called friend—leaked it and it was printed in the Post’s Page Six. Since she was a sophomore in college, she
tried to tell her parents the truth, and even once Opposites Don’t Attract! made it to Broadway, Sicily still was not ready to come out to family. But when her relationship with one of the actresses in the play became public, Sicily had no choice but to be forthcoming.

  Having to face people—she went into a downward spiral, although the talk was that she suffered major depression and had a nervous breakdown. In truth, she abruptly disappeared from her celebrated life without so much as a goodbye and checked into a luxurious spa in Taos for two weeks. While she knew of yoga and meditation, Sicily thought both were a bit Zen for her liking. But the retreat at the spa required one hour of meditation before a hearty breakfast that was strictly organic, and thirty minutes prior to bedtime. An hour of silence nearly killed her, but she loved the one-hour yoga class. Meditation put her in touch with emotions she was not familiar with, or avoided confronting. She worked diligently to become more attuned to her inner compass, and in due course something clicked. She knew going back to school for her Ph.D. was the direction she needed to take.

  Leaving behind the life that drained her emotionally, psychologically, spiritually was the best decision she had ever made. Sicily learned six months after moving to Seattle that there had been reports of her attempting suicide, which was erroneously printed in various low-brow publications. While there had been a retraction or two, the information was out in the public domain for several years and thus the untruths morphed into urban legends. The Post claimed she went to a spiritual retreat on the West Coast where the rich and famous went when they could not handle life. And according to one publication Sicily was now “Born Again.” Despite the gossip, real or imagined, she tried to redefine herself in Seattle and Sicily managed to do quite well. Her life was not in perfect balance—no life was. Yet she had the right dose of emotional and physical well-being to lead a fulfilled life.

  It was not uncommon for Sicily and Rawn to have lunch together, but they rarely went off campus, and when they did, it was to Café Neuf because Jean-Pierre always held a table for them. So when Sicily invited Rawn out to lunch and away from the Academy, he knew something was up. He learned on this particular afternoon Sicily had met someone; she had a lover. This was of notable interest to him because it had been a while since he heard Sicily speak of anyone who remotely interested her. When Rawn first learned of her sexuality, he was rooted to the spot. He would never admit it to Sicily; when he first met with her over lunch, and followed by a series of meetings, he was both impressed by and attracted to her. They had sat in a nearly empty restaurant and their conversation led them both to believe they were raised by upper middle-class overachievers, and appreciated many of the same things and the same way of life.

  Once he started at the Academy, he tried to work up the nerve to ask her out. A few years his senior, she was the person he reported to at Gumble-Wesley, not to mention she earned double what he earned and Rawn was not exactly sure how Sicily felt about that. But as time progressed, he grew reluctant because while she was friendly and they became fast friends, she did not exhibit the same curiosity in him as he knowingly displayed toward her. The last thing he wanted to do was to create any awkwardness between them; and besides, it would be nearly impossible to shield their intimacy for any length of time. Above and beyond, what if things did not work out? No, Rawn chose not to risk it.

  The knowledge of Sicily’s sexual orientation was revealed to him one evening about six months after they had met. Sicily had recommended they dine at Kingfish Café. Rawn was reaching for his drink when Sicily had said casually, “I think I should tell you, I’m lesbian.”

  Rawn missed his bottom lip, and some of the dark beverage dribbled off his chin and onto his heather-taupe cashmere sweater. While the room was filled with animated energy, there was a tense silence at their table. He made an attempt to play down his being stunned. Rawn was too crushed by the disappointment to smoothly collect himself. It had taken him a minute to absorb what he had heard, but it was a bombshell that blew him away.

  “Oh!” He had struggled to remain cool.

  “That’s why I waited so long to tell you.”

  “I-I-I…didn’t…”

  “It was the last thing you expected from me, wasn’t it?”

  “Frankly?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Maybe I should have guessed.” It had been his pride that replied.

  “I can’t tell you how much it pisses me off, people who don’t understand the dynamics of loving someone of the same sex, and then pass judgment.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rawn had said.

  “You think it’s not possible for a woman not to see the same things you see in a woman? I’m confident I react to a woman I find attractive in much the same way you do. Every woman looks at other women, but not all of them are attracted to them. They might admire how good they look in a particular style, or how they keep their body fit and toned. Every woman checks out a woman if she looks good in a pair of jeans. If she looks like she’s got herself together, some women will unconsciously attempt to emulate her. Women naturally respond to a woman who throws off something…different. But with a woman like me, it’s deeper than the superficial. I’ve felt passion with women I never felt with a man.”

  “I see.” What a waste, Rawn had thought.

  “I have this reaction from every man I’ve been honest with.”

  “Reaction?” Rawn had laughed, and felt himself growing increasingly annoyed. “Have I reacted?”

  “Rawn! You know you’ve reacted. Because of the way I look and how I carry myself. Men, they hit on me, they want me. Look where we work for crying out loud. You don’t think those uptight white men don’t make passes? They have this sneaky flirt thing that they do. Yes, they’re subtle, but I think that’s only because they don’t know how to approach a woman like me.”

  “Woman like you? Which means…?”

  “You know, educated, successful, and I know I look good. You see, they hope you’ll take the subtle bait. Last week I was at QFC and this man came right out and asked me on a date. He barely introduced himself. He threw this one at me: ‘I have two orchestra seats to Phantom of the Opera. Would you be interested in going?’ At QFC in bloody produce. Can you stand it?”

  “Men are naturally attracted to beautiful women. No man would automatically guess you to be lesbian. And even if he thought…”

  Sicily had scarcely even heard Rawn. The words had been spoken more to herself than to him: “You should see the looks I get from their wives, like how dare you try to steal my man, you bitch. If they only knew. Give me a break.” She had frowned, and her look came across like she had taken a bite of a dill pickle. “When one makes his move and I don’t respond…You get tired of being defensive. Men are way too complicated. I see women do some of the craziest stuff over a man. They lose themselves; they allow a man to hijack their self-esteem. Perfectly intelligent women, smart and clever women, they lose the essence of who they are when they meet a man that…I don’t know…that knows how to woo, woo, woo.”

  “And it’s so different with two people of the same sex?”

  “Well…I get tired of people always trying to figure out how you turn out gay!”

  All Rawn had thought about that evening was what a waste.

  “Years ago, I went with a group of colleagues to see New Jack City. Afterwards, we all went out to dinner. I tell you, I’ve never heard women talk about a man the way these women talked about Wesley Snipes. Oh, girrrrrl, he is sooooo fine! Girrrrrl, I’d leave my man for him without thinking twice! Girrrrrl, I’d love somma that! It was silly, so ridiculous.” Sicily had sighed harshly. “Wesley Snipes was no more than an actor playing a part to me.” After reaching for her wineglass, she had pressed her back to the seat.

  “Attraction is complicated, you know? A few students have a crush on me. I have some influence over them whether I want that responsibility or not. But any attraction some young girl might have is so innocent—it would be foolish to g
ive it any weight. Before I finished high school, I had to have at least ten crushes. A few on my teachers. It takes nothing to confuse feelings…”

  “Oh, no. Please don’t tell me you’re one of those?”

  “One of those?”

  “Allah! Sexuality—like you say about attraction—is too complicated, and especially when it comes to trying to define it. Why does homosexuality have to be defined and heterosexuality is? It’s not so much about sex, being homosexual. I—maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Okay, look. Sicily, you’re acting as though I’m judging you or something.”

  “Well, are you?”

  Lowering his voice he had leaned into the table, and Rawn stated, “I’m glad you told me; that you trust me enough to share something so private. Being lesbian, Sicily, is actually…It’s provocative. Nothing between us changes. Truthfully, it makes sense to me now.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Rawn had dodged the question, but when he went to sleep that evening, he realized he was quite discouraged. For months they had played an intricate game of lust, desire and ambiguous flirtation which naturally transpired in a platonic friendship. For weeks after she had told him about her sexuality, Rawn began to imagine what it would be like to make love to two women, which he had never fantasized about before, at least not knowingly; and more so what it would be like to make love to Sicily and one of her lesbian friends. But time had passed, and he had long since dismissed her as a woman he would ever experience, and her sexuality never came up again. But sitting in Luigi’s, a good mile away from any restaurant or café frequented by those who worked at the Academy, Sicily was in one sharing mood. The restaurant smelled of rich garlic, and it was typically crowded and noisy with energetic voices and spirited laughter. Gossip and passionate dialogue could be overheard at every table by the busy, swift waitstaff. Not necessarily attentive, Rawn casually listened to Sicily speak of her new lover.