Dream Girl Awakened

by Stacy Campbell

  “I heard you’re good. I’ll be your first patron. Will you autograph my drawing?” asked Aruba.

  “Of course.”

  “Take a look at the mirror and tell me if this is good for you.” Lasheera passed the mirror to Aunjanue.

  “I love it! Let’s get to the school. I want to be the first one there standing next to my work. S’n’c’r’ty, did you put your socks up and fold your underwear?”

  “Yes, Onnie.”

  “Grant, did you take out the trash?”

  “Yes, Onnie.”

  “Sims, how ’bout the lemons? Did you rub down the counter?”

  “Yes, Onnie.”

  “Good. Go grab your coats, so we can go.”

  When they gathered their coats, the children filed out their home in a single line, just as Aunjanue taught them. Aruba shuttled the children into her vehicle, allowing S’n’c’r’ty to use Jeremiah’s booster seat. She recalled Lasheera saying Aunjanue was twelve, but the young woman sitting behind her exhibited maturity that belied her years. Aruba admired the way the children respected and obeyed Aunjanue. Out of her rearview mirror, Aruba caught sight of Aunjanue giving S’n’c’r’ty the black mother stare, making her tamp down and stop tugging Sims’s ear. Aruba wondered how busy Tawatha was that she crowned her oldest daughter surrogate mother. Maybe I can reach out to her when my life calms down.

  On the ride to Lincoln Middle School, Aunjanue quizzed Grant with history questions on three-by-five cards. He answered them correctly, almost fearful of Aunjanue’s wrath. Her face beamed with each correct response.

  Aruba and Lasheera were impressed with the artwork. Who knew children were taking on such adult paintings and sculptures? Other parents commented about Aunjanue’s work. In the cafeteria, parents and students congregated, chatted over gourmet cookies and sparkling punch flowing from an ornate fountain.

  “I remember cheap butter cookies and tropical punch at functions like this. When did it change?” asked Lasheera.

  “It’s the moms and dads with free time,” whispered Aruba.

  Aunjanue didn’t want to disturb their conversation, but she couldn’t contain her excitement. “Did you like my work?” Lasheera’s approval meant the world to Aunjanue. She chewed her nails, waited for Lasheera’s response.

  Lasheera swallowed the last of a pecan toffee cookie. “I’m biased, but you had the best prints out there.”

  “Yes, she did,” said a deep, rolling voice not too far behind them.

  “Mr. Carvin! I didn’t know you were here.” Aunjanue smiled, grabbing him by the arm. “Auntie Sheer, everybody, this is Mr. Carvin, my art teacher. Mr. Carvin, this is my Aunt Lasheera; her boss, Miss Aruba; and my brothers and sister.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” He spoke to the group, but his eyes stayed focused on Lasheera.

  “You must be proud of your students, Mr. Carvin.” Aruba extended her hand to shake Mr. Carvin’s.

  “I can’t express the joy. Especially when some students think they can’t master simple lines, then create a complete masterpiece.”

  Lasheera knew the food had changed, but so had the teachers. She averted her eyes from Mr. Carvin’s gaze. She’d been embarrassed in times past, thinking a man was paying attention to her when he was in fact looking at the most beautiful woman in the room. Lasheera figured Aruba was commanding his attention. Still, she caught another glimpse of him from the corner of her eye. She looked him up and down. His face said I’m running off to recess, since it was so youthful, so cherubic. His body, however, said former NFL player on the injured reserve list. The elegant cardigan sweater he wore outlined a six-pack she knew came from somebody’s Bowflex. His fitted jeans made Lasheera blush. He was the same gentleman she’d noticed earlier whose swagger hinted a nice package beneath his boxers. She and Tawatha always did a teeth check when meeting guys. It didn’t matter how handsome or sexy, if his teeth were jagged, chipped, or resembled any color of a Crayola box besides white, he was ousted. Mr. Carvin passed inspection with Chiclets whites. He towered over Lasheera and made her wonder what he’d be like for walks in the park or to hold in the middle of the night. She admonished herself, though, because he looked fresh out of college, probably an early high school graduate. An art prodigy whose parents had too much time and money on their hands and made sure their only son fulfilled his promise.

  “So how’d you manage to escort the kids out tonight?” asked Mr. Carvin.

  Lasheera’s mind, still at Northwestway Park and walking with Mr. Carvin, was lulled back into the conversation by Aunjanue. “Earth to Sheer, Earth to Sheer,” said Aunjanue.

  “Onnie, did you say something?” asked Lasheera.

  “I didn’t, but Mr. Carvin did. He wants to know how you came to be our escort for tonight.”

  “Kids, let’s look at some other drawings in the exhibit room,” said Aruba, wanting to give the two privacy. Lasheera’s eyes protested. She didn’t want to be left alone with the handsome stranger for fear words might escape her. She watched Aruba and the kids exit the cafeteria to rejoin the other students and parents. She’d give Aruba a piece of her mind once they got back in the car.

  “Well, Mr. Carvin—”

  “Lake. Call me ‘Lake.’ My name is Lake Joseph Carvin.”

  “Okay, Lake. Aunjanue’s mother had to work, so I was asked to bring them out. Tawatha and I help each other out as best we can.”

  “When she said aunt, I got excited. A lot of kids are here solo tonight. Parents are working. Don’t have time to be involved. Believe me, I love consistent parental involvement. So. . .do you have children as well?”

  Lasheera shrank under his comment and question as Zion immediately came to mind. “Would you like a blood sample and my credit report, too?”

  “Did I say something wrong?” Lake remembered the golden rules the women in his family taught him. Never ask a woman her age, how many children she has, or if her hair is real. He didn’t mean to step across any of those lines.

  “No. I’m sorry. I feel what you’re saying about parental involvement, is all.”

  “I wanted to talk to her mother, but since you’re here, I can run my idea past you. You can be the middle woman for me.”

  I should have known he wasn’t interested in me.

  “Are you familiar with the Penrod Arts Fair?”

  “Can’t say that I am.”

  “It’s a local arts fair that takes place the second weekend of September. I’d like to sponsor Aunjanue for this year’s fair. She can gain exposure and I can get rid of art supplies my ex-wife left packed in the garage.”

  So he’s single.

  “Ex-wife? I thought you were nineteen or twenty.” Lasheera surprised herself with the outburst.

  “Thanks for the compliment. I’m thirty going on sixty. I’m the oldest young man I know.”

  “So why art? And why teaching?”

  “Would you like a blood sample and my credit report, too?”

  “Touché.”

  They both laughed at their protectiveness. “Art is how I kept my single mom entertained back in the day. She called me the J.J. Evans of the block. Later, she corrected that and called me Ernie Barnes. She’s always been about giving credit where credit is due. I know it’s a hackneyed phrase, but I wanted to give something back to my community. Being a black male with teaching aspirations got me a free ride through college, great fellowships, and a chance to revive shriveling art programs in our school systems. Good enough for you?”

  “I’m speechless. I think I’ve missed that window of opportunity. College, I mean.”

  “Never say never. My mom is working on a Master’s degree at fifty-two. You can do anything you put your mind to, Lasheera.”

  They were so into their conversation that they didn’t see Aruba and the children return. Aunjanue looped her arm with Lasheera’s.

  “Auntie Sheer, Miss Aruba said she’s taking us to the Cheesecake Factory. I’ve never been there before. She said it’s
for my brilliant artwork. You ready?”

  “Um, I was just talking to Lake. . .Mr. Carvin about selling some of your art. I’ll wrap this up in a few minutes. You guys wait in the car for me.”

  On cue, Aruba guided the children to her vehicle. She was elated that Lasheera was getting much-needed attention from someone who seemed genuinely nice. Lasheera’s horror stories over lattes and caramel cappuccinos made her shudder at the thought of Lasheera’s and her own missteps. Lasheera deserved a slice of happiness. She wasn’t pushing her down the aisle or toward a baby carriage, but she hoped Lake Carvin would take her on a date, compliment her, convince her that life always offered a second chance to willing participants.

  Aruba’s BlackBerry vibrated. She opened the text message, tried to conceal her smile.

  HURRY HOME, SWEETS. I’VE GOT A BIG SURPRISE FOR YOU. WF

  [28]

  All in My Lover’s Eyes

  When Aruba turned the lock, stepped into her home and smelled the oils, saw the candles, eyed the strawberries dipped in chocolate next to the bottle of champagne, she apologized to the ancestors. Dead and alive. She apologized to Aunt Diane, her mother’s sister who drove to Augusta, Georgia, to get the good liquor off Wrightsboro Road for the basement parties. She bowed in deference to Alita Ruth, her mother’s second cousin who wore the strapless, camel tan jumpsuit and the Farrah Fawcett wig to the basement parties and always asked the uncles to invite one of their friends from Lockheed to meet her ’cause she needed a man with some benefits. She said sorry to Darshelle, Kinsey, and Mayella, her father’s sisters. Aunts dubbed the BBC—the Bitter Bitches Club—by her dad. As DK&M sat on her paternal grandma’s wraparound porch, shelling peas, peeling peaches, or shucking corn, freshening up highballs of scotch and chomping on peanut brittle, yelling out to the cows, chickens, and pigs on Grandpa Willie’s twenty-five acre farm that men weren’t shit and weren’t worth the spit it took to cuss ’em. Aruba remembered her dad blowing smoke rings from a Prince Albert cigar and roaring, “Yeah, the BBC would say something stupid like that!”

  As Winston met her with a plush robe, took her purse off her shoulder, and led her to the bathroom, she realized all the fussing, Al Green crooning while confronting other women in the wee hours of the morning, and vowing to drown their hurts in bingo, scriptures, and a good flea market trip had more to do with wanting to be loved than hating men. If only Diane, Alita Ruth, Darshelle, Kinsey, and Mayella could see her now. Diane and Alita Ruth would ride her about being with someone else’s husband. Ah, but Darshelle, Kinsey, and Mayella, the Stanton voices of reason, would assure her that she was getting what she deserved since his wife wasn’t taking care of her business. The Stanton women were strong believers in the adage: “one woman’s trash was another woman’s treasure.” And what a treasure Winston was.

  “Winston, what—”

  “Don’t talk.” He silenced her with a soft finger to her lips. He removed her clothing, then led her to the Jacuzzi filled with bubbles.

  On the ledge of the tub sat a decorative basket of body scrubs, scented oils, and lotions. Winston presented them to her, a gift for the hard day she’d had.

  “I started your bubble bath, but I want you to choose which scrub you’d like me to bathe you with, which scented oil you’d like to freshen the bath, and which lotion you want me to rub you down with when I’m all done.”

  “Aren’t you going to join me?”

  “No. It’s all about you tonight.”

  “Afterward, will it be all about you?”

  “Afterward, we’ll lounge in bed and chat. I’ve thought about you all day. I just want to hold you in my arms.”

  With that, Winston led Aruba into the tub. She dipped her toe in the water, amazed that the temperature was just right. She eased in, allowed Winston to douse a washcloth in the sudsy rinse. Why didn’t James do something like this for me? she thought as Winston squirted blackberry currant body scrub on the cloth. He washed her body with gentle care. She wanted to fall asleep right there, thought about it until he told her to stand.

  “Winston, do I have to?”

  “What? You embarrassed all of a sudden?”

  “It’s just that I haven’t . . . It’s been a while since. You know, maintenance.”

  “Stop worrying. I like a woman with a little fur coat on down there.”

  After he dried her, Winston carried her to the bedroom, placed her on the bed, and returned to the living room to get the strawberries dipped in chocolate and champagne. How many nights had he dreamt of doing this for Victoria? All he ever wanted was to get her attention, let her know that he was the same romantic man she’d met as a med student. How did money change matters so much? Why was he showering this attention on another man’s wife and not his own? He wrestled with his emotions daily. He also felt it was too late to turn back. He hadn’t felt so loved, so wanted, so important in years. He didn’t know where their journey would end, but he was thoroughly enjoying the ride.

  “So what do I owe the pleasure of this grand treatment?” asked Aruba, her eyes brightening at the sight of the platter of delicacies. She bit into a strawberry, then sipped champagne.

  “It’s my thanks to you for helping me see the light.”

  “The light?”

  “The light of being a fool all these years.” He motioned Aruba to turn around. He rubbed shea butter on her back.

  “You haven’t been a fool. You’ve been a good husband, a good provider, and a wonderful role model to lots of people. What more could a woman ask in a man?”

  “You tell me. The one person I’ve wanted to see those qualities all these years has ignored me. I don’t think I’ve been too much of anything. I’m an absentee husband and father. Oh yeah, I’m a paycheck, too. How’s that for creating a loving family?”

  Aruba faced Winston, took his hands in hers. She looked into his eyes and asked a few questions of her own.

  “How would you have accomplished all the surgeries, breakthroughs, or gained acclaim without sacrificing? If you were sitting in the house watching Victoria paint her toenails or nursing Nicolette, how would your dreams have come to pass? I . . .” Aruba paused.

  “What? What were you about to say?”

  “I wish I’d met you first. I think we would have made a great team.”

  Winston wanted to concur, wanted to tell her she was the type of woman he needed, wanted by his side. Instead, he asked, “What are we going to do about our situation? I think about you all the time. When we’re apart, I worry about your well-being and your safety. I think about Jeremiah and pray he hasn’t been scarred for life by what he’s seen. Could you live with yourself knowing we betrayed Victoria?”

  Hell yes. “Could you live with yourself knowing we betrayed James?”

  “I struggle with that. A part of me wants to write a check to send you both to marital counseling. Then there’s the other part of me. The side that wants to take you and Jeremiah with me to start over. I know Victoria would fight for custody of Nicolette tooth and nail. She’d also want a fat chunk of child support and alimony. That would be a lot for you to take on. I’m not sure I could put you through that.”

  “Guess that’s a lot to think about, huh?” Aruba suddenly felt defeated. In all she desired, she’d forgotten about Jeremiah. The thrill was gone for her where James was concerned, but he was Jeremiah’s world. She hated bigger issues, the hard questions. How would Jeremiah react with Nicolette as his sister? How would a physical separation from James affect him? If Jeremiah ever got married, would he be paranoid about his wife’s friends and associates?

  “I guess the good thing is we’ve done everything except make love. You know what they say about soul ties, right?” asked Winston.

  “I bet this saying’s a good one.”

  “Seriously. Have you ever dated someone and your head was clear until you made love? Then everything went out of the window. I can’t lie. I’ve been waiting to make love to you since the Conrad. But I don’t want to
create that soul tie right now. When I said for better or worse, I meant it. I didn’t know worse would be like this, but I don’t want to jump ship too soon.”

  “Touché.”

  The Isley Brothers lulled them to sleep, both in each other’s arms, both thinking of truth and consequences.

  [29]

  That’s What Friends Are For

  Victoria rang the doorbell a third time. It didn’t matter that she stood outside in the cold, restless, afraid. She needed to talk to her friend. She heard footsteps nearing the door from inside. She would apologize to Aruba for waking her so soon. The door swung open, and James looked her up and down before speaking.

  “Vic . . . toria, what are you doing here at seven-thirty in the morning? Is everything okay?” James held the door as if he were a bodyguard. He didn’t invite her inside.

  “I came to see Aruba. May I speak to her?”

  James glanced over his shoulder nervously, maintained his bodyguard stance. He made sure the space between them was narrow. “She’s not here right now. I’ll tell her you stopped by, Victoria.” James tried closing the door, but Victoria was insistent.

  “May I please come in for just a minute?” Sensing his reluctance, she added, “I won’t stay long.”

  James barely cracked the door open, allowing little space for Victoria to squeeze in. To her surprise, James was fully dressed. She thought she would awaken them both. The smell of sausage and eggs lingered in the foyer. She was too uncomfortable to remove her coat, so she quickly pleaded her case.

  “James, I imagine Aruba’s really busy with work, but if you could let her know I’d like to meet with her ASAP, I’d appreciate it. It’s life or death.”

  “Victoria, Aruba and I are separated. Have been for several months now.” James rifled through some papers in a wicker basket on a table in the entryway.

  “I had no idea. I’d been calling her with no response. I’d like to be there for her. Where is she?”