by Golden, Kim
“Fifty will make people take notice. Anything less is like saying this is just a hobby.”
He’d sounded so miffed by her questioning him. It wasn’t the first time. Once she’d wondered why he was so obsessed with light—why afternoon light was sometimes better than morning light and vice versa. He told her why, going in great detail about it, but the annoyed tone of his voice told her he didn’t like being criticized or questioned. Though he didn’t have a problem when it came from Fergus. Fergus could treat him like shit under his shoe and Chris didn’t raise an eyebrow. No matter how blunt his boss was in his criticism of Chris’s talent, Chris just nodded and accepted it. The only outward sign of annoyance was the tightening of his jaw. His usually open face would go stony the moment Fergus spat out a “This is crap, Chris!” or “You can’t be feckin’ serious about this one…”
But he never fought back. It wasn’t until he came home and he and Jessica were alone that his contained ire would suddenly spew out. Sometimes she tried to talk him down. Maybe Fergus was just playing devil’s advocate and wanted Chris to realize that not everyone would see the beauty of his work. But Jessica thought it was more likely that Fergus was jealous of Chris’s talent and wanted to snuff any thoughts Chris might entertain of being competition.
“Why would he want to do that?” Chris laughed derisively one particularly bad evening. “It’s not like I am the one winning awards here.”
“No, but you’re the one who’s planned his shots when he’s too drunk to do it himself. And you’re the one who’s done all of his grunt work and retouched photos while he’s off gallivanting with his jet-set friends.”
“I knew what I was getting into when I came here. You have to shovel shit before you can get anywhere in this world.”
And that was the end of that. He buried himself in work that night, freezing her out. She tried to lure him out of his shell with caresses and kisses, but he brushed her away.
That night she went home.
It was the first time in months that they willingly spent the night apart, and it set the standard for the coming weeks.
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
“In Paris working.”
“And you didn’t go with him?”
“Stop it, Aisha! I told you I’ve got my thesis defense coming up.”
“Sounds like trouble in paradise to me,” Aisha said, sounding self-satisfied by this turn of events. “I knew it would end up like this.”
“I don’t need this from you right now. Can’t we talk about something else?”
“Just drop the white boy, Jess. It’s not going to last anyway. You’re both fooling yourselves.”
“I’ll remember that the next time you call me up and tell me you’ve met the man of your dreams and go on and on about how you’ve never felt this way before. I think I’ve heard that line a few times…”
“At least I’m out there looking and I know that a white man ain’t gonna solve all my problems.”
“I don’t need him or anyone else to solve my problems!”
“No? Then why’d you have to go all the way to Scotland to study when you could have stayed here in the States to do the same degree? Why is it the first man I hear you waxing lyrical about is a white boy who you know won’t step up to the plate when worse comes to worse?”
“I don’t judge people by the color of their skin—“
“Then why didn’t you branch out before? You were just waiting for this opportunity—“
“You’ve got it all wrong!”
“I don’t think so. Well, one thing for sure, you’re in for a rude awakening when you come home.”
And that’s when Aisha told her about the murder.
Josh Perry and Malika Williams were the tabloids’ favorite Multi-Culti representatives. Both were actors who’d made names for themselves before their romance became news fodder. Philadelphians loved Malika: she was a local girl from Southwest Philly who’d gone directly from the High School for Creative and Performing Arts to a core role on a CBS soap opera. For three years, she played Jolie Tuner, the gifted but rebellious adopted daughter of Dr. Anthony Turner, the beloved chief of staff at the hospital that was the epicenter of nearly every storyline. She was only supposed to be on the show for a few months, but viewers loved her, and her presence raised the show’s demographics with African-American viewers, which didn’t go unnoticed by the show’s sponsors.
Malika was as slender and delicate as a ballerina, with deep brown skin that journalists nearly always compared to dark chocolate. Sometimes they talked about her classic features, comparing her to everyone from Lena Horne to Halle Berry, neither of whom she resembled in the least). After three years of playing Jolie, a role that didn’t seem to demand much more of her than standing around and looking intense or occasionally suffering the slings and arrows of unrequited love, she made her big screen debut with You Had Me at Hello. The success of that film brought more and better roles her way so that by the time she was 24, she was the only Black actress her age who was earning as much, if not often more, than her white contemporaries.
On the set of Say When, a romantic comedy in which she was playing a supporting role, she met Josh Perry, who’d also risen to the top quickly. He’d gone from Yale Drama to a starring role in a Wednesday night NBC sit-com. Like Malika, he’d had a string of successful rolls behind him before he was cast as the romantic lead in Say When. The tabloids all predicted a hot romance between him and Sienna Miller, but the paparazzi caught him holding hands with Malika and, later, in a steamy clinch on the beaches of Malibu.
And that was beginning of the PR-dream that was Malika and Josh. Not all of the publicity they received was positive. Right-wing papers derided Josh for passing over the likes of Angelina Jolie and Brittany Murphy for Malika. Black-oriented magazines and papers taunted Malika, maliciously insinuating that she was only with Josh to further her career or that she thought she was too good to be with a black man.
They married in Philadelphia at the Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul on Benjamin Franklin Parkway and held their wedding reception at the Four Seasons. They bought a house in Society Hill and spent as much time in Philadelphia as they did in their New York condo and their LA house in the hills. They had the perfect sort of marriage that People magazine adored writing feature stories about every Valentine’s Day and they were expert at hiding the cracks in their relationship.
In January things didn’t appear to be going so well. She was photographed several times with bruises on her face and arms, which her publicist attributed to the movie she was filming and that Malika was doing her own stunts. He was spotted in the company of other women, mostly younger white actresses who were just beginning to make names for themselves. Their publicists announced that they’d separated but that they were still close.
Now he’d killed her—shooting her at point-blank range in their home in Philadelphia…and the papers and TV news were having a field day with the story. So far no public statement had been made in his name, but his lawyers were already trying to convince the judge to be lenient and to release him on bail.
And in the paparazzi shots, he was still smiling his Hollywood smile, even as the police shuffled him, handcuffed, into the back of a police cruiser.
The headline: The Sexiest Murderer Alive
“Did you read about the murder?”
“What...? Oh, you know I'm not into celebrity gossip,” Chris said without looking up from his glowing computer screen. Jessica was sitting on the floor in his living room, her notes for her defense spread out before her like a fan.
She sucked in her lower lip and then let out an exasperated sigh. Why did she want to talk about a celebrity murder with him when her thesis defense was in two days? This was all Aisha’s fault. If she hadn’t insisted on reading aloud articles about the Malika Williams murder during their last telephone call, Jessica wouldn’t be so distracted by it. It was bad enough with her telephone commentary of the case so far; she’
d also started sending links to articles from various online newspapers and magazines to Jessica’s email address. Would Aisha be so prolific if the man who’d killed Malika had been black? Would the media have given it so much attention?
“They were talking about it on Sky News this morning,” she continued, tapping her pen on her leg. She shivered and reached behind her for the wool blanket Chris always left on the sofa. Despite it being late April, it was still cloudy and chilly in Edinburgh. That Chris had gotten in the habit of never turning his heat above 65°F didn’t help matters.
“I thought you had a defense to prepare for.”
“I do…I’m just wondering why he killed her when they always looked so happy.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Chris replied. He leaned back in his chair, finally making eye contact with her. The dark circles under his eyes reminded her of smudges and he sounded slightly annoyed. “Besides, who’s to say he actually killed her?”
“They say he had gunpowder residue on his hands and that he told the first officers to arrive on the scene that he’d done it.”
“Maybe he was just in shock.”
“Yeah, sure, he’d just killed his wife.”
“I’m just saying that he might not have known what he was saying.”
“Of course he didn’t—else he would’ve blamed it on someone else…just like that woman in Delaware who claimed that two black guys stole her car while her kids were in it and it turned out she pushed the car into the lake herself and intentionally drowned her kids!”
“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Why is it that everybody assumed OJ was guilty just because he was black, but when someone like Josh Perry kills his black wife everyone wants to give him the benefit of the doubt?”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t guilty.”
“You just said it was possible he didn’t do it!”
“I was playing devil’s advocate—“
“I’ll just bet he doesn’t even do any jail time or that they’ll get him off by saying it was temporary insanity…”
“They have to finish the investigation first…”
“He’s rich enough to make evidence disappear.”
“Why are we even discussing this?”
“Why don’t you want to discuss it?”
“I don’t give a fuck about Malika Williams. ”
“What? Why not?”
“Or Josh Perry, for that matter! I’m trying to finish retouching these shots. ”
“Oh sure, hide behind your computer so you don’t have to talk to me.”
“I’d love to talk to you as long we don’t have to talk about some god-damned celebrities who didn’t mean anything to either of us!”
“You’ll never understand.”
“Why? Is this yet another black thing you’re going to throw at me?”
“Screw you, Chris!”
The distance between them felt unfathomable and cold. She didn’t want to be there with him, didn’t want to keep looking up at him and expecting him to say something more that might chip away at their relationship. So she calmly gathered her papers together, shoved them into her backpack and stood up. Chris was still watching her. He didn’t say anything as she walked towards the front door and struggled into her jacket and shoes. It wasn’t until she twisted the doorknob that he finally asked, “Where are you going?”
“Home,” she said. “Home.”
chapter ten
This is the end
He didn’t see her again until a few days before they were both scheduled to return to Philadelphia. She didn’t invite him to her thesis defense, nor did she ask him to join her and her friends at the parties that followed. He thought she just needed space. He’d seen it before at University of the Arts: graduating seniors and master’s degree candidates working themselves up into a frenzy over their final projects, practically foaming at the mouth whenever someone questioned them or tried to steer conversations away from their projects. But the more space he gave her, the emptier he felt.
He called her every day, leaving rambling messages on her answering machine, but she rarely returned his calls. When she did, her voice bore strains of studied ennui.
“Have I done something to upset you?”
“I’m tired, Chris. I don’t feel like getting into it.”
“That must mean yes. I can’t read your mind, you know. If I’ve done something wrong I can’t change it if you won’t at least tell me what I did.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Fine…how was your defense?”
“Fine. I passed with honors.”
”I knew you would.”
“I have to go. Gillian’s waiting for me.”
“Where are you going?”
“To a private party.”
“Can we meet later?”
“I don’t think so. It’ll be late.”
“Am I going to see you before we go to the airport?”
“I don’t know. We can take a taxi together.”
“You don’t even have time for lunch with me?”
“I don’t know. I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll see.”
The next day her friends threw Jessica a going away party. He wasn’t invited. Ever since the debacle with Andrew, Chris hadn’t been included in any plans involving all of the flat mates. Lunch was out of the question, so they agreed to meet for coffee later. But at the last minute, she cancelled claiming that she wasn’t finished packing.
“I’ll swing by your place with the taxi tomorrow morning,” she said in a breezy voice. “Don’t be late.”
Then she hung up and left him sitting there, handset still firmly in his grasp, wondering just when and why they’d spun so far off-course.
They didn’t speak during the short ride to the airport. Their taxi driver, however, was more than willing to fill the silence with a running commentary on the state of affairs in Scotland and the world in general. Chris tuned him out, listening instead to Jessica breathe, the small sighs she emitted whenever she grew bored with the taxi driver’s babble. Sometimes he dared to look at her. She was staring out the window, and all he saw was her delicate profile and the slope of her neck.
His fingers twitched, wanting to touch her and to feel the warmth of her skin, so he eased his hand towards hers. She didn’t move her hand away but her fingers didn’t grasp his, not like he’d hoped they would.
“Are you nervous?” he asked the moment the driver stopped talking long enough to give him a chance.
“No, not really,” she replied. Now she shifted and turned to face him. She looked lost, just as she had when they first met, as though she had no idea how she’d ended up in her present situation. “We’re just going home, right?”
He nodded. They were closing in on the airport. He hadn’t remembered it looking so small. Somehow he’d pictured it being as large and sprawling as Charles de Gaulle in Paris or London-Gatwick.
“Should we sit together?” he ventured now as the driver pulled into the lane leading to the departures terminal. “Or maybe you’ve already checked in online.”
“No, I haven’t.” Her thumb massaged the side of his hand, tracing small dizzying circles on his skin. “Maybe we should sit together. We haven’t been able to see each other so much these last few days.”
He smiled. This was better. She was beginning to sound like her old self again and this eased away his insecurities. “If we’re lucky we’ll be upgraded to Business Class.”
“Stranger things have been known to happen.”
When they came to the check-in counter there were no seats together on the flight to London nor the Philadelphia-bound flight.
“When you go to the gate, you can ask the personnel if it’s possible to reassign you,” their check-in agent said. “Your chances are better on the flight to Philadelphia.”
Chris thanked the agent, then they went through security control to the tax-free shopping corridor. There wasn’t much to
choose from. A small bookstore, a kitsch boutique featuring stuffed bagpipers and Scots terriers in tartan jumpers, and a gourmet food shop. There was also a food hall made up of fast food restaurants and a sad-looking café. Jessica disappeared into the food shop, then returned a few minutes later with two heavy plastic bags.
“What’s this?”
“A few things to help us wean ourselves off Scotland.”
He looked inside the bag. It contained a box of shortbreads, a large can of haggis, a jar of lime curd and a bottle of Laphroaig whisky. He laughed. “This should hold us over until we’re ready for another dose of this place!”
She was smiling up at him but her eyes were shiny. Then she leaned against him and wrapped her arms around him. He held her close, murmuring that everything would be okay, that once they were back in Philadelphia they could forget about whatever had happened in Edinburgh.
“You think so?” she said in a small, tinny voice.
“I don’t know. We could give it a try anyway.”
“Maybe.”
“Are we okay?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
When the blow came as the plane soared over Greenland it was like a sudden rush of blood to the head. He laughed, then hesitated, smiling out of nervousness rather than amusement. “You’re joking, right?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Why did you say we were okay then? Why did you hug me?”
“I thought it would be all right… but I can’t stop thinking about how awful people are going to be towards us.”
“You don’t know that, Jess.”
“I do. I hear it all the time from my mother and Aisha—”
“They’re not the only people in Philadelphia—”
“They’re not the only people who’d have a problem with us.”
“So you’re going to give up on us just because of what other people might say about us? That’s fucking rich, Jess. Unbelievable!”
A male flight attendant approached them, cautioning them to lower their voices. Chris flashed him a nasty look as he retreated to the galley.