by Curtis Bunn
She lay on her back, her legs invitingly open, and I slid between them like that was where I was supposed to be. As I kissed her shoulder, she reached down and inserted my hardness, and I felt the warmth of her insides just as she squirmed and moaned.
I hadn’t had sex in the close-to-three months since learning I had cancer—the longest stint of my life without it since I was twenty-one. I hadn’t forgotten how to make love in general and to Kathy in particular. Our sex life was so dynamic that I would fly to San Francisco for a day and a half just to so we could satisfy our urges a few times and fly all the way back across country to D.C. We were animalistic…but still romantic.
All this time later, I knew how physical she liked it, and I gave it to her just like she wanted. She used to say, “Don’t be delicate with me,” which was code for bring it.
And so I brought it hard and deep. I held her legs in the air as I pumped manically. I turned her on her knees, grabbed her by her waist and pumped furiously. Neither the smacking sound nor her moans gave me pause. I kept on thrusting…until the pleasure point was reached and the sensation of passion burst out into the condom—and I collapsed on her back, breathlessly exhausted but totally fulfilled.
I kissed her back and shoulders and neck. When my weight seemed too much, I moved off of her and she snuggled onto my chest.
“You have a good dog,” she said. “Didn’t hear a word out of Moses.”
“Moses knew I needed that,” I joked. “But, seriously, he seems to know how to behave himself, as if he understands.”
“That’s what all dog lovers say,” Kathy said.
“You know I’m not a dog-lover,” I said. “But I do…I really like this dog. But it’s only been a few hours.”
“You’re only going to love the dog more as days go by,” Kathy said.
“I can tell,” I said. “What a day? The bus thing, finding Moses and now this…you. That’s a good day.”
“How do you feel?” she asked.
I pondered the simple question for a minute.
“I feel like I’m dreaming. As much as I wanted this, I never would have expected it to become a reality.”
Kathy held me as I held her. I felt wetness on my chest. She cried. I was not sure if they were tears of joy or tears of sadness about my plight. And I didn’t ask.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CAPTAIN SAVE-A-HO
It wasn’t that I didn’t care enough to ask Kathy why she shed tears. It was that I didn’t want the moment to be lost. Moments meant more to me because I was not sure how many more I had.
Denzel was in this movie with Gene Hackman. Crimson Tide. They were on a submarine, floating on top of the water before submerging deep into the sea on a mission. Gene Hackman admired the beautiful sunset with Denzel, who was seeing it for the first time. Denzel admired it, too—without saying a word.
Hackman’s character praised him for not ruining the moment by talking through it. I remembered that as Kathy lay on my chest. I was not going to ruin a moment I had imagined for nearly twenty years with a question that would be answered at some point anyway.
So, I closed my eyes with the one woman I loved on my chest and soaked up that feeling. And that feeling lasted long enough for me to doze off into a deep sleep.
I could feel myself snoring, but could not do anything about it. I hadn’t gotten as much sleep on the bus as I had planned and so much had happened along the ride. I dreamed dreams that were not about cancer or death.
I could only remember two of the dreams. One, I was playing golf with Walter. We were on some lavish course that was in the mountains and was crowded. It was my turn to tee off on No. 1 and I didn’t have my golf clubs. I had left them at the clubhouse—something that could only happen in a dream.
I ran to find them, but they were not where I had left them. Then it was getting dark, meaning we would not get the round in. I finally found my clubs in the same place I had already looked. I jumped in a cart and caught up with Walter, who had already hit a nice drive down the middle.
It was my turn to swing when the marshal came over and started giving us the rules of the course. Even in my sleep, I could feel myself getting antsy and frustrated. I wanted to hit the ball. But I never did.
It started raining and we had to leave the course. There was frustration all over me as I woke up, moving Kathy slightly from me chest to my left side.
“What’s wrong?”
I didn’t answer. I just hugged her, and she relaxed and we lay there in silence. Before I fell asleep, I tried to figure what the dream meant. It was a feeble, desperate act of a man desperate to learn something about himself, through any means.
I thought about it and in all the dreams I had about golf, I seldom actually hit the ball. I wondered if that meant I had not taken my swings at life like I should have, that I had not done enough when I thought I had life under control.
I couldn’t be sure, but my mindset was to ponder everything. Before I knew it, though, I was asleep again, this time dreaming about being able to fly.
It was so weird at first because my borderline fear of heights was apparent in my dream. But somehow, I was on the side of a mountain in D.C. (where there are no mountains, by the way) and I jumped off. Don’t know why, but I believed I could fly.
Still, I felt so free and alive. It was so real. I could feel the breeze and my heart raced as I floated above Anacostia Park, across the river and over the Nationals’ baseball stadium, over toward the Capitol. I woke up before I could get to the Washington Monument, and I was irritated that it was a dream.
But Moses needed to go out for a walk, and he let me know it by making some sort of sound that was a cross between a whine and howling. Instinctively, I knew what it meant.
So I made my way out of the bed, made a quick bathroom run and took Moses on his leash outside. I watched him run around as my mind wandered to what I had experienced over the course of that day. It was wild, to say the least, and it ended with the love of my life lying in bed waiting for me to return to her.
That thought brought a smile to my face. I rubbed Moses’ back and talked to him. “Hey, man, it’s been a good day. I feel bad you lost whoever you were with. But I got you. Gonna take great care of you.”
He just looked at me and wagged his tail. As we headed back to our room, which was about two hundred yards from the little grassy area where we walked, Moses began barking. I hadn’t heard him so animated. So I knew something was wrong. And sure enough, I looked up and ten feet away was a woman, a white woman, bleeding from her lip, with her blouse ripped.
I looked around before approaching her. Before I could ask if I could help her, she said, “Please. Please help me. Can you take me away from here? Please. He’s going to come out here soon.”
“What’s going on?”
“Do you have a room? Can I go into your room and make a phone call? Please?”
Last thing I needed was this white woman in my room, bloodied, when the police came. But I never had the heart to not help. Especially then.
“Come on,” I said. We walked hurriedly and I repeatedly looked over my shoulder. I didn’t know whom she was running from and I didn’t want to know.
I looked down at Moses and it looked like he was telling me, Don’t do it. But it was too late. I was committed.
When I opened the door, Kathy was startled to see the woman. She pulled the bed sheets up to her neck. “What…what’s going on? Who’s this?”
I hadn’t asked the woman her name.
“She’s in trouble and needs some help,” I said.
“Help? What’s going on?”
“I…my friend, we had a fight and—”
Before she could finish, there were several loud bangs on the door, the way cops do when you don’t need them.
“Oh, god, it’s him,” the woman said.
“Kathy, go in the bathroom and lock the door. Call nine-one-one,” I said. I was remarkably calm considering I had no idea who was on the
other side of the door and what trouble awaited us.
“Open the fucking door,” the man yelled. “I saw you take her in there. Tracy, get your ass out here.”
I walked toward the door. “No,” Kathy said. “Calvin, I’m calling the police. Don’t open that door.”
“It’s OK,” I said and flung open the door.
The man tried to push his way in. He was white, too, with dirty blond hair strewn all over his head. And he was obviously drunk. I blocked him from entering.
“Hey, man, that’s my girlfriend. This has nothing to do with you. Now get out of my way.”
Then he stepped back and pulled out a gun. Pointed it right at my face. I moved aside.
“Fucking nigger,” he said as he stormed in.
And that word enraged me. I had been called that twice before: Once in Boston by a cab driver who was upset that I would not tip him after he damn near killed me and my daughter, driving in and out of traffic like a lunatic. He was smart enough to wait until I got out of the car to yell it at me. I was so angry I began to sweat.
The other time was when I ordered a pizza when staying at a hotel in New Jersey. The guy came late and had an attitude. I told him to “slow down” when he rushed me. He said, “Man, just give me the money.”
Later that night, the phone in my room rang. I answered and heard someone laughing. I asked who it was and he said, “This is the white boy calling you a nigger.”
Again, I fumed. I could tell from the noise in the background that it was the pizza shop. Plus, no one had the number at the hotel to call me. I got dressed and found the store, but it had already closed. But that moment stuck with me.
Now here was this guy, with a gun, calling me that word. I had no fear, only anger. The word, used with venom, meant the ultimate insult, coming from a white man. I wanted to strangle him.
“Nigger? Is that what you said to me?”
The man turned around.
“Timmy,” the woman called out.
“Shut up,” he said to her then turned back to me with the gun pointed at me. “You got a problem with that?”
“Yeah, I have a problem with that. You’re a woman-beater and a racist. What if I called you cracker or poor white trash?”
“What if I shot you in the face?”
“You’d still be a woman-beating cracker, poor-white-trash racist.”
Moses started barking and he pointed the gun at my dog.
“Hey, what are you doing? You’re that much of a punk to shoot my dog?”
“Punk?”
“Timmy,” the woman tried to intervene. “Let’s just go.”
“The police are on the way,” Kathy chimed in.
The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a badge. “I am the police.”
“And you’re calling citizens ‘nigger’? And threatening to shoot me in the face? That’s exactly why we had all these unarmed black men shot by cops. You’re the reason why. Racist bastard.”
“I can arrest you anytime I want.” The gun was still pointed at my face.
“I should make a citizen’s arrest of your racist ass. How many black men have you killed and lied that your life felt threatened? Look, if you’re going to shoot me, do it. Otherwise, get that gun outta my face.”
“Come on, Timmy, let’s go. Please,” the woman said. She turned to me. “I’m sorry you got caught up into this. Thanks for trying to help.”
This guy, Timmy, and I stared at each other, the gun still pointed at me.
“Timmy—Tiny Tim—you’d better use this moment to change your life. You’re an officer of the law and you’re pointing a gun at me, calling me ‘nigger’ because I was trying to help a woman who needed help, a woman you beat up? Really? Am I threatening your life? This is where the system has gone wrong. You guys—”
“Calvin, just let them go,” Kathy interjected.
“He can go whenever he likes. But since he’s still here, pointing a gun at me, I should be able to speak as I’d like. Think about all the cases, Kathy—and you, too, Timmy—of black men being killed by police for no reason: choked, shot in the back, shot in front of Walmart, shot in a park with a toy gun. Near Atlanta, a man who served his country, Anthony Hill, suffered from post-war stress in Iraq, was naked and obviously disturbed. Instead of getting help, a cop shot him.
“You guys pull out your gun and start shooting as the first response instead of valuing human life. Do you understand how precious it is to live? I know how precious life is. You know what you do to families when you just shoot and kill someone? You’ve got to stop this. You. Get that gun outta my face and figure out a better way to police, because pointing a gun at someone isn’t it.”
I was as clear and calm in my thoughts as I have ever been. I was not afraid of that man shooting me.
“Tim, baby, let’s go,” the woman said, slowly pulling down his arm and the gun away from my face.
“And you can’t let him beat on you like it’s a sport,” Kathy said to the woman as they headed out. “He’s not going to stop if you don’t leave.”
The woman looked back at Kathy for a second and they continued out of the door. Kathy rushed over and shut the door and locked it. She turned to run into my arms, but I was already down on the floor, holding Moses. I could tell she was taken aback.
“Are you crazy? Do you want to die? That man could have killed you. You put your life in the hands of some drunk lunatic.”
“I didn’t. My life is in God’s hands.”
Her shoulders slumped. She didn’t know what to think. I put down Moses and hugged her. “We’re protected by God,” I said softly into her ear. “You know I’m not the most religious guy in the world. But my life has changed knowing it’s ending.”
“What am I going to do with you?” she said. “What am I going to do without you?”
“You’re going to do what you told that woman to do just now. You told her she had to leave or the abuse will continue. Well, that same thing applies to you.”
She didn’t say anything, but she nodded her head. I led her to a chair alongside the bed. She wiped her face as I provided Moses with a little water and food. It was almost five thirty in the morning. I called the police and told them about the racist cop name Timmy and his girlfriend Tracy. That would be enough for them to find him. I was not going to let him get away with pointing a gun at me and, as an officer, calling me a racial slur.
Kathy agreed he had to be dealt with. And then she moved onto more pressing matters. “So, when will I see you again? How are we going to do this, Calvin? What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to be in Atlanta for several weeks for these treatments. I’m hoping they will minimize the pain that I get every so often and at least clear out some of the bad shit in me. So, I don’t know what your situation is, but you can definitely come visit me whenever you like.”
“I will have some freedom because the kids are out of school soon and then actually go to a few camps. One is in Birmingham, Alabama, and I would drive right through Atlanta to get them there. I can see you on the way to dropping them off and the way back. Instead of coming back here, I can just stay there with you, if that’s OK.”
“OK, sounds good.” That was being optimistic. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel like after the treatments or if I just wanted to explore Atlanta on my own. But I knew how much I cared about Kathy, so I was far more for her coming than against. Still, she was married. There was no way around that.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ROAD TRIP
On the way to the airport to pick up the rental car, Kathy and I did not talk much. I reflected on that gun being pointed at me. I knew I would not have handled that the same if I did not know I was going to die. I surely would have been scared to death.
Growing up in Southeast D.C. exposed me to a lot of stuff. But I never had a gun pointed at me. The way I dealt with that cop made me want to seek therapy. He could have shot me right where I stood. Was I on some kind of a death wish?
Was I in some twisted state of daring death?
It made me pause because staring into the barrel of a gun directed at your face and feeling no fear was not normal.
“Kathy, let me ask you something. Did you think I wanted that guy to shoot me this morning?”
“What? Wanted him to shoot you?”
“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t flinch or try to move from the gun. He pointed it at me and I just stood there.”
“Why, because of your condition, you think you’re not afraid of death anymore?”
“I don’t know because I really have been afraid of death. You’re seeing me now, months later. When I learned there was nothing they could do for me, I was a total wreck. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t think. Just scared. I realized after about two weeks of barely eating, sleeping much of the day and crying that I was still alive. I was going to die, but I hadn’t yet. Pull yourself together, man. And I did.
“But now, I’m feeling like I’m at a different place, where, if I die, it doesn’t matter how it happens. So if it happens while trying to save a woman from getting beaten, so be it. I wouldn’t want you or Moses to see me get shot, but at that time I was doing more than trying to help that woman—I was challenging my fear of death.”
“Damn, Calvin. I’m so afraid for you. If that’s true, I’m afraid for what could happen. You shouldn’t challenge death. You’re still here. You look great. You’re feeling OK, I guess. So let’s make the most of it. Let’s live. That should be your goal. Not challenging death because you know you’re dying.”
“Is that why you were crying in bed last night?”
She paused. “I was crying because, as much as my marriage is messed up and over, I broke a vow. I was crying because I should have never let us grow apart a long time ago. I was crying because I loved how wonderful it felt to again be in your arms. And, I cried because I don’t want you to die.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve cried enough for both of us. Now I’ve got to live.”
“But living isn’t challenging death, you know? I need you to be around…as long as you can.”