Love Like Hallelujah

by Lutishia Lovely

  When he was about ten years old a new boy, Frankie, moved to the neighborhood. Frankie was an outsider, a loner, from somewhere in the Midwest, Nebraska, if Darius remembered correctly. He was quiet, shy, and Darius could relate to him. Darius’s secret had made him an outsider, too, in the span of four years. So he befriended Frankie, invited him over to his house. They did the typical boy stuff: playing catch outside, ripping and running, digging for worms, and video games. Then one day, Darius invited Frankie to his room to look at his comic book collection. They were sitting on the bed, close together, looking at the pages. He doesn’t remember whose suggestion it was, but the comic books were soon covering exposed penises, penises that were each held by the other boy. It was Darius’s first erection, and the first time he’d met somebody like him. In a careless moment, one of them suggested pulling down their pants for better access. That’s how his grandmother found them when she came back from the store. Frankie scrambled out of the house, barely able to get his pants up, and Darius got a beating he would never forget. His grandmother had whipped and lectured him for half an hour, saying how she wasn’t going to raise no fags or sissies in her house. She tried to literally beat the hell out of him, calling down fire and brimstone. She told Darius she’d rather see him dead than turn into “one of them kind of men.” She’d warned him that if he ever did anything like that again, she’d put him out of her house.

  Darius got scared straight, for a while. His grandmother made him go to church with her almost every day—said she was going to “cure” him. He’d always been musically gifted, and she made him start playing for the church. He enjoyed this, and tried to lose himself in the music. He repeated the rhetoric that he’d heard in church to himself: how he was bad, evil, a stench in God’s nostrils. His self-esteem plummeted, but his musical gift soared.

  He promised himself he would not touch his penis again. He prayed, begged, pleaded with God to change him. He tried not to look at boys, tried not to have the feelings about them that would rise, unbidden. As he entered his teens and his friends started talking about girls, he’d join in, mimic what they were saying about what they liked, and why.

  When he was fifteen, he lost his virginity. She was seventeen, and invited him to a house party. She led him to one of the bedrooms, pulled up her skirt. He tried to get an erection, tried to recapture the feelings he’d experienced when Frankie touched his penis. She laughed at him, told him he was scared. Then she’d unbuttoned her blouse, exposed her young, pert breasts. Darius had closed his eyes, thought of Frankie. As he did so, he became aroused. She jumped on it and within five minutes the deed was done. But at least he’d done it. He’d no longer have to lie about having been with a woman.

  When he was sixteen, he fell in love. He and his grandmother had traveled to Dallas, to a convention of big-time preachers and gospel choirs from all over the country. It had been six years since the incident with Frankie, and while he was still attracted to men, he had never again acted it out physically. The first night in Dallas, he’d met an eighteen-year-old musician who could play the piano as if he’d invented it. Darius had watched, mesmerized, as this kid commanded the attention of the entire arena, had them eating out of his hand and shouting like crazy. After the service, he’d run up to the platform, in speechless awe. The boy, Robert, had tossed him a crooked smile, looked him up and down. “I can teach you how to play like that,” he said.

  They went back to where Darius’s grandmother was sitting. She was thrilled to meet Robert, told him how “blessed of the Lord” he was, how he was a gift from heaven, a gift from God. When Darius asked if he could stay in Robert’s room and learn some new chords, his grandmother didn’t hesitate to say yes, smiling broadly as she waved them off. She was already envisioning Darius on the stage, doing what Robert had done. Like him, her grandson was going to be a star!

  They went back to Robert’s room, stopped to get something to eat on the way, and discussed music over burgers and fries. Robert looked at him a couple times. Their eyes held a little too long for friendship, more like the length for lovers. Darius’s heart skipped a beat. When finished eating, they went over to the portable keyboard that was set up in a corner of the room. Robert suggested Darius sit down, show him what he could do. Darius started with a simple run up the keys, then started playing “Precious Lord.” Somewhere between “When my way grows drear” and “precious Lord lingers near” Robert reached over and rubbed Darius’s neck. Darius kept playing, thinking maybe it had been an accidental brush. Robert sat down then, placed his arm around Darius’s shoulder. Darius kept playing, the music speeding up with his heartbeat. Robert began rubbing Darius’s arm, up and down. He was looking at him again, with the long, lover stare. Darius stopped playing. He turned and looked at Robert, in his eyes, at his lips. They kissed. Tentatively at first and then with passion, tongues swirling, arms entwined. Darius experienced his first male lover. And he knew in that moment that his life would never be the same.

  “Hey, lover boy, where’d you go?” Bo looked at Darius, a bit concerned. Darius hadn’t realized he’d eaten his entire plate of stir-fry without saying a word. “You were a million miles away.”

  “I was thinking,” Darius said, getting up and taking his and Bo’s plates to the sink.

  “About what?”

  “About how unfair life is. How I want to be with you but everybody else wants me to be with Stacy.”

  “Is that poodle still hounding you?”

  “Please, she’s even enlisted Tanya to plead her case. Got my sis asking all kinds of questions about why I don’t take Stacy out, and when am I going to get remarried, and how nice she is, and how good a wife she’d make.”

  Bo started rinsing dishes, placing them in the dishwasher. “I told you we should get out of this town, go to San Francisco, or Seattle. I’ve got great connections there. We could have a wonderful life.”

  Darius leaned on the counter, watching Bo at the sink. “I’ve got to do something, because I sure don’t want to go through the motions of being married again.” He walked over and began to massage Bo’s shoulders. “Unless it’s to you.”

  16

  The Man of Her Dreams

  “Husband, come to me!” Millicent commanded.

  Cy looked at her and was up in an instant. “Yes, darling, I’m coming. It is our time. I want you, and only you, to be my wife.”

  Millicent waited as he crossed the room, her heart bursting with love. The congregation cheered as Cy reached her side, took her hand, and pulled her close. Derrick and Vivian stood in the pulpit, two proud parents cheering them on. This moment was everything she’d ever envisioned. She couldn’t be happier. She was marrying the man of her dreams.

  And then they were dancing: down the aisles, out the door, across the parking lot, and through a meadow filled with flowers. The well-wishing cheers of the congregation, who’d followed them out to the parking lot, dimmed as they moved farther and farther away. Suddenly, they were alone, the sound of classical music surrounding them.

  Cy pulled Millicent to his chest and kissed her passionately. “I can’t wait any longer,” he said, panting. “I want you, I want you now!”

  “Yes, take me, take me!” Millicent replied. She began tearing off her Dolce and Gabbana suit, its worth nothing compared to the treasure in front of her. “I’m yours darling, I’m yours!”

  The music got louder. Cy stepped back to drink in Millicent’s beauty. He reached for his tie and slowly loosened it. Then one by one, he unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. His chest was model perfect. A faint line of hair from his chest disappeared into his waistband. Millicent couldn’t wait to follow that trail.

  Barely breathing, she watched as he took off his shirt and threw it in the grass. Next, he took off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and removed his pants, throwing them into the growing pile of discarded garments.

  The music got louder, still. Millicent’s heart beat wildly. She stared at the bulge pressing against the black s
ilk Calvin Klein boxers. Her mouth watered. She looked up at Cy’s face. He was smiling at her, dazzling white teeth in a face that made her warm all over.

  “Do you want me?” Cy asked, teasing.

  “Yes, yes!” Millicent replied. To prove her point, she grabbed the boxers and yanked them down. Cy’s penis jumped out, large and lively, with a life of its own.

  The music reached a crescendo. Millicent dropped to her knees, ready to show her appreciation. She opened her eyes to guide the massive head into her mouth. But something was wrong. The tip of Cy’s dick didn’t look right. It looked like it had a face. Yes, there was definitely a face on the head of his dick. Mesmerized, Millicent looked closer to make out the features, and stared into the eyes of…Hope Jones!

  Millicent’s heart pounded as she sat straight up in bed. Her nightgown, drenched in sweat, was tangled around her long legs. The music from her dream still reached her ears. She looked around, confused, until it registered that the sound was her radio, the alarm having been set to radio wake up. Millicent shook her head, trying to clear it. The dream had seemed so real. Only it hadn’t been a dream, but a nightmare. She never should have eaten jalapeño peppers before going to bed.

  Maybe if I could see him again, talk to him, apologize. Maybe the abrupt way their friendship ended was why Cy continued to haunt Millicent, even in her dreams. But how could she get to him without Hope finding out? Millicent felt her dream might symbolize just how tightly Hope was guarding Cy’s penis!

  “Forget him!” Millicent said, almost screamed, to the empty room. Her current train of thought was leading nowhere. I’ve got to keep my mind occupied. She peeled off her nightgown and stepped in the shower, letting the water, almost cold, bring her fully awake. Once out, she dried off and dressed quickly. Less than fifteen minutes after waking up, Millicent was in her car, headed to wherever.

  Millicent stopped at the Starbucks just down the street from her home. She needed to be around people. As usual, this popular coffee haunt was crowded. For once, Millicent didn’t mind. After ordering a soy chai latte and blueberry muffin, she took the morning paper to an outside table. She bypassed news, sports, and want ads, and scanned the arts and sales sections. Nothing could transport Millicent to a better mood faster than a great museum or art exhibit. She noted an art show happening in San Diego, and finishing the last of her muffin, headed for Interstate 5.

  Three hours later, Millicent got back in her car, pleased with her purchases of an abstract painting for her dining room, a small waterfall just right for her patio, and a figurine urn that would occupy an empty corner in her living room. The art show had been wonderful, featuring several local as well as national and international artists and sculptors. There had also been food stands, juice bars, and live music. The atmosphere had certainly helped to lighten her mood.

  But she wasn’t ready to go home and face the ghosts she’d left there. Instead, Millicent decided to continue shopping. Next on her list was either an ottoman or side table for the overstuffed armchair she’d purchased to complement her sleek, suede couch. But where to look? Millicent wished she’d browsed the furniture ads before she’d left Starbucks.

  Just as she was about to give up the search and enter the freeway on-ramp toward La Jolla, Millicent spotted a strip mall with the word “Furniture” on the tenant sign. Instead of the highway, she got into the left-hand lane and swung into the parking lot.

  My, she thought after having to park several businesses down from the furniture store, this is a busy place. It didn’t matter. The June sun was out, the temperature lovely, and Millicent had nothing but time.

  As she neared the buildings, the faint sounds of beautiful music floated out with the gentle breeze. Is that a harp? Millicent walked toward the sound of the music and found herself in front of the double doors of the corner building. She looked up, but saw no sign. She heard the music though, and it was enchanting, indeed a harp. It had been a long time since she’d heard this instrument played live. Millicent opened the doors and went inside.

  Upon entering the building, Millicent was greeted by two pleasantly smiling women. One, a cute brunette with caring brown eyes, dressed casually in jeans and a floral blouse, smiled broadly. “Good afternoon!”

  “Good afternoon,” Millicent replied. “I heard the music and had to come in. It’s lovely.”

  “Go right in,” the pretty blonde next to her encouraged. “Elena is quite an accomplished harpist. Her music will bless your soul.”

  Millicent was sure of that; it was soothing her soul already. But had the woman said “bless”? Was this a religious concert? Millicent fought the fear that rose up quickly. What did it matter if it was? Didn’t she love the Lord? If this was a concert featuring Christian music, it was time for her to face whatever crazy fears she had about sitting among the saints. And what a great place to do it. The atmosphere was casual, the setting equally so, and there was beautiful music. What more could she ask for?

  With a steely resolve, she reached for the doors and stepped inside. There was nothing religious-looking about the unadorned space. The gathering was small, only a couple of hundred or so. They were seated in a circular fashion, with the stage directly in front of her. There was no usher, so she quickly found a seat. As the harpist strummed fluidly over the strings, she closed her eyes and gave in to the peace the music evoked. When the song ended, Millicent opened her eyes and smiled. The unfamiliar melody had felt like worship. It had felt incredible; she was suffused with the presence of God in an instant, and the last traces of her dream about Cy were washed away.

  The woman next to her smiled. “Wasn’t that beautiful?”

  Millicent could only nod as tears formed in her eyes. She felt if she opened her mouth, an emotional dam would burst.

  The woman seemed to understand and gently squeezed her arm. “That was ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone,’ one of my favorites. But, my dear sister, I think God had Elena play that just for you.” And then, as an afterthought, the woman added, “Welcome, welcome to Open Arms.”

  17

  The Past Is Back

  “Sleep well, Mom,” Janeé said, kissing her mother on the forehead. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

  Janeé turned off lights as she walked through her mother’s quiet home. She rubbed her shoulders, tight from pent-up stress. Her mother was improving every day, but still Janeé worried. She’d barely known her father. Miss Smith was her only anchor to the past. Almost.

  Closing and locking the door behind her, Janeé walked toward her rental car. Hans had suggested she purchase a preowned one, but Janeé had balked. That felt too permanent, too settled. Janeé wanted to return to Germany as soon as she could. Before returning, however, she would go to Los Angeles and visit her son, Kelvin. He was nearing the end of his second year at a prestigious private school in Santa Barbara and had just gotten a summer job in a town near the campus. Even though Kelvin was mature for his age and loved staying with Hans’s family, especially his same-aged cousins, Janeé worried about him being so far from her, for many reasons. She looked forward to visiting him before they left the states, and to his rejoining the family in Germany during the holidays.

  Janeé called Hans to let him know she was on her way. He’d insisted on bringing the family over once it became clear that Janeé would be in Kansas a while. He was at the hotel waiting for her, protective as always. She hung up the phone smiling, thinking of how lucky she’d been to meet and marry this man more than twelve years ago.

  They’d met in Frankfurt during a convention. He’d been the guest of honor, she the singer hired to entertain the crowd of financiers. She’d flirted with him all evening, even sitting on his lap during one of her songs. Afterward, she’d received a note in her dressing room, an invitation to dinner. They’d gone out once, twice, and before long, were an item—meeting between her singing engagements and his international travel. Ten years older, he was steady, attentive, and sincere. She was drawn to the security he brought to
her life, providing shadows of a father figure she’d never enjoyed. What had melted her heart the most was his treatment of then four-year-old Kelvin. He’d embraced the child immediately, comfortable in his interactions with him, patient with instructions. Kelvin had warmed to him also, and by the time they married, two years later, her son was calling Hans “Da.”

  Hans as “Da” had sufficed until Kelvin turned thirteen. That’s when he’d come home one day and out of the blue, asked about his real father. It was a question Janeé had anticipated, and dreaded. She’d kept the conversation short, told him that his dad was an old friend with whom she’d shared a casual relationship. She had moved to Germany shortly after he was born and had never told the man he had a child. At the time, she’d thought it best. Why further complicate an already messy situation?

  Kelvin had listened attentively, asked understandable questions, which she patiently answered.

  “Did you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he love you?”

  Pause. “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t he want me?”

  “He doesn’t know about you. I was young, thought I was doing the right thing. I started to tell him, many times, but then my career took off and I never went back home. When Hans adopted you, became the father you needed, I thought everything had worked out perfectly. Hans has been a good father, no?”