Guilty of Love

by Pat Simmons

  The final nail in her coffin was his nonchalant attitude after their child was ripped from her womb. No whispers of I love you, or warm hugs. Basically, get over it. Larry wasn’t even cordial enough to ask if she was okay. “I should’ve recognized the signs,” she told herself. But God didn’t give her any signs, so the decision was hers.

  Four days later, Cheney laid in Duke University Medical Center as blood drained from her body. The doctor who had performed the abortion had perforated her uterus. She endured fitful nights of excruciating pain—alone. Only a close friend knew her secret. She was too ashamed to tell her family.

  Leaving the hospital, Cheney had experienced post-abortion stress syndrome. The deceased’s spirit seemed to lingered, haunting Cheney when she least expected. If only God had spoken to Cheney, guiding her on a different path. In hindsight, her baby would have been strapped in a booster seat, singing a nursery rhyme. Thousands of women aborted their babies every year so what’s the big deal? They got over it, didn’t they?

  “The dreams aren’t funny, Jesus. You gave me free will, and I used it!” she boasted, then recalled reading about other women’s grief on an internet site where some said they regretted their decisions even after ten or twenty years.

  Remaining in North Carolina would only serve to remind her of what went wrong in her life. But for the past five years, she had been too ashamed to go home and tell her family the good, bad, and the extremely ugly decisions she had made. So she did what she thought was best—shut them out.

  Then something happened. As she sped past a little storefront church, an overwhelming sensation came over her that God was peeping out from the building watching her, then plucked her out of the car and thrust her into a tarnished Garden of Eden. Like Adam and Eve, God was letting Cheney know she couldn’t cover the shame of her nakedness. She audibly heard a scripture whispered into her ear, but to this day, Cheney refused to read Revelation three, seventeen and eighteen. Besides, she didn’t own a Bible. After that, she packed up and moved back to St. Louis.

  Chapter Two

  “Well?” Imani Segall, Cheney’s best friend since childhood, asked from her hotel room in Amsterdam.

  “Well what?”

  “Did going back home bring you the peace you expected?” Imani paused then continued without giving Cheney time to answer. “You know, I’m probably one of the biggest hypocrites God created, but when things aren’t going my way, I’m the first one to ride on someone else’s coattails to get a prayer through. It can’t hurt, girl.”

  “It won’t help either.” As far as Cheney was concerned, God didn’t appear on the scene until after the baby was gone. She despised Him because of the nightmares. What could she and God possibly have to talk about? Absolutely nothing!

  Imani sighed. “Okay, okay. Bore me with the details about your new place.”

  “Technically, it’s still a shack, but it’s coming along. I love fixing up this place. It’s good therapy.” She eyed the kitchen’s worn tile floor. For two months, she had labored on her house after work, sanding and staining hardwood floors, wallpapering rooms, and stripping pink paint from her brick fireplace. Ugh!

  Cheney’s pride and joy were the two front bedrooms. Although she believed in using proper speech, she would get downright ghetto and curse out the devil himself if he tried to stop her from putting children in those rooms one day. A husband wasn’t required. The six-windowed sun porch above the garage would make an excellent playroom. She could imagine pastel balloon curtains filtering in the morning sun.

  “I can’t wait for your housewarming to see it. So, how’s the neighborhood? Is it quiet? Are there any kids or…” Imani paused, “handsome bachelors nearby?”

  “I’ve got drama living next door by the name of Mrs. Beacon. We haven’t formally met and that’s okay with me. From a distance, I can tell she could be dangerous.”

  “In what way?”

  “From the rumors I’ve heard, every way. Beatrice Tilly Beacon is an annoying seventy- or eighty-something widow, known for monitoring the comings and goings of her neighbors.” Cheney groaned.

  “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah. Residents call her ‘the neighborhood watch unit’, but no one will ‘fess up to appointing her, and the police show up every time she calls. She has a rep of taking matters into her own hands. The cops are afraid that she’ll eventually hurt someone.”

  “She sounds scary.”

  “That’s what I heard. I figure Mrs. Beacon is a menace.” Cheney glanced out the pillow-size window above her kitchen sink, and did a doubt take. Sure enough, Mrs. Beacon was trying to peep through her window with a magnifying glass. What in the world? Cheney frowned.

  Imani’s hearty laugh echoed through the phone and drew Cheney back into their conversation. “Well, if it isn’t drama in your life, it’s comedy.”

  “I can do without overkill from both.”

  “You would be bored; so how’s the job?”

  “Challenging,” Cheney said.

  “Aren’t they all? Is your family excited to have you back home?”

  “I guess so,” Cheney stuttered with a shrug. “I damaged our relationship when I was away in North Carolina, even with Rainey, and you know how close we used to be. I guess I need a little more time.”

  “Well, I’ll pray for ya.”

  Cheney ignored Imani’s offer. One thing Cheney knew from experience was not to depend on God when she really needed Him. That way He couldn’t disappoint her again. How was she going to get cozy with a family she had rejected? “If you’re asking if they’ve seen the house—no. If we’ve gone shopping—no, if we have long phone chats—no,” she answered, trying to hide her disappointment.

  “Mmm,” Imani murmured. “Okay, now that the preliminaries are out of the way, I’m coming back to how are you really doing?”

  “Trying to be strong and get on with my life. I’ve wasted five years pining over Larry, and the choices I’ve made.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Imani whooped, causing Cheney to chuckle. “I just don’t want to see my girl bitter.”

  “Me, bitter? Nah, but my sabbatical from men continues.” When Imani didn’t say anything, Cheney sighed. “I’m just taking charge of my life. I won’t allow another man—or woman for that matter—to cause me any more grief.”

  “Good for you. I guess that means you haven’t had any more of those dreams.”

  “I wish.” Cheney groaned. “I had one last week. It was the first in months.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I know how they freak you out. Hopefully, with your new house, job, and surroundings, those apparitions will stop.”

  “They will. I’ll be okay.”

  After another hour, they ended their conversation when Imani had to get dressed for her next trip. Inseparable growing up, they parted ways when Imani started a career as a flight attendant with American Airlines and Cheney enrolled at Duke.

  Imani had cried with her when she called and lamented about her pregnancy. Imani made frequent flights to Durham as Cheney recovered from her surgery. She cheered when Cheney broke up with Larry. They celebrated with a trip to Brazil. Opposites may attract, but these friends were attached at the hip. Physically, Imani was known for her good-looking legs while Cheney was nothing, but legs. Mentally, Cheney was strong when Imani was weak, and now Imani was the strong one.

  Later that day, Cheney experienced first-hand the buzz circulating about Mrs. Beacon. Peering over a pair of dark octagon-shaped sunglasses, the woman tapped her black bamboo cane to get Cheney’s attention.

  “Yoo-hoo, missy. Over here, chile. You should try Year-Round Green Lawn Care service. My yard is the best looking one on the block,” Mrs. Beacon bragged.

  Resembling a midget from the Wizard of Oz, Mrs. Beacon hobbled down the steps of an enclosed side screened-in porch. Squinting, Cheney could see yellow-and-purple floral cushions on white wicker furniture. A cozy setup for lounging and sipping tea.

  Cheney couldn�
��t deny that the woman’s red brick bungalow was commanding as the block’s poster house with an enclosed area connecting the main house to the garage. Three large dormers made the half story appear like a full second floor. The woman had a right to boast.

  Cheney thought about revving up her weed whacker’s motor to drown out her neighbor who was still talking, but her conscience and upbringing dictated she be cordial. She guided the dormant lawn tool toward the old woman.

  “You know what you doin’ with that thing, missy?”

  “I do.” Or at least, I think I do, Cheney thought. Up close, she was surprised to see Mrs. Beacon’s mocha skin wrinkle-free. Snowy white strands mingled with silver hair in a tight bun anchored off-centered on top of her head. Cheney examined the small-framed woman who couldn’t be five feet in heels. How could she be a terror?

  Her neighbor’s attire was a bright coral crocheted sweater over a dull plaid housedress. Earlobes sparkled with tiny diamonds. Everything about Mrs. Beacon’s appearance suggested she was in her right mind…until Cheney scanned her feet. They were swallowed up in men’s shoes—army-polished Stacy Adams.

  “I’m Cheney Reynolds.”

  The woman lifted her eyebrows. “Cheney? Like that vice president we had a while back?”

  Cheney nodded.

  “Humph! Thought you were a WNBA player.”

  “No, madam. That would have been a great opportunity to play with Tamara Moore, who is five-ten and Lindsay Taylor, who is six-eight in the Women’s National Basketball Association. But I did play in college.”

  “You didn’t steal those clothes from a homeless shelter, did you? This is a conservative neighborhood, young lady. We don’t take too kindly to the likes of hippies living among us.” Mrs. Beacon stuck out her chin.

  Now what prompted that question? Mrs. Beacon was living up to her bold reputation. Evidently the woman didn’t look in her mirror. Cheney had awakened with a busy day planned. Okay, she had to admit that she hadn’t combed her hair with care. Her jet-black, shoulder-length mane was thick and itchy, demanding a warm shampoo and a cool conditioner. Why primp?

  “Sorry, I grabbed the first thing I saw,” Cheney said, looking down at her clothes, knowing she didn’t owe her an explanation. “I didn’t know there was a dress code to work in the yard.” She hadn’t washed a load in a few days, but she didn’t think her mismatched socks, gray sweatpants, and oversized red shirt were offensive.

  Mrs. Beacon tapped her walking stick. “You should’ve. White folks might say, ‘There goes the neighborhood’. Didn’t your parents teach you better? Anyway, I’m Mrs. Beatrice Tilley Beacon. My close friends call me Grandma BB. Don’t you even think about it,” she warned, squinting while she jabbed her cane in the air at Cheney. “I’ll let you know if you will have that privilege. I’m going to keep an eye on you.”

  What? How do I respond to that? Cheney rolled her eyes, but kept silent. Weren’t neighbors supposed to be friendly, kind, and bearing gifts or making small talk over a fence? If Cheney could move, she would, but she had sunk a lot of money into this house. Years ago, Cheney would’ve prayed for patience to deal with difficult people. Since the abortion, she stopped praying and was certain God was cursing her life.

  Mrs. Beacon grabbed Cheney’s attention again when the woman shrugged and twisted her lips. “Humph, uppity thang, ain’t you? Well, those weeds better not crawl my way,” she scolded, drawing an imaginary property line with her cane.

  Okaaayy. Let me tiptoe back to my property and leave old Mrs. Grouchy to herself. “Nice to meet you,” Cheney lied, restarting her weed whacker. The motor reaped power. She scurried away. Watch it, Grandma. “Why couldn’t I have neighbors like the Huxtables?”

  Hours later, Mrs. Beacon returned, clanking in her oversized men’s shoes, leaning on her cane, and carrying a tall drink. “You’ve done enough work for one day, although more sun would do your color good.” She thrust the glass in Cheney’s hand. “Here, quench your thirst with my homemade lemonade squeezed with secret ingredients—a little of this, a touch of that.”

  First impressions were lasting. The senior citizen had the nerve to mix compassion and insult in the same day. A little of this or that could be cherry-flavored arsenic. The smart thing to do would be to decline. “You shouldn’t be so kind.”

  “I’m not.”

  Cheney eyed the glass with suspicion.

  “Go on, chile. I used genetically enhanced lemons and limes mixed with fresh pineapple juice and a slice of mandarin orange.”

  Accepting the drink, Cheney sampled a baby sip and licked her lips. “Mmm, it’s good.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Beacon nodded with pride before turning and pointing her cane. “Now, Heney, when you get through cutting, I was thinking you need to plant some hydrangea shrubs. The ones that bloom pink flowers during the summer, and if you plant some sage between our properties, you can smell it as you walk in your front door.”

  Sucking in her lips, Cheney tapped her foot to keep time with her neighbor’s rambling dictates. “Mrs. Beacon,” she spoke in mocked sweetness, “I’m planting more than a hundred bulbs, shrubs, and plants this Saturday. Perhaps you’d like to come off your porch and help me dig?”

  “Oh no, Heney, ain’t got time for that. My summer salsa classes are beginning. I’ll be gone most of the day.”

  Figures.

  ***

  The radio’s alarm blared, shocking Cheney from her sleep. “Am I an idiot for waking up at five on a Saturday morning to do yard work?” she mumbled as one eye refused to open.

  Cheney dragged her comatose body to the bathroom where she haphazardly dressed in a white St. Louis Cardinals T-shirt and black sweats, swept her hair into a ponytail and slapped a baseball cap on her head. She marched down the stairs mimicking a soldier reporting for duty.

  The previous day, the nursery had delivered a mountain of dirt on one side of her driveway. She had purchased burning bushes for the sole purpose of separating her property from Mrs. Beacon’s. She wondered if any bush would be tall enough.

  Moisture lingered in the pre-dawn air, a sure sign of a hot, humid day to come. Birds dancing in flight and swaying tree branches provided the only movement on the block until a cool breeze caressed her cheeks.

  This was a time she wished she had company and would even tolerate Mrs. Beacon. Hmm. Maybe not. Flexing her muscles, she started wheeling dirt.

  Hours passed as Cheney dug a three-inch ditch to separate her lawn from her kidney-shaped flowerbed. Halfway through the dirt pile, Mrs. Beacon made her irksome appearance. Standing regal on her porch in a multicolored orange-and-red wrap skirt, a red ruffled blouse, and red sling-back heels.

  “What? No Stacy Adams?” Cheney mocked under her breath, pretending she didn’t see her. She rubbed her eyes, leaned her head forward, and checked the house address. Maybe it was her medication the other day that caused her to dress oddly.

  Mrs. Beacon backed out from her garage, gunning a newer white Lincoln Continental. She rolled down her window and waved. “I do hope you’ll have a professional supervise the job. There’s nothing tackier in a neighborhood than an amateur landscaper,” she yelled as she sped off, blasting a Boys II Men tune.

  Shaking her head, Cheney would’ve even settled for a neighbor like Mr. Rogers.

  At noon, the sun beamed high in the summer sky. Cheney rested on her porch steps and wiped perspiration from her brow, smearing dirt across her forehead. She snatched the cap off her head and used it as a fan. She should have had the mulch delivered, too. Running into the house, Cheney retrieved her keys for a drive to Home Depot. She returned from the hardware store with her trunk over-stuffed with bags.

  “And the nursery workers said I needed a truck. Hah!” When she lifted the trunk, Cheney realized she would need Houdini or the Incredible Hulk to get the bags out. Cramming was a bad idea. Where’s a man when you need one?

  Flexing her muscles again, she began to pull. “Give,” she pleaded. “C’mon. If I can get
just one out, the rest will be eas—”

  Two bags torpedoed from the stack with a force that had Cheney running backwards. She knew she was going to hit the concrete driveway, and the scene wasn’t going to be pretty, but she was already in motion and couldn’t stop. God, I know You haven’t always been there for me, but I would really appreciate it if You would keep me from breaking any of my bones, she thought absentmindedly. Someone call an ambulance if I don’t move.

  “Whoa!” she yelled as her hands flew up in the air, and she didn’t have time to manipulate a graceful landing. When she looked up, the bag she had released was heading back to Earth. Destination—her face.

  Suddenly, a muscular arm wrapped around her stomach. With force and quickness, a solid body collided with Cheney, cushioning her fall. Dazed, she lay still, trying to figure out who rescued her with a seat belt-like grip and smelled like a men’s cologne counter. “Ah, you can let me go now,” she said, turning toward the stranger.

  ***

  Parke K. Jamieson VI released his new neighbor. “Hey, you all right?” he asked.

  The woman seemed to gasp as she patted her head, rubbed a knee, and squeezed an ankle. “It all depends on whether or not I have any broken bones.”

  He examined her. She was covered with more grime than a slugger sliding to home plate. Standing, Parke extended his hand. “Here, let me help you.”

  She was tall—very tall, at least six feet. Were her parents the descendants of the Alton giant? he wondered facetiously, referring to Robert Wadlow who was listed in the Guinness Book as the tallest man in the world. He had once lived not far away in Alton, Illinois. When he died at twenty-two, Wadlow had grown to eight feet eleven inches.

  “Where did you come from?” she asked, still dazed.