Guilty of Love

by Pat Simmons

“Who ya talkin’ about? The house or the babe inside?”

  Parke squinted. A rag was tied around Cheney’s head like Aunt Jemima as she wiped inside a bay window. “It’s a toss-up.” The previous night, he had seen her rolling pale blue paint on a bedroom wall.

  “C’mon, man. Haven’t you seen enough?” Malcolm shoved him back toward his house. “Who are you bringing to Juneteenth later?”

  “Hmm. I thought about Kelsi.”

  “Kelsi, again? That’s two dates in a row, but who’s counting?”

  “You, and probably her. So far, she’s fitting the profile.” Parke shrugged.

  “Run your profile by me again.”

  Annoyed at his brother’s forgetfulness, Parke rattled off, “Intelligent, sexy—meaning petite, good-looking legs, and a warm personality. So far, Kelsi’s got the sexy part right.”

  “This is where you lose me, PJ. Why bother?”

  “Because I enjoy her other assets.” Parke winked. He and Kelsi had one thing in common. They played each other for what they could get.

  “Okay, keep it up and you’ll have a houseguest in your castle.”

  “That’s why I dumped Vanessa last month.” Parke sucked in his lips. “It hurt to cut her loose. That woman had the most gorgeous, milk-chocolate legs I’ve ever seen. But I needed a honey who’s makin’ her own money so I could throw my hands up at her,” Parke paraphrased the old lyrics to Destiny’s Child’s Independent Woman.

  “Slow down, playboy, that profile of yours might lead you astray. We control our destiny, not the gods of the kings and princes of our ancestral tribes.”

  “I won’t ignore the past, Malcolm. It holds the direction of our future.”

  “Maybe. I just don’t believe that rule applies to our soul mate. Now back to Vanessa. Wasn’t she the elementary school teacher who invited you to a career day?”

  “Yep, and I was up against a firefighter, a black race car driver, and a TV news anchor.”

  “Stiff competition.”

  Parke loved these philosophical exchanges with his brother so he wasn’t ready to change subjects. “I can’t turn on or off our ancestral connection. The warrior in my blood tells me the right woman will be from a line of African queens.”

  “God help the poor woman. Let’s not digress, PJ. I’m talking about the career day event. You know, the firefighter, news—”

  “Yeah, right. Not one kid had any questions for me. A little White boy raised his hand once he learned I was an investment broker. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old. He announced he had stock in McDonald’s, Microsoft, and Walgreens.”

  Malcolm snickered. “Watch out, the next Bill Gates. We need to reach out to our youth about saving and investing. Okay, refresh my memory on Kelsi?”

  “She’s the loan officer I met a few weeks ago after one of my investment seminars. She’s about 5’5” with short hair. Man, her skin is like bronze. She’s a hottie who drives a yellow BMW convertible, and likes her men to lavish her before…”

  “Okay, okay, we’re having a G-rated conversation here. That’s too much information; so Kelsi is coming with you to the Juneteenth celebration.”

  “I said I was thinking about it. I think I’ll give that honor to Monica.”

  Malcolm slapped Parke on the back. “Work it, my brother. Work it.”

  “I am.”

  A half hour later, Parke punched his security code on the keypad after he closed his exquisitely carved black front door. The previous owners had the mouse-gray house custom-built. The structure greeted, invited, and sheltered its homeowners while beckoning curious visitors inside.

  His footsteps echoed as he crossed the polished mahogany floor. Detouring to the family room with four double theater seats and a forty-two inch plasma screen television as the focal point, Parke hiked up the stairs to shower, then noticed the flashing green light on his phone that tempted him to check his missed calls.

  Eying the name, he smirked when former girlfriend Annette Barber’s number appeared on the caller ID. It had been awhile since they had spoken. She also was a knockout with her gorgeous, tiny but mature body, but it was her gregarious personality that opened many hearts and doors. Despite all her assets, she wasn’t “the one”.

  Annette had refused to indulge in intimacy with Parke without a commitment. So it was his appetite for other women that resulted in the dissolution of their romantic relationship. Incredulous as it seemed, she liked him enough to maintain a friendship. Now the bombshell left Parke baffled with her excitement about church. His party partner and close friend was trading in the “good times” for pew warming.

  “I’m happy for you,” he had lied.

  Her conversion was twenty-four-seven. Not the usual “do whatever I want through the week, and repent on Sunday”. Since her recent salvation, Annette, in one breath, classified Parke as her best whoremonger, woman-chasing friend whom God was counting down the days before his salvation.

  But Annette had changed the course of Parke’s life without knowing it when she introduced him to her great-grandmother. Mrs. Land was a fascinating and determined woman who started investing in the early 1960s with one hundred dollars. Parke couldn’t believe a Black woman had engaged in the stock market in the middle of the civil rights era. Because of her discipline, she had put five daughters through college. The payoff was opening her hat and dress shop. Mrs. Ada Mae Land now lived comfortably in an upscale assisted-living apartment complex.

  Then three years ago, Annette invited him to attend an investment seminar. That meeting resulted in Stiles, Davis, and Crowley Brokerage recruiting Parke as an investment rep in its minority-training program. They enticed him with a six-figure earning potential. Only fools turn down an opportunity, he thought, so Parke began a personal mission to help every Black family become financially secure. So in a way, Annette and her great-grandmother had contributed to his success.

  One day his boss, Mr. Crowley, pulled him aside. “You’re wasting your time. There’s no money in the Black community. They spend it as soon as they get it. Focus on the White middle- and upper-class families. They’re bred to invest in the market and pass their wealth on to the next generation to succeed.”

  Not knowing if the older White partner was insulting his race or advising him, Parke did revamp his thinking. He expanded his prospects, concentrating on whoever would give him thirty minutes—Blacks, Whites, Hispanics, or Asians—and Parke didn’t regret his decision as his clientele and bank account flourished.

  But his true love was uncovering African-American history—slave bills of sale, probate court records, or post-slavery marriage certificates. His weekend trips to Black cemeteries were commonplace. However, Parke’s dates never seemed to share his passion. Their craving was to get him down the aisle.

  Parke had yet to meet a woman who knew her heritage. He couldn’t fault them entirely. Blacks and Whites read the same history books in school, and Black folks didn’t always appear in them. He stopped his mind from drifting and retrieved his messages.

  “Parke, call me when you get in. I have some exciting news to share with you!”

  Often they chatted over lunch, attended parties together, and shared wonderful news about what was going on in their lives. Annette sounded like she was about to fly. Smiling, he checked the time. She had called about an hour ago. He punched in her number. “Okay, my girl, what’s got you so upbeat?”

  “I’ve been waiting forever for you to call me back!”

  “So, what’s up?”

  “You know I’ve been attending this Holy Ghost-filled church.”

  Yeah, she reminded him of that every time they talked. Parke nodded as if she could see, and slumped to the bottom step.

  “Well, I’ve met this guy who seems to have the same hunger and thirst for righteousness. And you know what God says about that, don’t you?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Parke said sarcastically.

  “Of course I am. God says
He’ll fill us to the brim. It’s in that Bible I brought you. The one you probably stuffed in a box and packed away in the basement, but if you ever decide that you’re hungry, check out Matthew chapter five or Luke chapter six.”

  Parke didn’t want to engage in a sermon with Annette. With her new salvation thing going on, he’d learned ribbing Annette would only cause her to pull out her Bibles—she had more than one, Sunday school notes, or find pages she marked in one of her latest Christian Living books. Nope, he was keeping quiet.

  “I feel in my soul that I can grow with him. He could be the one God has for me.”

  All Parke heard was “he could be the one,” and his big brother protector role kicked in. “I need to check him out, Nettie.”

  She giggled. “Why do you think I called you, dude?”

  “Name the time, place, and day. I’m there.”

  “Next week, revival service, seven o’clock,” she recited.

  “You played me.”

  Annette didn’t try to conceal the triumphant laugh. “Yep. Did it work?”

  “Nope.” Parke grinned. He imagined Annette was pouting or stomping her feet.

  “I used a side door approach on ya, since inviting you through the front entrance wasn’t working.”

  “Talk in plain English, Nettie.”

  “PJ, you’re a historian slash broker. You’re a magnet for information. Aren’t you a little curious about my conversion and fascination with a Book that has sustained wars, copies burnt, yet the Word lives on, and people all over the world, regardless of their language and culture, know who Jesus is? The Bible will change you. ”

  “Since I like the way I look, live my life, enjoy the company I keep, and even the way I smell, I’m as content as a baby with a warm bottle and a dry diaper. I’m cool. I see I’m going to have to meet your guy on my territory, not yours. Listen, I’ve got to go.”

  They ended their call, agreeing to eventually disagree. Then Parke debated if it was the time that he and Annette should go their separate ways. He shook the absurd thought from his mind. God wasn’t big enough to break up their friendship. Sex was.

  Hours later at Keiner Plaza, a hot spot for any public celebration from sport championship rallies to holiday parades, Parke was ready to have a good time at the Juneteenth Heritage and Jazz Festival. He pushed the conversation with Annette to the back of his mind, so he wouldn’t feel guilty about the pursuit of his happiness.

  Tim Cunningham and his assemble serenaded thousands with his signature saxophone melodies. Vendors lined Market Street, selling anything from authentic ethnic dishes to apparel sewn from the finest African fabrics not generally available in the U.S.

  Parke linked his fingers with his date’s manicured ones. They strolled through the maze of people sampling food and chatting with acquaintances either of them ran into.

  Spying Malcolm’s arm around Hallison, Parke waved them over. For some reason he couldn’t comprehend why Malcolm liked all his women tall and medium-brown. Parke preferred petite honeys in all shades. He considered them daintier, more feminine, and full of surprises.

  Hallison was at least five-foot-ten. Golden highlights streaked the dark brown hair that swayed past her shoulders. She wore a long sleeveless dress that flowed inches above her ankles. Seductive long side splits offered peeks at her tanned legs as she and Malcolm glided toward him. They looked ridiculously content and happy.

  Releasing Hallison, Malcolm nodded, gripping Parke in a handshake and hug. Standing back, Malcolm smiled at Parke’s date. “Monica.”

  Parke cleared his throat, then made introductions, “Ah, Monica couldn’t make it.”

  His date’s eyes glared at him. Hallison’s and Malcolm’s eyes bucked from embarrassment. Parke ignored their expressions.

  “Change of plans. Nyla, meet my younger brother, Malcolm, and his lady, Hallison.” He whispered an apology in her ear, “I asked you because I wanted you here.”

  Forcing a smile, Nyla did a terrible job of recovering from the humiliation. She took a deep breath and tilted her head. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

  “Hey, Malcolm, ah, good turnout,” Parke commented, searching for a diversion. “Was it like this last year, man?” A business conference had taken him to Texas, so he attended festivities there.

  Malcolm shrugged. “It was bigger.”

  “Well, you’ve got to get down to Galveston. I’m talking serious. They go all the way out for their celebration.”

  Parke chanced a glance at Nyla. She looked bored, struggling with the residual effects of the identification mix-up. He felt bad for her. He’d never purposely do anything to degrade a woman. It was an honest mistake. He may be a “dog” as Annette called him, but he was a pedigree. Parke was well-mannered and respectful. He squeezed her hand.

  Nyla squeezed back. Still, Parke felt the woman had to work through her own insecurities. He had told her up front he wasn’t committed to any one woman. She had boldly retorted, “I don’t recall asking for one.”

  Back on track, Parke continued to discuss the different exhibits with Malcolm and Hallison until Nyla’s whining voice interrupted them.

  “Juneteenth is a made-up holiday like Kwanzaa, right?” No one responded. “I mean, Nelson Mandela created Kwanzaa after he was released from prison, right?”

  For some unexplained reason, a scripture that Annette had forced on him came to mind. Hosea 4:6: ‘My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge: because thou hast rejected knowledge…’ Parke had plenty of knowledge about plenty of things, so he imparted some ancestral knowledge to Nyla.

  “Nope, it’s the oldest known African-American celebration, dating back to June 1865. It symbolizes the end of slavery,” Parke explained. “Dr. Maulana Karenga introduced Kwanzaa in this country in 1966. The name means celebration of first-fruits, and some say the celebrations are recorded as far back as ancient Egypt.”

  Nyla frowned, but listened.

  “Now, back to Juneteenth. People of all races, nationalities, and religious backgrounds acknowledge that dark period in our history and commemorate slaves’ freedom for a day, week, sometimes, celebrations can last a month,” Malcolm added.

  Fascinated, Nyla’s eyes widened. “Wow. I thought Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863.”

  “He did, but millions of Blacks throughout the Deep South didn’t get the word,” Malcolm advised as he unconsciously stroked Hallison’s arm. “Many masters kept Blacks enslaved for two-and-a-half years longer.”

  “Let me tell my favorite part of the festivities,” Hallison interjected excitedly.

  “Tell us, baby, like Parke and I don’t already know.”

  “Imagine more than eighteen hundred union army soldiers—no doubt the strongest, finest, and most determined Black men marching into Galveston, Texas. Imagine them parading in grand style with authority, proclaiming the slaves’ freedom. Whew, rescue me.” Hallison fanned herself.

  “God sent me to rescue you,” Malcolm cooed.

  “He had nothing to do with it,” Hallison stated, her expression blank.

  Chapter Four

  A week later

  “You change your dates more than a woman changes her lipstick,” Malcolm teased Parke over the phone.

  “There is a reason behind my madness, as you call it. Not that I’m an extremely religious person, but I feel God is leading me to somebody.”

  “I doubt it, PJ. Your recent choices are causing you to lose your mind. If it’s contagious, then stay away from me.”

  “Okay, I agree that Nyla was a mistake on my part. It’s partially your fault, too. I’ll never tell you another one of my dates’ names.”

  “I’ll never ask again.” Malcolm laughed.

  “I admit I strayed away from my protocol with that one.”

  “With that one? Try all of them. You need a woman like Hali. Say the word and I’ll ask her about some of her girlfriends when I surprise my baby for lunch later.”

  “I don’t need
any help.”

  “Oh, you need help, all right.”

  “Is Hallison so much a woman that she’s got you in a headlock? I can’t see a woman putting me in that position. I’m not ready to be tangled up like that.”

  “Suit yourself. Have a crummy day, big brother,” Malcolm barked, laughing and ended the call. He was happy he didn’t build barriers like Parke. Picking up another file scheduled for an audit, Malcolm hoped he could crunch the numbers on three companies’ records before noon so he could surprise Hallison. They worked about ten blocks apart, and met for lunch when they could get away.

  Hours later, Malcolm walked out the automatic doors from his office in the Metropolitan Square Building downtown without a care in the world. All was good, and according to the three sistahs in the elevator he had stepped out from moments ago, he looked delicious. One cooed, another whispered, one boldly complimented him on his intoxicating cologne. Malcolm appreciated the kudos, but ignored their overtures. Like his brother, he enjoyed the attention of beautiful women, but only one set his soul on fire.

  At one-minute after one in the afternoon, Malcolm entered the revolving doors to the Bank of America lobby. He scanned the wall for the building directory. With his finger he line-read the names until he found Personnel.

  On the same floor to his right, Malcolm smoothed his paisley print tie against his shirt as he walked down a short hall and opened a glass door. Suspenders complimented his smoke-gray pleated pants. His worn, but polished shoes squeaked on the tiled floor.

  One side of the office housed a row of computers. A few applicants glanced up. When Malcolm removed his sunglasses, a few women ogled him. Hallison said his glasses made him look sexy, rugged, and dangerously appealing.

  He approached a large executive-style desk that seemed to separate the ‘common’ area from the private offices. A dark-skinned woman with fashionable glasses and a head full of twisted curls glanced up. She dropped her pen. Staring, she caught her breath.

  To keep from disturbing the job applicants, Malcolm leaned forward and whispered, “Is Hallison Dinkins in?”