Guilty of Love

by Pat Simmons

  “I’m keeping my mouth shut this time. There’s got to be one woman out there for him. I have coworkers and girlfriends who would love to have a Malcolm look-alike.”

  “We’re nothing alike when it comes to women. I know a good thing when I see her. Parke wouldn’t know a good woman if she knocked him to the ground.”

  Twenty minutes later, Malcolm parked blocks away from the park. Hand in hand, he and Hallison strolled down the crowded sidewalk with other concertgoers. Soon they spotted Parke in the distance hugging a dark-skinned woman who sported long micro braids, adorned with eye-stopping beads. She wore what appeared to be four-inch heels.

  “Wow, her halter top is barely holding her boobs, and those hoochie-mama shorts would make some hoochies blush,” Malcolm mumbled.

  “Your brother’s dates are getting stranger and stranger, babe.”

  “Tell me about it. The mosquitoes are going to have a munch-feast on sista-girl tonight with all her back and legs out. Hali, some of his choices are mind-boggling.”

  “Some?”

  “Okay, most.”

  “Try all of them.”

  Malcolm snickered and kissed the top of her hair. “His personal picks remain a mystery while his business and world history acumen are well noted.”

  “You mentioned your family tree before. I think it’s so fascinating to know your history like that. You’ve uncovered some invaluable information.”

  “Amazing things, but I think it’s that information that drives Parke to craziness,” Malcolm voiced his thoughts.

  “If you were Parke Jamieson VI, would you change your woman every day like you change your und—”

  Malcolm’s finger to her lips silenced her. “I would’ve stopped searching the day I saw you at that job fair. Does that answer your question?”

  She reached up and fingered the silky hairs of his beard before standing on her toes and brushing her lips against his. “Yes.”

  They joined Parke and his date at a stoplight. The brothers exchanged hugs like they hadn’t seen each other in years. He and Hallison offered Parke’s companion a cordial smile. At least the woman had a pretty face.

  “This is Wanda,” Parke said, positioning his hand around the woman’s waist. “C’mon, let’s find a spot before it gets packed.”

  “Wanda,” Malcolm mouthed to Hallison with mischief dancing in his eyes. “Not only does my brother pick women with his eyes closed, but he must have a mental rolodex to keep the names straight.”

  Hallison giggled.

  The foursome wormed their way between folks who had commandeered a large hill. A makeshift stage had been erected in front of the swimming pool. The local band, Summer Magic, entertained the audience with an array of pop, rock, and love ballads.

  Malcolm bopped his head to the band’s beat until they played a rendition of Earth, Wind, and Fire’s Reasons. He relaxed his legs and coaxed Hallison to sit in front of him, offering his chest for support.

  Resting her head, Hallison hummed along as music floated throughout the night air. Malcolm tightened his arms around her stomach while massaging his beard against her cheek. “Hmm, sounds like you’re having a good time.”

  Her answer was rocking her head back and forth. “You know I am. This is so mellow and hypnotic. The best part is that I’m here with you. I wish I could wrap up this moment and take it home.”

  “Hali, you’ll experience that same feeling when I make love to you. I can cast some serious spells on you, baby.”

  Grabbing his hand, she turned it and kissed his palm. “You already make love to me when you spend time with me, kiss me, hold my hand, and surprise me for lunch.”

  “Yeah,” Malcolm said dryly, “and you seduce me with those form-fitting clothes you wear, the way your body moves when you walk, and that scent you wear behind your ears. You’re killing me, sweetheart.”

  ***

  Parke didn’t know how Annette was doing it, but he was sure she was sending some sort of subliminal Biblical messages to keep him from enjoying his evening.

  Parke spent the night spying on Malcolm and Hallison as they absorbed each other’s touches, eye contact, and air kisses. They easily forgot about everyone else around them. What was the secret of them connecting so well?

  Wanda began fingering the muscles hidden under Parke’s Adidas T-shirt; reminding him he was too busy being a spectator instead of a participant. When he sighed, she winked, thinking she was doing something, but she wasn’t. She was too eager to please after the second date. Who am I to complain if a woman wants my body?

  He eyeballed Malcolm again. His brother was acting like a man in love and didn’t have a burden to carry on the family name. Parke’s heritage consumed him, searching high and low in an effort not to miss his princess, his Black Cinderella. I’m doing something wrong, Parke surmised. Women always seemed to come on to him. It was time for him to begin the hunt for his soul mate.

  Parke both dreamt and dreaded the day he would fall for a woman. His ideal woman would be intellectually and spiritually in tune with herself as a Black woman, physically exquisite, and definitely petite. He turned and looked at Wanda. She was strictly a night partner, not a life partner. He had to stop picking up women who were CEOs by day and desperate women by night.

  “This night with you has been a better investment than the stock advice you gave me earlier,” Wanda said, closing her eyes and leaning in for a kiss.

  Parke felt obliged to kiss her neck, hum along with the band, and pray the night would end very soon. God, I’m convinced You’re trying to tell me something, but I need You to speak clearer or write it down.

  Chapter Five

  Parke’s speakers in his SUV rang, interrupting his music and thoughts. He touched the button to answer. “Hello.”

  “It’s Annette.”

  “What’s going on with my favorite little church mouse?” Parke teased as he steered his vehicle past Cheney’s house.

  “Well, I’m at your house.”

  He scanned his memory and didn’t remember they were supposed to get together.

  Before he could ask a question, she answered, “Actually, I’m on your block. I’m with a few evangelists who are passing out gospel tracts in your neighborhood.”

  “Then let me keep going.”

  “Parke, if you don’t come to your house, I will hunt you down and pray that the Holy Ghost will …I just expect better from you. Even though you act like a dog that needs to be neutered, I still love and respect you.”

  “Ouch.” He cringed. “Okay, I’ll be there in a sec.”

  When he arrived, the small group could have been mistaken for Jehovah’s Witnesses, but they weren’t ringing bells or knocking on doors. They were merely laying small comic strip-looking books inside storm doors.

  Annette and her team of three church goers didn’t stay long. As a matter of fact, they didn’t say much except to ask how he was doing. One chubby teenager, Eric, who seemed to be the leader said, “The best witness we can give you is the way we live our lives in sanctification. The best knowledge you can obtain is in your Bible. Read it.”

  Odd. Parke was expecting more of a beat-over-the-head then take him hostage and drag him to church. He was relieved when the group stood to leave.

  “Do you mind if we pray for you?” Eric asked after Annette nudged him.

  He should’ve known. Eric opened his Bible and flipped through the pages. Parke started to lift his hands in protest. He agreed to prayer only, but held his peace. After all, he did have a relationship with God, despite what Annette thought.

  “‘Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call ye upon Him while He is near. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him, and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon. For My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways, saith the Lord.’ That’s in Isaiah 55:6-8.”

  Although Parke respected the Scriptures, he didn’t
think they pertained to him. Church for the Jamiesons was a social affair. Annette was the first person he knew where church had caused a change.

  “Do you mind if we anoint your head with Holy Oil before we pray?” Eric was already unscrewing the top off a small sample-size bottle. Turning it upside down on his finger, Eric dabbed the liquid on everyone’s forehead, including Parke’s.

  Parke bowed his head with the others as Eric prayed, “Father, in the name of Jesus, we thank You for the opportunity to be in Your Presence. We thank You for the opportunity to warn others about the devices of the devil, and we further pray that You will draw Parke into Your fold when the time is right. We ask that You save and sanctify not only his mind, but his body, in Jesus’ name, amen.”

  Without another word, they left. Was it because of Annette that they prayed for him? Shrugging, he dismissed their visit as he closed his front door. He decided to call and check up on his mother. “Hi, Mama.”

  “PJ, my long-lost oldest man-child. How you doin’, son?” Charlotte Jamieson’s soft singsong voice greeted him.

  Chuckling, Parke loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He peeked inside his stainless-steel refrigerator, grabbed a pint-size juice carton, and bumped the door closed with his hip. For a few minutes, they chatted about what was going on with the family.

  “When are you comin’ for dinner? We haven’t had an old-fashioned family night in a while. I miss my boys, since Cameron stayed in Boston for summer classes and to work that internship. Your crazy schedule makes you a stranger, and Malcolm is spending more time with Hallison. She’s such a cute little thing. We’ll play your favorite game.”

  His mother professed to see goodness in everybody except some of his choices in dates. The woman was shapely and tall. “Ma, there’s nothing little on her.”

  “Stop it, PJ. She’s good for Malcolm. So, when are you visiting?”

  “Cook my favorites and you’ll see me soon.”

  Speaking of food, Parke scanned his refrigerator for leftovers. He reflected on his family’s Friday night tradition of bonding through games. “Yeah, I’m craving some Black Heritage Trivia and The Underground Railroad board games.”

  His mother’s sigh came through loud and clear. “Anything, but Life As A Blackman.”

  “Hey, you just said we could play my favorite.”

  “Hmmm, I was hoping you didn’t hear that,” she teased. “That game lasts longer than Monopoly, especially when you all start arguing.”

  “Humph! It’s called debating, Mama.”

  “Rhetoric to you, arguing to me. Just the same, you Jamieson men are loud.”

  Grinning, Parke leaned against the counter. “Can I help it if I’m usually the only one smart enough to survive Glamourwood Districts, The Ghetto, Corporate America, and Prison before advancing to Freedom and winning?”

  “Cameron has strong opinions about social and racial injustices, roadblocks, and driving-while-Black patrol,” Charlotte reminded him. “You forget churches are positioned at every corner to help guide each player toward the ultimate goal.”

  “You’re stirring the pot now. Set the date.” They laughed. She agreed to let him know before Parke disconnected.

  Those ethnic games influenced Parke to major in African-American studies at Lincoln University in Jefferson City, Missouri. Former slave James Milton Turner founded the state’s first historically Black college. On campus, Parke thrived in the Black history classes, participated in African cultural events, and was committed to Black history preservation, but his choice of a major had infuriated his parents.

  “It’s good to know who you are and where you came from, but White folks only want to hear so much about Roots, the slave ship, and breeding slave women like cattle, son. Take some business courses and focus on economic empowerment,” his father had strongly advised with an underlying threat.

  Of course his parents had been right. So six years earlier, Parke had graduated cum laude with a B.S. in business and a minor in history. He wanted to teach in a college setting, if nothing but a weekly night class, but local universities didn’t see the need for an African-American history curriculum. So he became a traveling one room school house to bring the past to life. Otherwise, hundreds of thousands of slave narratives’ testimonies wouldn’t be heard. Parke couldn’t allow that to happen.

  He took a position in the business world to feed his stomach while his passion for history fed his starving soul. He believed his ancestors spoke to him through his dreams, and guided him through his financial transactions.

  The spirits also spoke of his future mate—a strong woman disguised by her outer appearance. Malcolm and others thought his choice of dates crazy, but he was searching. Parke knew his bride was living “uncover” but her grand entrance was nigh.

  ***

  A detour past Cheney’s house became a part of Parke’s new route. Her nonchalant attitude bugged him. Somehow Cheney was one of only a few women who didn’t respond to the Jamieson charm. Parke cringed just conjuring up her “heaven-kissing” height. Normally it was a turnoff, but her saucy attitude was entertaining.

  Yet, Parke could sniff out a cover-up. Cheney had something buried, either physical or mental, and he sensed she dared anyone to find the key. Why the facade? Parke tapped his brakes at the same time realization hit. Wait a minute, Cheney Reynolds? Nah. What Parke saw was what he wasn’t getting. He didn’t want. It must’ve been the spicy hot links I gobbled down at lunch because my imagination is running wild, he consoled himself.

  Chapter Six

  A week later

  Cheney’s arms refused to move. Her knees couldn’t. Finally, her body obeyed her command and stood. It demanded a break from applying grout to her kitchen floor. Massaging her back while rolling her head, she admitted she’d taken on too big of a task.

  But it was her home. Stepping into her living room, she admired the newly installed oak shutters in one of twin bay windows.

  “They’re beautiful,” Cheney complimented Mr. Harrison, the owner of Harrison’s Custom Windows.

  The man who looked like he had skipped too many breakfasts, lunches, and dinners stood back and viewed his handiwork. “Yeah, I think so, too, Miss Reynolds. They’ll give your room a relaxed feel with sunrises and sunsets.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Cheney arched her back then touched her toes. She tilted from side to side like windshield wipers; she could feel the blood circulating again. When Mr. Harrison stared at her with amused curiosity, Cheney stopped. “Sorry about that. I’m a little stiff. Now, let me get a better look.” She walked closer and let her finger dance across the smooth wood grain. “They’re adding character already. I can’t wait to get furniture. So far, I haven’t seen anything that has caught my eye.”

  He moved to the other bare bay window and began prepping it. “You might want to stop by Ferguson Sofa Store on South Florissant. My wife finds something unique there every time she remodels, which seems like practically every year.”

  “I’ll do that. I’m having a housewarming Saturday, and I need furniture fast.”

  “Housewarming?” Nodding, he asked, “You’re new to the neighborhood?”

  “Yes, I am. I’ve lived here almost three months.”

  “Well, I’ll take ten percent off my job as a welcome to the neighborhood gift.”

  Just as Cheney was about to thank him, a large spotlight crossed her yard. Its aim was a brown Envoy parked not far from her house.

  “Did you see that?” Mr. Harrison’s panicked expression looked as if he was about to take cover.

  By accident or intentional, the bright light found its mark, then the driver sped off. For the next few minutes, the spotlight did formations against houses like a circus act. Then the block returned to a semi-dark state.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Who knows?” Cheney shrugged. “I’m sure Mrs. Beacon is up to something.”

  “Grandma BB?”

  “You know her?”
r />   Mr. Harrison grinned. “Her reputation is legendary.”

  ***

  It was almost midnight on Wednesday when Cheney came home from work, tuckered out. She grabbed her mail out the box and went inside. She briefly thought about a light snack before bed, but she was too tired to fantasize about food.

  She had tackled one building problem after another at work. Menopausal women complained their offices were too hot, iron-deficient workers griped about freezing to death. They threatened to plug in space heaters in every available outlet.

  Plus, Cheney had scheduled the annual fire detection system testing, a job that couldn’t start until after the last shift. The three-day process checked alarm horns, emergency lights, and the smoke detectors.

  She was not only responsible for the employees’ safety, but for protecting expensive telephone equipment. A small fire could reap more damage than a severe storm and disrupt phone service to thousands of customers in North St. Louis County.

  Enough about work, she thought as she stared wearily at her bare living and dining rooms and noted that time was running out. Although her brain was falling asleep, Cheney took a minute to sort through her mail. As she separated bills from junk, she found two pocket-size comic books in the mix. After opening one, Cheney blinked at the number of times God was mentioned, then she realized it was a gospel tract. She immediately pitched them in the trash, along with the other solicitations and went to bed.

  On Thursday morning, Cheney hurried home from work. She whipped off her business suit so fast she almost tripped over her slip as it shimmied down her legs. She landed on her hands like she was a participant in a game of twister.

  She laughed at her own clumsiness, and finally dressed in comfortable clothes and tennis shoes. Cramming her wallet into her back pocket, Cheney grabbed her house keys, then decided to walk the one mile to downtown Old Ferguson. Shielding her eyes from the evening sun with dark glasses, she donned a white baseball cap and was on her way.