Guilty of Love

by Pat Simmons

  Chapter Ten

  Cheney woke Sunday morning, surprisingly refreshed. Parke’s return visit the previous night probably kept her from crying herself to sleep, and she didn’t know what to think about her next-door neighbor Mrs. Beacon, a.k.a. Grandma BB.

  Only Imani understood Cheney’s disappointment at the outcome of her party. The late night chat only proved her friend’s unconditional love. Love she hadn’t felt from family or God. Cheney had waited so long for some type of closure and had such high hopes for reconciliation, but the party was a debacle. She had prayed a useless prayer.

  “Take the gifts away and my family might as well hate me.”

  “Give it time. You’ve been away five years,” Imani had tried to comfort her.

  “I think they know.” Cheney sniffed.

  “Doesn’t matter, it’s over. That’s your body and your business.”

  “I know, but I’ve worked so hard on the house. I wanted everything to be perf—”

  “You need to stop working on that house, and work on you. Honey, if you don’t stop crying, you’ll make me quit the best job I’ve ever had, and baby sit you.”

  “It’s the only job you’ve ever had, my privileged White friend.” They laughed.

  “You were privileged, too, a doctor’s daughter. It took me years to realize your family was Black. I always thought you were White with a tan.”

  Remembering how Imani had threatened to send her a Gideon Bible from one of her hotel rooms made Cheney smile. Yes, Imani was a certified hypocrite. She would curse someone out then say her prayers at night.

  After yesterday’s housewarming disaster, the last thing Cheney wanted was to mope around her house. Recalling the brochure she grabbed at the furniture store, she thought it might be a great day to explore the Ferguson walking tour. She ate, dressed and headed out the door.

  Ringing church bells echoed throughout the neighborhood, announcing Sunday service. It beckoned for neighbors to come pray, worship, and praise God. Enter expectantly, depart triumphantly, she mused. The beckoning was for folks who followed Christ. Cheney ignored the summons. She had followed Larry instead of her heart.

  Church was a building she hadn’t stepped inside since her surgery. How could she? Cheney Reynolds was guilty of destroying a life God had created—she made a stupid choice fooling around with a stupid man. Church wasn’t an option. Shuddering at her own condemnation, Cheney preceded to the corner of Elizabeth Avenue.

  The young money-hungry doctor who performed her abortion had perforated her uterus and damaged her bowel. At least, that’s what a doctor at Duke University Hospital had told her in recovery.

  Cheney clutched her fist as she walked, seeing nothing, but painful memories. I lost so much blood. She would never forget that pulsating pain the doctor associated with hemorrhagic shock. The chills, the steady vomiting, and the tubes were the most frightening experience. Why couldn’t I have died in that hospital bed?

  Because you have a purpose, a voice answered.

  When she turned around, nobody was there. Despite the warm sun, Cheney trembled. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she remembered. The tour was briefly forgotten as she edged along down the street, dazed. After a while, Cheney realized she had no idea if she was still on the tour path or how long she had been walking.

  She was at the corner of Darst and North Clay. Pulling out the folded brochure from her pocket, Cheney checked to see if any historic houses were on the block. As she crossed the street, she heard a voice again, this time yelling, “Cheney. Cheney, over here.”

  She whirled around and through blurred vision saw a tall, muscular guy wearing a raggedy muscle-man T-shirt and shorts that barely hid what God had given him. Cheney squinted, trying to recognize the half-naked man, her mind too jumbled to focus. She didn’t know if she should stand there and wait, or take off running.

  The latter made more sense. Cheney broke into a marathon run. She could hear her attacker gaining speed. If she looked back, it would only slow her down.

  “Cheney,” the man shouted, “if you run any faster, you just might kill me and win the race.”

  She stopped, recognizing the familiar voice. Turning around, she put a hand on her hip, ignoring her racing heart. “What is wrong with you? Why were you chasing me like a crazy man?”

  Winded, Parke collapsed against a large tree and braced his hands on his knees. “Me? Why were you running like a crazy woman?”

  She pointed her finger. “I didn’t know who you were, running after me half dressed.”

  “Did I not call your name? It’s not like you’ve never seen me before. What are you doing on my street anyway? Taking the Old Ferguson walking tour?”

  Cheney gave him an incredible look. “Your street. You mean you really do live in the neighborhood? Right now, I have no idea where I am.”

  Wiggling his brows, Parke gave a sly grin. “I can guide you on the tour of the east and west part of the neighborhood. I know it like the back of my hand.”

  Scrunching up her nose, she eyed him from head to toe. “I’m not walking anywhere with you dressed like that.”

  “What’s the problem? You’re wearing orange, I’m wearing orange. We match.”

  Her previous melancholy forgotten, Cheney lifted her shoulder and folded her arms. She was about to open her mouth just as a Volkswagen Beetle honked its horn and the driver waved at Parke. He flexed his muscle at the pretty female driver like he was a contestant in a national body builder competition. Cheney shook her head in disgust.

  “Ah, hello? Parkay, correction, I’m wearing clothes. You’re showcasing body parts.” She gave him a salute and did an about-face. “See ya.”

  “Hold on.” Parke grasped Cheney’s arm and held it firmly in place. “I’ll change. C’mon, I’m a better tour guide than a brochure.” Mischief sparkled in his eyes.

  Fighting back a smile, she conceded. “Okay, but I bore easily, and if you become a drag, I may not know the neighborhood like you, but I’ll leave you and walk home.”

  “Deal.”

  They strolled down a long block until Parke stopped abruptly. “Here we are.” He waved his arm in the air as if he was announcing “The Greatest Show in the World” circus.

  Cheney gawked at the three-story dark-gray house, almost the color of a mouse. “Wow. This is very nice. I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks. What you’ve done to your house is impressive, too. C’mon inside.”

  “Not happening. How do I know you’re not like Maury Travis?” She eyed him.

  “Who?”

  “I never liked dumb men. That scavenger lived somewhere here in Ferguson and led a double life. He was normal by day—a good neighbor, boyfriend, and worker, but at night—he tortured, raped, and murdered prostitutes right in his own home.”

  Evidently Parke saw her point of view as he rubbed his fingers through his curly black hair. “Yeah, I see what you mean. You can’t be too careful these days. No telling what you may try to do to my body. Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change.”

  She cackled despite her earlier mood. “Make it fourteen, or I’m out of here.” She had to stay in control.

  Racing up the stairs into his house, Parke left a trail of his haughty laugh. “Only a Black woman would give a Black man an ultimatum.”

  “Humph! Only a Black man would give Black women heartache,” Cheney mumbled, knowing her statement wasn’t true, but many sistahs believed it.

  While Parke showered, Cheney inspected the lawn. His simple, well-maintained feminine colors of pink geraniums and red petunias added to the home’s grandeur. She studied the unique style of the three dormers. “One man, and this entire house.”

  Coming from around the back of the house, Parke snuck up behind her. “Ah, but not just any man, I’m an African prince, and this is my small palace.”

  She examined his attire. Casually dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved T-shirt, he looked nice and smelled good. “Yeah, right, Parkay. C’mon, I’ll let yo
u walk with me.”

  Without protest, she allowed him to loop her arm through his. She ignored Parke’s blossoming smile as if he had won a prize or game. Since the first time she met him, he always pushed her buttons then acted as her parachute back to normalcy.

  Parke was in his element. He deepened his voice, “The Atwoods were kin to the town’s second mayor. They built this fourteen-room mansion in 1910, using walnut lumber from a previous steamboat to construct this Gothic-style house.”

  “It looks way bigger than fourteen rooms.”

  Parke nodded in agreement.

  Four doors down, a large three-story white house stood with huge columns at least two stories high. A tall pine tree partially hid a screened-in sun porch on the second level.

  “That’s different,” Cheney pointed.

  “Yep, the columns are remnants of the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair.”

  The couple finished the block, doubled back, and turned right on Adams Avenue. Parke stopped at the first home on a hilly corner.

  “It’s amazing how each house is different.”

  “Yeah, the norm of custom-designed buildings is pretty much gone. Today we have to pay big time to have a house that doesn’t look like every other one on the block. That’s what drew me to the neighborhood and my house,” Parke said, staring.

  “I didn’t realize third-floor dormers were so popular back then.”

  He pointed. “See the extra-wide front door? Charles Ferguson had it built in the 1870s to accommodate caskets for family funerals. It’s known as the Wake House.”

  Lifting her eyebrow, Cheney smacked him on the arm. “Get out of here. Are you serious?”

  “Impressed, huh?” he teased with a suggestive tone.

  “Yeah, with the house, not you.”

  For the next two hours, Parke steered Cheney up and down streets, giving her more information than she’d ever remember.

  “This would be a better tour if we could peep inside,” Cheney admitted.

  “I don’t think the present homeowners would appreciate it.”

  She shrugged. “But I would. I’d get some decorating tips.”

  “I wouldn’t change a thing about what you’ve done to your house, single-handedly mind you.”

  Cheney’s chest swelled from his compliment. Aside from Parke being a typical male, she enjoyed being around him. That thought shocked her.

  Staring at a large Queen-Anne-style three-story house, Parke rattled off the details. “Note the wrap-around veranda and the large corner square bay window with a bay-shaped covered porch on the second floor.”

  Keyed up, Parke almost left Cheney, rushing ahead, pointing to another dwelling. “Generations of the Crabb family lived here on Hereford for almost eighty years.”

  After two hours, Cheney was famished, and had had enough history. “I’m becoming crabby. It’s almost noon, and I’m starving. Thanks for the tour, but I’m heading home.”

  Shoving both hands into his pockets, Parke twisted his lips. “You’re no fun. You’ve only seen half the tour.” His face brightened. “How about we grab something to eat at the Whistle Stop? It’s an ice cream parlor that used to be a train depot.

  “There’re almost fifty houses west of there on the tour, including one belonging to local prominent doctor, George Case. He built his house on Wesley in 1894, for his daughter. A year later, the famous inventor of the barbecue sauce, Louis Maull, bought it.”

  Fifty more houses? He had lost his mind. When Cheney looked as if she was going to protest, Parke put his arm around her shoulder like an old buddy. “My treat.”

  Cheney stiffened. Parke was becoming a little too comfortable. No man had hugged her shoulders since Larry. She said the day before she needed contact, but she wasn’t desperate. “If you don’t get your arm off me, I’ll show you everything I’ve learned in my kickboxing class and then some.”

  Backing away, Parke held his hands up in surrender. “Whoa, a woman with attitude and skills, that is a deadly combination. C’mon, the Whistle Stop has the best frozen custard and ice cream concretes.”

  Licking her lips, Cheney gave in. “Okay, you’re forcing me, but no more house tours today.”

  “I doubt if anyone could force you to do anything.”

  “Hmm,” Cheney mumbled. He just doesn’t know. At one time she thought the same thing, too. “I wasn’t always strong when it counted, Parke.”

  “But you are now. Whatever circumstances you’ve faced, made you a survivor.”

  “How do you know that?” He didn’t know her, but believed in her when she was still trying to believe in herself?

  “Let’s just say our spirits are in tune.”

  “Right.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they strolled under the Wabash train trestle to Carson Road. “This is charming. It looks like a miniature park.” And it did. Cheney remembered passing it when she was furniture shopping.

  “It’s also a historic landmark.”

  “Figures. What isn’t historic or a landmark around here?”

  Parke held her elbow as they headed up the ramp. “Oh, there’re plenty of newer businesses and houses. The original Ferguson Station was built during the slave era in 1855.” He opened the door. “The Whistle Stop bought the building years ago.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  Eyes twinkling, Parke smirked. “I’m a history buff—African, African-American, American, world, local history. You name it, and I probably know something about it. I guess you could say it’s part of who I am.”

  “You can talk all you want as long as I can rest my feet. I can’t guarantee I’ll listen.” She looked around at the one-room eatery. It did resemble an ice cream parlor. Dozens of black square tables with their four chairs were scattered about in no order. Cheney pointed. “I guess that’s the original window where people purchased their tickets. Clever, I like the nostalgia the booth and metal bars bring to the order counter.”

  Parke nodded. “See the Western Union Telegraph and Cable office sign?”

  “And just think, I moved to Ferguson with no idea it had any historical significance or that crazy woman killer.”

  “You sure you don’t want to finish the walking tour?”

  “Positive.” Cheney used to exercise regularly, but it had been a while since she did that much walking “Now, what do you recommend?”

  “They make a mean Italian meatball sandwich.”

  “Okay, how about you order for me since this is your place.”

  “I’ll share. Let’s make it our place,” Parke suggested, smiling at the young cashier before ordering. “We’ll take two Brakemen, one Tolono, and one Coal Car.”

  “Our Coal Car is the best toasted ravioli I ever tasted. You’ll like that.” She grinned, referring to a St. Louis favorite. It was an Italian appetizer of meat and other ingredients wrapped in square pasta.

  “Mmm-hmm, I know. Better give us one Grinder, chips, two brownies, and one slice of frozen custard pie,” he added.

  “Who is going to eat all that?” She gave Parke an incredulous look.

  “I am, and if you’re nice, I might give you a nibble.” He patted his chest.

  Cheney bumped Parke out of the way and faced the girl. “I’d like to order—”

  Rubbing his hip, Parke mumbled, “Okay, Miss Brick house. I ordered you a Brakeman. It’s the Italian meatball with mozzarella cheese baked inside an Italian roll.”

  Satisfied, Cheney grinned. Waiting for their orders, Parke gave her another tour inside the small parlor. Moving from wall to wall, they viewed photos of the city in its early days. Blacks weren’t in them, even as porters, as if the race didn’t exist.

  “Let’s eat outside on the train’s former deck,” Cheney suggested. Within minutes of sitting down, Cheney stared at Parke who was consuming his food as if it was his last meal. “You know, three balanced meals a day would eliminate overkill.”

  Parke paused and wiped his mouth. “Oh, sorry, I guess we should pray.�
�

  She shrugged okay, although she always said a silent quick prayer before eating. He reached across the table, she assumed, to touch her hand. Instead Parke cupped her wrists with a gentle, almost endearing hold. As he closed his eyes, contentment seemed to drape his face. Even as he prayed, she continued to watch him.

  “God, you know I love You, and I know You love Cheney. Bless us today and bless our food. Amen,” he finished, opening his eyes, he met her stare.

  “Why did you pray that?” Cheney experienced an eerie feeling.

  “I have no idea,” he said, shrugging. “But hey, it couldn’t hurt.”

  But could it help? she silently asked.

  He laughed and continued where he left off before he caught her staring. “I have always had a hearty appetite. Did anybody ever say there’s never a dull moment around you?”

  “Believe me, there is nothing exciting about me,” she mumbled, still trying to detach herself from the prayer. She took a deep breath and released the sensation.

  “I disagree. You are an unusual woman, Cheney Reynolds.”

  She wasn’t in the mood for a heart-to-heart, not with a man about another man, and definitely not with Parke. Cheney crunched on a chip. “Yeah, I’m a new millennium woman—” she glanced at her watch, “who has a checkers match in a few hours.”

  Folding his arms, Parke leaned back in his chair. “Hmm, I never figured you for a checkers girl. Do you play with your neighbor, or are you in some type of new millennium woman checkers club?”

  “Neither. Brian and I play twice a week.” Cheney watched customers exit the parlor with sundaes, frozen custards, and concretes—an ice cream so thick it was like cement. “Can’t your boyfriend find anything more stimulating than checkers?”

  Men. Gutter mind. “Brian is an eight year old, and if we did anything more stimulating over the Internet, I’d be arrested as a pedophile.”

  He almost choked on his soda. The scene was hilarious. Parke always had a way of making Cheney laugh. It was like he provided doses of healing medicine.