Guilty of Love

by Pat Simmons

  “What?”

  “Where’s your date? You didn’t bring anybody?”

  A strong baritone voice grew louder. “What’s that, Charlotte? PJ’s alone?”

  Father and son, stood shoulder to shoulder and embraced.

  “I just didn’t feel like being bothered.” Parke shrugged his shoulders.

  His parents froze. Charlotte looked bewildered and reached up several inches to touch his forehead. “Is something wrong, son? You aren’t sick or dying, are you?”

  “I’m sure if anything were wrong, PJ would let us know.” His father nodded.

  Parke received his father’s message, which meant there were no secrets within the Jamieson family. He and his parents headed toward the great room in the back. Flopping in an oversized recliner, Parke elevated the foot rest. “I’m losing my mind.”

  “Actually, your dad and I felt you lost part of it years ago,” Charlotte said in all seriousness.

  “Huh? You’re joking?”

  “She’s right,” his father answered. “We’ve always thought your mental facilities needed adjusting when you’d walk in here with some of your dates. What’s going on?”

  “Physically, nothing, mentally, I’ve been thinking.”

  “We don’t need to have an intellectual conversation,” his dad advised.

  “I can’t figure this out, but I’m getting a kick out of irritating this woman I’m not attracted to. I can’t stop thinking about or comparing others to her. She represents so much of what I don’t want, yet she seems to connect with spiritual needs, if that makes sense,” Parke confessed. “The only thing I like about her is her eyebrows.”

  “For me, it was your mother’s hazel eyes.”

  “He was annoying at first, but he got my attention.” Giggling, Charlotte left the men alone and walked into the kitchen. Parke didn’t miss his dad’s wink at his mother.

  Charlotte returned a few minutes later with a platter laden with sliced deli meats.

  His dad stood and quickly retrieved the tray. “Sweetheart, I told you I’d carry those. You relax.” He bent down and smacked a kiss on her lips.

  “I take that back. Her lips are enticing enough, especially when she smiles. Her face lightens up,” Parke said more to himself.

  Smiling, Charlotte faced her son. “A man only irritates a woman he’s attracted to, so stop lying to yourself. Do I detect some seriousness in your selection? My only requirement for a daughter-in-law is that she has her own hair and teeth.”

  “I’ll store that information, but there is no one, Mama.”

  “Sure there is. You’re not telling it, yet. It’ll either slip, or I’ll get it out of you.”

  “Dad, help me out here,” Parke pleaded with false irritation. There was never anything too private that he couldn’t discuss with his family until now. He had to first figure out how Cheney could fit into his life. Was it for him to rescue her emotionally, or for her to rescue him, and then from what?

  His father held up his hands in surrender. “When it comes to our sons, your mother has eminent domain.”

  Parke was saved from divulging more when Malcolm strolled in with Hallison.

  The elder Parke stood and hugged his second eldest son, then kissed Hallison on the cheek. “It’s good seeing you, again. I trust you’ve been keeping Mal out of trouble.”

  “Of course she has, Dad. Hallison’s my angel,” Malcolm answered.

  Stepping around her husband, Charlotte kissed Malcolm and looped her arms with his date. “Hali, you’re looking lovely as usual.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “And, I’m sure Malcolm can’t keep his eyes off those sexy splits.”

  “I heard that, Mama,” Malcolm said.

  Hallison blushed. “I hope they’re not too offensive, Mrs. Jamieson.”

  Eyes sparkling and smiling mischievously at Hallison, Charlotte’s hand waved off her son. “No, you’re young and beautiful. I say show what you got while you still got it.”

  Both women laughed.

  Standing from the recliner, Parke greeted his brother in a bear hug as Hallison scanned the room. He knew who she was looking for.

  “No date, Hali,” his father said, grinning suspiciously.

  “What!” Hallison and Malcolm said in unison.

  “You’re not still stalking your neighbor, are you?” Malcolm asked amusedly.

  Everybody’s neck whipped around and they mouthed, “Stalking?”

  Parke laughed off their concerned looks. “Women stalk me, not the other way.”

  “Is she beautiful?” his father asked with merriment dancing in his eyes.

  “More importantly, does she have her own hair and teeth?” Charlotte didn’t wink. “Because that one woman floored me when she removed her teeth to eat.”

  “Tell me she’s taller than five feet,” Hallison teased. “That way you don’t have to bend your knees to hold her hand.”

  “Funny you should ask, because she’s about six feet.”

  Malcolm leaned forward, his hand cupping his left ear. “Say what?”

  “I said Cheney stands about six feet tall,” Parke answered not amused.

  “Ooh, is she a model?” his mother quizzed while Malcolm doubled over, laughing hysterically.

  Finger-combing his hair, Parke glared at his brother. “I doubt it. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure what she does, but when we went to see Bubbling Brown Sugar a while back, everyone stared at her like she was on a runway. I’ve never seen a woman with her height move with such alluring grace. I don’t even think she knows it,” Parke reminisced.

  Charlotte put both fists on her hips. “Why didn’t you invite Cheney—is that her name?”

  Parke nodded. “She probably wouldn’t have come.”

  “Do you care?” his mother probed.

  “Nope.”

  Malcolm and his father shouted in unison, “Liar,” and fell into more fits of laughter.

  “Okay, okay, okay. Are we playing any games tonight or what?” Charlotte asked as they gathered in the dining room around the table.

  “How about Journey to the Motherland or Black Heritage Trivia?” Malcolm suggested, pulling a chair out for Hallison before walking to the hall closet for the games.

  Loaded with several board games, Malcolm fumbled with an overstuffed shoebox, causing some items to spill on the table. He laid the games on the table, and picked up one of the colorful booklets. “What’s this?”

  “Oh, silly tracts some customers sent to the gas company along with their bill payments.” Charlotte dismissed the items with a wave of her hand. “Most of the time I pitch them. I’ve been reading those. They’re religious comic books. Some stories are scary, others are pretty good.”

  The elder Parke drummed his fingers against the table. “Charlotte, why are you wasting your time keeping those things? People don’t know the difference between right and wrong. Good grief. I’d rather go to church and hear a bad sermon.”

  Parke noticed Hallison squirm in her seat, seemingly, uncomfortable. Malcolm immediately scooted closer to her and whispered something in her ear before planting a kiss on it. The couple stared at each other until Hallison smiled. What was that all about?

  The elder Parke got everybody’s attention. “Okay, PJ, brief me on the latest stock tip while we set up the Motherland game.”

  “Dad, your portfolio is still diversified, isn’t it?”

  “It is, son, but I thought trouble on Wall Street spelled buy low and sell high.”

  Slipping into his business mode, Parke explained, “True, but you need to invest very selectively in bonds and real estate investment trusts. They’re doing real good.”

  “PJ, you know I like the tech funds.”

  “That was in the nineties when technology was booming, Dad.”

  Nodding, his father turned to Malcolm. “How’s your job holding up, son? No one is cooking the books at Winfield & Young, I hope.”

  “After the Arthur Andersen fiasco years ago, firms are doin
g more checks and balances,” Malcolm assured him.

  The women exchanged bored looks and deep sighs. Hallison fixed plates for her and Malcolm from the food tray. Charlotte piled meats, salad, and breads on saucers, passing one to her husband and the other to Parke, commenting, “If you would’ve brought Cheney, then we could’ve picked her brain instead of all this shop talk.”

  Bowing her head, Hallison said a record-setting silent prayer over her food while Malcolm shoved a spoonful of pasta salad into his mouth, chewed, and barely swallowed. “I volunteer Parke’s house for the next family night, so we can meet this mystery lady.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I second the motion.”

  The elder Parke slammed his fist on the table like a judge calling a court into session. “It’s a done deal.”

  “Ooh, I can’t wait to meet the diva,” Hallison joshed giddily.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The following week, the heat was on.

  “Cheney, I need a favor.” That was how Parke started his week, convincing—practically begging—Cheney to come to the next game night.

  “Just ran out,” she replied.

  Undeterred, Parke pressed on. “How about an evening of fun with my family?”

  “Do fish fly?”

  “Actually, there are some.” After they disconnected, Parke chided himself for aggravating Cheney. But she seemed to come alive whenever he pushed her.

  On Thursday evening, Parke slowed his SUV after noticing her Altima in the driveway. As he parked, he braced for any new objections Cheney would argue for not accepting his invitation to a family night. Feeling cocky, he was looking forward to a face-to-face confrontation. Their spats were kin to over-dosing on an energy drink.

  When Cheney didn’t answer the doorbell after three tries, he knocked impatiently. “Where is she?” He knocked harder, becoming concerned. “I hope she’s okay.”

  “Of course she’s okay, you woodpecker,” Mrs. Beacon fussed from across the lawn. “Don’t make sense, can’t even enjoy a quiet dinner without someone banging on a door. The mayor needs to enforce that noise ordinance.”

  Cheney’s tall, slender body appeared in the doorway, making Mrs. Beacon appear like a midget. Folding her arms, Cheney seemed to quietly laugh at him.

  “I wasn’t that loud, was I?” Parke questioned.

  “Yep,” the women answered in unison.

  Squinting, Mrs. Beacon eyed him up and down. “What’s wrong? You’ve got to use the bathroom or something?”

  Parke frowned at the absurdity of the idea. “No, ma’am, I’m on my way to the Ferguson library for story hour and was hoping Cheney would join me.”

  Mrs. Beacon twisted her mouth like she was chewing tobacco. “Ya kinda old for that stuff, ain’t you?”

  “It’s my turn to spin African tales, slave adventures, and mystical folklore.”

  “What about Tracey?” Cheney baited him.

  “I want you.” Parke engaged her in a stare down while discreetly admiring her copper-colored attire that highlighted her soft dark facial features. She was pretty. Funny he didn’t notice them when they first met. Well, dirt can hide beauty.

  Parke won the duel when Cheney glanced away, then met his eyes again. “It’s not that depressing stuff again?”

  “I’m a master storyteller.” He winked. “I guarantee every child will laugh at least once. Plus, my good looks will make women beg for my unlisted phone number.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already started story hour with tales about an okay-looking man whose head is bigger than his body. You may know the character,” Cheney teased.

  “C’mon. We’re going to be late. You’re both invited,” Parke offered.

  “You young folks go on. I’m going to play bingo at that big Catholic Church around the corner. I heard they draw a big crowd; plus, that’s the only way I’ll step foot in a chapel is to get my blessing in fives, tens, and twenties.”

  Parke folded his hands in a praying gesture as a mock plea for Cheney to come.

  Tapping her finger on her lips, Cheney debated. “Sure, why not?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Parke’s heart swelled with pride, pleased at the number of people present to hear African-American stories—Blacks, Whites, Latinos, and even a few Bosnian kids were in attendance. “My name is Parke Jamieson VI. Let’s start with a question. What color am I?”

  A young teenage boy, sporting a large Afro, raised his hand with a smirk. “That’s easy. You’re Black, man.”

  “Oh?” Parke folded his arms. “When did I become Black or an African- American?”

  “Huh?” The child’s face was puzzled.

  “We’ve always been African-American,” shouted a fair-skinned girl about eight years old with long corn rows.

  Parke expected their perplexed expressions. “Actually, depending on what year I was born, I could be a mulatto, Melungeon, Black, or Colored.” With wide eyes, he was pleased to have everybody’s attention. “A fascinating question, isn’t it? How could one group of people be called so many different names?”

  An Asian father, sitting not far from his son, raised his hand. “Frankly, I’m confused. Since Jesse Jackson demanded Blacks be called African-Americans, I don’t know how to refer to your race anymore.”

  “Honest concern. It wasn’t Black or White during slavery.” Parke leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If a person had ancestors from three ethnic groups like White, Negro, Native American, and so on, he was called a Melungeon. A mulatto is one-half Negro and one-half White. In Spanish and Portuguese, mulatto means a young mule.”

  “Sounds like a recipe for a cake,” an elderly Bosnian woman, holding her grandson, commented.

  A conservatively dressed middle-aged White man leaning against a bookcase raised his hand. Parke acknowledged him. “My understanding is one drop of Negro blood automatically makes the person Black.”

  Parke’s eyes sparkled. His lips curled into a smile. “Not always. During the nineteenth century, a person with one-eighth Negro and seven-eighths White was considered an Octoroon. A quarter Negro and three-quarters White was a Quadroon.”

  The man shook his head in disbelief. “People actually measured that? It does sound like baking instructions.”

  Kids giggled. The adults chuckled.

  “Yep. Okay, ready for a story?” Parke asked as more people joined the group.

  “Yeah,” the children shouted.

  When a few White parents relaxed their frowns, Parke knew he had erased the tension. He hunkered down on the floor with their children. “Paris, a high-yalla, mostly White, or a light-skinned Black teenager was born a long, long time ago in the 1800s. Running for freedom was scary and hard. If they were slick, like Paris, those enslaved would out trick the catchers and never be returned to their old masters.”

  “Why did he run away?” a young girl asked.

  “Because he wanted to be free,” Parke replied simply before exciting the kids with a belly laugh. He knew how to turn the gory details of slavery into comical adventures. “They never did catch Paris. You know why?”

  “Why?” the children screamed.

  “Because Paris had lots of disguises, including hats. He wore preacher’s clothes, women’s, even the bad guys—patroller’s clothes. He made dummy slaves from scarecrows to trick catchers.”

  “What did he eat?” one boy shouted.

  “Fruit from the trees.”

  “What did he drink?” another boy asked.

  “Milk from cows.”

  “Where did he sleep?” the first young girl demanded.

  “High in the trees or deep in the caves,” Parke whispered. Searching the crowd, he winked at Cheney. Blushing, she bewitched him speechless. He cleared his throat. “Paris traveled near back roads and made animal sounds to scare away his enemies.”

  “Did patrollers ever catch him?” Cheney quizzed.

  “Yeah,” the children pressed him.

  “Nope. Although he wasn’t born free, he died free s
eventy years later. My research shows he had five sons.” He bowed. “The end.”

  ***

  Cheney wasn’t surprised that Parke received a hearty applause. With more patience than Santa Claus, he listened and answered each child’s questions. He didn’t miss a beat as he followed her movements. Captivated, she absorbed his every word. Her imagination painted a heroic scene of Paki and Elaine escaping into the night.

  He seemed to put his heart into everything. At first, his sense of humor was exasperating. The man had so many different sides to him. Cheney was beginning to look forward to his visits. It was even entertaining when they argued about anything.

  She focused on Parke’s curly eyelashes and mustache. He was handsome and intelligent. He really resembles Rick Fox. Cheney sighed, toying with her right earlobe. He deserves a woman who personifies an Elaine. Old memories surfaced, piercing Cheney’s heart. Larry’s face popped up like an unwanted weed.

  Why is Parke staring at me? Ignoring him, Cheney pulled a book from the shelf and scanned the pages. Seconds later, she had the weirdest sensation of Parke’s presence. Turning around, he was there.

  “Hi.” Parke’s smile was inviting.

  “You were wonderful. You held the children spellbound with Paris’s antics,” Cheney praised.

  “Yeah, I’m told that often.” Parke’s lips formed a crooked, mischievous smile.

  She felt like knocking that silly grin off his face. “Too many compliments definitely go straight to your head. Not you, the stories, Parkay.” The man was incorrigible, and Cheney admitted to herself, she liked his multi-personalities.

  Later that night at home, she reflected on how things were changing in her life, nothing drastic, but subtle. Mrs. Beacon had become a surrogate mother, Parke an ally, and she had gained greater respect from the employees she supervised.

  Although Cheney’s family was missing from the picture, she would no longer beat herself up about it. She accepted some mistakes couldn’t be corrected. When she mailed thank you notes for the gifts she received at her housewarming, she wasn’t surprised that no one in her family made an effort to respond with a friendly call.