by Pat Simmons
“Yes, I have lost my mind,” he said to no one as he started the ten-minute, half-mile trek through snow that had drifted, forming small hills.
The ten minute journey took forty minutes before he made it to Cheney’s, shivering and sucking in the frigid air. Despite his fur-lined leather gloves, his hands were too numb to knock, so he slumped against the door, hoping she would hear a thump.
“It’s about time you—” She greeted him, swinging her door open. “You look like a mugger.” She giggled.
“Excuse me. Ice is stuck to my thermal underwear.” His teeth chattered. “Can I come in?”
“Sorry,” Cheney apologized, sounding anything but. “Take off your coat and leave those Herman Munster boots there.” Cheney pointed to a towel-covered spot on the floor. “I’ve got a pretty good fire going. Don’t know how long it will last.”
With little effort, Parke slid to the floor and landed on his padded rump. He forced the airtight boots off his feet and stood. Gliding across the room, he added more logs as Cheney carried the pot into the kitchen.
Using the mantel for support, Parke leaned in to thaw out. He scanned the neat stack of unopened mail and spied an envelope that had been ripped opened. He did a double take after scanning the open letter’s contents. He had one question, why?
“French loaf should be ready in a few minutes,” Cheney yelled from the kitchen.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he answered, re-reading the letter.
Lugging dishes, glasses, and flatware to the dining table, Cheney plopped down in her chair. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Parke gave nothing away of what had he saw. “How about being my lifesaver and eating on the floor closer to the fireplace? I’m still freezing.”
“O-okay, I’ve got all this nice furniture and you want to sit on the floor.”
They scooted the coffee table closer to the fire. Within minutes, they sat Indian-style across from each other, buttering warm bread. “Oops, we almost forgot to pray,” Parke reminded her.
“Yeah, you’re right. Let me.” They bowed their heads and held hands. “God thank you for the food and bless it, me, and Parke. And please show me a sign. Thank you, Jesus. Amen.”
“What kind of sign?” He lifted a brow.
Releasing hands, Cheney shrugged as she bit into her bread and swallowed a spoonful of chili. “I don’t know. Whatever God will show me. Mmm, this is really good.”
“Admit you’ve never tasted homemade chili so good. My secret weapon: a touch of cayenne pepper,” Parke boasted then something happened before his eyes.
Cheney’s cheerful guise faded to a frightful, downcast look. “What? What did I say?” The following moments seemed rigid as an imaginary guest named Strained Silence invited himself to dinner. Parke scrutinized Cheney’s closed lids as she ate her chili in a slow, mechanical manner.
Parke lost his appetite as dinner abruptly ended minutes after it began. He reached over and laid his hand on Cheney’s, hoping to pull her back from whatever place she had drifted. “Are you okay?”
No response.
He lifted her six-foot lifeless-looking frame and cuddled her close. He wanted to whisper consoling words, but for what? From all appearances, she looked comatose.
“Are you feeling okay? Why are you zoning out on me? Did you have some kind of allergic reaction? Is this the sign you asked God for?”
Shrugging, she stared into the flames and spoke in a trancelike monotone voice. “Sometimes it just hits me with no warning.” Twisting her lip, tears trickled down her flushed cheeks. “Lately, the visions have been good. It’s the good ones that gnaw at you.”
“Baby, talk to me. What’s haunting you?”
“Cheyenne.”
“Who?”
“Cayenne reminded me of Cheyenne.”
The stressed-out, defeated creature he was staring at didn’t resemble the tall, beautiful woman he had been spending time with over the past few months. His heart ached as Cheney closed her eyes, crying silently.
Her words became choppy. “When you mentioned cayenne pepper, it was like a bright flash, a deafening blast, and a sudden slow, burning pang snaked down my throat, igniting a fire that spread to the pit of my belly.”
“I’m sorry. I forget everybody doesn’t like spicy chili. I kinda go overboard with the seasoning—” He couldn’t recall anyone getting sick before.
She dropped her head in defeat, whispering her confession, “I aborted my baby, Parke. Everything within me tells me it was a little girl. A sweet, beautiful, adorable daughter I would’ve named Cheyenne.
“That burning sensation and the mention of cayenne triggered my memory. It took me back to the recovery room almost six years ago. My entire body was racked with constant vibrations of pain. My nerve endings were raw as a tiny viable part of me was ripped away. Imani is the only person who knows. My family might, judging from my imaginary leprosy that is keeping them away.”
Parke exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I’m honored that you’ve chosen me to be your confidant.” Closing his eyes, he massaged his temples, thinking. Abortion was legal. He was sure he dated women who’d had one, but it wasn’t a subject that a couple discussed over drinks.
Personally, he wouldn’t tolerate any woman who killed his offspring, a Diomande generation. It was his responsibility to Paki. He accessed Cheney. She was a ball of mysteries and a basket case, unraveling before him. He cleared his throat, contemplating the right words. “We all make mistakes. That’s how we live, learn, and mature—”
Her nostrils flared. “I was an educated fool.” She pounded her fists on the floor. Her growl reminded Parke of a vicious dog waiting for the attack command.
“I get so angry with myself for being so stupid!” She attempted to close her red swollen eyes as she slumped back against his chest in defeat. “Larry was all that to me—perfect, tall, handsome, and studying to become an attorney.”
“And the idiot who let you go.”
Cheney’s eyes pleaded with him. “I loved him. I believed in him, supported him, and all I was to him was a bed feast to satisfy his insatiable male appetite.”
He gripped her hands and began slowly massaging her fingers. “You’ll have other babies.” Maybe this is a good time to tell her that I’m falling in love with her. It had to be love that kept him coming back for her insults, love that missed being in her presence, and love that would make him sacrifice anything to see Cheney happy.
“He whispered all the tender words that held my heart captive. He was the master romantic with his quick phone calls, short and sweet love notes, and thirsty kisses. I loved that man with everything I had only to find out he shared his love and kisses with at least two other women,” she snapped with bitterness.
Things were starting to become clearer to Parke. No wonder Cheney avoided his advances. To her, he was another Larry. The big difference between him and this other man was Parke had never professed his love to a woman or forced his way into any bed. She began withdrawing from him again. He could feel she had more to say. He waited.
“I thought Larry didn’t want a baby because we were too young and studying. He found time for other types of studies and exams. Two children—no, let me correct that, one toddler and another baby on the way,” she whispered between hiccups.
“What?”
“Can you believe that?” Cheney scanned the room like she was ready to throw something, and judging from the pent-up anger Parke was witnessing, she might choose him. “Larry practically dragged me to that abortion clinic, convincing me that we didn’t have a choice. I never knew. I never suspected—the dog!”
Hunching over, she mixed heart-wrenching moans with her sobs. “I wonder if those women fought with Larry for the life of their child, refusing to abort his seed, and accepted the unselfish life of a single mother. Was Larry excited about becoming a father? Who was he cheating on, Parke, them or me?”
Both. “He cheated himself,” he answered, c
hoking.
Sluggishly, Cheney looked up and met Parke’s eyes. “Why are you crying?”
Patting his face, Parke didn’t realize tears soaked his cheeks. He couldn’t recall the last time he had cried. “Because Larry didn’t love you, nor did he deserve you or your love. My soul is crying out as your anguish touches my very essence. “
“I wish,” she paused, “I wish someone had told me sooner about Larry.”
“You wouldn’t have listened. I’m told love has a power of its own, and in your situation, your love was strong enough to cover his lies.”
“I’ll never love like that again. I can’t. Larry took too much from me.” Cheney’s voice was barely audible. “The procedure not only killed my baby and destroyed my mind, but butchered my body so that I can never bear children.”
Chapter Twenty
Two days before Thanksgiving
“You are not staying home alone for the holidays! You’ll get in trouble like Macaulay Culkin.”
Mrs. Beacon’s humor didn’t penetrate Cheney’s sullen mood. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”
Positioning her hands on her hips and jerking her neck, Mrs. Beacon resembled a cowboy getting ready to draw a gun in an old-time western shootout. “Not when your family is going to a South Carolina B&B, and they conveniently forgot to invite you.”
“They did invite me the night before as they packed.”
“Humph! Well, what better way to spend the holidays than alpine skiing with me off steep snow-covered mountains, and dodging trees?” Mrs. Beacon struck a ski pose.
Cheney hid her smile as she scanned her neighbor’s bedroom that was decorated in a Victorian-style era with scalloped lace Priscilla curtains and thick rose-colored satin drapes. “Resting in a warm bed with no broken bones will cure any holiday blues.”
Mrs. Beacon gnawed on her bottom lip as if thinking of a comeback when her phone rang. She shot daggers at the phone before answering it. Barely listening to the caller, Mrs. Beacon hung up without responding. “That child needs to go play in traffic.”
Why did she always get irritated when her phone rang or was it just a certain caller? Mrs. Beacon never offered an explanation. Cheney never asked—yet.
Returning from her “commercial break”, Mrs. Beacon whined, “Then I guess it’s settled. I’m an old woman, climbing near one hundred, so close to death, I could go any second. All I want is to enjoy one last pleasure in life before my cold, lifeless body is lowered into the grave. All I ask is for a traveling companion so—”
Cheney fought back laughing at her neighbor’s mischievous antics. The woman could lie. “What happened to the others kissing the wind on the slopes with you?”
The near-death performance fizzled as Mrs. Beacon gathered renewed energy. “There will be hundreds—no thousands, possibly millions—of glorious Black men and women skillfully maneuvering obstacle after obstacle on the slopes. It’s a sight to see.” My Midwestern African-American Skiing Club boasts at least three hundred members.”
“Now Grandma BB, you know not that many Black folks ski. None of your medications cause hallucinating side effects, do they?”
Taking offense, Mrs. Beacon jutted her chin. “This is a new time for Colored people. If Tiger can take over the greens, and the Williams sisters can dominate the tennis court, why can’t Blacks stroke the mountain slopes? Girl, you don’t want to miss this.”
“That’s the point. I do want to miss it.” Cheney stood, and affectionately hugged the woman who had become like a grandmother. “Close to death, my foot, you’re a tough little granny with an imagination worse than Stephen King’s. If you’re alone, it’s because you scared everybody off wearing Grandpa Henry’s Stacy Adams.”
“Hush, chile. That’s my secret crazy old lady getup.” Mrs. Beacon jammed a fuchsia-and-gray turtleneck in her suitcase, then strutted across the room, winking.
Cheney almost spewed hot chocolate on the woman’s thick mauve carpet to contain her laughter. Her neighbor was funnier than a cartoon character. “Okay, I’ll go, but only to keep an eye on you, but if I break any bones, I’ll make your life miserable.”
“Break a leg. There’s nothing better than a volunteer ski patroller rescuing an amateur skier—them brothers could make a woman play dead for hours. Resuscitate me.”
“You’re truly a naughty grandma.”
A wide grin spread across the seventy-something’s face. “You better know it. We might pick up some fine-looking young men at Kissing Bridge, Niagara Falls.”
“Seriously?” Cheney grunted. “Count me out. I’m not looking for any romance.”
Mrs. Beacon patted her curls, fresh from a salon visit. “Everybody smooches a little on the airlifts, plus Kissing Bridge boasts thirty-something snow-covered slopes.”
“Romance is like an instruction manual filled with too much drama. I’ve starred in a major role and didn’t win an award.”
“Nonsense, romance is exciting, mind-boggling, and contagious. Whew, honey, I can tell you about some sensuous drama that heated up this room.”
“On that note, I better escort my overactive, Geritol-addicted neighbor. You’re way out of control.” She planted a big, juicy kiss on Mrs. Beacon’s cheek and left.
Cheney was packed in no time, grateful for not being alone for the holiday. Her thoughts fast-forwarded to Parke who had been missing in action since she told him. A slight ache stirred in her stomach. “Me and my big mouth, some things are better left buried.” Without trying, she’d sent Parke packin’.
Despite the mess she had made of their evening together during the snowstorm, Parke had returned the next day to clear snow from her car, then stacked plenty of wood logs against her house. He was still caring and she was still missing him.
One teardrop fell as Cheney imagined his probable disdain for her for destroying her lineage whereas he cherished his. That was her guilt to carry. “I’m sorry, God.” She hated talking to herself. As if by telepathy, her phone rang and she answered.
“What’s the matter? I called to wish you Happy Holidays, but you don’t sound too happy,” Imani said hesitantly.
“I told him, Imani.” There was a moment of silence.
“All of it?”
Cheney nodded and softly whispered, “Yes.” She told Imani what happened. “He cried with me, held me tight, and I haven’t seen Parke since.”
“It was going good until the last part. I was hoping—no—pulling for Parke to be the one. Fly to Paris for Thanksgiving, my treat. Maybe, you can meet a White guy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Black men, just Larry.”
“Okay, tell me you aren’t breaking bread with your family for the holidays?”
“Nope.” Cheney beamed, eying her suitcase. “I’m going on a trip with Grandma BB and an African-American ski club.”
“Whoa. I’m going.”
“Didn’t you hear me? It’s a Black ski trip.”
“Try and stop me from coming! I’m on the next flight out.” Click.
One day, she was going to have to break the news to Imani that she wasn’t Black. Shaking her head, Cheney was in a better mood. Soon, her thoughts returned to Parke. He didn’t suffer from my loss. “The law says a woman has the right to choose.”
The wind seemed to whisper in her ear. The law is not made for a righteous man, but for the lawless, disobedient, ungodly and for sinners. Read My Word in 1Timothy.
Trembling, Cheney swallowed. Lawless and disobedient? She wouldn’t be if God had answered when she prayed years ago, then things would be different. No Bible reading for her tonight. She refused to give in to another sullen mood, so she ran her bath water to relax. As she soaked in a hot pineapple-and-strawberry foam bath, she dreamt.
The church’s garden was expertly landscaped, flaunting a lush lawn. Large lilies, healthy ferns, and rows of bright red impatiens stood at attention while white roses chased a narrow path to a white gazebo. A warm sun illuminating a cloudless sky blinked its pleasu
re at the picturesque day, perfect for a noon wedding.
The groom was regal in his black tuxedo tails. Layers of tulle hid the bride’s face while a bright smile stretched across the groom’s handsome mocha features. Jet-black, very wavy hair and a sculptured beard hinted of his recent sprucing from a barber. A stout minister cleared his throat as he peered over tiny reading glasses watching the groom gently massage the bride’s hand.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today,” the baritone voice boomed loud enough for a crowded cathedral.
Family and friends whispered as they sat watching two flower girls attempting to pull petals off nearby flowers and place them in their baskets. Some snickered.
“Do you, Parke Jamieson VII, take Cheyenne Reynolds to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold—”
Cheney fought the water until her eyes popped open; her breathing labored. With unsteady hands, she added hot water to the tub, but the chilly sensation kept seeping into her soul. There was no Cheyenne Reynolds. “God, no. I cheated a man out of his wife.” Killing her daughter had caused a trickle-down effect.
***
Malcolm’s messages on Hallison’s voice mail were bitter sweet—I miss you, please call me, thinking about you, hugs and kisses. Replaying his last one, she closed her eyes. Hali, I would be honored if we could celebrate our first Thanksgiving at my parents’ house. I’m thankful I’ve found a woman who makes me so happy. Call me.
His intensity had scared her—no, driven her crazy since their weekend getaway. She thought she was ready, but she wasn’t. She even had the nerve to tell God He would just have to understand the way she and Malcolm felt about each other. If she didn’t sleep with Malcolm, another woman would.