by Pat Simmons
“That’s understandable because I cried—for them, you, and our system that allows us to discard precious cargo like trash. That experience—real or imaginary—did something to me. I’m sorry I’ve stayed away when you really needed me.”
It seemed like the snowfall wept uncontrollably as Parke told his story. Cheney’s eyes misted. “You don’t have to apologize.” For some unknown reason, his apology gave Cheney hope that everything would work out in her life.
As a dusting of snow covered the ground, Parke playfully steered them around a tree to track their footprints in the snow, being silly. “C’mon, Miss Reynolds, let’s turn back and get you home. You were so hot you could’ve melted the snow.”
“Was I that bad?”
“Yeah,” Parke answered without making eye contact. “I see a change comin’.”
Back on Cheney’s porch, the old Parke was back. He kneeled and scooped up a handful of snow, shaping it just as she unlocked and opened her door.
“Close your eyes,” he commanded in a non-threatening whisper.
“I’m not in the mood for having a snowball fight with you right now.”
“This is not a brawl. Our fighting days are over. Trust me. Close your eyes and give me your hand.”
She did as he asked, feeling the snow gently placed in her palm. Instead of a ball, Cheney opened her eyes to see a heart in her hand. “No pranks,” she whispered.
“It’s time for me to melt your heart.” Parke leaned forward and brushed a soft kiss against her cheek. His mustache tickled her skin. “Good night.” He backed away.
Cheney wanted to resist his tenderness and hold on to her anger at Larry. Parke had performed a therapy foreign to her. His patience, concern, and gentleness soothed the tension from her mind and body. He was such a lovable guy; what woman wouldn’t want to be his fantasy? She hugged him tight and he held her tighter.
“Now, you close your eyes.” She gave her best seductive smile.
Obeying, he puckered his lips and Cheney’s mischievous nature kicked in.
“Parke,” she said in a low and husky voice, “open your eyes real slow. I want you to see this coming.”
His lids fluttered open just as a wet snowball kissed his lips. He yelled. Cheney laughed, narrowly escaping his clutches before racing inside and clicking the lock.
***
Coughing and laughing, Parke gladly spat out the wet snow. He pounded on Cheney’s door. “Okay, you got me this time.” He loved her playful, unpredictable nature. He continued to bang on her door, more forcefully. “C’mon out and play, you chicken.”
His heart warmed to the muffled sound of Cheney’s hearty laughter.
“Go home,” she screamed, protected by the door.
Parke wanted to beat his chest like Tarzan. He didn’t feel like going home, so he rolled a pile of snowballs and started throwing them against her front door and windows. Cheney opened her shutters, and teased him from the safety of her living room.
“Let her think I’m crazy,” Parke mumbled, having the time of his life until a snowball whacked him on the side of his head.
Turning to his left, another ball met his neck. He used his arms to shield his face as two more snowballs landed against his chest and leg. Parke almost slipped on the wet grass a few times as he dodged more snowballs as he hurried to his SUV for safe cover.
“Take that,” Cheney’s neighbor shouted, cackling.
Disengaging his vehicle alarm, Parke jumped behind the wheel as Mrs. Beacon’s snowballs almost hit his Envoy. Wet, cold, and happy, Parke drove the few blocks home grinning from ear to ear.
Chapter Twenty-three
“This phone interview will take about ten or fifteen minutes. Do you have time?” Wilma Applewhite, the foster home licensing recruiter, asked Cheney in a friendly tone.
“Certainly.” Although Cheney was behind her desk at work, she would make time. Rarely did she take her allotted breaks.
“Okay, first, Miss Reynolds, are you married, single, divorced, or widowed? Do you have any children of your own?”
“I’m single, and no, I don’t have any children.”
“Do you have any experience with children, perhaps through your profession, family, or church?” Wilma continued.
“No. My degree is in business. I’m a manager at the phone company.”
“I see. Well, why do you want to become a foster parent?”
Think of a noble answer. Cheney began twirling her hair. “I believe I have so much love to give, and I can’t have kids.” And I have injustices to correct.
“Oh,” Wilma responded. “If you’ve never been married, how do you know that?”
Afraid to divulge her past to a stranger, especially over the phone, Cheney hesitated. If she wasn’t truthful, any discrepancies could disqualify her. “I had an abortion years ago.” She took a deep breath. “The procedure ruined my chances of ever giving birth,” she rushed out.
“Hmm. Did you get counseling after that, and when was your last session?”
Whoa. I thought your agency was begging for foster parents. “Excuse me, Wilma, what does my past have to do with helping children who need homes?”
“Everything, I understand that you may be uncomfortable disclosing such personal information, but your file will remain strictly confidential. Every prospective foster parent must submit to a criminal, medical, and financial background check. A psychological evaluation is included in the medical check.”
Were foster kids worth all of this? Cheney wondered and sighed. “Why?”
“These children have been exposed to repeated abuse or neglect, sometimes both. Our agency is here to make sure we aren’t taking them from one bad situation to another.”
Absently chewing on her bottom lip, Cheney understood. “I guess you’re right. I’ve heard horror stories involving terrible foster parents.”
“So, Miss Reynolds, in addition to your doctor’s report and recommendation, we’ll also need five referrals.”
“Five!’
“Yes, professional, family, and friends.”
Cheney felt as if a cracked open door had just been slammed in her face. “Well, I’m estranged from my family.”
“Hmm, can any church members vouch for you?”
Gritting her teeth, Cheney confessed, “I don’t go to church.” She could hear the woman taking a deep breath. This was not going as she had hoped.
Wilma spoke in a slow, even tone. “Miss Reynolds, the law requires you to give us five references. I suggest you discuss your plans with at least one family member and find yourself a church home. All the children we place don’t come from bad families, just bad situations. The poor things are often frightened, confused, or angry. They need a stable, loving environment.”
On a Saturday morning, tears trickled down Cheney’s cheeks as she mulled over what Wilma wanted. It was days before Christmas, and she felt as if the Grinch, Scrooge, and King Herod had joined forces to destroy what little joy of having a foster child would bring during the holidays.
Despite her sullen mood, Cheney laughed when she opened a Christmas card from Mrs. Beacon who was sitting on the laps of two Santa Clauses. Her phone distracted her. “Hello?”
“Cheney, this is Hali. You didn’t need Parke as a go-between to ask me for a favor. He begged and bribed me. Girl, you can use me as a reference for adoption.”
Smiling, Cheney felt chastened. She and Hallison had exchanged telephone numbers weeks ago. Within minutes, they had built a comfortable rapport, chatting about movies, clothes, and favorite foods, hardly mentioning the men who introduced them. “Actually, I’m applying for foster parenting.”
“The St. Louis American showcased three young Black boys that are up for adoption. Adorable. I felt like picking up the phone and bringing them home.”
“They must’ve been real cute to make a single woman want to adopt three block-headed boys,” Cheney said, chuckling. “I want to start with just one.”
“Their sto
ry was so touching. They’re brothers through adoption, not birth. They’d grown up together since infancy and their adoptive mother died.”
“Oh, how sad.” Cheney felt foolish for indulging in her pity party earlier. Those three little boys needed a mother. “How old were they?”
“Three, four, and five.”
“Wow. I don’t know if I’m ready for adoption and three boys, too?”
“At least you’ll put a dent into the up to nine thousand children needing foster care.”
“That’s a lot.” Without a doubt, Cheney would subject herself to her family’s ridicule if it meant she could help one or two children. She owed her baby that much.
“So, will you have any little ones by Christmas?”
“Unfortunately, no. Once I’m cleared, I’ll be eligible in about four months.”
“Four months!” Hallison gasped. “They’ll be almost grown by then.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” They chatted a few minutes longer before wishing each other happy holiday and made plans to get together soon.
“Don’t be a stranger. Please consider me a friend,” Hallison said.
Later in the afternoon, she heard a noise outside. She opened her door to check and Mrs. Beacon’s head popped in the doorway with a block of ice planted on her porch.
“Chile, if you don’t want that man, I’ll take him. Henry was romantic, but this shows passion and imagination. Which young man from the ski trip sent this?”
Shivering, Cheney grabbed her wool jacket. It was twenty-five degrees, too cold for her to be outside, but not cold enough to preserve the image before their eyes. Cheney reached out and fingered the ice sculpture as Mrs. Beacon nudged her.
“I saw the truck deliver it, so I had to come over to see for myself.”
“It’s beautiful. Look how each rose petal is delicately carved.”
Both women hovered over the ice masterpiece, inspecting the ice replica of a long vase filled with a dozen long-stemmed roses. Mrs. Beacon pointed to a sealed envelope. “Open it, so I can get back inside.”
“As you watch this melt, know that I’m also melting your heart. Parke K. Jamieson VI.” Cheney blinked. She hadn’t heard from him since the night they walked in the snow.
“Humph. He’s got me warming up,” Mrs. Beacon admitted, pulling the scarf tighter around her neck and batting her lashes. “That’s a man worth having around on a cold wintry day.” Winking, she wobbled on her cane back to her house.
Cheney stared at the sculpture. “You’ve picked the wrong woman,” she whispered. Throughout the day, she opened her door to gaze at the beauty of the ice roses.
On Christmas Eve morning, Cheney helped Mrs. Beacon bake cookies, pies, and cakes to the sounds of “Joy to the World”.
“What are you going to do about Parke?” Mrs. Beacon asked, rolling dough.
“Nothing,” Cheney answered, cracking nuts.
“You may be tall, but you ain’t stupid.” Mrs. Beacon pointed her rolling pin at her. “I hope he doesn’t go away. If that man hand-carved that ice, you better marry him, or I’ll make your life miserable. A good man is hard to find and keep.”
Cheney repeated her reasons. It was the same story she had been telling herself for years—relationships were not for her. The argument was losing its strength. It was after dark when she trudged across the snow back to her house.
Mrs. Beacon’s home illuminated the Benton Street neighborhood like a scene from Christmas Vacation. She would’ve laughed, but she kept thinking about the woman’s advice, “Marry the man.” There was only one problem. Parke hadn’t asked, and she didn’t know what to say if he ever did.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Hello?” Parke mumbled, grabbing the phone as he snuggled under the warm covers on his bed.
“Happy Jesus’ birthday!” Annette exclaimed over the phone.
Parke shook his head. The woman had too much energy at seven in the morning. She acted like she had stayed up all night, waiting for Santa. “Merry Christmas to you.”
“Finally, after twenty-eight years, I understand the true meaning of Christmas. I’ve invited some of our old classmates from college to worship service today. Nate and Kevin agreed. I was hoping you’d tag along. It’s only for a few hours.”
He wasn’t sitting inside anybody’s church on Christmas Day or any other holiday. Annette had truly lost her mind. “Ah, I’ve got other plans.”
“Did you know that according to a recent survey, most Black women say they desire a man with strong Christian ties?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“‘The day you hear God’s voice, harden not your heart,’ my brother. That’s what’s keeping so many from getting saved. They don’t want to hear from God. Make sure you’re not one of them.”
Irritated, Parke began twisting the hairs on his mustache. “Annette, I’ve already told you, I’m a Christian, just not practicing.”
Softening her voice, Annette didn’t back down. “I professed the same thing before God saved me, I mean really sanctified me. I was a watered-down version of what the Bible described as a true walking, talking, believing, living Christian. I only professed when I was challenged, but my lifestyle was everything but godly. Do you know there was a list of things I was doing that was ensuring my spot in hell?”
Of all the fine, sexy, and intelligent women in the world that he had known, why did Annette want to question her faith now? “You weren’t that bad.”
“Did you know that when I was expressing my feelings passionately during lovemaking, it wasn’t love, but lust and fornication? Hell is filled with fornicators. That blew my mind. Once I stopped skipping over passages in the Bible and earnestly took a long look at what was written, my life didn’t reflect Christ. I had been foolin’ myself.”
Why was she discussing what happened in her bedroom? That abortion dream or whatever he experienced was wild enough. This conversation was becoming exhausting and making him nauseated. “I can see you’ve been studying. Don’t worry about me.”
“Is it wrong to worry about people you care about and to keep my friends from the pit of hell?”
Parke’s thoughts drifted to Cheney. He had to get rid of Annette and her church talk. After giving some lame excuse, they ended the call. Two hours later, he stood erect in a military stance outside Cheney’s front door and knocked. He smiled at the remnants of his ice roses on her porch. He was dressed in a black full-length leather coat, gloves, a turtleneck, pleated pants, and leather boots. Parke felt like he was on a mission impossible.
It was time to turn the impossibilities into possibilities. For good luck, Parke splashed on some Black Suede cologne his mother had given him for Christmas. The decision to intimidate, impress, and melt Cheney’s heart had been made. Today he would go in for the kill. Look out, Cheney Reynolds, you’re now under attack.
Cheney’s eyes sparkled when she opened the door. She tried to disguise her delight at seeing him by twisting her lips in annoyance. Leaning against the doorframe, she lifted a brow. “Mr. Jamieson, what are you doing here?”
“Merry Christmas, I came to deliver your gifts.” If Cheney liked his new look, she didn’t comment as she continued her scrutiny.
“I didn’t know I was on your list.”
He moved forward, locking eyes with her in a showdown stare. “You are my list, and everything I want for Christmas,” he confessed in a husky voice.
“Umm-hmm. What’s with the new Matrix look?” She stroked her chin. “I like the new goatee. You’re living dangerously now, or you’re trying to look it.”
“I’ve been thinking dangerously, and it involves you and me.” He held up his hand. “And don’t say there is no you and me.”
“I won’t.”
He grinned triumphantly. “Good, because beginning today I’m that man who can build you up, support your goals, and who will love you despite past mistakes.” His voice softened. “And fulfill the dreams you thought were lost.”
“Y
ou can’t replace what I’ve lost.”
“I’ll die trying, Cheney.”
She intrigued him when she resisted. Her strength complemented his male might. With a sly grin, he removed his leather gloves. He reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew two small gold foil-wrapped boxes. “Merry Christmas.”
Her expression was priceless. She looked truly surprised, hesitating before reaching for them. She began to fumble with one box. “I don’t know what to say.”
He took the liberty of putting his arm around her shoulder, nudging her back, and inviting himself in. “Say thank you.” He paused. “Say your heart is melting.”
Cheney didn’t respond, but her eyes watered. Parke commanded his hands not to reach out to caress the worry lines above her eyebrows as she bowed her head, fingering the gold ribbons. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“Then give me you,” he whispered.
“Stop flirting with me,” she warned with a frown, but she couldn’t contain the bright smile that peeped through.
“See, that’s where I’m having a problem. I can’t.” Parke removed his coat and plopped down on the sofa. He stretched his arm across the back like he lived there. “I’m not going anywhere until you open the box, even if it’s next Christmas.”
“That might give Grandma BB a reason to load her shotgun.” They both laughed.
Eagerly, she opened one gift that contained a dazzling tennis bracelet. She thanked him. It was the other box that fascinated her as she pulled out a lotion-size bottle, void of any rich, creamy, or sweet-smelling lotion. Instead, tiny rolls of colorful paper were stuffed inside. Knitting her brows together, she puckered her full lips. “A bottle. Thank you?” she stuttered.
“It’s part Christmas, part Kwanzaa, and part commitment gift.” He gently shook the bottle. “Here, take one out.”
Cheney fingered a lavender scroll. “Do you stay awake all night and concoct these ideas, or is this a sample from years of on-the-job training with other women?”