by Terra Little
“So . . .” I glance at Beige, my hands up and out. “You don’t want her phone number or her address? You don’t want to know where your own mother is?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to know.” Crystal slaps her hand on her hip and surveys the line I am holding up. “I said I don’t know if I want to know. What I do know is, I’m not gone have a job if you don’t quit holding up my line, and I can’t afford to be out of a job. Unless you planning on paying my bills and letting me and my kids come live with you.”
Beige and I quickly get the hell out of line. I want to reconnect Stella with her daughter, but taking on extra roommates is out of the question. I’m still mentally working out how Beige and I will live in the same tiny space together and keep from strangling each other. I circle around the register and touch Crystal’s arm. She scans a box of cereal and doesn’t look at me. I have to make do with her profile.
“I’m leaving this for you, okay? It’s Stella’s address and phone number.” Her uniform is a smock with big pockets, and that’s where I stuff the paper that I am armed with. There is a possibility that she will slap the shit out of me for invading her space, but I will do myself much more harm if I don’t finish what I started. I’m not leaving until she knows where her mother is.
After that, the rest is up to her.
I stay at Crystal’s side, waiting for her to snatch the paper from her pocket and throw it on the floor, so I can pick it up and stuff it right back in her pocket. I’ll stand here, stuffing and restuffing all day, if I have to. I’ve had all the loss and senseless destruction I can stand. I feel bad for Stella and even worse for Crystal, and I need to do something. I don’t waste time dwelling on why I am putting myself in the middle of Stella’s personal life, sticking my nose where I know it doesn’t belong. I just know I need to do this. Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I feel like helping to bring Stella and her daughter back together will make up for everything that I’ve done to tear Beige and me apart. If I can’t have a happy ending, somebody has to have one.
Beige is nowhere near as patient as I am. She cuffs my arm and pulls me away from Crystal, to the exit door. I glance back one last time and look for scraps of paper fluttering to the floor and breathe a sigh of relief when I see none.
“You think she’ll call?” Beige asks as we get into my car.
I toss my bag over into her lap and shift into drive. “I don’t know. Maybe she’ll ease into it. Call and hang up a few hundred times and then finally say something.”
She rolls her eyes and looks away, embarrassed. “That was mean, Mom.”
“Well, it worked for you, didn’t it?”
Eight years of honing my response time is what saves Crystal from becoming a paraplegic. I slam on brakes just as she appears in front of my car, and I barely avoid taking her knees for a ride on the bumper. Beige is gripping the dashboard and looking at me like I’m crazy as I roll down the window and stick my head out. It takes me a few seconds to find my voice and use it because visions of going back to prison for vehicular manslaughter dance before my eyes.
“You almost hit me,” Crystal says as she rushes over to my window. “Damn, I thought I was gone for real.” If she is careless enough to run out in front of a moving car, then I am silly enough not to apologize for driving the car. I raise my eyebrows and wait for her to tell me what is so important that it’s worth risking life and limb. She pats her chest and takes deep breaths. “Why didn’t she come herself?”
“She doesn’t know where to come. Doesn’t even know I’m here,” I say. “I looked you up on the Internet.”
“And she couldn’t do that?”
“Stella thinks computers are part of a government conspiracy. She won’t touch one coming or going. It probably never crossed her mind that she could use one to look for you.”
“You think she really wants to see me?”
“Why don’t you call her and ask her yourself?”
“Guess I could do that one day,” she says. “You planning on telling her you found me? Where I am?”
“Do you want me to tell her?”
She gives my question long seconds of thought. Looks out over the parking lot and crosses her arms over her chest. Balls her fist and bounces it against her lips. Finally, she leans down and braces her arms on the car door. “If she writes to me, she has to do it through the leasing office, but she can call my neighbor’s apartment and she’ll get me to the phone. I’m working on getting my own phone. I’ll write the number down for you, but tell her not to call me if she ain’t got her shit together, ’cause I don’t need no more problems. I’m trying to do it right this time, you know? Can’t go left no more.”
Beige digs a pen out of her purse and writes the number down, smiling. “This is good. Real good,” she tells Crystal. “You should see your mama. Talk to her and get back with her if you can. You only get one.”
“I’m off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. You can tell her that too. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Le—” I catch myself. I think about it and clear my throat. “Lucky,” I say and smile. “I’m Lucky.”
“You want to tell me about Lucky, Mom?”
We are on the interstate heading home. I switch lanes and glance at Beige. “She’s just a woman I used to know.” She looks like she wants to ask more questions, but she doesn’t. She knows she might not be ready for the answers she will get.
Chapter Twenty-one
Aaron and I experience love differently. He is patient and nurturing, soothing and caring. Always careful to restrain himself and to give me the space he thinks I need. He listens with his whole body, talks with his mouth and his presence, and makes me feel safe. I need safe, and he understands my need. I need human touch, and he gives it to me, but he stays within the box he draws around himself. He thinks ten years of not being with a man makes me fragile and too soft to the touch. He handles me like there is an eggshell around me and if he presses too hard I will crack into a million little pieces that can’t be pieced together again. Like Humpty Dumpty.
It is endearing, the way he treats me. Lovely that he can suffer through hours of sleep with an erection that won’t go away and deny himself even a measure of release. He thinks I don’t feel him slipping out of bed when I am supposed to be asleep, thinks the hard spray of the shower doesn’t creep into my consciousness and make me want to be wet too. It never occurs to him that I am not made of glass, and that I share the parts of my life with him that I share not to cement his image of me, but to disabuse him of it.
Yes, I have been hurt. Yes, I have been abused. And yes, I am struggling my way back to life. All of these things are true. God, are they true. But his insistence on cherishing me frustrates me more than it fulfills me. There is a time and a place for everything. Our relationship has gone through many phases, and all of them have led us to this point. I’ve held his hand and allowed myself to be brought here with him. I’ve enjoyed every minute of the process and then become content to let him keep leading our relationship where he feels it should go.
But it is my turn to lead now. My turn to take his hand and show him what I need and what I am ready for. I know the brand of anti-perspirant he prefers, the brands of cold cereal he eats and which ones he will not eat. I can order food for him without having to ask him what he is in the mood for. I can look at him and see that he has a headache and know the exact spot on his head to massage. I know he likes his khakis creased but not his jeans, he prefers boxers over briefs, and he likes broccoli better than he does sweet peas. I know he is careful to keep anything involving animal flesh away from the food he prepares for me, and I trust what he says. I trust him with me.
In every way that counts, I am his woman. Most of the time we live together, we eat together, we exercise together, we read and play together. And in the dark of night, we sleep together. But I don’t know what it is like to really be with him. Making spiritual love is what he calls it, and I can feel the goodness of his spirit mating w
ith mine, so I know what he says is true. In the dark of night, I am a lion cub, curling under a dragon to sleep, and I have never slept so peacefully in my life.
Still, he breathes fire and ignites my skin. He doesn’t know that I crave him on a visceral level, that I need to be his woman in every way. He thinks I have missing pieces of myself that I need to find, and I do. But one of the missing pieces, he is in possession of.
Night after night, I feel like jumping out of bed and confronting him. Telling him that I’m a woman and any woman worth her shit needs to be able to satisfy her man. I need him to let me do that. The circle needs to be complete in order for me to be complete.
I don’t jump out of bed though. I wait.
The shower sprays down hard on his head and shoulders. Through the frosted glass he looks like a supplicant statue, with his head bowed, his feet spread and his arms limp. He takes his punishment willingly and without fight. No steam, no heat, only ice cold needles against his flesh, meant to douse his fire and to scatter his concentration. It is a hard roe to hoe, I think as I slip my tank top over my head and step out of my panties. I leave them on the floor and slide the shower door open, step into a self-made Antarctica and twist my locks up on top of my head.
“Lena . . .” Aaron is surprised to see me. He wants to ask me what I think I am doing, but he can’t stop staring at my breasts. He reaches around behind him and adjusts the water, adds hot water to the mix to accommodate me. “Baby, what . . .?”
“You want some company?” I tilt my head to one side and watch him become hard. My nipples are suddenly tight enough to coax a winsome sigh from my lips. His penis is huge and two-toned, pointed straight at me. I can’t help staring at it, can’t help the warmth that settles between my thighs or the way my belly does a little flip-flop at the mere thought that it will soon be mine.
“You know you shouldn’t be in here. This is—”
“I shouldn’t be in here, Aaron? Why not? This is where you are. We share everything else; why can’t we share this?” I move closer to him and touch it lightly, feel it jump in my hand. I wrap my fingers around him and stroke slowly. His eyes lower to slits and burn into mine.
“We will share this. Eventually. Right now, you need . . .” A long hiss fills the space between us and his head drops back on his neck. He lets himself enjoy my touch for a moment, and then he captures my busy hand in his and threads our fingers together.
“I’m getting kind of tired of you telling me what I need, you know that? Tired of you telling me how this is going to go, too. Do you think I don’t know what I want, what I need? Who I want?”
“Nobody’s questioning the fact that we want to be together, Lena. I just want to make sure you’re ready to take things to that level. I don’t want you hurt or—”
I snatch my hand back and swipe it through the air, point a finger in the middle of his chest. “Look, don’t do that, okay? Don’t come at me with logic and good intentions, because right now I don’t give a damn about all that. I know you won’t hurt me. I know you love me. I’m not standing here offering myself to you as a sacrifice, Aaron. I’m standing here telling you that I want us to make love. Tonight. Now. And you don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”
“Lena . . .”
“Am I your woman?”
“Yeah, but—”
“And you’re my man?”
“Hell yeah, but—”
“Are you fucking somebody else?”
“No, but—”
“Is it that you don’t want to be with me?”
“Don’t go there.”
“So you do.”
“You know I do, but—”
“Then stop taking cold showers and let me do what I’m supposed to do for you. Do what you’re supposed to do for me. You’re not the only one with needs, Aaron.”
“I—”
“I’m ready for you. Are you ready for me?”
“Been ready. I love you.”
“I love you too, and I’m not trying to be with anyone else, but you’re pushing it.”
“Somebody else like who? Is it that motherfucker at the bank? The one I had to check the other day?” His sudden anger tightens the muscles in his chest and has him unconsciously flexing his arms, ready to start swinging. It makes me laugh, which makes him take a step in my direction. “Is something funny?”
He is not getting it, and I am getting more pissed off as the seconds pass. I stamp my foot and point to the shower floor. “Look, forget about the guy at the bank. I can’t even see him for looking at you. Stop treating me like a child and treat me like a woman, okay? That’s what I need. To be treated like a woman, a whole woman. Can you do that for me, Aaron? Can you take me there?”
“Baby, I—”
“Can you?”
“Damn, can I talk?”
I don’t let him talk. I push myself in his arms and pull his mouth down to mine. Kiss him like it is my last chance to kiss him, like the tongue in his mouth belongs to me and I want it back. I learn new tastes and textures, grip his head and take the kissing deep and wild. His is the only flesh I will allow myself to eat, and I feel like I can eat him whole. The lion cub moves aside and lets the wolf come out. It is mating season.
We drip water all over the floor as we stumble out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
My legs are riding his waist and my arms are locked around his neck. My mouth feasts on his neck and shoulders, and I can’t taste enough of him to be satisfied. He growls and whispers in my ear, nasty things and then silly things and then erotic threats. He asks me if I am afraid, I tell him no, and he says I should be. Says I should be very, very afraid.
There is wrestling, and it is uncoordinated and possibly comical. Mouths are everywhere, lingering here and there, and teeth are sharp, lips soft and soothing. When we are done with our animal-like foreplay, I have tasted every part of him, reveled in his gratification, and endured the ecstasy of reciprocity tenfold. We make music together, and it is not beautiful and unrealistic. It is not rose-tinted and washed over by a hazy glow. It is timeless, off-key and so damn perfect that I cry.
He is a large man, tall and hard, muscular and capable of strength that sometimes catches me off guard and mystifies me. I think he will handle me the way men like to handle women; think he will twist me and turn me, flip me and flex me, and I come to expect it. Even to anticipate it. I think I want to be handled and I feel like I probably need it, since it has been so long.
But Aaron does not handle me. He spreads out on the mattress and gives me dominance.
He eases his tongue in my mouth and sends words down my throat. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” is all I am capable of whispering. We are slick with sweat and tension where our chests press together, wet and oozy where our middles meet and acquaint for the first time. I open like a flower for him and cradle. Feel myself approaching a totally different kind of orgasm as my hips rotate slowly round and round with a mind of their own.
“Ten years is a long time,” he says and sucks my bottom lip inside his mouth. He breathes hard and fast, rocks his hips in time with mine. Makes my eyes slide closed and my throat moan. “Like riding a bike, remember?” My forehead on his, I nod and then gasp because I can’t help it.
“Ten speed or training wheels?” I say, and we giggle.
“It’s whatever you want it to be. Get on it and get used to the seat. Take it for a test drive and set the pace.” He spreads my arms out with his and threads his fingers through mine, grips tight. “It’s your bike, Lena. You can ride it any way you want to ride it. Are you ready?”
I am more than ready. Strength against strength, I sit up and back, and I use our arms, our hands clasped in the air, for balance and resistance. I rotate my hips, and he is there, on the verge of everything.
“You’re like a virgin.” He growls at the ceiling and clenches his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut and inhales so deeply that his nostrils flare.
This feels right l
ike nothing has felt right in so long. “Then be my first,” I say. Then I close my eyes and jump.
Stella curses me out, curses me out some more, and then she tells me that she owes me big time. I tell her she doesn’t owe me shit, and then I tell her I have to go. I am in the middle of getting some emancipation dick. We howl like fools over the phone lines, say we will talk soon, and disconnect. I pass Aaron the phone so he can hang it up, and then I get back to the task at hand. He has completed six chapters of the manuscript he is writing, and I am his first advance reader. I am decked out in sweat pants that swallow me up, a tee shirt that hangs to my knees, and thick sweat socks that flop off the ends of my feet, curled up on his sofa with a stack of papers in my lap. In his space and in his clothes too.
Actually, I am getting comfortable—in my own skin, in his skin and in my life. I look up from a page that has me wrapped around its finger and thank him for the glass of juice that he slips into my hand. “Baby, it’s so damn good that I can’t believe it, but you didn’t follow the outline we worked on. I mean, I see bits and pieces of myself, but you seriously changed some stuff around.”
“I like it when you call me baby,” he says and repositions me so that his head ends up taking the place of the papers in my lap. “It’s fiction. We don’t have to go straight true crime, do we?”
“I thought you wanted to tell my story.”
“I wanted to know it more than I wanted to tell it. I want to know you. What do you think about the main character? Is she gritty enough?”
“She’s fine, but you think I’m gritty?”
“Did you hear me say it’s fiction?”
“That’s what your mouth says, but I notice there’s a character in here named Yo-Yo,” I point out.
“I couldn’t resist. What time are your people getting here? Because I’m hungry.”
My people means my mama, Vicky and Beige, and they are all meeting us at Aaron’s apartment later. From there we are going out to dinner. This will be the first time that he comes face to face with my mama and only the second time he meets Vicky. “Seven. You can wait.”