I welcomed the firm softness of the mattress, as I slipped into bed, now that the huge weight of failure had been lifted from my shoulders. Drowsiness descended quickly and I drifted off with relief cradling me to sleep, five hours before my usual bedtime.
Chapter Three
The rain hadn’t stopped completely, by Day Two, but we weren’t getting the torrential downpour of the day before. The tent idea had been a savior. Under the tents, the atmosphere was carnival-like, a cozy haven from the drizzle falling outside. Most of the vendors had lines forming at their booths and the mood was festive the way I imagined a reggae festival ought to be.
I was swaying to the rhythm of the next tune, when I spotted an anchorwoman from WJZ heading my way with her cameraman in tow. All I could do was hope I looked presentable and fluff my hair with my hands. In the misty air, the shrinkage was real. Times like that reminded me of how Michael preferred me to wear it—zapped into a straight and obedient coiffure. I was self-conscious throughout the brief interview for the evening news but the reporter’s tone was upbeat and encouraging, as she sipped a drink from a pineapple and encouraged the public to come out to the festival.
We were ending our talk when Michael came over, received a proper introduction and stayed long enough to work his mojo on the poor woman. She was giggly and pink with flirtation, as she walked away. He put his hands in my hair, attempting to smooth it into place, and shook his head in defeat, never dropping his boyish smile.
Later, at the house, everything was dark and I closed the door quietly, embracing the serenity. It was a luxury I treasured, ever since I’d agreed to house-sit for Phillip while he took his time deciding whether to sell or stay. The offer had been a chance for the freedom I yearned, away from the doting of my parents who acted like they never wanted me to move out on my own. I tried to understand their protective behavior, after the turbulent years of dealing with my oldest sister but the time was overdue for me to live independently. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be when I found a husband, as they wished and made no efforts to hide. I fixed an amaretto on the rocks, kicked off my clogs and curled up on the ample sofa in the living room. It was appropriate for a man’s home and I appreciated its comfort and masculinity, as I was lulled to sleep by thoughts of strong sturdy arms and a big chest to lay my head upon—just like that brother’s at the door.
I was awakened by the jingle of keys in the front door and after a start, I realized Phillip was home. The feminine voice accompanying his, let me know he wasn’t alone. I didn’t know he was coming back from New York, not to mention with a guest. It wasn’t like him to arrive without notice and the heads-up would have been appreciated. The darkness helped me make a clean getaway, as I seized the opportunity to dash up the stairs.
When I reached the landing, they entered the hallway and I was glad for the thick carpeting, as I tiptoed further down the hall to my room. The next minute, he was calling my name and I didn’t know whether to fake sleep or to answer. I wasn’t up to making small talk and forcing myself to laugh at witty comments or exchange compliments with the girl of the moment. I decided to fake sleep. I would be meeting whoever she was in the morning over breakfast anyway.
That would be Phillip’s opportunity to show off his superior cooking skills. For him, nothing less than superior would do— with anything. Once he became fond of something, he had to find a way to master it. The woman giggling with him and whispering in the dark was sure to get swept away, like the rest, by his clever conversation, his deep dimples and his Scrabble skills. He was one of those people born with gifts that always gave him the advantage over the average guy. That combination of gifts had gotten him into some sticky situations throughout his life, including getting stuck in precarious positions with women, sometimes not his own.
It was his good fortune to place women high on his list of mastery because they couldn’t seem to stay away from him. He loved all varieties as long as they were pretty. They didn’t have to be smart, rich, or even particularly stylish. He just loved pretty women. Over the years, there had been several different interpretations of what he considered “pretty.” There had been a voluptuous, chatty make-up artist, a tall, lithe dancer with an unusually long neck, and a weed-smoking, yoga instructor among the varieties of pretty. I’d always frowned upon his shallowness because my brilliant brother would have been much more fulfilled, if he found his intellectual equal. After all, women could be pretty and smart at the same time. Surely, he had to know that.
Right on schedule the next morning, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted up to my room and roused me from a deep sleep. I hadn’t seen my big brother in a few months and I missed his handsome, funny face. He was a caramel-colored man with sandy hair in a texture crossed between curls and kinks. He had a quick smile that was as broad as it was bright, with a small gap between his two front teeth. When he smiled, his eyes twinkled and dimples deepened in such a way that you forgot anything you could ever be angry with him for. Unlike the night before, I was excited he was home.
“I smell coffee,” I yelled down the stairs, on my way to the bathroom.
“Hey Zo!,” he yelled back. “Come and get some of this good grub, Sis.”
“Shower first, then I’ll be right down.” “That’s a good call.”
“Hey watch that!” I laughed out loud, as I turned on the water and made my way quickly through preparations for a face-to-face with the latest pretty girl to win Phillip’s attention.
When I finally showed u p i n t he kitchen, Philip and a petite woman with a halo of tawny colored dreadlocks and matching eyes greeted me. I noted the food presented nicely on the kitchen table. Just as I expected, he’d gone way beyond the standard breakfast fare. He’d prepared his homemade blueberry pancakes, shrimp and grits, his delicious omelet with crabmeat and homemade biscuits with strawberry jam. He stood at the table with the gourmet spread before him on a gingham checked tablecloth, as if he’d just toasted Pop-Tarts and not made a meal worthy of a cooking show.
“Hey, Babygirl,” he said, “You could sleep through an enemy invasion. Come here. I want you to meet Patrice. Patrice, this is my baby sister Zoë I’ve been talking about so much.”
The golden woman had stood up at the table for our introduction.
“Hi, Zoë. It’s a pleasure meeting you.” She stretched her hand out to shake mine. “I’m Patrice and your Phillip is special to me too.”
She blushed. Damn, he had her.
“My brother’s a very good judge of character,” I said. “So, if you’re special to him, you must be pretty special, period.”
“I think I hear a compliment in there, somewhere. Thank you.” She blushed some more.
After our brief exchange of pleasantries, I walked over to Phillip and gave him the biggest hug and we pecked on the lips, as was our custom since we were kids. I looked up into his face and realized he was beaming with happiness. There was no pretense or show. More than once, I noticed him directing his eyes toward the diminutive beauty perched on the other side of the kitchen table and wondered if she was due the credit for my brother’s euphoric state. It was the most open I’d ever seen him with any woman. That’s all I ever wanted was for him to be happy. Going by everything I knew about him, it was real. Damn, she had him.
“When did you get all this stuff?”
“You forget the market is right up the street?” “No. But when did you get the chance?”
“You forget who you’re talking to?”
We both laughed because it wasn’t that unusual.
Our Grandma Roxy had often doted on the boys of the family, more than the girls because she said she wasn’t going to “raise no good-for-nothin’ men.” As a result, all of my brothers could cook, keep a clean house, and do laundry without turning underwear gray or pink. Grandma had done well.
Our mother had worked as a secretary at Morgan and decided at thirty years old she wanted to pursue a degree in Mass Communications. Grandma had been a steady presence in o
ur household during those times. After she passed, mom landed a job at the college radio station and became one of their popular disc jockeys on the nightly jazz segment. Later, she pursued a career in real estate, at which she became quite proficient. Our father worked his way up to general manager of a car dealership where utilizing his skills as a talented listener and salesman was instrumental in his promotion to the top of his field. He economized his words at work and at home, only using those he deemed valuable.
Separately, our parents were the consummate business people—quite adept in their respective fi . They’d both gained the respect and admiration of their friends and peers. Together, they were like slugs and salt. Like many others in their time, they were forced to marry, when our mother became pregnant with my sister Maria at sixteen. Four more children followed over the next decade making them the parents of five at twenty-six and twenty-eight. I’d say, their children were proof they agreed on some things, some of the time.
Meanwhile, my mother threw her all into her new real estate business and had the occasional girls’ night out with girlfriends she’d had since childhood. My father worked hard at the dealership, but had given up any dreams of owning one. He still took up residence at the neighborhood jazz lounge in his spare time imbibing more than his share of Jack Daniels and sometimes staying late to listen to the jazz quartet of the week.
We all made out okay, even my only sister who had finally kicked her drug habit following a twelve-year addiction. She had fallen hard from my mother’s grace and deprived her of having a perfect princess. For the longest time, I was alienated from Maria because of her lifestyle and because that’s what I was shown how to do. Instead I clung to my brothers for camaraderie and confidence, even ‘girl’ talk. As a result, I was very close to them, especially Phillip.
Throughout the meal, I watched as he deferred to Patrice for answers about vacation time they had planned and about how his weeknight schedule was structured around her therapy practice. She was a doctor. It seemed he’d discovered brains and beauty could reside in the same person, after all. I was careful to check myself so envy wouldn’t creep onto my smiling face. Happiness was a place I needed to visit, too, real soon.
I offered to do the breakfast dishes, while they went for a walk around our Union Square neighborhood. The area, which was close to the Inner Harbor, was on a fast track for a total make over and Phil had purchased his home right before the huge influx of Yuppies started buying all the prime property. Of course, that was after the city had razed the hi-rise housing projects bordering the neighborhood. Now, he was the only brother on the block. Gentrification at its finest. I stared out of the kitchen window, as the overcast sky began to give way to the sun and wondered how Patrice had come into his life. Something about her must have been different from all the rest.
On that last day of the festival, everybody was so glad to see the sun that cars started pulling up, as soon as the gate opened. It moved me to see the look of elation on Michael’s face because I knew he was quietly calculating profits from every patron present that day. It made me wonder how wearily he had tabulated the losses, as well, and then kept that to himself. I could almost hear him totaling our earnings with the sale of every ticket. He’d worked hard to ensure the event would sell out. We would be able to pay back our investors and turn a handsome profit. For that, I was happy, too.
A horde of people was spread across the lawn in front of the band shell. The tents were gone, revealing a ceiling of bright blue sky and I saw lots of familiar faces. It was running smoothly, without a stumble or snag and I was glad there hadn’t been any fights, as was feared to happen in such large crowds. The aroma of Caribbean food filled the air, reminding me I had not eaten since breakfast. I was caught between the lure of the food and the appeal of the music. It’s what the festival was all about. Its hypnotic rhythm filled me with yearning for much more than food.
Later, as I was settled under a nearby tree having jerk chicken and ginger beer, a gentle breeze was blowing and the evening sun cast a golden glow over the horizon. The rhythmic strains of reggae music flowed over the park, creating a pleasant ambience. My singleness felt more obvious among the abundance of couples walking hand in hand and standing arm in arm in this mood I helped build. I had gone through so much stress to ensure this event would be a success. It surpassed even my grand expectations. Yet, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so lonely. The emptiness took me back to a time in my life I’d almost forgotten and I found myself reminded of how one encounter could turn things around.
I was sure Michael was somewhere celebrating and definitely not alone. He always managed to find someone. I, on the other hand, was never as fortunate in the area of romance so I already knew I’d be celebrating alone. Often those I found myself attracted to didn’t feel the same way. Either the timing would be off or my feelings would be unrequited. I usually walked away from every attempt feeling rejected and unsure of myself, my self-esteem being the casualty. My way of dealing with the disappointment and rejection was to avoid the possibility of falling in love altogether. The chance meeting with the man at my door was most likely the closest I’d come to excitement in the near future.
For too many years, I was left holding onto my virginity like a prize. It started off with a noble feeling like I was saving it for a good cause. But as time passed, my noble cause turned into a joke. Where on earth would someone find a twenty-seven year old virgin, besides a convent? What purpose did it serve? It was no guarantee for a husband, a sexual liaison was more likely. I didn’t want to subject myself to booty calls, two-week conveniences or ‘just getting mine’ by consenting to being the other woman. Those acts trivialized the meaning of love so much, yet were commonly practiced.
My beliefs were definitely the exception, not the rule. It wasn’t that I thought less of women who ended up in those situations; I just knew the lifestyle wasn’t for me. Somewhere along the way, those women decided to settle for sex before it was made an only option. For some, a false sense of security was better than none at all. As for me, I wanted my security to be real.
The loud burst of the first fireworks jarred me from my reverie. It had grown dark while I relinquished my thoughts, once again, to feeling sorry for myself. I shook off my somber mood and decided to join in the festivities. Almost everyone had gathered on the hill for the best view of the fireworks. It was spectacular. I spotted Michael with a companion, just as I suspected, enjoying the last remnants of the evening. I signaled to him I was leaving and he rushed over to me.
“Zoë, we are a success, Sweetie, just like you said we would be.”
“You mean, like you said it would be. …I know I owe all of this to you. The same stubbornness I complain about helped to save me again. Your tenacity paid off. Thank you.” I reached up and hugged him.
“You okay?” Concern furrowed his brow. “Sure. Just tired. I’m gonna head home now.”
I knew he was worried about me because he could always detect my moods. Smiling on the outside while crying on the inside had become my specialty. He had been the one person I could confide in, when the family’s focus fell on Maria and I learned to blend into the background, while making it look like that’s where I wanted to be. I was an expert at putting on the happy face, but that night I could feel my resolve slipping. I knew he could tell. He knew me too well.
Chapter Four
Perring Parkway was jam-packed with cars full of Morgan State students leaving a night football game, so it took a lot longer than normal to traverse. The one traffic light on the whole strip had changed to green several times, but the traffic was still too backed up to move. I took the idle time to daydream about my college days and realized not long ago, I’d been sitting in my little jalopy for the very same reason as that night—trying to get home. And then I’d most likely be headed to one of the after-parties at the Paradox or the Tunnel, thinking of how fun it would be to plan them. I wondered if the kids surrounding me in their cars had the same
eagerness to embrace the world as I did then. And were they as sure they could make a change?
I so enjoyed being a student that I made a point of living the model student life and experiencing everything the campus life had to offer. With Michael at my side, I sampled all that piqued my interest and lots of things that only aroused his.
He’d pledged Kappa Alpha Psi. I, on the other hand, had no interest whatsoever in sororities or fraternities but I attended a few AKA activities on campus to dispel his belief that I wasn’t open to trying new things. For him, it was one more point of concession to his family’s traditions. They were all Kappa men. For me, it was another peek into his world. But Michael had given his support, by accompanying me to some open-mic poetry nights that were about as exciting to him as watching water boil. That’s the way he’d described it, years later.
By the time our four years in undergrad were over, we had taken advantage of everything the experience offered. We knew the likelihood of anybody giving us anything after that would be doubtful. In hindsight, I realized I was well on my way to having what I’d aspired to back then. I was self-employed, I loved my work, and my partner was the next best thing to family. But that was after the detour we’d both taken, after school—being recruited on campus to work administrative jobs for the FBI. We barely lasted a year, glued to our desks all day. Branching out on our own was our best idea ever. The realization cheered me up, left a smile on my face. I’m sure most of my former schoolmates would not be able to make those claims.
Sometimes Love Page 2