Sometimes Love

by Victoria Kennedy

  None of his friends showed up, although all had been invited, but he promised I would meet a few before I left town. However, I did meet some of his former schoolmates from Pratt and together we all had a great night of frolic and too many drinks. In an effort to quell my nervousness, I think I tripled my normal two-drink limit that night. And I paid for it.

  The following day introduced itself to me with the mid-day sun splitting my head, intensely throbbing, too heavy to lift from the pillow. My mouth felt stuffed with cotton. It didn’t take long for me to realize I was experiencing my very first hangover. I prayed it was the last.

  “Decided to join me today after all, huh?” he asked from the doorway.

  “If this hangover doesn’t kill me, the mortifying embarrassment will surely do it. Please,” I begged in agony. “Just shoot me now and get it over with.”

  I didn’t remember any of the previous night after leaving the bar. I wondered if I’d made a fool of myself. Had his co-workers and associates laughed at me? I was too humiliated to ask. He sat at the edge of the bed and, with amusement in his eyes, told me he didn’t know I wasn’t a drinker.

  “I would have monitored you better, babe.” “I was just nervous.”

  “I’m already impressed. You don’t have to be nervous about anything.”

  He made a sweet gesture of smoothing my hair and kissing my forehead, before climbing under the covers with me. He’d undressed me for bed the previous night. So there was no need for modesty in my current state of undress, which consisted of one of his tank tops and my underwear. He cradled me against his fleece sweatpants and a tee shirt. For the rest of that day, he helped me through my ordeal. We watched old black and white movies and he fed me chicken soup, pain relievers and water, as if he were treating the common cold. He was seeing me at my worst and still doting on me, still looking at me like I was the most beautiful girl in the world.

  The next day was Christmas Eve and I arose feeling brand new but then, anything was an improvement over the day before. Realizing it was so close to Christmas made me homesick. If I had been home, I would have been checking my lists and running around for last minute gifts. I would have been staying longer than usual at my parents’, drinking eggnog and eating my mother’s sugar cookies. At my house, I would be in a melancholy mood, listening to holiday music and missing Humphrey. That reality check put the holiday in perspective. It would be Christmas no matter where I was and with him is where I wanted to be. I wanted my favorite holiday with my favorite man.

  He was coming in from a morning run when I emerged from the bathroom and was greeted by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He had been considerate enough to set the timer before leaving out, even though tea was his usual morning beverage. The least I could do was make breakfast for him. I scavenged through his fridge and found ingredients for a veggie omelet and let him have his turn with the shower.

  I had laid our food out on his Plexiglas dining table and was pouring coffee into mugs when he came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel…and nothing else. Even though we’d shared a bed for the past two nights that was the most I’d ever seen of him. He was a beautiful sight. I’d always figured he was very fit, but to see his body in the flesh standing right before me was confirmation. It made me swallow hard.

  He was muscular, but not too much and his body was cut. He could have been carved from granite, but he was no Arnold Schwarzenegger; Shaka Zulu was more apt. I wanted to run my hands across the fine hair on his chest and admire his rock-hard abs.

  “Do I pass inspection,” he asked, rousing me from my lustful thoughts.

  All I could do was laugh because he’d caught me staring blatantly.

  “You passed a long time ago.”

  He ate his breakfast dressed just like that. I could hardly finish my meal, but there was no need to worry because he ate his and finished mine too. He partook of my cooking, as if he loved it and I fondly remembered his hearty appetite at the meal I’d cooked for him in Baltimore.

  By late afternoon, we were headed in to Manhattan. He’d driven for me and I soon understood his usual reluctance. The parking situation was terrible and the fact that it was the day before Christmas didn’t help. We were either going to pay some exorbitant amount or drive around in circles until something was found. We settled on the former. He handed his keys over to an eager, young Middle-Eastern attendant and we blended in with the rest of the tourists and late shoppers treading the downtown streets.

  Most of the restaurants were busy and most of the storefronts were adorned with strings of white lights. People were walking to and fro and other couples were strolling just like us. There was a sense of urgency wrapped up in a ‘take your time and hurry up’ attitude. The movements of the crowds on the street foretold of something special in the air. My shopping experience back home was defined by whichever mall I happened to patronize so this was all very different for me. I liked the change and I liked being able to walk from store to store in the wintry air. The day before had been unseasonably warm. This was much better.

  By the time we finished, we’d been out for several hours and my legs felt every minute. Nightfall had cast a spell over the city. The strings of lights and the people with their frosty breath wafting across the night air as they talked helped make the night special. Christmas was in the air.

  We both agreed dinner was our next priority. We went to the garage and collected the car, then headed to a Caribbean soul food restaurant not too far away. Inside I discovered one of the most enchanting atmospheres I’d ever seen. While we waited, I noted the unusual decorating ideas used in the interior design, complete with a menagerie of whimsical animal figures hanging from the ceiling. We were seated in about twenty minutes at a booth against the east wall, which was lined with candle sconces creating a romantic setting. He took the liberty of ordering a pitcher of rum punch, but with my recent bout of overindulgence, I thought it best to settle for a Shirley Temple. Humphrey picked up my slack.

  He ordered a hearty meal for us to share: blackened catfish, jerk chicken, collard greens and macaroni and cheese. He also ordered a side dish of candied yams. I loved watching him devour the food and come off not looking like a glutton. If anything, he made me want to feed him.

  When we talked about our lives, he went fi , telling me about his West Indian heritage and of how his mother left him in Jamaica with relatives at the age of eight and migrated to the U.S. in search of a better life. His father, Tony, had packed up and moved to England a few years prior, leaving his mother with four children to raise alone. As a result, the family was split in two. At ten years old, he and his younger sister were sent to London to join their father and the two youngest girls—twins, had gone to their mother in Washington, D.C. He said, he didn’t see his mother and baby sisters again until he was twenty-one and starting college.

  His interest in art is what had given him solace during the times he wondered why his mother abandoned him, and it gave him a sense of escape from his troubled youth in England. Art had been his inspiration during the punk-rock era of his angst- filled teens but it had also served as a point of contention between him and his father. According to Humphrey, he was a well-known painter who had done well for himself among the rock star elite. And he’d developed a dark side too that his son was often subjected to—mood swings that alternated between extreme highs, where he stayed up painting for days with no sleep…to the lowest of the low, where he sunk into depression and didn’t come out of his room for weeks. Sadly, Humphrey didn’t mind his father’s isolation because that was the only time he could attend to his own painting without interruption or criticism.

  “That’s enough about me and my messed-up life,” he said. “I want to hear about someone who had a good life, with no cares in the world and parents who were present. The way a childhood is supposed to be.”

  He finished with an explanation of how his love of art had given him a sense of accomplishment and contribution in helping young, black artists
showcase their work.

  “It sounds like your father was present. Maybe he was sick, Humphrey.”

  “Then he should’ve gotten help,” His voice was harder, when he spoke of his father, the words turned harsher. “That wasn’t a call for a kid to make. He’s dead to me now…for robbing me of my childhood, for making me work for his love.”

  “I’m sorry, Baby,” I covered his hand with mine.

  In comparison, my life seemed mundane, but I filled him in anyway. I told him of my sheltered childhood in a Baltimore suburb with my parents and my brothers and sister. While I spoke of my family, it seemed like I was painting a picture of the Cleavers in contrast to his broken home. I made an extra effort to not sound like I was bragging, which was the reason I told him about how Maria’s habit had almost ruined the family.

  I even confided that I’d been the ugly duckling of the family… a shy, chubby kid with thick glasses and braces well into my teens and an abundance of insecurity. Like him I had a means of escape from my circumstances. Mine was my love of books. I would get punished in school for reading at inappropriate times and would often be the target of cruel jokes and pranks. I was a know-it-all and it took years for me to embrace it. My efforts had earned me my choice of full scholarships and a place in Who’s Who. However, I chose the security of my family and attended Morgan State University.

  “Well, Baby, you are no ugly duckling now,” he said. “More like a beautiful swan.”

  “Thanks, but you had to overcome a much bigger obstacle than vanity and self-esteem. Your issues were about survival…. and I’m proud of you.”

  The discussion of our biographies brought us closer and filled in blanks that otherwise would have been subject to conjecture and innuendo. There was no need to guess anymore. Our relationship turned a corner that night.

  When we returned to his apartment, it was nearly midnight, but the night still felt young. He used low lights and candles to transform his cold contemporary bachelor pad into a warm sanctuary of winter white. We kicked off our shoes and danced in the living room, swaying intimately to the seductive wail of Miles Davis’s trumpet.

  He pulled me closer into his embrace, his hand caressing the small of my back while he coaxed me into a short, but sensuous kiss. I’d closed my eyes and laid my head on his chest, wishing we could spend more time like that.

  “You feel so good in my arms,” he said, in a voice heavy with desire. His hands felt like heaven, as he stroked my skin through the silkiness of my blouse. He moved over my torso and found my breasts full and waiting. He flicked his fingers across my nipples and I purred with the sensations he was unleashing.

  “I love being in your arms.”

  He unbuttoned my blouse to better access the nipples that were crying for his unfettered touch. With my bra unfastened, I was wide open to him and he continued to stroke my bare skin, while we kissed deeply, tongues touching, pelvises grinding. Lust hit us fast and hard.

  Sighs turned to moans and when I took hold of him through his jeans, moans turned to groans. His kisses traveled from my mouth, down my neck, and the excitement of where they would go next had me filled with anticipation.

  My cell phone rang for the fi time since I’d arrived in New York. My antique ringtone was as jarring as a crow’s caw. Humphrey and I both groaned at the intrusion but I was also anxious about who would be calling me so late. According to my watch it was almost 1 a.m. He went into his bedroom as I took the call. I answered it cautiously. Michael’s unsteady voice on the other end alerted me that something was wrong.

  “Zoë, I’m sorry for calling so late.”

  “Michael, what’s the matter? Where are you?” I was straightening my clothes and fastening my bra, as if he could see me.

  “It’s my mom.”

  His voice was trembling now and I could tell he was trying to keep it steady for me. I knew something terrible had happened and I was afraid.

  “What wrong?” “She’s dead, Zee.”

  “What do you mean dead? I thought you were all in Virginia celebrating with your family.”

  “She and my Dad were on their way to a Christmas party, two nights ago, here in Richmond and a drunk driver collided with them.”

  “My God!” I didn’t realize that I’d been practically holding my breath until I heard my own voice.

  Humphrey re-entered the room, embracing me from behind, while I tried to console my friend. I almost felt guilty for having someone to comfort and hold me.

  “What about your father?”

  “He’s got a mild concussion but he’ll pull through. He’s just devastated. We all are.”

  He was crying openly now and my heart ached because I wanted to hold him through the tears just like he would do for me, the way Humphrey was.

  “What am I going to do without a mother?” “Michael, please don’t cry.”

  Then I was crying, too, and I consoled him as best I could over the phone, feeling helpless. And Humphrey tried to be that bridge between the grieving man on the phone and the girlfriend sobbing in his arms.

  Michael was leaving Virginia in a few hours to drive his younger brother and sister back, while his father made arrangements to have his mother’s body sent home and I was going to meet them. I decided at that very moment.

  “Be careful on the road. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Thank you, Zoë. You’re the only person I could have called and it took me two days to do that.”

  “I’m supposed to be the only person you would have called.” “I love you, Zoë.”

  “I love you, too. See you in a few hours.”

  Humphrey looked uncomfortable with the closure to my phone call and I didn’t care. My best friend had just lost his mother, tragically, and it was Christmas. How awful to suffer a loss so great at any time, but even worse at Christmas. I needed Humphrey to be supportive and understanding. I filled him in on the details of the tragic turn of events and told him I had to leave as soon as possible.

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I can be there for Michael. He needs my support. Surely you can understand that, can’t you?”

  He sulked as I walked into the bedroom.

  He’d set the mood for some serious lovemaking in there. Will Downing was crooning softly and under different circumstances, the bed would’ve looked so inviting. But I couldn’t entertain anymore thoughts of lying in his arms until I knew Michael would be alright. I didn’t know when he’d had the opportunity to get the wine and glasses, but he had. The bed was turned down and the brand new lingerie he’d bought for me in the city was laid out for me to wear. Then I understood his mood.

  “I’m sorry, Baby, but death isn’t always convenient,” I said. “I’m sure Michael would like to be doing anything else but driving home because his mother was just killed in a car wreck.”

  “Can’t you leave in the morning?”

  He flashed me the smile. “I’ll drive you back to Baltimore,” he said, pulling me into his arms before I had the chance to reply and let his kiss further appeal to my impressionable senses, until I was weak in the knees. We both wanted the same thing but I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate even at his masterful touch, even after that very convincing kiss.

  “The next train doesn’t leave until morning. You might as well wait.”

  “I can’t. I have to prepare myself mentally. You don’t realize how major this blow is.”

  He was moping, like a child.

  “I don’t expect you to understand this, Humphrey. But I’d be of no use to you tonight. Even if my body were here, my mind would be totally absent and I’m not going to subject you to that. Plus, I can’t keep still. I have to feel like I’m doing something. I really need to go.”

  I was right—he didn’t understand, but my mind was too far- gone to care.

  The train ride home was almost as restless as the one to New York. I wrestled mentally with the fact that Humphrey and I had had our first disagreement. I’d defied my moth
er’s wishes to be with him so that we could be together and ultimately make love. I’d wanted him before the night I stepped foot in his apartment. However, the majority of the time spent with him, he didn’t attempt to consummate our relationship, which confused me to no end. How could I have known he would be setting the stage for a night of intimacy just when I was summoned away? What had taken him so long?

  A deep sadness swept over me as I reflected on Michael’s call. The pain in his cry had scared me and made me think of the unthinkable. How would I have reacted if it had been my mother? If I had it to do all over again, I would have made the same decision. If Humphrey was too selfish to understand that, then he wasn’t the man I thought him to be.

  The nearly empty train pulled into Baltimore’s Penn Station at about 6:30 a.m. Christmas morning. It was the beginning of a clear, chilly day—still not quite light out. Thank goodness, I’d had the foresight to park my car at the train station. I would only have time to drive home and check the house before going over to the Franklin household. Michael and his brother and sister were scheduled to arrive at about 8 a.m. and I wanted to be on time.

  Once I got home, I took my things up to my room and called my parents to wish them a Merry Christmas and to let them know I was home. They already knew about Maggie Franklin’s death. Of course, Michael had told them, but my mother informed me it had been announced on the news the night before. The Franklins were a popular couple in Baltimore’s political circles. In addition to Wes’s family and career, Maggie was a political science instructor at Towson University. Of course, it would be on the news.