You Make Me Wanna

by Nikki Rashan

  As Marlon explained to me, after years of falling in and out of love with other married men, and too many close encounters with having been found out, he threw in the towel on a day that, if scripted, would have made a Lifetime movie producer feel as if the screenplay of a lifetime had landed before him.

  While Marlon was in the kitchen sipping on brandy to loosen his tensed nerves, his wife, Brenda, was in their bathroom taking a pregnancy test. Finally, at 38, after countless disappointments, she was going to be a mother. Quickly her world crumbled before her as a teary-eyed and overwhelmed Marlon disclosed his surprise first.

  Eight months later, after an emotionally agonizing pregnancy, Marlon Junior was born and promptly delivered to the doorway of Marlon’s new apartment. Brenda washed her hands clean of any memory of a life once shared with him, which included taking back her maiden name, a relocation to Phoenix, and leaving behind the child that at one point she’d so desperately desired.

  In addition to the transition from a “DL” brother to an openly gay man, Marlon became a single, full-time father. After unsuccessful attempts at love, he found David four years later, and although nine years his junior, David was all that Marlon had been praying for.

  The ride from my store at Lenox Mall wasn’t too rough on my nerves today. Adjusting to the congested traffic had been the one difficult hurdle to overcome after I’d moved. That’s why I quickly traded in my outdated Toyota Celica for the drop-top, 5-speed Mustang that cruised in and out of clogged traffic with ease.

  MJ greeted me in the hallway after David buzzed me into Marlon’s building, located in a prime spot just across the street from the park. Each time MJ ran smiling into my arms, I was filled with flashbacks of Steph’s son, Jaron, and his happy beam every time he saw me.

  David easily recognized the anguished look on my face as I held on to MJ’s embrace, eyes closed, reminiscing upon a time and place so far away, yet so close to my heart.

  “Hey, young fella,” I said after our hug.

  “We’re having TAAAACOOOOS,” he sang in his almost five-year-old pitch.

  “Good, ’cause I’m hungry,” I replied.

  David, who had the day off, was lounging in pajama bottoms and a wife-beater when I entered the apartment. He looked exhausted. After pulling a double shift at the bank, where he was a lead security officer, and now taking care of MJ, I understood his overextended state.

  When David had first told me about the security officer position, I’ll admit I was a bit concerned that he wouldn’t be taken seriously. Although he stood five-ten with a slender, toned body, one look at David’s flip of the wrist, and an outburst of “Honey,” or “Girl,” and was a dead giveaway to his orientation.

  “I dare them HR folks not to hire me because I’m gay. Don’t you know that’s discrimination?” he scolded me when I expressed my concerns.

  I backed off as he went through the interview process: a personality survey, background check (including credit), and drug test. He passed all, and with his natural charm, he had those HR folks eating out of the palm of his smooth hand.

  “Hey, baby,” he said from Marlon’s oversized couch.

  David didn’t get up to greet me, and with the worn-out expression on his face, I knew he was glad I was there to entertain MJ for a while.

  MJ and I fixed our taco plates and ate in the kitchen while watching some public television show on sea animals. Through his taco-filled bites, MJ managed to scream, “Look, Ky, look at the fishes!” pointing at every multi-colored swimming object that moved across the screen.

  “Very pretty, MJ,” I answered between my own munches.

  Having spent time with Jaron and admiring the acceptance he had of his lesbian mom, I often wondered if MJ would grow up with the same adoration and respect for his gay father. Is society less accepting of a gay father than a lesbian mother? At this point in his young life, MJ loved his father unconditionally. Only time would tell if he’d grow up supportive of his dad’s homosexuality, or humiliated by it.

  Getting MJ settled for his afternoon nap was an easy task. MJ crawled under his navy comforter and welcomed the resting period before him.

  David, who had taken a quick snooze of his own, awoke with a jerk when I nestled my head against his shoulder when I sat on the couch.

  “Is MJ sleeping?” he murmured, barely lucid.

  “Yes, he’s in bed. Don’t work yourself so hard, David. You look beat.”

  “And this is coming from the woman who pulls twelve-hour days on a regular basis?”

  “I know, we need to quit wearing ourselves out like this.” I stared out of Marlon’s picture window overlooking the park.

  David didn’t answer, and only when I glanced in his direction, did I notice he had fallen asleep again. Better let him rest before MJ wakes up, I thought.

  I gathered my purse and immediately reached for the pack of cigarettes inside the zipped pocket. More than once I’d made the mistake of leaving a pack in David’s view, only for him to swiftly snatch them right out of my purse and toss them into the trash can beneath our kitchen sink—only after soaking them wet under the faucet to ensure their death. I was pissed the first few times this happened and resorted to hiding my cigs.

  As I walked down the cement stairs outside of Marlon’s brownstone and deliciously inhaled my first puff, I caught sight of a tall, slim woman pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair headed in my direction. Dressed in light-colored jeans, a fitted white T-shirt, and walking shoes, the woman smiled tenderly as the elderly woman gabbed between coughs so raspy and body-racking, I thought she would surely keel over that very moment. The woman just smiled and gently laid her hand upon the elderly woman’s shoulder until the spell subsided.

  Immediately, and I guess instinctively, I dropped my cigarette to my side and casually stepped on it before continuing to my car. Hypnotized best described how I was feeling at that moment, as if an invisible magnetic charm circled the woman’s body, attracting entranced stares of those around her. A radiant glow shimmered about her and sparkled underneath the sunlight. As cliché as it may sound, if heaven sent angels down to earth, she was one of them.

  Jet-black, silky straight hair delicately blew against her smooth, cocoa-brown skin. Her eyes, nearly as dark as her hair, stared straight ahead as she walked slowly and listened intently to the old woman tell a story. Her lips, glossed in a light shade of pink, were parted slightly in an amused grin, displaying the indent of a bashful dimple on her right cheek. She looked at me, her eyes connecting with mine for a moment, a soft smile on her lips. Then she returned her attention back to the old woman.

  Snapping myself out of my awestruck gaze, I managed to get in my car and fiddle with the radio, pretending to find a suitable station, just so I could absorb this woman’s presence as long as possible. To my surprise, she stopped right at the entrance to Marlon’s building. With obvious trained professionalism, she patiently assisted the old woman out of her wheelchair and up the four steps to the front door. She eased the woman inside, leaving the wheelchair on the sidewalk.

  Should I help her? Maybe take the chair inside myself? Wait a minute. I didn’t have a key to the building, and I didn’t know which of the eighteen units belonged to her or the old woman. I could get out of the car and peer through the small octagon window of the door, but what if the moment I began to step onto my tiptoes to look through the glass, she suddenly flew the door open from the inside and knocked me down the short flight of steps to the ground? What if I crashed into the wheelchair and it smashed into pieces?

  My mind-wandering stupor was interrupted when she quickly came back outside, expertly folded up the wheelchair and whisked it back inside, catching the door just before it closed again. I leaned back into my leather seat and exhaled, only then realizing that I had been holding my breath while eagerly awaiting her return. So long had it been since I was thoroughly captivated by someone just at sight. I suppose, since Stephanie.

  “Who was that?” I screamed int
o David’s ear after I dialed his number the second I thought he was awake from his nap.

  “Kyla, who? Who are you talking about, girl?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

  For some reason, I presumed he’d witnessed the woman’s entrance into my life earlier that afternoon.

  “David, there’s a woman I saw going into Marlon’s building when I left today, dark brown skin, long hair . . . she was pushing a woman in a wheelchair.”

  David paused for so long, I figured he must have been reviewing each tenant unit by unit.

  “Baby, that doesn’t sound like anybody in this building. I don’t know. I’ll ask Marlon tonight.”

  Briefly I felt a twinge of impatience, but it passed as swiftly as one might be when awaiting the FedEx man. What else could I do but sit back and wait?

  “Okay, David, call me as soon as you find out. And tell Marlon I’ll be by to see him soon.”

  “Yeah, I bet you will now.”

  Caught in my scheme, I laughed aloud before hanging up.

  Later that night as Tiffany seductively removed her bra and panties while I sat on the edge of my bed, I heard a light tap on my door. A sweet kiss on her cheek asked her to hold on a second when I got up to see what David wanted. He glanced inside, noticed Tiffany standing naked. Before backing away from the door, he whispered in my ear, “Asia. Her name is Asia.”

  Asia, I repeated in my head. I winked a thank-you to David before closing the door and returning to Tiffany. I wrapped my arms around Tiffany’s inviting waistline and brought her hips to mine. I closed my eyes to kiss her neck. Only, it wasn’t her skin my lips touched. Asia, I thought once again.

  CHAPTER 3

  Chance Meeting

  Crossing from one side of town to the other on a Sunday afternoon was an easy mission back home. It took all of twenty minutes to get to any destination. However, in Atlanta, on Sundays when I spent time with my “little sister” Lisa, the entire afternoon needed to be blocked off on my date book, primarily for travel time.

  About six months ago I’d taken on the additional responsibility of spending time with a twelve-year-old girl whose mother had died just two years earlier. Devastated and longing for a female presence in Lisa’s life, her dad enrolled her into the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. Participating in the program was perhaps my way of contributing to the social services field I’d reneged on due to heartbreak over Stephanie, not wanting to see her at school. Because my schedule left so little room, I committed to one Sunday a month with Lisa.

  Our initial meeting was a little awkward, considering I was the second “big sister” in her life. The first woman, a delicate lady in her mid-thirties had believed she could empathize and relate to Lisa, since her own mom had passed away when she was a young girl. Yet dealing with Lisa’s still wounded heart reopened unresolved issues within herself, and she found the task greater than anticipated. After two afternoons with Lisa, she left the program and entered therapy.

  Understandably hesitant, Lisa held back any indication of taking a liking to me during our first few encounters. Unsure how to move forward with our next date, I consulted with Nakia, who had experience dealing with adolescent children. At her suggestion, on our next Sunday gathering, she and fourteen-year-old Fred Jr. joined us, and then it became our ritual to get together every last Sunday of the month.

  Tall and lanky with a mouth full of braces, Fred Jr. melted Lisa’s ice barrier when he spoke of the challenges he faced traveling from household to household, with “three parents.” And although Lisa had lost one of her own, discovering that someone her age also felt some form of suffering was comfort enough. She began to welcome our time together just as much as I did.

  As I wove in and out of traffic en route to Marietta to pick Lisa up, I yakked away on my cell phone to Yvonne, who, now six months pregnant, was overly emotional, extremely uncomfortable with her body, and incessantly needy. In fact we talked more during her months of pregnancy than we had in two years time living at home.

  “My back is really starting to hurt, Ky.”

  “Try sleeping with a pillow between your knees,” I offered, retrieving that information from some website I’d found. Just after Yvonne’s pregnancy announcement, I found myself surfing the net, gathering information so I could best understand what she was going through. That was about the wisest advice I had to offer, beyond telling her to suck it up and just deal with it until the baby arrived.

  “I have. It doesn’t help.”

  “Check with your doctor, Yvonne, especially if it’s that painful.”

  “Well, it’s not that bad. Just the extra weight, I guess.”

  She knew why her back was hurting, and after all, it wasn’t that bad, so why was she complaining?

  “She’s due around Christmas, Ky,” she reminded me for the hundredth time. “You are going to be home, right?”

  “How do you know it’s a girl, Yvonne? I’m going to have a niece?” I asked, excited.

  “Byron’s sister said I’m carrying low, so it must be a girl.”

  I didn’t remember reading that bit of information online, but I kept quiet.

  “Are you going to be here, Ky?”.

  Asking Gary if I could have two weeks off during the holiday season was like asking if I could have his Jessica Simpson concert tickets. He simply wouldn’t have it.

  “Kyla, your sister only has her first child once! Don’t you want to be here?”

  I heard the all too familiar crack in her voice, which was sure to be followed by a sea of tears. At that moment I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to be pregnant. “Don’t worry, Yvonne, I’ll see what I can do. I promise,” I said, feeling guilty for saying anything just to avoid a crying spell.

  Still, she managed to sneak in a few sniffles between her words. “I-really-want-you-here, Ky.”

  “Yes, Yvonne, I know. I’ll be there,” I said, feeling like I put my career on the line.

  “Thank you,” she said, giggling suddenly, instantly feeling better.

  Wow! “How are mom and dad?”

  “They’re fine,” she said, sounding sad again. “Everyone is looking forward to seeing you.”

  Since my move to Atlanta, I hadn’t been home for even one visit. E-mails and unlimited long-distance calls were what held me in contact with the Midwest. Inside I was anxious to see everyone. I wanted to see Yvonne and touch her belly. I wanted to hug my mom and smell her latest perfume. I wanted to wrap my arms around my dad and feel the warmth of his embrace. During the summer months I missed the lakefront festivals, and on occasion, though rarely, I missed sitting by the fire watching the calm stillness of a winter night as snowflakes clothed and blanketed the ground.

  “Don’t worry, Yvonne, I’ll do the best I can,” I said with a bit more determination.

  She talked on a while longer until I reached Lisa’s home, a beautiful three-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath brick home that easily would have cost twice as much in Wisconsin. In Nakia’s mind, that was one reason so many snowbirds migrated South. The value of a dollar spread farther than in most other cities.

  Lisa emerged from the large entryway, looking solemn, if not ill. As she approached the car, I caught sight of just what had her face shadowed with such gloom. A huge pimple. Not on her cheek or near her hairline, but dead smack between her eyebrows, probably the most dreaded place for one to surface. Her eyes were lowered as she got into my passenger seat, like not looking at me would somehow erase the red bump on her face.

  “Hey, sunshine,” I said, extra chipper, hoping for even a slight grin in response.

  “Hi, Kyla,” she said, looking straight ahead.

  “Ready for some bowling?”

  “Do we have to go anywhere? Can’t we just go back to your place?” she pleaded to my windshield.

  “Nakia and Fred Jr. are already at the bowling alley waiting for us.”

  “No!” she gasped. “I don’t want Fred Jr. to see me like this!”

  “Like what?” I asked gentl
y.

  “Like this!” she shrieked, facing me and pointing a pink fingernail to her forehead.

  Casually I viewed the pimple and then focused on her eyes. “Lisa, sweetheart, it’s not that bad.”

  She exhaled an exaggerated stop-lying-to-me sigh and shifted angrily in her seat. I understood her frustration. It was bad. I might have stayed in the house too if I had it. But I wasn’t going to shatter her already fractured self-image and agree with her.

  “How about this, Lisa? How about we stop at the drugstore and pick up some acne medication?”

  She moaned at my mention of the word acne.

  “We can put a little bit on right away, and that way, at least, it’s being treated. It’ll be gone in no time, you’ll see.”

  Lisa sat still.

  “Is this your first pimple?”

  “Yes! And today of all days. Do you think Fred Jr. will notice?”

  I looked her squarely in the eyes. Nothing worse than talking to a person who keeps staring at your pimple. It would only make her more self-conscious if I did. “He might notice, but he’ll know that you’re still Lisa, pimple or no pimple. Besides, haven’t you seen a pimple or two on his face? You guys are teenagers; it’s going to happen sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. You’re right. Fred Jr. had a pimple last time we were together, and I still liked him.”

  I started the car. “What was that?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Mm-hm, sure.”

  I laughed, and she laughed too. Finally!

  Nakia and Fred Jr. had already completed a game by the time we arrived, thanks to our pit stop and search for the proper acne cream for Lisa’s young skin.

  “I beat her,” Fred Jr. told me with a hug. “One hundred eight to fifty-seven. I’m the man.”