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Choose Me

Page 9

by Xenia Ruiz


  “Hi.”

  “Hello.” She glanced into my cart, inspecting my groceries. Likewise I looked into her cart of spices, Caribbean tropical fruits, and vegetables, some of which Luciano had introduced to me, like plantains—platanos. They were great fried with white rice and black beans. In the front basket sat a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers.

  “Who’re the flowers for?” I asked.

  “Me,” she answered, a little defiantly, sticking out her chin as if daring me to say something. I noticed she had a slight underbite, something I hadn’t realized the night before.

  “You always buy flowers for yourself?”

  “Always.”

  “Where are the plantains?” I then asked.

  “Right behind you,” she said, pointing over my shoulder.

  I turned around and picked out a few. She looked at me with a distrustful brow. “You know how to cook those?”

  “Peel ’em, slice ’em diagonal, and fry ’em up in some oil. They’re sweet. I’ve eaten them at Luciano’s mom’s house. She’s Cuban.”

  “Yeah, so I heard.” She turned up her lip and I gathered there was no love lost between her and Luciano. “But if you want the sweet ones, you have to get the ripe ones,” she suggested. Without asking, she returned the green ones I had picked out. “These are verde, too green. You can still cook them, but they won’t be sweet. You’ll have to smash ’em down and add salt. Not as healthy.” She picked through the display of plantains and pulled out some yellow-colored ones with a lot of dark spots that looked spoiled. “These are maduro, ripe. They’ll be nice and sweet.” I couldn’t help but watch her mouth as she spoke and noted that her bottom lip was wider and thicker than the top one, giving her a pouty appearance. I guess I was staring too hard because she gave me an odd look, her right eyebrow cocked.

  I cleared my throat. “So, you like to cook?” I asked.

  “I thought my sister told you about me?”

  “So, you don’t like to cook.”

  “I hate to cook,” she said. “I steam and boil as much of my food as possible. That’s the extent of my chef abilities.”

  “A modern woman,” I said. I meant it as an affront but she took it as a compliment and smiled. It was a real smile, not the constipated one she had continuously flashed me the night before.

  “I take it you don’t cook,” she said.

  “I can throw some stuff together on occasion.” The truth was all the men in my family knew how to cook. My mama had taught me how to cook when I was ten after warning me that she wasn’t always going to be around. The thought of losing her, not just her delicious meals, scared me into devouring all of her recipes. But the real truth was that cooking was too much work. I would rather clean out toilets than cook, so the future Mrs. Black would have to enjoy it as much as my mama once did.

  “Huh,” she snorted, not believing me.

  “Next time we have a barbecue, you can check it out for yourself.”

  “Barbecue don’t count,” she chided in that sarcastic humor of hers.

  I laughed, but didn’t challenge her and divulge the Louisiana cuisine my mom had passed down to me.

  “Well, I got to go,” I told her, happy I was the first to dismiss her.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  She went left and I went right. We ended up in checkout lanes next to each other. She gave me the fake smile as I picked up the Chicago Tribune and she got the Sun-Times. She had two people in front of her; I had one, the oblivious woman with the coupon-delinquents. The woman had awakened from her stupor and was engaged in a lively debate with the cashier over the price of dried potato flakes.

  “I know what the sign said and it said two-fifty-nine!” she screamed like she was being cheated out of a million dollars.

  “I still have to call it in, ma’am,” said the teenaged cashier, who I could tell was trying hard not to lose her temper.

  I happened to glance over at Eva in exasperation and she raised her eyebrows in empathy.

  “Price check on Betty Crocker’s thirteen-ounce mashed potatoes,” the cashier screeched over the loudspeaker, a little too loudly.

  “I’m telling you, it’s two-fifty-nine!”

  “It’s ringing up two-eighty-nine,” the girl retorted.

  I got out of line and went to the next opened checkout, which contained three customers, but I didn’t care. I had no tolerance for ignorant people who showed out in public. I was a consumer advocate’s worst nightmare, the kind of shopper who accepted prices as they were scanned, not advertised. Unless of course, we were talking about something important like a DVD player or a stereo.

  In a matter of minutes, the two-fifty-nine dispute had turned into an incident as the manager and security were summoned. I had left the line just in time.

  In the parking lot, I saw Eva ahead of me unloading her groceries into her blue Mustang. I felt a slight kinship with our distaste for foreign cars. I ended up behind her in the exit of the parking lot. In her rearview mirror, I thought I saw her checking me out, but she could have been checking for clearance. She turned right, I turned left.

  Luciano was out on the balcony with his cell phone, and judging by the sleepy smile on his face and his low voice, I figured Maya had found some way to call him. I noticed he had the gas grill going.

  I walked out to the balcony and gave him the grocery bag with the steaks. He pulled out the plantains.

  “What’s this?”

  “What does it look like?”

  He grinned and spoke into the phone. “Hey Maya, babe. Our boy brought home some pla-ta-nos. You know what that means. He got bit by a Puerto Rican ladybug.”

  I narrowed my eyes and flung the bag with the loaf of bread at him. He caught it before it fell over the balcony. His laughter resonated in my ears as I went in to take a shower.

  CHAPTER 7

  EVA

  I AM NOT the kind of woman who chases men. My mother died at a very crucial time in my life, just when I was becoming interested in boys, but before I started dating. From the time we were little girls, she always told Maya and me that as long as we keep our hands folded and our knees together, we would stay out of trouble. As we got older, she told us that when it was time for us to date, we should always pay for our share so nothing was expected of us, and that we should always, always take cab or bus fare, just in case we were left stranded. But the main thing my mother taught us was that men were the suitors, women were the courted. Throughout my dating years, I never approached men first, no matter how interested I was. It wasn’t that I was shy or stuck-up, I just didn’t feel comfortable being the initiator. It was just the Latin way, the old-fashioned Southern way, the way God intended it and what had worked for centuries to make marriages last. I thought of my parents, both sets of my grandparents, and my aunts and uncles, who had all been married for decades until death did one of them part.

  The day after the party, Maya called to tell me about a dream she had. Both Adam and I were in her dream, though in what capacity she couldn’t remember since she had the unfortunate knack of forgetting the details of her dreams as soon as she woke up. But it was enough to convince her that Adam and I were destined to be together, not only because of our namesakes, and because we were both writers, but more inanely, because we were both left-handed. She tried to sell me on what a great guy he was—how he wrote screenplays and poetry, had even published a book of poems, and that back in college, one of his screenplays won first prize in a competition and was later sold to Hollywood. I countered that this was not enough information to make a man great. What did she know about his past, about his intentions, or more important, his relationship with God?

  I opened the top drawer of my desk where I had put away the card. Adam Black—Juvenile Probation Officer. On the back, he had scribbled his home phone. A couple of times I thought about calling him, but I kept getting mixed feelings and usually I took that as a sign that God was trying to tell me something. Adam seemed like a nice enough guy, but I foun
d myself concentrating on the cons rather than the pros. His hair left something to be desired. It was intriguing but at the same time somewhat radical. Then I thought about his comment that he didn’t pray “as much.” Even before I was saved, I prayed almost every night. But then again, a man who worked with juvenile offenders couldn’t be that bad. In a way, we were in the same field, steering young people in the right direction. And there was something about him, like he was holding something back, some secret I couldn’t quite discern. I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the flags were flapping all over the place. And yet … No, I thought resolutely, I could never be with a man who smoked.

  For the past week, I thought about the “Adam and Eve” thing, and Maya’s intuition that maybe it was fate, God. Especially after seeing Adam in the grocery store. How many times had I been to the same grocery store and never run into him? But then, maybe I just never noticed him since dreadlocked men in wrinkled clothing never turned my head, unless I was drunk, and I had stopped drinking a long time ago. Maybe God was trying to tell me something. I kept remembering what I told him, that I would be a waste of time. Maybe he took it to heart.

  I picked up the phone, dialed the prefix, but then stopped. I thought, what would I say? How about that cup of coffee? I knew coffee would only be the beginning—of what? Another relationship headed nowhere? After all, I wasn’t ready to get married again. And if a relationship wasn’t headed for marriage, what sense was there in starting one?

  Someone knocked on my office door, which was slightly ajar, and I quickly hung up the phone. I snapped myself out of the doubts and possibilities with Adam and concentrated on the present, which was the final proofreading of the bilingual information brochure on my desk for the upcoming college fair.

  “Go away. I’m almost finished,” I said, knowing it was my assistant, Dana, coming to warn me about the print shop’s deadline.

  “Bad time?”

  I looked up and saw it was Rashid, not Dana. I waved him in. “No, no, I thought you were Dana.”

  The intercom rang as he stepped in. I pressed the “hands-free” button while motioning Rashid to a seat. “Yes?”

  “There’s an ‘Adam Black’ on 84,” Dana announced. “He says you know who he is.”

  I paused, wondering how he had gotten my work number. I picked up the receiver.

  “Should I put him through?” Dana asked.

  “Uh, yeah …” I waited for the click as she connected the call. “Hello?”

  “Eva? Eva Clemente?”

  My stomach jumped. “Speaking.”

  “This is Adam Black. I met you about a week ago. At Simone’s party? You tried to ignore me at the grocery store?” I smiled as I recalled our encounter but didn’t comment. It wasn’t so much that I had tried to ignore him, but rather I hadn’t been too thrilled about the way I looked, nor by his own disheveled appearance. I had merely been trying to spare us both an uncomfortable moment. “Your sister gave me your number,” he continued. “I told her I’d take full responsibility if you went off.”

  “Yeah. I remember. No, it’s okay.” Rashid signaled whether he should leave but I shook my head and indicated for him to remain sitting.

  “How you been?” he asked.

  “I’m alright. Busy. You?”

  “Great. Same-o, same-o.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say because as I said, I was no good at small talk. I looked at my nails; I really had to stop biting them.

  “Listen, the reason I’m calling … I have this kid I’m mentoring. I’m with Big Brothers. He just graduated from high school but didn’t apply for college ’cause he had a rotten counselor who told him he wasn’t college material. But I think he is. Maya said something about a college fair coming up?”

  “It’s this weekend, the thirtieth, at McCormick Place. It’s for kids who missed the fall deadline or want to start college late.”

  “Hold on. Let me write that down.” I gave him the information. “You’ll be there?” he asked.

  “Of course. But Rashid Ali is the director of African American recruitment.”

  At the mention of his name, Rashid looked up inquisitively.

  “How do you know my little brother is Black?” Adam asked.

  “Oh. I just thought … I thought they usually paired kids with …” I stuttered, slightly embarrassed.

  “Actually, he’s half African American. His father was Mexican.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I was just messing with you.” He chuckled and I relaxed.

  I tried to think of something to say. Rashid was motioning comically for me to wrap up the call. “How did the platanos turn out?”

  “Oh, you were right. They were sweet. Real good.”

  “Good.”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you. I read your editorial in last week’s Tribune,” he said.

  “They published it? I picked up the Times by mistake.”

  “I usually buy the Times. I don’t know why I got the Trib. I didn’t read the article but the other boy I mentor was one of those transferred kids. I liked what you had to say.”

  “Thanks. Do you still have the paper? Can you cut it out for me?”

  “For your scrapbook?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, you got a problem with it?”

  “No,” he said. “Now I know what you write about.”

  I noticed Rashid getting antsy, rolling his eyes, so I said, “Listen, I have someone in my office. I got to go.”

  “Okay. See you Saturday.”

  I hung up absentmindedly, wondering what to make of the call. His request seemed genuinely business-related. I decided I wouldn’t make any more out of it than I should.

  “What’s up?” I asked Rashid.

  “Nada.” Rashid stretched out in one of the chairs facing my desk. “Just thought you’d be interested to know that I just came from Dean Vanover’s office. He said he received an anonymous e-mail that I was recruiting students to Islam. Can you believe that?”

  The atmosphere on the university campus, as well as in the rest of the country, was very uneasy and leery since the events of 9–11 the previous year and every foreign student and faculty member, especially those of the Islamic faith, were suspect. “What did you say?” I asked curiously, knowing Rashid’s knack for being outspoken.

  “I told him a couple of students have asked me some questions about Islam, but I never tried to recruit anyone. So he starts telling me how I need to be careful in ‘these volatile, sensitive times.’”

  “And you said?”

  “I said, ‘This is still the United States of America, isn’t it? First Amendment, freedom of speech, et cetera, et cetera?’”

  I looked at him, shocked, open-mouthed.

  “I didn’t care. I was highly upset to say the least. So he goes into this long speech about this being ‘wartime and how unwise it is to share your religious views.’ I just wanted to let you know the FBI has probably opened up a file on me, so if I were you, I’d be careful about associating with me.”

  “They can’t be that paranoid, can they?”

  “They can.” He paused and looked hard at me. “So, are we still on for lunch?”

  “Of course,” I assured him. “I’m not afraid of Dean Vanover. Or the FBI.”

  “I like your hair that way,” Rashid commented.

  My hand flew to my hair. “Really? I didn’t do anything different.” My hair has a mind all its own, molding itself to the weather or time of day. I never know what it is going to look like. Tomorrow it could look totally different. And then again, I was in need of a touch-up. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if Rashid’s comments were innocent flirting or if he was just being genuinely nice.

  “Can we say ‘thanks’?”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  “So, who’s Adam?”

  “Oh, this probation officer. He’s got a protégé he wants to bring to the college fair Saturday.”

  Someone knocked on the door
. Without waiting for my answer, Dana opened it.

  “The print shop said they need that brochure by one if we want the copies by Friday.”

  I nodded. “I’m almost finished.”

  Dana exited, but not before I saw her and Rashid exchange a look and a smile. I glanced curiously at Rashid, who looked meekly back at me.

  “I’m thinking of asking her out,” he confessed.

  “Dana? Dana Duchamps?”

  “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “Uh, hello? She’s half your age. Plus, she’s a student here.”

  “First of all, she’s not my subordinate, she’s yours, no conflict of interest. And for your information, she’s thirty and a night student. I’m forty-seven, hence she is not half my age.”

  The intercom rang again. “It’s your sister.”

  “Okay, I’m leaving. I see you’re busy with work.” Rashid got up and I shook a warning finger at him. He grinned.

  “Hey,” Maya said. “I just wanted to warn you. Adam called for your—”

  “He just called.”

  “Sorry, I tried to call you first but I had this crazy parent burst into my office demanding an impromptu meeting.”

  “How about asking me first before giving out my phone number?”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “No big deal.”

  “Why haven’t you called him?”

  “I told you, I’m not good at calling men.”

  “He really is a good person. He’s letting Luciano crash at his place since his wife put him out. And Luciano told me he hasn’t been with a woman in, like, a year.”

  “So, we’re supposed to be right for each other?”

  “Well, you’re both left-handed. You both write. I mean it, girl, this is your man. Adán y Eva. It’s like fate—”

  “Maya …”

  “Then there’s my dream. Why would I dream about the two of you? My dreams don’t lie. C’mon, you yourself said you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “There’s something about him, I don’t know. Like he’s got some secret.”

  “We’ve all got secrets.”

  I pondered the validity of her statement just as the intercom light started blinking again. “I got to go,” I said. “I have to finish this brochure before lunch.”

 

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