Choose Me

by Xenia Ruiz

  “Are you okay?” I asked tentatively.

  He turned his head away quickly and nodded, his breathing returning to normal, evident by the steady puffs of air.

  “I’m okay. Thanks,” he said in his raspy voice. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, leaning back against the wall and looking up at the sky.

  “Asthma?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I kind of hyperventilate whenever I get nervous. It’s kind of embarrassing.” He finally looked over at me. “Did anybody notice?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  He started walking out of the gangway and I backed up, stepping out of the way as he staggered to the steps and sat down, leaning back against the railing. I followed and sat a couple of steps above him. He reached into his breast pocket, I thought for a cigarette, but instead brought out some gum.

  “Can I have one?” I asked, because my throat was dry.

  “It’s smoking cessation gum. You wouldn’t like it.”

  “The trick to speaking in public is not to look people in the eyes,” I told him. “Look at their foreheads, over their heads, anywhere but their eyes. Eventually, you get over the fear.” He looked at me skeptically as I continued. “I took a course in public speaking once. There was a time when I couldn’t speak in public, but now it doesn’t bother me.”

  “I was fine ’til I looked at you,” he said quietly, a slight smile on his face, chewing his gum slowly. I thought he was blaming me for his reaction, but then I realized he meant I had distracted him, but not in a negative way.

  “Sorry. I was trying to help. Sometimes if you see a friendly face, it helps.”

  “So, show me.”

  “What?”

  “Recite one of your poems and let me see you not get nervous.”

  “I told you I haven’t written anything since high school.”

  “So recite one of those,” he insisted, nudging my knee. “Go on, Sister. Lay one on me,” he added, slipping into a fake cool slang.

  Reluctantly, I stood up and turned to face him, concentrating on his smooth, rounded forehead and at the vein throbbing in his right temple. “They’re all morbid, I told you.”

  “Macabre is the foundation for many great works of art.”

  I searched my memory banks for one of my old poems, then settled on one that had been published in the school newspaper and had caused controversy because of the negative subject matter. Keeping my eyes on his forehead, I began:

  They say it is supposed to be the best time of my life,

  a time when I should have no worries, no ugly thoughts or strife,

  yet it is just the opposite, full of uncertainty,

  of who I am, what to do, and what I want to be.

  My mind is plagued with confusion, and blatant suicide;

  one day up, many others down, why do I want to die?

  To all of those who know so much, I dare not spoil their fun,

  for they would laugh and say to me, your life has just begun.

  The forehead trick didn’t work. I was sweating, rocking from side to side, locking and unlocking my fingers the entire time.

  He smiled. “You’re right, it is kind of gloomy.”

  “Okay, so maybe it’s different when you’re reciting bad poetry,” I admitted, taking my seat quickly.

  “I didn’t say it was bad.”

  “I wrote it just after my mother died. This teacher, who didn’t know, came up to me one day and said, ‘Cheer up, your life’s just begun.’”

  “Hmmm,” he muttered sympathetically. “In that case, it’s not morbid at all; just goes to your state of mind at the time. I liked it.”

  “Thanks.”

  He stood up abruptly. “I got to catch a cab. Luciano dropped me off. My car’s in the shop.” He staggered to a standing position and then leaned against the railing. “Thanks for the invite. And the poem.”

  He began to walk sluggishly down the block, toward Austin Avenue, away from me. I started to call out to him but I was hypnotized by his walk, the duster blowing behind him like a gunslinger in a Western. It was a walk that bordered between a street-wise strut and a drunken swagger, or maybe he was unsteady from his attack.

  “Adam,” I called out, unsure of what I was going to say. Be cool, be cool, I thought. Don’t act all juvenile like the Sister-Girlfriends. I thought about offering him a ride, let Maya take Simone home. “Um … cabs don’t usually stop around here at night.” I stood up and took a couple of steps toward him, then I stopped as a checkered cab approached.

  He pulled a hand from his pocket to signal the cab but it zoomed by. He looked at me accusingly, as if I had jinxed him, and I gave him a confirmatory nod.

  “You should go back in. It’s chilly out here,” he told me, leaning against a lamppost.

  “It’s kind of late to be out here alone,” I told him.

  He laughed. “I’m a man, remember?” How could I forget? I thought. Watch yourself The voices of my conscience geared up for battle. I was glad the weather was cool; it kept my hands busy rubbing my upper arms up and down.

  “Your poems were …” I searched for the right word, something that didn’t sound like adoration or an exaggeration. “They hit home. Especially the father one,” I finally said.

  He looked at me sheepishly.

  “I really liked them,” I added with more conviction.

  “Thanks.”

  “What was that book you were holding?” I asked. Adam reached into his pocket and brought out the paperback and held it out. I didn’t move.

  “Come here,” he said softly, the seduction from his poetry reading returning to his voice. And when I still didn’t move, he unglued himself from the post and took a couple of steps forward.

  Be careful, the voice was saying in my head where the song “God Is Trying to Tell You Something” had begun to play.

  But I walked cautiously toward him, careful not to get too close. At the same time, he walked toward me. As we neared each other, a gush of cold wind ripped through us, sending a chill through my body and lifting his duster behind him like wings. In the fog, he looked ethereal—an angel in the night. I shivered in my rayon blouse and brushed the loose strands of my hair back nervously with one hand, feeling the new growth. I was long overdue for a touch-up.

  I got within arm’s reach and took the book from him, reading the cover of the battered paperback: Sinner: Confessions of a Christian-in-Progress. Poems by Adam Black. Even though I could tell that it was self-published, by the simple cover design and the publisher, which was named after him—“A Black Press”—I was intrigued.

  “I’m impressed,” I said sincerely.

  “Don’t be. It’s self-published, which means I paid to get it published instead of the other way around.”

  “The word you’re looking for is ‘gracias,’” I said, remembering my own difficulty with accepting compliments.

  He smiled. “Gracias.”

  Our eyes locked briefly before I broke first, glancing up at his lion’s mane. I wanted to touch it, not because I was curious to see what it felt like, but because it had been so long since I had touched a man’s hair. As if he read my mind, he reached up and pushed back the stray woolly strands that hung in his face, only to have them fall down again.

  A yellow cab neared and he turned and whistled through his teeth. Don’t go, I told him in my mind. I wanted to tell him that all I had been thinking about was kissing him, completely disregarding the fact that I hardly knew him. The cab screeched to a stop.

  “Were you in church last Sunday?” I asked.

  He nodded, walking backward toward the cab. “I was in the back. Way in the back.”

  “Did you come just to sign up for the poetry reading or for spiritual enlightenment?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Are you coming back this Sunday?”

  He cleared his throat as he opened the cab door. “I don’t know.”

  I couldn’t think of anything more to say s
o I muttered, “See you.” I turned and headed back toward church. Then I remembered I had his book.

  “Eva!” he called out, his voice much raspier than before. I turned around, walking back to the cab, holding out the book.

  He leaned out the window. “Keep it. I have plenty other copies.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I read your article, ‘Bringing God Back to Schools After 9–11.’ I thought you were pretty harsh on the Harry Potter books, but overall, it was pretty good.”

  “You don’t think there’s something wrong with having books about witchcraft in a school library, but not a children’s Bible?”

  “Separation of church and state.”

  “When the planes hit the towers, did people call on Uncle Sam or God?”

  “That’s a topic for another day,” he said, smiling widely so his gum was visible between his teeth. “What’re you doing Saturday?”

  I shrugged. “Cleaning up. Gardening. Doing my touch-up.”

  “Want me to help you?”

  I looked at him sideways. “What? My touch-up? What do you know about relaxers? I thought you were all about going natural.”

  “If you want to oppress your hair, who am I to judge?” I didn’t answer as the cab started to pull off. “Sleep tight, Eva.”

  It would be difficult.

  In bed that night, I began reading his poems, beginning with the two he had recited. When I was finished, I re-read “Choose Me”:

  Choose Me!

  Keep your eye on Me, I have what you need.

  Don’t look to the left where the devil lies,

  Don’t look to the right to the ones that tempt you;

  Keep your eyes straight above—

  Choose Me!

  I have something greater than their trickery, I have what you’re looking for.

  I will see to it that they don’t hurt you or reach you

  Choose Me!

  I will make you My Kings and Queens,

  I will respect you, honor you, and protect you

  I will give you the attention you need, I will caress your soul when you’re in need—

  Choose Me!

  You don’t have to beg Me to love you, My love is unconditional.

  I will love you no matter what, I will love you ’til the end of time.

  I don’t have to compete for you because you are Mine.

  Choose Me!

  For if you stray from the prize, if you choose their lies,

  I will take what I have given you;

  All your treasures will be lost, until you come back to Me—

  Come with Me, be with Me, stay with Me, abide by Me;

  Choose Me!

  As my body sank into the mattress, the image of Adam at the podium materialized. I knew it was wrong. I knew he was talking about God, but as I struggled against sleep, I couldn’t help imagining that he had been talking to me, flirting with me, asking me to choose him. Deep down, I knew I was no better than the Sister-Girl-friends.

  Then I began to wonder why he had strayed from God, what had made him stop “praying as much.” Maybe Maya was right, maybe Adam and I were meant to meet, maybe I was supposed to lead him back to God. Maybe.

  CHAPTER 12

  ADAM

  PURSUING WOMEN IS not my usual mode of operation. Most of the women I had been with had actually approached me first, slipped me their numbers, like the woman at Simone’s party or the girl who had written her number in my palm. The number had faded with the rain and disappeared when I took a shower, before I could copy it onto something more permanent. I never called either one. Even when I had made the first move, I left the next step up to them, and usually, they called. But there was something about Eva that made me want to chase her, some inexplicable force. It didn’t seem to me that she was playing hard-to-get as much as it was part of her character. One of us had to compromise and it didn’t look like it was going to be her.

  The door opened to the sight of Eva with hair relaxer smeared at the roots and a towel wrapped around her neck. Behind her, I could see a big black dog barking threateningly. And not just any big black dog, but a rottweiler. Unlike other boys, I never wanted a dog as a child. I could never understand the so-called love between people and “man’s best friend.” There was just something demonic about them. I don’t know whether it was a horror movie I had seen about killer dogs or if I suffered from some repressed childhood trauma; all I know is I never liked dogs and for the moment, I was grateful for the glass and iron security door still between us.

  “You didn’t wait for me, huh?” I asked.

  “How did you get my address?” she questioned warily, her gloved hands frozen at her sides.

  “Maya. I told her I’d take the flack.”

  “I’m going to have to have a serious talk with her.” Unwavering, she stood barefoot in baggy sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt tied at the waist in front, staring at me, surprised that I was at her door. The dog continued to bark until she stomped her foot and yelled something in Spanish, which I assumed was “shut up” because the dog stopped immediately. With the dog now quiet, I could make out the vague sounds of reggae wafting in the background. I liked reggae even though half the time I couldn’t understand the words.

  “Does he bite?” I asked stupidly.

  “What do you think?”

  We stared at each other through the glass door. She took a step forward, then stopped as if debating whether to let me in or go kill her sister for giving me her address.

  I rubbed my neck. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

  Finally, she unlocked the security door.

  “Okay, but you’ll have to let him smell you,” she warned. “And don’t make any sudden moves.”

  I followed her uneasily into the living room where she introduced me to King, like they were equals, like the dog was a person. The killer-looking rottweiler tentatively approached me and sniffed me, including the bag I held in my hand. I knew dogs could smell fear, so I pretended that I liked dogs and hoped the false feeling was conveyed. I attempted a half smile, but the canine eyed me with evil, brown, human-like eyes like he knew I was up to no good. Don’t even think about making a move on my master, his eyes seemed to convey. I remembered someone telling me never to look a strange dog in the eyes, so I glanced at his forehead briefly, then looked away. I wasn’t stupid. “Hey, boy Hey, King. You the man, you the man,” I said nervously.

  Eva looked amused as she locked both doors behind me. There was no turning back. She walked through the living room, then down a short hallway. “Come on, boy.”

  “Are you talking to me or the dog?” I kidded.

  “Whatever.”

  “I brought you something,” I said, handing her the bag.

  She held out her gloved hands helplessly. “What is it? Could you put it on the table?”

  “It’s spearmint tea. And mint massage oil. My ma says they’re supposed to be good for migraines. She’s into homeopathic medicine.” I set the bag down on the coffee table.

  “Thanks. That was nice of you.” She disappeared through an open doorway in the short hall. “Help yourself to some juice or iced tea. It’s in the fridge. I’ll be out in a little bit.”

  I scanned the living room slowly, surveying the African and Native American masks and sculptures, reprints by African American artists whose work I was familiar with—Romare Bearden and Annie Lee. The sofa and accessories were color-coordinated in various shades of mocha, black, and cream including several kuba- and mud-cloth throw pillows. Either she had a severe case of Negrophilia or she must have been Black in a former life. A built-in oak bookcase lined one wall and was filled to the rim with books. When I looked closer, I noticed the books were alphabetized and categorized according to fiction and nonfiction. One shelf held several Bibles: a King James version, NIV Women’s Devotional Bible, and a Spanish version, La Santa Biblia. If she was really celibate, I could see how she occupied her time.

  Covering another wall wer
e photos of her sons at various stages in their development, in chronological order from birth to high school. On the last wall hung all their graduation portraits and diplomas, from kindergarten and eighth grade to high school. They were good-looking kids with the golden skin and the curly-wavy hair attributed to Latin and biracial children. There were also several graduation pictures of Eva beginning with her in the eighth grade and ending with graduate school. Near the faux fireplace, a small five-by-seven silver frame caught my eye. It was a picture of Eva in a wedding dress, standing with who I assumed was her ex-husband. She looked like a little girl in the photo, a little girl playing dress up, her hair in ringlets and bangs. He was dark brown and looked very African, but I knew Latinos, like Black folks, were a mixed people. I thought it very odd that a divorcée would display her wedding portrait.

  Knickknacks and souvenirs from Puerto Rico adorned the walls in the adjoining dining room. Charcoal drawings of percussion-playing natives and Spanish dancers dressed in white surrounded a square glass-block window An assortment of bamboo, miniature palm trees, and fresh-cut flowers in various glass vases lined the floors, the oak table, and the window seats, giving the room a tropical feel. The lone picture in this room, a black-and-white framed photo, revealed Eva in a boxing stance. This made me smile as I remembered her saying she knew Tai Bo.

  To get to the kitchen, I had to pass King, who was sprawled in front of the door Eva had entered. The dog looked like a Sphinx guarding Egypt and was still sizing me up. Cautiously, I wandered into the small hallway, careful not to make any sudden moves. The door was open and I saw it was the bathroom. Eva was bent over the sink washing her hair.

  “Need any help?” I asked, leaning in the doorway where I could still keep an eye on King.

  “No, thanks,” came her muffled reply.

  She looked uncomfortable, bent over the low sink like she was, so I walked around her into the bathroom and took the chair from the vanity table and placed it in front of the sink. “Here, sit down.”

  She turned her head slightly, looking at me through half-closed eyes and underneath the lather in her hair. “What? What are you doing?”