Choose Me

by Xenia Ruiz

  “I can’t stop thinking about him,” she said, when I stopped talking, though I hadn’t told her everything—how Adam had mimicked Pacino, how he had kissed me hastily as we departed.

  “Forget about him. He’s not thinking about you,” I told her firmly. “He’s with his wife. You should be with your husband.” I hated that someone like Luciano had such a hold on my sister, and even worse that she was allowing it.

  “I don’t want to be with my husband,” she retorted. “He bores me. And I don’t want to be with Luciano. But I can’t stop thinking about him.”

  “Maya,” I began, scooting closer to her, wondering what I could say that would make a difference. I had never been with a man long enough to be bored. Six years of marriage did not qualify me to advise her. What was it people called the turning point of marriage? The seven-year itch. At thirty-nine, she had been married more than half her life. I waited for some words of wisdom to come to me, to make her feel better, to offer her some hope.

  “Maya, I don’t know what it’s like to be married for twenty-one years,” I told her, as I snuggled against her just like when we were little and one of us had been hurt. “But I think God is trying to tell you something. He’s taken Luciano out of the way. He’s giving you a chance to make things right. You always say you envy me for being celibate. But I envy you for staying married this long.”

  She didn’t say anything for a while and we listened to Sade’s words in silence. If love was stronger than pride, why was the world so messed up? I silently asked Sade. When Alex first cheated, Maya first wanted to die, then kill him. After she got saved and forgave him, she said no one would ever make her feel that way. She made me promise that if she ever mentioned suicide or murder again, I was to smack her until she came to her senses. I waited for her to speak so I could gauge her state of mind.

  “So?” she said, turning to me. “ ‘Amistades’ Think you’ll be able to handle that?”

  CHAPTER 18

  ADAM

  ANY MAN WHO has ever tried to become, or remain, friends with a woman he has feelings for, or has been intimate with, knows what an impossible feat it can be. I had never had a woman as a friend and I didn’t know if I could now. It just didn’t seem to be the nature of things.

  But for the next several weeks, Eva kept me in check, determined to prove that being friends with a woman was the most natural thing. She made sure we were never alone, like she was following some protocol for “Celibate Living,” or she had attended some motivational relationship seminar. We did platonic, safe things, like couple-dating with Maya and her husband, Alex, who were trying to work things out, or with Simone and Zephyr, or Ian, depending on which one she was in the mood for. We went to an Afro-Caribbean sculpture exhibit, a debate about affirmative action at her university, and musical performances and plays. Every week, Eva invited me to church and/or Bible study, but I begged off each time. I didn’t lie or make up excuses, just reminded her that church was not my thing. She didn’t persist or make me feel guilty, which made me even more suspicious. Once, she teased me by saying that God still loved me. I replied that that line hadn’t worked for my mother so far.

  Then the Thanksgiving holiday rolled around and she invited me to her house for dinner. She didn’t specifically say it was to meet her family, but I knew her sons would be there; maybe even her father. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to meet them, so I deliberated the request carefully, because the implications of such a move meant I had to acknowledge that our relationship was moving toward something serious, way beyond friendship. My feelings for Eva were intensifying, but it was hard to make sense of them all since being in an abstinent relationship was something foreign to me. Things were moving too fast in one direction, but not enough in the other. On the one hand, I was willing to do whatever it took to be a part of her life, but on the other, it was becoming more of a challenge than I thought. But one thing was becoming more apparent, I did not want to be amistades. And I was pretty sure Eva didn’t either. Why I was so drawn to her and unable to walk away, was a mystery I had been trying to figure out from the start.

  Then something my mother said once came back to me. Men always want what they can’t have.

  Jade was seventeen, apparently still a virgin, and in love with an eighteen-year-old piece of crap who, whenever he picked up Jade, according to my mother, walked around the house like he was in the market to buy it. I had long since moved out, but Mama asked me to come by and have a talk with him since my father wasn’t around to do it. As Jade was getting ready in her bedroom, I overheard my mother tell her, “You can let him kiss you, you can hold hands, and you can flirt with him, but don’t tease him. Just let him get an idea of how good it could be, but under no circumstances, sleep with him. Once you sleep with him, he’s got you. Men always want what they can’t have.”

  “But what if he breaks up with me?” Jade cried. “What if he finds some other girl that’ll give him what I won’t?”

  “Then he’s not worth it. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  I walked into the living room and sat down real close to the skinny, arrogant lowlife whose short-term goal was to get into my sister’s underpants. Without even looking at him, I whispered, “You know, if you mess with my sister, I’m going to have to kill you.” At twenty-three, I was a menacing sight with my matted corn-rowed braids and low-budget disheveled clothing style. I looked more like a disturbed street person than a gangbanger, capable of cracking his head in half just for the heck of it.

  Years later, Jade confessed that he had been her first. So much for my mother’s advice and my paternal tendencies.

  Still, there was some element of truth in my mother’s statement that men wanted what they couldn’t have. The chase, the courtship, was what made it all worth it. Who wanted a meal out of a box, quick and easy, when a home-cooked feast tasted much better? But usually, the reward came at some point. With Eva, I wasn’t sure there was ever going to be a reward. And while it was a little crass to think of sex as a “reward,” there had to be something more than what we were doing, some middle ground between kissing and marriage.

  Secretly, I was smoking again in an attempt to gain some control in one aspect of my life. Afterward, I would go to great lengths to disguise the smell on my breath and my clothes if I knew I was going to see Eva. The last time I bought a pack of cigarettes at the drugstore, I picked up some condoms, something I hadn’t purchased in months. It was an impulse buy since I didn’t have a definite time frame about moving our relationship to that level. Although I believed Eva when she said she hadn’t been with anyone for five years, I wasn’t going to take any chances. Whether that uncertainty implied that there was still a question of trust was beside the point. One never knows what was lying dormant within, on either of our parts.

  “I don’t know if I’ll have time to stop by,” I initially told Eva over the phone when she called me with the invitation. I was at work, smoking my third cigarette of the day. On my schedule, I had one more client, three home visits to go, and two juvey visits at Merriville, the downstate juvenile detention center—a four-hour round trip. I was in no mood for haggling.

  As always, since Mama’s journey to veggie-land, we were expected at Jade’s for Thanksgiving. “My sister lives in Carol Stream, and she’s a slow cook. Her dinners drag on forever,” I continued, aware that my explanation sounded over-compensatory. It was the truth; my sister was a meticulous cook, and she especially wanted everything to be perfect with Akil and his parents coming.

  “Well, we don’t really celebrate the customary American Thanksgiving but ‘a day of thanks,’” Eva explained. “We don’t watch football games or do any of the so-called traditional things. My boys are home and they’re cooking this year.”

  “What, you need guinea pigs?” Humor was my next delay tactic.

  “Silly, it’s not their first time cooking. I taught them how to cook when they were young so they could be self-sufficient.”

  “And ’cause
you hate cooking so much.”

  “I don’t really hate it. I just don’t like it very much.”

  “Same thing.” We were beginning to know each other well enough so that we were able to decipher lapses in conversation or pick up hidden messages in veiled words. Still, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Who’s coming?” I asked, still stalling.

  “My father and a couple of cousins who still live here, though my father most likely won’t show; he’s kind of anti-social. I also invited one of my students from my church youth group. Oh, my pastor might drop by, but he received so many invitations, I doubt he’ll make it.”

  “How’re your headaches?” I asked, switching topics.

  “Better. The doctor put me on a blood pressure medication, which seems to be helping. The only thing is I have to take it every day, which I don’t like. I’m not used to taking medication prophylactically. You know, for prevention.”

  “I know what ‘prophylactic’ means,” I said. “Like condoms.”

  It was meant to be in jest, but she cleared her throat and didn’t reply. Taking a last puff out of my cigarette, I exhaled slowly, waiting.

  “Are you smoking?” she asked.

  Was the woman psychic or what? “Why?” I asked.

  “You sound like my father does over the phone when he’s smoking.”

  Silently, I squashed the butt in the ashtray, without denying or admitting anything. I had run out of excuses, and finally she picked up on my hesitation.

  “No pressure. If you get a chance, stop by. I make a mean arroz con dulce.”

  “A-what? What’s that?”

  “Rice pudding. So if you can’t make it, I guess I’ll see you … Sunday?”

  “Uh …”

  She laughed. “The spirit of the Lord told me to keep inviting you to service, so that’s all I’m doing.”

  It was almost six o’clock when Jade finished cooking, eight by the time we sat down to dinner. I found myself eating Mama’s tossed salad and vegetarian turkey—“tofurkey”—which she brought. Mama, of course, loved Akil, especially after he delivered an impassioned grace. His parents were also devout, punctuating every sentence with “Praise God,” and “Yes, Lord.” They talked about religion before, during, and after dinner, as if Jade and I didn’t exist, since Jade was as un-religious as I was.

  After dessert—after Akil helped Jade clean up the entire kitchen and put away the leftovers—he turned to Mama and said, “I’d like permission to court your daughter.” I choked on my second slice of pecan pie and Jade pounded my back; then, when she realized I was faking, she grabbed a chunk of my back in a pinch. I couldn’t believe he actually used the word “court.” It was too much for me; I had to get out of there.

  At nine-thirty, I called Eva, figuring her guests would be gone. She said only her sons remained but they would soon be leaving to visit with her ex-husband’s side of the family. I figured by the time I made the forty-five-minute drive from Jade’s, it would be safe to drop by. Jade insisted I bring a sweet potato pie, and I stopped at Walgreen’s for chewing gum and a couple of bottles of sparkling white grape juice, my contribution to the dinner.

  I recognized Tony from his pictures. He opened the interior oak door and took inventory from behind the glass security one, overtly sizing me up just like the dog, King, had done when we first met. Because it reminded me of my reaction when I met Akil, I had to smile, in spite of his ill manners. He slowly unlocked the door without question, so I assumed Eva described me and told him I might be stopping by. He was about my height, with a very serious sneer on his face that, coupled with his close-cropped hair, bordering on scalped, made him look like a menacing ex-con, a mulatto skinhead. As the oldest, it was apparent that he had been the man of the house for a while and, like any dominant male, probably felt his role was in danger of being usurped. Any minute, I expected him to sniff me and mark his territory. I was glad King was nowhere in sight.

  “You must be Tony,” I said, being the mature adult and extending my hand.

  He took my hand in a traditional handgrip, which was firm and confident, but the sneer never left his face. “Mr. Black. Come in,” he said formally. As I walked in, I could see him taking in my locks, army-green cargo pants and cracked leather jacket, with a superior air.

  Eli, who stood several inches taller behind his brother, had long hair in cornrows. Grinning, he came around and took my hand in a welcoming, brotherly soul handshake. I could tell Eli and I were going to get along just fine.

  “Hey, Adam,” he said. “Ma’s on the phone. Sit down.”

  Great, I thought as I sat down in the rattan chair in the living room. The Spanish Inquisition.

  Almost simultaneously, both brothers sat down a few inches apart on the sofa opposite me. From the kitchen Eva waved, the cordless phone balanced between her ear and shoulder.

  “I brought some sweet potato pie my sister made,” I said.

  Eli jumped up and all but snatched it out of my hands. “Alright!” He lowered his voice and said, “Ma can’t make sweet potato pie. You know, her being a Hispanic and all.”

  I chuckled.

  “You know my ma from church?” Tony asked with the slightest suspicion in his voice.

  “Anthony Roberto Prince, Junior,” Eva interjected, walking into the living room. “I already told you where we met, so stop the cross-examination.” For the first time, I noticed Eva was wearing a dress, a knee-length café-au-lait number that embraced her curves and clinched the arc of her lower spine. Although I tried not to be obvious, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  Tony frowned at his mother and Eli punched him, laughing. “Yeah, Anthony Roberto.” He dodged out of reach as Tony tried to punch him, then whizzed the pie by Eva’s face as they bypassed each other. “Adam’s sister sent some pie. I’m gonna max this,” he said, hurrying into the kitchen.

  “Clean up your mess,” Eva warned him. “My eighteen years of servitude are over.”

  “Hey, Ma, have I told you how much I’ve missed your wonderful voice?” he yelled from the kitchen.

  “Oh, I’ve missed yours more,” Eva said, equally sarcastic. She sat casually on the arm of my chair and placed her arm around the back. I saw Tony eyeing us critically through half-closed eyes as he leaned back on the sofa.

  “What did Grandpop say?” Tony asked his mother, his eyes still on me.

  “He won’t be able to come by. He wants you guys to stop by tomorrow.”

  “So, what’s your major, Tony?” I asked.

  “I’m leaning toward adolescent psychology.”

  “Good field.”

  “You have any children?”

  “Tony,” Eva said with a hint of warning in her voice.

  “No, I don’t,” I answered, gripping the neck of one of the bottles of sparkling grape juice.

  “He knows you don’t. I already told him.” Eva was staring Tony down, as if daring him to ask one more intrusive question. When he finally looked away, she turned back to me. “You want me to open one of these?”

  I shook my head; I did, but I didn’t want to be left alone with Tony, not because I was afraid of his questions, but because I wasn’t in the mood to put the little knucklehead in his place. I had to remind myself that he was as overprotective of his mother as I was of my own mother. Mama had invited me to have dinner with her and Mr. Jameson Stevens twice, and both times I made myself conveniently scarce.

  The phone rang and I hoped it was for Tony so he would go away for a while.

  Eli came into the living room, putting on a jacket and carrying a considerable slice of pie on a paper plate, a big chunk already packed in one of his cheeks. “That was Daddy. He said he’s leaving Grandma’s house soon so if we want to see him, we better come now.” He turned to me with appreciation and gave me some dap. “Hey, man, this pie is fla-a-ame!”

  “Eli, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Eva said. “And don’t come home too late. There are a lot of drunks driving out there.”

/>   “Si, Mommy.” Eli smirked in my direction. “She thinks we’re still ten.”

  “Ma, we’re going over to Grandma’s house to watch the game,” Tony insisted, putting on his own jacket. “You didn’t want us watching it here. Daddy taped it.”

  They both kissed Eva on her cheeks. Tony shook my hand again, mechanically, then muttered something that sounded like, “Good meeting you,” but I wasn’t feeling it.

  “You want me to tell Daddy anything?” Tony then asked Eva.

  Eva gave him the evil eye and I knew he had asked that question for my benefit. “No. If I have anything to say to your father, I’ll tell him myself,” Eva said tersely. “You can tell your grandmother I said, ‘Happy Thanksgiving.’ Wait. Take her a plate of arroz con dulce.”

  She trotted to the kitchen, the dress swishing against her calves, and brought back a cellophane-covered plate of rice pudding. Tony and Eli were halfway out the door.

  “I love you,” she called out.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I heard Eli say. He popped his head back in the door as Eva was closing it. “Hey, Tone, you think we should leave them alone?”

  “Boy …” Eva warned and faked a back-handed slap at him.

  Eli ducked and laughed, then turned to me. “It was nice meeting you, Adam. Finally. I thought my ma was making you up.”

  “Likewise,” I told him, smiling.

  “Don’t come home late, I mean it. If I’m asleep, don’t wake me up to braid your hair,” Eva warned before closing the door.

  Then, we were finally alone. Eva brought two champagne glasses out of the dining room hutch and I poured the sparkling grape juice. She sat on the arm of the chair again, this time with her legs turned toward me. Friends, I reminded myself.