by Nikki Woods
“So whatcha wanna do?” This came from my cousin, Sheila. Joanne and I flopped across the bed adjacent from her.
It didn’t take us long to figure it out.
Workers had been laboring over the past week to install a bathroom equipped with a shower on the inside of the house. It was located right outside of our room. We took turns running in and out of the spray, not caring that our clothes were wet.
After dinner, we played in the yard for a while then tried to convince the adults to let us go swimming in the river. It was our fifth attempt in two hours, but the adults refused to be worn down. They stood firm on their original position. We had to wait until the picnic tomorrow.
It was way past our bedtime and we were all fighting sleep. The slapping of dominoes and the shuffling of cards could be heard as the men entertained themselves while the women cleaned and prepared for the next day. The sweet smell of white rum and bread pudding teased us while we snuggled like sardines in the bed. A car stereo had been turned on to provide music for the teenagers. There was an occasional dog bark and crunch of tires on the gravel road that signaled even more relatives arriving. To this orchestra of sounds, we eventually drifted off to sleep.
We rose early the next morning, hastily tossing water in all the right places before heading outside to join the others. Breakfast was being made by the women while the men lined up animals to be slaughtered for the picnic.
Joanne and I had already demolished a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs and fried dumplings slathered with butter and guava jelly when we heard Pa-pa honking the car horn.
“Kingston! Joanne!” We stuffed one last spoonful of eggs in our already full mouths, grabbed another dumpling, and raced toward the car amidst gentle chastising from mothers who were overly concerned about our digestion. I broke my dumpling in half, stuffed part of it into Pa-pa’s mouth and devoured the rest, all while jumping into the front seat beside him. Joanne settled in the back seat.
Pa-pa yanked on my ponytail and winked. “We going to pick up Damon?” she asked, her eyes dancing with excitement.
“Yes, Joanne,” Pa-pa replied patiently, used to dealing with anxious little girls. He smiled at her in the rear view mirror. Her joy was infectious. We were all smiles and laughter as Pa-pa backed the car out of the yard and began the trek down the hill, heading for Hope Bay. By the time we reached the bottom of the hill, Joanne had expounded upon every single redeeming quality that belonged to her older brother, Damon.
Because he had gotten in so much trouble, Damon had been sent by his grandfather two years earlier to live in Hope Bay with an aunt. He was only eight at the time. When I asked Joanne what kind of trouble got an eight-year-old sent to the country, she just shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about it. She and Damon were close and she guarded her memories of him.
Mama Grace said that Damon had been "acting out." She whispered that it was because his parents weren't around.
Joanne gave Pa-pa directions and soon we were turning into the gravel driveway that led to her aunt’s beachfront home. It was bright blue with white trim and blended right in with sky. A gutted boat leaned on three huge rocks just a few feet from the side of the house, its rusty bow pointing east. Joanne explained that her uncle had been working on refurbishing the boat. Children’s voices drifted from the house with a noticeably mature one giving directions to be polite and remain on best behavior.
“Damon,” Joanne gushed on an awe-inspired breath and before Pa-pa could shift the car into park, she had thrust the door open and hit the ground running. Pa-pa and I followed a lot slower—him not wanting to intrude upon the family reunion, me, because I was jealous.
All summer long, I had Joanne to myself and now I was going to have to share her with someone else who I was sure she adored more than me.
But as soon as Damon, stepped from the house, all arms and legs with a grin so brilliant it took my breath away, all that jealousy faded and was replaced by something so spectacular I had to wrap my arms around myself to contain it. Damon walked back to the car, arm and arm with Joanne. He shook Pa-pa’s hand, then enveloped me in a bear hug and kissed me soundly on the cheek. My heartbeat went into over drive and I knew.
At seven years old, I was hopelessly in love with my best friend’s brother.
Chapter 11
The oversized knocker on the door to Damon’s house sent echoes all through it as I bounced from one foot to the other. I wondered if Damon would look the same way, if the rhythm of my heart would beat the same way when he looked at me, would the butterflies that were now camped in my stomach flutter around the same way they did when he first kissed me.
Someone peeked through the peephole then the door swung wide. “Yes, Ma’am,” she said.
“Hi. I’m here to see Damon Whitfield.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” She pronounced each syllable slowly as if extra concentration was needed for pronunciation. “Come in, please. The doctor’s in the back. What time is your appointment?”The stout and sturdy woman opened the door wide and ushered me inside with a gesture of her hand.
The house smelled of furniture polish and pimento. The corridors were long and wide surrounded by walls that were paneled in heavy oak. On the right wall sat a small wooden stand with side extensions that flapped down and a small crystal bowl placed on top was filled with small, multicolored mints. A sign-in sheet attached to a red plastic clipboard hung next to it.
“I don’t have an appointment. My name’s Kingston. Kingston Phillips. I’m Mrs. Montague’s granddaughter. I wanted to speak with the doctor.”
“The one from the States? Oh, my. You’re such a pretty girl. We were very sorry to hear about your grandmother. She was so loved in the community.” Excitement caused her speech to become stilted and she fluttered her hands, looking slightly embarrassed at her familiarity.
“Thank you,” I said and folded my hands together. “What’s your name?”
“Tiny, Ma’am.”
“Thanks, Tiny.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Tiny?”
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“Please call me Kingston.”
She nodded and showed me into the sitting room off the hallway. “Have a seat, Ma’am.
The doctor will be right with you.” I started to correct her again, but didn’t. Ma’am didn’t sit well on me, it was kind of like playing dress up in your mother’s clothes. But pushing the issue would make her more uncomfortable.
The oak paneling continued throughout the house, the décor too warm to be a doctor’s office. I sank down onto the over-stuffed maroon paisley settee, almost dropping the bag of mangoes that Queenie had shoved in my hands. The couch, catty-corner to me, was upholstered in an understated brown corduroy textured fabric, providing the perfect contrast. Even the bright yellow throw pillows seemed to blend right in. Large potted plants surrounded the other side of the couch; magazines covered the coffee table. I shifted, glancing at the pictures and artwork covering the wall. Some of the pieces seemed to have been chosen for artistic appeal, some sentimental. It only added to the homey atmosphere. The largest picture was of Damon’s grandfather, framed with a small light shining above it. He was young, but still looked distinguished and stern as was the typical pose of that era. He had his white doctor’s coat on with a stethoscope around his neck and Damon’s strong chin.
Tiny hustled back into the sitting room—her navy and white flowered dress swishing against her bare legs. On a platter, she balanced a tall iced glass of tea. The heat already causing drops of water to run in rivulets down the sides and a sprig of mint was pinched on the rim of the glass. Butter cookies were arranged on a plate with a linen napkin folded into a small triangle.
“The doctor says him soon come.”
“Thanks, Tiny.” I accepted the glass. “How did you know I was thirsty?” I smiled and took a long sip. The mint tickled my throat. “Hmmmm. Delicious.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Tiny ducked her plaited head and rewarded me wi
th a shy smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.” She left the room, head held high.
I picked up an old issue of Essence Magazine and flipped through it. An article caught my eye: “How to Rekindle an Old Flame.” I put that magazine down and picked up the Ebony. On the cover, “Finding Love After 30.” Not even. I tried Jet next. It automatically opened to the Society Wedding page. I was not interested in where Hope and Lance had spent their glorious honeymoon, so I gave up and started reading The Wall Street Journal. Prices were on the rise in China. I was halfway through the second article, learning more than I ever wanted to know about child labor when my whole world flipped upside down.
“Kingston.” The voice was deep with timbre, so resonant it sent waves of remembered pleasure rippling throughout my body—an explosion that started at the very core of my being.
Time stopped. The beat of my heart was the only sound I heard.
I hesitated before looking up, as if once I laid eyes on him, nothing would ever be the same. But then, nothing had been the same since Damon entered my life more than two decades ago. I thought about standing, but didn’t know how my legs would hold up so I stayed right where I was, just raising my eyes to meet his.
Age had only made his already intense, dark eyes more determined and they held mine now with steady self-assurance. His locks had grown and were pulled back off his face. The sparse gray coming at his temples served only to make him more distinguished. Why was it men had it like that? He had maintained his body that had been so superbly fine-tuned from many years of playing football—American soccer. I imagined my fingers trailing across his chest, broad and strong underneath his form-fitting black shirt. Ten years had only made him more dangerous. I hoped now that I was capable of protecting myself.
I was glad my pride didn’t get the best of me, glad that I took so much time with my appearance. I wanted him to kick himself all up and down Front Street for being stupid enough to let me go.
“Damon,” I said, my heart pumping a mile a minute and my hands already moist. Then, my mind became my body’s partner in the crime of betrayal. He used to tell me endlessly how beautiful he thought I was. What did he think about me now? Did he still find me attractive? Did I still turn him on? Did he anticipate my visit as much as I had dreaded it? Then, I kicked myself. It was too early in the game for this.
“It’s been a long time,” he said.
“Yes. Yes, it has.” I shifted again in the chair, wondering if Damon was half as uncomfortable as I was, because quite frankly I wanted to be swallowed by the floor. Thoughts raced through my head—thoughts that I would never voice, wanting the past to remain where it was. Finally I stood up, feeling really stupid sitting there like a fifth grader.
But then standing presented a whole new problem. I didn’t know whether to shake his hand or hug him.
Damon solved that, reaching out and enfolding me in his arms. My stomach jolted as a flood of memories rushed in as I inhaled his woodsy scent. Damon was never into commercial fragrances, preferring to walk up First Avenue in Washington D.C. to the Muslim store and select a variety of oils. He never just used one, tailoring a mixture of two or three depending on his mood—usually musk and jasmine.
After a brief hesitation, I wrapped my arms loosely around him. We had always fit perfectly together. At close to 6’3”, he still towered over me when I wore heels, making me feel safe and secure. The hug lasted a few seconds longer than what was proper for casual acquaintances, even if they hadn’t seen each other in awhile. But that’s because that wasn’t what we were or had ever been. Nothing had ever been casual about our relationship. Having his body against mine felt too good, too right; and for just one more fleeting moment, I stood there and enjoyed it before I worked to disentangle my limbs from his.
“It’s been too long,” Damon drawled slowly as he, too, pulled away. He looked at my hands clutching the bag of mangoes and avocadoes before turning those puppy dog eyes on me.
“Yes, these are for you. Queenie sent them. She also said to let you know that she’ll be making some coconut tarts later and to come by and get some.”
“If that lady didn’t have a huge boyfriend, I would be her love slave just for her tarts. She knows how to make a man feel good.”
Was he trying to tell me something? One of his biggest complaints when we were together was the amount of time I didn’t spend in the kitchen.
After another second of uncomfortable silence, Damon took my hand and led me to the back of the house where he had converted one of the larger bedrooms into an office. Cumbersome pieces of oak furniture were lined up against the walls that had been painted in warm orange blossom. A multicolor area rug stretched across the middle of the floor and more flowery plants sat in all four corners.
“Have a seat.” Damon gestured to a chair leaning against an overflowing file cabinet. He grabbed a standard office chair that was pushed under the desk, and rolled it right next to me.
“Thanks.” I sat down demurely, crossing my legs so that Damon was shown a nice length of leg.
“So,” he said slowly.
“So?”
“How have you been?” he asked.
“I’m good. What about you?”
“Really good,” he replied, then paused. “I’m very sorry about your grandmother.”
“Thanks.” Relieved that we had gotten right to the point, I jumped into my rehearsed speech. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. To thank you on behalf of the family.”
“And here I thought you wanted to see me.” Don’t flatter yourself, I wanted to tell him.
But I didn’t. I was here to be nice. So instead, I gave a nervous chuckle and moved on. “As I was saying, I wanted to thank you for taking care of Mama Grace. It really means a lot to me because I’m not sure what it would have been like for her had you not been there.”
He shrugged. “I was just doing my job.”
“No, Damon. You were doing a lot more than your job. A lot more and I wanted you to know that I appreciate it. She didn't let on to us how sick she was.”
Damon was now the one shifting uncomfortably. He had never been able to take compliments well and now, just nodded.
“So.” That one word hung between us like the great divide.
“Yes, Kingston?” My name rolled of his tongue like a caress and I knew he was messing with me. I stood, fussily preparing to leave. Damon stood as well and gently placed a hand on my elbow. “Sit down. Please,” he added. “We’re not strangers. I want to know what you’ve been up to. It’s been ten years.”
I took my seat again and then became annoyed with myself for following his command so quickly. “I’ve been living my life, Damon.” I added, a definite edge to my voice and he feigned offense at my comment.
“And what exactly does life consist of for you?”
I shook my head with annoyance. How was I supposed to fit ten years’ worth of living into a couple of sentences? He must have seen the confusion on my face and began firing questions at me.
“What are you doing? Did you end up going into journalism? Where are you living? Are you married? Kids? Dog? Fish? Are you happy?”
“Whoa!” I said, waving in protest. “Are we conducting an interview? I feel like I’m on 60 Minutes.” He relaxed in his chair and gestured as if saying, “Okay, Ms. Thang, you handle it then.”
I took a deep breath and my hands started doing their thing. My college acting coach called it, “overcompensation.” Damon used to call it King-language, his silly spin on my name and the art of sign language. For a moment our eyes locked and I knew he was thinking the same thing.
“Well, I’m in the entertainment field. I was a sales and marketing executive at a radio station, but there wasn’t much room for growth so last year I decided to get into the record-label business. I convinced a major label to start an urban division in Chicago and let me head it up and I love it.”
“Wow!” he said, raising his thick eyebrows. “That’s quite an accomplis
hment. Your mother must be very proud.”
“My mother is dead.” The shock seeped from Damon like air from a punctured balloon—his eyes closed momentarily and his lips parted. He looked at me again before sinking back in his chair and dropping his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Kingston. I know how close you were. I’m surprised Mama Grace never mentioned that to me.” He searched for some words of solace, but didn’t come up with much of anything.
“Mama Grace probably didn’t mention it because she never really got over my mother’s death. It haunted her until she died.”
“When?” It was a standard question, one I should have been used to by now; but the pain still hit me square in my gut at the slightest mention. “Two thousand and two, the eleventh of March.”
A frown wrinkled Damon’s forehead and I knew he was doing a quick mental calculation.
“That was three months after I left D.C.”
“Yes, and three months after you left me.” The words left my mouth singed with bitterness and I was immediately sorry. I hadn’t come here to do this.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Damon asked, his voice strangely small.
My eyes turned into wide circles of disbelief. I opened my mouth, then closed it. Finally I managed, “Why didn’t I call you?” He couldn’t be serious. “Why didn’t I call you?”
Damon nodded. He was serious.
“I did call you. I called you and I wrote you, Damon. You were never available to take my phone calls and you didn’t respond to my letters. I left so many messages I lost count. When I found out my mother died, the first person I called was you. You were studying and I left an urgent message with the university for you to call me back, but I didn’t say why. You don’t leave something like that in a message. When you didn’t call back that day, or the next day or the next, I gave up. I was tired of trying to keep our relationship together. And when I got back from the funeral, it took all the energy I had just to finish out the semester. Why didn’t I call?” The tension hung between us like a thick cloud. I exhaled loudly and looked away; disgusted with the way the conversation had turned.