by Nikki Woods
Essence had labeled her “relationship disabled.” Keela was brutally raped when she was sixteen and now had a hard time relating to and trusting men. She continually invited men into her life who walked all over her like a welcome mat, and raped her not physically, but mentally and emotionally.
I fit smack dab in the middle. Average height, average weight and in my opinion, average in appearance. Of course, this only fueled Essence’s argument for cosmetic enhancement. I was not quite as down to earth as Keela, but I was more sensitive than Essence. I’d tell you the truth, but try not to hurt your feelings. Like Keela, I knew what it was like to be overweight, but had long since lost the baby fat and worked out like a maniac to keep it that way. Tragedy had also touched my life, but I was able to push the memories to a small corner of my mind. It was only at night when I could not fight back the darkness.
When I asked, “What does he want?” Essence slapped her palm to her forehead.
“Kingston, if I have to tell you, then there’s something really wrong. That boy’s been sniffing after you like a dog in heat.”
Keela nodded and pulled a notebook from her backpack. “He’s from Jamaica and has those dread thingys everyone’s starting to wear. I don’t see why anyone wouldn’t want to comb or wash their hair.”
“They wash their hair,” I said with a huff. “Wearing dreadlocks is a statement of cultural and religious beliefs. The dreadlocks on a Rasta’s head symbolize the Rasta’s roots, contrasting the straight, blond look of the white man and establishment.” My speech was practiced from delivering it to Keela alone.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Essence retorted, then added with a sniff, “It’s still nasty. ‘Nuff respect to Bob.”
“I think he plays soccer,” Keela said.
“And you guys don’t know his name?” I asked, searching my memory database. I’d attended all of the Caribbean Students, the West Indian Culture Club, and the H.U. Jamericans Association meetings faithfully since my freshman year. There weren’t many West Indian students on campus that I didn’t know.
“Isn’t that what we’ve been saying?” Essence pushed her hair off her face with irritation. “ I checked him out, but he didn’t do anything for me. So I’m passing him on to you.” The natural assumption with Essence was that every man wanted her. As her friends, we just let her arrogance ride. We understood that when she said, “He didn’t do anything for me,” that really meant he didn’t give her any play.
“He is sooooo cute,” Keela reiterated, giggling as she bit into a steaming polish, with onions, sauerkraut, and chili piled high on top.
“Shhhh. Shhhh. Here he comes.” Essence fluttered prettily then positioned herself on the edge of the round table. Keela checked for mustard. I held my breath.
He is cute, was the first thought that popped into my mind. And he did look familiar, but I dismissed that thought. Of course the man looked familiar. We attended the same school. I must have seen him around campus, in the library or hanging out on the yard.
The stranger looked as though he had walked straight off the playing field, still dressed in his red, white, and blue Howard University soccer practice jersey—their nickname “Booters” tagged on the bottom—and torn black Umbro shorts. The rip in the shorts allowed an enticing game of peek-a-boo with each step. His legs bulged from his thighs all the way down to ankles, hidden by thick white sweat socks bunched artfully around the top of his cleated shoes. His short, neat dreads bounced as he came closer. As he stood before me, his succulent lips parted to display the most even, whitest set of teeth I had ever seen. But they were not as brilliant as his warm brown eyes. For a moment, we were suspended in time, like some weird Star Trek episode. He was the one to break the silence.
“It’s been a long time, Bumble Bee, but I would have known you anywhere.” His speech was slow and his accent controlled, but leaving no doubt in my mind that he was Jamaican. “Ya’ know, Star, you still look as pretty as you always did.”
Someone sighed and without looking, I knew it was Keela, the romantic. Then the stranger scooped me from my chair, wrapped long, sinewy arms around me, and pressed me hard against his chest. I’m not sure whose mouth hit the floor the fastest, but I was the first to recover and Keela, the first to smile.
But Essence was the first to speak. “Who in the hell is Bumble Bee?”
“That would be me,” I answered, gently pushing at his chest—anxious to reclaim my space. “What I can’t figure out is how you know my nickname. I mean, I haven’t been called Bumble Bee in years.” I turned to Keela and Essence. “My great-grandmother, Mammy, used to call me that.” I turned back to the stranger. “Come on, you gotta’ give me something to work with here. How do we know each other?”
The man tossed his head back and laughed, deep in his belly before moving closer to my face. “You don’t recognize me?” The grin slid from his face and he stuck out his hand. “Damon,” he said. “Damon Whitfield. Joanne’s brother.” He took another step back and opened his arms as if to say ‘in the flesh.’
Then, all the memories flooded back, washing over me like a Mexican tidal wave, and knocking the breath out of me. Joanne, my best friend from the summer I spent in Kingston.
Damon. Joanne’s brother. The little boy from Hope Bay who spent Independence Day weekend with my family in Swift River. Damon. Joanne. Damon.
“Does someone want to tell us what the hell is going on?” Essence forced us back to the here and now. Both she and Keela had their hands on their hips. Keela had even put her hot dog to the side. Drama took precedent over food.
“We’re old friends,” Damon offered by way of explanation. “I met Kingston one summer in Jamaica. My sister, Joanne, and Kingston were playmates.” He was talking to Essence and Keela, but his gaze never left me.
The silence crackled between us. Under other circumstances, I would have inquired about an old friend. Ask what Joanne had been up to. But in this situation, I didn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t because I already knew.
“Wow!” said Keela breaking the trance. “That’s deep.”
“Damon, these are my best friends, Keela and Essence. Ladies, this is Damon.” Smiles floated all around.
“How long has it been?” Damon asked, his eyebrows pinched together.
I did a quick mental calculation. “Fifteen years.”
“Well, isn’t that cute?” Essence made a production of grabbing her leather book bag and Gucci purse. She slipped on her tortoiseshell sunglasses. “I would really love to see how this little Brady Bunch episode turns out, but I have to get to class. Ciao.” With a fragrant burst of perfume trailing her, she was gone.
Keela polished off her hot dog, then started in on her fries, clueless to her third wheel status. Finally, I tapped her shoulder and she looked up. One glance at my face and she got it.
“Well, I gotta run, too. It was nice meeting you, Damon. Hopefully, we’ll see you around more often.” She gathered her books in one hand, and balanced her tray in the other.
“Same here, Keela. Need some help?”
Keela practically swooned at Damon’s chivalrous gesture. “Oh, no. I’m fine. Trust me, I’ve had to juggle more.” And then, she left after dumping her trash, and waving goodbye.
“You’ll have to forgive me for not recognizing you, but it really has been a long time. It’s a shock to see you. I didn’t know you went to school here.”
Damon pulled out a chair and sat down, dropping his book bag to the floor. “Yeah, Mon.
I’m actually in my third year of med school. I’ve been in D.C. almost seven years.”
“Seven years?” I squirted some ketchup on my plate, dabbed a French fry in it, then popped it in my mouth. “Why haven’t I seen you? Did you know I went to school here?”
“My grandfather died over the summer and while I was home, I went to check for you and your grandmother told me you were attending school here.”
“Sorry to hear about your grandfather.” I murmured, the French fry b
ecoming like lead in my mouth.
“Just a part of the life cycle. It was to be expected.”
“I guess I’m just surprised that in four years I haven’t seen you around.”
“I don’t have much time to socialize.” Damon leaned forward and picked a French fry off my plate. He doused it with ketchup, then stuck it in his mouth. “I work two jobs. I’m trying to complete my four years of medical school in three. It doesn’t leave much time to hang out. The studying alone takes up most of my evenings. And since I won’t be staying to do my residency here, I’ll have to put in additional hours at the hospital before I graduate.”
I narrowed my eyes when he reached for another fry. “Help yourself.”
He grinned an apology, wiping his hands on a napkin. “I’ll do my residency back home in Kingston. My grandmother is old and I need to be there to take care of her. Howard and The University of the West Indies have worked it out so I can finish here and do my residency there.”
“Wow, that’s great! I’m sure your grandmother will love having you so close.” I took in Damon’s gear. “I see you find time to play soccer.”
“When I can. I was on the team when I first got here, but it got to be too much. Now I only work out with the team every once in a while. Gotta stay in shape.” He slapped his flat tummy and it sounded six-pack hard. “You must be in your last year, right? What’re you studying?”
I finished the rest of my Pepsi and actually used a napkin to wipe my mouth. “Uh, yeah. I’m studying Broadcast Journalism.”
“I can see you on TV reporting the five o’clock news.”
“Nah, not me. I’d much rather be behind the scenes calling the shots. I’m doing some work right now for the campus television and radio station.”
Damon laughed. “I remember that. Even at six, you was a bossy little thing.”
The statement brought back blurry scenes of the past. It sobered both of us and stopped me from making a sarcastic comeback. I flipped my wrist over and looked at my slim gold Timex. Only ten minutes to make it to my Media Law class, all the way on the opposite side of the campus. “I really have to go or I’m gonna be late.”
Damon snatched a napkin off the tray of a passing student. He scribbled down his contact information in large, loopy scrawl. “That’s my home phone number and cell. There’s no excuse not to give me a call. We’ll catch up and talk about old times. I may even feed you. Do you still put away the food like you used too?” He flashed a toothy grin.
I stuffed the crumpled up napkin in the front pocket of my Levi’s, hooked my backpack over my shoulder, and gave Damon the once over as I ran a tube of cherry gloss over my lips. “ Have a good day, Damon.”
“Call me.”
“Sure,” I responded with a nonchalant wave of my hand. I didn’t have to turn around to know that Damon was watching me.
“Kingston,” he said again, “Call me.” I glanced back and his hopeful eyes once again held mine hostage, the left side of his mouth tilted upward in a goofy grin and I was hooked. I nodded before dashing up the stairs two at a time and heading outside into the courtyard. Students leaned casually against trees studying or talking. The wind was light, the sun hidden by stubborn clouds. I turned the corner and found Keela, as I knew I would, leaning against the red brick wall.
“Told you he was cute,” she said.
“I’m going to call him.”
She smiled in response and we strode across the yard in the direction of the Journalism school. “Why didn’t you ask about his sister? What was her name? Roxanne?”
“Joanne.”
“Yeah, why didn’t you ask about her?”
A leaf floated down gently from overhead and I stopped. I followed its graceful dance with my eyes before looking at Keela. “She died,” I said. “She drowned when she was six.” I resumed my trek to class. I started to say more, but Keela was no longer by my side.
* * *
By the time I turned around, looked up, and took a breath, it was December and half of my stuff had been moved to Damon’s two-story flat on the northeast side of D.C. My toothbrush resided next to his, strands of my hair could be found on his pillow, and I used the bathroom with the door open without a second thought. My extra VCR was plugged into Damon’s small television so I could work on television projects while he wasn’t there. He didn’t have to be home, I just liked being in his space. We hadn’t put a label on our relationship, but we didn’t need one. “We” just worked.
The transition from our first meeting to “now” had happened so smoothly and subtly that there no longer seemed to be a time when Damon and I weren’t together.
And together was exactly the way a blustery Sunday morning in mid-December found us, snuggled tightly under two quilts and one blanket because Damon was trying to save a little on the heating bill. The frost was etching patterns on the windows and icicles hung from the windowsills, growing longer with each melted drop. I fitted my chest even more securely against Damon’s back. He had been tense all weekend and was resistant to my usually successful attempts to relax him. I ran my foot down the length of his calf and worked my fingers more firmly into the bunched up muscles in his biceps. Being naked on a Sunday morning felt as natural as the sun rising in the east. The only worry was whether to make waffles or omelets for breakfast. I knew Damon’s answer would be, “Why not make both?” Of course, he wouldn’t be the one to dig the gunk out of the little squares in the waffle machine and scrape burnt egg edges from his cast iron skillet. Not that I minded. I got a kick out of taking care of my man.
The only arena that I had yet to tackle was the sexual one. Damon and I had yet to make love even though we had spent numerous steamy nights perfecting the foreplay stage—kissing, licking, sucking, nibbling, and rubbing until Damon would roll over with a moan that said “put up or shut up.” Until now, I had taken the second option, not because I didn’t desire to be intimate with Damon. I did, fearing sometimes that the yearning would consume me. Maneuvering around my invisible chastity belt had been frustrating, but Damon stayed understanding, often joking that he would rather make love to his books before standing in the shower under a cold spray of water.
But I was a virgin and had a desire to wait until I was married. My mother often said, “ Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” Not that I put any stock in that. I just wanted my first and last time to be with the man I planned on sharing my life with.
So I wasn’t discouraged when I moved seductively against him and nothing happened.
Damon was about to enter his last semester of medical school. He was so worn out, his five o’clock shadow creeping up on eight o’clock and dark rings constantly circled his eyes. At three o’clock this morning, I could still hear him turning pages and clicking the mouse of his computer as he worked on the study guide for his board exams. Knowing I only had him for a few more months made my stomach clench and my mouth go dry. The thought of a long distance relationship scared me; with Damon as far away as Jamaica, it seemed damn near impossible.
Damon wouldn’t even entertain such negative thoughts. He said that if we were meant to be, then we would be. Easier said than done. I’d rather have a plan of action than sit back, kick my feet up, and enjoy the ride.
As if Damon read my thoughts, he sighed and rolled over facing me. He kissed my furrowed brow and pressed his nose against mine. “Frowning will give you wrinkles and make you look like an old woman before your time.”
My forehead bunched together even more. “That’s what I tell you when you’re hunched over one of them damn books.”
Shaking his head and laughing, he said, “You make me happy.”
I smiled and kissed him on the tip of his nose, then teased the corner of his mouth with my tongue.
“Kingston.” He cupped my face in both of his hands. “We need to talk.”
A churning began deep in my stomach. I tried to pull away, but Damon held me in place. An argument was brewing and space is what I need
ed. This is one area where Damon and I stood in direct opposition. His belief was the closer we were, the faster we’d be able to solve our issues.
“Baby, hear me out.”
I tried not to pout. My listening skills were an area that I’d promised Damon I’d work on.
I’d be so anxious to show him that I understood that he never got to finish what he had to say.
And that frustrated him.
“My aunt from Hope Bay called Friday.”
Relief eased through me. His news was nothing major. “I know. You told me that already. ”
He sighed at my interruption and smoothed a thumb over my right eyebrow, before rubbing the frown that had returned. I bit the soft part in the inside of my mouth to prevent any further outbursts.
“Well, it’s not good news. My grandmother has taken a turn for the worst.”
“Oh, honey, why didn’t you tell me?” I scooted closer and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “What do you need me to do?”
He took my hands in his before bringing my hands closer to his face and nuzzling my knuckles. “I needed to work it out in my mind. Figure out what I needed to do.”
“And?” Once again the insides of my stomach churned.
“And I’m gonna have to go home, Kingston.” He traced my cheek with the back of his hand, as if the action could soften the blow.
“Well, of course you do. You need to check on your grandmother. I’ll look for flights. I may be able to find a really cheap one.” The producer in me needed to do something and I immediately kicked into action, swinging my long legs out of the bed, wrapping myself in a sheet, and looking for my cell phone. “When do you want to leave and when do you want to return?”
“No, Kingston, you don’t understand.” The urgency in his voice made me stop, phone in midair to my ear.
I turned and sunk back on the edge of the bed, now flipping through the Yellow Pages looking for the section on airlines. “What don’t I understand?”