Gettin’ Merry

by CATHY L. CLAMP; FRANCIS RAY; BEVERLY JENKINS; MONICA JACKSON; GERI GUILLAUME

  “Does it hurt?” I asked.

  “Would you kiss it if it did, Bear? Make it all better?”

  Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I thought that maybe she was teasing me again. But her eyes were all seriousness. Kirby had never teased me like this before. Her taunts had always been about my body. Not hers. I wasn’t sure how to take that. My head swam—from the liquor and from the delirium of my own desire. My thick-lipped response was unintelligible, but she seemed to understand.

  Kirby laughed again. Not the girlish giggle of a seventeen-year-old. Her laughter carried with it the wisdom of ages and the power of generations of women who knew when they had total control of a man. In that laugh, I caught a glimpse of the woman-child she was. She’d leaned back on one elbow, lifting the hem of her shirt.

  “Kiss me right here, Bear. Make it feel better.”

  I crawled to her, afraid that if I tried to walk like a man I would wind up stumbling toward her like a weak-kneed baby. My lips touched her stomach. The barest hint of a kiss. But the heat of her flesh seared me and sealed me to her for what seemed like an eternity. She smelled so good. Her skin was so soft. Her breath quickened; I could tell by the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

  I kissed her a couple times. “Better now?”

  “A little,” she whispered. “Try here.” She raised her shirt a little farther, so I obliged by kissing her ribs.

  Kirby’s arms had wrapped around my head; her palms cupped my ears and pulled me higher. I lifted her shirt and revealed the lace-clad curve of her tender breasts. The heat in my body had nothing do with the whisky after that revelation. It wasn’t alcohol but pure adulation.

  She trembled, whether from the autumn air or from my exploratory touch I was never sure. She was scared, as scared as I was. But she was determined to continue. No teasing now. Kirby was committed to this course and would not turn back. The look in her eyes mirrored the type of woman she was—all softness and shadows, sugar to my steel. I covered my body with hers, holding her, settling her nerves, soothing her fears.

  My bulk never seemed to bother her. Seventeen. Serious. And naturally sensuous. She knew how to encourage, incite, even soothe when I pushed into her—too fast, too fresh. Certain of my desire but inexperienced in technique, I instinctively knew that it couldn’t have been as pleasant for her as it was for me.

  I tried, though. I tried my very best to make her happy. Not the most ideal of circumstances lying out there on the cold, wet ground. Jolene snoring loudly and the bright lights of the stadium both added to my apprehension.

  But Kirby was there with me. That made everything all right. And that night I made her my own. I gave her all I had. My heart poured out, teenage longing spilling over her even as I spilled into her.

  The memory of her constricting around me, sending waves of pleasure shooting through me, made my hand constrict. The near-empty bottle clattered to the hardwood floor, spinning around and dribbling the last precious drops of fluid. I caught up the bottle, clutched it to my chest as a drunk clings with desperation to his last swallow.

  “Kikomba cha umoja,” I whispered aloud. The irony hit me hard. No unity here. Not now. We hadn’t been together in over three months. Yet the very thought of her was as vivid as if we’d joined yesterday. The way my body reacted—the unbidden hardening of hidden flesh—played the cruelest of tricks on me. It should have been just yesterday we made love. It could have been that way if I’d never let her out of my life, if I hadn’t been so noble. Maybe I should have been more selfish.

  But that was just my issue with Kirby. I didn’t let her walk out on us. I’d had no say in what happened. Kirby had decided. One minute we were inseparable. In fact, we were voted the couple most likely to marry right out of high school. But we didn’t. We put our education first. And after our education came our careers. Now that we had both, knowledge and career status, what did we have left?

  Chapter 7

  This close to Thanksgiving break, the students’ minds weren’t on talking to teachers. Everyone, including the staff, was waiting for the final bell to ring so they could all gallop out of here in a thunderous rush.

  I have to admit, I wasn’t thinking much about those stupid flyers, either. My mind was on Kirby and how I was going to maintain that everything was all right when it wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking very friendly thoughts each time she sashayed past me in that burgundy-and-black two-piece jacket-and-skirt combination. The skirt was long, with a slit up the back that revealed the long line of her black leather boots. I would be surprised, even grateful, if I managed to get through the day without asking her to reconsider.

  The students did surprise me, however. I had really misjudged them. I thought they would have jumped at the chance to get out of class. Kirby’s offer provided the perfect opportunity to kill some time. They didn’t take advantage of it.

  Simply knowing that Kirby was once just like them wasn’t enough to gain their confidence or their trust. They say that the kids of today are smarter, more savvy and sophisticated. I translate that as being more suspicious.

  By the end of class day on Tuesday, several students had come to see Kirby, but they only wanted to talk about what she was doing now. Not about the fight between Zane and Brian and Rayford or their apprehensions. Only two students had come by to see Kirby to discuss the events that had brought her counseling skills back to the school. One was the journalism class photographer, and the other was the editor of the school newspaper. They made it very clear that they had only shown up to interview her for an article. Nothing more. She wound up doing most of the talking.

  Kirby had answered their questions and made sure that she was not misquoted when she stressed how she was there to help.

  “Two students,” Kirby told me as we walked out to our cars together on Tuesday afternoon. “Only two students touched on the subject with any depth.”

  “Not exactly the mad rush we were hoping for, huh, Kirby?”

  “O ye of little faith.” She laughed at me. And I wondered how she could sound so light-hearted after crushing the life out of me on Friday.

  “Those same two students will be able to reach more of the other students faster than I will. Once my story gets circulated in an article put into their own words, you’ll see. The students will be beating down my door to talk.”

  “I hope that you’re right. I haven’t seen any more of those flyers. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Hate doesn’t give up so easily.”

  “And neither does love,” Kirby said, laying a hand gently on my cheek for a second. Just as quickly, she dropped her hand away. She must have known how her touch was affecting me. Realized her mistake. Her voice sounded oddly shaken as she said, “So, what kind of plans do you have for Turkey Day?”

  “Oh, the usual. Try really hard to stick to my diet while Mama loads the table with enough food to collapse it.”

  “I meant to tell you, Bear. You’re looking good. That was the first thing I noticed when you got out to meet me.”

  “Well, you know, a brother does have to try,” I said, sucking in my stomach and flexing my biceps.

  Kirby laughed appreciatively and pinched my arms.

  “And what about you?”

  “My grandparents are holding a dinner at the church. It’s open to everyone. You ought to stop on by. They’d love to see you, Bear.”

  “Thanks for the invite. I’ll try to make it.” Had to keep it light, casual. After all, we were just friends. Who was I kidding? A pack of rapid dogs wouldn’t keep me away from her this weekend. Even if I had to drive a thousand miles, braving holiday traffic, to get to her. I’d wallowed in self-pity at her unintentional rejection all day Saturday.

  Sunday, after church, I had a fresh perspective. How could I expect the Lord to move mountains for me if I couldn’t even pick up a rock? I’d been carrying that ring around with me for too long. It was time to move it or move on. Since I was still here in Calhoun County, made my home here, I figured I wasn
’t going to be moving on anytime soon. Somehow, I had to make her see that she was just as needed here.

  “Dinner starts at eleven after the special service and runs to about six. I hope you can make it,” Kirby said as she climbed into her SUV.

  “Do I need to bring anything?”

  “Nope. Just your appetite.”

  Kirby’s eyes lowered automatically, taking me in from head to foot and pausing somewhere in the middle. My body responded as heatedly to her direct stare as it did to her unintentional implication. Her reaction gave me reason to hope. She never said that she didn’t love me, didn’t want me.

  “What about tomorrow?” I blurted out, leaning on the door, almost climbing into the car window.

  “What do you mean?” Kirby asked.

  “What are you doing tomorrow? Any special plans?” She shrugged. “Helping Granny do some last-minute shopping. But that’s about it. Why? Did you have something in mind?”

  “Want to do something?”

  “Something like what?” she said cautiously.

  “I dunno. Nothing too stressful. Just hang out.”

  “We’re not in high school anymore, Bear. Aren’t we a little too old to be just hanging out?”

  “Nope. Never too old.” I shook my head. “We’re just two old friends, enjoying each other’s company. And my folks have been asking about you. Mama’s hurt that you haven’t come by to see her. Why don’t you come by the house tomorrow?”

  “OK. It would be nice to see them again. What time should I swing by?”

  I was the very model of friendly nonchalance. “Whenever. I should be home.”

  “And will your folks be there all day?”

  It was a strange question for her to ask, but I think I knew what she meant. If Kirby was trying to distance herself from me, it wouldn’t help matters if we were left alone for too long. But that was exactly what I was counting on. If she had any doubts, I was going to erase them. Make it clear once and for all how I felt about her.

  After Tuesday afternoon, Kirby and I became virtually inseparable. Whenever you saw one, you saw the other. It was almost like being in high school. Sometimes Jolene hung out with us, but she cut the evenings short. She had the little ones to get back to. Not so with Kirby or me, which in and of itself was a mixed blessing. I was grateful for the time we had together, but I lamented the time that we’d lost.

  From Wednesday to Sunday we had five days. I wasn’t going to waste a minute of it. I called her at six o’clock in the morning on Wednesday just to let her know that I was going out for my morning walk and to ask her could she meet me at my parents’ house. I didn’t think she could, but it was the thought that I wanted to convey—the idea that I wanted her with me every step of the way.

  By the time I got back from my walk, she was already there. I found her in the kitchen with Mama, rattling pots and pans, preparing for tomorrow’s feast.

  Normally, on a day like that, I wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near the kitchen. All of that tempting cooking and experimental tasting, not to mention the cleaning up afterward—a man didn’t stand a chance. But I had to go in. Kirby was there, helping to rinse, mince, slice, or stir as needed. And wherever Kirby was, that’s where I was going to be.

  “Don’t go in there,” my pops warned me as he dragged a trash can from the rear kitchen door to the roadside. He wiped his nose with the back of his green plaid sleeve, sniffed disdainfully.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” I paused, using the opportunity to stretch my muscles.

  He simply pursed his lips and shook his head. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you, Bear.”

  I stepped up onto the back porch reaching for the screen door handle. I was quiet, I know I was, barely making a sound. Listening at the door, I tried to catch a hint of why Pops was warning me away. They couldn’t have heard me. I know they couldn’t have. But as soon as I placed my hand on the screen door and grasped the wooden handle, the peals of laughter that had been ringing as far as the backyard stopped abruptly.

  When I opened the door, I heard Mama shush Kirby. She stifled a giggle, then looked up at me with wide, innocent eyes.

  “Hey,” I said in greeting, warily watching them as I headed for the refrigerator.

  “Hey, yourself,” Kirby responded. She bent her head, her hair hiding her face as she leaned over a bowl of fresh snap beans that she was helping Mama to prepare. Kirby reached for another bean, snapped off the ends, and dropped the vegetable into a huge bowl. Her shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

  “Have a good walk, Pooh Bear?” Mama asked, standing at the stove. “You’re back quicker’n I thought you’d be.”

  “I cut my walk short.”

  “Why?” Kirby asked innocently.

  “Maybe because I don’t trust you two alone together,” I said, pointing the water bottle at each of them.

  “Who, us?” Mama’s eyebrows climbed. “Why would you have reason to mistrust us, Pooh Bear?”

  “Mama, please don’t call me that in front of company,” I insisted.

  “Oh, hush now. Kirby isn’t company. She’s family. Isn’t that right, honey?”

  “As good as, Mrs. B,” Kirby agreed.

  “So, what have you ladies been talking about while I was out?” I pulled up a chair, turned it backward, and straddled it. When I reached for a raw snap bean, Kirby slapped my hand away. “Cut that out. You’ll ruin your appetite for lunch.”

  “The way Paul”—Mama made sure to stress my name—“has been dieting, Kirby, that little scrap of a bean is his lunch.” She frowned at me. “Look at him. He’s wasting away to skin and bones.”

  “I doubt that, Mama.”

  “He looks fine to me,” Kirby smirked. While Mama’s back was turned, Kirby reached out and laid her hand on my thigh. It was my turn to smack her hand away—as much as it pained me to do it.

  You cut that out, I mouthed to her.

  “Make me,” she whispered loudly. She grabbed a handful of the vegetable ends she’d set aside for the trash and tossed them at me. I flung a few back at her and then threatened to splash water on her.

  Kirby jumped up from the table, nearly overturning the bowl of green beans.

  “Behave, you two!” Mama clapped her hands as if she were demanding order from a classroom of unruly kindergarteners.

  “She started it,” I insisted.

  “Paul, why don’t you make yourself useful? I’ve got some things stored out in your garage. There’s a big yellow box marked for the dining room. Can you bring that out to me?”

  “Yes’m,” I said, rising from my chair, too. As I turned my back, I felt one last parting shot—a green bean thumping against the back of my head.

  “Mama, did you see that? Kirby . . . she . . . that is . . .”

  “Paul Robeson Barrett.” Mama used the mean voice on me, pointing toward the back door.

  Muttering to myself, I started outside. Pops was already ahead of me, striding toward the relative peace and quiet of the drafty garage.

  “Pops,” I greeted him.

  “Told you,” was all he said. My father never was much for words. Always said that my mother did enough talking for the both of them.

  He worked on an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth as he searched through gray metal shelves. He finally found what he was looking for—a socket wrench to loosen the near-rusted spark plugs on his ’69 Chevy truck. As he strained and grunted under the hood, I spent a few minutes walking around him, the truck, and the confusing maze of boxes, bags, and covered furniture from my parents’ house.

  “Need some help?” I offered when I heard him let loose a stream of curses after grazing his knuckles.

  “Nope.” He shook his head. I was actually relieved. It was a little too cold to be out here anyway. My breath hung in the air, even inside the garage. The droplight that he used under the hood barely cast a pale, cool glow over the area. “You’d better get back to your mother. What’d she send you out here for anyho
w?”

  I grinned at my father. I knew exactly what he was thinking. As long as I was there to run and fetch for Mama, my pops didn’t have to do it. I was running interference for him. “Some kind of box. It’s got dining room stuff in it, or something.”

  He jerked his thumb, indicated a far corner of the garage. “Over there.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, looking at the collection around me. There were more of my parents’ things in here than my own. “I would’ve never found it in here.”

  “Life’s funny that way,” Pops went on, his voice muffled as he banged on the engine block.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We spend half our time searching for something that was under your nose the whole time.”

  I turned to face my father. Homespun wisdom from the man of few words. “You mean Kirby, don’t you, Pops? You’re talking about her?”

  “Who, me? I’m just talkin’ ’bout you and a big yella box. Nobody said a word about the girl.”

  I started for the door, but Pops spoke up again. He wasn’t mumbling. He wasn’t cursing. His question was clear, direct. “How long is she back for this time?”

  I shrugged. “Dunno. She didn’t say.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Pops turned back to his truck. “Big yella box, big yella gal. I’ll bet you won’t waste any more time looking for either, will you, Bear?”

  “No, sir,” I agreed. “I suppose I won’t.”

  School was out, but that didn’t mean the learning had to stop. My pops had the damnedest way of cutting to the heart of the truth.

  When Kirby had first broken up with me, I’d gone to my mama for advice about how to get her back. She was a woman after all, with a woman’s heart. If anyone could, she could tell me what I could do to win Kirby back.

  But when Kirby had moved away, cutting my wooing efforts off at the knees, I had gone to my pops for consolation. He was a man who understood the pain of loss and disappointment. A black man born and raised in Mississippi. If anyone knew about disappointments and lost dreams, he would. He had a unique perspective all his own. He’d gone through ups and downs, along with his beloved home state, and had come out a better man for it.