A Cold Piece of Work

by Curtis Bunn

  “I understand what you’re saying, but there are ways to go about it,” Michele said. “But I’m not going to revisit that. I’ll just say it’s sort of like what I was trying to prevent with Gerald.”

  Solomon was confused. How did his disappointment in women relate to her not wanting him to whip Gerald? He wanted to pose the question, but not in a way that would put her on the defensive. They were getting along great and he was hoping to put the stamp on their reconciliation later that evening in the bedroom.

  “Help me understand what you mean,” he said.

  “Well, I probably didn’t put it the right way,” she said. “The idea is that you were trying to protect yourself from being hurt and I was trying to protect Gerald from being hurt, too.”

  Solomon was not quite sure what to say. He didn’t get the comparison—one was about emotional pain, another physical pain—but he skipped the subject until later.

  He moved beside Michele on the couch and leaned in to kiss her face. She welcomed the feel of his lips. That one night of desiring him was not the only night. She craved him the way a pregnant woman would pickles or ice cream or some other treat.

  Just the feel of the heat from his body and the scent of his cologne moved her. She closed her eyes as he kissed her face, and in those two seconds or so heat blanketed her body.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I need that.”

  “I would think you would need more than that,” Solomon said. Michele smiled.

  “A lot more,” she said, turning her face toward his, without saying a word.

  They pressed their lips together for a long kiss that was so passionate and erotic it seemed the room got darker and the music stopped. They were consumed with each other, two famished lovers reconnected after too long apart.

  When their lips parted, Michele tossed the two decorative pillows on the couch across the room, onto the floor, and leaned back. Solomon followed her body path, covering her with his.

  They kissed again, another emphatic, sensual kiss that actually caused Michele to get a little light-headed. She regained her composure when Solomon began kissing her on her neck.

  She could feel the erection in his pants between her legs, causing her a sensation that made her body tremble. He pulled up to unbutton her blouse, and she lay defenseless to his kisses on her bare shoulders, neck and lips.

  “I miss kissing you,” he said in a whisper.

  “Ohhhhh,” she mumbled so softly should could not tell if it was audible.

  Solomon leaned into her ear and declared, “I want to make love to you, Michele.”

  His breath on her ear excited her, but not as much as his words.

  “Please, Solomon,” Michele said. “Please.”

  They kissed deeply again and he pulled up to undress.

  “I’ll be right back,” Michele said.

  “Where you going?” a puzzled Solomon asked.

  “To the bathroom, and to check on Gerald, make sure he’s sleep,” she said.

  Solomon turned off the light in the kitchen and undressed down to his nakedness. It took Michele longer to return than he expected, but his desire for her had not diminished by the time she arrived.

  “What took you so long?”

  Michele wore a tank top and tight shorts and carried a comforter. The look on her face was indifferent.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You won’t believe this.”

  “What is it?”

  “My period came,” Michele said. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Ah, man, really?” Solomon said. Then he chuckled.

  “What’s funny?” Michele wanted to know.

  “The real drama would be if it didn’t come,” he said. “This, this is all right… Come here.”

  Michelle plopped down on the couch next to Solomon.

  “I wanted you so badly,” she said. “I needed you so badly.”

  “Well, I’m here, baby,” Solomon said. “I’m not going anywhere. I needed you, too. But the good news is that we actually do have each other. When you stop bleeding like a gutted cow, we’ll do what we need to do.”

  Michele playfully pushed Solomon away. “You started so sweet and then you got jokes,” she said, smiling. “A gutted cow? Wow, that’s messed up.”

  “Seriously, it’s all right,” he said. “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t look okay,” she said, staring at his throbbing erection. “Damn. Looks like that thing needs to be tamed.”

  “Well, by all means, tame that damn thing,” he said, and they both laughed.

  “Let me reacquaint myself with my friend,” she said.

  Solomon fell back on the couch with his hands folded behind his head and his eyes closed. Michele placed one of the discarded pillows beneath her knees, providing a cushion from the floor.

  “Since I can’t have you like I want you,” Michele said, “this is the next best thing. Enjoy it, baby.”

  Solomon liked the confidence she exuded about her sexual skills. Better than that, he liked her execution. Using her moist, soft tongue and wet mouth, she orally massaged Solomon until that erection spewed semen as if blasted from a shaken-up champagne bottle. She did not let any of it spill.

  “Oh, my God,” Solomon managed to get out. He was breathing heavily, like he would after a game of ball. “You’re unbelievable.”

  Pleasing him like that turned Michele on in a big way. “Look at my nipples,” she said. “They are so hard. And if I wasn’t on my cycle, I’d be all wet down there in a different way from now.”

  Solomon, a man of many words, had few that were intelligible. “Come here, girl,” he said. He moved over so they could rest on the couch together. Michele pulled the comforter over both of them. She lay with her back to Solomon, and he wrapped her in his arms as a running back would protect a football.

  “I miss this as much as I miss anything,” she said. “Simply laying here like this. We all love the big things. But the small things show more. And they last longer.”

  Solomon kissed her gently on her shoulder and said: “I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be when I’m with you.”

  CHAPTER 28

  THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER

  Michele jumped while sleeping and were it not for Solomon’s firm grip, she would have been on the floor. It was 3:06 a.m.

  “Hey, hey,” he said in a comforting voice. “It’s all right. I got you ... You must’ve had a dream about skydiving because you jumped hard.”

  “Oh, wow, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No, it must have been something else because I can feel how fast your heart is beating,” Solomon said. “What did you dream?”

  “I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before,” she said. “I have this one particular dream every so often.”

  “About what?”

  Michele maneuvered so she and Solomon could switch positions. “Actually, I want to be honest with you about something.”

  “What is it?” Solomon said, holding his breath. Immediately he thought of her past truths that were bombshells: Gerald was his son and she had been married.

  So, he braced himself for a punch in the gut.

  “Well, I got upset about you beating Gerald and then learning you had smacked a woman because, in my household, that happened all the time, to the point of abuse,” she began.

  They were sitting up on the couch now, and Solomon put his arm around her.

  “Really? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Too much pride. Embarrassed. Stupid.”

  Solomon did not respond. He wanted to hear specifics, but only if she wanted to share them. Turns out, she did.

  “My father was a salty drunk,” she said. “When he had his drinks on the weekend, it was hell for my mother. He would find anything to beat on her about. And when there was nothing to complain about, he’d beat her anyway, saying, ‘Oh, you did what you’re supposed to do, now you think you’re better than me?’

  “It was awful. That’s what I
grew up with.”

  Solomon said, “I’m sorry to hear that. I had no idea.”

  “I know you didn’t,” she said. “He wasn’t so bad with the kids. He would beat our butts good, but that was when we did something wrong. My mother just got it for no apparent reason.

  “And she took it for a long time. I can remember as far back as four or five years old and hearing those beatings she took from him. When I got older and she got strong enough to leave, I asked her why she stayed, and she said, ‘Because I loved your father and because I believe in family.’

  “But at some point, after he hit her and she fell and suffered a concussion, she had more than enough. She could’ve fallen and hit her head and died. She said before that concussion she never considered that he might kill her, intentionally or not.”

  Solomon rubbed Michele’s back and shoulders. “Well, I’m glad you all made it out of there okay,” he said. “I would’ve never guessed this about your father. I haven’t met him but I’ve been around when you talk to him on the phone and it’s a normal conversation.”

  “It is, but it took a long time to get to that point,” she said. “He got help; he hasn’t had a drink in fourteen years. It made all the difference in the world. Plus, I’m a girl and he’s my daddy. You know how that relationship is.

  “My brother, he’s less forgiving than me. He deals with Daddy some, but there’s clearly something between them. I mean, he could hear his mom getting beat up and couldn’t do anything about it. You know how it is with mothers and sons.”

  “I do,” he said. “Have you forgiven your mother for staying so long?”

  “Wow, that’s a deep question, Solomon.” she said. “My therapist asked me that same exact question. I can’t believe it. My answer is yes. My mom and I didn’t really talk about it until I was about twenty-five.

  “It was easy for me to forgive her because I knew she stayed for reasons she believed were good and unselfish reasons: love and her children. But she told me those were the same reasons she had to leave him, too.”

  “Your dad has to be remorseful now,” Solomon said.

  “He is. Every so often he’ll say to me, ‘Baby, I wish I was a better father to you and your brother as you grew up and a much better husband to your mother. I have a lot of regrets.’

  “And I’ll say, ‘Daddy, you gotta keep focusing on the future and not the past. Mom is great. Your children are great. We went through the whole thing together, as a family. And we came out of it better people, all of us.’

  “I know hearing that helps him. But because he has been healthy so long, it’s hard to not look back with a clear head and feel bad. But he still goes to his AA meetings and he says he’s still committed to living right. So, like him, I take it one day at a time with my daddy.”

  “How is your mom with him? What’s their relationship like now?” Solomon asked.

  “My mom still loves him,” Michele said. “She knew it wasn’t him. He committed the violence, but it was all alcohol-induced. When he wasn’t drinking, he was the man she fell in love with.

  “It struck me that you ended up in jail for smacking a woman and my mother never called the police on my dad. She said later that she didn’t see how that would help, putting her husband in jail.

  “I can remember weekends when my mom had stuff for us to do as a family to try to prevent him from going out and drinking with his buddies. We were probably overexposed to going out and doing things because she tried everything to get him to commit to being with us.

  “See, here was the thing: my daddy didn’t drink around us. I never ever saw him put a glass of liquor to his mouth. And neither did my brother. And my mother knew that, so she tried to have us front and center with things to do to prevent him from drinking.”

  “Your mom is strong; that’s where you get your strength,” Solomon said.

  “It’s also why I’m so protective of Gerald,” she said. “I know what it’s like to be damaged as a child. It’s my job to protect him from all the evils of the world, not that you’re evil or anything.”

  She laughed and Solomon did, too.

  “It’s our job now,” he said. “You have some help.”

  “I know and it’s a real blessing,” she said. “A single mom is the strongest creature on this earth. I don’t know how single moms do it with two and three and four kids. But if that were my situation, I would find the strength. That’s what mothers do.

  “And besides the concussion my mom got, the other reason she finally said, ‘That’s it’ was something I said to her. When she hit her head, the same weekend I spent the night at my friend Jasmine’s house. My parents knew their parents and it was great.

  “So, my mom, unbeknownst to me, got hurt that Friday night, the night I was taken to Jasmine’s house. My dad dropped me off and he was fine. Kissed me goodbye, gave me money and told me to be a good girl. Before he got home—my brother was away at a basketball camp—he stopped at a bar somewhere and started drinking.

  “Meanwhile, I’m at Jasmine’s house and we’re having a great time. Kind of late that night, she changed into her pajamas. We were playing in her room. She said, ‘When are you going to put your pajamas on?’ I was like, ‘I am. Later.’

  “The reality was my brother and I would sleep with our clothes on the weekends because we knew my dad was going to act up and my mother would come in rushing us out of the house. It was like we were firemen waiting for the call. To be ready to go quickly, we would go to bed with our clothes on Friday and Saturday nights.

  “So I slept in my clothes at Jasmine’s house. The next morning we were outside doing something and I asked her a very important question. I said, ‘When is your dad going to beat your mom?’

  “I thought it was the normal thing that happened in every household. She looked at me as if I were some kind of alien. ‘What? What are you talking about?’ she said. And in that instant I knew what was going on at our house was not normal.

  “Even though I was about nine at that time, I was able to quickly recover. I said, ‘I’m just playing. Let’s go watch TV.’ Jasmine said, ‘Okay,’ and that was that. But I remember it so clearly.

  “And that was the last time I had to sleep in my clothes and the next-to-last time we ran away to a hotel. My mom would try to make leaving home a fun escape. She’d be battered, but she kept a stash of money in our room so we could have hotel and food money if we had to run. So we’d go check into a hotel and spend a night or two there. She would take us to the Monument and the Smithsonian and other landmarks. We would eat half-smokes on the street and play Frisbee on the Mall. A few times she was too sore to actually play with us. She’d sit on a bench or on the grass and watch us. But all that activity was designed to make us forget about what had happened.

  “By Sunday evening we were back and my dad was sober and remorseful. He’d cook dinner and we’d go on like everything was normal. But that weekend I was at Jasmine’s house my mom had the concussion. She was pretty much fed up. And when I told her what I asked Jasmine, she said that was it. My brother came back from camp that Sunday. Next thing I knew, we were in a hotel for about three days and then we moved into an apartment.”

  “Wow, Michele, that’s a lot,” Solomon said. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

  “Well, I am too,” she said. “But it’s really hard to say because the things that happen in our lives, our experiences, make us who we are. So, I don’t know who I would be if things didn’t happen as they did.

  “I’m scarred by it, but I don’t think I’m damaged by it. I don’t think my brother or mom are damaged. We went through therapy together for a while and my mom’s therapy continued for a few years, I think.

  “We don’t even talk about it much anymore. My mom was adamant about my brother not falling into the cycle of being abusive. And she was scared that I would be like her and accept abuse as a normal part of a relationship. That’s what happens when you fall into that cycle.”

&n
bsp; “I see now how me telling you I smacked a girl would freak you out,” Solomon said. “It makes sense now. But, just to reiterate, that’s one of the biggest regrets of my life.”

  “Thanks for saying that,” Michele said.

  “So, what else do you have to tell me?” Solomon said. “You hold back stuff. And then when you come with it, it’s earth-shattering.”

  Michele laughed. “One more thing.”

  “Oh, no. What now?” Solomon said, laughing. “You shot Kennedy? What?”

  “I’m just kidding,” she said. “That’s it. I’ve bared my soul to you. There’s nothing else left to reveal.”

  “You sure?” Solomon asked.

  “Absolutely,” Michele answered.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “How about some breakfast?”

  “Solomon, it’s like, four-thirty in the morning.”

  “Exactly. Breakfast time.”

  “Then do your thing,” she said. “Wake me up when it’s done.”

  Michele stretched across the couch and let out a sigh of relief. Solomon kissed her on the face and went to the bathroom to wash his hands.

  “Sleep well, dear,” he said. “Pleasant dreams this time.”

  CHAPTER 29

  HERE COMES THE JUDGE

  Solomon’s and Michele’s idyllic lives were interrupted by two elements of contrasting significance: the visit of his divorced parents and the court date for the carjacking. The two were tied together; the night of the carjacking was minutes after Michele told Solomon he was Gerald’s father. Solomon’s mom and dad flew in from D.C. to finally meet their only grandchild.

  And it so happened that their planned day of arrival was the Wednesday evening before the start of the Thursday court date. Solomon’s car had been found almost three months after it was taken; the carjackers, both nineteen years old, were in it when Atlanta police pulled them over.

  “I don’t even want to relive that night... Well, that part of that night,” Michele said. “That’s the other nightmare I have sometimes, thinking about somebody with a gun to my head.”