Unforgivable Love

by Sophfronia Scott

  “Why do you want to do that? Huh? What’s gonna happen when they come? What are you going to say? It’s after midnight. You’re in my room! You came here on your own. I think they’ll believe me when I say you knew what you came here for.”

  Her eyes widened and filled with tears, but she nodded to show she understood. “What do you want?”

  “Well, to take you up on your offer. To be thanked. I think you can start by giving me a kiss.”

  She sucked in her breath. “All right.”

  She offered up her lips and he kissed them. “All right?”

  “Very nice.” He smiled. “Now, how about a hug?”

  “But we just hugged!”

  “Yes, but I know a better one. Let me show you.”

  Val turned Cecily around and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He held her stiff and bony frame against him. His left arm reached across her chest and cupped her breasts; his right hand grasped her around the hips. She endured this but then Val allowed his right hand to travel down and up under her nightgown. She tried to squirm away, but his left arm tightened like a vise. His index and middle finger found between her legs the warm soft cotton of her panties. For a full minute his fingers remained there, sliding back and forth over the material. Cecily gasped but said nothing. When he felt the stony tension in her body lessen a little Val slowly moved his hand into the panties but kept the same stroking motion. He kissed the back of her neck. She began to whisper in a breathless staccato.

  “Mister . . . Jackson . . . Mister . . . Jackson . . .” The last note in her voice went up to a kind of half-silent, high-pitched whine.

  He plunged his middle finger, now sticky and moist, deep inside her. He pumped it a few times before her muscles finally melted and she collapsed against him into a soft and lovely mound.

  They fell onto the sofa and he, his finger still moving inside her, placed his mouth there too. Her hips bucked up. He held on and then he didn’t need to because her hands were on his head pulling him closer. Suddenly both of her arms flew back against the cushions and a sound, low and hoarse, a kind of “ahhhhh” escaped her throat. Val rose up and slid Cecily underneath him. The rest, as he had always known, would be easy now.

  CHAPTER 30

  Cecily

  Mercylands, July 1947

  Cecily’s eyes stayed fixed upon the plate of grits and scrambled eggs in front of her. The sounds of a morning swirled around her—clinking forks struck china, coffee filled cups, a knife sliced through fresh bread. But Cecily knew if she abandoned her anchor, the perfect circle covered in yellow and white, she would get swept away into the noise and be lost. She couldn’t respond to any of it, not even to say “good morning” or “yes, ma’am” to Mama, who stood at the sideboard filling her plate with bacon, eggs, and sweet rolls. Part of Cecily didn’t understand how life was proceeding like everything was just as it was yesterday while the other part of her was relieved that it was. She had worried Mama would notice her slow descent on the staircase, how painful it was for Cecily to part her legs the few necessary increments to allow her to move down one step after another. Or see how still she sat now, perfectly still, lest she rekindle the burning sensation in the soft folds of her middle.

  Gladys put a plate of sausages down next to Cecily’s eggs and grits.

  “Here, honey, eat that. You haven’t touched a thing yet. It’s a shame with all this good food here.”

  “Maybe she prefers something sweet?” Val Jackson said. He strolled in and dropped a folded newspaper at his place next to Mrs. Jarreau and kissed his aunt on the cheek. He seated himself and reached for the cup of coffee just poured for him. Both Mrs. Jarreau and Mrs. Townsend, who sat across from him, acknowledged him with “good morning” and continued to speak, but Cecily refused to listen. She didn’t want to take the chance of hearing anything that would draw her away from her plate.

  She gripped her fork, determined to not look at him, to make a start on the food and appear normal. But suddenly she was certain she smelled him—smelled him—as a sweet dark scent, like licorice, drifted toward her. She put her fork down and grasped her hands under the table. Mama was back at the sideboard again.

  “There are some nice sweet rolls right here and they’re still warm.” She licked icing from her fingers and put another loaded plate in front of Cecily. The smacking sound Mama made turned a key in Cecily’s stomach and she wanted to retch. Tears welled in the back of her throat. She was drifting away from them. Holding on to the plate, even with both hands, would be no good.

  “Cecily!” His voice seemed to smack into her ears.

  Her head snapped up.

  “If you’re not gonna eat those rolls, may I have one?” He smiled at her.

  She stared. He’d spoken her name, and she was horrified. Not because she was forced to look at him, to peel her attention from the only focus holding her steady. No. Cecily Vaughn crumbled because when Val Jackson said her name the small soft knob of skin deep inside her middle responded. She thought she felt it resonating in tiny waves reaching out for him.

  She pulled away from the table and ran.

  CHAPTER 31

  Mae

  Harlem, Mid-July 1947

  Mae shifted in her chair and as she crossed her legs the silk of her peignoir slid higher on her thigh. She leaned forward and breathed in the scent of the gardenias Justice had placed on the vanity an hour before. Mae was waiting for the succession of calls she knew would come. Val worked quickly, especially when pissed and vindictive, as he was when he slipped out of her parlor two days ago. Gladys would be frantic and Cecily desperate. Since Cecily’s desperation couldn’t further Mae’s purpose and would be tedious too, she would wait to hear from Gladys, who was in a better position to furnish Mae with the key she required.

  She rang the bell for Justice. “Very soon,” she told the maid, “I will receive a phone call, most likely two. If one is from Cecily Vaughn, I don’t want to speak with her. Tell her whatever you want and hang up. When her mother calls, I will talk to her. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mae knew that when these calls arrived, her revenge would be accomplished, Frank Washington’s bride deflowered. But she didn’t want to sit at home and consider the work done because in the past two days she’d discovered so many more moves that remained unplayed, and these could bring her so much more than revenge. The game was different now. After all these years it was at last significant, perhaps even, she was willing to admit, vital. Because finally, finally, Mae sensed the machinations would shift and fall like dominoes irreparably in her favor and she would have the light and love—real love—she craved.

  When Cecily and Gladys had left for the country Mae had summoned Sam to her, but not for the purpose of lovemaking. She had allowed him to come to her and she’d endured his misery knowing, when she chose, how she would make it evaporate into hot Harlem air. But she waited, wanting him to put aside Cecily on his own, and to understand how his heart and mind lay elsewhere, with Mae. He’d drunk champagne from crystal in her parlor, danced to jazz to soothe his soul. Even in feeling the ache of Cecily’s loss, he had nurtured the hurt and blessed it, so much so that when Mae observed this she found a question slipping out of her before she could stop it.

  “How can you stand it, Sam? If it hurts so damn much, why do you stand it?”

  He looked at her with a clear, guileless expression of wonder on his face and his response just about broke her in two. “It’s how I know I’m alive, Mae.”

  As much as this moved Mae, she would not sleep with Sam again until she was assured of his devotion. She refused to be his consolation like that. But there was a sweetness to his vulnerability she enjoyed. It melted away his earlier fear of her and in its place she saw respect and, yes, real affection growing. Their situation was quite new for her—almost like a friendship. What’s more she saw clearly a time coming when this affection would ripen into true love. His love would mean something because Sam knew
what it meant to love. He would not allow such love to wither into indifference or the need to control her. Mae saw he possessed a vast spotlight and soon she would have it trained on her. She admitted as much to herself only at night with cool satin sheets pulled around her to chill the hunger of her skin calling out to him. But during the day she planned for him, strategized for him as she awaited her foray into the country.

  When the call she wanted finally came, Mae, before taking the telephone, instructed Justice to begin packing her suitcase. She picked up the receiver and smiled into the air so her voice might mimic the gesture into the line.

  “Gladys! Did you make it up there all right?”

  “Yes, but it just seems like Cecily is getting worse.” Mae could almost hear the sweat beads forming on her cousin’s upper lip and the muffled sound of her wiping them away with a handkerchief.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s been sulky for a few days and I’ve just been waiting for it to pass. Pouting like a baby.”

  “Yes, well, you’re right. It will pass.”

  “But today she stopped eating! She sat there today looking at her food like it made her the saddest thing in the world. Ran right upstairs after breakfast and now she won’t come out of her room.”

  Mae allowed herself to laugh but just a little. Mothers were so terrible at bending their children to their will, she thought. She figured it was because they took too much for granted. They thought they knew something because they had dropped a bundle from between their legs. If they truly knew their offspring, if they only paid attention to them and understood their desires, mothers could use that knowledge very well to get children to do what they wanted them to do, go where mothers wanted them to go.

  “Well, you had to expect something like this, Gladys. Sam was her first love after all. It’s not like you just took away a teddy bear.”

  “I know, but will you come talk to her?” Mae sensed movement—Gladys seemed to be pacing or throwing up her hands. Whatever she was doing, Mae thought, it told of exasperation, a good sign. “If somebody doesn’t get through to that girl soon I won’t know what to do with her.”

  “Me come to Westchester? But I haven’t been invited.” Mae curled the phone cord between her fingers and pressed her lips together.

  “I already spoke to Rose and she told me it would be fine for you to come. ‘The more the merrier,’ that’s exactly what she said.”

  Mae smiled. “All right, Gladys. I’ll be there soon.”

  HER OPERATION BY necessity would be a delicate one. She had to soothe, heal, and cut all at the same time, making sure what remained of Cecily was only what Mae wanted to remain. And that Cecily would act on her new direction right away. But Mae sensed the work would be easier when she entered Cecily’s darkened room, because the girl wasn’t in bed hiding under the sheets and crying.

  She was barefoot, but dressed in jeans and a blue button-down shirt as she paced back and forth. Mae guessed Cecily wasn’t in the room to hide. No, she was in the room to think because she didn’t know what to do with herself, didn’t know how to act or what she wanted. Mae could handle confusion. Pure resistance—if she had not been able even to gain entrance to Cecily’s room—would have been another matter.

  “Go wash your face,” Mae told her after she accepted Cecily’s awkward, desperate hug. “Then we’ll have our talk.”

  While Cecily obeyed, Mae pulled back the curtains of the room and was pleased to discover Cecily’s windows overlooked the lawn where Val and his friends were playing baseball. She opened a window and the smell of fresh-cut grass rolled in. Mae settled herself on the window seat and motioned for Cecily to sit with her. As she did Mae was careful to note if Cecily looked out the window, whether she particularly noticed the men playing ball, and if she reacted with any hint of loathing toward Val. Mae thought the girl seemed wary but was not afraid to keep him in view. Then Cecily started talking and spilled a load of drama at Mae’s feet. Mae leaned back and sighed as though Cecily had told her the oldest story in the world.

  Still, at the right moment, she put a hand on Cecily’s knee and conjured a look of pure concern.

  “So he forced himself on you?”

  Cecily paused and scratched her head. “No, not exactly,” she said slowly.

  “But you resisted him?”

  Her hands flew up. “Yes! No. I tried. I was trying!”

  She looked the girl directly in the eye and drew out her words deliberately. “Did you tell him ‘no’?”

  Cecily looked down at her hands and shrugged. “I didn’t know what to say, and there were times when I couldn’t talk—I thought I couldn’t breathe!” She threw a pleading look at Mae. “I feel so nasty. And it hurt! Why did it hurt so much?”

  Mae nodded slowly. “Did it hurt the whole time?”

  Cecily’s face froze.

  Mae moved her head closer to Cecily’s and whispered in her ear.

  “You said you couldn’t breathe. Was he strangling you, smothering you?”

  The girl touched her silent lips with her fingertips and shook her head slightly. Mae leaned back again and allowed her eyes to drift toward the window. She crossed her arms.

  “Then I must believe something else was going on, and that something else is the real reason I’m here.”

  Cecily’s hand went to move over her eyes, but Mae snatched it and held it fast. She spoke again in the calm, deliberate voice. “You listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Do you understand?”

  The girl nodded, but Mae saw she was unconvinced.

  “What happened to you is as natural as eating, as necessary as breathing, yet there are women who would give their eyeteeth to feel in their bodies what you felt. They almost never get to feel that, if they ever did in the first place.”

  Cecily shrugged and shook her head. “How come they don’t?”

  “Because they’re made to feel ashamed of their bodies, like men are the only ones who are supposed to feel something.”

  Cecily’s hand relaxed as Mae held tighter with both of her own. “If Val made you feel good, then he’s a better man than what they say about him. You’re very lucky, Cecily.” Mae watched the girl’s eyes now turn outward, seeking to place Val out on the field. She chose her next words carefully. She rubbed Cecily’s hands.

  “I think what you want to know now is what to do next. Do you want to make love to him again?”

  Cecily said nothing, but Mae took this as a good sign. She released the girl’s hand and looked out the windows too, but trained her gaze on the lazy white clouds casting shadows into the room as they passed over the sun.

  “This isn’t about Sam anymore. It’s about who you want to be as a grown woman—and you are a woman now. You’ve got to know your desire and what’s going to make you happy. That happiness can be tied up in one man or you can find it in several. But it will always be your choice—not your mama’s, not Frank Washington’s, not mine. Once you understand who you are, you won’t have to care about what they or anyone else thinks because you’ll be able to sit right with yourself.”

  The girl shook her head. “I don’t know what I want. You have to tell me what to do, Cousin Mae. You have to help me.”

  “Look at me. Cecily, is that what you really want?”

  The girl nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “All right then. Keep sleeping with Val Jackson.”

  “What?!”

  Mae sat up straighter and hardened her face. Cecily’s hand covered her own mouth like she wanted to take back the exclamation.

  “Don’t be stupid. Look at what you have here. You’ve got a chance to make your mother think you’ve forgotten about Sam.” She pointed out Val in the field. “You have a pleasant distraction that will make what you say to her ring true. And you’ll get some very nice practice for after.”

  “After?” Cecily frowned.

  “After you marry Frank Washington.”

  “But what about Sam?”

&nb
sp; Mae nodded and looked away from her. “And you’ll still get to see Sam after you are married.”

  “How am I going to do that? Sam wouldn’t do that!”

  Mae sighed and shook her head.

  “This isn’t about what Sam will or won’t do. It’s about you. Don’t you see you can do whatever you want? You’re a woman! You hold all the cards here. Lying to a husband is a hundred times easier than lying to a mother. And when you learn how to be careful you can have Sam, Val, or just about any other man you want. Cecily, what do you want?”

  The girl looked out the window again. “I don’t know . . .”

  Mae felt a taste of contempt, metallic and cold, in her throat. Maybe Cecily was even thinking about Sam, but Mae saw that whatever she was turning over in her little mind, her girlish attachment to Sam wasn’t really love. She was telling on herself by the way her gaze wandered onto Val on the ball field. She was probably trying to figure out what she could hold on to even as she took more—a child at a table of treats. Why, Mae wondered, did people always equate ease with taking candy from a baby? Really, the easiest thing to do would be to give the baby more, not take anything away, because faced with such bounty the baby would inevitably drop the piece you wanted for yourself.

  Mae moved away from the window and lit a cigarette, giving Cecily more space to ponder Val’s physique. Mae had to release her of the suffocation she most likely felt from having the weight of a man on top of her. She had to feel the possibility of floating underneath him, traveling to the place Mae had no doubt Val had shown her that night.

  She turned back to Cecily. “Then let me make it easy for you. Do you want to be a grown woman? Do you want to run your own life? Or do you want your mama telling you how it’s going to be from here on out? Now is when it happens, Cecily. Now is when you decide.”

  The light from the window behind Cecily silhouetted her profile, accenting her long neck and high cheekbones. She rose from the window seat and walked over to Mae with new and confident steps. She seemed at least two inches taller. At the same time Mae heard the lumbering sounds of her cousin approaching the door. Mae rubbed Cecily’s arm.