Unforgivable Love

by Sophfronia Scott

  “But why do I have to do all that? Why can’t I just drop her, stop seeing her? It’s not like I haven’t done that before.”

  She reached down and smoothed a hand over his forehead. When she got to his hairline her fingers pinched a piece of his hair and pulled so he had to look up at her. He winced. She ran her long slim finger down the center of his nose. Her eyes bored into him with a hard, shining brightness.

  “Because it won’t be finished. She’ll come after you. Drag it out. She’ll want to understand. You’ll have to play it all out sooner or later.”

  She slid off him and back onto the bed.

  “You may as well do it now. Be in control. Keep your reputation intact. Otherwise—” She began to laugh.

  A coal in the pit of his stomach began to burn.

  “Can you imagine what your friends would say if you started going around Harlem with Elizabeth Townsend? Would she even set foot in your club?”

  He chose to ignore these words. “She’ll be crushed.”

  “Yes, well, at least she has a husband to take care of her. Besides, what do you care? You don’t love her.” She shrugged and sighed. “Goodness, Val, I’m tired. Since you let yourself in I’m sure you can let yourself out.”

  She climbed back under the sheets and arranged the pillows beneath her. “Good night.”

  In the dark corridor, leaning against the wall, Val sank down to the floor and covered his face with his hands.

  HE HADN’T BEEN to his club in weeks. But after leaving Mae’s, Val decided he needed to be there. After walking all the way in the rain, he felt wet and heavy when he arrived. He shook the water from his coat and handed it to the girl, who would know to dry it off further and have it sent up to be hung in his office. His stride felt short and hesitant when he first entered the main room. But his step soon took on the bounce of the Louis Jordan song playing, and his feet accepted the more confident rhythm as he made his way across the crowded dance floor.

  I don’t care if you’re young or old,

  Let the good times roll!

  One hand touched his shoulder. Another reached out to shake his. The greeters had to shout to be heard over the raucous footfalls of the dancers.

  “Hey, Val! How’s it goin’?”

  “Jackson! How ’bout them Dodgers? They got that pennant in the pocket.”

  “Man, where you been?”

  A big-bottomed girl with sleepy eyes and a toothy smile shimmied into his path and tried to engage him in the dance. He obliged her for a few steps, but then went on his way. As he crossed the room he saw friends, dancers, and patrons, continuing to hail him as they always had before, smiling and waving. A few times, though, he found he had to shake his head and look again because the faces seemed contorted and grotesque, with their mouths gaping. He thought the waving hands closed into fists or pointed fingers and he heard in the music an undercurrent of laughter—of people laughing at him.

  But he knew this couldn’t be true and he managed to shake off the feeling. Once he did, he felt better by the minute. Eventually the club, the dancers, and the atmosphere did what he needed them to do: pump him full of bravado and remind him of his name—Val Jackson. Because as Val Jackson he saw no reason why he couldn’t field the play Mae had put in motion in such a way that would allow him to best her and still have Elizabeth in the end. He could cut Elizabeth loose now, but it would only be temporary. He had no doubt he could win her again. It wasn’t just because of his abilities that he knew this. He was simply that certain of her love. Forgiveness and mercy charged through her blood. She had forgiven him several times and, he was willing to bet, had done so countless times more for infractions she’d kept to herself.

  But what about Mae’s assessment of his reputation? He eyed the people juking around him as he cut through the dance floor. Would they really dare laugh at him? Again, his ego came to his rescue—even if they did, he was fully capable of shutting them up. They would all bow down to him when the details of his machinations became public. For him to juggle so many women, and of such varying ages and sensibilities—well, the whole affair would make him legendary. He laughed to himself because the word felt good: “legendary.” And in this final assessment the hurt he would inflict on Elizabeth would feel like a mere pinprick. The pain would be momentary, his fame everlasting. He knew, though, this would be the last time he’d ask such a sacrifice of her. He knew grace, at least for him, extended only so far. He would gladly acknowledge he’d put her through purgatory and then hell and she had survived it like no woman—ha, like no person!—he’d ever known. She would have earned his undying devotion then. He would happily give it.

  He made his way through the crowd and up the stairs to his office, where he slammed the door closed behind him. He sat in his chair, lit up a Montecristo, and put his feet up on the desk. He rocked a bit and thought about what he had to do. What would be the best way to do it? Mae had given him the script. He saw no reason not to use it. Such a detail would play in his favor—it would be easier to disown the words when the time came. And Mae would like knowing she had a significant role in the scene. It would further ingratiate him to her.

  He turned the words over in his mind, particularly the curious phrase, “I just can’t help myself.” He didn’t like it. It made it sound like he couldn’t control himself when he had been nothing but controlled all summer. His choices had all been good—gaining Elizabeth had proved that. But the very thought of his gain, and the memory of its consummation, caused him to suck in the cigar smoke too quickly. It stung his throat and he sat up coughing. He recalled his tears and her own and her words: “I am here.”

  He could write a letter. The benefit would be the advantage of being able to turn over a copy of the missive to Mae, another token of his sincerity. But then he would have no way of knowing how Elizabeth had handled the news. Could he stand that? If he couldn’t he might be driven to see her somehow, and foreseeing the result would be tricky. He might feel moved to placate her, to begin too soon the work of luring her to forgive him. She had her own way of working, and he respected her enough to know he wasn’t totally immune to her ability to seduce him. If he gave in that would anger Mae—she would certainly find out about such a betrayal, however minor, and that would destroy everything.

  No, he had to see Elizabeth and see her just once. He had to rip off the bandage fast and clean. He could make his little farewells that would allow him to step away from her. He would observe her carefully and take mental note of what he might perceive as bread crumbs he could leave on the path that would eventually lead him back to her. This bit of hope would help him withstand her inevitable tears and, for the moment, view her as just another of the women he’d known who had wailed over the loss of his company. He would make himself see Elizabeth as the ordinary woman Mae insisted she was. Of course he knew better, but this tiny delusion was necessary for his performance. With this thought he grew more confident in his ability to pull it off. As long as he prepared himself well, he saw no reason he couldn’t come out of the event shining.

  THE NEXT DAY Val waited for Elizabeth to go out before he bribed the doorman to let him into the apartment. He planted himself on the sofa and stayed there, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. He needed to be alone, in her rooms, to empty himself of her as much as he could and prepare for what he needed to do. He unraveled himself through one hour and then the next. He could have used a third hour but then he heard Elizabeth’s key in the lock and in another moment she rushed, breathless, into the room.

  “What a surprise! I didn’t expect you. When the doorman said you were here I was so excited, the elevator couldn’t go fast enough!” She threw herself onto him, her arms around his neck. “It was like time stood still. Do you ever feel like that?”

  “I feel like that right now.”

  She didn’t notice he hadn’t touched her, and he knew he had to keep talking because if he didn’t he would touch her. If he touched her he wouldn’t be able to do wha
t he came to do.

  “I’ve been feeling it the whole time I’ve been sitting here. Like I’m stuck. I’ve been a fool to think I could ever change. I just can’t help myself.”

  Elizabeth hopped off him and flopped down on the sofa next to him. She laid her head against his shoulder and smiled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Me. I’m talking about me. I just can’t help myself. I’ve realized I’m done with you.”

  “What?” She raised her head.

  He homed in on the piece of sky, calm blue, he saw through the window.

  “It’s time. The only change I can ever make is to move on to the next woman. It’s time. I just can’t help myself.” Having the phrase helped him stay focused. When he didn’t know what to say, he would say it and it kept him moving where he needed to go.

  She was staring at him, waiting for the joke that would surely follow. But when he didn’t laugh, she seemed to choke on what she said next.

  “What are you saying? You don’t love me anymore?”

  He shook his head slightly. “I don’t know, Elizabeth. Was it love? Because if it was, it had a hard time outlasting the win once I had you.”

  He stole a quick glance at her—bad move. He saw the tears already present in her eyes. But they had yet to run down her cheeks. He turned his attention back to the ceiling and delivered another line.

  “I just can’t help myself,” he said. Then he shrugged. “You can’t seriously believe you’re the only woman I’ve been seeing?”

  “The prostitute?” Her left hand pressed on his chest. He was going to have to move and do it soon.

  “Right, but she doesn’t matter. There’s another and she is all that matters.” He pushed her hand away and got up from the couch. He felt a reluctance in his leg muscles and thought he would fall back toward her. He managed to make it to the brown wingback chair near the hallway and he put his hands on its back to steady himself. He would need to be able to go quickly so he was glad to be closer to the door.

  “Look, she’s a jealous woman,” he said. He surprised himself by laughing a little. “Even more so than you! She won’t share me so I have to give you up. That’s all I can say. I just can’t help myself.”

  “Liar!” She shot up from her seat, the words hot from her lips. “I can’t believe you. This isn’t you talking! Why are you doing this?”

  “Me?” He laughed fully then and shook his head. “I don’t think so. You need to look in the mirror. I . . . am . . . a . . . snake.” He said the words slowly, deliberately, as though he had to remind himself as well as her of the truth of them. A truth well told is much more effective than a lie. “You knew that! When you get close to a snake and the snake bites, whose fault is it? You knew I was a snake. And I’m still a snake.” He shrugged and shifted his feet. He repeated Mae’s phrase again, but he felt the words, dull and flat in his mouth. “I just can’t help myself.”

  “It’s not true.” She pulled at her hair and bit her lip. “And even if it is— Val, I know I’m not like the women you’re used to. I’m not as pretty or as interesting, but I can change!”

  He put his forehead down on the back of the chair and wanted to scream so he wouldn’t hear her words. There was a kind of blasphemy to them and he couldn’t bear to hear it, not from her.

  “You changed! You know you did! You’re no more a snake than I am. Val, please—”

  He straightened himself and was horrified to see her coming toward him. That silly, adorable curl hung over her eye as she looked down to unbutton her shirt.

  She said, “If you can change, so can I.”

  He wanted to grab her right then and there and make her stop. He wanted to whisper, as though Mae might overhear, that the hurt wouldn’t last for long. He wanted to plead with her not to make this so hard for him. But he knew her so well—so very, very well. It wasn’t her nature to stop, because she loved him, and she would be determined to make things right for him because that was what she wanted for him. If her love had been a selfish one she would do what he had experienced before—she would be throwing lamps at him, and trying to punch him or claw at his eyes. That’s what the ordinary women did.

  “Look, your husband will probably be back soon,” he said. He shuffled his feet backwards so he could maintain the space between them. “Or you can find yourself another man. It’s your choice, but from now on I can’t care about what you do. I’ve never regretted anything, not a day in my life, and I’m not about to start now.”

  She reached for him, but Val ran. He shut the door before she got there and in another moment he was around the corner and flying down the building’s steps. His heart banged in his chest and he knew how close he’d come to failing. If he had looked at her, if he had touched her, he would have taken it all back within a moment. He felt like a thief running from the scene of a crime. He had to put as much distance between them as possible but he knew as he rushed down the street with tears stinging his eyes that however far he ran, it would never be enough.

  CHAPTER 47

  Mae

  Harlem, September 1947

  Mae sat writing letters at her desk and waiting. It was a Friday night, almost mid-September. She thought for certain Val would be at her door sooner. Her handwriting floated onto the paper but she couldn’t focus on it. He had paid what she assumed to be the fateful visit on Monday. She didn’t expect to see him that night or on Tuesday. He had to have his show of being in control and she could allow for that. But Wednesday slipped by and then Thursday. She thought about the possible reasons he hadn’t come. Each one annoyed her and made her fidget in her chair. Was he checking on the woman? Or had he been truly moved by her? Maybe he didn’t dare show his face because he didn’t know how to hide it. But this thought made Mae smile. She pushed on the tip of her pen and punctured the sheet of paper.

  No. She was certain he would have the nerve to stand in front of her, to celebrate his actions, and to try to deny Elizabeth Townsend ever meant anything to him. She marveled at how he could sustain himself with the delusion but then, of course, he was a man. It seemed to be their natural way. They liked to believe they were in charge and entitled to all they beheld. Wasn’t that what had made the creep in Tabou touch her? And likewise, wasn’t it Sam’s reason for doing what he claimed was defending her? When all was said and done, the fight, as noble as Sam may have been, was really about each man claiming ownership of Mae. As if there was ever a chance in hell of that happening! She laughed out loud and kept writing.

  She didn’t look up when the parlor door burst open and smacked against the wall. Instead she carefully shaped her face to seem calm and bored. She took a deep breath and laid down her pen. When she felt she had affected the right look she raised her eyes and leaned forward on her elbows. She hoped he would make it interesting.

  “Really, Val, all this breaking and entering isn’t becoming to you.”

  He threw off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. Mae felt a twitch between her legs and pressed her thighs together.

  “It’s done,” he said. His voice sounded gravelly.

  Mae smiled and got up from the desk. He’d barged in as though he’d come straight from Elizabeth Townsend. Why would he do that? she wondered. He obviously had to pump himself up to burst in the way he did. She guessed he’d received some news about the woman—news he didn’t like. Now they would begin.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What’s done?”

  “I dropped her—with your words, your script. Exactly.”

  She laughed and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my.”

  “I said I just couldn’t help myself. It’s over. Are you happy now?”

  She crossed her arms. It always had to come back to someone else. Like he had nothing to do with any of it.

  “Why would I be happy?”

  “Because that’s what women are about. Win the man, be happy.”

  He took off his shirt and at first Mae wanted to hold her breath. But she let the air move through
her lungs, slow and controlled.

  “Well, there is some truth to that. When one woman strikes at the heart of another? That’s power.” Her hand rose to his chest, a dangerous move, but she couldn’t resist. “The loser almost never recovers. And as you know, I never lose.” She leaned in just close enough to blow gently on his left nipple. “But what if the man wasn’t the prize? What if the man were merely the object?”

  He glanced down at her. “The object? What are you talking about?”

  “Yes, Val.” She looked up in his eyes and smiled the way she knew he loved her to smile. Here was all of it—every perfect aspect of what she and Val were, distilled down to its cool and bittersweet essence. She would taste it now. She would savor it. And so would he. “It was all about you. How about that?” She poked a finger into his chest to stress her every word. He would have to enjoy it eventually—to know that even as he lied to her, betrayed her, tried to outthink her, he had been the target of her singular enduring focus. One day he would understand. This was what he wanted all along. “You—and me making you give up the first true love you’ve ever felt in your sorry, little, life.”

  His arms hung loosely at his sides and she was disappointed. He looked too defeated too soon. Maybe she’d made a mistake in using the words “true love” but she wouldn’t believe they would totally deflate him. Finally he pushed her away. The force of his hands made her suck in her breath. She managed to force the air out of her throat again with her laughter.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice rose.

  “Why do you have to ask? What have we been doing? What have we always done?”

  “She’s messed up now! Messed up, you—”

  Mae raised a hand to silence him. She couldn’t let him go further. She would not shoulder his blame. “Now, Val, I didn’t do that. You did that. Go ask yourself why you did it. What did you want? Do you have it now?”

  He grabbed her by the neck and pushed her back against the wall. She stared hard into his eyes. She knew she could not look away. She could not show fear.