A Different Kind of Blues

by Gwynne Forster

  He had crushed her spirit, and he hated doing it, but he didn’t intend to let this woman or any other one ruin his life. “I didn’t expect you to act like this.” She fluttered her eyes and looked at him from beneath lowered lids. “You could help me get that promotion.”

  “Jada, what you asked me to do could land me in jail. I’m sorry.”

  “Come home with me.”

  He blew out a long breath, and it barely indicated the extent of his frustration. “I’m meeting my wife and my younger son for dinner.”

  She walked over to the window and looked down on the street. “Has she figured out that you’re fooling around? Or did your daughter tell her?”

  “That isn’t your business, Jada.”

  She pulled her tight skirt, shifting the side seam back into its place, and then pushed it down as if to make it longer. He had noticed that her clothes usually fit too snugly, and he suspected that she bought them that way purposely. Her face bore a sad expression when she looked at him. “I need to get a little place to stay, and you could help me if you wanted to. Just a small, one-bedroom condo would be security for my old age.”

  He nearly swallowed his tongue. “Let me get this straight. You’re asking me to buy you a condo? Are you out of your mind? Woman, you should’ve picked a man with money. Hell, I can barely pay the mortgage on my own house. Jada, you’re wasting your time on me. You could do better. Much better.”

  “I know. My main problem is that jail rap I got. If I could get my hands on that Petra Fields, I’d wring her neck. She could have saved me from this trouble if she hadn’t been such a coward.”

  He draped his right ankle over his left knee, wondering where the conversation was headed. At least she was no longer strident. “She’s not responsible,” he said, “so don’t get yourself into real trouble, and you will if you assault her.” He had to get her off the subject of Petra, but how? Petra was not his problem, but she was the mother of his child, and because of that he felt some responsibility for her well-being. “Tell you what, Jada. I’ll write you a reference as a member of the choral group, stating that you’re punctual, well-mannered, and decorous. Will that do?”

  She hung her head and kicked at his precious Persian carpet. “It’s more than I expected, and it should help.”

  He believed in grabbing opportunities when he saw them. “And you and I are going to end this farce,” he said. “It doesn’t suit either of us.” He took out his wallet and counted eighty dollars. “This is what I borrowed from you.”

  Jada looked at the money. “You kept a record?” He nodded. “You’re not going to see me anymore?”

  “Jada, you’re old enough to realize that you have no future with a married man, and especially with one who has never expressed any feelings for you. You ought to have more self-respect than to be content with a man who can’t even walk the street with you.”

  Her face seemed to swell with her anger. “I was thinking only of what I could get.”

  “Same here,” he countered, “and I’m ashamed of myself.” He typed out the recommendation on his business stationery, signed it, and gave it to her. “This squares it with us. You’re welcome to continue with the choral group, but I’m through cheating on my wife.”

  She read the note, put it in the envelope he gave her, and slipped it into her pocketbook. “Is this the first time you did it?”

  “Yeah, and I’m surprised at how easy it was.”

  She surprised him when she walked over, leaned down, and kissed his cheek. “I ought to be mad at you, Goodman, but I started it. Your wife better work on that marriage, ’cause right now, it’s about as strong as smoke in a hurricane wind. See you at rehearsal.” His lack of relief when the door closed behind her didn’t surprise him; he wouldn’t lay five cents on what Jada Hankins would do next.

  A few minutes before seven, he left the studio and walked the three blocks to Guido’s restaurant. Unless Carla had experienced a mind-blowing epiphany, she would surely arrive late; his wife didn’t understand the meaning of punctuality. He took a table near a window overlooking the park and waited. Among the trees, waterfall, and shrubs, lovers strolled in the twilight of the late-August evening, holding hands or stopping for a kiss. Could he enjoy that with Carla again, and how could he get them back to that point?

  She arrived at sixteen minutes past seven, tall and elegant in a navy-blue linen suit, pink blouse, and pink hat. With Carla, he had long realized, everything had to harmonize. “She wants everything and everybody around her to be in sync, except herself,” he muttered beneath his breath as he rose to greet her. He took a few steps toward her as she approached with their son, Paul, just behind her. He hardly recognized his own child, a boy now six feet tall, dressed as he was in a navy-blue suit, pale blue shirt, and red tie. When had his boy grown to six feet in height, only a few inches shorter than he? Goodman realized that his attention hadn’t been on his family, but on his job, on making money and a name for himself.

  He kissed Carla’s cheek and patted Paul’s shoulder, though he had an urge to hug the boy and, in that way, perhaps recapture some of the time lost. “You two make a man look good and feel great,” he said and meant it. “Was Peter upset because he couldn’t come with you?”

  Paul shrugged first one shoulder and then the other, in what Goodman surmised was the latest teenagers’ expression of boredom. “Dad, you know nothing stresses Peter. I think he was glad for us to get out of the house and let him study undisturbed.”

  He gazed at his son with not a little pride. “You’re a fine-looking young man, Paul. I don’t know when I’ve seen you out of torn jeans and a baggy T-shirt. I’m impressed.”

  Paul’s grin reminded him of Krista. “Thank you, sir. I…Sometimes I clean up pretty good. Uh…gee…thanks.”

  Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t that diffidence. Here I go again, communicating with one of the children and ignoring Carla. He smiled at her. “You look great. I think I should have suggested that we eat at Grayson’s.”

  “Good Lord, no,” Paul said, oblivious to his mother’s evident pride in her husband’s compliment. “If you’d said Grayson’s, Mom would probably have made me put on a tux.” The three of them laughed and, at that moment, he decided to get his house in order.

  After finishing his pecan praline ice cream, his favorite dessert, Paul cleared his throat a few times and looked first at one parent and then at the other one. “What is it?” Goodman asked him, unaware that the boy would raise the issue that his father had avoided for months.

  “I…Look! I want to meet my sister. Peter doesn’t, because it will mean he’s no longer the oldest, but can’t you just take me to meet her? I’d like to have a big sister.”

  Momentarily stunned, Goodman’s lower jaw sagged, but he quickly seized the moment. He’d needed that opening. “You’re right, son, and I should probably have brought her to meet my family as soon as I learned about her. But although she was born before I met your mother, Carla still has some rights, too, and I’ve been waiting for her signal. Krista has been badgering me about meeting her brothers and her stepmother, and I’ve told her what I just told you.”

  “When do you see her?” Carla asked him.

  “She has a beautiful mezzo soprano voice, so I had her join the choral group, and I give her piano lessons every Monday afternoon. We go from the studio to rehearsal, after which I drive her home.”

  “I see. Do you like her?” Carla asked him.

  “Of course I do. She’s my child.”

  “When have you seen her mother?” Paul searched the faces of his parents.

  “I haven’t seen her since the day, almost three months ago, when she told me about Krista.”

  “Well, if Mom doesn’t want to…I mean…Why can’t I go to the studio when she’s there taking a lesson, or maybe she and I can go to a movie or something.”

  “Tell you what,” Goodman began, “I’ll bring her here for dinner, and—”

  “That won’t wor
k,” Carla said. “Not in a public place. What about Sunday? We can have a barbecue, and everybody will be relaxed.”

  “Wonderful,” he said, feeling truly connected with his wife for the first time in many months. At home, later that night, he made love with her and realized that years had passed since he’d gotten more out of their lovemaking than physical relief. He delighted in every centimeter of her body that he could reach, mastering her, playing her like a lyrist plays a lyre. Yes, he had enjoyed his wife, possessing her, shattering her composure. He knew she had questions because of it, but he also knew she wouldn’t ask them for she, too, was culpable. He went to sleep holding Carla in his arms.

  The next morning, he telephoned Krista. “Can you come to my home Sunday afternoon to meet the rest of my family?”

  “You serious? What brought this on? Sure I can,” Krista said.

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at about two-thirty. Dress for a barbecue, but don’t overdo it.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll wear a skirt…maybe.”

  Now, if Jada would only leave him alone.

  Petra shifted around in her mind ways of broaching to Krista the need for them to reduce expenses. “There’s no way to do it except to do it,” she said to herself, and when Krista got home from work that afternoon, Petra said, “sit down, honey. We have to talk.”

  “OK,” Krista said, “but I was just going to ask you if I could have a piano.”

  Certain that her lower jaw sagged, Petra shrieked, “What? If you can have a what?”

  “A piano. Daddy’s giving me piano lessons, and he said I need to practice more.”

  Petra braced the heels of her open palms against the dining room table and pushed her chair from the table. “Taking lessons from him? How long has this been going on?”

  When Krista didn’t look at her, she knew the girl was about to drop a bomb. “Since before you went on your vacation. I see him every Monday, first for my piano lessons and then we go together to rehearsal.” She paused, looking at her feet. “While you were out West, Daddy gave me a computer and printer and set them up for me. I…uh…I like him. A lot, Mom.”

  “I’m glad you do,” Petra managed to say. “He’s your father. Have you met his family?”

  “Not yet. He’s taking me to meet them this coming Sunday, and I’m a little bit nervous about it.”

  “No need to be nervous. They’re the ones who’ll be worried about whether you’ll get something that would normally go to them.”

  “I’m prepared to like my brothers, but I don’t know about their mother. She may not want me around.”

  “Remember that she’s your stepmother, and be respectful.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll remember it every time she remembers it.”

  Petra stared at Krista. In six weeks, her daughter would be eighteen years old, and she was already prepared to take the measure of a woman old enough to be her mother. “Be careful, honey. Don’t forget that you must always respect your elders.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But if she’s not nice to me…” She let it hang, but Petra knew her daughter, and she didn’t have to guess what Krista left unsaid. “Uh, Mom, guess what.”

  “What?”

  “I think Daddy’s been getting it on with somebody. And why he’d pick that woman beats me.”

  Petra’s eyes widened. “You know her?”

  “She’s in the chorus, and she came to his studio once when I was there. He didn’t like it, either. I saw her leaving another time when I was arriving, but she didn’t see me. Mama, that woman is common.”

  “Don’t be so harsh, Krista. Maybe she’s poor and not well-educated.”

  “Humph. Jada Hankins has no morals, Mom, and Daddy ought to leave her alone. I told him he shouldn’t fool around with her, and if he doesn’t stop it, I’ll tell Carla.”

  Petra jumped up from her chair and grabbed Krista by the shoulders. “Jada Hankins? Good Lord! What’s he doing with her?”

  Petra told Krista how she knew Jada. “That woman is capable of violence.”

  At the end of her first shift the next day, Petra left the courtroom and headed to her office to type out her text. Keeping her attention off the handsome witness hadn’t been easy, not so much because he attracted her, he didn’t, but because she either attracted him, or he enjoyed flirting. Before she reached her office door, the witness for the defendant, whose testimony she’d just recorded, stopped her.

  “I was hoping I’d catch you before you disappeared,” he said in his deep, mellifluous voice. “Lady, you were messing up my head while I was trying to answer that prosecuting attorney’s questions.”

  “Your head’s easily messed up, mister. Excuse me.”

  “Wait a minute, will you? I want to get to know you. May I call you? Will you give me your phone number?”

  “Sorry. I can’t even talk to you before the judge says this case is closed. Excuse me, please.” She liked his looks and his self-assuredness. Six months earlier, she might have given him her phone number, but she loved Winston Fleet, and no other man existed. The law forbade her to be in the man’s company and, as she no longer faced imminent death, tempting fate—with the possibility of losing her job—no longer appealed to her.

  “But we can talk by phone. What’s the harm in that?”

  She attempted to pass him, but he blocked her way. “None for you, maybe, but I like my job. Come back after the case is closed. I’ll be here. Now, let me pass.”

  She opened the door, stepped inside, and would have closed it had the man not prevented it with his foot. Petra whirled around and ducked past him, back into the corridor.

  Hmm, so the brother liked to live dangerously. “Do you want me to call the court officer?”

  “Sorry,” he said and rushed off.

  “First time a man wanted me for my notes rather than for my sex appeal,” she said under her breath, went into her office, and locked the door. “I must be losing it, and I’m not even forty.”

  Instead of transcribing her notes, she stared out of the window, despondent. How could she ask Krista to help with the bills, when it was she and not her daughter who had created the financial crisis. Besides, Krista worked to save money for college.

  “I’ll find a way,” she vowed. “I have to.”

  Goodman fretted over Krista’s first visit to his home. He dressed in a pair of beige Dockers, a green and beige plaid shirt, and sneakers, got into his car, and drove to Petra’s house. When Petra opened the door, he realized that he hadn’t expected to see her.

  “Hi,” he said. “I…hope you don’t mind if I take Krista to my house for a cookout with my family. I thought it high time she met her brothers. I’ll…uh…bring her back home before it’s too late.” He hated that he fumbled for words, nervous and unsure of himself.

  “Come on in, Goodman,” Petra said. “Of course, I don’t mind. Krista told me about it, and I think it’s a good thing. She should know her brothers.”

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  He looked up and saw Krista skipping down the stairs and felt a catch in his throat. Young, beautiful, and so vulnerable. How had Petra managed alone to raise such a charming girl? He walked a few steps to meet her.

  “You look perfect,” he said of her white pants, green and white striped T-shirt, white sneakers, and green socks. When she reached up to kiss his cheek, he bent down to facilitate it, glad that his daughter felt free to kiss him in front of Petra. Points for Petra, he thought.

  “Thanks for the compliment, Daddy. I tried not to overdo it. I know I said I’d wear a skirt, but I changed my mind, and since I work in a department store, I just collected what I wanted and got my nice fat discount. Say, you look good, too.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. “See you later, Mom.”

  He felt strange walking out of Petra’s house with Krista, almost as if he were deserting her. But what did he say, or do? It didn’t seem proper to kiss her good-bye.

  Petra solved it when she said, “You two have a good time,” and walked tow
ard the back of the house. As he drove home, it occurred to him that he didn’t know how he felt about Petra, and that he ought to sort it out. At times, he wondered why, after eighteen years, she decided to tell him about Krista. Something was behind it, and he’d better find out what it was.

  He parked in front of his house, a two-story brown brick that sat well back from the street at the end of a tree-lined, upper-middle-class cul-de-sac.

  “Gee, Daddy. Do you live here?” she asked as she searched for the car door handle.

  “Sit right there,” he said. “I want you to learn to let a man open the door for you.”

  “I know, but I’d be out of the car before you could get around here to open the door. Gee, it’s so quiet.”

  “It isn’t noisy where you live,” he said, taking her arm. He had hoped that Carla would walk out to meet them, but he supposed that was too much to expect.

  At that moment, Paul emerged from the side of the house, a smile shining on his face. “So I’m meeting you at last, Krista,” he said. “I’m Paul, your younger brother.” He stopped and gazed at her. “Gosh! You look just like Peter and me.”

  To Goodman’s amazement, Paul caught Krista in a bear hug before she could speak and swung her around. “I’ve been dying to meet my big sister,” he said and kissed her cheek. “Thank goodness, you’re not a little runt.”

  Krista’s face bloomed into a smile. “I’ve been scared to death all morning, Paul, and I’m gonna love you for being so nice. I’ve been after Daddy to let me meet you and Peter.” She frowned. “Is Peter going to like me?”

  Paul shrugged. “Peter was the oldest, but now, you’re the oldest.” He spread his hands. “What can I say?”

  It seemed to Goodman that Krista became uncharacteristically pensive. Her face darkened. “I’ll make him like me. After all, he’s my big brother.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “Lay that on him, and he’ll cave right in.”

  Goodman stood alone, dumbfounded, as Paul took Krista’s hand and walked with her to the back of the house where he knew Peter and Carla waited. Paul and Krista seemed to have forgotten his presence. Well, that was one he didn’t have to worry about. However, Carla was like a black walnut, hard to crack, and Peter was very much like her, except that his ego responded well to buttering; Carla’s did not.