by Lori Johnson
“I’m sorry, I know it’s late,” Laylah said, while smiling at the two old women, neither of whom smiled back at her. “But I was worried and I wanted to see for myself how you were doing.”
Miz Irma grunted and crossed her feet at the ankles. Undeterred, Laylah left Dante’s side and, on reaching the bed, took one of his Big Mama’s hands. “Miz Vivian, please, if there’s anything at all I can do to help . . .”
Vivian Lee adjusted the angle of her bed and, wearing a more pleasant expression, leaned forward and patted Laylah’s hand. “You really wanna do something for me, chile? Well, there is this one thing. You see that little boy in that grown man’s body you come in here with? The one who’s standing over there with the sad look on his face?”
Laylah turned toward Dante and smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, that boy there owns a big chunk of my heart, always has. And I ain’t never liked seeing him in no pain. So if you love him anywhere near as much as you claim you do, you’ll stop hurting him. If you’re really serious about doing something for me, make it that. All right?”
Laylah bowed her head, like a scolded child and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
On leaving the hospital Dante followed Laylah’s lead and climbed into the backseat of Ace’s waiting vehicle. “Where to?” Ace asked.
“Roads Cross,” Laylah murmured, a response that struck Dante as unusual given his knowledge that the upscale-area hotels she typically preferred were either in Riverton or only minutes away right there in Harvestville.
He knew the exchange she’d had with his Big Mama upset her. She sat beside him, cloaked in an uncharacteristic silence, her head turned toward the window next to her and exhibiting none of the over-the-top gregariousness that made her such a hit among the B- and C-list entertainers whose legal interests she represented and served.
Several minutes passed before she turned and looked at him. “She hates me, doesn’t she?”
He couldn’t see her eyes but knew better than to think there’d be tears. Sadness and defeat, perhaps, but not tears. The last and only time he’d ever seen Laylah crumble beneath the weight of her emotions had been at Reuben’s funeral. He often wondered if having grown up in a family that worked among the dead had somehow made her tougher than most.
“She doesn’t hate you,” he said. “I think it would be more accurate to say she’s not terribly happy about some of the things you and I have done.”
When Laylah resumed her gaze out the window, Dante’s natural instinct led him to reach across the backseat and begin massaging her neck and shoulders. He couldn’t help himself. Coming to Laylah’s comfort and aid had been the role in which he’d found himself assigned, ever since that day back in grade school when he’d stood up with her against the group of fourth-grade girls determined to bring her down a notch.
Every now and then, the loud taunts of Willa Mae Rodgers, the biggest and baddest girl in the group, still rang in Dante’s ears: “Ain’t no wonder she won the spelling bee. Her glasses so damn thick she oughta be able to read through walls. Who she think she is with her ole black, four-eyed, proper-talking, stuck-up self?!”
Dante remembered, too, the whipping his uncle Mack had administered upon hearing tell that his nephew had been somewhere duking it out with a girl, even though Reuben, in a rare moment of solidarity, had offered that at five foot six, 180 pounds, and possessing one heck of a mean left hook, Willa Mae Rodgers was no ordinary fourth-grade girl.
With Ace stealing an occasional puzzled glance at them through his rearview mirror, Dante figured at some point Laylah would remember that they were the couple who’d been relegated to a lifetime of creeping. The pair who snuck around and did their dirt behind closed doors until somebody died or else packed up and left town for good.
But rather than shrug him off, Laylah unbuckled her seat belt and moved toward him. She leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered, “If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to stay with you tonight.”
A storm full of brilliant flashes and deafening claps greeted their arrival at Dante’s Big Mama’s house. After Ace brought Laylah’s luggage inside and Timothy parked Dante’s Jeep in the drive, they each extended Dante a hand clasp, a brother man hug, and a sly grin before wishing him and Laylah a “good night.”
With his back pressed against the closed front door, Dante looked at her and said, “You do realize by noon tomorrow everyone in Roads Cross, Harvestville, and the surrounding area, your daddy included, is gonna know . . .”
“Know what?” Laylah said with a weary smile. “You mean what most of them have already known for years now?”
Dante seized her bags and with her trailing behind him led the way to his old room. On depositing her luggage in a corner, he hurriedly turned down the bed and retrieved a clean set of towels for her from the linen closet. After placing the towels on the room’s dresser, he said, “The bathroom is across the hall. If you want something to eat or drink, you’re welcome to help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen.”
When he turned toward the door, she said, “I take that to mean you won’t be staying in here with me tonight?”
He scratched his head and, in keeping with their age-old habit of sparing each other the full truth without telling a complete lie, he said, “I’m feeling a little antsy. I’m gonna stay up and read for a while. I’ll be in the den if you need anything.”
She looked hurt but didn’t protest. Things hadn’t been right between them for some time and had only grown progressively worse since Reuben’s death. The day of his funeral had, in fact, been the last time they’d submitted to their inexplicable need for one another.
After the burial and the repast, Laylah had tried to convince him to do what they’d done on countless occasions in the past—meet up at the Westin in Riverton or the Hilton in Harvestville. She’d check in one room at one time, and he’d do likewise in another at another time, with the credit card she’d given him years ago for that specific purpose. And there he’d wait, until she called. There he’d wait until she could complete her getaway. But on that occasion he’d refused, something he rarely did. If she wanted him, he’d told her, it would be on his terms, which on that particular evening turned out to be while the kids, Ozzie and Zach, were away visiting with her relatives and Stewart, her husband, was off drinking and gambling with friends at a nearby casino.
Defying her protests, he’d met her in the same hotel and suite she’d checked into with her family. And the love he’d subsequently made to her in the bed in which only hours before she’d lain with her husband had been so fraught with fervor and intensity it had bordered on anger and, in truth, had frightened him, though Laylah, as always, had seemed remarkably unfazed. Afterward, instead of triumph and vindication, Dante had been filled with a sense of shame, remorse, and disappointment on a level he’d never experienced in all of the years he and Laylah had been sleeping together. Ever since then, he’d gone out of his way to avoid being alone with her. But he knew at some point she would insist they address the reasons behind their sudden disconnect and, as well, those underscoring his growing and obvious discontent.
While the house his uncle Mack built creaked and groaned beneath the wind’s fury, an exhausted and emotionally drained Dante fell onto the couch in the den and briefly closed his eyes. He thought about Aliesha and, even though he knew it was way too late to call, he flipped open his cell, pulled up her numbers, and ran his fingers over the warmth emanating from the phone’s brightly lit screen. He longed for the peace, comfort, and joy being with her lent him and wished he possessed the power to magically transport the woman currently occupying his bed out for good, while transporting the one on his mind into it forever.
After a moment, he rose and unfolded the couch’s sofa bed, and from the cedar chest that doubled as a coffee table, he collected the sheets, pillows, and blankets he’d need to make himself comfortable. Had the storm outside not been so intense, he might have ventured outdoors and retrieve
d the book Aliesha had given him. On stripping down to his boxer briefs, he did the next best thing and reached for the Kafka that was never too far from his side.
He’d barely settled beneath the covers and opened the paperback when Laylah appeared at the room’s entrance. “Did you have the television on?” she asked, her eyes big and her face drawn. She was barefoot and clad in one of his old high school football jerseys. “I could have sworn I heard a baby crying.”
Dante shook his head. “It was probably the wind or one of the neighbors’ cats.” He grinned. “Then again, it might have been my uncle Mack. He’s been known to prowl around here at night sometimes.”
Laylah opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, a sonic boom of thunder shook the house and made the lights flicker and dance. She darted over and curled up in the closest easy chair. “I’m not sleeping back there by myself,” she said.
Her cowering figure and the fright he saw on her face and heard in her voice stirred within him a soft blend of sympathy and amusement. Again, he couldn’t help but think of the precocious nine-year-old he’d rescued from the wrath of the big and less-than-bright schoolyard bullies. Laylah, the scrawny little brown-skinned girl with the thick glasses and the noticeable overbite who, with the help of her daddy’s money and her own smarts and determination, had gone from being an awkward, timid duckling to a confident and powerful head-turning swan.
Dante eased one of the pillows from beneath his elbow, placed it beside him, and tossed back the covers. Without a word, she came over and slid in next to him. His fear, that she’d take the invitation as one that included a desire for intimacy, quickly fell by the wayside when she turned her back to him and rubbed her cold feet against his calves as was her habit before she drifted off to sleep.
As her breathing grew deeper and more regulated, he rolled over and stared into the sister locs she’d only begun wearing within the last several months. He longed to caress the curve and intricate wind of the neatly arranged strands, but knew she’d probably awaken with the wrong impression.
His gaze fell to the blue and white jersey bearing his last name and old position number, 87. The familiar colors and the big, bold letters and numerals always made him ponder the “what if”s. Like, what if he’d never broken his leg? What if a pro football career had actually panned out for him? What if Laylah had never slept with Reuben? What if he and Laylah had gotten married? Would they have stayed together? If so, would they be living in L.A. and in the spectacular home she currently resided in with Stewart and her two sons? Would the two of them now have two sons? Two daughters? Or just the one child . . . the one and only child Laylah had opted not to carry to term?
While his uncle wandered through the rooms, haphazardly bumping into walls and rattling windows from the inside, Dante squeezed his eyes shut and fell asleep pondering which factor or its absence might have possibly altered his fate.
CHAPTER 33
He awakened to an empty bed and the sound of Laylah’s laughter coming from another room. He glanced at his watch and on noting the time—7 AM—he reached for his phone, thinking maybe he could slip in a quick call to Aliesha. But an incoming call from Timothy derailed his plans and shifted his focus.
According to the report Timothy had received from his mother, their cranky patient had rested comfortably last night and was anxious to get back home. She wanted Dante to bring her pocketbook and a clean change of her clothing on his return to the hospital. After Dante got off the phone, he jotted a mental note of the requests before heading off to the bathroom. If his Big Mama was feeling better, she no doubt would soon be giving the hospital staff and even Miz Irma holy hell. He figured he’d best waste little time in going to their rescue.
As he closed the bathroom door behind him, he once again heard Laylah’s cheerful voice and merry laughter. He briefly wondered with whom she was speaking. Certainly not her sons or Maria, their live-in nanny. Timewise, Los Angeles was three hours behind Roads Cross, so it would only be a little past four in the morning there. Her husband? Hardly. Stewart would be either resting up for his next flight or already navigating one of the commercial jets he piloted for a living. Besides, Stewart and Laylah conversed more like bored business partners than a happily married couple. With the exception of Mr. Jessie, she wasn’t really on the best of terms with any of her kin. A girlfriend, perhaps? But more than likely it was a client. She had plenty of those; the bulk of them washed up celebrity has-beens or long-suffering wannabes who didn’t keep normal hours or accord much respect to those who did.
When Dante stepped into the shower, his thoughts of Laylah faded and were soon replaced by slow-motion clips from his night with Aliesha. The steady pelt and stroke of the hot water soothed the tension from his muscles and reminded him of the repetitive press of her lips and the gentle glide and knead of her fingers. His body responded in the affirmative. But before he could derive any additional pleasure from his memories, the shower curtain parted and a naked and smiling Laylah joined him beneath the falling water and rising steam.
On appraising his state of arousal, she said, “Well, looks to me like you could use some help with that.”
Caught off guard and at a loss for how best to respond, when she eased her body against his, he tried to play along. He returned the hungry nips and pecks she planted on his mouth and chin. He ran his hands down the length of her back and over the curve of her behind. Having years ago committed both the route and the terrain to memory, he needed no instructions on what to do where. But the feelings, the ones he harbored deep inside, he couldn’t fake, and in a matter of seconds he’d gone soft where he’d once been hard.
When she pulled away, he saw what he knew to be frustration and resentment smoldering in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s the stress.”
“Sure,” she replied, before leaving him in the shower alone.
He finished bathing, dreading all the while the showdown he knew would surely come next. He dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and paused to shave before leaving the bathroom and the sweetness of his memories behind. A detour by his Big Mama’s bedroom, so he could collect and assemble the items she’d requested, lent him yet another reason to delay the inevitable.
When he finally entered his bedroom, he found Laylah dressed in a robe and seated on the side of his bed with her legs crossed and a good portion of her bare thighs and shapely calves exposed. One of her bags stretched open in front of her, but rather than packing, she appeared to be taking things out.
Neither of them said anything as he dropped the towel and began to dress. He managed to slip into clean underwear and a fresh pair of slacks without a hitch. She waited until he was seated on the bed and rolling up his socks before she said, “So, how long have you known her?”
“Known who?” he said, stalling for one last second or two.
“The woman who’s obviously got her hooks sunk so deep in you you’re no longer interested in making love to me.”
He squared his shoulders and looked at Laylah, knowing, like did she, it would be foolish to keep dancing around the truth. “Not long . . . at least not in the physical sense. In the spiritual, I’m not sure, but quite possibly all of my life.”
She leaned toward him with her eyes ablaze. “The spiritual?! What the hell is that, Dante? Your way of telling me you think this woman is your soul mate or something? All of these years, I thought that’s what you and I were, soul mates.”
He looked away from her. “Right! Now, that’s funny, ’cause I’m not sure I’ve ever known exactly what you and I were, Laylah.”
She reached over and touched the back of his hand. “I know how difficult coping with Reuben’s death has been for you—”
He jerked away from her and, in a voice one breath away from a shout, said, “Why do you always have to go and bring him up? What I’m feeling doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Reuben or his death.”
“Then what? What, Dante?! Now that I’m free, all of a su
dden you don’t want to do this anymore?”
“Free?” He shook his head and locked his steely gaze against hers. “What do you mean, free?”
She pried a large manila envelope from her bag and tossed it in the space between them on the bed. “Free, Dante. My divorce is final and I’m here in Roads Cross to stay. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”
He stared at the envelope. “What I wanted, once upon a long time ago, Laylah, was a life and a family with you.” He shook his head. “It’s too late for any of that now.”
“No, baby,” she said, while scooting closer to him. “It’s not too late. We can still have those things. A life together. A family. Even children of our own, if that’s what you want. I’ve done everything necessary to make it happen.”
“At this point, Laylah, it’s not even about what you’ve done,” he said, with emotion strumming his vocal cords like fingers on an upright bass. “Don’t you see? There’s so much you can’t undo . . .” He brushed off the hand she’d placed against his shoulder before abandoning the spot on the bed he’d occupied beside her.
He sought refuge in the bathroom, cursing himself for having tolerated and forgiven her selfishness, her bullshit, and her constant betrayals for all of these years and yet having wanted her in spite of it all. Why? Had it been a need predicated on the improbable chance that one day things would go back to the way they’d been before he’d broken his leg? Before she’d aborted his child? Before she’d allowed Reuben to con his way into her bed?