Just then he saw Lady Bell gunning the SUV down the driveway, waving hurriedly as she made the sharp turn on to the main road. Then, realizing it was Jordan, she reversed and pulled alongside him.
“Good morning, Jordan. Trisha said you’d be coming by,” she smiled, made a quick turn, and sped away.
Jordan rang the bell hoping to see Trisha, but Pie’s grim face startled him.
“You ring that bell like you never had a bell to ring.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
Pie waved for him to follow, and he did, staying a respectful distance behind her broad back and curly, jet-black wig that she wore at a rakish angle. She led him to the master bedroom where Trisha sat on her parents’ bed with stacks of paperwork before her.
“This boy wants to see you. I hope he can see you busy,” Pie said, cutting her eyes at him.
“It’s okay, Pie. I have a few minutes.”
Pie grumbled something and left the room. Trisha kept at her work, barely glancing in his direction.
“How are you doing? Is everything okay?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“What’s with the paperwork so early in the morning?”
“My father is in the hospital. He had a nervous breakdown.”
Jordan paused for a minute, wondering if he should ask anything more. Trisha seemed on the verge of crying.
“That’s horrible . . . you must be feeling . . . horrible.”
“I don’t have time to feel horrible. His insurance is screwed up, something to do with him retiring.”
“How’s your mother taking it?”
Trisha laughed bitterly.
“She spends all her time at the hospital. I spend all my time sorting papers and making phone calls. I hate sounding selfish but I graduate next month. I expected to be happy at least for a day. Now everything’s falling apart.”
Jordan leaned against the wall, thinking he should have called first.
“So, you’ve come to tell me about the nightclub? David said you’d be by.”
Jordan shrugged. David had beaten him to the punch.
“Well, yes . . . I thought you should know.”
Trisha finally smiled.
“I’m glad you’re so concerned for me, but I’m a big girl.”
“What did David say? Did he explain?”
“He said you were there with a very pretty girl. Daffy, he said, but I knew he meant Daphne.”
“Yeah, we were there, but David was . . .”
“I know, dancing with two men. He said you’d get all excited about that.”
“So that’s not a big deal to you?”
Trisha slipped a rubber band around some of the envelopes and began sorting through a fresh stack of dog-eared letters. He waited anxiously for her to say something, show some outrage, anger, or irritation.
“Why do you think I’m so stupid? I know David very well.”
“That’s it? You didn’t have him explain himself?”
“Usually, I don’t demand that my friends explain themselves.”
“But he’s not just a friend. You’re engaged to him and he’s gay as tomorrow!” Jordan shouted.
Trisha laughed.
“Don’t get so excited and get Pie coming in here with a skillet to bust you in the head with.”
“Trisha, I don’t think you have a clue of what you’re doing,” he said, louder than he had wanted to.
A sharp knock on the door, and there was Pie glowering at Jordan.
“What’s this boy being so loud for?”
“It’s okay, Pie. We’re just having a loud conversation.”
“A conversation? Y’all yelling.”
“I’d better go,” Jordan said, and turned to leave.
“Thanks for coming by,” Trisha said, “and checking on me.”
Jordan nodded, and as fast as he could, he walked away, but not before Pie’s, “Don’t go stomping through the house!”
As soon as Jordan was gone, Pie turned and gave Trisha a big grin.
“You got that boy so jealous he can’t see straight.”
Trisha barely looked up from the stacks of bills surrounding her.
“Huh, Pie? I didn’t hear you.”
Pie straightened her apron and headed back to the kitchen.
“Don’t you worry; that boy don’t know how stuck he is on you,” Pie said, as she shut the door.
* * *
Jordan blew off his office hours, and returned home and spent the rest of the day working on his thesis. Mostly he spent the time trying to make sense of years of notes that no longer seemed insightful or even meaningful—it was actually sort of pleasant working. “Kind of Blue” crept down weakly from a San Luis Obispo radio station, lessening the bitter boredom of reading a stack of academic journals. He forced himself through a paragraph of prose so stultifying that it had to be in some language that only idiots could or would want to read. His attention, like the jazz station, flitted in and out. He watched traffic race up and down busy Milpas, counting the cars that ran the red light. He watched the teenagers on their way to the Taco Bell as he discarded dead and useless research into the wastepaper basket. Yeah, he’d finish that thesis, and then he’d submit it and get on with his life. Somebody might even find “Jazz: Influence and Fluency in Contemporary American Literature” worth reading, but he had to finish it first. He had no choice; with just a little imagination he could see the unemployment line snaking all the way to his dusty bedroom. Time to get real about finding a serious teaching gig that paid for dental care and all that job security he heard so much about. His mind flitted again; Daphne and tonight’s dinner, what was that going to amount to? It must be getting serious, but he was probably just blowing it out of proportion; her parents probably wanted to see what kind of black man she was sleeping with.
Normally, he wasn’t in his room at the computer this late in the afternoon. He stretched out on the bed and shut his eyes; dinner wasn’t for another couple of hours. He hoped he’d wake in time, but if he didn’t, well . . .
“Wake up.”
He opened his eyes to see Daphne in a flimsy dress smiling at him.
“Your hair is wet,” Jordan said, sitting up.
“I was swimming at Boys’ Beach.”
“The nude beach?”
“Yes, it was kind of ugly. This hairy fat man, with a thing so large it looked deformed, waited at the shore for me to come out, and no matter how far I swam, he followed me.”
“What did you do?”
“I waited ‘til some guys came along, and then I sprinted by him.”
Usually, Jordan could hold a conversation even if he wanted to jump on Daphne’s bones, but this particular battle was already lost; the thin material of her soaked dress could barely restrain her erect nipples. She stretched out next to him on the bed, and immediately he lifted the damp dress and kissed the curve of her hips.
“Daphne, I uh . . .”
“Jordan, the window.”
“Yeah, right.”
Jordan closed the blinds and turned to see Daphne peel off the wet dress. He couldn’t get out of his pants fast enough, but eager as he was, he tried to slow the process down. He wanted to commit her to memory: her eyes, her legs, her breasts, her mouth. She guided him in, and he worried he’d come at once, but skillfully Daphne stopped the chain reaction, slowing the motion until he could move inside her without exploding. He whispered, “I love you, I love you.” He wanted her so much that if he died right there, it wouldn’t have mattered. He held her tighter, breathing in the air she exhaled, inhaling everything about Daphne.
Afterward, they rested on his narrow bed, but Jordan’s mind raced, devising ways—marriage, kidnapping, drugs—to have her again and again, afraid to think of living his life away from her.
She met his eyes, looking as though she would reassure him and put him at ease that she felt the same overwhelming love.
She looked away.
His heart sank.
>
“I should go. I need to help with dinner,” she said.
He watched her wiggle into the still wet dress and leave in such haste she had to come back for her shoes. She didn’t say good-bye, and even though he’d see her again shortly, it bothered him, like a window opened to an impending storm.
* * *
Jordan arrived at Daphne’s on time but wondered if he should drive home to find a tie. He wore a jacket, white shirt, khakis, and penny loafers. Anybody could see he was no wild man, more like Denzel than Tupac. Her parents would see that he was just an instructor . . . who happened to be freaking their daughter . . . while she was still a student in his class.
With that, he sat back down to rethink the whole thing. He was sure that this dinner would be awkward and weird, maybe even a disaster.
He arrived at that hated glass oval door and waited uncomfortably like a trapped bug for someone to answer the doorbell.
Daphne ran down the stairs in a red sarong and with her hair pulled back and braided. Seeing her so soon after making love made him feel as though it hadn’t happened. He wanted proof. Before she could say a word, he kissed her.
“I missed you,” he said.
“It’s been so long,” she said with a laugh, and led him to the sunroom behind the kitchen. Her mother stood up from the table to greet him, as did her father. He looked to be much older than the mother, with a narrow red face and sharp teeth like the Renfield character in Dracula.
“Glad you could make it,” he said.
Jordan shook his hand. Mr. Daniels gestured for Jordan to sit. The table had a centerpiece of fruit and cheese, and next to it, two bottles of wine. Jordan imagined the old man—“More flies, Master!”—begging for bugs.
“Red?” Mr. Daniels asked. “The red is very good.”
Jordan nodded, wanting to laugh.
“So, you teach at the university?”
“Yes. I teach a Japanese lit class under the supervision of the provost of the college.”
“Daphne goes on about how much she enjoys your class,” Mrs. Daniels said. Her tone was pleasant and her smile seemed genuine. Jordan relaxed a bit.
“She’s a wonderful student and about the only one who keeps up with the reading. The Tale of Genji is pretty tough going in places.”
“I’m surprised to hear that Daphne is applying herself,” Mr. Daniels said.
“Do you speak Japanese?” Mrs. Daniels asked.
Jordan shrugged. “Well, I’ve had four years of Japanese, but I barely can ask, ‘Where’s the rest room?’ I’m language-challenged.”
“You’ve lived in Santa Barbara long?” Mrs. Daniels asked, to restart the conversation.
“For almost ten years.”
“So, you like it here?” she continued.
“Yes, I’d like to make Santa Barbara my permanent home.”
“Really?” said Daphne. “I couldn’t spend the rest of my life in this city. . . . It’s claustrophobic,” she said.
He was surprised that she would disagree with him so quickly in front of her parents.
“I like it here,” Jordan said. “It doesn’t have to be claustrophobic.”
Daphne sighed.
“You have to make your life wherever you are. I find Santa Barbara interesting, and I’ve lived here all my life,” Mrs. Daniels said.
“Maybe our daughter needs more excitement,” Mr. Daniels said. “Though you would think she had had enough at this point.”
Jordan hadn’t even had much of a drink or an appetizer, and already the evening was on the verge of blowing up.
“So, Daphne,” Mr. Daniels said jeeringly, “where would you like to live?”
“I liked New Zealand,” Daphne replied.
For no good reason, Jordan commented, “In New Zealand, sheep outnumber people ten to one.”
“Still, even with all those sheep, Daphne managed to make a time of it there, too,” Mr. Daniels said.
Mrs. Daniels obviously wanted to lighten up the conversation. She patted her husband’s hand and smiled apologetically at Jordan.
“You were arrested and thrown out of the country,” Mr. Daniels said.
Jordan glanced at Mrs. Daniels, who looked worried. Daphne eyed her father grimly. Mr. Daniels sipped at his water, ignoring her stare. Daphne picked up a teacup and gripped it so tightly that Jordan was sure she would hurl it at Mr. Daniels’ head.
“My family can be difficult,” Mrs. Daniels said pleasantly.
“What family isn’t?” Jordan said.
“Here, here,” Mr. Daniels said, and poured everyone another glass of wine.
“Len, help me with the chicken,” said Mrs. Daniels. Without a word her husband stood and dutifully followed his wife into the kitchen.
“Now comes the scolding,” Daphne said, smirking.
“Is everything going to be okay?” Jordan asked.
“Of course. He can be very pleasant when he’s under control. He probably missed taking his Zoloft.”
Jordan still felt uncomfortable.
“My family has hope for me.”
“Hope?” Jordan asked.
“Hope that things work out for me, that I don’t disappoint them. They treat me like I’m capable of anything; suicide, joining a cult. I used to think maybe they were right, that I couldn’t hold it together, but being adopted gives me hope; that’s the only reason I’m sure I won’t go insane.”
Jordan waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. Instead, she smiled at him. He tried to contain his curiosity, but he didn’t do a good job.
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised? I thought we talked about this,” she finally said. “I’m not nearly so pink as they are.”
He shrugged.
“Father was English, and Mother was a mixed-race South African woman. I was adopted at four into a life of affluence and what else: cocktail parties, fund-raisers, depression, family viciousness.”
“Did you ever meet your biological parents?”
“No. I used to think that I could find them, that they were out there somewhere, waiting for me. Maybe that’s why I started running away.”
Mr. and Mrs. Daniels returned with a roasted chicken and a plate of steamed vegetables. It didn’t help Jordan find his lost appetite, but it was just as well. Hard to make a good impression when your mouth is full.
As soon as everyone was served, Mr. Daniels started in as if he was continuing a conversation. “You must know that anyone trying to understand this family has to be prepared, because we live on the verge.”
“The verge of what?” Jordan asked.
“The verge of disaster,” he said with a labored, straight face.
* * *
Jordan wished he was driving and not Daphne. It had seemed a good idea to drop his car off and drive with her, but now she was barely hitting the brakes as she negotiated the hills. How much farther to her apartment? Jordan wondered, weighing whether he should suggest that she slow down, but thankfully he didn’t have to. She turned into an oddly angled parking space, cut the engine, and burst from the car, running for her apartment up the hillside.
Jordan thought for a minute that she must have really had to go. He waited a minute, then five, before knocking, but the door was open, and he found her under the covers shaking.
“Daphne?”
She didn’t respond. He took a few steps toward her and she pulled the covers higher.
“Should I go?”
Finally, in a strained voice she said no.
“What is it?”
“Panic.”
“You’re having a panic attack?”
“It happens when I spend too much time with my family.”
The covers inched down. He sat on the edge of the bed and held her still shaking hand.
“Have you been to a doctor? Can’t he give you something for anxiety?”
She sighed as though she had heard this too many times.
“Of course, if I wanted it.”
“You don’t?”
“I have absolutely no interest in that kind of treatment. I don’t want to change myself.”
He started to reply but she pressed her finger against his lips.
“Let’s go to sleep.”
“Sure,” he said. He got out of his clothes and slid next to her, ignoring the grit of her sandy bed. They made love, and he tried to reassure her as they did that he would protect her, that she didn’t have to be afraid of anything. He looked down at her face, at her lips; everything about her was precious to him. He held back, wanting to show her how much he loved her, how much he wanted her to share in what she made him feel. Finally, he lost himself, whatever he was thinking; Daphne grasped him around the face, kissing him between half-gasped words.
“Don’t hold back; I want you to give it to me. Give it all to me,” she said.
Like he had a choice.
* * *
Morning light: the bare white room seemed cloudy as if he had dreamed her next to him—cold feet against his, the scent of her hair. He was almost fully awake but fought it, delaying it as long as he could. He knew once they were awake they’d part, and he wasn’t ready for that.
Boom!
They both bolted upright to the sound of someone pounding on the door. She gestured for him to be quiet.
“Daphne! Goddamn it, Daphne! I know you’re in there. I know you’re home!”
Jordan’s heart pounded as hard as that lunatic outside beat the door. Daphne didn’t seem alarmed. She looked almost indifferent.
“Open the damn door!”
Jordan struggled into his pants, no way was he going to get shot down like a dog, in his boxers. He ran into her tiny kitchen looking for something to defend himself and Daphne with, but all he could find was a teapot and a butter knife. Hearing the chain being taken off the door, he rushed in and saw Daphne in a robe talking to a balding, powerfully built white man in an expensive suit.
“I didn’t know you had company,” he said, pleasantly.
Daphne seemed at ease, even pleased to see this man who had been pounding at her door moments before.
All the Trouble You Need Page 10