“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my wife. Hast thou come to torment me before my time?”
“You might want to keep in mind that a demon said that to Jesus.”
“Maybe it’s you who should keep that in mind.”
“Is that supposed to scare me, Jazz?”
“Not if you’re the Jesus person.”
We had no privacy. The men and women who usually milled about looking cranky and bored now stood at attention, waiting for the drama between us to either come to blows, bodice ripping, or both.
He pulled out the chair beside his big honkin’ desk for me, and I took his cue and sat.
My gorgeous husband, his fair skin somewhat slick and pasty, had seen better days. He looked unusually unkempt, like he’d taken hygiene tips from Bobby Maguire. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. I felt my cheeks warm under his gaze.
I couldn’t help asking, “Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
“You look different.”
“So do you, not that I’m complaining.”
Another expanse of uncomfortable silence stretched between us. When I could stand it no more, I tried to fill it with the free-floating monkey chatter occupying my brain.
“You’re looking at me like I’m a figment of your imagination.”
He gave me a sly smile. “I could touch you to make sure you’re real.”
Before I had a chance to protest, he reached out and grazed a hand through my braids, then buried his face in them.
“Actually, that’s the only thing about me that’s not real.”
Into my ear, “That’s the only part I can touch and be a good boy at work.”
And speaking of being a good boy at work…
I could smell way too much mouthwash on his breath. An old, completely ineffective game alcoholics play to mask their drinking.
“My hair is real, but it’s not mine. Well, it’s mine. I bought the hair—real, uh, human hair. Extensions.”
He released my hair, his glassy eyes studying me. “You abandoned the blond braids.”
I nodded, even though it wasn’t a question.
He cocked his head and regarded me with a smirk. “What’s the matter, baby, Rocky blond enough for both of you?”
“I wanted to get back to black.”
He gave me a wicked grin. “That’s reassuring.”
“I meant black hair.”
“Of course you did.”
I scooted my chair away from him. “I don’t want to spar with you, Jazz. Nothing is going on between me and Rocky.”
“So you said. I’m sure his tongue fell down your throat by accident.”
“His tongue wasn’t down my throat.” I crossed my arms. Looked around to see if anyone heard and might be gawking at us. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“You’re right. You shouldn’t have. This is my job.”
“On second thought, yes, I should have.” I whispered now. “It’s bad form to drink alcohol at work.”
“So I’ve been told, more than a few times.”
“Jazz…” I didn’t know what to say to him, where even to begin. I thought it might be a good idea to start over. I took another deep breath. “Jazz, do you know why I’m here?”
“Yes.”
“You do?”
“What took you so long?”
“I didn’t want to do this. Other people put me up to it.”
“Other people?”
I waited for whatever biting response he’d have, but instead he shook his head. “Spare me the details. Do you want to go somewhere we can talk privately?”
I looked around. “And where would that be?”
He raked his hand through his brown curls. “Come on.” I stood, and he put his hand on the small of my back, arousing the tingling he always stirs in me.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere private. You’ve already ruined my street cred by telling the metro Detroit area I gave your pet sugar glider CPR.”
“I asked Kalaya not to print that part. She couldn’t resist.”
He led me to the interrogation room.
I stepped in reluctantly. A uniformed cop sat at the table positioned in the center of the room. He’d been listening to the radio and apparently filling out reports. When Jazz and I entered, he bolted upright.
“Sorry, Lieutenant Brown.”
The cop looked at me and a smile played about his lips. Jazz glared at him.
“Out,” he said, and the uniform scurried out of the room. Jazz closed the door behind us, the radio still blaring.
“Would you like to have a seat?” he asked. He stepped over to the table and flipped a number of switches underneath. “I’m making sure no one records us. We have the room set up for it.”
Thanks for sharing. Now I feel really comfortable.
“I’ll stand,” I said.
When he was done securing our privacy, he came back to me. Stood impossibly close. He shrugged. “Do what you gotta do, but don’t be surprised if I do what I gotta do, myself.”
I froze. I wasn’t expecting him to say that, and I couldn’t imagine what he’d want to do. Well, yes, I could, and what annoyed me was I’d probably want to let him. Jazz looked irritated at my hesitation.
He leaned into my ear. “Maybe I deserve something good from you before it’s all said and done.”
I’d lost control of the situation already. “I’m sure you do deserve something from me, Jazz.”
“I said something good.”
He moved closer still, the space collapsing between us in his swift movement. Oh, man. I loved him. I needed him. And I didn’t think I’d have any power left in me to resist him. The truth was we weren’t ready for that kind of love. I think we both knew it.
The uniform had been listening to Detroit’s public radio. They played amazing jazz. My husband stared at me while the DJ rambled on about Lady Day. The sound of Billie Holiday singing Gershwin’s “Our Love Is Here to Stay” followed the man’s velvet voice, the irony of the lyrics mocking us.
He slipped his arm around my waist. “Can you dance?”
“Uh—”
“You know what dancing is, don’t you? Or maybe you don’t. I know you’re one of those brainy types—”
“I can dance, Jazz.”
His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, but we’re in the interrogation room. At the police station. Forgive me if I’m not wanting to play Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers with you.”
But he had already grabbed both my hands. Jazz pulled my body flush with his, ignoring any whit of decorum. He didn’t have his jacket on, and he pressed so close against me that I could hear his heart pounding, as if he felt the same way I did. A tremor went through him and subsequently through me. He whispered into my ear, “I know you feel it, too.”
I did, maybe more than he did.
I smelled his liquor breath, and the coarse whiskers of his unshaven face scratched me. Again, he nestled his face in my hair.
Every cell in my body wanted to merge with him until there was no more him and me, just some glorious, ineffable one.
Our dance began.
Jazz moved like a dream, even though he was intoxicated, and for once I let myself follow his lead. No, we weren’t playing Fred and Ginger, for just a moment we were Jazz and Bell, our dance in that room revealing more truth about the two of us than a full-blown interrogation would. He’d led me in a simple waltz, but never had the dance been so sexy. I closed my eyes and surrendered fully to him. Rockies and Gibraltars crumbled and tumbled on the radio, but my heart soared to new heights.
The music went on, but Jazz stopped dancing to hem me against the glass and trail kisses up and down my neck. I grabbed his face with both hands and found his mouth with mine. His hands sought the waist of my skirt. He tugged at my blouse until his hands roamed freely inside.
“Whoa,” I said. “Isn’t this a two-way
mirror?”
He didn’t answer. For a moment I didn’t care. I missed him so. I ached for him, hungry for his scent, the rough texture of his brown curls between my fingers. I knew the alcohol he drank and his simmering anger most likely fueled this passion we’d gotten caught up in. But I felt bereft without his laughter and the toothpaste-model smile that had captivated my heart when we first met.
Still, his hands had gotten a little too busy. We didn’t have that much privacy!
I pushed Jazz away, and again, he stared at me like he’d dreamed me. “Baby—”
“I can’t do this, Jazz.”
“Nobody is watching.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
He tried to step toward me again but seemed to pause, perhaps doubting what his next move should be.
Tears sprang to my eyes. I had no control with him. “I have to go.” I thrust my hand into my coat pocket and grabbed my car keys before I could make a bigger fool out of myself. I tried to hurry away from him, but like I always do around Jazz, I tripped in my heels. My ankle twisted and pain tore through my tendons. I yelped in agony, blind through my tears. I didn’t crash into his chest this time. I fell on the hard ground.
For an intoxicated man, he moved quickly and made his way to my side in an instant, his arms reaching out to hold me. I slapped them away, near hysterical now. I kicked the offending high-heeled shoe off my left foot, pulled myself up, grabbed my keys off the floor, and ran as fast as I could out of that wretched place amid the laughter of his colleagues.
They had seen.
Jazz called my name. Bell.
I made my way outside, hobbling. The sidewalk stung my shoeless foot, and my ankle throbbed, hot with pain. I willed myself to keep going, too humiliated to stop until I got myself inside my welcoming yellow Beetle, still warm from my trip to Detroit. I slammed the door and tore out of that parking lot as fast as the law and the Love Bug would allow, still crying out my embarrassment and grief.
When I was a safe distance away, I pulled over into a parking lot, lay my head on the steering wheel, and wept until my eyes were sore.
The oddest thing came to mind when I stopped crying. I thought about my work. My clients never cease to amaze me. They hurt, but somehow they find it in them to seek help. What they don’t realize is that I don’t do much. Most of the time I simply remind them of what they already know.
So…physician, heal thyself.
I hurt, badly. In the interest of my own healing, I asked myself what I knew to be true. First things first: I knew God loved me, and I needed Him right now. I may not have been in mortal danger, but when it came to Jazz, my heart felt perched on a precarious precipice above a bottomless ache that I could fall into at any moment.
Next, I knew Jazz to be a good man—someone trying hard to do what’s right—but I also knew that when Kate betrayed him, he cut her off without mercy. Although they divorced, for months they’d continued to enjoy a sexual relationship. I didn’t want to go to that same place with him. Finally, my thoughts went right back to God. I needed Him to be my firm and loving Father. My own father left me to navigate my teenage years on my own. I hadn’t had his crucial protection when I’d needed it most. He should have been there to say, “This young man isn’t good enough for you” or “That one doesn’t respect you. You deserve better.” I may not have been a teen anymore, but I needed my daddy. God knew that a part of me was more than willing to be “easy” when it came to Jazz. Yes, we were married. I loved him. It felt right to be in his arms, but like Ma Brown would say, “If you want to drink the milk, you’ve gotta buy the cow.” We’d be married in every way, or we’d be separated, and only one of those came with conjugal rights. I didn’t trust myself with Jazz unless we were ready to reconcile.
In that lonely parking lot, I told myself to buck up. I righted my blouse as best I could and buttoned my coat again. I had to be strong. When Jazz and I met, we’d made rules to keep us safe. Sometimes we broke them, but other times we abided in a wild, green, springtime place that made it possible for us to grow a friendship.
I had a lot to talk to God about when we had our private time, but for now I had to go home and rest a moment, then hurry back to Rocky’s house. I had hurt him, but he’d put that aside and come back to me. And when he thought my husband and I needed him, Rocky showed up at my intervention. I may have felt powerless when it came to Jazz, but I could walk Rocky through whatever sorrow had come to visit him.
That I could do.
chapter seven
I ARRIVED AT THE ROCK HOUSE HOUSE, and reporters—both local and national—had gathered, including CNN. I stepped out of my Love Bug and immediately the press surged at me, shoving at least a half-dozen microphones in my face. I remembered what Jazz had taught me, looked straight ahead, and said absolutely nothing.
I made it to the door, but I had to wait a long time before Rocky cracked it open and let me ease inside.
He slammed and locked the door behind me. I’d never seen Rocky so stressed. In the two years he’d been a pastor, he’d lost members when people went to other churches or moved away. He’d even had an unfortunate church split. Rocky had married church members but never buried anyone. Poor Zeekie would be Rocky’s first funeral. Lord, have mercy.
I couldn’t bear the sadness shadowing Rocky’s handsome face. I’ve teased him about his eyes, bright and affecting as a toddler’s. Now his silent tears flowed freely. I took him in my arms and held on to him. My own sadness, which I had tried to hold in check, spilled out of me anyway.
“What happened, Rock?”
“He drowned in the bathtub.”
“But how?”
“Sister Lou said the kids were giving him a bath.”
“Where are they?”
Rocky walked me into the dining room, wiping his eyes. The Rock House had the support of some of Ann Arbor’s wealthier citizens. Some had donated lovely, classic furniture. The dining table could seat ten, but was empty of people except for Sister Lou, her arms on the shoulders of an inconsolable teenage girl. Sister Lou paid me no mind, but the girl looked up at me, regarded me briefly with a tearful gaze, and put her head back down.
She, too, looked like her father, but far too old to be his young wife’s child. A boy, maybe twelve years old, clung to her. Another Thunder kid.
I left the children to their grief, effectively delaying having to deal with Chantilly Lou. I took Rocky’s hand and guided him back to the foyer.
“How old are they?”
“Fifteen and twelve.”
“Did they leave Zeekie alone?”
“They said just for a few minutes.”
“Why’d they leave him?”
“Zeke—not his dad, the little guy, not the baby Zeekie, either—had to use the bathroom, and so Zekia stepped out. He closed the shower curtain, used the bathroom, and left. He thought Zekia would go right back in behind him, so he went back into the living room to play his PSP. That’s when little Zeekie was alone.”
“So, Zeke is the twelve year old—his name is Zeke, too, right?”
“Right.”
“And the girl’s name is Zekia?”
“Yeah.”
“Are there any more Zekes?”
“All of his kids are named Zeke, babe.”
“Excuse me?”
“All of them are Zekes. All the guys are named Ezekiel, and the girls are some variation on Zeke: Zekia, Zekiah.”
“Don’t tell me anymore. That’s way too George Foreman.” I sighed. “So, twelve-year-old Zeke closed the shower curtain, used the bathroom, and left him?”
“Right.”
I shook my head. “That can’t be right.”
“That’s what the kids told me. Maybe you can talk to them when they aren’t so upset.”
“Or when that gargoyle isn’t hovering over them.”
“Babe, that’s not very kind.”
“You’re right. I apologize to gargoyles
everywhere.”
“If you’re just going to give attitude…”
I waited to see what he’d say.
He paused. Looked away from me, then back. “I’m sorry, Bell.”
“Me, too, Rock. I’m here for you.” I swallowed hard before I let what I needed to say next come out of my mouth. “And for your godfather.”
Rocky managed something reminiscent of a smile. He pulled me into a bear hug. “Thanks so much, babe. Will you talk to the kids when they’re ready?”
“Sure, Rocky.”
“I trust you. You know?”
I put my hand on his cheek. “I know. I won’t let you down.”
He nodded. We heard a tiny feminine voice squeak out, “Um. Rocky?” Both of our attentions turned toward the dining room.
Very pregnant Elisa St. James stood in the doorway. I hadn’t seen her since the day I’d gone to the Rock House and caught Rocky serenading her baby with the arrangement of “All the Pretty Little Horses” he’d composed for my baby. The baby I’d never have. She looked at me like she thought I owed her a beatdown.
I looked at her. This pretty young woman, a wheat-colored, green-eyed sistah, had saved my life. In an act of extraordinary bravery, she trusted me and fled the cult that would destroy us both. And she believed I saved hers since I gave her courage to leave. She’d probably give my buddy happiness he’d never have with me. I thought of all I knew about both of them. I should have matched them myself, only I was too busy holding on to the sad remains of what Rocky and I once had, and missing out on everything God had graciously put right in front of me.
I beckoned her over, and she flew into my arms and sobbed. I rubbed her hair. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
“I thought you were mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad at you? Because this great guy sings you songs?”
I pulled away enough to look into her shiny green eyes. She didn’t say anything.
“Elisa, you are one lucky—no, blessed—woman. I know things have been a little confusing for all of us, but look at what you’ve come through. Look at what you’ve survived already just getting away from Gabriel. He totally controlled your mind. Do you realize how few people in your circumstance would have left him like you did? I’m not mad. I’m your biggest fan, Okay?”
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