The Lover

by Forrester, Nia

  Making her way up the stairs to the second floor, Ryann braced herself for what she knew was coming. And it did come. As soon as she opened the door with her own key, the first thing she heard was the sound of the television. And the second was her mother, getting up from her favorite chair. It creaked once released from the pressure of her weight. Moments later, her mother was looking around the corner; all three-hundred some pounds of her.

  She scowled at the sight of her only daughter and turned to head back to her seat.

  “How many times have I asked you to call me before you come up?” she said. “I’m an old woman. You think I like the surprise of hearing my door open unexpectedly?”

  Her mother wasn’t an old woman. She had only just turned sixty-one. But she had been pretending for many years that her age was responsible for her sedentary lifestyle, rather than the excessive weight.

  “What do you have there?”

  “German chocolate,” Ryann said, taking the cake box into the kitchen.

  It was impeccably neat, as always, as was the living room; as would be the three bedrooms and the bathroom. Ryann’s mother was not a stereotypical shut-in, with rancid body odor and dirty surroundings. She was meticulously neat and clean, and had raised Ryann and Rick to be the same way.

  Rick had complied on the neatness. Ryann had rebelled. Even today, she tended to drop her discarded clothing on the floor rather than put them in the hamper, and her house was always in a state of organized disarray.

  “Bring me a slice,” her mother said. “With some tea if you would.”

  Once a schoolteacher, her mother’s diction was precise and well-modulated. She had strived her entire life to be an example, in word and deed, in some ways at least, for the children she taught in one of the poorest school districts in the city. She always spoke perfectly, never used slang and only occasionally used contractions. When she was growing up, it was almost always, ‘I would like it if you would keep your room clean, Ryann.’ Hardly ever, ‘I’d like it if you’d keep your room clean.’

  But that outward appearance of near-perfection had hidden a basketful of shameful secrets that Ryann had wound up carrying around, and helping to conceal.

  Getting the kettle on the stove and taking out teacups, saucers, and small plates; and cutting the cake and preparing the tea, kept Ryann busy for the first fifteen minutes of the visit. She always counted the time down in her head, eager for an hour to pass. Because less time than that was inadequate to spend with one’s parent who lived in the same city, and whom one seldom saw.

  Ryann brought the tea and cake out on a tray, because her mother insisted on those kinds of niceties, even if it was just the two of them. And it was always just the two of them, because her mother had long ago lost touch with most of her friends, except for occasional telephone calls.

  “What are we watching?” Ryann asked, hoping to manufacture some camaraderie with her use of the word ‘we’.

  “Not quite sure,” her mother mumbled, reaching immediately for the plate with the larger slice of cake. “Something supposedly set here in Washington DC. They always seem to get things wrong, though. Metro stations where none exist, that kind of thing.”

  “Creative license,” Ryann muttered, reaching for her cup of tea.

  “I suppose,” her mother returned.

  They sat there for a few silent minutes, and Ryann began watching the movie, which seemed to be about an alien invasion. Nicole Kidman and Daniel Craig were in it, so it wasn’t too bad. People were being occupied by extraterrestrials, becoming drone-like and unable to express emotion.

  Like Ryann became, when she visited her mother.

  “Have you spoken to your brother?”

  Ryann almost jumped at the sound of her voice. She had really been getting into the plot. Something exciting was about to happen onscreen, because now Daniel Craig had become one of the aliens.

  “Yes.”

  Better not to belabor that subject.

  “Is he well?”

  “As well as he can be, considering,” Ryann said. She took a bite of her slice of the cake. It was as she expected, the chocolate flavor masked by an aggressive sweetness.

  “He has not called me in quite some time,” her mother remarked.

  “Because he’s getting tired of being prayed over on the phone, I guess,” Ryann said sarcastically.

  “Is there something wrong with me praying over my only son, locked in a correctional facility, Ryann?”

  “I’m guessing he just wants to talk to you sometimes. That’s all. Like normal people do.”

  “If he feels that praying is something abnormal, perhaps that explains why he is where he is.”

  No, that doesn’t explain it. What explains it was that you put him there, Ryann wanted to say. In more ways than one, you put him there.

  But she would never say it.

  “Mom, let’s just watch the rest of this movie,” she said instead. “It’s actually kinda good.”

  So, they watched the movie, and then Ryann brought her mother a second slice of cake, put the rest in the refrigerator, made her a second cup of tea and once that was done, did the washing up. By then, she had been there for fifty-six minutes.

  “Do you want me to turn down your bed?” she asked as she stood to leave.

  “It’s only three-thirty in the afternoon. Why on earth would I be going to bed?” her mother said without looking up. “And when the time comes to sleep, I am perfectly capable.”

  Rolling her eyes, Ryann looked up at the ceiling. Her mother was right of course, but she always struggled when trying to find one last thing to say, to punctuate her intention to end the visit.

  “Okay. Well then, I’ll see you soon, Mom.”

  Ryann kissed her mother’s cheek. She smelled older than her years as well, wearing rosewater as her scent, like a Victorian grandmother.

  She only breathed easy again when she was back in her car, and driving home, toward Maryland.

  ~20~

  She knew it was Rick. But she didn’t answer. The calls from the prison always showed up on her caller ID as ‘Unknown’. Ryann let it ring, and listened, standing still in front of her kitchen phone until it stopped, as if, on the other end of the line, Rick might be able to detect that she was home and deciding not to speak to him.

  Once the rings ceased, she released her breath. Her shoulders sagged.

  What she had just done frightened her. She couldn’t remember ever having refused a call from her brother before. Not ever. But she had no emotional currency to spend. Not even on Rick.

  Especially not on Rick.

  “I like this one,” Ryann said wiggling her toes in front of her. “It’s vibrant.”

  Ivy glanced over at her. “It’s vibrant alright. Looks like someone came in here and bled all over your toes.”

  They were in Bliss Spa, getting pedicures, because Ivy had invited her to come with her, Eli, and the boys, to Ocean City for the weekend to stay in a house they had rented. It was July Fourth, and so there would be cookouts, and fireworks, lazy days on the beach and opportunities to look fabulous walking around in bathing suits and colorful sarongs.

  “I think I’ll do the pink one,” Ryann said to her aesthetician, just as her phone buzzed again. She glanced at it next to her and then turned it facedown.

  “Is it him again?” Ivy asked without looking up.

  “Mind your business.”

  “Jesus, Ryann, just answer it! He’s called three times just since we’ve been here. What are you trying to prove? It’s been two weeks!”

  “I don’t want to talk to his stinkin’ ass, is that alright with you?”

  “No. Because you obviously do want to talk to his stinkin’ ass. And this is a holiday weekend.”

  Ryann laughed. “The hell’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s a time for family, and friends and lovers, and …”

  “Mind. Your. Business.” She sat up. Her phone buzzed again. He was leaving
voicemail. Again.

  Ryann hadn’t listened to any of the previous ones, because she knew that if she did she would get that itch. That’s what Spencer was, and that was all he was—an itch. Problem was, as much as they … scratched, she just couldn’t seem to get rid of the itch.

  “I need to go to the Ladies Room,” she told the woman working on her feet. “Let me take care of that now before you switch out the color.”

  She hopped out of the chair and hobbled over to the bathroom. There was a vanilla-scented candle burning next to the sink, and it smelled so incredibly strong, Ryann had to cover her nose with the sleeve of her plush bathrobe while she peed.

  Maybe the spa wasn’t what she needed right now, and what the hell was she thinking going all the way to Ocean City on the Ivy and Eli Love Train? She could have just as soon stayed home and finished that book she had been trying to get through for about two years. But she was afraid that if she stayed, Spencer would stop by. It was easy to avoid him during the week, because she simply instructed Brittainy to lie. Once when he’d stopped by unannounced, she had slipped out and down the staircase, one floor down.

  And he could only knock on her front door for so long when she was home at night. He’d only done that once, and she pretended not to be there, though the lights inside probably told him she was. On the weekend, she spent all her time out with Ivy, and made sure she only made it back home very, very late.

  Fuck Spencer.

  All his talk about the way she dressed, and the way she cussed had taken her back. Back to high school, when she was tormented, purely because she had boobs and ass. All her mother’s elocution instruction hadn’t mattered for crap then. After a while, Ryann did what was expected of “fast” girls. She wore tight clothes, and cussed like the boys. She fought, she had “attitude.” The only thing she didn’t do was sleep around. That came much later. By then, her mother was too busy being drunk to notice.

  Washing her hands, Ryann went out and saw that Ivy was lying back now, a face mask on, a serene smile on her face.

  “Are you getting the Brazilian?” she asked, eyes still shut.

  “Of course,” Ryann said. “This weekend, I’m wearing the sluttiest swimsuit I’ve got. And then I’m going to meet someone, and …”

  “Not in my house you’re not,” Ivy said in a singsong voice. “Don’t forget we have the boys.”

  “Oh yeah. The boys.”

  “I know, right? Just you wait, Ryann. When you’re a mother, the things you’ll have to give up.”

  Ryann laughed. Actually, she couldn’t wait. That was the problem. And there was nothing she had to give up that didn’t seem like a mere trifle, compared to what she would gain.

  “I’d say this is going about as well as could be expected, right?”

  Spencer turned toward his sister, May, crouched next to his chair. They were all sitting out in her backyard—the entire family—his mother, May’s girls, her husband, Quincy, and Joyce, with her wife Misty in tow. Everyone was being polite, almost depressingly so. Because beneath his mother’s thin smiles, and his sister Joyce’s passive-aggressive references to how their mother hadn’t visited her in New York yet, was an ocean of unresolved issues. And it was exhausting to watch.

  “About as well as could be expected,” Spencer agreed.

  He wished he was at Greg’s cookout. Greg’s family was loud and raucous, and fought all the time. Sometimes even physically. They played dominoes and spades and drank so much they sometimes burned the meat on the grill, or forgot to feed the children. But they loved as hard as they fought and there were no unspoken grievances, hanging over everyone like a black cloud.

  It was only one in the afternoon, so there was still time. He could excuse himself and leave, letting everyone know he had a few stops to make, friends he’d promised to drop in on. Every year, that was what he did, so no one would object. Not even May, who around three or so would be welcoming Quincy’s family, and groups of her friends with their young children. May didn’t know too many people who weren’t part of a couple, so she was understanding whenever Spencer made an early departure from her get-togethers.

  At Greg’s, Spencer knew there wouldn’t just be card games, dominoes and men talking smack over the grill. There would be clusters of Greg’s wife, Simone’s single girlfriends. Almost every year for the past five or so, Spencer had met someone at Greg’s cookout who he spent some time with. He didn’t always take them home, but he had a damn good time being half-drunk and flirtatious with women in wispy summer dresses or short-shorts.

  Last year, he met a woman named Maya who had a cute gap between her front teeth and lisped a little when she spoke. They sat on Greg’s front stoop, ate out of the same plate, and then shared a few hot and heavy kisses when the sun went down. She let him slip his hand under the waistband of her loose, maxi-skirt, and into her panties, and moaned out a breathy release with her mouth pressed against his neck.

  The year before that, it had been Lenora. She snuck out with him during the fireworks to her place which was conveniently only three blocks over, and they made fireworks of their own on her couch because they’d been too horny, and too inebriated to make it to her bedroom.

  This year, Spencer longed for Greg’s cookout, not because of the women, but because of the noise. Kids hollering and running around, men talking loudly over each other and women talking even louder to be heard over the men would make it impossible for him to sit around moping like he was now, and wondering what Ryann was up to. On his way over to May’s, he’d driven by her house yet again and found it quiet as a tomb, with nothing to tell him where she might be, or how long she might be gone.

  She was a royal pain-in-the-ass, and no question, was overreacting about their fight, but he was past thinking about that. Now he just thought about how it might be cool to have her here, sitting next to him and making smart-ass comments, as was her tendency in just about every situation. He wondered what she would make of Joyce and Misty; and what his mother would make of her.

  Where the hell was she?

  And why couldn’t she just pick up her phone at least long enough to listen to him apologize? He’d been calling her at least twice a day for the past twelve days, and stopped in at her office at odd hours hoping to catch her unawares. But like an escape artist, she had somehow managed to elude him. DC wasn’t that damn big, and he knew where she worked, and lived, and even now knew some of her friends, so …

  Sitting up, Spencer shook his head. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of it before?

  Ivy. Instead of chasing Ryann around town, he could have just gone where he knew she was likely to be, sooner or later—with Ivy.

  And even better; Eli. Because knowing how women were, Ivy would lie as easily as taking her next breath if that was what Ryann asked her to do. Eli wouldn’t care enough about anyone else’s drama to join the conspiracy.

  Ivy’s man, whom he’d met a few times now on couples’ outings, was a pretty cool brother. And since they worked in the same industry, both of them rehabbing properties—Spencer for purposes of flipping them, and Eli directly for property owners, the last time they all got together, they’d exchanged information, with promises to think of a way to work together in the future. That was a slender bond to pin his hopes on, but it was about all Spencer had going for him right now.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He’d forgotten that May was crouched next to him, watching their mother and Joyce talking to each other, circling, but not tackling the difficult subjects.

  “I have a call I gotta make,” he said standing.

  “Not work, I hope,” May called after him as he walked away, headed for the quiet of her kitchen.

  “Nope. Not work.”

  Except that it was work, he thought ruefully. Ryann was nothing if not a lot of hard damn work.

  In May’s kitchen, Spencer dug around in his wallet, hoping that he was remembering correctly, and that he had stuffed Eli’s business card in there, during one
of the nights out when he and Ryann had accompanied him and Ivy to a jazz club. He found it, folded in with a receipt, and partly crumpled among bits of paper that would probably not have survived the next time he cleaned the wallet.

  “Speak.”

  When Eli answered the phone, it was with that one brusque word, and there was noise and music in the background—the sounds of the kind of cookout Spencer had just been wishing he had gone to, instead of this one.

  “Yo, man. This is Spencer. I was …”

  “Who?” Eli yelled.

  “Spencer,” he said much louder.

  “Hang on, man, I can’t hear …” There were sounds of Eli moving, and the music and other voices subsided into the distance. “Sorry ‘bout that. Who’s this?”

  “Spencer.”

  Eli immediately started laughing. He sounded like he was well on his way to getting drunk. “Man, I been hearing your name all day.”

  “What’d you hear?”

  “You don’ wanna know. But if you could come get your woman, maybe I could get some time with mine.”

  “Come where?” Spencer asked.

  “Ocean City.”

  “Send me the address.” Spencer’s voice was tight with determination. He was already calculating in his head how long it would take him to get there, assuming he could extricate himself from this little family gathering in the next half-hour or so.

  “Okay, but … I’ma give you a little advice …”