Loving Donovan

by Bernice L. McFadden

  Security was on their way down to remove Luscious from the delivery room and the building by the time Millie started screaming, “Rita, calm down, please!”

  There was a chorus going on in that room, everyone shouting and yelling, Luscious lunging at the doctor, one small Puerto Rican nurse crouching in the corner with a scalpel in her hand for protection, while the other nurse stood in the middle of all the mayhem waving her arms.

  Campbell, calm now, looked down into her daughter’s newborn face, and seeing that child, barely three minutes old, eyes wide open and laughing, everything else dropped away.

  Campbell smiled at the memory.

  Perhaps it was time for her to be happy too; her daughter evidently thought so.

  She went upstairs and picked up the phone.

  * * *

  Solomon had retired from the post office and taken a part-time security job at Brooklyn Hospital, working a rotating shift that kept him out of the house four out of seven days.

  He had all but stopped talking about Daisy, and since Donovan had moved into the upstairs apartment and gotten his own number, Solomon didn’t have to hear Daisy’s voice on the other end of the phone asking to speak to her son.

  The top apartment was a spacious two-bedroom that was in great need of repair. The paint was old and peeling, the kitchen was outdated, and there was mold growing on the walls and ceiling. Around the mouth of the fireplace, whole blocks of ceramic tile were either missing, cracked, or discolored, and the hardwood floors were warped and bulging.

  “Sure does need a lot of work,” Solomon had said as he stepped around boxes of clothing and whatnots that Grammy had left up there years ago.

  Donovan folded his arms and looked around him. “Well, Dad, that’s the beauty of it,” he said.

  Donovan had no problem immersing himself in work. Work kept his mind off everything else in life. A plate of whatever Grammy had cooked that night, maybe a beer, and more often than not he would be dozing in front of the television before nine o’clock.

  There were few women in his life: Grammy, Daisy, Elaine, some female cousins, women whom he’d known since high school, wives of his friends.

  No romantic entanglements for him. Not for the moment, anyway. Women, he thought, always seemed to want too much. Too much time, too much money. They looked at his car, his clothing, and the gold watch he wore around his wrist and started making assumptions. “No children?” “Never been married?” “A motorman? They make damn good money, don’t they?”

  He was a “fine catch,” Grammy said. “Be careful—women can be barracudas. They’ll suck you in and spit you out, and you won’t even know it until you’re a wad of gunk on the bottom of their shoe.”

  “All women aren’t like that,” his sister Elaine would laugh when he shared Grammys philosophies with her. “Some women just want a man for who he is, not what he has.”

  Donovan supposed it was true. But he had been burned twice. Once with Laura and the other time with Nina. He’d loved both of them, had bent every rule he and Grammy had created for himself, but in the end, he’d found himself alone.

  “Well, I have yet to meet her,” Donovan said, and lifted his two-month-old nephew from the crib.

  He wanted children, he knew that. Elaine had three, and he spent as much time with them as he could.

  Elaine sighed as she watched her brother gently cradle her son. “You know you need a woman to make a child.”

  Donovan smirked—he knew. He knew.

  * * *

  Campbell hadn’t been in a real relationship for over two years when she decided to sit in the seat next to Elaine, and said hello.

  It was a poetry class, something she had always been interested in and now had the time to pursue. Once a week, Wednesdays, from seven until nine, reading and reciting and picking apart Langston, Nikki, and Amiri.

  They’d gotten to know each other in bits and pieces during the elevator rides and fifteen-minute breaks spent huddled around the coffee machine in the cafeteria.

  Sometimes they even walked out together. Elaine’s husband Larry, smiling at her from the front seat of their Jeep, the three kids bundled up and sleeping in the back.

  Campbell took the train.

  They hadn’t exchanged numbers, the relationship hadn’t grown beyond school, but Campbell felt comfortable enough to slip her an invitation to her art show.

  “Oh my God!” Elaine squealed.

  Campbell just smiled. “It’s no big deal, really. Just, you know, fifteen collages.”

  “I’ve been sitting next to a celebrity all this time!” Elaine laughed, and slapped playfully at Campbell’s arm.

  “Oh, please.” Campbell blushed and waved the comment away. “If you can’t make it, I understand. Maybe you can just pass it on to someone who might be interested.”

  “Of course I’ll be there. Wow. Are you going to tell the professor?”

  “Well, yes, I think so, but you know, I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

  “It is a big deal, Campbell.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know,” Elaine stepped closer to Campbell, and her eyes took on a mischievous look, “if it’s okay, I’d like to bring my brother along.”

  “Okay.” Campbell shrugged her shoulders.

  “I mean bring him so you two could meet, you know?”

  Campbell wasn’t sure about that.

  “He’s single, no children, and doing okay for himself. He works for transit, a motorman. Maybe you two should get together—you’re not married, right? Just you and your daughter? I think he might like your smile.”

  Campbell blushed.

  Earlier that day the air had been damp and the sky gray. The weather report called for rain, but none ever came and the seagulls that did not normally stray from the swampy areas of land that surrounded Kennedy Airport could be seen searching for worms along the side streets off Flatbush Avenue.

  But by five o’clock the clouds had evaporated and the sky was dark blue, stars strewn here and there with a cumbersome yellow moon situated at its center.

  Simone’s Art Gallery sat at the base of a six-story apartment building situated at the corner of St. Marks Avenue and Flatbush. It was a cozy space with two overstuffed couches and old mahogany bookshelves the owner had rescued from a library upstate.

  The walls were painted a stark white, which seemed to make the colorful collages jump out at you.

  The turnout was small. The majority of the people who came were friends and family. The owner, Simone Nicole, a white woman with a long reddish-gray mane that seemed to be more than her four-foot-two stature could handle, had walked over to Campbell and squeezed her elbow excitedly. “Mr. Henry Parsons has just bought five of your pieces!”

  Campbell didn’t know who Henry Parsons was. “Which five?” she had asked as she scanned the room to find the buyer.

  Simone had stumbled backward a bit as her face registered disbelief. “Henry Parsons is a very wealthy art enthusiast. He owns a collection worth millions.”

  Campbell nodded. “Oh.”

  Simone placed her hands on her head, and her tiny fingers disappeared. “Campbell,” the woman’s voice became shrill, “you have just made yourself sixty thousand dollars!”

  It was Campbell’s turn to take a step backward.

  “Well, before my 30 percent and your agent’s 20,” Simone added quickly. “And Campbell, it’s just opening night!” She stepped forward and gave Campbell a hearty hug.

  Campbell couldn’t recall too much of what went on after she’d received that news. She did remember kissing her mother and daughter goodbye. Walking some former coworkers to the door, Anita’s perfume, the way Laverna’s arm draped around the waist of her mate, the aquamarine turtleneck Porsche wore, and the bewitching music that seeped from the apartment above, somehow making her miss Pat more than ever.

  * * *

  They were late, and Campbell already had her coat in her hand; she was saying goodbye to so
me people, and the lights at the back of the gallery were already turned off.

  Her eyes caught Elaine’s first and then his. She gave them a little three-finger wave and mouthed hello before turning her attention back to Simone’s husband, a light-skinned man with a bald head who barely reached Campbell’s shoulder. She had to stoop down a little when he threw his arm over her shoulder and whispered something in her ear, before kissing her on the cheek.

  It was a lingering kiss that for some reason made Donovan feel uncomfortable. He found himself staring, and when Campbell’s eyes found him again, he quickly looked down at his watch.

  “I’m sorry we’re so late,” Elaine said when Campbell approached them. “Donovan worked late today and didn’t get home until forty minutes ago.” She threw her brother an annoyed look.

  “Yeah, it was my fault,” Donovan said, and stuck his hand out to Campbell. “Look at that, we’ve just met and already I’m apologizing.” He grinned.

  “Oh, it’s okay.” Campbell wrapped her hand in his and smiled.

  Later on in life Campbell would wonder about that moment and marvel at how clearly she’d been able to see through the wall he’d erected around himself.

  He was tall and just a shade or two darker than Campbell. Not really her type—she usually went for darker men. But his eyes were nice, round and clear, long lashes with dark bushy eyebrows.

  “Did you have a lot of people?” Elaine asked.

  “Just about twenty. That’s all.”

  “Where are your parents, your daughter?”

  “They went on home.”

  “Did you make any sales?”

  “Uhm, five.” Campbell beamed.

  “Go ahead, girl!” Elaine squealed.

  Donovan looked around at the collages, his eyes focused on the white tabs situated below the artwork that gave the title of the piece and the price.

  He made a sound and tried to disguise it as a cough. He sure wasn’t about to whip out his American Express card and charge seven grand for a piece of paper with pictures plastered all over it. No way.

  Elaine glanced at her watch. “Can I at least look around? I might see something, and you can go home and tell everybody you sold six pieces instead of five.” She strolled off to the right, beginning at the Sweet Thang collage. Donovan followed close behind.

  Campbell had a thing about the way men walked. She sized them up and tore them down based on their stride. Now, standing there, watching Donovan walk straight-backed with his head slightly tilted toward the sky, she was reminded of the proud Masai tribesmen she’d seen on the pages of National Geographic and then again in real life on the sandy shores of Diani Beach in Kenya.

  “These are beautiful.” Elaine’s voice shattered Campbell’s thoughts.

  “Thank you . . . What do you think, Donovan?” She wanted to look at him again, see him from the front; she’d missed the ample lips and meticulously groomed mustache. Were those dimples hollowed into his cheeks?

  Donovan was standing at Elaine’s shoulder, staring at a piece titled Crime and Punishment; he turned to address Campbell. “I don’t know a whole lot about art, but this is kinda cool,” he said, pointing to the collage.

  “Thanks.” Campbell was a bit embarrassed. The Crime and Punishment collage depicted violence and death; it was put together during one of her very dark periods.

  “These are simply wonderful, Campbell,” Elaine said, her voice filled with awe. “I have to say that one of your collages is simply not in my budget this month.” She gave a little laugh.

  “Well, maybe next month, then,” Campbell replied, and winked at her as Simone handed her her coat.

  “More like next year,” Elaine said, still laughing as she started toward the door.

  “So,” Campbell said as they huddled together in front of the gallery, “where to now?”

  “Well, Donovan is going to drop me back at the house, and you two are going to get something to eat.”

  Campbell wasn’t sure she was ready to be left alone with him. Blind dates were always so awkward.

  “You’re not going to eat with us?” Campbell hoped her voice didn’t sound too desperate.

  “Nope. I’ve got to get back home to the kids.” She winked at them and grinned.

  Donovan walked ahead of the women. He didn’t know why he’d allowed his sister to talk him into this. She was always trying to fix him up with someone. He was perfectly happy being alone. Well, at least most of the time.

  He looked at his watch again. It was nine o’clock, he’d worked all day and had had only about five hours of sleep, and he was already yawning. This woman was going to think he was boring. Why the hell did he agree to this?

  He snatched a look over his shoulder at Campbell. She was cute, he thought, and yes, he did like her smile.

  He stopped alongside a black two-door Mercedes coupe, his newest possession—he’d had it for only a few months, and the inside still carried that just-off-the-assembly-line new-car smell.

  Donovan opened the passenger door and folded the seat forward.

  Well, it was her brother’s car, Campbell thought to herself, and started to climb into the back. Elaine caught her by the shoulder. “No, no. You’re the guest. I’ll sit in the back,” she said, and hopped in.

  To Campbell’s relief, Elaine talked nonstop for the whole ten minutes they were in the car together. When they turned onto St. Felix Street, Campbell let out a small giggle of surprise.

  “What?” Donovan asked as he slowed the car to a stop.

  “My mother used to have a friend who lived over here,” she said, and pressed her index finger into her chin. “I think it was that house, the white one with the awning over the doorway.” She spoke slowly as she forced herself to remember.

  “Really?” Elaine said as she squinted at the house. “Does she still live there?”

  “No, she moved about twelve or so years ago. She gave the best barbecues.”

  “Was her name Pullman?” Donovan asked as he stepped out of the car and folded his seat forward.

  “Uh-huh, Loretta Pullman, I think,” Campbell said.

  “Yeah, I remember her.”

  “Wow, six degrees of separation, huh?” Elaine said as she climbed out of the car.

  “What?” Donovan gave her a quizzical look.

  “You know, the theory that there are only six people between you and someone you don’t know,” she said, and then bent down and looked at Campbell. “You and Donovan probably saw one another when you were kids. I guess you were just destined to meet.”

  Campbell smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “I guess.”

  Elaine bade them good night. Kissed Donovan on the cheek and winked at Campbell. “Y’all have a good time.”

  * * *

  “So where would you like to eat?” he asked as he shot a quick glance at the dashboard clock. It was nine twenty. He stifled a yawn and turned onto Fulton Street.

  “Uhm, well, anyplace is good.”

  She realized she was sitting at attention, knees pressed together, hands folded tightly in her lap. She tried to convince herself to relax, to allow her eyes to enjoy the scenery, her mind to concentrate on the soft music streaming from the radio, but all she could think of was if she’d put on enough deodorant and if she’d been successful at brushing away the salmon she’d had for lunch.

  She hated blind dates.

  “Well, have you ever been to Baxter’s?” he asked, and then shifted into a higher gear, pulling past a van.

  “Yes, once,” Campbell said as her left hand gripped the soft leather of the armrest.

  Donovan caught the move. “Are you nervous?” He laughed and shifted down from fourth to third gear.

  “No,” Campbell lied.

  “Don’t worry; I know what I’m doing. You’ve got a lot of assholes out here who don’t. Me, I drive every day. Most of these clowns out here only drive on the weekends, you know?”

  Campbell nodded her head and released the armrest.
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  “Do you drive?” he asked as he slowed up to take a corner.

  “Well, I don’t own a car or anything, but I do have my license. I rent cars when I need to—and that’s not often. I really don’t need a car . . . I really don’t like driving anyway . . .” The words spilled from her mouth like floodwaters. She knew she was babbling but couldn’t get herself to stop.

  Donovan nodded and remarked when needed until Campbell finally ended her litany with, “Yes, yes, I do drive.” She blushed at her foolishness. “I guess that was the long answer.”

  Donovan nodded his head once more and stopped near a narrow space between two cars. “You think I can fit in there?” he said, already undoing his seat belt and putting the car in reverse.

  Campbell turned her head to observe the space. It looked too small to her, but then again, she wasn’t good at parking. “I don’t know,” she uttered in an unsure voice.

  Donovan threw his arm around the back of Campbell’s seat and leaned toward her a bit as he stared out the back window and judged the space he had. She could smell his cologne and see the small lightning bolt scar on his left cheek, above the dimple.

  She was staring at him. He could feel her eyes on his face like fingers, and as much as he wanted to look down at her, he didn’t, he just concentrated on the space between his bumper and the one attached to the Honda behind him that had a blaring sticker that said, Dentists Do It with Floss.

  Baxter’s was packed.

  A jazz band played loud and furiously close to the front entrance, and all the tables were filled with the Fort Greene residents who were more than happy to be able to drink, dance, and socialize just steps away from their homes and apartments.

  The Fort Greene, Park Slope, and Clinton Hill neighborhoods had all undergone extensive renovations over the past few years. Neighborhoods that once housed burnt-out buildings and crack-littered sidewalks were now buppie and yuppie meccas.

  High-end shops and restaurants dotted Fulton Street and Dekalb Avenue, and white people, once a rarity in those neighborhoods, were now more than 40 percent of the population.

  He hadn’t opened the car door for her. Well, she hadn’t given him a chance. She was up and out of the vehicle before Donovan had even put the car in park.