Men, well, that was another story.
She blamed them. Blamed them for not having the balls to deal with a strong, independent woman.
“Black men,” she would say, “black men have a severe problem. They’re easily intimidated by a strong black woman. I think it’s in their biological makeup. I believe, ladies, that I am going to have to cross the color line if I’m ever to find true love.”
But she never had and now, at thirty-eight, she was successful and alone.
Porsche rolls her eyes at her and then places her hand on Campbell’s arm. “There ain’t no schedule where love is concerned,” she says, and shoots Anita a sharp look. “It happens when it happens. If it feels right, go with it.”
Anita grumbles.
Porsche was the middle woman of the group. Petite, pecan-colored, and glamorous, and at the age of thirty-six, she’d been married for eighteen years and had given birth to four children.
Porsche believed in love, marriage, and family.
Laverna, the baby. Medium-sized and fair-skinned with close-cut hair and a jutting nose. She was attractive in the right light. Flat-chested and all behind, men salivated when she walked past them.
Just thirty-four. She’d been in a relationship with a woman for more than six years now. Prior to that, she’d been heterosexual. “And apparently stapled to my forehead was a sign that read, Wanted: Abusers, Assholes, and Addicts,” she’d said on more than one occasion.
It was always the wrong man, but now, Porsche said, she had found the right woman.
“I knew I was in love with Debra the third time we slept together. We moved in with each other a week later. It’s been six years,” Laverna says as she polishes the teeth of her fork with her napkin.
Anita bristles and beckons the waiter over. “Evidently this fork is not clean enough for Ms. Thompson. Would you please get her another?” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Laverna just shakes her head. “I hate eating here,” she jokes, and folds her arms across her chest.
“Look, Campbell, I love you and just don’t want to see you get hurt. You’re in a whole different position now. People are going to want to be with you for all the wrong reasons; it’s going to be hard to figure out who wants to be with you for the right ones.” Anita looks down at her hands and adjusts her thumb ring before adding, “Believe me, I know.”
The other women agree with that last statement.
“Be happy, but just be careful,” Anita whispers in her ear when she hugs and kisses her goodbye.
MAY
They had discussed it on and off for a few weeks, and now Campbell was sitting across from him, beaming with excitement as she flipped through the dozen or so glossy brochures she’d spread across his kitchen table.
They all looked the same to him. White sand beaches, thatched-roof villas with four-poster beds draped in mosquito netting. Smiling black-faced chefs holding trays heavy with lobsters. A sunset, a low moon. All the same.
She’d been everywhere. He’d heard all the stories, and now she wanted to take him to those places so they could have stories that belonged to both of them.
He’d never been on a plane. Every vacation he’d ever taken, he’d gotten there by car. Except that one time when he accompanied Grammy on a train to Montreal.
He tried to seem enthusiastic, but his mind was on the toothbrush that had been sitting in the holder next to his for the past week. The nightgown hanging behind the bathroom door and the T-shirt, the one that belonged to him, the one that Campbell had dubbed her favorite and always slipped on when she knew she would be there for more than a few hours.
She was becoming a part of his space. Like the potted cacti and the prints on the walls.
It hadn’t really bothered him too much in the beginning—he’d actually become quite used to her being there, missing her when she wasn’t—but then he saw the house, and the toothbrush came a few days after that, and Grammy had made some comments, and all of a sudden he’d started feeling differently, started to feel trapped.
“Well, why haven’t I met her yet?” Grammy’s tone was filled with anger.
Donovan shifted. Daisy had asked him that very same question, but her voice had been soft, curious. Donovan had assured her that he would bring Campbell around soon enough. Daisy had just laughed. “Do you like her?” she’d asked.
“She’s all right, I guess.”
Daisy had laughed again. “You’re blushing,” she’d said before cupping his cheek. “She must be more than all right.”
“Has your father met her?”
Donovan shook his head.
“Grammy?” Just saying her ex-mother-in-law’s name made her wince.
Again Donovan shook his head.
Now Grammy was reading him the riot act.
“I mean, you sneak her in late at night; I hear her leaving early in the morning. Decent women visit men at decent hours of the day.”
Donovan scratched at his chin and looked thoughtfully at his fingernails. “I don’t sneak her in, Grammy. It’s just that she’s busy, I work late, and it just seems to work out that way.”
“Well, am I ever going to meet this, this”—Grammy was searching for the right word—“mystery woman?”
“Yeah, sure. Soon.”
Grammy looked at him for a while. She was getting old, her knees were bad, she slept more hours in the day than a cat did. She was sure her days were numbered, reminded Donovan and Solomon of that fact every chance she got.
Sometimes, if she was feeling especially dramatic, she would even manage to squeeze out a tear or two while she pitied herself. “You don’t love me anymore. You want me to go to one of those retirement homes, those jails for old people, that’s what you want!”
He would hush her, tell her that it wasn’t true, hug her, and say that he was her good boy, her Donovan.
That’s the way she wanted it to remain, but now this woman she’d never met was threatening the balance of what she’d worked hard at establishing. She’d seen the toothbrush, the nightgown on the back of the door, the empty pack of condoms in the bathroom trash bin. She’d seen it all.
“Well, what is it she does that keeps her so busy?”
“What?”
“Work. What type of work does she do?”
“Oh. She’s an artist,” Donovan said, and opened the refrigerator.
Grammy’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Donovan said, and reached for a can of soda.
“What does she paint?”
“She doesn’t paint. She assembles bits and pieces of magazine and newspaper clippings together on a board,” he said, and popped the tab.
Grammy was washing dishes. She turned the water off and shook her hands dry over the remaining dishes before placing them on her hips.
“What?” Grammy screwed her face up. “That’s art?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, what kinda art is that?”
“It’s called collages.” Donovan took a sip of soda and then peered down into the can.
“And she gets paid for these, uhm, collages?”
“Yep.”
“Humph. Well, shoot, I could do that.”
Donovan just shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” Grammy sounded, and moved over to the table and sat down. She was quiet while she digested the information, swirled it around in her mind, and decided how she could use it to her advantage. “You know,” she began. Her voice low, her words even, “those artsy types can be a bit strange. I think it’s the drugs.”
Donovan looked at her.
“Oh yeah, the drugs is what helps them come up with all that crazy stuff that makes it art.”
Donovan let go a little laugh and shook his head.
“I’m not saying that your friend . . . What’s her name again?”
“Campbell.”
“Oh yeah. I’m not saying Campbell is one of them—a drug user—I’m just saying that’s what some of
them do.”
Donovan sighed.
Grammy shot him a sly look. “She, uhm, have children?”
“One. A girl.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Well, she’ll probably not want any more—you know those career women don’t have time for babies and bottles and such. There’s always meetings and parties and stuff.”
Donovan set the can of soda down on the table. He wanted children, and Campbell did seem to go out a lot.
“Yeah, those hoity-toity artsy-fartsy types drinking champagne and going to the country club.” Grammy altered her voice to sound like a bad Robin Leach. “Caviar in the fridge. They’ve got sofas instead of couches, carports instead of garages.” She broke up with laughter at her own wit. “The women are the worst. I think their husbands have to take their wives’ last names!”
Another roar of laughter ripped through Grammy and bellowed in Donovan’s ears.
“Well, hey, Donovan, I’m not saying that would be the case with you and, uhm, Campbell. I’m just saying . . .” Grammy said as she wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. She had gone on and on, and that combined with Clyde’s voice always taunting him wasn’t helping, not one bit.
Clyde seemed to come like the green things that budded on tree limbs and poked out from the earth. He came when the days began to yawn and stretch and the weather lost its chill and windbreakers and baseball caps replaced heavy coats and woolen hats.
He was the one who’d pointed out the toothbrush and the nightgown.
Look at that, Cappy! Looks to me like she’s moving in. Marking her territory, boy. Just like a cat.
Shut up.
Just like a cat!
* * *
“So I was thinking that maybe we could do something for your birthday, take a trip to the islands. Barbados maybe or St. Kitts?” Campbell said.
“I’ve got to see if I could get some time off,” Donovan mumbled, and scratched at his neck.
Campbell looked up at him. Hadn’t they already had this conversation about his obsession with work? He’d agreed that he would cut back when the weather started to get warmer, had promised her the summer.
“When June and July hit, you’re going to be sick of me, because all you’re going to see is me,” he’d said way back in March when twelve whole days had slipped by and they hadn’t seen each other.
“It won’t always be this way.” Those were his words, and she believed them to be true. But they were well into May, and Donovan had worked every single weekend, Saturday and Sunday, for four weeks.
She had tried not to complain, not to whine, and not to remind him of his promises. “Well, do you think you could ask your boss on Monday, when you go into work?”
Donovan pushed himself up from the table. “Yeah, sure.”
She had to remind him three times, and with each reminder she could feel frustration climbing into her voice. Annoyance seeping into her words.
“I’ll ask him today.” “I forgot.” “He’s been out sick.”
Excuses, that’s all they were. He was unsure now. The weather was warm, and his thoughts were muddled. Clyde was talking to him all the time now.
“Well, did you ask?”
Donovan had gone right to bed when he came in from work. He was groggy when he answered the phone, and Campbell jumped all over him.
“Did you ask? I mean, I want to book the flight and hotel before we lose the dates.”
She hadn’t even said hello. Donovan closed his eyes.
“How much is it?” That was the other thing. He kept thinking about the house. The furniture she said she’d ordered. Large expensive pieces for the bedroom and living room. This trip was probably going to cost a fortune.
Campbell was silent for a moment. “Baby, this is my birthday gift to you,” she said, and her voice softened. “All you need to do is show up.”
Is that what type of man you are, Donovan? Kept? Grammy’s voice echoed in his mind.
“I was asleep, Campbell. Let me call you back,” Donovan said before hanging up the phone and pulling the covers over his head.
JUNE
She can’t quite remember when the disagreements began, the bickering over foolish things. The days on end when all she felt was anger—and Donovan, relief that she wasn’t speaking to him and he didn’t have to hear that tone in her voice.
That time in the Tattoo Gallery was as close as she could gauge it. They’d had lunch in the Village and afterward had decided to roam the streets, popping into and out of stores, just enjoying themselves and each other.
He’d been talking about getting a tattoo on his chest or maybe his forearm. They’d walked through shops that offered piercing and tattoos.
Campbell was teasing him, whispering in his ear that she’d get her nipples pierced if he’d do the same. He’d looked at her like she was crazy and then laughed until his sides ached.
At the last shop, the Tattoo Gallery, they’d stood side by side, flipping through the volumes of skin art resting on the counter, pointing out to each other pictures that appealed to them.
“Hey, how about this one?” Donovan nudged Campbell’s arm.
She leaned over and her eyes fell on a panther hiding in cover. “Umph, you don’t want that. Panthers are incestuous animals,” she’d quipped, and then pushed her book over to him and pointed to a picture of a penguin. “Penguins,” she said in her softest baby voice. “Penguins mate for life.”
Donovan hadn’t appreciated that bit of information about panthers. He’d taken offense at it. Thought that she was ridiculing him, as if she knew what had happened to him as a boy.
After that, he’d become quiet. They’d soon left the city, and the drive home was tense. Campbell had opened her mouth numerous times to speak, but each time had decided against it.
Donovan’s jaw was set and his eyes narrow as he cut recklessly in and out of traffic. Campbell was nervous, scared, and confused. She didn’t know what she’d done to put him in such a foul mood. She gripped the leather seat, and for the first time since Pat stepped off the platform, she began to hum.
Donovan thought he’d heard right. A soft humming, a quiet drone that made him perspire and caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.
He glanced at her sideways and cocked his head a bit in her direction. He listened, and when he was sure about the tune, he jerked his head back and shifted into fifth gear.
He hated that damn song!
* * *
Even the happiest of couples fought, she told herself. They were just going through a rough patch. They had reached the six-month mark, the place where the road they’d been traveling mounted, and they had to adjust themselves, move into four-wheel drive, and work together to conquer the proverbial bump in the road.
He hadn’t touched her in weeks, and one night when she came to him after having dinner with her agent, her head swimming from the champagne, her thighs yearning and aching to be wrapped around him, she’d invited him to shower with her and he’d declined. That was fine, she was still buzzing when she climbed into bed butt naked beside him.
He’d just lain there, clutching his pillow and staring at the television.
The champagne coursing through her veins would not allow her to be perturbed, and she pulled him onto his back and mounted him.
A log had more feeling than Donovan. He just folded his hands behind his head and turned his face back toward the television.
Campbell sat there staring at him until he finally acknowledged her. “I’m tired,” was all he said, and gently pushed her off him.
She was too drunk to be hurt, but she was angry and finally fell off to sleep.
Hurt came in the morning when she woke shivering, her body curled into a ball, a thin sheet wrapped at her waist, and no Donovan. He had taken the comforter and pillow and spent the night on the couch.
That was in early May, and now it was the middle of June, and Donovan still hadn’t touched her. The phone calls waned, and suddenly there wa
s no time for dinner, movies, or even lazy hours spent in his apartment.
Just a rough patch.
But one day while she was sweeping the floor, a thought gripped her. Could it be another woman?
Campbell’s stomach cramped.
She’d been through that before with Andre. She’d been in love with him too, head over heels. He’d left her at his apartment and gone to help a friend who was stuck out on the highway. “I’ll be back in two hours, tops,” he’d promised.
They’d been watching television in bed when the phone call came. “Okay,” she’d said, thinking nothing of it. Andre was a good guy; he helped everyone.
She was fast asleep when he finally tipped through the door four hours later. He peeked into the bedroom before pulling the door in, not closed, just in a bit, and then he went into the bathroom.
The creaking bedroom door and the sound of the light switch being flicked on had roused her, and she’d climbed out of bed and made her way to the bathroom, just to speak to him, just to hear how everything had turned out.
There wasn’t a fleck of grease on him. That was the first thing that struck her. He was as clean as he was when he’d left. The second was the trickle of water that was coming from the sink faucet, not enough to make a sound against the porcelain.
The third and final thing, which she always told herself should have been the first, was the dark portion of flesh that rested on the inside curve of the sink. It confused her at first and she had to rub at her eyes and blink before it finally all made sense.
Andre was washing his penis.
“What are you—” she started to say, and then stopped. “Oh my God,” she uttered, and backed away from the bathroom.
The laugh followed. That inappropriate giggle that always seemed to blossom out of her when she was taken off guard.
She and Andre had been happy. Hadn’t they?
Campbell shook her head against the implication of the memory.
No, what she and Donovan had was different. They belonged together. She believed it heart, mind, and soul.
But the thought still tugged at her mind.
She would never have believed that the problem wasn’t another woman, just one dead man.
Loving Donovan Page 18