The admission had taken them both by surprise. In response, she threw a plate against the dining room wall and accused him of wasting two years of her life. He let her walk out, sorry that he couldn’t give her what she wanted. But he hadn’t given more than a passing thought to settling down, although sooner or later he knew he would have to. He was already thirty-four and the years were going by fast.
He shook his head, then signaled the waitress for the tab. He didn’t feel like talking about Karen, and the problem about Clarence was giving him a headache. He had counted on the Kershner deal coming through, particularly since the last two projects had barely covered costs. Things weren’t looking good. He had too much shit to deal with, especially on the little sleep he’d been getting.
He looked at the check, pulled out twenty dollars to cover his half. “Gotta get on home. I got an early morning call in to Larry tomorrow about those condos being planned for Dearborn Street. You’re checking on that liability insurer tomorrow, right?”
Rick nodded as he put down his cut and the tip on the table. The waitress came and picked up the bills, then brought back the change. They both stood and walked to the door.
“Sorry about bringing up Karen, man. Thought she might have seen reason and called you by now.”
“Why would she? I was the one who rejected her. Most women don’t come back for seconds of that.”
“I guess. Though that’ll teach her to let the man do the asking.”
David smiled at his friend’s simplistic philosophy on romance. “Anybody ever call you a Neanderthal?”
Rick laughed. “About as often as they call you a noncommitting bastard.”
David didn’t let Rick see the wince. That had cut too close.
Outside, they parted and David walked to his Lexus. Noncommitting bastard. She hadn’t exactly called him that; she hadn’t needed to. Because they both knew that was exactly what he was.
Maybe such a thing as karma did exist. He had pissed on Karen. Now life was shitting on him, robbing him of his business, even his sleep.
He felt uneasy as he got behind the wheel and pulled off. But anticipating an evening of Ellington and Coltrane along with a glass of wine, his mood lightened a little as he turned off onto the Eisenhower Expressway and drove the nine miles to Oak Park.
David felt a peace descend whenever he drove through the quiet streets of his neighborhood. A mix of Victorian mansions, neoclassical buildings, and Frank Lloyd Wright Prairie homes, the historic area contained an old-world charm and stately beauty that drew the elite, the creative best. Writers, artists, and architects like himself called Oak Park home. Hemingway had been born here. It was a place of tree-lined streets, families old and young, wide lawns and lovely homes.
When people discovered David was an architect living in Oak Park, they invariably asked whether Wright was his inspiration for going into the field. Invariably he told them no. Wright’s style was interior light and open, dramatic spaces in low-hugging, long buildings. David’s was eclectic, combining the contemporary and traditional, the utilitarian and the decorative. He was married to no one style.
As uncommitted in work as he was in life.
When he got home, his message light was flashing on the machine. He dropped his keys on the foyer table and hit the play button. The first two messages were from his mother asking him to call, but no detailed message. Something was up, but it must not be an emergency, otherwise she would have said so. He didn’t feel like dealing with her tonight. He would call her from the office tomorrow. The last message was from Sherry, asking him to call as soon as he got home.
Sherry was a friend of ten years, beautiful as well as gay. She had been there during the first days after Karen, trying to convince him that he wasn’t the total ass he thought he was. She had been empathetic instead of accusing since she had gone through a recent breakup herself.
He dialed Sherry’s number, wondering what crisis was up since she had sounded just a little bit desperate in her message. She picked up on the second ring.
“Yeah?” he said without any introduction.
“Good, you’re home. Need you badly.” He heard a lilt in her voice.
“For what? If it’s that faucet again, you should get a plumber and stop being so cheap. My expertise doesn’t lean to diddling with washers and pipes. I only design the houses they go in, babe.”
“Nope. Not that. I need your body.”
There wasn’t any misinterpretation. She wasn’t asking for a warm body to bed. “Need it for what? What’s going on?”
“Wedding. I need an escort. Don’t want to go by myself and since Gina’s gone…C’mon, good food…”
“You know how I feel about those things.”
“Hey. You should enjoy the irony of someone else falling into the pit you barely escaped. C’mon, it’s a friend of mine, and I really want to go and I don’t want to go alone. If I ask a girl, I don’t want her getting any ideas. You’re my safe date. As well as being handsome, you won’t clash with my dress.”
“Look, Sherry, I’d do almost anything for you but I don’t relish getting all dressed up to attend some wedding, especially since…”
“I know, I know. Since Karen. But this is a good friend of mine, and I want to be there. And I want a good friend by my side. It’ll only be a couple of hours at the most.”
David sighed. He didn’t want to go. But he didn’t want to disappoint Sherry, who had served as arm decoration for at least one of his functions since Karen. It was only fair that he do the same. “When is it?”
“A week from Saturday at seven. First Unitarian Church in Hyde Park. Then there’s the reception later. Good food and all the wine you can drink. C’mon, I’ll owe you one.”
“No, actually, I owe you, remember?”
“Great. I really appreciate this. I promise I won’t impose on you again.”
Dave chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Not until next time when you need something fixed or someone to drop off some Chinese pickup.”
“Don’t forget the sperm donation I might ask you for one day,” she laughed.
Dave nearly choked, then laughed. “Don’t even joke about that,” he said. “OK, I’ll pick you up say six-thirty?”
“Yeah, great. See you then.”
David hung up the phone, hung up his jacket, then walked to the living room. He found his jazz compilation CD, put it on. Ellington’s “Sophisticated Lady” flowed through the living room, floated up to the rafters, bounced off the windows. He poured a glass of white wine, settled down in his lounger facing the fireplace, pushed off his loafers with his feet, sipped, and closed his eyes. A vestige of the earlier headache still drummed behind his eyelids, and he willed it to go away. If that didn’t work, he would have to hunt for some ibuprofen. Relax. That’s what he needed to do.
As he listened to the music, the tension began drifting from his limbs. It seeped away, leaving a quiet lethargy in its place. Sleep came unexpectedly, quickly, taking him with it to some other place…
He walked slowly, afraid that she might sense him following behind. The bustle of her lilac skirt swayed with her steps, hypnotizing him as he watched her continue up Broadway. She was wearing one of those ridiculous female concoctions on her head. This was lilac also, velvet, trimmed with tiny roses. He imagined the lustrous auburn hair caught up beneath, could feel the texture of it as he stroked the corkscrew curls. So different than he had supposed, as he had imagined in his dreams. He remembered the silk of her brown skin, and thought it an inimitable sin to have such loveliness enshrouded where no eyes could see. Where his eyes in particular were now denied. The spectral scent of jasmine tormented him. There had been the slight essence of that perfect flower between the luscious breasts and he had tasted the salt of her skin. Knew that he had to taste, to touch her one last time. He walked faster.
He didn’t know how long he could follow before she sensed him. Sensed the longing trailing her with each step. Would she stop and welcome his �
�good morning” or would she hasten away as she had before? He didn’t know and if he were to be truthful to himself he didn’t care. She would not get away from him. He would make her see reason. But he knew that reason had left him a long time ago. It had disappeared with the first setting of warm brown eyes on him, and a smile from soft, full lips. He was a man possessed, and he knew that he was on the verge of madness. That he would not ever let her go. That if he could not have her here….
She struggled against the hand holding her, pulling her. Fetid smells mixed with the smell of brine, making her gag. The lover held her, his grip tight, desperate. She wanted to pull away, but she couldn’t. He was too strong. He wouldn’t let her go, had said he would never let her go. She turned to see his face, but only saw the glint of the knife as it came toward her. It slid along her neck in a cruel, thin, red line. The shock of the pain seared as she began to choke on her own blood flooding her throat, her lungs…
Tyne spluttered awake, coughing. The sound machine was no longer playing, the waves of the ocean silent. She covered her mouth with her hand as a spasm wracked her body. She felt as though she were drowning. But it was her imagination. She wasn’t dying. She was safe, sitting up in her bed. She had swallowed wrong. That was all. Still, fear settled on her like a cold sheet.
Several moments passed, and the coughing died. The fear remained.
She pulled her hand away from her mouth, saw the dark circle of moisture in her palm. It seemed darker than saliva. The taste in her mouth was salty, metallic.
She rushed from her bed to turn on the wall switch. The sudden wash of white light made her blink. Everything was as it should be: the bed, dresser, rattan chair, her bookcase and nightstand, on which lay the mystery novel she had started several nights ago. The normalcy of the room said that nothing was wrong.
She opened her palm to see what she already knew was there.
A spot of blood, thick and warm, lay in the middle.
She told herself that she had loosened something in her lung.
But when she looked up, she caught sight of her mirror image. It pulled at her, drew her away from the wall. She walked slowly to the dresser mirror, her eyes focused on a space on her neck. When she moved in front of the mirror, she bent forward to stare at the small streak of red that lined the middle of her neck.
She reached to touch it, and blood came away on her finger. She wiped it off and nothing remained. Her neck was not cut.
But she didn’t know how the blood had gotten there.
By the time she fell asleep again, she had almost convinced herself that it was nothing. Almost, but not quite.
Chapter 7
“A pril, hold still.” Tyne bent to straighten the train that had been veering to the left as April walked between the tables in the reception hall. The silk panel tended to sway too much and hitch on April’s side. Other than that, the bride was perfect. Luckily no one had paid much attention to the errant train during the ceremony. They had been too entranced by April herself, her glow, her smile. Tyne imagined that love was personified in her sister today, every nuance of it. The girl was just beautiful. She dabbed at a tear building in the corner of her eye. She had on waterproof mascara as a precaution, but still she didn’t like appearing so emotional. Today was a day for joy; she managed to put other, more disturbing thoughts away.
April gave her a quick peck on her cheek, then said, “Don’t worry about that damn thing. Go on and get you something to drink, stop following me around.”
“I’m your maid of honor, I’m supposed to follow you around…” but before Tyne could finish the sentence, her sister walked away, winking over her shoulder. Tyne felt as though her sister was walking away for good.
Tears had run during the ceremony, and even before as she helped April dress. Amid the excited retinue of bridesmaids, April had been the serene one, calmly reveling in her moment. When she turned from the mirror and smiled at Tyne, Tyne saw the little twelve-year-old pest who used to follow her around, trying to act all grown with her little, skinny knock-kneed self. Then as April stood there, she morphed into a beautiful woman on the verge of a new life, and Tyne realized their sister-friendship was going to change. With that knowledge, the tears flowed until April came and put a comforting arm around her and whispered, “It’s all right. I’m still your little sister.” Tyne had blinked, wondering at her sister’s sudden sixth sense.
Nearly two hundred guests now filled the Preston Bradley Hall in the Cultural Center. Lights from the hanging Tiffany lamps sparkled against the zodiac signs on the Tiffany-domed ceiling while mosaic scrolls and rosettes adorned the supporting arches. In front of one of these arches, a seven-piece band was playing “Misty.” Hundreds of white-linen covered tables sat in the center, where guests sat eating, laughing, and talking. The voices echoed up to the dome, throughout the hall. On the dais that had been set up for the wedding party, the bride rejoined her groom, her hand softly caressing his arm as she sat down next to him. Donell had trimmed his dreads, and looked both nervous and handsome in his tuxedo. Then he smiled at April, and no one else existed for him.
Tyne stood beneath one of the arches taking a breather. She peered around the room, taking in the overwhelming elegance. Crystal glasses, gold silverware, white silk napkins folded in the shape of birds of paradise…. April and Donell had gone all out for their fairy-tale day. The hall was actually a gift from April’s employer, the Chicago Department of Tourism, where April was an assistant director and which was housed on the first floor of the Cultural Center. April hadn’t had to pay for the reception hall at all.
Tyne spotted her mother and Tyrone dancing among the throng of bodies on the floor to the right of the dais. Her brother towered over their mother by two feet and moved to accommodate the difference. Her mother was beaming up at him, at one point putting a hand to his cheek. She was proud. Tyne could see that from where she stood. Tyrone had stepped into their father’s shoes today, walking April down the aisle, smiling proudly as though she were his daughter instead of his sister. Their father, Ernest Jensen, had died of a heart attack nearly eight years ago when April was still a teenager. Since then, Tyrone had assumed a protective role over their sister, which sometimes made her rebel. Today, though, April had welcomed her brother’s arm as he led her to Donell.
Tyne looked around to try to spot Tanya, but she didn’t see her sister anywhere. Tyne, Tyrone, and Tanya, the three T’s, born in that order, all three names chosen by their father. April had been christened by their mother; she had insisted since she knew April would be their last. Her parents had done well by all their kids. Tyrone was holding his own as a freelance photographer, while Tanya was a metallurgical engineer at Wode Metallurgical Laboratories. All were successful in their own right, even though at times Tyne felt like the laggard in the sibling race. Sometimes she found herself simultaneously proud and envious, then had to remind herself that she’d made choices that put her where she was today.
Maybe being laid off would be a blessing in disguise. She would be forced to take that dangerous step and move out on her own without a safety net. Freelancing like Tyrone, actually going out in the field and finding stories, submitting articles, and not just sitting at a desk all day checking numbers and facts. Lord knows, Stan wasn’t about to give her that chance. Not without some horizontal prompting on her part. Even if by some miracle he played fair and gave her a break, how many people would actually read her articles? Community newspapers were hardly stepping stones to Pulitzers.
“OK, what’re you doing standing here all alone?” Tanya came up beside her. Tanya’s braids were intertwined with pearls and a rope of emerald-colored gems. The effect was regal. They were both wearing the green satin that April, to their dismay, had chosen, though Tyne’s shade was darker.
“You wishing you were up there with somebody of your own?” Tanya said, leaning her head against Tyne’s cheek for a moment. She was holding a half-filled glass of champagne.
“No more th
an you,” Tyne countered, reaching to grab her sister’s champagne glass, but Tanya deftly held it out of the way.
“Get your own. Anyway, you’re the oldest. More pressure from the mama-that-be. I have a few good years before I take that step. If I take it at all. I’m comfortable with the way Jason and I are now.” Tanya sipped her drink. “Besides, you’re the one who wants the house and kids. It’s funny when you think about it. April was the one who wanted to be out clubbing and dipping and now look at her. An old married woman. Goddess, doesn’t she look beautiful, though?”
“Yes, she does,” Tyne answered. Both sisters looked wistfully at their youngest sibling, who was gazing at her groom as though he were a jewel unexpectedly cast her way.
“Thank the Lord that’s not Kendrick up there with her, otherwise I’d have had to say something in church.” A slight bitterness edged Tanya’s voice. Tyne understood. They had both received the late night calls after yet another beating, had gone to the emergency room with April to have the doctors fix blackened eyes, a busted lip, and once a broken arm.
“I really didn’t think we would see this day,” Tyne said softly.
“Neither did I,” Tanya matched her sister’s tone. “She came through some shit, but I guess she had to in order to know what a shit-free world smells like. Now, she can appreciate a man who doesn’t have to kick her ass to make himself feel big.”
Later, Tyne toasted her sister and her new husband followed by Donell’s friend and best man, Byron, whose voice shook as he congratulated the couple. Even much later, April stepped down from the dais, finally leaving her man for a moment to mingle with some of her guests. Tyne kept by her side, at intervals smoothing out that damnable panel. She had just stooped for what seemed the hundredth time, then straightened up to see a couple approaching them.
Again Page 5