Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever

by L. V. Lewis

  He pulls me close, spooning me, his morning stubble tickling the side of my neck. “In modern usage, it’s often stated as an indirect way of asking what someone is thinking, or what’s bothering them. Literally translated, it means I’m offering to pay to hear your thoughts. Although generally, the person asking just wants to know what the listener is thinking about and is showing interest through a symbolic offer of payment.”

  “Thank you for that explanation, Mr. Wordy.”

  “I would pay for your thoughts with no negotiation today. You’ve been preoccupied this weekend, and I want to know why.”

  “I’m going to have to cut our time together short today. My Mama’s been missing me on Sundays. Either that, or she’s just weird.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s been by several times in the last couple of weeks, dropping hints the best cryptologist in the world couldn’t decipher. Finally, last week she said she had something to tell me, and she wouldn’t do so unless I came to church and Sunday dinner with her today.”

  “Then let’s go see her.”

  I turn in his arms. He looks all matter-of-fact and gung-ho at the same time. How does he do that? “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my Mama doesn’t know about our arrangement. And trust me, she would not understand.”

  “You can introduce me as your friend. It’s no big deal.”

  “Think about it. If I introduced my business partner as my ‘friend,’ she would know, in a heartbeat, we were fucking.”

  “Is that so bad? You’ll be twenty-five next month. She’s got to know you’re sexually active.”

  “That may be true, but I’m not about to flaunt it around her.”

  “Then we’ll tell her I’m your boyfriend.”

  “What? That would leave nothing to her already vivid imagination.” I sit up and roll off the bed. “I’m going to take a shower. Will you call your car service for me?”

  I leave him on the bed, leaning on one elbow, looking at me like a wounded little puppy, and Tristan is no one’s wounded little puppy.

  #

  I put on a modest black and white Sunday dress with pumps, grab my overnight bag and purse, and dash to meet the driver downstairs. I should’ve known, when I had the bedroom to myself to get dressed after my shower, Tristan was up to something. When I enter the foyer, there he is dressed in a black retro Members Only-looking jacket, a nice shirt, and slacks.

  “Tristan!”

  “What?” He swings his keys in a circle on his finger.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m driving you to church, then to your mother’s.” His jaw is set in that Domly way, so I don’t even try to argue with him.

  “C’mon, before you make me late.”

  It is my Triple-G’s turn to do cartwheels all over her tiny gymnastics floor, and my Fairy Hoochie Mama frowns with two unenthusiastic thumbs down.

  The church is packed, but Tristan and I spot my Mama up in the choir loft where she usually sits, and she waves at us although her eyebrows go into her hairline when she sees Tristan.

  Tristan is so out of his element. The lively singing and shouting is certainly not his usual Sunday experience. His church services as a youth were in Chapel at his elite Academy, and high church with rumbling, million-dollar pipe organs at the vast Episcopal Church downtown. He’s been a lapsed church-goer since college. However, he seems to find church in the African American experience fascinating. He even gets into the handclapping and singing as the service progresses. I am floored.

  We wait outside at the top of the church steps for Mama. Divested of her choir robe, she comes strolling out the door to meet us.

  “Hey, Mama.” I hug her neck, kiss her cheek, then gesture to Tristan. “You remember my b—”

  “Boyfriend,” Tristan interjects with a smile that could mount a successful toothpaste ad.

  I scowl at him, but finish, “Business partner, Tristan White.”

  “Mmm Hmm,” she says, looking up at him through narrowed eyes. Even so, she offers him a hand to shake, but Tristan does her one better. He bends and kisses her hand like a courtly gentleman.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Beale,” he says. “The singing was divine, and more so because you lend the choir your lovely voice.”

  Mama is hard-pressed to be impolite to him after such flattery. She giggles like a schoolgirl.

  “These pipes aren’t as clear as they used to be, but baby they can still blow,” she says.

  Tristan laughs with her as though they’ve been friends forever. When Mama’s laughter peters out she looks at me. “I’m glad the reason I never see you is that you have a boyfriend, and ain’t on that stuff.”

  Tristan’s forehead crinkles, and he mouths, “What stuff?”

  I roll my eyes. “Anytime her children’s behavior changes, Mama thinks we’re on drugs.”

  “Ah,” Tristan says. “I can vouch for her, then. She’s not on any stuff. If she was, I would stage an intervention.”

  “Stop fueling her paranoia,” I say. “You’re not helping here.”

  “And you stop using your fifty-dollar college words to describe my state of mind,” Mama snaps at me, then turns her attention to Tristan. “So, who are your people, Tristan?” Mama asks this as if she’s actually going to know if he tells her.

  “My father is Charles Xavier White. He owns distilleries throughout the midwest. My mother was Alyssa Elizabeth White, nee Carrollton. She died from ovarian cancer when my brother and I were thirteen.”

  “I’m so sorry you lost your mother at such an early age. Children need their mothers.”

  “Thank you. I miss her every day.”

  Mama looks at me, then takes a step down. “You might learn something from this young man.”

  Tristan, smiling like he’s just been blessed by the Pope, offers Mama his arm and they descend the steps leaving me with my mouth hanging opening on the top step.

  I hurry down to join them as he’s opening the passenger side car door for my mother, and I’m left to ride in the back seat. They engage in conversation all the way to Mama’s house while I fume.

  “This is really a nice car,” Mama says. “My sons all have nice cars, but my daughter hasn’t bothered to get one since she graduated college. I can’t figure out for the life of me, why.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Beale. I’d hazard to guess that a car wasn’t Keisha’s priority. She wanted to save all her money toward her dream, Kente Studio Records. Which is doing well, I might add.”

  “I suppose that’s right. Her Daddy left her that building hoping she would do something better with it. He was a better known musician in Brazil, but he never caught on here in Chicago. He tried to keep that music store afloat for years, but failed. He was a miserable man the last ten years of his life.”

  Oh no she isn’t about to air our family’s dirty laundry. “Mama!”

  Tristan shifts the conversation. “You were a great blues singer in your own right, I understand.”

  “Good, not great. Which is why I was only known regionally. The largest venues I sang at were the big blues clubs downtown back in the day. One of them might have been owned by your grandfather.”

  “That’s highly likely. However, he got out of that business when the mob became active in the club scene.”

  “I like a young man who knows his history, so he isn’t doomed to repeat it.”

  “Knowledge is power.” Tristan glances at me through the rearview mirror. I wonder what cryptic message he’s trying to convey to me. “You should have your daughter lay down some tracks for you. I’d love to have some of your oldies on CD.”

  Mama beams at Tristan. “I’m so glad somebody appreciates my talent, even if I am old.”

  I’m flabbergasted. “I tried at least half a dozen times to get you to sing for me, or with me, and you always said no.”

  “Well, I guess it’s all in the way you ask me,” Mama says an
d turns forward for the rest of the way to her house.

  Tristan opens the door for me first, then Mama when we arrive, and frowns at me in solidarity or commiseration, I’m not sure which. Mama takes his arm again and chatters away telling him about the neighborhood when she was a girl, and how much it has changed. Tristan listens as if she’s Charles Schwab or some financial guru who’s sharing Wall Street secrets with him.

  Mama insists we join her in the kitchen while she takes out the eleventy-thousand dishes she’s prepared for Sunday dinner. Only one of my brothers still lives in Chicago, and he’s married to an Internal Medicine physician who thinks her arteries will harden if she walks in Mama’s door. I don’t know why Mama still cooks all this food. Jada and I are the closest to her, and we used to get her leftovers, but I’m wondering who does now.

  She enlists Tristan and me to set the dining table while she heats the food. She’s got everything down to a science, what doesn’t warm on the stove, warms in the oven and microwave, and she has the food on the table within twenty minutes.

  For a moment, things get awkward when Mama asks Tristan to say grace, because in her opinion anytime a man is in the house that duty falls on him. He mans-up and does so admirably, I might add.

  “For this, Thy bounty Lord, we are sincerely grateful. Please bless the hands that prepared this sumptuous meal, and the bodies which will receive its nourishment. Amen.”

  I squeeze his hand and flash him a smile in appreciation for playing along. We both offer profuse compliments to Mama on the food, and share small talk as we eat collard greens, seasoned with the fat of meats I’m sure Tristan has never consumed, candied yams, black-eyed peas, creamed corn, fried okra until she finally gets to the real reason she wanted me to come by.

  “Keisha Anarosa,” Mama says, using my first and middle names as she does when she’s indicating to me that she’s serious. “I was going to tell you this alone, but I hope bringing your boyfriend here makes it easier, somewhat. I’m going to have to have surgery next Wednesday. I have breast cancer.”

  I put my fork down. I feel Tristan take my hand under the table, as I try to swallow the big-assed lump that has formed in my throat. I look at my Mama who stayed with a man who beat her, and abused me, the last ten years of his life. I won’t know how to handle it if she dies from breast cancer after enduring all that.

  I push my chair out, go around to her, and wrap my arms around her where she sits. Mama is the toughest old broad I know. She never likes to show her tender side, but those of us who know and love her, know it’s there.

  “Are you having it done at Charity?” I ask, still holding her head against my meager bosom. She nods. “What time?”

  “No, University of Chicago. I have to go in for pre-op Tuesday, then I’ll check in around seven in the morning. The surgery is at nine.”

  “Oh, Mama,” I say. “How long have you known, and why did you wait so long to tell me?”

  “You had a lot of stuff going on, and I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

  “But, I could’ve taken some time off and gone with you to all the earlier appointments, so you wouldn’t have to go through all that alone.”

  She rears back. “Who said I went through it alone?”

  “Are you telling me that Nina and Javier went with you?” My brother and his wife are too damn bourgeoisie, and busy to do much, but my sister-in-law is a doctor.

  “No.”

  “Was it Mrs. Searles?” Thelma Searles is what Mama calls her “ace boon coon.” I can only assume this means they’re as close as Jada and me.

  “Sit down and finish eating, Keisha.” Mama says. “We’re both being rude, and ignoring poor Tristan.”

  I sit down because she’s not going to tell me unless she’s good and ready.

  Tristan speaks up. “Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Beale. I’m the one to blame for monopolizing Keisha’s weekends for quite some time now. I’m sorry for taking her away from you in your time of need.”

  I take my seat, but I feel so guilty for not having been there for my mother, I’ve lost my appetite. I have to make amends.

  “I’ll borrow Jada’s car and take you for your pre-op, and for your surgery Wednesday morning.”

  “You should just keep the SUV. The car service can pick me up this afternoon, and I have other cars.” This is one of the most meaningful gestures Tristan has ever made in my eyes. I’m grateful he’s a man of means now.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Then it’s settled, Mama. We’ll ride over there together, Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning.”

  Mama drinks a sip of lemonade. “You don’t have to do that Keisha. I have a ride over on both days.”

  “Yes I do Mama, there’s no way I’m letting you do any of this alone.”

  “Then I may as well tell you the second part of what I have to tell you. You know Pastor Johnson’s been a widower longer than I have, and we’ve been close friends ever since your father died. Now, I’m not trying to replace your daddy, but the Pastor is a great man, and I told him I would marry him three weeks ago before all this mess happened.”

  For a few seconds, I can’t decide what I need to say to my Mama right now. I come up with the most asinine, unimportant question of the decade, considering what else is going on. “So, all those times he was over here for Sunday dinner, he was after more than just Sunday dinner?”

  My mother is incensed. “Keisha!”

  “Baby.” Tristan isn’t quite as forceful, but I can hear the warning in his soft voice.

  They’re both right. I shouldn’t say anything to disrespect my mother now. She might have some serious issues after this surgery. Also, I’m like the pot calling the kettle black. My mother might have had her secret rendezvous’ going on with the Pastor, but I’m the submissive for a rich white man. My secret trumps hers every day of the week.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I say. The gravity of what’s going on with my mother finally hits me. “You want me to stay here with you until then?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she says. “William should be by directly after he visits the other sick and shut-in.”

  “He’s staying here?”

  Mama sits ramrod straight and glares at me. “I offered him the guest room, I’ll have you know. And even if he was staying in my room, it would be none of your business. We are two grown-ass people who can give an account for our own actions.”

  She’s right again. I’m the worst kind of hypocrite considering the fact that I’m fornicating on the regular with a man who’s kinky leanings are the polar opposite of the marriage bed being undefiled. It even makes a mockery of the term “living in sin.” I did listen to Pastor Johnson in church all those years, but sometimes temptation can get the better of you. I’m a living witness. I’ve been drawn and enticed by my own lust with Tristan since day one.

  I must sit there too long with my mouth hanging open, because Tristan speaks for us both.

  “Let us at least clear the table, since you’ve done us the honor of cooking all this food.”

  Mama practically simpers. “That’s so sweet, Tristan. I’m going to make you a nice plate to take with you for later.”

  Oh yeah, Mama, give the gazillionaire a doggy bag like he’s a poor, starving college student.

  I am livid with embarrassment, but I’ve already put my foot in my mouth too many times with her today. I watch in amazement as Tristan accepts, graciously.

  “My housekeeper is off today, so I’d be delighted to take some food with me for later.”

  There is something incongruous about Tristan carrying a recycled plastic grocery bag containing two paper plates piled high with soul food wrapped in aluminum foil.

  When we’re in the kitchen of his condo, I take it from his hands and head to the trash can. He rushes me and takes it back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you before, but this food contains all the things you avoid in your diet, and others you wouldn�
�t even think about consuming.”

  “I don’t care if it’s seasoned with crack, I’m eating the rest of this later,” he says stubbornly.

  I am definitely rubbing off on him.

  #

  Later, in Tristan’s role-play room, we are deep into a scene when it happens for the first time. My hands are bound by leather cuffs on the headboard. I’m blindfolded and splayed out on the bed with a spreader bar between my ankles, as Tristan works me over with a flogger.

  He’s gotten so into it, he’s asking me every manner of superfluous question he can think of, but this one is my undoing:

  “Who’s your Daddy, Keisha?”

  I know he means it in a sexual connotation, but I remember my real daddy saying that shit to me when he was high, and whipping my ass when I didn’t respond to his liking.

  I see Javier Gonzales Beale, Sr. instead of Tristan, standing over me with a leather belt, his mouth contorted in a drunken sneer.

  “Who’s your Daddy, Anarosa?” My father preferred my middle name because it was his great-aunt’s name.

  “J-j.” I try to say the word, Jungle, but I can’t.

  A haze descends over me and my limbs begin to tremble. All my exposed skin tingles and I break out in a cold sweat. My heart goes from normal to speeding against my ribcage, constricting my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  “Keisha!”

  My breath is so shallow, it’s as though I’m breathing through a coffee stirrer, yet my chest rises and falls rapidly. I search for the voice speaking to me, but my eyes roll back into my head, and I feel as if I’m going under.

  “Baby?”

  I know that voice, but I can’t seem to register that it’s Tristan. Finally, my eyes open again, and I find him.

  He drops the flogger and leans over me, his brows furrowed in grave concern. “Keisha?”

  I need to be free. I can’t breathe. I struggle not understanding why I am in constraints.

  “Keisha . . . Fuck!” Tristan releases my hands and feet with lightning speed, intent on figuring out what’s up with me.

  I’m writhing on the bed, my hands now free, wheezing.

  From nowhere, I feel a mask being slid over my mouth, and a steady stream of oxygen flows into my lungs.