It's All Love

by Marita Golden

  We felt married from the start, our connection was that soothing and so right. As I lay nestled in Joe's arms one evening, I asked him if he had ever thought seriously about marriage. “To whom?” he asked. “To me,” I said. He said yes with a certainty that didn't surprise me at all. We agreed that if we were still together in a year, we would marry. We were and we did.

  Then things got interesting, got challenging, and I learned whom I had married, who I was willing to become, and what real friendship and real love are made of, how they are tested, and how they survive. Yes, we are soul mates, but our marriage has not been a fairy tale. My initial intention of being the world's best stepmom was quickly derailed by teenaged angst and jealousy of me, whom my stepdaughter saw only as a rival for her father's affection. It took several years for Keesha and me to grow into a relationship of affection and trust. I had to learn that Joe wasn't going to be a Father Knows Best dad to my son, Michael, and accept that Joe would carve out his own way of being stepfather, role model, and friend to my sometimes hardheaded, difficult son, who was as jealous of Joe as Keesha was of me.

  I had to learn that no, I couldn't shout and scream and stalk out of the room, slamming the door behind me, in the midst of an argument and expect to make my point. Joe had to learn that, with me, the way he said things counted even more than what he said.

  But what kept us together through it all is that we never stopped talking. Ever in touch with his feelings, Joe has never hesitated to let me know when he feels I could have done better by him, or even done better by myself. I have learned that the old adage about never going to bed without making up is a nice aphorism but that in the real world of marriage, a spouse may need a day or two of quiet, sometimes silent healing to get over or make sense of what was done or what was said.

  Then four years into our marriage Joe was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, an aggressive and often fatal form of cancer. Having lost both my parents in the space of two years when I was in my twenties, I initially presented the strong, invincible face to the world that I had perfected in the wake of numerous personal crises. I was calm and optimistic, telling friends about Joe's illness, repeating the details of the planned course of treatment, the prognosis, how he was holding up.

  And then finally in the shower one morning I wept bitter, scorching tears of anger, cursing fate for giving me the love of my life only to threaten to take him away so soon. I cried in the shower because I didn't want Joe to see me cry, could not imagine seeking comfort from him when he needed at that moment so much. I sank onto the floor of the shower stall and let the warm water beat down on me, sobbing until I could cry no more. Then I stood up, leaned against the wall of the shower, and whispered with a mixture of resolve and faith into the ear of God that no matter what, Joe was going to live. We were going to beat cancer. I had just started loving him, and I wasn't through yet.

  Joe has sometimes said that the cancer, with its eight months of invasive treatments, chemotherapy and radiation, the weakness, fatigue, and the loss of appetite, was a blessing. Like many cancer survivors, he credits the disease with increasing his appreciation for life, for helping him gain a real sense of priorities. And the cancer was not just the difficult, often debilitating treatment. Cancer, which in a sense we both had (I had it vicariously and was a victim of it emotionally), manifested itself in old friends coming back into his life and visiting him for hours in the hospital or at home, sitting by his bed, regaling him with the healing balm of memories and favorite stories. It was five of my sister friends showing up at our house one evening with a week's worth of casseroles they had prepared in order to relieve me of the burden of cooking and dealing with Joe's needs. It was those same friends who volunteered to be with Joe at home on the days I had to commute from our home in suburban Maryland to teach in Richmond, Virginia. Joe and I had no idea we were so loved.

  Cancer was me coming upon Joe one day in the bathroom, shrunken down almost to nothing, his head bald, his skin sagging beneath his arms, and at his hips, leaning heavily against the bathroom sink. He looked horrible, yet I stood silently watching him and feeling his vulnerability and his strength and his will to live and in that moment loving him so deeply and so preciously it took my breath away Cancer taught me how to love my husband in ways no marriage manual, no best friend, not even your mama will tell you how to love.

  We survived cancer. Together. And together we have survived Joe's battle now with diabetes (sparked by the cancer treatments), a family member's more than decade-long sentence to prison, his father's death and his mother's health challenges, our mutual job woes, our children's bad choices, and some dreams turning into nightmares. We have celebrated and shared our grandchildren, our children's triumphs, our dreams coming true, Joe's retirement after thirty years of teaching, the life my writing career has given us, travel all over the world, from Havana to Istanbul, Joe's rediscovery of his passion for playing the piano, performing, and writing music.

  This love, this marriage, has been a journey. Some roads we made. Others we were forced to tread. This union is nothing like I imagined it would be. It has surpassed all I dared hope for. I've learned how good I am. How great love feels and that it does not have to be perfect to be love. I know what it means to have a spouse who is your best friend. We are joined beyond the tatters, the tears, the breaks, and the breakdowns. We decided at the beginning and along the way to make this work. Ours is a love and contentment that we earn and create and perfect every day. Who says there are no happy endings?

  Fiction

  Chinaberry

  (FROM THE HAND I FAN WITH)

  TINA MCELROY ANSA

  WITH HERMAN AROUND and in love with her, Lena felt for the first time in her adult life that she was truly lucky.

  And if Herman's presence on her property was a haunting, then it was the sweetest and gentlest one she had ever experienced.

  Most of the ghosts from her past had appeared in terrifying forms: wolves, cats, and wild dogs; headless, footless bodies; decaying bodies with heads facing one way, torsos the other; babies who turned into ghouls. They controlled her in her sleep and drew her into dark and dangerous situations to frighten her. They spoke through her mouth, scaring her and getting her into trouble with her friends and teachers. They tried to pull her into their world.

  The worst that Herman did was he wouldn't hardly let Lena conduct any business. All through May and past June, after the wisteria had disappeared and the small white flowers on the jasmine vines had taken over, Herman really got in the way of her duties.

  It was not that he forbade her to conduct her regular voluminous business dealings. It was just that his “being” got in the way. His laughter got in the way. His invitations to explore her land got in the way. His way of life, so to speak, got in the way. Herman's yearning for Lena got in the way. And Lena's love for Herman got in the way.

  The first few days after he appeared, all Lena had to do was think of Herman with his cheekbones like chiseled Georgia granite for him to appear to her.

  She would feel the breeze on her neck and then look over to see Herman sitting on the sofa across the room from her. Or she would feel a tickle on the bottom of her bare feet, and he would be lying in bed next to her. Or she'd see a wisp of smoke escape from a late-night fire he had laid and lit for her, and he would be standing there by the fireplace in her bedroom carving the box for a kalemba.

  But after a while Herman did not wait for Lena to evoke him. He'd come sauntering into her bedroom first thing in the morning or be lying next to her when she awoke, watching her, waiting.

  Adjusted to living alone, unaccustomed to another body— even a ghostly one—in bed with her, Lena would jump, startled at his presence. But she got used to it.

  He didn't seem to need any sleep.

  “I don't need no sleep, baby. Other than to run through yo’ dreams every now and then so you won't forget ‘bout me while you restin'.”

  “How am I ever gonna forget about you, Her
man?” Lena asked sincerely. He was making her so bold.

  “I just wanted to hear you say it, Lena, baby.”

  It still surprised her when she and Herman went out walking on the property and came up on Mr. Renfroe or a stable hand who would look up and wave at her and speak as if she were there all alone.

  Herman was so real, so solid Lena had a hard time believing that other folks could not see him. Could not hear him. Could not feel him.

  Those first days they just walked and talked and explored her property a great deal when she was at home. Right from the beginning, it seemed to Lena that they spent all their time together. But they didn't. Lena had too much else to do. She just thought about him all the time. She got up early to spend sunrise and first light with him before going into town and came home as early as she possibly could to end her day with him out on the deck, looking at the stars through the telescope she had bought him.

  It was amazing to Lena, but things worked out without her hand in it. For the most part, Lena's time with Herman was undisturbed. Her cleaning, stable, and yard crews did their jobs while she was at work, and only one or two people ever saw her talking to an empty space or riding Baby next to a riderless Goldie.

  With James Petersen safely settled down the lane in his own home and the gardening and stable crew finished for the day, Lena and Herman would lie together in the two-person hammock he had found in the barn and strung between two tall pine trees overlooking the river and watch the sun go down. Sometimes they would lie in perfect silence. Other times they tripped over each other's words talking so much.

  Magic happened all the time when they were out together. If it started to rain while they were out walking down by the river, there would seem to be a bubble around them as they raced back toward the house. One minute it was dry and breezy inside the bubble. The next minute it stopped raining outside and only rained inside the bubble. And they'd arrive home dripping wet and refreshed.

  The first time Lena and Herman swam together outside, it was in the waters of Cleer Flo'. They had headed to the river one morning to see what had washed ashore during the stormy night, but when they saw the clear inviting waters rushing past the deck, Herman had suggested, “Let's go for a dip, Lena.”

  Both strong swimmers, they shed their clothes right there and dove into the green pristine waters of the Ocawatchee squealing like children. The river was full of life. And each time Lena or Herman brushed past a fish or a toad or a tadpole or a crawfish, it sent off electric sparks like an eel, and Lena felt like something from a science-fiction novel.

  But Herman did not win Lena over with magic or the manipulation of science. He eased into her heart and took her over with real old-time love and attention.

  He slid into her heart so smoothly, so seamlessly that before she knew it he was truly her man.

  Lena didn't know when it actually happened. She knew it didn't really happen overnight, but that was the way it felt. It was just that Herman and the day they had planned or didn't have planned opened up to them like a woodland amusement park each morning. There were horses and a swimming pool and woods to explore. There was a river to fish in and gardens to work. There was a flat-bottom boat to snake up into secluded estuaries. Herman was a lot more seductive than her duties in Mulberry. And Lena just didn't seem to have time for her old routine.

  At first, when one of Lena's customers or friends or acquaintances called or showed up at her door, needing, practically demanding, some help or intervention, Lena did what she had always done and rose to the occasion. She would rush to the phone or dash out the door with a big pretty peach-colored wool melton shawl trailing behind her and catch a glimpse of Herman out the corner of her eye. He would be stretched out in front of the fireplace with his big sock feet crossed on the table, his drugstore reading glasses low on his nose, a couple of books on the floor, a gooseneck lamp over his shoulder, and she'd immediately regret her decision.

  “Shoot,” she'd say under her breath as she raced to help the latest caller out of a scrape, “I could be laying up here with Herman.” And to make it worse, she would recall the feel of his coarse chest hairs brushing across the tips of her breasts when they made love face-to-face.

  So more and more, Lena found herself setting some new previously unheard-of limits. Herman showed up in April, and by the end of May she refused to leave home for any reason before daylight in the morning. By the end of June she would not let anyone draw her out of the house after dark, “unless it's a dire emergency,” she told Herman.

  Lena tried her best to stop doing so much of the work herself. She discovered that without her at the helm twenty-four hours a day, her money, holdings, and power kept right on working.

  She continued her “hush mouth” work because she enjoyed giving. And as Gloria would have said, “Ain't no need to rock the boat right ‘long through here.” Lena continued signing checks and ordering gifts from catalogs. But more and more, she found herself asking Precious or one of the other assistants at Candace to screen her messages and mail and keep her apprised of important dates and events in the lives of her people.

  And she continued sending out blessings to people and households in Mulberry even if she didn't drive past them every day anymore. Lena even heard herself say to a caller, “You know, it's you that your father wants to see at his final moment, not me. He probably doesn't even remember who I am. All you have to do is forgive him and let him forgive you.”

  Herman would hear her up on the deck talking on the phone.

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Uh-huh. Of course, I understand how you must feel. Uh-huh. Of course, of course. Uh-huh.

  “But I'm still going to have to say I can't do it this time,” she persisted, looking out at Herman swinging in the hammock. “I've made another commitment.

  “Your father just wants to talk to you. It'll be okay. I'll pray for all ya'll.”

  Then she would come outside and slide into her space under Herman's right shoulder.

  “You know, Lena, Miss Cora—who taught me to read out the Bible after I was grown—Miss Cora say the Lord don't want no sacrificed victims or no burned offerin's. He want yo’ mercy and forgiveness fo’ each other and yo’ willin'ness to he'p each other out.

  “Lena, you he'p a whole heap a’ folks out all the time. Doin’ all kinds a’ thangs. You ain't got to sacrifice yo'se'f too. You ain't got to do nothin', baby. We used t’ say back in my day, ‘All I gotta do is stay Black and die.’ And that's all you gotta do. Stay Black and die.”

  But even when she had done all she could without sacrificing her days and nights to good works, Herman still found her looking off into space with that worried look around her pretty mouth. He'd tell her: “Lena, baby, don't worry ‘bout the mule goin’ blind. Just hold him in the road.” And Lena would have to laugh because she did a lot of worrying about the mule going blind.

  He got her laughing most mornings when he awakened her in her bed now that she slept soundly through the night. She could feel the weight of his body on the edge of her wide bentwood handmade bed waken her and she couldn't help it. Before she even opened her eyes in the morning, she would realize Herman was sitting beside her, waiting for her, and she'd awake with a big smile plastered all over her face.

  Some mornings, especially as they came up on the nearly hot days of early summer, he woke her with song.

  Woke up early this mo'niri

  Sun was shiniri bright

  Told ma wife don't fix me no coffee

  ‘Cause I won't be back tonight.

  Lena would lie in bed—a luxury she had never allowed herself—and listen to the sound of Herman's rich old-timey-sounding baritone.

  Sound like he ought to be singing “Ole’ Man River,” Lena lay in her bed that smelled like her man and thought with a smile. Then she laughed out loud when Herman launched into the tune from Show Boat.

  God, he made her happy.

  But if she didn't feel like laughing first thing in the morning, he would sen
se it and respect that feeling too. On those days Lena awoke to the sensation of being nuzzled by smoke, by mist.

  She didn't dwell on the fact that Herman was a ghost who appeared and disappeared like dew in the morning. He was so full of life, it spilled out all over him and Lena.

  “Hey, Lena, come look what I found in the barn!” “Hey, Lena, baby, let's go see if the fish bitin'.” “Hey, Lena, hey, Lena, Lena, baby, put on yo’ boots and come here a minute.”

  He called her all the time. And she never tired of hearing him speak her name. “Hey, Lena. Hey, Lena, baby. Hey, Lena, come see this big old blue boulder I found waaaayyy down the riverbank. We can jump in the river off it. Lay on it naked in the sun. Hey, come see. Baby.”

  “Lena, Lena, hey, Lena, baby,” he'd call urgently from out on the deck. And he would point to the sky with wonder at a flock of long-legged wood storks in from the coast. “Look a’ yonder.”

  It was difficult for her to talk on the phone, let alone conduct any kind of business in person, with him calling her name all the time. It was just a whisper in her ear, but it was a summons all the same.