After the Fire: The ‘Shorts’

by Forrester, Nia

  At that, Maya turned to look at me. Her eyes were so warm and so full of sisterly love that I started to cry, unmistakably this time.

  It was the first time I admitted that to anyone. Including myself. I was happy.

  “And how’s Gideon about it?”

  “I don’t know. He’s mad I didn’t tell him directly. That he had to find out by fishing one of the tests out of my trashcan in the bathroom.”

  Maya’s expression transformed from sympathetic to exasperated.

  “I was going to tell him. Of course I was going to tell him. But he always … just gets ahead of me on things and then complains because I’m not moving as fast as he is.” I wiped my eyes with the back of a hand.

  “Like what?” Maya asked impassively.

  “Like … he took me to his parents for Thanksgiving last year before I even started calling him my boyfriend. He put that fucking blue sticker on my car … gave me a key when we were … what?”

  “And these are his flaws, Kendra? Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound right now?”

  Maya brought our plates to the table and set one in front of me.

  “Yes.” I nodded. “I have some idea of how ridiculous I sound.”

  Maya spluttered and then we were both laughing. She sat across from me and reached for my hand. Then she reached for my other hand.

  “And I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s pray. Let’s pray that the Lord will restore your senses. Because you are insane if you’re even considering letting this man go.”

  “I wasn’t actually considering that,” I said sheepishly.

  “Then what exactly is your problem? Because if I know Gideon, he’ll probably want a shotgun wedding, being that he’s all … Catholic and whatnot. And if that’s what he wants, it’ll be incredible because I happen to know you love the heck outta him, so …” She shrugged.

  “It’s just …”

  “Just what?” Maya pressed. “Spit it out.”

  “Sometimes I feel … like a hypocrite when I’m with him,” I admitted.

  Maya rolled her eyes. “Because he’s a cop? Jesus. Get over yourself already.”

  * * *

  “I have to tell you, I’m sort of horrified by how sexy I’m finding this whole … get-up,” I said, watching Gideon as he adjusted the tie on his full-dress uniform.

  “Uncomfortable as hell, I can tell you that much.”

  “You know you love it … all this paramilitary BS.”

  “Yeah. And you just said you love it too, so …” He turned and looked at me, grinning then biting into his lower lip.

  “Tell me again what this is for, the ceremony?” I said teasingly.

  “Medal of Bravery,” he mumbled.

  I had asked him the same question about four other times, and only so I could watch him blush.

  “What?” I leaned in, hand at my ear. “I didn’t quite …”

  Gideon grabbed me by the waist, flipping me around so fast the next thing I knew I was on my back on his bed and looking up at him as he loomed over me.

  Elbows on either side of my head, he dipped his head to kiss me, carefully because I was wearing lipstick which I very rarely did.

  “And tell me again what you get the Medal of Bravery for?” I asked.

  “For being brave,” he said, in a ‘duh’ tone of voice.

  I laughed. “Actually, I looked it up. I memorized it.”

  “No you didn’t,” he said.

  “I absolutely did.”

  “So, tell me, what does an officer get the …”

  “For the performance of an outstanding arrest where the officer’s effort is met by an armed and dangerous adversary,” I recited. “The Medal of Bravery commendation is presented by the Police Commissioner in the form of a red ribbon bar, corresponding medal and certificate.”

  “You really …”

  “Would I lie to you?” I asked, wryly. “I read it twenty times. And y’know what?”

  “What?” he asked.

  He was kissing the side of my neck now, and I could feel myself getting a little squirmy below the waist, having the urge to open my legs wider and lift my pelvis toward his.

  “Each time I read it, I was prouder of you than the last time I read it.”

  “You hate that I’m a cop, though,” Gideon said, still kissing me, sounding untroubled.

  “No. I don’t hate it. My feelings about you being a cop … they’re … complicated,” I said.

  It was true. Sometimes I hated his job and what it stood for. But most of the time, I was so in awe of him for his dedication and genuine passion for the work that it was hard to separate that feeling from the other.

  “Today, I’m just very, very proud. You legit look like you could be the police commissioner when you’re in this outfit.”

  Gideon grimaced, then resumed nuzzling my neck.

  “What? Don’t lie. You would love to be the commissioner.”

  “I would hate being the commissioner,” he said.

  “Okay, explain that to me. Because I don’t believe you.”

  “No, for real. I wouldn’t want to be the police commissioner because …” He lifted his head and looked me in the eyes, brow furrowed a little as he chose his words. “Because being police commissioner would make me a politician. And all I want to be, all I’ve ever wanted to be, is a cop.”

  “Gideon Santana,” I said mock-seriously. “You are a very thoughtful man. A very thoughtful man in a very complicated job.”

  “The job’s straightforward. What’s complicated is how you feel about it.”

  “That’s true. My feelings about you loving this job are complicated.”

  I leaned into his lips against my neck. I closed my eyes.

  “Y’know what’s not complicated?” Gideon said.

  “No,” I drawled. “Tell me.”

  “A hard dick. That’s not complicated.”

  “Really,” I said, my voice flat.

  I could already feel his hand, stealing down along my thigh then up again as he hiked my dress over my hips. I wasn’t complaining.

  “Yeah. Really.”

  “You’re going to make a mess of those dress-pants,” I warned, when I felt him fidgeting with his fly.

  “Not if they come off,” he said.

  “So, take them off.”

  * * *

  After Maya and I ate every crumb of the food she brought over, she helped me pluck my eyebrows and we gossiped about someone we’d gone to high school with who she ran into in the grocery store.

  “And this crazy heifer tried to hug me,” Maya said, describing the encounter. “Can you believe that? In this day and age?”

  And we laughed about it, in that gallows humor way that people sometimes laughed about the crazy world we lived in now.

  We didn’t talk about Gideon anymore, or about Dom lying in the hospital recovering from three bullet wounds. And we didn’t talk about my pregnancy. This was our way, mine and Maya’s. Not everything needed to be hashed out or talked to death. She knew all the salient facts and I knew she had my back, whatever happened. That was the most important thing.

  When she left, I called Viv who had been suspiciously quiet all day, except for a couple of text messages checking on me, and confirming that I’d located Gideon and he was safe. She answered the phone with a high-pitched, guilty tenor in her voice.

  I smirked. “You stayed over at Ray’s last night, didn’t you?” I said.

  “Yeah. But girl, you know how …”

  “No explanation necessary,” I told her. “You love who you love.”

  “Exactly.”

  Neither of us spoke for a few moments.

  “That goes for both of us, y’know?” Viv added finally.

  “I know,” I said.

  “Do you, though?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And I hope you didn’t pay me any mind when I made that comment about you sleeping with the enemy.”

  “I didn
’t,” I lied.

  “‘Cause last night, when I was about to tell Demetrius and them about you being worried about Gideon, you acted all weird about them knowing.”

  “You know I don’t bring my personal life there.”

  “Is that what it was, or did you think you’d lose some of your street cred if they found out you’re all loved-up with a cop?”

  “That would be stupid,” I said, though I felt my face grow slightly warmer.

  “It would. Because first of all, we have no street cred. Not anymore.”

  I laughed. And remembered what she said the night before, about there being new leaders.

  “Because like it or not, we’re the aunties now. Who show up at the march in a hatchback to try and rescue the chil’ren from their own revolution,” Viv added with a snort. “I don’t even know what we were thinking. Last night, Ray really gave me the business …”

  “I bet he did,” I couldn’t help but interject.

  Viv chuckled. “Yeah, that too. But that’s not what I’m talking ‘bout.”

  “I know,” I said. “I know what you mean. So, you and Ray, are you …?”

  “We’re talking. But I’m not trying to mess our son up, make him think this back-and-forth nonsense is how it’s supposed to be in relationships. Anyway … Ray said you told him I said he’s the love of my life.”

  “I didn’t say exactly that, but …”

  “He is, though.”

  “I know.”

  “But he’s a handful …”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And I’m a handful.”

  “Yup.”

  “And together we’re crazy as hell.”

  “Yes,” I said, laughing. “That you definitely are.”

  “Gideon,” Viv said his name slowly. “On the other hand, is not a handful.”

  I said nothing.

  “In fact, I would go so far as to say he is the only grown-ass, non-handful man I have ever seen you with. That brotha is easy like Sunday morning.”

  I smiled. “He is.”

  “So it just seems stupid to me that you’re holding back like you are, Ken. And for what?”

  Chapter Eleven

  I made an educated guess about what shift Gideon was on and waited for him to come home, sitting on the steps that led up to his front door. I could have used my key and gone in, but I thought it might make me seem more pitiful and abject if I was sitting outside when he got home, and that it would make him more receptive to whatever I wanted to say.

  But he knew me and my little tricks too well, and when he exited his truck and spotted me, gave a slight roll of the eyes and walked slowly in my direction, stopping at the bottom step so our gazes were level.

  “What’s all this?” he said.

  “All what?”

  “You didn’t want to go inside?”

  I shrugged and he gave me a look that said, ‘oh, the drama.’

  “How’s Dom?” I asked, standing and brushing off the back of my jeans.

  “Stabilized. Better.”

  “Good,” I said. “I was thinking about him all day.”

  “He’s going to be okay.”

  I sensed he was saying it as much for his own benefit as for mine.

  Gideon ascended the steps and opened the front door, letting me in first then following as I made my way up to his living area. I watched as he shrugged off his button-down, unstrapping his “equipment” then opening and putting all his gear in the cabinet where he kept it secure while at home.

  “I want to talk about this morning,” I said.

  “I don’t,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

  “But …”

  Before I could finish, or even properly get started with what I wanted to say, he crossed the space between us and leaned in to kiss me, effectively shutting me up.

  Gideon was a big believer in non-verbal communication.

  But I needed to say and hear words. I pulled away.

  “I think I know why you got so short with me,” I said.

  His expression was a cross between bemused and exasperated.

  “Why was I ‘short’ with you?” he asked, clearly humoring me.

  “Because you were going through something and all you needed from me right then was to just … go through it with you, but I was … examining it, and …”

  “You mean like you’re doing right now?”

  I stopped, shutting my eyes in a silent cringe.

  But Gideon laughed. I felt myself pulled even closer against his chest.

  “I don’t know how you’re not sick of me,” I mumbled.

  “Hmm. That’d take more than a minute.” He shrugged. “That’d take … maybe a lifetime.”

  “Everything you say is just making me feel like more of an asshole.”

  “I don’t think you’re an asshole.”

  I pulled back a little and looked up at him. “Tell me what you need from me right now.”

  He smiled. “Nothing. Just … you and me, upstairs. Your skin on my skin.”

  “I can do that,” I said, nodding.

  Upstairs, in his bedroom he undressed me and then himself and we lay chest to chest on our sides atop the already mussed sheets. Gideon smoothed back my braids from my face, neck and shoulders, ran the tips of his fingers down my arms, my side, and finally rested his hand on my hip.

  Only then did I realize that what he wanted wasn’t sex, just closeness. The hand on my hip moved to the front, stopping at my abdomen. Then, as though realizing he was drawing attention to the one thing we had pointedly avoided discussing he moved the hand again. Reaching for it, I put it back where it had been and placed my hand atop it.

  “I’m keeping it,” I said. And when he opened his mouth to speak, I stopped him, by pressing his hand even closer. “I was always going to keep this baby, Gideon. I don’t think I could have made myself do anything other than that.”

  His features visibly softened then. The relief was palpable.

  “But …” I couldn’t help but add. “I don’t get why you didn’t see that it was worth thinking about, worth considering whether …”

  “You’re right. I don’t see it. If you mean considering not having this baby, you’re right. I don’t see it.”

  “Gideon … we’re so different.”

  “Again with the ‘different.’ How are we different?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I sat up.

  “No, I’m serious. Tell me why you think we’re so different that it was worth thinking about killing our kid.”

  I closed my eyes. “Even what you said just now. I mean …” I took a deep breath. “Okay, let me put it another way. I’m just saying … I see my part. I see my part in everything. Even in why, with your work and everything that’s happening out there, and Dom, and …” I stopped, realizing I was butchering the point I was trying to make and he probably didn’t understand a word of it.

  And it seemed like I was right, and that he didn’t understand because Gideon stared at me for a few moments, confused. Then gradually, bit by excruciating bit, his expression changed to dumbfounded.

  “Do you think,” he began, speaking slowly. “Do you think I … somehow I would think you and your people, like being an activist, somehow I hold you responsible for … for Dom getting shot? That’s how you think we’re different? We’re on opposite sides of some, I don’t know, some war?”

  His mouth hung open a little, and his brows were knitted. He hoisted himself onto one elbow and stared at me, waiting for my answer.

  “No. Of course not, but there is a cultural and social war being waged out there, and in some ways …”

  “In no way, Kendra. In no way do I hold you responsible, or your kids, or the Center, or fucking activists in general for Dom being shot! Who the fuck do you think I …” He stopped and shook his head, making a scoffing noise. “And you wonder why I think you’re self-important.”

  “Gideon. Just … fuck off, okay? That’s just …” I made as thou
gh to get out of bed and he held my arm, pulling me back so I was sitting once again.

  “I don’t blame you because the world does not revolve around you, Kendra. It doesn’t turn on whether you do or don’t support your local police department. You didn’t put anything into motion that caused those bullets to rip through Dom’s body!

  “You keep saying how different we are but y’know why I don’t see it? Because at the end of the day, you and me, we’re just trying to clean up some of the shit in this world; and do our best not to create too much shit of our own. That’s what I see. The details of how we do that might differ but when you break it down, all I see is how much we’re the fucking same.”

  Swallowing hard, I stared at him, again at a loss for what to say. And once again having spoken when maybe all the moment called for was my silence.

  “I’m fucking hungry,” Gideon said getting out of bed. He found and pulled on his boxer-briefs. “I’m gonna order some food.”

  He strode out of the room leaving me there alone and naked in his bed.

  I lay back against the pillows, grappling in the sheets until I found the television remote. I tuned into the local ABC affiliate and watched as they replayed the images from the protestors being gassed on the freeway, and their desperate scramble to get away. And then the live pictures of the burned-out cars and storefronts in the 24th District. I recognized the block where most of the damage had been done. It was a largely abandoned swath of the neighborhood, where drug users and sellers had an open-air market peddling and procuring, largely unmolested by the police.

  “Doing something about it is more costly in resources than leaving them alone,” Gideon had explained to me once. “If no one’s getting shot, stabbed or beat down, most of the time we just cruise on by.”

  “Indifference,” I told him, “is just another form of violence.”

  We’d argued then, too, with him saying that if he hauled junkies off the street just for trying to get high, and every single low-level dealers off the street just for having no other economic options, I would be among the first to holler about that too. He wasn’t wrong.