Genevieve

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  Stands there, a life-size statue of herself. Her past breathes down her neck. She takes a reluctant step toward her memory, then stops, now a felon being subpoenaed, forced to go.

  I say her name; ask if she’s okay.

  My wife whispers, “I’m not ready for this. Not sure if I can handle this.”

  She bounces her fist against her leg in a stabbing motion, killing memories.

  Her eyes widen. Her steps falter. She stabs her leg. Those memories rise, will not die. An electrical storm is raging inside her brain. She’s not ready to face anyone from her past.

  Her voice trembles as she looks at me. “Go downstairs with me. Please?”

  She needs me.

  That makes me feel good. Validates my existence in this marriage.

  I follow her, my Alice taking me deeper into her rabbit hole.

  TEN

  WE GET OFF THE ELEVATOR AND SEE A FEW PEOPLE AT THE FRONT DESK.

  The storm has chased weary travelers here for the night. A flight crew is checking in, no doubt their plane grounded.

  I ask, “Where are they?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “Don’t snap at me.”

  The lobby has a sitting area; three steps up from the reception desk. We know that she can’t be waiting outside toward the circular driveway, not in the storm, so we take those three steps. I see a woman standing across the marble floors, beyond the chandeliers, waiting near the front door, resting in a high-back chair, head down, legs crossed, one bouncing like an erratic heartbeat.

  The woman raises her head.

  My breath catches. I slow down. Genevieve keeps walking.

  The same wild hair and low-rise jeans I’d met not too long ago.

  Same black lace-up sneakers, same tattoos, body piercing, and bangles on the right arm.

  Now I know her name.

  Kenya.

  Her panicky expression turns into shock when she sees us coming toward her, me with her sister, and that astonishment changes into a smile, creates slits of dimples in her cheeks.

  She stands when she sees Genevieve, says, “Sister.”

  Genevieve nods, says, “Kenya.”

  At first there are no hugs, just that single word and the nod of heads.

  Genevieve asks, “Who are you here with?”

  “Just me. I’m alone.”

  Genevieve’s body relaxes some, enough to show fear has left her heart.

  They measure each other with their eyes. There is an understanding. Then they hug and bits of the past dissipate. They retreat back to their spaces, outside of each other’s personal bubble, like two people who were taught to avoid bodily contact with strangers.

  Genevieve owns a nervous smile. “This is my husband.”

  Kenya doesn’t smile. “This is a surprise.”

  Kenya reaches to shake my hand, polite and brief, her few words a song. I’m ready for her to tell Genevieve that we met earlier tonight, but Kenya acts like she’s never seen me before.

  Kenya keeps her distance, regards me with curious eyes.

  Genevieve says, “Look at you.”

  “You’ve lost weight.”

  “You have breasts.”

  “Yeah. Cool, huh?”

  “When did you… ?”

  “Last year. Got tired of being an A-cup.”

  Genevieve touches her hair. “Where did you get all those tattoos?”

  “Frog’s. Atlanta. New York. Other places I’ve been.”

  “Most people just buy postcards and magnets.”

  Kenya laughs off Genevieve’s criticism, says, “Married? Sister, you’re married?”

  Genevieve nods, holds her impatience on her tongue. My wife shifts and her eyes widen, a strange look covers her face, some sort of guilt, and for a moment she looks so young.

  Kenya asks, “Was there… why wasn’t I invited to the wedding?”

  “There was no fairy-tale wedding. I don’t believe in wasting money on ceremony.”

  Kenya’s phone sings Usher. She doesn’t answer. Her eyes come back to Genevieve. She smiles. Her surprise shows at the right corner of her lips. Her teeth are straight and white, a wonderful contrast to her beautiful skin, skin that still has that youthful glow, a glow that will become dulled by that bastard we call Time.

  Now she shows a different kind of interest. She asks me, “What do you do?”

  AIDS researcher is the general term that I use to describe my work. I skip telling her that I have degrees in both molecular and genetic biology from UCSD, don’t tell her that I work at Nicolaou Laboratories, just say my research is on human immune deficiency cell growth.

  She acts as if she has never seen me before.

  Kenya’s cellular rings again. Usher ring tone. She doesn’t answer.

  Genevieve asks Kenya what she is doing here, which means how did she find her.

  Kenya says, “Grandpa Fred figured you’d stay in downtown Birmingham. Only three good hotels here, so it wasn’t too hard.”

  “When did you talk to Grandpa Fred?”

  “Right before I called you. Did you know J-Bo was back in jail?”

  “For what?”

  “Burglary. He stole a shipment of frogs down in Galveston.”

  “Stupid.” Genevieve shakes her head. “So he won’t be at the funeral?”

  “Please. He won’t get out for two years.”

  “That’s enough. I don’t want to hear any more bad news.”

  Kenya takes a hard breath. “Understandable.”

  “So, Grandpa Fred told you I might be here.”

  “He figured you’d be staying at the Sheraton. Guess he was halfway right.”

  Genevieve redirects the tete-a-tete, does that like she’s a businesswoman in a board meeting, the CEO of this conversation. “Why are you out in this weather at this time of night?”

  Kenya tells us that she was driving in from Stone Mountain, Georgia. The storm came in strong, she had to stop several times, eventually made her way into downtown Birmingham.

  Genevieve shakes her head as if what she’s hearing doesn’t make sense. She tells Kenya, “You had to pass the exit for Odenville and drive thirty minutes to get to Birmingham.”

  Awkwardness rises, builds a wall between them.

  Genevieve asks why she was driving alone. Kenya says that she has been living in New York for the last three years, but moved back to Stone Mountain a few months ago.

  I ask, “New York?”

  Her cellular sings Usher again. She ignores the call, then she answers, “Yes, New York.”

  She hands me one of her cards. The front has her beautiful face, a face that no camera will ever do any justice. I flip it over. I should not have flipped it over, should’ve been content with the innocent smile on that side. The other side disturbs me. Pictures of her in bikinis and other sensual garments, everything from elegant outfits to pink leather pants and cowboy hat.

  She says, “As I said, Stone Mountain is a temporary thing.”

  Genevieve asks, “What were you doing in Stone Mountain?”

  “Went to take care of my daddy.”

  There is a long pause. “How is he?”

  “Prostate cancer. He passed six months ago.”

  The past settles between them. Something is said in the silence.

  Genevieve makes a hard sound, then asks, “And you’re still there?”

  Kenya nods. “For the moment.”

  Genevieve asks, “Are you going back to New York?”

  “Not sure. But I love New York. I finished my BA at Sarah Lawrence College last May. My focus was literature and creative writing.”

  Kenya has a surreal, dreamlike way of talking.

  I clear my throat. “New York and Georgia. You should be used to this humidity.”

  “Actually, you’d be surprised about how little humidity we get in New York. Besides, the pluses of New York far outweigh any damage the humidity would do. Loads of cultural stuff: the ballet, modern dance, opera, Phi
lharmonic, plays, musicals, jazz clubs, restaurants, museums.”

  Genevieve watches her. Listens. Reads between the lines.

  Kenya. Her jeans are tight and wet. My eyes follow her curves to her small waist, her apple butt, and I look away, toward the front desk, toward the storm outside, a storm that refuses to end. The sky rumbles like it has an ulcer. And we stand here, they stand here, in the middle of the night, in the eye of the storm and have a conversation as if there was no disturbance.

  Genevieve asks, “Your father leave you anything?”

  “Debt. No insurance. You know how we do it.”

  “He owned a home?”

  “Was still staying in an apartment off Memorial Drive.”

  Genevieve asks, “What are you doing to support yourself in the meantime?”

  “My last job was an office assistant. That was out in Marietta, by the Big Chicken.”

  “And now?”

  Kenya answers, “Looking for something with educational benefits. Had thought about trying to get on at Delta, but they’re cutting back over seven thousand people.”

  “So you’re done with school? You’re stopping at an undergrad degree?”

  There is a pause between them. More measuring as the sky rumbles. Genevieve’s eyes say I’ve pulled myself up, raised the bar, gone from Odenville to Spelman to UCLA to Pepperdine. There is no excuse for failure and I don’t want to hear any excuses for slacking.

  Kenya smiles, a mirror of Genevieve’s expression.

  Kenya’s phone rings again. She becomes uneasy, does not answer her summons.

  Someone is desperate to find her.

  Once again my wife shifts, has a strange, edgy expression on her face.

  Genevieve yawns, asks, “Why did you wake me up at this ungodly hour?”

  She laughs, tells Genevieve, “Well… I couldn’t drive anymore, not in this weather.”

  Genevieve says, “Didn’t you know that it was raining before you started your drive?”

  “I wasn’t going to fly in this weather.”

  “But you’d drive through floods and a tornado?”

  Kenya retorts, “For family, yes.”

  Genevieve loses her faux smile. Her dimples cease to exist. She shakes her head. She doesn’t believe her sister. In her eyes I see a history of lies and deception.

  Kenya licks her lips, pauses as if she is trying to maintain her cool.

  She says, “Look, Sister, the reason I woke you… I was trying to get a room.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. Here.”

  “How did you even know I was here?”

  “Didn’t even know you were checked in here. Not until I called up.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, God has his hand in this. Divine intervention.”

  Genevieve snaps, “Don’t do the God crap.”

  “What do you have against God?”

  “I have God in my heart, don’t need God shoved down my throat.”

  “I understand.”

  “It’s late. I’m tired. What’s going on, Kenya?”

  “Problems with my charge card.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Think Deuce canceled my card.”

  “Who is Deuce?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  “And his name is Deuce?”

  “Guy I’m kicking it with.”

  Genevieve gives her a rugged smile. “How could your friend do that?”

  Kenya folds her arms, unfolds her arms. “We had a joint charge card.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “You know, getting married, already had started combining charge cards.”

  “Oh. So you’re engaged?”

  “Was.”

  “So you’re not engaged.”

  “No big deal.”

  “Why would he have that control over your credit?”

  “Just a charge card. Only have one. We had started combining incomes, consolidating our lives. Actually the card was mine, but he got it for me and I paid the bill. I know how you are when it comes to money. Not trying to stiff you like everybody has done. I have enough to cover this in my ATM. First thing tomorrow, or today I should say, I’ll take care of this.”

  Genevieve’s hand rubs her hair, her head drops. “Let me get my purse.”

  We abandon Kenya, leave her where she stands, wet, arms folded, jeans hugging her vanity, and we hurry back to the elevator, quick steps under a rumbling sky.

  Genevieve’s eyes are down, head shaking. I glance back before the elevator door closes, see Kenya’s stiff face, her gray eyes now slits. As the elevator rises Genevieve is mumbling unkind things about Kenya. Pathological. Unorganized. Self-centered. Manipulative.

  I say, “You’re shifty.”

  “I’m shifty because your protein injection is dripping out of me.”

  I laugh.

  She says, “God, feels like a river of tapioca pudding is running down my leg.”

  Back to our room.

  Genevieve’s sense of probity overflows like a volcano, her frustrations with those who do not have their lives highlighted on a wall facing east makes her pace awhile before she gets on task, finds her purse and rants, “She could’ve said all of that over the phone. Every job she has, the best she can aspire to be is something that has the word assistant preceding it.”

  I’m at the window facing the patio. I tilt a broken plantation shutter and spy outside. That U-Haul is still in front of the Energen Plaza, emergency lights flashing. A slim figure appears, its darkness battling the forces of nature, dashing through the rain to the truck. She runs through the storm, her colorful sorority umbrella losing a battle with the wind. It’s Kenya.

  Genevieve hurries into the bathroom, begins cleaning herself, water running as she continues to seethe, “Dental assistant. Office assistant. And you know what they say: assistant is just a nice way of saying instant ass.”

  “Assistant. Instant ass. An anagram.”

  “Almost, but not quite.”

  The television is on in the background. Seven dead. A half-million without power. Flooding in more than fifty counties. Expecting up to eight more inches of rain.

  Kenya gets in the U-Haul on the driver’s side. With the darkness, the distance, and the low visibility, I can’t tell if anyone else is in the cab. She stays inside long enough to grab an overnight bag and turn off the emergency flashers. She gets out, alone, lets her umbrella get blown away. She looks up and I assume she sees me. Her eyes stop on our window. She stands in the storm watching me watch her be clumsy. Lightning booms, lights up Magic City. Kenya runs through puddles and rivers, fights the wind and races back to the hotel.

  Genevieve is still talking, my five senses have moved away from her.

  Kenya is driving a U-Haul through a storm, through floods, a whirlwind of downed trees, dodging tornadoes to get to a funeral, no money in her pocket, not a single charge card.

  I clear my throat and say, “Your sister… she’s…”

  “Great. Now she’s a model. And a writer. A model who isn’t working and a writer who isn’t writing. Handing out zed cards. Always has been so conceited. So unfocused, looking for an excuse to not be successful. She’s smart but still sells herself in order to further herself.”

  I ask, “More siblings?”

  “Two of my five brothers were taking a vacation out in Elmore last I heard.”

  “What’s Elmore?”

  “Jail. With J-Bo locked up for stealing some damn frogs, that makes three on vacation.”

  “Your dad, same facility?”

  “One big family reunion.”

  I’ve never seen Genevieve riled like this. Have never heard her talk about her siblings.

  She repudiates her old life.

  The door closes as she rushes back out of the room, not waiting for me to accompany her. The zed card is still in my hand. My sweaty hand. I read the stats across the bottom.