Burning Desire

by Relentless Aaron

  “Of course, you know I had to get to the impound. Whole bunch of personal items that were in the truck. Thought you might like to see them. Dropped off a package at your door early this morning.”

  “Wow. Bo, you are more efficient than a scientific experiment.” I put my hand over the phone to tell Angela, “There’s a package at the front door. Would you get it?” And just like that, Angela was up and out of my office. Meanwhile, I was talking to Bo again. “Bo, you knew I was gonna want you to tell me everything on the phone, and yet you were offering to visit. Silly. ”

  “Well, you know any opportunity to visit the famous Ophelia King I would not sleep on.”

  “You’re so sweet, Bo. Give my best to the family. And you be sure to bring your wife down here to my Barack Obama party next week.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Oh— wait a minute. There’s somebody you may want to speak with. His name is Pastor Bishop, from the Bronx. From what I’ve learned, he’s been trying to find our boy and even advocated a missing- persons report up there in New York.” Bo gave me the pastor’s number before we ended the call and I found myself wondering about this Danté. I’ve met many characters in my career, but a man like this was a rare find. We’ve witnessed his hard work around the house and he seemed to be well mannered. So then, what was it about him and Angela?

  Angela returned with the box that Bo had left at my front door. I couldn’t wait to dig in. Meanwhile, I started to feel myself part of a conspiracy as Angela stood over me more or less like a backseat driver as I picked through the items. That wasn’t gonna fly this time.

  “Have you followed up on the rest of the invites, Angela?” I asked this because if there was gonna be some nosi-ness going down, I needed to do that alone.

  Still, Angela seemed to have something more to say. I was frustrated with her procrastination and slightly snapped at her.

  “What, Angela? Something else you need to tell me?”

  Cowering, she replied “No, Ms. King.”

  “Okay, then let me have some time alone. We’ll catch up later.”

  As she left and closed my doors behind her, I was already into the miscellaneous goings-on in the “Danté box.” I scanned the documents such as insurance and registration cards, a mess of various business cards, and even more cards that boldly advertised MISTER FIX-IT. “You name it, we fix it. Mister Fix-It.” Once I verified the name on all the documents was Danté Garrett, I immediately called the 718 number printed on the business cards.

  Just as quickly, the recording came on to tell me that the number had been disconnected and that no further information was available. Nothing unusual there, I figured. I ignored the few other items in the box and pulled open a black leather or ga niz er. Notes. Post-it notes. More business cards. Notations were made all the way up until September, and then most of October, November, and December were blank and unused. Naturally, I began to backtrack through the notes leading up to Danté’s hospital visit. The very last note was “Trip to Atlanta with Stacy.”

  Before those notes were other reminders and such; more or less last-minute activities before Danté’s trip to Georgia. My eyes were already smiling, knowing that I had a treasure map of sorts; one that would inevitably lead me to some kind of jackpot. At the same time, I was looking for contacts like Stacy—a girlfriend? wife?—and Pastor Bishop.

  Danté Garrett, I know who you are now. I know your clients, your business connections, and your routine. As I analyzed and negotiated in my mind as to how I would move forward, I looked through the phone- contacts section of the organizer.

  And now I have the numbers for your pastor and Stacy.

  Twiddling my thumbs, taking account of Danté’s notes, his help around the house, and then weighing in Angela’s argument about his behavior, I changed my mind about tossing him out so abruptly. My big party was coming up, and it would be good to have his helping hand around. And even his company. After all, I had a heart, didn’t I?

  No question: after the party, I’d be putting that boy out my house.

  [TWELVE]

  DANTÉ

  DANCER HAD ME feeling real comfortable after her discussion with Angela weeks earlier. And I knew damn well that there was more to it; that Angela had probably wanted me and realized that Dancer had just scooped me up and out of her reach. But that was behind me now.

  What helped us all to further forget things was how Ophelia had thrown a big Barack party to celebrate the historic election win. To the best of my knowledge, I never saw so many top-level politicians, community leaders, and church officials in one place in my life. And just as unlimited was the food, the drink, and the joyous energy. It was such a prestigious event, too, complete with a jazz flavor, a five-star chef who cooked up southern cuisine, and a singer named Ayanna who inspired everyone with her enchanting voice. I took none of this for granted and did everything I could to assist and to help make this a successful gathering for Ms. King. I understood from my little research that Ms. King often threw fund-raisers and political parties for Atlanta’s rich and powerful. Only, something about this time was really special. There was such a glow in folks’ eyes, some more fogged with tears than others. A sense of renewed hope and energy was thick in the air; rich enough for me to inhale some of it myself. And then I was getting all teary-eyed, too. A lot of people stood before the gathering and said a few words, but when Ophelia spoke, she had the whole place in sobs. She talked about everything from lynching and sharecroppers to her grandparents and parents and feeling disenfranchised all these centuries. She touched upon so many struggles in the South, from affirmative action to Dr. King’s “Dream”; from the impact of the Million Man March all the way up till the injustices of the now. She covered everything in so few words, speaking on human tragedies like the Rodney King beating in the West, the dragging of James Byrd Jr. down in Jasper, Texas; then she took it to the East, noting the police killing of Sean Bell. She tied all that into the success of Barack Obama and the idea that black folk, as well as the world at large, were sick and tired of the same ol’ same ol’. Leaving no stone unturned, Ophelia glued life together, and showed how it all made sense, and she did it in more than a closing argument. She did it as would a preacher, a politician, a motivational speaker, and a little home-grown soul. Ophelia King was brilliant. And I knew from that moment that what ever landed me in her arms— whatever reason that life had to place me in this woman’s tender loving care—was supposed to happen. I was truly blessed to know this woman. And as much as I had felt a large amount of guilt lying with her daughter, Dancer, I felt more empowered now, with a great pride that I was not only really feeling this young woman, but that she came from a mother so rich and pow-erful, with intelligence and wit. Maybe this was a little premature, but I suddenly wanted to make an announcement in front of all those people at the party:

  Hey, everyone! Special announcement! Your boy Preston is part of the family, too!

  It’s Preston King, now! G’wan, Dancer. Tell everyone what the plan is!

  And, of course, Dancer would step out and (bulging stomach and all) announce that we’re getting married, not to mention the child we’d be bringing into the world.

  Okay, so that much is definitely premature. But can anyone blame a brother for wanting in? Can anyone blame a brother for wanting to be a part of the King family? Not for nothin’, but as far as my eyes could see, I was just a step or two from paradise found!

  However, there was one strange moment I experienced in the hours leading up to the event. I was helping Ophelia to position and prepare the dining-room table for the buffet she had cooked. It was the way she was throwing shade my way. I would strike up some conversation— maybe smalltalk to her. And her responses would be short and not so sweet. I thought she might be getting those pains in her abdomen again as she did months earlier; how we first met in the hospital. Still, I was encouraged to ask, “Is everything okay?”

  She answered with short nod and wag. Her head movement was so
mewhere between yes and no. It was somewhere in the middle of I’m fine and things aren’t good at all. And for some reason, I embraced her gesture personally, as if I could’ve done something wrong. But, she didn’t dare know anything about Dancer and me. Or could she? And another thing: when Ophelia introduced me to her friends who attended her party, she never mentioned my name. It was never, Hey, Joe, John, or Jack, this is Preston, friend of the family. It was always, Hey, meet our friend, and then I’d have to do my own introduction. It was either that, or she just avoided introductions altogether. I couldn’t help wondering what was up with that.

  THE DAYS following the party were mysteriously silent, as if the house itself was also resting from being overworked. Dancer and I had a little disagreement (real stupid) on the night of the party. She came up to my room, for a change, and she still had glitter on her, on her body and in her hair. Even after she came from the bathroom. So, in my mind I’m saying, Okay, she didn’t shower, just wiped off… she’s in just as much of a rush as I am to do the nasty.…

  The thing is, she was gonna lie with me and bring all that glitter in the bed with her.

  I hate to be a bitch about it all, but eww! I mean, if she was a hooker and I didn’t give a fuck, then okay. She could come to bed with makeup on, my tongue would touch nothing, and I’d have to wear three rubbers. For sure. But I was really feeling Dancer. When I kissed her, I was trying to reach her tonsils with my tongue. I was trying to touch everything she had to offer, and then some. I was trying to be one with her. Somehow, I didn’t see makeup and glitter as part of that. When I put up the slight protest (without any deep explanation) Dancer got offended.

  “Oh. So you try’na change me?”

  “God. You have to take it all the way there? You’re making something big out of something very small, Dancer.”

  “Well, I think you’re making something out of nothin’. So there.”

  And at that instant, I saw our little discussion turn into a Keyshia Cole: The Way It Is episode—ghetto, with a capital G. One side of me wanted to see Dancer let down from her position on the issue. I wanted her to see I was right. Instead, she kept up her face as if I was trying to challenge her; as if there was even any challenge here in the first place. She was being her mom, in the courtroom (a bedroom), exercising her persuasion techniques. Why?

  And what was really bad of me was how, in my mind, I was seeing someone else. It was that other woman I was seeing coming at me in my nightmares— the nightmares that were giving me the headaches. A part of me even wanted to give in to Dancer, only to take it out on her in the bed— because that’s what our sex had become, me teaching her and her conforming to the things I liked. In the half-dozen times we had mixed it up, I’d felt the imbalance; there’d be a little foreplay until the prerequisite blow job. But always, Dancer brought with her some strong intention to prove something to me, as though she were saying, I can keep up with you just as well as anybody else you’ve been with. And as the recipient, I was always getting more plea sure than I was giving— or so I thought. It was possible (and this went unsaid) that Dancer just enjoyed the hell out of giving. Maybe that got her off. Don’t know. What I do know was the dastardly thought that I had to punish this brand-new ass in a way that would earn me the last word in our “glitter argument.” Yet, in the back of mind, what ever redemption I’d feel from that would be negative. I didn’t want to feel that way about her. I wanted to sincerely love Dancer. And so we went back to our respective corners; Dancer remained down in her basement lair, and I stayed in the simple- ass guest room on the second floor.

  It was on the second night of our silence that I couldn’t sleep. I intended to read, but needed a little coffee lift. I headed out and down the dark hallways, then down the spiral staircase for the kitchen. I didn’t expect what would happen next. But I should’ve known better. The lights were always off in the hallways and foyers of the house, especially late at night. Everyone retreats to their respective rooms, and you really can’t hear a sound. Every now and then someone will be watching the big TV in the living room, or the distant locomotive horn will interrupt the silence ever so much, but not enough to rock you out of your sleep. Otherwise, it feels like you’re blind in the dark, and the house, with its high ceilings and spacious areas, is some monster vessel that would be unaffected by the actions of any mere mortal. And that’s who I was on this late night. Mortal. Human. Maybe it’s just me, a newcomer to the mansion, when it feels like everyone else is so comfortable here. Still, I find myself overwhelmed by this huge home.

  On many a night I had gone down these steps. And on almost every occasion I had assumed a step was there when it wasn’t. It was either a landing I thought was a step, or worse, a step I thought was a landing. Either way, I had tripped on that staircase on too many occasions, and almost had the stumbling down to a science. On this particular night, I was still sleepy, hadn’t yet had my coffee, and what I thought was the landing was actually a step. I buckled. My weight was thrown forward and I tumbled some. But I caught myself just in time so that I didn’t really fall. What this was (I realized) was a warning of some type. Slow down was the message. Where the message was coming from might’ve been obvious, but I didn’t consider all that. I was more concerned with watching my ass. After all, wouldn’t it be something poetic for me to tumble down the steps, hit my head, and somehow shake my memory into a reality check of some kind? Yeah, r ight. Man, what Ophelia and her friends are talking about, I don’t know. But I’m just fine. My mind doesn’t need correction. I don’t find myself forgetting anything, and there’s no loss of memory as far as I’m concerned. The gods have rolled the dice, and this is my life: where and what and who I am. Why can’t they deal with that? The only bad thing is these headaches and some crazy woman interfering with my sanity.

  After I got my coffee, I headed up the adjacent steps, the one closer to Ophelia’s bedroom. I usually do not come this way, just because the walls in the house are not soundproof. The only soundproofed room is the studio. Trust and believe, Dancer and I tested the extremes of that threshold. But the staircase near Ophelia’s master bedroom is really an open door into her conversations because she really gets into it. Sometimes, her conversations travel down to the main level with all the energy that she devotes to her phone calls. It could be legal speak, family, or the troubled relationship she’d been having with—

  Okay, so I’ve overheard a few things.

  Still, I try to afford the respect due. However, on this occasion I was forced to stop. There was a light that fanned from under the door into the dark hallway. But it wasn’t that; it was hearing Dancer’s voice that froze me in my tracks. I felt like a spy as I inched closer to the door.

  OPHELIA

  “Mom, how could you say that? And all this time you’ve known who he really is and you didn’t say nothin’? Dag, Ma!”

  “First of all, I just found out the other day. And second of all, don’t you take that tone with me, young lady. I’m still your mother.”

  “Well, Ma, I might be your daughter, but I’m also a grown woman. And I been locked in this mansion forever. And I don’t know what you’re expectin’, maybe you want me to be a nun or somethin’, but— I deserve to be loved, too.”

  “Okay. I know where this conversation is going.”

  “No. I don’t think you do, Ma. I’m twenty years old. Twenty.”

  I could feel my eyes smarting and my arms naturally folded across my breasts. What she was about to say felt like a seed that had already taken root, only I didn’t want to believe it. I had to cut in.

  “Dance, the man is from the Bronx. The man has a woman there. Someone named Stacy. Maybe she’s his wife. We don’t know.”

  As if none of what I said mattered, Dancer said, “Ma, I’m sleeping with him.”

  My face had to have the biggest hole in it— my mouth. My arms came unfolded and my hands shot to my hips.

  Blood had to be at its boiling point, already filling my pupils; I w
as sure of it. My breathing was erratic. I couldn’t remember ever being this angry at my daughter.

  “You what!?”

  There wasn’t even a stall. Dancer just came out and repeated herself, as if there’d be no repercussions— or that, if there were, she was ready and willing to accept them.

  I squeezed my eyes closed and asked God almighty for strength at this moment. My next words came out choppy and deliberate.

  “Dancer, tomorrow I am having that man’s truck removed from the police impound. Then I am gonna give him a few dollars, and I am going to give him his property I got from Bo, and I am going to ask him to leave this house. It’s over. What ever you had is over!”

  “Mom. Mom. Mom! You don’t get it, do you! You cannot just pay someone off and have them removed from my life! I actually love that man. Preston, Danté, whatever. Same man, as far as I know. He belongs to me, Ma—”

  “Please! Young lady, I was brought up with good home training. So were you. I DO NOT consent to you having sex with any strange men under MY roof. And besides, what if he is married? Then what?”

  “Ma, this isn’t about that, and you know it. This is about control. It’s a control thing with you, isn’t it? Nothing to do with good home grooming, Ma. Who are you kidding? Ma, if you were a devoted member of the no- sex- until- marriage club, then why does Napoleon stay over? Oh, he’s just a personal chef who, after he cooks, happens to stay in your room all night. No sex goin’ on in your world, right, Ma? Not you; because after all you’re not, what? Married. Yo u ‘r e fornicating just as much as I’m fornicating. Hell, we’re all fornicating.”

  “Watch your mouth, child.”

  “Stop it, Ma! Stop it with the child bit. Just fess up. Admit that you and Napoleon are—”