by J. J. Murray
I watch him go. “I can’t wait either, Jack Browning,” I whisper.
32
Jack
Ah, you got a hug.
Yeah.
Why didn’t you kiss her cheek? It was right there waiting to be kissed.
I was too busy smelling her hair.
Researching your book during a hug?
No. Just…smelling her hair.
You were so stiff.
I wasn’t trying to be.
You put your hands flat on her back. You could have gone lower.
I still might. Tomorrow night.
Now you’re talking.
The skin on her cheek…so soft.
The firmness of her flesh…so curvy.
I feel…happy.
It’s about time.
Now, what do I do for the rest of the day?
More nothing?
I think…I’ll clean the house.
And that’s exactly what I do. I spend two solid hours in the kitchen and go through seven Brillo pads getting the sink and the counters to shine again. I even sweep and mop the floor and remove all the unknown food products from the refrigerator that have been shoved into every nook and cranny.
You should call some high school kid to use this stuff for a science project.
Yeah, on “Biological Agents Found in Refrigerators.”
Was that a former taco?
I think it was a Danish.
Eww. You had better not open the microwave, then. Something died in there.
Right.
Um, what about the minibar you’ve accumulated?
I look at six bottles of Kris Kringle Eggnog, fifteen cans of Miller Lite, and several bottles of Boone’s Farm wine, the only alcohol Noël liked to drink.
I might need them.
And then again, you might not.
True. I’ll keep them, just in case.
Right. What about the tree?
I’ll leave it up for a while. We didn’t usually take it down until New Year’s Day.
You might want to water it.
Oh yeah.
There isn’t much to straighten in Stevie’s room—
You mean your room.
No, I mean Stevie’s room. I’m going to sleep in the master bedroom from now on. I am, after all, the master of this house.
What about her things?
There’s room in the laundry room for her vanity.
Taking big steps today.
Just hitting my stride, that’s all.
After taking Noël’s vanity and all its contents to an empty corner of the laundry room, I fold clothes for the next hour or so and put them into Noël’s empty dresser. Then I eat two Lunchables for dinner. I want to have more flesh for Diane to feel.
You dog, you!
I just mean I need to start eating right and more often.
Then I sit in front of my laptop, going on-line to Amazon.com, just to see if—
I have a one-star book.
We have a one-star book. Why do we have a one-star book?
A Mid-Atlantic Book Reviewer named “Nisi”—
What kind of name is that?
Short for Denise? I don’t know. Anyway, she has given Wishful Thinking one whole star.
The review pulls no punches…and even inflicts quite a few:
Wishful Thinking is an insult to anyone with intelligence. It is a travesty that the publisher found this book fit to print. The two main characters, Dan, a white man who thinks with his glands, and Ty, a black woman who doesn’t use her intelligence, are preposterous. The plot, which belongs in a funeral plot, is a series of laughable, illogical, and ultimately meaningless coincidences. This novel is a farce, a lame attempt by a writer who obviously does not know the first thing about African American women. It is demeaning, belittling, and cruel to any woman, regardless of race. It was Wishful Thinking indeed for the publisher to think that anyone with half a brain would ever call this book literature.
She must have used a thesaurus.
Yeah.
She’s just one reviewer, Jack.
And the only honest one so far.
She sounds shrill.
And angry.
Well, don’t dwell on it.
It’s hard not to. My book has insulted somebody.
Why not think about your next one?
About Arthur and Di?
Does she have to be “Di”?
How about Delilah?
Too biblical.
Della?
Too musical. And why does her name have to begin with D?
I have Diane on the brain, I guess.
Why not call her…Nisi?
Definitely ethnic.
And you could get some payback that way….
But Nisi, whoever she is, was right! She nailed a book ripe for nailing. I have more respect for her than for anyone at Booklist or Kirkus. She was fair. Perhaps a little harsh on a first novel, but she was still fair.
Okay, how about…Deborah?
That’s biblical, too. I need a normal name for a normal person.
And “Di” is a normal name?
Diana, then.
Fine. Go.
Arthur and Diana meet at the library. Exactly how do they meet at the library?
At the reference desk, just as you met Diane.
Okay. What is he researching?
His family tree.
She’d have to work in the genealogy department.
Maybe she floats from department to department.
I’ll have to ask Diane if that happens. So, she helps him research his family tree, and he finds…
A black person in his ancestry?
I’m not writing a white Roots.
It could happen.
But how will that bring Diana and Arthur closer to each other?
They’ll find out they’re related.
How V. C. Andrews of you to think that. No, there has to be another way.
Okay. It’s closing time, and Arthur walks up to Diana and says, “What are you doing after work?”
She’d dial 9–1-1 and spray Arthur with mace.
Our Diane/Diana?
Yeah, that might be a little ridiculous. I don’t know what to do. This is going nowhere.
Okay, why not write about what’s really happened between you and Diane, all the way from that first touch until now?
That’s so…autobiographical.
It has really happened, and no one named “Nisi” could call it “preposterous.”
I’ll bet she could, because there are still quite a few coincidences.
So? Love stories are full of them. Your relationship with Noël began with a happy coincidence, didn’t it?
She lived in the apartment upstairs in the Cube.
But you helped her move in that day.
I was being nice, and I had nothing better to do. It was so hot that day, and there was no way she was getting that dresser up there by herself.
What if it weren’t your summer break from teaching? Would you have been there? And that apartment-warming gift of that Ma Plub plant didn’t hurt, did it?
I was just being neighborly.
Are you saying that being nice and being neighborly are coincidental events?
No.
You made a choice to be nice, though helping Noël in all her “babe-ness” wasn’t that hard of a choice.
Her T-shirt was so tight.
And the shorts.
Yeah.
You made a choice to help her, Jack. Choices can’t be coincidences. You chose to help Noël, and she responded. Was that a coincidence?
No. She made a choice to respond to me.
All I’m saying is this: once you have created two people in a book, they have to make choices, right?
Right.
Coincidences might help them meet, but the choices they make bring them closer together. That “Nisi” person focused only on the coincidences, not the choices. Maybe “Nisi” doesn’t know what can happen in a love sto
ry or in real life, for that matter.
Wishful Thinking was more of a “lust” story, though.
True. But there have to be coincidences in any story. That’s what makes life—and novels—interesting.
But I had them bump into each other, and fifty pages later, they were in bed!
Diane’s fingers brushed your hand, and five days later, you went out on a date. And, if you’re lucky tonight—
The phone rings, and I run upstairs to answer it. “Hello?”
“Jackie, how are you?” It’s Nina.
Now, is this a coincidence or a choice made by Nina to call you?
Shh.
“Fine, uh, Nina. I was just thinking that—”
“Great, great.”
Sometimes I don’t think Nina listens to me.
“Listen,” she says, “the publisher says you haven’t sent the first three chapters of the new book.”
“It’s not due until the end of January.”
“Oh, I know that, Jackie. It’s just that you sent everything for Wishful Thinking early, and some recent developments have changed the timetable. You see, Jackie, the reviews have been much better than the publisher expected, so now they want to put your picture on the book.”
I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not. “Nina, why would they want to do that?”
“Jackie, dear, they’re taking a novel approach on your novel.” She laughs. “You have a novel novel!”
She’s a lovely woman.
Shh. She might be about to ruin my life.
“Jackie, you’re a white man who writes multicultural women’s fiction, for God’s sake. You’re a rarity, and they want to make you rich!”
“I’m a rarity?”
“Yes. You’re writing out of your race and sex, and that’s, well, odd. You’re a novelty; a novel rarity.”
I knew there was something I liked about you.
Shh.
“What about that Mid-Atlantic Book Review review?”
How redundant of you to say so.
“Oh, I saw that, Jackie. Wasn’t that awful? I’m working with the publisher to have it removed from Amazon. It was a personal attack by that bitch Nisi, and Amazon shouldn’t have allowed it to be posted. She rarely posts nice reviews for anyone.”
So, you’re in good company.
“It was the most accurate review, though.”
“Listen at you! Such a kidder. Look, we have great reviews from Kirkus and Booklist, and that’s all that matters. So, Jackie, how do you feel about a book tour?”
This is happening too fast. “I don’t.”
“You will, and it’s a great honor. Not every first author gets this kind of special treatment.”
“But how am I supposed to write the second book if—”
“Look, Jackie,” she interrupts, “if the first one takes off, and I think it will, they’ll understand. I’m sure they’ll extend the deadline.”
I’m beginning to understand. If I travel, they’ll give me more time, but if I don’t…
“Just play the game, Jackie, and it’s only for a week. And in the meantime, get some professional pictures taken, head shots in black and white and in color.”
I hate this game already. “Nina, I’ve lost lots of weight. I look…gaunt.”
“Oh, just ask for a little make-up and soft lighting. They can make anyone handsome with a little pancake and lighting.”
I hear a beep. “I have another call, Nina. Can you hold?”
“Sure thing, Jackie.”
I click over. “Hello?”
“Have you decided yet?”
It’s Jenny.
She’s so eager!
“No, not yet. Uh, can you hold a minute, Jenny? I’m on the other line.”
“Oh, sure.”
I click back to Nina. “How long is this tour going to last?”
“Only a week, Jackie. You’ll be in New York when the book drops on April fifteenth; then you’ll be on to Boston, Philadelphia, DC, Richmond, Charlotte, and Atlanta.”
Seven cities in seven days. “Um, I have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
This has just popped into my head. “If I were to work with someone else on this second book—”
“Is this person cowriting it?” Nina interrupts.
“Well, no. Uh, she’ll be doing some editing.” I hope Diane will be up to it. I’m going to need her, or reviewers like Nisi will nail me again.
“Just thank her in the acknowledgments section, Jackie. Listen, it was good talking to you. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
Like more time to digest all this.
“I will. Bye.”
I click back to Jenny, and the doorbell rings.
Sometimes life happens all at once.
Tell me about it.
“Uh, Jenny?”
“I’m still here.”
“There’s someone at the door. Can I call you back?”
“No, it’s all right. I can wait.”
So patient!
Or desperate.
I set the phone down on the top step, run downstairs, open the door, and see an older black couple dressed in their Sunday finest. Cold wind howls around me, so I invite them into the landing area, closing the door behind them.
“Thank you,” the man says. “It’s mighty chilly out today.”
“We’re from Emmanuel Baptist Church,” the woman says.
Be nice. You’re a Baptist, too.
I’ll try to be nice.
“Yes,” the man says, “and we’d like to invite you to Sunday service.”
I smile. “I’m already a member at First Baptist downtown, but thanks for the offer.”
The woman squints at me through some glasses. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
She snaps her fingers. “You’re Mr. Browning.”
I nod.
“You taught my granddaughter, Jasmine.” Her smile fades. “We were so sorry to hear about your wife and your son.”
“Yeah.”
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
“I’m, uh, holding.”
And so is Jenny. Finish this up.
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to behold,” the man says.
I bite my tongue. “Right.” I wonder why He took my family from me. Can these two people explain that? Can anyone?
“It was God’s will,” the woman says.
I nod. It wasn’t my will, and if I’m supposed to be made in His image, then my will should count for something.
He moves to the door. “We’ll keep you in our prayers.”
“Thank you.”
I open the door, and they leave. I run back upstairs and pick up the phone. “Jenny?”
“I’m here.”
Her voice has changed. It’s not “cute” anymore.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long, I—”
“It’s all right.”
Is that sadness?
“Um, I’m still thinking about selling you the car.”
“Take all the time you need.” A pause. “I, um, overheard you talking to those people.”
“You did?”
You left the phone on the top stair, Jack, and you only have seven steps. Now is this a coincidence or a choice?
Shh.
“The Mustang is your wife’s car, huh?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know that. I can see now why you want so much for it.”
Say something.
I don’t know what to say.
“I, uh, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Say something.
It’s all coming back. The police were standing right here on this landing that day. They were saying, “There’s been an accident, Mr. Browning.” Their faces were like stone—
“I, um, I’ll understand if you decide not to sell it to me.”
Jack! Say something!
L
ike what?
Anything! Just talk!
“You’re, um, you’re a lot like her, Jenny.”
That’s better.
Then why am I crying?
Because you loved your wife!
Yeah, I did. I still love her.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Jenny says, her voice brightening.
I wipe a tear. “Too much, as a matter of fact.” I sit on the bottom step. “She was so alive and vibrant and…bouncy.”
“You think I’m bouncy?”
“It’s part of your job to, um, bounce, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, but…I’m a lady, too.”
If this isn’t flirting—
Shh.
“Anyway, when you showed up today and sat…where she used to sit, I said to myself, yep, she belongs in this car.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. But I won’t sell it to you for forty-five hundred. It’s not worth that much really. I’m willing to part with it for three thousand, maybe fifteen hundred down, and a hundred fifty a month for ten months.”
“Really?”
“Really. I have to go to the DMV to get the title fixed. My wife’s name is still on it.”
“Will you go…tomorrow? I’m off at noon.”
She’s practically asking you out on a date!
To the DMV? At the end of the year?
So, you’ll have two dates in one day. Dan would be proud.
“Jenny, the DMV will be a madhouse the day before the new year.”
“Oh, yeah. Hmm.”
“I tell you what. I promise not to sell the car to anyone else, and we’ll go to the DMV together next week, maybe on the fifth or sixth, so the wait won’t be as long.”
Go on a busier day, Jack!
She might have to get back to work.
“You’d do that for me?”
She is hard flirting, Jack! Imagine sitting next to her for hours! Be the Sponge, Jack! Soak her up!
“You belong in that car, Jenny.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Jack.”
She called you by your name for the first time, Jack! She’s taking this relationship to a different level!
There is no relationship.
“Uh, call me early next week to set up a time for me to meet you there, okay?” I ask.
Why are you keeping your distance?
It’s safer.
“Sure, Jack. And thank you so much.”
She said it again!
Shh.
“You’re welcome, Jenny. Good-bye.” I turn off the phone.
Aww, you like calling her by her name, too.