Daykeeper, page 2
“Play along,” he whispers.
“What?”
Before I can turn my head, several smiling employees surround me. The young lady in the middle of the group is holding a slice of chocolate cake with a candle on top. They sing their version of the birthday song, as she places the cake directly in front of me.
“Make a wish,” she says, smiling.
In that brief moment, I see something in her eyes, and she reminds me so much of Charlotte. I gasp, before blowing out the candle.
“Happy birthday, little brother!” Marcus says, his wide grin taking up most of his face.
I laugh. I turned forty back in January, but I relish the cake like today is actually my birthday. May, January, close enough.
As my brother takes care of the check, the young lady who brought me the cake returns to the table.
“I hope you have a wonderful birthday,” she says. Her smile is warm and sweet, and while she doesn’t actually look like Charlotte, she exudes the kind of warmth that Charlotte did.
“Thank you,” I respond, looking at her nametag. “Thank you, Tanya.”
As I follow my brother out of the restaurant, he leans over and whispers to me, “You’re gonna be all right, little brother. Trust me.”
Chapter Four
No. 1
Parted blinds shift shadows across dusty floors
as this house wakes to another morning
of my steps echoing through an empty
foyer, missing the rhythm of her feet,
this heart beating out of sync, longing
for a melody that once sang as
sweetly as the croon of Nina’s voice.
No. 2
Rose petals wither atop cold, mussed sheets,
while I make my bed on stiff
sofas, stacks of books keeping me company,
mute words saying nothing to quell this
empty heart that died against your pillow.
Still I ponder what it means to be
alone, a widower, a shell, a half.
Chapter Five
Two months have passed since my brother returned to California, and I have begun to discover a few things about myself. I have discovered that it’s OK to walk outside and enjoy the feel of the sun dancing upon my face and that I can still laugh and smile and dance, when the mood hits. But I have also discovered that I will always miss my wife, no matter how normal things may appear on the surface.
I am also writing again. Nothing major. Just the occasional poem or short story. I am determined to return to work this fall, simply because I am starting to yearn for the feeling of being around people and having a purpose. I have already started preparing the syllabi for the two courses I will be teaching. The faculty convenes in three weeks, and I plan to walk into that first meeting with my head lifted high, no matter how I might actually feel.
Marvin Gaye’s “I Want You” plays softly in the background, as I thumb through my notebook. My fingers stop on two Kwansabas I wrote over the past few days. I have fallen in love with this poetic form and its seven lines/ seven words per line/ seven letters (or less) per word structure. I was even fortunate enough to have a few of my poems published by its creator, Dr. Eugene Redmond, in his literary journal, Drumvoices Revue, during the semester before I took my leave. Now it has become one of the main ways I express my feelings about all that is going on in my head.
* * *
No. 6
I often watch my shadow leaning away
from who I was to become—alone.
Cognac and faded photos of our life
swirl behind closed lids, calling me away
to be with you, camped in the nook
of your neck, your perfume alive
in each nostril, as I breathe you.
* * *
No. 7
I see you in the crimson tulips,
waving in the gusts of spring breezes,
and I long to feel the magic
of your words tickle my thoughts like
a feather softly brushed across the sole
of a baby’s tiny foot or the
high pitched laugh of being in love.
* * *
I can feel Charlotte in the words scribbled across each page. I say them aloud, like an incantation, hoping that there is at least a small piece of magic than can resurrect her energy into this space. Marvin croons in the background, and I reach out, hoping against reality that my hands will not meet the emptiness of the room.
Not wanting to feel the loneliness of this house, I have been trying out hobbies that will get me out of the house. The only one that seems to be sticking is going to the gym. We had memberships for the past few years, and at one time we worked out regularly. Pretty soon “regularly” became “occasionally,” and before Charlotte became sick, we had all but given up going. It was just a forgotten deduction coming out of our bank account each month. Now it has become the one thing that is helping to keep me sane.
But on some days it feels like I am about to fall off the edge of a cliff. I sometimes walk around the entire day in anticipation, sensing the beat of my own heart, feeling more mortal than any sane person should. The photo album containing our wedding pictures rests on the nightstand by the bed, and I look at them each night before I go to sleep in hopes that I will dream about her. But I never do.
Chapter Six
I am sitting on one of the large, cushy armchairs suited more for sleeping than reading, incognegro in the back of JoAnne’s Books and Java, when I see her. She looks slightly different with her dark, curly hair blown into a frizzy Afro. The last time I saw her, it was pulled back into a bushy ponytail and she was holding a piece of chocolate birthday cake, an unwitting aid to my brother’s practical joke. Her name comes to my tongue immediately: Tanya.
Her face is beautiful in a subtle way, her brown complexion a few shades lighter than my own. Her head rests against the palm of her right hand, as she studies a book. She adjusts the thin rectangular glasses perched on the edge of her nose. A small amber amulet hangs around her neck, just above the scoop neck of her crème colored shirt, emphasizing the fullness of her chest and the contrast between her skin tone and the fabric. I don’t realize I am staring at her until I suddenly become aware she is looking back at me. I quickly avert my eyes, returning them to my book, the heat of embarrassment circling my face as if I’m standing too close to an oven.
Uncomfortably, I walk over to the café area, just to create some distance between me and the awkwardness I had just created. I order a strawberry and banana smoothie, taking a seat at one of the small tables nearby. I sip my drink and try to lose myself in the book I have been carrying around the store with no intention of purchasing.
Out the corner of my eye, I see Tanya standing at the counter, placing an order. I don’t know what it is about her that reminds me of Charlotte, because they hardly resemble each other. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself.
She lifts her coffee cup from the counter and walks toward me.
“Is it OK if I sit here?” she asks.
My teeth quickly let go of my straw, and I can feel some of the pink-colored smoothie smearing across my bottom lip. Embarrassed, I quickly brush it away with a napkin. “Sure.”
“How are you doing, Dr. Nelson?”
My eyebrow involuntarily rises. “How did you know my name?”
“I’m a student at Ellison-Wright. Don’t worry. I haven’t had your class, so I wouldn’t expect you to know my name.”
“Tanya,” I say.
“Impressive.” Her smile is broad enough for her dimples to dance beneath the light of the café.
“Well, I’m good with names. I remembered your nametag from Jean-Louis. What’s your classification?”
“Rising junior. I’m majoring in mass communications.”
“That must be interesting,” I respond.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s Donaldson’s department. I hear he runs a pretty tight ship over there.”
She laughs. Even her laughter is refreshing. “No offense, but that guy is crazy.”
I have had my own run-ins with Albert Donaldson, and I avoid him at all costs. But I don’t tell her this, because I don’t speak ill of other professors to students. Instead, I let her speak, while I listen.
“He’s the only professor teaching Senior Thesis this fall, and everyone is flipping out. I hope he’s not the only one teaching it next fall. I don’t know if I could deal with having him as a professor. You know, they say he only gives out five A’s. It’s like some funky curve where half the class fails. Crazy, right?”
I smile. “Well, you should have majored in African-American Studies. We could’ve spared you the heartache.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she says. She takes a sip of her coffee. “Hey, I’m really sorry to hear about your wife.”
I expect the comment to sting, but it doesn’t. I feel strangely numb. “Thank you.”
As she takes another sip, I wait anxiously to see if my wife’s passing will become the focus of our conversation—because if it does, I might not be able to take it. Thankfully, she shifts topics and asks if I am returning in the fall.
“Yes. I’ll be teaching two courses?”
“Oh really? Which ones?”
“Survey of Contemporary African-American Literature and Intro to African-American Studies?”
“I wish I had known that you’d be teaching them. I might’ve taken one as an elective,” she says. She smiles, rotating the cup in her hands.
“Don’t worry. I’ll probably teach the second part of the courses in the spring, and since there are no prerequisites, you could just jump right in, if you wanted to.”
She chuckles. “I might have to do that.”
I sip from my smoothie, suddenly self-conscious of how ridiculous a man can look with his lips wrapped around a small straw, sucking away. Her presence is comforting, though, and I realize this is the first real conversation I have had with anyone outside of Marcus, since the funeral.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“Houston. H-Town,” she says, before adding, “well, you know, that’s what we call it.”
“I know H-Town,” I respond. “I also know that it gets hot as hell down there.”
“Who you tellin’?” she says, laughing. “I used to be light-skinned when I was little.”
“You’re not that far off of light skinned now.”
“Yes, I am. I’m like the color of a young Michael Jackson now.”
“Well, it suits you well,” I say, not meaning to flirt, but suddenly feeling that I might be.
“Thanks,” she responds, pausing to check something on her cell phone. “Give me a second.”
The fact that she is still sitting at my table is making the situation all the more surreal. She is not my student, nor do I have any real connection to her, yet she is content to converse with me, a man twice her age, a widower. I am curious how much longer this conversation will last before she leaves to join people her own age.
“Hey, Dr. Nelson,” she says, breaking into my thoughts. “I have to run and pick up one of my girls. Her man is trippin’.”
“I understand.”
She stands to leave and pauses for a moment. “Do you have WEB Instant Messenger?”
It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about. My brother sometimes sends me instant messages, but I rarely use it for anything else. “Yes,” I respond.
“What’s your handle?”
“Professor Ed, but it’s all one word.”
She nods, punching the information into her phone. “Professored,” she says, making my handle into an adjective. “ I like that. OK. I’ll talk to you later.”
I nod as she walks away, tossing what’s left of her coffee into the garbage can.
I don’t understand what just took place, but I sense she might have just done the equivalent of asking for my phone number.
“Oh, lord,” I sigh. What have I just gotten myself into?
Chapter Seven
No. 19
I usually dream of you, but tonight
she entered our room and lay down
next to me, her hand resting on
my chest, her breath mixing with mine.
I wanted to fight her, tell her
she could not replace you, but she
smiled and climbed atop my hungry body.
My face is still damp from the fever of my dream. I release the pen from my hand and step away from the desk in my home office. I am ashamed that I still feel the stiffness of my erection, as if I have done something wrong in subconsciously exploring another woman.
I sit on the recliner in the den, trying to shake my thoughts, but the sun rises on me, illuminating my guilt.
The clock reads ten o’clock at night, and I have barely moved twenty-five feet all day. Now I sit at the computer in my office, checking the e-mail on my school account. I find a schedule sent out by the provost outlining the faculty workshops that will start next week. Ellison-Wright College typically schedules their pre-school faculty meetings to coincide with Freshmen Week so the students will have access to everyone who will be teaching throughout the semester. It usually requires a lot of sitting around in the office waiting for kids who never show up. But at least now the schedule has officially been sent out.
As I close out my e-mail account, I hear the chiming sound of WEB Instant Messenger. Marcus is three hours behind in time, so this is the perfect time for us to catch up. When I click the box on my laptop, I don’t see Marcus’s handle, Mr. Marcus, not to be confused with, uh, the other Mr. Marcus, porn star extraordinaire. I don’t even recognize the name on the screen. The message simply reads “Hey” and it comes from a person with the handle “Coco404.”
“Hey,” I type.
“How have you been, Dr. Nelson?”
I laugh. Tanya has actually reached out to me. Suddenly my stomach tightens as I try to steel my nerves. It wouldn’t be wise of me to read anything into her instant messaging me, would it?
“Things on this ends are better. Just got the faculty schedule for next week.”
“Excited?”
“Not really.”
“Sorry I’m just now getting at you.”
My eyebrow lifts involuntarily. “That’s all right.”
“Why aren’t you out tonight?” she types.
“I should be asking you the same thing.”
“I like chillin’ out on the weekends.”
“I can understand that.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
I pause and take a deep breath. “Sure.”
“What have you been doing to pass the time?”
My face scrunches up in confusion. “Pass the time how?”
She hesitates for a moment before typing, “My father left my mom and me when I was seventeen. We took it pretty hard. We had to find our own ways of getting back into the flow.” She pauses and then continues typing. “I just wanted to know if you’ve been taking good care of yourself.”
I stare at the screen wondering why any of what I feel even matters to this woman, this girl. I reread her comment again and realize that she is just being genuine, so I answer, “I haven’t really done much of anything, other than writing and going to the bookstore. It’s all still strange to me.”
“I feel you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Is there anything I could do to help out?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Like have you had a home-cooked meal lately? That kind of thing.”
I chuckle under my breath. I type, “So you cook?”
“I do a little somethin’ somethin’.”
“What do you cook?” I ask, playing along.
“Fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, cornbread, peach cobbler, all of that stuff.”
My stomach starts to growl, and the rumbling sensation forces me to sober up. “You’d cook all of that for me?”
“Yeah. Why not? You’re cool people.”
“So you’re going to bring me a plate when school starts?”
“I can bring it to your house before that, if you want.”
I stare at the screen and stand up from my computer. I look toward the kitchen, noticing the fast food bags strewn across the counter, knowing that the refrigerator only has water, apple juice, and old condiments. I sit down and begin typing. “When?”
“This weekend, if that’s cool.”
“OK.”
“That’s what’s up. BRB.”
I stare at the abbreviation for “be right back,” which my brother uses often. When she returns, she asks for my address, and I give it to her, still feeling uneasy about the nature of it all.
“What time?” she types.
“Any time is fine.”
“I have to go to a sorority meeting Saturday afternoon, but I can bring it over later. Say seven or so?”
“That’s fine,” I type. “But can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
Slowly I type the word “why” and push send.
She responds almost immediately. “Because you seem like you could use it.”
Chapter Eight
“Whoa!” is all Marcus can muster as I tell him about Tanya’s offer to cook me dinner.
The whole situation makes me feel uncomfortable, and Marcus is the only one whose advice I can trust. Calling him was a no-brainer.
“Is there a rule against faculty and students hookin’ up?” he asks.
“Not officially, but it’s kind of an unwritten rule that you’re not supposed to do it.”
“But is she fine?”
That’s my brother for you, always sizing up the aesthetics first.
