Daykeeper, page 3
“She’s pretty, but this whole thing doesn’t feel right.”
“Give me one reason why it’s wrong,” Marcus pushes me.
“She’s half my age.”
“Shit. Give me another.”
“She’s a student.”
“Give me another.
“It’s still too soon.”
He sighs. “OK. Let me break it down for you, little brother. Age is relative. Maturity is how you should gauge compatibility. Second, if it ain’t written down, you can always fake like you didn’t know that shit. And third, you’re not looking to fall in love. You just want some companionship. That’s normal, especially when you’re lonely. And it’s healthy to be around someone who can make you smile. Nobody would hold that against you, so you don’t need to hold it against yourself.”
Everything he is telling me makes sense, but it doesn’t put me any closer to feeling at ease. “Maybe I’m jumping the gun here. Maybe it is just a meal.”
“The girl likes you.”
“How do you know?” I ask, wanting desperately to understand my brother’s insight.
“Everything you’ve told me. Just the initiative she’s taken suggests something.”
“But why?”
“Damned if I know,” he says, laughing. “No, seriously, dude, you’re a nice looking guy, you take care of yourself, you’re intelligent, and you’re a good person. Hell, if you spent any time outside of your house, you’d have heard that shit from a million women by now.”
I laugh. He’s my brother. He’s supposed to make me feel better about myself.
“So I should go ahead with the dinner?”
“Definitely. And then call me when it’s over and let me know how everything went down.”
“Well, I appreciate your help.”
“No problem.”
I prepare to hang up.
“Ed?”
“Yes,” I say, catching his voice just in time.
“Do me a favor and just relax. Try to enjoy yourself. That’s all you want at this point anyway.”
“Sure,” I respond, more because I know that’s what he wants to hear.
Placing the phone back into my pocket, I pull back the curtain on my window and stare at the full moon of a Friday night.
Chapter Nine
Straightening the house on Saturday morning, I find myself bubbling with nervousness. There is not much to clean, just taking out the garbage, vacuuming, and straightening the furniture. I open the drapes and tie them, allowing the sunlight to sweep throughout the den. Everything looks presentable, and that’s when my eye catches the only photograph of my wife in the room.
The guilt starts to work on me again. Although it’s been over three months since my wife passed away, I haven’t been intimate in over a year and a half. The radiation and chemo took such a toll on her body that she never felt well enough for us to have sex. Dealing with that situation didn’t do much to stimulate my sex drive either. Other than a few rushed moments alone in the shower, I had managed to make it all this time with very little sexual release. That’s why the dream I had the other night scared me. The erection was real, as was the conversation the following night. Everything in my mind wants to keep my thoughts about Tanya pure and platonic, but my body is clearly screaming for much more. The whole thing is dizzying, and I shake my head, angry at myself for having these thoughts in front of Charlotte’s photograph.
I stand there for a moment contemplating whether or not to put the picture frame in the room or let it remain in its current place. I don’t know how it will make me feel to have it there, especially with the open nature of Tanya’s visit. It feels as though I am being devious by even considering taking it down.
And I feel like a complete traitor when I actually take the photograph back to the master bedroom, a place I consider off-limits, and put it on the dresser. As I return to the den, I wonder if I’m assuming too much about Tanya or if I’m underestimating her entirely.
The sun has begun to set, but it is still very bright outside when I see Tanya’s small blue Ford Focus pull into the driveway. I walk outside to help her carry the containers sitting across the backseat. Taking an armful of Tupperware containers out of the car, I glance around and relish the fact that I live in a small, quiet neighborhood with neighbors who don’t care what happens at my house, as long as it does not adversely affect their own property values. I escort Tanya into the house, unable to remove my eyes from her long, toned legs coming out from under her denim shorts, her blue sorority shirt resting loosely atop her sculpted bottom. I try not to stare, as we place everything on the kitchen table.
The smell of the fried chicken is even more intense now. My mouth begins to water, and I can’t even see the actual food yet. I take two plates out of the cupboard and start removing lids.
“Oh, I can’t stay,” she says. “I was just dropping everything off.”
“But there’s so much food. You’ll have to help me out here,” I respond, making light of the fact that she had just floored me with her comment.
“No, this is all for you—so you’ll have some good food to eat throughout the week.”
“None for the cook?” I say, playfully lifting the fried chicken for her to see.
“My boyfriend is supposed to be taking me out to eat tonight, so I’m going to have to pass. Maybe next time.”
I nod, conscious of ever muscle in my lips that could betray me and reveal my growing disappointment.
“Well, I appreciate the food. It smells wonderful!”
“Thank you,” she responds, her keys still dangling from her hand.
I wonder if we will chat later online. Probably not.
“I can give you back your containers,” I offer.
“Naw, that’s OK. I don’t need them. I have more than enough.”
She leans on the door, and I follow her out into the driveway.
“Well, thank you for everything,” I say, watching her step into her car.
“No problem. I just hope you enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
She pulls out of the driveway, back onto the street, and just like that, she’s gone.
Walking into the house, I feel like the biggest fool known to man, and as much as I want to fix a plate of her good home cooking, I shake my head in complete confusion, realizing that what I really wanted for dinner was her.
Chapter Ten
Once, while in grad school, one of my literature professors spent a week breaking down David Mamet’s play Oleanna, the story of a university professor who finds himself defending his career against charges of sexual harassment by a female student, nothing to sneeze at for a professor seeking tenure. The beauty of the play, according to my professor, was that the facts could be interpreted in two very different ways, giving rise to the plausibility that both characters were correct in what took place. The only problem with this Doubt-like approach to drama is that it allows the reader to plug in his or her own personal biases into making sense of what really happens.
Now I wonder if I have done anything that has put me into the same boat as Mamet’s character. Over and over I replay everything from our conversation at JoAnne’s Books and Java to the instant messaging. I even replay everything I said to her while she was here. Had I stepped out too far? I didn’t think I had, but I couldn’t be sure.
The fact that she had conveniently failed to mention she had a boyfriend struck me as odd at first. Now, I realize the topic had just never come up. If she had no problem talking about it to my face, then she wasn’t intentionally hiding it from me in our earlier conversations. I had just seen what I wanted to see.
“Oh lord. I’m that creepy old man who likes girls half his age,” I think to myself, embarrassed and ashamed by the revelation.
I pick up my cell phone to call Marcus. I get his voicemail and hang up.
Opening my laptop, I pull up a new Word document and stare at the blinking cursor, hoping to write myself right. Nothing comes out of me, and every letter I type, I quickly delete. Feeling the weight of the day upon my shoulders, I walk back into the bedroom, where I see Charlotte’s picture gazing at me from its pewter frame. Just then I am struck with words, so I find my pen and quickly scribble a poem on the notepad resting on my nightstand:
* * *
No. 22
I push her away, but she returns
To me when the lights are low
And flames ripple across these cold walls.
I want to savor the taste of
Her…and know the urgency of now,
But I am still haunted by the
Bitter/sweet taste of our last kiss.
* * *
I turn off the light and lie down atop the sheets and stare at the ceiling, wanting only to understand why it’s the loneliness part of being alone that sucks so much.
Chapter Eleven
I wake early Sunday morning and turn on a little Frankie Beverly and Maze, while I do my morning pushups and sit-ups. The sun has lit up my den like a Christmas tree, reminding me of the fact that the drapes are still tied back. Stretching, I find myself singing along with “We Are One.”
“I can’t understand why we treat each other in this way,” I sing, enjoying a little two-step dance move. I mumble through the rest of the words until I get to the chorus. “We are one.” Yeah, that’s my song.
I brush my teeth and toss on a pair of jeans and a polo shirt. I have no destination, but I feel, at the very least, I will go for a drive, just to get some fresh air. I grab a breakfast bar and a glass of orange juice and take a seat at the computer in my office to read the morning news, a habit I developed when I found myself unable to keep up with the growing mound of news “paper” that accumulated while I took care of my wife. Now I have my morning news reading down to a science, and I don’t have to worry about driving to a recycling center every few months.
I click the mouse, waking up my computer screen. A message box is sitting in the center of the screen from Coco404. It arrived shortly after midnight last night. It reads, “I hope you enjoyed your dinner. ”
It’s at this moment that I confess to myself I have no idea of how I should read any of her comments anymore.
One of my favorite things to do is drive up to the Druid Hills exit on I-85 and swing around, coming south back into the downtown area. Atlanta has a small, yet beautiful, skyline, its buildings glistening in the bright, clear August morning sun. For all of sixty seconds, you can take in this aesthetic scene before going under an overpass and pushing out toward the I-20 exits. This one little stretch of highway is the only reason I bother with the interstate at all, because any local will tell you that there are several routes to and from a place, just to avoid the gridlock of rush hour traffic.
Charlotte used to love taking Sunday morning drives. It was the one time we could move in peace up and down the highways. We would grab lunch from a small family-run Italian restaurant downtown on Ponce de Leon and eat out on the patio beneath a huge burgundy umbrella, while we watched the most dedicated of joggers pass us by. It was a part of our new life, since the passing of our son, as we embraced the notion we were in fact a strong family unit, just the two of us.
Before we moved to Atlanta, we lived two years in the northeastern part of Mississippi in a town called Saltillo, an area right outside of Tupelo. We had been there for four months when we learned we would be having a child. I still remember Charlotte’s smile and the way we held each other when she showed me the pregnancy test. She took two more, just to be sure, before we met with an obstetrician. We both read What to Expect When Expecting, and I attended classes with her so I could learn to better support her during the birthing process. We did everything by the book and enjoyed a bountiful baby shower that would have taken us well past the first twelve months with gifts.
There was not a single sign that the pregnancy would end so badly. Standing there, holding Charlotte’s hand while she screamed and pushed, I could only vaguely make out the doctor saying something about the umbilical cord being wrapped around my son’s neck. It was only after my doctor held up my lifeless son and tried to revive him that I realized my life would never be the same.
We left Mississippi at the end of that school year, and I took a job with Ellison-Wright College, a prestigious historically black college with a campus of three thousand students. Day-by-day, week-by-week, Charlotte and I worked to reconstruct our life, to heal ourselves. I would like to believe that we succeeded in doing just that.
Now I am alone, feeling the weight of having had to bury both my son and my wife. I remember when Charlotte and I first arrived in Atlanta and we made a promise to each other to live life to the fullest.
It’s that very promise that allows me to wake up each morning, open to the infinite possibilities of life, rather than just wither up and die.
Chapter Twelve
After spending most of the day driving around the Atlanta metro area, I am anxious to warm up some of the fried chicken and other side dishes that Tanya brought over last night. I must admit that while I was disappointed that things did not turn out the way I had hoped, the dinner she left me was better than anything I had eaten in quite some time.
I make my plate and take it over to the computer so that I can surf the Internet while I eat. Tanya’s message is still there from earlier. I type, “I’m enjoying your cooking now ” and open my browser to start checking my bookmarked news sites. I take a bite of the collard greens and cornbread and close my eyes. This is a damn shame, having access to someone who can throw down like this!
I enjoy my meal and set the empty plate off to the side. The sun is now setting, and I know I will need to get ready for bed soon, especially with the faculty meetings starting at nine o’clock the next morning. The chime on my computer rings, and I see that I have a message from Coco404. It reads, “I’m glad you liked it.”
“I think I’m going to sleep well tonight. Full stomach.”
“LOL! That’s what’s up.”
“Wish you could have joined me,” I type, before realizing what I have just done.
“I should have.”
I read her reply several times before responding, “Dinner didn’t go well?”
“No. I’m too through with him.”
“What happened?”
“I’m sick of running into his ex-girlfriends everywhere we go. I know he’s messing around.”
“Are they coming up to you or something?” I ask.
It begins to dawn on me that I am now on the verge of giving advice to her about her own relationship, a situation that makes very little sense, given everything else that’s happened up to this point.
“I almost had to whip this one chick’s ass last night. Eyeing him like I’m not even there. And he didn’t do shit! Just flat-out disrespected me!”
“That’s his loss,” I type.
“I don’t know,” she continues. “I’m just tired. I’m not so desperate I gotta just take shit off this Negro.”
I nod, but before I can type my response, she types, “Sorry for my language.”
“Don’t apologize. Sometimes you have to just use the words you feel.”
A minute passes before she sends me another message.
“You’re pretty cool, Dr. Nelson.”
It’s at this moment that I realize I am about to alter the dynamics of our discussion, but it feels too uncomfortable for us to maintain these formalities, especially when she’s confiding in me like this.
“Just call me Ed.”
Another pause on her end.
“So what did you do today, Ed?”
“Go for a drive—and enjoy a very delicious meal .”
“How much do you have left?”
“About two pieces of chicken. A little bit of everything else. Maybe enough to get through Tuesday.”
“Need me to make you another plate?”
I smile. “I couldn’t put you through all of that trouble again.”
“It’s no trouble. Trust. A sista’s gotta eat too.”
“Well, then yes—but only if you’ll join me for dinner.”
Another pause, this one much longer than the first.
“OK. When do you want to do it?”
The phrasing of her words starts to tap into my subconscious, causing me to lean over, adjusting the pressure building between my legs.
“How is next weekend?”
“The frats are throwing a back-to-school pajama jam next Friday. Saturday looks good, though.”
“Seven again?”
“That’ll work.”
I glance at the clock on my computer screen. It’s late and I know I need to lie down and get some sleep so I can deal with the long, tiring workshops tomorrow. Part of me wants to stay online, just to be connected to someone who actually wants to talk to me—someone who is not my brother.
“I have to get up early,” I type reluctantly. “Will talk to you later.”
She responds, “Cool. Have sweet dreams, Ed.”
“You too.”
I stand up from the computer, my stomach bubbling with butterflies. I try not to overthink all of this. Just be open to the experience, I remind myself.
Chapter Thirteen
The faculty retreat at Ellison-Wright College is widely regarded as a waste of time beyond the opening two-hour session, where the president of the college updates us with the recent administrative changes and sets forth the goals of the school year. Everything else is a series of fruitless workshops, normally conducted by faculty members who had to forfeit part of their vacation breaks to prepare dull PowerPoint presentations for apathetic colleagues.
This year is no different, and by the time we break for lunch, I want only to return to my office, a place I haven’t spent much time in since December of the previous year, and get re-acclimated to being on campus. Walking back toward my building, a few of my colleagues from the School of Liberal Arts walk up to me, patting me on my back to express their condolences for my wife. None of them attended the funeral, but today all of them want to feel like they are supporting me. It doesn’t faze me though. The politics of academia are like lying down with snakes: it’s OK, as long as you know where the heads are while you sleep.
