Daykeeper, page 4
My office is a small cubbyhole at the end of a narrow, cluttered hall. When I open the door, I am immediately met with the stale smell of books that have lain dormant for too long. The first thing I do is crack open the windows on the two walls that form the corner where my desk sits. Charlotte’s face smiles at me from a 4 x 6 inch frame on my desk. This will be the first year of my teaching without her being a phone call away.
“It’s good to see you back, Dr. Nelson,” I hear from my doorway.
I look up to find the department secretary, Missy Alexander. Missy has been with us in the African-American Studies department for three years now, having taken the job right after she graduated from Ellison-Wright. The irony is that she never took a class in our department while she was a student, but seems to know the ins and outs of our department policies and programs better than most of the professors who teach here.
I smile and nod my thanks to her.
“If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking a seat behind my desk and turning on what appears to be a new computer monitor and tower situated at the edge of my desk. Relief washes over me because my computer from the previous year was so old and sluggish I had to use my personal laptop from home. Now it seems that I can forgo the added weight of a computer bag and just rely on this new setup. It’s always the small things that keep employees happy, and that seems to be the one thing Ellison-Wright is good at.
I reach in my satchel and remove a small Tupperware container of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and what’s left of the collard greens. I take the container over to the microwave that sits on a small table in the corner opposite my desk. As I wait for the microwave to chime that my food is ready, I visualize seeing Tanya on Saturday. I wonder what she will be wearing. I wonder what I should wear.
I wonder again if I am overthinking everything.
Taking the container back to my desk, I enjoy my meal in the peaceful silence of my office, totally oblivious to the pending workshops that will fill the rest of the day.
On my way across campus to the next workshop, I can vaguely make out Tanya walking in the distance. I fix my eyes to focus better, trying to avoid the impression that I am staring. She is wearing an orange and yellow sundress, revealing the smooth brown skin of her shoulders, and a pair of dark sunglasses, but the hair and complexion are a dead giveaway. She looks in my direction, and I wonder if she sees me. Her lips spread into a smile, and she waves her hand subtly at me. I begin to walk in her direction, as she approaches me.
Extending her arms, she embraces me like a friend she has not seen since the spring semester ended. I welcome the soft feel of her body pressed against mine.
“Hi, Dr. Nelson,” she says, a slight smirk on her face.
“Hi, Tanya.”
“How does it feel to be back?”
“Same old, same old.”
“It’ll be a good year,” she insists.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m hoping.”
She glances over my shoulder, and I angle my head to see other professors moving slowly across campus, like cattle being herded across a field.
“I guess I should get back to my workshops.”
She smiles. “Yeah. I have to run over to the administration building to check on the stipend for my scholarship.”
“Well, I guess I’ll catch up with you later,” I say.
“You gonna be online tonight?”
“Probably so.”
“Cool,” she responds, touching my arm and turning to walk toward the administration building.
I watch her hips sway sweetly beneath the thin fabric of her sundress.
Walking toward my next workshop location, I feel as though I am keeping a secret from everyone. The only relief I have is knowing that everyone sees me as the grieving husband, a status that I prefer because people tend to respect your space out of fear of being sucked into your perceived depression.
Yes, it is better to be left alone, than for people to gossip about any growing infatuation I might possibly have with one of our students.
Chapter Fourteen
“She’s all in your head,” Marcus says, excitement growing in his voice. “She’s got your mind all fucked up. Got you all discombobulated and shit!”
My brother loves to mix curse words with SAT words. That is his way of openly defying the old adage that people only curse because they lack the proper vocabularies to express themselves.
“You’ve been had. You’ve been hoodwinked. Bamboozled,” he continues, invoking Spike Lee’s famous Malcolm X scene. “Little brother, don’t be pussy whipped! Reverse that shit, and whip that pussy!”
When my brother is on a roll with movie lines, he’s on a roll.
“Wouldn’t that require that I am at least intimate with her?” I respond, playing along with him, as I steer my Jeep Liberty onto I-20.
I hear him “tsk-tsking” into the microphone of his cell phone.
“That ham is cooked, glazed, and ready to be sliced!” he says, now breathless from his exertions.
“Are you out of movie lines yet?” I ask. “Because I really do need some advice here.”
I am grateful that the traffic is moving and holding out hope that I will not get stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic when I exit onto I-85 South. But if I do, Marcus can always say the right thing to make the trip more bearable.
“OK,” he starts. “Let’s run down the facts. First, she volunteers to cook for you—and does it. Then, she tells you about her ‘boyfriend,’ but still chats online with you, spilling their business to you. And then finally, she agrees to meet with you—again—and have dinner, this time with no confusion whatsoever. Dude, come on! She’s running game on you. She wants to make sure you’re really feeling her before she puts herself out there.”
“Interesting theory, but I was wrong before when I assumed too much,” I say.
“Ed, you got that wrong. You didn’t assume too much. You just assumed, which is a human instinct, steeped in survival. You assume the chair will not fall out from under you. You assume a plane will stay in the air. We all assume shit. That’s natural. Sure, sometimes shit doesn’t happen the way we expect, but does that stop us from using our God-given faculties to make sense of this thing called ‘life’ anyway? Hell no! And when it comes to ole girl, we’re gonna keep on using our best judgment and assuming our asses off.”
I smile. I don’t know whether I buy everything he’s saying, but I do believe that, regardless of what happens, my mind will continue to try to make sense of things.
“OK,” I say finally. “I see where you’re coming from.”
“Seriously, you don’t have to stress this shit. What’s gonna be is gonna be. Either she tips her hand or you just jack your shit off before you go to sleep.”
I laugh, slapping my steering wheel. “Man, you’re cracking me up!”
“Don’t play. If she gets you stiff and nothing jumps off, you just handle that shit, if you catch my drift.”
Only my brother could recommend masturbation as a way of overcoming confusion, but standing from his perch on the penthouse ledge of bachelordom, I’m in no position to argue with his advice. I’m just hopeful that I’ll at least have choices.
I-85 is clear as I cruise down toward the Union City exit. The sky is wide and clear, the kind of sky that rings with opportunity—yet the same sky that saw me sleeping off my intoxication months earlier, curled against a tombstone with a bottle of Johnnie Walker.
Chapter Fifteen
My house is probably the most nondescript house in my Fairburn subdivision, and that’s probably one of the things that attracted Charlotte initially. I had hoped we would find a nice home off of Cascade Road, just outside of southwest Atlanta, an area affectionately referred to as “The Swats” by my students. A house in that area would have meant a commute of less than ten minutes, without the need to hop on the interstate. Charlotte needed something a bit more familiar, however, something that looked, or at least felt, like the small town she had grown up in. Fairburn was a city that seemed to comfortably meet that definition, close enough to Atlanta, but with a small town feel.
Five years we spent making this house into a home, and there is not a single inch of space that does not contain some memory of her. We made love on nearly every piece of furniture that we own, including counters, walls, and other fixtures built into the house. There were thousands of kisses in the foyer, the kitchen, the bathroom, the hallways. There was not one inch of space that did not swell with the wonderful sensation of her voice bouncing off the walls.
This house was truly my wife’s home.
Now I wrestle with what it means to bring another woman into this space. It wasn’t like I didn’t consider it last Saturday, but for some reason the idea has taken root much deeper, as I have lost myself in these fantasies of Tanya. I tell myself that I am not a traitor, that what I am thinking is natural, but I don’t know if I’m lying to myself because I feel the heat of lust breathing down my neck.
I wonder at what point does what was ours become what is mine: the couch, the king-sized bed with its huge mahogany sleigh-bed frame, the large jet-stream bath—all things that we have christened with our love. At what point can another woman recline or sleep or bathe here? I don’t want to leave my home for some neutral, nameless place with no character, because I love what this place represents. But at the same time, I don’t want to desecrate my wife’s memory.
Even if it is not Tanya and it ends up being another woman a year from now, I need to know how I will deal with this. The only thing tugging at my heart is a set of memories that can never leave. I am not concerned with what other people think of me. I want only to feel as if I can live again, without that looming shadow of guilt whispering to me from the corners of this house.
I am logged onto my computer for nearly three hours surfing the Internet before the chime of my WEB instant messaging account sounds out. I had been eagerly anticipating the sound, but now that it is here I feel the familiar bubbling of nerves in my stomach.
“How r u?” it reads.
“Fine. Just messing around on the net. You?”
“Taking a break.”
“From what?” I ask.
“Everything.”
“Are you OK?”
“Not really.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t want to bore you with my problems.”
I stare at the screen for a moment, my fingers resting on the keys. I ponder just how much I want to be a part of what is bothering her. The logical thing is to ask, but getting involved in her personal life requires an investment beyond merely fantasizing about her.
I inquire, in spite of myself.
She begins to talk about her boyfriend, who it turns out is not a student at Ellison-Wright, but a cook at Jean-Louis. Every detail she discloses takes me deeper into her frustrations with her life: her suspicions of her boyfriend having gotten a woman from Columbus pregnant, her wanting to find another job because of the whispering and embarrassment about her relationship at work, and the fact that she is still heavily conflicted about her father leaving. It’s a lot to share with a person she barely knows, but I give her the ear she needs, allowing her the space to vent.
I can’t see her tears, but I can feel them, and I want only to tell her things will get better and that she can do much better than her boyfriend, but it’s not my place to give that kind of advice. That seems like something one of her girlfriends would bring up. Instead, I tell her how many wonderful things she has working in her favor: intelligence, maturity, accountability, tenacity, beauty, and, to lighten the mood, wonderful cooking skills.
“LOL!” she types.
I smile.
“I know everything is gonna get better. And I know I need to get rid of Kevin. It’s just that sometimes everything stacks up on me all at once.”
“I understand,” I respond.
“ I have other things I need to focus on anyway—like this party.”
“Tell me about the party,” I type, hoping to push her mind toward something less stressful.
“We’re hosting a pajama jam with the frats this Friday.”
“I remember you mentioning that last time,” I offer, wondering if it will be anything like the sexy romps we used to have back when I was in college, where the girls wore teddies and the guys wore silk boxers, all while dancing as close to each other as possible.
“Yeah. We all put on sleepwear and party. It’s one of our biggest fundraisers of the year and a good way to get a rep as the best party throwers on campus.”
“We used to do the same thing back when I was in school.”
“For real? You were a boxer guy, weren’t you?”
I smile. “What makes you say that?”
“You just look like the boxer type,” she responds.
“And what does the ‘boxer’ type look like?”
“You know. An athletic guy. Larger, stronger guy who likes a looser fit.”
Was she talking about me? I never thought of myself the way she was describing me, simply because I haven’t looked at myself in that sense in several years. I just knew that Charlotte liked me the way I was, and as far as I was concerned, I didn’t have to dig any deeper than that. I lift my arm and make a muscle, laughing to myself. So that’s the way she sees me.
“Interesting,” I type.
“:-).”
“So have you picked out your pajamas for the party yet?”
The question just falls out there, natural as the conversation.
“Yeah. It’s nice. Wanna see it?”
“Sure,” I type.
“You have a webcam?”
“Yes.”
“BRB.”
I look up at the clock located at the top of my desktop. It’s 10:30, but it feels much later with all of the lights turned off in my house, except the light coming from my laptop. It feels as if my existence right now is totally virtual, as if turning off my computer would send me flailing through an abyss of blackness.
My WEB instant messenger client signals Coco404’s desire to engage in video conferencing, and I click the “Accept” button. Within seconds, I see a video display of Tanya’s face, with a small screen of myself from my webcam in the upper corner.
“Hey, can you hear me?” she asks, her face inches from the screen. Her voice is clear and surprisingly loud in the silent space of my house.
“Yes. Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” she says, giggling.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Sure. “
I don’t know why I expect her to hold up her outfit on a hanger, the same way I would see it in a store, but she simply stands up, revealing a cream colored slip that complements her rich chocolate brown skin tone. Her bare arms are toned as the spaghetti straps on each side rest gently on her shoulders. I can see her thighs extending from beneath the slip, and I swear I can make out the shape of her nipples through the thin fabric.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“I can’t really see everything,” I respond, clearly lying.
She steps back a little farther from the camera so that I can take in the full view of her toned body as the satin fabric falls seductively upon her curves. She poses, as if modeling, and turns around so that I can get a view of her backside. To put it mildly, she looks incredibly sexy.
She walks back to her computer, taking a seat so that only her upper body is visible in the frame. “So?” she asks, a smile dancing across her face.
Even if I ventured to downplay her showcase a number of different ways, my lie would still be equally obvious each time. I can only muster, “Nice.”
“You know what, Ed? You’re cool people,” she says, her words starting to take on an echo-like effect from our previous conversations.
I chuckle lightly under my breath. My mind is now dancing with thoughts of her body, and I want only to see her once again, posing in front of the camera. I feel the butterflies flooding my body as I realize I am about to push the envelope a little further.
“Can I see your lingerie again?”
I watch as she ponders my request and responds, “Why?”
The word rings out in the silence of my house, and I realize I have no explanation other than the fact that I feel a burning desire to gaze upon her body again. I want to answer her, but I can’t find anything diplomatic to say to justify my request.
“You’re feeling me, aren’t you?” she asks, her innocence disguising her ability to read me as plain as day.
This is the moment I have been anticipating, the moment where we stop playing games and really start to communicate. I can’t feel the firmness of the floor beneath my feet, just the uncomfortable feeling of being suspended in mid-air, held there by her gaze.
I look down, trying to suppress a nervous smile.
“It’s cool,” she says, prompting me. “I’m not gonna say anything to anyone.”
I lift my head. “Yes.”
She smiles. “You know you didn’t have to draw it all out. You could’ve just said something.”
“Like what?” I ask, my tone light and somewhat relieved.
“You could’ve been like, ‘Tanya, you are so sexy. You got it goin’ on,’” she says, laughing.
“Oh, so it was that simple?” I joke, playing along.
“Yeah. Just be straight up. Girls like that.”
I nod. “Since we’re being straight up, I want to know if you’re feeling me, too?”
She looks me up and down on the display on her computer. “You a’ight,” she says, chuckling. “I’m not complaining.”
