Daykeeper, page 6
I continue rubbing her arm. “I don’t know. I can’t see a clock from here.”
She sits up slowly, getting her bearings. Pulling her cell phone out of her purse, she says, “Damn. Kevin’s been blowing me up.”
I don’t say anything.
“Yeah, I should probably leave and get home. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning.”
“You’re welcome to spend the night. It’s only a few hours,” I offer.
She looks at me, and for a moment all I see is a woman fighting to stay awake. “I don’t know, Ed,” she says, blinking her eyes rapidly, as if to focus.
“It’s been a long day. That’s all I’m saying. I don’t want you to fall asleep getting home. I don’t think I could handle it if something happened to you.”
She stands up slowly. “I’m just headed to Smyrna.”
“Smyrna is farther than you think. Remember we’re in Fairburn. That’s at least half an hour or more. But I’ll let you be the judge.”
She stretches her arms and reaches for her purse. “Where is your bathroom?” she asks.
I point her down the hall and walk back into the den, taking a seat on the couch. I pick up the remote control, meaning to turn it off, when I accidently hit a few numbers that take me to a channel that plays music, jukebox-style. The music is mellow and soulful, but strangely seductive, as if someone, somewhere, is trying to set the mood. I look at a still photo of the album artwork and see Me’Shell Ndegeocello on the screen. The song drips sensuality and for a moment I find myself nodding to the rhythm, melting into her rich, full voice. The air around me starts to feel different, and I gradually become aware of how sexy I feel, the music insulating me from my nervousness.
“That’s nice,” Tanya says, stepping back into the den.
“It’s sexy, isn’t it?”
She looks at me, as if sizing me up. “Yeah. It’s nice.”
I look at the screen and see the song’s title: “Outside Your Door.” Looking at Tanya, I realize that I have no idea of how to read any of her mannerisms.
“Do we try this again?” I ask.
“Try what?”
“It just seems like every time we get together, our time is cut short.”
“Yeah,” she responds. “It does seem like that.”
We stare at each other silently for a moment.
Finally, she opens her mouth. “A penny for your thoughts?”
I smile. “You don’t want to know.”
“What do you mean? Are they that bad?”
I don’t say anything.
“How about this: if you could do any one thing right now, what would it be?”
I walk closer to her, closing the gap between us. She doesn’t move.
Placing my hands tenderly on her cheeks, I lean in to kiss her. Before I reach her lips, she begins to speak.
“So this is what you want from me?”
I am so close to her that her breath tickles my nose. “I just want you,” I whisper, placing my lips against her forehead. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I pull her into my embrace, kissing her neck softly. I feel her hands, interlocked against the small of my back. “I dream about you,” I mutter between breaths, as I continue to kiss her. I feel the gentle stroke of her fingernails trail across the back of my head.
“You dream about me?” she says, her voice breathless and warm against my ear.
“Yes,” I manage.
“And what do you dream about?” she says, holding my head close to the nape of her neck. The sweet smell of her skin reminds me of how good it feels to be so close to a woman.
“That I can touch you like this,” I respond, moving my hands across her back, enjoying the warmth of her body beneath my fingertips.
She moans, and when I bring my face to hers again, she leans toward me and our lips touch.
I close my eyes and give in to everything bubbling beneath the surface.
Slowly my mind begins to come back into focus, and I realize that I am still holding her against the wall. She begins to lower her feet onto the floor, and I brace myself for the realization that there is nothing left for us to say. I am now just an anecdote. I am that professor that she had sex with that one time when she was in college.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks.
I start to speak, but close my mouth.
“That bad?”
I smile.
“I just wonder what happens now,” I say.
“I don’t know,” she responds.
Her honesty doesn’t hurt me like I thought it would.
She continues, “I don’t normally do this.”
“What? With someone older?”
“No. I’m not out there like that. I don’t want you to think I’m all casual and loose. I only share myself with a guy if he’s special.”
“So I’m special?” I joke.
“You’d have to be,” she says, smiling.
I cup her face with my hands and kiss her.
“So will I see you again?” I ask.
“Do you want to see me again?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“Well, then I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
We walk over to the couch, where our clothes are scattered on the floor. She bends over and starts to get dressed. When she puts on her bra and begins buttoning her shirt, I ask, “Are you still leaving?”
She puts on a mock frown. “I don’t want my roommate freaking out. Plus, we’re supposed to be going to chapel in the morning on campus with our sorority sisters.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, are you alert enough for the drive?”
“I’m good. Especially now.” She grins at me coyly.
“OK,” I say, smiling. “Well, can you call to let me know you make it home safely?”
“I can do that.”
I call out my phone number as she punches it into her phone.
As much as it pains me to let her leave, I walk her out to her car. As she gets in and closes her door, I remind her to call me. She nods and smiles.
When I walk back into the house, I grab a comforter and lie down on the couch, where I can still smell traces of her in the fabric. Turning off the TV, I stare up at the ceiling, replaying everything that happened tonight. I lose track of time thinking about her, my erection still throbbing from the memory of her atop me.
Deep into my thoughts, my cell phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Ed, it’s me. I’m home.”
“Great,” I say, suddenly feeling the weight of sleep knocking at the back of my eyelids.
“Make sure you save my number in your phone,” she says.
“OK.”
“Well, I’ll talk to you later,” she says. “Gotta get up early.”
“You have sweet dreams, Tanya.”
“You too, Ed.”
Chapter Twenty
After I wake up early Sunday morning, I still have to remind myself that what happened earlier this morning had actually happened. She was here, and we were right here on this couch where I am lying now. I can barely make out slight traces of her scent, but the memories of her legs wrapped around me are still strong.
I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of orange juice, my mind still adjusting to the weight of everything. I look at the couch and replay what I can remember. I remember carrying her across the room and pinning her against the wall. I put the glass down on the counter and walk over to it. My heart sinks as I realize that that was the place I had removed Charlotte’s picture a week ago.
I stumble over to the couch and collapse facedown. I cannot even remember how I got into this situation. The last few weeks have been a blur, part of me feeling more alive than I have been in quite some time, the other part feeling as though I have betrayed the last fifteen years of my life.
With the silence of the house around me, it dawns on me just how reckless I have been. I don’t even know her full name. There were just so many questions that I didn’t even ask—for one reason or another—probably because I didn’t want to disrupt the mood. How many assumptions did I make last night? I am stupefied by how careless I was. No protection. What in the world was I thinking?
She had just broken up with her boyfriend, and what did I do? I took advantage of her need to feel connected to someone. Or did I? I realize that I am incapable of knowing the exact subtext of what happened. I only know that I needed her last night, and it seemed like she needed me, too. That should be enough to steel my mind for now, but honestly, it doesn’t.
I consider calling Marcus and getting his take, but I am not ready to go there. This is my secret, the one I alone share with Tanya, and I don’t want to make that cheap by explicating the details to my brother with a play-by-play analysis. In fact, the only thing I want to do is talk to her about what happened.
When I finally glance at my phone, I see a text from Tanya that came through while I was sleeping. The message is short and simple: “Woke up feeling refreshed. Thank u 4 last nite. ;).”
I smile, hopeful, but still unsure.
Chapter Twenty-One
The first day of school is always interesting. You have to set the pace for the semester with all of your students. I normally spend the first day of each class distributing the syllabus and discussing what’s expected throughout the course. There’s no real teaching on the first day. Still, that first class is where you establish your authority, or else your students will run over you for the rest of the semester.
My room is full of students who are looking to take my class as an easy elective. Survey of African-American Studies 201 is always like that. Teaching at a Historically Black College, I find that many of the students feel as if they are guaranteed no grade lower than a “B,” simply because they played Martin Luther King, Jr. or Rosa Parks in their churches’ black history programs. And teaching young people who feel like they already know everything is annoying and frustrating. That’s one of the reasons I quiz often. There are not enough McDonald brochures on black history for students to shoot from the hip on my quizzes. Either you read the assignments or you learn to read them. I have little patience for people pontificating about what they don’t know.
I do love teaching, though. I imagine that I fall into that cliché category of teachers who enjoy seeing the “light bulb” come on for that one student who struggled most of the semester. It’s a wonderful feeling, almost like the high from a drug, and loving that high, most of us spend our careers chasing that feeling, hoping to experience it at least once a semester. Prior to that point, we all talk of giving up our teaching posts and going to work in the corporate world, getting paid what we’re supposed to be worth.
Sure, we talk. That’s part of our dialogue. But at the end of the day, we keep coming back.
By late afternoon, I can think of nothing but the sexy image of Tanya’s body, in all of its glorious splendor. I remember the feel of her legs wrapping around my waist, her fingers easing up my back as she holds on to me. I can still feel her sliding up and down me, taking me in, making me feel as if I still exist—as if I still matter.
I look out the window of my office, gazing at the campus, its sprawling spaciousness populated by the faces of young black men and women. Maybe Tanya is somewhere down there.
As I gather my things to head home, I am unable to steel my thoughts. Even the wind kissing my face as I step out of the building reminds me of her lips. I am a mess, I know. I did not realize how much my body longed for companionship, and now I am beginning to worry that I’m making too big of a deal out of this situation. Maybe it was just sex after all—but to a person who has not been intimate in as long as I have, it feels like so much more.
Walking across campus to the faculty parking lot, I see a group of students standing around in a circle. They must have just gathered, because I didn’t see them earlier from my window. I can hear the chants and claps, and by the gawking of the freshmen, I can tell that one of the sororities is putting on an impromptu step performance.
I ease in closer, wondering if the female voices I hear chanting are those of Tanya’s sorority. As I step up behind the group of spectators, I immediately realize that it is.
I search the sorors’ faces, but their heads are down as they prepare to begin their next routine. One of them steps forward, her head still cast downward, but I know it’s Tanya.
She lifts her head upward and begins chanting, “My sisters! I said, my sisters!”
“Yeah!” the others respond.
“Let’s show them how the ladies of Zeta Delta Kappa set it off!”
Suddenly, Tanya lowers her head and sweeps her hands downward clapping very slowly. As she does her rhythm, the others wait patiently. When Tanya is finished and returns upright, the entire group goes into the same routine at nearly three times the speed she had just done it.
I find myself unable to look away. She looks sexy as she steps with the group. Her Greek lettered baby t-shirt fits snuggly against her body, complementing the denim shorts slowly riding up her thighs. I smile to myself.
The students around me jockey for better positions to watch the next chant, and I gradually step back. As much as I would love to stand around and continue watching Tanya, I realize that I’m the only faculty member there.
I suddenly feel old and out of place.
I take in one last glimpse of the step team, and I notice Tanya looking in my direction. Her lips peel into a slight smile. I know she can see me now. I nod my head slightly in acknowledgement and then turn to walk on to the faculty parking lot.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Well, maybe it just wasn’t meant to be,” my brother says. “You know there are always more fish in the sea. Or is that fishes, Mr. College Professor?” He laughs.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
As I continue talking to Marcus while driving home, I wonder if I should have just told him the truth about Tanya, as opposed to lying about what happened. I find myself unable to believe everything that has happened so far, and now that I have officially crossed that line with her, I can’t even bring myself to tell anyone about it—not even the one person who knows that I even like her.
“Little brother, I didn’t see that one coming, I swear. From everything that you told me, it seems like she would have been on you like flies on shit. Break it down to me again how she backed out on you.”
As I turn onto 85 South, I wonder how long I can keep up this façade. I am not the best liar, and with the questions Marcus continues to ask me, I wonder when I will put a chink in the armor of my story.
“She has a boyfriend she’s pretty serious about,” I say.
“I’m just not buying it. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Why not?”
“She’s stepped out kind of far now. Both of you are out over a barrel. There’s no reason for her to play that card now. You both stand to lose if this shit goes haywire.”
“I’m not sure I buy that logic.”
“That is,” Marcus starts, “unless you’re lying to me, little brother.”
I can’t tell if he’s messing with me just to get a reaction, but it still makes me nervous. “Why would I lie to you?”
Right when I hear my voice, I know he has me. He was fishing around, and I played right into his hand.
“Oh shit, Ed! You hit it!”
“What? Man, please.”
“Dude, it’s too late to front now. You just tipped your hand.”
As I listen to him, I realize that I will never understand how my brother can read me so well.
“You make it sound all bad,” I say, looking to save face.
“Why didn’t you just come right out with it? Lying to your own flesh and blood. CMB, baby! We all we got! We all we got!” he says, recalling one of his favorite lines from the movie New Jack City.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep from smiling.
“It was good, too, wasn’t it?” he says.
I am silent. I still can’t believe my brother has me “kissing and telling.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “I already know it was good. But you know what, little brother? It was good for you.”
I wonder if he has a point. “I’m not saying anything else, Marcus.”
“I feel you. Don’t say anything then. Be all mysterious and cryptic with your shit, if that’s the way you want to play it,” he says, laughing. “I only have one question for you: when are you two hooking up again?”
“Now that’s a good question,” I respond. All I can say is, “Soon, I hope.”
I pick up some take-out on the way home when I realize that I have yet to grocery shop for anything meaningful to cook. If Kevin hadn’t destroyed the food Tanya was preparing for me, I might have had something in the refrigerator I could heat up for dinner. As it stands, I am having Boston Market—again. I really should start back cooking, but I guess I’m clinging to the idea that the kitchen was where Charlotte would do her thing. She was always watching The Food Network looking for new dishes to prepare. She enjoyed cooking and often joked that she should go on the American version of The Iron Chef and challenge Bobby Flay or Cat Cora. I would smile at her and nod. She even started me cooking when she bought me a G. Garvin cookbook for Christmas one year. But all of that feels like a lifetime ago. I still haven’t been able to muster the enthusiasm to cook anything myself since Charlotte passed.
As I poke at the rotisserie, I wonder what will happen next. I don’t think I’m supposed to call her, but I’m not totally sure. I have the feeling she is the one who will control when we see each other again and that my role is to simply sit back and be there for her when she calls. That’s a bit passive for my taste, but I’m so rusty at this that I can’t even strategize the most basic of things. I haven’t dated, or whatever you want to call this, in over seventeen years, and back then, things were very different. Things were intense, but they moved just a bit slower. I didn’t even kiss Charlotte until our third date, and it was more than a month before we moved past second base. Dating these days, from what I hear, is much like using a computer with broadband, rather than the dial-up from those AOL discs I used to collect: people want what they want now, not later. I feel like I’m the slow guy in the right lane of the interstate and everyone is whooshing past me.
