A Private Affair (3 page)

So he tried to blink the vision away. But it remained, unchanged. She could have been asleep, just as he remembered from tiptoeing into her room as a kid to tug her ponytails. She'd looked as though she'd open her mouth at any moment and make
one of her smart-ass remarks, like when they were growing up and everyone always said how much alike they looked. “I'm just prettier,” Quinn would say, and Lacy would remark, “But my boobs are bigger.” And they would look at each other and crack up laughing. That's all he wanted to hear. Just hear her laugh, tell him to eat and not stay out too late. He wanted to watch her face glow with pride when she read his work or listened to him play.

He wanted to tell her how important she was to him. How she'd made life bearable after their mother deserted them. How much it meant to him to hear her words of praise, and how much he loved her.

All he wanted was for her to be asleep so he could walk across the hall and smell corn bread baking in her oven. Then everything would be all right and this sick, unspeakable torment that had infected every inch of his body would go away. His fingers dug into his palm. When had he told her he loved her?

From his eyes they fell, silently, trickling onto his clenched hands. He looked down at the unbidden wetness, blinking, momentarily confused.
“Big boys don't cry,”
he could hear his mother taunt. And Lacy would whisper in his ear,
“It's all right Q. It's okay.”

It would never be okay again.

“Comin' home from church,” he moaned, the force of his sobs shaking his powerful body. “Church! Praying to her God. Where were you tonight? Huh? Why weren't you watchin' over my sister, like she said you always did? 'Cause there ain't no God. You ain't real. I knew that when you nevah brought my mama back. But Lacy kept believin', 'cause that's just the way she was. So why her? Huh? Why? She ain't never done nothing but good. And you took her. So whatta we got now, huh—
God?
”

Suddenly he lurched to his feet, staggering, his legs stiff and heavy from hours of immobility. He stumbled toward the window as the hazy orange sun began its ascent above the rooftop rows of tenements and high-rise projects.

Then, as if conjured from the depths of a personal hell, the agonized wail of a mortally wounded soul screaming to end its
inhumane torture ripped from the bowels of his being, as his foot crashed through the curtain-covered windows.

“N-ooo!”

 

The service was a blur, packed with people he'd never even known were friends. His only moment of clarity was when Maxine stepped up to the podium and sang, “You Are My Friend,” in a tribute to Lacy that rivaled Pattie LaBelle.

He could still hear the haunting power of her voice, the painful truth of the words humming through his veins as he and Maxine made their way toward home.

Maxine took periodic, countless glances at Quinn's drawn profile. He hadn't uttered a full sentence in days. She was afraid for him, and at the same time she needed him. She needed him to tell her that everything would be all right, to hold her and tell her they'd get through it. She was hurting, too, more than she would have believed was physically possible. But Quinn had left them behind, as sure as Lacy had. He was visible in body, but the spirit of the man was gone.

He turned to her when they reached her apartment building. His hair had come loose from the band that held it, and it blew gently across his black-clad shoulders, touched by the stirring breeze.

“You'd better go on up,” he said in a barely audible voice. He wouldn't meet her eyes, because he knew that if he did, she'd see the hurt and the fear. He couldn't expose that part of himself to anyone—not ever again.
Big boys don't cry. It's okay, Q.
“Listen, I gotta go,” he said abruptly. His gaze flickered briefly on her face. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. “Later.”

Maxine watched his long, bowlegged swagger until he was out of sight.

 

Several weeks later as Quinn was stepping out of the shower he was surprised to hear the faint ringing of the telephone. He had so isolated himself since Lacy's death that those who knew him had backed away after repeated attempts at offers of support. That being true, Quinn couldn't imagine who would have the heart to call just to get their feelings stepped on.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Parker?” came a voice, thin as a rail.

“Yeah. Who's this?”

“Oh, thank heavens,” she rushed on. “I've been trying to reach your sister for days but she never seems to be home.” Quinn's insides did a nosedive, leaving him momentarily speechless. “Such a hardworking girl, that one. It's the main reason why I decided to hold the apartment for the two of you. She left your number on the application in case of an emergency.”

He finally found his voice. “W…hat?”

“The apartment. The one on Eighteenth Street. I've been holding it for weeks. She promised she'd come by with the rest of the money. When I didn't hear from her I got worried…”

Quinn's pulse pounded so loudly in his ears he could barely make out what she was saying. He felt as if he'd been tossed into someone else's nightmare.

“So I need to know if you two still want the apartment. I know how desperately she wanted to move. Said you'd be a hard sell, though.” She chuckled. “It's such a lovely place. I told her she should let you see it first, but she insisted that she wanted to take care of everything and surprise you, so you couldn't say no.” She chuckled again.

Quinn took slow gulps of air. He had every intention of just hanging up, ending the nightmare now. But something kept him on the line and pushed words through his mouth that he didn't know were forming.

“Why don't you gimme your address, and I'll come by. I think it's about time I saw this place.”

 

The movers would arrive shortly. He looked around. The apartment was full of memories. All of which he wanted to put behind him.

He'd finally given in to Maxine's insistence that they go through Lacy's things. He'd let Max take what she wanted. He took the old second-hand piano, the one Lacy'd given him on his twenty-first birthday. He smiled, recalling the moment and the look of pure joy on her face when she saw his astonished
reaction. His fingers lovingly caressed the keys. He moved away and took an accepting breath.

Boxes were packed and taped, his clothes bagged and ready. He checked the cabinets and closets for any overlooked items. He checked under the bed and behind the wall unit. He took a broom and swept it beneath the love seat and then the recliner. Satisfied, he ran the broom under the couch and was surprised to find it meeting resistance. He tried again and his notebook came sailing across the floor.

For several moments, he just stared at it. Bending, he picked it up. Remembering. He ran his hand across the pebbly black-and-white cover. One day perhaps he'd open it again….

The bell rang.

His eyes swept the room.

Time to go.

T
he professor's nasal voice continued its monotonous droning. The words blurred as if water had dripped on a penned page. The room was thick with the scent of sterility, body heat and morning breath.

Amidst it all, Nikita struggled to concentrate. She couldn't. The drone dissolved into a dull buzz. She wanted to giggle as she pictured the rotund Professor Cronin as a huge bee—buzzing, buzzing, flitting from one student to pollinate another, dripping words of “constructive criticism” all along the way. The room grew smaller. The buzz grew louder, closer. She had to get away.
Bzzz, bzzz.

She heard him demanding in his astonished nasal voice that she return to her seat, calling repeatedly to her retreating back. It was the first time she'd heard any animation in the buzz since the start of the spring session.

No one ever walked out of Professor Cronin's anatomy class, under threat of expulsion. So at any moment she expected a firing squad to let off a round. She hurried. She wanted to run. But of course running through the sanctified hallways of Cornell University Medical School was against the Eleventh Commandment:
“Thou shall not digress from proper decorum.”
Or was that her parents' commandment?

She pushed through the glass doors, greedily gulping the clean, fresh air, inhaling the pungent aroma of freshly cut grass and blossoming buds. Faster. She headed for her dorm, not quite sure what she'd do when she arrived, only knowing that she had to get there. She'd figure it out.
Rebellion felt exhilarating.
She smiled.

The buzz grew fainter.

 

Six and a half hours later, soothed by the sound of Kenny G on CD, Nikita pulled into the endless driveway of her parents' imposing Long Island estate. For the first time since she'd signed off the Cornell campus she questioned the veracity of her hasty actions.

Several moments passed—Kenny'd G'd, Al'd Jarreau'd and Grover'd worked his magic—before she took the key out of the ignition. She released a sigh. “It's now or never.”
Never,
a little voice whispered back.

Nikita slid from behind the wheel of her silver-and-black Mercedes convertible—a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday four years earlier—easing the door shut. Her honey brown eyes settled on the house.

Set on sixty acres of land, in Lattington—which was situated in the “Gold Coast” of above upper-crust suburbia—the Harrell home was the envy of many. It was an architect's delight, of Southern, turn-of-the-century charm coupled with modern accoutrements such as tennis court, swimming pool and gazebo. Their home had been the focus of many
Home and Garden, House Beautiful
and
Architectural Digest
issues. What seemed to impress everyone most, was that the Harrells were both black
and
affluent. Dr. Lawrence Harrell was one of the most renowned vascular surgeons in the United States, and Professor Cynthia Lewis-Harrell was the first black woman to head the mathematics department at Princeton University. Then there was Nikita.

Absently she ran her professionally manicured hands along the length of her ten-months-in-development dreads. They'd finally reached below her ears, and she couldn't wait until they were long enough for her to vary their style. Her parents, on the other hand…

She looked up. Second-floor lights twinkled against the im
pending nightfall, a sure sign that she'd missed dinner and that her folks were settling down for the evening.
Tradition.

Determinedly she proceeded down the cobblestone walk, careful because of her heels. The smooth stones could tell many a tale of her skinned knees and bruised elbows.

She pressed the bell and listened for the familiar beeps of the alarm being disengaged. The door swung inward.

“Niki! What on earth? Your parents didn't say anything about you coming home,” Amy rushed on, hugging Niki to her slender frame. She had been with her family for as long as she could remember. Amy was the real power behind the well-oiled Harrell machine.

Amy released Niki and set her away. Her sharp brown eyes narrowed. “What's going on? I've never known you to just come home without letting anybody know.” She peered around Nikita, looking for something that would explain the unannounced arrival. “Come in here and let me look at you.” She hustled Nikita into the house. “Are you sick?”

“No.”

“In trouble?”

“No, no. Nothing like that, Amy,” Nikita assured. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, that's all.” She forced a smile.

“Humph. That doesn't sound like you. Not like you at all. Your folks are upstairs and you already missed dinner,” she scolded, walking with Nikita down the Italian tile foyer.

“Amy! Who was at the door?”

Nikita's heart knocked at the sound of her mother's strident voice.

“It's Nikita. She wanted to surprise us.” Amy threw Nikita a sharp look of disbelief.

Her mother, caressed by a pale peach satin lounging outfit and a cloud of Donna Karan's Chaos cologne, floated to the top of the oak staircase. “Nikita! Larry, Larry. Nikita's home.”

 

“I've dropped out of medical school.”

The silver teaspoon that her mother held clattered against a tiny demitasse cup. Cynthia's gray-green eyes rounded in disbelief.

Nikita's gaze darted across the table toward her father, who appeared to have not heard a word. The only indication that he had was the telltale flare of his nostrils.

Cynthia turned toward her husband. “Larry, for God sake, did you hear what she just said?”

“Of course I heard her. I'm not deaf. She's obviously joking,” he continued without inflection. “Because no one for whom I've paid more than seventy-five thousand to finance their education would walk in here, sit at my table and tell me they're throwing all that in my face.” His voice suddenly exploded. “She's obviously joking!” His fist slammed down on the table, causing everyone and everything within range to jump.

Nikita swallowed hard, and for a split second she contemplated telling them yes, it was a joke. But if she did do that, the joke would ultimately be on her.

Her tone was soft, but decisive. “It's not a joke. I've left medical school. I'm not going back.” There, she'd said it, and the earth hadn't quaked and lightning hadn't struck.

“Oh yes, you are going back,” her father spat out, rising to his feet. “And you're going to finish at the top of your class, as you always have.” His hazel eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “After all we've done for you—”

Those words rolled around in her head like a beach ball out of control, and something as sharp as the sound of dry wood inside of her snapped.

Nikita sprang from her seat, leaning forward, pressing her palms against the linen-covered, hand-carved table. “What about all I've done for
you!
” She pinned her father with a defiant stare, then turned on her mother. “For as long as I can remember, I've done everything you've directed me to do. Joined all the
right
clubs, had the
right
friends—and the
right
color, of course. Excelled in every subject, attended the schools you wanted me to attend. Majored in a subject I hate. I was valedictorian for you. Summa Cum Laude for you, Mother, Father. What about me?” Tears of frustration burned her eyes and spilled. Her body trembled. “I can't do it anymore. I won't. Not…any…more.” She sat down hard in her seat and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

“I should have seen this coming,” her father said. He pointed a finger of accusation. “Ever since you started growing those weeds in your head—”

“They're not weeds, dammit. They're dreadlocks, a symbol of our heritage.”

“Nikita! I will not have you use that language in this house,” said her mother.

“The only thing you just heard me say was
damn?
Maybe I should say it more often, so someone around here would pay me some attention.”

Her mother opened her mouth, then shut it when her husband continued his tirade.

“Weeds,” he spat, caught up in his own rhetoric, ignoring the sparring between mother and daughter. “The first step toward your demise. No upstanding young woman would be seen in public like that. I don't know what heritage you're speaking of,” he continued in his pompous tone. “It certainly isn't mine, or anyone's I know. All you need is a Jemima rag on your head to complete the look. We've come too far for this. We've worked too hard—”

“Why won't you listen? For once. I'm twenty-five years old, and I don't have a clue as to who I am, where I'm going, or even what I'll do for myself when the two of you are…I need to have my own life. Make some decisions for myself. And that means not being a doctor.”

“So what do you intend to do?” her mother asked, perplexed.

Nikita took a long breath. “I want to be a writer.”

“A writer!” Condescending laughter filled the room. “Have you completely lost your mind?” he sputtered. “Writing isn't a profession, it's a hobby. How do you intend to support yourself? Or are you going to be another starving artist, for art's sake?”

Nikita stood. “I knew I shouldn't come here. But I thought it was the right thing to do.” With a pained expression she turned to her father. “I'll find a way to repay you.” She snatched up her purse, turned and stalked away.

“Nikita.” Cynthia hurried after her. “Where are you going?”

She kept her back to her mother. Her voice shook. “I don't know. Maybe I'll stay with Parris and Nick in the city.”

“Of course you won't.” Her tone softened as she turned her daughter to face her. “This is your home. You stay here as long as you want. It's obvious that you're terribly distraught. I won't have you driving around town half hysterical. Maybe some time off from school is just what you need. Now come along. Take a long soak. I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning.”

Nikita looked at her picture-perfect mother with sad eyes. Cynthia Harrell didn't have a clue.

 

That was nearly three months ago,
Nikita reflected. Her twenty-sixth birthday was dogging her heels, and she still had no job. Her savings were almost depleted and she refused to ask her parents for a dime. It was bad enough having to see her father's “I told you so” look every time they passed each other. The reality was, she had no experience or educational background to break into journalism. All she had was determination and a dream—one that she'd pushed to the back of her mind in pursuit of her parents' dream. God, she didn't want her parents to be right.

Maybe this interview would pan out. The woman said she was willing to train her as long as she didn't mind playing Girl Friday in the process.

She ascended the stairs from beneath the subterranean world of New York City, finally free from the press of damp flesh. She felt like taking a shower. Looking around to get her bearings, she fished in her pocketbook for the address: 803 Eighth Avenue, corner of Twenty-first Street. At least a ten-block walk.

She looked down at her low-heeled shoes, thankful.
“All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes,”
she muttered.

Turning off Fourteenth Street she walked along Sixth Avenue, peeking in the antique shop windows, outdoor cafés, absorbing the laid-back atmosphere. She inhaled deeply and smiled. She was growing accustomed to exhaust fumes and the intangible aroma of leftover garbage. She turned down Eighteenth Street, intrigued by the tree-lined block and stately brownstones. Sparkling plate-glass windows gave sneak previews of crystal chandeliers or high-tech track lighting, oversize living rooms, mahog
any fixtures and hardwood floors. Couples in all shades and combinations sat on stoops, or strolled down the avenues.
This is a neighborhood,
she thought. Not the sterile, pristine, patrolled area in which she existed. She could like it here.

A moving truck was up ahead and she wondered if they were coming or going. She walked a bit faster, her thoughts outrunning her pace. If they were moving out, she'd ask about the vacancy. If she got the job, she'd be able to pay her rent. In the meantime, she could sell her Benz…. She slowed, nearing the truck.

The double-glass and wood door at the top of the stoop was propped wide open, like a woman awaiting her lover. She looked around and didn't see anyone. Taking a breath, she turned into the yard and was about to go up the steps.

“Lookin' for somebody?”

She looked up into dark, haunting eyes. Her heart pounded a bit too hard. “Uh, not really. I mean, I was just wondering if there's an apartment available.”
He's gorgeous.
She cleared her throat and backed up as the lean, thoroughly masculine figure gave her a long, slow look that made her feel like he'd just undressed her, then bounded down the stairs.