Again (8 page)

“T
yne, could you come in here for a minute,” Stan said over the phone.

She closed her eyes as she hung up. She was being summoned—never good. She took a deep breath and got up from her seat. As she passed the other cubicles on her way to Stan’s office, she noticed the unusual quiet. No gossiping on the phones, no bantering. Rhoni was actually doing work, and Gail hadn’t bothered to come in at all. Rumors had already made the circuit. The
Chicago Clarion
was shutting down. There would be no survivors. When she passed Lem’s cubicle, he looked over his shoulder, his face grim.

Stan was waiting for her. No distractions today. He pointed to the seat and she sat down dutifully. His face was unreadable.

“I guess I don’t really need to tell you what this is all about?” Stan never beat around the bush.

Tyne felt unusually unruffled. All the apprehension leading up to this moment suddenly left her.

“So, should I start packing up my desk?”

“Tyne, if it were up to me, none of us would be packing. This is Stingley’s decision.”

Stingley was Allen Stingley Jr., grandson of founder Willard Stingley, and the only son of Allen Sr., the previous owner, who had died from a sudden heart attack over a year ago. Allen Sr. would never have shut the paper down, no matter what. He had seen it as his personal mission to keep the landmark up and running, to maintain one of the few last black-owned newspapers in the country. Allen Jr., however, had been treating the paper more like a dying elephant about to stink up his lawn, and something that was eating up his money, black loyalty be damned. Seemed he had already made preparations for a quick burial. There wasn’t even time to mourn.

“The
Clarion’
s been losing too much money. It just doesn’t make sense to keep it going.”

Spoken like a true company man. Obviously, Stan had been completely indoctrinated by Allen Jr. Tyne wondered how much the editor-in-chief would be walking away with. Probably more than enough to retire comfortably to Florida or even the Caribbean. Then she thought better of it. Stan seemed more a Vegas man, perhaps with aspirations of becoming a high-roller.

She on the other hand would be planning budget meals for the next few months. The safety net was gone. She was on her own.

“Why’re you smiling?” He asked, his eyebrows up, looking perplexed.

“Nothing, Stan. Just thinking about future opportunities.” As she sat there, she really tried to look on it as a window opening where a door had shut. Now would be her chance to prove herself. No more crunching numbers, checking and rechecking facts for someone else’s articles. She smiled a little more.

Stan looked at her like she’d finally lost it. She just shook her head and stood up. “So when is all this going down?”

“Well, we officially close shop two weeks from Friday. We’ll finish up this last issue and that’ll be it. Allen’s going to write a formal farewell, as will I. And as a nod to the past, Allen wants us to dig up the very first editorial done by his grandfather. I think it’s a good idea. I’ll leave that duty up to you.”

Tyne wasn’t sure if she was dismissed or not. Then Stan went back to poring over papers on his desk. “That’s all, Tyne.”

When she got back to her desk, she saw that her message light was blinking. She dialed into her phone mail, hoping it wasn’t some family emergency. April and Donell were on a Mexican cruise, and Tyrone had flown out yesterday morning for a Zimbabwe shoot. But when she checked the message, she heard a strange but familiar voice.

“Tyne, hi. This is David Carvelli. We met at your sister’s wedding…um…I know you’re probably wondering why I’m calling you, especially at work. I just—well—I was wondering if maybe you would like to go out to lunch sometime. My treat, of course. Anywhere you want. My cell phone number is 312-777-3232. If I don’t answer, just leave a message.”

She played the message again. How had he gotten her number? She had told him where she worked, hadn’t she? If he called the general number, then he would have gotten Sondra, the receptionist, who would have patched him through.

First a firing and now this. She looked absently at the calendar affixed to the steel cabinet above her desk. Featured for the month of May, the painting of an African-garbed woman accompanied the caption, “A true woman boldly faces life’s challenges.” The message rang true, yet hollow to her situation. She should call him, tell him no once and for all. Tell him to please just leave her alone. She wasn’t ready to deal with him. Especially not now.

Especially since she had thought about him a little too much since the reception, more times than she had admitted to herself until now. It seemed longer than last Saturday since she had looked into a pair of penetrating eyes and wondered why she should know him. Worse still, her dream lover had taken on his face, his voice, and the experience was more intense now that she could picture the one who touched her, whispered to her. Made love to her. It was an intimacy that she didn’t think she could handle beyond her dreams.

She hadn’t dreamt of the knife since she met him, and the horror of that night with the blood was fading with time. Only the desire remained, and that was disturbing enough.

Phones rang. She had another report to finish, although it seemed a futile task considering that her job was basically gone.

She opened the computer document and began typing. She tried not to think about the message or wonder why she didn’t just erase it so the temptation would go away. Why was she intimidated by him? Because he was white? She had never dated interracially before, yet her hesitation seemed to stem from something more that that, although she wasn’t certain what. The man just gave her vibes that were totally confusing—and she had to admit, seductive.

She again saw images from the dream from the night before, felt the warm salty taste of fingers slipping into her mouth. She shifted in her seat. The elastic of her panties didn’t shift with her and now dug into her skin. Damn.

She got up and pulled at her underwear through her slacks.

“Um, Tyne…”

She turned to see Lem standing at her doorway. By the sheepish look on his face, he’d seen her touching herself in a very unbusinesslike way. He didn’t seem unpleased. She felt the blood rushing to her face.

“I was…uh…was there something you wanted, Lem?”

He came in a little farther, and both of them stood side by side. He had almost a foot on her, and made her five feet seven seem that much shorter. “I thought maybe we could commiserate over lunch. Guess you got the word from Stan.”

“Yeah,” she sat down. “But it was expected. Did you talk with him already?”

Lem nodded. “He called me in early this morning before everyone else.”

“So, what’re you going to do?” She looked up at him. He didn’t seem all that put out. But then again, he had very marketable skills. He wouldn’t be out of work for long.

“I’ve already lined up something at the
Times
,” he said, folding his arms, not meeting her eyes, maybe out of guilt. “I’ve been calling around for months now since February. Have a friend there who kept an ear open. It’s still a copy editor position, but this time with a little more money, and maybe a little more respect in the bargain.” He perched on the edge of her bookcase, looking quite comfortable. “What about you?”

Tyne shrugged, embarrassed to admit that she’d been caught with her pants down. Then remembered he had walked in on her adjusting her underwear. “I’m thinking of doing some freelance. I’ve saved up some money. That, plus the unemployment checks, should keep beans in my bowl for a few months while I look around. I should be fine.”

“Yeah, I expect so. You’re a very talented woman, much too underutilized here. You need to be somewhere where you can be fully appreciated. So, what about that lunch? My treat.”

Tyne wondered at the odds of getting two lunch offers within minutes of each other. Two men, two very different men. One black, the other white, both culturally dissimilar from her. Both appealing. One disturbing for reasons she couldn’t understand.

“Yeah, why don’t we do Wall Street?” she answered. “I’m in the mood for a good tuna sandwich.”

“One o’clock. OK?”

She nodded and he smiled as he left. She heard him whistling down the aisle.

She turned back to the phone, stared at it as though it were an invading enemy. After a moment, she picked it up and waited for the prompt that would allow her to erase the message.

Green eyes flashed in her mind, and her hand paused. In the end, she didn’t move to the erase button. Instead, she dialed his number.

“S
o, what made you finally decide to call?” When David smiled, his eyes brightened and the dimple in his chin deepened.

Tyne shrugged. “What made you so sure I wouldn’t? Especially since you offered me a free lunch anywhere I wanted.”

She had chosen the Red Light, which served a Pan-Asian menu. Ray had brought her here once during his wooing phase, when he had cared a damn about making a good impression. She hadn’t been back since.

Located on West Randolph, the restaurant wasn’t very romantic during the day. She’d wanted to keep things light and casual. She had chosen jeans with a blazer and T-shirt. Again, keeping things casual.

David wore a black suede jacket, black T-shirt and jeans, and still managed to look
GQ
fine. He had strong features, sensual lips, an affable smile. He was not someone who’d have to beg for a lunch date.

“So, it was the free lunch? That’s all?” he asked.

On cue, the waitress brought their plates of shumai, small dumplings stuffed with pork and shrimp. They had both ordered glasses of red wine.

Tyne took a sip to settle her nerves. She didn’t know why she had called him back or why she had said yes. Maybe it was just the intrigue.

“What else would it be?” she countered, daring him by her tone to say it was him. But he only shrugged, took his own sip of wine, effectively avoiding the challenge. She was a little satisfied to see that he didn’t seem so sure of himself now.

“Don’t you want to know why I called?” he asked after a pause, locking eyes with her. She broke away, looked around. The restaurant was nearly full. It was a popular place for lunch, which was one of the reasons she had chosen it. No chance for intimacy.

“I assume you wanted to have lunch with me,” she said trying to sound glib but failing.

“Yes, I wanted to have lunch,” he started. “No, I take that back. Actually I wanted to have dinner with you, but I knew you’d say no because you wouldn’t want to meet in a place where it’s dark and close, where the conversation might lead to less than safe subjects.”

This was a mistake, she knew now, and she fought an overwhelming impulse to get up and leave. But she didn’t want to be accused of running again. “So, what now, you’re reading my mind? You don’t know what I’d have said if you asked me to dinner.” But he was too close to the mark.

“OK. Let’s say Friday, then, dinner. You pick the place again.”

She looked at him incredulously. “We haven’t even finished lunch and you’re already deciding on another date. Do you always rush people like this?” Her voice rose an octave.

“No, I don’t. I apologize.” He did look contrite, almost sheepish as he smiled at her. “If you don’t want to, of course, there’s no obligation. But I’d like to get to know you better. I’m sorry it came out that way. I tend to get a little pushy when I’m overeager.”

She couldn’t help the smile. “Overeager?”

“Call it a nagging interest.”

“Why nagging?”

“Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time I saw you.”

“Since the wedding?”

“No, since the Fairmont—that moment in the foyer. I just lucked out finding you again.”

Tyne took a longer swig of wine, almost finishing the glass in a couple of gulps. “Um, I don’t know how to respond to that,” she said, eyes downcast. She swept a stray crumb from the tablecloth. “Sounds a little obsessive.”

He leaned forward, forcing her to look at him. His eyes pierced through, trying to impress a message she didn’t want to see. “If a man sees a beautiful woman, it isn’t obsessive to think about her for months. To remember how beautiful her eyes are, how biteable her lips, to wonder what it would be like to be alone with her….” His voice was silk.

Tyne edged back into her seat, thrown by the unexpected ardor, the twinge in her crotch and the sudden wetness inside her panties.

“Here you go,” their waitress stood at the table with their orders. Tyne took a shaky breath during the respite. She had ordered salmon. David had ordered the grilled bulgoki New York strip. The food smelled delicious, but she’d lost her appetite.

As soon as the waitress left, he said, “I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject.” He sliced through the tender meat, his long fingers deftly maneuvering the knife. She remembered those fingers, from her dreams, how skilled they were. She shook the image from her mind.

“Tell me what it’s like working for a newspaper?” he asked.

“Something like being unemployed. My last day is next Friday.” She said this indifferently, even though he was the first person outside the office she had told. She hadn’t even mentioned it to her mother.

He stopped mid-chew. “Oh, sorry to hear that. What happened?”

She took a bite of salmon before answering. “Low readership, basically. The paper’s been around for over fifty years, but with the economy being what it is and readers opting for the larger, mainstream papers, the
Clarion’
s taken a hit lately. It can’t afford to keep running, so my job for the next month or so will be finding another job—or at least, getting some freelance work.”

He sat back. “Maybe I can help. I have a friend starting a new magazine. It’s going to feature items on the local Chicago scene, specifically from a woman’s viewpoint. She’s looking for writers. I’ll give her a call when I get home.”

Tyne smiled, regretting the lunch a little less. “That’d be great. I can give you my resume to pass along to…um….”

“Her name’s Sherry Fielding. You met her at your sister’s wedding.”

Tyne’s fork paused midair as the memory flashed. Leggy, brunette. A handshake that lasted a little too long for comfort. “Uh, yeah, I remember her.” She had to choke the bite down with a long sip of wine.

He smiled. “Don’t worry. You only have to tell her no once, and she’ll leave you alone. She’s not like me.” He said this last a little too seriously, making her stomach lurch.

During the rest of their meal they talked about his business. She picked up an ambivalence whenever he spoke about his partners, but she didn’t press him. She learned of some of his past projects, including a new building that had just gone up on State Street. It was impressive from what she’d seen. Then he started with his own questions. She tried to keep back much of her personal business, but within the hour, he had managed to pull from her a little about her family, the fact that she liked to go parachuting sometimes. That one particularly got his attention.

“Yeah, where at?” he asked.

“I drive out a little past Naperville. It’s a small center that deals mostly with first-timers and jumpers with mid-experience.”

“What made you take up jumping?”

She had to think about it. Not about why she did it. But how to convey the reason without sounding like a daredevil. It wasn’t easy to explain to people who had never done it or even contemplated it. “I challenged myself one day. I dared myself to do something extraordinary, and I always wondered what skydiving would be like. My father was an avid motorcyclist, my sister Tanya’s into deep sea diving. I wanted a challenge all my own, so I signed up for lessons. It was just a matter of going for a personal best.”

He nodded. “I know what you mean. I don’t parachute, but I do fly. I rent a Cessna every once in a while and fly downstate to a small camp. I like to hike, do a bit of fishing.”

At that point, the waitress brought the check, and he passed her his credit card. When the woman left, Tyne thanked him for the lunch.

“So, what about dinner?” he asked, swirling the dregs in his glass around before downing it. In all, they had drunk nearly a whole bottle.

Tyne hesitated. “And if I say no, I can just forget about that job, right?”

The change was sudden. His brows knitted together, and the green of his eyes darkened to hazel. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not like that. I don’t have to blackmail a woman to be with me. If you don’t want to have dinner with me, feel free to say so. You can still pass on your resume, and I’ll still give it to Sherry.”

Despite her apprehension, she smiled. “And if I say yes, do I get the job?”

He looked momentarily thrown, before a smile slowly reemerged and the dimple deepened. “Like I said, one thing doesn’t have anything to do with the other. It’s just a matter of whether you want to be with me or not.”

“Be…with you?” she stumbled.

“I’m sorry, let me rephrase. Go out with me. No pressure.”

“Sure, no pressure,” she said faintly. The waitress came back with his card.

He put it back in his wallet, pulled out another card. He handed it to her across the table.

“This is my number and fax. You can fax your resume over, and I’ll give it to Sherry personally. You’ll still have to go through the regular process, but if you can prove you can handle the job, well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t get it.”

“And the dinner?” she asked as she put the card in her purse.

“That ball’s in your court—for now.”

They left the restaurant, and he walked her to her car. She started to get in, then he reached out, touched her arm lightly.

She didn’t have time to respond as his lips came down to meet hers. There wasn’t the usual hesitation of a first kiss. He took possession as though he was long used to doing so. As though he had a right. His tongue circled hers hungrily as his arm went around her waist, gathered her closer. She smelled woodsmoke, felt firm muscles beneath his T-shirt as her hands settled on his chest, imagined him without the barrier of cloth. He tasted of the mint he had eaten after his meal, and the cool heat invaded her mouth. She was tasting him, breathing his breath, while his hand moved downward from her waist. The sudden pressure of his hand on her ass shocked her into reality. She pushed him away and found herself gasping. Her panties were wet, her crotch throbbing, crying to be invaded.

“What were you doing?” She couldn’t help the shaking in her voice.

He smiled, his eyes bright with longing. “Kissing you.”

She felt a desire to slap the smile off his face, a desire to pull him to her, shove her hand down his pants, release him. Instead she said, “You were practically fucking me in the street.”

“No.” he shook his head as his smile widened. He leaned to whisper in her ear. “Believe me, if I were fucki…making love…to you, you wouldn’t mistake it for a kiss. There’d be no mistaking what I was doing to you.” He touched his lips to her ear, moved to her cheek, planted a soft kiss on her jawbone. She could hardly breathe.

He walked away, leaving her in that state. She felt a growing anger with herself for showing him her desire. But she was also angry because she knew she was going to call him again and that they were going to be lovers—something he had known all along.

 

When he kissed me, I felt as though one world was closing and another opening up to me. I cannot in decency describe all the feelings that flowed through my body, my soul. I only tell you this, Sarah, so that you’ll know that I was under some sort of spell. There is no other way to explain it, to explain why I lost myself. I have confessed my sins to only you and God. Hopefully, God will forgive me as you have done.

You are a sweet and true friend.

Sarah

 

Rhea set the letter down on her bed. She would have to put aside the research for a time and study for finals. She had to make up the weeks of not studying, weeks in which she had searched through annals and library aisles, surfed the net, indulged her fixation. Despite her efforts, though, she’d hit a wall. She still hadn’t found records of the teachers who’d worked for Colored School #1, the school first built in 1847 for the children of black shipyard workers living in Brooklyn. The school where Rachel worked over one hundred years ago. It was now known as Public School 67 and was located in Fort Greene, an upscale section of Brooklyn. Fort Greene. The postmark of the only surviving envelope from Rachel to her great-great-grandmother was from Fort Greene.

Rhea lay back on the bed, closed her eyes. Tried to rest, but instead, without prompting, began piecing together the mystery of Rachel. She tried to put a face to the young widow. A voice, mannerisms. Had she continued to live alone after her husband was killed? Did she live the rest of her life without a male protector? The Freedmen’s record indicated her father had passed away before her husband. Although, there’d been a brother, Lawrence Jr.

Whenever she thought about Rachel, she envisioned someone cultured, delicate, well-spoken. Were those the qualities that drew Rachel’s lover to her? That made him flout all society’s rules to try to be with her?

Rhea imagined that Rachel had been everything she was not. Or maybe she was just projecting qualities on the dead woman that she wished she had herself.

She never elicited the kind of passion she read in the letters, the kind of fervor that made men crazy. The only attention she generated from the guys she dated was more a mild lust that often culminated in embarrasing gropings, sloppy kisses, and stupid utterances like “I really like the way your breasts look in that sweater.” All mundane and stupid.

The letters indicated that Rachel’s lover had been a gentleman, someone about society, a sophisticate whose charms had led the young widow to “forget herself,” forget that he was white and not a part of her world, that she was black and not a part of his. Their worlds collided one night, a night alluded to in one of the letters. There had been a ball, a colored ball that Rachel’s brother had talked her into attending. The same ball the mystery gentleman crashed in a quest to find the young woman he’d followed off the street.

She must have been beautiful that night. Rhea tried to imagine what Rachel might have worn. Pictures of the balls and cotillions of that time showed the black elite of that day dressed in elaborate finery. The women in gowns cinched to emphasize small waists, bodices cut just low enough to attract an admirer’s attention. The men in their high-collared suits. It must have been a scandal for a white man to wade into a sea of black folks. There would have been no way for him to blend in. What had been the guests’ reactions?