Between Lovers (18 page)

I say, “And they put flags out front?”

Ayanna says, “They're proud. Not ashamed.”

For a moment there is tension swimming in the silence.

Then it is interrupted by a
beep-beep-beep.

Nicole pulls out her I-pager, reads the message, tisks and frowns. “Bad thing about an I-pager is that your job can always find you. This is nothing but an electronic leash.”

Ayanna asks, “South Africa?”

“Of course. I'll be so glad when this gets wrapped up.”

“We'll celebrate that victory in Spain. We'll leave it behind.”

My throat dries. Palms sweat when Ayanna says that.

We ride the rolling hills, pass by land that used to be the home of deer and skunk, ride until I'm lost. Nicole pulls her car up into a huge Spanish-style home. A palace made of mauve stucco and red Spanish tile. Hidden spotlights shine on five or six Mexican palms out front. While we wait for the garage door to whir open with a whisper, I squint and search for a colorful flag. I don't see one out there flapping in the night breeze.

The moment we come in from the garage, Ayanna uses a remote to turn off the house alarm.

Ayanna kicks off her shoes at the door, Nicole does the same, and I follow their ritual. Their unspoken rule. Ayanna walks ahead of us, taking off her leather coat, her stroll still as inviting as the girl from Ipanema. She hand-fluffs her locks, goes into the kitchen, dumps everything on a huge white-tiled island, pulls a bottle of E&J from the cabinet, a new unopened bottle that looks a bit dusty, then asks, “Anybody want a hit of over-the-counter panther piss?”

“I'm fine,” I say, then motion toward a picture of Nicole, Ayanna, and the mayor of San Francisco. It stands high over the fireplace. Nicole and Ayanna are in white gowns. The mayor in a black suit. Looks like they're at a highbrow function. I say, “You know Mayor Willie Brown.”

Nicole tosses her keys on the island; they hit the white tile hard. That steals my attention away from the picture.

Nicole says, “Haven't you had enough, Ayanna?”

“Just making a short one. Nothing serious.”

“We running tomorrow?”

“I'll be fine.”

“Drink plenty of water so you won't be dried out with a headache.”

Virgin white walls are all over, reminds me of Paris. Candle scents and potpourri odors waft in, making the house as sweet as the inside of a Z Gallery. A sixty-inch television. African sculptures. Erotic limited editions by Gayle Coito. Italian-style furniture in the family room and dining area.

I head that way, toward the picture over the fireplace, but Nicole pulls me back for more kisses; this time more comfortable, more passionate than before.

Without pretense of what's about to happen, we head upstairs, walk over soft carpet that steals the sounds of all of our footsteps, move by a sitting area that has a floor-to-ceiling, built-in cherry bookcase, two oversize chairs, and a small table. Another wall filled with awards and pictures of Ayanna with the mayor of San Francisco, other politicians. Ayanna is in front. I'm behind Nicole.

I say, “Nice place.”

I'm talking to Nicole, but Ayanna says, “Thanks.”

I ask Ayanna, “How many square feet?”

Nicole answers, “Thirty-three hundred. You could be here and we wouldn't even notice you.”

Nicole extends that invitation like she owns the house.

Ayanna asks me, “How many square feet does your house have?”

I answer, “Twenty-three hundred.”

“Lot size?”

“Barely enough to hold the house.”

“Look out back by the gazebo. That small building houses the Jacuzzi. We have lemon trees, orange trees, persimmon trees. This is a very large lot. Largest in the area.”

I nod at her message. Lot size equates to dollars, or success, or ability to care for oneself, or the one you love. Yes, I nod at her message of superiority. She returns the favor.

Ayanna smiles at her minor victory, sips her panther piss, then she says, “I have to go potty.”

While she handles her business, I stop in the sitting area, pulled there by my curiosity, look at plaques, certificates, laminated newspaper clippings from the
Oakland Tribune,
all about Ayanna. Photos taken at Soul Beat TV, then photos at Government Access TV. Pictures in Mexico, Spain, Italy, the most beautiful ones on an island in Greece, then peeps at other countries that I don't recognize. Nicole's with her on a few of the recent shots. Not a lot, just a few. Medals for a lot of 10ks, a few 5ks, quite a few marathons are on display along the opposite side, along with Ayanna's degrees.

And the books. All arranged by height. All methodical, like Nicole. Everything from Thoreau to Ayn Rand to Charles Darwin. Homer to Aesop to Plato. Then a shelf of the world's greatest religions: Buddhism's Dhammapada, Christianity's Gospels, Hinduism's Bhagavad Gita, Islam's Koran, Judaism's Torah, and Taoism's Tao Te Ching.

Below that is a shelf of books that deal with healing powers, archetypal hypnotherapy, reincarnational vedic astrology, transcendental meditation, reflexology, holistic massage, power stretching, exploring masculine and feminine energy. Much more. More than enough for one person to take in, then draw their own conclusion and construct their own belief system.

We go right through double-doors, into the master bedroom. Room to room, I notice something about the placement of the furniture, of the pictures, of this whole subset of God's petri dish. Especially in the bedroom. Candles. Incense. The head of the sleigh bed, a funky Circassian walnut-style bed that looks more like art than furniture, is placed against the north wall. Plants, the fountain that mists and fogs, everything is arranged in a way that creates peace, positive energy, the same way Nicole arranged and decorated my world and told me that placement of everything affects your spirit. Too much of this house reminds me of my own setup at home.

Nicole turns on a small stereo, a flat Nakamichi system that's on the wall, tunes to soft, wordless music. Then she holds my hand, traces her finger up and down my palm and shows me around. The walk-in closet has built-ins. One wall looks like ten pairs of workout shoes and a thousand and one pairs of “I'm a woman” shoe heaven. I recognize Nicole's wardrobe, see how it's sectioned off into her workout clothes, her I-feel-fat clothes, her PMS clothes, I-feel-thin clothes, I-don‘t-give-a-fuck clothes, I'm-sexier-than-a-mofo clothes; all that she had when she was living and loving with me is here. And I see clothes, other things I've bought her over the years. This is Nicole's closet. The one she walks in every day. My walk-in closet in the Southland is laid out the same way, so far as organization. It's just as anal. I have many gifts from her.

I say, “This bedroom is bigger than most apartments.”

“Ayanna had a wall taken down. It's like a supersize suite now.”

The sleigh bed faces the shower and tub area; no door separates those two rooms. I guess so one lover can lie in bed and watch the other perform a dance of cleansing. Plenty of colorful pillows. No television. Very aromatic and romantic. A sensual retreat. They have erotic art that celebrates the human body, celebrates nakedness, all limited editions by Kimberly Chavers.

By the time Ayanna comes out of the bathroom, Nicole is on the cordless phone, talking to the late-night workers at her job. I listen for a few, but all the techno-negotiation jargon flies over my head. By her tone, it sounds like it might take her a while to get whatever has gone awry resolved. She gets heated, raises her voice into a no-nonsense, hard-nosed manager tone and heads into another room with the cordless.

Ayanna opens the double doors and lets a chilling breeze in, steps out on the balcony, humming along with the radio, sipping her E&J, her eyes to the sky as she sways and sips, first gazing out toward the lemon and persimmon trees, then gazing up at heaven's vault.

I stand a few feet away from Ayanna. “You okay?”

She hands me her drink. That surprises me. I take a sip, hand it back. Maybe that surprises her.

She speaks with an unexpected tenderness, “I'm just looking at the light that has taken thousands of years to reach my itty-bitty eyes. Looking at the land and ocean that is the greatest story ever told.”

I pause, my nose getting cold, let my eyes go to the sky. “Putting things in perspective?”

Her eyes wander across the vault of heaven. “Searching for the truth.”

A moment passes. She sips her drink again, hands it off to me. I sip and give it back.

I tell her, “Your crib is impressive.”

“I'm just a girl from the gutter who has done okay with her career and investments.”

Nicole is still on the phone. She passes by, hands moving to emphasize whatever she's saying. Her voice fades when she walks away, moving with her nonstop words.

I ask Ayanna, “Why no flag?”

“Not everyone has a flag.”

“You said that the people with flags are proud.”

“I did.”

“So that means that the people without flags aren‘t, right?”

She shifts in a defensive way that lets me know she hates to be the one in the hot seat. “Sounds like you're cross-examining. Dissecting my words, using them against me.”

I smile at her controlled anger. “Just asking a simple question. Why don't you have one?”

“Nosy little fucker.”

“All day long.”

She picks her nails for a few seconds. “I did. Nicole wasn't comfortable with it.”

I smile. Nicole isn't in her world, not all the way. She's not in mine, but she's not gone. In this moment, that is my minor victory. No size house can take away that feeling of hope.

Ayanna whispers, “Love makes no sense.”

“True.”

“It is an inextinguishable force that leaves when it's good and ready.”

“That it is. Too bad you can't turn it off when you wanna.”

“Well,” she motions out toward Lady Oakland, out toward the darkness in the direction of San Francisco, “out there somewhere, the odds are someone else is doing the same thing we're doing.”

We pause, listen for Nicole. She's still on the phone. Ayanna moves the conversation away from her, moves the focus back to me when she says, “What you did at the club was admirable, in a primitive way, but it was stupid as hell.”

“Think so?”

“You pushed him. That was assault. Plain and simple. You could've been taken to jail. Or he could've had psycho friends and it could've become ugly.”

I speak with ease and conviction, “And how would you protect Nicole from an asshole like that? By sipping on a drink and adjusting your tits?”

She nods a few times before she says, “Question?”

“Shoot.”

“Did you get pissed-off because he called Nicole a dyke, or because he called you a faggot?”

I don't answer, just rub my hands together.

She says, “Just what I thought.”

I back off, take a breath. I ask, “Is it always like that at that place?”

“Some nights it's a fuckfest,” she says.

“But homeboy who was tripping, is it like that a lot?”

“Nah. That jerk had to be a tourist.”

The lights of planes can be seen in the direction of Oakland Airport, each illumination creating the illusion of slow-moving shooting stars.

I release the thought that's been bugging me since it slipped from Ayanna's lips. “Eight years, huh?”

She sips the last of her drink, grins, puts the empty glass on the edge of the wooden rail. “Yep.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“San Francisco Chronicle Marathon. Mile sixteen. Heading up the hill of all hills in the Haight-Ashbury district.”

I chuckle. “I met her at the L.A. Marathon. Mile twenty.”

“Lucky you.”

“I don't believe in luck. I believe in blessings and divine intervention.”

I believe that out of thirty thousand aching people, we ended up at Hollywood Boulevard and Western Avenue, running side-by-side at that moment, because it was meant to be. Mile twenty; where it hurts more to stop than to keep going. That day I looked to my right and saw Nicole in yellow shorts and a light green top, looking sunburned, dehydrated, skin ashen, her jet-black braids pulled back in a ponytail, so much pain in every breath. And I didn't look any better. I tried to use her as my rabbit, let her set the pace and block the wind, and at times she tried to use me as her rabbit, but on that day we were pretty even. We passed by so many people who had broken down and given up the race to go in search of Power Bars, Gatorade, and taxi rides home, but we stayed steady, moved through the agony, sipped water, bonded in our misery and determination, didn't even know each others' names until we finished those last six miles.

Ayanna intrudes on my thoughts with her whispered words, “Mork, calling Orson, come in, Orson.”

I blink. “What?”

“Penny for those thoughts.”

I own thousands of words, which in the right combination and permutations are an endless means of expressing what I feel. But in this moment, language fails.

Ayanna is staring at me, brain clicking and whirring, trying to worm her way inside my head.

I try and push her in another mental direction, say, “So, you know about Barebacks.”

She laughs at the sky. “Once upon a time I was married. Married this guy I met at a club. Silk's over in Emeryville. That place used to have at least four thousand people inside, and I was drawn to him.”

“So, you're divorced.”

“One better. Widowed.”