Between Lovers (40 page)

She asked, “What's your fee?”

I told her that I wanted her to be kind to Nicole. Forever kind.

I stayed long enough to learn about a different kind of love. Learned from Ayanna. Fell in love with two women, in different ways, for two different reasons. Two beautiful women. And I had to leave them both.

Now it was time to move on and find someone new to give all that love to. Time to build a new foundation. Time for new walls. A new roof. My own house with a floor.

I had to become my own butterfly.

I think I was right about Nicole a long time ago. I was the thing that kept her from her truth, from her freedom. And now I'm gone. And now she's free. No longer living between yes and no.

So, after I sat out in front of Nicole and Ayanna's house for a while, I drove away, but not too fast, at my own pace, never once putting my eyes in the rearview mirror. Headed down that asphalt mountain for the last time, got to the 580, cruised that stretch of freeway to the Hegenberger exit and found my way back to the airport.

And if you listen, you can hear the jingle from my seven bracelets. The ones on my right wrist. But listen while you can. At the airport, I take one silver bracelet off. I'll remove one every six months until my arm is bare. Then that wrist will be free. And I will be ready to try again.

Don't get me wrong. I'll miss Nicole. Will miss that slice of Memphis. That is not a sin. I won't stick my chest out and front about that. No lies from this mouth of mine. I'll miss her. When I become an old man, I hope that what I feel for that wonderful creature will ebb away, but from time to time she'll cross my mind, and I'll miss her still. When I turn to dirt, I just might miss her even then. And if I come back, I'll miss her. And I'll look for her. See who she is then.

But for now, if I don't hear from Nicole, from Little Nikki, from my sweetie for days, for weeks, for months, if I don't get an e-mail, if she doesn't return my e-mail, firecrackers no longer pop inside my head. I don't go crazy when I imagine that her love is moving away from me. Because mine is racing in a new direction. I'm no longer a stone that is trapped under ancient walls.

I'm at peace with myself.

I won my freedom. She won her truth. Ayanna no longer has to compromise.

There were no losers.

Somewhere down the line, I read about Ayanna's victories in the
Tribune,
then that mega-ass whooping she put on the Oakland school district was in every black magazine I picked up. Seemed like every airport I walked in, the first thing I saw was some magazine with her photo on the front, looking like she was about to become the female version of JC. Not Jesus Christ, Johnny Cochran. She's one OJ away from real fame.

In due time, I found my way back to my father's church. Went back down Crenshaw and parked outside that mega-church that blocked parts of the city's skyline. Did that gradually, at my own pace. Not as often as I should, but I went back to that part of my life, hung out with those sinners in search of salvation.

And one Sunday, while he sat in the pulpit with my three brothers at his side, he surprised me, motioned toward me, asked me to stand, then introduced me to the ever-growing congregation. He had me stand in a church that served close to twelve thousand of his faithful. Told them all that I was his next to the youngest son. Told them all that I was the son he was so proud of, the writer.

And he said that with so much pride that all of his sheep applauded like thunder.

And I cried. Right there, waving at my old man, and him waving back at me, I cried and blew him kisses. That last suppressed emotion volcanoed its way to the top.

Yep, I tried to not give in to the tears, not in front of a crowd, but I did.

Not because of the hand praises, but because my father called me a writer.

And I am his son. His problem child. His prodigal son.

And I was home. I was back home in more ways than one.

He'd always been there, through my measles and mumps and chicken pox and broken legs and broken heart. Stayed within arms' reach through both my hope and denial. And acceptance. Not many men can claim that about their own fathers. I don't know where that praise came from, what was on his mind, his heart, or why he did it at that moment. Maybe it's that thing that comes with age. With recognizing your own mortality. Because from time to time, he does lose his place, does have to find his way back to his own memory. The same thing I did when I was lost in Nicole. Had lost my place. Had to find my way back. Only his is different. And we're getting worried. For now he's okay. For now.

In the meantime, life waits for no one. Age finds us all.

I write. I love. And I run.

Life is nothing without those three.

Tears dry. Life goes on. New smiles replace those old tears.

I travel and like a river I flow to places a lot of people will never be blessed to see. I have to see the world. Have to witness as many spectacular sunsets as I can.

Every six months, no matter where I am, a bracelet comes off. That is how I lighten my load. That is how I stop being the Bag Man, that masculine version of Badu's Bag Lady.

Every March I look forward to the L.A. Marathon. Rain or heat, I'm there.

Whenever I get to mile twenty, I slow at that marker hanging high over Hollywood Boulevard, and look around.

Look through that crowd of thirty thousand determined people for those locks, for that style that originated in Kenya as a sign of resistance, hungry to see what color those ropes of ethnic pride are now, how long, listen for the sound of her bracelets, maybe hope to catch a whiff of patchouli sweetening the air, that earthy and spiritual aroma that will always remind me of her.

Sometimes I see Nicole; she's so clear. Running toward me. Sometimes I think she's there.

But she's never there.

Mile twenty. Where it hurts too much to stop, but it also hurts too much to go back.

While I put my hand to my forehead to block out the sun, my wife, my friend, the beautiful Ethiopian named Tseday, asks me in that intellectual British accent, “You looking for somebody?”

“No,” I say. “Not at all.”

She asks, “You okay?”

I say, “Hurting. You?”

“Never hurt this bad in my life.”

“Wanna stop?”

“Never.” She manages a determined smile. “Pain is just weakness leaving your body.”

I return the same strong smile. That's what it says on my T-shirt.

I say, “You got jokes.”

“I got jokes.”

And we keep running. We're moving at a decent pace. We're trying to finish this race together.

As always, thanks to my magnificent editor, Audrey LaFehr. To Lisa Johnson and Kathleen Schmidt in publicity, thanks for all the hard work you do behind the scenes. And to my agent, Sara Camilli, thanks for the wonderful encouragement and feedback. Pamela Walker-Williams, thanks for the wonderful job on the Web page!
www.ericjeromedickey.com
is smoking!

Ana at Head to Toe in Oaktown, thanks for keeping my hair looking smooth. Thanks for allowing me to call ya in the middle of your workdays and ask Q after Q.

Jennifer McDaniel, thanks for wanting to read this as it came off the printer. Tell Kennedy to read it in about fifteen years.

Stacey Turnage at Pages Book Club, thanks for glancing over the manuscript. I loved the way you claimed these characters like they were your own children. Do you ever run out of opinions?

Lolita Files, o ye transplant from Florida, you's my twin for life! Thanks for the chicken soup on dem sick days. Your encouragement from word one has meant so mucho.

And Yvette Hayward, my dawgette, much love to my NYC gal. Thanks for letting me e-mail ya bits and pieces of this one. And the last one. And the next one.

Special thanks to Sylvia E. Wiggins up in Oakland for giving me six hours of scandalous chit-chat. That interview was the bomb.

Katherine “Kat” Barnes, thanks for helping me find what I needed on-line at the twelfth hour. Trust me, that one piece of data about the marathon will make a big difference. You's my girl!

Shannon Allen at S-Systems in Emeryville, thanks for the 4-1-1 on the j-o-b. Tell the family I said Whassup!

Foxyrose out there in cyberspace, whoever u r, thanks for the e-mails and telling a bro about the dark side of Lady Oakland. See ya at Marcus Books.

Susan Kyles in Memphis-Town—here is your name, chile!

Dana Lynn Wimberly, thanks for hooking me up with Sharon Crowder in ATL. Sharon, o ye queen of nurses, thanks for letting me call you at work and allowing a bro to ask a zillion and one “what if” medical questions. You saved somebody's life!

Four Seasons West, thanks for letting me kick it with you peeps at Mammoth!

 

And finally, thanks to all my loyal readers. I hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed creating it.

 

03/26/2001
Virginia Jerry's grandson
Eric Jerome Dickey