Black Silk (41 page)

I lift the vial from its casing and unscrew the cap. Knowing how potent these perfumes are rumored to be, I wave it cautiously
under my nose. Too little care, too late. I’m not prepared for this experience. All at once, all senses fire—and I’m sure,
some senses spring to life that I invented right on the spot. I’ve never experienced anything like it, and certainly never
from any of the bargain-basement designer knockoff scents that I’ve been known to pick up when money’s a little tight.

My heart races ahead of my breath as my head reels back. I see visions of pleasures to come, or perhaps they are memories
of lives past. I can’t be sure. I’m awed by images of verdant gardens. Paradise lost and longed for. Explosions of flora and
fauna of every hue swim before my eyes—crimson and cream, azure and amethyst. Colors so dazzling, they hurt my eyes to look
at them. Luscious fruits so heavy with ripeness that hints of evening breezes send them plummeting to the ground. My mouth
waters. I want to gather the fruits, to clutch them greedily to my chest before the lion and the lamb lying by the stream
can gobble them up.

Suddenly, I see him. He is as naked as the day he is born and unashamed—unfettered by man’s modern notion of modesty. He beckons
me with a crooked finger and an even more crooked smile. My mouth goes dry. He sees me. After all this time, he finally sees
me!

He pours a droplet or two of the oil into the palm of his hands, warms the scent briefly between clasped hands before touching
me. Pressing me back into the hollow of the earth, he works the oil, a small swipe across my forehead. An anointing. The balls
of his thumbs press gently on my cheeks before trailing downward. His ebony eyes reflect total understanding as he traces
the tracks of tears shed long ago. They are tears of frustration and denial. Tears of hurt and want. He wipes the traces away.
Now they are tears of hope and healing. Melancholia moves from me as swiftly as the stream we lie beside.

Skilled hands continue to smooth over me, kneading the oil deeper than flesh, all the way into my soul. I become as liquid
as the oil, flowing freely. He cups my breasts, then lowers his lips to them. His warm breath flows across my skin. And despite
his warmth, raises gooseflesh. I tremble because I’m afraid. I’m afraid that my body won’t do justice to the tribute he pays.
If only I’d used that health club membership. If only I’d passed up those second helpings of anything, everything.

Permanents and colorants, polished nails, potent per-fumes—almost two hundred dollars’ worth of artificial beauty. In our
private garden, all is stripped away and it’s only me… me with the too-wide hips and the too-full lips and the less-than-trim
tummy. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does? Maybe the me he’s looking at is the real me, the woman I could be for
him if he would let me—if I would let myself.

“That’ll be thirty-two ninety. Would you like to pay for that with cash, check, or charge?” A sales clerk with a face too
young and eyes too old touches my shoulder and jerks me back from the precipice before I can experience total free flight.
I can almost read her thoughts. You break. You buy. With her cruel interruption, more devastating than coitus interruptus,
she doesn’t break the spell of the scent—only postpones it.

My hand trembles as I try to replace the vial, but I’ve already unleashed the genie. Unlike Pandora, I’m proud of what I’ve
done. I have to have it. I have to have
him!

3:30
P.M.
By the time I make it home, it’ll be almost five o’clock. For him, it’s quitting time. For me, the real work begins. As I
set my packages by the door, I weigh the pros and cons of a quick shower against a long, lingering bath. A shower would quickly
rinse away the heat and grime of the day. But the moisture in the air would destroy my ninety-dollar ’do. After all of the
effort Chantalliqua put into it, I would never be able to set foot into her shop again. I’d be shunned as an outcast, forever
known as the woman who killed Chantalliqua’s curls.

A bath would relax me. But I don’t want to relax. If I soak in that tub, I would melt away my backbone. This is no time to
back out now. I’m on a mission. So I fill my tub with cool water. I place a few drops of the body oil into the water, swirl
it around and around until I see a million tiny droplets floating on top. Slowly I lower myself into the water and clench
my teeth in mild protest. It’s liquid ice. Not unlike I imagined the stream in our private garden to be. Cupping my hands,
I gather water inside them, raise them toward the ceiling, and let the water trickle down again. A silent libation. This is
for the brother who isn’t here.

5:15
P.M.
I smooth the emulsified water over my shoulders, down my arms, and over my belly. I massage in a circle, imagining this is
how I’d do it if only I could be with his child. Over, under, and between my thighs, down the shins and under the instep of
my pedicured feet. I’ve got every inch covered. A little longer to soak. 5:21 and I’ve got to go to him. I’ve got to go for
him. I step out of the tub, forgoing a towel to let the artificial breeze generated by air conditioner and ceiling fan dry
me. They can’t cool me. I’m on fire. They can’t compare to the breezes of our private garden. But for now, they’ll have to
do. I’ve run out of time.

I enter the bedroom where I’ve spent weeks, days, and hours scheming and dreaming. And now, it all comes down to this moment.
A quick flick of a butane lighter and candles by my bedside send their scent wafting on the air. I lie across my bed and close
my eyes—waiting.

Six-fifteen
P.M.
An engine purrs, then falls silent. A car door slams. Size fourteen Stacey Adams clomp across the cobbled pavement of the
drive, then disappear in a whishing hiss as they cross the grass on the way to the front door. Keys jingle. Door squeaks.
Thud-thud.
It’s not the beating of my frightened, faithful heart, but the sound of a briefcase falling to the floor.

6:20
P.M.
Sun sets on the longest day of my life. The last rays of day slide across the floor.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.” Words whispered, soft, sweet and low. I tremble, because I know they are meant for my ears
only.

_________________

by Travis Hunter

Guy Sparks was driving north on I-85 in his convertible Porsche, which could only be driven in half-decent weather because
of its broken top. Since it was such a pretty day, he decided to drive to his mother’s fifty-fifth birthday party. He was
halfway to his mother’s house when his car stalled, and just as he pulled off the side of the road into a construction zone,
the rain came. First there was a light drizzle, then an all-out storm. Rather than sit in the ever-so-quickly flooding car,
Guy popped the face off the CD player and began to hop out.

He couldn’t have found a worse place for his car to stop. As he opened the door, he stepped into a puddle of mud. Guy slammed
the car door, cursed under his breath, and trotted toward the red-and-white QT gas sign that hovered above the exit about
half a mile away.

As his soaked gray linen pants and white silk shirt clung to his body, making him miserable, his luck changed. Through the
pouring rain Guy noticed the lights of a white sports car pull over onto the shoulder of the road up in front of him. As he
approached the car, the passenger window rolled down.

“Is everything all right?” a soft Caribbean voice asked.

“Nah, my car broke down and I—”

“Would you like a ride?”

“If you don’t mind, I’m—”

“Get in before you catch a cold,” the soft voice stated in a motherly tone.

Once inside the car, Guy glanced over at the driver and thought,
I must be dreaming.
Her pleasant smile immediately changed his mood. Without her saying another word, he felt something for the sista sitting
behind the wheel. He appreciated her caring side already, but he found it a bit hard to put his mack down with a broken car
and soggy feet.

“If you could give me a ride to this QT up here, I’d appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem.”

“What’s your name?” he asked, trying not to shiver as his body adjusted to the air-conditioned car.

“Terri, and yours?” she said as she slid into drive, never second-guessing her decision to pick up this strange man.

“Guy Sparks, but everyone calls me G. I’ll be happy to have your car cleaned for you. I’m making a mess,” he said, looking
down at the orange Georgia clay mud dripping from his black Nautica sandals onto her navy floor mats.

“That’s fine, don’t worry about that,” Terri said, waving him off. “You have a nice name.”

“Ya think so?”

“Yeah… I do.”

“Well, thanks.”

“I take it that you are having car problems.”

“Yeah, I guess she’s seen better days.”

“Aren’t you going to put your top up?”

“It’s broken,” he said, not even trying to make up a lie. “Where are you from?” Guy asked, pondering her accent.

“Born in Jamaica, raised in Canada.” She smiled and pulled off the exit ramp and into the QT parking lot.

“Thanks a lot. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. You didn’t ask; I offered. Glad I could help.”

“It’s kind of dangerous picking up strange people on the side of the highway. You shouldn’t do that,” Guy said seriously.

“Nothing is going to happen to me. I’m protected by the essence of God. Plus I have my girlfriend with me,” Terri said as
she opened her thick thighs and stroked the top of a .22 Derringer handgun that rested near her love nest. Looking at her
toned legs, it was obvious that she frequented her neighborhood gym.

Guy chuckled. “That lil’-ass gun ain’t gonna do nothing but piss somebody off.”

Terri smiled back at him with her pearly whites. Her complexion was a flawless dark chocolate. Her hair was cut close in a
Nubian sista kind of way, no perm, all naturaaal. She had thick lips and Guy noticed that she bit the bottom one on and off,
out of habit or nervousness. Guy wasn’t sure which one it was, but either way when she did that, he had to turn away to keep
from getting too excited.

“I’m not in the business of hurting anyone. Just keep enough to make ’em say ouch,” Terri said as she gave Guy a friendly
wink.

“Well, thanks for the ride. Can I give you my number? Maybe you’ll reconsider my offer once you try to clean this mess that
I made,” Guy said casting his line.

“Sure! Just as long as I don’t have to explain to anyone why I’m calling.” He sensed that was her way of asking if he lived
alone or if he was seeing someone.

“Now that might be a problem.”

“Oh, really?” Terri asked, eyebrows raised.

“My son is four years old, and he likes to screen my calls.”

“Does his mother help him out from time to time?” Terri asked, eyebrows arched, lips twisted.

“Nah, he handles that on his own.”

“Are you married?” Terri asked, pulling her ink pen back toward her B cups.

“No! Now, would I offer you my home number if I were married?”

“It’s happened before.”

“Nah, it’s just me and my little man.”

A skeptical look came across her face, and then her eyes brightened again as if a small voice inside her said,
Take the tall, brown-skinned brother’s number.

“Okay,” Terri said as she handed him the ink pen and two business cards for Nubian Town Bookstore. “So you’re a single daddy
raising your child alone?”

“Yes, and no. I have a lot of help from my mom. That’s where I was headed. Today’s her birthday and the family is giving her
a party.”

“Oh, how sweet. What’s your son’s name?”

“Jordan.”

“Like Mike?”

“Yeah, and he thinks he has a lil’ game, too.”

“Too cute,” Terri said as her eyes drifted off to another time and place. “What are you going to do here at the QT?” she asked
as her mind snapped back to the here and now.

“I was going to call someone to come and get me.”

“Where does your mom live?”

“Gwinnett County, off Beaver Ruin.”

“I’ll take you.”

“Nah, you’ve done enough. I don’t want to take you all out of your way. I’m cool. Just give me a call,” Guy said as he opened
the door to get out.

“It’s not out of my way, I live one exit past that on Pleasanthill. Now close the door. You’re letting the rain in. And I
know you wanna make it to your mother’s party on time, don’t you?”

Guy glanced over at her gas needle, which was just below a quarter of a tank. “All right. Pull over to the pump. I have to
do something for you. I’ll fill you up, and run and call a tow truck.”

Terri nodded and pulled up to the pump. Guy filled her car and called the towing service; they jumped back on the freeway
headed north on I-85. On a normal day the trip would take fifteen minutes, but Atlantans always lost their damned minds when
it started raining and drove at a snail’s pace. During the forty-five-minute drive, Guy and Terri found they had a few things
in common. They were both Pisceans, born two years and three days apart. Terri was the older one, she was twenty-nine; Guy
was twenty-seven. They shared the same philosophy on being self-sufficient and not depending on someone else to take care
of their individual needs. They both enjoyed reading African American fiction. She owned a bookstore but was thinking of selling.

“So you know my status. What’s yours?” Guy asked.

“Single. Been that way for the last year and a half. Don’t have any kids yet, but I love ’em. Proud owner of a chocolate Labrador
retriever named Sable,” Terri rattled off.

“So why are you thinking of selling your store?”

“Competition’s too strong. I can’t discount like the chains and still keep the lights on.”

“Sure you can; we just have to get creative.”

She smiled, looked at the brown-skinned brother with the short twisted braids and perfect teeth and shook her head. She knew
he was a total stranger, but when he mentioned the word
we
it made her feel like she wasn’t fighting this thing called life, alone!