Darkness Before Dawn (13 page)

As we left the museum, the cold crisp air jolted me back to reality somewhat, but I still felt peacefully mellow. Jonathan glanced over at me, seemed to know exactly how I felt, so he asked me softly, “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

I said yes before I thought about the fact that my parents had been home for more than an hour and that I never drank coffee. We drove to the university district to a coffee house that had tables hand-painted by local college
students, a menu written on a chalkboard, and the deep rich smell of espresso permanently absorbed into the wooden walls. The music was loud reggae, and the crowd was subdued and sophisticated. He ordered two espressos and I drank that rich powerful stuff like I'd done it all my life. It warmed me all the way down to my socks.

“That espresso might keep you up tonight,” he warned. “It's pretty strong.”

“I don't mind,” I said. “I have so much to think about—I don't know if I'll ever sleep again.”

“Your mind is so open and ready to absorb everything, Keisha,” he said with admiration. “You're like a plant that has been parched and dry, waiting for the rain to help you bloom.”

“Are you my rain?” I asked him teasingly.

“I'm a full-blast thunderstorm,” he replied, teasing back. “Can you handle it?”

The conversation seemed to have double meaning, but I wasn't exactly sure where it was headed. “I'm not sure,” I answered him honestly. “But I'm having a dynamite time finding out.”

Jonathan reached over and touched my hand. His touch was almost as electric as a lightning bolt. “You are like no one I have ever met, Keisha.”

The waitress, a girl with a pierced nose, eyebrow, and lip, interrupted. “You two lovebirds want anything else?”

I blushed and snatched my hand away. Jonathan just paid the bill and touched me on the elbow to guide me out of the crowded place. On the way home, I was quiet, but
my heart was pounding, partly from the coffee, and partly from the stimulation of Jonathan's hand on my knee as he drove. I didn't try to remove it, even though I knew I probably should. Somehow, it just felt right.

He drove, smiling at me occasionally. “I want to show you something,” he murmured. He drove up a steep hill through Eden Park and parked the wagon on the edge of an overlook. The view was breathtaking. The entire city was spread out beneath us, decorated in snow and lights. I had seen the view before, but not with my heart pounding to the pulsing beats coming from Jonathan's CD player. Then he leaned over me like he did when I first got in the car, as if to help me with my seat belt, but this time when he paused to look into my eyes, I didn't look away.

The look became a breath, then a sigh, then a kiss. I felt a heat that chilled me, and a strength that left me weak, as I melted into the cushion of the seat of his car. My blood felt like it was turning to oil. I was melting, I knew. But he just smothered all my thoughts as I answered his kiss, hesitantly at first, but soon I was whirled into the power of his arms. Suddenly I got frightened, and I pulled away from him, which made me feel foolish and immature.

“What's wrong?” he whispered.

“It's getting late,” I managed to stammer. “I better get home. I'm sorry.”

“No problem,” Jonathan replied quickly. He backed the car away from the overlook and headed out of the park. He clicked the CD player off with a sharp twist of his hand and we rode the rest of the way to my house in silence.

I wasn't sure if he was mad at me, at himself, or if he even cared. I wasn't sure if I had done the right thing. Would he lose interest in me now? And I wasn't sure how
I
felt. His kiss and embrace had been the most exciting, most powerful experience I've ever known, but it made me a little uncomfortable.
Quit acting like a kid,
I told myself.
You're eighteen years old. Grow up!
But I didn't feel very grown-up. I felt confused, scared, and very, very young.

When we got to my driveway, I could see my mother peeping through the curtains. I could tell she was really pissed. “I better run. Mom's got fire coming out of her eyes. I had a
wonderful
time, Jonathan! And I'm sorry if I . . .” I didn't know what to say.

He managed to smile. I couldn't tell if he was upset or just being polite. “I'll call you after midnight,” he promised. “On your cell phone.” I breathed a sigh of relief.
Maybe I haven't screwed up,
I told myself with relief. I hurried up the snowy steps to face my mother's anger.

“Where have you been,
young lady?” my mother demanded.

“At the art museum. Honest! What's the big deal?” I'd never spoken to Mom like that before. Either the coffee or the kiss had made me bolder than usual.

“Don't you speak to me in that tone of voice,” Mom warned. “Why didn't you call me?”

“I left you a note.” I was angry.

“I've been home for three hours!” my mother continued. “The art museum closed at five. Did you go to the library?”

I started to lie, but decided not to, even though I knew the truth would get me in trouble. I felt rebellious, and my uneasiness about Jonathan made me turn my fears into words that I shot like bullets at my mother. “I went to a coffee shop by the university. And then I stopped by Eden Park.”

“A coffee shop? That's not your usual hangout.” I could tell Mom didn't like the tone of voice that I was using. “Who did you go with? Rhonda?”

“No.” I was silent for a moment. “I went with Jonathan Hathaway,” I said finally. It made me feel good to see the anger and disapproval on Mom's face.

Now it was her turn to be silent. “Explain,” she finally said. Her voice was sharp like a razor. She was really angry.

I looked at my mother, but didn't answer right away. I took off my coat and hung it up in the closet. While my back was turned, I wiped my lips with my gloves—just to make sure I didn't have any smeared lipstick to make this situation worse. “Jonathan called me and told me about the Impressionist exhibit at the art museum and asked me if I wanted to go,” I began. “You weren't home to ask, and I wanted to go,” I added sharply. “The exhibit was really good—he knows so much about art,” I continued. I was starting to get excited in spite of my anger at my mother. “Then we went to a coffee shop. I had one cup of coffee. We stopped by the park to talk for a few minutes. Then he brought me home. That's all we did. No big deal.”

“But what
is
a big deal,” Mom responded, “is that you didn't call me and let me know where you were and who you were with. That's all I've ever asked you to do. And you know how I feel about that young man. He's too old for you and too . . . smooth. He worries me.”

“He is
not
too old!” I argued. “I am eighteen years old! I'm grown and I can see who I like! I can take care of myself! When are you going to let me grow up?”

“You think you're grown-up, Keisha,” my mother sighed, “but if you have to tell people you're an adult, that means you're not. Grown folks never say, ‘I'm grown.'”

I refused to accept anything she said, but I was tired of fighting. “I'm sorry, Mom,” I said. “Time just disappeared. Jonathan is different. He's smart and I like talking to him. And he makes me feel special.”

“How often do you talk to him, Keisha?” Mom asked. It seemed like she was also losing steam with the argument.

“Maybe once a week,” I lied. I couldn't let Mom know about the phone calls. She would make them stop and I didn't think I could bear not to be able to talk to Jonathan every day. I refused to think yet about whether he would call tonight after what had happened earlier.

Mom eyed me suspiciously, but decided to drop it for the moment. “I pay good money for that cell phone. You use it to let me know where you are, you hear me?”

“I will,” I said.
Tonight after midnight!
I said to myself.

“And keep it turned on. I tried to call you, but it was turned off. That's annoying and could be dangerous.”

“I will, Mom. Can I go to my room now? I have to go to the bathroom.” I headed up the steps to my room, but I turned to her to say, “I'm sorry, Mom. I just got carried away.”

No matter how mad she got at me, Mom always melted when I apologized or told her I loved her. I could see the fire burning out. “Be careful, Keisha,” Mom warned. “Don't let this go too far. He's so much older than you are. That frightens me.”

Excites me,
I thought.

“Don't let this Jonathan fellow overwhelm you.”

Too late,
I thought.
I think he's got my heart.
I ran up the stairs to wait for midnight and his call.

Later, lying in bed, nestled under my thick blankets and bedspreads, I was wide awake. The coffee had made me feel alive and aware of every sound—the bare branch that scraped my bedroom window, the water dripping from the sink in the bathroom down the hall, the faint creaking of the house as it settled into a long, cold night.

The phone rang and Jonathan's voice, as usual, melted my guts. “Let me paint you a picture,” he began. He didn't mention the incident from earlier in the evening as I was afraid he would. But he never began a conversation like other people who just said what was on their mind. He always spoke to me in stories or ideas. I loved it.

“What colors are you using?” I asked, playing along.

“Pink, mauve, tender peach, and strawberry,” he answered. I could hear him smack his lips as he spoke.

“Sounds like it tastes good, too.”

“You
are what tastes good, Keisha.”

My heart began to pound again. I was afraid to speak. “I thought you were angry with me,” I stammered. I felt stupid and childish.

“Why should I be angry with a beautiful woman? A woman of color and passion?” Jonathan replied smoothly.

I was so relieved and pleased that tears came to my eyes. “Can I ask you something, Jonathan?”

“Anything.”

“When you look at me, do you see a woman or a high school girl?” I was sorry I asked as soon as the words left my mouth.

Jonathan's voice filled the darkness as I snuggled under the covers. “I see you as no one else can. I see a woman on the edge of her tomorrow—a woman of beauty and power.”

“Are you sure you're looking at me?” I giggled in spite of my attempts to sound mature.

“The boys at school look at you as if you were one of them. You need someone who can see you for the woman that you are.”

“And that's you?” I asked.

“If you will let me be the one,” he answered humbly.

Again, I didn't know what to say. “You never finished describing your painting,” I whispered, trying to make the conversation a little easier to handle.

I could tell he sensed that as he smoothly murmured, “The painting is of you and me. There is light in the distance, and a scented candle very close to us—the smell of lavender. The rest is colors—rainbow colors.”

I closed my eyes. I could almost smell the scent of the candle. “And what are we doing?” I asked hesitantly.

“We are holding hands. Kissing. Touching. We are inhaling the scent of the lavender and of ourselves.”

I was terrified of how direct he was, but I was excited at the same time. It was so easy to play these delicious games with Jonathan as I lay snuggled safely in my own bedroom. “Perhaps one day,” I whispered into the darkness, “you can really paint that picture.” I was amazed at my boldness
and glad he couldn't see the embarrassed blush on my face.

“Oh, I will,” he promised, “and you'll learn the difference between a high school boy and a man who knows how to please a woman.”

I turned on my bedroom light. This was getting too heavy for me. “Don't talk like that,” I said. “You make me nervous.”

“There's nothing to be afraid of,” his smooth voice soothed. “Remember, you're not like the rest of the girls. They're still crawling around like caterpillars. You are already a butterfly—ready to try her wings.”

Relaxing a bit, I giggled quietly, so as not to wake my parents. I started to mention the silver butterfly necklace that Jonathan had left for me, but now I felt ashamed that I had never thanked him for it. I decided to wear it the next time we went out. “The Valentine Dance is next month,” I said instead, changing the subject.

“I know. I have to chaperone. But I promise one dance with you.”

“I wasn't going to go,” I told him. I didn't really find any fun at school dances anymore. Not since Andy died.

“Oh, no. Please go,” Jonathan begged. “I couldn't bear having to watch all those giggling teenagers without you to look at across the room and imagine us, dancing all alone on that dance floor, the music playing just for us.”

“What a nice thought!” I answered, pleased with the compliment. “I guess I will go then.” I was starting to get sleepy, and the battery on my phone was getting low.

“Keisha?” His voice never ceased to fascinate me.

“Yes, Jonathan?”

“After the dance, do you have to go straight home?”

“No, we usually go and get something to eat at Waffle House. Sometimes we go bowling. Depends on our mood, but my parents are pretty relaxed about curfews on those nights. At least they used to be.”

“Was your mother really mad about you coming in late tonight?”

“Yeah, we went at it. It's hard for her to realize I'm eighteen and leaving for college in a few months. She still wants to treat me like a baby.” My anger and sense of injustice had started to return.

“It's hard to raise parents these days. Lord knows I've had trouble enough with my own.” Jonathan chuckled. “Make your life easier. Give in to what she wants.”

“You're right,” I agreed. “But she still made me mad—challenging me like that.”