Discretion (34 page)

“Colin?” The cashier is back at the register, a bag of food for a family sitting on the counter with my name tagged to it. I accept the bags with a smile and turn around to walk out, feeling rejuvenated with all that’s transpired in the past seconds.

Mila’s gone. Why did she leave suddenly? No matter. I know where I stand. Assurance for my work, marriage, and future child are what I want, that is for certain.

Me…a hedge fund manager. I like the sound of that. Christel may be right after all. She is just misunderstood.

H
ome is quiet until Max scampers toward me, his nails, in dire need of a trim, scratching the stone floor like nails to a chalkboard. The dog gets a few moments of my affection and expresses his opinion in the usual groans.

“There you are. Let’s eat. I’m starving and it smells wonderful,” Marisa says, waltzing into the kitchen in a black silk robe, cinched at the waist and ending at mid-thigh.

“I must say that you look delicious yourself.”

She pauses a moment, pondering. “Should I put some in the freezer?”

I whistle. “Are you teasing me?” The quarts line up on the island counter and I start reading off the labels, hoping she will go with her suggestion.

She walks over and cracks the lid for the pad Thai and starts eating. “Fix a plate of what you want, and set it in the freezer,” she mumbles, with her mouth full of food. With haste, I follow her instructions, not being particular with the arrangement, but more to get a variety on the plate and spread thin, so it will cool down fast. In the freezer, timer set for ten minutes.

We sit on the barstools, eat out of containers, and gab about the day until the timer goes off. At the beep, she pushes in her stool and moves the containers aside, to clear room on the granite. Leaving the robe on the floor, she climbs on the counter and lies flat on her back. The plate emerges from the freezer in my hands and I check each piece for temperature. Breaded shrimp, sweet curry chicken on her abdomen; pad Thai on her breasts, not sparing the sauce; the sweet and sour mahi mahi for the main event. The pieces are bite-sized, making for additional prep work, but once Marisa is plated, she is a masterpiece to savor. I take liberty to add a little sauce to select menu items, and then dive in, starting in the north and work my way to the entree. When the sauce runs dry, Marisa suggests I add more and feel much obliged. Sex on the counter is dessert.

“I knew eating at home was the way to go tonight,” I say, climbing down from the counter.

Marisa laughs at the comment. “When was the last time you dined on me?”

“Six months, maybe. It was Japanese takeout then.”

“Sounds right. Shower?”

“That’s a good idea. Dessert in bed. I got two orders of the fried bananas this time.”

“We make a good team, Wyle,” she says, playfully swinging her robe at me.

I agree. The shower is hot and as sensual as dinner. Wrapped in terry cloth, her hair still damp, Marisa stretches out on the bed with a sweet smile on her face. She runs her hands through the sheets, caresses her pillow like she could go another round in a moment.

“Dessert?” I say.

She rolls over, bounces about on the bed and sits up, perky for the next feeding. “Should dessert be on me? There’s lots of sauce…for a reason. Hate for it to go to waste.”

“Such a hard sell.”

She giggles in response and unwraps her robe, some water still holding to her figure from the shower. I plate my dessert, being extra generous with the sauce and dig in. Marisa enjoys it more than I do; I’d be hard pressed to believe otherwise.

“I’m never going to eat out again,” Marisa says, still on her back and staring at the ceiling, her hands clutching the sheets.

I can’t help laughing. “So many places left to try, I can’t see that idea sticking around long.”

We tidy up dessert and secure the leftovers in the fridge, and then open a bottle of wine and cuddle in front of the TV on the sofa. After a few sips, Marisa sets aside her glass quickly, as if something is wrong with it.

“What’s up?” I say.

“Well…I shouldn’t have any…more wine, I think.”

I preserve silence, for the appearance of ignorance. She is pregnant. That wasn’t a bluff. Christel told the truth, as she has for years. Why doubt her? Because the world has a stigma against her?

Christel made the same mistake any of us have made—I’m in the same place as her. I deserve judgment, as she does.

I say, “Do you feel okay? A bottle is normally not enough.”

She grins and toys with her hair, twirling it with two fingers, fidgets and shifts on the sofa, staring at the TV, as if she’s suddenly interested in the commercial that’s on.

“Marisa?”

“Yeah,” she says, toying with her hair still. She won’t make eye contact, just keeps staring at the TV.

“I’m over here.”

A quick glance is all that comes my way. Should I say something here? Tell her I know? Or would that ruin the surprise?

“Okay, okay, okay. I can tell you…I can tell you…” Marisa says, looking at the floor. “I’m not sure how else to say this…but…” Her lips tremble, as Marisa, my hard rock of a woman, tries not to cry. She’d rather kick my ass than cry. Most of the time. “I’m…you’re…going to be a dad.”

Her eyes meet mine, as if she’s done something to be scolded for. I hug her and kiss her on the cheek and tell her I’m excited—I never thought I’d feel this way about having kids. But then, I suppose the right woman hadn’t come along…yet.

Christel gave me this, didn’t she? Without her, where does this future—of a wife, a child, of New York—end up? Christel will lead me to the future I want.

My phone rings from the kitchen, playing “Hey, Hey We’re The Monkees,” my ringtone for Jamal’s home line.

Jamal added the song to my phone as the standard ringtone so I would hear it incessantly. When I changed it back, I left his caller ID on the song so I’d always know when it’s him.

“Is that Jamal?” Marisa says and it occurs to me that she doesn’t know Jamal passed. I suppose I’m still refuting that news from the day—wishing it away like a bad dream the morning after.

“It’s his line, yes.” I grab the phone from the counter and answer, expecting Joanna.

“Hey there. Are you in the middle of anything?” Natalie says.

Surprise, surprise. “Are you helping make the arrangements?”

She takes a long time to answer. “I am. Can you come over here? They want you for a few items and I know Joanna wants to see you.”

Damn. Bad timing. Really bad timing. I groan to myself. How can I say no?

“Babe, if you need to go, then go. I’ll be fine,” Marisa says. I don’t know her thoughts and miss the insight. What she wants and what she says can be two different things. She’s just told me we are expecting a child. The wedding will be in a matter of weeks instead of months, with the baby bump as a new pressing issue.

“Colin, can you make it?” Natalie says.

Jamal’s funeral is in five days. Joanna needs me to be there, for support if nothing else. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

T
he Laakes have a tract home with the rudimentary kidney shaped section of fake grass, pavers to border it, and mushroom solar landscape lights along the walkway. Two stone pillars, one at each side of the front door, help to differentiate their property from the rest.

Jamal bought it when his little girl was on the way—the home he and his wife built for their family, for many years to come, with rooms to spare and to fill with children. They had the dream of adopting from Ghana, Africa, where his parents hailed from.

So many plans that now are gone with the passing of a moment and everything is different. It’s only Joanna and Delana left in the house and all the spaciousness is a painful reminder.

I tap on the front door, as way of announcing my entry, and walk in. Family photographs hang on the wall: gathered on the grass at the park, the beach, and then just Jamal and Joanna together. Was that an anniversary trip? Aruba, I think. A collage hangs with eight small framed pictures on the wall near the entryway, which I always stop to look at. And remember. The nostalgia is there, but with pain—bittersweet. Jamal is gone. The memories remain. College parties. Friends from another age, it seems.

Was Jamal’s life well lived? He was just thirty-three.

Jamal loved to put his favorite Bible verses on the walls, which reminded him of God’s promises. They are scrawled with a dark olive cursive lettering, contrasting the tan paint.

Delana, his little girl, will know her father in these photographs and the stories people tell. A smile forms, as many fond memories of my friend are impossible to suppress.

Joanna and Natalie are huddled together at the kitchen table, papers strewn over every inch in piles with some manner of organization I can’t understand. Must be digging through records, figuring out what is what since Jamal handled their finances.

“So, where are we at?” I say, the girls in the zone. It’s obvious they are running on a deadline, with very little sleep. I take a seat across from them at the table. The kitchen is lit up, with all the recessed lights in the kitchen and dining room on.

“It’s a…pile. So I need to breathe,” Joanna says, her hands holding her face from hitting the table. “There’s just too much.”

Natalie rubs her shoulder. “Let’s take ten and sit in the living room.”

Joanna refuses, but Natalie pushes and gets her to move away from the chaos of paper.

“How are you managing?” I ask Joanna, seated on the sofa next to Natalie. I keep some distance, mentally acknowledging that the notion of her and me has to be snuffed out for good. It’s not healthy—but more than that, I realize at last, who Natalie is.

“I’m okay. I’m gonna make it, Colin. Jamal’s with Jesus…and that can’t get any better.” She smiles.

I shake my head. “I don’t get how Jamal can be gone. It’s got to be an accident, right? I mean, Jamal lived for his family, for God…how can this guy of all guys be killed at thirty-three?”

Joanna is a sudden, strong force. “Nothing is an accident. It was Jamal’s time. As hard as that is, I have to accept it. It was God’s will that he go home.” And she smiles through the tears that run down her face.

Jamal spoke of life after death often. It came with knowing Jamal. Faith was like breathing.

“Let me get you something, Colin.” Joanna leaves for a few minutes while Natalie and I sit in silence, unsure how to address the past between us. The thought crosses my mind to tell her Marisa’s news, knowing Marisa would never tell Natalie herself, but I let it pass. Natalie would be happy for me, yet crushed. And now, with my life to take a dramatic change at the altar in coming weeks, I realize that Natalie doesn’t need me in the way that Marisa does. Natalie is fiercely independent, as Marisa is too, but in a different way. Marisa longs to be married, but keeps it tucked away. Natalie can hold her own. But then, I’ve always been single, so the possibility has always remained. Could my wedding reveal a new side to Natalie?

Joanna emerges from the back hallway with a wide, thin, leather-bound book. She hands it to me. It’s tied shut with a leather tassel.

“What is this?” I say, a little skeptical.

“Jamal wanted you to have that. He’d said to me years ago, before we married, that you were to have that if he weren’t around.”

He planned this? I untie the book and open it. The first page is dated for September 4, 1992, titled “The Beginning.” It’s how he came to his faith. His logic and reasoning. At a young age—maybe thirteen? He gave his life to Jesus then, the text says. Written out is Bible verse Romans 6:23: “For the wages of Sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.” John 3:16: “Whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

But it can’t be that simple.

Then there’s a prayer, for his new friend, Colin. For salvation. That the peace that surpasses all understanding. That I would call upon the name of Jesus and invite Him to reside in my life and be saved, as in Romans 10:9.

Jamal…did you die…that I would read this? That I’d see my dire need for Jesus? That, like Christel, by my own doing, my own choices, I’m separate from God. But that a provision is available. An advocate stands on my behalf, to do what I cannot do for myself.

There is no decision to be made. It’s been made. The truth is apparent. The truth could not be clearer. And if my life without Christel is…well, ordinary, let it be ordinary by God’s standard. This is no religion, no list of rules. Jesus does not ask for anything, but for everything. Jesus gives his life for mine, to pay the debt I can’t handle myself.

That is why they call Him Savior.

I pray on my own, to lay down my life to Jesus. Christel is gone. She must have seen this coming, and wanted to prevent the seeds reaching fresh soil.

“Colin?” Joanna says.

Our eyes meet—their faces show great joy, as if witnessing a miracle. “Did you find meaning there, Colin?”

I nod and tell them what I’d read and understood, after all these years. We spend a few minutes in prayer, in thanksgiving for the life Jamal had and what he meant to us.

We spend the next hour working through details of the funeral, which Joanna doesn’t want to label as such. She wants a celebration. A party for his life. He ran the race to the finish and has won a crown. We share an emotional group hug and I hit the road to get back to my wife-to-be.

On the drive home, my mind races with thoughts about Jamal, and what his life meant to me. The drive is in silence, with the windows down, my mind running free. Without Christel. Is this liberty? Am I free to be my true self without her?

The more I think about it, the more I conclude I was her slave. Since my teen years, I’ve been captive to her will, her thoughts. Her control. But no more. I can’t explain how or why I know that, but I do. She no longer bears power over me.

The Mercedes comes to a stop in the garage and the house is silent, except for the low murmur of the television. Max hardly moves a muscle. Marisa is passed out on the sofa, right where I’d left her. I carry her to the bedroom and put her in bed, and then climb in. It occurs to me that I just carried the baby to bed too and that makes me smile.