Doin' Me (9 page)

“Reyna?”

The shrill voice put an abrupt end to Reyna's attempt to sneak into the office undetected. She'd planned to slip into her workstation and act as if she'd been busy working for the past hour. In actualilty, Reyna was an hour late, thanks to Peyton. Sunday's sightseeing excursion had turned into dinner and dessert at the town house, with her being the main entrée. She wouldn't have minded so much if Peyton hadn't decided to spend the night and then overslept. That required her to drive him into San Francisco in Monday morning commute traffic, since he'd ridden BART into Oakland the day before. She had tried unsuccessfully to persuade him to take mass transit back, but he'd insisted he wouldn't have enough time to go home and change and make it to work in time. Peyton was still under the impression she was a real estate broker and set her own hours. Now, as she prepared to face Paige's wrath, she wished she'd told him the truth. She wasn't a real estate broker, but a secretary/assistant with a no-nonsense boss.

“Reyna,” Paige called again. “You're late.”

“As if I didn't know that,” she mumbled and then slumped into the chair and placed her head on the desk.

“Are you all right?” Paige's tone softened as she stepped into Reyna's workstation.

Reyna launched into performance mode. “I'll be fine,” she groaned. “I have a bad case of cramps.” She moaned and gripped her abdomen.

Paige's hand rested on her shoulder. “Would you like me to get you some tea? I'm sure we have some in the break room.”

Reyna lifted her head but kept her eyes closed. “If you don't mind. That might help.” She pronounced the words as if every syllable was a labored effort.

“I'll be right back.”

Reyna opened her eyes and watched Paige's departing back. She smirked and whispered, “That was easy,” once Paige was no longer within earshot. Although lying was a recently acquired trait, Reyna had discovered she was very good at it. She had dodged a bullet this time but would be more careful in the future. She turned on the computer, and while waiting for it to boot, she sorted the papers in her in-box.

A few minutes later, Paige returned, carrying a steaming mug.

Reyna let the papers fall onto her desk. “Thank you so much,” she offered weakly and reached for the mug. She placed the mug under her nose and inhaled the steam from the minty hot liquid.

Paige continued standing in front of the desk with her arms folded, but with a look of concern.

Reyna guessed Paige wanted to make sure she drank the mint tea. She blew into the mug and took a small sip. “Um,” she moaned as the warm liquid slid down her throat. “This is helping all ready,” she lied and prepared to take another sip.

“Good,” Paige said and planted her palms on Reyna's desk. “Before Mother Nature pays you another visit, stop by your neighborhood Walgreens and pick up some Midol, Tylenol, or whatever your medication of choice is. Get up an hour earlier and take the medicine. Then get to work on time. The telephone was invented in eighteen seventy-six. Learn to use it next time.” She started for the door, then stopped. “One more thing. If you think my friendship with Tyson is your ticket to special treatment, you're sadly mistaken.” Then she left.

Reyna swallowed prematurely, causing the tea to burn her throat. Once the fire in her throat was extinguished, she cursed Paige's authority. She spent the rest of the day blaming Peyton for her predicament. If he'd only driven his own car and gone home at the end of the evening, like most dates did . . .

On the surface, Peyton was the total package, but there were things about him that nagged at her. His preoccupation with her supposed deep pockets being one. When they reached the Bay Bridge this morning, he didn't even offer to pay the toll. He didn't offer money for gas on their excursion, either, but he did bring back her change along with a receipt. He had spent the night at her place twice but hadn't invited her to his apartment.

By the end of the workday, Reyna had justified any misgivings about the new man in her life. Peyton was her man. After making a fool of herself by chasing a man who didn't want her, Reyna finally had a man who adored her. Peyton constantly expressed his adoration verbally and touched her affectionately. She would work with him on time management but would fight to the death to keep him in her life.

After a quick shopping trip after work, Reyna ran into the town house and dropped the grocery bags on the kitchen table. Peyton had also managed to eat what little food she had the day before. By the time she reached the ringing telephone, she was breathless.

“Hey, you,” she panted into the phone, hoping it was Peyton. “Hello,” she stated more firmly when the caller didn't respond.

“Reyna, this is your mother.”

She pulled the phone from her ear and jumped up and down while silently screaming, “Why did I answer the phone?”

“Are you still there?”

Reyna settled down and spoke through clenched teeth. “What do you want, Jewel?”

“Young lady, just because you've moved from my home doesn't give you a blank check to disrespect me. I'm still your mother. . . .” The words trailed off, giving way to heavy breathing. “I just wanted to check and see how you're getting along,” Jewel said in resignation.

“I'm good,” Reyna said dryly.

“Well . . .” Jewel hesitated. “Do you need anything? I know you're grown, but you've never been on your own before. . . .”

“No, Mother,” she snapped. The time had passed long ago for the tired, concerned mother act. “I don't want or need anything from you.” Reyna heard huffing and puffing and envisioned her mother with that red head scarf, speaking in tongues.

“Please call if you need anything.”

Reyna wasn't moved by the resignation in her mother's voice. “Bye,” she sang, then replaced the cordless phone on its base. Without a second thought, she put the groceries away and made a quick meal of spaghetti, a tossed salad, and garlic bread. She ate the satisfying meal seated at the kitchen counter, next to the cordless phone. Peyton had said he'd call after meeting with a client, and she didn't want to miss his call.

By the time she'd filled her lunch containers with leftovers and cleaned the kitchen, Peyton still hadn't called. She pressed the talk button on the phone to make sure the device was working. After calling the phone company's twenty-four-hour problem line and having them run a test on her line, Reyna dialed the cell number Peyton had given her. When the call went to voice mail, she disconnected without leaving a message.

Her alarm sounded at 6:00
A.M.
the next morning, but her phone remained silent.

Tyson leaned back in his chair and rested his size-eleven Brooks Brothers shoes on his expansive desk. He'd never done that before, but an early morning workout, lunch consisting of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and a banana, and two deposition hearings in five hours had left him mentally and physically drained. His thumbs and forefingers massaged his temples and forehead in a circular motion in an effort to ease a throbbing headache. After a few minutes, Tyson gave up and retrieved a bottle of aspirin from his desk drawer. He concentrated so hard on removing the foil seal from the pill bottle, he didn't see or hear his visitor arrive. His secretary had left shortly after he returned from the courthouse.

“Tyson, are you all right?”

His head snapped upward, and the pill bottle—still sealed—fell onto his desk. He met his father's concerned stare with one of his own. His father rarely addressed him by his name and visited his office even less. Was the judge sick?

“Father?” Tyson's brow furrowed as he questioned his father's sudden appearance.

“What brings you here? Is Mother all right?”

Judge Stokes stepped completely into the office and dismissed his concern with a casual wave of the hand. “Other than being mad at you for no-showing at the fund-raiser last week, your mother is fine. Are you sick?”

Tyson lazily shrugged his shoulders, as if standing Beverly Stokes up was a common and acceptable practice. He had wanted to attend the event but hadn't been up to the matchmaking his mother had orchestrated. It didn't matter how captivating this Mylan person was; he wasn't interested. His heart belonged to his new tenant. He did, however, send a substantial contribution.

Tyson retrieved the pill bottle and replaced the plastic red cap. “No, just a little tension headache.” He placed the bottle back in the drawer, deciding that having difficulty opening the bottle was a sign he didn't need the drug. He'd endure the pain; he didn't like taking pills, anyway. “What brings you by?”

Judge Stokes uncharacteristically stuck his hands in his front pants pockets, then looked nervously around the office. “Well,” he began, then paused. “I'm free this evening. I called from the car, and your secretary said you were finished for the day.” He cleared his throat and sat down. “A few weeks ago you mentioned having dinner. Well, son, I haven't eaten. I thought, well, maybe . . .” Judge Stokes's words ran together. “If you're hungry, we could eat together.”

The strain on the judge's face didn't go unnoticed, and if his head wasn't throbbing, Tyson would have been elated his father wanted to spend time with him. The best he could offer was a weak smile.

“Thanks.” Tyson paused and knitted his eyebrows. “Wait a minute. Father, are you sick?”

Judge Stokes looked perplexed. “No. Why?”

“Because you haven't addressed me as son since . . .” Tyson thought for moment. “I don't recall hearing that since I passed the bar. That day I went from being Tyson, your son, to Attorney Stokes.” Remorse gripped him when his father's shoulders dropped. He had never seen the judge's face clothed in regret and didn't know how to respond, so he remained quiet.

“If we hurry, we might beat the dinner crowd at Skates,” Judge Stokes stated, ending the awkward moment. “We can take my car, and I'll bring you back to pick up yours later.”

Tyson glanced at the desk clock, then pushed back from his desk and stood. “Sounds good. Nothing beats fresh seafood and prime rib,” he said, seconding his father's choice. He felt the judge's stare follow him as he gathered his jacket and briefcase. As they walked through the reception area, Tyson felt the urge to say something, but he didn't know what. The precise moment the office door lock clicked, he realized the ride to the restaurant and dinner would be the most uninterrupted time he had had with his father in years. The realization saddened him, but at the same time it gave him hope that he would gain a better understanding of the Honorable Fredrick Stokes.

During the drive to the Berkeley Marina, Tyson wasn't sure if his headache had subsided or if he was focusing too hard on the driver to notice the pain. Unbeknownst to him, the judge had purchased a new sports model Jaguar, and now he chatted nonstop about the luxury vehicle. Although Tyson didn't heed them, he recalled numerous speeches made by the man seated inches from him about the importance of buying American-made cars. Every three years Judge Stokes purchased new vehicles for himself and his wife, but they were usually top-of-the-line Cadillacs or Lincolns. “It keeps Americans working,” he'd said.

Now all of a sudden he's the spokesperson for a foreign car?
Tyson couldn't believe it.

“I know what you're thinking,” his father said when Tyson's head shook from side to side. “What happened to my stance on American-made goods?”

“Let me guess. You converted during the test drive?” Tyson joked but stopped short of laughing. The merriment pouring from his father took his breath away. He leaned back in the leather seat and tried to recall the last time he heard his father laugh so freely, and couldn't.

“Something like that,” Judge Stokes confirmed. “I grew so tired of Judge Oliver bragging about his new ride that I went to check it out for myself.” He turned his gaze from the road and glanced at his son. “Up until recently, Ford Motor Company owned Jaguar, so technically the car has American in its blood.”

Tyson's mouth gaped. Who was this man? “I can't believe you said that with a straight face.”

“The Lincoln gave me a good ride, but this baby,” he said, stroking the wood grain, “she's
smooth.
”

Tyson threw his hands up. “Okay, who are you, and what have you done with my father?” He turned and looked in the backseat. “Is there a camera somewhere? Am I being punked?”

Judge Stokes pulled into a parking stall and shut the engine off. “Son, don't look so surprised. It may take a while, but with prayer and patience, people can change.”

Tyson pondered his father's words while exiting the vehicle. Perhaps his father was in the process of changing. He hoped so; otherwise, he'd credit the sudden changes in his father to a midlife crisis.

The moderate seventy-degree weather yielded a postcard-perfect evening at the marina. The sky was clear, and the foam-capped waves rolling in from the bay were violent as they crashed against the rocks and pillars that surrounded the restaurant. Tyson paused long enough to sniff the saltwater scent of the marina and discovered the throbbing in his head had disappeared. Relieved, he walked briskly through the parking lot alongside his father.

“You're looking better,” Judge Stokes said after they had been seated in a secluded corner and had ordered drinks. “I would ask you about the case, but I don't want to talk about law tonight.”

“You d—don't?” Tyson stuttered, then recovered. “The law is your life. As you've said, what else is there?”

Judge Stokes broke eye contact and looked out the window. “I know I said that,” he acknowledged with more than a hint of sadness. “But there is so much more to life.” Before Tyson could ask what he meant, the waiter delivered their drinks.

As the sweet-tart taste of strawberry lemonade slid down his throat, Tyson took note of his father's attire. Whereas most judges wore casual clothing beneath their judicial robes, Judge Stokes dressed daily in tailored suits. A trait Tyson copied. Today Judge Stokes was dressed in khakis and a collared shirt, but no tie.
If this midlife crisis includes trading in Mother for a twenty-year-old, he'll have to deal with me,
he thought before taking another sip.

“So, Father, you seem to have undergone a slew of changes since we last talked. What gives?” he asked after the waiter returned for their dinner orders, then left.

“Judge Oliver is always bragging about something,” his father began after fumbling with the bread and the butter knife that had been placed on the table. “He held a party to show off the new addition to his home. I started not to go, but you know your mother is a socialite.” Judge Stokes finally buttered a piece of bread but didn't take a bite. “His son, the one who graduated from Harvard, was there.”

Tyson started to ask how Judge Oliver's new home addition was relevant to the topic at hand, but held his tongue. Although his father complained about Judge Oliver's lack of modesty, he was still considered a close friend, and his father valued his opinion. The new Jaguar was proof of that.

“Would you believe he and his son started wrestling in the backyard in front of everybody?” his father continued after a sip of iced tea. “At first I couldn't believe it. That man is almost sixty, and there he was, tumbling around on the lawn in front of all those people and appearing happy about it. In the twenty years we've worked together on the bench, I'd never seen that side of him. He's six-five and about two hundred fifty pounds. His son is just as big. It was hilarious. I watched and laughed along with the other guests. I laughed so hard, I cried.”

Tyson observed his father's expression change from amusement to melancholy. Another indication of how much the judge had changed. His father never revealed his emotions, aside from anger.

Judge Stokes took several deep breaths, then after another sip of iced tea, looked his son in the eye. “The tears I shed weren't tears of joy. I cried because out there in front of all those people I realized I've never shared any moments like that with you.”

Tyson reached for his glass but retreated as the weight of his father's words penetrated, leaving him speechless.

“To be honest, I've always been jealous of Oliver's relationship with his sons.”

Tyson's mouth gaped at the revelation, but his father didn't appear to notice.

“He's always boasting about their accomplishments. I can handle that because I can brag about your accomplishments. But I couldn't compete—not that I would want to—with what I witnessed that day. Oliver actually enjoyed embarrassing himself with his son. He loves his son and wasn't afraid to let everyone there know that his family came first. I never learned how to do that. . . .” His voice trailed off.

Both father and son changed sitting positions during the silence that followed Judge Stokes's confession. Tyson leaned back and rubbed his beard. His father sat back and looked out over the bay through the window. They remained that way until the waiter delivered two steaming bowls of clam chowder.

Still at a loss for words, Tyson bowed his head and listened to his father say grace. After adding cracked pepper to the soup, Tyson savored a small spoonful. His father didn't move.

“Aren't you going to eat?” Tyson asked, still unsure how to respond to his father.

“Of course,” his father said, shaking his head as if to clear it, then, like his son, adding pepper to his soup.

Tyson ate the soup too fast and burned his tongue, but he didn't care. Something was happening to his father, and he sensed it was for the better. The silence continued throughout the appetizer course. Just when Tyson summoned the courage to speak, his father opened up.

“Your grandfather was a good man and an excellent lawyer. I can't count how many family members of former clients rave about how he helped them. He's been gone ten years now, but he will be forever remembered for his legal mind.” Judge Stokes paused and regained eye contact. “I remember my father working all the time on civil rights cases and traveling around the country. I read about his successes in the newspaper and watched him on television. I heard him debate topics with the best. He wasn't an affectionate person, but tough and tenacious. From him I learned the importance of hard work. I learned to measure success by accomplishments. He taught me to provide for a family by working long hours. Mama and I never wanted for anything material.

“You're also reaping the benefits of his hard work with the money and property he left you. For that, I'm grateful, but I needed more and didn't know how to express it. I craved his time and friendship but was afraid he'd be disappointed or consider me soft. Besides, he was a very busy man. So I sucked it up and focused on making him proud. That's why I initially studied law. I wanted his approval. As time went on, I learned to love the law. He was proud too. Our best conversations were centered on the law. I still desired more but settled for what he gave me.”

Tyson swallowed hard to force down the sob threatening to escape. His prayers were being answered, yet he didn't feel like celebrating. His heart broke for his father, because he'd walked in those same shoes.

“Watching Oliver enjoy his son shook me to the core. I couldn't deceive myself any longer. I made a horrible mistake. I vowed I'd be more to my son than my father was to me, but I'm ashamed to say I've repeated the cycle. I never learned how to relax and just be. I don't have memories of you and me playing around or hanging out. There weren't any fishing trips or one-on-one basketball games, because I too busy working. When I wasn't working, I pushed you to work hard. Outside of graduations, I missed those father-son bonding moments. To be honest, I really don't know you as a person.” He reached out and patted his son's shoulder. “You're grown and probably don't need me, but, son, I would like to work on getting to know you. I'd like for us to be friends.”

Tyson didn't realize silent tears had escaped his tear ducts until he felt the fluid drip from his beard and onto his folded hands. He used the cloth napkin to wipe his hands without taking his eyes from his father, who appeared to have grown ten inches taller since they'd entered the restaurant.