Heights of Desire (21 page)

Chapter 26

I
t’s only been two months since my final night with Jaylee, but it might as well have been two years. Not because I’ve put him out of my mind. That, I’m afraid, would be impossible. But rather due to the fact that Robert and I have made great progress in our reconciliation. As bizarre or unorthodox as Robert’s decision was to let me have a final night with Jaylee, it seems to have done the trick. I’m able to look at our relationship as a closed chapter, a terminated mission. I have a direction to go in now and a goal to strive for in my relationship with Robert. This, coupled with bi-weekly sessions under the supervision of Dr. Anita Thompson makes it hard
not
to apply myself to the success of my family. I’m managing on complete autopilot. Leave it to Robert, the super lawyer, to craft a deal that works for all sides. And like Jaylee requested, I’ve been able to drop the missing link about Robert’s transgressions. We don’t need any more examples of how we’ve done wrong by each other, there are more than enough that we’re acutely aware of.

I certainly have moments when I’m blinded by longing for him, when I’m paralyzed with loss at the thought of not seeing his smile or hearing his voice again. I promised him that if and when he’s convicted, I’d look in on his family, especially Janinie. I don’t plan on backing out of that commitment no matter how painful seeing them without him will be. I’ll do whatever I can to lessen the burden of having both Jaylee and his father imprisoned. To me this means helping out financially, although I purposefully never discussed the matter with either Robert or Jaylee himself. I figure, if I do it right, neither of them ever has to find out.

We’ve had no run-ins, or near misses to my knowledge. His name has become a ghost on the lips of both Ada and Pearl as well. My eyes still bore through the backs of every young Dominican man I see, trying to turn their silhouettes into his. I try to catch his name on the edges of conversations overheard on the street corners, when exiting the train, when running to the deli. But it never happens. The only person that I’m allowed to remember him with is Sarah, but only in phone conversations and never in the presence of the girls or even Carmen. Whenever I’m completely alone I indulge myself in the memory of his kiss. I retrace his finger-steps across my body. I sometimes whisper his name aloud to the silence. I wonder if he longs for me the way I do for him. I wonder where he is, what he’s doing and how he’s dealing with the impending trial and the idea of facing jail time. I wonder if he’s alone, if he thinks of me as often as I think of him.

I’ve thrown myself into my work. Claribel was kind enough to pass on a co-authoring gig with a colleague of hers to help get me back into the swing of things. I’ve even reached out to my advisor. The missing element is my enthusiasm. I no longer care what it means to be finished. I have no desire to see beyond tomorrow. Time is flat. Interest is flat. My life seems to have flatlined. I don’t think that I’m depressed; I think I’ve become numb. Strangely, the numbness makes me work all the harder at rebuilding my marriage. Robert said he would get us back to where we were and I cling to this as a sign that when we do indeed arrive, I’ll somehow feel better. I think I was happy before. I think I was satisfied.

Mr. Randolph has asked me to meet him at The Red Rooster restaurant in Harlem on 125th Street and Lenox before he heads back to Westchester tonight. He wants to go over my delivery for when I take the stand at my upcoming trial. Even though he has clients in the city, his law offices are located in Westchester. I think Robert strategically chose him in order to quell the inevitable gossip that would circulate in his own circles. I don’t know if the strategy worked because I don’t ask Robert what he has to endure due to my mistakes. It’s not something we talk about, despite the obvious fact that my husband could help both to explain and prepare me for a criminal trial. This is the result of him relinquishing some control at the advice of Dr. Thompson. Unless I ask him questions, he’s been advised by the therapist to let my trial be between me and my lawyer. Robert has been steadfast and determined. He won’t let anyone or anything divert him from his objective. That objective being me and my return to complacency.

I wear white and navy blue to see my lawyer, the same colors I plan on wearing during the trial and when I take the stand. I like to think that they up my innocence factor, that maybe if I appear chaste on the outside it will make me feel less guilty on the inside. Despite occasional reassurance from Mr. Randolph and Robert that I won’t get jail time, as a mother, I can’t help being terrified at the prospect. There is a penitent, deferential side to myself that feels like I
should
get jail time if Jaylee does. As if figuratively suffering alongside him could be an expression of love and solidarity. But I’m no longer allowed to entertain the idea that Jaylee and I are connected.

Mr. Randolph is already seated when I walk into the restaurant. It’s too early for the dinner crowd so I spot him right away, briefcase at his side, stacks of papers covering the table. He stands as I approach him and offers a sturdy handshake. Mr. Randolph has never been particularly friendly or accommodating with me, but always extremely professional. I’m guessing these qualities also factored in Robert’s decision to hire him. My crime is emotional, a non-violent crime of passion, so a stone faced lawyer who wouldn’t even contemplate these variables is best for my overly sentimental, wanton, and impetuous wife.

Tonight, however, Mr. Randolph not only loosens his tie, but he orders a martini. I guess it
is
after 5PM. I order coffee and he orders an entire meal. As soon as the waiter’s out of earshot he addresses me.

“Nothing to eat?”

“I can’t really stomach anything when we talk about the case,” I offer up as excuse. It’s my guilt, my frustration, my disappointment that all but consume me.

“And coffee at 6 to boot, Mrs. Champion?”

“I take something to help me sleep. It knocks me out, doesn’t really matter, my caffeine intake,” I explain.

I wonder if Mr. Randolph has ever lain awake at night pining for someone like I do. If he knows how sleep becomes impossible when memories or mere thoughts of that person spike your adrenaline and engage your fight or flight response. The pain of lying still when your body is flooded with serotonin and dopamine from those memories, your body
and
mind helplessly adrift in love hormones. When your instinctual drive as an animal tells you nothing but
seek
and
find
over and over and over again. How it feels to consciously deny that drive every minute of every day, like stopping your own heart, like suffocating your own breath.

The coffee tastes sour, as if it’s been sitting in the pot stewing all day. I force it down and rally myself to listen to the plan, the approach, the expected outcome. I have the thought that if it weren’t for my daughters, I’d ask them to lock me away. Stuff me in a box with no light and no air. I’ll spend my days in a spiritual stupor asking the universe why it handed me these feelings, why it led me to him.

I realize when Mr. Randolph’s food arrives that I’ve tuned everything out. I usually have an auxiliary ear that picks up information even when I’m not actively listening. I think it’s a result of years spent in academia as well as speaking multiple languages. Apparently, that ear has shut down too. Just like the rest of me. He offers me a piece of cornbread and I reluctantly take it.

“I can almost unequivocally assure you that the outcome isn’t going to be as dramatic as you’re imagining. Your record’s spotless, Mrs. Champion. Not a parking ticket to speak of.”

If only the legal outcome were the source of my troubles. I pick at the cornbread. I accept more coffee from the stoic waiter. Then, through Mr. Randolph’s droning soliloquy, my auxiliary ear does hone in on something. It sounds like the possible beginnings of a commotion over my shoulder at the hostess’ stand. A ‘young man!’ and a ‘you can’t!’ I swivel in my chair and crane my neck to get a look. I see what appears to be a shirtless Oscar, sweaty and from the looks of it, intoxicated, trying to gain access to the restaurant. In a daze, I stand.

“Kate!” he yells.

“Oscar?” I mouth and then quickly holler, “He’s with me!”

A largely built bouncer holds him back, but drops him as I approach. The restaurant manager rushes over and spills forth his no sneakers, no shirts policy. I nod in understanding. I glance at Oscar’s sneakered feet and remove my navy Lanvin blazer and hold it out to him. He slips it on and I button the top of the deep-cut V. The tailored jacket comes to just the middle of his forearms.

“It’s too cold to be outside without a jacket, Oscar,” I say calmly.

I lead him by the hand to my table with the staff following anxiously behind muttering about how he’s obviously intoxicated. Mr. Randolph stands, his jaw hanging in disbelief as Oscar pulls me into a drunken bear-hug.

“We gotta go, it’s Jaylee.”

“It’s never good news when you come to find me,” I say. I’m bewildered and my senses feel dulled.

“Let’s go, we’ve got to beat him to Passaic.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Mrs. Champion,” Mr. Randolph interrupts. “As your lawyer, I’d advise against this. Any contact that you have with the accused can have repercussions that will affect your own case.”

“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. I take Oscar’s hand in mine.

I leave him there without signing the papers, without learning the plan or perfecting the performance. Oscar leads me to a car idling on Lenox Ave. It’s a wreck of a thing with dents, matte black paint and tinted windows. Oscar opens the passenger’s side door for me and I shake my head no.

“You’re drunk, Flash. I’ll drive.”

“Cómo quieras,” he says. “Keys are in the ignition.”

The seatbelt doesn’t work. I notice as I’m turning the key that the car’s a manual stick shift. I stare at it for a minute. I can feel the brain fog starting to lift.

“Oscar, who’s car is this?”

“Nardo’s, why?”

“I haven’t driven a stick since I was your age. What’s with all the cars? Is it some type of Dominican car share?”

Oscar laughs and the car only jerks twice before I pull out of the parking spot and onto 125th Street.

“Do you know how to get to Passaic?”

“No idea,” I say.

“Don’t worry, I’ll direct you.”

On the ride to New Jersey, Oscar fills me in on the crisis. Janine went out with some guy unbeknownst to Jaylee or the rest of her family. He took her to Passaic where he lives. He made sexual advances. Janinie declined. He kicked her out of his house. She walked to a bar and called Jaylee. Jaylee had been drinking.

“What? Oscar, you let him drink?”

“Just a few beers, Kate. Sarah taught him how to –”

“Fuuuck! Thank you, Sarah!” I yell, slamming my fist into the steering wheel.

“He’s got a suspended license,” Oscar says under his breath.

“He’s driving?” I ask, incredulously. “You let him drink and then you let him drive, out of state, on a conditional release.”

“Fuck you, Kate, you know Jaylee. Sorry,” Oscar says as he removes my blazer and points out a red welt on his upper arm and one on his torso. “ I tried to stop him. Sort of. He’s gonna fuckin’ kill that dude.”

“So,
I’m
supposed to stop him?”

“Yup.”

“I just jump in the middle and he stops?”

“That’s the idea,” Oscar says smiling. “Let’s just say that you have an effect on him that no one else has. The guy would move mountains if he thought they were gonna be in your way.”

“You’re drunk Oscar. Since you’ve forgotten, Jaylee and I are trying to be over. I’ve got a responsibility to my family and I’m out on bail too. I don’t want to get involved in more trouble.”

“Whatever,” he says.

“That was rude, Flash!” I say smacking his arm.

“No, I mean, ‘whatever’ to you and Jaylee trying to be over. Not the family stuff.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence. Once we arrive in Passaic, Oscar’s phone rings and he digs for it deep in his pocket. I see Janinie’s name plainly on the display screen.

“Neenay?” Oscar says as he answers.

What follows are a string of expletives, some fist pounding on the dashboard, some head grabbing and a gradual shifting into Spanish. Oscar throws the phone on the floor to hang up.

“Take a left.”

“Bad news? Are we walking into the middle or the aftermath?”

“Cops are at the bar. They got Jaylee on the floor in cuffs.”

My heart sinks. I tried to lessen the jail time. I wanted to give him time to say goodbye. I wanted him to be free. Dusk has fallen and I can see the lights from the police cars in the distance.

“Up here on the right.”

It looks like the bar has a broken window. Everyone is outside. It’s hard to tell the patrons from the bystanders. Janinie is by the door talking to an officer. Her arms are crossed protectively over her chest. I wonder if there’s anything at all I can do to remedy what’s been done. Oscar and I exit the car as soon as it stops.

Janinie’s head spins around as the doors close and she runs to me. It’s
my
name she yells. She collides into my arms and cries into my shoulder. Oscar approaches the officer outside the door.

“Are you okay?” I ask her. “Did the guy hurt you?”

“I shouldn’t have called him, Kate. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault,” she sobs into my shoulder.

Oscar comes back to us shaking his head.

“Yeah, it’s over. The guy followed Neenay to the bar. Jaylee got here a few minutes later and saw them arguing. He put his head through the window. Holmes left in an ambulance.”

“Oh God!” I say. Then I’m silent. Oscar looks at me and slowly his eyes widen.

“Oh, Shit, Kate! Oh, fuck! I just realized. Oh, Fuck!” Oscar says turning around in circles completely distraught.

“It’s okay, Oscar. Really. Don’t. It’s fine.”

“Fuck!” he says again loudly enough to turn heads in the gawking crowd.

“What? What’s going on?” Janinie asks frightened by his display.

“The bail! Kate just lost the bail. Fucking two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Jesus Christ!”

“Oscar, really. It doesn’t matter, I . . .”

Our voices go silent simultaneously as Jaylee is escorted out of the bar by two officers, his hands cuffed behind him. He’s shirtless and bears marks of a struggle all over his arms, chest and abdomen. His beautiful, full upper lip is split and bloodied. His head is hung slightly, his gaze toward the ground.

As if his animal instinct could sense me, as if he caught my scent in the wind, his head jerks up and our eyes lock. His golden eyes are alert, his breath fierce as it enters his chest, flaring his nostrils. I drink in the sheer force of his penetrating gaze. My body reacts to him instantaneously as if on command; as if it had been waiting on standby, dormant in his absence. In his eyes I see no hint of remorse, no fleck of apology, yet he knows what he’s done. His eyes take mine as if we existed together outside of circumstance and outside of time. Not a word escapes his lips but he never breaks our gaze. His eyes communicate enough to me, they speak only of unbridled desire, of unrelenting love.