Les Tales (12 page)

“Okay, so do you guys want to go backstage or head out? I just need to let Kirk know what we are going to do,” Nia said.

“Backstage,” Cree replied, then walked off before we could respond. We followed her backstage.

“Les!” Cree suddenly exclaimed. She stood taller than I'd seen her stand in a while.

We watched as Les completely abandoned the members of the press whom he was talking to. There were no words. Cree opened her arms, and Les wrapped his arms around her. They embraced, kissing as if it was the first time. We couldn't believe it. The press was eating it up, snapping photos of the reunion.

Suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I was denying myself the pleasure I'd always wanted, just because I wasn't going to have the title of girlfriend. Ciara had given me the title of girlfriend, and it had meant absolutely nothing in the end. For almost a year I had been missing the one thing I wanted more than anything, all because she wouldn't be my girlfriend.

“Well, that's beautiful. Don't you think?”

The familiar voice sent chills down my spine. I turned around to see Ursula standing directly behind me.

“Good to see you, Temple.” Ursula gave me a hug. It wasn't like her hugs normally were. It was distant and professional.

“Ursula?”

“Yes?”

I didn't know if it was the right thing. I didn't know if I would regret it in the end. I didn't care. Life was meant to be lived, and I was ready to live it.

“Can we possibly have a drink later?” I didn't take my eyes off of her. I could tell she was surprised by the invitation.

“Are you sure?”

“I've never been so sure of anything in my life.”

It didn't make sense, but matters of the heart rarely did. Cree knew it would take time, but she couldn't spend the rest of her life wondering if she had missed out on the man of her dreams. I knew that anything that happened between me and Ursula would be just for fun. I didn't know what the future would hold. All I knew was that in that moment I was going to do what I wanted to do—what my mind, soul, and body wanted to do—and that if anyone should be with her, it was me.

I was her number one fan, after all.

by

Nikki Rashan

The first time I heard her voice, I knew I was in trouble. It was light but serious, adolescent like in tone yet confident. And her enunciation of each syllable in every word she spoke was quick but clear. She sounded out of breath, like she was in the middle of a race against a fast-paced treadmill. I heard the pounding of her feet and the whirring of the belt beneath her.

“Hello?” She panted into the phone.

I gathered my composure and prepared to speak to the woman whom, until two months ago, I had known nothing about. I hadn't known her name or her address, her age or zodiac sign. I had had no idea where she worked, where she grew up, if she was a wife, mother, or if she had siblings. I simply hadn't even known she existed.

What I did know now was that every morning, after I left for work, my wife, Layne, had called her. At least once a week they had had lunch at Le Colonial, a place I had once recommended to Layne that we visit. Layne had quickly dismissed the suggestion, as if merely speaking the words had been a waste of my energy. Now I knew why. Could she actually take her wife to the meeting spot to which she regularly took her mistress?

Her name was Nina. And she had successfully filled in the gaps in Layne's heart that I had been unable to reach, places that I had yearned to occupy but that Layne had shielded like a cocoon, protecting her unspoken feelings.

“Hello, Nina. This is Taryn.”

She was silent. The breathlessness I had previously heard halted; there was the sound of a short beep and then nothing but dead air.

“Are you there?”

“Hi, Taryn. I didn't expect you to call so soon,” she told me.

My head tilted sideways, and I immediately started toying with the crystal paperweight on Layne's office desk. Layne had been a professor of English at a well-known university in Chicago, where we lived. Layne had adored language; her passions had lain in words and books. On the walls of her office were shelves of textbooks, famous literary works, and history and autobiography books. She still had the first encyclopedia collection her father had purchased for her when she was a child among stacks of dictionaries; she bought a revised dictionary every year.

During our years of marriage, I had entered Layne's office frequently. I'd bring her a cup of coffee on a Saturday morning while she pored through online newspapers and magazines, or I'd wake her for bed when she had fallen asleep reading papers. What I hadn't known were the secrets Layne had kept in her office. Locked in one of the drawers of the grand wooden desk were journals she had hidden underneath school papers. She'd locked the drawer with a small gold key. I found the key in her wallet. It took weeks for me to figure out where the key belonged.

I sighed, stood up, and peeked through the cream blinds at our backyard and the inground swimming pool. The water was cloudy, covered with strewn grass clippings and drowned insects. I hadn't been swimming in two months. I pictured them there, Layne and Nina, making love against the concrete steps at the shallow end. Layne had written about the experience in a journal, one of eight I had found that recounted the last twelve years of her life. Of those twelve, she had documented seven years of indiscretions that I had known nothing about. Since Layne's unexpected death two months ago, I had learned that the woman I had believed was the love of my life hadn't had those same feelings about me. Behind my back, she had explored dark, explicit sexual affairs that I knew nothing about.

On the lined pages of the journals, in her sporadic handwriting, Layne told tales of erotic adventures with Nina. She wrote about nights they visited underground swingers clubs and engaged in voyeuristic exchanges with other couples, male and female, gay and straight. Layne wrote in loopy curves, accentuating a capital
B
or a lowercase
l
when her spirit was calm and unnerved. Her penmanship slanted when she was stressed, the ink imprinted deep into the paper. And when filled with excitement or elation, she wrote in carefree, quick scribbles, her words crossing lines frantically.

“Are you there?” Nina now asked me. I closed the blinds and returned to Layne's leather chair.

“I'm here.” I hesitated with my next statement. “I'd like to see you.”

“When?” Her voice left no indication of concern, as if she had already prepared herself for the day we would meet.

“Today.”

“I can be there in an hour.”

“Let me give you the address,” I offered, as I would with any guest venturing to my home.

“I know where you live.”

Of course she did.

“I'll see you then,” I told Nina and hung up Layne's desk phone.

I rubbed my temples, my eyes closed. I knew that what I was doing was strange and that it was unnecessary to meet Nina. Why would I want to meet the woman who had been an accomplice to the greatest betrayal I had experienced in my life? Yet I couldn't help it. I had to meet her. She had been privy to details about Layne that Layne had not granted me. What was it about her that had allowed Layne to open up in ways she hadn't to me, her wife of eight years?

I left Layne's office, closing the door behind me out of habit. Layne had always insisted on keeping her door closed, and I had never been allowed to enter without first knocking. In the kitchen I started a pot of coffee. While it brewed, I mentally attempted to prepare what I had to say to Nina. What did I want to do? My first instinct leaned toward the hereditary blood of my father that ran through my veins. He was an abusive man; he had a tendency to kick anybody's ass at any time, usually my mother's. This thought intrigued me most, as I assumed it would any woman in my predicament. I pictured myself opening the door and punching Nina in the nose before she had a chance to see it coming, the same way my father had done to my mother on more occasions than I cared to recount.

More than anything, I just wanted to see her. The portrait Layne had scripted of Nina had begun to consume my every thought; I felt vulnerable to her. And for my own emotional fulfillment, I wanted an in-person comparison. In her writings, Layne had described me as a flawed gemstone and Nina as an impeccable diamond. Did she truly not have one imperfection?

Upstairs, I showered and then lathered myself with Layne's favorite perfumed lotion. Silly it might be, but I wanted a part of Layne with me during the meeting. I wanted Nina to feel like a stranger in my home and not the invited guest in our lover's arms. I wanted to take back ownership of what had been involuntarily and unknowingly stripped from me, even if it could not be tangibly reclaimed.

Over my hips I pulled on stonewashed jeans and then I donned a cream turtleneck. Despite the unexpected warm October weather—the temperature was seventy degrees—I felt cold. I brushed the silken strands of my hair into a ponytail and twisted the loose hairs into a conservative bun. On my lips I applied a clear coat of lip gloss, and then I swept mascara through my already lengthy lashes.

Back downstairs, I contemplated whether or not to put on a CD. What music best illustrated my mood and accompanied the introduction that would soon take place? Classical had been Layne's preferred genre of music. Many evenings we'd lounge in our family room while sipping wine and listening to the sounds of a gentle violin or a calming piano. Layne had relished educating me in the arts, whether it be music, theater or, of course, literature. At least I had thought she took pleasure in awakening my attraction to the creative. In reading Layne's journals, I had learned that she had grown indifferent to nurturing my cultural awareness. She had begun to resent that I had a less refined background than she had. Now I, after reading her journals, resented nearly everything about her.

The phone rang just as I was retrieving two coffee mugs from the cabinet. I checked the caller ID and saw that it was Jenna, my daughter.

“Hi, Mom,” she said before I could speak. “How are you?”

Layne died on July 8, several weeks after Jenna completed her sophomore year at Spelman College and arrived home for summer break. We had just enjoyed a weeklong family getaway in the Virgin Islands, where we lounged by the ocean, the three of us bikini clad under the penetrating sun. Daily, Layne would consume her maximum intake of tropical drinks; she granted herself hard liquor on vacations only. We allowed Jenna just one drink, while I was permitted one glass of wine with dinner each night. All day long we took photos of one another, my favorite being one of Layne nestled in a hammock, peering at me over a book she was reading. Her wedding band sparkled against a ray of sunlight. She looked peaceful and rested. Her smile appeared sincere. She seemed happy. How was I to know she was a lying, cheating, deceitful wife with a hidden life she concealed so cleverly?

The Monday following our return home, I woke early for work. Layne stayed in bed, her vacation extending several more weeks. Before I left, I bent to kiss her tanned skin and tousle her short hair. She opened her eyes.

“Got any plans today?” I asked.

She repositioned herself comfortably under the sheet. “No. I'll be home. I want to finish that book.”

“Good. I'll see you tonight.” She went back to sleep. Or so I thought.

Three hours later I received a phone call from an officer, who informed me that Layne had been struck by a vehicle that had flipped over a median into her car in a North Chicago neighborhood. She died instantly.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” he muttered unsympathetically before mumbling additional information on Layne's then whereabouts. I was left with a trembling phone in my hand, a shattered heart, and an unanswered question: what was Layne doing miles from our home just hours after she told me she'd be in all day? I hadn't known at the time, and still had no confirmation, though now I assumed she had been headed to see Nina.

Jenna was heartbroken when she returned to school in late August, leaving me in such an overcast state. I hadn't shared with Jenna what had suddenly shadowed my spirit. She assumed my introverted demeanor was solely due to Layne's sudden passing, not the discovery of the double life Layne had been leading.

“I'm okay, Jenna. I'm okay,” I told her now.

“You don't sound okay,” she rebutted.

I had had Jenna twenty years ago, at the tender age of sixteen, the same age at which my mother had had me. It scared me at times, the mirrored lives my mother and I almost led. I grew up on the South Side of Chicago, in my grandmother's house, the same home where my mother was raised. My mother and father lived in the upstairs unit of the house, and I had a room downstairs with Grandma. Gangs and crime riddled our neighborhood: purses were snatched during the day, and gunfire crackled throughout the night. Young men succumbed to the seduction of their environment, while young women surrendered to the temptations of those same young men. My mother and I fell into that category.

At fourteen both my mother and I lost our virginity to boyfriends who were four years our senior, and at fifteen we each became pregnant. Grandma, who refused to allow me to become the high school dropout my mother had been, cared for Jenna during my junior and senior years so that I could finish my courses. She wanted me to “be somebody.” In my family, unfortunately, the pinnacle of success at that time was a stroll across a platform stage in the gymnasium to accept a document for obtaining a minimum education.

After high school I waitressed full-time in a nearby restaurant, where, above my minimum wage pay, I'd take in tips from sweet old gentlemen who came in each day for coffee while they read the newspaper, and from hustling twentysomething fellas who wanted to give me more than just their order. In the evenings Grandma and I would place my tips in a container box hidden in the corner of my closet; she didn't trust “big ole banks.” Every two weeks I would cash my check at the local convenience store, buy an outfit or two for my growing Jenna, and save the rest. I knew then that somehow I'd escape my dark surroundings.

At twenty I met Jimmy Sharpe. Jimmy was a young alderman with dreams of mayoral service. He had come into the restaurant, soliciting, on a late spring morning. I was off that Friday but had walked over with Jenna to pick up my check. If it hadn't been for the perfect timing that day, I'm not sure what course my life might have taken.

Jenna, always an eye-catcher with her youthful, round face, cinnamon skin, and reddish-brown eyes, caught the attention of Jimmy, who was busy chatting with Chucky, the owner of the restaurant, about flyers he wanted to leave at the counter where patrons paid their bill. He was a visionary with a plan of rebuilding broken neighborhoods and saving our youth before they got sucked into the “ghetto mind-set,” as he put it.

“Look at this pretty little girl right here,” he had said to Chucky, pointing at Jenna when she and I left the back office with my check. “We can't have this young baby ducking and dodging bullets and unable to play jump rope outside her house. We can't have our young men locked up while our babies are having babies. It's time for us to rally up and get our neighborhoods in check. Come on, Chuck,” he'd urged. Jimmy was allowed to leave his flyers.

I was about a block away from the restaurant, with Jenna's hand in mine, headed back to Grandma's, when he called to me.

“Miss! Excuse me, miss!”

I tended to ignore men who called to me, most often in terms that suggested we were more than strangers who were simply passing one another on the street. But Jimmy seemed different. When he caught up to us, he paused a moment to take in a breath while straightening his bow tie. He wore a suit, and with his oval-framed glasses, he resembled a member of the Nation of Islam community, one you might see pushing fruit and newspapers on the corner.

“You didn't take a flyer.” He smiled and handed a white paper to me.

“Oh, thank you.” I smiled back and then started to browse the flyer. Jimmy was part of a group of men and women looking to renovate and reopen a neighborhood center for our youth. His flyer described it as a place of refuge and safety. He wanted to present our young people with the gift of opportunity and growth, and he needed volunteers to bring his dream to life.