Between Lovers (32 page)

So I drive.

Nicole's mother asks me, “You love her more than you do the Lord?”

She jars me back to her world. I swallow, lick my dry lips.

Love. Lust. Infatuation. All of that comes to mind when she asks me that simple question. The simplest questions always seem to be the most complicated.

When I'm near Nicole, when I'm away from Nicole, I crave her. Crave to please her and be pleased by her. That testosterone level in my body runs high when she's near. And those good old neurotransmitters, dopamine and norepinephrine, make Nicole glow in my eyes. Makes me want to dance and romance her until the sun rises and falls and rises again. Gives me euphoria, makes me giddy as a sixteen-year-old, makes it hard to think about anything but her. She lives in me. Makes me want to hunt and gather and lay all of my victories at her feet.

It's too complicated to explain. I'm a writer, but it's not always that easy for me to articulate real emotions, not with getting them down on paper. That's my downfall.

So I answer, “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

Then silence. And in silence, there is always judgment.

I say, “We're all being pulled in a lot of directions at the same time.”

“Not all of us. Just the weak. Only the trees with weak roots fall in a storm.”

I drive. Windshield wipers struggle to slap water away

She goes on with the last of her mini-sermon, “That girl, that devil took Nicole from you. Took your wife from you. In front of your family, your fraternity brothers, your friends.”

My hands become fists.

“People say you're weak for allowing this. Say you have no courage. That you don't think clear anymore. A real man would not allow this.”

“If being a real man means turning hurt into anger, and anger into gasoline and matches, then no, I'm not the type of man you consider a real man. In most states, that kind of a man is called a felon.”

“What do you think you are? Tell me?”

“I have hope.”

“Hope has trapped many a fool.”

Then we're at Oakland International. I park and walk to her gate. She checks in.

For a moment our eyes meet, and she no longer looks like Lena Home, but more like Billie Holiday in her drugged out days. Tired. Worn. Weary. A woman who tries to do what's right.

“Tell her to keep her daddy's Bible,” she says. “May it become her lamp back to the Lord.”

We're on time, an hour before her winged chariot is due to depart and take her back on the other side of the great Continental Divide. I offer to sit and wait with her, but she dismisses me.

She tells me, “Don't stay out here too long. You'll lose what's left of your soul.”

Without a good-bye, I turn to leave. Her awful humming follows me, blending with other conversations, with intercom pages, with the sound of luggage on squeaky wheels. I hurry through a crowd of anxious people rushing to get flights to points all round the world. People who are rushing to get away from Oakland before their souls end up MIA.

Nicole. My mind is on Nicole. How she had broken down.

I begin to jog on these aching muscles. My jog turns into a light run. I run faster. With each stride that expensive perfume and homemade chicken aroma fades.

I run to get away from that woman, but I can't get away from myself.

Nicole's car is still at the Waterfront. Ayanna's super size SUV is gone.

My hotel room is empty. No sign. No note.

I remember the route, take Broadway to Broadway Terrace, ride the winding roads above Caldecott Tunnel up toward the sky, in the land of museum-size homes and mini-mansions. A right on Proctor. Pass by a couple of houses with rainbow-colored flags. The few, the proud, the alternatives.

I park across the street from Ayanna's house, from the house that shelters Nicole every night. I rub my temples as I sit out front. Nicole's mother's voice is stuck inside my head. Won't go away.

I ring the doorbell. A long moment passes. The porch light comes on. Goes off. The sensor beeps three times when the door opens.

It's Ayanna. She's barefoot. Has on blue-and-gold CAL sweats.

She says, “I was hoping that was you.”

“Were you?”

“Please, let's not. Not now. She needs us.”

“How is she?”

“How would you be after something like that?”

“She shuts down when things get too hard.”

“I know.”

She takes my coat, hangs it in the closet by the front door.

Ayanna says, “She needs your energy right now.”

I look down the long hallway toward the kitchen and the living room area. Light is glowing. Soft peaceful, ethereal music that reminds me of Enya.

The stunning art. The Italian furniture. Once again I take it all in. Once again I'm in awe.

I follow Ayanna. Her feminine sway so easy.

The fireplace is burning. Candles are in the kitchen, on the white tile counter, more on the tile island. Orange and vanilla. Smells like a cleansing ritual is going on. Nicole has on blue-and-gray sweats, University of Memphis, and a black sports bra, thick socks on her feet. Her hair is hidden, wrapped up in a black and white handkerchief. She's in front of the fireplace, sitting with her legs spread out, staring into the flames.

Nicole doesn't turn her head. “Where is Momma?”

“Dropped her off.”

She comes over and hugs me. “You're freezing.”

“Pretty cold out. Pneumonia weather.”

“Was worried ‘bout cha, boo.”

“Sorry I had to leave you.”

“Sorry I put you through that madness. You looked pretty tore up when you were leaving.”

“You didn't look like a homecoming queen yourself.”

“I never have looked like a homecoming queen. I'm a cute gerbil on my best day.”

Ayanna is in the kitchen, sitting on the island, her right hand going back and forth over the candle, playing with the flames, never stopping long enough to burn. Watching us interact. Listening to us. Learning us. Our relationship. The depth of our caring. I ask Ayanna if she is okay.

Ayanna pulls her knees to her chest. “Nothing like a little phlegm to wake an ugly, Raggedy Ann sister up.”

Nicole goes to Ayanna. Ayanna jumps off the counter. They hug.

Nicole says, “I'm sorry—”

“Shh,” Ayanna says and she rubs Nicole's back. “Not your fault.”

I watch the depth of their relationship. See how they react in the worst of times.

Outside the rain starts coming down again. It slaps the roof of the house like light rocks. Can hear the streets flooding, water running downhill. Oakland is being cleansed.

Nicole wanders back over to the fireplace, stares into the flames, falls away from us. Ayanna looks at me, chews her bottom lip, her expression asking me if I know what to do to make Nicole feel better. How to heal her.

Then Nicole shouts, “Would you believe she brought chicken on a damn plane?”

There's a pause, then we all break out laughing.

Nicole cackles. “Good thing she didn't cook chitter lings. She would've funked up the Waterfront. Jack London Square. North, South, East, and West Oakland.”

We double over and laugh hard enough to sweat. Nicole falls to the floor, kicks her legs in the air and laughs the hardest.

When the cackling is done, our sides are aching, we're exhausted, and we're all smiles.

Ayanna goes upstairs, comes right back with blankets and a purple bottle of oil, its jojoba aroma lighting up the air around us. She lays the blanket out in front of the fireplace, asks Nicole to take her clothes off. She does.

Ayanna tells me, “Come here. I need help.”

She asks me to pour oil in her palms, then she rubs her palms until the oil is warm, and gives Nicole a deep massage. I watch her work her magic. She's good.

Nicole moans. Tenses. Relaxes. Moans. Moans.

Ayanna says, “You familiar with reflexology?”

I shake my head. “Heard about it.”

“It's an art of healing. I'll show you.”

She moves her hands from Nicole's feet, to her body, to her hands. Ayanna talks about the five koshas, the different layers of the body. About emotional wholeness.

Nicole groans as light and easy as the music that's playing in the background. It sounds as if all that's bad is leaving her body with each breath, leaving in whispers and sighs. Ayanna touches my hands with her hands, her eyes on mine as she guides my hands, tries to teach me, shows me how to do the same.

Ayanna says, “If you knew how to do this, you could help her out when she's cramping.”

I say, “Never knew.”

“What do you usually do when she's got the cramps real bad?”

“Toss her a bottle of Midol, a pound of raw meat, and a box of chocolates.”

We chuckle. Ayanna has a beautiful laugh. Her skin glows.

Ayanna says, “We do this for each other. It strengthens our bond.”

Nicole's breathing deepens. She's asleep. Her face again that of a woman-child. Ayanna covers her with another blanket, fluffs part of it up like a pillow, eases that under Nicole's head.

Ayanna says, “Come over here and chill out. Let her rest.”

We move to the kitchen. Ayanna boils water in a teapot and makes us large cups of orange spice tea. I sit at a barstool and add honey to mine. Ayanna gets on top of the island, folds her legs, both hands wrapped around her oversize cup.

Ayanna speaks softly. “We both love her.”

I match her pleasant tone. “Yep. Beyond reason.”

“Maybe, if we really try, this could work.”

I ask her, “Why the change? Why are you so down with her program now?”

“Thought about it. Have to be real. I knew how she was long before you came along. No one can be everything to anyone. So, I decided to lay my burdens down. Try and make it equal. Be optimistic.”

“Why the change?”

“I heard her and her mother. Me and my mother went through the same drama. She thinks that since I was married to a man before, at some point I'll go back to a man again.”

“Really?”

“Mothers have this image of what their daughters should be. When you don't fit that mold, they can't handle it. They take the shit so personally.”

“Daddies are the same way.”

I stare at Nicole. Sleeping near the fireplace. Her hand is near her face, looking like a child who wants to suck her thumb.

Ayanna says, “She did better than I would have. Nicole stood up to her mother and told her how much she loves both of us.”

“Did it with her hand on her father's Bible.”

“Yep. That took courage and conviction. And like it or not, that should count for something.”

In the dancing candlelight, Ayanna and I watch each other for a while.

Ayanna says, “When she hurts, I hurt. If she had cancer, I would want it instead. If she needs you in her life, then I will accept that. Can you accept me? Do you love her that much?”

A moment passes.

“You're still loving with your dick. And that will never be more powerful than what I give her.”

I say, “Remember who lost the race.”

“Eight years. Our relationship is deeper than you thought.”

We stare. Ayanna kisses her fingers, touches my lips with those fingers. I taste her fingers, kiss her fingers, suck her fingers over and over. She moans. Her eyes have that erotic look. I give her my hand and she does the same.

“What's your game, Ayanna?”

“I don't play games. Not even bid whist on the Fourth of July.”

She kisses my fingers, tongues my palm. My breathing gets ragged.

Nicole shifts. Her bracelets sing a restless song as she turns over.

We stop. Stop and stare, first at her, then at each other.

Ayanna goes over to Nicole, touches her hair. Lies down next to her. I go over, lie down on the other side of Nicole. Ayanna and I stare at each other, hardly blinking.

Ayanna closes her eyes first. I close mine, listen to their breathing. Ayanna's inhales and exhales fall into rhythm with Nicole's. Sounds like one person breathing. My breathing matches their cadence. Sounds like one person is in this room, on this floor. Sounds like peace.

Warmth covers my body. I fall asleep.

When I wake up again, the rain has stopped. The room is a little darker. I'm on the carpet, lying next to Ayanna.

Nicole has blown out three of the candles, is standing in the patio window, looking out over the lemon and persimmon trees. Her socks are off her feet. She walks from the dining area to the window, to the living room, back, does that over and over. Moves like a woman wandering in the desert. She's holding her father's Bible to her chest. Humming. She stops at the window, staring out, into the skies, as if she were looking for her mother's plane. She rocks, wipes her eyes with the back of her left hand.

Ayanna moves. Bracelets jingle. Nicole turns around, comes toward us.

She sees me watching her. She smiles.

I sit up.

Nicole puts the Bible down and sits on the floor between her two lovers. She leans and kisses me the way a mother does a child. Then she kisses Ayanna the same way. Wakes her up.

Ayanna asks her if she slept much.

Nicole says, “Dreams woke me up.”

“What you dream?”

“Dreamt I was driving on 1-240 trying to get to the 55 South.”

I ask, “Where the hell is that?”

“Memphis. Saw Elvis Presley on the side of the road trying to thumb a ride.”