Don't Ask My Neighbor (3 page)

Four
___

This Is What You Get

Samantha

FIVE YEARS AGO, I WOULD HAVE done anything to be sitting in this chair, staring out this window. Five years ago, that's exactly what I did—anything. I acted as if I were planning the collapse of the world’s greatest empire, even if he were just a partner at one of D.C.’s most prominent law firms.
My plans, once again, had me crossing paths with Ryle Lucas. So, five years ago, on July 4
th
, 2007, I stood at Ryle’s Cornelius style Mahogany door, with its decorative beveled glass, without his knowledge, enlisting him as the gateway to my goal. He had become my accomplice and, eventually, my victim, again, and he didn’t even see it coming.

Ryle was a victim, but he certainly was not my first victim. He was one of the subsequent many that fell for the unsoiled persona that I had perfected, only to later become a casualty. My f
inal act would make him my last—that was the set up. After all, I had to find and revamp a good-girl image if I were going to marry the man I had my eyes on—the impetus behind my scheme.

I was a woman with a chip on both shoulders, and although he had no direct connection to my bitternes
s—they never did—Ryle was a casualty of the hatred that had born and lived inside me. How does the old adage go? One bad apple doesn’t spoil the whole bunch? Well, it seemed like the men my mother entertained came from the same bushel of assholes.

Ryle was an easy target, like many have been. He was a man any woman wanted. There was just one problem: I wasn’t any woman. Any woman settled for the bullshit they were fed and the lies men told them. Any woman accepted excuses for late nights and early mornings, giving men the benefit of the doubt, even when the doubts far outweighed the benefits. Any woman believed the sweetness men whispered to get what they wanted, only to make her feel inadequate afterwards. I was probably unlike any other woman Ryle ever had in his life. In fact, there was no probably about it. Poor sou
l—that’s what he was when I was
finished with him—didn’t even know what hit him. I found a man who loved me more than I would ever love him, and I used the depth of his love to control him.

Ryle was one of those fools I sometimes entertained just to prove I could get what many thought were off limits to me. I had watched my mother endure the same heartless treatment by men she had let into her lif
e—my father included—falling in love with them, only to have them leave her for someone they thought deserved them more. She came across men who posed as the one she should give her heart to, only to find they had no intention of giving their heart in return. My grandmother, Mildred Rose, wasn’t around to give those that came after my father the same “stern warning” she had given him before she granted him permission to marry my mother. “She only has you,” my grandmother began her warning. “You make sure you take care of her. You are her only family.” My mother always recounted that story, failed relationship after failed relationship, but it’s not like my father heeded that warning, either. She wanted those men to un-break her heart, and to undo hurt she never thought she would experience. It was always fate that brought the next man to her—at least that’s what she first believed—but she cursed that same fate when she became more familiar with the backs they often turned on her.

I guess you could say I had an old score to settle, ‘cause God knows my mother was never going to do anything to the men who treated her like the welcome mat at the front door of the next woman who sent blood rushing to their loins. Love had become the last thing on any agenda I had, hidden or otherwise. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing wrong with sleeping your way to the top, as long as when the late night office sex ended, the white daffodils with nameless message tags stopped coming, and an ultimatum from a wife who had broken the code to a cell phone voicemail ended the affair, the top was exactly where you found yourself.

I had made my way through some God-awful pick-up lines, too, bad sex I dared not remember, and sex I faked my way through night in and night out. In doing all that, I was still able to avoid mothering someone's child. The idea of having any junior or daddy's little girl pulling at my skirt didn’t appeal to me. I loved my freedom, and I maintained my freedom even with the men I pretended to give my heart, while stepping all over theirs.

My good side, the side of me most men
 fell for, was very good. I turned my charm on and off at the snap of a finger. My bad side, the side that men usually regret meeting, was a force to be reckoned with. I also made sure I got anything I said I wanted, and with all my doings, I made sure that, after all my practice, the one hurting in the end wasn’t Samantha Wells.

I hadn’t seen Ryle in years, but I hadn’t forgotten his handsome face. When he opened the door, the smile he wore on his face, as if he were expecting a pleasant surprise, disappeared as soon as he processed the image that stood before him. Time had been good to Ryle. His smooth, almond-brown skin glistened under the sun. He still had the mole on the right side of his bottom lip, not that I expected it to have gone anywhere. His beard and mustache lay neatly on his face, and his smile was still worth a million dollars.

He was snapping his black stainless steel bracelet watch around his wrist before he looked up.

“Samantha!” he screamed with his eyes wide open. “What are you doing here?”

“Ryle, I had nowhere else to go. If I’d stayed with him one more day, either I was going to kill him
or he was going to kill me.”

On cue, the tears began to flow. Damn, I am good. I really should have been an actress, and yes, I had my reasons for not following through on that nightmare.

“But I didn’t think here would be on your list of possible places of refuge. What about your sister?”

He paused and looked at me with skepticism, guarding the threshold with the seriousness of the Queen’s guard. He had no intention of making the same mistake twice, and he’s told me several times, I was, without question, a mistake. I was a devil in disguise, and it was obvious he wasn’t going to give this devil the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh, let me guess,” he continued, “You’ve burned that bridge, too.”

It was evident Ryle was sizing me up. I had to play smart if I were going to succeed in enlisting him. As much as I hated to lose, this was one argument I was going to have to concede.

“You can’t be serious. You know I am the last person she would offer to help.”

“I don’t think Kennalyn would be that heartless.”

I laughed internally because he still thought he knew her so well. I deliberated sharing my thoughts with him.

“You still think you know her, don’t you?”

I smiled on the inside because he had held on to that little white lie. Okay, it wasn’t that little. I tried desperately to suppress that delight, keeping it from showing on a face that was working so hard at making Ryle a believer.

“Kennalyn I know. Who I don’t know is you.

Gosh, I hated to break Ryle’s confidence. He knew Kennalyn Miranda Covell just about as well as he knew the Queen of England. He did think she was my sister, and yes, we acted as if nothing could come between us. We were Betty and Judy from the “White Christmas” movie that repeated as soon as the Christmas season rolled in—which usually started a week or two before Thanksgiving. Then Gage happened. I had my reasons for pursuing Gage the way I did. Kennalyn thought he walked on water. I thought he lifted his leg like any other dog, pissing where he pleased, and cared nothing about who was watching him. A stranger would have kept the affair their little secret, but I loved Kennalyn, and she needed to know the temperament of the dog she called her husband. Sure, I had my fun for a while, but revealing the true nature of this man was my ultimate goal.

“You seem confident I would be willing to help you in any way. I pride myself in not making the same mistake twice, and you….”

He paused.

Ryle stood directly in the middle of the doorway. He maintained a firm stance, with his arms folded across his naked, hairless chest. My eyes rode over the hills and valleys created by the muscles in his chest and abdomen, as if I were riding waves on Lanikai Beach. I watched his torso disappear into the gray tonal plaid dress pants he wore. A pair of brown dress loafers looked brand new. He was just as tall as I remembered him. I hoped the way I treated him hadn’t changed him into
an abrasive version of himself.

“Are you still ho
lding on to the past?” I asked.

I wondered why he had yet to invite me in, but my question was quickly answered.
             

“Do you think I forgot all the things I lost because I crossed paths with someone like you?”

Someone like me?
I thought.
Obviously he’s still mad.

“You seem to be doing well now,” I said, surveying the outside of his h
ouse, and taking a peek inside.

“This,” he said, moving his head from side to side with attitude painted on his face, “is just me moving on without you. You didn’t expect me to still be lying on my back like you left me?”

Ryle lived in the Capital Square townhomes in the Southwest section of D.C., near the Waterfront. His was a three-story dream with colonial exteriors. I figured, if I played my cards right, I would know the interior. From where I stood, his living room was a mix of antiques and soft browns. I stood, looking at Ryle, batting my eyes, and watching his heart melt. I had him exactly where I wanted him, in the palms of my hands, stringed up like a string puppet, ready to control him just like I had done years before. I didn’t think it would be this easy, but as much as he hated to admit it, I was still the one he loved.

I sat in Ryle’s living room, in the chair under the window, hunched over, with my knees pressed against each other, and both elbows resting on my legs. I struggled to hold the glass of wine firmly between the palms of my sweaty hands, nervous that this scene, this encounter, as much as I had rehearsed it over and over in my head, wouldn’t turn out exactly as I envisioned. Ryle sat on the sofa next to me, but kept his focus on a muted flat-screened television on the other side of the room. He pampered a glass of wine, to
o—red in color—that he only drank when he was anxious, and it was obvious, me being this close had him on edge. Still, he listened intently as I fed him the sob story I had been practicing for weeks. He listened to my every word, and I watched him swallow every lie with a big gulp from his glass.

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” he asked with a smirk.

That’s like saying I think the sun rises in the east,
I thought.
Wait a minute, it does.
I kept my thought private and gave him an answer I knew would appease him.

I placed the wine glass in the middle of the square coffee table, next to a flowerless antique vase. His eyes followed as I approached him. He looked up and into me as I assumed a vulner
able position in front of him.

“I think you are far from stupid,” I began. “I know you know how much it took me to ask you, of all people, to help me after what I’ve done to you in the past. I know your heart, as much as you tried to pretend earlier, and you’re not going to let my actions change you. You may have given up on loving me, but I know you haven’t given up on me. Though I’ve shown you the bad in me, you still expect to see the good. And I know you know people change. I know you know I have changed.”

I stooped in front. I stared into his eyes before grabbing his hand.

“I showed up here, after all these years, asking for your help. It’s the only way I know how to apologize right now.”

I stood in a slow motion and then turned away from him. I stared out the window into the darkening evening, waiting for Ryle to make his next move. With my arms folded across my chest, pretending to calm trembles, I waited for him to respond. I closed my eyes and prayed my final plea sounded heartfelt. I heard his footsteps in our silence as he crept up behind me. He held the back of my arms, just above my elbows, and I felt his chest against my back.

“Tell me what you need.”

I felt his breath on my ear, and I tried the replace the smile that found its way to my face.

King me.

I stayed the night in Ryle’s arms, comforted by his soothing words. Nothing about his embrace had changed. I felt protected, just as I felt years ago, even though I was sure how he felt about seeing me. I fell asleep thinking,
damn, I’m going to have to hurt this man again.

Five
  
______

…For I have Sinned 

Ryle

I KNEW WHAT I WAS LOOKING for in my perfect woman. There was only one problem—I didn’t know where to find her. I remembered many things about my grandmother: dinners, extended summer vacations that always included a scolding, her peaceful appearance as she lay there, still, in a casket befitting of her legacy, and her persona. As if it were yesterday, I remembered a conversation I had with my grandmother just before she died.

“Nana,” I said to her during a commercial break from her favorite soap opera, Days of Our Lives, “why can’t I find a good, trusting woman?”
             

She sat back in her recliner. My grandmother loved having conversations about relationships. She married my grandfather at eighteen years old, and they had been together ever since. Let her tell it, she wrote the book about making a marriage last, and I couldn’t oppose her, since, at the time, she and my grandfather were working on their 60
th
year together. My grandmother was comical, too. She credited her imagination—if you know what I mean—for their longevity. In their years together, my grandfather has been James Dean, Gene Kelly, and Sidney Poitier. She did not discriminate. As far as she was concerned, color did not limit any man’s sex appeal. I think my grandmother was just a freak. I’m not complaining. She made my grandfather a very happy man.

“You young fellas are always talking about finding a good woman when you’ve been searching for a good woman in the wrong places. Or you complain you can’t find love when you’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places.”
             

“Where do you suggest I look?”
             

“My son,” that’s what she called me when she thought she was giving a lesson I needed to pay close attention to, “if you want a perfect woma
n—a good woman—become a member of a church. She’s there waiting for you.”

That was my grandmother’s advice. Her whisper did not mask the compelling nature of her voice.

“Church, Nana?”             

“Hush, boy. My show is back on.”
             

What did I have to lose? If I didn’t find the good woman my grandmother unknowingly promised, I would, at least, find GOD. My grandmother heard my stories and knew while I succeeded in other areas in my life, I had no such luck in the so-called women department. The women came into my life like lightning and thunder during rainstorms. For many of them, they left as quickly as they came, often leaving me things I didn’t want. Some I dismissed as soon as their defects came rearing their ugly heads. Flaws and imperfections I could overlook, but these defects I couldn’t just brush to the side and pretend they didn’t exist.

I spent Sunday morning, September 28, 2000, getting ready for my first visit to Just One God Church in Christ. I found myself following my nana’s advice, something I never thought I would do, since I never took that particular conversation with her serious.              

Nothing much had changed since my last visit to a house of worship, which I sadly admitted was a long while ago. I was still handed a program
and directed to my seat by a curvy older lady completely dressed in white from head to toe—white gloves included. The pastor’s chair was still superior to those occupied by the reverends and ministers sharing the pulpit with him. The women who filled up the front row, first lady of the church included, still seemed as if they were in competition for the best Sunday dress. Actually, what they wore paled in comparison to what the regular ladies wore, those who were there to receive the good word and not compare price tags on their dresses or suits that failed to flatter any parts of them.              

While I enjoyed the prayers, a moving s
ermon by a visiting unknown who did everything to convince me I was living in sin, and hymnals led by a songstress with a pitch-perfect soprano voice, I considered my trip a “total waste of my damn time,” until I laid my eyes on her. Until then, none of the other women impressed me. There were two or three who required a second look, but only to confirm what I thought I saw during my first glance: cheap suits from the sales rack at a boutique on the corner of a neighborhood Main Street, and stocking that didn’t compliment shoes that didn’t match belts that held up skirts that were ill-fitted in the waist and everywhere in between. I hated that I was sitting in church judging these God-fearing women, but obviously, they had taken the biblical reference “render thy heart and not thy garment” way too literal.              

She looked one bible verse short of holy. She had a Saturday night strut in her Sunday morning stroll to the collection plate. I glanced at her behind, wondering if the way it sat up in her back foreshadowed some sexual arsenal that would please me immensely during our first, second, or third tryst. I watched every inch of her six-foot frame walk sharply toward me. My eyes were saturated with lust, and I silently asked God in advance for forgiveness for my thoughts. I knew nothing about this woman besides the fact that I a
lready wanted her. And if I weren’t in church, right there, right then would have been a good time as any.  But, how was I going to approach her?              

I pondered my pick-up line, hoping not to repeat the ones desperate women in my past used in their failed attempt to impress me.
Praise the Lord, my Sister
wouldn’t have worked. I didn’t want to look at her as my sister—not even in Christ—especially since, in my mind I’d already skipped the first date and was standing at the alter kissing this woman while looking into her eyes.
I’ve seen your face around here before
definitely wouldn’t have worked, either, since that would have been one lie told three times over to myself, to God, and to this woman. Regardless, whatever I decided would have to work. I was testing my grandmother’s theory, but I hadn’t exactly convinced myself that a visit to this church, or some other, was on my itinerary until I found myself in Just One God Church in Christ surrounded by sinners in disguise. My grandmother told my mother to walk in faith, now I hoped faith had walked this woman into my life. If not faith, I’ll settle for fate.             

Her wink caught me off guard, and I found myself smiling inside at the thought that this
mold of a woman had noticed me—and molded she was. Her silver gray strapless taffeta beaded dress, if it were not for the jacket, would have been more appropriate for a cocktail party. Its mini length ended just above her knees, and the silver heels added a subtle sultriness to her walk. She was definitely looking her Sunday’s best, and when she turned into the pew and sat next to me, I inhaled, allowing my chest to rise, and then held my breath momentarily. Her Christian Dior perfume lingered at the tip of my nose. There’s nothing like a smell-good woman, especially when her scent said hello before she arrived and stayed behind long after her goodbyes, reminding you of everything about her. Her skin was a medium tan, and I prayed it felt as soft as it looked. Her dark brown eyes had a simple, passionate intensity I had never seen in any other woman.                “This is not something I normally do,” she began in a low voice, flashing a flirtatious smile. “I’m Samantha Wells. If you don’t have plans after service, can we talk over coffee?”

She reached across my knees for the bible sitting in the back of the pew. If my heart wasn’t already in rapid pulsation, it was now, and Lord only knew what else was beating in anticipation. The only thing standing between the palm of Samantha’s hand and my knees was a faint breeze generated from the ceiling fan above.
             

“Just coffee?” I responded, my voice a spongy whisper.
             

“Do you have something else in mind?”

Her retort surprised me.

“Coffee will be fine,” I said, and smiled.

This was not church-girl behavior, but then again, she never professed to be one. She didn’t look as if she had taken a vow of chastity, and her directness proved that. I was certain there wasn’t a Wimple left on her dresser to complete a Habit that was left hanging in the back of a dark closet.               

Church service was nothing but a big blur. From the moment Samantha sat beside me, my mind went to forbidden places. She was still a stranger to me, but I was already having premature thoughts of her sharing my world, of me somehow finding myself inside her, making the kind of love to her that would leave her breathless and without words, even when all she wanted to tell me was “
Damn, you’re good
”. My thoughts bordered desperation, and I hoped it wasn’t written on my face; it definitely wouldn’t have made a good impression, if I hadn’t already impressed her.

Before the choir sang their final selection, Samantha and I made our way down the long aisle, walking toward iconic red doors. The congregants looked at us as if I were walking through the valley of the shadow of death and the evil I should fear walked right beside me. She ignored their sneering looks and judgmental faces. It seemed their eyes held stories about Ms. Wells, but I was oblivious to their silent warnings.

Samantha and I walked the two blocks from the church to a neighborhood coffee house. It’s Just Coffee was housed in a renovated three-story brick building on the corner of Washington Terrace and Ponder Square. It was rather upscale for a coffee shop, with granite countertops and tabletops, stainless steel barstools and chairs, and baristas and servers dressed in more than street clothes and a smock. After placing our orders, Samantha and I sat in a corner, hiding from the Sunday afternoon sun positioned high in the infinite Chinese-blue sky. We had beat the Sunday morning foot traffic that usually frequented this establishment immediately after the 8:00 a.m. service ended, if they weren’t rushing home to catch an early afternoon Redskins or Cowboys game. I sat looking comfortably handsome. My navy blue and red tie had a perfect knot. My grey herringbone striped suit jacket hung over the chair. I spoke as if I were choosing words carefully; words that kept Samantha’s attention and curiosity. I spoke, looking behind her eyes, almost daring her to question my honesty.

“Tell me about you,” I commanded.
             

“What do you want to know?”
             

“Whatever you can tell me before my coffee gets cold,” I responded with a smirk, looking at her with dancing eyes as I brought my cup of Irish Cream coffee to my mouth.
             

Samantha had never been married, but was no stranger to heartbreak. She had taken herself off the market to avoid entering into another relationship only to treat her next man as if he were responsible for a hurt she still agonized over. She had been with men who treated her like a filler, and even when they thought they did their best to conceal it, it showed in almost everything they did. While she invested in loving them for as long as time would allow, they invested in loving her just until the one they lusted for came around; if they came around. Those men who prayed for a good woman used and discarded her when she was sent their way. Apparently, they couldn’t recognize when their prayers had been answered, since they were accustomed to women that treated them so badly they couldn’t identify the man they had become. Samantha wasn’t certain if she was ready to love, but she was ready to try. She was a woman; better yet, she was a woman who knew what she wanted.
             

“I’m a single, heterosexual woman who is more than capable of taking care of me, my man, when I find the right one, and my kids, when I have one,” she added with conviction.

Samantha paused.

“Or three.”
             

She winked, bringing her cup of Macchiato to her firm, sexy lips. Even white teeth hid behind them. She licked her lips seductively as she slowly placed her mug back on the small table. 

“Good,” I agreed. “I would hope someone your age, and I am not quite sure what age that is, is at the point where she could afford to take care of herself and her family, should she have one.”             

“Well, what age would you give me?” Samantha asked.

I hated the age-guessing game. It’s usually one played by men or women who were certain they were older than they looked. The others, those who didn’t get the good genes, usually avoided that game, all in an attempt to save themselves the momentary embarrassment should someone give them five or ten years more than their actual. Since I was already attracted to Samantha, and she did have a girlish look, I decided to appease her, giving her my best guess of twenty-five years.              

“That’s a pretty good guess.”

“Am I right?” I asked, smiling, and then taking another sip from my cup.

I appreciated Samantha’s companionship. The beauty she wore was nothing to be afraid of. I leaned in closer, and kept my attention in her direction.

“That’s all you get. But, that was a pretty good guess.”             

“So you’re not going to tell me?” I asked almost in a plea.

“How much does it matter if you’re right or wrong?” Samantha asked.

She changed position in her chair, and crossed her right leg over her left. I stared down the length of her legs to the tip of her toes. She was blessed with imperfections.