Guilty of Love (3 page)

“
Aren’t they all? Is your
family excited to have you back home?”

“
I guess so,” Cheney
stuttered with a shrug. “I damaged our relationship when I was away
in North Carolina, even with Rainey, and you know how close we used
to be. I guess I need a little more time.”

“
Well, I’ll pray for
ya.”

Cheney ignored Imani’s offer. One
thing Cheney knew from experience was not to depend on God when she
really needed Him. That way He couldn’t disappoint her again. How
was she going to get cozy with a family she had rejected? “If
you’re asking if they’ve seen the house—no. If we’ve gone
shopping—no, if we have long phone chats—no,” she answered, trying
to hide her disappointment.

“
Mmm,” Imani murmured.
“Okay, now that the preliminaries are out of the way, I’m coming
back to how are you
really
doing?”

“
Trying to be strong and
get on with my life. I’ve wasted five years pining over Larry, and
the choices I’ve made.”

“
That’s what I’m talking
about,” Imani whooped, causing Cheney to chuckle. “I just don’t
want to see my girl bitter.”

“
Me, bitter? Nah, but my
sabbatical from men continues.” When Imani didn’t say anything,
Cheney sighed. “I’m just taking charge of my life. I won’t allow
another man—or woman for that matter—to cause me any more
grief.”

“
Good for you. I guess that
means you haven’t had any more of those dreams.”

“
I wish.” Cheney groaned.
“I had one last week. It was the first in months.”

“
Oh, I’m sorry. I know how
they freak you out. Hopefully, with your new house, job, and
surroundings, those apparitions will stop.”

“
They will. I’ll be
okay.”

After another hour, they ended their
conversation when Imani had to get dressed for her next trip.
Inseparable growing up, they parted ways when Imani started a
career as a flight attendant with American Airlines and Cheney
enrolled at Duke.

Imani had cried with her when she
called and lamented about her pregnancy. Imani made frequent
flights to Durham as Cheney recovered from her surgery. She cheered
when Cheney broke up with Larry. They celebrated with a trip to
Brazil. Opposites may attract, but these friends were attached at
the hip. Physically, Imani was known for her good-looking legs
while Cheney was nothing, but legs. Mentally, Cheney was strong
when Imani was weak, and now Imani was the strong one.

Later that day, Cheney experienced
first-hand the buzz circulating about Mrs. Beacon. Peering over a
pair of dark octagon-shaped sunglasses, the woman tapped her black
bamboo cane to get Cheney’s attention.

“
Yoo-hoo, missy. Over here,
chile. You should try Year-Round Green Lawn Care service. My yard
is the best looking one on the block,” Mrs. Beacon
bragged.

Resembling a midget from the
Wizard
of Oz,
Mrs. Beacon hobbled down the steps of an enclosed side
screened-in porch. Squinting, Cheney could see yellow-and-purple
floral cushions on white wicker furniture. A cozy setup for
lounging and sipping tea.

Cheney couldn’t deny that the woman’s
red brick bungalow was commanding as the block’s poster house with
an enclosed area connecting the main house to the garage. Three
large dormers made the half story appear like a full second floor.
The woman had a right to boast.

Cheney thought about revving up her
weed whacker’s motor to drown out her neighbor who was still
talking, but her conscience and upbringing dictated she be cordial.
She guided the dormant lawn tool toward the old woman.

“
You know what you doin’
with that thing, missy?”

“
I do.”
Or at least, I
think I do
, Cheney thought. Up close, she was surprised to see
Mrs. Beacon’s mocha skin wrinkle-free. Snowy white strands mingled
with silver hair in a tight bun anchored off-centered on top of her
head. Cheney examined the small-framed woman who couldn’t be five
feet in heels. How could she be a terror?

Her neighbor’s attire was a bright
coral crocheted sweater over a dull plaid housedress. Earlobes
sparkled with tiny diamonds. Everything about Mrs. Beacon’s
appearance suggested she was in her right mind…until Cheney scanned
her feet. They were swallowed up in men’s shoes—army-polished Stacy
Adams.

“
I’m Cheney
Reynolds.”

The woman lifted her eyebrows.
“Cheney? Like that vice president we had a while back?”

Cheney nodded.

“
Humph! Thought you were a
WNBA player.”

“
No, madam. That would have
been a great opportunity to play with Tamara Moore, who is five-ten
and Lindsay Taylor, who is six-eight in the Women’s National
Basketball Association. But I did play in college.”

“
You didn’t steal those
clothes from a homeless shelter, did you? This is a conservative
neighborhood, young lady. We don’t take too kindly to the likes of
hippies living among us.” Mrs. Beacon stuck out her
chin.

Now what prompted that
question?
Mrs. Beacon was living up to her bold reputation.
Evidently the woman didn’t look in her mirror. Cheney had awakened
with a busy day planned. Okay, she had to admit that she hadn’t
combed her hair with care. Her jet-black, shoulder-length mane was
thick and itchy, demanding a warm shampoo and a cool conditioner.
Why primp?

“
Sorry, I grabbed the first
thing I saw,” Cheney said, looking down at her clothes, knowing she
didn’t owe her an explanation. “I didn’t know there was a dress
code to work in the yard.” She hadn’t washed a load in a few days,
but she didn’t think her mismatched socks, gray sweatpants, and
oversized red shirt were offensive.

Mrs. Beacon tapped her walking stick.
“You should’ve. White folks might say, ‘There goes the
neighborhood’. Didn’t your parents teach you better? Anyway, I’m
Mrs. Beatrice Tilley Beacon. My close friends call me Grandma BB.
Don’t
you
even think about it,” she warned, squinting while
she jabbed her cane in the air at Cheney. “I’ll let you know if you
will have that privilege. I’m going to keep an eye on
you.”

What?
How do I respond to
that?
Cheney rolled her eyes, but kept silent. Weren’t
neighbors supposed to be friendly, kind, and bearing gifts or
making small talk over a fence? If Cheney could move, she would,
but she had sunk a lot of money into this house. Years ago, Cheney
would’ve prayed for patience to deal with difficult people. Since
the abortion, she stopped praying and was certain God was cursing
her life.

Mrs. Beacon grabbed Cheney’s attention
again when the woman shrugged and twisted her lips. “Humph, uppity
thang, ain’t you? Well, those weeds better not crawl my way,” she
scolded, drawing an imaginary property line with her
cane.

Okaaayy. Let me tiptoe back to my
property and leave old Mrs. Grouchy to herself.
“Nice to meet
you,” Cheney lied, restarting her weed whacker. The motor reaped
power. She scurried away.
Watch it, Grandma.
“Why couldn’t I
have neighbors like the Huxtables?”

Hours later, Mrs. Beacon returned,
clanking in her oversized men’s shoes, leaning on her cane, and
carrying a tall drink. “You’ve done enough work for one day,
although more sun would do your color good.” She thrust the glass
in Cheney’s hand. “Here, quench your thirst with my homemade
lemonade squeezed with secret ingredients—a little of this, a touch
of that.”

First impressions were lasting. The
senior citizen had the nerve to mix compassion and insult in the
same day. A little of this or that could be cherry-flavored
arsenic. The smart thing to do would be to decline. “You shouldn’t
be so kind.”

“
I’m not.”

Cheney eyed the glass with
suspicion.

“
Go on, chile. I used
genetically enhanced lemons and limes mixed with fresh pineapple
juice and a slice of mandarin orange.”

Accepting the drink, Cheney sampled a
baby sip and licked her lips. “Mmm, it’s good.”

“
Of course.” Mrs. Beacon
nodded with pride before turning and pointing her cane. “Now,
Heney, when you get through cutting, I was thinking you need to
plant some hydrangea shrubs. The ones that bloom pink flowers
during the summer, and if you plant some sage between our
properties, you can smell it as you walk in your front
door.”

Sucking in her lips, Cheney tapped her
foot to keep time with her neighbor’s rambling dictates. “Mrs.
Beacon,” she spoke in mocked sweetness, “I’m planting more than a
hundred bulbs, shrubs, and plants this Saturday. Perhaps you’d like
to come off your porch and help me dig?”

“
Oh no, Heney, ain’t got
time for that. My summer salsa classes are beginning. I’ll be gone
most of the day.”

Figures.

***

The radio’s alarm blared, shocking
Cheney from her sleep. “Am I an idiot for waking up at five on a
Saturday morning to do yard work?” she mumbled as one eye refused
to open.

Cheney dragged her comatose body to
the bathroom where she haphazardly dressed in a white St. Louis
Cardinals T-shirt and black sweats, swept her hair into a ponytail
and slapped a baseball cap on her head. She marched down the stairs
mimicking a soldier reporting for duty.

The previous day, the nursery had
delivered a mountain of dirt on one side of her driveway. She had
purchased burning bushes for the sole purpose of separating her
property from Mrs. Beacon’s. She wondered if any bush would be tall
enough.

Moisture lingered in the pre-dawn air,
a sure sign of a hot, humid day to come. Birds dancing in flight
and swaying tree branches provided the only movement on the block
until a cool breeze caressed her cheeks.

This was a time she wished she had
company and would even tolerate Mrs. Beacon.
Hmm. Maybe not
.
Flexing her muscles, she started wheeling dirt.

Hours passed as Cheney dug a
three-inch ditch to separate her lawn from her kidney-shaped
flowerbed. Halfway through the dirt pile, Mrs. Beacon made her
irksome appearance. Standing regal on her porch in a multicolored
orange-and-red wrap skirt, a red ruffled blouse, and red sling-back
heels.

“
What? No Stacy Adams?”
Cheney mocked under her breath, pretending she didn’t see her. She
rubbed her eyes, leaned her head forward, and checked the house
address. Maybe it was her medication the other day that caused her
to dress oddly.

Mrs. Beacon backed out from her
garage, gunning a newer white Lincoln Continental. She rolled down
her window and waved. “I do hope you’ll have a professional
supervise the job. There’s nothing tackier in a neighborhood than
an amateur landscaper,” she yelled as she sped off, blasting a Boys
II Men tune.

Shaking her head, Cheney would’ve even
settled for a neighbor like Mr. Rogers.

At noon, the sun beamed high in the
summer sky. Cheney rested on her porch steps and wiped perspiration
from her brow, smearing dirt across her forehead. She snatched the
cap off her head and used it as a fan. She should have had the
mulch delivered, too. Running into the house, Cheney retrieved her
keys for a drive to Home Depot. She returned from the hardware
store with her trunk over-stuffed with bags.

“
And the nursery workers
said I needed a truck. Hah!” When she lifted the trunk, Cheney
realized she would need Houdini or the Incredible Hulk to get the
bags out. Cramming was a bad idea.
Where’s a man when you need
one?

Flexing her muscles again, she began
to pull. “Give,” she pleaded. “C’mon. If I can get just one out,
the rest will be eas—”

Two bags torpedoed from the stack with
a force that had Cheney running backwards. She knew she was going
to hit the concrete driveway, and the scene wasn’t going to be
pretty, but she was already in motion and couldn’t stop.
God, I
know You haven’t always been there for me, but I would really
appreciate it if You would keep me from breaking any of my
bones,
she thought absentmindedly.
Someone call an ambulance
if I don’t move.

“
Whoa!” she yelled as her
hands flew up in the air, and she didn’t have time to manipulate a
graceful landing. When she looked up, the bag she had released was
heading back to Earth. Destination—her face.

Suddenly, a muscular arm wrapped
around her stomach. With force and quickness, a solid body collided
with Cheney, cushioning her fall. Dazed, she lay still, trying to
figure out who rescued her with a seat belt-like grip and smelled
like a men’s cologne counter. “Ah, you can let me go now,” she
said, turning toward the stranger.

***

Parke K. Jamieson VI released his new
neighbor. “Hey, you all right?” he asked.

The woman seemed to gasp as she patted
her head, rubbed a knee, and squeezed an ankle. “It all depends on
whether or not I have any broken bones.”

He examined her. She was covered with
more grime than a slugger sliding to home plate. Standing, Parke
extended his hand. “Here, let me help you.”

She was tall—very tall, at least six
feet.
Were her parents the descendants of the Alton giant?
he wondered facetiously, referring to Robert Wadlow who was listed
in the Guinness Book as the tallest man in the world. He had once
lived not far away in Alton, Illinois. When he died at twenty-two,
Wadlow had grown to eight feet eleven inches.