Our First Love (2 page)

Vehicles in the northbound lanes slowed down and pulled off
the road as flashing lights and a shrieking siren neared. The ambulance was less than a mile from Barney's house but, regrettably, a spent hour too late to be of any help.

“Did you hear me, Nigel?”

“I hear you, Lil. But I can't answer the questions you're asking me.”

“Nigel, this isn't a secret between you and Barney now. Think about it. Someone else knows, and that's why Barney killed himself.”

Lillian was right. Without a doubt, the person who had mailed the manila envelope knew.

“You have a major exclusive that is sure to go national, and I can't believe you're letting it slip through your hands. Nigel? Nigel, are you listening to me?”

The siren faded and I imagined watching the emergency medical technicians race into Barney's house. I could picture their shifting faces when they rushed into the library and saw Barney slumped over in the wicker chair. The tall one with the impassive air would turn around, bolt outside, and vomit in the hedges. I was surprised. He had to have worked scenes like this before; he didn't look like a rookie. His co-worker, who looked ten or so years younger than him, walked right up to Barney. He could tell by looking that Barney had been dead for nearly an hour. He knelt beside the wicker chair. The disenchanted gaze in his eyes labeled him as one of the inspired. He had seen Barney on television and in newspaper photos. He had even met and shook hands with Barney at the city's Juneteenth celebration last week. He had believed in Barney's vision for a new, more progressive Florida, and he was going to make it known at the voting booth. And then I imagined watching him scratch his head as his eyes combed the room searching for Barney's shoes.

My brother, Caleb, and I lived on Circle Drive, a busy two-lane road a few blocks south of Apalachee Parkway and the state Capitol. Our house sat on a small almond-shaped bluff about forty yards from Circle Drive. Mammoth oaks, posing sycamores, and high-hat magnolias enshrouded the entire neighborhood under a canopy of trunk-size limbs and evergreen foliage.

We moved to Tallahassee and into 207 Circle Drive nine years ago. I arrived here in late July; two weeks after a phone interview with Russell landed me my first professional reporting job at the
Capitol Sentinel.
Caleb and I both thought it was best if he stayed in Richmond until I found our new home.

A realtor showed me the red brick house on the second day of my search. The house was more than perfect. Its physical features were not at the top of our requirements list. We were more concerned about the surroundings. Across the street from our house was Myers Park, a municipal recreation complex with baseball fields, basketball and tennis courts, a playground, and a web of scenic hiking and jogging trails. The neighbors were mostly retired and mid-career college professors and state bureaucrats, the kind of neighbors who kept to themselves or they're too busy to bother us. And then there's the narrow creek that snaked through the neighborhood and bound our back yard. When I saw the creek, I knew that this house could be our new home.

We brought the black leather recliner and nearly all of the furniture in the house with us when we moved here from our childhood home in Virginia. We packed what was left of our old life in a U-Haul and carted it into this life. The recliner sits by the living room window just as it had before. The framed family portraits hang
on the living room and hallway walls in the same order. Neither of us smoked, but Dad's ashtrays were stationed at their usual posts throughout the house. Mom's sewing room and the family's home office shared the den to the right of the living room. There were still three bedrooms: mine, Caleb's, and our parents' bedroom.

Caleb was in his usual place when I arrived home from work: sitting in Dad's recliner, staring out the living room window, waiting anxiously for me. I spotted him before I turned into the driveway. When he saw me, a smile galloped across his face. I tried to hide my eyes from his scrutinizing gaze as I got out the car, but it was to no avail. Despair trailed me like a shadow, so Caleb knew something was wrong. He harnessed his smile, then retreated to his bedroom and sealed the door shut.

I used my key to unlock the front door. I took a deep breath before turning the doorknob, opening the door wide enough to squeeze inside.

The door slammed shut behind me.

As soon as Caleb heard the front door close, he emerged from his bedroom and asked, “So, how was our day?” I wanted to respond but Caleb's prying gaze unnerved me. I felt naked, exposed. “Don't tell me it was that bad,” he solicited. His gaze followed me as I walked over to the sofa and sat down. He sat in the black recliner and extended the leg rest. “We went to work this morning and…” he initiated.

This was the story of our life. I went out each day and brought back bits and pieces of the world. Then I gave the fragments to Caleb and he reconfigured them into a world that he could live in: a tangential world outside the walls, windows, and doors of 207 Circle Drive. This was our life.

CHAPTER 2
CALEB

I
am Caleb. If you didn't know me and Nigel and saw us on the street, you'd probably assume we were brothers because of the resemblance. We have the same bronzed complexion. We sport tight fades. And we both have our dad's tight-lipped smile. When I was a little boy, I looked like Dad. At least I did in the pictures that hung on the wall in the hallway. Nigel looked like Mom and Dad. He had a round face like Mom. Mine was more chiseled like Dad's. Nigel had a polished, intellectual air, while my look was more raw and natural. Don't get me wrong; I was not thug raw. I was straight-up, in-your-face. And I was about three inches taller than Nigel, who had bow legs that were partially straightened by metal braces that he wore until he was nine. I was three so I don't remember Nigel in braces, but I'd seen pictures of him wearing them. I used to tease him about his curvaceous legs. “If you let me iron those legs of yours straight,” I cajoled him, “you'd be tall as Shaq.” He stopped forcing smiles at that joke six years ago. It never garnered a laugh.

The morning after Barney died, Nigel saw the
Sentinel'
s front-page headline,
Reporter Tried to Stop Shooting.
He didn't say a word; he simply laid the newspaper on the sofa before he got up and closed the curtains and unplugged the phone. Barney's death sent the news media into a frenzy. I expected reporters and
photographers to swarm like bees over Circle Drive. I spent the day sitting at the window, sneaking peeks out the curtains. I waited on the news trucks and satellites parade, which evidently, was rerouted at the last minute. Not a single one showed up, which pissed me off. I was ready for my fifteen minutes. I didn't tell Nigel, but that night I plugged the phone back up. We were eating breakfast the next morning when the phone rang. Nigel almost blew a gasket.

“Why is the phone ringing?” Nigel asked as he stared directly at me.

“Could it be that someone's calling?” I answered with a lighthearted grin.

“But, why do we hear it ringing?” he inquired.

Still trying to make light of the situation, I pointed at my ears. “Hello, we have these.”

Evidently, he didn't get where I was coming from.

“I was joking, Nigel,” I said. “Come on, man. Lighten up.” I eyed Nigel cautiously as I answered the phone.

Before I could say hello, the caller announced, “This is Richard Aman. May I speak with Nigel Greene?”

I knew Richard Aman was Barney's father, so I responded, “Mr. Aman, I'm Nigel's brother, Caleb, and I want to let you know that you have my condolences. Barney was a great guy.”

“Thank you, Caleb,” Richard replied.

“Here's Nigel,” I said and handed Nigel the phone. I sat next to Nigel on the sofa and listened to his part of the conversation.

“This is Nigel.”

“Mr. Aman, I'm glad you called.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're right. I'd only known Barney for a short time, but long enough to know that he was a great guy.”

“Of course.”

“We'll stop by tomorrow.”

After hanging up with Richard Aman, but before he could turn off the ringer, the phone rang again. It was Lillian. She called to tell Nigel he had received several interview requests, but she informed everyone that he was unavailable. And that's when I discovered why our fifteen minutes never came. Lillian had been gatekeeping.

The next day, Nigel changed the phone number to an unlisted one.

As far back as I could remember, Nigel had been a passive observer. He always had the ability to detach from everything around him— to become unaffected. That didn't mean he wasn't compassionate. Nigel was the most caring person I knew. If you needed him, he'd be there. But you had to let him know you needed him because he probably wouldn't realize it on his own.

Nigel could be charming too. At least he could when he wanted to be. And when he's not trying, he could even be funny. Most of all, Nigel was thoughtful. If you asked anyone who knew him, they'd tell you that they considered him a good friend. But if you listened closely for what they didn't say, you'd realize that none of them really knew him. It's not their fault, though. Nigel never let anyone inside our world. We didn't have any real friends and no one ever called or stopped by to visit.

That's why I didn't get Nigel's stressing about Barney Aman. Nigel got more than a little pissed off when I agreed with Lillian. Barney's death was our ticket to the big-time. We had an exclusive that could've taken us places, and he walked away from it.

When we “met” Barney, I saw a reflection of two men. It was something about his restrained manner—the practiced way
he carried himself. Nigel saw Barney's regal demeanor as a product of his privileged upbringing, but I thought he was way too put together. The man you saw when you met Barney was the sculpted façade he wanted you to see. This sculpted façade became even more gouging as Barney the Candidate marched toward the governor's office.

It didn't take very long for me to realize there was more to Barney than what we had seen when we met him at his campaign headquarters the day after he declared his candidacy. Barney had never held an elected office, so his candidacy came as a surprise to the media, the political arena, and to everyone who knew Barney. However, his impeccably furnished headquarters on Monroe Street, a few blocks from the Capitol, and his high-profile staff challenged what he described as, “…waking up a few mornings ago consumed by an urgent need to enter politics.” In my mind, Barney was so full of it.

Waiting for us in the downstairs lobby was Eddie Johnson, a cartoonish man recognized more for his laughable efforts to hide his balding head beneath an assortment of outlandish toupees than for his political savvy. At five-five and 160 pounds, Eddie didn't look like the kind of man who could craft the campaigns of three incumbent congressmen—two in the House, one in the Senate. Eddie laid out Barney's political stance as he led us up the stairs to Barney's office. The door was open, so we walked right in.

Barney was outside on the patio, overlooking Monroe Street. As soon as Eddie walked out the office and closed the door, Barney breezed inside like the wind carried him. He closed the French doors, stepped off a cloud, and walked up to us. He served a warm, transparent smile. “Hi. I'm Barney Aman, Florida's next governor.” Nigel and I thought Barney's dramatic entrance was scripted, and that was the last thing we agreed on.

Nigel never saw Barney's reflection. At least he pretended not to see the reflection of a man Barney kept locked away, hidden from prying eyes. The public, including Nigel, was captivated by Barney and clamored to hear every carefully chosen word that rolled off his tongue. They watched his every move. I found it hard to believe that only three people saw Barney's reflection: me, Barney, and the woman who armed a manila envelope marked,
Deliver to Addressee Only,
with a copy of her husband's death certificate and a news clipping describing his suspicious death and mailed it to Nigel.

Nigel worried too much about things that had nothing to do with our life. For the past three days, he'd been sitting in front of the television watching The Weather Channel non-stop. He left earlier today to go by Richard Aman's office, but as soon as he walked back in the door, he plopped down on the sofa and turned the television to The Weather Channel. Tonight, a two-hour documentary about Alaska premiered on The Weather Channel. After the documentary went off, Nigel began agonizing over weather in the frozen state even though we lived in sunny Florida. “It's unseasonably warm in Alaska,” he turned and said, “and scientists are starting to worry.” I didn't have the heart to say it, but I couldn't stop the look in my eyes from screaming,
I don't give a damn.
Nigel didn't see my nonchalance as a sign of disinterest. Instead, he saw a blank canvas on which he could paint a much more detailed image. “Global warming is one of the biggest issues facing the world today,” he sketched. I pretended to listen. Pretending to listen isn't as easy as it appears, but I've mastered the technique. It takes a lot of practice to get it right. I started by looking—not staring—in his general direction. Staring can give you away. “Scientists have determined that the polar caps are
melting,” Nigel continued to draw. “Did you know that?” Unconsciously, I detected a pause in his voice so I nodded slightly. It wasn't a yes or no nod, but more of a maybe nod. “If the polar caps continue to melt at the rate they are melting now…”