Second Thoughts (6 page)

“Jacoby!” I announced, as if I had expected someone else to pick up.

“Wassup? It’s…”

“Patrick?!”

“Don’t hang up,” I pleaded.

“Oh, I wasn’t going to, man. I’m just…”

“Surprised to hear from me?”

I was still seated, slowly spinning the wine glass around the stem with my index finger and thumb.

I hadn’t spoken to Jacoby DeVone in more than three years, not since he had packed everything I owned and had left me sitting on a stepping stool, in the kitchen of our two-bedroom condo, reading a letter from him that basically told me to kiss his ass. Though I was hurt, I couldn’t blame him. I was surprised he had kept the same mobile phone number. Maybe he had been waiting for me to call. Maybe I was just flattering myself with that thought.

I had met Jacoby the winter of 2006 walking from Concourse C to the baggage claim at the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. He stepped lightly in his brown tapered square toe leather lace-up oxford. His grey suit clung to his body like he was a mannequin in a men’s section of a Nordstrom’s department store. We stood, waiting for the rail that would transport us closer to baggage claim.

“You’re here for the game?” he had asked without looking in my direction.

The Cowboys were in town to play the Falcons in a Sunday night game at the Dome.

“Nah, man.” I adjusted the luggage strap over my shoulder. “Is that the only thing going on in Atlanta this weekend?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” He extended his hand, and with a strong, firm handshake, he introduced himself. “Jacoby DeVone.”

“Patrick McKay,” I said, wrapping my hand tightly around his, and finally looking at him. I shouldn’t have looked at him.   

Jacoby was a beautiful man with high cheeks and lips that extended across his face. His dark complexion was evenly smooth. The white of his eyes were very white, and they seemed to tell a story no one could figure out.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he’d asked.

He had the perfect set of white, evenly spaced teeth─no stains.

“That depends. Am I supposed to?” I asked.

He was right. I didn’t remember him. I did think he had a familiar face, but then again, don’t we all.

“Sorry man. You said Jacoby DeVone, right?”

“That’s right,” he confirmed. “Been a while since I’ve used my other name.”

“Other name? I’m sorry, man. Who are you?” I asked.

I looked at him with skepticism.
Who the hell is this dude hiding from?

“It’s cool. Relax.”

I gave him that brother-I-don’t-know-you-for-you-to-be-to-be-telling-me-to-relax look, which didn’t intimidate him. He moved in closer.

“It’s me. Jacoby Means.”

“G’Tech ’99,” we said in unison, laughing.

I grabbed and pulled Jacoby in a tight squeeze.

“You threw me with the name change, bruh. What’s that about?”

“That’s my pops name. I started using it just before my first year at Oklahoma. You know how they get. We finally had that conversation about carrying on the family name. Dude had all kinds of plans for me.”

“I see. So you became a Sooner, huh. What? The Jackets weren’t good enough for you?”

“That wasn’t it. Mom’s wanted me close to home, plus they gave me the full ride I wanted.” Jacoby said.

He didn’t seem like a momma’s boy.

“I’m joking. You did what you had to do,” I said, managing a quick smile. 

“Yeah. I did.”

There was a brief pause.

“We should just walk to baggage claim. It doesn’t look like this train is coming any time soon, and it’s not that far from here,” Jacoby said, even though the train was less than a minute away.

So, that’s why I never heard anything about this Jacoby Means after I hosted him during his visit to G’Tech at the beginning of my sophomore year. Coach had told me about this prospect with a good arm. He could throw the ball at least 50 yards to a good wide receiver, and he could run a decent 40, too. As his host, I had to pick him up from the airport, show him around campus, and convince him that Tech was the place to ball. When he walked through the doors at Hartsfield, I took pleasure watching his muscular, 6’2” compact sexiness strut towards me. That was the first time I met Jacoby Means. The good time I was going to show him had nothing to do with what coach had in mind. While my roommate was away at a Kappa party on Techwood Drive, N.W., Jacoby and I had a party of our own. He had walked into the room with a tightly wrapped white towel hanging low around his waist and expected me to ignore him. He must have been tripping. I’d thrown a few test questions to Jacoby. Once I knew he would keep whatever happens between us to himself, shit, it was on. When I met Jacoby DeVone again, a few years later that Friday evening waiting for the train in Concourse C, I wasn’t going to let him disappear again.

As much as I hate to admit it─’cause I promised myself to never love a man─part of me loved him. I don’t think I need to specify which part of me that was. Ok, maybe I only loved being in him. I had pulled him back into the closet with me. I was a successful twenty-six year old man with a roommate. I think some of the women I dated refused to entertain the thought that Jacoby might be finding his way into my bed─or me finding my way into his─when the lights were low and his were the arms I wanted to hold me
while I slept.

“Are you there?” Jacoby asked, snapping me out of my trip with a carry-on filled with memories.

“I’m here,” I answered, and took a sip from my wine glass. 

In my mind, I wanted the sophisticate and delicate taste of berry and raspberry to wrap around my tongue and take me to another place, but for now, here with my thoughts was where I was going to be.

“I know you called for a reason. Something heavy you need to get off your chest?” Jacoby asked, as if he had me figured out.

“I think if I had been more open with you, we would’ve worked.”

“You being with Dexter was about as open as we could get, don’t you think? And I don’t think I need to mention the women who played your fools, too.”

With that statement, I knew there were still feelings of resentment.

“Ok. I deserved that.”

“You did,” Jacoby agreed, and for the first time in a long while, I heard him smile. “Where are you?”

“Atlanta,” I answered as if I were being rushed. “I need to tell you something, Jacoby.”

“Shit, Patrick. Should I be sitting down for this?”

“How about I tell you what it is first and then you can decide.”

But if he was still the same Jacoby, I knew he was already sitting, holding his breath, anticipating my disclosure.

“My…,” I swallowed before continuing, “my father comes out of jail in the next couple days.”

“You never told me your father was in jail,” he said almost in a whisper, as if he didn’t want me to hear.

“I know. It wasn’t something I wanted to brag about. Plus, I didn’t want anyone to think it bothered me that his ass was there.”

I paused and anticipated his next question.

“So, are you going to tell me what he went to jail for.”

“Man, you won’t believe me if you were there yourself.”

“Try me.”

“He raped me,” I divulged quickly, giving Jacoby no time to prepare.

I wasn’t ready for my quick response, and I knew damn well he wasn’t ready, either. But, hell, I’ve had over ten years to prepare, and several sessions with Dr. Kendrick. I was blunt about anything that had to do with that man. My hatred for him was ripe.

“What the hell do you mean your father went to jail for raping you?”

“That’s what I mean, Jacoby. Please don’t make me repeat it.”

“I’ve heard some unbelievable shit in my life, but Patrick, are you serious?”

“Trust me. I couldn’t make up something like this. Not even for an Oscar-winning movie. I was asleep the first time it happened. Man, at first I thought I was dreaming, and when I realized it was my reality, it was too late. I remember saying to myself, this motherfucker is not climbing on top of me. But that sick-ass bastard was. He’d turned on the lights and demanded that I look at him. I stiffened to prevent him from entering me, but I soon grew tired and gave in. I couldn’t do anything else, Jacoby.”

For the first time since taking the stand to testify against my father, I’d allowed myself to really cry.

“I couldn’t. I lay there with my knees forced back towards my armpits, and with every thrust he cursed me. ‘Isn’t this what you want? Isn’t this what faggots do?’ I wanted to answer him. Fuck, I didn’t know. My fucking father was my first sexual experience. When he was finished I lay there, still, with pain in the pit of my stomach, and tears falling from both eyes to either side of my face.”

“Damn, Patrick. I wish you had told me this in person.”

He paused as if he were organizing his thoughts.

“Are you there alone, and will you be for the rest of the night? Wait! You don’t have to answer that?”

“Yes and Yes.”

It sounded like Coby was asking the latter part of that question for good measure.

“If that’s your way of asking about Dexter, what we had ended shortly after you left. And Devaan…”

“Devaan? I’m not even going to ask.”

“Man, you kinda just did,” I said. “Anyway, she doesn’t live with me, and like I said, I’m in Atlanta…alone. And before you ask, no, I haven’t told her.”

“Not even about what went down with your father?”

“I haven’t told her anything, and that’s how it has to be until I’m ready.”

When I hung up from my three-hour conversation with Jacoby, the rain that had been falling hard for three days now was starting to fall silently outside the large living room window. I had received a text message from Devaan. We’ve done more texting recently, which I blamed on her busy schedule and me keeping so much from her. I’d noticed us drifting, but if us drifting meant keeping her in the dark, then I wasn’t bothered. Since it was late, I promised to text her first thing in the morning instead of interrupting her sleep. Damn! As much as that hurt to relive the moment, I actually enjoyed talking with Jacoby. I remembered how we would often talk late into the night before heading to sleep. Of course, all that changed after I met Dexter. Then, instead of spending late nights in conversation with him, I was spending late nights with Dexter, in Dexter, while Jacoby spent those same nights probably wishing he’d never met me.

I walked around the Amarello Bamboo colored counter to the sink and emptied the remaining remnants of red wine. I dimmed the lights in the kitchen to off and walked up the back steps on the far side of the kitchen to the second floor. In my room, I sat on the sofa in the small sitting space outside my master bedroom and turned on my 52” 3D LED HDTV. I sat listening to a repeat of Rachel Maddow’s discussion and analysis of politics and pop culture. After a few moments, I’d walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower and began preparing for what I hoped would be a good night’s sleep.

Chapter
7

Taylor…

What Dreams May Come

“Tell me this. How was my husband?”

She sat in the middle of the bed with Quinton asleep in her arms. She stared at him. The palm of her hand delicately stroked the side of his face. Her black tears streamed down from her eyes, pain evident in them.

“Was he as good as you remembered him to be?” I stood in the large bathroom in the mirror, looking bewildered. Her voice startled me.

“What are you talking about?” I moved to the middle of the doorway and stared at her.

Admitting anything to her was the last thing I was going to do.

She gently laid Quinton on the bed and began her slow, calculating walk towards me.

“Vanessa, you’re bleeding.”

“Oh! This?”

She looked down at her hands, laughing, but her laugh was silent.

“This is not my blood,” she admitted, tilted her head towards the bed where she had laid my son, and then looked back at me from the corners of her eyes, smiling.

I rushed passed her and held my son’s face in my hands.

“Mommy,” he spoke in his soft, quiet voice. “You see what you did to me?” He laughed hysterically.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. I began wiping wetness from my face. The tears I cried in that dream were now in my reality.
Damn! What the fuck was that?
I thought. I had taken my guilt into my dreams. I looked down at Quinton who was still asleep in another awkward position. Even in that position, he slept beautifully. I got out of bed, picked him up in my arms, and buried my face in his neck between his head and shoulder.

“I love you,” I whispered.

I inhaled, taking in his baby powder scent. When I exhaled, I held him even tighter. The thought of not being able to protect my own son, even in dreams, scared the hell out of me. 

I stood in the bathroom mirror, wrapping my hair and tying it in a knot. The cold water on my face felt good. I kept my face in the palm of my hands and exhaled, emptying everything in my lungs. That dream had me visibly shaken, though not seen yet by anyone else.
Damn!
I thought.
If Quinton didn’t wake screaming, what the hell would have happened?