Vulnerable (14 page)

“Call Sicily, man. She lives around here, right?”

Khalil was six feet tall with the physique of a quarterback. With his trademark five o'clock shadow, he had fine features but deliciously full lips, and everything about him made a statement that he was self-important. Apparently others agreed, for he managed to attract people without much effort. Rawn, more exoteric, was the opposite of Khalil.

“Call her.”

“Man, damn. What's her number?” Khalil punched in the numbers Rawn recited. “Pretty soon, nobody's going to know numbers by memory.” When Sicily answered, Khalil shifted into bait mode: “Hello, baby.”

Sicily sat in her overstuffed chair by the wall of windows. An exotic full moon poured into the room. She should have followed her perfectly tuned instinct and not answered the telephone. With a frown on her face, she said, “Excuse me.”

“I've been thinking about you. And I'm talking dirty thoughts, too, baby.”

Sicily's torso straightened. She had been reading over minutes from the Academy's
last board of trustees meeting. In a velvet jogging suit, a glass of wine nearby, Godreau's newly released greatest hits playing soulfully in the background, she finally managed to relax. After a meeting with a student's parent that afternoon, she was still unsettled. She put it on herself, she knew that; but as a matter of course, Sicily felt like she had to tread cautiously with the parents of the students at the Academy. These were parents that knew a trustee or was a friend of a friend to someone on the Academy's board of trustees. Now an obscene call?
What the hell!

“You have the wrong number,” she said into the receiver. She was about to punch release when she heard the caller breathing heavily into the wire. With a smirk, Sicily said, “Please! Get a life.”

Khalil and Rawn were laughing. In a low voice, Rawn said, “Tell her we're at New Orleans, man.”

“I guess you don't remember me.”

I would remember giving a man my number.

“Your memory doesn't seem to be serving you too well…” Khalil kept at it.

Slowly, her lips shaped into a wide, pleasing grin. “Khalil!”

“I punked you good.”

“Hell, you were starting to freak me out. Where are you?”

“I stopped in Seattle. I'm only here for a minute, but I want to see you.”

Sicily exhaled her breath, gazing over paperwork she was swimming in spread here and there. “I…”

“We're at New Orleans. By the time you get here your order will be ready. Tell me what you want.”

Even Sicily had a hard time resisting Khalil. It was the plain truth—he knew how to charm a girl. “All right. Okay! It should take me twenty minutes, thirty tops door-to-door. Order the pan-fried oysters for me.”

“Love you, baby.”

She made a kissing sound into the receiver and Sicily was thunderstruck by how excited she was, resting in the knowledge that she would see Khalil. “See you soon.” Rawn was the man she would have hoped for if things were different, but when she got together with Rawn and Khalil, Sicily flirted on the outside and tingled on the inside—she loved being in the circle of their masculine charm. Khalil was emotionally complicated; the type women were often drawn to because he was a risk. Rawn was elusive, intellectually seductive, and punctilious. The two were an even balance. If they could bottle their respective chemistries and put it on the market, they could come back a few more times and never go broke, irrespective of the Dow.

“She's on her way,” Khalil said. “Before she gets here, you want to explain to me why I had to make a detour. What the hell is going on, bro?”

T
he sky was heavy while a dense, temperamental sun shifted through thick and dark clouds. From the corner of his eye Rawn could see a squirrel perched on the windowsill. He reached for the Sunday
P-I
and began to flip through it, tossing
Parade, Pacific Northwest
and endless coupons to the floor, and skipped to the sports page. He spent all morning reading and grading eighth-grade essays. Their minds were clever and sharp and he marveled at their wit. Was it the access to so much information, and by merely clicking a mouse, that made them more informed than he was at thirteen?

When they were engaged, Rawn and Janelle agreed to a plan: establish themselves in their respective careers, travel and then purchase a home. Both came from tight-knit families, so for them having children was a done deal. Rawn understood it so plainly now: he was not ready to be married, and certainly not emotionally ready to raise children. How many men met a good woman but at the wrong time?

When the telephone chimed in the distance, he dashed for the ringing cordless on his desk in the kitchen, and anticipated—hoped—that it would be D'Becca.

“Hello!”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

His face relaxed. “Hi, Mama. You know your timing's always good.”

Rawn cherished talking to his mother. Their conversations were more like two friends and less like mother and son, and Rawn's
day was fuller after their talks. Yet it was not his mother's voice he had so wanted to hear.

“I can't believe I caught you. It's been rather difficult to catch you these days.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Why should something be wrong? Because you're grown doesn't mean I can't still worry about you. I've gotten no calls…”

Rawn butted in with, “I've had a hectic few weeks, Mama. Since school started, my schedule's been all over the place. With the events committee meetings the first weeks of school, and then… My schedule's all nice and neat now…my calendar's more predictable.”

“You don't do so well with predictability.”

“Is Tera still in London?”

“She'll be back next week. By the way, she said she had dinner with Khalil.”

“Yeah, he breezed through here. He mentioned they hooked up.”

“Who is she, Rawn?”

“Excuse me?” Unconsciously, he frowned.

“You're always distracted when you meet someone new.”

“Mama, come on. That's not true.”

Mrs. Poussaint exhaled. She said to her son, “Ask anyone who knows you. Ask your father! Ask Tera or Khalil. What's your good friend's name there—Sicily? Ask her. You get distracted every time you meet someone, even if it's not serious or doesn't lead anywhere.”

Rawn was not going to have this conversation. D'Becca was not someone he needed to discuss with his mother.

“Okay, you're going to do the silent treatment bit with me. I didn't call to dig into your love life, Rawn. I wanted to let you know before your father called so you wouldn't be blindsided.”

“Blindsided about?…”

“He's going to be in Seattle.”

“Where's Daddy now?”

“He's in Portland on a consultation, but he's speaking at a medical convention in Seattle.”

“And when will Daddy be in Seattle?”

“He'll call you. He's probably only going to be there overnight. Although he might stay an extra day if it doesn't rain. He'll want to play golf.”

Rawn took a deep breath. “I assume a round of golf won't kill me,” he said sarcastically.

When he finished talking to his mother, Rawn flicked the channel to the first of two football games he had planned to watch. Second quarter was just starting. At half-time he dashed to Fred Meyer for groceries. By the day's end he was bored and it was not altogether clear to him at the time, but D'Becca's presence had reshaped his life. When she was not in town, there was a palpable void. When exactly did that happen, he wondered.

•  •  •

Rawn met his father at Pier Eleven on a cool and misty Friday evening. They embraced and Stephen Poussaint eagerly began to discuss the conference in the city, and how he wowed Seattle's elite medical community with his powerful speech. He was a man with a demanding presence. When
Lady Sings the Blues
was a hit film, Dr. Poussaint was often told he was a striking resemblance to Billy Dee Williams. He was tall and large, and Rawn's cognac-colored eyes were identical to his father's, except mellower, kinder. Dr. Poussaint was barely a teen when his parents left Port-au-Prince and made their way to America. They settled in New Orleans.

His father gripped his son's forearms like he so often did with Rawn. It was his way of testing any control he might still have had over his son, even now when he was his own man and chose his
own way in life. He said, “Didn't I see you a month or so ago?” With a curious brow, he concluded, “Something has changed.”

Laughing, Rawn said, “Come on, Daddy. I made reservations at Rochelle's.”

Holding each other with manly affection, they walked the pier toward Rawn's parked Jeep.

Rochelle's was a popular cuisine on Crescent Island. It attracted clientele from Seattle, Bellevue, and even as far south as Tacoma. Nestled at the end of an abandoned cobblestone street, the best way to secure a table was by reservations, but even then it was a hit or miss. Regulars typically did not bother to reserve a table. The restaurant was semi-full, and Rawn and his father talked through their meals and were now waiting for Rawn's dessert, the restaurant's popular soufflé, and Dr. Poussaint's double-shot cappuccino. Rawn knew that his father had avoided the conversation about his continuing to work at Gumble-Wesley Academy. For months he tried to talk his son into taking tenure at university. Preferably Stanford; it was Dr. Poussaint's alma mater. But Rawn preferred guiding young minds along the path of knowledge and fresh wisdom.

“So what's Khalil up to?”

“He was here. Did Tera tell you that when she went over to London they had dinner?”

“She said they went clubbing, too.” Dr. Poussaint reached for his glass of sparkling mineral water.

“I take it you missed that article of him in
Savoy?”

“Your mother mentioned something about that. Something to do with his being one of the top twenty-five sports agents in the country. How many black sports agents are there anyway?”

“I have no idea how he managed it. But he's representing Henderson Payne now.”

Dr. Poussaint finished his glass of carbonated water. “I knew he'd land in a spot that would exaggerate his relevance. Khalil has balls but lacks substance. He's so much like his father.”

With downcast eyes, Rawn chuckled merely to appease Dr. Poussaint.

“You know, his old man and I bet…it had to be about ten, twelve years ago, which one of you would marry first.”

“Surely you didn't bet that I'd marry first.”

“Actually, I did. And this was before you and Janelle were engaged. Khalil is…” Dr. Poussaint smirked. “So cocky. You, Rawn, are more… You're like your mother.”

“Is that supposed to be a bad thing? Because your tone suggests that it is.”

“My tone suggests no such thing. That's your problem, Rawn. You analyze too damn much. Get out of your head every now and then.”

Rawn reached for his lemon water and took a long gulp.

“So, who's this young lady you're seeing?”

“What makes you think I'm seeing someone?”

“Your mother, she's the one who believes you're spending time with someone. Of course I told her it was not possible because it wouldn't be like you not to share something like that with me. But the moment I saw you at the pier, I knew.”

“You knew what exactly?”

Dr. Poussaint looked over his shoulder like he was looking for someone. “Where's our waiter? I asked for a cappuccino ten minutes ago. Didn't you order dessert?”

“The soufflé's made to order. It takes about twenty minutes. You should have ordered one. It's good.”

“So where do you think they had to go to get some espresso, Italy? Anyway, I'll take a forkful of yours if you don't mind.”

Only moments later the waiter arrived with Rawn's soufflé and Dr. Poussaint's cappuccino. “Here you go,” he said, and placed the dessert and creamy espresso on the table. Attentive, he refilled Dr. Poussaint's glass with mineral water. “Can I get you anything else?”

“We're fine. Thank you.”

Dr. Poussaint took a good and slow look around the restaurant.

“Bon appétit!” said the waiter.

When the waiter departed their table, Dr. Poussaint said, “We're the only black people in here.” In a condescending tone, he added, “Well, there's a busboy!”

“The last time you were here you liked your meal. I thought…that's why I made reservations to guarantee we got a table.”

“What the hell do you see in Crescent Island?”

Crestfallen, Rawn picked up his fork and started to eat the decadent soufflé.

•  •  •

The mist from the previous evening produced a striking turquoise sky the following morning. While the air was brisk, it was a stunning fall day. Rawn took his father out for breakfast at Café Neuf, and even though he played golf only when he went home for visits, he decided he could manage a round with his father who played as often as his hectic schedule permitted. Rawn and Khalil never took to golf like their fathers. For Rawn, after twelve holes, he was ready to end the day. The sport was such a bore.

Growing up, golf was how Rawn and his father bonded. He was barely seven the first time his father took him to a golf course. He was a caddie for his father and his colleagues one summer, but by age ten, Dr. Poussaint had his son on the practice range. Rawn could never quite connect with golf, but intuitively he understood being on the golf course was where he spent the most intimate
moments with his father. A neurosurgeon, Dr. Poussaint saw little of his children, Rawn and Tera, while they were growing up. Rarely did Rawn see his father at the dinner table or share breakfast with him. It took years to ascertain that it was common for children not to share breakfast and dinner with their father, although the reasons often varied. Were it not for Rawn's bogus interest in golf, he might have spent less time with his father as a boy.