Born at Dawn (13 page)

Hard work became Keith's best friend. Every morning he rose and got breakfast started. After the first month without his mother he chucked her rule about touching the stove. It was time he figured out how to work it without burning down the house.

He wanted to create a sense of normalcy for James who was growing stranger by the day. His words had become fewer and fewer with each day that Cynthia was gone. Every day at school some teacher or counselor tried to get one of them to talk about what life was like at home. James remained tight lipped to keep himself out of trouble. Keith kept quiet out of a warped sense of allegiance to his father who was now playing the victim and because he'd developed an attitude of contempt toward the authorities in the school.

He'd heard the whispers when he walked by the teachers' lounge. “The man must be a monster if she left the kids behind.”

“A woman does not just up and leave her kids. Something else is going on.”

Marvin told the boys the buzz would die down quickly; however, it just never went away. Keith knew the concern they expressed was just a cover-up to satisfy their longing for information.

With thoughts of James' struggles on his mind and his own desire for his mother to return Keith kneeled down to start his day with a prayer. Before he could recede into the comforts of talking to the Father the telephone interrupted Keith's daily morning prayer for peace, video games, and his mother, not always in that order.

“Hello.” The only response Keith got was some honking in the background and the repetition of shallow breaths.

“He's not speaking anymore, James. He doesn't talk. Ever since you left, he's stopped talking. I think he's trying to save all of his words for you. I told him he needs to practice speaking so he won't forget by the time you get here. Grandma says he's got a mute spirit. She's been fasting. Mama, when are you coming home? It's not getting easier around here. Daddy's hanging in there. He doesn't hit us or nothing like that, except for this one time, but we worked that out. Why can't y'all work it out? I'm sorry, I know I'm not supposed to be in grown folks' business, but . . . but I think this is my business too. Why can't y'all just work it out?” he pleaded.

The dial tone told Keith they couldn't, at least not today; but her call was clearly a sign God could hear his prayers. He decided he would add his parents getting back together to his list. The past four months had turned him into a man-child. He prayed, cooked, washed clothes, and sometimes played.

Keith looked around at the mess waiting for him that Saturday morning while Marvin snored away another hangover on the couch. He tugged at his white T-shirt and looked up to the ceiling.
In the meantime, Lord, could you send another one of Daddy's girlfriends this way? I can't handle this mess today.

 

 

Cheo stepped off the elevator and followed the scent of Adobo to apartment sixty-three. He knocked on Cynthia's door before even going to his; he had to be sure that aroma of heaven was escaping from her place.

She greeted Cheo with a warm smile. Her hair sat on top of her head in a messy bun held together by a purple sash. “Cheo, I was just getting ready to ring your bell.”

“You were? For what?”

“I wanted to find out whether you'd gotten in from the airport, and if so I was going to ask you to join me for dinner.” She stuck her neck out and asked, “Well, do you want to join me?”

“I just came—”

“I'm having Spanish food,” she sang, daring him to say no.

“
Por supuesto,
” Cheo said, parting his lips to reveal his choirboy smile.

Cynthia laughed. “I may be from New York, and we may have known each other four months now, but I just managed to figure out that
viejo
means old. Come again,
por
what?”

“I'm going to buy Rosetta Stone for Christmas.” Cheo chuckled. “
Por supuesto
means of course I will join you,
mamí.
”

“The food is almost ready. Leave your bags by the door. Have a seat on the deck.”

Cheo took a seat on the deck in the forest green chairs that had been there when they moved in. Cynthia trotted out carrying a bottle of sparkling apple cider, candles, and two champagne glasses. Cheo stared at the sky, sucking in deep breaths of the crisp air laced with the smell of yellow rice.

He tried to figure out what Spanish restaurant Cynthia ordered the food from. In the two years that had passed since his mother died he was unable to find a Spanish restaurant in Richmond whose food filled the air with an aroma that spoke directly to his belly, crying out “come and get me” like his mother's food did.

“
Ay, mi madre.
” He sighed up to the sky.

Cynthia used her foot to ease open the sliding door of the deck. In her right hand she held a platter of yellow rice and beans that she plated to look like a volcano erupting. The rice rose into the shape of a mountain in the center of the plate and the red kidney beans oozed out the top and down the side of the mountain like lava. In her left hand she held a plate of rectangles covered in brown paper bags sealed with white and red string. Cheo began to salivate at the sight of the small bricks of meat. He rubbed his hands together as he watched the steam rise. He couldn't wait to pluck the strings off the
pastelles
and devour them.

Cynthia placed a plate in front of him, and he noticed her orange-stained fingertips. At that moment Cheo realized this food did not come from some restaurant but from her kitchen and her heart.

“Don't start without me,” she ordered him, licking her lips and adjusting the strap of her white camisole. She trotted back into the apartment to let her hair down and grab some matches for the candles. Cheo couldn't resist the temptation before him. He scooped up a spoonful of rice and funneled it into his mouth. The rice rolled around on his tongue. He eked out a partial smile because his mouth was full as she stepped through the door with her burgundy hair sweeping her shoulders. Like her, the food was full of flavor and love.

Cooking became a game between the two. It was an acceptable form of intimacy that didn't push Cynthia across the borderline into adultery. The more time they spent together, the larger her desire for Cheo became. He was everything she had never had: doting, daring, an artsy intellectual who didn't have to use force to assert his masculinity, and he was
fine.
Thoughts of Marvin sat on the backburner of her mind. Cheo was everything she wanted Marvin to be.

“You know what I could really go for right now,” Cheo shouted to Cynthia from the living room.

“What?” Cynthia stuck her head out of the kitchen door. Her eyebrows arched into a furrow. “Whatever it is, I hope it doesn't involve us lying on the floor to eat.”

Cheo folded his hands behind his head and relaxed into the olive carpet. He focused on the blades of the ceiling fan as he formulated his answer: “Jerk chicken.”

In the past year Cheo had flown all over the Caribbean, and jerk chicken was the first of Cheo's exotic requests when he returned from a trip to Jamaica. Their meals started out as simple classic Puerto Rican dinners like
pernil
with rice and beans or fried beef steak. Cynthia surprised him each and every time with lavish lime-infused
chuletas, carne guisado
with artichoke hearts, and even fresh flan. Cheo amped up his requests after she mastered most of the Puerto Rican dishes he requested.

“Jerk chicken?”

“Oh yeah. It's this spicy smoked chicken they—”

“I know what jerk chicken is,” Cynthia said, emerging from the kitchen, a knife in one hand and a shallot in the other.

“Have you ever tasted it? It is delicious, especially from the side of the road. After a week of being home, I can still taste it.”

“Well, I can't possibly make that for lunch.”

“Huh?” Cheo gasped for breath.

“What is it?”

“I can't make lunch either.” Cheo jumped up from the floor and dusted off his pants. “I have to turn my story in to the paper.”

“Are they finally letting you write?”

“Yes, I finally convinced Bradley if I can write a book and take the photos for it, I can take photos and write newspaper articles as well. If I don't get it on his desk by five, I'll never get a shot like this again.” Cheo planted a kiss on her cheek. “
Cena?
”

“Dinner?” she asked. Cheo gave her a thumbs-up. “Yes.”

As soon as Cheo walked out of the door, Cynthia was on her laptop searching for a recipe for jerk chicken and where she could go to get the ingredients. She had to travel to four different stores and buy a small tabletop grill she could use on her deck to make Cheo's request. Cynthia delighted in the pursuit, preparation, and the product. All of the running, sweating, trimming, and stuffing stirred up feelings and memories of her youth.

Tears fell from her eyes as she chopped the small yellow Jamaican peppers for the jerk rub. Cynthia thought of the lavish dinner parties her mother used to throw.

Of course, that was before Mildred met Jesus and Cynthia met Marvin. In the middle of her nostalgic reverie, Cynthia paused to ask the Lord a question that had been troubling her for so long.
Lord, if you could deliver my mama from cigarettes and partying, why couldn't you deliver me from Marvin?
Cynthia waited for a response from Him and as usual she got the same reply: silence. Immediately she returned to her jerk rub.

Preparing meals for Cheo roused mostly positive feelings in Cynthia. It even elicited some creativity that Cynthia never even knew she possessed. The creative control she had over each meal and the atmosphere was a relief from the ennui that had taken over her life since she began temping. Typing e-mails and transferring calls was typically how she spent her day.

She sifted through departmental mail, fought off flirtatious bosses who tried to use permanent positions as bait for a date, and pretended to be amused during customary lunch with the other temps on the job. Lunch consisted of tales about their languid baby daddies or trifling ex-husbands who had snuffed out their dreams of the white picket fences by leaving them for the other woman. Cynthia adjourned each lunch psych session by saying, “At least he never beat you.”

Thinking about past memories and regrets always ate up the time. Before Cynthia knew it Cheo was standing outside her door knocking on it and tapping his toes to the rhythm of Bob Marley's “Three Little Birds.”

“Come in, mon,” Cynthia shouted over the music.

Cheo entered the apartment. Cynthia had transformed it into another world. Not only had she managed to make jerk chicken with fried plantains, and rice and black beans, she'd also adorned the walls with paper palm trees, a path of rocks led to the deck, and Bob Marley's rich voice filled the air. Cynthia wasn't sure what drove her to such great lengths when it came to preparing meals for Cheo. What began as a small gesture of appreciation had turned into elaborate feasts. She blamed it on his thick eyebrows, the curl of his long, tender eyelashes, and the furtive glances he shot at her across the table during the meals.

Cynthia smiled on the inside as Cheo began to salivate at the sight the plate of mango and avocado salad topped with crushed coconuts in the middle of two plates of rice and beans, jerk chicken, and plantains garnished with cabbage leaves she carried in her hand.

“De food is ready, mon. Go sit down.” Cynthia raised her chin in the direction of the deck.

Cheo stared at her as she walked toward him carrying two coconuts. She'd tried her best to make herself up like an island princess. Cynthia planted a purple orchid in her hair, gold dust shimmered on her shoulders, and her lips were covered in a peachy gloss.

Her hope was that her talent and dedication captivated him. She'd taken him up on his challenge and not only proved her skills in the kitchen, but she demonstrated an understanding of presentation.

“Tek a seat,” she urged him in her faux accent. “Dis is de wickedest jerk chicken you go find in dis parish.” She handed him a coconut filled to the brim with coconut water.

Cheo smiled, sliding the door to the deck open. He followed her onto the deck. They sat down and ate, drank, and laughed in the glow of dusk that settled around them.

“This wouldn't be a real Jamaican experience without some dubbing on the dance floor.” Cheo stood with his hand extended, waiting for Cynthia to grab on when the beat to another Bob Marley classic, “Turn Your Lights Down Low,” dropped. With mixed emotions, Cynthia eased out of her chair and into his arms. She embraced him with her whole body.

Her heart raced and her head pounded as she considered how quickly and tragically this would end if Cheo knew about Marvin and boys. Tonight definitely had to be their last rendezvous she reckoned before things got complicated. Although Cynthia didn't think she was entirely responsible for her attraction to Cheo. After all it was the Lord who'd made Cheo so majestic.

Cheo squeezed her tightly in his arms. Reminding her that no man not even her father had cared enough to embrace her like that.

“I've waited so long for this,” Cheo whispered into her ear.

“Me too,” she replied as Cheo leaned into her. They swayed in time to the music with their lips locked.

Resting her head on Cheo's chest after separating, Cynthia wondered how much longer he could wait for her.

Cynthia still needed fresh air to start her day, even on this warm, sticky morning. She opened her teakwood blinds and opened the door to the deck. There was a knock on the door. Instinctively she knew it was Cheo. Without asking who it was or looking through the peephole, she let him in.

Her evening with Cheo had revived her. Cynthia felt like a honeysuckle whose petals had just been sprinkled with morning dew. Humming “No Woman, No Cry,” she trod across the rug into the kitchen. Cynthia put on a pot of coffee and washed the remainder of the dishes from last night's dinner. The aroma of Bustelo and Cynthia's soft purr drew Cheo into the kitchen. He stood behind her, placing his thick hands on her hips, bending down to kiss her on the top of her head. He sniffed the orchid that was still planted in her hair, a remnant of last night's bashment.

“Good morning,
mamí.
” Cheo snatched an apple out of the fruit basket on the counter. When he bit into it, Cynthia's lips curled up in disgust with a little grunt.

“
Que?
” He shrugged. “I drank the water in Mexico, and I've been eating your cooking. I believe I will survive.” Cynthia splashed the soapy water at him.

“I'm joking. I love your food, as a matter of fact,
yo tengo hambre.
”

Cynthia glanced at him. “Just keep it local.” It may have taken a few months but she knew that phrase meant he was hungry. “Toast, eggs, oatmeal,
tu sabe?
”

“Okay, babe. I'll be out on the deck.”

Cynthia met him on the deck with a platter of toast, egg whites, bacon, and a cup of Bustelo with the steam rising from it.

“
Gracias, mi amor.
” Cynthia bowed her head and headed back into the apartment.

“Cynthia,” he called to her like she'd gone far away, “aren't you going to eat breakfast with me?”

“Yes. I just need to go get the blender. I made an apple, mango, banana smoothie.”

“That can wait. Have a seat.” He patted his leg for her to sit on his lap. “Puhlease. I want to talk to you about something, something serious.”

She trembled as he uttered those words, “I want to talk to you.” She wasn't prepared for this moment, not yet.

“Cheo, I want to talk to you about something too. I need to tell you something that has been on my mind for a while.”

Cheo stood and placed a single finger over her lips. “May I go first?”

Cynthia nodded.

“Have you ever considered going to a culinary arts school?”

“
Que?
”

“Have you ever thought about going to a culinary arts school; you know, to learn how to become a chef?”

Cynthia laughed hard and loud. “Culinary school . . .” She'd given up on the idea of using school as a means to fulfill her dreams. She'd gotten a bachelor's degree in psychology because she thought it was the easiest way to satisfy her mother's dream of raising a doctor without having to work on a cadaver. The idea of dealing with blood and any type of human secretions mortified her. The thought of letting her mother down was even scarier, so she clawed her way through college only to discover she still had several years to go before she was even close to hearing someone refer to her as “Dr. Hathaway.” She never followed up because Marvin was supposed to have her living in the lap of luxury after he opened his string of custom detailing garages.

“I'm too old to go back to school.”

“You consider thirty-four to be too old? Are you kidding? You're never too old. Don't you want to become a chef? You light up like Tokyo at night when you're in that kitchen, and the food you cook is so delicious.” Cheo put his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. “I mean you put a lot into the preparation and presentation of these meals.'

“So?” She shrugged.

“So, you mean to tell me you've never considered it? The thought never crossed your mind?”

“Yeah, I considered it. Yeah, it crossed my mind, and like a stray cat crossing my path, I let it keep on walking. At thirty-four, the one thing I do think about often is time, and I don't have much of it to waste. Cooking school costs money that I don't have.”

“
Mamí,
I know somebody at the Culinary Arts Institute, and I told him about your gifts. He can get you into the school, or at least a job.”

“A job? I have a job already.”

“You're a temp,” Cheo said, shaking his head. “That's not a job.”

“You know what? I know it's not as glamorous as being a photojournalist for the
Richmond Sun,
but it pays the bills, and it certainly keeps your belly full, Mr. Rivera.” She hissed slapping him in the midsection.

Cynthia walked away from Cheo to her bedroom. She wished the apartment wasn't covered in wall-to-wall carpeting so she could stomp down the hall. Cheo's criticism of her life hurt her to her core. Cynthia didn't really enjoy temping, especially at the rate Mitch contracted her. Cheo's offer managed to disgruntle her simply because he was trying to tell her what to do. “Take a deep breath. Don't get all crazy; just cut your losses now,” Cynthia told herself before walking out of her bedroom.

When she opened the door, Cheo was leaning against the wall near the bathroom with his hands stuffed into his faded blue denim jeans with his bottom lip turned down, looking like he had just lost his puppy. Cynthia brushed past him into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. He walked up behind her, his shadow encapsulating her.

He gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “Listen, Cynthia.”

She spun around and shouted, “No, you listen, Cheo. I don't need you coming in here telling me who I should be and what I need to do. I already lived that life, and I'm not going back to it.” She folded her arms across her chest and dared him to say another word.

“Cynthia,
calmate.
Bring it down a notch,” Cheo said subtly. “You're blowing this whole thing out of the water. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. I just thought—”

“Cheo, I don't need you to think for me,” she screamed, pointing a finger in Cheo's face.

“This discussion could go on forever, back and forth. My friend's name is James Sullivan, and he's the owner of Sullivan's Eatery. I'm going to leave his card on the table. Call him, don't call him, it's your choice. I was just trying to be helpful and cut you a break.”

“I don't need you to cut me a break,” Cynthia snapped at him, sucking her teeth. “Who do you think you are, God or something?” She gave him a full neck roll.

Cheo waved his hands in the air. “Ya, ya. That's it.
Salgo porqué tu estas loca.
” Cheo twirled his fingers at the sides of her head, making the international sign for crazy. Cheo turned his back to her and walked to the door. “
Cuando tu siente major, lláme.
”

“
Lla
what? You better not be talking about my mama.”

He cracked the door and poked his head in and translated for her. “I said, when you feel better, give me call.”

With that final word, the door slammed behind him. Hot tears streaked her chocolate skin. This wasn't supposed to end like this. Cynthia dragged herself down the hall and entered the bathroom. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror while removing her clothes. She stepped into the shower, turned on the water, and closed her eyes as the water fell on her head. She didn't plan on their discussion going around that corner.

Cynthia wanted to throw Cheo out, not have him walk out on her. Marvin used to walk out on her in the middle of their fights when he had enough of her shrieking. Every single time she planned on keeping her cool, being the bigger person, and walking out of the room, Marvin always managed to push her to her breaking point then walk away.

After traveling 335 miles, desperately trying to free herself from Marvin's grip on her pulse, here he was interrupting her life. It didn't help that Cheo's “let's talk” discussion was about the quality of her life rather than the discussion she'd imagined in her head about fidelity and the seriousness of their budding romance. Cynthia envisioned Cheo whispering the words “I love you” in her ear as she sat in his lap. Although she had every intention of rejecting his advances for the sake of her kids and not wanting to be confined by another man, it hurt her heart to know that after all she had done for him, all he could think about was putting her to work.

Still she had to admit his idea sounded like a good one; however, she wouldn't be making that confession today.