Born at Dawn (24 page)

Cheo bounced through the door of Cynthia's apartment. Cynthia was in the kitchen removing a round pan with pita bread from the stove.

“Zaragoza,” he shouted.

“What?” she queried, resting the pan on the counter in the empty space between her and where Cheo was standing.

“Zaragoza,” Cheo repeated, scooping Cynthia up, spinning her around. “I got it. I got Gotham House.” He kissed her pouty and confused lips. “The largest book publisher in the country has agreed to publish my next book,
A Poor Man's Guide to Spain,
so we're going to Zaragoza.”

“We're going to Zaragoza?”

“Yes, we,” he said, pointing at her and then himself. “Remember when I sent in my proposal? Well, they really liked it, especially the part I included about working with a chef to create a list of the greatest eats at the cheapest prices in Spain and a compilation of recipes from each town that travelers can prepare before or after they leave Spain.”

Cynthia lined the base of the pita with hummus, staring at Cheo in amazement. “I'm still not sure why I have to go with you.”

“First of all, it wasn't even my idea. It was Ron's, my new editor at Gotham House. He wanted to pair me up with a promising world-class chef who wouldn't steal my shine but could add another dimension to the book.”

“Then you volunteered me to travel all the way to Spain with you when I could look these recipes up on the Internet from my office. Cheo, why are you always meddling in my life?”

“I didn't volunteer you. He recommended you. He said, ‘Hey, you're down in Virginia. I hear there's this great restaurant called Sabor down there and the head chef is a lady. This might be perfect. You're both local. We could play up the male and female thing on the promotional tour.' After I'm done, you'll be global.”

Shaking her spoonful of hummus at him, she mocked Cheo. “And I bet you said, ‘No problema,
Papi porque, yo conozco ella.
She'll do it.”

Cheo's cheekbones rose as he laughed at her. “I can recall the days when you struggled to comprehend my Spanglish, and now here you are mocking me with it. I didn't say it
en Espanõl.
I said it in English.” He perused the ingredients on the countertop—lettuce, hummus, and pepper olives. He popped an olive in his mouth, watching Cynthia slice a ham that looked like it had been in a fight with the rotisserie oven and lost.

“I'll admit I did tell them I knew you and that I would speak with you about doing the book. I don't see how that's meddling. Besides, how could I say no when Ron said he was going to make us global?” Cheo said, punctuating his question by waving his hands in the air across his face. “What is this that you're working on?” he asked, pilfering a piece of ham.

“It's a ham gyro salad. I don't know what to call it yet.” She plucked his hand as he reached for another piece. “I've been thinking of changing one the sections to the Greek Isles or something with a Mediterranean feel to it. I'm trying to add more local dishes to the menu or find ways to make substitutions with local products so that I can cut costs. Cheo, I don't want to go global. I'm having a hard enough time trying to manage my local affairs.
En serio,
I wish that you would stop trying to force things on me.”

“What have I forced on you? Nada. This relationship has been cruising at your speed limit from day one. We can't get married for some reason unbeknownst to me, we barely see each other anymore, and now you're telling me we can't do this one project together,” Cheo complained.

“It's not my fault we don't see each other that often. You know we wouldn't have that problem if we were living together, which is a separate issue all together; although I actually might consider that one.”

“I will not compromise my values when every decision you make is purely motivated by your emotions. Come here,” he said with his arms wide open.

Cynthia stepped into his arms and rested her head on his chest.

“Why do I have to force you to visit the beautiful countryside of Zaragoza, run with the bulls in Barcelona, and lounge on the beach in Cadiz with your boyfriend while being paid to do so?
No entiendo.
”

“How could you not understand, Che? I have my own work to do here. What exactly is it that you suggest I do about the restaurant while I'm off globetrotting with you?”

“Listen,
allí venga un tiempo cuando cada madre tenga que dejar a su nino solo.
”

Cynthia broke away from Cheo's grasp and strutted into the living room. “I don't have time for any Spanish parables today, Cheo,” she said, looking at the clock that hung on the wall.

“I said, there comes a time when every mother must leave their child alone.”

“Excuse me,” she said in an elevated pitch. He'd struck more than a nerve with that statement.

“This is ridiculous. You've been hands on from day one. What do you have a restaurant manager for if you can't leave her there alone to manage the restaurant?”

Cheo was right. Not one day had passed in the three years since the opening of Sabor that Cynthia did not come in. Cynthia had purchased the same loft-style kind of space as her mentor Chef Sullivan had with office space on the second floor. The only difference was she didn't use the whole second floor as an office. She put a partition up in the middle of the floor and turned the excess space into a makeshift bedroom for her late nights and early mornings at the restaurant. Even though she didn't have a breakfast menu, Cynthia still found herself up early doing cooking demos with the women from the Broad Street Domestic Violence shelter and conducting tastings for married couples interested in having their wedding catered by Sabor.

The only reason she was home today was because of Erica, her restaurant manager whom Cynthia trusted to handle the lunch crowd. The reins didn't completely transfer hands. Cynthia still came in for the dinner shift. Erica was punctual, pleasant, and possessed a sensitive palette that assure Cynthia that she would see to it that every meal was prepared as close to perfection as humanly possible.

“Cynthia, every mother has to leave her child alone some time.”

Her signature pout began to surface. Her heart felt heavy in her chest, her skin tightened around her bones. Cynthia rolled her eyes searching for the faces of her sons that were once etched into the folds of her eyelids. So many years had passed since she'd last seen them smile. A missing tooth was revealed through the parting of James's thick lips and Keith's strong smile was only a preview of the fine man she knew he'd grown up to be. That's how they looked when she'd last seen them six years ago hopping off the bus after school, jumping over cracks in the sidewalk, leaping into her arms.

Cynthia tried to imagine them now. In her mind's eye, fifteen-year-old James was thin and knock-kneed with his chest puffed out, and Keith, nearly a man at eighteen, had a sparse goatee, long legs, thick bark-like lips, and sparkling eyes.

A stream of tears fell from her eyes. She sucked back the saliva that filled her mouth. Cheo extended his arm to draw her to him. She shuddered in his hands. It had been so long since she unleashed the memory of the children she left behind to experience the life she wanted. She shrank back until she rested on the door of her deck.

Cheo inched closer to her. He scraped the tears from Cynthia's cheeks with his thumbs and smiled at her. “I feel like we're at the beginning again. Why are you so afraid? I don't want to hurt you.
Mi amor,
I love you.
Vamos,
let's go to Spain.”

The more she thought about it, she had to admit that a trip to Spain sounded divine, but she couldn't relinquish any more control of her life to Cheo. He was responsible for finding her first job in Richmond; he was basically the progenitor of Sabor and her entire career in food. Nor could she risk going global and being exposed for who she really was. A few photos in the
Richmond Times
weren't likely to make it up to the small corner in Harlem that her family occupied. Being featured on bookshelves nationwide was way too risky.

“Don't do this to me now,” she said, freeing herself from his grip. She walked toward the door. “Cheo, I think you should leave now.”

“No, let's talk. I mean this Spain thing isn't that serious. You don't have to do it. I'll call Ron and tell him you respectfully declined. But we still need to talk because I'm tired of this. You can't keep flaring up every time I propose something.”

“Then stop making propositions. Don't give me any more unsolicited suggestions. Don't tell me any more of your ideas. Technically, we're business partners since you won't accept my money, so we are working together.”

“I don't want your money,” Cheo said lovingly.

“You have the keys to my apartment. What more do you want?”

“
Que desea usted, el silencio? Yo no dire cualquier nada a usted ni le preguntaré nada.
Okay?”

“English,” she shouted rapidly clapping her hands. “English. Cheo, speak English, for the love of God. How are we supposed to have a discussion and you keep on flipping back and forth?”

“Suave. You are smooth. Ummm, you're trying to put the responsibility of conducting the discussion on me to make it appear as though I am the source of the problem. How are we supposed to talk when you do this all the time,
todo a la tiempo?
I can't take this, Cynthia. I'm tired of living in dysfunction.”

“Then get out. Get out of here.” She motioned toward the door.

“Babe, I have a key to this place. I am going to walk out and come right back in again. I hope you'll be prepared to hash this out when I come back.”

Cynthia smirked at him. “Since today is Share Ideas Day I have an idea, Cheo. How does this sound? I'll go, you stay here. Make sure you get nice and comfy, and I'll come back when I'm ready.” She grabbed her trench coat from the closet near the door and fled the apartment before Cheo could pronounce another syllable. She ran down the stairs, her sweaty palms barely able to grasp the metal handrail. She tripped down the last flight of steps, falling through the door that led to the garage.

Cynthia trotted to her car as quickly as possible. Snapping the door open, she climbed in and adjusted the mirrors after sticking the key in the ignition. The engine stalled on her. Her hands shook with each hard turn of the key. It felt like now was the time for truth. She looked at herself through the rearview mirror. She could see his eyes as she practiced the words, “I'm already married. I'm already married. That's why I can't give you the things you want.”

Cynthia could hear Cheo's voice calling out to her. Then she spotted him in her rearview mirror. Opting out of confessing her sin, she gave the key another twist, pressed down on the accelerator, and sped past him.

Even the afternoon in Richmond was too quiet for Cynthia. The population growth she'd seen in the six years she'd been there had not created the level of noise necessary for her to escape the sounds going on in her head. Right now she needed a New York–style distraction: someone using a jackhammer to rip the sidewalk open, two fire trucks passing in the lane beside her, one ambulance and a police car behind her that suddenly turned on the siren when the light turned green.

Accepting the fact that she wasn't going to get one, she settled for a substitute that served her just as well: Starbucks. Cynthia drove to the Starbucks on North Eighth Street.

“I need a venti house blend, and I'll take these as well.” She flashed a copy of the
Richmond Sun
and a package of French coffee pastries at the girl behind the counter.

She took a seat near the back of the store where the lights were dim and the choice of seats limited, reducing the possibility of her having to share her space with anyone else or converse with them like a polite Virginian would do. She hugged the paper to her chest. Reading the daily news always served as a wonderful intermission from her life and left Cynthia grateful when she saw the devastation and tragedy that wreaked havoc on the lives of others. She was then able to look at her simple problems from a fresh perspective.

Scanning the headlines for the most interesting place to start, her eyes locked on a headline about New York,
SHOOTINGDEATHOFHARLEMTEENLEADSTOMARTIALLAWINTHE CITY, SEE PAGE
A
10
FOR THE FULL STORY.
That poor mother, Cynthia thought, scrambling to get to page that contained the full story. A disheartening photo of Lucky's bar with a teens out front lighting candles and crying on one another's shoulders was above the headline.

Cynthia's mouth hung agape.
There must be another eighteen
-
year
-
old Keith Barclay in Harlem.
She continued reading.

Cynthia read Marvin's name five times before she could continue reading.

Fat tears drenched the copy of the
Richmond Sun
that Cynthia held in her hand as she recalled the details of her elder son's birth.

He was complicated; he went in the breach position three times, flipping upside down immediately after being turned each time. It took thirty
-
two hours of labor to get him out. He was certainly his father's son. He was in no hurry to do what you wanted him to do. The doctors demanded to take him out, but I refused, saying, “He'll make it out all right.”

“He'll make it out all right” was the same thought that had enabled her to leave him alone for so long.

The drive to Richmond International Airport wasn't as quiet as her drive to Starbucks. Cheo called her at least twenty times. With each ring, she pressed the decline button on the screen, deferring him to her voicemail. She wasn't quite sure how to explain to him that her eighteen-year-old son was dead.

The twenty-first time the phone rang, she answered it. “Where are you?” Cheo asked. “Erica has been calling me trying to reach you, and I've been trying to reach you for her. Is everything all right?”

“I'm at the airport.”

“What are you doing at the airport?”

A heavy silence filled the air until the words filled her mouth.

“I'm going to New York. I just found out there's been a death in the family and I have to go,” Cynthia explained, her voice cracking as she tried not to break down.

“Oh my God, babe. Are you okay? What time is your flight? I feel so bad now giving you such a hard time and then this. I'm on my way to the airport now. What terminal are you at?”

“No,” she screamed into the phone. She cleared her throat. “I mean no, thank you, Cheo. It would really be best if I do this on my own. It's been a long time since I've been home, and this is a real tragedy.” The waterworks started again and she couldn't pull the plug.

“I've never heard you sound like this before. Are you sure you can make it alone?”

“Oh, Cheo, I'm so sorry.” Cynthia continued to cry. “I'm sorry about everything.”

“Calm down, my love. Don't worry about it. Call me as soon as you get to New York. I love you.”

“I love you too, bye.”

Cynthia wanted to lie down on the ground of the airport to be trampled on by the travelers. Her son, her firstborn, was dead. Cheo was right again. She could not handle this alone. Cynthia choked on her tears and made her way to the check-in area.

“I need a flight to New York,” Cynthia demanded from the woman behind the checkout counter at American Airlines.

“What day would like to leave? What time would like to depart? Which airport would you like to land at? Would you—”

“My son has been shot, lady. I don't care where the flight lands as long as it's taking off now. I don't care what you have to do, just get me on a flight,” she shouted, slapping the counter. “Now.”

While the customer service agent began searching for flight information, Cynthia withdrew her cell phone and called up Chef Sullivan for some assistance.

“Chef Sullivan, I need your help,” Cynthia said as soon as he answered the phone.

“Well, hello to you too, Cynthia. I haven't heard from you in so long and that's how you greet me, your mentor.”

Cynthia could imagine the bewildered look on Chef Sullivan's face as he quipped with his hand pressed against his chest. She missed his flair for dramatics.

“Chef, I'm sorry. I promise you I'll make it up to you. I really need your help on this one.”

“How serious it on a scale of bad review to health department shutdown?” he joked.

“Chef Sullivan, there's been a death in my family back in New York and I have to go right now. Can you oversee Sabor this weekend? I mean I love Erica, but she's never been alone for a whole day let alone the weekend”

“This weekend? I'm hosting a party at the restaurant today, a wedding tomorrow, and a business brunch on Sunday. I would really love to help you, Cynthia.” He snapped his fingers. “Susan. She's supposed to help me, but I'll send her to Sabor. She knows her way around the place.”

“Yes, I know Susan would do just fine. Oh thank you, Chef Sullivan. We'll get together as soon as this is all over.”

“Listen, Cynthia, death can be scary and it can be sobering. Here's something I learned after my wife passed: death isn't just a time to mourn a loss. It's a time to gather all the leftovers and fragments of your life together. It's a time for you to recognize what you've done wrong all this time, face it head-on, and get it right before you're gone.”

“Chef Sullivan, I will try to do just that.”

Cynthia thanked Chef Sullivan then put in a call to Sabor to let Erica know Susan would be there in her stead overseeing things that weekend. With Sabor safe and secure she directed her attention to procuring a ticket to New York to see about the sons she'd left unguarded.