Born at Dawn (25 page)

Marvin turned off all the lights and blasted “It's a Man's Man's Man's World” at full volume. On the days that Keith and Marvin found that life was winning the wrestling match and their backs were on the canvas, they dimmed the lights and listened to James Brown. There was something about the character of his voice that assured them he had been where they were, and it was possible to get up from the lowly state they'd fallen to.

With his hands folded in his lap, he thought about his boy.
I used to hold him with these hands, slap box with these hands.
Marvin couldn't resist taking a drink any longer. He took a sip of Johnnie Walker Black, which numbed the pang of grief tied up in his chest like Novocain did for a toothache. His head was full of questions and the police didn't have a single answer for any of his questions.

He still had a few hours to spare before James got home from his game.
He won't take this well. How can I even explain this? I can't explain this.
He placed a wet rag on his forehead, hoping it would alleviate the throbbing. Marvin was so glad that the basketball tournament James was participating in was out of the city. He was also grateful for the coach who'd worked with Marvin to keep the bad news at bay by seizing the team's electronic devices, so they could focus on the game.

Marvin pulled himself up from the chair and went into cleaning mode, collecting the empty beer and liquor bottles from the floor. Even he was astonished at the amount of beers he'd put back since in the last two days since Keith's murder.

A light rap on the door interrupted Marvin as he took stock of the room, searching for anything else that was out of place.

“I'm not doing interviews for the forty-fifth time, and if you have a care package, please just leave it at the door. I appreciate your generosity, but I just can't deal with anyone right now.”

“Marvin, it's me.”

Oh dear God, now I'm losing it. Please, Lord, I can't go crazy now. I know I should have looked after them boys better. Forgive me,
he begged God at the sound of that soft purr he hadn't heard in years, thinking he was hallucinating.

She pounded on the door again.

“Who is it?”

“Cynthia.”

Marvin did not believe it could be her after all of this time. He figured it was the Johnnie Walker Black trying to have a conversation with him. Just to be sure he wasn't losing it or drunk beyond belief, he opened the door.

It was her. Even with two bulbs out in the hallway, he recognized her in all her splendor. She looked exactly as she did when she left, gorgeous. He loved that messy ponytail look and the side-swept bang added an air of mystery to her face. Her sultry lips were covered in bright red gloss that caused his mouth to water. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to reach out to grab the belt of her trench coat, draw her into him, and swallow her. Her skin glowed, and she had the whole hallway smelling like wildflowers.

“Marvin, are you all right?” The question reverberated in his brain as he checked her out.
Down, boy,
he spoke to the beast inside of him that wanted to shake her.

“Marvin, are you all right?” she repeated. “Aren't you going to let me in?”

Marvin let go of the doorknob. The door slammed in Cynthia's face. In the past, he would have dragged her in the apartment by that wispy ponytail and pounded on her until she begged him for forgiveness or until she cried for him to stop hurting her and love her. A part of him did want to do that, but he was too full of sorrow to even acknowledge his anger.

Feverishly, Cynthia pounded on the door.

“Marvin, you are not the only one who has changed,” she hollered through the door, acknowledging the fact he had dismissed her so peacefully. “I am not moving until you let me in.”

“I'm not going to. Why don't you crawl back under the rock you came from?”

“I'll stand here until you let me in or come out. And when you do come out, because you have to, I'm going to follow you everywhere you go. Have your pick. As a matter of fact, I'm going to camp out right in front of the door.”

“Why are you here anyhow?” he growled through the door.

“Our son is—”

“Our son? Our son?” Marvin huffed as he swung the door open. “He ain't your son anymore. You've been gone what eight, nine years?”

“Six years.”

“I know how to count. I know one thing: only one of us has lost a son. Only one of us has been here. I lost a son.” He beat on his chest. “We lost you a long time ago.” He walked back into the apartment.

He flicked the light on in the foyer and left the door open, hoping she would follow him in. He couldn't bring himself to invite her in, but he didn't want her to go either. Cynthia crossed the threshold, scrunching up her nose. Marvin knew she was taken aback by what she saw. One, her beautiful apartment was a mess; two, he hadn't changed a thing. Her cranberry curtains still hung from their rods. They were a tad bit faded from sunlight.

Her cherry wood armoire was in the living room and now served as a resting place for his ashtray and a display table for a series of trophies. She ran her fingers along each one, reading the placards: honor roll, basketball, science. A few of them bore Keith's name but the lion's share of them were James'.

Marvin positioned himself near the dining room table, far enough away from her that if the urge to slap her rose up again she could get away. He didn't want to hurt her anymore. Marvin studied his wife as she surveyed the apartment. Her skin glowed because of the glare the moonlight cast into the apartment. Her white button-down shirt hugged the curves of her torso. It was unbuttoned enough for him to get a glimpse of what he had been missing. Her waistline was still small in comparison to his. God, he used to love those hips, those dancing hips. They had their own rhythm and attracted every man in her vicinity to her, but she always walked away with him.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” She looked into his eyes. They had not lost their depth nor hypnotic power, she thought. The somber look that covered his face drew her in.
Man, he plays the wounded cub routine well.
She wanted to hold him
.
She counted down from five and counted up, trying to count out the old feelings, longing, and magnetism that were surging through her body. Yes, he was her husband, but if this were a Lifetime movie, the info box would describe Marvin as her estranged husband.

Cynthia swallowed him with her eyes. In the dim light of the hallway she could not see just how much he had changed. The hairs around his temple had grayed and so did his goatee. The richness of his brick-colored skin was reduced to the color of the red dust on the side of the road.

“Please close the door.”

Cynthia closed the door, stripped out of her trench coat, and stood behind a chair at the dining room table across from Marvin.

Under Marvin's constant scrutiny, Cynthia began to feel uncomfortable. She excused herself to get a drink of water.

“Make yourself at home,” Marvin said. The sarcasm in his voice was strong enough to cut glass. The mess that greeted her there scared her. The sink was filled to capacity and grease lined the stovetop. In order to obtain a cup she was going to have to fight through the piles of pots, pans, and plates.

She scrubbed a plate diligently and methodically in a counterclockwise motion to create enough friction to motivate day-old food to go down the drain the way the busboys taught her when she worked at Sullivan's Eatery. The reason for her impromptu visit had almost gotten lost in the soapsuds until she came across a mug with a picture of some girl kissing Keith on the cheek. Her arms were wrapped around his neck with her lips pressed against his chocolate cheek.

“What happened to him?”

She walked into the dining room and found Marvin's sinewy frame standing at the window.

“I don't know, Cyn.”

“What do you mean, you don't know?” she asked grilling him. “It isn't like he scraped his knee or bumped his head. He's dead.”

“I know. Do you think it's been easy for me raising two kids—two teenage boys at that—all by myself? I have to work night and day just to keep food in their mouth and shoes on their feet.” He turned to face her. “I don't know why you care anyway. He stopped caring about you a long time ago. That's probably what got him killed. They say it's gang related, but I know it's chick related. That boy has a bad habit of chasing broads looking for you.”

Marvin returned to his post at the window as if keeping watch was going to bring back the dead.

Before she could stop herself, she was standing behind the man she once loved stroking his sinewy arms. “And what about you, Marv? Did you stop caring about me or have you been looking for me?” Her voice was heavy with seduction as her fingers massaged his skin.

“I don't know, Cyn.” He shook his head. “I just don't know how I feel. I mean my son is dead and now you're here.”

“Our son is dead.”

“That he is, and what did you expect to get by coming here? Did you think you could get your conscience cleansed and your back blown out in one weekend?”

“I don't know what I expected, Marvin. All I do know is our son is dead and something inside of me said that we should be together, that I should be here now. You can pretend all you want that I'm not welcomed here, but you didn't change anything in the apartment. You kept all of my stuff, including the armoire, and I know how much you hate that thing.”

Marvin glanced over his shoulder at the armoire and broke into a fit of laughter. It was a wedding present from Mildred. It was bulky and ugly. Mildred said it was an heirloom passed down from generation to generation in her family. Often Marvin had joked that the truth was Mildred only used the wedding as an excuse to finally get rid of that old, ugly thing.

“Marvin, what's so funny?”

“You know, I tried to get rid of it. Even Bridget hates that thing. By the time I dragged it out the room, I was in so much pain that I was crying real tears, so I just left it out here.”

Cynthia cleared her throat, swallowed hard, and rolled up her sleeves. Her stomach tightened. Her throat felt as if it were closing. She tried to clear it again. She knew Marvin had other women. This was the first time she'd ever heard him say one of their names.

“Are you okay?” Marvin asked.

“Is Bridget your girlfriend?”

Marvin whipped around to face Cynthia. “You ain't been here in a long time. I don't think you have the right to start asking a whole lot of personal questions.”

His omission was an admission in Cynthia's book and more than enough for her to figure out where she stood. Silently, she walked to the couch and pushed one arm through the sleeve of her coat and then the other. Hearing Marvin say Bridget's name was a startling reminder of why she'd left: because Marvin had abused their relationship in any way that he could. Bridget's name also reminded her of why she had returned, and it was not to rekindle an old flame. She fished through her purse, looking for a card.

Placing it in front of Keith's honor roll trophy, she said, “I'm not sure as of yet where I'm going to be staying, but the number to my cell phone is on that card. Call me once you finalize the funeral plans. Let me know how much money you need me to contribute.”

“You're not going to stick around to see James? He should be home real soon.”

“And what time will Bridget be home?” she asked folding her arms.

“I don't know, an hour or two. But this is not about her. It's about you and your son.”

“When I get settled in somewhere, I'll call him. He can even come and stay with me if he'd like. Good-bye, Marvin.”

“Why do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Run away.”

“You want me to stay here to meet your girlfriend? What do you want, to see us fight for you? Are you kidding me? Have you lost your cotton-picking mind?” Cynthia said, storming toward the door.

Marvin lunged at her and held her by the arms. “Yes, I expect you to stay. Our son died. I was sitting here in the dark thinking I killed him, going over the list of things I should have done differently and maybe he'd still be alive. I worked too much, I drank too much, I went out too much, and I just could not see that the boy was headed down the wrong path. You should be the one sitting here crying and feeling guilty.” He began to shake her. “I'm trying to take the high ground. I'm really trying to take the high ground. This has got to be hard for you too, but not as hard as all of these years have been for me without you.”

“Let go of me, Marvin.”

“You did this to us. You killed our son.”

Cynthia freed herself and took a step back. “You can't lay all of the blame on me. He's gone, and I'm sorry. Do you think if I knew this was going to happen I would have left for even one second? The truth is you did this to us. I left to get away from you.”

Cynthia ran out of the apartment, fleeing the scene like she'd just robbed a bank. She had spent the entire plane ride blaming herself for Keith's death. She cried for most of the flight, and she certainly wasn't about to let Marvin beat her down a second time.

Finding himself alone again, Marvin returned to his seat in the dining room. The chair curved underneath him to form a body cast. He sank into the chair and did not fight against the warm tears that streamed down his face, gladly returning to the near-comatose state that had possessed him since he came home.

The sound of someone banging on the door drew him out of it. Taking no thought for who was at the door, he just opened it, willing to share his pain without anyone open to receiving it. There was Bridget, her hands full of bags. Although her hands were too full to take her key out, she was ready and willing to carry his load.

Bridget squinted, relying on the moonlight to lead her safely into the apartment. She made it into the kitchen, placed the grocery bags on the counter then proceeded to turn on every light, trying to conjure up some artificial sunshine to drive the black away. Marvin observed as she unpacked the grocery bags. It had not occurred to him until that moment that Bridget was pretty in her own right; not like Cynthia, but she did possess something that was near beauty.

With a grand and effervescent smile, she put her arms around him and rubbed his chest as if that would heal the hurt in his heart. “Thank you for trying to clean up.”

He brushed her hands off his chest.

Her touch felt wrong, but her words were usually right and comforting. Throughout the years, Bridget had become Marvin's biggest cheerleader, and he was anticipating some comforting words, not any of this touchy-feely stuff. After what seemed like eternity, Marvin decided to initiate the conversation.

“What took you so long to get home, Bridge?”

“Ummm, I went to the funeral home on Lenox and to the grocery store.” She dried her hands on the dish towel hanging on the refrigerator door handle and stepped into the dining room. She stood near the end of the table, leaning on the back of the head chair.

“For what?”

“To get dinner.”

“Don't play with me, woman,” Marvin said pointing at her. “What did you go to the funeral home for?”

“Marvin, Keith can't stay in the morgue forever.”

“I know that, but you shouldn't be going around picking out funeral homes either. That's something for his mother to do.”

“Marv, I didn't make any arrangements without you. I just picked up some brochures. I figured with this being the second funeral you'd have to plan, it might be a little overwhelming. I . . . I just wanted to help,” Bridget explained nervously.

“Bridget, I need to tell you something.”

“What is it, Marvin? You can tell me anything,” she said, inching closer.

“She's not dead. My wife isn't dead.”

She stood straight, staring at Marvin so hard it transcended the darkness.

“I can't do this now,” he said, trying to silence her before she even spoke. He already knew what that piercing look in her eyes and her hands on her hips meant: she wanted answers and she wanted them now. Marvin got up from his station for the last two days and walked into the bedroom with his shoulders hunched and his head hung low. He was trying to play on her sympathy. He wanted Bridget to believe he was defeated, not hiding something.

The sound of the bathroom door banging against the wall brought him out of the bedroom.

“Where are you going, girl?” he asked, noticing she had taken down her matronly bun.

“I ain't got no kids here, so I think I'm going to enjoy what's left of this wonderful night.”

“Bridge, come on now. Don't do this. I didn't mean it like that,” Marvin pleaded.

“Don't matter how you meant it, Marvin. You're right. This is not my responsibility. I heard they had live music tonight at Londel's. I'm going to have a nice meal, a stiff drink, and dance to some good jazz. You and your dead wife can figure this out.”