Born at Dawn (9 page)

“I didn't come here to be ministered to. I came here for my wife. Where is she?”

“I don't know.” Pastor David stated very matter-of-factly.

“Don't give me that crap. She's been here every day since she came to this church, and now you want to tell me you don't know. You've been seeing her more than I have.”

“Then maybe you ought to come too, if you want to spend time with her. A family that prays together stays together.”

The ceiling vibrated as the choir began rehearsing again. Marvin could hear “Oh, Search Me, Lord.”

“Look.” Marvin sighed. “I'm going to be honest with you, cuz. We go way back. I'm scared. She's left before, but she's never been gone this long. What if she doesn't come back?”

“The Lord knows what we desire. Maybe He's given you what you desired most. He's taken her and removed her.”

“You don't know what I desire,” Marvin growled.

“You're right. I don't know,” Pastor David said folding his hands. “I can only go by what I see, and based on the way you treat her, I see a man who doesn't want a wife. Thus, she's been removed.”

“If you know where she is, you better tell me, man.” Marvin reached across the desk and grabbed Pastor David by his shirt.

“Touch not my anointed and do my prophet no harm,” Pastor David said.

Marvin clutched his shirt tighter. Grinding his teeth as he stared in Pastor David's eyes in search of the fear that his wild rampages would usually elicit, nothing but determination radiated from Pastor David's eyes.

“‘He that toucheth him hath touched the apple of mine eye.'”

Marvin was moved by the words of the scripture, although he didn't know where they could be found. He released Pastor David and plopped into one of the chairs in front of his desk. Pastor David sat down in his leather recliner, and they both stared at each other.

Pastor David's eyes became large saucers as he stared at Marvin who sat up at attention as Pastor David began to speak again.

“Marvin, you may have come here for Cynthia, but what you need to find is salvation. Choose life and not death, brother, or else everything you have will be taken. I see you in a dry and thirsty land, and what you need is a sip of living water.”

Marvin rose. “If you're not going to tell me where she is, then say that instead of wasting my time with all of this Jesus crap.”

“I haven't wasted your time. You have wasted your time”—Pastor David pointed at Marvin—“with the devil, Marvin. Harden not your heart. The Lord is trying to tell you something. Right now.” Pastor David tapped on the top of his desk. “The Lord showed me a vision of you in a desert canyon wrapped in layers of soft black bandages that blew in the wind. You were surrounded by Cynthia and the boys, but with every step that you took toward the edge of the canyon, one of them disappeared; first Cynthia, then Keith, then James. By the time you reached the edge, you stood there alone, but on the other side of the canyon, Marvin, you and your family were full of life, vibrant, seated on the desert floor as I preached to them.”

“Well, I don't want to hear about your visions.” Marvin exhaled hard. “The only thing I want to hear about is where my wife is. Can you tell me that?”

Pastor David humbly shook his head no.

“Then I'm out,” Marvin announced, turning his back on Pastor David as swiftly as possible.

“Marvin.”

Marvin looked over his should midstride.

“You're going to lose everything if you continue living this way.”

There was a sense of peace that radiated from her face, and she spoke in a soft whisper, but the shaking of her hands gave away her heart. Mildred prayed in her heart standing before the desk sergeant
.

Detective Grayson was the first to greet her. “Hello, Ms. Hathaway. What can I do for you?”

“Please find my baby. I'll tell you anything you want to know. I know I wasn't very cooperative before, but I'll tell you anything,” Mildred said desperately.

“Follow me.” Detective Grayson led Mildred to an interview room in the back of the precinct. “Ms. Hathaway, please have a seat. I'm going to get Detective Laurel. Do you want some coffee?”

“Please,” she begged, grabbing Detective Grayson's arm, “forgive my folly. I was proud and boastful, but I don't know anything more than you. I'll speak to anyone, including you. Please, just help me find out what happened to my baby.” Mildred stuffed a small photograph with wrinkled edges into the palm of Detective Grayson's hand.

The faded sienna photograph was of a slim woman with jet-black hair in two plaits draped over her shoulders, a young Mildred, holding an infant swaddled in blankets—Cynthia.

For a moment, Mildred fought back tears. She didn't want to cry, especially in front of Detective Grayson, recalling how she'd snubbed her the first time the detective had shown up at her job insisting on speaking with her daughter. Now Mildred wished she had let Detective Grayson in. Now she wished more than ever that she'd done a better job protecting her baby.

Detective Grayson clenched her teeth and made a weak attempt to sound enthused about helping Mildred. “Ms. Hathaway, I want to help you, but it's my understanding you told my partner you convinced Cynthia to return home, so we closed the case.”

“I thought she was going home. She said she was going home last night, but this morning Marvin showed up at my house pounding on my door.” Tears fell from her face with every word. “He said she never came home.”

“Ma'am, are you sure she said she was going back home?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to think about this very carefully,” Detective Grayson said slowly. “What were her exact words to you? Did she say she was going home, ma'am? We see this sometimes with women in abusive relationships. They can't take the abuse, so they leave. They're unable to get a divorce so they break away.”

Mildred followed Detective Grayson to her leg that was shaking like a jackhammer. Mildred placed her hand on her leg to stop it from shaking. “She didn't run away,” Mildred began defending her daughter. There was no way Cynthia would do what Detective Grayson was accusing her of. “She wouldn't leave those boys. She couldn't leave those boys. She loved them. She was learning to persevere through her trials not run away from them.”

“Where was she learning this?”

“At her church, Mount Carmel.”

“Is it possible she went there after leaving your house?”

“Anything is possible, but I think something happened to her.” Mildred paused to wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand then continued. “When Marvin came to my house, he knew she had been there. I didn't tell him that. You told him that. You led him to her.”

“Where is your son-in-law now?”

“I don't know.”

“Why didn't he come here with you, Ms. Hathaway?”

“I don't know. He took off running when I said let's go to the police station.” Her face wrinkled as a terrible cry escaped from her mouth. “I . . . I think he done something to her. He's crazy, Detective Grayson, he's crazy. He came in screaming and banging on my door this morning. When I told him she was gone, he just ran off.” She stood shaking her finger at Detective Grayson.

Mildred straightened her cotton-candy pink button blouse and smoothed her collar. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her pants leg and gripped her handbag tightly in an attempt to compose herself. She mumbled a verse from Ecclesiastes under her breath, “‘Do not let your mouth cause your flesh to sin,'” before raising her eyes to face Detective Grayson.

“I did not come here to cast blame on anyone or point fingers. That's the devil's job. Nor did I come here to waste time, which is what we're doing,” Mildred said, glancing at her gold-plated watch. “My daughter is missing. I would like for you to reinvestigate the case, and I believe your prime suspect is trolling the streets of Harlem as we speak.”

Mildred did not want to believe Cynthia had walked out on her family, even though it certainly appeared that way. She called her job and told them she was taking the night off. She walked home from the precinct looking for clues her daughter might have left behind on the sidewalk: a piece of paper, anything that said Cynthia was here.

When she reached the inside of her apartment, her purse fell to the floor and she fell to her knees.

Jared's aptitude for real estate was definitely greater than his fashion sense. He came to pick up Cynthia that afternoon in plaid shorts and a mustard-colored polo shirt that was a bit too snug. Cynthia doubted she should trust his judgment based on his appearance, but when she considered how far her own flawed judgment had gotten her—emotionally and physically abused for the last ten years of her marriage—it was time to listen to someone else's advice. The temperature had risen to a comfortable seventy-one degrees, so Cynthia ditched her sweatshirt for a crisp white T-shirt and a pair of boot-cut light blue jeans.

“I know a great building on Riverside Drive that you'll love. You're going to think you're back in the city.”

Cynthia looked at Jared with one raised eyebrow. It was impossible for her to hide her distrust.

“Listen, I'm not that interested in you. Miss Ruthie told me you're married, so don't worry. I'm not going to pull any funny business. Hop in”—Jared opened the passenger side door for Cynthia—“so we can hurry up. It's quite a ways from here. You're going to need a car, too. You do know that, right?”

“I need a lot of things,” Cynthia said stepping into the car. “Jared, can we just focus on one issue at a time? What makes this place so special?”

“You'll see.”

Jared was right; 2020 Riverside Drive was where she wanted to be. Miss Ruthie was right; Jared would be a tycoon of some sort soon enough. He used his connection with the building manager to get Cynthia in the building with no background check. She did have to put up three months' rent in advance. Between the swimming pool, wall-to-wall carpet, and deck, it only took a moment for the money and keys to change hands. Now Cynthia stood in front of her new apartment door. She stroked the smooth beige metal door, thrust her key into the lock, but hesitated before turning the key.

Suddenly it struck her: she'd never lived alone in her life.

Before shacking up with Marvin, she very briefly shared an apartment with two of her friends from high school who were attending the same college. She spent most of the time locked in her bedroom. Although her high school chums were supposed to be pre-med, it seemed like they were studying pharmacology, and they spent a lot of time sampling the drugs. They threw wild parties that rivaled Mardi Gras, which Cynthia enjoyed for the most part, but when they lasted more than a day, it left Cynthia repulsed by the smell of stale sweat, liquor, and the lingering aroma of whatever narcotics had fueled their bacchanal.

When she'd had enough she packed her things and trekked back to her mother's apartment in Harlem. She brushed aside the memory of those wild and hazy days. Now she was taking the plunge into a realm she'd never been in before. Cynthia turned the lock and pushed the heavy door open. A drab and dingy olive green rug welcomed her to her new pad. Cynthia made a mental note to change that rug, reasoning she could not look at it forever. Cynthia walked straight ahead to the patio doors. With her face and fingers pressed against the glass, she watched the James River roll. Cynthia slid the door open a tiny bit and slinked through the crack.

She planted herself in the plastic chair the former tenants left behind. Cynthia rested her feet squarely in the center of the round glass table with black legs, another throwback from the prior tenants. The quiet calmed her. January in Richmond seemed much more luscious. She sucked in the sweet Richmond air. Cynthia had never felt this kind of peace
.

She wrestled with her mind to keep it focused on her future hope. Again the voice of Pastor David and the Word confronted her: “Your hope should be built on nothing less than Jesus Christ and His righteousness.”

Shaking her head at the sky, she proceeded to pick a fight with God. “Jesus, I was depending on you to bring me out, but it seemed like you weren't thinking about me. That may be contrary to everything that everyone says you are, but you're going to have to show me a little something more.”

Cynthia waited for God's judgment to fall on her. She waited for the river to flood or a random object hidden in the huge, soft tufts of clouds that streamed past her to drop out of the sky. Nothing happened, furthering the notion in her mind that she was the last person on the Lord's to-do list.

The sun setting over the river morphed the blue sky into a wondrous fusion of magenta and turquoise. It seemed as if the cotton-candy sky was smiling at her, so she smiled back. Cynthia inched her way from the table to the banister captivated by the river. The light swirl of the water sounded like the river was serenading her. She leaned over the banister to hear the cryptic message clearer; then she realized it wasn't the river she heard whispering to her. It was water running in her bathroom. The sound escaped from the cracked bathroom window adjacent to the balcony.

Cynthia left her bags on the deck and whispered a prayer on her way to the bathroom: “Jesus, forget all that nonsense I was just talking out there. Please don't let there be some crazy person who refuses to vacate the premises in the bathroom with a gun getting ready to commit suicide. That's the last thing I need right now.”

A crazy renter with a gun wasn't inside the bathroom; a bare-chested man brushing his teeth over the sink giving her the side-eye mid-brush was waiting on the other side of the door. Cynthia closed the door then opened it again. He smiled at her in the mirror, spit in the sink, and turned to face her.

“Hi, I'm Cheo. I knew this apartment came with a lot of amenities; however, Mr. Clarke never mentioned a beautiful woman would be here to greet me.”

His Sugar Daddy complexion, lean body, taut torso, and kind words warmed her skin enough to cause her to blush. “I'm sorry,” she said, clearing her throat, “there must be some kind of mix-up. I thought this was apartment sixty-three.”

“It is, ma'am.”

“Hi, I'm Cynthia . . . Cynthia Hathaway,” she said, extending her hand to shake his. “Mr. Clarke told me I could move in today. I'm sooo sorry, I guess he figured you would have been out by now.”

“Gone? Whatchu talking about, Willis?” Cheo said, scrunching up his thick black eyebrows. “I just arrived. I moved in this morning.”

“What? I'm supposed to move in here today.” Cynthia pirouetted and went off stomping down the hall. “That idiot.”

“Hey, calm down.” Cheo placed his warm palm on her bare shoulder. “Let me go grab a shirt, and we'll head down to the office together to straighten it out.”

Cynthia paused, staring at his smooth golden brown skin. He made her want to fling open every window in the apartment and scream; she'd never felt drawn to a man besides Marvin like this before.

“Okay?” he asked, looking down at her using his doe-shaped eyes to question her. “Or we can take care of this New York style, Cynthia?”

“No, we could try it your way, and if that doesn't work, I'm going to go Harlem on Mr. Clarke.”

Cheo's short sprint to the bedroom was like an anatomy class for Cynthia. She spent the duration of his departure analyzing his back. It was covered in big red letters with a black outline that read: R.I.P. M
ADRE, MIALMAYMICORAZÓN
. Cynthia wanted to use her fingertips to trace the outline of his tattoo, to trace the curve of his spine, and every other sculpted line on him. She didn't know what those words meant, yet she could feel the power of them.

“Come on.” He walked ahead to open the door for her. Seeing him fully dressed did not extinguish the fire burning in her belly. His navy V-neck T-shirt and sand-colored shorts only seemed to enhance his picturesque beauty. She followed the scent of sandalwood and berries that he left in the air to the elevator.

They stood in front of the elevator bank, each striving to ignore the kinetic energy in the air. Cynthia shifted her weight from side to side. She could feel him watching. The hairs on her arm rose. With her eyes fixed on the elevator display, Cynthia devoted herself to a silent invocation for the elevator to arrive. Her hope was that it wasn't full of people. She needed to avoid being close to him. Cheo seemed like everything she had ever wanted in a man. Despite the magnitude of his beauty, he was certainly the last thing she needed at this juncture in the road.

The metal doors whined as if it hurt them to open. The elevator was empty
. Thank you, Jesus,
she thought. In unison, Cynthia and Cheo entered. Cynthia pressed herself against the wall, trying to blend in with the wooden panels. Cheo flashed his award-winning smile to break up the awkwardness filling in the elevator.

Neither one uttered a word as they walked up the long stretch of hallway on the ground floor. The click-clack of Cynthia's shoes against the white tiles let everyone know she meant business. She took note of the location of each amenity promised: the gym; the business center fully equipped with a fax machine, copier, computers and Internet access; and state-of-the-art Laundromat.

Mr. Clarke opened his door before they had the opportunity to knock. “Mr. Clarke, there seems to be small problem,” Cheo said.

“A huge problem,” Cynthia added, placing her hands on her hips.

Cheo shot her a quick glance. “Remember we're going to do this my way,” he whispered to her.

“What seems to be the problem, Cheo?” Mr. Clarke asked, skirting around his desk with his eyes fixed on Cynthia. He stood in the center of them with his arms at his side like a soldier waiting to receive a command.

“Apparently, you rented apartment sixty-three to both of us,” Cheo said pointing at himself and then Cynthia.

“No, I gave you sixty-eight, and I put her in sixty-three.”

Completely armed to fight this battle, Cheo withdrew his copy of his lease from the pocket of his cargo shorts with a chuckle, and Cynthia muscled up a slight grin. “No, you put us both in sixty-three.” Cheo pointed at the apartment number printed on his rental agreement. “Now, I don't mind rooming with her, but she's not convinced that type of living arrangement would work out.”

“God ain't make no mistakes when he made me, and I don't make mistakes when I do business. Where's your lease, young lady?” Mr. Clarke implored with his palm extended in Cynthia's direction.

Cynthia flung her mouth open ready to share a word with Mr. Clarke, and none of it was from the Good Book. Cheo moved closer to her and squeezed her wrist to silence her. “You gave us both sixty-three, Mr. Clarke. She has the key and you escorted me up, r'ember?” Cheo asked. His question perturbed Mr. Clarke and left him scratching his head. “Don't worry, it's no problem now. If I belong in sixty-eight then that's where I'll go. Just toss me them keys.” Cheo extended his palm for the proper set of keys. Mr. Clarke opened the lock box on his desk and tossed a set of keys at Cheo. “Thank you, Mr. Clarke. We can deal with the paperwork some other time.”

Cynthia was so glad she'd agreed to let Cheo handle the whole situation. Cynthia was in awe at how quickly Cheo waved good-bye to Mr. Clarke with his right hand and used his left hand to usher Cynthia out. He'd managed to clean everything up without a cuss word and remain poised under pressure. Cynthia liked that but recognized she shouldn't.

“Thank you,” she whispered, avoiding eye contact with Cheo. “I've been wondering something though.”

“What?”

“How did you know I was from New York?”

Shoulder to shoulder they marched through the parted doors of the elevator; the wall Cynthia erected between them was slowly decaying.

“Hmmm. Your lack of patience, your no-nonsense, ‘I get what I want when I want it and I want it in a New York minute' attitude, and your beauty.”

Being around Cheo took her breath away. For the second time, Cynthia cleared her throat, trying to gracefully request a break from Cheo's oppressive stare. When the elevator doors opened on the sixth floor, Cynthia sped down the hall ahead of Cheo.

“I kind of started unpacking, so give me a minute to get it together,” Cheo said.

Cynthia didn't reply; she just stared up at his fleshy peach lips.

“Okay?” he prodded.

“Yes, that's fine. I'll be on the deck if you need me,” she said, crossing the threshold of the apartment they'd shared momentarily.

“And I'll be in the bedroom should you need me,” Cheo said smiling.

Cynthia stepped onto the deck and spread her feet shoulder-width apart, observing her new territory. Day had turned into night. Her mental evaluation of her present situation was interrupted by visions of Cheo's thick black curls and high cheekbones. Cynthia stared up at the night sky. The stars entreated her; their glimmer put her into a trance so deep she didn't hear Cheo knocking on the glass door before he stepped onto the deck.

“Would you like to touch them?” he whispered. His rich voice boomed in her ear, startling her. Cynthia turned around to face Cheo, hiding her smile with the palms of her hands.

“We don't have stars in New York.”

“None at all?”

“Okay, so I'm exaggerating a bit. We have stars. You can't see them as clearly as you can here.” Cynthia blushed grinning at Cheo.

“I know what you meant. I'm just giving you a hard time. I'm all packed, so I guess I have to go to my apartment now. It was fun sharing a place with you. Hopefully I'll see you soon.”

“You know where I live.”

“Yes, yes, I do. Don't forget you can find me in sixty-eight.”

“I won't,” she said, gently leaning into him, clinging to the banister with one hand in an attempt to restrain herself. She hadn't flirted with anyone in so long, she was afraid of coming off as desperate.

Cheo adjusted the straps on his backpack, slung a duffel bag over his shoulder, and grabbed his rolling suitcase. Cynthia walked him to the door and opened it.