Breaking the Ties That Bind (17 page)

Read Breaking the Ties That Bind Online

Authors: Gwynne Forster

“You don’t, and we’re in luck. Here’s a parking space half a block from the theater and the restaurant. I’m going to have half a bottle of beer with my pizza,” he said. “Think you can drink the rest?”
“Beer should be good with pizza.” This man was bringing so many new and wonderful experiences to her life. It was becoming increasingly difficult to recall precisely what her life was like before she knew him, but there was one thing she didn’t want to recall, and that was the loneliness. A loneliness that neither her friends, coworkers, nor her father filled, but which she hadn’t felt since their first evening together.
Throughout the show, they held hands, laughed, clapped, and enjoyed the fun. “Maybe next time, we can stay for the second show,” he said as they left, “but we’re not far from the Corcoran Gallery. They have a new show. Dad went Saturday before last, and he said it’s spectacular. Half an hour would be long enough.”
“I’d love to go with you.” She knew very little about art, so whatever she learned there would be a plus, and she might even enjoy it. “I haven’t studied art, so I’m not good at appraising it. I rely on my gut instinct. Let’s go.” They walked hand in hand four blocks to the gallery. As they approached it, he said, “Music and art are two things I’m glad I don’t have to live without.”
They passed works of some American painters, and she liked what she saw, but she didn’t understand it. Most modern paintings didn’t speak to her. “Don’t they have paintings by African Americans?” she asked him.
“Of course, but not in this particular show. The National Gallery has wonderful paintings by Romare Bearden, Jacob Lawrence, William H. Johnson, and others, and works by the sculptor, Elizabeth Catlett. We can go there next weekend, if you’d like.”
“That would be wonderful. I’m learning that we have to feed the soul as well as the mind and the tummy. Speaking of tummies, if we don’t head home, yours will be paining you before I put food in front of you.”
His hand tightened almost imperceptibly on her arm, but it touched every nerve in her body. “You wouldn’t starve me, would you?” It struck her as significant that he didn’t smile.
Her fingers stroked the back of his cheek while, without trying to make a statement or to send a message, she searched his eyes. “I wouldn’t intentionally do anything to hurt you, Sam. In fact, I’d take great pains to avoid it.”
He stared at her. Then, his face brightened in a smile. “Right. I forget that we don’t eat until after you cook.”
Wanting to clear away anything that might cause a misunderstanding or otherwise put a damper on their evening together, she decided that she’d better warn him about the travel contest. “I haven’t been able to make myself tell you that tomorrow’s the day I turn in my assignment for the travel abroad prize.”
“Why is that?”
“Maybe you would welcome not seeing me for a month, but I’m not sure I want to be away that long.”
“A month? I thought you said six weeks. And what about your evening job?”
“Mr. Howell said that if I win, he’d ask my professors to allow me to go for only a month. He doesn’t want me to be away for six weeks.”
“Of course he doesn’t, but after he hears that interview, I’ll bet you can call your shots.”
“I wasn’t aiming for anything like that. My goal is to get through school and to do my job well.”
 
He parked the car, helped her out, then opened the trunk, and removed a package. With an arm around her waist as they walked, he said, “I know what it means to reach a coveted goal, and I’ll do all that I can and all that you allow to help you achieve yours. I’ll be routing for you to make the highest score on that assignment.”
She stopped walking. “Sometimes . . . like right now, I could . . . Oh, nuts! You’ve got me bamboozled. I have to watch it with you.”
Inside her apartment, she hung their coats. “Want to pull off your jacket? I’m going to put you on a stool in the kitchen while I cook.”
“That ought to be interesting,” he said under his breath, but she heard him.
“All right. I will
invite
you to sit there
.
”
She lit the gas caps beneath the potatoes and the shallots, and then went to her room and changed into a red, threequarter sleeve, nylon jersey caftan with just the right amount of décolletage and went back to the kitchen. It pleased her that he’d gotten an apple from the refrigerator and was eating it.
After wiping the filet mignon roast with a damp towel, she seasoned it, covered it with butter, and put it in a roasting pan. She peeled and diced a potato, cleaned the leeks, cut them, and put them in a saucepan with two cups of fat-free chicken stock.
“What’s that going to be?”
“Leek soup. I hope you’ll like it,” she said, and turned on the oven.
“I love leek soup, but until now, I had no idea what was in it other than leeks. You know, my mother used to make wonderful cornbread and biscuits. Lettie’s an excellent cook, but her cornbread is for the birds.”
“And you like cornbread?”
“I love it. Biscuits, too.”
While she cleaned the asparagus, she wondered at the wisdom of adding another half hour to their wait for dinner. She looked in the pantry to see whether she had enough cornmeal. She had barely enough, but she’d use a smaller pan. She put the frozen raspberries and sugar in the blender, processed it, and poured it into a strainer to remove the seeds.
“How many things are you doing at once? And how do you keep it all in your head?”
“It’s not difficult, Sam. I have in mind the way I want the table to look after I put the food on it. I forget sometimes, because I don’t do this often, usually for my three girlfriends, or for Papa and me. And I’m nervous, because you’re sitting here, and I don’t want to mess up.”
She mixed the cornbread and put it in the oven to bake. “Want me to set the table?” he asked her.
She stopped sieving the raspberries. “You know how to set a table?”
He winked at her. “I’m as good as Oscar of the Waldorf was when he started.”
She put her chore aside, removed the potatoes from the flame, and went with him to the dining room. The flower that he gave her the night before sat on the white linen tablecloth. “It’s all in there,” she said, pointing to the cupboard against the wall. “Napkins and flatware in the drawers. Thanks. You’re a real sweetie pie.”
She turned to leave him, but he grasped her arm. “You keep telling me that I’m sweet. If I am, why don’t you act like it?”
She gazed up at his face, the picture of petulance, and impulsively grasped the back of his head, stood on tiptoe, parted her lips above his, and pulled his tongue into her mouth. But immediately, she pulled away from his quick and fierce reaction.
“Set the table, honey. Another minute and everything in and on that stove would have gone to waste.”
“Yeah. And while you’re cooking, remember how you look to me in this thing you’re wearing.”
She walked away slowly, giving him a good look at her back action. Quickly, she prepared the dinner, cleaned the kitchen counters and put out the serving dishes.
Where was Sam? He hadn’t said a word to her in the last fifteen minutes.
Sam stood by the living-room window wondering why a woman’s priorities so rarely seemed in harmony with a man’s. He had observed that incongruity in his parents—as much as they had loved each other—among his friends, and in his own relationships. Kendra was hell-bent on feeding him a good meal, when he’d have been content with a hamburger, if only he could get into her arms.
He enjoyed the many differences between them, not the least of which were her softness, sweetness, and gentleness. And when she’d look at him, smile, and tell him he was sweet or that she never wanted to leave him, the world was his oyster, and all he wanted was to bury himself deep in her until she couldn’t think of another man. He knew they began near the top, enchanted with each other the minute they met. Learning each other’s personalities, dreams, goals, and needs had brought them close, but they hadn’t crossed that all-important bridge of intimacy. He needed that. Badly. But was it right?
“Sam, can we eat now?” She walked up behind him and touched his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. “You’re so quiet. Are you all right? Thanks for setting the table.”
“Don’t thank me for that. I wanted to do what I could to help you. And yes, I’m all right.”
She walked him to sit opposite her, and he did.
“Do you mind if we say the grace?”
“No, I don’t mind. We always said it at home.” He said it and immediately sampled the leek soup. She cut the cornbread and offered him a piece.
“This is . . . When did you make this cornbread?”
“After you told me how much you like it. It extended the wait for dinner by about half an hour, but I figured it was worth it.”
“It definitely was.” He finished the soup and bread. “If you hadn’t cooked anything else, I’d consider this a gourmet meal. Both were wonderful. And since you made the cornbread for me, is there a reason why I can’t take what’s left home with me?”
“No, there isn’t. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” Pride radiated from her when she served the main course. He looked at the roast, evenly browned and lying in a bed of roasted potatoes, shallots, and cremini mushrooms.
“If there is a weakness in this meal, Kendra, it’s the absence of wine, and I brought a bottle each of red and white burgundy. Which would you like? I’ll get it. The red goes best with our meal.”
“Then red it will be,” she said. He opened the wine, and they finished what he considered an excellent meal.
“We have dessert,” she said, “and I’ll make some coffee.”
As he sat with her later sipping coffee in her living room, and pondering the evening, he realized that although it was clear to him that she wanted them to make love, and he wanted that probably more than she did, it was too soon. In the past few days, his strong physical attraction to her had begun to take a backseat to something inside of him, and if he was reading it right, he’d better be careful. If she met his physical needs, considering all of her other attributes, he’d no doubt be hooked.
Giselda had hooked him with sex and getting out of those chains had not been easy. He had to find a way to cool the pace of his relationship with Kendra without hurting her. He didn’t want to ruin it, he only wanted it to proceed at a normal pace. But would she understand and help him?
Chapter Nine
Sam felt that if he could only be straight with Kendra, as he needed to be, they would be able to develop the deeper relationship that he’d just realized he wanted for them. He pushed the cup aside, got up, and sat facing her. Sensitive woman that she was, her entire demeanor changed at once.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, sweetheart. But you and I have to talk. We’ve been moving like two thoroughbreds headed for the finish line, because we’re deeply attracted to each other, but it’s been based on this powerful physical attraction that we share. I’m feeling something else now that is apart from sex, and I want to nurture that in me and in you. I fully intended for us to make love this evening if you were willing, and I’ve been so keyed up about making love with you that I couldn’t appreciate what you did since we got here. When I realized that you’d baked that cornbread, the best I’ve tasted in years, simply because you want me to be happy, I was humbled.
“This could be the most important thing that has happened to us, or we could exploit it, and it would be an affair, nothing more. I want to try for more, but I want to know what I’m doing. How do you feel about this?”
She thought for a while. “I’m pretty much stunned. You’re right; we’ve traveled fast and far in a few weeks. You’ve said a number of times that you want us to get to know each other, and that made sense to me. Still, things sort of set their own course. I’ve never had this kind of relationship with a man, so I don’t know the dangers. I understand that you want to pull back. Just tell me how far.”
He leaned forward and looked at her intently, willing her to understand him. “I don’t want to pull back. I want to slow down. In addition, there are strings that need to be tied and some that must be untied. I’m asking you, does any man have a right to demand anything of you?” She shook her head. “Good. I have no ties to any woman. I was engaged, but that died a bitter death almost three years ago. I’ve been over it almost as long.”
“Does slowing down mean that you won’t call me at eight o’clock mornings anymore?”
“Yes. It means that I’ll call you when I need you or if I feel the need to talk with you, and that’s more honest than a call the same time every morning. And I want you to call me whenever you need me or feel that you want to talk with me, even if it’s three times a night. I want us to be open with each other. Can we sit here, play some music, and talk about our childhoods or whatever comes to mind?”
She put on some Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald CDs, lowered the volume, and went over and sat beside him. She put her head on his shoulder. She didn’t know it, but she’d won more points with him in the last ten minutes than she needed. He put an arm around her shoulders and closed his eyes, contented.
“When I courted as a teenager, we spent Sunday afternoons in an ice cream parlor. Alexandria, Virginia, had a slew of them. What did you do?”
“My mama always had a boyfriend around, so I stayed in my room with the door locked. I started dating when I was in college.”
“Why did you lock the door?”
“Because Mama’s boyfriends didn’t know what to do with their hands, and Mama didn’t seem to notice.”
The more he learned about that woman, the less he liked her. “I probably don’t have the right to say what I’m thinking. At least you had some sense.”
They talked until after eleven. “I’d better leave. We both have to get up early. My dad and I always spend Thanksgiving together. I suppose you spend it with your father. Let’s try to work something out. I’m sure Dad is going to be wherever Edwina is, and who can blame him. Kiss me good night, sweetheart.”
She walked with him to the door, and he could see that she was unsure of herself. He opened his arms, and she walked into them. With both arms around her, he urged her lips apart, and when the hard nubs of her breasts pressed against his chest, he wondered how long he could live according to his own sermon.
As he drove home, Sam acknowledged that Kendra’s mother represented a problem for him, and that he had to be careful to put the blame and punishment where it belonged.
 
If Ginny had begun to represent a problem for Sam, Asa was about to become one for Ginny. She had borrowed five hundred dollars from her friend Angela claiming that she was due a new bank card, and that she should have it by Monday. Of course, she didn’t have a bank card because the bank had rescinded her last one. She answered the telephone thinking that her caller was Asa.
“Hi, lover. What time—”
“This ain’t your lover. This is Angela, and my husband is raising hell with me about that five hundred dollars you were supposed to give me this morning. Ginny, you better straighten up, ’cause my husband’s ’bout to blow a gasket. If you got it now, I’ll be there in a few minutes to get it. If you hadn’t said it was a matter of life and death, I wouldn’t ’a loaned you my husband’s money.”
If Angela came there, she’d run into Asa, who’d be there on his lunch hour. She sucked her teeth in disgust. Angela should have known that if she didn’t have five hundred dollars Saturday morning, she wouldn’t have it by eleven o’clock Monday.
“Don’t come over here. You’ll get me killed. I’ll call you soon as I get it.” She hung up and disconnected the telephone. If Asa called and got a busy signal, his temper would propel him to her that much faster. She borrowed the money from Angela because she’d promised to take Asa to see Clarissa Holmes on his one Saturday night off for that month. But she had to take him to dinner, too. That, with drinks and taxis had taken all but thirty dollars of the money she’d borrowed from Angela.
She’d called Kendra for help, and risked Ed’s ire, but her precious daughter—the wretch—never returned her call. Now, Asa wanted to see the Giants play the Redskins that night, his night off, and she’d told him she had promised to get the tickets—but where was she going to get the money? Damn Angela.
She had other things to worry about. A good-looking, young man like Asa, who could put it down every time, could get any woman he wanted. She gazed at herself in the mirror, reached in the cabinet for a piece of black chalk, and colored the newest strand of gray that grew near her temple. A hundred dollars for a hairdresser to color her hair! She didn’t have it. With an oath, she swore that Kendra or somebody would give her some money. If she got it from a man, Asa would have a piece of her. She paced from the living room to the kitchen and back.
But did he have to know it?
Using her cell phone, she telephoned the one person she could rely on. She couldn’t stand him, because she had to do things she didn’t like doing, and she got no pleasure from it. But he was good for a thousand, and he would be anxious to see her. But she’d be half-dead after hours of his sucking and stroking every orifice she had with his tongue and demanding that she return the favor.
She phoned Asa. “I have to leave now to get the tickets, and there’ll probably be a long line. I sure hope they have some left,” she said. He didn’t catch the fact that she’d told him she had the tickets.
“All right, babe. See you at about six-thirty.”
She got into a taxi to keep her rendezvous with the old man, seconds before Angela and her husband parked in front of her building in which Ginny lived.
 
Morning found Kendra somewhat less accepting of Sam’s wish to temper their fast-moving relationship. After fretting about it, she telephoned Suzy. “If I had a real mother, I could discuss this with her,” she said after they talked awhile. She gave Suzy a brief summary of Sam’s conversation with her. “What do you think? At first, I didn’t take exception to it, but he’s been leading me to believe that I’m . . . that he’s practically in love with me.”
“Hold on there, Kendra. Until a man uses those three words, don’t think he loves you. I think Sam just moved from wanting you badly, to really caring, and he has now defined for himself what he feels. You mean more to him than you did before, and he’s trying to protect that. Remember that he knows himself a lot better than you do.”
“That’s a fact. Thanks, Suzy. We’ll talk later; I have to get to class.”
From nine to eleven, she sat in an auditorium with thirty other students, widely separated, and wrote a journalistic account of her high school graduation day. She hadn’t known what the topic would be, and she was at a disadvantage, in that she had been out of high school twelve years compared to an average of two-and-a-half years for her competitors. But she remembered it well, because the rain had fallen in torrents all morning, and the sun had shone early in the afternoon during the commencement exercises. She gave the valedictory address looking like a wet rat, and in the evening, she had neither a date nor a dress—thanks to her mother’s forgetfulness—to wear to the graduates’ ball. She gave the tale the poignancy that she felt as she looked back to that day, turned in her paper with her fingers crossed and left the auditorium.
Shortly after she entered the broadcast studio that afternoon, Clifton Howell walked in. “How’d you like the concert? I hear it was over the top. Did you find anybody to go with you?”
“It was wonderful, and I took three friends with me. But I’ve got a present for you, Mr. Howell.”
“Really? What is it?” His eagerness surprised her.
“Well, I got to thinking that I’m a journalist, and Clarissa Holmes is news.” Howell’s face lost its eagerness and took on an expression of anticipation. “So I e-mailed her for an interview, and she granted it and sent me a pass to her dressing room.”
He sat down. “Tell me you’re not making this up.”
“After the show, which was very long, my friends and I went backstage. She and her husband greeted us, served us champagne, and after two of my friends left, she and I sat and talked for half an hour.” She showed him the recorder. “I’ve got it right here, and I’m planning a two-hour show of her CDs around this interview. I thought Thursday would be a good night.”
“Thursday? You serious?”
He hadn’t said he appreciated it, and she was becoming apprehensive. “I . . . uh . . . thought we’d spend a few days advertising the program.”
“A few days. Kendra, you strike when the iron is hot. Air it tomorrow night. We’ll advertise it beginning tonight both on radio and television, and I’ll have it in the papers tomorrow morning. Let’s make it from eight-thirty to ten-thirty, so people can call in their comments before you leave. This is absolutely wonderful. You’ll have a substantial bonus in your pay this period.”
“You haven’t heard the interview yet.”
“I’m not worried about that. You don’t half-do anything.” He examined the recorder. “It will play over the air perfectly. This is a first-class recorder. I’ll get to work on the ads, and don’t forget to announce it every fifteen minutes. I’m proud of you, Kendra. You have far more than justified my faith in you.”
A bit more than an hour later, he put his head in her studio. “Can you read the news? I think Marcie is going into labor. I’m taking her to the hospital, Roane is out on dinner hour, and Quincy’s full of bourbon. Today’s his fortieth birthday, and he hasn’t made his first million. Put forty-five minutes of CDs on.” He handed her the news copy.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.” She had a minute to read over the copy and correct the grammar. She wished she knew how to pronounce
Erkowit,
a place in Sudan, but her listeners probably didn’t know how to pronounce it, either. She switched channels, read the six-thirty news, and congratulated herself on not having stammered or otherwise embarrassed herself.
Her phone rang. “Ms. Richards, this is Sam. I heard you read the news, and it was a very smooth job.”
“Thanks, Sam. I’m surprised that you were listening. I’m not on an open line.”
“I wasn’t sure. You sounded like a true pro. What did Howell say about your interview with Clarissa Holmes?”
“After he got over the shock, he was delighted, even excited. He said we’ll air it tomorrow night at eight-thirty.” She told Sam of Howell’s advertising plans. “And he said I get a bonus in my next pay.”
“You may have changed the course of your career when you got that interview.”
“Maybe. I kinda hope my career will be with Howell Enterprises.”
“You’ll have even more to offer after you receive your degree. I’m happy for you. My dad wants to know if you and your father can join us for Thanksgiving dinner at his place in Alexandria.”
“I’m sure Papa will agree. Thank your dad for inviting us. I’ll—”
He interrupted her. “My dad invited your father. I’m
bringing
you. That is not the same.”
“Sir, I stand corrected.”
“I’d better not keep you. There’s nothing like dead air to make your boss furious. Can I pick you up at school tomorrow? If so, we’ll get a bite somewhere and I’ll take you on to work.”
“Don’t you have classes on Tuesday?”
“I do, but only in the morning.”
“I’m free at one tomorrow. I’ll be at the John H. Johnson School of Communications on Bryant Street.”
“I know where that is, and I’ll be there at one. Oh. How did the exam go today?”
“We had to report on the day of our high school graduation. I’ll never forget standing in front of all those people and delivering the valedictory address with my hair, shoes, and clothing sticking to me after one of the heaviest downpours I can remember. It was June, and I was freezing. I did my best on that test.”

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