Knowing (35 page)

Randall consulted his platinum watch. “You’ve got twenty minutes. Say what you’ve got to say and get the hell out.”

Cameron steepled his fingers. He took his time before answering, cracking the joints of each finger as he watched Randall become increasingly uncomfortable. “I’m thinking about sending you to our London office — pronto.”

Randall pinched the crease of his tailored slacks, casually relaxing back into one of the raspberry suede chairs. His voice was hard. “We discussed this before. I told you then and I’m telling you now, the answer is no.”

A sly smile grew on Cameron’s face as he crossed his chubby legs, clasping his hands over his knee. “You see, as of this moment, you have no choice. The papers have been signed, and the ink is dry. You’re outta here next week.” He rocked back, enjoying the ugly look on Randall’s handsome face. How satisfying.

“My aunt —”

Cameron raised an eyebrow as he reached inside his pocket to take out a Tiparillo. “Is gone. Won’t be back for four months. Left word not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency.” He blew out the match, aiming the smoke at his intended victim. “Guess this doesn’t constitute an emergency, does it?”

Randall knew Cameron had timed his underhanded dealings perfectly. He’d gotten Randall first. Randall had hired a private detective to try to get something tangible on his uncle. Sure, his aunt knew he had his whore working right in the office. That didn’t matter. The company was making money. She’d left the country, as she did every year, on screwing excursions of her own, either to meet, or accompanied by, one of her paid gigolos.

Randall had hoped that one of these days his aunt would meet a man with a code of ethics and get rid of this egotistical bastard. The irony was that Cameron was fairly well endowed, but he couldn’t get it up for his wife. Seemed he only desired Black women. His aunt tolerated their relationship because he’d made her rich in the twenty years they’d been married. Cameron possessed the intellect and the killer instincts that had built their financial corporation to its Fortune 500 status.

Cameron puffed leisurely on his cigar, blowing circles above him, as he watched Randall squirm in his seat. “I read recently that a renowned doctor is on the verge of discovering a gene in gays. He says that you people look for the masculinity in other men that you lack with yourself.”

“I don’t care to discuss my sexuality with you. It’s none of your damned business.”

“Oh, but that’s where you made your mistake when you openly admitted your sexual preference.” Leaning forward, he tapped the silver ashes into a beautifully sculpted vase he knew wasn’t an ashtray. As he spoke, he whispered as though other people were in the room and listening in.

“You see, I called an emergency meeting with the board of directors, and they agreed that under the circumstances, we’d send you over to London, where sexual freedom might be more acceptable.”

“Believe me, Cameron, you’re not going to get away with this.”

“I already have. You leave next week.” He stood up, checking his watch. “Oh, yeah, you’ve gotten a promotion. My treat. And you’ll be staying at the Regency Hotel in London, in our company suite, until you find a place. There. Only took twelve minutes. That leaves you eight to get all prettied up and smelling fresh for your queer boyfriends.” Moving toward the door, he looked around nosily, searching for the bathroom. “I’d like to take a piss, but I wouldn’t want to catch anything.”

“You son of a bitch.”

Cameron pointed a finger at Randall, who lunged out of his chair. “Don’t you ever steal another client from my firm and think I’m not going to find out about it. Kim thinks she’s gotten away? She’s got a surprise coming too. Nobody fucks me and gets away with it.”

Randall’s party mood had disappeared. Looking around his apartment at his beautiful paintings and furnishings, his eyes filled with tears. How could he leave? This was home. Yet, he knew his uncle had covered his tracks, which left him little choice unless he planned on quitting. He wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction. He’d fight back. Hard. And when he came up with enough evidence, he’d bury the bastard.

Randall couldn’t let Cameron harm Kim. They were best friends. Even from the beginning, when they’d first met, Kim had guessed that he was gay. Yet she never stood in judgment. They’d spend time together viewing paintings at the Detroit Institute of Arts. He’d taught her all about literature, given her a crash course in dining in elegant restaurants and networking, how to get ahead in the financial world.

In turn, Kim had taught him to laugh, mostly at himself. Taught him to dance, to express himself in his painting, helped him to free the voice within, taught him street talk. But mostly she’d helped him understand himself, his guilt, and the feelings that no one else, even his mother before she died, bothered to acknowledge.

He picked up the phone to call Kim and warn her of Cameron’s plans. He also told her that he planned to give her the key to his apartment, so she could care for his plants while he was away. He wouldn’t give up his home, since he knew he’d be back sooner than anyone thought.

Turning down the lights, he sat in the comfort of his lounge chair, basking in the serenity of his home. Looking up into the ceiling, he let his head fall back as he thought about fate. He let the doorbell ring and ring as he meditated on his revenge.

What Becomes of the Brokenhearted

It was almost midday when he drove up to her small bungalow on Elmhurst, but he knew she’d be home, cleaning or working in the house. She’d been gone over three weeks, setting up temporary residence at a neighbor’s house. She hadn’t even called him at his office as he’d asked her to the night he’d dropped off their belongings. He had left quickly, undeniably embarrassed by Ginger’s actions, and promised to check on her and the boys in a few days.

He hadn’t come by or called, and he thought now that he should have. Maybe she wouldn’t want to see him. He worried that his shirt was not tucked neatly inside his jeans. Took a little more time than usual smoothing down his thick mustache, smoothed back the tight, curly strands of his short Afro, and finally, satisfied with his appearance, proceeded to the door.

Purple and green patches of fireweeds sprang up around the yard, their seeds dangling beneath silken parachutes, floating in the air. After such a disastrous fire, there was an irony in their beauty among the charred pieces of wood and debris that hadn’t as yet been removed.

Mae Thelma opened the door as he pressed the bell. Jackson smiled at the beautiful woman who stood before him, an angelic glow on her face. He felt almost compelled to take her in his arms and hold her — just for a moment. Yet he stood stock still as silence fell between them. The sound of gospel music coming from the living room was ignored by both. Jackson hoped the erratic beat of his heart wasn’t audible, not realizing that Mae Thelma was experiencing the same thing.

“It’s so good to see you, Jackson.” She folded her arms, cocking her head slightly. “Now what took you so long to come and see me?” Grabbing him by the arm before he had a chance to think of a suitable answer, she pulled him inside.

“The boys around?” he asked awkwardly. For some reason, he felt he needed someone to be around, to break the tension that was building. Or was he the only one who felt it?

“No,” she said, guiding him into the living room. “Robert Earl’s sister sent me some money last month so they could spend the rest of the summer in Mississippi with their grandmother. They haven’t seen her in a while, and I figured I could use the time alone to get this house organized.” A proud smile beamed across her golden face. “It looks pretty good, doesn’t it.” Jackson nodded. “It’s nicer than it was before the fire.”

He sat uncomfortably on the plush French Provincial sofa that he assumed was also new. Jackson felt a pang of guilt at the thought of her being all alone for the past month, and he hadn’t had the nerve to call and check on her, not once. A young woman with the beauty and innocence she possessed and no man around to protect her was prey for the scoundrels who lived in this lower-class neighborhood. “Have you thought about installing metal security bars, Mae Thelma?”

So he was worried about her. She knew it. All it took was a little time for him to miss her. Just as her aunt Gitty had said he would. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t, Jackson. You think I should? These young boys ’round this neighborhood are meaner than a junkyard dog with fourteen suckling pups. Ain’t been raised right ’tall.” She untwined her beautiful hair while sitting beside him.

“Been trying to get some of the young mens around heah to do the yard work for me.” She shook her head, ruffling her beautiful hair until it cascaded down then around her shoulders as she turned to face him.

He sucked in his breath, feeling a warmth flow through his body — primarily his lower body — as he regarded the magnificent creature sitting beside him. He could sense the suppressed sexuality within her. “You got any Diet Pepsi, Mae Thelma?” He needed something to cool his mind and his unhealthy thoughts.

Her almond-shaped eyes, hooded with dark lashes, lowered seductively, resting on his alluring lips. “Sure. Be right back,” she called over her shoulder, swaying her hips just enough to evoke her femininity, but no more. “Anything else you want, Jackson?” Her southern drawl was like a magnet drawing him in.

She’d learned early on that a woman’s true desire should be to satisfy the desire of a man. Her aunt Gitty, from the deep Creole backwoods of Louisiana, taught her while she was just a teenager how to control a man. How his desire was not only for sexual satisfaction, but also for the natural passion in the stillness that follows lovemaking. As Aunt Gitty would say, pleasure makes him weak as his limp lingam. And every woman should be willing to submit to the discipline of the looking glass. She should be willing to attract a man by what she has, though knowing, in his deliberate confusion to resist the more human desires of a woman, that it is precisely this superhuman element in her that he pursues.

As Mae Thelma passed the mirror in the dining room, she saw a vision of a seductive woman looking back at her, her lashes dark, her eyes bright, her lips subtly scarlet. Yet vanity was not the reason she stood there. She stepped closer to the looking glass, searching for the face she had before the world was made. For the temptress within her.

By the time Jackson left, the spell had been cast. He’d volunteered to put the bars on the windows, clean the yard, haul away all the trash, and fix the cracked windshield on her car. He’d neglected to offer his assistance inside her body, inside her mind, where she felt she deserved the utmost attention. But that would come later. She could wait. Time was on her side.

After taking her bath, she perfumed herself, sliding her nude body between the cool sheets, clutching Jackson’s picture to her bosom. Her thoughts were of Jackson as she drew her knees up, fantasizing about their lovemaking, fondling herself, with the thoughts of him touching her, loving her, until she reached a climax.

Suddenly, her heart crumbled like a broken eggshell, hot tears streaked her face. Her lips trembled as she prayed to God that he wouldn’t punish her for what she was doing. Was it wrong to love a man so much? It was wrong to love another woman’s husband. Her conscience was talking to her, but she refused to listen. Was it God speaking to her? If God was everything, and knew, saw, and heard all, was he telling her she was wrong?

Walking around to the other side of his compact car, Bill opened the door and took Kim’s hand, supporting a packed picnic basket with the other. He was glad that she’d finally agreed to meet with him. It had been too long. He knew she still wouldn’t be ready to renew their relationship, but he felt that it was necessary for them not to lose touch.

A gust of wind ballooned the blanket on the bank near the water while Bill and Kim quickly spread the contents of the basket on each of the corners. The cool breezes from the Detroit River tickled their faces, teasing a smile from each. Belle Isle was beautiful, the weather a pleasant eighty degrees at the approach of August’s acme. Near day’s end, before sunset, the setting was perfect.

Over the riverbank, oak trees dripped Spanish moss, which floated through the air from tree to tree like restless souls. The spiked flowers of the cattails huddled in clusters lining the shore, swaying in the breeze. The trees on the island, cottonwoods, maples, spruces, and wavering elms, opened their limbs skyward in a sultry stretch.

As they ate cold cuts with hot peppered cheese and crackers, Bill studied the beauty of Kim’s face, remembering their lovemaking. When the meal was over, they continued nibbling on grapes, sipping wine from a chilled bottle of 1965 Cabernet Sauvignon.

Bill felt a rush of desire as their eyes locked. He wanted her passionately, wanted to feel the pleasure of him giving her pleasure, but knew that it would have to be her call. When she was ready, she’d make the first move. That was how it had to be, and he accepted it.

Pouring them both a second glass of wine, he waited patiently, taking pleasure in the artful display of Kim’s tongue moistening her lips. “How’s the wine?” asked Bill. Sunrays boomeranged from his black-rimmed tinted glasses as he turned toward her, then looked away. They were both lying on their sides, looking out into the water. “I’d almost forgotten if you still drank.”