Vulnerable (33 page)

The pain in her face was palpable. Rawn was not altogether certain what the pain was from—his complex betrayal or Tamara's wicked deception, or the sum total of both. He had swallowed thickly and tried to avoid finishing his story by putting the half-filled wineglass on the table and rubbing his hands back and forth against his closely cut hair. With his elbows resting at his knees, he had said, “I'm sorry, Sicily. I tried to find ways to tell you about her. You were so”—
obsessed
was at the tip of his tongue—“happy…”

“Oh, you were trying to tell me the type of woman Tamara was, but you weren't going to…if D'Becca hadn't been…you would never have told me this: what you and Tamara…”

“What
me
and Tamara…I admit I—I'm human, Sicily. But there was never a Tamara and
me.”

She had shaken her head side-to-side while tears hung inside her hazel eyes. “Please leave.”

•  •  •

Christmas came and went, the New Year was set in motion, winter was wet and cold and bitter, and Rawn felt a new low. It was an intense human angst. He had reached a low the moment he was able to fully ascertain what his actions put into motion. When exactly was his defining moment? To what degree was he accountable for D'Becca's death? He tried to make sense of the enigma of his experience. He grew up with the understanding that divine purpose was behind anything merciless that happened.
In every fiber of his being, he sustained the belief that the universe acted in good faith and what any particular human being faced, long before it touched their life, they were given the resources—insight, fortitude—to see it through. Irrespective of how events unfurled for him lately, Rawn trusted his theory even more.

The following afternoon—it was sunny but brisk—Rawn was arrested.

S
icily stared at her image in the sprawling mirror that hung above the bathroom basin. Moments ago she washed off the day's makeup and exfoliated her skin with a mild cleansing bar.
I look lost.
She must have stared at her reflection for countless minutes before tears silently began to trickle from her hazel eyes. She would not know, even years from that moment, what possessed her to remove the colored contacts from her eyes and flush them down the toilet. Her tender, deep brown eyes changed the entire contour of her face. Softly, she cried, but within seconds snapped out of it as if some voice in her head warned her: heal, evolve, move on. The only way she could stop thinking about everything that happened over the past two months was to do something that would distract her. Not work; that would not do the trick. Yoga? It was too late to get to a class. Food? Sicily was not the type to go to food to fill up a void or to pacify her loneliness. She walked through the loft hoping something would come. An idea; a revelation.
Something!

Despite the fact that she hired a cleaning company to come in and clean the loft once a week, she knew that cleaning would help her to relax and
be here now.
“I need to get through this time, right here. I know the anxiety will pass if I stay in this moment.” She grabbed cleaning supplies and went to the bathroom and began scrubbing the floor on bended knees. Before long, she had worked up a sweat and her heart was racing like she had trotted up twenty flights of stairs. She scrubbed the corners, mumbling to herself
that the cleaning lady missed a spot and she would reprimand the company “first thing!” When she cracked a nail, she pulled off the rubber glove, inspected the uneven nail and said beneath her breath, “Damn!” Ultimately, her arms ached and she needed to take a break. She leaned against the bathroom wall and her eyes rested on a corner of the ceiling. “I know that's not a spider web!” Sicily ran through the hallway into the front of the loft and to the granite-adorned kitchen. She reached for the broom and practically stomped her way back to the bathroom and used the broom to sweep away the spider web. “I'm not taking this! I'm going to cancel that cleaning service
first thing!”

With one hand resting against her hip, she tried to slow her heartbeat. Emotionally, she was overwrought and she had trouble catching her breath. She needed to calm down before she had an anxiety attack. She sat on the commode. With her left hand gripping the broomstick, she reminded herself that no matter what,
every moment is perfect exactly as it is.
Sicily really tried to honor that, but she knew deep down like all sentient beings that while it sounded so poetic and brave, it was nothing more than Zen-ish mumbo jumbo. Before she was aware of what she was doing, and when the dust settled, she would still not know what on earth came over her. She dashed for the nearest telephone, which was in her bedroom, and with force punched digits. She knew she would receive voicemail and that was fine by Sicily.

“Listen to me, you bitch! I never ever want to hear from you again. If you see me out in public, don't even think about stopping me. Not even a smile or a hello. Don't think of saying one word to me. Do you get that? If you should happen to see me dying on the street, keep stepping—don't stop. Let me die, bitch! You get that? I never want to see your two-faced…You pathetic human being. I never want to hear your voice again.
Do you get that?”

When Sicily released the call, she gasped. “Oh, my God. I can't believe I did that. What's wrong with me?
What is wrong with me?”
Afraid she would risk another out-of-body moment, Sicily tried to collect herself. She sat on her bed staring at a painting on the wall, her mind completely blank. When she looked down at her hands, they trembled.

Every moment is perfect exactly as it is.
She repeated the mantra over and over; she convinced herself she felt better. Not because of the message she left Tamara, but because she wanted to genuinely trust that perfection rested in every moment, and no matter the lack of control one had over the trajectory of their life, or for that matter heartbreaking experiences, life remained beautiful and a blessing. If she did not hold on to that, she knew she had nothing. Nothing at all. When she went back to the bathroom to put away the cleaning supplies, Sicily happened to catch her reflection in the mirror, and the image looking back at her made her weep. For several minutes she sobbed, and in between her sobs she tried to recite the mantra,
every moment is perfect exactly as it is.
Sicily had not felt this bad—this low—since the
Post
outed her nearly eleven years ago. All the internal crap she spent years working through.
We are a work in progress.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Sicily screamed. For a long time she sat on top of the toilet stool trembling; she rocked back and forth. Finally she cried out, “Why did this happen to me? I'm so humiliated.” When she dropped to the floor, she began kicking the walls like a child having a temper tantrum. Sicily pulled at her hair and banged her fist against the spotless, tiled flooring. She reached for the toilet paper and yanked it until the entire roll was in a heap on the oval-shaped bath rug. She attempted to get to her feet; saliva dripped from her mouth and dissolved into the pile of toilet paper. She slipped on a lone square of toilet paper and landed on
one knee. Sicily pressed herself halfway up with her hands, but collapsed to her knees. She then begged a god—any god—to set her free.

Exhausted, she curled into a knot on the floor until she fell into a light and dream-free sleep.

•  •  •

Since his arrest, Rawn's days left him tired and troubled, and it felt like the chaotic nature of his feelings would never recede. Everything about who he used to be was like dried leaves a cool autumn breeze swiftly blew away. He was repeatedly haunted by strange, incrementally persuasive dreams and visions of D'Becca. And while he tried not to get totally lost in the cacophony of his circumstance, the still nights, too often damp and frigid, made him come to look directly—and not circuitously—at his life. His connection to events that led him to this lonely place was too intense; he needed more distance in order to gain a fresh and open-minded perspective. It was Martin Luther King Day when he heard a gentle knock at his door. He had fallen asleep on the sofa while reading
Sports Illustrated.
It had snowed the evening before, and while it did not stick, the leafless limbs on the trees were a reminder of the beauty and mystery of Mother Nature. Disoriented, his eyes darted to the clock on the VCR. The second knock was louder, though not demanding.

Rawn came to his feet, wiping his face. He walked to the door, quite curious who could be on the other side. He stood at the door with his hand on the knob for several seconds. The media disappeared a week or so following his arrest. There was nothing to cover since the story went cold. Rawn was warned by Hirsch to expect various mediums to return a few days leading up to the trial. Although a date had not been set, Hirsch requested a speedy
trial and the judge appointed over the case had approved cameras in the courtroom. Guardedly, Rawn looked through the peephole.

When he opened the door, the sight of her touched him in places he knew only seconds ago were closed to her, and anyone else, forever.

“Janelle?”

Rawn had not seen her since her wedding day and could not recall her looking so astonishing and marvelous. Against the winter-white peacoat, her dark skin was flawless. Average height, she stood before him with her wide smile and inspiring eyes. It amazed him that it felt like time—
their
time—stood still.

For a while, they sat close on the leather sofa in the stillness of the living room, and to Rawn the feeling was so strangely familiar. Janelle had changed so much since they were together; or had he come to look at her on new terms? It was not the way she looked, but the way she spoke and the animation in her voice when she talked. Everything about her was recreated; she morphed into acute beauty. Every dream she dreamed came true, but for the life she planned with him. She might not have the courage to tell him how much his setting her free put everything good about her life in motion. Only several years ago, she was confident that she could never forgive him, but he loved her enough to know that the boundless good on its way to her did not include him. There was someone more fitting for her and for the life that was designed solely for her and it could not come to fruition
with
him.

“How did you know what I couldn't understand three years ago?” she asked.

“Honestly, I didn't know. It could've been something inherent, who knows? I'd like to believe back then, ending things between us, I was doing you a favor. But my reasons were nothing more than selfish.”

“Your goodness is inbred, Rawn. Doing what you thought was right doesn't make it selfish.”

“If there's anything I've learned in the last month, it's that we aren't aware that each day we take so much of our life for granted. Daily life can be…an illusion.”

“Rawn…”

“No, listen, Janelle. I'm good. You didn't need to do this—come all the way here to check on me.”

“I'm not sure about that.”

“I'm not angry, really.”

She matched his gaze, and neither blinked. Before speaking, Janelle rehearsed in her mind exactly what to say. “No, not angry. But you're a new you; in a new place. This is unfamiliar territory. That Rawn Poussaint optimism and confidence, it's been sidelined. I was crazy about that side of you, by the way.”

His eyes unconsciously lingered on her plump lips painted in a plum-colored lipstick. Quietly, he said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Surprising me. You have gumption, girl, knocking on my door.” Rawn chuckled. “You didn't know who was going to answer. I'm not even sure who I'm going to be on any given day.” He reached for her hand and could not help noticing the diamond on her ring finger. “I know Tera put you up to this.”

“Your baby sister is strong-willed—a Poussaint to the core—that's for sure. But I knew you needed a
friend
. And I can't imagine not supporting a friend when he's in trouble.”

“You have no idea. Your friendship has been sorely missed.”

“We'll need to change that.”

His lips moved, but Rawn did not make a sound: “I hope so.”

He still had some influence over Janelle, which was precisely why she retrieved her hand. “Well…” She stood. “Since I've come
all this way—a plane, a taxi, a ferry and yet another taxi—the least you could do is whip up your crawfish étouffée, because I'd love some. I tried to make it once. It tasted nothing like yours.”

“I don't have the incredi—”

“Markets don't close this early on Crescent Island, do they?” she butted in, a hand planted on her swelling hip.

“No, but…”

“Okay, Rawn. Look, while you cook, I can give you all my ideas about your case. And I want to meet your attorney.”

He stood in front of her. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm a lawyer, remember?”

“Yeah, but I have a lawyer.”

“Hirsch is a damn good attorney. I know his reputation, and even before the Lou Baker Washington case. I watched snippets of the Henderson Payne trial on Court TV and fell head over for Hirsch. He's a fine Jew, but it was his courtroom charisma that hooked me. The opportunity to work with him…Do you know what this would do for my career? Being second chair in a high-profile case…I have a shot at partner.”

Rawn looked closely at Janelle. He knew she was ambitious, but it never occurred to him how much. “But you do civil not criminal law, right?”

“Minor distinction.”

“I trust you completely. You know that. But…”

“Who is this Rawn I rearranged my calendar to see? Uh-huh, no! I don't want to hear another but!” She walked around him and to the coat rack near the front door. She reached for his overcoat and said, “Stop it! Here.” She held the dark heather-gray coat by the collar with her forefinger. “Come on!”