Our First Love (10 page)

One of the students' articles began, “John Beatty may have gotten away with the BMW he jacked from Rachel Davis if he had
not asked her to hold his jacket while he took her two-year-old son out of the car seat. He handed Davis her son and she gave Beatty his jacket. Then Beatty drove away, but without his license and the forty dollars in his wallet. He had become the victim of a pickpocket. Davis.”

Nigel deducted ten points from the article and scribbled in red ink:
Were you trying to be funny? I bet Rachel Davis didn't think it was funny.

I disagreed. I thought the opening was clever, so I added ten points back to the student's grade. I added twenty-five points to the first three exams I rechecked. Nigel watched me as I changed the grades, but it wasn't because he was concerned about the changes I made. He wanted to comment on Lesley Stahl's report about the national recall of two prescription pain drugs. I tried my best to look extremely busy since he was too polite to interrupt. It worked. Whatever he was going to tell me, he mumbled it to himself and turned his attention back to the television.

Our new life was familiar. It was reminiscent of our days at Richmond University, so all we had to do was adapt to being professors instead of grad students. I realized I needed this career change as much as Nigel. We were news reporters for the past nine years, so the majority of our life outside 207 Circle Drive was as detached observers. We were never in the story. It felt good to finally be part of what's happening. However, my excitement hadn't translated to Nigel. I wanted to be part of the world outside these walls and windows, but Nigel would still rather stay here shut away from everything.

In Tallahassee and on the Hill, people made a big deal about homecoming, so I was dying to take part in my first homecoming
day. When I mentioned it to Nigel, he said he wasn't going. I insisted. Then I begged. Nigel pitched me every excuse he could come up with not to go, but I knocked them all out the park.

“I don't care that much for football,” he lobbed.

That one turned into a line drive over the left field fence. “Man, stop lying! You love football. We watch football all the time.”

“On TV.” He tossed a curve. “I like watching it on TV.”

Okay. That one went foul.

“Then don't worry about watching the game.” I crowded the plate. “Let's go for the bands. We already know the Marching 100 gonna cut up.”

He hurled an inside slider. “I don't want to sit in the middle of thousands of people that we don't know.”

That one went over the centerfield fence and landed in a dugout on the adjacent field. “We can sit in the journalism block with Dr. Alexander and Dr. Sneeds. And, don't forget you told them we would try to make it.”

We were up before 6 a.m. on Homecoming Saturday. October had been unseasonably warm so I bought Nigel an extra-large, white Hilfiger pullover shirt, a pair of tan, brown, and white plaid shorts—size 36 when he wears 34, and a pair of brown casual Campers from JCPenney. Nigel moped around like he had a hangover, but I had him dressed and out of the house by seven.

I spent the day surfing between the three local TV stations and 96.1 FM on the radio. I wanted to see and hear as much news coverage of the parade and game as I could before Nigel came home and we sat down to muse about our day.

I hoped I wasn't going to need to drag our day out of him, but it turned out Nigel had a great time and couldn't wait to relive it with me. Nigel had a better time than I did. I was dumbfounded. FAMU beat Morgan State 24-23, but the win didn't register with
Nigel. He was more enthralled by the atmosphere of the day. As I listened, I realized he unconsciously transposed pages of what I assumed was his former life into our story. Nigel described navy blue, red, and white floats and bison that were not in the parade I saw on TV. And why would they? FAMU's mascot was an orange and green rattlesnake and Morgan State's colors were orange and blue and its mascot was a bear. Nigel joked about drinking a few beers on the lawn of a frat house near Bragg Memorial Stadium before walking over to the stadium with the frat members. Nigel hanging out with frat guys? I didn't think so. Besides, there weren't any frat houses near the stadium. When he came home from work Monday, two days after homecoming, he had a diamond stud in his ear and toted a six-pack of Michelob. Two beers and twenty minutes later, he showed me a step routine that he said he saw on the Hill. He even knew the Chi Alpha chant. I didn't say anything, but I deduced the step routine and all this hanging out with frat boys had to be part of his past life because there's no way he could have learned all those steps, turns, claps, and moves after seeing the routine performed once. When he was through stepping, Nigel sat down and stared at the ceiling fan. He smiled longingly as he watched scenes from his departed life replay on the revolving blades.

It took two days for the pair of diamond earrings to arrive after I'd ordered them from Zales.com. I was sitting by the window when James Henderson, the UPS driver, pulled in the driveway. He knew the delivery routine, so I went to my bedroom and he came inside. I heard the front door close. “I'm in,” he yelled.

“How's it going?” I asked, walking back in the living room.

“It's been a rough morning,” Henderson replied. He gave me the package, then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped
the sweat off his bald head. Henderson, a former college basketball player, wasn't wearing earrings, but I noticed the pierce marks in both his earlobes. “I don't know why, but Thursdays are the worst day of the week for me.”

“Well, it's only an hour until lunchtime.” I signed the delivery voucher. “So, how's married life treating you?” I asked as I opened the package.

“It's been almost three months, and so far it's been smooth sailing.”

“…Glad to hear that,” I said and started toward the bedroom. “Peace, man.” I walked in the room and closed the door. A few seconds later, I heard the front door close.

I don't think my feet touched the floor during my dash to the kitchen. I emptied a tray of ice cubes on a washcloth and wrapped the cubes inside. I put OutKast in the CD player and cranked it up. Two sewing needles were already soaking in alcohol on the shelf in the bathroom. I put the washcloth against my earlobe and waited for the numbness to set in. Five minutes later, I used one of the sewing needles to prick my earlobe. I didn't feel it, so I held my breath, then pushed the needle all the way through. It hurt too much to holler. It felt like my ear had been chopped off with a machete. Blood spilled in the sink and on the floor. After I regained my senses and pulled myself up off the floor, I put another ice cube against my earlobe and eased the needle out. I held the crimson cube on my earlobe a few more minutes to numb it before I inserted the stud. I braced myself against the sink and forced the stud through the hole. The pangs from ripping flesh drop-kicked me and I landed on the floor again. But it was done.

After cleaning the bathroom and primping in the mirror for an hour or so, I started on my afternoon chores. I did the laundry and graded the research papers Nigel brought home the day before. I cooked dinner—fried pork chops, cabbage, and macaroni and
cheese. Then I sat down in Dad's recliner and counted down the minutes to Nigel's arrival. I could not wait to see the expression on his face when he saw my diamond stud.

I was in my usual spot when Nigel drove up. I waved to him and went to my bedroom. When I heard the front door open and close, I walked into the living room. Nigel was sitting on the sofa. I sat beside him so he couldn't help noticing my stud, but he pretended not to see it. So, I went ahead and asked, “How do you like my bling?”

“I saw it,” he answered. That was all he said.

The next morning, Nigel walked in the kitchen while I was fixing breakfast and tossed his diamond studs in the trash. Then he poured a cup of coffee and went back to his bedroom and got dressed.

That evening, after he came home from work, Nigel put the trash bag containing two pairs of new diamond ear studs outside in the garbage.

Through these telescopic windows, I saw a world that I could only watch from a distance like the man in the moon.

The telephone rang while we were eating dinner. The phone was on the table by Nigel, but he ignored the ringing. I nearly knocked my tray over rushing to answer it. Dr. Alexander and his wife, Gloria, who we met at the homecoming game, were calling to invite us to the Fall Football Classic in Orlando between FAMU and Bethune-Cookman College. Nigel passed without even considering their offer. It would be a waste of time trying to change his mind, so I didn't bother. Besides, I was not sure I wanted to attend another football game with Nigel. I was scared he might go schizo on me again.

Florida had a new governor whose name was not Barney Aman, and I was pissed off. It's not that I disliked our new governor. He'd do a great job. I was pissed because of the miscount. My write-in vote for Barney Aman couldn't have been the only vote he received. I demanded a re-count. Forget a re-count. Barney Aman should be our new governor if for no other reason than I wanted him to be.

I hated bad weather and hurricanes were at the top of my hate list. This was my closest encounter with a hurricane. It was a category two that made land near Apalachicola Bay. I was under my bed praying our house could withstand this monstrous lashing because this was the only shelter I had. Nigel, he got a perverted kick out of weather like this, so he was having a ball. If he could, without being Baker Acted, Nigel would go outside, chain himself to one of the deep-rooted oaks, and implore, “Red Rover! Red Rover! Please send Miss Bad Ass right over.”

I didn't know what it was about cold weather and traffic accidents, but when the temperature dipped, Circle Drive turned into a bumper-car rink. I understood if Tallahassee was in the North where it snowed and sometimes the roads got covered by ice, but that's not the case down here. An early morning frost wasn't uncommon, but we saw snow as often as we saw Haley's Comet. Two nights ago, a cold front drifted through and the temperature dropped into the mid-thirties. The next morning, it looked like someone had shaken a giant sifter of ice shavings over the park and neighborhood. I looked out the window while Nigel was eating breakfast and saw cars sliding on Circle Drive like they were driving on a sheet of ice. Less than ten minutes after Nigel left for work, there was a three-vehicle wreck right up the street. A red Ford Escape skidded into the back of a black Honda, causing the Honda to swerve left into the oncoming traffic, slamming into a
brown sedan. I was in the kitchen cleaning up when I heard a thunderous crash. I ran into the living room, but I couldn't see the accident from the front window, so I ran into the den and opened the curtains. The view was a lot better. I could see the vehicles involved in the wreck. Professor Childers, wearing snow boots, olive-green corduroy pants, and a bulky, beige sweater and a matching wool cap, stood at the edge of his driveway, which was about forty yards from the accident. He turned and saw me at the window. He tossed a half-smoked cigarette on the ground, then lowered his head and mouthed the words, “It looks bad.” I nodded, sitting on the edge of the desk. Cars were already backed up to Myers Park, and the ambulance and three police cars had a difficult time getting through to the victims. One of the officers pulled to the side of the road, got out of his car, and started directing traffic while the other two officers and the EMTs helped the victims. Professor Childers smoked six cigarettes—I counted them—as he talked with police officers and people who were closer to the accident, relaying the information to me. According to him, the man who drove the Escape was okay, but the woman and her ten-year-old daughter in the Honda and the man in the sedan sustained serious injuries. It was nearly two hours before traffic got back to normal on Circle Drive. By then, the frost had melted and the temperature had climbed to fifty-four degrees. The reality show was over. I waved goodbye to Professor Childers, closed the curtains in the den, and went to the kitchen and finished the dishes.

I spent the day writing my new blog. Since Thanksgiving was in a few days, this week's blog was titled, “The Best Meal of the Year.”

“The (not so true) Way I Remember It” – by Caleb Greene

The Best Meal of the Year

When I was growing up, there were everyday kitchen rules and there were holiday kitchen rules that governed what was on the menu and how meals were prepared.

The everyday rules were open to interpretation and changed according to who was doing the cooking. However, the holiday kitchen rules were written in the stainless steel pots that were only taken off the shelf to prepare special meals.

My daddy rarely ventured in the kitchen or decided what was for dinner. However, when it came to his holiday dinner, he had one rule. Something wild better be on the menu.

My brother, Nigel, still doesn't know his way around the kitchen, but he does a great job following directions while prepping things for me.

There are no shortcuts was my mother's holiday kitchen rule. That meant when it came time to prepare what she called the best meal of the year, you cooked it from scratch. Except for pie shells, there were no frozen items. And, as I came to learn, there were no electric choppers.

When I became big enough to help out in the kitchen, I went along with their holiday kitchen rules. I still do. Well, not all of them. The one that I've broken without regret is my mother's rule about electric choppers. I don't regret it because I eventually got her to ease up on this restriction. But it wasn't easy.

We were preparing Thanksgiving dinner the first time I pulled out an electric chopper. My mother suspiciously eyed the contraption and asked, “What's that?”