Playing With Fire (7 page)

“I'm just calling as I promised I would. I was hoping you're still interested in having that cup of coffee.”

He nodded into the receiver. “I am. Most definitely.”

“Do you have some time today?”

Romeo hesitated momentarily, remembering what he had to do. “I have to take care of some business at the Playground, but I'm available right after. I can pick you up.”

“That works for me. But I'll meet you at the club.”

“I'll be there at one o'clock,” Romeo said. “What I have to do won't take long and we can go from there.”

“I look forward to it,” Taryn said. “Try to go back to sleep,” she added, giggling as she disconnected the call.

Romeo's smile was miles wide. Still holding the receiver to his ear, he couldn't help but wonder where she'd gotten his number.

 

 

Piano Man draped his oversized blazer onto the back of the kitchen chair. Dropping onto a padded, floral-printed seat, he lifted a steaming cup of coffee to his puckered lips, sipping noisily. Pulling the morning paper close to his chest, he leafed through briefly until he came to page six and the obituary column. Across the way, Miss Hazel was happily flipping pancakes, tossing them onto a warm plate already piled high with sausage. The ugly black poodle sniffed anxiously at her feet, hoping that a morning treat might drop to the floor.

“You ain't get much sleep last night, did you?” Miss Hazel asked, smiling.

“Don't needs much.”

“Uh-huh.” She continued, grinning broadly. “I ain't never understood men like you who stay in the streets all night. Can't see what the attraction is.”

Piano Man shrugged, twisting the edges of his mouth into a bogus smile. “Well, a sweet woman like you shouldn't be worrying her pretty head over no men like me. We ain't good enough for a fine woman like you, Miss Hazel.”

Miss Hazel giggled. “Hush your mouth now and eat up some of this here food.”

“I just want to read the obituaries first,” Piano Man replied, scanning the list of names of the recently departed. “I looks for my name. If my name ain't here, then I knows I can go on to work.” He tossed her a quick wink.

Miss Hazel chuckled again. “You too silly, Mr. Burdett.”

Piano Man placed the newspaper back down on the table, reaching for a pancake.

“Now, you needs to eat more than that,” Miss Hazel exclaimed, resting her hands on her broad hips. “You needs to fill out some, especially if you gon' run them streets like you do.”

Piano Man smiled again. “Now, you're gonna spoil me with all this attention.”

Miss Hazel sucked her teeth, flipping her hand at him. Settling into the seat beside him, she speared four more pancakes with her fork and placed them on his plate. After laying a chain link of honey-glazed sausage alongside the fluffy rings of buttermilk dough, she filled her own plate with what was left and proceeded to eat. Piano Man watched with amusement as she ate heartily, stopping every so often to lick the syrup from her fingers.

Inhaling one-third of the pancakes and two sausages, Piano Man finished off his morning meal with the last drop of coffee that had settled in the bottom of the chipped porcelain cup. Wiping his mouth and chin with a yellow paper napkin, he rose from his seat, placing a fragile hand on top of the woman's broad shoulder.

“Miss Hazel, that was a fine meal. I wants you to know that I truly appreciates all you does for me.”

Miss Hazel swallowed what was in her mouth, then grinned broadly. “It ain't nothing, Mr. Burdett. I'm a good Christian woman and I believes in helping folks.”

Piano Man nodded, pulling on the navy blue blazer. He looked quite dashing in his matching slacks and pale yellow shirt. His paisley tie was an intricate pattern of blues, yellows, and greens, and although the garments hung loosely over his torso, he stood impressively, his narrow shoulders pulled back straight and tall. “Well, thank you anyway. I needs to be going now before I'm late.”

Miss Hazel started to rise from her chair. “Don't get up,” Piano Man chimed. “You just sit and enjoy your breakfast.” Then smiling sheepishly, he tapped her shoulder one last time before heading out the front door and down the road.

Although it was a short walk to St. Mark A.M.E. Zion Church, the ache in Piano Man's legs made the jaunt seem much longer. As he lifted his tired limbs into the vestibule, his chest rose heavily, his breathing labored. He inhaled deeply, trying to fill his withering lungs with air. It was not long before his breathing returned to normal and the perspiration across his brow had evaporated.

The morning sun was perched precariously in a cloud-filled sky when he finally settled into the sixth pew from the front, the only pew he ever sat in when he attended services. The warm rays peeked eerily through the stained glass windows, casting dark shadows across the highly polished wooden benches, which smelled faintly of lemon oil.

As the morning congregation of overdressed women and blue-suited men eased down the aisles, Piano Man turned about in his seat to bid good morning to his friend Aleta. She had entered shortly after he did and had taken a seat across the way. Piano Man thought her to be exceptionally attractive seated there in a silk dress the color of ripened peaches. A straw hat set off by a spray of satin ribbon was pulled down low over her brow, angled with much attitude over her eyes. He was reminded of when they'd been much younger. Aleta had always possessed an easy beauty, marked occasionally by a faint touch of blush across her high cheekbones and a light coat of cinnamon lip color to complement her thin lips. Intoxicating brown eyes still gazed past dark full lashes, and her skin tone remained as rich as maple syrup. As Piano Man watched her he was reminded of caramel toffee with its hard coating and soft center, a sweet confection that would easily melt into indifference if left too long in a summer heat. He grinned broadly as she winked in his direction before turning away to smile gently at other churchgoers who paused to greet her.

It was the third Sunday of the month and the Men's Choir was scheduled to sing. Piano Man knew the morning would go by quickly, not like last week when the Senior Choir sang. Second Sundays and the Senior Choir could be exceptionally tedious and required a patience Piano Man did not possess on this particular Sunday morning.

The low hum of the large pipe organ filled the inner sanctuary, its enchanting tones coddling a deep vibrato that promised salvation for due penance. Doris Gibbons, the church's music director, swayed back and forth along the organ seat, her fingers praying against the keys. The gold-trimmed choir robe draped over her shoulders fell elegantly along the bench beneath her, and Piano Man thought her to be less matronly this way.

He sighed deeply. A mixture of hot pressed hair, oiled with heavy pomades, impostor perfumes, and morning kitchen smells filled his nostrils. Cupping his hand across his mouth, he coughed lightly, attempting to expel the dust he visualized clinging to the delicate tissue along his throat.

As the choir started their parade down the center aisle singing “Glory To His Name,” the congregation came to their feet. Piano Man rose, slightly unsteady, then turned his body ever so slightly to watch the procession. His left foot tapped lightly in time to the beat. His fingers played along the back of the pew in front of him, in sync with the music.

Reverend Avery Mayfield and his wife, Juanita, brought up the rear, falling in step behind the six men who made up the illustrious Deacon Board. As they all settled themselves at the front of the church, Piano Man felt content and pleased to be there at that particular moment.

Looking back over his shoulder to the entrance, he eyed the latecomers who would have to stand quietly during the minister's invocation before they'd be permitted to enter. Some of the faces were familiar and Piano Man knew them to never be on time. Turning his attention back to the minister, Piano Man soon found his thoughts interlaced with the sermon. Every so often an “amen” or a “hallelujah” would fall quietly over his lips, dropping like a feather against his ears. At one point even a “praise be to Jesus” tottered across his tongue, fading into oblivion as it eased out of his mouth.

When Reverend Mayfield invited the congregation to kneel at the pulpit in prayer, to unload the burdens they found exceedingly difficult to carry, Piano Man pulled himself from his seat and made his way to the front of the church. On his knees, he bowed his head low, his hands clasped in prayer before him.

Lately, Piano Man prayed frequently. The more time he spent on his knees conversing with God, the better he felt about life in general. He didn't expect total forgiveness for the many indiscretions and odious mistakes he'd committed during his lifetime. He only hoped there would be some understanding of why he'd made the choices he had. When the day came for him to come face to face with his maker, he hoped his own acknowledgment of his actions would ease whatever penance would be bestowed upon him.

His discourse was particularly lengthy this Sunday morning and he suddenly sensed the congregation's eyes upon him as he was one of the last persons to rise. Mildly embarrassed, he whispered a quick “thank you” and an “amen,” then struggled to lift his lean frame back upon his tired feet. The struggle was made easier when a young man, his hair cropped close to his head, braced a firm hand beneath Piano Man's arm and pulled him to his feet. Meeting the young man's hazel eyes, Piano Man nodded thank you, then returned to his seat.

As he sat back down for the balance of the service, Piano Man's eyes briefly met Aleta's, skipping past the concern in her face. Aleta continued to watch him from the corner of her eye, but Piano Man's eyes were elsewhere, studying the tall young man who had so gallantly offered his arm to lift the old man from the floor.

Piano Man guessed him to be in his late teens, a faint wisp of facial hair playing along the line of his chin. He sat next to an older man who was obviously his father, the strong resemblance difficult to miss. Every so often, the man would turn to look at the boy and nod his head in agreement to whatever the minister had just preached, and Piano Man envied him. Had things been different for him, he might have had an opportunity to sit in church with his own son and have the boy be proud to be there by his side. Piano Man sighed heavily. “Yes, Lord,” he whispered to himself. “If it had all just been different.”

The service ended on a jubilant note as the choir bounced back down the aisle, the congregation following. Aleta caught hold of Piano Man's arm and escorted him out of the church, both stopping briefly to say hello to Reverend Mayfield. They continued their walk in silence until they reached the corner of Fairfield Avenue and Spruce Street.

“Where's your car, woman?” Piano Man asked, his voice low and throaty.

“I walked this morning.”

He nodded, his arm still wrapped about hers.

“It's been good to see you back in church.”

Piano Man laughed. “Knew you'd like that.”

“You do it for me?”

“No.”

Aleta smiled, shaking her head. “Didn't think so.”

“Then why you ask?”

Aleta shrugged. “Woman can't help but hope that sometimes a man will change his ways and do something good 'cause he wants to do it for her. They call it wishful thinking.”

“You know me too well to be wishful thinking nothing like that.”

Aleta nodded. “Yes, I do.”

They continued to walk arm in arm, the morning sounds of a rising city sweeping around them. “So, what brought you back here?”

Piano Man shrugged, purposely avoiding her eyes. “Had me some business to settle is all.”

“Does that mean you'll be leaving us again soon?”

Piano Man went silent, grasping her arm tighter.

Aleta nodded again, pressing her lips tightly, then dropped her chin to her chest. She sighed heavily.

“How have you been doing since Irene died?” Aleta asked, her voice dropping to a faint whisper. “Have you finally settled things the way you needed to?”

Piano Man stared straight ahead, his stride slowing as they approached Aleta's front porch. Wrapping his arms around the woman's shoulders, he hugged her closely, leaning to whisper into her ear.

“Irene died knowing that I'd been no good for her while she was alive and that I hadn't changed. I won't no good for her, and I ain't no good for you.”

Leaning to kiss her lightly on her cheek, Piano Man lifted her chin to stare into her eyes. “No good,” he reiterated firmly.

Aleta smiled slightly, her face twisted anxiously as though she wanted to cry. “What about the boy?” she asked instead. “What are you going to do about your son?”

“My boy deserve better than me. This is what his mama wanted. I'm just gon' let things be the way they was meant to be.”

“You should tell him, James, and let him make up his own mind.”

Piano Man stared at her briefly, then kissed her cheek one last time. “Too late for that. I cain't go back and neither can he. What's done is done.” Piano Man turned to walk away, his steps slow and heavy.

“Some secrets aren't meant to be taken to your grave, James. He's a good, decent man, and he deserves to know the truth while you're here to tell it. Don't take that away from him. You need to do right by him at least once in your life. You can't keep running away from what you know to be right. Irene died still loving you even though you were always running. I'll die still loving you even though you always running. For once, James, you need to do what's right.”

Pausing, Piano Man inhaled her last words, their acrid scent burning his lungs. The ache in his chest intensified. Then, without responding, he continued down the sidewalk.