The Blackbirds (25 page)

“More or less.”

“What does that mean? More or less?”

“Whenever a man looks at a beautiful woman, it feels like love at first sight.”

“But is it? Was it?”

“Sometimes it is.”

“Was it with Destiny's mother?”

“I married her.”

“So I guess it was.”

“I guess so.”

Ericka smiled to hide her envy. She felt foolish.

He asked, “Would you like something to drink, Miss Stockwell?”

She presumed that was his way of measuring how long she was staying. She fixed her mouth to say that wouldn't be necessary, her body in the position of a runner, prepared to leave now, to take her anxiety and go, but then she looked at the sofa. When she gazed at the sofa a fiery tingle raced up her spine, and instead she exhaled slowly and answered, “Water will be fine.”

Ericka made herself comfortable on the sofa. To ease her nerves, she browsed fliers on the coffee table. All were for films at the Nuart. There was a card showing all the acts coming to the LA County Fair. Patti LaBelle. Chaka Khan. Ericka nodded. These were Mr. Jones's interests. She felt like she was intruding, learning more about him by being invasive, so she stopped browsing, then put the stack of fliers back the way she had found them.

There was also an obituary on the table.

Ericka asked, “Who passed?”

“Guy I grew up with. Prostate cancer. He wasn't even fifty.”

“Sorry to hear. How long was he sick?”

“Ten years of suffering. He went from being able to lift a house to barely being able to lift himself out of bed. Changed his quality of life. Could barely recognize him at the end.”

“Bet that was hard on his family.”

“It is. Everything is redirected and you take them on that journey with you.”

“Those who are willing to travel with you. A lot of people have to do it alone.”

“No one should go that journey alone.”

Ericka shifted, felt her own fear rise and subside. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“At least he got to see his grandchild be born. He saw his daughter graduate from Princeton, walked her down the aisle, and saw his first
grandchild. He had a strong mind and made himself last that long. And three days after his grandson arrived, he let go and went home.”

Mr. Jones opened two bottles of Aquafina. Room temperature.

He sat down a person's space away from her, placed bottled water in front of her.

She held the Kaiser bag in her lap, nervously bending the edges of the white-and-blue bag.

She yielded a nervous smile.

Mr. Jones asked, “What was in the other care package?”

“Food to make sure you stay healthy.”

“Destiny cooked?”

“I cooked earlier. They've been gone most of the day. Indigo was supposed to come back home after she worked out, but she texted that she was getting chicken soup down in Venice.”

“Then I will eat it when the munchies kick in. What did you make?”

Ericka laughed. “Salmon, mixed vegetables, and wild rice.”

“My favorite meal.”

“If you heat it in the microwave, sit a cup of water in there too so it won't dry out.”

“Thanks, Miss Stockwell.”

“Being bald works for you. Bald is sexy on a black man.”

He rubbed his head, grinned, kept his thoughts to himself.

She motioned at the ashtray and the roaches. “What are you smoking this time?”

“Pineapple Express.”

“Never tried that one. I prefer White Berry, Tsunami Crush, or Maui Wowie.”

“I have more. Want to partake and see if this pleases your palate?”

“If I smoked, then I would have to stay the night.”

“I have a guest room.”

“Mr. Jones, you don't want me getting high, not around you.”

“Because?”

“I lose control.”

“We both do.”

“Indeed we do.”

“We smoke and lose control.”

“I start to tell all of my secrets. I think I talked your head off when we did.”

He said, “On this sofa.”

“Right here. On this sofa. I guess you could say I showed you my secrets.”

“Yeah. I showed you mine as well.”

“Things got out of hand, Mr. Jones.”

“Should we talk about that?”

“Should we?”

He said, “Or just keep pretending it never happened?”

“I don't know. You tell me, should we act like we didn't do anything?”

“I've been scared to be alone with you. Didn't know what to say.”

“Same here. I had no idea how you felt about what had happened.”

“But we are alone again.”

“Yes, we are.”

“On the same sofa.”

“Yes. Back at the scene of the crime.”

Mr. Jones paused. “Sorry about that. All I remember is that we were partaking of the medicinal, talking politics, laughing, being serious. Puffing, passing. Puffing, passing.”

“Puffing and passing became puffing and kissing.”

“Yeah. Kissing. Not sure how we arrived at kissing.”

“We were talking about the state of the black man and woman in America. Talked about how we lost our African richness and became second-class. We watched part of a video on YouTube.
Truth of How Slavery Started the Black Slave Trade and Racism
.”

“We do get deep when we smoke and talk.”

“You get deep when you get deep, and I'm not talking about words.”

“How did we get from point A to point B? How did we start kissing?”

“I started it. You said you had strained a muscle. I rubbed your shoulders, gave you a massage, and started it.”

“I had the medicinal in my blood and when you massaged me, I made a bad choice.”

“It was my choice. Never should have gotten high with somebody I had a crush on.”

He grinned. “I couldn't believe it when you told me that.”

“I was buzzed. Couldn't keep it in anymore. I've always had strong feelings for you, Mr. Jones. I had them as a girl, but they are more mature now, and I have expressed them to you as a woman.”

He said, “Never saw you that way.”

“What way?”

“In that way.”

“What, like a woman?”

“Miss Stockwell, I remember when you were learning how to drive.”

“You watched me grow up.”

“You didn't feel weird about that?”

She chuckled. “First thing that weirded me out was you smoking with me.”

“Was surprised you smoked. It weirded me out too.”

“Cancer made us do it.”

“Was still surprised. That wasn't the image I had of you.”

“You saw me as being innocent.”

“Still do see you as a church girl. In my mind you're still . . . still . . .”

“A virgin?”

“I know. Still are a few things I can't imagine you doing.”

“Even after you've done those things with me.”

“Seems surreal. And illegal.”

“I was smoking at fifteen. When I was sent to Oklahoma, cousins back there introduced me to weed. That's all they do back there. I never did much. School. Church. Weed. Was trying to fit in and be grown.”

“Trying to be grown before she was grown was Destiny's issue.”

“It's every girl's issue, Mr. Jones. We're made that way, to seek out our independence, to seek acceptance. We want a place we can be ourselves and be loved for being who we are.”

He said, “And you had a thing for me when you used to babysit Destiny.”

“You weren't supposed to know.”

“You were so quiet and studious. You were a younger version of your mother.”

“Used to wish you'd kiss me when you dropped me off at home afterward.”

“Your telling me that you had feelings for me threw me for a loop.”

“Why?”

“You were so proper. Thought you saw me as an adult, maybe an older guy, if not an old guy, or even worse, with your religious upbringing, as some sort of heretic.”

“I was so scared to tell you that I had so many intense dreams about you.”

“Then straddling me the way you did so you could blow smoke up my nose.”

“I straddled you to blow you a shotgun. Made you feel this heat on you.”

“And after you did, you inhaled, then put your tongue in my mouth while you exhaled.”

“You weren't ready for that. Weed made me bold. Never would have done that sober.”

“The way you kissed me changed everything. You kissed me like you were full woman. It wasn't clumsy. It surprised me. You wouldn't let me pull away from you. You made me give in.”

She said, “I guess I did. Once I got started, it was hard to turn it off.”

“You're not a little girl anymore.”

“I'm a grown woman now, Mr. Jones. We're two consenting adults.”

“This old man got caught up in the moment and got carried away.”

“You're not an old man, so please, if you're trying to turn me off, it's not working.”

“Kicking fifty in the ass with steel-toe boots.”

“You're in better shape than my husband was, and he was thirty-six.”

“I was the older person. I really should apologize for allowing that to happen.”

“Only if you didn't enjoy it.”

“I did.”

“I did too.”

“That's the problem.”

“Sure is.”

The conversation paused, but the eye contact continued.

Mr. Jones asked, “You good? How's your health, Ericka?”

She made herself smile. “Last scan came back looking clean. Blood work looks good. Liver good.”

“The process, the pain, it was too much for your husband.”

“Ex-husband.”

“He should've stuck by you.”

“He should've. But his toy was broken, so he went and found a new toy.”

“I heard he remarried.”

“There is a new first lady in his life. May God bless both of them.”

“That sounded petty.”

“I need to work on my delivery. Still hard to sound sincere when I'm not.”

Mr. Jones shook his head. “You married when you were twenty-four.”

“Met him on a flight back from Argentina. We were on the same flight. Sat next to each other. He had been there doing missionary work. Wish you had stopped me from dating him.”

He said, “Wish you had stopped me from marrying Carmen.”

“Then Destiny wouldn't be born
and
you would've been locked up as a pedophile.”

He laughed. “If only I had been a vampire that sparkles in the sun.”

She laughed. “No vampires. But I would have waited for you to be released.”

She was glad he found her to be humorous, glad he didn't say what she was thinking, that if Destiny hadn't been born, it would have saved her from all she had gone through.

She would rather a child not be born than to have to suffer some heinous things.

He said, “Timing is everything.”

“You had to wait for this flower to grow before you considered plucking it.”

“I think you did the plucking.”

“I did the choosing, but when you had the space and opportunity, you did the plucking.”

“That's your story?”

“And I'm sticking to it. It's a woman's right to blame a man for her bad choices.”

He smiled. “You're a beautiful woman, Ericka Stockwell. A beautiful young woman.”

“Got a few gray hairs now. Somewhere in this short fuzz is a lot of gray hair.”

“At least you have hair.”

“Gray hairs, fighting cancer, and divorced.”

“We have the same résumé.”

“I don't know about you, but I never saw this tsunami of bad times coming.”

“No one does. When we're kids on swings, or boys chasing girls, no one predicts this.”

Ericka squeezed the tingle in her thighs, felt her nipples rise, her breasts swell.

Mr. Jones sighed, squirmed where he sat, seemed to swallow his thoughts.

Ericka took a deep breath, twisting the bag in her lap, making it rustle, remembering how Mr. Jones had been a storm on this sofa.

Ericka sat on the spot where it had happened, on the memory.

The evidence of their transgression had been cleaned; not a spot remained.

As if Mr. Jones was feeling what she was feeling, remembering, he said, “This sofa.”

“Like you said, since that evening, we've acted like it never happened.”

“But it did happen.”

“No one knows.”

“The sofa knows.”

“Yeah, it does. We almost broke the damn thing.”

“I have stared at this sofa every day.”

“Each time I look at Destiny, I feel a little strange now.”

“Our secret burns in my chest at times, but I keep the words from escaping.”

“Destiny is my friend.”

Mr. Jones said, “You were there for her when shit was real bad.”

“Because I love her. When I heard about that, I ran to find where she was.”

He asked, “Should we tell Destiny at some point? Should I ask her forgiveness?”

“I'm not sure about that. It would change her image of her dad.”

“And of you. It would change your friendship, or end your friendship.”

She toyed with the bag. “Yeah. Could end our friendship. I wouldn't like it if one of the Blackbirds slept with my father. That is gross in my mind, so I know this will be gross in her mind. She's seen me naked and she came from you. Indigo and Kwanzaa would be furious too.”

“She's seen you naked?”

“Girls, we undress and get dressed in front of each other, walk around topless, no biggie.”

“I didn't see you naked.”

“We didn't quite get to the part where clothes come all the way off.”

“Too bad.”

“Why did you say that? You want to see me naked?”

“That wasn't a request.”

“I know.”

“Was trying to be funny.”

“I know. We sort of unzipped zippers and moved the panties to the side and did it.”

He paused. “I feel like I am taking advantage of you and deceiving my daughter.”

Ericka asked, “Do you tell Destiny everyone you sleep with?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you're not doing anything out of the ordinary.”

“Do you tell her your love life?”

“We're besties. We talk about men.”

He said, “Our relationship is different. She's my daughter, not my homie.”

“She knew about the girl on the motorcycle. Billie.”

He paused. “I can't tell Destiny about us, about this thing we did on the sofa.”

“We had sex on the sofa. You put your penis inside me. No need to sugarcoat.”

“I can't tell her. I wouldn't be able to let those words come out of my mouth.”

“It was just that one night.”

“Just one night, but several times that same night.”

“It was unexpected and intense.”

“Very memorable.”

“At least you were able to get the milky stains out of the sofa.”

“We marked our territory very well. Used a lot of Febreze too.”

“I don't want to pretend it didn't happen, Mr. Jones.”

“I get it, Ericka. You had cancer. Cancer has a way of making the most arrogant become humble. You fought it and you won. A lot of people give up, but you fought it and won.”

“I'm in remission. I've won the battle, but the war might not be over.”

Mr. Jones said, “I have cancer now. You understand how it is. It's physical, but it's also mental. Does something to your mind just knowing your body is turning against you.”

“You feel an invisible clock over your head.”

“And you're doing your best to find a way to stop the countdown.”

Ericka said, “People find out you're sick and some come closer, but many run away.”

“Some people aren't built to handle being around sick people.”

“Some are just self-centered.”

“Some don't know what to say to a person whom they see as death personified.”

“They look at the sick and don't want to see themselves, so they turn away as if to avoid some curse, as if staring at us too long will assure they will suffer the same fate we suffer.”

“You know what that's like. You feel empathy. You went through it before I did. I think it would have been different if you hadn't already been tested. Your sex was an act of compassion.”

“Is that what it felt like? Sympathy?”

“I assumed that you just got caught up in your emotions, and maybe you were giving a man who could end up dying from this shit, if it gets out of control, a dying wish.”

“Mr. Jones, this pussy is not part of the Make-a-Wish Foundation.”

He laughed.

She said, “I understand the journey, and how even though people
support you, you're still doing this on your own, how no one can understand your misery, but it was not empathy. I would have slept with you if I never had been sick. There. Now you know. It was not an empathy fuck.”

“What was it?”

“This was here before I was sick, before I knew you were ill. It was there when I was getting married, and if you had asked me to not get married, I would have listened. I have fantasized about you half of my life, and you never knew I was so hooked on you. And now I've become friends with your daughter. It's scary, but my feelings for you have always been strong.”

She fell silent. She had said too much, and this time there had been no weed to blame.

There was silence. Silence was rejection.

He asked, “You okay?”

“Feeling foolish for being here. Thinking about cancer. My life had been a series of unfortunate events. Seems like God has punished me for being a foolish teenager.”

“It wasn't God.”

“What was it?”

“Not God.”

“The other guy?”

“Wasn't my God. I'm divorced and my daughter . . . to have the child I was supposed to protect . . . be raped . . . videotaped . . . taken away from us . . . be imprisoned because she did to the rapists half of what I would've done to them if I had known . . . and now cancer for me . . . and I still worry about her fitting in the world . . . meeting the right boy . . . knowing people hate her . . . this isn't the work of my God.”

Again silence.

He said, “You're one of her best friends, Miss Stockwell.”

“I am, Mr. Jones.”

“Is she doing okay?”

“She's overdoing it, if you ask me. Between school and working here, there, and everywhere, it's like she wants to keep busy so she doesn't
have to think. She's avoiding life not by hiding in a room in the dark, but by keeping her brain occupied every moment.”