A Cold Piece of Work (4 page)

“Oh, my God,” he mumbled to himself. “Oh, my God.”

S
olomon was as sure of himself as most anyone, especially with women, but he was uncertain of how to deal with seeing Michele at the banquet. Her presence threw off his equilibrium. Suddenly, he was totally uncomfortable.

He had left her while she slept; moved from D.C. to Atlanta the next day and never looked back. Changed his cell number. Did not answer her e-mails. Totally cut her off—and with no explanation. Ever.

Now there she was, looking every bit as captivating as she did when they dated: flawless skin, save for a small mole on the left side of her face; fashionable short haircut that was longer but still nicely shaped her oval face; chic eyeglasses that magnified her intellect and gave her a more conservative look than she really was. The added pounds were noticeable but it was Michele.

To add to Solomon's drama, unbeknownst to him, he had gained affection for the son of a woman he abandoned.

He literally could feel sweat developing on his forehead. Solomon wanted to talk to her, but was wary of how she would react to him. Plus, he was unsure of what explanation he had to offer if she were interested in what he had to say.

After they made eye contact, Michele would not look his way. And when the closing statements were done to wrap up the banquet, she grabbed Gerald's hand and they headed for the exit.

That's when Solomon acted like Solomon. He hurried behind them and caught up just before they departed the building.

“Hey, Gerald!” he yelled out. They stopped and turned toward Solomon. He hurriedly walked forward. “Is this your mother?”

He looked at Michele and there was an expression of anger in her eyes he had not seen.

“Coach Money,” Gerald said excitedly.

It took all her might, but Michele composed herself. “So,” she said, “
You
are Coach Money? I had been hearing about Coach Money for months. I had no idea. And now I finally get to meet you…Coach Money.”

He extended his hand. Michele glanced down at her son, who seemed happy to see the two most important adults in his life chatting. She reluctantly shook it.

Touching her took him back to their time together. Solomon did not want her to leave. He wanted desperately to talk. “You all running off so soon? We did a lot to get some refreshments here. Have some.”

“Gerald, go to the bathroom,” Michele said.

“But I don't have to go,” he answered.

“I don't care—
go
,” she said sharply. Then she adjusted her tone; she was not mad at the kid. She leaned over to him and spoke in a reassuring way.

“Honey, go on, please. Sometimes you get in the car and have to go and then we have to find some place to stop. So just see if you need to go—just in case.”

And off young Gerald went. She watched him bounce down the hall and then turned to Solomon.

“What, exactly, do you want?” she said. Her tone was aggressive and no-nonsense.

Solomon looked at her.

“Well?” she said.

Solomon surprised himself; he was tongue-tied. “Well, I, uh, I, you know—”

“No, I don't know,” Michele said. “Wait—let me tell you what I know: The last time I saw you was eight years ago. The last time I heard from you was eight years ago. The last time I was hurt by you was eight years ago. Are you getting the point?

“Eight years is a long time, and it seems any talking we needed to do was then. Because, as you can see in Gerald, I've long since gotten over the fact that you vanished off the face of the earth.”

“We should talk—” Solomon said.

“Too late for talking, don't you think?” Michele said. Her voice softened, but her rage showed through her eyes. They were teary and angry. “I wanted to talk eight years ago. I called you and e-mailed you. And I got nothing in return. I didn't even know you left town. What did I do to deserve that? So, Mr. Money, don't talk to me about wanting to talk. I tried that eight years ago and you were nowhere to be found. So it's fine with me if you vanish again.”

Right on cue, Gerald emerged from the bathroom. Solomon and Michele stared into each other's eyes until Gerald came over and took his trophy from his mom.

“Let's go, honey,” she said to Gerald while staring at Solomon.

“Ah, Gerald, congratulations, buddy,” Solomon said. “I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks,” the boy said as his mother pulled him toward the exit.

Solomon stood there and watched them leave. A sheath of amazement covered his body, the way ice covers the ground on many a Minnesota winter night. He walked out the building in time to catch them pull out of the parking space and drive off. He was transfixed there, unable to decide what to do next.

Finally, he walked to his own car and sat in it for several minutes, thinking, wondering and admitting something he never thought he would: regret.

He called Ray, but did not get an answer on his cell phone.
Then he called his home, and his wife, Cynthia, gave him some alarming news: “He said he was going to your banquet tonight. He's not there?”

Immediately, Solomon's instincts kicked in. “I saw him earlier, but then I didn't,” he lied. “There are so many people here. I thought he might've left and gone back home. But he must still be inside. I'll find him.”

He delivered it without any detection that he was covering for his boy. Once he hung up from Cynthia, he called Ray again on his cell phone. This time, he answered. “What's up? How'd it go?”

“Where are you?” Solomon said.

“Why?

“'Cause I called your house and spoke to your wife.”

“What?”

“Yeah—and she said you said you were with me.”

“Oh, man. Damn. I did tell her that. I had to tell her that because she's okay with me hanging with you. But one of my boys is in town—Dwight—and she can't stand him. So I had to use you as my out.”

“Yo, don't you know that you need to tell me you're using me as an excuse?” Solomon said. “That's on page one or two of the man guide.”

“My bad. We're at Atlantic Station, at the bar at the Twelve Hotel.”

“Well, I'm surprised your wife hasn't called you yet.”

“Shit. She's calling right now. Hold on.”

A minute or so passed before Ray came back to Solomon.

“I'm good,” Ray said. “I told her that I was in the office at the rec center, talking to the director about becoming a coach. That's why you didn't see me. She's cool. I hate to lie to her, but sometimes I feel like I don't have a choice.”

“You have a choice; don't fool yourself into thinking you don't,” Solomon said. “What you need are some balls.”

“Very funny,” Ray said. “What you call me for anyway?”

“Ray, you're not going to believe this,” Solomon began. “The kid I was telling you about, Gerald?”

“Yeah? Don't tell me something happened to him,” Ray said.

“No, nothing like that. But I found out who is mother is,” Solomon said. “And I couldn't believe it.”

“Who?”

“It's Michele Lynn.”

“Who's that?”

“The chick I told you about in D.C., that I left hanging… Well, she's Gerald's mom.”

“Come on, man. You can't be serious,” Ray said. “We were talking about her the other day. Are you sure? You're positive?”

“Dude, I spoke to her. When I saw her, I couldn't believe it. My first reaction was shock. Then I was actually glad I saw her. But she wasn't happy to see me.”

“What you expect?” Ray asked. “This is the one you left sleep on the floor and moved here the next day? And never talked to her again, right? I don't know about you, but I ain't surprised she wasn't happy to see you.”

“Well, maybe she shouldn't be happy,” Solomon responded. “But she was angry and bitter. I admit: It was wrong. But I wouldn't hold a grudge for eight years. Listen, I had a great friend, Kim, who I sent $300 for two Continental Airline buddy passes back in the day. My girl kept my money and disappeared on me.

“I was furious at first. Then I was just surprised. And then I was disappointed. Then, over time, I got over it. I liked her as a friend—believe it or not—and I wanted to be her friend again.
So, the bitterness wore off. But Michele seems very bitter after all this time.”

“Maybe she's been holding in what she wanted to say to you for all these years and it just came out,” Ray said. “Or maybe she's one of those women who can stay angry for a long time. I know a few of them.”

“Well, we'll see what happens.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've got to say what's on my mind to her,” Solomon said. “I need to apologize and try to explain myself.”

“That sounds like you want to talk to her to clear your conscience,” Ray said. “And explain yourself? You don't have an explanation.”

“That's why you're my boy. You pull no punches, which is the way a friend should be. And, I'll admit, you're right, to a degree. Knowing she is Gerald's mother and knowing how she was with me, it made me actually wish I didn't leave the way I did.”

“So how you gonna make it right—if that's even possible?”

“I don't know,” Solomon said, which was big. He always had an answer; a solution; a way of getting things resolved; an idea. “A doer,” he called himself. But this was different.

It was more than seeing Michele after eight years. It was more than the way he left. There was also the matter of her son, whom he had grown to really care for. Together, all that put Solomon in a quandary.

Bigger and more surprising than all that was that he actually felt something when he saw Michele. In an instant, he recalled the connection he developed with her over their six months together. He recalled the passion. He recalled the laughter. He recalled the friendship and conversations of substance. And then he did something he hardly ever did: He questioned himself.

“What was I thinking?” he said aloud in the car on the way home.

Through it all, he never allowed himself to question his abrupt and, ultimately, mindless decision to move to Atlanta without saying a word about it to Michele—and magnified it by never reaching out to her over eight years. Now he was face-to-face with his decision and he regretted it.

“A cold piece of work,” Ray called him, and it was hardly flattering.

Solomon went straight home after seeing Michele, although he had plans to make a late-night visit to Marie, a forensic psychologist he “dated” from time-to-time. Translation: He fit her into his rotation of women whenever he desired being pampered—in and out of bed—in her fabulous home in the swank Buckhead section of Atlanta.

Around eleven, Marie called. “Honey, where are you?” she said. “I made chicken piccata, sautéed bok choy and Bananas Foster. I figured that food at the rec center wouldn't give you the proper energy you need to spend the night with me.”

Solomon had been looking forward to all the sexy divorcee had to offer. But seeing Michele messed up his head. “I hope you can forgive me, but I can't make it, Marie,” he said. “I had to come home and I'm really not up to making the drive up there; although I do want to see you.”

“Want me to drive over to you?” she said, not getting the hint.

“I can't ask you to do that,” he said. “I have some things going on I need to sort out. I promise I'll make it up to you.”

The silence told of Marie's disappointment—and anger, too.

“You're mad at me, and you should be,” Solomon said. “But you know me: I never cancel on you. And I wouldn't now if it
wasn't important. I'll tell you about it eventually. But I've got to deal with this now. And believe me, I'll make it up to you.”

“Solomon, I don't pressure you about time,” she said. “I've accepted that I can't see you as much as I'd like. Really, I only see you when you have time for me. I don't complain about it. So, I was looking forward to tonight.”

“If you want me to come over there right now, I'll get up and come,” Solomon said. That was classic Solomon: He understood the psychology of women. Volunteering to come despite what he said showed that was not cancelling their date to be with another woman, that he was willing to please, that he was willing to sacrifice. He knew Marie's mind and personality—and that she would not ask him to extend himself.

“No…No. It's okay,” she said, and Solomon smiled to himself. He, again, had gotten a woman to say what he wanted her to say without asking her to say it. “I appreciate that you're willing to make the sacrifice. But it's okay. Do what you need to do to be all right. I will see you soon, right?”

“Definitely, baby. And thank you for understanding. That means a lot to me.”

Marie was effectively out of the way, leaving Solomon to himself and his thoughts. And his thoughts ran long and deep and, in the end, left him confused about himself but resolute: He wanted Michele Lynn Williams.

To get to that thought took some time. After talking to Marie, Solomon took off his suit and tie and lay on his bed upstairs in total darkness in his T-shirt and boxers, and revisited his history with Michele. He wanted to figure out how she, after all that time, now mattered to him.

They met one evening during the Congressional Black Caucus weekend in D.C. They were at a party at the Capital Hilton:
Solomon was with a few golf buddies in the lobby; Michele was with her cousin, Sonya, a flight attendant who was visiting for the weekend from Atlanta.

Solomon noticed them walking into the ballroom. Michele was statuesque at five-foot-nine and clearly comfortable with her height by the three-inch heels she wore and the confidence in which she maneuvered her shapely legs and wide hips. There was a grace about her, an elegant nature. Solomon detected that right away. But he needed confirmation.