A Love So Deep (3 page)

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of sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds. Graham lay outstretched across the bed in clothes that had hugged his body for the last three days, unwilling to let go of the body they held hostage.

For a brief moment, Graham thought about Charlie and some of the other buddies he had shut out of his life in the past month. Charlie was thick-skinned, didn’t bruise easily, and was always ready to do battle with Graham. Maybe he’d give Charlie a call. Naw, then he’d have to sit and listen to all of the escapades that took Charlie longer to tell than it took to change four flat tires on a busy interstate.

Graham was restless and that only added to his loneliness. Graham jumped out of bed, stopping for only a brief moment to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The mirror was unkind, but Graham didn’t care. Who was going to see him today anyway? The large grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the formal living room chimed nine times.

Graham didn’t bother to splash water on his face or pick up the toothbrush and toothpaste to chase away the germs and bad odor that had taken residence in his mouth. If life’s urgency weren’t so demanding, he’d probably forego that as well. He made a feeble attempt to wash his hands, and then sauntered into the kitchen.

The contents of the refrigerator stared back at Graham while he carefully weighed his options. Nothing seemed appealing until he saw the lone egg tucked in the back of the refrigerator.
An egg sandwich would do
, Graham thought. He bent down low, reaching in with his large hand to pick the egg up from its resting place. In his haste to get the egg, Graham’s thumb pushed through the side of the thin shell, spilling yolk onto the shelf below. Graham retrieved his hand, slamming the refrigerator door shut in disgust, leaving the contents of the broken egg inside.

Graham had no taste for anything now and started to ease down into a kitchen chair when the doorbell rang. “Who the hell is it?” Graham stammered. The doorbell rang two more times until he could hear the tiny footsteps retreat. He went to the front window and looked out, catching the backside of Sister Mary Ross from the church. Graham believed Sister Mary was a little sweet on him.
She does have a nice behind for a fifty-four-year-old woman all bottled up in that too-tight paisley print skirt, but not as nice as Amanda’s,
he thought. Maybe he’d hook Sister Mary up with Charlie. But she’d probably smother him to death.

Sister Mary left another package on the front porch—probably more food. She had come by last Tuesday and Thursday also with a hefty plate of food. Graham’s first impulse was to leave it on the porch, but instead, he was compelled to go outside and get the package, since Sister Mary was kind enough to think of him and bring it by.

A blast of hot air met his unwashed face. He picked up the package along with the daily newspaper from the cement porch and hurried back inside. The brown paper bag contained a large plate of succulent turkey breast surrounded by homemade mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade macaroni and cheese, collard greens, and two pieces of cornbread. But nothing teased Graham and made his mouth water like Mary’s thin-crust, sweet potato pie that none in the immediate community could emulate. Two slices sat atop the canopy of wonderful food.

Graham tossed the plate into the refrigerator. He was not in the mood for turkey breast at that hour. But he sat down in front of the two pieces of sweet potato pie—Sister Mary’s famous sweet potato pie that was about to bring him joy. He placed his fork in the pie, gently cutting a piece from the pointed end and slowly lifting it to his mouth. He sat it on the edge of his tongue, savoring the taste for only a moment, then repeating the cycle until the first piece of pie had been consumed. As he started to cut into the second piece, Graham laid his head on the cluttered table, closing his eyes, allowing time to travel once again to a happier moment in his life.

Amanda was so beautiful coming down the aisle. The Victorian-lace gown with its long, flowing train caressed Amanda’s body with the elegance of a princess. Sister Mary’s cousin, Loretha, a talented seamstress, had outdone herself this time. And Loretha couldn’t contain her smile as she marveled at her own handiwork.

Amanda’s best friend, Nadine Parker, was her maid of honor while Charlie stood as best man for Graham. Deacon Elroy and Martha Carter were proud parents that day, looking longingly after their only child who was leaving their house for his. They say Deacon Carter had to be nearly pried away from Amanda’s arm.

Not a soul from Graham’s family attended the wedding. His Aunt Rubye didn’t have the fare for herself and his two sisters to come out West. Graham would have to share with them later how wonderful that day had been. The date was April 7, 1946.

They didn’t have a honeymoon. However, Graham promised Amanda that he would one day take her wherever she wanted to go. After the reception held in the great fellowship hall, with a hundred well-wishers partaking in the celebration, the couple quietly slipped away and headed for the San Francisco beach. They took off their shoes and wiggled their feet in the sand. They strolled the length of the beach, discussing the rest of their lives together, letting the breeze swish through them—symbolic of their newfound freedom.

Amanda was in college working on her associate degree in early childhood. She wanted to become a teacher. Graham promised that she could continue until she received her degree. He had no plans of standing in the way of his new wife’s goals and aspirations.

They got back in the car Graham had purchased a few months ago, with the money saved working overtime at the shipyard, and drove to the pier to catch the cable car. Things were looking up. He thought Charlie might be a little jealous now that Amanda had come into his life to stay, however, Graham reassured Charlie that he was his best friend and always would be.

They rode the cable car to Lombard Street, the crooked street that San Francisco is famous for. Coit Tower stood high on a hill to the north, and Alcatraz sat in a blanket of fog surrounded by the bay. The time had come to commence their love that was to last a lifetime. They headed toward home.

Graham tried to raise his head, but thoughts of Amanda lured him back to the vision of their wedding night. They went to Graham’s apartment, now their apartment, and embraced for the longest time. They pulled back and looked into each other’s eyes, caught up in the moment. Their lips met, tasting and teasing seductively.

Graham held his love, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. The softness of her skin tantalized him while her round black eyes peered at him seductively. Amanda’s dimple, tucked in her left cheek, smiled at him as he placed another kiss upon her lips. Graham wrapped his arms around her petite, nutmeg-colored frame, ready to release her from her white Victorian lace dress, so he could gaze upon and feel those nutmeg-colored legs of hers and everything else she had to offer.

Amanda was nervous, maybe a little shy, for the moment had come that she had waited for the last seven months. Although she felt the heat of passion many times before during their courtship, Amanda found that tonight she was unprepared to take their passion to a new level, a level where fire and desire would become consumed until they wanted no more. She was a quick study; and she slept like a baby afterward.

The next day, Graham couldn’t take his eyes from his bride. Pride welled up in him like ten helium balloons. She seemed so at ease as she went about the day, as if she had been accustomed to the routine. Maybe she had attended one of those sophisticated schools of etiquette, but the most likely candidate was her mother, whose tutelage Amanda received each day of her life.

Graham raised his head from the table now, full of the memories that kept Amanda near him. He felt nauseous. He had not eaten a real meal in days—his only sustenance the two pieces of Sister Mary’s sweet potato pie. You couldn’t tell it by the pile of dishes that stood a mile high off the Formica counter. Graham had tried to eat but ended up leaving most of it on his plate or throwing it away. His daughters had called checking up on him, but he always told them he was doing fine.

He started for the refrigerator to retrieve the plate of food Sister Mary had sent, but the sharp smell of chicken grease brought back a month of Sundays and Amanda sweating over a large, black cast-iron skillet—grease popping across its surface like Orville Redenbacher popcorn.

Amanda was a good cook and crisp, fried chicken was one of her specialties. Their house could have passed for a fast-food chicken joint the way folks flocked to it when they smelled Amanda’s deep-fried chicken bubbling in the hot grease. Its golden-brown skin waited to be spanked by fat and thin lips that hung open in anticipation. Charlie was at the table as often as Graham and would have had to have a life-threatening illness to miss Amanda’s fried chicken. According to Charlie, it was
the best in the West
.

Sundays after church, the Peters’ house was the place to be. Amanda would cook four chickens to the delight of all invited to their table. With the exception of Graham, Charlie, Deacon and Sister Carter, all others had to rotate turns, because Amanda and Graham just couldn’t feed everybody at the same time and on the same day. And after Amanda had the girls, the Sunday list got smaller still.

But Graham remembered it so vividly—the first full night they were together after they had married. Amanda promised to fix him a wonderful dinner. She even put out a few pieces of china her mother and father had given them as a wedding present and placed a long, slender candle in the center of their tiny wooden table.

Graham was listening to the radio. The commentator talked about a boxing match that took place a couple of nights before. Negroes were anxious to have a black hero in this event. As Graham sat listening, the smell of the hot chicken frying wafted under his nose. He rose to follow its scent. There in her petite splendor was Amanda slaving over a big, black skillet frying up some of the best fried chicken he’d ever taste in his life.

Amanda’s back was to Graham, and the roundness of her well-defined hips and those shapely legs beckoned him forward. He tiptoed quietly behind her, placing his hands on either side of her curvaceous hips, letting his hand glide down and around the mound of flesh that had his lips watering.

“Stop it, Graham, you’re going to make me burn myself,” Amanda said, playfully swatting Graham’s hands.

“The chicken was smelling so good, and I couldn’t resist coming in to get a better whiff, but what I got instead…”

Pop!

“Ouch, ‘Manda. That hurt.”