Between Lovers (12 page)

I want him to give me his blessings, but he never does. My career is my Achilles' heel.
I'm a writer and I'm sensitive about my shit.
More sensitive with my old man than I am with the handful of anti-fans who critique my every move, the ones who make it their job to try and dismantle mine. His approval would be gold. But he always sings a song of regret. Always reminds me that I am his lost sheep, the one that he will always try to bring back to his flock.

From where I sit, I see people going into Marcus Books. That look of excitement on their faces.

Wish my old man felt the same way.

I double-time my way inside the Afrocentric bookstore, see at least sixty people are here already, hug the owner, a few other people I've seen over the last eight books, grab a cup of tea. I mill around with the beautiful women from Sistahs on the Reading Edge, the book club that is sponsoring the event.

A few people new to the scene come over, holding a book, looking at the photo on the back, then looking at me first in confusion, then realization. “Oh, my God, it is him ... I mean you. It's you.”

“He looks bigger on the picture.”

Everyone seems so normal, so regular. I look in their eyes and search for secrets, for hints of what kind of lives they have after work, but all of their bones are well-hidden.

We all laugh and talk, but my mind is not here. Not yet.

Someone interrupts. “Look, I have to pick up my baby because it's flu season, and he's sick and the sitter says he threw up twice so that means I have to leave and—”

“No problem.”

People are talking, but my mind is way back to the end of my high school days, when I stood in my old man's office at church and struggled to tell him that I had other plans for my life. His rugged, powerful voice chilled me from head to toe when he looked me dead in my eye and said,
“I've spent my life preparing you to help me. ”

I told him about when he took my brothers and me to Chicago in the seventies. He was on another crusade, so we spent the trip visiting my mother's mother. My grandmother took us to the south side of Chi-town to see one of her friends. A man named James Baldwin. We were at a small, black, very crowded bookstore. People were snapping photos. The people, the excitement, and the things he wrote about, I don't know, that one moment changed everything for me.

Just like that one moment in Paris changed everything for Nicole.

When I finished telling my old man what I wanted to do, he said two words:
“I'm disappointed.”

I leave the past behind when another sister who has to hurry back to her daily grind comes up and extends a blue pen. “Sign it ‘To my best friend, the sexiest woman in the whole wide world who helped me write this book.' ”

I back off a bit and ask, “Have I met you before?”

“Of course not. And sign a sheet of paper for my momma, my aunt, my cousin—”

I laugh.

My I-pager starts blowing up.

It's Nicole. Her message reads like a pissed-off diatribe. I don't I-page her back. My cell phone goes off. Nicole's work number pops up on the ID. I don't answer, just turn the c-phone off. Another I-page comes, then another comes not too long after that, while I'm taking a few questions. That's my Nicole. She gets pissed off, she will call or page until you answer her rage. Not calling her makes her go crazy. A subtle victory in this game. Another page comes. It's a long message, but the gist of it is:
Get your ass here to Siebel as soon as you finish.

Siebel Systems is in Emeryville, a one-exit town that hugs Oakland like a jealous lover. Ross, Tower Records, Old Navy, Pier 1 Imports, and other stores make up the Powell Street Plaza.

Inside the corporate building, I ease by a crop of workers who dress in blacks and grays, classic tones made to absorb heat in the winter and make them look like they're in an ad for Hennessy cognac. All of the white-collar crew is moving like they are on speed, hustling and talking at a cyberpace that's too quick for me, in a cyberlingo that baffles me to the bone. So much energy is this nine-to-whenever crew, living in a get-it-done-yesterday world.

The secretary on the seventh floor stands out from the rest. She has on black and brown mud cloth; her glass-top desk shows that her skirt is short and she has a serious run in her hose, the left leg.

She motions with her head. “Please have a seat; I'll check her availability.”

My palms are sweating. I wipe my hands on my pant legs and more sweat appears.

I crash on an orange sofa, fidget for a while, then, so I don't look stupid while I wait, peep at a brochure that wants me to know that this company is the world's leading provider of e-Business application software, that it has five thousand employees in twenty-eight countries, ninety-seven offices, that Fortune ranked it among the “100 Fastest-Growing Companies” with one of the “Top 25 Executives of the Year” who has produced one of the “Ten Most Important Products” in e-Business applications.

Yada, yada, yada.

The secretary calls me back, says, “Straight through that door, turn right. Back comer.”

I move like chains are on my ankles, like John Coffy taking his last stroll down the Green Mile.

The entire floor has custom-built, pastel cubicles, fluorescent lighting, ceiling-high windows, designed with a view of the outside world. The openness is a well-thought-out strategy that lowers anxiety and keeps the Ritalin-deprived from flipping out.

Nicole stands at the end of the hallway, her locks hanging below her shoulders, reading something and waiting on the mauve carpet. When she sees me, she marches toward me at an arrogant pace.

Without warning she snaps, “My baby sister called me. You know why? Because my mother called her. You know why? She told me you called my mother. And guess what? Your father called my mother not two hours ago. Guess who they were gossiping about? What was up with that?”

I match her tone. “Is that why you keep I-paging me?”

“I damn near came to the signing and went off on you. Don't
ever
call my mother again.”

“Calm down.”

“This is calm. When it comes to my mother, this is calm.”

She marches on without me. I don't follow her. She looks back and sees that I'm not chasing her and she waits. I take my time about catching up with her. It's silly, but this is us, what we do.

I've been with her seven years. This anger is nothing new.

Then I ask, “How is your day going?”

“Outside of that, I'm surrounded by idiots. Doing these freaking quotes for customers in South Africa, not sure if the e-Biz database has been updated, trying to explain the product migration strategy and product support benefits of continuing their maintenance year after year.”

“Nicole, that's way over my head.”

“Working on a very complicated compromise.”

“Where nobody gets what they want.”

Her eyes tell me she knows what I'm saying. She responds, “But with the right compromise, right set of rules, with an openness and a willingness to trust and try, everybody wins in the long run.”

Nicole puts on an all-business smile, speaks to a few people as we stroll.

Nicole's office surprises me. On her stark white walls, she has colorful, framed posters that give definition to “excellence” and “motivation” and clichéd corporate proverbs that boast her as a company woman, nothing that tells who she really is, just things that reflect the professional mask she wears when she's playing this corporate role.

I move the conversation away from our drama, say, “This place is pretty clean.”

“Clean desk policy. Impresses clients.”

She sets free a burst of air.

I'm watching her.

She asks, “Eat lunch? I have half a veggie sandwich and a banana.”

That's her subtle way of trying to apologize for going off on me. She's still angry, just hasn't figured out what to do with that temper tantrum. She hates losing control. Always has to be in control.

“Snacked at the bookstore.”

I tell her that she looks good in her black jeans and orange blouse.

She asks, “These jeans make my butt look big?”

“No, but your ass makes those jeans look small.”

She extends both middle fingers my way.

On her L-shaped desk, a contemporary U-shaped thing made of heavy glass and black metal, next to her cherub are pictures of her family, photos taken in front of her parents' two-level brick home in Harbor City. Her mom and stepdad surrounded by Nicole's eight older brothers and three younger sisters, the Mississippi River and land leading to West Memphis, Arkansas, in the background. Nicole's the only one absent from that picture. Her youngest sister probably mailed it to her.

Nicole says, “You hear me?”

I snap out of a trance, shake off that chill, erase the echoes of that unwanted voice. “What?”

“Finished your laptop. Deleted a lot of junk. System's running at seventy-nine percent.”

“Seventy-nine percent good?”

“Decent. Should stop hanging up now. Just don't get another Compaq.”

A good fifteen minutes goes by before her voice evens out. She can't stay mad at me, just like I can't stay angry with her, no matter what.

She comes closer. “Tonight. We can all hook up tonight. Have some fun.”

“Why so soon?”

“Ayanna's going to Italy next week. You're only here a few days, then you're off to New York and Atlanta and wherever. And since you're gonna be on the road, I'm gonna meet her in Italy.”

“Italy.” I try hiding my swallow, but I can't. “Must be nice.”

“Only reason I'm going is because you said you were going to be on the road.”

“Haven't been there since I was a kid.”

“And of course, you're dealing with two women, so you have to work with other logistics.”

“Such as?”

“Sister Moon.” She chuckles, sounds both nervous and anxious. “It's a good time for us, both of us, right now.”

“Seems kind of rushed.”

“Not soon enough. It's time for all of us to meet and move to the next level before we chicken out.”

“Tonight. Your friend down for whatever?”

She nods. “She's open to new things.”

“Sounds like you've been busy working this compromise.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Never told me why you broke down in the shower.” I say that without a segue, catch her off-guard.

“Really don't want to get into that. Don't push it, either.”

We're still staring, still not blinking. Her eyes beg me not to press the issue.

A series of fast taps on the door breaks the moment. A welcome break.

The corporate smile returns to Nicole's face and she tells them to come in.

It's another woman, a little older than Nicole, but her subordinate. They talk about that South African thing. Nicole dominates the woman with knowledge. Hard to believe that this intelligent creature gives me her mind, body, and soul. I'm in awe of her. Have been since I met her.

Ten minutes later, the woman leaves.

Nicole locks her door.

We stand in the window that yields a view of the Bay Bridge to the left, Treasure Island straight ahead, and Alcatraz on the right, all of that history in the shadows of the Golden Gate.

Nicole says, “I want this to go right. I want it to be the right thing to do. Don't want to come off as selfish. This can work.”

We hold each other and stare out the window, watch a world moving by at a pace so fast.

I ask, “You love her?”

“Love both of you, you know that.”

“You love her more than you love me?”

She pulls away. “Dammit, don't do this to me. Don't push me. You've always pushed me and I've never liked that. Have to be gentle with me. That's all I ask. Don't back me into a corner.”

“Nobody's pushing you. Can't push a mountain.”

Her phone rings.

She answers, then covers the receiver and whispers, “It's the legal department.”

Thirty minutes pass. When Nicole is done, we kiss, touch, get lost in each other. I sit her on her desk, put my face down into the crotch of her jeans, nibble at her wishing well. I look up at her warm grin, glowing eyes.

“Such a freak.” She laughs and with her soft hands she pulls my face back up to hers. “Maybe one day I'll wear a dress to work and invite you up here for lunch.”

“Bet.”

“Mmm,” she hums, chews my lips. “Have to get back to work, sweetie.”

She redoes her lipstick, fluffs her locks, then hurries me to the elevator. My laptop is back inside my brown leather messenger bag. I'm using the bag and my leather coat to cover my fading erection.

Nicole squeezes my hand and says, “I saw the wedding pictures in your bag. I cried.”