Between Lovers (36 page)

I lead the way as we head out of the hotel. Nicole stays close to me, damn near on me, leaving Ayanna behind us. Nicole glances at me, gives me a brief look that tells me that all will change, that everything will be different by the time we return to this fuckhaven by the sea.

It's cold and foggy outside. Colder than it was when I ran with Nicole two days ago.

Once again we take off, pass by Yoshi‘s, do a slow jog up the incline, go by Urban Blend Café, move toward the police station and the people gathering out in front of the Probation Department.

Nicole is quiet. She speeds up, gets in front of us by three, maybe four steps. The pavement on this strip is wide, at least twelve feet, plenty of room for three people to run shoulder to shoulder, but she leaves us. No matter what Ayanna says, Nicole is not responding.

Ayanna is planning for the future, her future, our future.

Nicole is doing the same.

Part of me wants it to stay the way it is. With Ayanna in our lives. But there's that other part.

Ayanna is chattering about doing tempo runs and hill training, saying that we need to train like the Kenyans. She talks cross-training, doing fartleks, and 1000-meter repeats with one-minute recoveries.

My eyes are on Nicole, on her body language, on her silence, as I feed Ayanna's conversation. “One-minute recoveries. That'll hardly give you enough time to take a deep breath.”

Ayanna shrugs, palms to the sky. “That's what you have to do if you're serious.”

“How many repeats?”

“Four or five, no more than seven. Ten would be nice, but too much for me.”

“Sounds good.”

Nicole is still silent. She's a few steps ahead.

Ayanna tells me, “Build that into your running schedule. Raise your threshold. You'll knock ten minutes off your marathon over the next year. Might even be able to keep up with me.”

We make it to the 980 just as the subtle coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo lets us know we have the light going north and south.

I say, “We should take Broadway to Twentieth. Around the lake. Then over to Oakland Avenue.”

The first mile is a low seven, once again faster than I start. My adrenaline is high and I push on.

We're coming up on Telegraph when Ayanna says, “Nicole, we need to talk about Spain. I need to make sure you can—”

Nicole cuts her off, “I'm not going to Spain.”

Ayanna is jarred, it shows in the way her arms lower, in the way her neck curves all of a sudden, shows in the way her running rhythm slips, her breathing changes.

It's here. That moment is here.

Ayanna loses her brilliance. She responds, “Not going?”

“Not going.”

“Tickets are non-refundable.”

“So what? I'll eat the loss.”

“What, are negotiations with South Africa falling apart?”

“Nope.”

“You can't get off work?”

“Why would you want to be in Spain with a one-foot-in-the-closet, one-foot-out-of-the-closet sociopath who lives inside her own little cunt.”

The running halts.

“I heard the tape, Ayanna. Heard every damn word.”

At that moment, I hate myself for what I've done.

Bus after bus passes by, spits carbon monoxide into our dampening faces, and all three of us standing as rigid as that statue of Jack London that guards the square named in his honor.

Ayanna's eyes go from Nicole to me, then back to Nicole.

Her eyes tighten as she shakes her head at me. Her grimace asks how could I do that to her.

Nicole sounds hoarse when she says, “How could you disrespect me like that?”

Ayanna inhales, the rising sorrow and fury in her eyes darkens her butterscotch complexion. I expect her to deny it all, but she doesn't play games, not even bid whist on the Fourth of July.

“Tell me how you could say those things then smile in my fucking face and claim to love me in the next breath? I've never—”

Ayanna says, “Nicole—”

“—no matter what, I've never said anything like that—”

“I said that to get at him.”

“You called me a sociopath. A cunt. Know why? Because that's how you really feel about me.”

We stand there. In the cold.

I want to say something, but I'm torn. Yes, I want Ayanna out of my life. No, I don't want her to leave. But I can't change our path. We can only drive forward from here.

Winter's rain starts seeping down from those darkening skies.

Nicole raises her arm. Pulls her sleeve back. She shakes her arm. There is no jingle.

Ayanna loses her breath. “Oh, God. You're not wearing your bracelets.”

Nicole doesn't answer. Tension swells.

Ayanna asks, “So, now what?”

Nicole says, “Go to Spain.”

“We have to resolve this before I go.”

“It's resolved.”

“What are you going to do?”

“When you get back, I'll have my own place.”

“You're leaving me?”

“Yes.”

Nicole pulls the glove off her left hand. She's wearing our engagement ring.

Ayanna groans out a death sound.

There is nothing for me to say. The polls are in my favor. No need for a recount.

Once a fire gets started, if the wind shifts, it changes into a firestorm. It's unstoppable.

Ayanna is still. So still. All except for her right hand. It starts to tremble like she has some neurological damage, as if Parkinson's disease is setting up camp in her body.

Her voice trembles as well. “Tell him.”

Nicole stares at her, defiant.

Ayanna raises her voice. “Tell him.”

Water falls on my face. I blink. Try to slow my breathing so I can comprehend.

Ayanna sees my confusion, says, “We've had a ceremony. We're married.”

I look toward Nicole. Her eyes don't come to mine. Ayanna goes on, “You looked right at the picture in the house. Willie Brown was at our reception. The one we had after we had our ceremony in Guernville.”

“A commitment ceremony?” “A wedding. We had a ceremony at the Russian River. Three months ago.”

I stand, stunned. Head aches.

Ayanna raises her arms, shakes it. She says, “We gave each other bracelets. Eight bracelets. One for each year that we've been together. How long it took for us to get to where we are. Our eight wedding rings.”

Once again I'm slammed into a brick wall. Slammed so hard all air leaves my body.

Nicole runs off; Ayanna follows her.

My body becomes anger. The kind of anger that makes a man want to kill and destroy. I sprint and catch up. Demand that Nicole tell me Ayanna has lost the war and lost her mind.

She doesn't deny what Ayanna said.

Ayanna says, “Leave her alone. Nicole, don't let him—”

“Back off, Ayanna,” I snap.

I move in between them, block her from touching Nicole. I hold Nicole's arm, stop her. Grab her hard and make her face me.

I snap, “Did you have a commitment ceremony?”

She snaps back at me, “It's no biggie. Ceremonies aren't legal.”

“Talk to me, Nicole.”

“Stop. Cars are slowing down. People across the street are looking at us. Let's not make a scene.”

I say, “Listen—”

Ayanna shouts, “Let her go.”

“—to me. Back away, Ayanna.”

I push Ayanna. Push her and her bracelets jingle-jangle with her stumble. I'm ready to kill and destroy. My winds have shifted; my firestorm is unstoppable. She doesn't challenge me. Her eyes widen, double in size. She sees my anger.

Ayanna backs away and says, “That's assault. I'm going to have your ass arrested.”

Ayanna steps into the street, looks like she's trying to flag down Oakland P.D.

Nicole takes off the engagement ring, forces it into my palm.

Firecrackers ignite inside my brain. I ask, “What are you saying?”

Nicole takes off running. Heads back toward the hotel. Is running at top speed.

Ayanna calls her, races after her. At first I palm the ring, tell myself fuck it, let Nicole go.

But resting under two tons of anger, my love for her is still there.

I charge after both of them.

In this direction, the wind meets us head on. The rain falls harder.

Nicole does not slow down.

The pace is impossible, frantic. My adrenaline is high, but I'm worn from running three days in a row: two long runs, then that early-morning race with Ayanna yesterday. Nicole rested yesterday. She's fresh. She's flying, running red lights, putting as much distance between us as she can, bumping into people on the sidewalks, dodging black men in bow ties who are selling fresh bean pies, goes by Wal green's so fast it looks like she covers that block with one giant step.

Ayanna gets winded. So do I. Both of us slow down.

Then Nicole's going downhill, racing into the darkness of the overpass at Sixth.

Nicole runs like a river that has broken through a dam. She moves relentlessly toward the Tube, comes up on a big yellow sign that reads YIELD TO PEDESTRIANS, gets caught by the light, too many cars zipping by to jaywalk, so she backs off, frowns back at us. Sees us storming toward her with grimaces on our faces. Nicole jitters back a few steps, jerks like she's thinking about running east and west, going wherever she has to go to get away, but she stands trapped...

Nicole frowns at the ground, hands on her hips.

Where she is, under that bridge, behind that huge support column, in that darkness, she is invisible to traffic. I imagine that she is crying, a mixture of tears and sweat leaving her vision as dark as the sky.

Then there is the
coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo.

Nicole hears freedom calling and takes off. Moves like a jaguar.

So does traffic. Impatient. Arrogant.

Nicole darts from behind the column.

The driver of an SUV does the same. Tires spin a little, not much, making that moist, sticky sound as they roll over the wet asphalt; the driver rushes to make that left turn to get on the Tube.

Ayanna sees the oversize monster too. Sees that elephant on its early morning rampage.

We both scream Nicole's name. But she doesn't think it's a warning. She thinks it's anger.

Nicole. My Nicole.

Nicole does the same thing I did two mornings ago, when death went by me in a whisper.

Nicole is in the entrance to the Tube. The SUV slams on its brakes. On most days, maybe that would've been enough. Today, streets are wet. Maybe the oil that has risen to the top is clinging to that spot. The weight of that carriage is too much, no way to stop a charging elephant on a dime.

The SUV hydroplanes, rides that thin layer of water and grease like it weighs nothing.

Already there is a long continuous wail. At first I think it's a siren and the paramedics are zooming to get here. But it's not. That nonstop shrill is coming from Ayanna.

Horns blow like Gabriel's trumpet trying to wake a sleeping world. Nicole freezes. She's afraid. I know she's frightened because I was terrified. I remember how my heart tried to break out of my chest when I was almost run down on that very spot, remember how my body became a prayer.

My scream tears my throat and blends with Ayanna's when the SUV runs Nicole down, when she thuds and bounces off the hood, when she flies like a beautiful bird, an angel without wings, and lands on the wet pavement like a broken doll.

Things happen fast and slow at the same time. Can't remember moving. Panic fogs memory.

I get to Nicole first. Ayanna is right there, on my heels.

I expect to see Nicole's head wide open, or half of her face caved-in, or parts of her body here, other parts there. Her clothes are twisted, she has scrapes here and there, but she's not really bruised up, not from what I can see, not from the outside. More like she's taking a break. She's Sleeping Beauty, on her back, resting on dark asphalt, the rain beating down on her golden skin, relaxing with a twisted left leg. A broken leg that looks like a prosthetic turned at a bad angle.

Ayanna falls to her knees hard enough to rip her running tights and bloody her knees, reaches for Nicole, but I grab Ayanna's shoulder and snap, “Don't touch her.”

And just like that Ayanna knows. It's not about jealousy or possession or whom Nicole belongs to. It shows in her eyes, the fear from thinking that she almost did the wrong thing.

My voice vibrates, doesn't sound like me at all. “Could've caused more damage. Get someone to call an amb—”

Ayanna yells, “Nine-one-one dial nine-one-one.”

But at least a thousand cell phones are already out, all dialing. A few early risers pass by with could-careless eyes. They just want to get from point A to point B on time, and this woman who is unconscious on the asphalt is blocking their way.

Then the rain pounds, pounds, pounds down on us. As if someone has taken a surgical knife to the belly of the cloud over us.

Ayanna crouches beside me, trembles, “Is she ... is she...?”

Her voice fades in the noise. People are stopping, gathering around; I don't see them, but I feel them. All asking what happened. Voices buzzing like pesky bees.

I'm trembling too, talking to Nicole, asking her to answer. Her purple scarf has flown off her mane, is feet away, and now her head is bare, hair mangled, resting on oil-stained pavement.

“I seent the whole damn thing man, I seent the whole thing.” Some brother sporting fatigues and a shoulder-length Jheri-Kurl appoints himself as the designated spokesperson, talks with no punctuation, “I was walking down the skreet minding my own bidd ness right ‘cause I was trying to get the probation on time cause 'dem damn probation officers be tripping and I'd just stepped off the 58 bus and I heard this loud noise and I said myself oh shit what was that loud noise and I saw this lady fly up in dah air like she was Wonder Woman and land on the ground said BOOM—”