STRINGS of COLOR (9 page)

"Chris suggested that we go to some restaurant. He didn't want the office hearing all the dirt of our family. I agreed. On the way there, we got into a huge argument. Fists were flying. There was so much screaming, shouting and just plain foolishness. The driver was so busy listening and watching us two clowns in the back seat going off on each other like children, that he didn't see that the light had turned red. When he did, it was too late. He hit the brakes so hard that the guy behind us slammed into the car. Neither of us had a seat belt on. There was so much blood Felicia; so much. And then I saw that Chris wasn't moving. The driver wasn't moving and I could barely move my legs.

"I did this Felicia, me and my rage."

Jonathan started to cry so hard, that Felicia opened up her arms and wrapped herself around her husband. She allowed all his sorrow and rage, to pour out.

Everything he had told her, she had already known.

Sure, she could be angry. Sure, she could leave him for all that he had done, but love is what she had been trying to show him.

It was their strength.

On the edge of the tub, she held him tight and allowed his tears to fall.

She didn't have the heart to tell him. She couldn't even find the words.

"You know I have always found the life of a journalist interesting...I guess it's because you get paid to be all up in someone else's business."

“D
o you know who I am?"

"Yes, ma'am I do."

"Good, that means you don't have to keep me waiting like some stranger in this hallway, now do you?"

Jake took a step back and watched as Monà Naya Simone Creek entered his apartment. It was the first time he had second guessed what his mother told him about not keeping a spotless apartment.

Monà followed him into his office and took a seat on his worn-out sofa.

"This sofa reminds me of myself. Tenderly worn around the edges, but I can tell the leather is still strong. Good quality."

Jake sat in a chair across from her. All he could do was nod his head.

He liked her confidence.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'm sure a single man your age got a beer in that refrigerator over there in the corner."

Jake smiled and quickly went to retrieve two. It was just about lunchtime but he figured that he just might need a few more after this visit.

Monà allowed her eyes to fall on the many newspaper clippings, which lined the walls in silver frames.

She noticed how each one had been placed upon the wall with great care.

She watched as Jake walked back over toward his chair. Tiny streaks of grey were showing through his curly brown hair. Green eyes showed off the frame of his rounded face. He was tall with slightly sited broad shoulders. He had the frame of someone who worked out when he felt the urge to but, thankfully, never really needed to do so. Jake was what most women would consider to be a very handsome man.

"How old are you, Jake?"

"I'm about forty-six, ma'am."

"Where did you get your college degree?"

Jake wasn't sure where this was going but he was afraid not to answer.

"I went to the University here in New York."

"How long have you been a journalist?"

Jake liked that she used the term—journalist instead of columnist, or even reporter.

"Just over twenty years now."

"They pay you well I assume?"

"It takes care of the bills on this place plus some."

Monà looked around. She nodded and watched him as he opened his own beer and sat back in his chair.

"So Jake, how come a forty-six year old white man, with a New York University degree, who makes decent money, and lives in an apartment that costs more than most people's mortgages isn't married?"

Jake smiled.
Mothers never change
.

"I got my degree in journalism, not rocket science."

"I never knew marriage took a degree, I always thought it took a lot of love and a dash of compromising."

Jake laughed. "Well said."

Monà smiled and took a sip of her beer before placing the can on the table in front of her. She sat back and looked Jake in the eyes.

"So where is your tape recorder?"

Jake was convinced, he really liked her. He could tell where Jazzmyne had gotten her spunk from.

"Give me a minute."

Jake raced over to his office desk, pulled open a drawer and grabbed one of the many tape recorders he kept hidden in the back.

He placed it on the table between them.

Monà watched as Jake leaned back in his chair and began to twirl his hair.

"Go ahead and ask your question."

"Why did you come to see me?"

"I'm as much a coward as JK—my father. I guess you could say that it runs in the blood, too deep if you ask me. My first excuse was that I was too young. Now I find myself standing in the mirror saying that I'm too old."

Jake sat up in his chair. He wasn't sure what she meant by that, but he could see the tears forming on the corners of her eyes. She reached in her purse and pulled out a tissue.

He moved his body to the edge of his seat. He wanted her to know that she had his full attention. More importantly, he wanted her to feel as if she could tell him anything.

He slowly reached down and turned the tape recorder on. He kept his eyes on her so that movement by him didn't seem sudden or obvious.
Keep her focused man; don't blow it
.

He waited for her to speak again before moving back into his seat.

"No need to beat around the bush any longer," she said as she took a rather long pause before continuing. "To answer your question, I'm here so you can do my dirty work. I want you to give them both something that might heal their heart, dry their tears, and help them move on. Right now, you see they are both hanging on the strings of color."

"What is 'strings of color'? I can't say that I'm familiar with that term."

Monà looked down at her red ballerina styled shoes. One of her shoestrings had come untied. They were as old as she was, but she had vowed to never get rid of them.

Jake could see the sadness in her eyes. He watched her as she bent over to tie her shoe.

"Everything we go through in life is like a string of color, which pulls us this way or that." She said as she crossed one string over the other. "That's how come we get so twisted in life. Can't grab our own strings and pull them in the direction we want them to go. No, we allow someone to not only hook us but to string us along."

"There." She exclaimed somewhat out of breath. She leaned back and stared at her shoes.

Jake noted that she seemed very satisfied that they were tied again.

"Is there a story behind your shoes?"

Monà smiled.

"When I was a young girl, I allowed the strings of color to hook me and pull me along until I felt like I could no longer breathe on my own. Do you know what that feels like, to not be able to breathe on your own?"

Jake didn't answer. He knew when to be quiet and when to ask questions.

Monà stopped and stared at the ceiling. It was all she could do to gather her composure.

Jake kept his eyes on her. Her words were making tiny circles in his head that never seemed to meet. He watched her body's movement. He wasn't sure what she was trying to tell him, but he had a strong feeling that, whatever her story was, it had New York Times bestseller all over it.

He fought to hide his excitement.

"You can show it."

"Show what?"

"You can show the fact that you think that I'm about to tell you a story that will be the story of all stories."

"Well, aren't you?"

"That's why I said you can show it."

Jake smiled.

"You know I have always found the life of a journalist interesting."

"Why is that?"

"I guess it's because you get paid to be all up in someone else's business."

Jake let out a strong laugh.

"There now, feel better?"

"Much"

"Good."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"That's what a journalist does, right?"

"Why did you come see me?"

"Didn't I answer that one already? Anyway, I read the column you did on my Naya. Of course, you call her Jazzmyne."

"What did you think about it?"

"I thought that you obviously want to do more than write a column for a living."

Jake nodded.

"Have you seen her?"

"I've seen her all my life, just never face-to-face."

"Do you want to see her? Face-to face, I mean..."

Monà looked at her shoes again.

What is it about those shoes
? Jake wondered.

"We all go through life wanting many things, Jake. I suppose I am no different than anyone else. My list of wants is long."

Jake got up slowly and walked back over to his desk. He grabbed a notebook and a pen. He knew she was watching him. He made sure to do everything slowly. One thing he learned many years ago was that any sudden movements during an interview can come off as a sign of being aggressive. Aggression doesn't get you the story; in fact, it ends it.

Something is missing here. Is she beating around the bush now, or am I?

Jake eased back into his chair.

She crossed her legs.

Not good. You're losing her. Better think of something quick
. Jake began to twirl a piece of his hair.

Monà watched.

He suddenly found himself nervous.

Maybe all I'm really cut out to be is a columnist.

Stop that man! That's your old man talking. Get it together. Ask a question. Get back in the game!

"So JK is your father and Naya's?"

"Yes, but you knew that already."

"True, but I needed it for the record."

"No, you wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth, as they say."

"Have you ever wondered why he did that to both of you?"

"I didn't have to wonder Jake, I knew."

"You do?"

"Of course, it's not rocket science."

Jake gave a quick smirk.

"Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about that. It happened. Enough said."

Shoot! Did I just tick her off? What's wrong with you, man! You've done interviews before with multi-millionaire celebrities. Now you can't do one with an old lady?

Jake took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and when he opened his mouth he decided to do what he does best—get up in her business.

"Why did you choose to raise Simone and not Jazzmyne?"

It caught her off guard but she didn't show it.

"Finally, you are starting to sound like a real journalist."

Jake could have been upset at that but, for some reason, he wasn't. He understood what she meant by it.

He was finally starting to ask the right questions.

"He stared at the window; he could hear the rain that was coming. He hated being old. He hated being able to barely breathe, and he hated that he was dying and still had not resolved all his life's shattering issues."