Between Lovers (21 page)

I wait.

Ayanna stands for a second, her head down, legs trembling like she is still weak and shuddering from having the big O. She finds her balance, wipes her mouth, her heart-colored locks covering her face, a face that seems so small right now, hiding her from the world.

It's hard for me to breathe. The air has become super-charged with electricity. Humid and thick, the way air gets heavy before a storm.

Ayanna keeps her arms across her chest, hiding her breasts, turns off the jazz with a rugged slap on the stereo, and leaves the bedroom running, turns left, and storms away from the stairway.

I want to know, “She okay?”

“She's fine,” Nicole responds.

Ayanna's coughing, gagging her way down the hall.

Then silence follows silence follows silence. Flames dance. Wax melts.

I walk out of the bedroom.

Nicole's voice rises and follows. “Let her be. She's okay. ”

In the hallway, I listen for jingles. There are none.

I look inside one room, and it's a large office. Lots of law books. File cabinets.

No Ayanna.

Behind another closed door is the other bedroom. Much smaller. Just a day bed and more art.

No Ayanna.

A third bedroom is empty too.

I tap on the other bathroom door and there is no answer. In my mind, wrists are cut and a river of blood is running from the walls. I open the door and see a sink. There is no sign of Ayanna. It's as if she has disappeared. Except I catch the faint smell of frankincense and patchouli. Then I see that there is another door inside to the right. I open it and peep in the darkness and see a toilet, a tub with a shower. The smell of sex, the scent of Ayanna gets stronger.

I pull the opaque shower curtain back, the silver hooks singing as they rake across the metal bar.

Ayanna is in the bathtub, in the dark, her butterscotch skin resting in a pool of cold, white porcelain, legs pulled up so her chin rests on her knees, arms around her shins, her fire-colored mane helping to hide all that defines her as woman. The same embry otic position Nicole had a moment ago, a child back inside of its mother's womb.

She starts rocking. Lips opening and closing. No words appear.

I extend my hand to Ayanna.

She shakes her head at my good sportsmanship.

She coughs. “You'd suck wind up here.”

“I'd beat you like a runaway slave.”

“Two slaves, one master, right?”

Then silence visits us again.

Nicole calls our names. I wait for Ayanna to answer, but she doesn't. She glances up at me, expecting me to do the same. To give in to Nicole's voice, to lose. No one answers. Nicole has been in control since the beginning, has taken this from incubation to this solemn moment we exist in now, and now we're trying to recapture some of that power.

Nicole repeats our names louder, the way a mother summons a child, then demands, “What are you doing together?”

Again our names are called.

I ask, “Do you trust her?”

“Don't know if I should.”

I tell her, “If you don't trust her, then you don't love her.”

“Her pussy has made you delusional.”

I say, “You're butt naked in a dry bathtub and I'm delusional?”

“To trust somebody you have to know what's going on inside their minds, not what they tell you. I'm talking about their psyche, and there is no way you can know that.”

Nicole appears at the door; anger is the mask she wears.

“The rules, Ayanna,” Nicole snaps. Her petite breasts thrust with the power of mountains. Her eyes come to me and she stresses, “The rules.”

“Your rules,” Ayanna says, then gets to her feet and leaves the bathroom, moves away with clarity that speak volumes. Tells Nicole that she can't run away, but she hates herself and doesn't want to exist in the same room with her at this moment. “This is my house. I make up my own rules.”

“Our house.” Nicole follows. “Don't start tripping.” By candlelight, Ayanna dresses the best she can. Nicole stands and watches.

Ayanna coughs, then laughs over and over. “I actually did this shit and went behind him.”

She takes slow, methodical steps laced with an inebriated rhythm. Her laughter grows; it's not quite hysterical, but it's not controlled either. “Are you happy, Nicole? Are you happy now? Clap your hands. Go ahead. You're happy and you know it.”

Nicole stands near the door, blocking her way, asking her not to leave.

Nicole asks, “Can I hug you?”

“Don't touch me.”

“Why not?”

Ayanna responds, “Because you always let go first.”

“I don't.”

“You ever notice that? I've been hugging you for eight years, you always let go first.”

Nicole studies Ayanna's face before she says, “So, you're reading me my faults?”

“And you pray with your eyes open. Never trust anyone who prays with their eyes open.”

“You never pray.”

“That means I never pretend.”

Nicole shifts. “Anything else?”

“The list is too long, so I'll keep it simple.” Ayanna's voice catches in the middle, fractures like a straw that has been bent too far. “Your strengths I can complement. Your weaknesses I can compensate for. I do all I can to make your life better. But you don't do the same for me.”

“You don't have any weaknesses, Ayanna.”

“I'm facing my weakness right now,” Ayanna responds by giving Nicole direct eye contact, her tone so strong, so lawyerlike, so much like a closing argument. “You are my only fucking weakness.”

Ayanna's words chill me, stab me a hundred times a hundred, because my weakness is her weakness. Ayanna is my mirror. She's making me see my weakness.

Ayanna says, “You need to make up your mind which way you're going to swing.”

“My mind is made up. We went over this a thousand times. You said you under—fuck it.”

Nicole crosses her arms tight over her breasts. So many times over our years she has done that to me. Body language that screamed out her annoyance, froze me where I stood. It's fascinating seeing her do the same with her other.

Ayanna glowers at our headstrong lover like she's Tituba, the black witch of Salem. They stare without blinking, eyes radiating more therms than the sun. Neither backs down. Two panthers, waiting.

Ayanna takes her silver bracelets off, shakes them as she faces Nicole. Holds them tight, her hand turns into a fist. Makes me think she's got brass knuckles.

Nicole says, “Stop it. Put those back on.”

Ayanna shakes her head, does that over and over as she speaks, “Once a fire gets started, if the wind shifts, it changes into a firestorm. It's unstoppable.”

I watch. Hold my breath and watch. Don't know what to do, if I should grab Nicole, jump in between, or wait and see which way these winds are about to blow. I wait.

Just when my lungs are about to burst, Nicole blinks, lowers her head, moves to the side with her unhappy attitude on display. Ayanna picks up her purse, stuffs her bracelets inside, grabs her keys, marches down the stairs. The door sensor does a
beep-beep-beep
when it opens. Then closes. The garage door whirrs. An engine starts. Backs out with a disturbing calmness. The garage door whirrs back down. Ayanna zooms away, leaving us with nothing but the sound of each other's breathing.

Nicole sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes watching her palms as if she were reading tea leaves.

A moment passes. Nicole's voice becomes a moan, “Shit, she had four martinis.”

“Didn't look tore back to me. She made it down all those stairs without cracking her face.”

“She's fucking with me, doing this shit on purpose. Hurry and put your clothes on.”

I do. Nicole throws on blue-and-gold CAL sweats, tennis shoes.

Then I'm following Nicole's fast pace down the stairs, grabbing my shoes as soon as we step on the tile, then running through the garage. We stop long enough to see a puddle of vomit near where Ayanna's ride used to be. Nicole double-times, damn near leaps into her car, and before I can buckle up, we're speeding up her street, down hills toward the middle-class, then the working-class areas, looking left and right. Nicole never stops talking, never stops worrying.

“She leaves like she's Miss Billy Bad Ass, but it's crazy out there.” Her voice drops and she continues to shake her head and ramble, “Car-jackers are out there pretending they're cops, hell, three women just got jacked in Orinda. Don't do this to me, Ayanna.”

“She seems too smart to do something this stupid. Slow down, Nicole, damn.”

“Get real. This is an emotional thing, has nothing to do with being smart.”

“That's why you need to slow—”

“Mayors do the same stupid thing. Police officers. Priests. So-called smart people get DUI's all the freaking time, so give me a break,” she says, every harsh word defending Ayanna. Then she grips the steering wheel, clenches her teeth, and growls, “Don't do this to me, Ayanna. Don't do this.”

She pulls out her c-phone, pages Ayanna, puts in 9-1-1.

I look down dark streets I've never seen before, ask, “Why did you freak out in the bathroom?”

“The rules. I can't ... don't want to see you with someone else.”

“Is it that you don't want to see me get with Ayanna, or see Ayanna make love to me?”

“Don't do this, okay.”

“Was Ayanna supposed to deal with it any better than you—”

She raises her voice. “Not now, please, not now.”

“Why not, Nicole? Slow down. Nicole, slow this bullet down.”

“It's different. Seeing you fuck somebody is different.”

“How?”

“I'm in love with you. I can't turn this off.” She slaps the steering wheel. “I don't know why but it's different. I wouldn't be able to stand watching you fuck somebody else.”

“Hypocritical. Since you ran the last two, you might want to stop at the next red light.”

“You call me hypocritical.” She shrugs. “So be it. I learned from the best.”

“Selfish and hypocritical.”

She curses me, snaps as she drives by stores, a few houses, looks for Ayanna's car. All the while we banter to and fro.

“Please,” she huffs. “And your wanting me to yourself, at your convenience, having me do things that I was uncomfortable with when that was what you wanted, none of that was selfish?”

“But you torture me with your sexcapades.”

“And you tortured me with K-Y jelly.”

“Don't start with that shit again. That's old, Nicole. Very old.”

“Well, pat yourself on your back, sweetie. You made me this way.”

I snap, “I didn't. Will you knock that crap off?”

She retorts, “Was I like this before all of those X-rated videos, before you pushed me into your fucking fantasies? Was I? Hell no. Shoving all of those books by Anäis Nin and Henry Miller in my face. Making me read those scenes a million times.”

She's driving too fast, searching, finding nothing. Nicole has been drinking too, has had enough to worry the world. In the back of my mind, once again, I remember us in Paris, not at the strip club, but driving through tunnel
du pont de l‘alma,
the passageway where Princess Diana died in the thick of the night. This pace is so fast; if we had wings we'd be airborne. I'm wondering if tonight is the night I die. If she's leading me to the ultimate accident.

I say, “Those scenes were well-written, beautiful. That's what I was sharing.”

“They were contagious. You pushed pictures by Rondu on me, put those pictures on every wall—”

“That is art, Nicole. Art. Did you forget the erotica plastered all over your walls?”

“Don't cut me off, dammit. You made me look at that art day in and day out, made me wonder about things I'd never wondered about.”

“Those pictures are nothing compared to the videos on BET.”

“We didn't have cable, dammit.” She makes a few quick turns, ends up on the freeway. “But you brought Heather Hayes and Taylor Harris into my life in black plastic bags.”

“Slow down. Will you please slow down, Nicole?”

“You were the one trying to act like he was going to be the next Mr. Marcus. Don't you get it? This isn't who I was in Memphis.”

“Slow the hell down, Nicole. Slow down and shut up for ten seconds.”

“This is what you turned me into.”

I snap, “If your fucking faults are because of me, then who in the hell can I blame my faults on? Who can I use as a scapegoat for my shortcomings?”

She screams, “I'm talking about me. You ever notice that all you give a damn about is you?”

I go off, “And who do you give a damn about? Besides you. Who?”

I've never understood blaming others for things internal, never been one to point fingers and place blame. Something I picked up from my old man's way of thinking. A man takes responsibility for his actions.

Then, we're going at it again, cursing each other. The dark side of this relationship has risen to the surface. Words stop when we see flashing lights up ahead, traffic slowing, backing up, on this side. Looks like a pretty bad accident. A fresh accident with warm blood staining the pavement.

We both get quiet. As quiet as death on Sunday morning.

Nicole moans, “Oh, God. Please.”

I reach over and touch her hand.

Traffic is thicker, more stop than go. Everyone is being diverted to the far right lane. Hundreds of headlights are behind us, changing lanes and getting nowhere. It's a while before we move single file into the bright lights of the fire trucks, into the flashing lights of the Highway Patrol, ease toward a vehicle that has overturned and caught on fire.