Femme Noir (11 page)

“You see,” Jhoaeneyie blared, “Oklahoma has the worst air quality with regard to pollen and natural allergens. Let’s just say that if you come here, it will make you sick.”

Ava-Suzanne smiled and sparkled.

“Here, I’ve got…” Darcy searched her pockets. “Love puppy, what do you have with you that we can give to our friend Nora here?” Ava-Suzanne rolled her eyes and made an ineffectual gesture and shrugged, leaning back and closing her eyes again.

I was never sick a day in my life, but I held my stuffy head. “No, no, I’m okay. Forget it.” I didn’t want to incur debt to Darcy. So I acted fine and began eating again. “So, I met Sloane Weatherly and she was cool,” I said.

“Well, she may seem that way at first, but she’s bad news.”

“Yellow means caution,” Jhoaeneyie added.

“Why? What happened?”

“I’d rather not say,” Darcy said in such a way that she rather would say. “Aside from the little run-in she and I had, she’s also mixed up in this Michelle murder along with Max, probably.”

“Sloane? You think Sloane killed Michelle?”

“Shh!” Darcy ordered as the waitress brought her second plate.

“For God’s sake, have some discretion,” Jhoaeneyie said, motioning for me to tone it down. In response to Jhoaeneyie’s loud demand, several nearby diners quieted.

“I think you’re mistaken,” I said loudly.

“And what do you know? You’ve been here, what, two days? I’ve been here all my life,” Darcy said.

“You just don’t know the score around here,” Jhoaeneyie said.

I drank my water, wiped my mouth, and stood. “Well, we’ll see. I gotta book.” I left more than enough money for my share and tip. I hoped Darcy wouldn’t pocket the excess and stiff the waitress. The funny feeling that in this strange land, I should use foreign currency rather than U.S. dollars swam briefly in my mind. But I shook it off to allergy medication.

“See you at the funeral, pal,” Darcy called. Ava-Suzanne waved, wincing.

“Take care,” Jhoaeneyie said.

Once in the car, I blew my nose and consulted my map to find the church. The dread was suddenly upon me like a straitjacket. Michelle had been a woman I loved, or thought I had. She was a woman I had frequently fucked. This was a woman I had argued with just days before. And she was dead
.

This dead Michelle was the one who smiled so sweetly and yielded so often. I was going to say good-bye to the body of Michelle, who pushed me to take risks and be more daring both on the court and in my profession. Michelle, who made me coffee every morning of our lives together. Even if we had passed out from fighting so long the night before, just the smell of the coffee brewing was like the scent of reconciliation. This would be the Michelle who always taped the right NCAA games for me when I couldn’t be home, the Michelle who left silly notes in my briefcase, and the one who made blueberry muffins from scratch. This would be my final farewell to the woman who had charmed me into letting her move in too soon, who had turned me on to sushi, who had introduced me to rock climbing and sailing, who surprised me in the shower, sudsy and slick, and who had a passion for lilies. Michelle was the girlfriend who came to all my games whether I was coaching or playing, and who folded my briefs and boxers just right after they were laundered. Michelle, of the brown hair and brown eyes, supple waist, and tiny ass. Michelle, whose breath was hot in the night, who loved crossword puzzles and collecting glassware. Michelle, who rubbed my shoulders and called me “daddy.”

I stared into space. The map lay forgotten. The funeral was forgotten. I must have a cigarette or die. I was so used to cadging smokes, I lowered the car window abruptly and ordered a passing man to give me a cigarette. He complied eagerly, reaching into his shirt pocket and extracting a single from the few he had left in the paper pack. I assumed he was afraid of my bald, aggressive blackness. Or maybe everybody is just extry-nice here in Oklahoma. I thanked him and closed the window again. It was sizzling outside, and smothering in the car with my dress clothes on and no air. I didn’t care. Michelle was dead; it seemed little enough to suffer in the car awhile. I thumbed the match, lit the cigarette, and sucked it all the way to my tailbone. Fucking shit, it was a menthol. I despised menthols, but was grateful for the smoke anyway.

I dashed my hands across my wet eyes and felt calmer as I smoked.

This was also the Michelle who used her soft sex as a weapon and bargaining tool. I slept indignantly on the couch for countless nights, proudly refusing to play that. This was also the Michelle who had pawned my bicycle without asking, and who bought a book on lethal, undetectable poisons. “I won’t visit you in prison,” I had said, joking to cover my fear. This was the Michelle whose cell phone constantly went off like an irritated cricket, and when pressed, Michelle insisted it was “college stuff.” Michelle never let that phone out of her sight, so I never had a chance to look at it. I had never needed a phone when I was in college, but I just assumed that times had changed. Michelle was several years younger, after all. This was the Michelle who also was a little crazy and cruel when we fought. Michelle started arguments regularly, I came to realize, so that she could storm out and stay gone. This was the woman who never spoke of a past or any family at all, and only the thinnest of stories, in hindsight, about Madison and Oakland to cover spans of years. This was the woman who had
stolen
from me.
Stolen!
Oddly, of everything I was willing to take and even hitting such a low as to cheat on Michelle, the stealing was the last straw. I was glad that I had never given Michelle access to my bank account and credit cards, though Michelle had angled for them repeatedly. This was the woman who, as I was finding out, was a heartless, filthy liar and possibly a deranged psychopath who was murdered for her trouble.

I finished my cigarette, finally turning on the a/c. Not feeling sad anymore, but tall and clear, I drove to the church.

What happened to you, Michelle? I thought. I arrived at the church and was startled by the presence of several news crews in the parking lot, but then realized this might be a big local story. I took the program an usher handed me. I was early enough to get a back-row seat. I was the most recent lover, usually a position of honor at the front and carefully tended by hovering grief divas, but Michelle was an ex and there had been no time to achieve peace and no one here knew me anyway. This was not Michelle’s and my shared community.

It was a large Christian church of some kind; I paid no attention to what kind. Methodist, Sloane had said, whatever that meant. To me, organized religion was for fools. This church was a glorious, tremendous tribute to the Lord that wealthy white men built. The church was
so
big, in fact, that I knew they would never fill it for the likes of Michelle. A celebrity, maybe. Perhaps I should move up twenty or thirty rows. How did a little town like Tulsa support a church of this size? It was fearsome and oh, so somber. Someone played tastefully on the enormous pipe organ that was raised above it all at the front of the church. At least for the time being, the press was respectful enough to remain outside. Or they were kept out, as I remembered the rumored wealth and assumed there to be a matching power of the family.

I looked at the program:
Michelle Wilson McKerr, born June 10, died July 23. Services: July 30, three o’clock at Main Street Methodist Church.
I tried to swallow the pincushion of shock at seeing these words. These words in print, in black and white that Michelle was no more. This was it. This was real. I needed so many drinks, I vowed I would actually buy cigarettes after the funeral and get poisonously drunk and then flee this town as fast as I could as soon as I was sober enough to return the rental car. Forget all the mysteries, forget Max, forget Michelle, forget all this trouble and grief.

“I need to play ball,” I whispered fiercely.

Movement caught my eye. Max came in, looking tragically beautiful and fetching in gray. Very nice, I thought, forgetting just as quickly about leaving town. Very tasteful of her to attend and to wear gray, not black. A gesture of respect to be here, yet she had nothing to mourn, so no black. Let the family wear black if they would. Max’s riotous raven red hair was pinned in a French twist and her dress was high-collared and form-fitting like a military uniform. One strand of pearls lay on her chest and she wore sensible flats. But for all that, to me, she just looked like a naughty librarian with breakaway clothing that could only disguise her temporarily before her true sensual ripeness came busting out.

I pictured that, smiling a little. Hairpins flying, buttons popping, zipper ripping, nylons slipping, and there was my fragrant Oklahoma peach.

Someone I didn’t know escorted Max to her seat and I felt indignant. I saw Sloane bringing up the rear, wearing sunglasses. I decided to sit next to her and so unfolded my big body out of the pew and greeted her. She gave me the butch nod and we traded handshakes. She was sitting in the row directly behind Max and whomever, which suited me just fine. Once settled, over the throbbing, melodramatic strains of “How Great Thou Art,” I whispered to Sloane, “Who’s that?” and pointed discreetly at Max’s companion.

Sloane, who hadn’t removed her sunglasses, leaned close to hear me, her black leather pants squeaking agreeably. As an answer, she shrugged, shook her head, and put a finger to her lips. Offended at the implied scolding, I withdrew. Max’s neck was right in front of me, her silken white skin begging for a mere brush of my fingers. I imagined how startling yet perfect my dark hand on her ivory throat would look. Max would crumble and be mine, leaning back against my strong solidity and surrendering everything as she relaxed her head to rest on my shoulder. Did Max even know I was behind her? I was accustomed to dominating, so I spread my legs wide and leaned back, drawing myself up and sending Max vibes of definite intention. Was I mistaken or did I see her twitch? I longed to caress the curly tendrils that escaped the severe updo. I saw her sigh and whisper something to her companion. Sloane read the program. I was going to burn in hell for having these thoughts in a church at my ex’s funeral, my new conscience chastised me. I saw Darcy and Ava-Suzanne and Jhoaeneyie wave. I wondered where Jack was and wished he were here. He would certainly talk to me and maybe share a secret flask. Jhoaeneyie, Darcy, and Ava-Suzanne sat far away once they saw Sloane, who wasn’t aware of them. I now noticed the pews filling gradually. Not filling more than ten back, for each pew was fifty feet long, but filling, nonetheless. The organ played “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” Finally, I noticed the coffin. It appeared to be mahogany. It had gold, carved angel and cherub figures flying up to heaven perched on each corner. The tens of ostentatious sprays of lilies had almost obscured it. There were lilies of every type everywhere, including a massive arrangement on the casket. Apparently, her favorite flower was a consistent truth on which everyone agreed about Michelle. I felt remiss that I hadn’t sent any. But to whom? I just found out Michelle grew up here. This family had no idea who I was. “Send them out of respect,” my mother said in my head, “and it might mean something to them even if they don’t know you. Lord knows if I lost one of my babies, I would want to see who all cared.” Yeah, okay, Ma, I vowed.

At “Amazing Grace” my tears rose again and I chewed my cheeks hard to stop them. I heard the doors close and the crowd get quiet. I struggled to see the family, but they were hidden out of view in a private chapel to the right of the minister.

A string quartet seated themselves in front of the pulpit and I realized how expensive all this was. The coffin gleamed of money, as well as all the finishing touches like black crepe draped in swooping arcs behind the minister, an oil portrait of Michelle in a gilt frame on a gold stand, all the music and flowers. My mind reeled. Hadn’t Michelle hated these people enough to estrange herself?

The minister was in full formal robes and as his mellow, comforting voice filled the church, I retreated, observing my sadness. How difficult it must be to do a service for a wretch who was murdered, I thought. Then, tuning everything out, I relived my Michelle mistake. In the spaces between my breathing, I realized with a jolt that I never really liked Michelle. And that I only thought I had loved her. Michelle was a difficult, unfulfilling pain in the ass, in spite of the sweet, genuine moments. Then why? Why did I do it? I knew better, didn’t I? As I retreated deeper, my grief became larger and my struggle for control more desperate. I mourned for the loss of the dream that Michelle had been right for me. I mourned all the fantasies that had kept me stuck and were now shattered. I mourned that I had no love in my life and maybe never had, other than my family and friends. No deep, intimate marital love. I had never loved anyone. Maybe I couldn’t. I liked a great many women: Cherisse, Tonya, even Sloane, but never love. I respected and admired them and loved them in an affectionate, general way, like an entire species. So why Michelle? What had possessed me? I never did an irrational thing in my entire life. It was becoming clearer and clearer to me exactly how obviously wrong that entire relationship had been. It’s as if the answers were buried in deep, black, murky water and the longer I examined the questions, the closer to the surface the answers rose, eventually popping fully formed into the clean bright air of my mind. Why had I done that foolish thing? I asked myself. The preacher droned on about tragedy and potential being cut short and God calling us when He needed us and what lessons can we draw from this? He used the phrase “in our midst” every few minutes, as was required of clergy. Sloane shifted, adjusting her collar. She left the sunglasses on. She reminded me of a black Schwarzenegger.