“Sorry, babes. I coming.”
“You better be. And then you will.”
I quickly unwrapped myself for her. No further thought of men, mothers, or their mysteries distracted us as she undid the strings around my neck, back, and hips.
Hours later, watching the sun drop below the window frame as the coquis’ evening refrain built harmonies, I tried his phone again. No answer. I buried my face in Kaya’s armpit and allowed myself to sleep a little as the evening expanded.
My mobile woke me. Two messages. I hadn’t called #2. He was worried. Nothing from #1.
I called Face back first, creeping out of bed without stirring Kaya, to pace through his questioning, for the first time in years of surreptitious encounters, whether my relationship with #1 was other than idyllic. I liked the interrogation flip even less when he interrupted my hesitantly edited account of our status.
“Hear what, Star. I not minding your business. Just trying to make out the big picture. If you don’t tell me everything, info don’t link. No context.”
I didn’t tell Face about #2. Divulging my arrangement wasn’t an option. I couldn’t have informants passing judgment (or information) on my personal life. Knowledge is power, and my working relationship with Face depended on his lack of power over me.
I turned to my notebook. Things always made more sense on paper:
—#1 told me to end it with #2, then left.
— same car outside hawk and spit and Hundred Steps.
Fidel just happen to be idling on Henry Street night before, or is darkers-wearing mystery lady goldteeth Rasta’s accessory as well as #1’s?
— thus, who’s included in “we” watching me? they watching me for someone specific?
Too many questions. I stared at the page, willing the words to morph into a graphic explanation of what the fuck was going on. Appended: or am I being watched for reasons unconnected to relationships/arrangement and #1’s demands?
Tried #1 again. Still no answer.
Time to reassure #2. I told him I’d see him as soon as I could without making hard plans. He was happy just to hear my voice and knew better than to expect more. He loved me, wanted to be with me, was worried about me. With his chatter in one ear and Kaya’s breathing in the other, I realized I might as well be entertained if I had to listen to the whining. I sat on the edge of the bed again, reaching out to touch Kaya’s sweet spot. The naked body turned toward my hand, eyelids cracked slowly, and a tiny smile formed. I pointed at the phone pressed to my ear, then beckoned closer and met her halfway. Kaya snuggled up, throwing an arm across my lap. I took her extended hand and pushed it between my thighs. The hand obliged, fingers instantly making the voice on the phone less bothersome. I relaxed, legs falling further apart.
As the afterglow waned, I wrapped the conversation. He’d deal. He was #2.
Ordinarily, there was a constant, nearly relentless demand on my attention. I needed to get home where I could be alone with my thoughts — a too-rare occurrence. I gently pushed Kaya off my lap. “I hadda ride, babes.”
“What?”
“Sorry. I have to figure out what going on with #1, and if I stay here I’ll be completely distracted by you.” Silently self-congratulatory over the quick cover.
“I’ll leave you alone. You don’t have to go.”
“I do.” Breathe. “You’ll see me soon.”
“You coming to the club tomorrow night?”
“You know I will unless I can’t. How many times have I not been there?”
“I just know you have other priorities right now.”
“I promised I would, right?”
For the 2:00 a.m. ride, I pulled the emergency smoke from my hidden compartment. Mellowed to the strains of 12, now turned down low: stop living your life like you born to dead...
With temporary peace of mind, I relented and redialed #2 to take advantage of the situation under the pretext of making up. His unprecedented hesitation made him suddenly sexier than he’d ever been. As I pulled up to my house, I breathlessly informed him that in exactly half an hour my front door would be unlocked, inviting him inside for the first time, where I’d be naked, glistening, smelling of chocolate and mangos.
I leaned back in the driver’s seat finishing the spliff, my spinning mind casting a loose net for relevance: brooding over #1’s sudden unexplained resistance to one of my boys; considering #2’s limitless adoration, manifested in zero-notice availability and loving gifts that transported me back to college relationships; wondering what business interest #1 shared with goldteeth Rasta to fund his art... and as the last of the smoke dissipated, I saw. I’d been looking at the wrong lover.
Over goldteeth Rasta’s shoulder in the dim corner under the hawk and spit’s darkened windows, #2 — poorly lit, out of context, thus unrecognized. Bossman ordering minions. Déjà vu — hesitation before my wrist swiveled and I pushed the door hard, then pushed it again. “I’m here.”
No answer. No surprise.
He was lying on the mattress we’d shared, in fresh clothes and what appeared to be a pool of his own blood — the stain would never come out. Or the smell. I’d loved that bed. The last time I lay on it still felt like the day I bounced on it at the store. Now I wished I’d made it there the last time I’d slept at home.
Mentally I recapped my entrance. What had I done, touched, moved? Or did the fact that I lived here make all that moot? Up close, it hit me. I was the last to see him alive, and the first to see him like this.
I called Kaya instinctively as I found myself in the car, winding my way back up Terre Brûlée, needing her inside me with the panorama of St. James calling from the window that so often framed me with the previous tenant’s mural. As soon as I reached her, my mobile interrupted. I simultaneously remembered — #2 was on his way to my house.
“Fuck. Sorry. I have to answer.”
“What?”
“Sorry.” It never stopped. What else could I say?
“Hello. Look. I’m sorry.” I explained somebody was dead and I was at Kaya’s, apologized again for the wasted run, and promised to call. I rushed off the phone, needing to talk fast and refrain from admitting I had called him for makeup sex after leaving her. Instead, I said that after finding #1, I needed to make sure #2 was okay, and couldn’t not answer because he was already worried about me.
Leaning on the windowsill again, thinking how lucky the neighbors were that I wasn’t shy, as her writhing tongue flicked over me, I had another brief flicker of recognition. I assumed it was the result of anticipation now twice fulfilled, until thirty seconds later, when the thrill arching my spine ceased, leaving me cursing whatever had quenched the rising, swirling heat. As I turned away from the window the flicker of recognition returned, but before I could turn back to confirm the pale blue Sunny parked in the street below, #2 was in the room.
“I knew what you’d need — when I called I was almost here.” Out of context again, blue Sunny waiting outside, but unmistakable this time.
“But, how you know where—?” Before I could get the words out, she provided the answer to all my questions, even #2’s uncanny ability to provide for desires not yet voiced.
“Babes. I knew you’d need my support to get over this loss. I included him because I know he loves you and wants to be here for you. Who you think taught him to take such good care of you? I knew you’d need us. I’m sorry about #1, but he was getting greedy about too many things that weren’t his to control.”
Wrong lover again.
I thought back to meeting #1 at an art opening she had dragged me to, and #2 at the club that I slowly realized I’d never actually seen her dance in. My perfect arrangement, all her creation. Denyse Plummer sang it: Woman is boss.