Apple Brown Betty (25 page)

Cydney rubbed his head. “You could have told me so and went on home.”

Desmond smiled. “I tried, but you were sounding like Elvira the vampire, like you were ready to draw blood if I didn't get over here.”

“Everybody is a comedian today.”

Desmond leaned up. “Who else tickled my baby's funny bone?”

“Victoria and Faith,” Cydney said, “trying to get all up in my business.”

Desmond dropped his head again. “Oh, okay. I thought it might be some smooth operator trying to put moves on my baby.”

“Do I detect a bit of jealousy?” Cydney asked.

“Let's just say I've been thinking all day about how good you are, how lucky I am. I appreciate you, Cydney.” Desmond meant it, too. He'd actually vomited when he got back from the ride with Jacinta, after he had time to consider his terrible betrayal of Cydney. He was determined more than ever to get himself flying straight.

“You are so sweet. I think it's your tiredness talking.”

Desmond shook his head. “I'm being real. But I am tired.”

“I guess,” Cydney said as she continued to rub his head, “that you're too tired for some loving then.”

Desmond raised his head up. “Are you making me an offer?”

“I might be.”

“Make it firm and I'll accept.”

“Ooh, firm,” Cydney said, biting the tip of a nail. “Isn't firm your department, though?”

“You are too good at this, Cydney.”

Cydney smiled, pushed against his shoulders so he'd ease up. “Come on then and let Miss Wonderful make you forget all about your day. That's what couples do, you know…they give each other strength.”

Desmond stood and Cydney took him by the wrist toward her bedroom. If she only knew how badly he wanted to forget about this day. If she only knew how badly he needed her to give him strength.

A
thin film of sweat covered Cydney's naked back. She was on her side, the ridges of her ribs, the profile of her flat stomach and the lay of her heavy breasts illuminated by the snake-armed lamp on her nightstand. Her eyes were closed and her chest rose in peaceful waves. A wheeze like a slow air leak from a tire passed through the small crack of her lips. She had her legs pulled up and a pillow lodged between her knees. When Desmond eased his arm from around her waist she made a face, twisted her head, but then fell back into a deep sleep. Desmond's heart stopped for that moment when it appeared she would awaken. He paused and then moved from the bed with a grimace on his face. He stood over the bedside watching her for a moment before putting on his boxers and tiptoeing to the living room.

He regained his normal step as he entered the living room, went to the Venetian blinds that led to the patio and peeked through the slats to outside. The black sky was dotted with stars and a swollen moon, the street lamps cast a bright light down on all the parked vehicles. Even in darkness there could be light. He turned from the window and looked around the living room. He went to sit on Cydney's couch, plopping down hard against the cool leather. His skin clamored to the material.

He looked up at the ceiling, noting for the first time that she'd had it done in popcorn texture. She had a nice place, a nice disposition, a good head on her shoulders, ambitions, smarts. Not to mention the kind of beauty that made you stop and take notice. What more was there? What more did he need? He dropped his head into his hands and kneaded his temples. He didn't have a headache, but his head felt as if it might explode. He jumped up before his thoughts pushed him further and threatened to make him break down in tears. If Cydney caught him crying on her couch after what happened between them in the bedroom, he knew he'd be in for it. A smile and a shrug wouldn't move her from tossing a round of questions his way like a firing squad.

He moved over to the entertainment system and crouched to look over her selection of movies.

“There you are,” Cydney's voice called to him a moment later.

He turned as the overhead light from the chandelier came on.

Cydney ran her fingers over her eyes, yawned and stretched. “Why did you leave me like that?”

Desmond stood up with a video in his hand, the case pressed against a muscular thigh. “I couldn't sleep with you calling those hogs,” he said, attempting clumsily to lighten the mood. “Three of them called back and said they got your messages, loud and clear.”

Cydney smiled. “Don't even try it. I don't snore.” She moved closer to him and took his hand, examined the video.

“Boomerang,”
Desmond said, “is one of my favorite movies.”

Cydney looked up at him. “There you go with the Eddie Murphy again. Do you have something you need to get off your chest, Desmond? I'm starting to think things.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, on edge.

“You got a closet fetish for him or something? Do I have to worry about you sneaking from the bed in the middle of the night to watch
48 Hours?
”

Desmond smiled, the tightness left his shoulders. “Ha, ha…Nah, I just like the movie.” He started to feel a bit more like his usual self. “It's bugged though, because they made it seem like Eddie getting with Halle Berry was settling, as if Robin Givens was the greater prize. That's some shit.”

“That was the pre-Oscar Halle, don't forget,” Cydney reasoned.

“The Oscar didn't change how she looks.”

“Poetic license, I guess, then,” Cydney said.

Cydney turned to move but Desmond caught her shoulder and pulled her in. He held up the back of her hair and kissed the nape of her neck. Grabbed her by the waist and brought her buttocks in contact with the rock beneath his boxers. Cupped her breasts. Unfortunately, the rock shriveled, as it had done during their previous failed attempts in the bedroom.

Cydney shook from his grip. “See, now I'm starting to get self-conscious. Every time I come near it, it deflates.”

“I don't know what's going on with me,” Desmond said. His voice sounded as if it were straining against a torrent of wind and losing the battle.

Cydney faced him. “Have you ever had this happen before?”

Desmond avoided her eyes. “Never.”

“Don't let it get you upset. I'm a determined sistah, we'll keep trying. You're just tired from your long stressful day.”

“Yeah,” Desmond offered. “It was a tough day.”

“Well, you just remember that I'm here for you.”

Desmond rubbed her head. “I'll do my best to remember.”

Cydney looked into his eyes, his drifting eyes, and she knew that something wasn't right between them. Relationships were supposed to uplift, to bring you joy. Early in this relationship all she had experienced was a roller-coaster ride. It was as if Desmond were a critically ill loved one in the hospital; she didn't know what to expect from him from one day to the next. Shoot, from one hour to the next. She continued to look into his wandering eyes and he continued to stare across the room, oblivious to her glare. She pulled from him and moved to go to the bathroom.

“Where you going, babe?” he asked.

“Quick shower,” she said.

“You want some company?”

She had hoped he'd ask.

But then she saw the light fade in his eyes, an understanding take hold of him. He looked scared and confused. “You know what,” he said. “I think I'll just chill.”

Cydney shrugged and turned to go shower alone. She heard the give of the couch behind her, Desmond's weight hitting it with a thud. “I'm going to check out
SportsCenter,
” he said. She heard him pick up the remote and move through a few channels, then stop. “Hey, Cydney?”

She was at the bend leading to the hallway, which then led to the bathroom. She stopped and turned to him, hopeful he'd changed his mind and was going to join her for that hot shower after all. “Yes?”

“I think I'm going to just go, pop my head in at my house and make sure my sister hasn't wrecked the place. What's on the agenda for you today?”

She glanced at the clock; it was just after four in the morning. “I've got a paper I have to work on,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper. “A kick-ass assignment if there ever was one.”

He got up off the couch and moved toward her. “Let me get a hug then before I head out.”

She raised her arms in formality as he crossed the carpet in her direction. They met at the bend and hugged.

“Good luck with your paper, Cydney.”

Damn, why did he have to call her name? She could always tell his emotions by how he said it. This time there was no warmth in his tone. “Thanks,” she said anyhow. She turned and went straight to the bathroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she moved past. Even with the quick glimpse she could tell that she lacked the glow that a woman headed for love was supposed to have.

In the shower stall, she mediated the hot and cold water and settled under the spray stream of her showerhead and let the water run down her face. That way she could pretend she wasn't crying.

 

Desmond was still on Cydney's mind hours later but she was determined to chase him away from her thoughts. She arranged the pillows on her bed into a neat pile and fluffed them until they were just right. She needed that soft dip in the middle that she could fall into, that dip that allowed the outer edge of pillow to wrap around her like the comforting arms of a lover, or a parent, or a sibling. More than the silken sheets, more than the sweet scent from her baskets of dried flowers, more than her bed itself, the pillows were what made her bedroom a safe haven, a place to fall back until you couldn't convince her life wasn't all honey.

She went into the kitchen and grabbed the plate of hot brownies and the flute glass filled with sparkling apple cider. She placed them on the nightstand next to her bed. Next, she went into the living room and dug through her collection of CDs. She settled on the one with Maxwell's soulful reworking of Kate Bush's “This Woman's Work.” She grabbed her laptop case and took that and the CD back into the bedroom. She set the computer case down next to the bed and removed the CD from the jewel case and put it in her CD player. She adjusted the volume so it wouldn't drown out her thoughts as she worked. The music would serve as something to hum to as she periodically broke her thoughts from the paper she had to write for class.

She stood on the floor and surveyed everything: music playing softly, brownies, cider, pillows fluffed and arranged just right. She snapped her fingers and went to get her Bic SureStart to light the scented candle on the dresser. All of this preparation was foreplay that she hoped would lead to a smooth enjoyable ride once she opened her Microsoft Word file to start work on her paper. She needed this paper to be the home run Professor Greenwood didn't expect. She got the Bic and lit the candle. She was ready.

She opened her laptop case and pulled out the computer, plugged one cord in the electrical outlet to reserve her battery, placed another into the phone jack in case she decided to dial up to the Internet. She brushed a film of dust off the keyboard with her hand and eased into the bed, placing the laptop, aptly, on her lap. She fell back into her pillows as the computer started up. She paused at the icon screen before she went ahead and clicked on the AOL logo to go on the Internet. She wouldn't stay on for long; just long enough to check her e-mail and make sure her bank account was balanced.

Cydney didn't have any e-mail, but there in her buddy box—the grouping of online friends who she chatted with over the Net—was the name Rbanstyles. The screen name of one of the ghosts from Cydney's past. Stephon. Villa Moore had called and told her he was home, recovering, doing well, even in the midst of saving his marriage. They'd decided, Villa and Cydney, it was best if Cydney kept that relationship in the past, didn't try to contact him, let him heal.

But now Cydney glanced at her computer monitor, at Rbanstyles just sitting there, calling out for her.

Did Stephon know how much he'd meant to her?

Was he really happy?

Did he know the guilt that Cydney had carried with her since his…accident?

Cydney scrolled her mouse to send him a quick message. She'd keep it cryptic, nonemotive.

DreamGurl: Hey. Glad you made it through.

There was a long pause. Cydney sighed. She couldn't blame him for ignoring her.

Rbanstyles: Hey.

Cydney smiled, the slouch left her shoulders.

DreamGurl: You're not mad at me, I hope?

Rbanstyles: Should I be?

DreamGurl: You could be. I wasn't very supportive at the end.

Rbanstyles: No?

DreamGurl: I'm paying for it now. My life is so mixed up and confused.

Rbanstyles: How so?

DreamGurl: I don't know. Everything is muddy. You were always clear about how you felt about me. Your feelings didn't change from one day to the next.

Rbanstyles: Was I?

Cydney hesitated. She'd already taken this further than her original intent.

DreamGurl: Yes. I always felt your love…strong.

There was a long pause again. Cydney thought maybe the connection had been lost, but then a message came through.

Rbanstyles: Who are you?

Cydney's eyebrows knitted.

DreamGurl: What?

Rbanstyles: You obviously have me confused with my husband, right? This is Samantha James, Stephon's wife. Who are you?

Cydney's mouth dropped open into an O. She quickly clicked out of the program and pushed her laptop off her. She fell back into the dip of her pillows, took their comforting embrace. Nothing was going right.

 

“Slay—who this?” There was a hitch in his tone because of the blocked number that came through to his cell. He thought it might be the doctors from the hospital where he'd dropped off his mother calling to tell him that she'd scratched some nurse's eyes out and that they couldn't keep her. Or that he needed to rush back because it didn't appear she would last much longer.

“Yes, I'm interested in getting my hands on some street pharmaceuticals,” a woman's voice bellowed into the receiver of Slay's cell. “Something potent enough to chase away the monotony of life in the boonies.”

Slay smirked, his heart rate moved back in the direction of normal. “Felicia Rucker.”

She sucked her teeth. “Dang, I blocked the number and even changed my voice. I'm that recognizable?”

“How you been, girl?”

“Good today,” Felicia said. “I just got a call from my agency. They've got a gang of shoots lined up for me next week. I'm going to be heading back to the city.”

“You ain't leaving before my little thing on Saturday, I hope?”