A Natural Woman Page 7

  He grinned back at her and said, “Naw, if anything I’d say your genes and my Big Mama’s shampoo deserve all of the credit and a fair share of the glory.”

  He’d smiled when he’d spotted Aliesha in her car outside the shop. Even though he’d silently hoped for her return, he hadn’t expected to see her again so soon. Certainly he’d been flattered that she’d already begun making up excuses to stop by and see him. Most any man would have been pleased, even had he not been particularly interested in the woman who’d sought his company. It was one of those innate and peculiar features of his gender—the stuff that bound the male ego to the Y chromosome.

  But when Dante had pocketed his phone and walked outside to join her on the sidewalk, he’d been taken aback by the hunger he’d seen in her eyes. He’d figured her much too smart and savvy and self-assured to venture there so soon. The intensity had stirred within him a wild flurry of long-winged second-guesses.

  While he felt confident in his previous assessment of her needs, he realized he’d yet to determine what exactly, outside of a haircut, she thought she wanted. Something quick and casual? An exciting diversion from the norm? Someone she could keep tucked away in the shadows on permanent standby? If so, she’d have to look elsewhere, is what he told himself.

  He’d had his fill of occupying those kinds of empty and less-than-satisfying roles in the lives of women who thought themselves too beautiful, worldly, educated, financially independent, ambitious, married, or otherwise attached to openly partner themselves with a man of his common upbringing and less-than-prestigious station in life. He longed for something deeper, something more substantive, and when it came to Aliesha, he knew he’d never be content to settle for less. No, if she were destined to be his, it would be on his terms, which, at the moment, were all or none.

  His conclusion wasn’t that of a man driven by arrogance or selfishness, but one who’d tired of being kicked where it already hurt. Even so, when he’d drawn his fingers across Aliesha’s eyebrows, he’d experienced the gentle wrench and tearing in his side and the opening of his chest again. Damn, what is that? he’d wondered. He’d never known his body to respond in quite that manner with any other woman.

  Beneath the poker face she’d quickly donned, he knew she’d felt something, too. She couldn’t hide the hunger—at least not from him. Rather than gloat over the fact, the realization had troubled and saddened him.

  Desperation didn’t become her. Not that kind, anyway. Most women he knew wore it well—so well you couldn’t tell it wasn’t a natural part of them—like high-priced and professionally styled wigs or weaves, like fake nails and false asses, like silicone-plumped lips and tits.

  Dante knew from experience that if he and Aliesha weren’t careful, her hunger would consume them both and leave them with nothing but ashes and sand upon which to build. That wasn’t what he wanted. Nor was that what he intended to let happen.

  When he’d reentered the shop, the first thing he’d noticed had been the cloud of disapproval darkening his boss’s face. “All right now,” Wally said. “Don’t forget that’s a paying customer. One misstep and you done fooled around and messed up your money and mine. Besides, I thought you’d been burned enough times to know better than to play with fire.”

  What Dante knew was that his boss wasn’t the type to put up with a lot of foolishness from any of his employees. Still, he’d been unable to resist uttering a cool-tongued, “What makes you think I’m playing?”

  Wally laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, and when she leaves your ass broke, busted, and in a corner somewhere crying the blues, don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

  Gerald looked up from the neck he’d been lining and said, “You know you can’t tell these young niggas nothin’, man. And this moody, quiet-ass nigga here? Hell, he the main somebody, always trying to read shit into stuff that ain’t there.”

  On his way back to his post at the rear of the shop, a grinning Dante bobbed his head in Gerald’s direction and said, “Is that it, G? I’m saying man, you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, I’m privy to a few things you ain’t?”

  Her concentration broken, Aliesha looked up from the student essays she’d been attempting to read. She stared across her desk at Tamara, who’d been checking the multiple-choice answers of the tests they’d been grading for the past hour. But for the last several minutes, Tamara had been carrying on about some unforgivable slight she’d suffered in the university’s cafeteria earlier in the day.

  “See, those folks don’t know who they’re messing with. For real, I am not the one. I came this close to acting a fool up in there.”

  In many ways, looking at Tamara was for Aliesha like gazing into a mirror. With their large, expressive, oval-shaped eyes; their high sculpted cheekbones; their wide mouths and full lips; their long, willowy limbs; and with them both owning skin the same impenetrable shade of black, the two shared enough of the same physical features to be members of the same biological family, “if not from the same tribe,” as Aliesha’s father would have certainly declared with an appreciative chuckle had he still been alive.

  Even beyond the many surface similarities, Aliesha saw in Tamara a shadow image of her former self. A sensitive, sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and deceptively intelligent Black/woman/child, who, while eager to ask all of the wrong questions, was way too impatient to hear any of the right answers. Aliesha hated to think she’d never been anywhere near as talkative or openly opinionated and contrary as Tamara. Still, she also understood all too well that most of the hardheaded defiance and feistiness her young charge exhibited to the world served chiefly as a protective cover.

  The ringing phone interrupted Tamara’s rant. On picking up, Aliesha said, “Hello, this is Dr. Eaton. Oh hey. Uh-huh. Give me another ten minutes or so. I’m grading papers with Tamara right now. Okay, sounds good. I’ll be sure to do that. Thanks.”

  On replacing the receiver, Aliesha said, “That was Dr. Wilbun. She just received the official go-ahead for that project I was telling you about. From what I understand, the money is pretty good and you’d more than benefit from the experience. In the next couple of days, you need to set up a time to—” Aliesha paused, glared, and said, “I would appreciate you not rolling your eyes while I’m speaking.”

  Tamara scrunched her brows and twisted her lips. “I’m sorry, but you know how I feel about Dr. Wilbun. The thought of having to work and report to her on a regular basis doesn’t exactly fill me with glee.”

  “That’s why working with her might be just the thing you need. Once you get to know her, you’re likely to discover the two of you have a lot more in common than you might have ever guessed.”

  “Psst, I doubt it,” Tamara said. “You ever sat in on one of her classes? They’re like 80 to 90% male. And it’s not hard to see why, being that she doesn’t seem to have anything in her wardrobe besides short skirts and skin-tight, low-cut tops. Matter of fact, Dr. Wilbun’s class is one of the few you can find every Black male jock, nerd, player, slimeball, and ‘brother man down for the cause’ type vying for a front row seat.”

  Determined neither to lose the battle nor encourage Tamara’s silliness, Aliesha checked her desire to laugh and said, “As much as you complain about not being able to find a decent guy, sounds to me like Dr. Wilbun’s class is the place you’d want to be.”

  “Right,” Tamara said. “As if any of those guys drooling over and gawking at Dr. Wilbun would ever bother to look twice at a skinny, dark-skinned Black girl like me.”

  Aliesha recognized the truth and hurt embedded in Tamara’s words, and rather than blow them off, she honored and acknowledged them with a moment of silence. While the two largely maintained a normal teacher–student relationship, oftentimes the dynamic between them resembled more that of a big sister–little sister.

  “And whose loss is that?” she said. “Certainly not yours. Hopefully one day, both you and the young men in question will come to recognize that fact. But in the meantime,
you’ve got one of two choices—you can either deal with it or make a conscious decision and deliberate commitment to work toward changing those kinds of attitudes.”

  Tamara rolled her eyes again. “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say. You’ve already established your career, and you’ve got your own house, a nice car, and as far as I can tell, at least two fine men jocking you.”

  Aliesha felt her jawline harden. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come on now, Dr. Eaton, don’t play,” Tamara said. “I knew about your light-skin Hispanic friend, but that big, tall hunk of Hershey’s chocolate I saw eyeballing you at the church this past Sunday. . . . Uh-huh, you’ve been keeping that brother on the DL. And for good reason, I’m sure, ’cause—”

  “Okay, enough of that,” Aliesha said. “Nope,” she said, when Tamara tried to protest. “If you really think I’m going there with you, well, you are sadly mistaken.”

  After enjoying a few seconds of hearty laughter at Aliesha’s expense, Tamara refocused on the test papers piled on her side of the desk. She was still there twenty minutes later when Monica barged into Aliesha’s office unannounced, dressed more like a contestant on America’s Next Top Model than a serious professor of history. Her appearance sent Tamara’s large eyes spinning into yet another roll.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Monica said. “I thought you two would be finished by now. I’ll just wait out—”

  “No, that’s all right,” Tamara said. She jumped up, grabbed her things, and rushed for the door.

  Before she could complete her exit, Monica seized her by the arm. “Hey, you need to call me or stop by my office next week so we can discuss the project.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that,” Tamara said, as she squirmed from Monica’s grasp and bolted from the office.

  Monica dropped into the chair Tamara had vacated. “I don’t get it,” she said. “How come she doesn’t like me?”

  Aliesha didn’t look up from the grade book in which she’d been jotting notes. “Who, Tamara? Kind of obvious, isn’t it? She’s jealous.”

  After an extended pause, Monica crossed her arms and legs and said, “So how come you’re not? Jealous, I mean.”

  Aliesha shut her book, lifted her downcast eyes, and leaned forward wearing a smile. “Because unlike young Tamara, it just so happens I know my worth in the world.”

  Monica laughed. “See, that’s what I like about you. Quiet as it’s kept, you’re an even bigger bitch than me.”

  Still smiling, Aliesha said, “Oh, is that why you were in such a big damn hurry to get over here? So you could call me all out my name?”

  “No, heifer,” Monica said. “I’m here to get the real scoop on the little dinner party you attended Saturday night.”

  Aliesha’s grin slipped and she lowered her eyes again. “Shockingly enough, everything was great. If you really want to know the truth, it far exceeded my wildest—or should I say—my lowest expectations.”

  “So how come you and Javiel aren’t speaking?”

  She sighed and leaned back in her chair until it creaked. “He tell you that?”

  “Girl, please. You know I get most of my good dirt secondhand. Jesus told me. So, what gives?”

  “Nothing. We had an argument.”

  “The kind of argument that would drive a girl back into the arms of an old love?”

  Aliesha shook her head. “Not this girl and most certainly not that particular lover. I told you, seeing and talking to Kenneth face-to-face on Sunday was cathartic. That’s all out of my system now and I’m ready to move on to other things.”

  “Mmm-hmm, I hear you talking,” Monica said.

  They both laughed.

  “And what about Javiel? Does this mean things between you and him are on their way to getting tighter? Or has, in fact, this thing between the two of you run its course?”

  “Good question,” Aliesha said. “In all honesty, I really don’t know. What’s he telling Jesus?”

  Monica’s face suddenly turned somber. “You mean besides that he’s head over heels in love and not sure he could live without you?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Aliesha pulled up to Javiel’s house. Rather than steer her car into the empty drive, she parked on the street. She sat for a moment and studied the large first- and second-floor windows that lined the home’s brick exterior. All were dark except for one. She knew if she exited the car and walked up to the window bearing the light she’d hear the hard-driving notes of Coltrane’s “Impressions” or “Giant Steps.” She knew if she peered past the windows’ sheer curtains, she’d more than likely find Javiel in front of a paint-splashed canvas, a brush in one hand and a glass of bourbon not far from the other.

  Since she’d never bothered to tell, and he’d never bothered to ask, Javiel had no way of knowing he was her rebound lover, the first man to pay her any real attention after Kenneth’s careless mangling of her heart. She often thought about all of those days and nights she’d spent alone after their breakup. All sixteen months’ worth. She remembered how much she’d longed just to be touched, just to be held, just to be on the receiving end of a smile from a man whose love for her she didn’t doubt. Javiel had yet to stir within her what Kenneth could in a mere glance in her direction, but she couldn’t deny having found a considerable amount of solace in his welcoming embrace, particularly on those nights when what she’d needed most was to be held.

  She sighed, took out her phone, and pressed in a series of digits.

  “Wally’s Cool Cuts,” answered a voice.

  “Dante?” she said.

  “Speaking,” he said.

  “This is Aliesha.”

  “Hey, you ’bout ready to head this way or are you outside already?”

  “No,” she said. “Actually, something unexpected came up and I’m not going to make it tonight.”

  “You sure?” he said. “How much extra time you need? ’Cause I don’t mind waiting.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I appreciate it, though.”

  “No problem,” he said. “If you change your mind between now and next week, just give me a call.”

  “Sure thing,” she said. “Thanks.”

  After she finished speaking with Dante, she pressed one of the numbers on her speed dial and braced herself for the sound of ’Trane’s maddening rush that she knew would precede Javiel’s “Hello.” Once upon a time, she’d hoped her and Javiel’s mutual love of music would lead them to a tighter bond. But her well-intentioned attempt to surprise him with front row seats at a show featuring the smooth sounds of jazz saxophonist Boney James had proven disastrous when no less than twenty minutes into the performance Javiel had pleaded illness and asked if they might leave early. Later he’d confessed to being something of a jazz purist, the type who mainly prefers the music of dead greats like Miles, Dizzy, Bird, and ’Trane.

  In response to the hollow-sounding “Hello” she heard over the music blaring in the background, Aliesha replied, “Hey, it’s me. You feel like talking?”

  “If you want,” Javiel said, sounding none-too-enthused about the prospect.

  “I’m parked outside,” she said. “Can I come in?”

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  She left her car and walked up to the house. She muttered her irritation at having to find and use the keys Javiel had only recently given her. He hadn’t bothered to assist her entry by turning on the porch light or unlocking the front door.

  The moment she stepped inside, the spitting and hissing notes of Coltrane’s tenor sax circled her. She followed their slithering lead down the hallway to Javiel’s studio. Upon her entrance into the sparsely furnished room, the blistering notes snaked up her legs, winding and constricting themselves along the way, like a den of miniature and potentially deadly water moccasins.

  The first thing Aliesha’s eyes settled upon was Javiel’s stiff, slender back. Rather than acknowledge her presence, he kept swinging his brush against the canvas on the easel in front of him.
The artwork, which just so happened to be a painting of Aliesha’s own long, slender, naked back, was the next thing she noticed.

  Even though the torso had no head or any identifying marks beyond the coca brown skin, she knew it belonged to her. In the five months she’d known him, Javiel had amassed quite a collection of her drawn and painted body parts—her hands, her feet, her mouth, an ear, an elbow, her breasts, her behind, even the smooth curves of her stomach . . .

  While standing there, thinking about the artwork and feeling the unrelenting squeeze and wind of ’Trane’s tenor, Aliesha suddenly felt queasy and faint. She pressed a hand to her throat and quickly moved to turn down the music.

  Javiel stopped painting and looked at her. “There’s another man, isn’t there?”

  More shocking than the question was the dark, handsome face it summoned to the forefront of Aliesha’s boggled mind. Dante?

  “At the church, I mean,” Javiel said. He brought the tumbler of bourbon to his lips. After a sip, he said, “That’s why you don’t want me to go, isn’t it?”

  “Javiel, there is no other man,” Aliesha said. “Okay, look, it’s like this.... There was someone else, emphasis on the word, was, okay? My relationship with Kenneth ended long before I met you. But he showed up at church this past Sunday. And before you ask, no, I didn’t invite him. He was there to hear one of his grandkids, who performs with the youth choir, sing a solo. And yes, I knew he was coming, not only to service but to the class I lead as well. I just figured it would be uncomfortable, for everyone, if you showed up, too.”

  “And this guy—Kenneth—he’s someone you still obviously have feelings for?”

  “Javiel, give me a break, all right? It’s complicated.”

  “No, Aliesha, it isn’t.” He finished his drink and slapped the empty tumbler on the small table beside him. “Either you do or you don’t.”

  “So, tell me, did you just stop having feelings for the woman who broke your heart and had you holed up in the monastery?”