I work at burial of memory in my mind's eye of his tight athletic
wiry body, no ounce of fat anywhere, I never thought I’d fall
for a man with no hair, but no, I imagine standing behind him in
the bathroom, rubbing the finished product, licking even the remnants
of foam and aftershave and lust, no one wiping any steam from any
mirror, towels dropping. I regularly wrench my mind’s eye into
obedience, speaking calmly and enthusiastically in the far too small
hallway, pet and fuss over the new dog, and a pattern develops between
us. Not often, not every time, but when Target has a dollar days
sale or Superfresh has a run of excellent specials or cases of water
are 3.99 I take a deep breath after much hesitation, fret, worry
over is it too late in the day, will I wake him up, will I disturb
him, thank God I have the phone number so I don’t have to brave
knocking on the door.
And the weeks accumulate and the puppy becomes a dog, a ferocious
intimidating watchdog who turns to mush when he sees me—after
that “you’re off duty” whistle—and the day
comes when it rains and I ask and he gets them and it snows and I
ask and he gets them. And soon I am no longer comfortable complaining
about white people in the safety and sanctity of my humble apartment
because I am afraid of hurting his feelings, of angering him, guilt
begins to circle for a vulture dive. Guilt emboldened because my
repeated small tokens of thank you were accepted with a mild “please
don’t do this again” which I ignore until the card addressed
to me waiting on my door, taped, and he a truck unloader who does
not write notes.
And I have begun to wonder why; no one does such from pure kindness.
I decide he is working off some debt from his youth, some black kid
he used to beat up, some Black grandmother whose trash he delighted
in turning over, some older taller bigger Black kid who used to terrorize
him and whom he still hates.
And some window opened, some line eagerly carelessly crossed as
I do invite him in after Shropshire and he sits in my wingback chair
and I in the orange library chair and suddenly I am Dr. Cohen and
he a patient and I am therapist with no training but instinct and
the suit feels natural as a forgotten skin and I ask questions questions
questions and I see flickers of much including a rage, a fury that
is frightening. The flicker of fury in his eyes so brilliant so potent
so threatening to whomever it was intended I arrange quick private
moment with Bryan and ask domestic violence question, warn him of
the pent up rage, declare that neighbor Jim needs counseling now,
hurry.
Then the rest of the post-Shropshire internal demolition and the
anonymous “I suspect domestic violence” call and weeks
pass and I share with him, text message, my fear of what I saw in
his eyes, and he says maybe we should best avoid each other then.
And that long hot Indian summer and musty early fall
interminable as I slowly recover from all Shropshire let loose and
I come back to a stronger, clearer-eyed self that refuses all delusions
and I have avoided his eyes and looked down and away, guilt-ridden.
Work my way back to hello and how are you. Finally one day, August,
September, we all get out of our cars out front at the same moment
and I swallow and breathe and walk over and say I owe you an apology;
I treated you like you were my oldest brother. And he smiles, gracefully
embarrassed but stalwart: “you have to remember,” he
says, common, as though relaying that day’s lesson to Grasshopper, “I'm
not him.”
And I begin to wonder if it is possible to have two white brothers
across the hall whom I can trust who will not hurt me. I begin to
wonder.
Guilt still dogs my heels but he smiles, speaks, wears
me down in his way with kindness. I graduate and I self-publish the
books and he offers to read any nonfiction prose. Actually volunteers.
Surprised, delighted, I give him The Journey and wait. His review
comes in on the 30th. He offers to run my 3 errands on the 31st.
On the 1st, mid-Vincent, he quietly manifests, sitting on a crate,
long-sleeved flannel shirt, long pants, speaking to me from the spirit
world, clear in my inner eye as Vincent and Peightel ever were. I
don’t
know what type of therapist I am to be; if it is merely that every
man I'm attracted to shall appear to me in this way. If my
gift is that men appear to me and speak their hearts.
I only know that there can be absolutely no touching, though my
deepest desire be to share a holiday hug. Vincent and Peightel have
shown me, have thrown me into the experience of lust. Contemplating
opening my legs to neighbor Jim—far more terrifying. The foundation
already firmly established in both our eyes souls hearts, the foundation
of gentle, genuine caring would add perhaps 500,000 degrees of intensity
to our lovemaking stroking touching. Our strokes licks kisses slow,
studied, power-encased because love already there and we only solidifying
it into something so durable it might terrify us both.
Yet how do we deal with the reality of Bryan? How do we sidestep
the charge with his spirit now brave enough to summon my attention?
Dr. Niama Leslie Williams is a poet and host
of “Poetry & Prose & Anything
Goes with Dr. Ni” Tuesdays from 8-9 p.m. EST on Passionate
Internet Voices Talk Radio. Her short story “The Embrace” has
been selected for the 2006-2007 Writing Aloud series at the InterAct
Theatre Company in Philadelphia, PA. “Neighbor Jim” is
an excerpt from her novel Detective Fiction, one of six titles available
for sale on Lulu.com, an online print-on-demand publisher based in
the U.K.
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