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  "Rod would never." I sat back down at the table. The couple stood there like they didn't know what to do.

  "Want something to drink?" Jeffrey started for the kitchen behind me.

  "No thanks," I said.

  "How ’bout you, Sarah?"

  "Sure. I'll get it myself." She followed him. I could hear them whispering in the space behind the counter that separated me and the small, round table in the dining area from the kitchen. I couldn't concentrate on my work, so I closed the book, gathered the papers, and made a neat stack on the edge of the table.

  The smell of coffee filled the air; a rich aroma laced with chicory that reminded me there were some things I missed about Louisiana when I was in New York. Not many, but some—boiled crawfish, cochon de lait, jambalaya, and that wonderful southern drawl, mixed with a Cajun accent that was balm to my ears. The heat and humidity, though, I didn't miss. Nor did I miss the busybodies who run their mouths, like my parents or Jim Crow or the Klan.

  The sound of an electric percolator and Sarah and Jeffrey's whispers became commonplace as I sat alone and wondered how to disappear. I have this habit I don't pay much attention to—I put my face in my hands when I'm thinking—so I guess that's how they found me when they sat down at the table, three cups of coffee, sugar, and cream appearing out of nowhere: a pow-wow of sorts.

  "Sarah and I are engaged," Jeffrey said. I looked up with my chin in my hands.

  "Congratulations. Have you set a date?"

  "We both have two more years of law school before we seal the deal." He reached over and took her hand, holding it on the table so I could see it. They looked at each other in a sweet, endearing sort of way.

  Jeffrey reminded me of Rod, though he seemed more soft-spoken and very serious. Sarah was lovely, with flawless skin and dark hair ironed straight with a bit of a flip where it hit her shoulders. Her nails were painted hot pink and she had a small, gold stud in the side of her nose and dangling earrings in both ears. She wore pedal pushers and flip-flops, a contrast to the ornate jewelry but nicely put together with a salmon-colored sleeveless silk blouse.

  "Where are you from, Sarah?" I asked.

  "Mississippi, on the coast. It's a small town called Waveland."

  "I know Waveland," I said. "We used to go to Biloxi on vacation and my mother would tell us stories about spending summers in Waveland."

  Silence. Okay, I thought. If they want to know about me, they'll have to ask. I'm not about to offer up my life story, especially to this girl who seemed put off by my presence.

  "Look," I said. "This is obviously uncomfortable for all of us. Let's just wait for Rodney to get back and iron it all out."

  "What's to iron out?" Jeffrey asked. Sarah punched him in the side with her elbow. We sat and sipped our coffee and tried not to look at each other, although I knew they were staring at the side of my face and my puffy, dark, left eye. I slipped on my sunglasses to hide my grotesque face and they both blushed and looked at their coffee cups, shifting their eyes to look at each other sideways. I opened my book and started to flip through the typed papers in the manila folder beside it. I clicked the top of the ballpoint pen and made notes in the margins. I didn't mean to be rude, but I wasn't sure what else to do.

  It seemed like forever before Rodney walked into the apartment. He stood in the doorway and took in the scene: me bent over papers I couldn't see because I was wearing sunglasses, Jeffrey and Sarah nursing empty coffee cups, no one talking.

  "Jeff. Sarah. Hi," Rodney said. He walked into the room. His presence filled the space and I wanted to jump into his arms, but I sat still and stared at him, longing for him to reach for me and hold me. I felt so vulnerable.

  Jeffrey got up and the two guys grabbed each other's right hands, tapped their chests together and wrapped their left arms around the other's neck. When they pulled apart, they slid their hands along the other guy's inner arm and cupped their fingers together like choirboys singing a solo. Today we'd call it a "Bro-Hug." Back then, I didn't know what it was.

  Rodney gave Sarah a peck on the cheek from behind her chair. He looked at me as though he didn't know how to fold me into the scenario and, after a pause, he took off his cap and pulled me out of my chair and into his arms.

  I started to cry. I'm not sure why. I just know I felt safe once he folded his long arms around me, my head on his chest, his breath on the top of my head, little kisses in my hair. He rubbed my back and whispered to me, "It's okay. I'll take care of you." I believed him.

  Eventually, we all sat around in the living room to talk. Rodney and I sat on the sofa next to each other holding hands, my head on his shoulder. I didn't have anything to say. I was a spectator of a conversation of which I was the subject.

  Sarah was crying because she was sad for someone called Annette and thought Rodney and I had ruined everyone's plans. Rodney tried to explain that he had never led Annette to believe there was any future for their relationship. Sarah contended it was by innuendo. Jeffrey said there were too many law students in the room.

  They laughed, argued politely, and Sarah cried. No one seemed to notice I was there, listening to them talk about Rodney and another girl. It hurt, but his arms were around me and my head was on his body and I could hear his heartbeat. Every now and then he pecked the top of my head, rubbed my leg, patted my shoulder. That's what kept me from hysteria.

  "Are you going to tell Annette or should I?" Sarah asked. "She's my best friend.”

  "Of course I'm going to tell her," Rodney said. "I'd like to talk to Susie about it first."

  Rodney stood up and pulled me to my feet. "We're going for a drive." I grabbed my purse and he followed me out the door, his hand on my back, guiding me towards his Mustang. When we closed both doors of the car and he started the engine I began to cry, hard. He drove without speaking. In just a few minutes we were parked on a levee watching tugboats push barges down the Mississippi River.

  "Listen, baby. We need to talk about some things."

  "You mean Annette?"

  "Forget Annette. That's over. I'll handle that. We need to talk about New York."

  "Aren't you going to explain Annette?"

  "Do you want to explain your love life over the past six years?"

  "Uh, no. You're right. It doesn't matter."

  "That's my girl." He squeezed my leg, then he put both his hands on the steering wheel and stared out the front windshield. "Look, they won't sell me an airline ticket." He told me there was a seat on my plane for him, that is until they looked at his driver's license. He presumed his race precluded him from getting the ticket. I was disappointed, but I guess I knew things wouldn't go smoothly. After all, they never had.

  "I really have to get back to New York, Rod." I explained that I had to turn in my thesis, complete one final exam, and attend commencement for graduate school the following week. He said that since he couldn't fly out with me, he'd like to stay in Baton Rouge for a week and graduate with his law school class. His parents would want to see him walk across the stage and receive his law degree.

  "This isn't the end of the world," he said, as though trying to convince himself that he was right. "I can take the train up next week, after graduation. That will give me some time to resign from my job, get my transcripts together, and tie up some loose ends."

  "Like Annette?"

  "Like Annette. And other things. I can leave next Sunday; a week from today."

  "I've heard horror stories about Negroes on trains in the South." I was trying to stop crying, unsuccessfully. "And then there's my dad. What if he finds out before you get out of Louisiana?"

  "I'll be discreet. How would he find out?" I didn't answer, but we both knew there was an informant in the close-knit circle of people who knew when we saw each other. We still hadn't uncovered the leak. "The only people who'll know are my family and Sarah. They won't tell."

  "Still…"

  "I'll go straight to Chicago," he said. "Once I'm i
n Illinois, out of the South, I'll be fine."

  "How will we stay in touch? How will I know when you'll be in New York, where to meet you?"

  "I'll call your apartment. We'll work it out."

  "I'm afraid to leave you here, Rod. I'm afraid I'll never see you again." I stared out the windshield. He patted my shoulder but didn't respond. There was nothing he could say.

  *

  We stopped by his apartment and I stayed in the car while he went inside to get my books, then we drove to a hotel on Airline Highway. It was the same one we'd been to three years before, when we'd said goodbye. I had an intense feeling of déjà vu wondering whether it was an omen and that this was goodbye, again.

  It had been a long time since we'd made love and I felt embarrassed, as though it were the first time. I shouldn't have worried.

  A soft light filtered in around the sides of the heavy drapes that covered the long window over the air-conditioning unit and from the lamps on either side of the bed. The way the light, or lack of it, hit Rodney's face, the way his teeth seemed so white in the semi-darkness, and the glow that came from within him, through his eyes, was radiant, almost ethereal. His touch felt brand new and old hat at the same time.

  He slid his hands down my arms from where they emerged from my sleeveless blouse, and when he reached my hands he curled his fingers through mine and pulled me close to him, wrapping all four of our arms around my back. My head tucked under his chin and he kissed the top of my head, then the top of my ear, then my neck. I trembled and let out a deep, throaty moan. He moved his lips down my throat to the opening of my shirt and blew softly where he had just kissed my skin. The cool sensation on the hot kiss took me to a new place. I let my head fall back so he could reach my chest. He let go of one of my hands and used his long fingers to unbutton the top few buttons of my blouse and kissed my cleavage.

  Ribbons of light touched the side of his face when he moved back to look at me. His touch, his lips, his look and the way the light played on the amber specks in his green eyes entranced me. When he bent to kiss my lips I almost fell into his embrace and he had to catch me to keep me from sliding to the floor. He was conscious of my swollen face and the pain his kisses might cause, so he was tender and gentle. With the back of his hand, he stroked the side of my face that didn't have stitches and a bandage.

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Only when I think about it."

  "I can help you forget about it for a little while."

  "Promise?"

  What is it about making love to the person you adore that makes you feel complete? When I lay against him, my head on his shoulder, his arms around me, I marveled at the whole of him; of Rodney, of this person who could make me feel so loved that I could forget everything else. He held me all night and we slept in spurts. The next morning, we dressed quietly and he took me to the airport.

  I was petrified to go to New York without him, afraid I’d never see him again.

  Rodney looked so handsome as he stood in the Baton Rouge airport and watched me board my flight to New York. He told me not to worry, he'd take care of everything, and we would be married in Washington DC the following week and live in New York where mixed-race marriages were accepted.

  Yet a fat tear rolled down his cheek as he stood at the gate and watched me walk down the jet way.

  He called every day that week. The last time was from a pay phone in Baton Rouge. He told me that he was about to board the train for Chicago, then to DC.

  "I'm almost there!" His voice was bright and excited. In my imagination I could see his eyes light up, the way they always did when he had something positive to say. "In a few days you'll be Susie Thibault." I loved the sound of his voice, the upbeat tone he seemed to have in everything he did and said.

  God, how I loved that guy—that gorgeous, wonderful, perfect person.

  Chapter Two

  ***

  New York

  The cabbie drove through Queens and passed through the stately gates at St. John's University onto a green-leafed, tree-lined drive with massive stone buildings on either side. He dropped me in front of the apartment building provided by the university for me and other graduate assistants, where I had lived for the past three years. I loved the spiritual feeling of the campus and the serenity I felt walking across the lawns from one cross-topped building to the next to attend and teach classes.

  But I didn't feel serene the day I returned from the train station in DC without Rodney.

  Where was he? Why didn't he show up? I just wanted to be near the phone if and when he called.

  My tiny unit on the second floor had one bedroom, a small bath, and a combined kitchen and living area. I'd gradually added my own touches and when I opened the door with my key, I looked at my little home with new eyes. What would Rodney think when he got here? The door slammed behind me and I felt a cloak of angst envelop me. If he got here.

  I had so many secrets. Would he still love me and want me once he knew?

  I had to tell him. We couldn't build a future with the past hanging over our lives. I sat down hard in the pillowed chair near the front door and dropped my overnight bag and purse on the floor next to me. Where would I start? The baby? Merrick? Josh? Gavin?

  Then it dawned on me that I may never see Rodney again. It hadn't been that long since the Klan tried to kill his dad and left a warning: "Leave the white girl alone." That's what had ended our relationship three years back. Had it happened again?

  The phone rang and I jumped up, scared out of my thoughts.

  *

  I thought back to ten days before when I'd first arrived back in New York after leaving Rodney at the airport in Baton Rouge. When I had entered my apartment that afternoon, the phone was ringing.

  "Hi, beautiful," he said when I answered.

  "Please get here, Rod. I'm so afraid something will happen to keep you from me."

  "Tell me you love me and I'll make that promise."

  "Do I have to say the words?"

  "Yes. I need to hear them, so you'd better get used to saying them. Now, practice."

  "I, uh, you know I do, Rod."

  "Say it, Baby."

  "I, uh, love you."

  "Good job. I love you, Chére." He called me lots of pet names. Chére, which sounded like sha, and meant dear one in Cajun French, was probably my favorite, but I'd never told him that. "See you in a week."

  After we'd hung up, I thought of all of the questions I wanted to ask. Had he talked to Annette? Had he told his parents? Had he quit his job? Then I remembered I'd been with him that morning at the airport in Baton Rouge. How much could he have accomplished in such a short time?

  Later he told me everything—that he'd gone straight to New Iberia to see Annette and, hard as it was, he'd broken things off. In the process, he'd broken her heart. I knew it must have been torture for him to hurt her, or anyone, especially someone who loved him.

  I had to do the same thing—break up with Merrick, only Merrick was expecting it, wasn't he? After all, he was married and he must have realized that once I finished graduate school it would be over between us, right?

  It had been Monday afternoon when we met at a sidewalk cafe close to campus, a few blocks from Merrick's writers' retreat where we had gone once or twice a week for the past three years. He was happy to see me but appalled by my bruises and bandages. I had forgotten how bad I looked until I saw the expression on his face when he sat down across from me at the little table for two.

  "What the hell, Susie?"

  "Oh, this? It'll heal. No worries."

  "What the devil happened to you?"

  "I don't want to talk about it, okay?" He was quiet for a minute. He looked at my face and tried to see behind my dark glasses, which didn't totally hide the swollen eye and purple circle that crept under the lenses. He calmed his voice and spoke in a fatherly tone.

  "Susie. Please tell me what happened. I've never seen anyone so, we
ll, so, uh…" He was never at a loss for words, so I almost laughed. Instead, I finished his sentence.

  "Beat up?"

  "Yes."

  "The price of going home." How could I tell him that my own dad beat me up? For me it was almost normal, something that my father had done to me since I was little: lose his temper and take it out on me. Once he beat me so badly I spent a month in the hospital and had the last sacraments administered because they thought I was going to die.

  This last time had been different, though; I'd fought back. I'd gone home for Catfish's funeral and my dad accused me of humiliating him in front of a hundred voters. We'd been to the Quarters for the burial and a cochon de lait dinner when he saw me speak to Rodney and suggested it embarrassed him to see me speak to a colored boy in public.

  He'd slapped me so hard I fell against the footboard of the bed in the room that had once been mine and now belonged to my baby sister, Sissy. I slid to the floor and before I knew what happened he was on top of me, kicking and slapping. On impulse, I caught one of his feet with both my hands and threw his leg in the air with all my might. He staggered backwards, lost his balance and almost fell.

  By the time he got his bearings, I was on my feet and he hit me in the face with his fist to keep me from running out the door. I staggered backwards and a strange darkness came over me. All the anger I'd felt for years bubbled up and I sucker-kicked him in the balls, hard. When he bent over to grab himself I reared back like a runner taking off from a starting block and pushed off hard with my foot, my knee cramming him in the face.

  There was a loud crunch when it connected with his forehead and he toppled backwards onto the thick, blue carpet. Blood spurted from above his eye. I grabbed my purse and overnight bag and ran from the room, through the front door, and down the sidewalk while he yelled after me.

  Dr. David Switzer, who lived across the street, opened his front door and walked briskly towards the road as he yelled at my dad who, by then, was standing on his front porch. I ran down South Jefferson Street and was only a few blocks from the Quarters.