Genevieve

  Genevieve

  Eric Jerome Dickey

  ONE

  SHE RESTS ON TOP OF MY BODY, NAKED, WRAPPED AROUND MY LEG, HER head on my chest. Her skin is still hot, set fire by too many orgasms to count. I’ve never been with a woman who came so hard, so often. My tongue tastes like her secrets. Her lavender aroma lives on my flesh. She stirs. My leg is sticky where her vagina rests on me. My come drains from her, adds to her wetness. I stroke her breasts, fingers pulling at her nipple, and she purrs. Her hand holds my penis with a never-ending longing, holds my flaccidity as if she wishes it were hers to keep.

  My cellular vibrates, hums like her favorite carnal toy, dances on the dresser.

  We both jump, startled away from our private world.

  Her cellular glows and sings an urban beat, a hip-hop ring tone. Usher. My confession.

  We don’t reach out to answer, just hold each other’s guilt and wait for peace to return.

  We grip our silence as if speaking were the bigger sin.

  We kiss. Touch. Her kisses are intense. I whisper, “We should leave.”

  “Little bit longer, baby?”

  “They’ll look for us.”

  She sucks my tongue, bites me with passion. “Please?”

  Her tongue finds its way down my chest. Her mouth covers my penis.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  My fingers stroke her hair, hand encourages her rhythm. She looks up and smiles at me, rubs that rigid part of me against her face, glows as if it has healing powers. Her mouth covers me again. She hums. Sounds starved. Heat. Sweet, sweet, heat. The wet sounds arouse me.

  I moan, let my hand gather her hair into a fist, keep encouraging her motions, her head moving so smoothly. Every nerve comes alive. I writhe toward an undeserved heaven. My flaccidity hardens. I look down at her. She smiles, proud of the power she has over me inside of this moment. Kisses me and my insanity escalates. She pulls me to where she needs me.

  Her legs open and I climb on her. The lips of her vagina whisper my name.

  She takes me inside her and there is a shift in consciousness as we integrate in sin. She moves and I fall into her anxious rhythm, her undercurrents. Her words are soft, her moans are soft, and her skin is soft. They all create a spark. And that spark becomes a raging fire.

  I put her ankles around my neck, hold her ass, pull her into me a thousand times. She looks down to witness our connection, then stares into my eyes. My measured strokes go deeper, create madness. She grabs my ass, shudders, tells me she wants me faster, deeper.

  Her arms flail side to side. She yanks the sheets, finds a pillow to cover her mouth, give that softness her wild sounds. Her legs shake.

  I yank the pillow away so I can see her face. Have to watch her. Her eyes close tight. She tremors and grabs her breasts, squeezes them so tight. Her legs spread like wings. Under my every stroke she flies and cries like an eagle.

  I turn her over, position myself between the bed and the wall, use that wall to give me power. She can’t move. Can only take what I give. She’s there. She’s coming strong and often.

  Oh how she quakes.

  Oh how her expressions morph into a beautiful ugliness.

  The room sounds like an exorcism in progress.

  In between my grunts and moans, I call out to her, say rude and demanding things.

  She whispers things to arouse me even more, growls, touches herself then licks her own fingers, touches herself then feeds me her juices, grabs my ass, tells me to fuck her, fuck her hard, whines and moans and squeals and tells me how hard I am, how strong I am, how good I’m fucking her, how deep I’m going, demands my steady thrusting to never stop, goes insane and tells me I can come anywhere I want to, that she will take it in any orifice or drink it like wine.

  I turn her over, take her to the center of the bed, suck her breasts while she reaches for my hardness, rushes me back inside her, those hips of hers thrusting upward, taking me with her own measured strokes. I’m not moving, just holding my position, trying not to come, struggling not to go insane. We have breathless kisses, devour and bite each other, so gone, and I’m somewhere else, someone else.

  Time stops.

  My senses are focused on her.

  I lose control of myself.

  There is no fear. There is no guilt.

  She loses her breath, tenses up, back arches, and she sings my name in three octaves.

  She comes. She comes. She comes.

  Then we rest. Sweat dripping from our flesh, we fall away from each other and we rest. Minutes pass before I can collect my breath and move. I can barely turn my head to look at her.

  She moans. “I think I just had an out-of-body experience.”

  We look at each other’s worn expressions, then we laugh.

  She asks, “Ready to go again?”

  “You’re insatiable.”

  “I’ve never been like this with anyone.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  She puts her face in my lap, hums, then sings part of a love song I don’t recognize.

  She whispers, her voice sounding disturbed, “God, what have you done to me?”

  I don’t answer. I could ask her the same, and my question would go unanswered as well.

  “You make me tingle.” Her voice remains a song. “Make me horny. Think of you and I get wet. You’re very intense. The way a lover should be. I find you damn sexy and tender.”

  Her hand traces my flesh, then I feel her tongue on my skin, licking my sweat. She takes me in her mouth again, does that like she owns me. In her mind I am hers. She nurtures me. I arch, I jerk, get the jitters, but flaccidity remains. That doesn’t discourage her, doesn’t wane her madness. She is determined to raise the dead, determined for this not to end.

  My phone vibrates again.

  Her cellular sings again. Usher, still confessing.

  She is not mine.

  She is my wife’s sister.

  This is our affair.

  TWO

  HOW DOES AN AFFAIR BEGIN?

  I think that mine, like most, started unintentionally. Married or not, it was my first transgression. I’m not malicious, that is not in my nature, hurting someone I love, that is.

  My wife. Genevieve.

  She is thirty-two. Has been turning thirty-two over and over for the last five years.

  Her name has been Genevieve since she turned twenty-one, the day she marched to court and rid herself of the name her mother had given her. In her eyes her birth name was too urban. Too Alabama. A reminder that her ancestors had been slaves and that her family still lived in chains, some physically, some metaphorically, some in the psychological sense.

  She is not one of them. Not cut from the cloth of people who name their children after cars and perfumes and possessions they cannot afford, or have a home filled with bastard children, each of those bastard children named after drugs the parents were addicted to at the time. She is not one of the people who took a simple name and bastardized its simplistic spelling to the point that it looked ridiculous on paper and sounded ludicrous as it rolled off the tongue, then pretended the name was that of an unknown king or queen, its origin rooted in Mother Africa.

  She is Genevieve.

  Genevieve.

  She loves her name because to her ear, when spoken correctly, Genevieve sounds intellectual. Not Gen. Not Vee. Not any other variation. She will only respond to her name in total, Genevieve. And she is particular about that. She frowns on the Americanized pronunciation, “JEH-neh-veev.” She prefers the elegant-in-tone French version, “ZHAWN-vee-EHV.” She will answer to both, but only the French version is accompanied with a smile.

  She is a precise woman. She is not five-foot-one; she is five-foot-one-and-one-quarter.
I suppose, to a woman, a quarter of an inch could be the difference between pleasure and a night of frustration.

  She has come up from poverty and, once again I state, has declared herself an intellectual. Not one that has stumbled out of the womb and continues to stumble through life without meaning or purpose. Not one of the problem children Bill Cosby rants about. She has endless goals. My wife is a planner. A degreed woman who knows what she will be doing for the next twenty years. She has it mapped out, literally.

  She says that when she was a teenager, she mapped her escape from a small town called Odenville, from her past, drew a road to her future.

  She did that the day her father murdered her mother. Cut her throat. She told me that her mother was a woman who had many lovers. Her father was a man who grew tired of being ridiculed in his small town. A man who lost it, then called the police, and sat waiting for them to come take him away, tears in his eyes, his dead wife in his arms being rocked and sung to, his every word telling her how much he loved her, how she had made him do something bad.

  No matter how I have tried, Genevieve refuses to let me into her past. That leaves me feeling shut out in that part of her life. She only gives me part of herself. Thus, my needs are beyond those of the loins. My need is to feel complete. To not have this glass wall between us.

  Genevieve’s desires are flowcharted, every move thought out like a chess player willing to sacrifice her queen in order to slay her opponent’s king. Every move from Odenville to undergrad at Spelman to grad school at UCLA to PhD from Pepperdine University in Malibu, everything that she has accomplished or plans to accomplish is on poster-sized, light-green engineering grid paper, laminated and framed, hung at eye level on the west wall in her office, facing due east. Like a prayer. Her ambitions hang on the wall facing east for another reason as well. That way her map to total domination of the free world will be brought to life and highlighted with every sunrise.

  The light of my life, the fire in my loins.

  Doctor Genevieve Forbes.

  When we married, she kept her last name, the one she had decided would be hers from the first time she picked up a magazine with that title, the new one that sang of richness and power and old money, the name she crowned herself with.

  Genevieve.

  Not Gen. Not Vee. Not “JEH-neh-veev.”

  Genevieve. “ZHAWN-vee-EHV”

  Write her name in soft italics; cross the ocean and learn to speak it in its native language.

  Let it roll off the tongue. Allow it to melt like warm butter.

  Genevieve.

  I love her because she is an intellectual. Brilliance is an aphrodisiac.

  I despise her for the same reason.

  THREE

  “TELL HER WILLIE DONE PASSED.”

  “Willie? Who is he?”

  “Willie Esther Savage, her grandmamma.”

  It starts with a phone call. The caller ID shows area code 256, one that I was not familiar with at the time. It was a call coming in from the Birmingham area, the Pittsburgh of the South. The voice on the other end sounded like that of an old man who took his Jim Beam over ice, his tone Southern and rooted in both poverty and ancestral slavery, a raspy-voiced smoker who had—based on the way he punctuated every other word with a cough—seen his better years. I’m not a doctor, but a deaf man could hear emphysema and bronchitis dancing around inside his frame. When I had answered he had asked for Shauna Smith, a name I was not used to hearing. I told him he had the wrong number. Before I could hang up, he changed and asked for Jennifer. Then tried again, asked for Jenny Vee. Struggled with that name, my guess being that was the closest he could get to the pronunciation of Genevieve. He did not know her as Genevieve.

  Cough. “The name she was borned with was LaKeisha Shauna Smith.”

  He has my attention. “Yes.”

  “I thank she calls herself Jenny Vee something-another now she done moved away.”

  I say, “I think you mean Genevieve, not Jenny Vee.”

  He pauses, then answers, “I reckon so.”

  My chest tightens as I lean back from my desk, away from the notes I’m looking over, notes regarding the breakdown of the infected enzymes in semen and drugs we’ve developed, and my eyes go to the clock. It’s after eight, close to the time she usually gets in. Genevieve is off work, leaves at five on the dot, but today is Tuesday. Tuesday and Thursday are her Pilates days. Wednesday is an African dance class in Leimert Park, then from time to time she walks across the street and watches poetry at World Stage. She writes poetry but is not one to perform her work. Those are the evenings she gives herself time to do something in the name of self.

  I lean forward and ask, “May I ask who is calling?”

  Cough. “What was that?”

  “Who is this? Who are you?”

  Cough. Cough. “Grandpa Fred. Mister Fred Smith Junior. I’m her granddaddy on her daddy side. Need to get her the word her grandmamma on her momma side done passed early this morning. Willie Esther was gone before the cry of the crow.”

  “She… died?”

  “Willie Esther lived to see eighty-three last fall.”

  My lips move in awkwardness. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “We calling all the family we can find right now.” Another rat-ding cough. Sounded like his lungs were coming undone. “She passed early this morning. Held on as long as she could after that last stroke, but she done been called to glory. We calling everybody and we didn’t want to not call LaKeisha Shauna Smith and let her know when the funeral gon‘ be.”

  I correct him. “Genevieve.”

  “Death don’t give a rat’s ass about nobody name. All Death care about is coming to collect his due, and Death always collect his due. We all gon‘ die. With open arms, or kicking and screaming, come time, we all meet Death, we all make that trip to the other side.”

  “Yes, we all will.”

  “Yessir, I look out my window and see Death’s doing every day.”

  He speaks of death with ease, matter-of-factly, as if it were just a part of life.

  I get up from my glass-top desk, roll my chair back so I can stretch my back. My hamstrings stick to the chair’s leather. I have on a gray T-shirt and wrinkled shorts, what I wear most of the time I am at home. I look out the window and see our small backyard that has a pool, bamboo trees that give us privacy, the gazebo that houses our Jacuzzi, then glance due east and see parts of downtown L.A. glittering miles away, its smog and lights in the distance. In that same glass I see my gangly reflection. Hair a little too long. As usual I need to shave.

  I say, “May I have Genevieve call you?”

  There is another pause. The kind that comes when a person’s mind is spinning, questions rising. I imagine that old man, his back bent, skin leathery and wrinkled, a road map to days gone by, sitting in a worn and frayed chair, cane at his side, thick glasses on, his free hand dragging back and forth over the stubbles and rough texture in his pockmarked face, maybe shifting his stained false teeth side to side, contemplating me and my accent that rings of education and twenty-five years of living in California, my disrespectful urban way that doesn’t add sir to the end of a sentence.

  He asks, “Who this I’m talking to?”

  “Her husband.”

  Cough. “What her last name now?”

  “Forbes.”

  Cough. “You Mister Forbes?”

  “No. Genevieve kept her last name.”

  “Woman who keeps her last name don’t intend on keeping the man she marries.”

  That is his litmus test for a healthy marriage. Intentional or not, it stings.

  “You talk real proper. Where you from?”

  “Born in… I grew up in Fresno, California.”

  “You sound the way they talk on television out there.”

  I chuckle at his Southern drawl and say, “Okay.”

  “When she done married?”

  “She done married… uh… she done married two years ago.”

/>   “You don’t say.” Cough. “What kinna work you do?”

  “I’m a research analyst.”

  “You do what kinda searching?”

  “No, research.”

  “What kinna work is that?”

  “I’m a research analyst. I study and analyze cancers, neurodegenerative diseases, and now I’m working on AIDS research training in the form of neurology.”

  When I finish rambling, he says one word: “Cancer?”