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Genevieve Page 3


  Genevieve stands at the edge of the pool. Herbal smoke pluming from her head. She has gone into her stash and is indulging in the burning of a bush, its scent spreading, dissipating in the urban air. She inhales hard and strong, its fire lighting up her face, exhales and her stress smokes away from her body. Then the fire goes away. She stands, unmoving. In the midst of the queen palm trees, twenty-foot-high bamboo trees, looks like she’s in the background of a painting, a svelte and luminal figure lingering in the murky half-light, her head down, staring at the water, arms folded beneath her breasts, treading in her own thoughts. She starts to rock and continues to rock. Disturbed. No more bush to burn. She takes off her clothes and waits naked at the edge of the pool. She takes a step, goes into the deep end feet first, hardly a splash.

  A minute goes by.

  I stand there, worry speeding up my heartbeat and stuttering my breath, and watch eight feet of water swallow her the way that mythical whale ingested Jonah.

  Another minute goes by. Then another.

  She is the master swimmer, the one the local children call Teacher Genevieve, or Coach, or Miss Forbes, or Doctor Forbes, the kind woman who teaches well-behaved neighborhood kids how to swim on Saturday mornings during the summer months. I have a swimmer’s build, but my leanness is more hereditary and aesthetic than functional. Next to her, I’m a rock in the water.

  There is no movement. No air bubbles. No signs of life.

  Panic increases my heart rate tenfold.

  I’m about to run out, dive in, and do my best, CPR thoughts and 911 calls and the image of an EMT rushing into my world are running through my brain, but she comes up and breaks the surface, her breathing easy, as if she were sitting on the bottom of the pool, relaxing in an easy chair, contemplating. I back away before she looks up and sees the panic in my face. She can stay underwater four minutes, but that seems like forever, especially to an asthmatic like me.

  She swims several laps, moves with the ease of a Chinese water dragon.

  She comes back in the house naked, drenched, walks the dim hallway, leaves puddles on the marble floor. Her salt-and-pepper hair is wavy, dripping water down over her breasts. Her nipples are erect and beautiful, dark as raisins and hard due to the chill of the night. Her breasts look heavy, full. She has no pubic hair covering her Mound of Venus. Her legs are shaven. Her feet are small, beautiful, the kind of toes that make a man’s mouth water. A clean woman. I see the positive effects that both years of swimming and months of Pilates have had on her body.

  Seduction has been on my mind all afternoon. Stereophonic kisses, talking kisses, butterfly kisses, none of that will happen tonight. My intentions now insignificant.

  I say, “Genevieve?”

  “This will cost a lot. A last-minute airline ticket, even with bereavement discount. I’ll have to rearrange… I’ll have to rearrange… my schedule for the next few days…” Lines overtake her forehead. She sighs, shakes her head, then nods. “I have to go back to Alabama.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  “What about your work? You’re supposed to go to Boston with the research team.”

  She stops and stares at me, water dripping from her body like tears.

  Her body cries, but her eyes are dry, high noon in the Mojave.

  Her mouth opens in protest, then it closes, knowing that this is not negotiable.

  Part of me is angry, part of me disappointed at the way she does not include me.

  In a voice that reminds her who the man in this house is, I tell her, “I’m going with you.”

  The dimples in her face vanish, her round face loses its innocence, she lowers her chin. She swallows. Tsks. Shakes her head. Her mouth opens. Her eyes darken with wickedness.

  White teeth vanish when she closes her mouth. Underneath her dark eyes, she smiles.

  She nods, either accepting death or the fact that I’m going with her. She runs her hand over her damp hair as she heads down the hallway, her feet sticking to the floor with each step, a slow and uneven gait that makes her modest ass shift in an almost seductive rhythm, water still dripping from her frame as if tears were running out of her pores.

  She whispers, “The bitch finally died.”

  SIX

  GENEVIEVE PACKS FOR BOTH OF US, ONLY CARRY-ON LUGGAGE, ALWAYS efficient.

  The reservations were made over the Internet, as were the flight plans, as are most of the things that we do. Point and click. That’s the world we live in. No human interaction. Point and click. Dinner reservations. Point and click. Theater tickets. Point and click. Single and looking for love. Point and click. Unhappily married and need a new love. Point and click.

  I wear baggy jeans, my silver Rolex, a dark blue T-shirt I bought at Heathrow on our last trip to London. Mind the gap. Dark brown sandals. Baseball cap.

  Genevieve wears Army-green pants, linen-like, a top that has forest greens and blues, blue bra, black thong, bracelets and matching ring, diamond earrings. Her lips are glossy, deep plum with hints of gold, lots of dazzle. Ginger body souffle on her skin, gold body dust.

  She sparkles and glows.

  Margaret Richburg picks us up. Our usual driver, Earl, doesn’t work for Wolf Classic Limousine anymore. He was an ex-con. I liked him. Genevieve didn’t care for him.

  On the ride to LAX, my wife is restless. I’m on my cellular calling the L.A. County district attorney, letting him know that we won’t be able to come to Lucy Florence for the monthly Urban Policy Roundtable. I tell him that there is a death in Genevieve’s family and I regret that we won’t be able to listen to a renowned Harvard Law professor discuss today’s reparation movement.

  When I get off the phone, Genevieve stops rocking and humming along with the Jill Scott CD, music she gave the driver to play on our short ride to LAX, stops and looks at me, nervous.

  I ask, “Where are we staying?”

  “Tutwiler. It’s a historic hotel.”

  At the gate she falls quiet, checks her watch a thousand times, her mind spinning, still on all the tasks she has to leave behind, on how this inconvenience disrupts her well-planned life.

  I ask, “The hotel is in Odenville?”

  Genevieve says, “Downtown Birmingham.”

  “Odenville. Sounds like Hooterville.”

  I laugh. She doesn’t.

  I ask, “Where is the Vulcan?”

  “You’re going to the Mecca of the civil rights movement and you want to see Vulcan?”

  Birmingham is a steel town and they erected a statue to Vulcan, who in Roman mythology is the manufacturer of iron and armor for the gods.

  I ask, “Did you know the family of the three little girls who were killed in the bombing?”

  “Four little girls.”

  “How far is Selma, Alabama, from where we’re staying?”

  She shifts.

  I ask, “And will we be far from the Civil Rights Museum?”

  Genevieve snaps, “This isn’t a damn vacation. It’s a funeral.”

  Her stiff tone makes me feel guilty, makes me remind myself that this isn’t a holiday, this is about more important things, have to suppress the love of art and history inside me.

  On the plane we barely find room for our carry-on. We’re on Southwest. The Greyhound bus of the sky. We stand in corrals and are herded on the flight, moving like cattle, hoping that two seats will be available. We shuffle down the aisle, luck up and find an empty row toward the rear of the plane, that section that usually survives in a crash. I become a sardine in a can.

  Genevieve says, “It’s been a while since I haven’t flown first-class.”

  “I know. This is horrible.”

  “Sorry. It was either this or a flight with a five-hour layover.”

  Time and darkness and mild turbulence go by with me reading the LA. Times.

  I point at an article. “You know about Deleon Richards?”

  “Gospel singer.”
r />   “Married to Gary Sheffield. New York Yankees.”

  Genevieve reads the article. Blackmail. Sexual videotapes of Deleon and R. Kelly.

  When she is done, Genevieve shakes her head and says, “That’s horrible.”

  I ask, “Think Sheffield knew before they were married?”

  She pauses, swallows. “What if that was me, would you hold my hand and stand by me the way Sheffield says he is going to stand by Deleon? Is your love that unconditional?”

  “It’s not you.”

  Her voice is soft, distant. “We all have things in our past.”

  I look at my wife and she looks away.

  The flight attendant finally makes it to our row. Genevieve asks for two glasses of Pinot Grigio, which they don’t have. She settles on Sauvignon Blanc. Both glasses of wine, plastic cups actually, for herself. She finishes those, goes to the bathroom, and comes back with her third glass. She rings the call button and when the flight attendant brings her glass number four, I take it from her the way a parent takes candy from a child. She doesn’t protest. I’ve never seen her take in more than two glasses of wine. She’s fidgety, adjusting clothes, going from looking at magazines to filing her nails. She wants to swim her worries away. She wants to self-medicate.

  I sip the wine and pull out a book. In the Cut by Susanna Moore. The story starts on page three and when I get to page nine, start reading about the main character in a place where she can see a red-haired woman giving a shadowed man a blow job, the description arouses me.

  Genevieve interrupts me. “What else did Grandpa Fred say?”

  I blink out of that world, put the book down. “What you mean?”

  “When he called, what did you talk about?”

  “Nothing. He said Willie Esther was dead and coughed a lot. He’s a sick man.”

  She lets her seat back. “He’s been sick for a long time.”

  She is nervous. When anxiety runs through her blood, she complains, anger rises for no reason, and she vents. Maybe she really isn’t complaining, maybe that is only my perspective.

  Still I look in her eyes and I see the little girl inside the woman. She is five years older than I, and sometimes I imagine her with crooked teeth and in pigtails and hot-combed hair and skinny legs decorated with dark spots that come from being bit by a thousand mosquitoes.

  With every passing mile, every fleeting minute, I see her fear blooming. I try to think of something to talk about, something to distract her. Going to Alabama is all that is on my mind.

  I ask, “You okay?”

  “Head hurts.”

  “Three glasses of wine. Not one cup of water. You’re dehydrated.”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to be constipated.”

  She tells me, “Side effects from being on the patch.”

  I say, “Might be time for us to start a family.”

  She does not respond.

  That is one of our pink elephants. Children. To have or not to have. Before our marriage becomes vapid, evolves into a white elephant, something of little or no value.

  We’re both restless, marinating in our own fears and desires.

  I want a family. Need that stability or I will crumble.

  I want to know about the mystery of her family, the family I inherited when we stood in front of a preacher in Vegas, the family that became mine as I slid that ring on her finger.

  I want to ask about Willie Esther and Grandpa Fred, but part of me is waiting for her to mention her family. We talk about the news, about Major Jim Hahn having an uphill election with former LAPD chief Bernard Parks and Councilman Antonio Villaraigosa in the mayoral race. A white, a black, and a Latino election will polarize the city, all of them looking for African-American support. Blacks want a black mayor but are more comfortable with the Spanish politician.

  Genevieve says, “Parks only has a hundred-thousand-dollar war chest. You can’t run for mayor with a hundred thousand dollars. Plus Villaraigosa has personality, is more exciting.”

  “Hahn?”

  “Oh, please. White. Deceptive. He lied. The fifty-five blocks that make up Skid Row have been neglected. The black community has been neglected. There are areas in Latino communities that have never been touched by urban planning. Hahn is a done Tom Turkey.”

  She’s a good communicator. She knows how to receive, not just transmit, the downfall of many women I dated before I met her. Genevieve listens when I talk, then I listen as she talks, the art of conversation. Not a woman who babbles incessantly about things that do not matter.

  The flight attendant passes by, bumps into my leg, apologizes with a glance, keeps going. She has erotic curves that sing, a smile that reminds me of that beautiful woman on KTLA morning news, Michaela Pereira, golden skin and long curly hair in a chic ponytail.

  I watch her, fascinated.

  The flight attendant has a high waist with nice legs. Her walk has an exotic sway and she has subtle feminine gestures that arouse my interest, that make me watch her. And her lips are full, so beautiful. She yawns, her mouth wide, her eyes tight, as if she were willing to give and receive. In that instant I imagine her in the shadows, on her knees, taking my penis in her mouth, taking me deep into die back of her throat, looking down on her lips as she strokes me while she licks and sucks my shaft, pleasing me to the point of orgasm, then when my legs start to stiffen, when my eyes tighten and breathing shortens and my moans rise, as I’m about to come she backs away, drives me insane, sucks my balls, knows the wonders of anatomy and sexuality.

  “Baby?”

  I shift and look at my wife. “Yes?”

  “Let me see part of your newspaper again.”

  Genevieve eyes the flight attendant a moment, takes in her attributes, sees no threat. My wife cuts her eyes at me and yawns, starts talking about the front-page dramas.

  We talk about Scott Peterson and his guilty verdict. His death sentence, well deserved.

  Genevieve says, “It’s eerie how that Peterson thing reminded me of A Place in the Sun.”

  “Is that a play?”

  “No, an old movie. Shelley Winters was pregnant by Montgomery Clift. But he wanted Elizabeth Taylor. Montgomery Clift took Shelley Winters out on a boat and had planned on drowning her. He wanted to kill her because she was pregnant and he had met someone else.”

  I turn to sports and end up talking about Kobe Bryant’s case.

  She says, “I still can’t believe your fallen hero.”

  “Because there was no crime. Laws of morality were broken, but no criminal act. Denver police ran in with smoking guns before a crime was established. Kobe hadn’t committed a crime.”

  In her world, he who holds the dick is the bastard villain.

  In mine, never trust the bearer of the clit.

  Both of us want the final word, both of us want to win a winless battle.

  My wife frowns. “You’re incredible. Guess you’re just happy Kobe can go back to the Lakers. Would hate for him to mess up the Lakers’ chance at a championship ring, right?”

  “Anyway. The whore went to a married man’s room to engage in congress. Kobe’s only crime, adultery withstanding, was not having an attorney present with a contract for her to sign.”

  “Why do you have to call her a whore?”

  “She had DNA in her underwear from three different men. That’s what she was.”

  She shifts, ignores how I tried to lighten a serious situation with a slice of my humor. I’m no Dave Chappelle, can barely tell a joke-book joke in a way that will get a chuckle.

  I ask, “What about her accountability?”

  “I’m done with it.”

  “I’m not through talking.”

  “This conversation was over five minutes ago.”

  Her voice is intense enough to tell me that, no matter how Mars sees the fiasco, Venus is riled, to back off before the gods declare war. Her words have the power of lightning, punctuate our conversation, then with a thunderous move she stuffs her m
agazine into the back of the seat, gets up, and walks the aisle, resisting the desire to storm the aisle in high dudgeon, walks to the front of the plane then comes back, goes into the bathroom with her arms folded.

  I watch her. She knows I’m watching her. Her eyes never come to mine.

  Minutes go by. This silence, this burning hush being the hallmark of our rising tension.

  She goes to the flight attendant, says a few words, then has a nice laugh with her, and comes back with two small bottled waters, hands one to me, her peace offering.