Mr. Mysterious In Black (4 page)

Miss De’Lacy opened her front door with a glowing smile and luminous gray eyes. Her chestnut hair wrapped in a neat coiffure and her late forties features smooth and radiant.

She enveloped me in a warm hug. “Sadie, how are you doing, darling?”

“I’m fine, Miss De’Lacy. How’s everything?” I smiled.

“Oh, you know, we’re just taking it one day at a time.”

A small lump formed in my throat when I asked, “How is she?”

Miss De’Lacy’s face fell. “She’s diminishing. I don’t know why, but her body doesn’t seem to be responding to the meds anymore.”

Pinching my eyes shut, I willed away the surfacing pain.

“I think she wants to go. She’s lost all hope,” she continued.

Miss De’Lacy was the sympathetic Christian neighbor of my childhood. Shortly after my mother had gotten infected, she’d slipped into depression and set our uninsured house to flames, in an attempt to kill herself. Fortunately, she was saved—from the fire. We were homeless, clothes-less, penniless. And I was only eighteen and slowly recovering from my brutal head injury. Clueless, but I had to make the decisions since my mom was voluntarily insane enough to be negligent.

In came Miss De’Lacy who’d offered to care for my mother until I was on my own two feet. I’d reluctantly agreed. Shortly after, I’d begun waitressing at a bistro while I studied fashion designing in college part-time. Then I met Cali D, who was substantial enough, at that time, to bring me back to sanity.

I shuffled in my handbag, pulled out a white envelope with my earnings for the week and handed it to Miss De’Lacy. “For the month. It’s short one hundred. I’ll get that for you by Monday.”

“Sadie, I know you’ve lost your job and I told you I’d wait,” she said sternly.

“I know, but I have this now to pay you. So…”

Miss De’Lacy pursed her lips and unwillingly took the envelope. No doubt biting her tongue to resist scolding me, as usual, about my obstinacy.

“And here’s her meds for another month.” I rubbed my sweaty palms along my dress. “Can I see her?”

“Of course, darling,” Miss De’Lacy smiled. “She’s
your
mother.”

My attempt to smile was a failure. I followed Miss De’Lacy down the hall through her charming three-bedroom house, cluttered with trophies and pictures of her children and grandchildren and of her husband who’d passed away from cancer two years ago. Miss De’Lacy was a kindhearted woman who did good deeds only because it brought her contentment. Yep, some people are like that.

She led me out into the backyard where my mother was seated, inert, on an iron bench, gazing vacuously into De’Lacy’s blooming and flamboyant garden.

She was more pallid and meager than she’d been last week. Her hair that was once a bountiful bundle of curls that mimicked mine had now dwindled into limp looseness. My heart wrenched. It was like she was disappearing before me.

Theresa Francé used to be as beauteous as the bright yellow roses behind her. But just as those roses’ beauty will fade as the spring sun changes, so Theresa’s hue has faded by life’s capricious phases. I sat next to her on the bench, but she didn’t move, as if she didn’t even notice I was there. She’s the one who’s doing this to herself. There are many people out in the world who are HIV-infected and still live happy lives.

“Hi, mom,” I whispered.

She didn’t answer. Nor did she turn to look at me.

“I miss you, mom. I miss talking to you. I miss us, designing and sewing together. I miss your laughs. I miss your smile. I miss
you
,” I told her softly.

Silence ensued.

Tears welled in my eyes… “Can you please get better for me? Can you not lose hope and just try? It doesn’t have to be like this.” …And they streamed down my face beyond my control.

With my fingers entwined, I sat there, just hoping to hear her voice. Her sweet, sing-song voice that I haven’t heard in so long.

In ensuing silence I waited, as she stared blankly into the garden. I heard birds chirping. Tree leaves shaking. The soft, almost inaudible cooing of the wind. But I heard not my mother’s voice. I waited. And waited. And waited.

My eyes closed on a sigh of resignation. Another day tried. Another day failed.

Defeated, a sob heaved forth as I made to leave, but then I felt her. Her cold hand rested tentatively on mine. She didn’t look at me though; her eyes were still transfixed on the garden.

“Sewing,” she croaked. “I miss that, too. And I miss you. And I miss
life
.” Her voice was frail and forlorn.

Frantically, I flashed my tears away with my free hand and placed my hand over hers. “You have life. You do. Choose to live and not die. Please. I love you. You’re all I have. Please don’t leave me, mom.”

She looked down at my hand that covered hers and shakily lifted it to her face, placing my palm flat on her cheek.

“Warm,” she said, wistfully. “You are warm. You live.” She then lifted her hand and placed her palm on my cheek. “Feel. Tell me. Am I not cold?” Her brows furrowed as she said this and I closed my eyes and leaned into her touch.

I wouldn’t answer and say what she wanted me to say. That her touch was cold. It was, but she still lived, and I could make her warm.

“You see, honey? I’m already dead,” she bleakly whispered.

“No, mom!” I cried. “You’re not. I can warm you. God can heal you. Please choose life. Please.”

She gazed at me with vacant eyes, “God?” Closing her eyes, she slowly shook her head. “God gave me a husband who cheats. A husband who beats. A husband who
infects.
” She flicked open her eyes and regarded me, slanting her head the side, “God gave me sickness so he could
heal
me? God gave me life so he could take it back? Is that love, darling, or is it a tease? Tell me.”

I wagged my head frantically at her.
What?
Theresa never talks like this. No, we never curse God. Ever. “Mom, please don’t speak like this. It’s wrong. Please don’t.”

She blinked at me. Once. Twice. Three times. And with a steely resolve she transfixed her eyes on the garden once more. And I knew then that she was done talking. I decided not to force her anymore. She has given up. Completely.

I tentatively lay my head in her lap and was relieved when she didn’t push me away. Moments later, I felt her hand in my hair, raking gently through my stubborn curls. A small smile swept across my face.

I miss her so much.

We stayed like that for a while, and I allowed myself to drift off into a weary, sorrowed sleep. Induced by my mother’s weary, sorrowed touch.

“T
he guy just wants one dance, Sadie. Just one dance.”

“I said no, Tico! Can I just have my last night here without your annoyance, please? Thank you.”

Tico was getting on my last nerve. He’s been up my ass all night trying in earnest to get me to agree to a dance with Mr. Mysterious in Black.

“Why are you so insistent on this?” I asked on a lifted brow. Really, I’d like to know. It was so out of character for Tico.

“Because
he’s
being insistent. As much as I’m annoying you, he’s annoying me. So believe me, I know,” Tico said through a heavy breath.

My hands settled on my hips. “Okay, so he’s a nuisance. Throw his ass out, Tico! Problem solved.”

Tico laughed heartily as if my suggested solution was the most incredulous thing. His beefy chest jerking, his white teeth brightened by the psychedelic club lights. “I can’t, Sadie. He’s the—” he stopped short, frowned, then placed his hands on my shoulders. “Just one dance. I’ll pay you to.”

Pay me? Dude’s that desperate? I laughed out involuntarily and Tico gave me a quizzical stare.

“Okay. One dance.” I wagged my index finger in his face to emphasize the one dance.

Tico gave a bit-lip grin, his eyes gleaming. “One dance is all it’ll take.”

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I sent a silent invocation for the DJ to play a really short song, because I was not looking forward to dancing with this man. Begrudgingly, I entered the booth of Mr. Mysterious in Black to find him tapping away furiously on his cell phone. He didn’t seem to notice that I’d entered. Seem.

“You requested a dance?” I said in hesitation. He seemed rapt in whatever he was doing on his phone. Sending an email? Texting a lover? Who cares?

He spoke without lifting his head, his attention directed fully to his phone screen. “Sit.”

His commanding tone stood firm against the flowing music of the club, while I stood aghast. “Look, Sir, I don—”

“
Sit
, Sadie.” He shot me a brief, quelling stare, shook his head and resumed typing.

I could only stand and stare, stunned at the way my appellation rolled comfortably from his tongue. He uttered my name with such ease, like the way a person who knows me would. In a way that only a person who says my name frequently would say it. Familiar. How did he even know my name?
I’m going to kill Tico.

Lost in thought, I seated myself on the red leather banquette next to him, being sure to keep my distance. There’s something about him that made me timorous, though I wouldn’t dare let him see that.

I surreptitiously appraised his features and found that I was right: he
is
hot. His dark hair was dashed messily across his forehead, giving him that model-type essence. About two days of stubble shadowed his face.
Oh, what stubble on a man’s face do to me.

His jaws were acutely squared and angular and his lips,
oh his lips
, were too pink to be fitted on a man. I estimated him no older than thirty. In scrutiny, I leaned in closer, wishing the booth lights were a tad more revealing. I wanted to see the color of his eyes. I wanted to be able to admire him further…

Mr. Mysterious in Black suddenly glanced up at me, and I swallowed noisily, feeling like a child who’d just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. A ghost of a smile whispered across his lips, and with his eyes locked on mine, he slipped his phone inside his jacket pocket.
Why do I feel so warm all of a sudden?

I averted my eyes and fixed them on the bottle of Grey Goose Vodka that sat on the table, minding its own business.

“The song will end soon,” I said, a bit too weak. “I agreed only to one dance.”

“I don’t want a dance, Sadie. I just want to talk.”

The courage came to raise my eyes to his face. “It’s Strawberry for you, not Sadie. And I’m not interested in talking.”

He leaned towards me, both his palms pressed flat on his thighs, and fixed his hard, implacable gaze on mine. “It’s
Sadie
for me. It will always be
Sadie
for me,” he averred, and just stared at me, unblinking, trying to sear me with his gaze.

Not wanting to seem intimidated by him, I tried to hold his gaze. I really tried. But inauspiciously, I was undermined. Aiming for indifference, I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture. “Whatever, weirdo.”

He blinked, looking vaguely amused, then snorted. “
Strawberry,
” he mocked, shaking his head at the word.

“I’m still not interested in talking. So, I think I’m done here.”

Shooting to my feet, I made to leave, but then I felt his heated grip on my wrist. “Please. Sit and talk with me.”

It was not his plea that halted me, my body stopped of its own volition. His touch was like a live wire and…familiar. I glanced down at his hand that held mine, then back at him. Confused.

“Please,” he repeated. His voice pleaded but his expression was impassive. How did he manage that?

“Okay,” I acquiesced. Because to be candid, I didn’t really want to leave.
Couldn’t
leave after feeling his touch. It gripped me not only on my wrist, but other places…deep down within me… awakening the vestiges of eradicated emotions.
Who was he?

“What do you want to talk about?” I asked, aiming for casual.

“You.”

“Me? What about me?”

“For one, I despise seeing you on that stage. It…It pains me,” he confessed.

Why?

“Oh, really? Then why the hell are you here, Mr. Prudery? Is it not to watch half-naked women wrap themselves around a pole?”

His faced scrunched into repulse. “No. I don’t do strip clubs. I’m here because of you.”

What? What does that even mean? “You’re not making any sense. Do you know me from somewhere?”

He ran a hand through his mass of dark hair, clearly deliberating something. Hell, that one move had me squirming. Evading my question, he said, “Tico, tells me this is your last night.”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“And your intentions for employment?”

“That’s for me to worry about. Not you.”

What
was
I going to do for employment, though? My bills? My responsibilities? Heavens, I didn’t want to think about any of that right now. In the hope of temporarily decimating my worries, I reached for the bottle of Grey Goose Vodka to fill my glass. But he placed his hand over mine, objecting. And there’s that feeling again. Now I really needed that drink.

“No. No alcohol.”

“Look, mister, you don’t own me, you don’t know me and you can’t tell me what to do,” I sassed.

“Telling you what to do is not my aim. I’ve seen the calamities you evoke when you drink,” he smirked, making jest of my mishap the night before.