Chapter 3
1011 Words
Joan, from records, gave him a soft smile. She was the only other person in the elevator.
"Tim. How are you?"
He bit back his scowl. He despised that sound in people's voices—pity or sympathy or, God forbid, warmth. Warmth was the last thing he needed. If he stayed cold then he didn't have to feel anything.
"Fine and yourself?" he responded dispassionately.
"I'm fine."
Tim didn't look at her, but he already knew the expression he'd see on her face. Her eyes would be liquid and her brow gathered with a look of concern. If you ever need to talk or anything …
Anything.
He glanced at her and saw that instead of the liquid pools of concern, her eyes held an expression of interest. Well, for f**k's sake! Corrine's only been dead a year. How dare she look at him like he was available, on the market, single, not still married to the ghost of his dead wife.
The elevator door opened and he allowed his face to show a bit of the disgust that he felt.
"Thank you, Joan. But I'm fine." He swept out of the lift angrily, knowing that he was being an ass and taking his frustrations out on her, but he was not completely sure how to reign in his temper. He was happy that once he left the office there would be no one to focus that anger on.
Tim drove the forty-five minute trip to the house that he'd had built for his wife nearly fifteen years before. It was much too large for only the two of them. It was meant for all of the children that Corrine had wanted to have—but couldn't.
Tim pulled the car into the garage and went into the house through the kitchen. There were dishes in the sink, which he ignored. He'd get to them this weekend sometime. He slipped off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of the barstool then searched the refrigerator for something to eat. He settled on cold cuts and made a quick sandwich. He washed it down with a beer without even bothering to sit, then went into his office to work on a case until he had an excuse to go upstairs and climb into his solitary bed.
He thought about the nun and wondered why he would even consider helping her. He hadn't had a personal relationship with God even before Corrine had lost her battle with breast cancer. All it had taken for him to become a disbeliever was the sight of her wilting body and the loss of her strawberry blonde hair. She had always been petite and waiflike, but the chemo had eaten her up as much as the cancer had.
Tim closed his eyes. He knew the reason he was helping. It's because Corrine would have wanted it.
II
Dhakiya drove up in a little car. It was kind of beat up but a beat-up car was better than no car at all. They hugged forever. The changes in her friend were astounding. Like Jane, she was tall but unlike Jane she had filled out in all the right places. Jane was too thin and gangly like a giraffe. But Dhakiya's mocha skin shone and her hair lay in gorgeous twists that reached her shoulders. She was dressed comfortably in a pair of jeans and a colorful sweater. She wore many bangles on her wrists. Jane knew these bangles were as much cultural as they were decorative.
"Martier …" Her friend placed her hands on her cheeks. "You haven't changed one bit." She placed a kiss on her lips then hugged her again. Jane had a dark mahogany brown complexion and ebony black hair that curled into silky locks. Unlike most that she saw with similar dark coloring, Jane had sharp features that made her seem more European than the African Americans in the States. Jane wore her long hair twisted and pinned to the back of her neck. At nearly six feet tall, she was always the center of attention, though she didn't realize that it had less to do with her height and more to do with her striking beauty.
Even wearing shapeless dresses and skirts and even though she lowered her eyes to look at the ground hoping that she would go unnoticed, her beauty could not be denied. But, of course there was no one to tell her this. Her life was the school and the sisters. Even when she had attended college, it was to an all-girl's academy. Venturing into town in order to enjoy a bit of freedom was the only time that she became aware of the stares. And if she stared at the ground and never met anyone's eyes, she learned that she became invisible.
The two young women climbed into the small car and drove back to Dhakiya's apartment. Jane instantly fell in love with it, even though it was only a one-bedroom with barely any room for all of Dhakiya's artwork. Everything was of beautiful black people, sometimes painted with blacks and purples, sometimes with golds and pinks, some were of babies, and some were lovers. They were beautiful.
"Tell me about yourself, sis. Are you an artist?" Jane looked around the apartment as if she were in a fine museum.
"No," her friend chuckled as she led them to a small, spotless kitchen. "This artwork reminds me of my other life, the one before this one."
"What did you do when you left the school?" Jane asked as she accepted a glass of lemonade. She had already learned that Dhakiya worked in customer service at a local cable TV company.
Dhakiya took a seat. "I went into therapy."
Jane frowned. "Therapy …"
"I was very messed up. I still am. And no, don't ask me if I prayed on it!" They both chuckled. It was the thing the sisters always said when things got tough.
"Christ is the only therapy you need," Jane mocked.
- Writer
