I hate my wedding pictures, Elwyn, but I love my husband. How do you like that?
And you, dear friend. You were my best friend. I’m going to admit something secret here, so I trust you will destroy this letter after you’ve read it. I did love you at one time. I think around fourth grade. I thought you were cute. And again around eighth grade. Remember when we went to the youth prayer retreat at Camp Dilmore? Or was it up here in Lakeland that year? At any rate, it was the year our team came in second to the Jacksonville Fifth Street Faithful in the volleyball competition. Remember we beat the Orlando-Evans Faithful by two points in the tiebreak for second? I don’t even like sports that much, but I remember everything so clearly. I thought you were so cute in your white shorts. I prayed for you each time you went up to serve. You were the best server on the team that year and I believe my prayers had something to do with it. On the bus back to Miami, I wanted you to kiss me. I even held your hand while we talked. About music, I’m sure. BORING, and you did not kiss me. I don’t know what I would have done if you had kissed me. I was deep into you that night. I went to sleep with my head on your shoulder. You didn’t even put your arm around me. You were stronger than me as always. You didn’t feel it burning like I did, or you felt it but fought it off. But that was fine. I was talking to Barry at the time, so it turned out for the best.
After all the feelings and friendship we shared for all those years, Elwyn, you betrayed me. You insulted my husband at his own wedding. I knew you were jealous of him, but I didn’t think you’d go so far. You played boogie-woogie at our wedding. I know it’s called gospel. I know what gospel is, knucklehead. But you were just showing off as usual. Oh, everybody just loved it. You’re such a fine musician! But it was Barry’s wedding, not yours. You had no right. You had made a deal with him, remember? He was so upset. I tried to defend you. I said, “He meant nothing by it.” Barry said, “Yes, he did. He hates us. I bet he doesn’t give us a wedding gift.” Elwyn, I checked every gift. None from you. Barry was right. It hurt me so.
But I’m married now and happy and I forgive you. I always considered you so strong in the Lord. I envied your strength. What your childish, selfish performance at the wedding shows is that none of us is perfect.
Love, Peachie
My father and I were eating chicken cacciatore at a restaurant called Mama Louisa’s near the TWA departures inside the Miami International Airport. A hundred languages chattered around us as travelers from every part of the civilized world hauled their luggage through one of the busiest and most culturally diverse hubs in America.
My father and I didn’t know it, but we were being watched.
I had just come from college out of state and I would only be in town for about a week. He had insisted on picking me up, though I was perfectly willing to cab it home. He rarely got to see me, he said. He really missed me sometimes, he said. We could eat dinner together at the airport and bond a little. I figured it was some kind of religious thing he was going through. I said, Okay.
The restaurant was loud with Italian music, but not too busy, and the chicken was good. My father, not one to waste food, was wolfing his down. We talked about things small and large, skyrocketing gas prices, trouble in the Middles East, the fierce look of young black men’s attire. We laughed loud even when our jokes weren’t all that funny. He kept his head down, mostly looking at his plate, so I was afforded a good view of his head and found myself wondering if I would go bald that way, receding from the front and then thinning in a perfect circle on top.
I was also wondering what his game was.
I certainly liked his company. We got along just fine—the few times we saw each other. The problem was that lately he had been doing a lot of things like this restaurant deal. Bonding things.
I looked hard at his full face and hoped he wasn’t dying or anything like that. What could it be? Well, I’m only human, so I allowed myself to hope. I allowed myself to hope for the best possibility of all—that my father was here to come clean about me with his family.
I was so excited that I couldn’t eat.
My father took notice of this and set his fork down at the side of his plate on the folded napkin. For a few moments neither of us said anything. Finally, I set my fork down too and said, “This is cool, man, but what’s it all about?”
“I guess I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be, man.” Now his nervousness made me even more nervous. But he had let me down so many times that I had learned to let my natural cool take over. I leaned back in my chair and opened my hands, palms up. “It’s just a thing. Say what you got to say.”
He pushed back, stood up from the table, and straightened his tie. He always wore a tie. All of them wore ties at that church. “You’re right. Lemme go take a leak. And I’ll set everything straight when I get back.”
“Is it going to be good?” I said after him.
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll let you be the judge.”
My nervousness was completely under control now as I watched my father go through the swinging doors of the bathroom, for I had remembered who he was.
How weak he was.
He couldn’t go through with it, whatever he had come here originally planning to do. He could not.
I understood then that his little trip to the bathroom was a way for him to stall and come up with a new story to tell me. He would come back and say, “I’m thinking about taking a night class and I want your opinion,” or, “I’m thinking of changing jobs.” We would talk about it and laugh, and we would both know that this was not what he had planned to say. We had been through this before.
But today was different.
Today we were being watched.
And the person who had been watching us from another table spotted the opportunity. I was alone. The person crept up behind me. I felt two hands on my shoulders. Before I could shake away, a sweet kiss was planted on the back of my neck.
I whirled around and there before me stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
She was about 5’7”. What curves this honey had. Her face was as fair as some lightly tanned white people, but with the striking angles and prominence of a Nubian beauty. Her hair was pulled back tight and roped down to her waist in a magnificent, lustrous braid of black. My heart left me to go buy a plane ticket to wherever she lived, though she was kind of old for my taste. I figured she was at least in her thirties. Maybe older.
I maintained my cool and spoke to her, but already the expression on her face was broadcasting that it had been a mistake. She was as surprised as I was. You see, the kiss had not been intended for me, but for another.
Just my luck.
We exchanged embarrassed laughter.
“You look like someone I know,” she explained. “At least from behind … hmmm.”
“Well, yes. You’re right. But the man you were eating with, he looks like someone I know also. So when I saw you two together, I assumed you were this other person I know. His son.”
I chuckled. “You kissed the back of my neck. Hmmm.”
“I sincerely apologize. What was I thinking?” She blushed. “But that man looked so much like my friend Roscoe, and so I assumed you were his son.”
“That is Roscoe,” said I. “And I am his son.”
“Roscoe Parker?”
“You know my dad?”
“Oh my God,” she said.
In that moment, the beautiful woman and I suddenly understood the manner in which we were connected.