Another excerpt from my recently published book, THE WRITING SAMPLER by Michael F. Hemingway, this is chapter 18 of approximately 23 chapters comprising IDIOT'S DELIGHT, a social satire about life, love, and the black middle class. This chapter plateaus and signifies the denouement for one central character and resolves a conflict for one of the subordinate characters
Chapter 18 – Raging Beauty
Gwendolyn Davis has not been selected as Chartmaker’s record executive of the year. Out-polled, out-performed by key personnel at larger, major companies, overall, with the number of weighted ballots tallied and compared, she supposititiously managed to rank third in the standings. Even after a decade, as Max had snappily forewarned, it appeared as if superexcellent, noteworthy dedication and accomplishment at a small to mid-size
musical independent would be denied its recognition.
Admittedly, this year, this season, she had fallen short of her intended goals and she realized it. Gwen’s failure to attract her quota of new artists was a determinant, but the defection of artists and the decrease of album production lessened Harmelton’s status within the industry. And although agents and promoters were enrolling youthful talent all the more, even the marketing of The Duke’s death couldn’t revive, salvage a mediocre term.
What really disheartened her was
the partiality shown a chief executive officer who had promised cash rebates to dissatisfied music listeners of a technically flawed album and the retiring producer whose final collaboration had gone platinum in two months. In Gwendolyn’s opinion, these
were honorific, panegyric achievements and not the meritorious nuts and bolts required to rasp the industry.
She had wanted to blame her color. Wanted to overlook the breadth,
the magnitude of her past year’s work in favor of some capricious devaluation of her ability. If it had not been for her auburn skin, perhaps, like a Roman candle, she would
have reached the limits of her sky. The mainstream would not be enough. But that was someone else’s excuse, she had thought, considering her nomination and ranking. Stated as such, industry politics, favoritism and perceptions of public sentiment
influenced the judges’ panel at Chartmakers as preference.
Gwendolyn knew it was the type of voting that made everyone aware, but that few admitted, consented actually
existed. She felt neglected, casted over the wayside like a loose bundle of refuse, as if her accomplishments were just weedy gossamer. She had been so close. So completely
positive that she would’ve gotten this and been recognized. Perhaps if Gwendolyn had worked, slaved less, if she had only coasted, if she had just done her job at bare minimum, she would have consented to the non-success as trifle. There was always next year. Another damn year of busting her ass and racking her brains to discover new methods of distinguishing herself at Harmelton. Within the soul of her essence, Gwen
had remonstrated. She wanted, needed the Chartmakers’ endorsement. And she wanted it now, for the current year and her travails.
She had been afraid that this might happen. She fought the debilitating emotional doldrums with white-hot chafe. The carapace of
such an exclusive crotchety designation compounded her.
To reprieve international acclaim was like the psychosis of lost sleep.
For some reason, she envisioned
Maximillian laughing at her, ridiculing her graciously for Gwen’s unrewarded, behind-the-scenes hard work and her stagnating, latent, unfulfilled ambitions.
Without question, she had allowed him and Harmony Records to obtain full advantage of her sacrifice. She had recalled accepting the music consultant’s capacity with the expectation that psychic satisfaction of working within one’s chosen profession would more than accom-
modate for any job-related personal failures. And she did enjoy her métier. More than virtually living life itself, Gwendolyn endeavored to produce and perfect ingenuous
music. Her ear served as audience. Her talents served as master. She had spent innumerable hours like days formulating particular concepts to highlight, to enhance collections of recordings. Although she had not conspired with in-house generated song-
writing, she had developed alongside many artists their varied sounds and crafts. When she was not discussing trial pitch or key, Gwen convinced performers to openly discuss and re-evaluate their commitments. Some tirelessly re-wrote the lyrics of songs. Some skillfully coordinated with engineers to improve their feedback. The Harmony sound, synonymous with the assurance of excitability and accessibility of romantic sentiment, symbolized its star quality with aloofness.
At times, she would succumb to
acts of false praise to withdraw a sullen ego. She had also served as liaison between the company and representatives of the media who hounded them for drawboard inside
information. Of course, she had traveled, locally attending interviews, reviews, engagements, celebrations, occasions, parties, and sessions. Making talented music more
listenable was easy, especially working with a repertoire of pre-recorded rhythms, harmonies, and backgrounds. In those cases, her creativity like a glimmer had shone
through as reassurance. She had run the gamut within the company, even as agent, serving artists, assisting with negotiations. If music consultant was simply her title, it should have been expanded to account for all the roles that she had played. It was a rare occasion, an instance of remarkable flattery when she was able to discuss music at length. Nevertheless, she had also grown weary of deconstructing note by note prepacked, pre-packaged Harmony sounds and rhythms for the sake of picayune proclivity and argument. Gwen had explained, justified the combination of chords for precise meters. She had debated the melodic feasibility of certain measures between bars. Selecting the optimal key, the optimal note, the optimal pitch was like threading the
needle through the haystack, especially with those artists that demonstrated little, lack of regard for range. To be honest, few professionals at Harmelton literally cared about music technique or science. What conformed to their formulaic construction, of course,
would necessarily sound good.
They were not purists. Nor did they care about repetition. But there were certain individuals who analyzed, criticized, de-musicalized every single note of rhythm for the mere benefit of qualification.
Gwen had remembered the early criticism from such individuals, who had perhaps formally studied music, as if they were more inclined to perform her function. And even if they did possess more knowledge, more ability, more talent, she doubted whether they could play piano. The technical edge was important. The listening public may or may not have developed a trained ear. It semed to her, when she randomly frequented Publicity, that most letters, positive or negative, were in response to music content and performer.
Gwendolyn realized that her career had just begun. As long as she remained with Harmelton, perhaps she would not receive industry appreciation. The mainstream would not be enough, not even temporarily. The sky was the limit.
Maybe one of the more promising aspects of her year had been introduction of her sister, Esther. God, how she had regretted postponing a thoughtful, propaedeutic review
and assessment of Esther’s musical endowment! And when she had realized that Max had obtained her sample, she knew automatically that the girl would either rise up, ascend the long way or sophistically pacificate his subjective caprice. Gwen had absolutely no control over the matter. Esther had become, willfully or not, Max’s personal project, his
personal baby, and that revelation burned her. The fact that she was Gwen’s sister may have influenced him favorably, but everyone else, including Max, perceived envy and
familial relations as chief music consultant. As such, Max only wanted her opinion, her gut savvy, brief and direct. How serious was Esther? How reliable? How talented?
Did Gwendolyn have any personal information about her sister, that might please Max to know? The thought of Max inferring, implementing a quixotic affaire d’amour with Esther as complement to her possible recording career, implied, insinuated more about their own relationship and it further combusted within Gwendolyn’s mind like flashover.
Ironically, it seemed as though Max had played her playing herself to perhaps protect Esther. It hadn’t really been critical for Max to grant Gwen the approval to audition her sister. In time, Gwendolyn would have wieled enough clout to schedule as many in gratis demos as she would so choose. It really seemed as if Esther’s pasty-like yellow complexion, that reminded her of Edna, was heavily influencing Max. And all along, she
had though, believed him to be above that.
She wanted to deny that they were sisters. Wanted to refute that her more intelligent, more talented, Davis blood also ran through Esther’s veins. Gwen’s affections like Edna’s were stronger, wiser, better, normal.
Max had to have known that.
Her little sister, like a lost gypsy, could only stumble then fall.
Gwen had come to grips with the realization that perhaps, she cared less about Esther’s best interests. Indubitably, she would have discarded her sister’s hopes for a singing career in order to ensconce her own command-post at Harmelton beforehand.
Or maybe that was just common sense, human nature. In another sense, she wanted the demo to be successful and given the opportunity, Gwen would look forward to assisting Esther along the way. But Max had peremptorily dissuaded her, assuring for the present
that his chief music consultant would not interfere among personal and professional business matters.
She had thought more about esther recently than she practically had when the two girls were living and growing on Pearle Street.
Esther had matured during the years. She had seemed to retain her innocence, as she grew into a young woman with a free spirit.
Not only did she know what she wanted, but Esther also demonstrated the heart to gain it. Like a seasoned veteran, she was bartering her resources for their intrinsic worth. She was no longer the benign, confused little girl and then teenager who had tragically lost her father.
Who would have thought that Edna’s look-a-like would have struck an independent chord? If anything, Gwendolyn would have predicted that
her sister would have conceived and married early, perhaps starting her own little family.
When she had talked to Edna, Gwendolyn progressively espied the slackening, withering reins of a waning mother who could not harness her youngest daughter. She had remem-
bered Edna acquiescing, toadying to Sam concerning her own aspirations and activities. Edna’s deference to Sam concerning her, their first born, at times had seemed comical. On those occasions, she was unremonstrably Samuel Davis’ daughter. If Gwen had
abided by the two of them severally, she would have been as muddle-headedly passive as her sister. She wondered if her mother could withstand both daughters opting for professional competitive pursuits. It was probably only a matter of time before Edna
contacted her, complaining about Esther’s spunkiness. At times, she sympathesized with Edna. She had admired her strength. It could not have been easy losing a husband
and companion, idling by while her children transitionally de-roosted. The maternal role that she had played, still played was hypostatic, an exitless cavern. Gwendolyn also knew that Edna relied upon her to superintend her sister. Perhaps, now, both operating on the same tangent plane, they could enhance, germinate an affable relationship. The sky was the limit. The mainstream would not be enough.
Her decorative dressed windows adorned in drapery and trim singularly partition her surface area.
The delicate tapestry draping from above high near the ceiling collapses
into Tarterean, choleric folds.
The curving-contoured wall boundaries confine the turbulence of the day’s exposition. Situated at the far right of Gwendolyn’s living area within
the condominium apartment, the brass and glass side table has been cleared and lusters several feet away from the atmospheric light that caresses, feebly infuriating. Her efficacious Italian chairs have been adroitly ordered and situated with precision like a constellatory arrangement, a planetary alignment. The elongated coffee table constricted and expurgated, capitulates to the pastel peach, sectional sofa which ripens and appetizes, its squashy comfort bloating the splendor. A lobster-red bellicosity steeps over, occults
the living area décor. The nearby armless love cushion appears hemiplegic. Intensity of dimmed incandescence is a seething temper. Miniature Kenyan figurines, period relics, small pottery, and ivory statuettes await an ambuscade.
A miffed silence like a straptococcal throat serenades the apartment as Gwendolyncursorily wraps the wilting relaxed curls of her shampooed auburn hair within a soft towel. Her lithe, lissome fingers twist its ends into a constrictive knot. The intent and exacerbation upon the seraphic countenance is child-like, carelessly neglecting, disregarding the immediate task.
She has no plans for this evening. Nor does she intend on toiling, distressing over Harmelton concerns. With another white towel foxily configuring her auburn body,
she will simply meditate, concentrating upon inner thoughts, inner moods, in the midst of a pleasant, unfettered surrounding. This will be an infrequent evening, an opportune one unlike so many others crammed with business or desideratum. Her phone rings, beeps.
“Hello …. Gwendolyn Davis …. “
She carries a cordless phone to the peach sofa.
“Yes …. Gwen …. How are you, dear …. ?”
“Oh …. Max …. I’m just out of the shower …. Let me call you back …. “
It was him, Gwen thought, resentfully squeezing, choking the phone as if she wanted to throw it across the room.
“Listen …. I didn’t see you at the penthouse today …. You must’ve been pretty busy …. I wanted to discuss some important matters with you …. “
Max’s sultry, heavy voice is filled with teeth.
“Oh …. really …. ?”
Gwendolyn wants to ignite his beard.
“I’m sorry about your missing out on the executive of the year thing …. You know how political those things are …. You put in a good year …. An excellent year …. Harmony would be lost without you …. I just wanted you to know that …. “
Gwen’s heart flutters.
“They’re not things …. Max …. It was important to me …. “
Her voice cracks.
“I know …. I know …. Gwen, you’ve been our executive of the year from day one …. Maybe next year …. “
She detects cynicism within his voice.
“That’s all that I’ve heard …. “
Gwen honestly desires to toss the phone.
“Listen, “ Max attempts to change the subject.
“I want to congratulate you for your decision to schedule and audition Esther …. “
“My decision …. ?
Gwendolyn’s hazel eyes glare.
“She’s something else …. The demo was fantastic …. She’s quite a young lady …. I’m surprised you had so little confidence in her …. “
Max clears his throat auspiciously.
“Yeah …. about Esther …. give her some time …. I think she’s moving too quickly …. Let me re-evaluate the demo …. She really should sing more in spare time …. “
“She’s doing just fine …. The more I talk with her, the more I can appreciate her sincerity …. “
Gwendolyn reddens, her auburn tan like the orange autumn change of the leaves.
“But she’s so immature Max …. You know what I mean …. She’s likely to have a breakdown if she’s pushed too far too soon …. “
“You don’t understand her …. She’s extraordinarily open-minded and direct …. Some people are like that …. I know how much you were looking forward to working with her …. I’m going to pull rank on this one …. I’m going to work with Esther on a personal basis …. I’ve already discussed it with her …. And she agrees …. As a matter of fact …. she prefers it this way …. I’m scheduled to have dinner with her this evening …. Just let me handle it …. okay …. ?”
Max assumes professionalism.
“ …. Max …. “
Gwendolyn practically pleads.
“I’ve worked hard on your staff …. I’ve worked hard for your damn company Max Harmelton! …. Show me some consideration! She’s my sister!”
Gwendolyn is shouting.
“Gwen …. Gwen …. Gwen …. Calm down …. We’ll talk later …. “
Gwendolyn sheds several tears.
“About this weekend …. I’m going to take a raincheck …. I’ve business to expedite …. “
Gwendolyn throws the cordless phone across the room onto an Italian chair. Just above the enfold of the white towel, Gwendolyn’s upper chest, neck and shoulders delectably scintillate by dimmed incandescence.
It seemed as if she was reverting, moving in reverse. She could have killed him. The energy that she had expended to attract and
and elaborate his confidence had been converted into niggling static like a result of the conservation law theory of physics. She could remember when he had respected her so much and had bided his time so well that he couldn’t find the occasion to ask her out. And she had fucked him.
Several times to manipulate his emotions and independent judgement. Now he would probably be making a move, busting a move on Esther just
for the status, for his rapacious taste for it. Did she really want to be with him this weekend? Not really, especially after receiving the news that she had muffed her Chartmakers’ honor. If she never saw Maximillian Harmelton again, she would be totally indifferent. She was still a talented professional. She still had something to accomplish at Harmony. If Max wanted to allow something between himself and her sister to flower, then Gwen would remain exclusively professional and not dither like a weed.
Rising from the squashy sectional sofa, spiritedly barefooting towards and approaching her pedestal vanity, she unwraps the towel upon her head, reaching for a hot air dry comb, her moistened, bodyless auburn curls looping down upon her forehead.
The galvanic whirr and buzz cries out from the bedroom. With her hazel eyes closed, oblivious to the din, she wiggles her hair, shaking, swerving her lubricious head. The crease of her unconcerned soft lips dampens at its corners. Gwendolyn begins to
hypnotically drift onto a dandiful realm. The whirring buzz, the buzzing whirr are preternatural. The phone rings, beeps again. She spontaneously ignores it, then considers answering, her auburn curls drying. Perhaps it is Max, once more. She would prefer it to ring negligently. She shuts off the hand dryer, re-enters her living area, retrieving the cordless phone. She again sits upon the peach squashiness, re-adjusting her towelled, body wrap.
“Gwen Davis …. “
Her voice is a mixture of tedium and agitation.
“Are you alone, beautiful …. ?”
A familiar male voice feigns exquisite debonairness.
“Hello …. Bradford …. baby …. is that you …. ?”
Gwen’s acquiescing smile is rushed by a thrill of esteem, anticipation.
“Were you expecting another call …. sweetheart …. ?”
Brad Tolliver is on the line.
“No …. not really …. are you busy …. this evening …. ?”
Gwendolyn’s enthusiasm usurps her pride.
“Well …. I would like to review some work …. I really can’t make it tonight …. “
Brad is remiss.
“How’s the investment banking position …. ? You learning anything …. ?”
She teases.
“You sounded upset when you answered …. Is something wrong …. ?”
Bradford’s concern ignores her.
“No …. I’m fine …. I didn’t make executive of the year …. Chartmakers ‘dissed’ me ….. I’m just a little letdown …. “
“Oh …. break out the champagne …. you deserve it anyway …. “
She smiles at Bradford’s consolation.
“Without you …. never …. “
“I miss you …. “
“You say that like you mean it …. Can you do anything about it …. ? Or am I supposed to kindle your warm thoughts …. ?”
“I’ve got something warm for you …. “
Brad’s tone seduces.
“Just warm …. “
“It’s hot ….. baby ….. “
“Why don’t you burn me a little …. ?”
Gwendolyn intimates, crossing her bare legs.
“I’m going to burn you a lot …. next time we’re together …. “
“And when will that be …. ?”
Gwen naively inquires.
“Well ….. I’m not sure …. My schedule is jammed tight …. ?”
“What …. ? That’s not like you …. You’re beginning to sound like me …. What is that supposed to mean …. ?”
Gwen laughs unamusedly.
“Yeah …. I know I promised you later during the week …. But I just can’t get by there …. “
“So when can I see you …. ?” It’s bad enough that we only see one another when we can …. I remember when we had talked and slept together what seemed like every night …. “
“I loved those Heritage nights, too …. But it’s the new position …. I’m really busting my chops day and night to make a strong impression …. You understand …. ?”
“Sure, I understand …. So Bradford …. when can I see you …. ?”
Gwendolyn is very earnest.
The silence over the line is long and unshakeable.
“I’m not sure …. “
Bradford finally responds.
“Well …. when will you know …. ?”
“I’ll let you know …. “
Their conversation hesitates several minutes more. Brad had phoned her from loving concern, the thought of her raking the leaves of his mind.
As she continues to talk with him, inquiring about details of his position, she is able to detect what sounds like reluctant nervousness, something that unconsciously flatters yet worries her. And he is as
sweet as always. She wants to reach through the phone and hug him close. When he eventually ends, terminates the call and conversation, Gwendolyn sits momentarily, reminiscing about their sex, wondering if this new development might be a prelude for still more to come. Was he piddling her? Maybe Bradford was finally taking charge of their relationship. She deserved this. In the beginning, their relationship had seemed so free,
reflexive, counterpoised.
Bradford had charmed her incubating, brooding sexuality and the feminine abeyance that heated it. And it had been too easy with him enticing her
affections, evoking a smitten response. At times, he had seemed so self-assured. Years of anticipating Brad, appeasing his rapt desires, inspiring his devotedness, and the many instances in which the notion of not having him haunted her, had designed a Ouija board schema for Gwen to determine and develop the parameters, the contingencies for which they had intended the ultimate proliferation of their loveship that it might one day inevitably supersede them entirely. During some of those early years, her father had been alive and, living at home, Gwendolyn had coordinated her activities with his nescience. Bradford had been a strong, preferred suitor. Perhaps the only one she ever really needed to know.
Where were her lovers? Why did a derelict job recognition portend such apparent turmoil with Bradford and Max? Her horizons like cardboard boxes were limited. The many Harmelton personalities that she had met as music consultant were merely caricatures of real people on the surface and did not impress her. The impervious ease with which Gwendolyn was able to interweave, manipulate herself among her associates, her clients endorsed her with their credulous wide-eyed acceptance.
An acceptance that loomed for her unfalteringly and unselfishly.
However, in her professional stature, she retained, reserved that haughty objectivity that enabled her to monitor her job progress.
And although she outwardly propagated the merits of the mainstream, Gwen did not think it, believe it, and in private sessions with artists, did not re-emphasize it, at least in relation to her task to be performed at Harmelton. The narrow vision of their world, exploitative and one-dimensional, necessarily demurred at the expense of a broader audience.
If she had specifically intended on improving, expanding the breadth and
depth of the music, she would have been more successful as music critic or perhaps within another record company actually in the mainstream. Gwendolyn often thoughtthat her true acceptance, her real recognition would be at such a company that appealed to
many listeners. She could see herself receiving the accolades for the inherent universal quality of her work. She wouldn’t have to worry about listening, sounding, speaking,
thinking like the talented and not-so-talented, undisciplined artists at Harmony that often required their hands to be held.
As people of color, they shared a heritable bond. It was a black thing, something that was understood possibly only by them. Perhaps that was something that Gwen would need at any company, but she wouldn’t assume it
openly and would preferably remand it if capable. And if she could reckon, act like the mainstream, why couldn’t she appear like the mainstream wanted her to appear, to look? She grew weary of presenting her glamorous reddish auburn color like a make-up, a powder base, a painted social stigma with her gorgeous hazel eyes peeking out from
within faceless indiscernibility. Perhaps it was love that she could discover in the mainstream. The sky was the limit. No, the mainstream would not be enough.
From above, most nights, Pearle Street, with its spherical lighted bulbs, must simulate the dotted runway at a busy airport or an alien transport station, landing ground for
strange flying objects.
Even pavements on opposing sides steeped in brick are designated strips. The lack of obstruction within main and narrower streets are barricaded, besieged by the seeming curfewed silence of the night. Transversal sections of houses along with the perspective of their extensive ascents have been blacked out, darked out like the interior of a coal mine as few house lights beam with vigil. Perhaps the royal hauteur-
like misguided trepidations of the vicinity have resigned for the evening. The fruit of glory liquidizes, misty droplets compressing with the corresponding decrease in
temperature. It is a time for disdain, of self-evaluative resentment and usurious reassessment. A grim reaper scrapes, slashes, cleaves his re-apportionment.
Within the Davis household, the receptive foyer lulls the olive and charcoal Persian rug. A warm, heartening glare hangs upon the side mirror entrancing the antique, three-
legged mahogany table, bewitching its position. Sliding glass doors of the tint-glassed solarium have been pushed and shut. Within the living area, its social area politic of fastidiousness and indulgent elegance abridged by an untimely scandal, Edna Davis, devastated to tears, hunches over her silk bathrobed lap upon the sectional blue sofa as Belle Johnson reinforces her, caressing Edna’s back and arm, sitting directly beside her, Belle’s petite blouse and skirt creasing her thin frame and caramel complexion.
Wayne Johnson incredulously sits, leans over upon a Dearborn Gooseneck, sporadically shaking his head, resisting the urge to light a cigarette.
“Edna …. calm down …. don’t upset yourself …. There must be something we can do …. As soon as possible, we’ll have an independent accounting performed …. “
Belle strokes the middle of Edna’s back.
“When did you give him this money …. ?”
Belle is consolatory.
“I had the bank issue him a check …. He had said that he wanted it that way …. Three hundred thousand dollars …. Oh …. I must have been out of my mind …. “
Edna sobs between her words.
“I can’t believe the bank would just process and grant him the check …. Even after you had signed …. “
Wayne stares at the double round glass tables.
“Ohhh …. So he’s dead now …. Belle, it can’t be true …. He seemed so virile on this past Sunday …. “
“He was found in his office …. It looks like …. Edna …. He had a drug problem …. “
Belle is frank.
“No …. no …. no, not my Vincent …. He was too good for that …. Only God knows what happened …. He talked about our bungalow …. That’s what the money was intended for …. “
Edna wipes her reddened face with a handkerchief. Belle crosses her legs. Wayne finally reaches for the cigarette.
“Just stop payment on the check …. Was it a draft payment?”
“It was a cashier’s check …. I can only hope to retrieve the money …. Nothing can bring back Vincent …. First Sam, now Scott is in the hospital …. How could this happen …. ? He was such a good man …. “
“Edna …. You’ve got to relax yourself …. God’s blessed you with so much …. Samuel would want you to be strong for the children …. Remember the good times …. Reverend Andersen is finally at peace now …. “
Perhaps he was at his peace, but it would not be a peace to be shared with Edna, at least during her lifetime. And although she grappled with an appearance of trauma with
dismay to conceal her ready anger, she would not reveal to Belle or Wayne or Chauncey or to anyone for that matter, the severity of the hurt that antagonized her heart and deeply buried her feelings of betrayal within the innermost regions of her disquieted soul.
In Edna’s mind, he was a murderer. A murderer of their newly found love. A murderer of the trust with the hope of the retiring years. Could she have been so dim-wittedly
obstruse to have devoted blind faith to what was, perhaps, a blatant drug abuser? How could she have believed that she had known him? To admit, confess that she had previously associated with this man, would have been the indeliberate equivalent of
acknowledging that she had created and lived in a storybook dream world after the death of her husband, Samuel Davis. Even there, perhaps, there was truth to that like the remote possibility that she actually owned equity in a Bermuda bungalow. She was, in fact, aging. Stupidity like the desire of, belief in love had bested her imagination, prospects of random, reckless satisfaction.
Then again, Edna knew what she admired.The Reverend Vincent Andersen had thirsted for life. His actions, beliefs had attested to the principles of utilarianism and spiritual indulgence. That much she thought she knew,she trusted. His love of her, in Edna’s estimation, had been real and immediate, clear and present.
The wisdom of his years, his religious stature glorified her like the behavior of wanton abandon would have years ago.
After the death of Sam, he had practically enthralled her with her open-armed concern and delightful attention. When she had realized that he fulfilled more than an absent role for her, Edna simply projected the absolutism of her flirtations and their peculiarities which he most readily accommodated. He had reigned, convoyed their time together in such a manner with a supreme disregard
for complications or their consequences. During more romantic intervals when their eyes had met, Edna could have sworn that the suscitated palpitations of their hearts were as one. She didn’t desire, long to be young for him. She didn’t have to be. The mere seduction of her wide, hearty curves, robust hips and her straight black hair had been sufficient.
These were the exact same wide, hearty curves, robust hips and straight Indian black hair that had bridled and sustained Sam Davis for so many years. Her light complexion
had been so radiant. There had been more blush in her cheeks. She had been less heavy. Their Southern migratory urgency had kindled the feverish passion, the pragmatic
enchantment of a young couple struggling, striving to hone a new life. She had recalled the sore, tired bruised knees, the blistered feet, the lower aching back acquired from busheling cash crops of cotton and tobacco. She had detested the sun-drenched, hot, heat-soaked hours in the field and had vowed to never work upon her knees again. When Edna had urged the polite, trustworthy Samuel davis, who had attended her church,
to forego the backwoods and backfields, she had committed to the unpredictable but fortuitous North. She had thought very fondly of him. His reliability and strength, to her then seemed like a ticketed ride at the front of a passengered bus.
He was a burly man with an easy smile that had perhaps reminded her of backwoods preachers greeting Sunday parishioners. And when he laughed, kicking his shoulders back, flashing a full ivory set of teeth, he had divertingly engaged her. Sam had been her best friend. Their shared displacement and experience had united them with the stimulus to persevere, to forswear short term advances in order to ensconce the prosperity of their future. He had made a life for her. His military service and railroad internment had been the foundations, accompanied by Edna’s miscegenous looks, for their life on Pearle Street, an area which was to become one of the most exclusive within their city.
And when Sam won the state lottery, just after the birth of their last child, Scott, their household expenses alleviated and the house had become their most prized surety. Living on Pearle Street had greatly escalated the standard of their lives, which had seemed normally working class at best. And sam had loved Edna. Her dutiful role as wife and mother nourished and ingratiated him with the romance of his own personal success and its offspring. As such, her love had spoon-fed yet tempted him with still more voracity. When Sam had died, suddenly, perhaps happily, the accomplishment of their years and
their family had eased her sadness, reminding her that his life had been full with her love and thoughtful attention. Together they had done what was needed. Edna had
tenaciously supported him. She had fulfilled, served one purpose, perhaps at expense to the flavor of the irresponsible inexigencies that complemented, seemed endemic to the
permissive attitudes of the times. Edna was thankful. Her class, her esteem in her own eyes had marveled the wonder of the years and the furious tragedies of her love.
