Arresting Grace Part 17

Surprisingly, Gene and Olivia arrived first. We asked how the ride had been. Gene can be caustic at times; we didn't know if he and Olivia would punch each other on the way or laugh together. The hostess seated us in the back room, reserved exclusively for our party. I sat next to Jessie in the middle, on the side of the wall. Other guests began arriving, including Ingrid.

Jessie introduced me. "This is my boyfriend Michael."

I let Ingrid sit next to her so they could catch up and sat on the other side, across from Denise and Larry. To see these people come together to celebrate the woman I was crazy about, I realized how lucky I was (Black heels and tight pants don't hurt, either). The table soon filled, save for Young's seat, and we ordered appetizers and drinks. The restaurant was a Jamaican eatery. We'd heard the owner sold it six months ago to a non-Jamaican, though we were told the chef was from the island.

Ingrid showed me pictures of her house and explained the work she had done to restore it. The bottom floor (previous crack house) was still unlivable. She lived on the middle floor and rented the top level to two post-college women. She showed me pictures of her new kittens, which she'd rescued. I told her about the ghost tour, which took place in her neighborhood. She was hosting an open house next weekend, inviting friends and neighbors.

"It's too bad you can't come up. It would be good to have you."

Denise and Larry were getting married in March and had recently gotten their photos taken. Denise showed them to me on her iPhone and I gave her feedback on which ones I liked the best. Young arrived and I made the introductions. I never worry about Young. He could talk to a wall if he had to. I'm sure it suits him well with his job. He took a quick look at the menu, ordered the oxtail (the popular entree choice) and immediately struck up a conversation with Denise and Larry. I listened half-attentively, stealing occasional glances at Jessie, smiling and laughing with her friends.

The server brought our food. I looked around the table. There was a half-and-half mix of Christians and non-Christians, I noticed. I wasn't sure if anyone was going to pray or not. Granted, I was the newcomer in Jessie's life, but I was also the boyfriend and that gave me the right, I presumed. I waited until everyone dished their plates and spoke up. "I'm going to pray for dinner."

When we had eaten with Wayne and Karen after the wedding in Berkeley, she put her head down in prayer. It was obvious her friends knew she was a praying woman and respected her for it. That night, there wasn't any weirdness or rolling of eyes. Everyone bowed his head while I prayed. I thanked G.o.d for Jessie, her warmth and compa.s.sion and smile, for her friends and the blessing they'd been to her over the years. I was mindful of the words of Ecclesiastes. "A strand of three is not easily broken." I think it's one of the greatest honors I've had.

At some point, nearing the end of dinner but before the guava cake, I reached my arm behind Ingrid's chair and took Jessie's hand. I held it as she continued her conversation with Gene and Olivia. The cake arrived and she prefaced cutting it by telling everyone how she'd discovered it, how it was made...basically, a huge buildup.

"It better be worth it," Gene chirped.

It disappeared quickly, so I suppose it was. I ate two large pieces and, were I not in the company of women, might have spooned the frosting off the tray. At the end of the meal, the chef came out from the kitchen and introduced himself. We thanked him for the food and listened to him speak of his home in Jamaica. Someone threw out the idea of going dancing. It wasn't that late and most agreed to it. While the others walked to the club, Jessie, Evelyn and I returned to the parking garage. Evelyn was leaving, and Jessie and I needed to put the gifts in the car. We said goodbye to Evelyn, then loaded the trunk, taking a sneak peek into one of the gifts just to see if it was what I thought it was (perfume). It wasn't. It was cookies and we were still full from the guava cake. We'd save them for tomorrow.

"I missed you at dinner," she said. "I was glad you got to talk to Ingrid but was a little jealous. It made me happy when you held my hand."

"I looked over at you every now and then. I wanted to see you."

"I know you did. I was looking at you, too."

At the club, the line was long. Young asked to speak with the manager and managed to cut a deal with him. The women got in for half the cover ($5), the guys paid full cover ($10), and Jessie got in free (birthday). I only had credit cards on me; Young spotted me the $10. Jessie paid for the women.

"No, it's your birthday. You shouldn't pay for anything."

"I want to. It means a lot that everyone came out to celebrate with me."

Young said, "Ten bucks if anyone gets Larry onto the dance floor."

"I'll take that bet."

I didn't give Larry time to think about it-that's the key to performance. "Let's go," I charged, taking Jessie's hand and leading us onto the dance floor. Larry took Denise's hand and followed.

Now, I'm a horrible dancer. I can't repeat the word "horrible" enough to emphasize how bad a dancer I am. Jessie isn't a great dancer, either. She's better than I am, but not by much. I'm sure she'd protest if she read this, but would eventually admit to it. She's the kindest, most gracious woman I've known, but certainly not the best dancer. Of course, I have no room to talk. I still dance 80s style, snapping my fingers and clumsily s.h.i.+fting my feet from side to side. It didn't matter. We were lost in each other. I had my hands on her hips, guiding her. Make no mistake-we weren't the most graceful couple on the floor-but we were the couple craziest about each other, most swept away by being together. The others soon left, filtering out disparately, but we hardly noticed. Young was the last to leave. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"Do you want to ride back with me?"

It was the only mistake of the weekend. We were too carried away by the moment to realize the practical implications. Young lived at least forty minutes north in the South Bay. Jessie would have to drive there, drop me off, turn around and go back to San Jose. She was looking at an hour plus on the road. It was almost midnight by that time, not to mention she was sick. But we were absorbed in the moment (what we'd later say was our favorite of the weekend).

"I don't mind driving you back," she said.

Young gave me a key to the house and left.

Time disappeared. When finally we decided to leave, we noticed how crowded the club had become. Shoulder-to-shoulder packed crowd. We b.u.mped and nudged our way out and walked to the parking garage.

It was a mistake not riding with Young, made worse by the fact my GPS gave us bad directions and we took the wrong exit off the freeway. I knew she was frustrated and kept quiet, speaking only to give directions. I regretted not renting a hotel room in San Jose and decided there was no way I was going to ask her to make the drive again on Sunday. After a few wrong turns, we found the house. I walked to her side of the car and thanked her for driving me. I kissed her and told her she'd been amazing tonight. I let myself in the house.

It was one o'clock by that point. Young was still up. When he said he was living crowded, he meant it. He'd crammed everything he owned into a small, back bedroom. Papers everywhere. He had already told me we'd be sharing a bed. Jessie and I joked about it. I said, "If I'm going to spoon with someone in the Bay Area this weekend, I sure don't want it to be Young."

"I wonder if he snores?" she asked.

"You think everybody snores." (It was true, she did.) I got ready for bed. He was watching a repeat of that night's Lakers game. I gave her time to drive home, then texted to see if she'd arrived safely. She replied soon after. She was home, but not feeling well. Her cough was worse and her voice fading. We said goodnight and I went to sleep. And, yes, Young snored. Loudly. He has the uncanny ability to wake in the middle of the night, though only for a few seconds, and begin snoring as soon as he's returned to sleep.

The next morning, she wrote that she was going to sleep in and asked if it was okay if we met around noon. "Of course," I replied. We were driving to the city and Young's place was on the way. Sunday was the day I was concerned about. I'd need to find a way to Sunnyvale so she wouldn't have to drive. Young said the train left from Millbrae, that the station was only a couple miles away. He could drive me there first thing Sunday morning. He had a meeting before church, anyway. In the meantime, if I wanted, he could take me to a coffee shop to hang out and wait for Jessie. I took a quick shower and got ready. We drove into San Mateo and he dropped me off at a shopping mall in the area. I went to the bookstore, then killed time in the sports bar, drinking raspberry iced tea. The bartender tried several times to sell me on a c.o.c.ktail and appetizers. On my third gla.s.s of tea, Jessie called. She was outside.

I realized instantly, her voice was gone. She had a sad look on her face.

"Okay," I said. "I'm going to do all the talking today, which is nothing out of the ordinary, I know." She agreed by shaking her head. "We're going to buy a chalkboard to put around your neck and you can write out what you want to say."

She nodded, a fake pouting smile with sorrowful eyes. "Sounds good," she whispered.

"This is going to be our low-key day," I told her. "We'll get lunch and spend the day at a coffee shop doing crossword puzzles."

She smiled and nodded that would be great.

From there, it was a short drive into the city. She knew a place on the Embarcadero, not far from the stadium, where we could eat. We shared a quick meal (breakfast burrito and chicken pot pie), filling her up on chamomile tea. I spooned raspberry jam onto miniature scones and fed them to her. She did the same for me. I paid the check and we walked to a nearby coffee shop.

We ordered a pot of tea and took it to the outside deck. Opened our crossword book to the next puzzle. I remembered we hadn't finished the previous one (We'd done it over the phone) and turned back to see how much we left blank. She had doodled over the entire page: flowers, stems and small hearts. I turned the book to its cover. She'd drawn a crossword of her own, making "Jessie," falling vertically, intersect with "Michael," running horizontally.

A couple across from us, hard to tell if they were a couple or in a book club together, was reading poetry and discussing Voltaire (at least I think it was Voltaire). They stood to leave and the woman spoke to us.

"You two look so couply sitting together. You must be reading love poems to each other."

We both smiled. "Do you want to tell her or should I?" we both were thinking.

"We're doing a crossword puzzle," I answered.

She smirked.

"We were reading Wordsworth this morning," I added.

The woman didn't grasp the joke. Instead, she made a comment about enjoying the rest of the day and, accompanied by her book club partner/significant other, exited the cafe. We worked our puzzle, solving the first quadrant of clues, but it was colder outside than we'd antic.i.p.ated and we took our pot and went inside to sit on the couch. She could hardly talk, so she texted what she wanted to say and I'd whisper my reply. Her friend Christine called. She lived in New York but was in town for the weekend and wanted to see Jessie before she left. We needed to be in the Mission District soon. If it could be a quick visit, we could meet her. Jessie whispered she had no voice but would love to see her if she could get to the coffee shop soon.

After coughing several times, she looked in her purse for her medicine, but realized she'd left it at home.

"Are you sure it's not in your coat pocket in the car?" I asked.

"I'm sure. I remember leaving it on my bedroom dresser."

She needed medicine, though. Her cough was getting worse. I offered to walk to the drugstore for her.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Of course."

"Thank you."

I asked the barista where the nearest drug store was; I memorized the directions and told Jessie I'd be back shortly. On the way there, an eyelash got stuck in my eye. I had an extra pair of contacts at Young's place, but it did me no good if I tore one now. Rubbing my eye gently for ten minutes, I finally worked it out.

I followed the barista's directions. He said the drugstore was four blocks up the street, but I'd covered five already and hadn't seen it. I raced to the street parallel and saw a Safeway. I ran inside to the pharmacy section and bought an antihistamine with acetaminophen. I hustled back. She texted on the way.

"Are you okay?"

"Be there in a second," I replied.

Christine arrived, carrying a Maltese in a traveling case. She freed it from the case and immediately it bounded into Jessie's lap. The dog was a tornado of excitement: biting my finger, nipping at Jessie's, turning circles. Pent-up energy, I suppose. After all, it had been on a plane for seven hours the day before. We didn't mind the nibbling. It was a cute dog and we were both dog lovers. It didn't take long for the owner of the cafe to approach.

"If you want, I'll set up a table and dish on the patio, but you can't have the dog inside. People have allergies."

She put it back in its case and the dog went silent and still. We never heard another sound from it.

Christine was excited to meet me. She asked how we'd met, all about our first date. The good questions, the ones I never got tired of answering. Jessie answered them, rubbing my knee while she spoke. Her voice was shot but she was able to whisper loudly enough to get her point across. She went to the restroom and Christine asked, "So what did you like about Jessie when you first met her? Besides being unbelievably gorgeous. What was it that first attracted you to her?"

"She is gorgeous," I was quick to reiterate. "But there were several other qualities." I told her about Esther's text and the way she spoke of her foster kids. Also, I remembered when we left the Hotel Figueroa that night, she said, "I'd like to live on a farm someday." I'd forgotten about that; but while talking to Christine, it came to mind and I told her.

Jessie returned and we said our goodbyes. Christine said, "It was great to meet you. I hadn't heard too much about you. All Jessie told me was, 'He treats me so well.'"

There's a slight tear as I write that. That might jump to #1 on the greatest compliment list. "He treats me so well." That was how she described me. She texted me once, after saying goodnight, and wrote, "You're the sweetest boyfriend there is, Michael Joel." For so long, I'd been the rocker type, scruffy, cool guy, Marlboro man, whatever words were used to describe it. It wasn't an act; it was who I was. Guitars and rock 'n roll. Long hair and beard. Then I met this woman. My moustache and goatee sc.r.a.ped her face so I started shaving. I hadn't been fully shaven for ten years. With her, my chief goal when we were together was to make her laugh, blush if I could. I'd do anything to hear her laugh, no matter if I had to make sport of myself or not. Self-deprecating humor is probably a healthy exercise, I'd argue. Suddenly, I was no longer the unkempt bad boy. I was the nerdy-looking (I look about twelve when my face is shaved completely) man who made too many bad jokes. And what I learned-I wouldn't have it any other way. It gave me joy to treat her well. It brought me delight to give to her. I was happier that day than any other because I was able to serve her, to walk the Embarcadero to find decongestant and cough drops for her. Later that night, I handed her coat to her, helping her with the armholes, and she said, "Oops...look what I found," and brought out the missing box of medicine. We laughed about it. I'd have hidden the box myself if it gave me a chance to serve her. When Christine made the comment, "He treats me so well," it flooded my soul. It was my joy to treat her that way.

That night, in the Mission District, we visited a store she'd been telling me about. Paxon's Gate-filled with taxidermed animals. In the front window sits a stuffed horse with a unicorn's horn stuck to its head. It only gets stranger from there. Stuffed yaks, deer, mountain goats, mice in various costumes: Hamlet, Zorro and several others. We had a blast exploring the store's oddities, but soon needed to get dinner. We hadn't eaten for several hours. Unfortunately, it was late by then and the wait time for every restaurant we entered was over an hour. We stopped in a greasy diner for an order of onion rings to tide us over and, eventually, found a nearby Mexican fast-food restaurant. It wasn't very good but, by that point, we simply needed to eat. She was obviously feeling worse, and I suggested making it a short night and told her it was fine if she took me back to Young's.

When Young and I were hanging out several nights a week, he was the most sociable man I knew. He'd go out anytime, anywhere, with no advance notice.

Young, meet us at Westfield Saloon.

Am across town, be there in twenty. Save me a drink.

Will do.

And so on.

Young decided to go where the job took him, and it took him to Millbrae. Different seasons of life. We need to trust there will be new mercies with each. He met a woman from PCC the week before he was leaving. They went out once, had a great time, and went out again the next night. He told her he wanted to keep seeing her. She's working on her PhD, already busy; it works out for them. At the bank, he's making a hardly-livable wage but building a client base. "There's huge upside," he said when I asked. But right now, his life involves going to work, squeezing in a workout if he has time, coming home, eating dinner and talking to Theresa, either by phone or Skype.

We stayed up late that night, discussing him and Theresa, Jessie and me, church and friends. Life. Sunday morning, I called Jessie with the train details so she could pick me up at the station.

She asked, "Did Young's snoring keep you awake last night?"

She must have spoken louder than she antic.i.p.ated. Young, sitting across the room, yelled, "Did she say something about me snoring?"

I chuckled quietly. Told her I'd see her in a short while and hung up.

Young dropped me off at the station. I was surprised how desolate it was. I saw two people, that was all. I bought a ticket for Sunnyvale and barreled down the stairs to the Cal Train track. I'd never done this before; there was no attendant and the signs weren't clearly marked. I asked a woman if I was in the right spot. I was, though an hour early. I read, then journaled for a while.

Memory is a powerful thing, never to be underestimated. Though that train ride was spent alone, the seats dirtier and the pa.s.sengers quiet, it would have been impossible for me to make the trip without having images of that day flood my mind, reflecting upon it. What very well could be the only perfect day I've known. As the train drew closer to Sunnyvale, I found myself almost giddy. There was always a heightened sense of excitement before I saw her, but this morning it was amplified for some reason.

She was wearing tight jeans, tucked into new, brown boots she'd bought herself for Christmas. I asked her to wear them; I'd been wanting to see them. She said they made her as tall as me. I told her there was no way, then proved it to her. We stood back to back-I still had at least two inches on her. She was wearing a beige sweater and tank top. I remember the details because she stole my breath when I saw her. We were early for church and drove to a nearby cafe for coffee and pastries.

"What was your favorite part of the weekend?" I asked.

"The dancing."

"I think it was my favorite part, as well. I'm not sure anything can top that."

"Will you be my date for Denise's wedding?"

"I would love to."

At church, Ken preached on Genesis 3-the fall of Eden and the curse upon the land-and how it affects men and women today. Women suffer in childbirth. He spoke of women reaching the age of thirty or so and feeling desperate to have children. Some take matters into their own hands and ally themselves with men they shouldn't be with. Men, conversely, feel the curse of the land. Our labor is cursed. It's why it seems we can never get ahead. Sadly, a man's labor defines his self-worth.

"But we are owned by Christ," he said.

I prayed that: to be owned by G.o.d, that he would direct my steps.

Ken read Genesis 3:15. (To the serpent) "I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her seed; he shall bruise you on the head and you shall bruise him on the heel." I'd heard that verse explained as being a pre-cursor to Christ, the first mention of the Gospel in Scripture. That interpretation never seemed right to me. I thought it was too much of a stretch. Ken offered a different explanation. "It's life on the earth. A continual push-pull. Sometimes getting bitten by the devil and sometimes crus.h.i.+ng his head." His interpretation made sense to me. It was more consistent with my life. Joys fleeced with pain, but always ending in hope.

After the service, we stood and talked to a few members of her community group. I saw an older, African-American woman standing by herself and went to meet her. Melanie was her name. A faint smell of alcohol on her breath. She was from New Orleans and had lived in Los Angeles for a time, but couldn't stand cities anymore. "The suburbs are the place to be," she said. She'd visited the church three times but thought the service was too long. Under an hour was her preference. I told her at my church growing up the people would walk out if the sermon went past noon. She asked which of the women standing was my girlfriend and I pointed to Jessie.

"She's gorgeous...and tall."

Jessie joined us and I introduced them. "I was just telling him," said Melanie, "you need to move to the suburbs. Don't move to L.A., either!"

We said goodbye and walked to the lobby. We saw Pastor Ken and said h.e.l.lo.

"How are you two doing?" he asked.

I wasn't sure how to answer. I'm never sure how to answer that question. Did he want a simply reply ("We're good.") or something more drawn-out. I looked at Jessie, then to Pastor Ken and answered, "We're doing well." She nodded.

Holding hands on the way to the parking lot, she asked, "Did Melanie's breath smell like booze to you?"

"Yes."

We drove to a creperie in downtown Los Gatos. On the way there, she mentioned the sermon. I hadn't planned on discussing these things, her being sick and all, but after a sermon that seemed directly aimed at us and the issues we faced, we decided to talk about it.

"What do you think Pastor Ken thinks of us?" she asked. "Do you think he likes us as a couple?"

"He doesn't know me," I answered. "I think if we asked him, he'd probably say, 'I don't know Michael well enough to say if you two should get married, but I don't see any glaring red flags.'"

I brought up a difficult subject, one I'd wanted to avoid. Money and career. She agreed it was the main issue we faced, the one that would keep us apart. With her parents, it would be the chief concern. And I didn't blame them.

"Do you resent me for struggling with this?" she asked.

"No, not in the least. If I can't figure out how to fix this, I wouldn't expect you to be with me."