Voices From The Other Side Read online

  “I love you, you know.” He said it suddenly, before he chickened out, as if it were something he wanted to make sure got said before it was forgotten. Yolanda stopped talking, looked surprised and a little embarrassed, like he’d just squeezed her thigh in church.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  It should have been a warning, would have been to anyone else. Not, “I love you, too,” or “Thank you,” but “What’s gotten into you?” He pushed ahead, oblivious, Custer charging Little Big Horn.

  “My time with you, it’s all been so right, so perfect. You’re more than my girlfriend. You’re like a part of me. I don’t ever want this to end.”

  Yolanda leaned back, stared at him with a smile on her lips but not in her eyes.

  “Kenny, are you proposing to me?”

  He hesitated, not sure if that was what he meant, but, poised at the cliff’s edge, took the plunge. “Sure,” he said, “Why not? That’s a good place to start.”

  “A good place to . . .” She shook her head and laughed, but didn’t sound amused. “Kenny, it’s been a month.”

  “Over a month and a half.”

  “Too soon to talk about forever. I care for you, I do, but . . .” She stopped, her hands fluttered in front of her, helpless to shape the thought in words or gesture.

  Kenny started to reply, then sense finally kicked in and he stopped himself from saying more. “No. I’m sorry.” He waved to the waiter for the check. “It’s the wine. It makes me overly romantic.”

  She took his hand loosely, with her fingertips, not a full-handed clasp. “It’s a lovely thought. I just think we need to take our time.”

  “Of course, we do.” He smiled and slipped his hand over hers, covered it completely. “I understand.”

  But he didn’t.

  They left the restaurant in silence, slept apart that night for the first time in weeks. Yolanda began to cool, even though she denied it, and the more she withdrew, the more Kenny wanted her. On dates she seemed distracted, distant. More and more often, when they got home to bed, they went to sleep without sex. Yolanda said she was busy with work and on a tight deadline, but Kenny’s antennae were up. He’d been down this road before and kept an eye out for further signs.

  It didn’t take long.

  Yolanda was at his place for dinner, already making excuses that she had to leave early to finish work on a presentation for a new architectural client. While he pulled dinner out of the oven, she wandered around the room with her wine, and stopped by the fireplace.

  “What’s this doing here?”

  Yolanda picked up a small china dog, paws raised as if begging, a tacky souvenir of her dead aunt that was usually on the mantle on her side. She held it in her hand, stood near the hearth, puzzled. “I thought you hated it.”

  “I do,” said Kenny. “As much as I could hate anything of yours.” He went to Yolanda, kissed her hand as he took the dog from her and examined it like an artifact of some alien culture. “Did you bring it over?”

  “No. Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  She took it back with an impatient frown and left his apartment, her key in hand, and closed his door behind her. A moment later he could hear the ghost of the front door open on the other side, sense her step across the room as she blew through him like mist, and replaced the dog where it belonged.

  She didn’t speak of it again that night, but over the next few days, more items switched sides from her space to his and from his to hers.

  “It’s like we’re moving in together,” Yolanda said one night in bed on her side, after they’d found some of Kenny’s socks in her drawer. “Like the two apartments are merging the longer we’re together.”

  Kenny laughed. “Osmosis. That saves us some trouble. I hate moving, even if it is to live with you.” He leaned over to kiss her, but she rolled away, sat up on the edge of the bed, her back to him, face averted.

  “That’s just it, Kenny. This came up before. I don’t know if I am ready to move in with you.”

  Kenny felt an old familiar feeling constrict his gut. Her words had the same “We have to talk” tone of the conversation he’d had his last night with Nadine. He had seen it coming, but now that it was here, he wanted to put his hands over his ears and hum. Maybe little kids were right. Maybe if you couldn’t hear or see something bad, you really could stop it from happening.

  Yolanda didn’t give him time to try.

  “I need more time than you’re giving me. You’re still moving too far, too fast. I can see it in your eyes and . . . I don’t feel the same way about you.”

  “I can slow down . . .”

  “No. You can’t. You know you can’t. I’m sorry, Kenny. I should have said something sooner.” She was on her feet before he could reach out to her, put on her robe, bound it tightly closed and moved to the door, still looking away. “Do you mind if I sleep alone tonight?”

  Kenny’s cheeks burned. “No.” He picked up his robe, felt for his keys in the pocket. His slippers felt heavy on his feet as he made his way out to the living room to leave for what felt like the last time. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

  She took too long to answer as she moved to shut the door behind him. “We can talk. Maybe not tomorrow.”

  The door closed, and the lock thudded into place. Kenny pulled out his key, unlocked the door and walked back into his dark, empty apartment and a dark, empty life.

  Kenny flopped down on his mattress on the floor, lights out, no music, ignored the noises from the outside world; tears trickled from the corners of his eyes despite himself. It was because he was too stable, he thought, too quiet and reliable, that’s why he kept getting dumped, because he wasn’t some slack-jawed, low-life Neanderthal niggah who pumped them full of bastards and abandoned them. That’s what black women wanted no matter what they said, he told himself, some macho, seventies-exploitation-movie, secret-garden rape fantasy. Not an upright, reliable, stay-at-home black man like him who knew how to take care of a woman, how to nurture and protect her, someone who wanted a real union, a bond.

  A lasting bond.

  He fell asleep as the sun rose, twisted and sweaty in his sheets as he dreamed he was being devoured by a burning bush with a multitude of hungry carnivorous buds that bloomed into the faces of all the women who had ever dated and dumped him. As his flesh was dissolved from his bones by acid nectar that poured from their mouths, he heard them sing to each other, competing with tales of who had hurt him the most.

  When he woke that afternoon, Kenny resolved not to let this setback put him back into a depression. He was better than that. It was a dark, rainy Saturday, a good day to stay in and catch up on work. He sat in front of the TV, watched CNN and used his laptop to sign onto the Web sites his company had launched for clients that weekend, went through them page by page, made sure they were all up and running. He sent e-mail notes to subordinates as he found last-minute flaws to fix, and by the end of the afternoon, his work was done.

  The weather was worse than ever. Kenny rummaged through refrigerated leftovers for lunch, nuked them in the microwave while he switched stations to see what was on the Sci Fi Channel. He dropped into his beanbag chair and waited for the timer on the microwave to go off when he felt something odd.

  He felt Yolanda.

  She was somewhere near. Very near.

  The slight traces of her presence in the apartment that he’d felt when he first moved in had grown stronger since their relationship began. They’d spent so much time together, he hadn’t noticed it, but separated, Kenny realized he could tell where Yolanda was on the other side, could even make little sensory connections between them as he followed her trail.

  He forgot about the microwave when it called him with a chime, tracked Yolanda instead and picked up thin scents of what she smelled, faint snatches of what she heard. Rough terrycloth texture tickled his fingertips; his feet ignored his carpet to feel Yolanda’s floor under her bare soles. Kenny sighed, content, breathed in and ou
t at the same time she did and for a moment felt as one with her, as he had when they’d slept together curled up in bed at night.

  Kenny could tell Yolanda was on the couch, reading. There was a warm spot where she must be; electric light reflected off her hair, shimmered like faint heat waves in the air. Kenny pulled his beanbag chair to the spot and fell asleep in her unseen lap while the afternoon storm raged outside the window for them both, the same raindrops striking the same glass.

  For the rest of the weekend, Kenny trailed Yolanda around the apartment, got better at following her traces, learned to read the subtle signs that told him where she was and what she was doing on the other side. If she sat on her couch to watch TV, he changed to the same channel, sat in the same spot on his side and slowly matched his breathing to hers. A bath? He climbed into his tub, filled it and adjusted the water until he was sure the temperature was the same, until he felt like he was in the tub with her. They shared meals at different tables in the same space, he moved his mattress to her side of the bedroom and slept the same hours in the same positions she did, whispered her name in his dreams.

  There was nothing she did he didn’t echo, no move he couldn’t shadow. As weeks went by, Kenny still had Yolanda with him in real and tangible form, despite the breakup. Even though he knew there was something wrong in what he was doing, he reveled in their ghostly reunion, at being able to keep her in his life in some way, no matter how small. He willed a deeper connection across the space between them, tried to pull her closer each day.

  Items from her apartment began to appear in his again, the odd vase, a slipper, silverware, her comb. Either she didn’t notice their absence or refused to talk to him long enough to ask for them back. Things came through more often and more of them, ever more personal, as if Kenny had broken through a dam, created a hairline crack between the two spaces that was spreading, crumbling, about to burst.

  All he had to do was keep pushing.

  Kenny woke in his beanbag chair, where he’d shared a long afternoon with Yolanda before he nodded out, and heard something slide under his door. He stood, stumbled over to see what it was, still half asleep. It was a sheet of recycled blue paper, a note from Yolanda on her stationery.

  Kenny didn’t even read it. If she had just left the note, she couldn’t have gotten far. He opened the door, saw her slip around the corner and ran out to join her.

  “Yolanda!” He slowed when he saw that the elevator hadn’t arrived yet. She looked away, nervous, pushed the down button again. Kenny stopped between her and the door to the stairs, held up the note.

  “What’s this?”

  “I need my half of the deposit back.”

  He opened the note, skimmed it. “You’re moving? When?”

  Her eyes looked past him to the elevator door for an out. One foot tapped the floor like a jackhammer.

  “Tomorrow. I’m packing tonight.”

  “Why?” He squeezed the word through clenched teeth as his eyes watered.

  “Baby, I’ve lived near ex-boyfriends before, even stayed with a few until I found a place of my own, but this, this is . . .”

  She raised her hands, dropped them again, as if there was no way to describe what they had here. Kenny reached out, but she backed away, paused as if what she had to say was hard to get out. She spoke in a quiet voice, almost inaudible, couldn’t meet his eyes as she said it.

  “I feel you, Kenny. When I’m home. One breath away from me, all the time.” She looked up, her eyes wet, anguished. “Things disappear. It’s too much. It’s like you’re feeding on me. I need more than space. I need distance.”

  Before he could respond, the elevator door opened. She rushed inside, pushed the button to close it and get away from him. Kenny let the door slide shut without trying to stop her, felt his stomach and hopes fall to earth with the elevator.

  She was really leaving him this time.

  Kenny drank that night.

  There wasn’t enough booze in the house to do the job, so he had more delivered, more than enough to blot out the horror that lay ahead. He was so used to having Yolanda near that he wasn’t sure if he could survive losing her cold turkey. It would be a terrifying life of real isolation, living alone with no one but himself, and he wasn’t that fond of himself right now. When he thought about it, maybe he never had been; maybe that explained the continuous stream of live-in girlfriends he’d had since he left home. He’d never lived alone. As soon as one left or threw him out he’d always found another. Were they just buffers between him and himself? The thought depressed him even more.

  He poured another drink, dropped the glass and, instead of looking for it, downed his next shot from the bottle as he enjoyed his last night with Yolanda. Kenny could hear the music she played while she finished packing—a vintage recording of Yoruba music she’d picked up on a trip to Havana. They’d made love on the floor of her living room to it one night, percussion pounding, rich vocals invoking Oshun, the goddess of love and beauty, who rules over the sweet rivers and streams of the Earth, fills them with her fertility.

  The drums rose, thumped louder in his ears, as Kenny connected to Yolanda’s ears and skin instead of his own, heard and felt the rhythms of She who blesses the river and is the river invoked by the recorded voices and rhythms of long-dead singers and musicians. Tears blurred Kenny’s vision as he strained to see through Yolanda’s eyes, tried to glimpse the portrait of the goddess floating on the other wall like a beacon, prayed for aid, called with her music for help, pleaded for her to reunite him with his lost love.

  Almost as if in response to his drunken prayer, he felt Yolanda’s presence near him. He drew her to him, could tell she sensed him, felt her pull away, but raw need poured from him in waves like a magnetic field, unseen but powerful, attracted like matter irresistibly closer. The music raced faster as wild laughter rang through the room from the speakers, the mocking titter of the goddess Oshun.

  Kenny felt energy fill him, felt whatever force it was that shaped these two worlds and held them apart, felt boundaries dissolve as the two rooms blurred and merged, overlapped, until he could see Yolanda and her space clearly, cleanly double-exposed over his.

  She was more visible as her fear grew; her will to resist him faded as the drums grew louder. Whatever power brought them together was Kenny’s now, to push in any direction, to mold in any fashion. It was driven by his need, his desire, and his only wish was to have Yolanda again, to never be apart again. Whether the ability had always been waiting in the apartment, or had been summoned by some need of his so deep that it could twist reality to be filled, it was now Kenny’s to do with as he pleased.

  His physical body dispersed like gas as he melted into a fog that blew over Yolanda, enveloped her in a cloud. She inhaled him like smoke, like the breath of life; Kenny felt himself enter Yolanda’s body, as Oshun had entered her in the portrait. He filled her lungs, her body, and without thinking took her apart, separated her cells like his and whirled them into a wet cloud of organic mist that was neither Kenny nor Yolanda, but a vortex of living matter that spun like a new nebula until it was both, united.

  It was more than a physical merging; Yolanda’s entire life was revealed to Kenny in all its intricacy, every moment, every wish, every thought opened one by one and consumed, made part of his life, his memory, his identity. Their identity.

  There was a scream; Kenny couldn’t tell if it was his cry or Yolanda’s, a cry of pain, pleasure or both. A hot burst of bliss filled them like a perfect, prolonged orgasm, and they sank into deep sleep, the restful, healing hibernation of a caterpillar in its chrysalis. The cloud coalesced as the storm subsided, cooled and slowly took form like the surface of a new planet; bone gelled, hardened, gave root to muscle, which bloomed with the skin and hair of a new being. Drums played the fresh life to sleep as the goddess smiled and danced in dream into the dawn.

  Afternoon sunlight crept across the floor, gently woke the solitary figure that lay asleep on the living room car
pet. Kenny lay facedown on the floor at the front door, fists clenched in front of him as if he had gripped Yolanda’s ankles and been dragged there as she walked out.

  He was alone. She was finally and completely gone. He could feel it. Their merging had been a drunken fantasy, like the hungry, singing flowers on the burning bush he’d dreamed about after Yolanda had broken up with him. He’d wanted her so badly, his shattered heart had found a way to salve him to sleep while she left, gave him a vision of total union, a vision that was gone now, leaving him with an even greater feeling of emptiness.

  Kenny wept as if at his own funeral; tears blurred his vision as his fingers felt something on the floor not noticed before. He wiped his eyes dry, picked up the pale blue envelope that had been slid halfway under the door: Yolanda’s stationery, still scented with her perfume, Kenny’s name scrawled in her distinctive cursive across the front. There was no note inside, no final parting message, just a single object made of stamped brass on a plain metal ring.

  The key to Yolanda’s apartment.

  Kenny dressed, left and locked his apartment, then used the key to open Yolanda’s. It was empty inside, broom clean, even the marks of where her furniture had been erased from the floors. He walked from the living room through the bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchen, all devoid of even the slightest trace that she had ever been there, air still sharp with the scent of cleansers.

  When he walked back to the front of the apartment, Kenny saw that he’d been too hasty when coming in. The apartment wasn’t completely empty. He had overlooked the obvious. There on the mantle was the little ceramic dog that had belonged to Yolanda’s aunt, the first thing Yolanda had noticed crossing between their spaces, the beginning of their end.

  Kenny didn’t know if she’d forgotten it, if it was too frightening a reminder of what she’d nearly escaped, a warning to him not to be so needy or merely a memento, a good-bye gift. He picked it up, almost put it back down to leave when he had an idea, a spark that fired the flame in his heart again. He pocketed the statue of the little dog and rushed out into the hall to consider his options.