AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A burning log in the fireplace popped, prompting her to crane her neck in an attempt to glance in the sound’s direction. A chill had settled on Atlanta in October’s final days, and Lionel had started a small fire in his office’s hearth to beat it back.
Once, she’d enjoyed sitting by the fireside in one of the two commodious leather chairs positioned on either side of the hearth, talking to Lionel about art, books, and the future—the world’s in general and hers in particular. Now, her back was resting against a blotter, and something sharp and hard—a letter opener, she reckoned—poked her side. An unpleasant but bearable sensation.
Her attention wandered back to Professor Ward, who stood holding her legs up around his hips. She gasped in a breath of air and quivered. There was a feeling like a sharp pinch as he entered her. An unpleasant but bearable sensation. His eyes, framed by the gold round rims of his glasses, were filled with a faraway and glassy look as he moved inside her.
He loves me, she thought. He loves me. He loves me. She repeated the words to herself as he jostled her into a better position, reaching back to wrap her legs around him. She understood that he wanted her to hold them there, so she did.
“I love you,” he whispered, his spoken words sounding in chorus with her own internal chant. His tie—the blue one, her favorite—brushed across her stomach as he leaned over her; his hands, a teacher’s hands, soft with buffed nails, found her breasts. “I love you.” His weight pressed into her, and the metal and wood behind her back conspired together to make her spine and hips ache. His lips only met hers for a moment before he drew back, his fingers pinching into her legs, separating them wider as the pace of his thrusting accelerated, his straining body pressed fully into hers. He moaned once, then again, and let his weight settle onto her as he dropped her legs and left them to dangle over the side of the desk. His chest heaved, causing a button of his shirt to dig into her skin, and then he pulled out of her without anot
her moment’s hesitation.
He stooped to rummage through his pants, puddled on the floor around his ankles, and produced a kerchief from the pocket. “Hold this. Down there,” he said, forcing it into her hand and positioning it between her legs, without really looking at her. “There’s some blood. Don’t want it on the rug.” As soon as she did as he asked, he shifted his focus to removing the latex sheath that he had pulled from the red-and-white tin.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, watching as he tied a knot into the end of the thing. He tugged up his pants and buttoned them, and without looking at her, strode to the hearth and tossed the condom into the flames. He grasped the poker, using its hooked end to pull a glowing log on top of the latex. Then he returned the poker to its holder, and without speaking, knelt to retrieve her dress from the floor. He laid it next to her on the desk, turning his attention to the rest of her wardrobe. Odd, but he now seemed embarrassed to touch the bra he’d nearly torn off her only minutes before. He picked it up and dropped it on the dress. A few steps away lay her panties. He picked them up using his thumb and index finger. She took them from him, hoping that their hands might meet, but he dropped them into her grasp and returned to the fire, keeping his back toward her as she dressed.
She pulled herself together as quickly as she could manage, although she had trouble locating a shoe that had somehow been kicked under a step stool on the far side of the room. She crossed to him and placed her hand on his forearm. He looked down at her, his eyes cautious. He cleared his throat. “We’ll speak of this matter at a later time.”
She couldn’t find words to respond. She only nodded and went to the door. She hesitated for a moment, hoping he’d call her back. Hoping he’d take her into his arms and speak more words of love.
There was only silence.
FOUR
Jilo didn’t know what possessed her, but she found herself walking a mile and a half away from home, toward the red brick walls and stained-glass windows of Five Points Baptist.
It wasn’t a desire to confess to her sin. She couldn’t bring herself to see what she had done as a sin. She loved Professor Ward. Lionel. She believed he loved her, too. He had told her so. Many times. The first back in June, shortly after the last day of the term, right before he left for a month in New York. His revelation had come as a surprise. An even a greater shock was the realization that her own feelings for Lionel went beyond those of student and mentor.
And she had no intent of claiming him, of flouncing their love in Mrs. Ward’s face. Jilo’s love for Lionel, and his for her, was a different kind of love. Spiritual. It didn’t need the bonds or trappings of traditional marriage to make it holy.
They had spoken of it often. Their love didn’t need the approval of society or the God it had fabricated to keep the fearful in check. Their love was modern. Unbound by law and tradition. So it didn’t matter that another woman shared Lionel’s name, even if he regretted ever forging that bond. His love for Jilo was somehow more real, more pure, free as it was from any claims of ownership.
Lionel had married too young by his own admission, and though he’d made his vows in good faith, he was no longer the young man who’d pledged himself body and soul to his wife. Besides, his wife was a completely different woman than she’d led him to believe. Now, as a mature man, Lionel dreamed of casting off the bondage of conventionality. Fleeing the proper world that had him trapped and heading out into the world of the liberated mind. And yes, he wanted to take Jilo with him. According to him, it was only Mrs. Ward’s fragile health that kept him bound to her.
They had danced around the act for months. A touch of the hands. A brush of his lips against hers. She hadn’t expected it to happen the way it had, so quickly. But after so many months of holding back, his hands had suddenly been all over her. His need had flared up with a shocking intensity. And while she’d imagined it differently, he seemed to have planned the whole thing from start to finish—his wife was with her sister on a train to Tuskegee, and there had been a supply of prophylactics at hand. He had chosen, she realized, to take advantage of his temporary freedom. She only wished he would have discussed it with her first. Perhaps then the experience wouldn’t have felt so—she searched her heart for the right word—sordid.
And then there was the way he had acted afterward . . . She’d given him what he wanted. Willingly. But the way his eyes had failed to meet hers after the fact had left her feeling . . . well, if not sinful, soiled. Damaged. Was he disappointed? Had she disappointed him?
After leaving his house, she had set out walking, and something had brought her here, to Five Points Baptist. She nearly turned toward home, but the same thing that had brought her this far tugged at her again. Without precisely meaning to, she climbed up the concrete steps, nearly stumbling in her hurry.
She reached for the door’s large brass pull, her hand feeling small and cold as she grasped ahold of it and opened the door. The scent of worn hymnals and an overabundance of furniture polish administered lovingly by the ladies’ council nearly overwhelmed her.
Not for the first time, it struck her that the interior of the church somewhat resembled a theater. The pulpit and choir loft shared a raised stage, with a curved apron that Pastor Jones would strut back and forth over when he got himself worked up in his preaching. A set of stairs ran down each side of the stage, and the altar was situated between the rise of the apron and the first row of pews. Jilo walked down the aisle and took a seat in the third row.
The church only had a single stained-glass window, set into its eastern wall. From her schooling, Jilo understood the chemistry behind the glass’s rich colors. Nickel or perhaps copper oxide would have been used to create the blues of the sky. Beams of silver nitrate light touched the white cross made of tin oxide and arsenic—strange that something so deadly could create such beauty. Iron and chromium combined for the green grass in which the cross was planted. A white dove hovered above. Across the arms of the cross was draped a cloth, stained brilliant red with selenium and cadmium rather than the messiah’s blood.
Still, even though she understood the chemistry behind the vivid colors, whenever the sun lit up the window, its beauty touched her. The pastor would say the sight was touching her soul. But no, she reminded herself, the voice in her head sounding more like Lionel’s than her own, it was chemistry that created the hues, and biological chemistry that created her emotional reaction to them.
Normally she prided herself on her ability to see beyond superstition and emotionality, but today, she felt empty and alone. Though she wished she could allow herself to take comfort from patently absurd beliefs, she’d seen too many folk come to her nana out of desperation and a desire for magic. Nana had never come right out and admitted it, but she would always give a knowing smile whenever Jilo asked if any of it were real. No, Jilo didn’t want to build her world on superstitions. She cared only for what she could touch. What she could measure.
It didn’t matter now anyway. The sun slanted down from the west, no longer imbuing the window with colored light, taking even that small pleasure from her.
The church was mostly silent, but she knew she wasn’t alone. A small room sat off to the right of the pulpit. A squeaking sound from within betrayed the pastor’s presence.
He kept a room at home for prayer, study, and—as Jilo could well testify—the occasional disciplinary discussion with the young women who lived beneath his roof. The office he kept here was where he wore his public face, tending to his flock and advising them in their times of trouble. Yes, as with all men, there were two sides to Pastor Jones—the public and the private. As much as Jilo resented him at times, she held it to his credit that the side he showed to the public was, if anything, less perfect than the one he showed at home. He saved his best for those closest to him. That grudging respect was tempered by the annoyance she felt toward this man. So why, out of all the places on God’s green earth—she paused a moment to ponder her odd choice of words—when she felt her lowest and most confused, had she been drawn to the one place he was certain to be?
The squeak sounded again, and Jilo could make out the rumble of a chair’s coasters gliding across a wooden floor. She raised her eyes to look at him the moment he came to the doorway. If his face had shown the slightest surprise at her presence, if he had asked what she was doing there, why she’d come, she would have jumped up and bounded down the aisle. But he said nothing, and his expression struck her as one of quiet relief, the lines on his face smoothing at the sight of her. He came down the steps, and after standing off to the side for a moment, circled around and took a seat on the pew behind her.
“I see you girls as my children, you know. We both do, Sally and I.” He rarely referred to his wife by her Christian name, preferring to speak of her as Mrs. Jones, like she was an extension of himself rather than a person in her own right. “I shudder to think of where I’d be without my Sally,” he said, almost as if reading her mind. “I could no more do without her than without . . . well, let’s just say that without her, I doubt that I would be.” A moment of silence passed between them, but it was nothing like the angry awkwardness of the times they’d spent sitting across from each other with locked horns.
