The Retreat (3 page)

In school, Chantel had been fascinated with Japanese culture. She welcomed the rumors that she was half black, half Asian. Her tight lids gave weight to the rumors. So the fact that the living room of her two-bedroom apartment was decked out in Japanese decor was not a shock to Jamal.

The answer to a two-year mystery lay in a manila envelope that sat on a Japanese-inspired table. Every day doubt grew while certainty regressed. Truth was abstract, and while Jamal could coach himself into believing that the results did not matter, deep down inside he knew that the result made a world of difference.

Chantel placed her petite hand on top of Jamal's stony hand. When she smiled, her cheeks looked like she had swallowed golf balls. Jamal considered it an honor to even be in her presence. Timing and guilt had so much to do with why they were not together; it had everything to do with where they were now.

She broke the seal of the envelope and removed the contents from inside. She held her breath as her almond eyes scanned the document. Chantel took in a deep breath and did not exhale as she handed the document over to Jamal. It was confirmed. The mystery had been solved, and like many mysteries, the truth left Jamal and Chantel more confused than they were before. He was not sure if ignorance was bliss, but what he was sure of was that his world would never be the same.

“Daddy.” Jamir ran from his room and sat on Jamal's lap.

Jamal and Jamir both had bronze skin. They both had jet-black hair. Jamir was everything that Jamal desired in a son, and for Jamir he would give the world. But no matter what Jamal would sacrifice for two-year-old Jamir, he would never be his son.

“High five!” Jamal stuck his hand out.

Jamir smacked his hand with glee.

“Here you go.” Jamal gave Jamir some building blocks from a playpen near the TV.

He sat Jamir down on the carpet. Jamal sat down behind Jamir and pointed to the block he wanted him to pick up. Jamir reached for a building block and played with it. Jamal placed a kiss on top of Jamir's head. While Jamir's attention was on the building blocks, Jamal turned his sights toward Chantel, and followed her into the kitchen. She'd retreated to the kitchen to weep. With her back turned, Jamal approached her and wrapped his arms round her waist. Chantel turned around and embraced him. Her damp face pressed against Jamal's beard.

“How could this happen?” Jamal whispered.

“I don't know,” Chantel whimpered.

Jamal broke away from Chantel, but he maintained his reserved tone. “It doesn't make sense. You were six weeks pregnant when Clay died, and you said that you two had stopped sleeping with each other two months prior.”

“That's because he liked to sleep with any little skank who winked at him. I didn't want to risk catching something.”

“Meanwhile, you and I continued to have sex, so you must have a messed-up calendar.”

“I didn't, I'm sure of it.” Chantel diverted her eyes.

If Chantel was sure, then Jamal was certain that he had been kept out of the loop. Was it possible that Clay was the father? Yes, but the improbability of that scenario was what had Jamal perplexed. For two years, he'd allowed the death of Clay and the life of Jamir to blind him from seeking the truth. For two years, Jamir's physical features favored his mother more, and Jamal could barely find anything that resembled him. Now, with so much at stake, he had to probe and get to the core of the issue. Jamal could not go into the next phase of his life with doubt.

“Let me ask you something.” Jamal paused to see Chantel's eyes lock in with his. “You knew, didn't you?”

Jamal watched Chantel's eyes and saw that she did not respond in outrage, but stood there frozen, as if she was searching for a lie to tell but had drawn a blank.

“You did, didn't you?” Her silence took the wind out of Jamal as he sat down on the chair next to the kitchen counter.

“I knew that more than likely you were not the father. That was wrong and I'd understand if you didn't want to have anything to do with me or my son. But everything I did, whether foul or not, I did for my son.” Chantel pointed at Jamir, who was still in the next room, playing.

“I didn't want my son to grow up hearing about his father being killed in the streets. I would rather have his father be a hardworking man of God. That's the example I wanted for Jamir.”

Chantel was not a churchgoer, but she always respected Jamal and his faith. Despite her deception, her reasoning was well placed.

“I'm sorry; I didn't want to hurt you. I just hoped that maybe things would work out.” In a faint voice, she added, “Why is this happening?”

Jamal clenched Chantel closer. His heart did not even register the fact that she had deceived him. He knew that deep down Chantel never wanted to hurt him. She wanted the best for her son, and because of her mistakes, Chantel did not feel worthy of love. Jamal felt that she was worthy of his love and redemption. He hoped he could squeeze all of the sorrow out of her and replace it with the love that he had for her.

It was a love too strong to ignore, but not strong enough to trump principle. There was a shortage of good women in the hood. The same could be said for men, but Jamal was certain that the woman whose arms were firmly wrapped around his shoulders was one of a kind. Jamal broke away from her grip and reached into his front jeans pocket. He removed a white envelope.

“This is for Jamir's day care.” Jamal extended the envelope to Chantel.

“I can't accept this.” Chantel pushed the envelope against Jamal's chest.

Jamal did not even attempt to put the envelope back in her hands; he just laid the envelope on the white kitchen counter.

“I still want to be in Jamir's life, and if Clay were here, I know he would want the same.”

Clay had been Jamal's best friend, and the test results showed that Clay was probably Jamir's father. He wished Clay were here, even if that meant things between him and Chantel would be different. The test results brought forth another frustrating matter. Jamal and Chantel would have to have a candid talk with Clay's parents and let them know the truth.

“I can't ask you to take on a responsibility that's not yours,” Chantel said with her hands on her hips.

“Look, Momma!” Jamir said from the living room.

Both Jamal and Chantel turned to see that Jamir had started to put together a tower.

“That's great, baby.” Chantel wiped more tears from her eyes.

Jamal now knew that part of his best friend lived on through his son. Maybe in Jamir, Jamal would get a second chance to right a wrong.

Sometimes God's opportunities for redemption came in the most unique packages.

“You want some coffee?” Chantel asked.

“Sure,” Jamal accepted.

Chantel's eyes were edged with tears. She put a teapot on the stove, then went into the cabinet next to her refrigerator and produced two fire engine red cups. Moments later she handed Jamal a cup with the steam evaporating like a snake.

“There's something else,” Jamal said after he took a sip.

Chantel started to wipe down the counter to appear busy. She looked up to let Jamal know that he had her full attention.

“They offered me the promotion.”

Chantel gave Jamal a look like her world had just spun off of its axis. “Well that's great, isn't it?”

“I don't know. It would mean that I wouldn't be able to spend much time with Jamir.”

“Don't throw your future away,” Chantel said as she looked at Jamir.

Jamal gazed at her profile. Her hair was in a ponytail with bangs like curly fries.

“You look—” Jamal started.

“I know.” Chantel shot Jamal a smile.

Chantel put her palm underneath her chin as her eyes rotated up and down at Jamal. He recognized that smile as utter content, but he could not find anything that she would be content about in this moment.

“What?” Jamal asked.

“Look at you, all grown up. I'm proud of the man you've become,” Chantel stated.

“You act like I was a player or something,” Jamal said with a smile.

“You were a player. You and Clay used to run around school thinking y'all were some pimps.”

“You got with Clay,” Jamal reminded her.

“That's because he had better game than you.” Chantel followed her comment with a laugh.

Jamal put his hands over his heart, as if he were going into cardiac arrest. “I didn't want you anyway, chickenhead,” Jamal said.

“Oh, you know you did.” Chantel stood up and walked over to Jamir.

Jamal followed Chantel to the floor where the two sandwiched Jamir.

“Here!” Jamir handed Chantel a building block.

Chantel played with the block in her hands before she handed it back to Jamir.

“So Friday is the big day? Isn't it the Retreat?” Chantel did not divert her eyes from Jamir.

“Yeah, so I need to make sure I go see my father this week before I go.”

“Humph! Is he going?” Chantel grunted.

Chantel and Otis, Jamal's father, did not get along. Otis saw Chantel as a complete waste of Jamal's time and he made sure to treat her with as little respect as possible. While Chantel remained respectful, she made it abundantly clear that she did not like Jamal's father either.

“I don't know. To tell you the truth, I haven't seen him in a while now.” Jamal checked his phone for any missed messages.

“Well, don't let that stop you from getting what you need to get this weekend,” Chantel said.

“Oh, for sure.” Jamal put his phone away.

Jamal did not know what to make of today. He wished it were that simple that he could go from loving a child like a son, to that child feeling foreign to him in a matter of moments. He hoped that this weekend's retreat could provide him with some much-needed answers.

The ice in Quincy's glass melted with the warmth of the Glenfarclas single malt, slowly dissolving into an oval shape. The coffee brown ballpoint pen matched the color of his complexion and stood suspended between his recently and expertly manicured fingers. It was the same pen he'd used over the years to close multiple deals that made him and his business partner embarrassingly rich. This pen, he thought reflectively, this pen. It had paid for itself and would keep on paying.

This pen would also come in handy when Quincy began the divorce process on Thursday when he returned home. For the last two days he had indulged in the aphrodisiac that only Sin City could provide. For two decades he had regulated his trips to Las Vegas. A little gambling and a lot of booze. But since Karen was not going to honor her marriage vows, this time neither was Quincy.

Of course it was not as easy for Quincy to disregard ethics. He had been faithful to a wife for twenty years. Quincy was not an avid churchgoer, but he did believe in God and he did see a simple prayer go a long way. Even though he used Karen's affair to justify his actions, Quincy's principles vexed him. His train of thought was derailed by a knock on the door.

“It's open,” Quincy called out, gently placing the pen back on the stand next to his drink.

Candy walked in with a silver dress that hugged her curvaceous body. The springs in the hotel room door slid the door closed quietly behind her. As she approached, Quincy casually leaned forward and flipped the chrome top off of the ice bucket.

With acrobatic ease, he used the tongs to gently place a couple of cubes into his glass, all the while making a drink for her. Some said the ice diluted the flavor. Well, single malts were his drug of choice, and he bought it, so he was going to do what he wanted.

“What's the occasion?” Candy asked.

“We're celebrating.” Quincy handed Candy a drink.

“If there's one thing I love to do, it's celebrate,” Candy replied.

Quincy squinted and exhaled lightly as the warm liquid spread across his palate. “You're looking at the man who develops new lavish condos in Culver City. Did I mention that I'm also back on the market?” Quincy flashed a LeBronsized smile.

“How come you're not celebrating with the Mrs.?” Candy nodded toward Quincy's ring finger.

Why did she have to call his attention to his wedding band? Quincy was not in the wrong. Karen cheated first, and as a result, it was only fair that he got a little something on the side.

“That's not something that I care to talk about.” Quincy removed his wedding band and placed it on the nightstand next to his bed.

“That's fine; we don't have to talk about anything that you don't want to talk about. Okay, baby?”

Quincy loved the sound of her voice. He took Candy by the hand and spun her around, almost spilling her drink. He placed her honey blond hair on one side of her neck, as he leaned forward to kiss her shoulder. Both gazed out of his Wynn Hotel Fairway apartment. He loved the seclusion that the room offered.

There were no views of the luminous Mirage Hotel or the kiddy Treasure Island. This room offered a view of the Las Vegas desert at night and of the golf course. He just might take her out on the balcony and have his way with her on the outdoor dining table. How could a woman not be impressed with a man who could provide her with such an awe-inspiring view? Why wasn't this life enough for Karen?

“My wife and I are going through a divorce,” Quincy muttered in Candy's ear.

Candy turned around and pulled back from him a bit. “You seem very happy for a man who is about to split from his wife.”

Quincy tenderly broke her grasp, took a quick pull from his glass, and walked deliberately back to the wet bar to pour himself another drink. Quincy took a sip, regaining his composure, as he surveyed her from across the room. “Why shouldn't I be? There is nothing that she can use to keep me.”

“Money! Money always talks.” Candy took another sip of her drink.

Money was not the issue. Karen was unfaithful and she would not be entitled to a dime. Of course, admitting the truth surrounding his pending divorce to her would be a massive blow to his pride.

“It's only money. There's a ton of it out there that I can make and I have made. I couldn't care less about the house. Too many bad memories.”

“I hope she is taking it as well as you.”

“What's that suppose to mean?”

Candy crossed the room deliberately. She lifted the glass effortlessly out of Quincy's hand and took a hard swallow before setting the half-empty glass on top of the TV.

“I deal with married men all the time. Most of them love their wives very much, but they desire something different every now and then. I can't imagine being married for as long as you have and it being easy for me to walk away,” Candy surmised.

An image of Karen in her two-piece turquoise bathing suit popped into Quincy's head. The image came from a trip to Jamaica two years ago. Karen had a flat stomach with caramel skin and brown hair with blond highlights in it. Most men would die to be with a woman like that. But when he thought of her it was in abstract terms, like she was a house he had paid to renovate.

All he could see was all the money he had paid to keep her forty-two-year-old frame looking like a twenty-five-year-old. He could not explain why such a random image had an emotional impact on him. Maybe it was because, for the first time, he felt lucky to be with her.

“What do you know about what she's going through?” Quincy asked.

“I don't know. In fact, I'm the last person to give advice about marriages and relationships.”

“All I know is that I'm having too much fun. I got a hotel room, I called you up, and we're about to have a good time. Then I'll go to the casino, and hit up the blackjack table before I fly back to LA to work with my architect firm. Whatever joy or fulfillment I find out here, it will be gone by the time I reach LAX.”

“Well, I don't want to hold you up, so if we could…” Candy held out her hand.

“Oh, of course.” Quincy pulled out his reddish-brown leather wallet and removed a stack of one hundred dollar bills. The money was so crisp that some of the bills stuck together as Quincy counted out $1,500.

“Hopefully, we'll still see each other after the divorce. You're lots of fun,” Candy said as she placed the money in her matching silver purse.

“We'll always have Vegas.”

Candy put the cash in her purse and started to take her dress off. With her standing there naked, Quincy had an epiphany: for twenty years he had paid to be with a woman he no longer wanted, and he was about to pay for a woman he could never have.

 

Quincy checked the two jacks he had in his hand. Candy had done her job and relaxed him, but the night was far from over. He tapped on the table with his fingers as signal for the dealer to hit him.

The dealer flipped over the card, and before he knew it, Quincy was up ten grand and the envy of the entire table. It was just as well, he could have been down ten thousand and that would not have mattered. Quincy was wired differently than most people.

He either had to be the richest guy in the room or the poorest. Quincy had an either/or personality; no room for moderation. Quincy avoided contentment at every turn. His inner circle did not consist of people who were satisfied with being able to pay their rent on time and take an occasional vacation. He enjoyed the company of people who wanted to purchase a Lear Jet or an island.

Quincy checked his cell phone and noticed that Gregg had called, probably to discuss one of the pending deals.

Gregg remained in a constant state of worry. The Culver City deal was scheduled to happen on Monday.

Quincy was not about to waste a Wednesday night worrying about something that would not take place for several days. He was too busy trying to live in the moment. Quincy took a sip of his drink and tossed some more chips onto the table. Gregg can wait. And Karen could too, for now. Besides, she would suggest a prayer and a fast for an occasion like this. All Quincy needed to close the deal was a cranberry and vodka and a modest game of blackjack.

“You are being too kind to him, Dan,” a white woman in a blue evening dress said to the dealer.

“I guess it's my lucky night.” Quincy took a sip of his cranberry and vodka.

“Not mine; half of my kid's college tuition is on the table,” she replied.

Quincy had seen the woman before. She seemed to know the dealer on a first name basis and she would beg him to go easy on her and let her win once in a while. It seemed like a pathetic sort of friendliness; one side always asking and giving, the other side always taking.

Lost in his train of thought, Quincy was unaware he'd won until he saw the dealer push more chips toward him. The woman's head dropped in despair. She began to comb her fingers through her hair, as if she were searching for loose change.

“I think I'm going to quit while I'm ahead.” Quincy gathered up his chips and walked away from the table. He turned in his chips and checked his voice mail. There was a message from Karen.

“Quincy, I don't know where you are, but please call me,” she'd said.

Quincy felt the buzz of the alcohol, but still had good control over his faculties. Thursday he would fly back to Los Angeles with a divorce to finalize.

This had been a long week, and one that he still could not completely wrap his head around as he entered his hotel room and laid across the bed on his back. As he stared at the ceiling, his BlackBerry started to vibrate. He had a dinner planned tomorrow with his prayer partner, Jamal. They'd met at last year's Men's Retreat and were assigned to be prayer partners by Pastor Dawkins.

They barely spoke, but, occasionally, Quincy would take the young man out for dinner. He liked Jamal and thought he had a lot of promise. Quincy wanted to cancel the dinner, but Quincy had given Jamal his word. His father taught him that when a man gives a person his word to do something, no matter how small or insignificant it may be, it better be a matter of life and death that causes him to not make good on it.

Quincy started drifting off to sleep. He knew that tomorrow would require him to have fortitude. He would start to put the final touches on the Culver City deal and work with his lawyer to get the divorce papers filed. It was a good thing he'd had fun tonight with Candy and the roulette table, because it would be some time before he had fun again. Emptiness and heartache were what awaited him.