Walter Mosley - Debbie Doesn't Do It Anymore

Rash managed to say just the right thing even though he wasn’t trying.

“It’s my father’s brother’s name. He raised my father and one time, when I was a little girl talking about when I grew up and became a mom, my dad said that the only thing he wanted was if I had a son that I’d name him Edison after my dead uncle.”

“That’s the perfect way to honor your father,” Rash said, and I pulled his arms up to my breast.

For a moment he held his breath.

“Um,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t we having sex?”

“I’m not,” I said. “You have the room across the hall.”

“Uh, okay, but why aren’t you?”

“In the last four weeks I’ve had unprotected sex with at least sixteen men and almost as many women. We all have regular checkups and most of us are professional enough not to work if we think we’re sick. But I won’t know about my health for sure until at least nine months from my last sexual encounter.

“And even if that wasn’t true, you have to know that sex to me is like cornflakes or toothpaste. I don’t connect it with love or even mild concern. I don’t anticipate sex; I dread it.

“That’s why I brought you to bed.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re sweet and considerate and I knew from the first minute we talked that you would keep it in your pants and hold me anyway.”

“Um, you know, I think I have to go in the other room for a while again. I’ll be back.”

I started counting when Rash got up from the bed. I made it to seventy-eight before he returned and embraced me again.

I could feel his heart thundering against my back.

This made me smile.

“Why?” I whispered.

“Why what?” His voice was husky and deep.

“Why are you staying with me?”

“Because ever since I met you I wanted to see you again. But I thought that you would just smile maybe or say hi. I was hoping that if you came in, you wouldn’t walk out after seeing me, and I hoped you’d let me sit at your table.”

I hummed and hugged his hand to my cheek.

“Why do you want me to stay with you?” he asked.

“I told you already... because I want a man to hold me and to hold back at the same time,” I said.

“And you expect this man to hold back for nine months?”

“At least.”

He let go of me then and got out of bed.

“Are you leaving?” the girl inside me asked.

“Just goin’ across the hall for a bit.”

He made two more trips to the guest bedroom in the night. I woke up each time he left but fell back to sleep almost immediately. Each time he returned he held me tighter, with more conviction. And each time I felt more and more centered in myself.

When I awoke in the morning we were sleeping across the bed from each other. I leaned over him and tickled the tip of his nose until he opened his eyes.

I felt fresh and happy; he looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

“This friendship really is gonna be too hard on you, huh, Rash Vineland?” I opined.

“No.”

That was the first moment of real fear that I’d felt in what seemed like years. It was as if Rash had reached into my chest and grabbed hold of my insides.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. I have to go somewhere.”

“Can I come?”

“No. I have to put on some clothes.”

“Can I watch?”

“No,” I said playfully. “Go out to the kitchen and make us some breakfast.”

Rash could cook. He made cheese omelets and bacon with home fries seasoned with onions, bell peppers, and jalapeños. He even made coffee and served me banana-orange-strawberry juice.

“What would Annabella say about all this?” I asked after he served the meal.

Almost immediately I regretted the question. Rash’s face scrunched up and his mouth twisted as if he’d eaten something bitter.

“I can’t worry about that,” he said. “I mean, the way I think about it is, how’d I feel if she did that? But it’s not just the doing.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh. The problem is if some guy made her feel the way you do me.”

“How do I make you feel?” I asked, thinking, Shut up, girl .

“Like I was floating out in the middle of the ocean,” he said. “Like I could rise up in the sky like evaporation. I mean, it doesn’t make any sense but there it is.”

“It’s Sunday,” I said. “People have those feelings on Sundays.”

Rash grinned and nodded.

I knew that I had gone too far with him even without having sex.

“Should we stop this now?” I asked.

He got that look again, the one he had the first time in the restaurant when I told him I had to leave.

“I don’t want to stop,” he said.

“It might cost you.”

“What am I saving for if not for this?”

“I have your number in my purse,” I said, thinking that there was also a loaded gun in there. “I’ll call tonight.”

“Can I have your number too?”

I scribbled it down for him and tore the leaf out of my journal.

He got up and walked to the doorway, then stopped and walked all the way back to kiss my cheek. I didn’t kiss him. I knew better.

Rock of Ages House of Worship had grown since I was a little girl. When I was small the church was too: a little mauve-colored bungalow on a big lot at the dead end of a small downtown block. Now it was a stone fortress standing as high as a five-story building, with three thousand seats and twice that many active members. The parking lot was protected by high fences. The driveway had three uniformed guards.

They let my Jaguar into the lot. The chief security man pointed me to one of the few open parking spaces.

I made my way down a flagstone path to the side door of the church. Music was already playing, a huge choir was singing “Jericho,” and the assembled worshipers were on their feet singing along. There were huge stained-glass windows installed side by side down both walls, and a high platform where the choir sang, and an even higher dais where the preacher would give his sermon.

I was wearing a dark blue dress that came down to my calves and slightly lighter blue medium-heeled shoes. My wide-brimmed straw hat was of a fine weave and white in color. I carried a maroon handbag and wore aqua calfskin gloves that I had taken home from a movie I’d made.

I stood in the back looking around the assembled congregation, listening to the music, trying to feel like I belonged.

On the right side of the auditorium I first recognized Newland, my younger brother. He was standing next to my mom. On her other side was Cornell and past him a woman I didn’t recognize. Behind them was my father’s adopted daughter by an earlier marriage — Delilah — and next to her, singing his heart out, was Edison, my son.

I would have known Eddie if he was a full-grown man, but I only ever saw him on holidays, when I wasn’t working.

I made my way over to the Peel clan. I reached past an Asian woman standing on the aisle and touched Newland’s shoulder while the room cried out in praise-song. Looking at me, uncomprehending at first, Newland’s smile of recognition was a memory that I’d hold dear for the rest of my life.

He whispered something to the small Asian woman and she came out in the aisle, signaling with her hands for me to take her place.

I moved next to Newland and he gave me a one-armed hug.

“Sandy,” he said in my ear. “Mom’ll be so happy you’re here.”

I glanced at the profile of my mother, who hadn’t seen me yet, and saw over her shoulder Cornell’s face. He was lighter skinned than Newland and I and of a heavy build. There was some hair on his chin, but not quite a beard, and a scowl for me that had not changed since the first time the police brought me home and my mother spent the night crying.