Deborah Mello - In the Light of Love

Mary skewed her face in disbelief. “They was probably them colored contact lenses.”

“Did you see him?”

The woman shook her head no. “I would have remembered a black boy with blue eyes. You must have been dreaming from all them drugs.”

Talisa shrugged. “Well, if I was, it was a very nice dream.”

Her mother sucked her teeth, rolling her eyes skyward. “You don’t need to be dreaming about no man. A man ain’t nothing but trouble waiting to happen to you. They’s devils. All of ’em. Take my word for it.” She reached for the television remote, taking a seat in the cushioned wing chair at her daughter’s bedside. “It’s time for my stories. Erica Kane’s in some mess, again. I’ll sit here and watch All My Children with you, then I need to go get lunch ready.”

Talisa laughed, her palm falling against her bandaged belly. She winced slightly, the act of laughing an uneasy feat to accomplish with the multitude of stitches that crossed her stomach.

Mary fanned a hand in her daughter’s direction. “Hush, now. I need to hear the television.”

Glancing from her mother, to the TV screen and back again, her wide grin continued to fill her face. Settling herself comfortably against the pillows, Talisa closed her eyes and wished for a dream. Wishing the memory of a blue-eyed, black man back to her.

The tall, Caucasian man was pacing the floor anxiously, his distress painting an intricate frown pattern across his face. He ran a thin hand through the short length of salt-and-pepper-toned hair that graced his head, staring intently at the younger man who stood before him.

“This is career suicide, Jericho,” Dr. Elijah Becton insisted, shaking his head from side to side. “What are you thinking, son?”

Jericho shrugged, shaking his own head. “I don’t agree, Dad. I need to do this.”

“What about the practice?”

“The practice will be fine. You will continue to run things just as we’ve been doing. Besides, I’m not going to be gone forever. It’s only going to be for one year.”

The elder Becton rolled his eyes. “Why Africa, of all places?”

“Because they need the medical help. Because it’s where I need to be for a while.”

His father nodded slowly, his own ocean-blue gaze meeting his son’s as the two aquatic stares spun one into the other.

The moment was interrupted by a knock on the library door. Both men turned toward the entranceway as the solid oak door was pushed open. Irene Becton stepped into the room, greeting her husband and son with a wide grin.

“Is it safe to enter?” she asked, easing over to stand between the two men.

The senior Becton leaned to kiss his wife’s mouth, pressing his lips lightly against hers. Reaching for his hand, the woman clasped his fingers between her own.

“Our son is leaving for Uganda. I tried to talk him out of it but he won’t listen.”

Irene laughed, reaching to kiss her child’s cheek. “Good for you, Jericho. The experience will be good for you.”

“For heaven’s sake, Irene. He’s going to the jungles of Africa!”

The woman shrugged. “Oh, please! Would you have preferred he choose Iraq or Israel, instead? Maybe Bosnia? I’m sure his services are just as needed there.”

Elijah tossed up his hands in exasperation. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m on the side of all those children who will benefit from our son’s altruism. You should think about going yourself. Get back to your Peace Corps days.”

“I was never in the Peace Corps,” the man responded.

“You should have been,” she said matter-of-factly, her gaze penetrating his.

Crossing his arms over his chest the man smiled, shaking his head from side to side. “Well, I’m too old to be volunteering in the field now. But I do my part every time I sign one of those large donation checks you keep writing.”

Jericho chuckled. “You’re never too old to give back, Dad.”

Irene winked at her son. “That’s right. You tell him, baby boy. So, when do you leave?” she asked, leaning her back against her husband’s chest as he wrapped the length of his arms around her.

“I’ll be flying out the first week in April,” Jericho answered, his gaze dancing from his mother’s face to his father’s. “I have some time before I have to leave.”

The couple nodded, one shifting comfortably against the other. Jericho smiled, warmed by their presence. Irene and Elijah Becton were the pillars in his life, his own personal fan club and cheering squad. Although Jericho understood the adversity the duo had faced being a white male and black female during an era of heightened racial tensions, the two had built a solid relationship on a foundation of mutual respect, passion and pure love. Jericho yearned for what his parents shared—constant companionship with that one person who touched your soul and held the key to your heart. He sighed, and the wistful gesture was not lost on his mother.

“That’s good,” she said, a smile widening across her ebony face. “I’ve volunteered you for one of my fund-raisers at the end of the month.”

Elijah laughed, giving his wife a quick hug before moving back behind his desk and taking a seat against the leather chair. “You’re in for it now, son.”

Irene fanned a hand at the man and sucked her teeth. “Ignore your father. This will be fun. My women’s group is hosting a bachelor auction and I’ve put you on the program. You’ll need to decide what your date package will be, or of course, I can plan it for you, if you like.”

Elijah roared with laughter, wiping at the moisture that rose to his eyes. “Which means she’s already planned it for you. I told you, son,” he muttered between chuckles. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Wide-eyed, Jericho shook his head from side to side. “A bachelor auction? I don’t think so, Mom. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, and you will. It’s for a good cause. We’re gifting the money we raise to the hospital for pediatric cancer research. So, you have to do it. Besides, this will give you an opportunity to meet some very nice women.”

Jericho sighed, a look of defeat gracing his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And you need to get your hair cut,” his mother said, running her hands through the excessive length of her son’s locks.

Jericho bristled. “Never,” he said emphatically, shaking the jet-black strands that fell in a gentle wave against his skull. “I don’t have any need to cut my hair, so please don’t ask.”

Irene rolled her eyes, nodding her head at her husband. “You need to talk to your son.”

The man shook his head. “Oh, now he’s my son. My son needs a haircut. Your son gets to parade around like a side of beef for the cause. You’ve got some nerve, woman!”

Jericho’s mother laughed. “It’s for a good cause and you never know. Our son might meet a nice girl, and we might get grandchildren out of the deal.”

The morning staff meeting had gone well, and when Reverend Edward Warren gestured toward Talisa, asking to speak with her privately, she was surprised. It was rare that the minister ever had anything to say to her that he couldn’t say in front of them all.

Mrs. Stevie Parrish, the student activities director for the Wesley Foundation and Johanna Bower, the administrative assistant, both watched curiously as Talisa followed Reverend Warren into his office, the man closing the door behind them.

Reverend Warren took a seat in one of the two oversized recliners that decorated his office, pointing a finger toward the other.

“Make yourself comfortable, Talisa,” the man said, smiling at her warmly. “How have you been feeling?”

“I’m doing very well, sir. Fully recovered.”