Tag Archives: Jamal

Plaster of Paris; chapter nine, part one

“I suppose you’re wondering why I called this meeting,” Sandra says to me, smiling a brittle smile.  We are in her office, with the door closed, of course.  She is wearing a prissy white blouse buttoned up to her neck and beige pants, perfectly creased.  Today, her hair is scraped off her face and held back with a gallon of hairspray.  It does unfortunate things for her buck-toothed grin.

“Uh, sure.”  I have no clue, nor could I care less.  She could be giving me a raise or firing me for all I know.  I’m pretty sure it’s not the former, but it certainly might be the latter.

“Rayne, I know it’s been a hard time for you lately,” Sandra says with faux sympathy.  She leans forward, a semblance of concern lurking on her face.  “What with the, uh, incidences and all.  Because of your involvement in the, uh, events of the past few months, the administration has tried to cut you slack in your time of grief.”  She pauses expectantly, waiting for me to say something.

“Uh huh,” I say, not sure what it is she wants from me.  I have the distinct feeling she’s looking for thanks, which she’s not going to get.  “Hard time.”  I nod my head like an idiot, waiting for her next move.  Even though I had slept soundly after my nightmare, I am still bone-tired.

“Yes, a hard time.”  Christ, now she’s repeating me repeating her.  There has to be a point to this, but I’m not sure what it is.  “The thing is,” she pauses, fiddling with the cuff of her shirt.  She moves it a quarter of an inch down, then a quarter of an inch up.  When she has it to her satisfaction, she finally me square in the eyes.  “We’ve been having complaints about your work.  Paperwork not done on time; emails going unanswered—that sort of thing.”

“Who’s complaining?”  I ask idly; I don’t really care, but I’m curious to see if she will come up with anything more substantive.

“You know I can’t reveal that,” she says with a strained smile.  “Confidentiality and all.”

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Plaster of Paris; chapter six, part three

“It’s your turn to go in, Rayne,” Mrs. Jenson says softly.

I struggle to my feet and stagger into Paris’s room.  He hasn’t changed from the last time I saw him.  The officer guarding him must be getting used to the sight of me because he doesn’t bother to poke his head in, just angles his chair so he can see me if he needs to.  I sit in the chair by Paris’s bed and don’t say anything; I just watch him as his chest rises and falls.  Periodically, I touch him gently to let him know I’m there.  There are so many things I want to say, but can’t.  It all sounds so trite compared to what is happening to him.  Thanks for being my best friend, Paris.  Thanks for always being there.  Thanks for being there for me when my father died and for countless other times since when I would have been in deep trouble without you.  Thanks for helping me through the difficult last two months, and I’d do the same for you.  Thanks for the unconditional love.  How can I say any of that without sounding stupid?

I shift in my seat, trying not to notice how pale and terribly still Paris is.  I wish he would wake up so we could get him out of this room; I hate the thought of him being alone.  Paris is such a people person.  He detests being by himself except for the rare occasion when he needs to recharge his batteries.  It happens about once a month.  If I’m home, he’ll put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his door that he stole from a hotel, then lock himself in.  He’s always more centered and at peace when he emerges hours later, so I let him be.  He never talks about what he does when he’s in self-imposed solitude, but I assume it is some kind of mediation.  Even though Paris is not religious like his mother, he is highly spiritual.  I draw strength from him, and I am at a loss how to be the strong one now that he needs me.

“Paris, you have to wake up,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears.  “You can’t leave me.  I don’t want to wake up to a world without you in it.”  I stop, not wanting to lay a guilt trip on Paris, though I want him to know how much he’ll be missed if he dies.  “Remember how devastated I was when my father died?  I can’t go through that again.”  I am clutching the edge of the bed as well as his hand.  “I’m going to find out who did this to you, Paris, but it would sure help if you gave me a sign.”  I wait, but nothing.  Not even an involuntary twitch.  I close my eyes as the tears slip down my face.  I know it doesn’t help to cry, but I can’t stop.  I must be more tired than I think because I fall asleep.

Paris is smiling at me, and he’s whole.  Nothing is bruised, battered or broken.  He’s my beautiful boy as he always was.  Except for the gaping hole where his heart should be.  At first I don’t notice it because I’m drinking in the sight of him radiant.  When my eyes are drawn to the hole, I can’t stop staring.  We are outside, and there is greenery showing through that hole.  Suddenly, a face pops up behind the hole.  I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman, but s/he is grinning at me, though s/he’s missing an eye due to a bullet wound.  S/he waves at me before slowly crumpling to the ground.  To my horror, a gun drops from my hand to the ground as the hole in Paris’s heart shrinks until it’s completely gone.  Once that’s complete, he turns and walks away.  There is nothing behind him.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter four, part one

I wake up in a good mood which lasts until I arrive at work and answer the phone only to hear Inspector Robinson’s voice on the other end.  A phone call from the cops first thing in the morning, especially a Monday morning, especially a Monday morning at work, can really bring a person down.  She has a few more questions that she wants to ask me, she informs me in a brisk tone.  When I protest being disturbed at work, she points out that the alternative would be for me to come down to the precinct, which is precisely the last thing I want to do on my lunch break.  I hem and haw, but finally give in.  Even though I don’t want to be heard associating with the police, it’s the lesser evil which is exactly why the inspector brought up the point about me traipsing down to the precinct, I’m sure.

“When you and Mr. Frantz were outside, how long did you leave Ms. Bowers inside alone?”  Now that she has gotten what she wanted, the inspector can afford to be friendly so she warms up her tone a fraction.

“Um, five minutes?  No, probably longer than that.  Maybe ten.”  I tend to underestimate time, thinking less time has passed than actually has.

“And you’re positive that you left the bedroom after viewing the deceased before Mr. Frantz?”  She sounds as if she’s reading the questions off a list, which she probably is.

“I told you, I can’t be sure,” I say, lowering my voice.  I don’t want my boss to catch me talking on the phone to the police on company time.  “Look, I don’t meant to be difficult, but could we do this another time?  I’ll even come down to the station.”  I’ve changed my mind.  Anything is better than sweating it out over the phone, paranoid that one of my colleagues will overhear me.

“What a great idea.  Be sure to bring Mr. Frantz with you so you can both sign your statements as well, which, as you probably forgot, you were supposed to do yesterday.  Have a nice day, Ms. Liang.”  She hangs up before I can ask her where exactly is the station.  I suppose I’ll have to look it up on the internet.  I call Paris at home to relay the message, but he’s not there.

“Paris?  It’s me.  We have to go to the police station today to make our statements, and Inspector Robinson wants to talk to me.  Call me so we can—”

“Hello?  Rayne?”  It’s Paris.  I should have known he would be screening his calls.  He always does because he has too many complications in his love life to want to deal with them in person.  “What the fuck?”

“We were supposed to give our statements yesterday, remember?”  I am gloomy after talking to the esteemed Inspector Robinson.  She was all business on the phone, not at all how I imagined our next encounter would be.

“Damn it, I wish we were done with this!”  Paris says in disgust.

“Pick me up at four.  I’ll see you then.”  I am about to hang up the phone when I add, “Find out where the police station is while you’re at it.”  I figure since he’s not at work, it’d be more expedient for him to do it than for me.  We could probably walk if it’s in the Mission, but I’m not in the mood.

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Marital Duplicity; chapter four, part two

“Auntie!” Coral throws her arms around me and squeezes me hard. She’s still dressed in her black business suit, and I feel a flash of envy at her luxurious curls, which she inherited from my sister. Plus, she has a figure that makes grown men cry. “Come in, come in!”

“Auntie!” Michelle and Ing-wen (named for the First Lady and for the Taiwanese president, respectively. Ing-wen is called Ingrid by Americans), scream as they both tackle my knees. They are adorable, chubby, two-year-old twins with black curls and enormous brown eyes that tilt slightly at the edges. They have cocoa-colored skin that I could just eat up. They’re wearing matching jumpers, both dark blue, and they’re tugging at my hands. “Come play with us!”

“Girls, let Aunt Megan get in the house first.” Coral scolds her daughters, but lovingly. The girls back up and allow me to enter.

“Ms. Liang! Megan! So nice to see you. So sorry it’s for a sad reason.” Jamal Harrington fills the room as he enters. He’s a behemoth of a man, but all muscle. His dreads reach halfway down his back, and he fills his suit nicely. He also loves chess and has trounced me in it a few times.

“Good to see you again, Jamal.” I shake his hand before taking off my shoes. I follow the girls into the living room where they have two jigsaw puzzles for kids strewn across the floor. One is of kittens and one is of puppies. About half the pieces of each puzzle are filled in.

“Ooooh, I love puzzles!” I sit on the floor and study the pieces. Of course, I know where the pieces go, but I pretend to study them intently.

“Look!” Michelle picks up a piece and crams it into a space where it doesn’t belong.

“Not there, silly!” Ing-wen pries the piece out and puts it in the right place. Michelle immediately socks her in the arm, and Ing-wen starts crying.

“Girls.” Jamal folds his arms across his chest and looks sternly at his daughters. “We do not hit in this house.” This is directed at Michelle. “We also don’t make fun of others.” This is aimed at Ing-wen. Both girls mumble a ‘sorry’ before going back to their puzzles.

“Hey, girls. Does this piece go here?” I pick up a kitten piece and point at the puppy puzzle. Both girls burst into giggles, their spat forgotten.

“That’s not a puppy piece!” Michelle covers her mouth with her hand, but she can’t stop laughing.

“It’s a kitty piece!” Ing-wen claps her hand in glee.

“Oh, right! I think it goes here.” I make a great show of putting the piece in its right place before smiling at the girls. They smile back at me before returning to their puzzles. I look at them fondly, then see Jamal looking at me speculatively. Not in the, ‘I’d like to bed her way’, which would be flattering if not awkward, but in a ‘I’m not sure what to make of this woman’ kind of way. I’m pretty sure it has to do with the fact that I’m good with his girls, but I don’t have kids of my own. Maybe I’ll tell him why one day. Maybe. The doorbell rings, so Coral goes to answer it. I’m sure it’s my sister, so I keep playing with the girls.

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