Holiday Kisses

She didn’t know what to make of his unceremonious goodbye. She dialed Noreen’s phone number. “Hi. Do you have any coffee over there?”

“Just put on a fresh pot. Come over. I made some buttermilk biscuits, and they’re great with jam and margarine. I don’t use butter. It clogs up my arteries.”

“Be over in five minutes.” She washed her hands, put on a pair of loafers, put the figs she bought the day before in a bag and went to Noreen’s house, where she found the door unlocked. She liked that house. Although the design duplicated her own town house, Noreen had used pastel paint and large colorful paintings on two of the living room walls and one dining room wall, making the house uniquely hers. Kisha strolled through the hallway to the kitchen.

“We can have it on the deck,” Noreen said. “I had dreams of sitting out there in my negligee on Sunday mornings eating fancy breakfasts of imported cheeses, champagne and such with my darling husband. But what he wanted on Sunday mornings didn’t have a thing to do with food. Same old routine week in and week out, day in and day out, in bed and out of it. Looking back, I wonder why the hell I didn’t get bored with him.

“I was relieved when he finally didn’t want to take me to bed the minute he got in the house, but that was because I didn’t know he’d just gotten out of bed with some chick and didn’t have any energy left. I’m prepared to talk about something else. Thinking of him depresses me.”

“You said you’re over him. What I can’t understand is how two people can think they want to sleep in the same bed, eat at the same table, share children, money, bills, vacation, television, radio and everything else for as long as they live, and then something happens and they get over it. Or nothing happens and one of them falls for somebody else. Thinking about it just reinforces my intention to avoid involvements.”

Noreen poured the coffee into mugs, put the mugs along with the figs, biscuits, jam and margarine on a tray and went out on the deck. Kisha followed her with plates, spoons and knives.

“It’s not as simple as you put it, Kisha. If you care enough for a man to marry him and take those vows, and he cares the same for you, it should work. I say should, but here’s the caveat. Both of you have to be fully, I mean totally committed to your spouse and to the marriage. The hot stuff doesn’t last, but love should deepen. If you can’t be friends with a man, don’t marry him. A lot of women and men follow where that itch leads them, but a smart person will realize that an itch is just an itch and feels the same no matter who scratches it.

“Good sex is essential, but alone, it’s not a good basis for marriage. Some men and some women are ready to cut and run at the first sign of a problem. They’re not committed to the marriage. When bills make you choose between paying the mortgage and having the drainage system overhauled, or when one of you wants to save for a down payment on a house and the other wants a European vacation or a mink coat, that’s when the rubber hits the road. One of you is going to decide to be sensible and see the light or both of you are going to be miserable. Then, when you look at each other, you don’t see a lover but an adversary.”

Kisha sipped her coffee. She wouldn’t have guessed that Noreen King had such depth. “Would you marry again?”

“I’d be more careful, and my feelings about what I want and need in a man have changed, but yes. Given the right conditions, I would. Were you talking with a prospect a few minutes ago?”

“I don’t know. I met him recently, and I don’t know anything about him except where he works and what he’s told me.”

“What’s his name?” Kisha told her. “Sounds famil…Not that handsome stud who serves up the news at five o’clock on Channel 6.”

Kisha cleared her throat, half-afraid of Noreen’s reaction to her answer. “I don’t know whether he’s a stud, but he was the five o’clock anchor for Channel 6. Now, he’s on at six o’clock.”

“Then that’s him. Honey, I’d run from a man who looks like that brother. How could he be single, or if he is still single, is he straight?”

She had wondered the same, but she didn’t articulate it then. “I went to dinner with him, and he was the epitome of a gentleman.”

“Yeah? Cool as he is, I’m not sure his being a perfect gentleman would’ve cut any ice with me. That guy’s a honey. I hear tell he sponsors a program that gives kids free guitar and piano lessons, and he helped build a playground in South Baltimore right where a hideous trash and garbage dump used to be. He does his civic duty, but…he sure lays it out there on his newscast. Girl, he’s big-time.”

“Where did you see him? In person, I mean.”

“He’s been the emcee at a bunch of galas, fund-raisers, awards ceremonies and heaven knows what else. That guy’s a big name around here. You say Craig Jackson, and even the kids know who you’re talking about. You new in town, but you’ll learn.”

“Interesting. We’ll see.” She went home later with plenty to think about. She hadn’t learned anything uncomplimentary about Craig, but she wasn’t sure that she could keep up with a man who had such a public life. On the other hand, she had decided that she wanted him, and that was that. He’d said she was reckless. Maybe, but in his case, she didn’t think she was taking too big a chance. She knew a man when she saw one, and Craig Jackson defined the gender.

That evening, as she sat with Noreen at a table in Red Maple enjoying the floor show, memories of Craig flashed through her mind while she looked at couples dancing and playing the age-old male-female games.

“Would you like to dance?”

She looked up at the neatly dressed man, extended her hand to him and stood. “You looked about as lonely as I feel,” he said. “Otherwise I would never have gotten the nerve to ask you to dance. My name is Josh.”

“Mine’s Kisha. How are you, Josh?”

“Pretty good. I just moved here from Lake Charles, New York, and somebody told me that nice folks come to the Red Maple. Meeting people in this place is easy, but getting to know them is practically impossible. I won’t ask if you have a guy, because that would be silly. Where is he tonight?”

“I’m helping my neighbor celebrate her new job after a year out of work,” she said, hoping to steer the conversation away from personal issues.

“I’m glad for her. That’s why I’m in Baltimore. My company moved down here, and I had a choice of moving or looking for another job.”

The music ended, and he walked with her to her table. “Thanks, Kisha, for a real nice dance.”

“Thank you, Josh. I hope you find your niche here.”

“I told you you’d get a guy,” Noreen said. “The place is full of men.”

“Yeah, and one of them finally asked me to dance,” Kisha said drily. “How’s it going with the guy you’ve been dancing with?”

“He’s pleasant, but the poor guy’s looking for a fast one, and that is not my style. Ready to go when you are.”

“That was fun, Noreen,” Kisha said when they got home. “Good night.”

“And thank you for being my friend, Kisha. That’s the first time I’ve been out in a year. It was wonderful. Good night.”

Kisha went inside and plodded up the stairs to her bedroom. Being alone was getting to her, but until she met Craig Jackson, she had enjoyed it. She should either go after what she wanted or forget about him and get on with her life. But how did one go after the hottest, most eligible man in town?

When Craig woke the next morning, he was not having misgivings about Kisha, his problem was himself. He had asked her to dinner on an impulse. But he suspected that he’d wanted subconsciously to do that from the day she mended his tooth.

He went to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face, donned a robe and headed downstairs for a cup of coffee. “I shouldn’t make phone calls before noon,” he said to himself with a derisive jab at his own ego. After pouring a little milk into the coffee, he took a few swallows and dumped the remainder into the sink. Leaning against the kitchen table, he happened to look at his hands, turned them over and examined his palms. He’d once played the violin, carved beautiful images and been fairly good at sketching. What had he done with his artistic talents? He’d let all of them fall by the way while he raced to be the next Walter Cronkite.

He’d gotten so used to ignoring his feelings and needs that he failed to appreciate the attractiveness of a woman who had precisely the traits he admired in the opposite sex. And he gave his subconscious a flogging when it led him to do what was reasonable and perhaps in his interest. Instead of being annoyed at himself for having invited Kisha to the River Restaurant, he decided to look forward to it and see if he enjoyed her company as much as he had during their evening at Roy’s. It was time to lead a fuller life, but that didn’t mean he’d put anything ahead of his goal to have a network-level job within a year. For him, change would not be a simple matter, and he knew it.

Women of all ages had pursued him ever since his voice changed when he was thirteen years old. Fortunately for him, his father had pounded it into his head that what came easily went just as fast. “Easy come, Craig, easy go,” he’d said. He couldn’t count the times his father had lectured to him about the travails of a man who, having spent his life trading on a face that was his only virtue, reached the age of wrinkles, thinning hair and sagging jowls and discovered that he had nothing. He had never wished he wasn’t handsome, because his face opened doors for him. But he’d worked hard to justify his good fortune, to accomplish something meaningful that would enable him to help others. From childhood, he had wanted to earn respect by stature and deed, and not by the length of his eyelashes, or by the achievements of his father.

Nothing pleased him more than the fact that Kisha seemed to like him for himself. She’d soon learn more about him, and she might not like what she learned, but he’d take that chance. They needed to talk. She agreed to go out with him for the second time, but neither had asked the other that most important question. She hadn’t asked him if he was married. And she had the trappings of a single woman, but he also had to be sure.

He rushed to answer the house phone when it rang. “Hi, Mom. How are you, and how’s Dad?” He always asked that question.

“We’re fine. We’re having a rather heated argument about the Dred Scott Decision. He says Roger Taney was chief justice when he wrote the majority opinion that blacks, whether slave or free, were not and never could be citizens of the United States, and that an angry Lincoln retaliated with the Emancipation Proclamation. Is he right? I thought John Marshall was chief justice at the time, but that Taney wrote the majority opinion.”

He had to laugh. “Mom, not even a college law professor would argue with Dad about Supreme Court decisions. Remember he’s argued cases before the Supreme Court, and he’s correct, but I give you credit for guts. Taney succeeded Marshall as chief justice, and he was chief justice when he wrote that opinion.”

“You lawyers always gang up on me, but remember more people need doctors than lawyers…or journalists.”

He imagined that she shook her finger at him. “Go hug Dad and tell him that he’s right as usual.”

If he could have the kind of relationship with a woman that his parents had shared for as long as he’d known them, he shouldn’t ask for anything more, including a network news job. But he knew himself, and he’d never give up his dream.

He didn’t question why he thought of Kisha just then as if she were the one, because he knew himself and his responses to women. She could be if their relationship developed. Hampered by the worst pain he’d ever experienced, he opened his eyes, imagined looking up at her and felt a charge all the way from his head to his toes.

Kisha didn’t question the reason for the casual phone call she received from Craig. It was as if he’d phoned her so that she wouldn’t forget about him. But she would be patient, and when he made a move—as he surely would—she’d be ready. His call had come the previous morning around eight o’clock. When she got to know him better, she was going to ask him what time he usually awakened. She’d bet good money that he woke up around seven o’clock and called her before he got out of bed.

She got up a little later than usual that Sunday morning, too late for church, so she stuck her hand outside the front door, and picked up the Sunday newspaper. She thought of Craig, and his love of fresh coffee floated through her mind while she sat on the kitchen stool waiting for hers to percolate. She wondered why he didn’t buy a percolator and learn to use it. After toasting a bagel and spreading margarine and apricot jam on it, she ate what passed for breakfast, drank a cup of coffee and headed back upstairs. Unsettled, and at a loss as to why, she’d decided to go to the museum and read the paper later.

Dressed in dark blue stretch jeans, a red-cashmere turtleneck sweater, a knee-length gray storm jacket and a pair of Reebok shoes she covered her hair with a red knitted cap and headed for the Baltimore Museum of Art. She frequented the museum as much to study as to enjoy the work of great artists, and she especially enjoyed going there on Sunday afternoons. On her way to the European collection, she glimpsed paintings by Jacob Lawrence, a noted African-American, and turned into that hall. For more than an hour, she let her eyes feast on the works of Lawrence, Joshua Johnson, Horace Pippin, Henry Tanner and other African-American painters.

As she left that hall, she bumped into a hard, moving object and would have fallen backward if a hand hadn’t grabbed her and steadied her on her feet.

“Well, I’ll be damned. I nearly killed you, Kisha, for goodness’ sake. I’m so sorry.”

She couldn’t say whether it was his weight or the excitement of seeing him unexpectedly that had knocked her out of sorts. “Craig, you must weigh a ton.”

“Well, not quite. Two hundred pounds is more like it.”

She flexed her arms to be sure she still had both of them. “Two hundred moving pounds is a heck of a lot of power.”

He stepped closer to her and grasped her with both hands. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine, if I can ever breathe normally again. Don’t tell me you like to hang out in museums, too.”

“I like museums, but I’m working on a story about the museum’s relationship to the community, and I came here to observe the free Family Sundays hands-on workshop. This particular program is unusually creative. I’ll be reporting on it in a segment of an upcoming newscast. Are you heading any where special after you leave here?”

Seconds before she opened her mouth to say yes, she was busy, she remembered her resolve to either get things going with him or to forget about him. So she said, “What did you have in mind?”

Craig stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, looked down at her and grinned. “It’s a wonder I recognized you.” As discombobulated as Kisha, he stared at her for a minute. “Look. Could we go somewhere for coffee or a drink?” he asked her, more as a gentlemanly gesture—he assured himself—than as a means of appeasing his ever-growing attraction to her. “I…uh…it would be nice if we could spend a little time together.”

“It would be nice, but you’ve got on a business suit and tie, and I’m dressed for the supermarket.”

“You look great to me. We don’t have to go to the snazziest place in town. What about the Barbecue Pit. It’s practically empty on Sunday afternoons.”

“I…All right.”

He took her hand as they walked down the steps. “It’s not too far from here, so we can walk. My car is closer to the restaurant than it is to the museum.” He hoped that she wouldn’t attach too much significance to such a casual invitation, but the woman was not stupid, and she could figure out a man’s motives from his behavior.

“Since I’m here,” he said when they had seated themselves, “I may as well have some barbecued ribs. I doubt I’ll ever get enough of them.”

“Excuse me a minute, please.” She left and a few minutes later returned with her knitted cap in her hand and her hair swinging around her shoulders.

“I was wondering if I was going to get used to your little-girl look,” he said. “What would you like?”

“You’ve influenced me. I’ll have barbecued ribs, a biscuit and coffee.”

“So you like art, Kisha. That says a lot about you. Do you see it as beauty or as a technical achievement?”

“Both.” She described what it expressed to her. “It’s like the Empire State Building reigning over the skies of mid-Manhattan, or a sleek airplane speeding through the clouds, or Joseph Addai streaking toward the goal line for the Colts.”

“You’re a football fan? What other sports do you like?”

“Tennis. I’m a tennis freak. I play fairly well, but I can watch it for hours, even on television. It’s universal. My favorite recreational things to do are visiting art galleries, traveling overseas, reading and tennis.”

He shook his head in wonder. “I’d put travel first, and if you added water sports, we’d be on the same page. Where have you traveled?”

“Most of Western Europe. One of my fondest memories is being nineteen in Paris and subsisting on bread, cheese and water. When I got back home, I didn’t want to see any cheese or bread. I wouldn’t have drunk water if I could have lived without it.”

“It’s amazing, Kisha, how much we have in common. I lived like that in Paris, Rome, Spain and Copenhagen. I slept on the street, in doorways, churches, you name it, and when I got back home, I was ready to do it all over again. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.” They talked about their experiences, shared moments of joy and adventure. He realized that they had talked for hours when he noticed that the restaurant was full of patrons. A look at his watch told him that it was a quarter of seven and time for dinner.

“It’s dinnertime, Kisha. I’m not hungry, but we can eat dinner if this place suits you.”

“I’m not hungry enough for dinner. Let’s go somewhere and get a great dessert.”

“Girl after my own heart. How about a huge warm peach cobbler topped with two scoops of vanilla ice cream?” Her smile of approval made him feel like a king.

When he took her home almost two hours later, he wanted more than he knew he would get, but his mind told him that, in Kisha’s case, less was more. And while he stood in her foyer staring down at her, seeing what he knew he wanted, he made up his mind to get her. But he merely took her hand, kissed the back of it and left her.

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