Control

HERE IS WHAT I remember: It was dark by the time we arrived back at Chelsea after our visit to New York. My eyes felt filled with sand. I had never been so tired. Jana chatted manically with the boys all the way home, but I could not muster a word. I found myself looking over at her a great deal, however, noting the quick, light movements of her hands, the smooth, buttery sound of her voice. She never returned or acknowledged my gaze. I wanted to lay my head down on the steering wheel and weep. But instead I kept my eyes fastened to the road. I felt only relief as we pulled into the parking lot.

The boys seemed tired, too, Rashid especially so. He was the last to disembark. Jana got down out of the van to take his crutches and help him out, and he held on to her shoulder like an old man. She gave him a long hug after he got out and murmured, “You get some rest now. I really enjoyed meeting your parents, Rashid.”

“Thanks,” he said, wholly unembarrassed by her embrace. To me he said only, “Later, Mr. W” Then he swung away down the path after Sean and Gerald, their figures ghostly in the glow cast by the parking lot’s streetlights. Jana watched them go for a few moments as well, then turned to me. Her eyes were blazing. I was still sitting in the van but had moved to the passenger seat to come out her side. She was standing outside of it.

“What the hell are you playing at?” she said.

The vagueness and fatigue I had felt all day suddenly vanished. I matched her furious tone. “I simply said what I believe. I am not going to lie to the boy’s parents.”

“Lie? Lie! You were vicious. I cannot even believe you. You could have offered those people one kind word. You were like … I don’t know, like some kind of zombie.”

“I see nothing so vicious about speaking the truth.”

“My God, Jerome. You … I don’t even know what to say.”

I climbed out of the driver’s seat so that I stood near enough to touch her. I reached for her, wanting to rest my hand on her shoulder, but she backed away. “No. No. Not anymore,” she said. “I have to go.” She turned and walked away.

And here is what I remember: When I kissed her in the doorway of her apartment that night we were together, her hair fell over my hands like so much gossamer. She made a soft, slightly despairing moan as my mouth met hers. I could feel the edge of a bra strap cutting into her back, the silk smoothness of her dress, a little damp from sweat against her skin, and under it a vague smell of honey; the slightly chapped texture of her lips. “Man does not want to have desires … Whether we like it or not, we have them; whether we like it or not they tickle us, caress us, excite us … they press upon us until they are extinguished.” St. Augustine said that. Until they are extinguished. When does that happen? When?