Pieces of Dreams

“At least a week. It’s a business trip.”

“Really? I can get you a good rate.” She keyed in some more information. “What kind of business are you in?”

“Web design and computer installation and maintenance.”

“That must keep you busy.”

“Very.” I smiled. “As a matter of fact, this trip is to close a deal with one of the first big clients we’ve had.”

“Congratulations. I hope everything works out for you.”

She continued to type in the information. “Can I arrange for hotel, or car rental?”

“No. The people we’re going to see are taking care of that.”

She smiled again, and I thought my heart had stood still.

“Aren’t you lucky?”

“We’ve worked hard. It’s been a struggle but things are finally coming together.”

She leaned back a bit and looked at me. “I know the feeling.” Her eyes roamed the space. “There were days when I first opened the agency that I thought I’d made a major mistake. But it was my dream, and I was determined to make it work.”

I nodded, experiencing the same thought myself on too many occasions. If not for CJ convincing me to hang in there, I might have given up. Who did she have to cheer her on?

“You’re not from here,” I said after a moment, the rapid pronunciation of her words finally settling in.

“New York. I’ve been here about four years.”

“No kidding? I visited there a couple of times. Tough city.”

“That it is,” she said in what sounded like a faraway voice.

“Miss it?”

“At times.”

She looked away then, but not before I caught the flicker of some painful shadow in her eyes. Her open demeanor seemed to shut down, her body tense every so slightly. I was pretty good at reading body language. That said more to me than anything that came out of folks’ mouths, which was generally whatever they wanted you to believe. But the body—now, that didn’t lie—and Maxine’s body was speaking all the words her lips refused to say. There was a history in New York, one which she’d chosen to put behind her, or so she thought.

She cleared her throat. “How will you be paying for your ticket—cash or charge?” she asked, now all business, the easy banter of moments ago gone in a key stroke.

“Charge. Visa.” I reached into my back pocket, a bad habit, and pulled out my wallet. I handed her my credit card.

“What’s the last name of the other party, your partner?”

“Jackson. Calvin Jackson.”

She processed the card without another word and handed it back. Moments later my tickets were printed out.

“Here you are.”

She smiled, but the sparkle was gone from her eyes. I wanted to ask her what was wrong. Was it something I’d said? But some instinct told me to leave it alone.

And then all of a sudden she looked at me, her eyes glistening as if she were about to cry.

“You ever wish you could go back and do something over?” she asked, suddenly. “Something you’d really screwed up, something that maybe if you’d said something, had done something, everything would have been different?”

I wasn’t sure where the question had come from, or where the conversation was heading, but I could see that this was no out of the blue inquiry that could be tossed off with some pat response. She really wanted—needed—an answer. A truthful one.

I thought about it for a moment. Yeah, there were definitely some episodes in my life that I’d like to go back and fix. Like the fact that I didn’t know who my family was, or that the one woman who I’d finally given my heart to, Karen Long, had gotten rid of our baby that she’d carried.

“How can I have a baby from a man who doesn’t even know who he is? Suppose there are some maniac genes or something in your family?” she’d said, as if she’d done nothing more than take out the garbage. Humph, garbage.

But maybe she was right. I didn’t know and had no way to prove otherwise. For as long as I lived I’d never be more than one big question mark.

That was almost six years ago, but the revelation took its toll. From that day on, I never looked at relationships with women, family, or myself the same way. And I believed there was a part of me that would never be whole. How could I offer myself to anyone when I didn’t know who I really was?

“Yes,” I finally answered, “but you can’t go back. All you can do is deal with the reality, make the best of it, and move on.”

She looked at me, wide-eyed and hopeful, and a place inside of me seemed to shift, crack open. I almost heard the hinges creak from lack of use. A part of me that had been dead—stirred, struggling for resurrection. But everything I was, had been, had ever been dealt, beat it back down.

Shoving the tickets into my shirt pocket, I stood. “Thank you for all you help. Sorry to have kept you. I’m sure there must be a family to go home to.”

She hesitated a moment. “No. Just me.”

Her answer pulled me up short. I couldn’t imagine a woman like Maxine not having something waiting for her to walk through the door.

I slung my hands into my pants pockets, and for the life of me, right up to today, I don’t know where the next words that fell out of my mouth came from.

“Hey, since, I kept you—if you don’t have any plans—maybe we can go for a quick bite to eat.”

She smiled, not a come-on smile or anything, but sort of shy and unsure.

“That’s really nice of you, but I don’t think so. Thank you, anyway.”

I shrugged. “Hey, no problem. Just a thought. Thanks for your help.” I turned to leave.

“Maybe some other time.” It was more of a question than a statement, halting me midstride, cast out like bait on a hook.

I turned back around, and there was that half-smile again.

I nodded. “Cool. Some other time, then. Maybe when I get back from Atlanta.”

“Okay.”

“Take care, Maxine.”

“You, too.”