Randall’s voice is unmistakable, although Lena can’t decide if it’s because of the error or his fatigue. “I had to postpone my return. So, I’ll be home Tuesday night instead of Sunday. The limo service will pick me up.”
Lena winces. The next photography class is Tuesday night. “Other than that, what’s it like over there?” Her intention is not to trivialize his return. What’s it like over there? Stupid. Maybe the connection will soften her words, soften him.
“Hong Kong is just another big city with signs I can’t read. I can’t wait to meet up with Charles. I hear Bali is beautiful.” When Randall found out Charles would be in Bali at the same time he was in Hong Kong, he took his best friend up on his suggestion to tag on a short vacation at the end of his trip. Randall snickers and yawns again. “You’d love it—except, of course, for the spiders.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Through the window, thin fog curls like smoke in the cone of light under the street lamp. The wind carries the sound of a train whistle, and Lena is astonished at how the warbled echo travels from the station five miles below and beyond their house. “There was a big black spider on your pillow the other day.” She flinches with the recollection and glances around the room.
The silence between them is so loud that Lena taps the handset to see if they are still connected.
“I’m ten thousand miles away, Lena, with more on my mind to worry about than a little spider.”
“I’m sorry… I know you’re busy.”
“Call the exterminator. Have him spray outside the house, the windows, and the attic. That should take care of it.”
“Do you think it was some kind of omen?” Some kind of omen that means the opposite of wealth and good luck, she wonders.
“It was a spider, Lena. I’m my own omen—I make the shit happen.” Randall laughs. Not the hearty laugh that brushed her cheek those Sunday mornings they used to sleep in, nestled eye to eye, full of gossip and plans for what they will do—play poker, visit Tahiti, romp in the sand in the south of France—when Randall retires. His laugh is cool and distant; the one reserved for clients, the one that makes him appear noncommittal, more than competent. Controlled. “Have you made any decisions?”
“Decisions?”
“You heard me. I won’t put my life on hold until you figure out how good you’ve got it.”
Months after his promotion, in a trendy San Francisco restaurant, Randall spoke to Lena of how being the only black man in the inner circle, where no one made less than a seven-figure salary, made him watch his every step. The double stress plagued black men, he told her, especially where the fraternity of black power brokers was limited and fragile.
“Success is a game—aka the black man’s burden—act white, fight white to get to the top. Then fight, any way you can, to prove that you deserve to be there.”
Lena watched Randall, with barely a blink or a breath, while he described, not for the first time, the need to fight stereotypes that could turn a black man into something less than whole and accusations that lacked substance: forgetting where one came from and selling out; smart but not smart enough, the expectation of failure. The pressure he felt from all sides was palpable, but he remained determined to do whatever it took to be successful.
At the next table, a man held a match to his cigar and puffed madly until the chubby stick of tobacco caught the flame. Lena inhaled the strong, bitter scent that reminded her of Saturday night chats with John Henry when she was a teen, reminded her of the puffs he let her take when Lulu wasn’t watching.
“I won’t be around as much as I’d like. I know how much you do. And I appreciate it.” Randall took a slender, black box from his jacket, slid it across the table, and opened it. Couples to the left and right stared when Lena gasped at the large, radiant yellow diamond attached to a delicate, narrow platinum chain. The stone glistened in the candlelight in that way that only a clear diamond can. Randall stepped behind Lena and fastened the necklace around her neck while the same couples applauded and asked if it was their anniversary or her birthday.
She turned and pressed her lips to his, the promise in her eyes of more than that to come. “Thank