4. Alex
Alex
The phone disconnects, and I am left with the overwhelming feeling of anticipation.
Tonight I get to see her. Tonight, I get to know if the spark I felt between us could be something real.
I should go to sleep so I can be in the best shape for our date, but the urge to paint her has me walking into my studio.
Everywhere in my home, boxes sit waiting to be unpacked, but on Day One, I set up the easel and supplies.
I slide a clean canvas on and step back to look at it for inspiration.
I could do just her face, exactly as I remember it. But with the fact that she has a body meant for a Renaissance painting, it would be unjust to leave that out.
It would be amazing to paint her naked one day. Flowing cream fabric wrapped around her mahogany skin. Full and rolling belly sitting perched under her enormous chest. She would sit for me and be the muse to my creation, centered around her beauty.
Grabbing a piece of charcoal, I trace out the shape of her as well as I can remember it.
It’s her face that will be the hardest to nail.
Her round cheeks and plump mouth are easy to recall.
As is the almond shape of her eyes. But the way her chin sits, or the shape of her forehead, is hazy in my memory.
With an outline complete, I pick out the colors I will need and begin.
Lost in the process of strokes becoming art, I focus on the steady movement of my hand. It won’t be something I can complete today, but even with the little amount I can do, I find the peace that painting gives me.
The stress of tomorrow fades away as my mind focuses on keeping steady. I always lose myself in this. The only time I am not Alexander Whitmore, but just Alex. Just me. Only rewarded for what I can create using my two hands. Only judged by what I do alone.
I get to break apart my feelings and watch as the pieces come together as art. I get so involved in moving through the freedom that painting gives me that I don’t hear the door opening until it’s too late.
“My god, Alexander, what is that?”
I stop at the sound of my mother’s voice ringing clearly out into the room.
Without even looking at her, I know that disapproval is etched into her maintained face, ruining the effects of her Botox.
The unfinished work that shows a plus-sized Black woman lounging in a chaise is not exactly what she would consider art, and the shrillness in her voice makes that evidently clear.
Putting the brush down, I turn and face whatever she has to say.
“Hello, mother.” Wiping my hands on my apron does little to clear the sin of me enjoying myself, but it gives me time to gather my thoughts. While I do, she steps into the room and stares at what I have completed.
“Why are you painting that?” She says the words like I have killed her firstborn child and used its blood to create the piece she clearly abhors. Not that she would actually care if someone did that, but this is the level of panic that laces her tone.
Blocking the canvas with my body, I hope that looking at only me will stop the thoughts already maligning her mind.
“Do you want tea?” I ignore her question and urge her towards the kitchen, not ready to discuss the reason behind the image.
If, for a second, she thinks I’m painting a picture of someone I am considering a future with, she will destroy it with all the gusto she would love to rain down on the woman herself.
“Of course I want tea,” she says, trying to look at the image once more, before turning her analyzing glare on me.
My hand guides her out of the room and deposits her on one of my island stools.
Her dissatisfaction with the state of my place is palpable in the air while I rush to clean myself off.
Having hoped that I would be able to keep her away until I was at least unpacked, I prepare to deal with the backlash of her seeing it as is.
“Earl Grey?” I ask, grabbing the kettle.
She stares around the room, as if searching for something, before turning her brown eyes on me.
“Where is your staff?” She throws her hands out, like I will place them in her palms and show her that they exist.
Delilah Whitmore is accustomed to having at least three people at her beck and call at all times. The idea that I would live without the help of others is a foreign concept not easily understandable to her.
“I haven’t had time to hire anyone yet.” I lie, leaving the conversation for another time. If she is here now, there is already so much for us to argue about without adding that to the list.
Seemingly unsatisfied with my answer, she gives me a plain look.
“Well, even more reason for you to find a wife. Clearly, you can’t manage your own household. I mean, look at it.”
So here is the excuse for her arrival. Yet another conversation about the state of my marital status.
I disregard the jab, focusing on making the tea to her liking.
I learned how she took it young, in an attempt to please her.
Just one of the ways I molded myself to try to fit into her life.
While she had all the need for a son, she had no want of a child.
Not until I was an adult, at least. I am still trying to unbend the parts of myself I folded to fit in her image, tired of the pain it causes me to exist in that unnatural state.
I place the cup in front of her, and she takes a sip. I know better than to offer her food she won’t eat, so instead I slide into the seat next to her.
“Elizabeth Blackmore saw me at church this morning and told me she met my delightful son.”
I try to keep my eyes looking at her as I fight the urge to roll them.
“I told her she must have you mistaken with someone else if that is the word she is using to describe you.” While cruel, I have to admit she can also be funny.
I wait for her to get to the point, my lips pulling up.
“She seems quite taken with you all the same, and I think you should act on that.”
“I’m seeing someone.” I try to shut down the conversation before it gets started.
Instead, I open up the door holding all of my mother’s emotions.
She looks offended, perplexed, and excited all in one breath.
Her brows don’t know whether to bend or rise as her mouth puckers.
She combs her fingers through her blonde bob, pushing the hair out of her face.
“Who are they? Alexander, I’d better know their family.”
The “or else” hangs heavy in the air, waiting for me to acknowledge the threat.
There is very little she has left to hold over my head, other than her love, which she never freely gives. Unfortunately for her, I have become accustomed to living without it.
“If it becomes something, I will let you meet her.” For the third time, I have sidestepped her question, answering in the way I see fit.
This doesn’t go without her notice. She pats her hands together in an effort not to wring my neck. Lord only knows what she will do if she learns I have no intention of her ever meeting Chanice. Not unless it is on our wedding day, and my mother’s invitation to that is precarious.
Last thing either one of us needs is for Chanice to be subjected to her critiques, and she would have plenty to say.
“Well, if you are just seeing this person, you can also see Elizabeth.” She takes another sip of her tea.
I raise one eyebrow in mirrored comparison to her own as we stare each other down.
The stubbornness I inherited from her has me refusing to look away.
Having had years to master it, she holds my gaze with relentless determination.
When it’s clear I won’t get out of this entirely, I shift my focus to my hands.
“I’ll go on one date with Elizabeth.” She pats my leg in victory. “If you call your daughter.”
Instantly, her joy melts from her face, lines of frustration taking over. The reason I am still in her life surfaces as I do what I promised my sister I would.
“I have nothing to say to her.” She moves the cup away, signaling that she is done with both it and the conversation.
I don’t give in this time. “She’s pregnant.”
I hope this is enough to persuade her to concede without a fight. After all, becoming a grandmother is an honor most women look forward to.
She shakes her head, making it clear that this rite of passage is not as important to her. The only grandchild she will likely care about is the one who will take the business from me. Just like she only cared about having a son to take it from my father.
“She made her choice.” She smooths out the nonexistent lines in her skirt, now refusing to look at me.
“Please, Mother.” I lift her chin with my fingers, forcing her to make eye contact.
I should know better than to think emotions will move her, but I still force all my desire into my eyes, hoping she feels it.
“Three dates,” she counters, seeing my want for weakness.
The breath that pushes out of my mouth has years of disappointment in it. She doesn’t hear it; instead interpreting it as another win.
“I only want what’s best for you, Alexander.
” In some twisted, perverse way, this is sometimes true.
Like when she fought with my father to let me go travel before taking over the company.
Or cultivated my sister’s passion for languages with classes they took together.
Sometimes she does really try to show us that she cares.
“I know that, Mother.”
Standing up, she grabs her purse from off the couch where she left it. “I will text you her number.” Making her way back towards the stairs, these are her parting words.
Her presence has dampened my mood enough that the tiredness slips to the forefront. Heading to my bed, I comfort myself with the knowledge that at least tonight I will get to do what I want. It lulls me into an easy sleep.