What Comes After
She tried hard not to watch them. Tried hard not to notice the way they carried on with their constant fondling and caressing, a passionate heat always on full display. She told herself she would ignore them today, as she settled on the sofa to flip through the pages of her favorite cookbook. But her eyes kept drifting toward the louver window, her mind too curious to focus on finding a chicken casserole dish. Logic and curiosity warred within her as she tossed the book on the coffee table and wobbled across the room to catch a glimpse of them through the Venetian blinds before the sun went down.
They hung out in front of their seafoam green Buick convertible again this evening, grinding to the Motown tunes that seeped from the speakers, stealing kisses between swigs from their longneck beer bottles. Sasha propped her voluptuous body on top of the hood and pulled her loose curls into a ponytail, exposing a pink flying dragon tattoo on her cinnamon-kissed shoulder. She wrapped her long legs around Andre’s waist. He grabbed her hips and pulled her into him without missing a beat, his hands roaming over her body as if exploring her for the first time.
Valerie inched closer to the window. Her heartbeat quickened as she watched Andre’s lips graze Sasha’s collarbone until their mouths met with intensity, their tongues dancing in a wild and explosive rhythm. A song and dance she longed to remember.
“Those two going at it again?”
Valerie jumped at the sound of Harry’s voice behind her. She usually heard the wooden floors creak underneath his flat feet, but the warning sound went unnoticed today. She turned away from the window and redirected her attention to her romantic mystery collection on top of the bookcase, pretending to wipe the wooden shelf with a dry cloth as Harry moved closer to her.
She shrugged, her mind still fixated on the steamy scene happening right outside their front door. She couldn’t recall the last time Harry kissed her that way.
“Looks like it. Haven’t really noticed.” She wiped the wood a little harder.
Harry peered through the blinds and frowned. “Do they ever stop to think about other people? They act like people are paying money to see a show. Some of us don’t want to see a grown couple acting like two horny teenagers. They gotta be in their mid-twenties. Old enough to know better.”
Valerie wrinkled her nose and feigned the same disgust. “Exactly. Someone should let them know,” she said, attempting to sneak another glance before Harry closed the blinds.
“He’s always groping her in public like she’s not his wife,” he rambled on. “That Andre guy really thinks he’s somebody, huh? Always walking around without a shirt on. Telling folks to call him ’Dre. Do you know he had the nerve to invite me to run with him the other day?” Harry glanced down at his linen shirt; his frown deepened at the gaping space between his buttons.
“Maybe he’s just being nice.”
“No. I used to go to school with guys like him. She better watch out. Men like that never stay close to home.”
Valerie nodded in silence and returned to dusting, waiting for Harry to get off his soapbox about the couple in 2B. She detected a tinge of jealousy in his voice underneath the aggravation, but she couldn’t blame him. They, too, had oozed with sexiness once. Full of passion. But that was before life happened. Before loss. Before the accident.
The couple’s recent arrival to their three-story apartment building intrigued and unnerved her. Their passion constantly reminded Valerie of what she had with Harry, much worse than uncomplicated or simple, terms Harry threw around with pride. They were boring. Their relationship, lifeless.
“Well, we don’t need all that to prove what we have is the real deal.” Harry yanked the blinds closed with a forceful tug. Show over. His eyes met hers, and his mouth gave way to a smile as weary and worn as his brown work shoes. “Let’s go to bed. Watch one of those black-and-white movies you like so much.”
Valerie stopped fidgeting with the dry cloth and placed it on the desk, failing to wipe away the image of Andre’s hands fumbling over Sasha’s body. Like he knew how to handle a woman. Like he could “lay the pipe” as Aunt Mattie would say.
“That sounds nice,” she told Harry through a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll make us some chamomile tea.”
Harry turned off the television and made his way down the hall to the bathroom. Valerie waited until he closed the door before she gently pulled down the slats, hoping to catch one more glimpse. But the street rested in silence. A light rain had started, the drizzle misting her vision. Her eyes landed on the Buick. The green convertible looked lonely and cold in the night. No sign of Sasha and Andre in sight. Just an abandoned beer bottle collecting drops of rain.
Valerie’s morning always started the same. She woke up ahead of sunrise to brew a fresh pot of coffee before Harry headed out to teach at the community college close to home. She packed extra food and snacks in his blue lunch box on the days he worked his overnight shift at the call center up north, handling complaints about product defects and missing orders for an online toy store. He rarely complained about his long days, but she knew he hated spending his nights taking calls in a cramped cubicle at the one-story warehouse; the smell of grease and smoke lingered on his clothes when he came home.
Harry loved teaching English classes at the college, but they were barely making it on his salary after the accident, and her disability check only covered small bills. He had recently started paying a portion of his mother’s living expenses and occasionally dropped subtle hints about moving her into their home. Valerie politely and adamantly refused. No way she wanted Irma Jeanne living in her house, invading her personal space, cooking up bland casseroles in her kitchen. She tolerated her mother-in-law in doses. Sure, they occasionally engaged in surface-level chitchat about the weather, television, or furniture during family functions, but things weren’t always amicable between them. Initially, Harry’s mother wasn’t too keen on her only son marrying a mahogany-skinned Black woman born and raised on the West Side of Chicago. Even though Irma had come to accept their relationship over time, the rawness of some wounds still stung and burned. Words were a powerful weapon, and Valerie never cared much for bigots with a sharp tongue.
Valerie began her daily routine after Harry left. She turned the kitchen clock radio to the jazz station. Wiped down the counters. Loaded the dishwasher. Washed the pots. Prepped for supper. Refilled her coffee mug. Black, no sugar the second time. Scrambled an egg. Fried one slice of bacon. Sliced a melon. After toasting her gluten-free bread, she shuffled over to the farmhouse table in the dining room with her plate and final cup of coffee for the day⎯the third⎯always with heavy cream and sugar.
She sat down and munched on her food, savoring the taste of her crispy bacon in silence until a loud knock at the front door brought her eating to a halt. Valerie stood slowly, steadying herself with both hands on the table as she peered into the kitchen, scanning the narrow space until she found the blue lunchbox teetering on the edge of the counter next to her cooking magazines. Harry left his lunch at home at least once a week, his forgetfulness occasionally breaking up the monotony of her day. He sped home between classes, threw his car in park with his keys still in the ignition, sprinted up to the third floor, and knocked on the door, his face flushed and red when she answered. Other wives could save their husbands the trouble and bring their lunch to them, but driving was no longer an option for her. She’d never get behind the wheel again.
“Coming,” she called out as she grabbed his lunch box and headed to open the door. The can of sugar-free pop clinked against the Mason jar salad with every step, reminding her to pack bottled water tomorrow. “You really should triple-check in the morning, so you don’t have to. . . .”
Valerie lost her train of thought when she opened the door. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Andre standing in front of her apartment dressed in workout gear. She closed her mouth and managed a nervous grin, trying to regain her composure as he flashed her a wide smile, revealing straight white teeth and a deep dimple etched into his right cheek.
Andre leaned against the hallway wall and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. A bead of sweat trickled down his biceps in slow motion, residue from his morning run. He folded his long, muscular arms across his chest and peered at her from underneath his fitted hat.
“Good morning. Your name’s Valerie, right?”
She nodded, impressed that he remembered her name as she fidgeted with Harry’s lunch box to avoid making eye contact. She regretted her homely morning attire—green oversized sweatpants and a floral cotton shirt that swallowed her frame; the stitching on her yellow house shoes unraveled at the heel. At least her hair looked decent. She had removed her bonnet after her shower and swept her curls into a cute bun.
“And you’re Andre?”
“Just ’Dre,” he corrected. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered me or not. Haven’t really seen you around.”
His comment jogged her memory about their first encounter. She and Harry had just returned from grocery shopping and spotted a U-Haul double-parked in front of their apartment building along with moving boxes stacked on the curb. Sasha had emerged from the truck in a pair of overalls and a lace bra. No shirt. She gave them a friendly wave from a distance, but she had a lukewarm demeanor up close. A warm smile and cold gaze at the same time. Sasha stuffed her hands into her side pockets and greeted them in her low, sultry voice.
“Hi. We’re your new neighbors in 2B,” she told them without mentioning her name.
After welcoming her to the neighborhood, Valerie and Harry went inside. Andre nearly toppled over her while carrying an empty box downstairs. After apologizing profusely, he extended his hand and gave them both a handshake, his grip firm.
“I’m Andre,” he said. “But you can call me ’Dre. Just moved in with my wife, Sasha.”
They made small talk about the best restaurants in Bronzeville and then parted ways. Valerie hadn’t bumped into either of them since then. She only watched them from a distance.
Andre cleared his throat and pointed his finger down toward the frayed carpet, interrupting her thoughts. “We live downstairs in 2B.”
“Yes, I remember. How do you like the neighborhood? Have you settled in yet?”
He shook his head and chuckled. “Sasha doesn’t believe in unpacking, so no telling when that will happen. She could live out of boxes for a year. Gotta love her though. Anyway. . . .” He rubbed his hands together and inched closer to her doorway. “I wanted to know if your hot water worked. We haven’t had any since last night.”
Valerie released a quiet sigh of frustration. It looked like their slumlord, Sherman, was back to his old, trifling ways. She thought things had turned around for good when he started making repairs around the building at the beginning of summer—replaced their refrigerator and dishwasher, upgraded the building’s cooling and heating system, and painted the hallway on the first floor. He promised to give all the corridors a fresh coat of paint, but the tattered and outdated wallpaper and falling paint chips throughout the rest of the building reminded tenants of his unfinished work and empty promises.
“Our hot water works fine, but I’m not surprised. It’s happened before. Sometimes only one side of the building loses hot water. It’s usually your side.” She paused to give him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry. Sherman usually doesn’t respond quickly, but he’ll get back to you if you stay on top of him. Eventually.”
Andre groaned in irritation. “Yeah, I left dude three messages last night. I’m about ready to hunt him down in person in a second.” He gestured to his workout clothes; his clingy white shirt soaked with perspiration. “I have somewhere to be this morning, and I can’t show up in my running gear. I guess it’s a good thing Sasha left for New York yesterday, so she won’t have to deal with this.” He checked his watch and sighed. “Maybe I can catch Sherman this morning.”
“No, you probably won’t,” Valerie told him. She hated being the bearer of bad news, but it was the truth. Sherman never responded to morning calls. Hell, he barely responded to anything⎯emails, phone calls, letters. Andre would suffer without hot water alone. No one occupied the other two units on his side of the building anymore. Mrs. Jones and her horde of children had moved into their new home last month, and Rosie relocated to Atlanta for work in the spring. Rosie had lived in the apartment directly across from them, so Valerie was fully aware of the hot water issues on that side of the building. She even let Rosie use their bathroom on several occasions.
Andre lingered for a moment before he thanked her and wished her a good day. An eagerness grew in the pit of her stomach as he turned around to head back to his empty, cold-water flat, and before she could think, before she could consider her actions, Valerie stuck her head out the doorway and called his name.
“You’re more than welcome to use our bathroom.” The words tumbled out of her mouth in one quick breath. “If you’d like,” she added.
He stopped mid-step and turned back toward her, his face a mixture of surprise and relief. “Are you sure it’s cool? It won’t be a problem?”
She gave him a reassuring nod. “Not at all.”
He relaxed his shoulders, deflating the tension from his body. The worry lines on his forehead disappeared as his handsome face broke into a wide grin—less teeth, deeper dimple.
“I owe you one, Valerie. For real. I need to grab some fresh clothes. I’ll be right back.”
Andre tossed her a wink before he jogged toward the staircase to head downstairs. Valerie left the door slightly ajar as she returned to the kitchen to place Harry’s forgotten lunch in the refrigerator before the tuna spoiled. Her stomach growled as she caught a whiff of the chocolate cake she packed for his dessert. She turned her attention to her unfinished breakfast and contemplated taking a quick bite before Andre returned. His unexpected visit had her on edge, but she managed to scarf down a few forkfuls of cold eggs despite her jittery stomach.
After washing down her food with a glass of water, she peeked into the guest bathroom and noted the pristine marble countertops, shower, and vinyl floor with satisfaction. Nothing out of place. A fresh lemon scent still hung in the air from the last cleaning. She wiped the streaks off the mirror and set a cream-colored towel and washcloth on the sink countertop. A new towel set just for him.
Her phone vibrated with an incoming text from Harry, and she breathed a sigh of relief when he asked her to put his forgotten lunch away. He decided to grab lunch with his colleagues. No need for him to come home.
The knock came sooner than she expected, but she wasn’t surprised to find Andre waiting this time. She pushed the door wide open and let him in.
While Andre showered in the guest bathroom, Valerie examined herself in the entry hallway mirror, frowning at the puffiness underneath her eyelids. The dark circles highlighted her fatigue. Harry had woken her up in the middle of the night for another three-pumps-done tryst.
Her favorite barista injected more pumps into her caramel macchiato. And the drink left her more satisfied. Valerie thought about Sasha with a twinge of jealousy and guilt as she patted down flyaway strands that escaped from her bun. She bet Andre could go all night. She bet he left Sasha satisfied and craving more every time.
Valerie shook her head to erase the image of Andre’s bronzed brown body. She had to stop wondering about him. It just wasn’t right to think about another man in that way, to imagine how he worked his large manly hands, a combination of gentle and strong.
Andre stepped into the living room dressed in business casual attire⎯slim pants, fitted shirt, coiled hair still wet from the shower. He held a damp cream-colored linen towel in the air, waiting for instructions. Her stomach tightened when she noticed the gold embroidered letters above the dobby border—H. J. T. She had purchased the monogrammed bath set for Harry’s upcoming thirty-eighth birthday. Apparently, she had grabbed the wrong towel set and accidentally placed Harry’s gift in the guest bathroom for Andre. She tossed it in the laundry basket located in the hallway closet, making a mental note to wash a small load to get rid of Andre’s scent⎯musk with notes of cedar and lavender.
Andre surveyed the room with a curious gaze. His eyes landed on the black-and-white wedding portrait mounted above the living room sofa. Valerie was seated on a park bench in her mermaid off-the-shoulder wedding gown with Harry positioned next to her. Their intertwined hands captured the tangible symbol of their commitment as husband and wife. The photographer had instructed them to gaze into each other’s eyes. To feel the fullness of the moment.
He studied the photo in admiration. “That’s a dope shot. Beautiful pic of you two.” He glanced in her direction. “How long you been married?”
“Thank you,” she whispered, somewhat embarrassed of their dramatic pose. The photo took her breath away back then, but the fairytale effect had lost its edge. They looked too unnatural. Too staged. Too poised. “We just made twelve years.”
Andre clapped his hands and whistled. “That’s what’s up. We’re coming up on our second year. Marriage ain’t easy, so twelve years is a big deal. Congrats.” He turned away from the portrait and set his sight on her. His intense gaze made her nervous.
“Thanks,” she repeated.
“Any kids?”
She grimaced at his question, her buried pain resurrecting without her consent. Her awkward silence wasn’t unnoticed. Andre gave her an apologetic smile.
“My bad. I shouldn’t pry.”
“No, that’s okay. We don’t have any kids.” She shifted her weight to her left foot and winced. The pain in her right leg intensified whenever she broached the subject, inciting a visceral reaction within, one she couldn’t conceal. Her therapist had told her it was psychological⎯the question about children triggered distress, which manifested into physical pain⎯but Valerie questioned his logic. The pain felt real to her.
Andre’s eyes traveled down to her ankle. “You okay? Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head as she wobbled over to the couch. “It’s nothing really. I just need to sit for a moment.”
He remained silent as he watched her with concern. She appreciated that he didn’t pry. The stillness surrounding them felt refreshing. Andre was her first visitor in a while. She once entertained guests regularly. But that was before the sound of meaningless chatter suffocated her, and people filled the silence with empty words. Before they peered at her through narrowed eyes and questioned if she missed her former executive director position in fundraising. The travel, the perks, the high-paying salary. Her visitor’s list dwindled over the year, and with her family miles away in Atlanta, Valerie retreated into solitude. She canceled her visits with the Ladies of Calvary, no longer moved by their baked apple pies and generic prayers. She opted for the grocery delivery service instead of her mid-week trips to the farmer’s market with her friend, Janice. Their gossip sessions now drained her soul.
Andre pulled out a set of keys from his pocket and glanced at the wall clock above the computer desk. She wished he could stay for a little while longer and sit with her for just a few more minutes. Valerie felt an ache as she watched him gather his belongings. Something about his quietness or her loneliness, or a combination of both, provoked her to talk as he reached for his duffel bag.
“We almost had a baby once,” she blurted out, the words bursting from her mouth like a dam breaking under pressure. “A couple years ago.”
He raised his thick eyebrows, the anticipation on his face urging her to continue as he sat down in the recliner chair.
She averted her gaze and stared at the red wine stain on the carpet to collect her thoughts, to gather her words. “I was almost five-months pregnant when we took a road trip to Atlanta to visit Harry’s family for a wedding. We were both so tired on the way home. I wanted to stop at the halfway point and get back on the road in the morning, but Harry had his first big speaking engagement here for a writer’s conference. He didn’t want to risk it, so we pushed to get home. A driver in an 18-wheeler dozed off and ran into us on the way here. Totaled the car. Broke my leg. I spent months in physical therapy, but I still have this limp. It may not ever go away.”
Valerie paused and steadied her voice before she uttered the next sentence. “Lost our baby girl, too. Isabella Louise Thomas. We were going to name her after both of our grandmothers.”
Andre leaned forward, his hand resting on his chin, his eyes never leaving her face. She took a deep breath to silence the quiet sobbing in her chest as she recalled the accident. Her leg bloodied, mangled, trapped in shards of glass. Her broken bones. Her excruciating pain. Still, the physical ache paled in comparison to losing Isabella. Harry still blamed himself for blowing off her suggestion to get a hotel room instead of driving through the night. She still blamed him too, sometimes, but she faulted herself even more for ignoring her intuition. An unexplainable feeling in her gut had prompted her to suggest they find a hotel three different times throughout the night, but she eventually stopped asking to keep the peace and show her support for his upcoming opportunity. But his big moment never came. No inspirational talk onstage. No speech to stir up the crowd. Just conversations about leg fractures, permanent damage, and a baby with an absent heartbeat.
Valerie stared down at her hands, unable to make eye contact with Andre. Even without looking at him, she felt his eyes on her. She didn’t want to look up and find pity or sadness in his reflection. She couldn’t handle that right now.
Andre cleared his throat to get her attention. “Valerie,” he said, uttering her name with tenderness and admiration. “I’m really sorry to hear that. I don’t know you that well, but I can tell you’re a strong woman. My grandma always told us that loss hurts, but it also makes us stronger, and ultimately better, if we take the time to heal from it all. So, I appreciate you sharing.”
She raised her head and looked in his direction, her mind wondering about the losses he had endured as his eyes glazed over with a familiar sadness. One that exudes from the soul.
“Your grandmother sounds wise.”
The corners of his mouth lifted into a bittersweet smile. “She was the wisest person I’ve ever known.”
The quiet returned, both of them absorbed in their own thoughts. Andre fiddled with his keychain; Valerie’s eyes settled on the stained carpet again. She had accidentally knocked her wine glass off the table the day Harry brought home the newborn satin dresses she spotted in a boutique window on the way home from her ultrasound appointment. She had jumped up and hugged him, unconcerned about the Merlot dripping onto the carpet as she buried her face in the crook of his neck and squealed with joy.
Andre stood up and stretched, his keys dangling from his thumb. “I’d love to chop it up with you longer, but I have a meeting to get to. Thanks for looking out for me today. I appreciate it. You helped me more than you know.”
You helped me too, she thought. She hadn’t told that story to anyone in over a year. Telling it to Andre freed her in some way. Made room for some light to come in.
He saw himself out after they said their goodbyes. The door closed behind him with a soft thud. Maybe his emails to Sherman would go unanswered, and he would wake up to cold water again tomorrow. She’d cook extra food for breakfast in the morning, just in case he returned. She’d slice more melon, brew a full pot of coffee, offer him something to eat. Maybe he would say yes. Maybe he would sit with her for a little while again.
Valerie leaned her head back on the armrest and replayed her morning with ’Dre. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she closed her eyes; a renewed hope washed over her, gently wiping away the dust that settled long ago.
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Kendra Y. Mims-Applewhite is a writer and editor in the Chicagoland area. She graduated with a BA in Journalism from Columbia College Chicago; and she is currently pursuing her MFA in Fiction at her alma mater. Her work has appeared in Avalon Literary Review, Ebony, Permission to Write, SheKnows Media and healthcare publications. Kendra is currently working on her debut novel and short story collection.