Vision Ch. 03

"No reason, just curious."

I can almost see her mind working. Isn't it considered rude to talk about religion and money?

"I'm on the progressive side of the faith. I hold life sacred, but believe that women should have control of their bodies. I'm fully aware of how religion is still used to corral women but we're not all like that. There are many tenets of the Catholic faith that I have issues with. Once upon a time we just about ruined the world with our particular faith. What about you, since you asked?"

She snorts. "Agnostic. I was raised Baptist until my rationale kicked into overdrive at 15 and I stopped attending church. I had and have too many questions to just blindly accept any doctrine.

Religions as they are taught and known are such relatively new concepts and all of them more inter-related than people realize. I need concrete facts and with religion there's a lot of mythology. To their credit, most are rooted in loving your fellow man, but somehow you rarely if ever hear about that part of it, which I think is sad. I think if Jesus, Jehovah, Mohammed, Yahweh, and Buddha came back they'd all team up and commence to kicking ass for the deliberately evil misconstruing that's been done in their respective names. I'm not godless. I just don't believe in abjectly worshipping of gods of vengeance, righteousness, and blood.

I'd never begrudge anyone the consolation of faith, but most of the faithful don't feel the same. They aren't exactly live and let live types. The remote possibility of seeing my parents again one day in some form or other is the only reason I hang on to a shred of a so-called 'God'."

Practically an atheist, which is more than a little shocking, especially from what I know of people around here. I've not run across many black people with her take on religion, not down south anyway. Why is she so curious about my being Catholic?

She shrugs and shakes her head noncommittally. I look at her and wait but she's quiet. As extraordinarily interesting as this conversation is I've had a few beers and have to drain the main vein. I ask for the bathroom and she points me in the direction of the hallway, and then remembers it's out of commission.

"I guess you can use the one in my room."

She says grimacing.

What's her deal? We shared a bathroom for days. I know how to put the seat back down and not splash all over the place.

She finds out I'm Catholic and suddenly I'm not good enough? I grunt.

"Don't put yourself out. I can step outside behind a tree or something."

She arches that eyebrow. "House trained, like all good dogs?"

Tart mouthed thing. I say nothing but look at her with what I hope is disapproval. She sighs and has the good grace to look mildly ashamed.

"Sorry. Follow me, it's just down here.

I follow her down the hall to the last door on the right. This is her bedroom. All I'm able to take in as she quickly shows me through the door to the bathroom is a large and ornate bed and chair in an otherwise empty room.

Pausing briefly, she opens the door. "Handle your business." She turns and quickly leaves.

My jaw drops. This is easily the most beautiful room in the house, not girlish but it's deeply feminine. And large, almost as large as her bedroom. In the middle sits the biggest tub I've ever seen. I think it might be marble, perfectly round with a delicately curved edge it looks like an enormous cafe au lait bowl.

A spacious shower with multi-directional shower-heads sits off to the left. The walls are tiled in creamy white and gray scalloped marble.

But the main event in here is the stained and polished cement floor, it reminds me of the gulf, palest turquoise and green and blue with veins of brown and red, very shiny.

Plants bask in the abundant natural light provided by the double paned windows and doors. Next to the toilet is a bidet. There's a small wide chaise and chair as well as a fireplace and flat screen TV across from the tub.

Remembering I still have to go, I dash to the toilet, sweet relief. I wash my hands at the double sink and dry them on a fluffy hand towel and toss it in the basket where I see others. I look around the place again in disbelief.

There's a wild chandelier in here as well, and I finally realize why they look so familiar, they bear a striking resemblance to the Chihuly sculptures in the Botanical garden I saw during the Christmas light tour with my parents, except these are clearest lead crystal and give off rainbows. Heading back I stop to take a good look around her bedroom.

You can see through the large fireplace into the bathroom, interesting. In the middle of a room with ombred walls ranging from palest to deepest yellow sits a massive, heavy baroque bed. A floor-to-ceiling mirror with a dark frame leans against a wall. An armchair and floor lamp are the only other pieces in the room. The same double paned crystal doors span one wall leading to the same patio outside as the one in the bathroom. A lot of space and scale for someone so diminutive. Wandering back to the kitchen I resume my post on the stool.

"So if I hadn't shown up what were your plans?"

"Pretty much this, putter in the garden a bit, ride my bike. I work with meals on wheels some weekends. Have a proper soak and call it a night. I mainly chill on weekends, unless I'm traveling."

"Sounds boring."

"Only boring people are bored."

"There's plenty to do around town. Richmond's a good size place."

"It is. Though after two years of compulsory travel, my goal for the foreseeable future is to raise true indolence to an art form."

She stretches and flexes her toes.

"You don't have much use for people do you?"

She looks at me sharply. "I wouldn't say that. I have my family and friends."

"Family and friends are fine, but Virginia is for Lovers, or so I hear. Or is that something you save for out of country business trips?"

Her eyes go wide with shock.

Watching her, I'd forgotten it was possible for black people to blush like that. It looks painful, a dark cherry stain spreading from her nose and cheekbones all the way to her ears. Her embarrassment however quickly fades and morphs into righteous indignation.

"Currently, no. Let's just say I find that I'm a tad too progressed for most black men, which is unfortunate, as that's what I generally prefer. I've no illusions about how eccentric I seem. Though mainly, I'm accustomed to my independence - doing what I like, when I like and not having to wait on anyone. I just go. Not to mention there's a lot of old school dressed as young school around these days.

What I am doesn't exactly go over well in contemporary society, especially here in Richmond. And no I do not in fact make a habit of fucking random men on business trips."

Damn, now she's riled. I only meant to tease her into talking about us and I've succeeded in pissing her off. Invited for a beer and she really could have just shown me the door once I finished with the computer. She's been gracious and friendly and here I am antagonizing her just to get a reaction. It's counterproductive.

What's with the black men only - black power statements? Race is an issue. I can't even hope to explain to her my particular situation; that sincerely complicated conversation is for another time.

Man she is really angry. I'm not quite sure how she's doing it, but I feel as if she's looking down at me from a great height. Reminds me of the nuns when they'd break out the rulers and pop us. You're out of here mister, as soon as you finish that beer, is what that look says.

Shit, say something, ask her something, anything!

"I like your floors, they seem unique." Desperately lame.

"I suppose," she says drolly, looking around at them.

I know she's a lawyer and the company pays well, but not this well. At 29 she's too young to have amassed enough wealth to afford all this. All this house for just her? Something's up.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

Still looking at me with cold disapproval, she takes a swig of beer. "Why not? You seem to be on a roll."

"I know you're a lawyer. But how can you afford all this as young as you are? Do you live alone? Are you married, divorced? Were your parent's rich, did you win lotto or are you in hock up to your eyeballs?"

Her reaction is classic. I think beer comes through her nose as she guffaws, immediately she grabs a paper towel and wipes her face and dabs her t-shirt and the counter top. Laughing lightly she thoughtfully regards me.

"Pendejo! Seriously?! Man you've got nerve Dax!"

She's laughing, good save. I like the way she says my name with that voice of hers, drawing the 'x' out just the tiniest bit.

"I live alone, have never been married." She shudders for effect. Hmmmm.

"And no, my parents were definitely not rich. I am one of the fortunate few whose grandparents had a little put by in the way of property. Being as it was in a very rural portion of North Carolina to which my father had no intention of returning once his parents passed away, it was sold and the money put in trust for each of us until we turned 25.

The rest I inherited from my share of my parent's life insurance. I come from a family of planners. I was raised to be afraid of credit. My grandmothers feeling was if you can't afford to purchase it outright, you can't afford it, because who knows what will happen over time.

My one and only independent foray into the investment world though was incredibly lucky, a dot-com that paid off. I was young and in retrospect damned reckless. You couldn't pay me to take a risk like that today. I got nervous and my common sense kicked in and I managed to get the hell out before that particular bubble burst.

An acquaintance of mine wasn't so lucky and ended up driving cabs in the city. But the money enabled me to travel, pay for law-school and live like a decent human being in rough & tumble NYC. Mainly though it left me with a nice, fat nest-egg.

I came home a few years ago and was living in my parents' house with my brother who was driving me insane, so I decided property was the answer. I'd been eyeing this place for years and when the bottom fell out of the market it just happened to go up for sale and I got a bargain basement deal.

When I told the bank I was willing to pay cash in full they practically gave it to me. It had lovely bones but was a falling down mess. The very thing I loved about it, the solid masonry with a poured concrete foundation built to withstand the centuries was the very thing that made it so expensive to repair and renovate.

Luckily, I have a great family. Harry and Lenny are as talented as they are worrisome. Those two drafted plans and made it happen. Harry shored it up, reinforced it where necessary and made sure it was safe and up to code. He's an architect. My little brother Lenny though is a contractor and did most of the real work. He rebuilt and renovated vast portions of this place. With his own hands he made the furniture and cabinets and laid the floors so most of this was done at cost.

Harry had some of the guys from the firehouse come in with sledgehammers and axes to tear down some walls but mainly it was we three he, Lenny and I working our asses off around here most weekends.

My sister did the re-wiring for the kitchen and installed the appliances. We've really only just gotten it done in the last few months.

I bought a couple of cars and bikes at auction and have the rest set-aside for a rainy day. I could probably afford not to work if I'd decided to be selfish. But we don't do things like that in my family. We work hard and we share.

Matt keeps trying to encourage me to start my own firm, but the prospect of managing people on a daily basis does not appeal. Besides, I am too cheap and lazy to dig into my pocket for the start-up capital.

After that crazy ride the markets took a few years ago I really don't invest much outside of 401k. Which is for the best, as every other week I'm either reading or hearing about some new large scale investing scam. I've often thought that the stock market is little more than a legalized numbers racket, and the suit bookies running it have a way of justifying and getting away with anything they put their feeble little minds to; which is why most of what's left is at a local credit union in a plain savings account.

I'm not trying to give the big banks any more of my money than I absolutely have to. Why continue to reward them for their crimes, misdemeanors and shitty business practices. If they were bookies they'd have been shot by now. It drives my banking friend up the wall. He says I'm not doing my part to help along the economy. He's lucky I've not buried it in gold and diamonds in the back yard as naturally distrustful as I am. But Wall Street has valuable lessons to share if you pay attention and I've learned to hide money like the rest of them.

Basically, I'm just an exceptionally lucky Ward-brat who channeled her depression-era raised grandmother long enough to do the sensible thing and get while the getting was good and invest in a home and a few nice things. I help my family and friends from time to time, that's the biggest perk. Well that and my grotesquely lavish bathroom.

Honestly, you're the first person other than me to use it. I was embarrassed for you to even see it. I love it but it's a touch much for everyday. You do not want to know what I spent in there. So while I didn't necessarily work my ass off to get here, I do work damned hard to stay here.

"Does that thoroughly answer your question?"

"And then some."

I nod trying to process all this information. Lenny's her brother but who is this Harry, and what is he to her?

"That was very candid."

"I figure you can take it."

"Is that a compliment?"

"I suppose."

I smile at her. She gives a little smile in return.

"I have absolutely got to eat now. Care to join me?"

A dinner invite, surprisingly direct and totally unexpected. This is getting world-class interesting.

"Absolutely."

----

"It's a good thing I have the garden, because there are no vegetables in this house right now. I need to make groceries."

She grabs a chain hooked on the wall and gently lowers the rack of pots and pans and takes 3 pans and a pot from the rack, clever pixie.

I wonder where her folks are from because I've not heard anyone use that phrase since I got here, 'making groceries'. I've actually been teased about it by Matt who asked 'how does one make groceries'.

I like watching her move, the line of her body, the subtle tensing of leg muscle as she gracefully balances on one foot while reaching up into a cabinet and pulling out spice jars.

Pulling out her phone and as she makes a call the phone wedged between her cheek and shoulder as she cuts up an onion and smashes some garlic and adds it to the first pan with a slug of olive oil, grabs some chicken, which she seasons with salt from her fingers, sprinkles some smoked paprika and garlic powder, spreads the chicken in the grill pan, fills a pot with water before salting it and turning it up high to boil. Brushing the excess salt off against the back of her shorts. Very natural.

"Lenny Lee James, you slacker, where the hell are you? You were supposed to come cut my grass today. You forgot didn't you? I'm making your favorite meatballs for dinner tomorrow and I expect to see you, don't forget the dessert.

Shaking her head in exasperation she puts the phone in her back pocket, gorgeous little curves jiggling.

"Lenny Lee James? You guys have the same initials."

"We all do. Lou Lou, Lili Lee, and Lenny Lee. My parents were ridiculous jokers and they loved LL Cool J. He's supposed to come round and cut the grass and do some yard work for me in exchange for vegetables."

She puts on some music; its a little strange, not bad just different.

Seems to know what she's about in the kitchen. Must be very hungry though, she's moving pretty fast. She takes out some angel hair pasta and while waiting for the water to boil, opens another refrigerated drawer and takes out what looks to be a butcher wrapped packet of meat and another orange which she quickly peels and eats. She quickly turns to me.

"I would have asked what you wanted but I'm hypoglycemic. If I don't eat regularly, it gets real ugly, real fast. Is grilled chicken over angel hair pasta ok with you?"

It's going on towards 6 pm and we've been talking almost non-stop I'm surprised she can't hear my stomach growling.

"Sounds delicious. Do it woman!"

She nods. "Good. You don't have any food allergies, do you?"

"Not that I know of."

"I thought I was allergy free too, until a bad reaction to parsley. You'd think it was pretty innocuous but . . . Ugh." She shivers in revulsion.

"Parsley?"

"Yep, specifically flat leaf Italian parsley. I discovered eating at a salad bar in a chain restaurant and their idea of herbed potato salad was to dump a shitload of parsley on top. It broke me out in hives and had my stomach roiling for a day or so. Parsley being so ubiquitous, I've become a huge fan of my own guaranteed 'parsley free' cooking. What about you, likes, dislikes?"

Well right now I like you Lou. That name of hers. Girls with guy names, nice.

"I like pretty much everything, but no sushi and nothing too spicy."

Adding fresh tomato to the onion garlic mixture and what looks like a good slug of red wine she cranks up the heat and smiles.

"What?"

"You don't like sushi?"

"Where I come from we use that as bait. Why? Should I?"

With a small smile and shake of her head she shrugs, clearly enjoying something at my expense.

"Nothing spicy? Hmmm, well that is a real shame."

"Really, what'd you have in mind?"

She purses her lips and gives a small smile. "Nothing you could handle."

Picking on me and flirting to boot, it's cute as hell. How did this happen? Hanging out in her kitchen on a Saturday while she cooks us dinner in her bare feet.

"I thought people from New Orleans lived for spicy food?"

"I like a little spice, within reason. There's nothing like that fiery midnight run to the bathroom. I've been there too many times. Not pleasant."

She laughs outright at that.

"Do us a favor? Go to the front porch and grab me a fistful of black basil. The pots are labeled. Don't worry about the plant, it's been in the green house all winter and needs pruning anyway."

"Putting me to work already?"

"I have a strict see a child, work a child, policy. You're kinda tall, but you'll do in a pinch."

The black basil is really deepest purple, the leaves are tiny, and it looks like boxwood. As instructed, I grab an aromatic fistful and bring it back.

Throwing it in a wire mesh colander she rinses it well before dumping the pasta in the boiling water. Setting two large shallow pasta bowls on the counter, she opens the small red fridge and takes out butter and a tub of Parmesan. She quickly drains the pasta. I'm not sure it's done.

Noting my expression, she says, "al dente - which is Italian for to the tooth, which means cooked perfectly. I cannot stand overcooked pasta."

The amazing way she has with words is something I noticed in London when she pronounced the name of our dessert.

"Your pronunciation is beautiful. Do you speak Italian?"

"I speak food." She winks at me.

"Do that again?"

Shaking her head, she tosses the pasta coating it with lots of pepper and cheese and butter and herbs. She layers it in the bowls, adds the sauce and then the grilled chicken, sprinkles the pancetta and some of the basil and more cheese shavings. Asks if I want wine or beer. I ask for a beer but change my mind once I see her with her glass of wine. She tucks her dinner napkin into her t-shirt.

"Bib-like I know. But I swear, if there's red sauce and I eat it, I will wear it, each and every time and I am somewhat fond of this particular T-shirt."