The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 11

Surreptitiously, I began to X-ray him visually. He wore a collarless clergy-styled cream-colored shirt. The first two buttons were undone, exposing a gold crucifix hanging from a thin, delicate chain. Strands of curled brown hair sprouted on his chiseled pecs. He had removed his blazer hanging on a coat rack by the door.

His cargo jeans hugged him well above his legs, from which I sensed his comfort zone was more outdoors than indoors. His above-ankle boots endorsed that assessment. He seemed a shade over six feet, with thinning dark brown hair, with which he might be parting company within a decade or so.

Even though his voice was raspy and his words curt, his eyes now beamed with compassion yet characterized the strength of a well-made man. Briskness guided his gait, moving with the vigor of an athlete in his prime. The strength in the bulging deltoids of his shoulders seemed to have been ensured by more than his share of life’s burden. Yet vigor and hope abounded from his face, the lightly furrowed forehead which chronicled life’s unkind sides.

“Come on, accept this as a peace offering,” he cooed, self-assured.

“Food is your best pitch?” I asked.

“For now, yes. No one on the block knows who Mr. Solomon is, and neither do I.” I sighed, preparing to ravage the plate before me, then said, “I could have told you that.” It smelled delicious, and I was famished.

“Would you like me to taste it?” he asked.

“Why, is this a part of your investigation?”

He nodded, “No, but it’s a rough time for you now, and it’s harder when you have no family or friends to support you.”

“What? Are you sorry for me?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted compassion and understanding?”

“Yeah, but this is the wrong place. The nearest church is across town,” I said, mockingly returning his insensitive comment of earlier in the day.

His lips traced a smile, then he conceded, “Touché, that was very unkind of me.”

“So, you are kind now?” I teased, refusing to release the advantage.

He lowered his head for a moment, then suddenly looked up at me with raised brows, “You have no idea how much danger you could be in right now.”

“You really believe I am in danger?” I asked, seriously thinking about it now.

“Why do you think I am here? Had I reached your parents a day earlier, maybe I could’ve saved them from such a horrific death. I’m hoping with Lady Luck on our side; maybe I can save you.”

Lost to the reason why anyone would want to hurt me, I stood, staring at him.

There was a long, drawn-out silence before I asked, “You cooked all this stuff?”

“Yeah. From scratch! Which isn’t what I can say for you by the looks of your refrigerator content? There is more frozen food in your refrigerator than the supermarket down the street.”

“I’m ashamed of myself about that, but Mom always had me over for dinner three or four times per week, so I barely needed to cook.”

“You are a true woman of the millennium,” he commented with a smile.

“Well?” I asked, sitting down.

He tasted the mashed potatoes and chicken, smiled, then joshed, “I am still alive.”

“Some poisons take longer to work,” I quipped, entranced by the delicious aroma of his pineapple chicken, which has taken over my entire apartment, dominating the scent of my Febreze air freshener.

“Come on; I am not trying to kill you. I know you haven’t been eating well, since . . . since….”

“You’re right,” I squeezed in.

“You have to take better care of yourself,” he advised, looking quite concerned.

“Ok,” I agreed, now seated and eating slowly. Since my parents’ death, dining, and my life, have been on hold.

We spent the rest of the night conversing about the positive aspects of my parents’ life. Before I knew it, morning had dawned.

I walked over to the window and opened it. The morning was very cool for late April.

“Wow! Look, the sun’s coming up. What on earth did we talk about all night?”

“Wow,” was also Willoby’s comment. “I think I’d better get going. When I’m not here, don’t open the door to anyone you don’t know, and immediately let me know if you get any strange calls. I should send someone over to ….”

“That’s not necessary. I told you, I am in no danger!” I insisted, quickly cutting him off. “The Justice Department gave you the wrong information. What about breakfast?” I quickly asked.

He grabbed a looked at his watch. According to one of my clocks, it was 7:58 AM. My clocks all gave different times. My Mom said each of them was minding their own business. I made a Spanish omelet and served it with toasted homemade bread and bran muffins on the side.

“Instant coffee?” I handed him a cup when he returned from the bathroom.

“It’s coffee!” he said, taking a sip.

“Mother hated instant coffee. She’d bought me an espresso machine, which I only used when she visited. But wherever I hid that instant coffee, she would always find it and feed it to the sink. That’s why I own stocks in two major coffee companies in New York City. Guess it’s time to sell”.

“This bread looks and tastes delicious,” he interrupts my thoughts, probably to move me off the subject of my parents.

“Would you like more?” I offered. It was a coffee cheese prune bread my Mom baked. Last Christmas, I bought her a bread machine, and I never had to repurchase bread.

“No thanks,” he refused, making a sandwich with the two slices I had given him, ignoring the muffin.

As I lifted the brown paper bag, my Mom gave me to put the muffins away on my last visit. A small key fell to the floor from a hole at the bottom.

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