Lover’s Gaze
I sat across from the couple, watching them mingle. I couldn’t help being enchanted by the way they looked at each other. The way they held each other’s gaze. The way one laughed while the other said what I could only perceive was a joke.
The woman was Caucasian, the same as me. Her man was black, whether African or American, I have no idea. They look so in love with each other, and I couldn’t help but envy them for that.
I wished my husband looked at me the way they do. I have been married to the same man for damn near twenty-two years, but it feels like I have only been in love with him for just eight. The eighth year was when I had my second son, which turned out to be the last time I became pregnant for him.
It was the last time my husband, Jerry, and I got to be happy. The year he lost his high-paying job for a financial firm that went belly-up during the Bush recession. He grew bitter after Obama got into office, and since then, our love floundered.
I could have left him. There were plenty of times when I wish I did. We did quarrel numerous times, but nothing that ended with him striking me. Jerry usually starts belligerent but sulks once he knows his ass is getting licked. I grew so disgusted by him and often wished he’d catch a heart attack so I could live on with my life.
The times got tough on us as the years went by. I became the bread-winner of the house, holding two jobs while raising the kids while Jerry sat on his lazy ass playing the ponies. Always thinking he was going to win a pile. He was lucky a few times, but it wasn’t a huge pile like he dreamed. Just enough to take us through the next couple of weeks, then we were back to square one.
An idea occurred to me one hot summer, and I decided to clean up the attic and put it out for rent. I returned home from one of my jobs as a receptionist, and my older son Greg told me a man had noticed the ‘FOR RENT’ sign and dropped asking about the room. He left his phone number and asked if I could give him a call. I did, and he said he’d like to come by during the weekend for a meet. I said no problem and then hung up.
He did come by on Saturday around noon; he was nothing of what I’d expected. His name was Tunde. He was a Nigerian who was rounding up on a one-year MFA program; he was twenty-seven years old. He couldn’t handle the high rent he was paying for his previous accommodation and wanted something moderate. I told him the price, including utilities. He accepted it right away like he thought I might decide to hike up the price if I had more time to think about it. I found out later that he was on a tight budget. He paid a deposit and said he would return later in the week with his things. We shook hands, and then he went away.
Tunde returned the following weekend with his luggage comprised of two large bags and a knapsack that contained his laptop. My sons and I helped him to get set up. I told him that he could enjoy dinner with us if he cared. Jerry grumbled but didn’t seem to care about him, especially when I emphasised our financial situation.
It felt great having a new face in the house. Even better, Tunde was a great help looking after Greg and his little brother Rob while I was away at work. He spent much time in his room writing. He told me he was halfway done working on a novel and was trying to see if any literary agent would snag him it. He had little time left on his visa to stay in the country. Each passing week made his departure inevitable.
Weekends were my only days off work, so I had time to clean up the house, mind the kids, chat with Tunde, and pretend that Jerry wasn’t being a bore. Tunde allowed me the opportunity to read a few chapters of his work. We would sit in the backyard in the evening watching the kids play with their pet Labrador while we talked about many things. I did the most talk, asking him about Nigeria and wanted to know if he missed being away from home.
“I do miss home,” he said in his thick Nigerian accent that I was becoming comfortable with. “But I know that whenever I go, home is with me.”
“Do you look forward to returning home once you’re done here?”
“To tell the truth, no,” he said with evident sadness in his voice. “I quit my previous job before making this trip. There’s nothing back home waiting for me; nothing but the past. I thought I’d make something with my time here, but it seems I was wrong.”
“But you can continue to live here if your time is up, can’t you?”
He shook his head. “That would only cause problems for me and for you if my money runs dry. The last thing I ever want to be is an illegal immigrant. No, once my time comes, I will leave and return home.”
“Where nothing’s waiting for you?”
“Something might turn up,” he said while shrugging his shoulders. “You never know what the future can bring. I’ve thought about it, and I’m not afraid to face it.”
At that moment, I felt truly sad for him and happy as well. I thought he was brave, knowing he was facing his future the way a man should. The way I wished Jerry would face his. I don’t remember how long he had been with us then, but that was the day I started having warm feelings towards my tenant.
It happened one night. I had tucked my kids in their separate beds and made sure Jerry was asleep before making my way towards the attic. Tunde opened the door, took my hand and led me towards the bed. I hadn’t alerted him of my impending visit that night. No words were necessary between us as we sat before each other in the dark.
I allowed him to strip me naked.
He planted soft kisses on my breasts. He kissed me in ways I hadn’t been kissed in a long time.
I laid on his bed, wrapped my arms around his shoulder and pulled him down towards me. He made love to me in ways I never thought a man would love me again. He kissed every nook, crevice, mountain and valley of my body. Not wanting to be daunted, I did the same to him. I clutched him tight as I gasped into his face. His hands caressed my nipples, then reached down to the curves of my firm backside. I muttered unintelligible words. I muttered words of love. I told him how bad I wanted him; he told me how much he wanted me, too. We took a break, feeling our hands over our sweaty bodies. It wasn’t long before we went at it again. I don’t recall what the time was when I kissed him goodnight and then left his room.
It was the start of a glorious love affair. But we had to be as careful as we could be, and we didn’t do it every night. We had ourselves a secret code. Whenever I felt in the mood, I would mutter an innocuous phrase during dinner which we had selected during our previous escapade. Tunde would respond in kind, something that would fly past everyone’s head except mine. I would wait till it was past midnight when I know Jerry would be dead asleep, then I would go upstairs and ease myself into the attic. There were some days, however, when I dared to take chances. One night, it got too hot in the attic we decided to make love outside in the backyard. A good thing none of my neighbours were out to catch us.
Tunde always wore a condom. But as his inevitable day of departure drew closer, I seemed to want more of him and then dissuaded him from using condoms on me. He was baffled when I demanded this.
“I don’t want you having any accident,” he whispered to me in his room.
“By accident, you mean getting me pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t care about that,” I pulled him into a tight embrace and kissed him. “I want you inside me. Come and give it to me.”
He relented and gave me what I wanted.
It was the first week of September when he said that he was leaving. My boys were in tears when he made this announcement while we were having dinner. My appetite suddenly left me, and I barely finished my meal. I knew the day was coming, but still, I felt like falling apart when he said it. He did pay for the month even though he wasn’t going to stick around any longer; he said he owed it to me. Jerry assisted him with packing his stuff and drove him to the bus stop to take him to the airport. He would board a flight to New York City and get on an international flight to return him to Nigeria. I was at work the day he left. I couldn’t stop being teary-eyed, knowing he won’t be home when I returned. He promised to keep in touch by email, and I told him I would always write to him.
Two weeks later, I found out that I was pregnant a third time. I knew without a doubt who the father was.
Jerry and I had a long talk about it one evening. I came clean and told him what had gone on with Tunde and me. I expected him to lash out with anger. Instead he felt calm and deflated.
“I suspected something between you two,” he said. “The way you used to look at him . . . I just didn’t want to think it was true.”
“It was true,” I said.
“Did you . . . love him?”
“Yes,” I said, not mincing any words when I said it. “But he’s not here. I want to keep this baby, and I want you to be a father to him.”
Jerry was silent for a moment, then he nodded his head and promised that he would.
That was two years ago. Now I have two caucasian boys and a mulatto-skinned angel. She has her real father’s eyes. I have sent him photos of her. He told me life was rough when he returned home, but he has gotten himself a well-paying job and is soon working on getting his travel visa renewed. Soon he will return to me. My boys miss him, but not as much as I.
I cannot wait for him to stare at me . . .
Like the two lovers across from me.
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