MR. ROLLINGTON
ALM No.91, July 2026
SHORT STORIES
Part 1
Marseille, St. Charles, Southern France.
Lynette thought that the world must indeed be a small place when she glanced at Mr. Roderick Rollington in a swanky, seafood restaurant in Niolon, Southern France. Of all the places in the world, ‘why should she see him there’ at the Auberge de Merou? Mr. Rollington had perched himself by the window view, finishing a bowl of bouillabaisse while he stared out at the picturesque sight of the bluish, tri-colored Mediterranean water below. Lynette was graciously placed behind him by the little French waiter who spoke poorly accented English, and she gazed at Mr. Rollington's shadowy figure as if she’d seen a ghost. Lynette never expected to see Mr. Rollington there, for that meant they share the same taste. She felt rather weird and perplexed gazing at him from behind. Besides, Mr. Rollington had been her boss for a while, and Lynette thought of him as being the drabbest of men. But when Lynette saw Mr. Rollington exit the swanky eatery, in Southern France, on that hot summer’s noon, there was a slight tingle of sexuality on her part. It’s been years since Lynette’s sexual passion had been awakened by a man for she deemed the Caribbean men she encountered in America as rather coarse and not in the least bit ‘fuckable.’ Lynette didn’t try to make her presence known, for she and Mr. Rollington hadn’t been the best of acquaintances. In fact, Lynette didn’t even like him, for during her stint as Mr. Rollington's subordinate, he’d shown signs of cowardice and had lost her interest.
A couple of days later, Lynette took a trip to the famous Vieux Port of Marseille. While walking around one of its derelict alleys, she met Mr. Rollington again. He seemed rather perplexed by this stranger who knew his name.
“Mr. Rollington,” she said in the calmest of voices, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Staring her straight into her eyes, Mr. Rollington scrutinized every detail, every crevice and every contour of her face. Then he blurted out with widened eyes and said, “Ms. Facey, of course, I do remember you.”
Mr. Rollington was an octoroon-- a direct descendant from a slave-holding family in Barbados, sported a strapping figure for a middle-aged man. No one noticed in his manner the Brahmin blood of his gallant Anglo-Saxon ancestors, for some of his African traits tainted their eyes. That noon, when Lynette stared straight into Mr. Rollington's face and he gave her a slight twist of his mouth, she thought he was a delightful man. She’d never seen him in that halo of light before.
“What are you doing in Marseille?” he continued.
“The same as you. I’m vacationing,” she said.
Lynette didn’t reveal that she’d seen him in a restaurant in Niolon the day before for she was not familiar with Mr. Rollington and didn’t want to say much. Mr. Rollington looked rather pleased. He stood erect, with his arms akimbo on his hips, and stared straight at her delicate figure in an aqua-blue, see-through sundress. His boyish grin surfaced as he surveyed her tiny waist, the swell of her ample breasts and her dark, long legs. Mr. Rollington was a man and Lynette was a woman. It appeared rather obvious that they were vacationing alone and could find comfort in each other.
“Are you walking to the Vieux Port?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“We’ll be bumping into it pretty soon,” he said.
“How do you know?” she inquired.
“That’s because I’ve been here two times before,” he answered.
Lynette seemed rather pleased to have been in an unfamiliar place with a man of experience. She loved to travel, for that’s how she felt she learned the best.
“Well,” she uttered mischievously, “you are welcome to lead the way.”
The Old Port of Marseille, with a myriad of boats, ships and other nautical machines, looked as well-worn as Lynette thought it would be. Mr. Rollington led the way like a tour guide reciting its ancient past. Lynette, who always did her research on places she’d go, listened intently, enjoying the knowledgeable excitement of his voice. Mr. Rollington suggested that they walk around its circled harbor to get a better snapshot. Lynette found it rather correct when he placed his hands into hers as they strolled around the white harbor, talking and laughing. Lynette never once pulled her hands out of his as she’d done with other men who pursued her over the years. Mr. Rollington was different, for he was able to tame her wildness and independence.
It was at Mr. Rollington's behest that they took a tour of the city’s great Calanques. Lynette had read about them. In fact, Lynette had saved a day for her to go to the famous Calanques de Cassis until a young, blonde Algerian man she’d met talked her out of it. “Try the ones in Niolon,” he’d suggested. “They are much nicer and you’ll encounter far less people.”
“Have you been to Cassis?” she asked Mr. Rollington rather inquisitively.
“Yes, I dove off the cliffs there some five years ago,” he answered. “It’s hard to get to it. You have to dress for the rough trail and the sharp-edged stones along the way.”
Lynette clenched his hands tighter as they entered the boat on Marseille’s famous wharf.
“Mr. Rollington,” she whispered into his ear, “You’re a wonder.”
He was indeed a wonder. His world wasn’t small although one would have guessed it to be. Lynette remembered when he had hired her as a fifth grade teacher at the public school in Brooklyn where he reigned as its principal for twenty years. Mr. Rollington had told her that his family came from Barbados. She remembered surveying every inch of him to detect a trace of African blood but couldn't find any.
“Are you a descendant of the slave-holding Rollington clan?” she’d ask. He smiled and shook his head to indicate indeed he was. “I know many Rollingtons from Barbados but they are all black,” she said. He smiled and stood silently until she changed the topic of his lineage.
“How could I have missed this side of you?” Lynette whispered to him, her mouth close to his ear. “I had no idea you were so exciting.”
Mr. Rollington looked down and smiled; his twisted mouth of loveliness enhanced his prominent cheekbones.
“Be careful,” Mr. Rollington warned, “This might be an affair to remember.”
They were two middle-aged people who needed each other’s warmth on their holiday. Mr. Rollington was a man, and she was a woman. Their coming together was all aligned by the stars themselves.
They embraced each other while they were heading towards seeing the Calanques of Marseille. Lynette felt a steady easiness in his arms, and she wondered about her permittance of such an indulgence. She had never seen him in this light. Lynette would have never dreamt of having him touch her in such an intimate way five years ago. But now they were tightly in each other’s arms, traveling on the assurance of the undulating waters of Marseille.
“Oh, do let me hold you more tightly,” Mr. Rollington whispered into her ears.
His embrace became a sweet tightness that demolished Lynette’s years of solitude. She was that kind of a woman who hungered for love until it felt right. Lynette loathed the feel of the insipidity of pseudo-physical attraction, for it put a strain on her mind. Mr. Rollington felt so perfect, so exacting in her search for a lover of a certain caliber. He was a man of some accomplishment in life and Lynette felt that he was deserving of her time and energy. Lynette could not imagine how finding love during the summer months can invigorate lovers to a senseless point.
They returned to the Marseille wharf after about two hours of sea travel. Lynette was famished and Mr. Rollington suggested that they eat Senegalese. Lynette obligingly wanted to eat authentic French cuisine, for that was one of the main reasons she was in France. Sampling its sumptuous meals, perfumes and blue waters were important. Mr. Rollington couldn’t talk her into having his way so he took her to an eatery across from the wharf.
“If there is some time left,” Mr. Rollington mentioned, “We could take a bus uphill to see the Basilique Notre- Dame de la Garde.”
Mr. Rollington pointed to the apex of the of the city and Lynette could see the majesty of the building’s golden statue of Madonna and child, dominating the sky. Marseille, on a hot summer’s day, glistened like the aura surrounding a golden throne. Lynette was excited to be experiencing the reality of a dream vacation and she absorbed the city’s images through the kaleidoscope of her mind. She liked Marseille for the reality she was experiencing was better than her wildest dreams.
“Let’s make time to go on top of the hill,” Lynette insisted after finishing up her meal.
The meal was not French but was made for the palette of the tourist in mind. Fish and meat were cooked with the simmering familiarity of américain. Lynette thought the meals she had in Niolon were more French: simple in style, but complex in taste.
They took a tram car to the zenith of Marseille where it seemed as if the earth kissed the sky. Lynette thought that the grounds of the cathedral were not in the least impressive. Its magnificent view was to behold, and she and Mr. Rollington held hands as they looked down at the dots in the world. Heaven must be this way she thought for when one stares down from a distance, life seemed so trivial, so… so… so....
She searched her mind trying to find the correct word when Mr. Rollington drew her into an embrace.
“Remember,” he cautioned, “We are the only two in the world. Only think about us.”
It was not difficult to do, for Lynette needed an escape from her uneventful life. Work was dreary, and in its presence she had to give up so much of her values and beliefs just to fit in. She needed romantic healing and love to look forward to. Mr. Rollington’s offering came at the right moment, and she accepted it without putting up a fight.
They entered the small hall of worship of the cathedral Notre-Dame de la Garde. Lynette sighed despite gazing at the building's colorful, striated columns and statutes depicting the holy martyrdom of Christ. The spread of the statue's arms, with its held down in disgrace like an injured animal, caused Lynette's heart to beat rapidly. She wandered most care-freely into a room lighted with at least a thousand candles and cringed at the excitement of it all. Lynette became rather perturbed when a priest chased her out of the lighted room upon entering. She couldn’t understand what the fuss was about until Mr. Rollington rescued her with the touch of his caring hands.
“Entering such a holy place is like you’re interrupting people’s prayers,” he warned with caution.
“I didn’t know,” Lynette commented with polite devastation. “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t worry yourself for not knowing the principles of Catholicism,” said Mr. Rollington.
Lynette accepted his comforting words but decided to leave the celestial grounds. She hated being in the presence of God in an atmosphere created by men with unreal expectations and principles.
“Let us go home,” Lynette suggested. “Let's return to Niolon.”
Mr Rollington was rather surprised by the mere mention of Niolon since he had not mentioned his place of stay.
“What do you know about Niolon?” he asked inquisitively.
“I am staying there too,” she said rather teasingly.
Mr. Rollington held on to Lynette 's hand to steady the eagerness of her body as he pressed her to know more. She turned towards him abruptly and stared into his face.
“I’ve been keeping a secret. “I’m staying in Carry-le-Rouet, very close to Niolon. In fact, Mr. Rollington,” she said lovingly, “I saw you at the Auberge de Merou some days ago.” I sat beside you and stared at you, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Now I know that this is our destiny.”
The few hours they had been spending together caused Lynette to ooze tones of love like the language of a poet. She was stunned at the impromptu expressions that came out of her mouth so naturally, so sublime. He felt it too.
“And so, you’ve kept this little secret to yourself?” he asked with boyish idleness, not wanting to let me in.”
Lynette did not answer. She wandered off, kicking up her heels, when she spotted a merry-go-round on La Canebière, the main boulevard, they took on the way back to the Marseille, St. Charles train station. She felt carefree, like a little girl, whose dress has been caught in the wind. Mr. Rollington trailed behind her and watched her as she purchased a ticket, only for her, not him and hopped on. He was admiring how happy she seemed to be in his reach and thinking about his own happiness. He felt strange knowing that someone you’re compatible with could be so close in your circle without your knowledge.
The following day, they met up again in Niolon to go to the beach. It was on an old abandoned railroad track, near a lavender field with lofty, white mountains in the distance. Mr. Rollington had traded a little house from Cyrille, a man he’d encountered on one of his endless travels. He told her Cyrille was staying in his apartment in Brooklyn for the entire summer. He talked about the myriad of friends he’d met while traveling on his holidays and how some of these encounters led to him to seeing some vast glimpses of the world.
“Did you bring your swimwear?” Mr. Rollinton asked before they went on the trail to the cove at the Calanque du Jonquier. Lynette hadn’t anticipated the steep hike down into the cove. She wasn’t an athletic person unlike Mr. Rollington. Despite their decade age difference, he guided her with the precision and knowledge of a young native hiker. She was dressed inappropriately as she’d always done for the beach when she was a young girl in the Caribbean. She was over-prepared with a straw bag containing all the items used for the beach.
“A true beach goer is a minimalist. Everything needed are hidden under his clothes,” commented Mr. Rollington.
Mr. Rollington was dressed in Khaki shorts and a white linen shirt. On his feet he wore and intricately designed Jesus sandals.
“Come, Lynette,” he said while leading her down the ravine that led into the cove. “You wouldn’t want to fall while going down, would you?”
When Mr. Rollington seized Lynette's straw bag, he found it rather trivial and he laughed.
“You’re the quintessential island woman,” he stated, “bringing everything for your comfort --and for the comfort of others as well.”
Lynette laughed, hiding the fact that she didn’t know how to take Mr. Rollington’s comment. While in New York, she never visited the local beaches for they weren’t worth scouting out. She was an island woman and her concept of beaches conjured up remote places. In her dream, such places one could take refuge into lagoons of blue water and lush greeneries. Places where one take shelter under a sprawling almond or a sea grape tree to bask in the indirect sunlight of the day. It's been years since Lynette experienced that familiar scenery, but she hadn’t forgotten how she used to prepare for its comforting pleasures.
Standing on the grounds of the cove, Lynette wandered into a dream. The cove was built under a large Roman aqueduct and its arches curved an ample distance. It was Rome in her nautical splendor. She realized the mistake made when she couldn’t disrobe to put on her swimsuit. ‘What an inconvenience,’ she muttered. She’d forgotten that sometimes people wore their swimsuits under their attire and would then undress on the beach.
“I see what you are saying,” she said to Mr. Rollington. “I’ve placed myself in an awkward position.”
“Never mind that,” he said with patience,“ I know a place where you could change.”
Mr. Rollington then took Lynette in search of a nook in the limestone where she could change while he barred its entrance. The pair emerged from the cove dressed in full swim attire.
Mr. Roderick Rollington was a master diver and Lynette was enthralled by his athleticism. Holding his arms out to balance his stocky body, he centered his head out while his shoulders and hips positioned themselves behind him. Then with the elegant leap of a meticulous tiger, he dove off the limestone cliff and brought his arms into a fold as he touched the water.
“I always try to land on my feet when I hit the water,” Mr. Rollington confessed to her after his fourth dive.
“I see you have the skill of a cat,” Lynette confessed.
“Do you want me to teach you,” he teased.
Mr. Rollington realized that he was being too self-centered and had been ignoring her desire to relax and bask in the sun. They both took refuge at the base of the Roman arch. Lynette donned her wide- brimmed straw hat and a pair of sunglasses. She also took out a book of Jean Rhys' short stories she had always wanted to read and escaped into a world contrary to her own. She realized, when she started reading, that she too was blocking Mr. Rollington from entering her world. Their long familiar habits of spending too much time by themselves had caused them to become self-absorbed.
“We must always keep us in mind,” he whispered, putting his head into her lap.
Lynette put away the book and softly caressed Mr. Rollington's head as she ran her fingers through his hair. Two svelte, topless middle-aged German tourists emerged and dashed into the water. Lynette regained her confidence, took off her top and followed them. Mr. Rollington went after them all. She swam further from the cove to where it met the ocean. The water of the Mediterranean was sweet to the skin and blue to the distant eye. Lynette and Mr. Rollington swam, threaded and waded in the water as if they were holding on to life-- a new freedom of their lives together ahead.
But like all good episodes, Lynette's seven days in Marseille ended. But her memories lingered with Mr. Rollington. She went onto Paris while he stayed back to enjoy what was left of his languorous days to come.
Part 2
Brooklyn, New York
The telephone rang several times before Lynette picked up the receiver. It's been two weeks since she returned from Paris, France. The lazy summer months had dwindled into just a few days before a new public school term began. She surmised that the person on the line might be Mr. Roderick Rollington for he stayed back in France longer than she, and even though they hadn’t communicated since her departure in Marseille, he was due back that date. Lynette missed his companionship, and his immediate presence on the line would reveal that he felt the same way about her. She picked up the telephone with the expectation of hearing his voice and spoke with deliberation.
“Roderick,” she said, before he could get in the first words. “It is so nice to hear from you again.”
He laughed amusingly. “Roderick,” he repeated, “my, oh my. You’ve never called me by my first name before. I see the romance is gone and the reality has set in,” he joked amusingly.
“No, the romance hasn’t withered but reality has indeed set in,” teased Lynette.
“Oh Lynette,” he insisted. “We have to see each other immediately. I missed the warmth of our caress.”
To be exact, it was only two days before public school began when Lynette went to Roderick’s Bedford-Stuyvesant's home. He seemed odd living in that part of town—a white shadow amid hues of brown. His unidentified presence caused him to stand out but his familiar heart belonged. He was a man caught between the color-class hierarchy of the Caribbean and the divided racial lines of America; but the genuine warmth in his heart had found a resting place.
“Finally, we meet again,” he said while outstretching his arms. “Life stopped without having you by my side.”
They hugged and kissed and held on to the memories of weeks passed. Now it seemed that a new world had begun and the old dream slowly faded. She hoped they’d survive the hassle ahead. Two unmarried, middle-aged couple in a love affair can sometimes be set in their ways. It was fate that brought them together but she hoped that destiny will cement their bond. Pressing herself closer to him, Lynette thought about the act of expressing her love and Roderick reciprocated her expectation. The passionate expression of love became their trademark of new discoveries as they got to know each in the throngs of the normalcy of life. By doing so, they both came to realize that parting from each other would be a painstaking occurrence.
But gradually the passion between them dimmed like embers on a twig before it reached its end. Lynette stood by and watched Roderick burned himself out managing a recalcitrant staff, uninvolved parents and a bitter ex-wife as he struggled to keep the fire burning in their relationship. He needed to balance it all and she couldn’t help him in that department.
He’d been married briefly to a very pretty but coarse Russian woman named Kira to prevent further miscegenation in the family. They both sired a daughter whom they called “Polina.” But the marriage soured after its fifth year, and he vowed never to remarry. Now he was a man of fifty-five and had been living a bachelor’s life for twenty years.
“We have to try to hold on,” he whispered into her ears after weeks of absence.
Roderick hadn’t called and Lynette became both worried and frustrated by him. She was a truthful and down-to-earth woman and she knew that all love affairs were superficial until they have been tested to the limit. She wondered if Roderick and her would survive this dismal moment in their relationship.
“Yes,” she admitted, “that’s all we can do. Hold on until it’s all straightened out.”
They had stolen time for themselves to be alone, one Saturday morning. She’d chosen a place to eat breakfast on Amsterdam Avenue. The café was small and very intimate and she chose it specifically because she thought they needed peace and privacy between them. He strolled in quietly, in deep discontent because the rose in their love affair had withered. He desperately wanted to revive it. He didn’t know how it should be done because he hadn’t invested in love during his years of being alone. He knew that Lynette loved him deeply and was waiting for his to take the lead as a man, but he remained uncertain as to how he should make the situation right.
“Lynette, he muttered, trying to initiate a conversation,”you chose the most perfect place.”
“I chose a place for intermittent lovers,” she said smiling.
They were both educators and were well-read which caused them to use the same esoteric singular language in their conversation. They understood each other so there was no spare time for explanation. He took a seat beside her and began to explain about the labyrinth of his life.
“Coming back to the hustle and the bustle of the city makes me impotent both in mind and body when it comes to intimacy,” he declared.
Lynette picked up a slice of bacon and tore it in two pieces then looked him straight into his face.
“But New York has always been like this. But ordinary lives are carried out amid all this bedlam of lame reasons and pretensions. Is that all you have to say?”
Roderick realized that she was angry and that his flimsy excuse wasn’t going to work. He softened his countenance and decided to speak to her with a Caribbean directness one would excuse as sheer aggression. She demanded and he needed to explain.
“Well,” he began to reveal, “I came back to a challenging year. Teachers’ grievances against me are piled this high,” he said comparing the size of the teachers’ complaints with the widening of his hands. “I do need some time to sort it all out. Don’t believe that I’m a phony but I do need some time.”
“I never thought of you as being a phony,” she said. “But you made me love you in Marseille and now you want me to take back that love.”
Roderick was stunned at her explosion, and he admired her for it. Never had he met a woman so passionate and expressive in what she wanted in life. Kira, his ex-wife, held back her emotions, and he was too selfish and immature to show her how he wanted it to be done. They parted ways many years ago. The women who came after her stayed on a maximum of five years, but he never loved too deeply for he was married to his career.
“I love you,” he uttered rashly then he whistled into her ear.
Roderick had never been in love before, and it felt strange. For an adventurous man of fifty-five, he hadn’t invested in love. He had traveled lone journeys around the world and had pretended not to need anyone by his side. Whenever one gets too wrapped up in floods of emotions there’s need to worry. But on the contrary, he had felt an emptiness of abysmal depth that could not be concealed.
Sitting nose to nose in a breakfast café in Manhattan had its moment of inebriation for one could lose their senses into romantic feelings. They had Marseille to reminisce about, but the future remained uncertain. Time had slipped further and further from it all and now they were both trying to hold on to what they’d experienced. But they couldn’t get it back and so they decided to separate—at least for a while—until that irrefutable feeling could be found again.
Lynette’s life went on as it did before—daily workdays, movies, theaters, acquaintances but never a good friend. It was hard to befriend women for they had a sense of competitiveness among them. She wasn’t in the habit of living her life in haste but lived it with a certain quiet dignity. She felt as if she ran her life like a marathon, it would spin out of control, and she didn’t want to take a chance on that. In her love- life, she chose men because they brought pleasure not economic success for that was unattainable as a woman of Caribbean descent. Going to work one day, she overheard a piece of news about principals who were about to be dethroned from their positions. Mr. Roderick Rollington was among them. They hadn’t seen each other in two months and had spoken only sparsely, He hadn’t spoken about his awaiting dethronement but was not in the best of spirits. It was during their intermittent moments of non-speaking that had Lynette wondering about what the future might bring. For the both of them, it seemed like life stopped with the blink of time. They had moments’ romp in Southern France where life framed itself with a certain optimistic atmosphere. ‘Did it fool them? Did their moments of happiness enabled them to think that it was attainable all their lives? Lynette wasn’t so sure anymore for Roderick became unavailable.
But something unexpectedly happened some five months after their parting. Life had resumed its normal course and Lynette had moved on without being consumed by the thoughts of Mr. Roderick Rollington. She’d decided to let him go thoroughly for he appeared to be a man who couldn’t maintain a stable love affair amid the traumas of life. It appeared to Lynette that was the reason why he hadn’t invested in love for he hadn’t found a formula for complete success. But when he called that brisk, January noon, in the dead of winter, to set a brunch date at a fashionable restaurant in Manhattan, she wondered what their meeting would be about.
“I’ll don’t know if I’ll make it” she remembered telling him without a hint of apprehension in her voice.
Lynette’s enthusiasm was gone for the light in their relationship had dimmed and she wondered what he needed from her.
“Please,” he had insisted, “please try to make it.”
She remembered being silent on the phone until he inquired if she was still listening.
“Yes, I am still here,” she chimed in, “but I thought we were through?”
“Don’t you remember? I' d told you to hold on, not to give up on me. I need you in my life.”
She did not answer. She hadn’t been lucky in love and wished he hadn’t said those words to ignite the memories that she’d tucked away from escaping.
“Oh, Roderick,” she muttered, “you’re, a, ah…”
Lynette couldn’t find the words to describe their conversation after she’d hung up the phone. He’d been evasive for some five months and had become uncommunicative. At times she surmised that he might have thrown her away because he had acquired her so easily. Men could be like that sometimes even in middle age. But his telephone call made him a man of his word and she wondered why he’d let the months gone by with few intermittent calls. Now she needed to answer him with the directness of a woman—the woman that he claimed to love and needed.
“You’re a friggin’ bastard!” she burst out saying. “Do you think I’ve been sitting around waiting for you to call? Now that you’ve decided that the time is right for you, you expect me to jump right into your arms. You’ve shut me out of your life, now it’s your turn to wait until I’ve decided to see you.”
There was silence on the other end of the line—his end, and Lynette knew that she’d stick it to him, the same way he’d given it to her. But Roderick became more incessant like a stallion being penned. He wanted to break out of his mold of loneliness and unimpressive relationships. He decided to give in by being calm and docile, submissive to her every whim. He hung up the phone but didn’t move on for he had a scheme to win her heart.
The following week, a large bunch of yellow orchids were delivered at Lynette’s door. They were a gift from Mr. Roderick Rollington. A tiny card with a nondescript purple flower was attached and simple words that read “Don’t give up on us” were written on it. Lynette began to laugh about the stupidity surrounding the circumstance. What did Roderick expect her to do? Fall into his incompetent arms like a silly woman with unreasonable afterthoughts? She had lived her life with caution making the necessary blunders that caused her to grow but she knew that there were some mistakes she couldn’t afford to make for her very life would have been put in jeopardy. Loving Roderick was one of them. He hadn’t been a grown-up or the all ‘rounder' she’d hoped he’d be. She felt as if he’d tricked her into loving him. Gaining her composure, after receiving the flowers, Lynette decided to call him later but wasn’t surprised when the telephone rang with him on the other end.
“Did you get them?” he asked her in a solemn silence.
He didn’t say another word until she broke the silence in acrimony.
“Roderick, did you really expect orchids could cheer me up after your long absence without calling or worrying about me?”
At first, he didn’t mutter a word. Then, his voice became strong again taking charge of the conversation, enticing her to listen to his words. He thought that a Caribbean woman could be stubborn and wild to tame because of her no- nonsense approach to life, but with carefully chosen words that reveal the honest truth, she could be won over.
“Call the police and tell them I am harassing you,” he told her in a defiant tone.
Lynette laughed and softened some. Sometimes Roderick could be such a brazen charmer. Like when they vacationed months earlier at the Calanque du Jonquier and he jokingly tried to teach her how to dive. She was not interested, and he was incessant. He had grabbed her by her waist and held her tightly at the ledge of a cliff-- the tip of memory, and had threatened to push her off. They both laughed and hugged even tighter, taking comfort in each other’s arms. Now that brazen charm had surfaced again to grab her attention, sucking her into his irresistible clutch.
“I hadn’t thought about doing that,” she told him over the phone, “but it’s rather tempting, don’t you think?”
They both giggled. Then she remembered why she fell in love with him. It was his dedication to her in his moment of interest. She felt that she might have been too rash to judge him. Perhaps she wanted too much when he’d told her that he couldn’t give it to her when she needed it. She had to protect her heart from being shattered and being with Roderick, had caused her to love with all the logic she could muster up. He changed when they returned to New York and his passion waned for her. She wanted the assurance that he’d be there for her to lean on in times of need, but he gave her so little of himself and that is what worried her the most.
“Roderick,” she told him,“perhaps we could meet but we have to talk. You cannot intoxicate me with sweet words anymore but it’s alright for us to meet.”
She hung up the telephone without saying another word and began to reflect about their first encounter. He was the reigning principal of a struggling inner-city school and had hired her to teach the health curriculum. Lynette felt that even though Roderick understood the social problems in the black community he never had a strategic plan to raise the school’s academic scores. He was suspicious of her from the very beginning for his enemies were her acquaintances and he would occasionally spot them giggling in the teachers’ lounge. She remembered being told that he was a flunky to the “bigwigs” in education. She noticed that as a boss he never acted in the best interest of the school for he wanted to be the “good guy” and not cause any trouble. He was fair in his dealings with his subordinates but when they’d abuse his authority, he’d remain docile. Lynette hadn’t found him enchanting or even effective as a supervisor. She thought of him as being a coward and she didn’t last that long on his staff.
Now, destiny had brought them together some fifteen years later and they were both unlucky in love. Sure, they had both maintained their professional work habits, but the fire sparked by true love was still absent. When they both found it, they felt rejuvenated for love conquered all that is missing in one’s life. Lynette felt that she should go to meet Roderick and at least hear his side of the story. After all, he was a survivor despite what she’d initially thought about him professionally. The telephone rang again, and it was Roderick who had now taken on a calm demeanor. Lynette’s time with him caused her to realize that he was very serious and that she should dissolve her fiery temperament for she would lose him forever.
“I’d like to see you in the next two hours,” he told her.
Lynette hesitated covertly but realized the reality of its urgency. They hadn’t been in communication for a while, and she needed an answer for his evasiveness.
“Sure,” she told him.
She didn’t argue with him or even mentioned his lack of attentiveness for she decided to go and hear his side of the story before a decision was to be made.
“Where should we meet?” she asked quizzically.
“The Russian Tea Room,” he said. “In two hours.”
OK,” she said rather firmly.
It was now 10 am in the morning and she had to meet him for lunch in two hours. He prided himself with the punctiliousness of his life, for he’d always kept his appointments and was never late. So when she put down the telephone, Lynette sighed and wondered about the mood she’d find him in. But there was not much time to ponder. She was determined to meet him halfway. When she hung up the phone with the excitement of a teenager in love, she kicked up her heels with the haughty exuberance of a Frisian stallion in high trot, then dressed elegantly, and headed to the swanky Upper West Side restaurant to have lunch with Mr. Roderick Rollington.
**Dedicated in the memory of Jamaican writer/poet Claude McKay who loved Marseille, France.
S. D. Brown is a postcolonial writer born in Kingston, Jamaica. She holds a B.A. from The New School for Social Research and an M.S. from Adelphi University. Her work has appeared in Anthurium, Sargasso, Two Thirds North, The Journal of Postcolonial Writing, Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Lemonwood Quarterly, and The Caribbean Writer. She is the author of The Roar of the River: Slave Stories Inspired by Thomas Thistlewood Diaries, 1750-1786 and Let me Hold Your Hand, both published on Amazon. Her short story collection entitled The Day the Masquerade Came was published by Adelaide Magazine. Epitaph by Her Grave is her most recent publication. Her story, "Planter's Punch," was recently shortlisted for the 9th Adelaide Literary Prize. More information can be found at: postcolonialauthorsdbrown.com.
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