Chapter 13
That Sunday morning, Basra and Grayson stayed in bed until noon. It wasn’t until her phone persistently rang with back-to-back calls did she come from her trance. Before answering, she knew it was Richard. She could feel it. She quickly hopped from bed and rushed to the bathroom to answer. Luckily, Grayson was still asleep. Her gut never steered her wrong, even though she often went against it. It was Richard and he wanted to meet.
“What time?” she whispered.
“Two o’clock.”
“I want to meet in the city, at Neely’s Barbecue Parlor,” she suggested.
“The Barbeque Parlor? I don’t know where that is.”
“Look it up. It’s on First Avenue.”
Basra quickly hung up. She had to think of a place she knew would be crowded and possibly loud just in case he made a scene. She woke up Grayson and told him she had to run out. He was so exhausted he just turned back over and went to sleep. Basra was able to leave the house without questions.
Richard was there when she arrived. He was all smiles as though this was their first meeting and he hadn’t been stalking all over New York. She greeted him and they sat. Before everything got started she pulled the small box and bracelet from her purse and slid it back across the table.
“I cannot accept this.”
“I won’t take it back,” he said.
“Then I’m leaving it right here on the table. Better yet, I will give it to one of the homeless.”
“Do whatever you like, Dove. It is yours. How was the exhibit last night?”
“Were you there?”
“No, I wasn’t invited to the private event. I did, however, watch the many attendees shuffle in and out.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Doing what? I was in the city with nothing to do and I simply wanted to see what you were up to.”
“Look, you need to stop stalking me or else.”
“I don’t like when you use that word. It’s very disturbing to me.”
“And your actions are disturbing to me.”
Richard reached across the table and grasped Basra’s hand. “We’ve had so much fun, I don’t understand why you are being so coy with me now.”
“I’m not being coy, I am trying to tell you that I can’t see you anymore. You have to find another girl.”
“Where will I find another Somali as beautiful and smart as you, one who likes my ideas and studies psychology?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care!”
The server interrupted her. “Are you ready to order?”
“Not yet,” Basra said, waving her away. As soon as she walked away she started up once more. Basara knew she needed to lighten her tone. Richard was starting to show more hints of crazy and she really didn’t want a scene. “I don’t want to be mean to you. I really think you’re a decent guy, but my life is in transition. So it’s not you, it’s me.”
Richard paused and then let out a laugh. “You and the waiter guy. Could this be why you are different toward me now? He can’t do anything for you. What kind of life can he offer you? I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”
“That doesn’t matter. I don’t want that life with you. You don’t even know me. We’ve been on two dates.”
“And they were two of my most memorable moments in life.”
“You’ve traveled the world, met dignitaries. I don’t compare to any of that. I’m just a young, naïve girl from Somalia. Who is ... who is going back home.” Basra quickly came up with the lie.
“Oh no, why?”
“My family needs me there. I will be attending school there. I was just here trying to raise enough money to help my family, as I said. But now I’ve just decided to go back home.”
Richard was quiet as he mulled over her response. Basra was also quiet in hopes that he’d bought the lie.
“When are you leaving?”
“I’m buying my ticket this week. So, next week.”
“I will help you pack your things.”
“No, I’m leaving everything with my roommate. I’m only taking my clothes.”
“Will you be back?”
“I don’t know. But if I come back I will call you.”
“This is very unfortunate. I could come visit you in Somalia.”
“I don’t know. My family is very strict. If they thought I was seeing an American, my dad would be livid.”
The server returned to their table.
“I’m not eating,” Basra quickly said to her.
“You have to eat,” Richard said, grabbing her wrist.
Basra tried to loosen his grip but she couldn’t. “Stop it, Richard.”
“Dove will have the chicken and waffles and I will try the Velvet Elvis.”
“And to drink?” the server asked.
“What would you like, darling?” asked Richard, still holding a tight grip on her hand.
“I’m good with water,” Basra replied.
“Why don’t we try the red velvet mimosas? We’ll have two.”
The server left.
“If you don’t let me go, I’m going to scream.”
“Why would you do that? It will only upset everyone who’s in here having a nice Sunday brunch. Let’s just enjoy this brunch, since it may be the last meal we ever have together.”
Basra felt trapped. She suddenly realized the degree of Richard’s insanity. She wanted to run, but she recalled Lucia’s supposed joke and imagined him reaching inside his navy-blue cardigan, pulling out a semi-automatic gun, and killing everyone in the restaurant starting with her. This thought kept her quiet and still. She prayed that if she sat and had this meal with him, he would quietly walk out of her life. At that moment, it was her only option. She was a foreigner in a strange land and still unsure of all of the American laws. But she knew prostitution was illegal and she couldn’t risk getting arrested. Richard had money and if she’d learned anything, people with money have the power to bend and break the rules. Her best bet was to be nice to him and pray he’d have mercy and just let her go.
After brunch, Richard simply said good-bye and got in a cab. He didn’t linger, which was just what she’d hoped for. However, his menacing stare as the cab drove away gave Basra a disturbing feeling in the pit of her stomach. She assumed he had something up his sleeve.
When Basra got back to her home, Grayson was awake and using her juicer. She had wolfed down the chicken and waffles to appease Richard, but her stomach was in knots and the food was very unsettling.
“There she is,” said Grayson as she walked in.
“I’m sorry, I had to take some medicine to Lucia. She’s sick.”
“That’s too bad. Is that why she didn’t show up last night?”
Basra nodded, kissed Grayson on the cheek, and went to the bedroom. She was a wreck and couldn’t stop shaking. “You want some?” he called from the kitchen.
Basra took a few deep breaths and met him in the kitchen.
“You have me addicted to juicing now. I’m running through fresh fruit like crazy.”
“Good. That means I’m having a positive effect on you.”
“You don’t have to wonder about that. Do you realize what last night is going to do for my career? Mr. Cossington called me and said that he wants to meet with me today about doing more pieces for his hotels. Baby, we did it! We did it!” he screamed while picking Basra up and twirling her around.
Basra was excited for three seconds before she felt her food crawling its way back up her esophagus. She forcefully pushed away and stuck her head in the kitchen sink just in time to release all of her brunch.
“Shit!” Grayson yelled. “Are you okay?”
Basra nodded as she wiped her mouth with a paper towel. “My stomach is just upset.”
“Well at least we know you’re not pregnant.” He chuckled. Basra gave way to a tiny snicker. “You’re not pregnant, right?”
“Oh God no,” she expressed.
“I was about to say, who in the hell have you been sleeping with ’cause it’s certainly not me.”
Basra knew she wasn’t pregnant but she felt like shit. She couldn’t continue to lie to Grayson. She was really falling for him and looking him in the face was becoming very difficult.
“I need to lie down.” Basra retired to her bedroom and remained there for the next couple of hours. Grayson lingered around, continued to check on her, but he had to leave to meet with Cossington, finally.
“I really want you to go with me.”
“No, you’ll be fine. I don’t know about commissioning deals, so I won’t be much help.”
“You want me to come back afterward?”
“Just call me. I’m going to lounge all day.”
Just like Lawson hinted, Arthur Cossington commissioned ten more pieces from Grayson. Overnight, Grayson went from a struggling artist to one of the hottest underground artists in demand. Word quickly got out about the show and Basra had several artists calling her about their works. As much as she loved doing the art show, she didn’t want to take up a career as an art agent or broker. Grayson had been her motivation and she’d used most of her connections on this show. If she truly had to go out and find avid art patrons, it would be much harder, and she was sure she wouldn’t enjoy it half as much. Her focus was Grayson and she wanted to take his career to even higher heights, so over the next few weeks, she spent her energy on finding more commercial opportunities for him. If she did this right, she could retire from her profession sooner rather than later.
With the money earned from the art show Basra and Grayson were able to repay Lawson. Basra returned the entire $25,000, and once she took her commission from what was left, she still had $15,000 to place in the bank. Grayson found a new studio space, one with a nice gallery area, and was so busy painting and creating that he and Basra didn’t see each other sometimes for days. It took him three months to complete the pieces for Cossington. During that time, fall was starting and Basra enrolled back into St. John’s University to continue toward her psychology degree. During those months, Basra went out with four clients from Choice. Richard continued to call, but she never spoke with him. Basra swore she saw him a couple of times in the park across from her building. However, when she walked across the street to approach him, he was never there. He was like a ghost, and she felt there wasn’t anything she could really do about it. She wasn’t even positive that Richard was his name.
Basra was close to her goal of $50,000 and saw an end in sight. If she weren’t sending half of her money back to Somalia, she’d have her fifty by now. However, Basra was supporting two households, her sister’s education, and special schooling for her brother. Still, Basra had $10,000 tied up in investments and with the few deals she’d brokered for Grayson, she was truly beginning to feel like a businesswoman.
Grayson had shipped most of the pieces for Cossington but was working on the last installments that were gracing the lobby of his hotels in Sweden. He’d asked Basra to come by and take a look at the work, but with her schedule, they kept missing each other. It was a Thursday afternoon when she realized that she hadn’t seen her man in four days.
“Where are you?” she asked, calling him on the cell.
“At my second home,” he answered.
Basra took the number three train downtown to lower Manhattan and walked over a few blocks to Grayson’s new studio on Twenty-fourth Street. She walked in and noticed the bare walls.
“Hey!” she called out. “Where’s all of your artwork?”
Grayson came from the back. “People are buying it. You would know if you came to visit more often.”
“Babe, I’m in school, and I have tons of paperwork. Plus, you’re always working, and I don’t want to come down here just to watch you work.”
“Then you should do your homework here,” he suggested.
“Nah, I like getting comfy and doing it at home.”
“Then maybe we should move in together.”
Basra gave him a curious look. “Move in with each other, really?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“First of all, you have a roommate. I don’t know how he would feel about that.”
“I’ve been looking at new spaces anyway. Maybe we can get a townhouse in Brooklyn.”
“Moving in? Why don’t we just get married then?” Basra laughed.
“That’s an even better idea,” said Grayson.
“I was joking. We can’t get married.”
“Why not? We love each other and we want to be together.”
“We just can’t. It’s too soon.”
“How much time do you need to know that you want to spend your life with someone?”
“I don’t know how much, but it has to be more than six months,” Basra said.
“Not really,” he said.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It makes me nervous,” she said.
Grayson laughed and walked back to the studio. Basra followed him and looked at the work for Cossington. “This is really nice,” she said.
“It’s not really my style, but it was in the vein of what he wanted.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
“It’s different when you’re painting for someone as a job instead of for yourself. It’s not as fun. I can’t really express myself in the way I would like.”
“But how much is this piece?”
“Twelve thousand.”
“Exactly,” stated Basra.
“That’s why I’m sitting here painting with a smile on my face.” Grayson placed on a big, cheesy smile and picked up his brush. Basra kissed him and headed out.
“Will I see you tonight?” he asked.
“Just call me when you’re almost done.”
Basra left and looked at the time. She had about one hour before meeting Adam. His visits had become more consistent, almost weekly. They didn’t have much conversation. It was strictly sexual, and Basra preferred it that way. He didn’t know anything about her, and she didn’t know anything about him. Things were much simpler. On the way, she talked to Lucia, who seemed distant and preoccupied.
“So, are you okay?” Basra asked several times during the conversation.
“I’m fine as always,” was her response. Yet, her responses were quick and she didn’t do her normal investigative chatter that she was known for.
“I’m going to come see you next week,” said Basra.
“Call me, you know how I travel,” Lucia replied.
The two hung up as Basra was walking up to Adam’s building. He buzzed her up, but today he didn’t seem his normal self when she walked in. Basra was compelled to ask him the problem. As soon as she opened herself up, emotion poured out of the floodgates.
“I just found out my son is gay.”
Basra didn’t know how to respond, and so she sat and listened to him vent.
“I blame his mother who always let him have his way. She made him weak.”
“I don’t think your wife can turn your child gay,” said Basra.
“You don’t know my ex. She wanted a girl, and so he did any and all things feminine. Now, he wants to become a dancer.”
“Dancers are fine athletes.”
“I knew I should have made him come live with me. I just didn’t have time to be a father and build my business. I was always gone. So, maybe it’s my fault.”
“It’s no one’s fault. It’s not a fault at all, it’s just the way some people are.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Just take your clothes off.”
Basra slowly stripped down to her underwear. Adam pushed her down on the bed and became very physical. When she tried to talk, he went to his briefcase, pulled out a roll of tape, and covered her mouth with a strip of it.
“You don’t talk today. I don’t want to hear a female voice.”
He held down her hands and pounded his body into hers. He was angry and he wanted to make a woman pay; any woman, it didn’t matter. Basra squirmed beneath him and moaned through the black tape. Finally, Adam released and got up. He sat on the edge and looked over at her.
“Get out!” he said.
Basra pulled the tape from her mouth. “This is my last visit,” she yelled before going into the bathroom. She slammed the door, and came out moments later with her clothes on. Adam, still on the edge of the bed, glanced up at her as she walked in the room to grab her purse but he said nothing. She replied with the same silent stare and left.
That afternoon, Basra decided she was going to quit the business. The act that afternoon would have sent a normal woman over the edge. It was practically rape. However, in Basra’s mind she had justified it, and this was when she realized the business had finally completely numbed her.
“I’m no different than Lucia,” she said to herself.
She was shy of her goal of $50,000, but she didn’t care anymore. She knew with certainty that she had to stop. Between Adam’s bipolar ways and Richard the psychotic, she realized that most men who desired and could afford her services were off-balance in many ways and she no longer wanted to deal with them. She was going to focus all of her energy on school and on Grayson.
Basra stopped by the market that afternoon and grabbed groceries to cook. She hadn’t cooked in some time and was sick of eating out. She wanted to make Cambuulo, a traditional Somali meal. Luckily, the farmer’s market had azuki beans, and so Basra bought a bag, and rushed home to start the process. The beans would take up to four hours to prepare and while they cooked, she cleaned. She tossed out old receipts that were stacked in her top drawer, washed clothes, and even mopped her floors. She called Grayson and told him about dinner plans.
“You can cook?” he said.
“Of course I can cook. My mother had us cooking at ten.”
“Well, why haven’t you ever made me dinner?”
“I’ve cooked before,” she mentioned.
“Sandwiches, salads, and baked chicken don’t count.”
“Baked chicken does count. But tonight we eat traditional Somali, so can you please be here by eight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I may have to come back to the studio though after dinner.”
“Nooooo.”
“Babe, I have work to do.”
“Okay, well just be here at eight.”
Basra continued to clean. She ran out to Target around 7:00 P.M. and purchased a huge quilt and several pillows to create the perfect atmosphere. When Grayson arrived at eight, dinner was complete and Basra had bowls and plates set on the quilt. Her home smelled like frankincense and the food looked delicious. Grayson walked in carrying a dozen white roses in a large square-shaped vase. Basra walked him in and sat him on the quilted floor.
“White roses are my favorite,” she cooed.
“‘Then will I raise aloft the milk white rose, with whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.’”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Basra stated with confusion.
“It’s Shakespeare; Henry VI ...”
“You’re such an artist. Thank you.”
“I did a lot of theater in high school.”
“It’s very sexy. Basra smelled the tips of the flowers and placed the vase on the counter. “We are having casho; that means dinner,” she explained. “This is rice with cumin, Cambuulo and muufo.”
“The muufo looks like cornbread,” said Grayson.
“It’s like that,” she said.
They sat and Basra fixed Grayson’s plate and even fed him the first few bites of the meal.
“This feels right,” she kept repeating throughout the evening. For the first time in a year, Basra felt at peace. She was eating a home-cooked meal, enjoying the company of someone she loved, and indulging in scents of Somalia.
“My mother burned frankincense oil every night after our meal. I went to sleep smelling it every night. I really miss home.”
“You should go visit, or maybe we can go together.”
Basra was quiet. “I know I’m in America but my parents would be so upset to know I’m dating an American. When I first came here I stayed with a friend of theirs who moved here a couple of years ago. She introduced me to several Somalis here. Even they expected me to settle down with a Somali man.”
“There is a huge Somali community in New York.”
“I know, but I don’t hang out with any of them. My mother’s friends don’t like Americans, yet they live here. I don’t understand why foreigners move here and then isolate themselves. I just wanted something different. I felt like I needed to surround myself with my new environment.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Grayson said.
“No, but sometimes I think I should have stayed with my own people. Just for accountability’s sake. I started hanging around Lucia and her crazy behind.”
“How is she doing by the way?”
“I talked to her today, but she was acting weird. I’m going to see her next week.”
“Well, I hope you don’t regret meeting me.”
“Of course not. You’re the best thing that’s happen to me since I’ve been here.”
Basra leaned over the food and kissed Grayson. He dipped his muufo in the Cambuulo and placed it gently in her mouth. Basra felt the overwhelming need to be rescued. She allowed herself to be taken into Grayson’s arms and be loved and caressed. She remained in his arms as she watched the flickering candle sitting inside the sconce.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too,” he said.
Basra lost herselfin that moment. All thoughts left her mind, and she felt like an innocent teen experiencing her first love. But as Grayson started feeling down her shirt, she felt dirty and tainted. She didn’t want him to touch her. His touch only brought dirty thoughts, and these feelings consumed her tears. The emotion was so overwhelming she couldn’t control her crying that quickly turned into bawling.
“I’m so sorry,” she kept saying over and over again. Grayson had no idea what she was talking about. He just held on and let her release.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he whispered.
“You didn’t, I just ... It’s just ...” Basra was one exhale away from spilling the truth, but the words wouldn’t form. “I can’t ... You don’t know ... and, I wish things were different ...”
Her incoherent sentences got softer and eventually there was nothing but whimpers as she sobbed softly into his grey cotton T-shirt. Grayson had never seen this side of Basra and assumed she was having a PMS moment. He scooped her from the floor and placed her on the bed. Grayson lay down beside her and softly stroked her hair until she fell asleep. He covered her with a blanket, went back into the living room, and cleaned up. Basra’s phone, which was on the bar, rang. Grayson looked at the time. It was 11:05. He was tempted to answer it, but continued to place the dishes in the sink instead. While he was washing the dishes, her phone rang two more times. Grayson ignored it until it rang once more at 11:45 P.M. He answered.
“Hello, Basra’s phone.”
“Who?” said the male voice. “I’m looking for Dove.”
“You have the wrong number.”
The man recalled the phone number, and insisted he wanted to speak with Dove.
“There is no Dove here,” Grayson said just before hanging up.
He went back to the dishes and the phone rang once more. This time he let it go to voice mail. But the temptation had gotten the best of him. He picked up her cell and scrolled through her text messages. He read the most recent one aloud.
“I’m sorry, please call me.” Grayson continued to scroll.
There wasn’t much he could decipher. She’d sent a few texts to Lucia and one to her agent.
“What are you doing?” asked Basra as she walked in the room.
Grayson inadvertently dropped her phone.
Basra rushed over and snatched the phone from the counter.
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It didn’t look that way.”
“I’m sorry, your phone rang like four times and I thought it might be an emergency, so I answered it. It was some guy. He was looking for Dove, and insisted that this was her phone number.”
A lemon-sized lump formed in her throat.
“I just ... I thought it was weird and curiosity got the best of me. I’m sorry,” Grayson said.
“You still don’t trust me,” she mumbled.
“I’m putting a lot on the line with us, and ...”
“It’s cool. Again, we really don’t know each other.”
“Who’s Dove?”
Basra held her head low and peered from underneath her brow.
“I am,” she replied.