FIFTEEN

January 22, Washington, DC

It was the night before Josephine was to leave. Gordon had begged her not to do so without his treating her to dinner, at least. “Who knows?” he had told her on the phone. “I may not see you again for a long time. Or ever, even.”

He knew she would accept. Her initial bashfulness was all a cute act. It made their interaction more interesting—exciting, even. They both enjoyed it.

At first, Gordon suggested going to one of the highly sought-after restaurants in Georgetown, but from his subconscious came another idea. “Or you could try my fufu and groundnut stew,” he suggested.

“Are you serious?” Josephine said. “You can make that?”

“I can. My late wife, Regina, taught me, so I learned from the best.”

“How could I possibly resist?” Josephine said.

In truth, it had been a long time since Gordon had made groundnut stew and he had to look up some recipes on the Internet to refresh his memory. The most important first step was to buy the least-processed peanut butter possible. The fufu wasn’t an issue since one could easily buy the powdered, just-add-water version. Real fufu involved strenuous pounding with mortar and pestle. He ran over to Afrik International Food Market in Hyattsville, MD, for the plantain fufu flour. There was more traffic than Gordon had anticipated and when he returned to begin cooking in his recently renovated kitchen, he found himself short on time.

He was therefore quite nervous at first when Josephine arrived—not as ready as he had wanted to be. He was split between conversing with her and finishing up the meal.

“Can I help at all, Gordon?” she asked.

“Well, it’s almost ready, actually.” He hesitated and then gave in. “Would you mind checking the fufu though?”

She was happy to do so. “A little more water and stirring,” she advised.

He thought how achingly lovely she was in a dark, formfitting outfit and heels. He had a thing for heels.

“This is a beautiful kitchen,” she remarked, as she shaped the fufu into a smooth, glutinous mass.

“Thank you,” he said.

They ate in the dining room. Gordon dimmed the lights and lit two candles. Josephine nodded in approval after trying her first mouthful. “You have really tried,” she said, the Ghanaian way of saying you’ve done a terrific job.

“Thank you,” he said. His chest was swelling with pride. He felt so good that she was here and that he had made this special meal for their mutual enjoyment.

“So, are you flying directly to Accra?” Gordon asked her as they tucked in. It really did taste good.

“No,” she replied, taking a dainty spoonful. “I’ll stop in the UK.”

“Ah. To see friends?”

“Yes,” she said. “And to see our son, Kwame.”

“Is he in school there?”

She smiled a little. “Actually, it’s an institution called Warwickshire Home. Kwame is autistic. He’s been there for many years.”

“Oh. How often do you get to see him?”

“Three or four times a year,” Josephine said. “I still feel guilty that it couldn’t be more often, but you see, in Ghana he wouldn’t receive adequate care. James—my husband—and I made the decision long ago to move him to the UK.”

“I see,” Gordon said, studying her and trying to read her emotions. A lot was there, but he sensed she was keeping it shrouded. “How is Kwame doing?”

“As well as can be expected,” she said, more happily. “He talks somewhat now. For years, he could not.”

“That must have been a joyful achievement for him,” Gordon said, pausing from eating.

Josephine looked at him with appreciation. “You’re the first person who has ever said that—as if you know him. Because it was joyful. He had a big, big smile. Most people just say, ‘oh, great,’ or something inane like that.”

Gordon nodded. “That’s people for you.” He was feeling drawn to her like a powerful magnetic force. “I would love to meet Kwame.”

“Really?” Josephine said. “You would like each other. James doesn’t ever talk about him.”

“Oh,” Gordon said.

She nodded. “Yes. Once Kwame was out of his sight in England, he never wanted to see him again.”

“I’m sorry,” Gordon said. “That must be hard on you.”

“James is a good man,” Josephine said, “but I find his feelings about Kwame hurtful.”

“Yes,” Gordon said.

“It may be why I’m dedicated to supporting institutions in Ghana that cater to the mentally and physically disabled,” she said. “I’m a patron of a center for autistic children in Accra. I helped the owner set it up about four years ago. One of the reasons I’ve been here in DC is to lobby for funding.”

“I see.” He hesitated. “Can I help out?”

“I would love that,” she said with fervor. “Whatever is in your heart, Gordon. Any donation is welcome. I’ll text you the information on the center.”

“Please do. I’d love to participate.”

“Thank you.”

They both wanted to move on to more lighthearted conversation, and they did. Gordon regaled her with tales of his exploits and adventures with Regina when he was a young, carefree fool in Ghana. Josephine laughed long and hard all the way through the lemon chiffon dessert, which Gordon had not made. He offered Josephine more wine, but she had had enough.

Against his repeated objections, she insisted on clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, and generally cleaning up while he made coffee. “It’s the least I could do,” she said. By now she had kicked off her heels and was padding around in her stockinged feet.

He put a record—soft jazz—on a very expensive turntable.

“My goodness,” Josephine said, staring at it. “A long time since I’ve seen one of those.”

“I’m a die-hard vinyl lover,” Gordon told her. “Old-fashioned and proud of it.”

They sat together on the sofa, talking and sipping coffee.

“Thank you for coming,” he said to her, taking her hand. “You’ve made me very happy.”

“It’s been wonderful,” she said.

They kissed for a while. When he stood up with his hand outstretched, she took it and followed him to the bedroom. The jazz played as they undressed.

“Condom?” she murmured.

“Yes,” he said.

“Good boy,” she said, and they both giggled.

They caressed each other, and she was impressed by his size.

“Not bad for a white boy?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

He used his lips and tongue to pleasure her and she gasped and said she had never had that done before. He was happy to believe it, even if it wasn’t true.

Wrapped around his back, her thighs were marvelously powerful, like Regina’s. Gordon remembered now what it had been like in those days long ago. The glory and the ecstasy of being with an African woman. No comparison.