The Weatherman Was Wrong

The room was cool – and there was a gentle breeze sweeping across the cool, brown leather couch that invited you to sit. You did, and literally felt yourself sink deep into its folds.

As your whole body relaxed, you caught the whispering sounds of a classical piano playing as your cell phone rang, but you didn’t bother to go answer it. You smiled. Memories of your mom playing afternoons like this one in her living room came forward in your mind.

Sighing, you leaned over and slipped off your tennis shoes and socks that had been tightening, you thought, with every step you took. You reached underneath your shirt, and unclasped your bra, and slowly slid out of it, without taking your shirt off – it was a big, cotton t-shirt with the logo of What-a-burger on it in the shape of the state of Texas.

You stuffed the bra and socks in your shoes and put them on the floor neatly. Grabbing the television remote from the coffee table, you put your feet and legs underneath you, slightly at an angle, and pick a piece of lint off your jeans.

Thunder clapped loudly outside, and you looked out the window, and not for the first time that day, thought how wrong the weather forecast had been. Today was supposed to be sunny, warm and dry.

As you ran a hand through your slightly damp hair, and listened to the rain pound on the roof, you laughed. To no one in particular, as you were in the room alone, you thought, you said, “The weathermen missed that one.”

The day had just been a day. You had to lead a staff meeting today since the editor had assigned senior staffers to take turns doing it from home. Zoom had become your best friend over the last months of sheltering in place thanks to the coronavirus. The staffers were all kind of low today due to the mix of the rain, thunder, and being isolated at home.

But you handled it. And now, you were done, the lamps lit the room, and the whir of the ice maker could be heard in the kitchen. Your phone beeped from the bathroom – you kept it plugged in there when you were home – you had enough of being digital and stuck to the device or any device during the day. So, that is where it stayed.

A bolt of lightning flashed to the right and the sound of a tree limb breaking made you jump. You stuck your head up so you could look out the window behind you. It was the limb of the big pecan tree near the end of the drive.

You sighed.

And then, you saw it … two headlights creeping down the road, and the blinker was on. Standing up, you went to the front door and opened it.

You had to step back inside, as the rain was sneaking past the holly bushes on the front porch and pelting you. The vehicle turned in your driveway. It was a black Mazda with tinted windows, and you smiled.

“Because you knew I was coming to your rescue,” Kevin smiled, as he played with the top of my hair. We were sitting on the couch – cozied up, and the rain was still pounding on the roof. The television was on – Jeopardy … our favorite show.

“McGuire, do I look like a woman who needs a rescuer?” I sat up from where I had been scrunched up beside him – almost on his lap, and his arm was around me. He paused and looked down at me, eyebrows raised, and his chocolate brown eyes glistening in the lights from the lamps on either end of the couch.

When Kevin smiled, he had these sunk-in dimples on his cheeks. “Jenna, you really want me to answer that?” He kissed me on the forehead, and I snuggled in closer, head against his chest, one hand on his chest, near my head, and the other playing with his belt loop.

I didn’t say anything – I was taking in his scent – a mixture of Irish Spring soap and ink – Kevin is a syndicated cartoonist for a daily newspaper. His mocha-colored hands always wore the evidence of his drawings – ink stains on his rugged hands were appealing.

He said, “What is the Indian River?” Kevin should have been a contestant on the game show. He loved quiz stuff. The books he read were always books with facts … and history … for a former college basketball player and a lover of the outdoors, you wouldn’t know he was a closet book nerd.

But then, I thought to myself, “so am I … but I am not a closet book nerd.”

Kevin moved, “What did you say?” Did I say that out loud? No, I didn’t. He didn’t hear me, did he?

I looked up at him and he was staring at me, “Yes, I can read your mind. All I have to do is look in your amazing green eyes and I know what you are thinking.”

“What am I thinking now?” I sat up and moved away. He put his hands in his lap, and squinted his eyes looking into mine. “You love me?”

I laughed. “That is an easy one. You know, I will tell you, I love your stories. You describing what you thought I had been doing before you came over was pretty on the money, and that voice. I still think you need to do a podcast.” I got off the couch to stretch for a minute.

He did have a fantastic storytelling voice … I mean, he just told me the whole thing that I had done … most of it was not factual, he was guessing, and it was almost like I was listening to a book on tape.

Kevin raised his hands up above his head and stretched. “What am I going to talk about? I am a cartoonist, Jenna. You write a newspaper column about life, you write books and it is natural for you to do talks and appear on shows and radio broadcasts.”

We had been best friends since we were in pre-kindergarten. His dad worked for my dad back in the day at my dad’s HVAC/plumbing/electrical business.

I sat back down and sat with my feet and legs underneath me, and he scooted over and put his head in my lap. Both of us watched the action on the television on the wall.

Every once in a while, lightning would strike and thunder would roll. “The weatherman really did miscall the weather today, didn’t he?” Kevin asked.

“Yeah well. So, back to the podcast. You know, we could do one together.” I put my hand on his shoulder and put the other one on the couch behind me.

Kevin laughed. “And you know exactly what they would want us to talk about right?”

I had to laugh. “Bowling?”

Kevin laughed and reached up and pinched my nose. “Funny, honey.”

“We talk about it all the time already.” Kevin was talking about the fact that he is an African American and I am Caucasian. Or as he says, “I am black and you are white, baby. Just keep it real.”

“We don’t talk about it. You write about it. I make cartoons about it. You talk about it when you are interviewed or do the radio and TV talk shows, because you are a talker and people love listening to your mixed accent – that Texas twang peppered with that Georgia drawl.” Kevin said.

He was right. Most of my columns were lifestyle stuff, and I shared stories about life in the environment we lived, and a lot of times including stories about racism, anti-racism, interracial dating, dating at our age, and the like. My books, well, I have two, were fiction, and usually consisted of an interracial couple.

His cartoons were about his adventures growing up as a black kid in Dallas, Texas, and Atlanta, Georgia, ala ‘Fat Albert’ but more modern, and his c,haracter had a white girlfriend – me.

“So why would talking about it be so different?” I asked, looking down at him.

He was quiet. “Each one of us is given a voice, and we are to use that voice as God has purposed us to use it. I just don’t think His purpose is for my voice to be verbal … it is for the stories I can tell through my drawings.”

There was a long pause of silence as I let that sink in.

He was right.

“And we decided we were not going to get in His way, right?” Kevin sat up, and our faces were inches apart.

I nodded.

“So, let’s do our talking the way we know we should – drawing and writing … and kissing.” He grinned and kissed me.

There was a big crash outside, and we both jumped. Kevin laughed. “You know, I think the weatherman really got this weather forecast wrong today.”