The Man I Loved

His nose was crooked, not quite centered, a sign of all that roughhousing he did as a boy, and above his eye was a crescent-shaped scar that reminded me of an extra eyebrow and made him look as if he were in a permanent state of surprise. This, I was told, was from the woman who loved him before me, the one from Virginia who broke his heart. His shoulders were thin and stooped, and his chest sunk in on itself like someone twice his age; his belly was rounded out like a woman three months along. He was not much to look at, not like the brothers I dated in college. They were all jocks, beautiful bodies, but by the time I met him I was older, used to imperfection. His eyes were gray, the right one a bit lazy. He smoked, like a chimney my mother would have said, but even this I saw as a sign because I was from tobacco. My daddy spent as much time tending his cash crop as he did loving us. Men are like that where I'm from. His hands were as rough as corncobs when he extended them out to greet mine. His calves were veined from being on his feet too much. He walked slew-footed but he had a pretty face or at least I could see that he had had one once. He took me back to every white boy I had dreamed about in the seventies. He wore his hair like John Travolta used to. He was part David Cassidy, part Little Joe Cartwright, even part Hoss, part Bo Carman who lived up on the ridge. But at the same time his respect for rain, his mountain drawl, and his love for homemade cobbler made him kin somehow like Daddy or Uncle Bus, Pastor Simpson, or my cousin Poppy. He wore blue jeans and plaid collared shirts when he wasn't wearing his work uniform, but I could have easily seen him in bib overalls like the ones Daddy wore. His father was a coal miner, sold used cars when he retired, and played Bluegrass music. Sometimes I imagined my man as a boy watching his father play the fiddle, flat-footing with his mother on some porch up in the mountains, his black hair blowing in some fresh wind. He told me once that he had dreamed of being a lawyer when he was little, but I couldn't imagine him inside any building for too long.

Late at night when he'd come home from the factory, we'd sit on our front porch, both of us, looking like we were wishing for what was. Quiet as birds nesting, we sat in the dark, the porch light off, our backs turned away from the city, remembering. Sometimes on Saturdays I'd find him there way up in the morning, leaning away from the downtown skyline visible to the left of our house, craning his neck toward the tiny glimpse of sky peeking above the top of the neighborhood trees. This is what I loved about him.

"You sure about this?" Tonya asked me when we were at dinner one night. "We just want what's best for you." Her eyes darted from me to Cookie to Debra and back around in a circle again while they all waited for me to explain myself.

"Girl, yes, we all want you to be happy," Cookie said and pushed me in the arm like we were twenty again. Cookie never could stand silence for too long. Just like in our college days, she was comforted by noise. She clanked her fork through her chicken salad and made it ching against her plate. For me there is nothing like quiet.

"We should have a party for you," Debra said. She was always good at deflecting, and a collective sigh went around the table. Tonya chair-danced to the music that played in the restaurant speakers. I smiled and sipped my White Russian, and a little while later we were all laughing like we always did. At that...