The Box

Part 1: Life inside the Box

Chapter 1. Thursday Morning, August 1, 2002

My mother didn’t deserve the bouquet of flowers I bought her, but I placed them on her gravestone anyway. I hadn’t visited her gravesite since her funeral just one year before. But that’s all it was, a gravesite. My mother’s spirit was not there.

The gray marble stone that had been chiseled to resemble a book had an image of a scale inscribed on it with my mother’s name, Dolores Hill, largely and boldly etched beneath it. The words Loving Wife and Mother were also carved on the stone, just below her name, only those words were not as prominent. I questioned why those words were even considered for her headstone; nothing about it was true. Not in my experience, anyway. In fact, looking at the arrangement of the pink petunias and yellow marigolds that I had placed upon her grave, I could hear my mother’s voice criticizing my choice. 

Actually, it wasn’t so much a choice as it was some imperceptible impulse to focus on those very flowers in the back of the flower shop that morning. For some reason, those were the ones that stood out to me the moment I questioned why I even bothered to buy flowers for a woman who criticized me and my choices my whole life. In my hurry, I had not questioned why those flowers were presented to me. As the florist arranged them together, he noted something about the unlikely brilliance the combination made.

Seeing them there now at her gravestone seemed wrong. In fact, it seemed wrong for me to even be there. Maybe I was there because I thought it was the right thing to do on the anniversary of her burial.

My watch beeped. 10:30. I sighed, knowing I had to meet my boyfriend Derek for lunch in Manhattan and I wasn’t sure how the trains were running from Brooklyn. I looked at the flowers again. No, she did not deserve them.

With a strong desire to discard them on my way out of the cemetery, I picked them up from where I had placed them. I held them close to my chest before placing them back onto her gravestone. She did not deserve them but something inside me had compelled me to bring them for her so I trusted that instinct. There were still so many conflicting feelings about my mother that stormed inside of me. I wanted to understand her but that meant visiting with my father and my sister Nancy, both of whom I had not seen since my mother’s funeral the year before. It was too much for me to think about so I opted to leave the cemetery. Instead, my focus was on how I was going to finally break up with Derek.

Chapter 2. Thursday Afternoon, August 1, 2002

Isat across from Derek at a table set for two. He had on one of his tailor-made Italian suits. I wasn’t familiar with many of them, but I always liked the way that particular one made him look. The dark blue, pin-stripe suit somehow elongated his already lean physique, making him appear taller than the six-foot man that he was. His suit jacket was hanging over the back of his chair, forcing me to notice the crispy white shirt that complemented his dark brown complexion. His small, fierce brown eyes stared at me impatiently. He knew why I had invited him to lunch during one of my busiest days at the office. As a successful publisher and founder of Jones Press, his own publishing company, I knew how valuable his time was also.

The restaurant was called Alimento Del Alma. Located on Thirty-Seventh Street, Alimento was almost always crowded during lunch hours. The food was delicious, the service was quick and the quaint Dominican style paintings and decor welcomed everyone into a true cultural experience. I knew I wouldn’t have any lunch that day. Lunch was not my purpose for being there.

I spent a great amount of time working up the courage to tell Derek what I needed to and therefore had to be particularly careful with the words I chose to convey my decision. Derek had an uncanny way of making me doubt myself whenever it came to my feelings for him. As far as my work at the magazine was concerned, I was a powerhouse. But get me alone in the room with Derek, and I became a meek child who lost all ability to stand her ground when I felt this vulnerable.

So, this is it, huh? he said with a stalwart attitude that I found intimidating. He sat with one arm over the back of his chair and one leg crossed over the other. He was cool; even while he was being dumped, he was the coolest guy I knew. He was no different from the first day that I had met him five and a half years earlier at a black publishing conference in Chicago. I was twenty-three years old. My friend Glory and I had attended the conference together. Besides Derek being one of the keynote speakers, what first attracted me to him were his eloquence and confidence. I remembered how he walked through the conference auditorium with an air of quiet modesty as he greeted everyone with a firm handshake. I noticed him and the way he moved even before he approached Glory and me as we discussed a featured memoir that we had both recently read.

Yes, he was the same confident man who instead of cordially asking me out that first night, boldly suggested that we have dinner together. Sitting with him now, he had the curious ability to confuse me simply with the way he remained so self-assured. The more confident he seemed to be, the more I doubted myself.

I avoided his eyes. I’ve- I’ve been thinking about this a lot...

He stared at me with squinted eyes that made me feel uneasy. This isn’t over, Mia.

It was just like him to remain so confident, a trait which often left me feeling powerless.

He sighed as he looked down at his drink.

Derek, it’s not working, I said in a desperate attempt to convince myself once again. We’re too different; you know this. We’re both always working. We barely even make time for each other. I paused. We don’t act like a normal couple! Things aren’t going to change between us because we’ve been this way for years.

But we haven’t, he quickly responded. Mia, our problems only started when you buried your mother a year ago. We weren’t always this way.

Our problems started before that. You just kept your eyes closed to it until it got worse when my mother died.

I know you, Mia. This is your way of coping. You push the people you love away before realizing that you actually need them in your life.

I stared at him because his eyes never left mine.  I couldn’t allow him to confound my thoughts; I had to remind myself why I was there in the first place.

He continued. I know that you’re still dealing with your mother’s death—

I’m not, I lied. I’m just fine, Derek. I tried to maintain my emotional strength.

I could see that his cool demeanor was slowly melting. He looked at me with sympathetic eyes as he slumped his shoulders and reached to hold my hands. You’re not, Mia. Let me help you. You know I’m always here for you. All you have to do is say the word.

I slowly pulled my hand away in an attempt to maintain my composure. I needed to end it, but I felt myself backing down. I suddenly questioned why I was doing this.

You must be the strongest person I know. But even strong people need time to break down. You haven’t given yourself that time, Mia. He said it with so much confidence.

Derek was someone who could never be destroyed: someone who wasn’t bamboozled by my inability to stick to a decision when it came to matters of the heart. I had to go before I changed my mind.

That’s not what this is about, I said, standing up to walk away.

Then, in a pleading tone, he said, You are more like your mother than you want to be. The sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you can work at being happy, cause you’re not happy, Mia.

Now, why would he say something like that when he was trying to win me over? I looked down on him. I have to get back to work, Derek. Thanks for understanding. Aware of the tightness in my chest, I wanted to leave before Derek could see that I was actually not okay.

Alright. He lightly grabbed my arm as he stood up. I turned to look up at him. His cool disposition was as strong as ever. He was weakening my resolve. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

But once you walk out that door, he said, you know you’ll never see me again. Are you sure that’s what you want? Are you ready for that?

I hesitated. It was happening. I felt myself giving in. The finality of it. No, that wasn’t what I really wanted. The tightness in my chest reminded me just why this was so challenging for me. I softened my attitude and sighed, avoiding the arrogance in his eyes.

We can talk this weekend, I said.

I quickly stepped out of the restaurant with relief and found myself in the midst of an afternoon sidewalk traffic jam. I took in a deep breath as I walked, realizing that my heart had been pounding from my exchange with Derek. Walking down Fifth Avenue, I tried to block Derek from my mind. I cursed under my breath each time someone bumped into me. I had gotten used to all the bumping and pushing, but I guess my interaction with Derek made me extra sensitive and compelled me to take notice.

When I first came to Manhattan to attend New York University only seven years before, it was frightening and intimidating. I felt as if the hordes of people who had as much right to be there as I did were deliberately trying to invade my space as I walked through the city’s densely populated streets. I didn’t think I’d become so comfortable with it so quickly, becoming a part of what made it so intimidating. Growing accustomed to its fast pace, its distinctive fashion trends, and its multicultural richness, I simply experienced a great sense of belonging.

But my sense of belonging to the city also included a need to blend in, to the point where I would pass unnoticed. Though attention at work was necessary to help others understand how important I was to the company, I wanted to live my life in Manhattan as an inconspicuous being. I was part of city life, just like everyone else in Manhattan, no more or less important than the next person. My work regarded me as significant; that was enough for me.

My rush through the city streets quickly transformed into a relaxed trip, now walking at a moderate stride as a result of the environment forcing me to live in the present. I took in the distinctive salty-sweet aroma of peanuts and cashews roasting in the cart usually positioned on the street corner, inviting passers-by to stop and gratify their sudden cravings. I slowed down to admire the imagination it took to create such fabulous window displays for the stores and boutiques carrying professional and casual clothing. Despite all the appetizing eateries that made up a large part of the community, I took notice of all the street vendors selling their own types of foods, forcing my way through the crowd of people who waited for the food cart that sold Halal meals.

Fresh Voices, The African American Magazine for the Arts, where I was the Executive Director, was housed on the seventeenth floor in the large office building on 23rd Street. My first days there as an Editorial Assistant were intimidating. There was so much to learn and I felt like an irrelevant nobody in a sea of notable decision makers who brilliantly put out content they impressively knew people were hungry for. My success at Fresh Voices could easily be attributed to Derek. I had just started working at the magazine when we first started dating. He had given me suggestions on how to increase my presence in the office, which later helped me move up from an unknown editorial assistant at Fresh Voices to one of their top research assistants. He listed ways that could help determine whether a particular event would be popular among which type of audience. Having a true talent in observing and identifying entertainment trends, Derek taught me how to be among the first to feature up-and-coming entertainment personalities for the magazine. Before long, I had moved up from Research Assistant to Editor’s Assistant. I was soon promoted to Junior Editor and a few months later, I became one of the highly respected editors of the magazine before finally making a major leap to Executive Director—all within a span of six years. My sights were currently on the recently vacant position of editor in chief. I had a great track record with the company. Seeing how I had proved myself a worthy hire from the beginning, there was no way my boss Morgan Riley was not going to promote me.

Finally strolling into the building where I worked, I silently promised myself that my day would go on as if I were not still harboring the idea of breaking up with the man I had been with for the past five years.

But my mind failed to cooperate as I stood at the elevator bank amidst a crowd of other professionals waiting for their lift to their respective floors. A thought, a memory was imposed upon me: my first date with Derek Jones the very night we first met at the black publishing conference in Chicago.

We had both been amazed at the fact that we lived fairly close to one another in Manhattan. Always looking for a sign to inform my decisions, I had made up my mind that serendipity had pushed us together.

Isn’t that something? I had said. We live only a few blocks from each other and it took us coming out all the way to Chicago to finally meet.

It was his suggestion to meet for dinner that night and, after witnessing his presentation at the publishing conference, I felt like I’d be a fool not to agree. As one of the keynote speakers, he had stood at the podium earlier in the large auditorium, talking about how he started Jones Press from his parents’ basement and how he grew that company with patience and drive into the successful publishing house that it was, filled with opportunities for up-and-coming writers and those new to the workforce. I wasn’t sure if it was his determined spirit that captured my attention that evening or if it was his deep brown skin, his powerfully lean physique, and his six-foot stature that mesmerized me. My goal was to get to know the striking man and pick his brain.

I was suddenly thrown back into the present as people shoved their way past me to step into the elevator. I, too, made my way in as I pushed the memory from my thoughts. I couldn’t allow myself to think about him or our conversation anymore. Thinking about him would only make me emotional and there was no room for any of that in an office where men looked for any reason to keep a woman down where they thought we belonged.

Stepping out of the elevator, I made my way through cubicles and groups of people conversing about the details of their work. I walked past my assistant’s desk and gave a quick hello as I reached for the door to my office. I felt that my assistant was trying to get my attention but needing to be in a private space to gather my thoughts, I didn’t stop to see what she wanted.

Upon opening the door and entering, I found my friend Glory Williams sitting at my desk, her left elbow propped on the chair’s arm rest, reading a book that rested on her right leg, which was crossed over her left leg. She made herself quite comfortable and showed no shame for it. She flashed a smile at me in a way that reminded me of how she liked to use her beauty to her favor.  She was actually quite stunning. Her big, brown eyes with perfectly shaped eyebrows and long lashes simply added to her beauty. However, her small round nose, high cheekbones, thick lips and her smooth skin the color of golden honey were actually her best physical attributes and she was very aware of that.

Glory and I had met when we both attended NYU in Manhattan. We both had been accepted into the master’s in publishing program and thus found ourselves in many of the same classes. It took me over a year to warm up to her. I wasn’t quite sure what it was about me that she liked so much. But she clung to me as good friends are inclined to and she grew on me. This was especially true after an incident in my dorm room. She interrupted a desperate moment in which I almost did something so utterly irrevocable. It was something whose memory I was quite successful at blocking from my everyday thoughts.

Glory lifted her head from her book and smiled at me. She looked better every time I saw her. Men liked her thickness, and she used her voluptuous body to her advantage. Her dress suit ended just above her knees and the high-heeled slip-on shoes she wore looked so good with her outfit that even I became conscious of the simple white sleeveless blouse and dark blue dress pants I threw on. Her brown, wavy curls fell just at her shoulders and made her look more like a classy model than the vulgar, nonfiction literary agent that she was.

To the right of the doorway was a small beige couch on which I placed my bag. The sun shining through the window to the right was beaming down on the couch. Only a couple of feet from the door, two matching armchairs with fabric cushions were placed directly in front of my rather large and chaotic desk. I hadn’t realized how messy I was with all of my papers, unopened mail, and a few past issues of the magazine strewn all over my desk. Even my desktop computer seemed to grow different color post-it notes all around the screen. The only thing that seemed to be in order was my bookcase that stood to the right of the desk. I populated it with books on writing journal articles, magazine publishing, how to write articles for the Internet—basically books that had helped me throughout my career.

Okay... I said warily as I sat on one of the chairs. What are you doing here?

She had been reading a book by the popular African American novelist Patrick Jerome, Derek’s most successful author. His style of writing, which consisted of beautifully executed plots, characterization that was well thought out and an impressive attention to detail, always followed by shockingly tragic, yet very realistic endings had won him fame with his first novel a few years before. Glory was not a fiction reader; I assumed the only reason she even had the book in her hand was because she had recently met the author. She closed her book, fixing herself upright on the chair.

Why the fuck don’t you ever return my calls? she blurted.

Glory’s constant use of vulgarity took getting used to. I had to admit that I had my moments where certain obscene words seemed the best choice to express a particular feeling, but Glory simply could not function without the use of profanity.

What are you talking about?

"Tyrese fucking Black."

I smiled. Okay. Who is he?

"A god. She said it as if she were really serious. Oh! You should see this man, Mia. What I would do to him! You don’t understand. Sex just pours out of him. She closed her eyes and stretched her arms in a contemplative meditative pose. He is the kind of man that could make you forget your own name if you stared long enough into his eyes..."

Whoa. Glory prided herself in always having the upper hand in any dealings with men, both professionally and romantically; to have her describe this Tyrese Black as a man who could make a woman lose herself was a very big deal.

Ooh! You got yourself a new guy?

Ugh! she groaned. I wish!

Well, then, get to the point. Why would I care about this man?

Because he’s a painter. And I know you guys are always looking for new talent and shit for your magazine. I think you’ll like his work. You see the cover of this book? This is his work.

Really? I said, taking the book into my hands. I always liked the covers of Patrick Jerome’s books. The artwork was beautiful, the colors bright and vibrant. The artist somehow made his painting look like an actual photograph of a woman hiding her presence behind a wall from a man throwing blood-stained clothing into a large metal trash can. The look of rage on the woman’s face was clearly visible as the man conveyed a look of deception and crookedness. Hmmm... I wonder why Derek never mentioned him before. He must have met this guy if he does the art for all of Patrick Jerome’s books.

Derek is probably jealous. That’s how fucking delicious this man is.

Oh please. Derek? Jealous? And since when are you interested in the art of painting?

Oh, my goodness! she exclaimed. "Since never, Mia. Tyrese fucking Black. Why can’t you follow what I’m saying?"

I smiled. Thank you, Glory. I don’t know what you do in your office, but here I actually have work to do.

Is this the way you repay me for what I did for you back in college?

For some reason, Glory always felt the need to bring up what happened back at NYU, as if she wanted to remind me that I owed a debt to her. It aggravated me but in an attempt to avoid discussing the matter any further, I always let it slide.

I never asked for your help, Glory, I forced a smile. Please remember that. It’s because of you I know what the inside of a psych hospital looks like and why I had to start seeing a therapist in the first place. Why did I even have to remind myself of that horrific time?

Oh, get over it, already! First of all, stop placing blame on others by discounting your role in events. Secondly, you might as well not be seeing your therapist since you don’t even take what she has to say seriously.

It’s a little more complicated than that, I said, hoping she’d back down and not continue any talk of my therapy sessions.

It always is, Glory responded. I hope it’s complicated because you’re over everything that caused your little college episode and not because it still lingers...

Because she was blunt and sarcastic about everything she encountered, I always hesitated to talk to her about my depression, the reason why I suffered a dark moment in college that led to years of therapy. She didn’t know the full extent of what I experienced as a result of it and I preferred it to stay that way.

Please, I said, laughing it away. It’s so over that no one needs to even know that it ever happened.

Not even Derek? she challenged.

Nope! I said without hesitation. And, once again, no one needs to know.

She eyed me curiously. Interesting, she said, playfully. Standing abruptly, Glory retrieved her belongings from the other armchair, placed her jacket on her arm and secured her purse on her shoulder.

Here’s his business card, she said, throwing the card on my desk. "Listen to my message when you get a moment. Think: Tyrese fucking Black. He’ll be in your next issue, guaranteed. She walked towards the door. By the way, your man gets better looking every time I see him. Delicious. You better watch out before I take him away from you."

When did you see him? I asked.

Saturday, she smiled. I had a lunch meeting with him to talk about a personal development book by one of my authors. Didn’t he tell you?

I assumed a defensive position in response to the unexpected pang of jealousy that I suddenly experienced. Believe it or not, Glory, we don’t share every little thing that goes on in our professional lives.

Well, I did ask him to say hello for me. I think it’s kinda strange he didn’t mention it. She opened the door to leave. Anyway, tell him I said that next time, we’ll try the new restaurant at Union Square. I heard good things about it. See ya!

I didn’t know when it happened, but I had just become a messenger.

Glory was a noteworthy character. She was the last out of eleven children. As the last child, Glory didn’t experience an emotional relationship with her parents. Her older siblings practically raised her, and they had done so with contempt. She joked about not having a real relationship with her parents, but I believed it was that kind of attention she craved when she started having sex at the age of eleven with much older boys. For as long as I had known her, Glory never had a steady boyfriend but was never without a man.

That was why there was no doubt in my mind that she must have already slept with Tyrese fucking Black. It made sense. She could not have possibly come all the way to my office to talk up a painter when she wasn’t at all a fan of the visual arts.

I decided to do what Glory suggested. I called in to listen to my voice messages. Hers was indeed the first one.

Hey, girl, it’s me. Just calling to tell you about this fine-ass man I met through the author Patrick Jerome. Mia, this man is so fucking fine. His name’s Tyrese Black, and he’s actually a pretty great painter. I was just wondering if you wanted to help a brother out and visit his gallery and possibly do a little story on him. His number is 212-555-0100, or you can just call me at work. I fucking told him about you, so you better have the damn decency to drop him a line. I’ll call you some other time, okay? Bye, girl. Give my love to that beautiful man of yours. Oh, and don’t be such a stranger. I might surprise you one day.

I chuckled.  Had she not been so interested in Tyrese Black, she would have never asked me to do a story on him, no matter how great his work was.

Our October issue did need a feature story, and the fact that this Tyrese Black was not yet a mainstream discovery would be in our favor. I looked at the business card Glory threw on my desk and found his website address. The Powers Gallery. I checked it out.

What appeared on the screen was a fascinating combination of bright colors and powerful-looking African Americans in realistic-looking fantasy images: athletic women rescuing men from demons; men caring for their beauties, and children happily interacting with dangerous animals. There was also an entire section dedicated to black women in what seemed to be a collection of paintings following a specific theme. These were the works belonging to Mr. Tyrese Black. A picture of his chiseled face appeared on the lower right side of the screen. His skin was light brown, and his hair was cut low, close to his scalp. He was as good-looking as Glory boasted. I clicked on his picture and I was brought to a screen with a brief biography.

He started painting at the age of fifteen, and sold his first major piece for two thousand dollars at the age of twenty-three. His personal situation was typical for a young artist. He was a single, twenty-nine-year-old painter living in a brownstone in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. What was not so typical was the fact that he owned his own gallery in the heart of Chelsea. His biography explained that he worked at the gallery as the manager for eight years until the owner, who was very fond of him and the work he produced, died only one year before and left the gallery to him in his will.

I saw it already: Brooklynite painter’s rise from obscurity with the aid of his late mentor. According to his biography, Tyrese took advantage of his ownership of the gallery to feature his own work. He quickly received a favorable response from the people who had been his customers when he used to sell his work from an apartment in Brooklyn. Through his shows at the gallery, Tyrese not only won new customers but gained many admirers as well. What kept the gallery open was not only his work but the works of the other local artists he exhibited.

I decided to give him a call and perhaps plan a visit to his gallery. When his machine picked up, I left him a message introducing myself and asked him to call me back at his earliest convenience.

Chapter 3. Thursday Evening, August 1, 2002

Istepped into the luncheonette on the corner of Third Avenue and East 73 rd Street in Manhattan. On