Cynthia Kessler (Toy Obsession Series, Book 1) Read online

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to step on your foot.”

  “That’s cool. They always push in the line,” said Mooch. “Your name’s Cynthia, right?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

  “Oh, word gets around.”

  “I see. What else do you know about me?” By now, they’d moved through the line and were headed in the direction of the tables. Mooch beckoned the newcomer to sit with her. Leila had already vacated the table to go prop against the far wall of the chow hall.

  “You mean what’s been circulating in the mill?” she replied before shoveling a spoonful of mash potatoes into her mouth.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I heard that you’re in for first-degree murder, pled insanity, got the death penalty. From...” Mooch went on and on about Cynthia, relaying information she felt to be true while feeling a bit of self-importance for knowing all the grimy details of somebody else’s life and then letting that person know she that knew it.

  Cynthia smirked a bit before adding, “Oh, you forgot something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That your friend over there wants me.” Cynthia glanced over at Leila standing against the wall with her arms folded and head lowered, not having yet noticed the two of them referring to her.

  “What do you mean ‘my friend’? I don’t know nothing—”

  “Quit lying! You know exactly what I’m talking about. I may be new around here, but I know how things work. I know what people like you do to people like me, and you and that heifer over there have been sweating me since I walked in. You two think that I’m stupid.”

  Cynthia rose abruptly from the table and headed toward Leila to confront her. By now, Leila had noticed Cynthia walking toward her and had adjusted herself from a relaxed position against the wall to defense mood, her face stern, eyes narrowed, and hands clenched. Mooch remained sitting at the table with her eyes fixed on the two of them. And the buzz and chatter of a chaotic chow hall soon ceased at the rupture of Cynthia’s voice.

  “Do we have a problem?” Cynthia fired off at Leila.

  “No, we ain’t got no problem. Now walk,” Leila fired back.

  “Look,” said Cynthia, pointing her finger into Leila’s face, “I’ve got nothing to lose here. I can either die by you or die by them. It doesn’t even matter, but I’ll be damned if I let you or any of these skanks up in here turn me out. You know nothing about me, except for what you’ve heard. Trust, you don’t want none of this.”

  By now, the chow hall was completely abuzz with the chant: fight, fight, fight... Leila pulled something from her back pocket, managing to conceal what it was. Cynthia steadied herself for the unexpected, and would have to rely on her skillset as a black belt in hapkido; she had studied the martial arts form since junior high. For them, though, the outcome of this thing would be delayed. Having been alerted by the all the rumble, several guards descended from their perches like vultures on a carcass, forcing the wrangle to break up immediately.

  The last shot came from Leila, who mouthed off This ain’t over and winked before the two returned to their mutual corners.

  The affair began when he asked me to accompany him to a CLA Conference in Atlanta. We were to leave early that Saturday morning and return Wednesday afternoon. Initially, I rejected the offer, putting aside my yearnings and thinking only of his feelings, how my actions might compromise him. He was a married man, after all—a revelation confirmed not only by the wedding band, but a wallet-sized family photo I’d once seen.

  I had been standing behind him at a concession on campus. When he removed his wallet to pay, I very discretely looked over his shoulder and caught a very good glimpse of the photo of his wife and three teenage daughters—all mirror images of her, except for having his nose.

  He being an African exchange student from Benin afforded him the opportunity to learn life and culture abroad. He spoke fifteen different languages fluently and another five or six with some level of competence. It was during his studies in Paris where he met her. She was elegant, French…a lovely creature, he once said of her.

  So, yes, I initially said no, only to accept his invitation the very next day. I had convinced myself that it was meant to be and that this was just the beginning. Though I was flattered that I had been invited as one of his brightest pupils, someone who would represent the university well, my only motivation had been to seize the opportunity to be near him and know him better.

  Sitting next to him on the plane, in route to our destination, was quite the experience for me. I discreetly watched him while engrossed in his reading of Milton’s Paradise Lost or Donne and Keats. He preferred the classics to contemporaries like William Butler Yeats, who I rather enjoyed. And we ended up having considerable discussions about this on the flight, every minute of which I absorbed like a sponge—not because I necessarily agreed with or even subscribed to everything that he said, rather it was because it had come from him.

  “Madame Kessler,” he addressed me, as he’d often, “it seems to me that you are a nonce writer. You are quite organic. You seem to present a style quite unlike those of the past or even the contemporaries in whose works you often delight yourself.” His glasses were slightly fallen from his nose, allowing me to see the passion in his eyes.

  “Dr. Arubé,” I said, “I think it is a most fine thing to subscribe to the classics, as you yourself have, but I also feel that one should infuse his own voice and inspiration and creativity within the work. Unlike Shakespeare, I believe many of the classical writers were concerned less about addressing the problems of changing societies as were they writing for acceptance and praise. I do praise their efforts to master the utmost creativity, but this is so different a time and era in which we live…I-I’m sorry, sir, but is there something wrong?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it’s just that you have this unusual expression on your face?

  “How do you mean?

  How was I to explain this to him without sounding foolish? “I can only describe it as perhaps your mind is elsewhere, like you just recollected a fond childhood memory and it brought you pleasure. That best describes the look on your face.”

  He smiled before answering, “You’re quite perceptive, but I assure you that it was nothing of that nature. I was just thinking how refreshing to hear a young pupil to express herself with such conviction. You must continue.”

  “Are you certain, sir?”

  “Absolutely. Do continue.”

  “Okay, very well. I was saying that I feel that it’s our duty, as young writers, artists, speakers, even teachers, to address our issues...to strike a dialogue, a conversation about the things that entrap us as people, as a collective. We cannot write merely to entertain our audience, but to enlighten them, to educate, to inform. We must give our own account now and dwell on the past later. We mustn’t forget that the writers of our time have their own genius and must cease from merely imitating that which has been done. It should not be our philosophy, as it was perhaps that of Aristotle or even Plato, simply to delight. We must choose the didactic purpose of Horace ‘to instruct and delight.’ In this, yes, we do allude to the past. However, we have dared and traveled so many different avenues, teaching more than anything else, more than Horace could ever have attempted. So, perhaps, I am a nonce writer and appreciate all who are. At this point in history, sir, I feel that we must all work collectively to advance as a society, work through our differences and bring real change.”

  He sat silent for a moment, seemingly to process everything I’d just said, to let my words marinate before making a rebuttal.

  “Yes, we do see things quite differently, Madame Kessler, for there is nothing new under the sun. Even you and your peers, though you may fail to realize, have at some point been influenced by the past. Still, I can appreciate your argument and find your writing refreshing, how your words illuminate the page with a flaming burst of new energy. You have your own ‘vibe,’ as
you call it.”

  There was a certain delight in his expression like what I’d seen a few minutes back. Indeed, he was pleased with me. I had asserted myself as an independent thinker, and I’d learned from his class lectures that on occasion he appreciated this. He then indulged in a bit light of reading, turning to the pages of Silas Marner, which I thought a rudimentary choice over his usual preference for heavier literature. And I must have fallen asleep because I remember waking only after experiencing a bit of turbulence just before landing. We had arrived in Atlanta.

  After attending an all-day conference that first day, I was exhausted and did not wish to join him and his colleagues for dinner. I suppressed those feelings to be near him. Besides, the alternative would have been to sit in some lavish hotel room alone, ordering room service. To my disappointment, the restaurant was French, robbing me of any chance to impress him with my Spanish had we gone to a Mexican establishment.

  Though a charming little spot with its lit candles and French music, I felt a bit out-of-place among all the professionals, and even as a guest of a group of African professors. That is until he placed his hand on the small of my back to escort me to the table. For his part, it was a simple chivalrous gesture, but it meant much more than that to me. We had contact, actual contact, and I could think of nothing else. Whatever anxieties I was having about being there, about not having anything engaging to add to the conversation, or about being disconnected from this party of men were now settled. I would have been content just watching and listening and smiling politely.

  “Asche, why didn’t you tell me you were going to be accompanied by such a lovely young jewel?” asked one of his peers with the most distinct dialect. He was a West African attired in authentic kente cloth. Dr. Arubé and the others laughed it off then, while waiting to order, began to mingle about world affairs, politics, the state of their homeland, literature, and soccer. They had all played on the soccer team in France. In fact, Dr. Arubé had scored the winning goal in a national championship. And I just sat there taking it all in, playing spectator in the gallery.

  For me, the most interesting part of dinner, besides the frog legs, which oddly enough did taste a bit like chicken, was my leg accidentally brushing up against his. I knew he felt the brush, but he continued as if nothing had happened, never stopped engaging with his comrades. A part of me was relieved because I didn’t want him to read anything into it. Another part, however, wished he had reacted, tipped his hand, so to speak. But he did not and that was that.

  By the time dinner ended, it was a quarter to ten. While I’d enjoyed their ramblings of slightly embellished accounts of personal history, I was more than ready to dismiss myself from the company of these men in favor of something more intimate. There was never any opportunity for it to be just the two of us, and now we would both share a taxi back to the hotel. I was prepared to let anything happen, even if that meant giving in to my inner urges that wanted nothing more than to seduce him.

  I did just that, priest. I gave in to those urges. My obsession with this man drove me to his hotel room door that night after the cab ride back from the restaurant. I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again. Still nothing. I thought perhaps he was reading and had gotten so engrossed that he didn’t hear the knocking. So, I knocked one last time with more determination to be heard. Finally, a deep, accented voice, soothing the inner chambers of my body, replied, “Who’s there?”

  “Dr. Arubé, it’s me, Cynthia.”

  He opened the door, slowly revealing his tall frame draped in blue cotton pajamas and navy cotton robe. In his left hand was Edith Hamilton’s Mythology.

  “Aw, Madame Kessler, I’m rather surprised to see you. Shouldn’t you be enjoying a night on the town with some of your peers from the conference? It’s still early yet, not even midnight.”

  “Well, frankly, sir, I don’t much do the night scene. My idea of a good time is snuggling under the covers with a good book, and I see that you’ve been reading one yourself.”

  He looked down at the book in his hand then back up at me and smiled. “Yes, yes, a fascinating read.”

  Then came the awkward moment of silence, the two of us just standing there—he, on one side of the door; I, on the other. Anyone roaming the hallway might have thought it a bit suspect. He must have felt this same awkwardness because he finally spoke up.

  “Forgive my lack of manners, Madame Kessler. Please, please, come and have a seat.”

  I followed him into his room and sat in one of the chairs placed at the round table near the sliding doors leading to the balcony. The curtains were drawn to discourage voyeurism. His bed had not yet been turned back and everything was in place. In fact, save for a few articles—his wallet, watch, wedding band—atop the dresser, you would not know that the room was even occupied.

  “Did you enjoy our company at the restaurant?” he asked, now sitting on the edge of his bed with his arms folded, the book still clinched in his hand.

  “Oh, yes, sir, I did enjoy your company and that of your colleagues.”

  “Well, then, dear lady, what seems to be the problem?” This he said, allowing the corners of his mouth to turn upward to form a warm smile; his eyes had softened behind his spectacles. His entire face, the oddness of the shapes, seemed pleasantly attractive—a work of art in some abstract way.

  “I’m not sure I can tell you this,” I said, lowering my eyes.

  “Madame Kessler, I’m your professor. Whatever problem you are having I may be able to help you.” He came over and sat across from me, placing both his hands atop the table, parted by his book. It was then that I felt my hand sliding towards his and before I could stop myself—though I sent the memo to my brain—I had touched him, causing him to flinch initially. Finally, I felt an ease come over him and knew that I had to say no more.

  “How long have you felt this way, Madame Kessler?”

  “Since the first week of school. It was the way in which you expressed yourself, the way you allowed the words to make music inside my head. Your hands, I wanted to kiss. Your lips, I wanted to taste. Your touch, I desperately wanted to feel. But I couldn’t, not then, not even now. And I hate this, this misery to which I’m subjecting myself. I ask myself if it is worth all the troubles and spoils of the world or even giving away all the glory of the Heavens and I have no choice, but to reply yes. I have given in to my obsession. I want you now, here.”

  I felt his hand tighten around mine, his beautiful fingers curled around my own. He leaned forward, gazing into my eyes, trying to understand the depth of my longings, trying not to trivialize what I was feeling as anything more that an infatuation.

  “But I’m married. Twenty-three years. I have children. I can’t just throw that all away. I’ve never been unfaithful to her, and she doesn’t deserve this.”

  “What do you deserve, sir? I think you want this as much as I do. I think that this is the real reason that you brought me here. You’ve felt our connection. I know you have. And I think you want to give in to this temptation as much as I do, don’t you?”

  “We both know the answer to that, Cynthia.”

  It was the first time he’d done away with the formalities and called me by my first name. I loved hearing him say each syllable in his native dialect. I had begun to move my fingers up his shirt over the curvature of his biceps when he pulled me up from the chair into an embrace, my arms were now encircled about his neck, our lips inches from contact. I could feel his hot breath and coolness on my face from his flaring nostrils, melting what little composure of mine remained. I was completely his.

  He gently nibbled my bottom lip, teasing me, exciting me, before devouring my mouth, his tongue an untamed organ, thrusting about. It was all I could do to pull away, having a momentary case of conviction, but he pulled me back into this vortex of passion, overwhelming me with the ferocity of his touch, the thrust of his dark, manly flesh against mine. Our utter breathlessness.

  And it did not stop. For the next couple of days
in Atlanta, we’d attend the conferences completely unassuming as teacher and pupil then return to his bedroom for wild nights of lovemaking. I was happy. I was in love. And I couldn’t let this end.

  Something hard sent a piercing blow to the back of her head, causing her to crumble to her knees, as a wave of pain ripped down her neck and spine. A rich river of crimson began oozing from the open wound while she struggled to regain her faculties. She had little chance to counterattack against the series of blows that followed. Then, there was nothing, only darkness.

  When Cynthia woke the following morning, she was in the prison hospital ward. A nurse was standing nearby, checking her vitals.

  “Excuse me, why am I here?” she asked, slowly raising her hand up to her gauze-wrapped head.

  “Don’t you remember? You suffered repeated blunt force trauma to the head and are lucky to be alive.”

  “I only remember feeling something really hard hit the back of my head several times and then I must have blacked out.”

  “Yes, they found a steel pipe on the ground beside you, wiped clean, of course.”

  “How long will I have to be in here?”

  “We’ll keep you here another day or so to monitor you and make sure you’re okay then we’ll release you. You’ve got to be careful out there. Lots of times these things happen just to rattle you new inmates. Watch your back and don’t make enemies.”

  It was too late for that. She could think of at least two people who’d have done this to her. The question was what would she do to pay them back? She had to make a statement that she would not be bullied by anyone, and it was apparent by this latest incident that she didn’t make this clear enough during the chow hall encounter. Yes, what would she do to make them suffer for and regret their actions? After all, nothing ever went without a consequence.

  Two days later, Cynthia was back in her cell. To anyone passing by, she looked only to be sitting idly on her cot, back propped against the cinder block wall with her knees drawn up to her chest. She was anything but. Her mind was going at warped speed, conjuring up ways to exact extreme payback. This would be a painstaking process because she first had to gain some allies, those who also had a beef with these two. And together, they would rain down wholly terror on their enemies, and anyone standing near the fray would be collateral damage.