Stephanie and Dwayne Ch. 01

It happened about four years ago, when I was thirty-one. I'd been a doctor for three years, and I was doing pretty well. Medical school had been a bitch, but I'd graduated pretty high in my class, and the University of Washington Medical Center made an offer I couldn't afford to refuse. I'd spent most of my life in California, but Seattle wasn't much of an adjustment. I fell in love with the ambiance here—the weather (yes, I like rain), the restaurants, the people, just about anything you could name.

No, I'd not had any serious romantic involvements before that. Maybe I was just too busy with all my schooling; maybe I never came across the right guy. Don't get me wrong: there were times when I hooked up with a man just for the sex—I'm human, after all, and I knew my body had needs. But none of these men—going all the way back to high school, and progressing through my undergraduate years and then med school—were "relationships" in any meaningful sense. And there weren't all that many hookups either. The idea of "sleeping around" filled me with revulsion: it just wasn't how I wanted to behave.

Anyway, after I'd been here for three years I decided the time was right to get a nice house. I'd been holed up in a reasonably nice but smallish apartment up till then, but I felt that my future was here in this city, so I might as well be comfortable. In spite of having to pay off my med school bills, I had some money saved up; and my parents could help. So I started looking for houses. I found what seemed like an amazing deal in the Laurelhurst neighborhood. Yeah, I know, the houses there are usually pretty expensive, and this one seemed like a steal. But once my real estate agent and I began digging a little deeper, I soon found out why.

It had been owned for many years by a couple who were now quite old and were planning to move into a retirement community outside of Olympia. They really hadn't kept up the house as well as they should have, which is why it was priced so relatively low. I wouldn't say it was exactly a fixer-upper; but there were a fair number of details, both inside and out, that would need attention. When the inspection came back with several things that we thought should be fixed, the owners made some minimal repairs but simply balked at other things, just giving me a further discount on the price. They wanted to be out of the place and didn't really care about the money. After all, they'd lived in the house for so long that almost any sum would be a huge windfall for them.

So I moved in, knowing that I'd have to deal with certain things in the house sooner or later. I'm no handyman, but I'm happy hiring people to do the work for me, if they are reasonable and reliable.

One of the first problems that really annoyed me was the bathroom in the basement. There were two and a half bathrooms in the house, and the one in the basement was convenient for me because it was connected to a huge walk-in closet where I put most of my clothes. So I took to showering and getting dressed there. There was a set of lights above the double sink that simply wouldn't work. I tried changing the bulbs, but that accomplished nothing. It became clear to me that there was some kind of wiring problem.

So I called an electrician.

I don't know how I came upon the name of Dwayne McMillan. Maybe it was on Craigslist or some place like that. Anyway, he seemed reputable, and his prices seemed more than reasonable. When I called him and explained my problem, he said he'd be happy to come over and take a look. He couldn't give me an estimate until he saw what would be involved. I said that was fine, and waited for him to come by.

This happened one Saturday in early September. It was still in Seattle's dry season, so it was pretty warm outside. The guy was supposed to show up around two o'clock. I ended up getting involved in something else and was almost startled to hear the doorbell ring. I'm not the most sociable person in the world, and hardly anyone knew that I lived here. At first I thought it was some annoying solicitor, but then I suddenly remembered that I'd made the appointment with the electrician.

When I opened the door, I had to cling to it so that I wouldn't fall in a heap.

You've got to understand something. I wouldn't say I'm totally immune to male charms, but it's been a long time since I was really struck with a man's appearance, without knowing anything else about him. But Dwayne McMillan was different. He was tall—maybe about five foot ten—and slender, but with an incredibly sculpted physique, especially around the chest, shoulders, and thighs. I could tell that even from the loose-fitting clothing he was wearing. But it was his face that really got to me. He shaved his head, and the result was that the features on his face struck out with unusual clarity. Nina, this was a man who was beautiful—and that's not to diminish in any sense the aura of masculinity that he so effortlessly exuded. Every part of his face—his deep brown eyes, his slender nose, his sensuous lips, the exquisite curve of his jawline—looked as if it had been sculpted by some master artist who was seeking to depict some Greek god or Renaissance page-boy. I suspected he was a few years younger than I.

Did I mention that he was an African American?

He had a milk chocolate complexion that seemed so gorgeous that it made my own skin seem pasty and bland by comparison. I had the strange thought that I was somehow not worthy to be in his company.

My legs felt weak, and I was definitely getting wet.

But he snapped me out of my funk by saying, "You called for an electrician?"

I tried to get a grip on myself. Stumbling backward to let him in, I croaked, "Yes."

I led him downstairs to the bathroom. I had, of course, briefly explained the problem to him over the phone, but as soon as he got to the area a kind of professional intensity took over. He had a metal toolbox with him, but he didn't open it. Instead, he peered with incredible keenness at the light bulbs, as if they could somehow be coaxed into telling him why they weren't lighting up. After unscrewing one of the fixtures, he clambered up onto the sink and gazed at what the aperture revealed. He scowled at something he didn't like.

Climbing back down to the floor, he went over to a door that led to the utility room, directly behind the wall where the light fixtures were affixed. He just stared at the wall for several seconds, then gave me a stern look.

"Ma'am," he said, "this wiring's all messed up. I'm gonna have to tear out a little bit of this here wall to make it work."

Gee, that didn't sound good! And it didn't sound cheap, either.

"Um, well," I muttered, "what's that going to cost?"

He stated a price that seemed remarkably low.

"Really?" I burst out. "Is that all?"

Maybe to him it was expensive, but to me it was far less than I'd expected. But then another concern troubled me.

"But what about the wall?" I said, almost in a whine. "How am I going to get that fixed?"

I felt I was sounding like a baby—or, worse, like some helpless female who couldn't do anything on her own. He did grin, but not maliciously, saying, "Oh, I'll fix it."

"You will?" I said, immensely relieved.

"Yeah, sure. No sweat. I've done stuff like that before. You may have to repaint, but the wall will be okay."

"Oh, thank you! Can you do it right now?"

"Sure. It'll take a couple hours. Is that okay?"

"Of course it's okay! Take your time!"

I felt I was gushing, and I also felt that my face was really hot—with embarrassment, awkwardness, and perhaps more than a little desire. I had to get a grip on myself.

But Dwayne didn't seem to notice. Nodding to himself, he went back out to his van and got whatever equipment he needed. I'm sure he wouldn't want me hovering over him—even though I myself could have found no end of entertainment at watching his every move—so I decided to go out and putter in the garden. I of course had no concern about my safety, or the safety of my belongings, while he was in the house.

I did some utterly needless things in the back garden, just a few feet from the door that leads from the utility room up a small flight of steps into the back yard. I had left that door open so that he could go to and from his van if he needed to, but I only saw him emerge from the basement once or twice. Otherwise, he seemed pretty busy inside, if the noise of his breaking down the plaster on the wall, using a drill for some reason, and manipulating other tools of incomprehensible function was any guide.

The hours passed amazingly quickly, and by around 5:30 he trudged heavily up the steps to where I was now lounging in a deck chair, with a martini in my hand. I felt ashamed, like one of the idle rich having to deal with a tradesman; but beyond that feeling was another one that I refused to admit to myself.

I really didn't want him to leave.

When he approached me, covered in plaster dust and his hands stained with oil, I knew what he was going to say. He had a kind of proud smile on one side of his mouth—a smile that I came to recognize as one of his patented gestures, and one that wrung my heart.

"I'm done, ma'am," he announced simply.

I was of course thrilled at having my tiresome problem fixed, but I followed him back down the stairs and into the basement with a heavy heart. He silently indicated that I should now try the light switch, and of course I found that it was working perfectly.

"Oh, Dwayne, you're a lifesaver!" I cried.

That was an utterly fatuous remark: no one's life depended on this light switch functioning. He gave me an understandably blank look, then went upstairs to prepare the paperwork and write out a bill.

As he was doing that on my dining table, a kind of shivering came over me, and I hugged myself as if I were freezing to death.

I simply had to get this guy to stick around a bit longer.

So I said, "You got any more jobs today?"

He shook his head absently while continuing to write out my bill. "No, ma'am. I figured this would take all afternoon."

Then I ventured into more dangerous territory. "I guess your wife will have a nice meal ready for you when you get home."

Without looking up at me, he replied blandly, "Ain't got no wife."

I should have known that, since there was no ring on his finger. But some married men don't wear wedding rings.

"Girlfriend?" I said.

He just shook his head.

The bill was done, and I had my credit card ready to pay it. As he was processing the card, I went for broke.

"Listen, Dwayne," I said in a voice that I wished didn't shake, "I was just wondering . . . It's almost dinnertime, so maybe I could make some dinner for you? I mean, it's no fun cooking for one, and I'm sure I could whip up something that you'd like. Wouldn't you like a nice hot meal?"

I was already babbling, so I just shut up. Dwayne handed my credit card back to me and said, "I can cook for myself, ma'am. When you live alone, you learn how to cook."

"Of course you can!" I said, mortified. "I didn't mean to say you couldn't. But I'd like to make something for you—for all the hard work you've done." Oh, God, was I now being patronizing? "How about it?"

He stared at the dining table intently, as if trying to conjecture what kind of wood it was made of. Then, after several agonizing moments, he said, "Okay."

I let out a ragged breath and said, "Wonderful!"

Then I got down to business, just as he had hours before. Almost running into the kitchen, I called over my shoulder, "How about some pasta?" That seemed easy enough to cook on short notice.

He looked puzzled, so I clarified. "Spaghetti?"

A broad smile overtook his features. "Sure, I like that."

"Great," I said. "You can help if you like."

So we got down to it. I let him cook the ground beef to add to the pasta sauce, and he also helped with the preparation of a salad. The whole meal was ready in about twenty minutes, and I sat Dwayne down at the dining table, having made an elaborate setting for him and myself.

I put a steaming plate of spaghetti and meat sauce in front of him, then said, "How about some wine, Dwayne?"

He seemed to lapse into a brooding silence. At last he said: "I'd like beer."

Now I have to confess that the idea of eating Italian food without wine is to me almost blasphemous; but I also got the vague sense that, incredible as it may seem, Dwayne had never had wine before. It was one of many such moments we would experience in the coming year or so.

"Dwayne, I'm sorry," I said, "I don't have any beer. Why don't you try some white wine? I think you'll like it."

I wasn't at all sure of that, because I knew that everyone takes a little while to get used to wine. What's more, the only white wine I had in the fridge was a fairly dry one. It might have helped if I'd had some sweet wine, but I hate that stuff, so there was none to be had. I just had to hope for the best.

I poured out a generous glass for him, put it in front of him, and said, "Try that. Just sip it, don't gulp."

He lifted up the glass as if it were made of diamonds and took a tentative sip. As I feared, a frown of displeasure immediately came over his face. "Strange taste," he said.

"I know, Dwayne. Just keep trying it—maybe you'll like it better after a while."

And, incredibly, he did. As he got down to the serious business of eating the pasta and salad, he fairly quickly found that the wine went pretty well with them. In short order he asked for a second glass. I think he was amazed at himself for picking up something new so fast. And of course the wine had a certain effect on his temperament, making him pretty cheerful and also loosening his tongue.

He told me that he came from Spanaway—which I'm sure you know, Nina, is a rather down-at-heels area well south of Seattle. His parents still lived there. He had two older sisters, both of whom were married and had two children each. He let on that his mother was particularly pained that he himself hadn't "settled down" and gotten a wife and children of his own—but she maintained that guys have more time to get to that facet of life than women do.

I reciprocated by telling him my life story in a highly compressed manner: growing up in Berkeley, going to Stanford, being lucky enough to get into the School of Medicine, and then landing this job in Seattle almost immediately after I'd gotten my M.D. As I told my story, I sensed Dwayne withdrawing from me more and more—looking down intently at his plate and focusing more on his food than on what I was telling him. Well, he wasn't the only man who found my "achievements" intimidating, even though I felt that they only pointed to a combination of good luck and hard work.

He, of course, didn't have to say that he'd never been to college. His parents couldn't even afford to send him to a community college, so he'd gotten various odd jobs until a vocational class several years ago had allowed him to become an electrician. He'd been at it for about four years and had established himself as smart, reliable, hard-working, and affordable. What was there to be ashamed of in that?

As the dinner wound down, another spasm of nervousness came over me. I forced him to have a piece of store-bought chocolate cake that I had lying around, even though he really didn't seem to want it. I was trying to do anything to extend the meal—and his stay in my house.

So, almost out of desperation, I said, "Would you like to watch a movie?"

I was certain he'd laugh his head off at that idea—or, more likely, mumble that he really had to move along. Maybe it was the wine; maybe (I was hoping) it was that he found my company pleasing; but he gave me that smile out of the side of his mouth and said, "Sure."

Relief flooded me so overwhelmingly that I flushed from head to toe. The next thing I had to do was to decide on what movie to watch. I was certain he wouldn't care for some silly romantic comedy or chick flick; but at the same time I didn't want to assume that all he liked were violent action films or comedies about black people. Somehow I latched on to The Maltese Falcon as a compromise: it had plenty of action and suspense, but also had well-realized characters.

When I showed him the DVD containing the film, he peered at it blankly. It became obvious to me that he'd never seen it.

"It's a classic, Dwayne," I said. "Made in 1941. Based on a pretty good book by Dashiell Hammett." But of course that name meant nothing to him. "I hope you like it. It's black and white, though."

He didn't make any comment, so I went ahead and put the DVD into the machine and hoped for the best.

To enhance the atmosphere of a movie theatre, I turned off most of the lights in the living room. We sat on the couch and watched the movie. I somehow sensed that Dwayne was bored at the beginning, but as the film progressed he started leaning forward with an intent look on his face. Success! At least he seemed interested. As for me, his very proximity was enough for me. I watched him more than I watched the movie, which I'd seen several times. His face in profile looked even more heartrendingly exquisite than it did when you looked straight at him, and the strong lines of his shoulders and biceps made me almost dizzy. I have to confess that I spent most of those two hours wondering what he looked like with his shirt—and other things—off.

When the film was over, I turned the lights back on. There was an unreadable expression on his face.

I said, "How'd you like the film, Dwayne?"

His face became quizzical. "There warn't no blood when the people got shot."

That wasn't exactly the response I was expecting. "Well, that's true, Dwayne. I guess they were a little more squeamish about things like that back then."

"But that woman," he said, in tones of severe disapproval. He was referring, of course, to the character played by Mary Astor. "She was bad."

"Yes, she was, Dwayne. Very bad. But she got what was coming to her."

Dwayne almost sneered. "Yeah, she did. So did that fat guy." He meant Sidney Greenstreet.

"So you liked the movie?"

"Yeah," he said. "Like to see more things like that."

My heart leapt at the words. Was he suggesting that he might come back some time for another "movie night" with me? The thought of it made me almost giddy.

But then he spoke those words that I was dreading. Getting up slowly from the couch, he said, "I'd better get along home now, ma'am."

My mouth went so dry that I couldn't speak. All I could do was watch helplessly as he put on his light jacket and started heading for the front door.

I was at a total loss as to what to do, and how to stop him. As he paused at the door, his hand on the knob, he turned around and said, "Thanks for the meal, ma'am. It was real good."

I felt I had no choice. I rushed over to him, threw my arms around him, and clung to him like a little girl holding on to a father who was about to leave her for good.

"Dwayne," I cried, "please don't go!"

It was a plea I would make many times in the months to come.

He was clearly taken aback by my words and actions. At first his arms hung limp at his sides, but gradually—and more out of instinct than desire (you're always inclined to hug someone who hugs you, aren't you?)—they moved around to encircle my waist. Well, that was good enough, and I started kissing his neck and face—and then turned his head toward me and gave him a long, deep kiss on the mouth.

That first touch of his soft, fleshy, slightly moist lips almost made me come on the spot. You gotta understand—I'd never responded this way to any man. Never. I don't know what it was about him that made me feel like that: I hope to heaven it was a lot more than his physical appearance. I sensed that he was kind, sensitive, gentle, and lots of other good things; but I think it also had something to do with the fact that he was such a refreshing change from the usual run of people (men and women) I encountered in my daily round. There was an honesty, a freshness, a lack of guile and complexity that touched me more than I could say. But no, that's being unfair: he was complex, and I sensed some submerged sadness or even torment in him that may have brought out my maternal instinct.