caressing and tasting the sweetness of her parted lips. He eased back, smiling. “Now, that’s a good night.”
“Go home, Phillip.”
“Not until you go in and lock the door.”
Giving him one final sweeping glance, Seneca pushed open the door, stepped inside, closing and locking it behind her. She stood motionless, listening for movement and/or sound from the other side of the door. Then she heard it. Phillip whistling as he retraced his steps, the sound fading with his descent. Bending slightly, she slipped out of the stilettos and walked in the direction of her bedroom. The floor lamp in the living room was turned to its lowest setting, an indication that Electra had decided to visit her parents in Connecticut.
Neither she nor her roommate liked walking into a dark apartment, so they’d agreed to leave a light on. Electra teased, calling their place Motel 6, where they always left the light on.
Seneca touched the dimmer on the wall, and her bedroom was flooded with light from one of two bedside lamps. She undressed, walked into the bathroom to remove her makeup, brush her teeth and shower. Her nightly ritual of applying moisturizer to her face and body and brushing her hair and braiding it into a single plait was something she would be able to execute in a blackout. And, like she’d done as a child, but only if her mother wasn’t looking, she raced out of the bathroom and jumped onto her bed. Even at twenty some habits were slow to be relegated to childhood.
Settling herself on the bed, she reached for the remote, flicking on the television and activating the DVD feature. As a serious film, theater and dance student, she filled the empty hours in her life viewing movies. It didn’t matter the decade in which they’d been made, whether black-and-white or withCGI—computer generated imagery—the art of moviemaking had become her passion.
At the recommendation of her professor who taught the history of Hollywood films she’d embarked on a retrospective of Bette Davis and gangster films that included White Heat, Little Caesar, Bonnie and Clyde, the Godfather trilogy, GoodFellas and The Departed. Tonight she didn’t want to be disturbed by blood and the sound of gunfire, so she selected the Bette Davis classic Now, Voyager.
Shifting the mound of pillows supporting her back, Seneca read the opening credits and watched the movie with a critical eye. As a student of film, she had become more than aware of camera angles, dialogue and Paul Henreid suavely performing the archetypal two-cigarette trick.
What she didn’t want to acknowledge was how closely her life would’ve paralleled the Bette Davis character’s if it hadn’t been for her paternal grandmother. If there was anyone who could put Dahlia Houston in her place, it had been her mother-in-law. Seneca’s eyelids felt heavy as the closing credits scrolled down the screen, and she flicked off the television and the table lamp. She would sleep in late, because she’d made a reservation to take an afternoon train to D.C. The last time she’d seen her nephew he was only hours old, and not only was she an aunt, but she was to become a godmother for the first time.
The taxi maneuvered into the driveway behind an SUV with New York plates to a century-old farmhouse in suburban Washington, D.C. Seneca’s parents had arrived before she did. Her brother, Jerome, and his wife, Maya, had closed on the property a week before she gave birth to their son. The four-bedroom, three-bath house was advertised as a fixer-upper or a handyman’s special, and the couple had poured all oftheir savings into making the house habitable. Peeling paint and cracked windows with broken sashes had been replaced with white vinyl siding, black shutters and new energy-saving windows.
Seneca paid the driver, retrieved her overnight bag, got out and walked up the porch steps. She smiled. The brick steps and the porch floor were also new. Her brother and sister-in-law, both
“Go home, Phillip.”
“Not until you go in and lock the door.”
Giving him one final sweeping glance, Seneca pushed open the door, stepped inside, closing and locking it behind her. She stood motionless, listening for movement and/or sound from the other side of the door. Then she heard it. Phillip whistling as he retraced his steps, the sound fading with his descent. Bending slightly, she slipped out of the stilettos and walked in the direction of her bedroom. The floor lamp in the living room was turned to its lowest setting, an indication that Electra had decided to visit her parents in Connecticut.
Neither she nor her roommate liked walking into a dark apartment, so they’d agreed to leave a light on. Electra teased, calling their place Motel 6, where they always left the light on.
Seneca touched the dimmer on the wall, and her bedroom was flooded with light from one of two bedside lamps. She undressed, walked into the bathroom to remove her makeup, brush her teeth and shower. Her nightly ritual of applying moisturizer to her face and body and brushing her hair and braiding it into a single plait was something she would be able to execute in a blackout. And, like she’d done as a child, but only if her mother wasn’t looking, she raced out of the bathroom and jumped onto her bed. Even at twenty some habits were slow to be relegated to childhood.
Settling herself on the bed, she reached for the remote, flicking on the television and activating the DVD feature. As a serious film, theater and dance student, she filled the empty hours in her life viewing movies. It didn’t matter the decade in which they’d been made, whether black-and-white or withCGI—computer generated imagery—the art of moviemaking had become her passion.
At the recommendation of her professor who taught the history of Hollywood films she’d embarked on a retrospective of Bette Davis and gangster films that included White Heat, Little Caesar, Bonnie and Clyde, the Godfather trilogy, GoodFellas and The Departed. Tonight she didn’t want to be disturbed by blood and the sound of gunfire, so she selected the Bette Davis classic Now, Voyager.
Shifting the mound of pillows supporting her back, Seneca read the opening credits and watched the movie with a critical eye. As a student of film, she had become more than aware of camera angles, dialogue and Paul Henreid suavely performing the archetypal two-cigarette trick.
What she didn’t want to acknowledge was how closely her life would’ve paralleled the Bette Davis character’s if it hadn’t been for her paternal grandmother. If there was anyone who could put Dahlia Houston in her place, it had been her mother-in-law. Seneca’s eyelids felt heavy as the closing credits scrolled down the screen, and she flicked off the television and the table lamp. She would sleep in late, because she’d made a reservation to take an afternoon train to D.C. The last time she’d seen her nephew he was only hours old, and not only was she an aunt, but she was to become a godmother for the first time.
The taxi maneuvered into the driveway behind an SUV with New York plates to a century-old farmhouse in suburban Washington, D.C. Seneca’s parents had arrived before she did. Her brother, Jerome, and his wife, Maya, had closed on the property a week before she gave birth to their son. The four-bedroom, three-bath house was advertised as a fixer-upper or a handyman’s special, and the couple had poured all oftheir savings into making the house habitable. Peeling paint and cracked windows with broken sashes had been replaced with white vinyl siding, black shutters and new energy-saving windows.
Seneca paid the driver, retrieved her overnight bag, got out and walked up the porch steps. She smiled. The brick steps and the porch floor were also new. Her brother and sister-in-law, both
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