Time With the Crosses

This really is too much house for them, or for anyone. It feels especially empty on Sundays when there is no help around. No cooks in the kitchen. No maids going around dusting, sweeping, mopping and collecting dirty clothes, changing sheets and doing laundry. No butler to answer the front doors and oversee the rest of the help.

A breezeway attaches the large multivehicle garage to the oversized house. We enter the house through it into a large mudroom where we take off our shoes, hang our sweaters and jackets. The floors on the main level are heated so there's no need for house slippers during the winter. But it's late spring, the weather is beautiful and everything's in full bloom.

"Mr. Cross, would you like me to run to the cottage to check on the elder Mr. and Mrs. Cross," I offer as we step into the kitchen. I like his parents. If they were ever bigoted, age and illness have washed it away. They are always all cheerful smiles and truly delight to see me. They love visitors.

"No, I'll check on them myself after lunch," answers Mr. Cross. He directs, "Go ahead and give Lilith a hand with lunch please."

"As you wish sir," I agree.

"As you wish sir," mocks Blake teasingly.

I simply roll my eyes at him. There's no point in responding.

Bronson grabs my ass as I walk by him and I slap his hand away irritatedly. He and Blake both laugh at me hilariously.

"That's enough you two," scolds Mr. Cross frowning at them. "You're behaving like little boys instead of grown men."

"Would you like a glass of wine Ava," offers Mrs. Cross.

"No thank you Mrs. Cross," I decline.

"We really are overdue for having your family over for dinner," she says as she sets the timer for the biscuits and cornbread that just need to be baked for twenty minutes. "Do you drink at all?"

"Yes madam," I answer, "we have a half a glass of wine with dinner every night except Sunday. And of course we drink the sacrament wine when we take sacrament with everyone else. And my father and grandfathers each have a glass Saturday night as they share a cigar and discuss things at the clinic. That's girl time for me, Mom and Abuela."

"Abuela," questions Bronson, "what the hell is that?"

"It's Spanish for grandmother," I inform Bronson.

"You speak Spanish," ask Blake interested.

"Only a little," but I am more fluent than I'm admitting. I know many white people feel threatened when they hear a language they don't understand.

"Are your grandfathers looking forward to retirement," ask Mr. Cross.

It's not full-fledged retirement and Mr. Cross understands that. Very few get to retire completely. They'll both still be working part-time. Still I nod affirmatively even though their nosiness is quite unusual. They've never really asked me much of anything about myself before beyond pleasant polite things like, how are you? Except for Bryant, we used to be very close. Still I share, "Papa's looking forward to more time with Abuela and he'll only work Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Granddaddy seems a little sad but says he's looking forward to more time gardening and breeding rabbits. But he'll only work Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday."

"Did you know about Dr. Walker," ask Bryant accusingly.

I admit, "I knew they were looking for someone. But I didn't know who, what, where, when or anything else until today. I thought they were looking for a white doctor who would live in staff housing next door to the clinic, urgent care and hospital. I know they hope to attract a second doctor here preferably a male pediatrician who can work full-time since I can only work part-time and won't be able to work at all for a while once we start a family. And while a small community to look after is appealing, our remote rural location is not."

Mr. Cross confirms, "Allen (his cousin Pastor Cross) mentioned they were trying to find a white doctor. But thus far they haven't been able to find one willing to relocate here or the couple that showed interest would be retiring soon themselves. Being a doctor isn't lucrative like it once was. They're not permitted to have a private practice anymore where they could charge quite a bit per visit. As public servants they're paid an hourly wage like factory and utility workers plus full health coverage. Of course they're paid significantly more than factory workers and such. But ambitious white males are studying political science and law where things are extremely lucrative and come with power and social status. Doctors are highly respected of course, but it's not the same as being a government official."

"Maybe by the time their first child is ready to begin its university education, Bryant will finally have earned his political science and law degree," teases Blake.

"Leave your brother alone," orders Mrs. Cross. "He's doing the best he can. Not everything comes easily to everyone. Some of us have to work harder than others."

"Come on Mom," insist Blake. "We all know the smartest person in this room is her," he points to me. "He never even mastered tying his own shoes. She began university courses while he was still struggling to get his high school diploma. He couldn't handle taking courses full-time so he was dropped to half-time and he was still flunking out. Now he's down to one or two classes at a time and she still has to help him. He's still barely passing with Ds. The only smart thing he does is hang onto her. And he doesn't hang onto her because he's smart. He hangs on to her because he actually loves her."

"He is too smart," I defend even though it's kind of true that Bryant never completely mastered tying his own shoes. The teacher made me tie his shoes beginning in kindergarten and I continued to tie his shoes until sixth grade when they finally stopped buying him shoes with laces. We both had IEPs, Individual Educational Plans. But mine was because I learned so much quicker than everyone else. I was half way to my doctorate when I graduated high school. Bryant's IEP was because he's dyslexic and he struggles with things that require a lot of reading and writing. I tell Blake with feeling, "His strengths simply lie elsewhere. He's mechanically inclined. He can take apart an engine and put it back together. I can't do that and neither can you. But what would it look like if a Cross became a mechanic instead of a politician? It's not his fault he's not being allowed to work with his strengths."

"Bravo," says Blake clapping amused. "She may not have a choice when it comes to being stuck with you, Bryant. But she obviously cares for you more than you think she does. Just think, behind the scenes she'll be able to do your job for you so you don't look like a whoppingly giant dumbass in front of the world."

"That's enough Blake," orders Mr. Cross in a bored tone.

"Yes, that's quite enough," agrees Mrs. Cross. "Let's have lunch and discuss something pleasant like wedding plans."

"I'm not hungry," states Bryant crossing his arms over his chest defiantly like a child.

"Are you feeling ill," I ask concerned as I step up to him and feel his forehead with the back of my hand.

Bryant takes my hand and kisses my palm, "No. I just don't want to eat with them."

I suggest, "We can eat beside the pool and go for a swim afterwards." One of the things I do love about their home is the large swimming pool.

"I just want to go up to my room," Bryant tells me in a defeated tone.

"Really," question Blake frustrated, "Really? You're going to hide with her in your room all day because you're mad and don't want to share her with us."

"That needs to stop anyway," Mr. Cross tells Blake and Bronson. "She's his fiancé. She's going to be his wife as soon as he learns to control his temper. You need to find your own girlfriends, young women who will make good wives like Ava will."

"There aren't any others like Ava," Blake tells their father irritatedly. "They're all boney pasty white gold digging whores. And I know when the opportunity presents itself, you'll make Ava have sex with you again."

Bryant didn't know. I know he didn't know. And I don't know how Blake knows. I've never told anyone. But there was a witness of a sort, the chauffeur. Mr. Cross made him stand outside the limo and wait, I begged and cried profusely the first time. Perhaps the chauffeur heard me. Maybe he told someone and Blake over heard. All I can do is look at the ground as Bryant stares at me.

"Is that true," Bryant ask me.

I can feel my eyes welling up. I'm not going to answer him. I don't want to talk about it. Instead I tell him, "I'll prepare a tray to take upstairs to your room with us," and I busy myself with that.

"Damn it Byron," exclaims Mrs. Cross angrily. "You just had to bang her too. Bryant has never been interested in anyone else. He's always loved her and has never been with anyone else. It's not bad enough Blake and Bronson won't leave her alone. She went through puberty before Bryant and Blake just had to take her virginity."

Blake inserts defensively, "He couldn't do anything with her yet."

"It was wrong," states Mrs. Cross with conviction. "The way you use her and abuse her is wrong."

"We don't smack her around," exclaims Bronson, "That's Bryant."

"But you're still one of her abusers," she tells Bronson, "She doesn't want you climbing on top of her, but you do it anyway."

"So does Dad," points out Bronson.

"You're setting such a wonderful example for our sons," she says sarcastically to Mr. Cross. "This whole family is going to hell. The only good person in this room is her. I'm just a gold digging whore like those young women they want nothing to do with. I just wanted a better life for myself and my family. I didn't know it would make me the mother of three sons I can't stand, I hate watching this wonderful, beautiful, intelligent young woman try to survive the unwanted attention she gets from us." She grabs the wine bottle and drinks straight from it.

"How in the hell did you find out," Mr. Cross demands irritatedly from Blake. "I know she never told a soul… The chauffeur…"

Blake shakes his head. "The chauffer is grateful his daughter isn't beautiful like Ava, but he hasn't told anyone. You forget the limo has cameras. Bronson and I watched. And I copied it before you came home and erased it. I have a copy of every time. I think of them as my insurance policies. She really screamed, cried and begged you not to the first time. But since she knows you're going to bang her no matter what, she doesn't beg and scream any more. She still request, 'Please don't Mr. Cross. It would break Bryant's heart if he ever found out.' But you don't really give a shit about any of us, least of all Bryant. After all, he's not going to bring notoriety to the family name. Not without her guiding him. And her family will never let Mr. Slap Happy here marry her. He can't get her off and he can't treat her right. But the next time the opportunity presents itself, you'll push yourself between those golden thighs of hers and ignore her tears as you bang her as hard as you possibly can."

I'm crying silently as I sit two root beers from the refrigerator onto the tray next to two empty upside down cups with the rest of the food. Bryant steps over to me. I flinch when he raises his hands, but he only gently thumbs away some of my tears. I'm so grateful he didn't slap me I grab his hands and kiss them.

Mr. Cross wouldn't go to jail for raping me. Men have needs. But it would sully his reputation for everyone to learn he had raped his son's fiancé. It wouldn't change anything beyond that. But Mr. Cross does value his reputation highly. He's quite proud that he has thus far been scandal free. That's because I don't want to talk about what happened. I just want to pretend it doesn't happen. And the maids he diddles are well paid, willing and no one can prove an aborted fetus that was immediately incinerated is yours.

Bryant directs me, "Go up to my room. I'll bring the tray." He's never carried the tray before. I've always followed him up the back steps with the tray. But I nod agreeingly and head up the back steps ahead of him.

From the top of the stairs I hear him tell them, "I love you too family. Have a nice day."

I step into his room and wait for him. He carries in the tray and I can hear Blake and Bronson rushing up the back steps. Blake makes it in the door before Bryant can close it and lock it. And of course Bronson follows him in.

"What," ask Bryant in an unfriendly tone.

"I need to talk with you," Blake tells Bryant.

"What? You didn't say enough downstairs," asks Bryant.

"I'm sorry," apologizes Blake. "I know you're upset. I know you're angry. And you have every right to be. But I need to talk with you about Ava."

"I thought that's what the conversation was about downstairs," Bryant tells Blake hotly, "her and about how stupid I am."

Blake shuts the door and ask Bryant, "You love her right?"

"Yes I love her," answers Bryant without hesitation.

"And you want her to be safe right," ask Blake.

"Yes of course," answers Bryant.

"And you want to marry her," ask Blake.

"Yes, you know I want that more than anything," answers Bryant.

"But her family is never going to let you marry her," Blake tells Bryant. "She needs a husband to protect her. And you can't even protect her from yourself. You've slapped her around too much. They don't trust you anymore and are never going to trust you again at this point."

Bryant knows that's true and ask Blake, "What do I do? I love her. I go crazy on the days I don't get to see her."

"You know you're not the only one who loves her," Blake tells Bryant, "You know that don't you?"

"I know lots of men want her," responds Bryant.

"Yes a lot of men want her," confirms Blake. "But they just want her. They just want to bang her a few times. They don't love her. They're not in love with her."

"Pastor Wimbly's in love with her," comments Bronson.

Blake takes a deep breath, "Yes, but he's an old man. He's too old for them to marry her to. He'll die while she's still young and then she'll need a new husband."

"What are you talking about Blake," ask Bryant. "Get to the point."

"I think they're looking for a husband for her," Blake informs Bryant. "They are never going to let you marry her. I saw the look in their eyes today. They've had enough of you slapping her around for nothing. To protect her from you they will marry her to someone else right out from underneath you. They'll send her to another district if they have to."

Tears start to leak from Bryant's eyes. He grabs me by my upper arms, shakes me and demands, "Is that what they're planning? To send you away from me?"

"I don't know," I answer afraid. "They've never discussed such a thing with me or in front of me."

"Bryant," Blake orders him, "look what you're doing. Let her go. You keep focusing your anger on her even though you're not angry with her. This is exactly why they won't let you marry her."

Bryant releases me, but he's beside himself, "I don't know what to do. I can't lose her."

"And you don't have to lose her," Blake tells Bryant assuringly. "You don't have to lose her. We don't have to lose her. I love her too. I'm in love with her and we don't have to lose her."

Bryant narrows his eyes at Blake suspiciously, "It sounds like you have an idea I'm not going to like."

"No. You're not going to like it," confirms Blake.

"Well, spit it out," orders Bryant.

"You step aside and let me marry her," answers Blake.

Bryant shakes his head, "No. No way. Out of the question."

"Just think about it," Blake tells Bryant. "As my wife she would still be here under the same roof as you. You would see her every day and have access to her every day. Yes, she would technically be my legal wife, but I would still share her with you."

"You still can't marry her." Bryant reminds Blake, "You're Dad's successor. You're the one that's set up to follow in his footsteps. He will not let you have a nonwhite wife."

"But I have my insurance policies," Blake reminds Bryant. "He doesn't want everyone to know he's been raping your fiancé. Most of them believe he's never cheated on Mom, that he's an honest man. He doesn't want to lose the respect he gets for that."

"Insurance policies," questions Bronson confused as usual.

No Bryant is not the dumb one. The dumb one is actually Bronson. His hair may be light brown, but he's dumb enough to try and scratch and sniff a sticker at the bottom of a pool. Blake is the smartest. He's especially gifted at reading people. So if he believes my family is trying to find me a husband elsewhere, they probably are.

Blake ignores Bronson and tells Bryant, "I have my insurance policies. Dad has to agree and he has to leave her alone. She'll be here under our roof as my wife, but I'll be sharing her with you and we won't lose her."

Bryant takes a deep breath, "I have to think about it."

Blake nods acceptingly. Then he smiles winningly at me, "I need a little brown sugar before I go."

I look away from him. Blake is the devilishly handsome one. They all have the same piercing blue eyes. But they're more striking on Blake because he has dark brown hair like their father. Bryant's hair is golden blond. Bryant is the most innocent looking one.

Blake and Bronson having finally satisfied themselves leave me and Bryant alone. Blake made sure to give me a deep kiss and tell me that he loves me. His happy thought for the day is he believes he almost got me to orgasm.

Bryant ask me, "What do you think of Blake's plan?"

It sounds like a loaded question. I shrug and share honestly, "I'm not sure what to think. I think he's being honest when he says he loves me. He hasn't been with anyone else but me for years. And I know he's getting offers. And he's really good at reading people. My family isn't happy with you. My father wants to knock you on your ass so bad he can taste it. If you weren't a Cross, he would have beaten you senseless a couple of years ago."

When I finished my education without him and started working at the clinic part-time is when Bryant started losing his temper with me. That was four years ago. I guess that's when he realized just how smart I am. But I don't think he's dumb. I've never thought that. I can't take an engine apart and put it back together. And so he never really got good at tying his shoes. That's a manual dexterity thing. He technically knows how. And I really didn't mind tying them for him.

Bryant says to me thoughtfully, "I haven't given you many choices have I?"

Another loaded question that I counter with another question, "What do you mean?"

He answers, "I never asked you to be my girlfriend. And I never proposed to you."

"No, you didn't ask me to be your girlfriend," but I admit, "but I would have said yes if you had asked. And an actual proposal would have been nice so I could have said yes before you put your engagement ring on my finger. But I still would have said yes if you had asked me."

"But there's something else," says Bryant. "I know there's more. Tell me. I promise I won't get mad."

I take a deep breath. He usually keeps a promise, "When you began losing your temper with me, I would have broken up with you if I could have. But I can't walk away from you like you can walk away from me."

"You have no choice," he says to himself. "You're stuck with me and my foul moods."

I inform him, "I only feel stuck when you're treating me badly. Most of the time I'm happy to be with you."

Bryant shakes his head sadly, "I don't know how I'm going to be a good husband when I'm not even a good fiancé. I've failed to protect you from my brothers, from my own father and from myself."

I inform Bryant, "You protect me more than you realize. I am not passed around the way most of the young women are because of you. I don't even want to think about how many times or how many different men would have rape me if it wasn't for you. My father knew he couldn't always be there for me and protect me from everyone. So he made sure I had all my shots and a birth control implant and prepared me as best he could for the worst that could happen. He told me, 'Don't ever try to fight them. Just let them have their way. Your life is too precious to lose over it. So just let them have their way.' It tore him up inside to tell me that. But the worst never happened because of you. I've never been gang raped and left for dead. You would insist the men who did such a thing to me were hunted down and executed. And they like breathing so they leave me alone."

Bryant lays his head on my breasts and I pull my finders through his golden blond hair. I tell him, "You worry too much. It's going to be alright. We'll find a way to make it work."

"I think the only way may be Blake's way," he says sadly.

"If that's what you choose," I tell him, "we'll work with it and cope as best we can."

"That's how you do it," says Bryant thoughtfully. "Everyday you work with it and cope as best you can. You're like a little bird in a cage. You've never known true freedom yet you continue to sing sweetly. But I can set you free," and his hands tighten around my neck.