DARK FRUITS - EPISODE #4 By Eva Mae Ramble Wait!” She stood and held up her hands, signaling for him to stop or signaling for her own surrender she wasn’t sure which. The only thing that she was certain of was that she did not want him to leave, especially not this way. She hadn’t entertained edgy banter like this since moving to Eden. Everyone was so polite, so nice and genteel in the South. Even when a citizen of Eden was angry, they started their saccharine verbal assaults with “Well, bless your heart” and ended them with “I’m gonna pray for you.” It’s not that Ebony liked to argue, but that she was so used to dominating others and getting her way that she rarely met a person who had an ego strong enough to overthrow hers or a wit sharp enough to sting her in the places where it counted. This Jackson Hearns had read her every which way but loose without so much as one frustrated blink of his hazelnut eyes. With one well timed volley of words he had effectively begun a change of season in Ebony’s chest. Winter frosts were quickly melting away and in rushed Spring. “Are you an Aries, Mr. Hearns?” He stopped and turned around to face her, a look of puzzlement upon his chiseled face. “Of all the questions…” “Are you an Aries, Mr. Hearns?” He smoothed his tie. “I am.” She nodded. “A fire sign then…” She cleared her throat. That explained it. This man had brought the sun and set it ablaze in her office. Her heart pounded as it hadn’t in months and she couldn’t help but notice the new warmth kindled between her thighs. Matter-of-factly, she lied, “Ethically as a therapist, I cannot turn away a client in need.” “Is that true?” he asked. “There’s a code of ethics for doctors after all.” “Yes and it says, even cocky belligerent clients need help.” “Baby, I assure you I’m none of those things.” “But you are a client.” He nodded. “Have a seat on my couch, Mr. Hearns.” Ebony motioned to the sepia colored leather sofa on the left side of the room, beside which were two real mahogany end tables with flowered Kleenex tissue boxes and jade and brass art deco lamps. “I will,” he said, raising his left index finger. “On one condition.” “And what’s that?” “You stop calling me Mr. Hearns.” Ebony smiled, “Okay.” “That’s my Father’s name, Dr. Hewitt. I’m Jackson.” “Jackson, please have a seat.” As her client sauntered to the sofa, Ebony went into her desk to procure her leather writing portfolio and a platinum and crystal Swarovski pen. It was her favorite pen, given to her by her Father when she was nineteen and had decided that she was going to try her hand at writing. The endeavor was short lived, but she held onto the pen as a souvenir of her Father’s faith in her. She joined Jackson at the couch, seating herself across from him in a pale tan square-back swivel chair. Behind her on the opposite wall of her office was a large storefront window framed by her hanging vines and potted petunias, flanked on each side by tall bookshelves that shelved an assortment of earth-tone bound tomes. Her clients always seemed to enjoy looking out of the window though the view outside was only of the parking lot. They played voyeur in relative anonymity, because the window was tinted. Clients and Ebony could see out, but no one outside could see in. Sometimes the window disturbed clients at first, until they were reassured that the people outside could not see them. Then they went about peering into the drudgery of other people’s lives as they pushed carts full of groceries, spanked wayward children, squeezed the supple bottoms of lovers and gave their last dollar to the homeless, with a delight that bordered on sin. Therapy was not popular in Eden, especially with the men. No one wanted to be seen entering, leaving, let alone, in Ebony’s office. As a result Ebony’s client list had whittled down to mandatory court ordered appearances and sporadic visits by desperate housewives sometimes with and sometimes without their children. Most citizens of Eden relied on prayer and church attendance to right their deep seeded emotional issues instead of the one hundred and seventy five dollar an hour talk with a “shrink” regardless of what Medicare or Medicaid covered. Thus Ebony who had a lot of time on her hands, also felt like the voyeur because of the window and because of her work. People shared intimate things sitting on her couch. Things that they thought they would never say. Things that they thought they had forgotten or moved past. Like Thomasina Landry who had remembered in the midst of tears that her Father had molested her from the age of six through ten. Or Frank Moody who buried his face in his hands and remembered that in prison he had aided in raping a man. Ebony couldn’t flinch. Ebony didn’t flinch. These people needed her. The service she provided was invaluable. So even though they came reluctantly, bitterly, angrily, Ebony satisfied her soul in knowing that they would not leave her office the same. Judge Dryer was a big proponent of psychotherapy, it was no wonder she had called. Ebony looked into Jackson’s well defined face and saw only a canvas, clean and white. As he opened his mouth, as he spoke to her, as he divulged his secrets and sins, it would be like throwing paint onto that canvas. Ebony didn’t know if it would be abstract or impressionist, but it would be a portrait of the man, the whole man – outside and interior – that he would create for her from scratch. She wondered what this caliber of man had to say. He clearly had fine tastes, fine intellect and a fine face and body. What was troubling him? “My fiancée died in a car accident last year. She was driving to her sister’s house…It was raining pretty bad…Today would be our third wedding anniversary.” He rubbed his palms down his mouth. “And she’s not here…I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I don’t go out…The Governor gave me the assignment to research the outsourcing of jobs and the downsizing of factories in rural townships so that I could get away from Columbia and clear my head. I’m in Allendale County for three weeks. Can you fix me?”
Posted on: Mon, 11 Nov 2013 20:30:01 +0000
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