The Blackening of Anna Turman: THE ONLY MAN WHO COULD

 

The Only Man Who Could

TG&Y, Oklahoma City

Wednesday, May 11, 1966, 11:00 AM

Infidelity doesn’t happen in a vacuum, not for women. Perhaps it’s true of men; were Davey Turman to cheat on his wife, his latent homosexual tendencies would be the driving factor. While for his wife, the same issue is part of her reasoning. Though, as yet, she hasn’t sussed that out.

For her, it’s mostly other factors in the marriage. They married when she was 18, and he was 21. Right now, there’s only a one-year difference between their ages, though in a month, Davey turns 24. A chasm is between them. Something about him—his clinginess, constant need for validation from her, and strange proclivities has driven a wedge between them.

Such as his insistence on turning the lights out before she undresses. An out-and-out refusal to see her naked, make love with the lights on, belief she would never consider another man. The painful shyness that cripples him. Yes, with her as well. Feckless devotion to a father who both loathes him and molds him in a vain attempt to make the son into the father. The inbred racism inherited from his father, heaped up and pressed down by his mother.

All of those things, and so many more, have Anna Turman teeter between faithful housewife and wanton slut. Emotion needs, unmet. Sexual satisfaction, unmet, never approached. Approval of in-laws, never happened, every will. Fulfilling work... forbidden. Loneliness, her one and only constant companion. This is a recipe for adultery. Not an excuse, a reason. All that is lacking in the equation is the spark.

That will be provided in short order.

At exactly 11:00 AM, Anna pushes through the double glass doors of TG&Y on Northwest Expressway. A gust of air tinged with popcorn and ammonia hits her, strong enough to flush her cheeks. The nerves beneath her skin flicker and burn with each footstep.

Catching her reflection in the bright safety mirror overhead: golden bouffant defying the humidity, cream cashmere tight across her chest, pearls perfectly round at her throat, skirt hem barely grazing her thighs. Shoes: white patent, the heels showing faint scuffs from the last time Davey tried to dance with her. The walk from the car to the entrance had drawn three stares and a slow up-and-down from a man behind the wheel of a green Impala. Inside, she’s nobody, or worse—she’s prey.

The cashier, a teenager with pale skin, blue shadow caked thick on her eyelids, studies her over the rim of a spiral notebook. Gum click-pop, gum click-pop. The register hums with boredoms frequence.

Anna steps up, clutching her purse in both hands. “Excuse me. Where’s the toy department?”

A single eyebrow rises. “Aisle five, back wall. Past the sporting goods.” The girl goes right back to her notebook, already half-tuned out. The exchange sounds more of a rebuke.

Overhead, a cartoon sunbeam angles down, illuminating faded plastic cutouts of cartoon bunnies, Easter leftovers. Rows of metal shelves stretch in all directions. Anna starts down the right-hand aisle, careful not to let her hips sway. She registers every sound—the squeal of a cleaning cart wheel, the hollow pop of the PA system, her own heartbeat thudding out a syncopated rhythm.

The toy department signs hang crooked, as if someone gave up midway through straightening them. On the way, Anna passes an older woman in a navy pantsuit. The woman’s lips purse into a single wrinkle, and her gaze skips from Anna’s knees to her neckline before flicking away. Anna has a spasm in her chest, equal parts shame and excitement. She quickens her pace; the faded pink sign reads DOLLS.

A yellow plastic pail clatters off the shelf and skids across the linoleum. Squatting, so she can retrieve it. The movement pulls her skirt tight. Exposing an entire canvas of thigh. Heat rises along her spine. Before she can stand, a shadow eclipses hers. The smell of bleach and cigarettes fills her nostrils.

“You need some help finding something, miss?” The voice rumbles up from somewhere near her waist.

Anna stands, clutching the pail like a shield. The janitor towers over her, six-two and built like a freight elevator. His skin gleams dark brown under the harsh lights, and the scar on his left cheek draws the eye up to his cropped hair. His uniform is an old gray jumpsuit, rolled up at the sleeves, forearms knotted with muscle. The name patch on his chest reads “Thorane.” She reads it three times before meeting his eyes. The intensity there leaves her breathless.

“The toy department,” she says, voice already too high, “for my niece’s birthday.”

He grins—only one side of his mouth moves. “You’re standing in it, ma’am. What kind of toy?”

Anna glances down the row, desperate for a neutral object. “One of the… Barbie sets. Anything with clothes, really.”

He jerks his chin. “‘At’s down here.” She follows, two steps behind, hypnotized by the flex and release of his shoulders. The wheels of his cart squeak against the floor. The space between them is dangerous.

At the endcap, he stops, points to a wall of Barbie accessories arranged in uneven rows. The boxes sparkle with tiny plastic shoes and glitter hats. “Anything here right for you?”

Focusing on the packages but only seeing the enormous hands at his sides, Anna dips her head. “Wonderful. Thank you.”

With his eyes neither amused nor bored, Thorane studies her, but he tuned to her in something akin to surgical focus. Anna plucks the first set she touches and hugs it to her chest.

“You got someone helping you out, or you shopping solo?”

The question hangs in the air. “My husband’s at work,” she says, voice gone flat.

“Uh-huh.” Wiping his mitts on a shop towel, he smears a streak of blue up his forearm. “You sure that’s the one you want?”

Nearly dropping the box, Anna says, “Yeah, absolutely. I mean—yes. That’s the one.”

And his height forces her to stare up; he leans against the cart. “Most women don’t come in here this early, dressed this way.”

Her cheeks burn. “I had an appointment uptown, and…” She trails off, mind scrambling for a cover story. “It ran late.”

The silence between them lengthens. Thorane lets it, watching her shift weight from one foot to the other. He doesn’t blink.

Anna blurts, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

His smile widens. “Been in OKC about ten years. Grew up south of the river.”

“I’ve never seen you before,” Anna presses.

“Guess you don’t notice the help when you’re shopping.” He doesn’t sound angry, only matter-of-fact.

She wants to apologize, but her tongue sticks to her teeth. But she says, “Sorry. Ah, um, I just… augh, you have a presence.”

Thorane gives a soft, unhurried chuckle. “A presence. Lovely way of putting it.”

Anna bites her lip. The urge overwhelms Anna to say something cunning, to reassert control, but nothing comes. Instead, she lowers her voice, hears herself say, “It’s wonderful what Dr. King is doing for your people. Shameful how Blacks are mistreated.”

The line tastes false in her mouth, an artifact of too many afternoons spent at the beauty parlor, parroting what passes for progressivism among bored housewives. The moment she says it, she wants to die. But Thorane doesn’t blink. “It’s about power,” he says.

Anna shivers. “What do you mean?”

He leans down, until his mouth nearly touches her ear. “Doesn’t matter what color you are, honey. Everybody wants a piece of it.”

Her heart thuds so hard she wonders if he can hear it. She rises on tiptoe, barely thinking, and kisses him square on the lips. No one sees. No one could, in this abandoned aisle. Her lipstick leaves a pink print on his mouth.

“I made a huge mistake marrying Davey,” she whispers.

Thorane grins. “Didn’t peg you for the risk-taking type.”

She fights to keep her knees from knocking. “Can I meet you later? Somewhere nobody goes?”

With the same steady, annihilating stare, he fixes his eyes on her. “Meet me behind the store right now. Give me blow, and we’ll decide when to meet.”

Anna’s answer is instant, electric. “Yes. Right now.”

Thorane leads her past the register, past the wall of plastic shovels and beach balls, and through the “Employees Only” door at the back. A buzzer sounds, but no one appears to challenge them. The corridor beyond is colder, poured concrete painted a shade of prison green, the floor spattered with flecks of grime from a hundred dirty mop buckets. She hesitates once, glancing back to make sure they’re alone. Her heels click, muted down the hallway, loud enough to make her wince.

The storage room at the end has a single, naked bulb overhead. Boxes of cleaning supplies line the walls, labeled in slanted cursive. A battered metal desk sits under a flyspecked clock. She can’t tell if the tick she hears is the clock or her own pulse. Thorane locks the door behind them and waits, arms folded across his chest, watching her process the room.

Anna takes three steps toward him. Her hands tremble as she sets her purse on the desk. The urge to chatter rises up—nervous, girlish, insistent—but she kills it. He hasn’t given her permission to speak yet.

He moves first, unfastening his jumpsuit at the waist. It hangs loose, exposing a white undershirt stretched tight over his pecs, and slips it off his hips. With a dark, glossy crown and a visible vein along the shaft, his cock comes out hard, massive. Anna’s mouth goes dry.

“You ever done this before?” he asks, voice soft and deep.

Bobbing her head, she says, “College boyfriend.”

He shakes his head, one hand around the base, pumping lazily. “Not like this, you haven’t.”

Anna drops to her knees. The coldness of the floor shoots through her stockings, numbing her kneecaps. When she hikes her skirt to avoid getting it dirty, the movements are obscene, so she holds it high with one hand and lets it drop.

She takes him in her mouth, the taste sharp and unfamiliar—salt, soap, and the strange bitter of latex. He’s too girthy to manage, so she works the tip with her lips and tongue, trying not to gag. Her lipstick marks the shaft in vivid pink stripes. Guiding her in short, shallow thrusts, Thorane grips her teased hair with one hand. Fast at first, Anna’s head bobbles, slower as she figures out his rhythm.

The room is silent except for the wet sounds and Anna’s choked gasps. Her mascara starts to run before