The Necessary Hunger

by Nina Revoyr

  The guys who lose in the most spectacular fashion are the boys who play during the summers. Teenage boys migrate to outdoor courts in packs once June rolls around—because they're out of school and the weather is nice, but also, more importantly, because in the summer hordes of girls come to watch them play. More crushes are developed during one summer pickup game than at a year's worth of high school dances. These T-shirted Romeos aren't stupid; they know that the best way to dazzle a young lady they're trying to talk to is to show her a good game of basketball. So every day they come to the park in twos and threes, streamlined and beautiful, sporting new Nike shoes, fade haircuts, and much-practiced gangster limps. They never look at the girls on the sidelines but are always aware of their presence. They make breathtaking, graceful, impossible moves, bending like willows as they change directions in midair, triple-pumping, double-reversing—and missing their shots. They shout loudly, gesture dramatically, give each other high fives so hard that the slaps can be heard across the park. The girls point and preen and giggle. They know that everything the boys do is intended to impress them, and it doesn't matter that the boys are so busy showing off their moves that they often fail to deposit the ball into the basket. During the summer, my high school teammates and I would go about these games as usual, scoring quietly and trying not to get too caught up in the excitement. But occasionally I'd make a twisting move pretty enough to warrant a squeal from the girls on the sidelines. I, of course, was trying to impress them too.

  That day at the park, though, Raina and I weren't trying to impress anyone. We were just playing regular pickup ball, for the love of the sport itself. We beat the guys eleven to six in the first game, and then, having had that warmup, eleven to three in the second. The guys swore and complained, and by the fourth point of the second game they were yelling at each other instead of at us, a sure sign that they were frustrated.

  As for Raina and me, we were silent except for necessary court talk, yelling "behind you" when the other was tied up with the ball, or "you got help" to let the other know that we were backing her up on defense. We complemented each other well—she had more smoothness and I had more power; she was fluid and fast while I was slower but explosive; she had greater range on her jump shot but I could muscle the ball inside—but we were just starting to get used to each other's games. Occasionally, when we made a good play, we allowed ourselves a nod or a congratulatory high five, and each time she grabbed my arm or slid her fingers around the back of my neck, I felt the ghost of her touch after her hand was gone; I felt the place where her fingers had met my skin.

  By the time we'd finished our second game, enough people had arrived from the after-five crowd for us to start going full court. A group of the Inglewood Families had gathered too, sitting atop the nearby picnic tables and drinking forty-ounce brews, keeping half an eye on the game. Raina and I split up and guarded each other. Full-court pickup games are notorious for their lack of passing, and neither of us saw the ball very much. It didn't matter, though—scoring is just one part of basketball, and so we focused our personal contest elsewhere. We sprinted shoulder to shoulder down the court while everyone else lagged behind; we shoved against each other for rebounds, pushing with backs, hips, and arms even after someone else had recovered the ball; we shadowed each other on defense so tightly that there was no way someone could have gotten a pass to us, even if they had been so inclined. Defense takes discipline, concentration, and pride. Pride is by far the most important of these factors, and Raina and I both had a lot of it.

  Whenever anyone on either team did something impressive—a pretty finger roll, a heads-up steal, a behind-the-back pass—Raina would smile widely, delighted. She took such joy in the game that she was happy when anyone played it well, as if each good play was a flower that someone had laid on her doorstep. My appreciation was not as pure. I wanted to win, to outdo people, and I begrudged my opponents' successes. At the end of the third game I got cramps in my calves, and after rolling around in pain for a while I had to drag myself off the court. Raina helped me over to the sideline, then laughed as I swore at my mutinous legs. We were done for the day. She ran her fingers along her thigh, and they left five blurred trails through the sheen of perspiration, like paths spreading in the wake of ships. The muscles of her arms seemed more defined than usual, and her shoulders looked both solid, cut from pure, polished stone, and also delicate, soft to the touch. I dragged a towel across my arms and legs while Raina pulled the bottom of her T-shirt up and used it to wipe her face. This left a six-inch strip of her torso exposed, and I saw her slightly rounded belly, the sweat that pooled in her navel, the smooth line of soft hair that disappeared into her shorts. One of her hip bones jutted toward me, her waistband riding just below it. I imagined touching those hips and pressing my face against the curves of her stomach; I wanted to feel her flesh rise to meet my hands.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day, Wednesday, three of Claudia's friends came over for dinner. They met for meals, according to Raina, about twice a month, rotating the location and cooking duties. When Raina and I got in from the park, they were just sitting down around a beautiful, steaming lasagna that Claudia had labored over for much of the previous night. Having all these strangers in our dining room made me slightly uncomfortable. It seemed odd that Claudia, who'd only been in the house for a few weeks, was playing hostess as if she'd lived there for several years. At the same time, though, I was curious to see how she acted with her friends. As we walked into the dining room, a tall, stately woman, who was sitting to Claudia's left, spotted us coming, and smiled.

  "Hi, Raina," she said. "Girl, you getting so pretty. Come on over here now and hug your aunt Rochelle."

  Raina looked sheepish, but obeyed. Rochelle regarded her with the glowing approval that mothers bestow only on young girls they think suitable for their sons.

  "You looking skinny, girl," said the woman to Claudia's right, who'd had her back to us. She was a small, dark-skinned woman with chipmunk cheeks and straight, shiny, ear-length hair. "Why don't you come on by the restaurant and I'll fatten you up?"

  The third friend, a thin, honey-colored woman with flashing green eyes and wavy hair, smiled and shook her head. "Kim, leave the poor child alone. You think everyone's skinny who's not at least twenty-five pounds overweight, and you're always trying to shove food down people's throats."

  "Excuse me?" said Raina, grinning. "Look who's talking, Paula. Every single time I go over to your place, I leave about ten pounds heavier."

  Paula smiled back at her, happy to be teased. "That's not because I feed you, though. It's 'cos you eat every damn thing in the house."

  I stood a little outside of their circle, trying to attach names and faces with the stories Raina had told me on the way home from the park. Rochelle, the woman who'd hugged her, was a buyer for Robinson's and the mother of a teenage son. Kim, the woman who'd offered to feed her, owned and managed—along with her husband—Barry's Chicken & Waffles on Century; they had two junior-high-school-age girls who played basketball. The third woman, Paula, ran a real estate office in Hawthorne. She had no children of her own, so she indulged her friends' children; the San Francisco T-shirt that Raina was wearing had been a gift from her. Claudia had known Rochelle since they were in high school together; she'd met Kim and Paula through the Black Businesswomen's Alliance, which they'd all been members of since its inception ten years before.

  "Now, who's this?" asked Rochelle, finally noticing me. She was a classic big woman—not fat, but tall and solid; she would have made a wonderful center.

  Claudia gestured for me to come over, and put a hand on my arm. "This is Wendell's daughter, Nancy," she said. "She's a basketball player too."

  "Hi," I said uncertainly.

  "Hi," they all said in unison.

  "So you play basketball," said Kim. "Are you as good as Raina?"

  "Well, I, uh . . ." I glanced at Raina, who was still standing next to Rochelle. She shook her head at me and
rolled her eyes, apologizing that I had to be subjected to this—but also, obviously, enjoying the attention.

  "Oh, Kim," said Rochelle. "Don't put the poor child on the spot like that." She considered me thoughtfully. "You know, you look just like your daddy."

  "Really?" I said. I didn't know whether to be flattered or annoyed, so I bent down to pet the dog, who ignored me and stared at the lasagna.

  Raina shook her head and said, "No she doesn't."

  Claudia laughed. "She is so much like Wendell. Not just in looks, either. Although neither of them know it, of course." She turned toward me, and I was surprised by the affection in her voice. I hadn't thought she'd paid much attention to me.

  "Well, I'm a big basketball fan," said Rochelle. She patted her hair, which enclosed her head like a bicycle helmet. "And so's Paula. We go with Claudia sometimes to watch Raina's games. Maybe we'll come to see you play too. What high school do you play for?"

  "The green and white," I said proudly. "Inglewood."

  Paula, who'd been playing with her napkin, crossed her arms now and looked at me. "Really," she said. And there was something in her voice—the bluntness of it, the way she ended her word on a down note, like the British—that made me a bit uneasy. I didn't have time to think about it, though, because Kim came at me with another question.

  "Does your father teach there too?"

  "No," I said, "he teaches at Hawthorne."

  Claudia leaned forward, smiling. "Yes. Wendell's annoyed because Hawthorne's colors are maroon and gold—like USC, you know, and he's a UCLA man."

  Just then, as if on cue, my father came into the dining room. The dog, her trance broken, ran over to greet him. "I heard my name. Are you all saying scandalous things about me?"

  "The worst," said Rochelle. She smiled, lowered her chin, and looked at him coyly; I was startled by the realization that she found him attractive.

  "That's fine," he said, resting a hand on Claudia's shoulder. "Just as long as they're all true." She turned toward him, and they smiled at each other.

  "You're looking good, Wendell," said Rochelle.

  Kim rolled her eyes theatrically and said, "Oh Lord."

  Claudia and Raina laughed.

  "Thanks," my father said. "So are you, ladies. How you all doing tonight?"

  "Great," said Kim. "Except our food's getting cold. You sure you don't want to join us?"

  "No thanks. I got places to go." He turned to Paula, who seemed to be examining the design on the tablecloth. "How you doing tonight, Paula?"

  She looked up at him briefly, then back down at the table. "Fine."

  There was a moment of silence, during which Rochelle shot Paula a dirty look.

  "Hey, Dad," I said finally, "where you goin?"

  He looked at me, then smiled down at Claudia. "Claudia's forcing me to spend the evening elsewhere, so I'm meeting one of my colleagues and her husband for dinner. Since you and Raina aren't being kicked out, though, I guess it's just me that the ladies object to."

  "We're working," insisted Claudia. We have to talk about this conference the BBA is having in February. Besides, you could always stick around if you really wanted to."

  My father shook his head. "And listen to you all gossip? No thanks."

  He left, after a round of goodbyes, and I watched him walk away. I couldn't understand what women saw in him. He didn't seem particularly handsome to me, but he was athletic, and big, and good-natured. Sometimes, when I was lucky, or when he'd had too much to drink, he'd tell me stories about his childhood, about going with my grandfather on gardening jobs. My father would mow the grass while his father did the tasks that required greater precision, like weeding and trimming the bushes. He told me how good it felt to push himself, to sweat in the summer sun, and how sweet and cold the water tasted afterward; it was then, on the gardening jobs that began when he was twelve, that he knew he would be an athlete.

  After Claudia carved out pieces of lasagna for all of us, Raina and I took our plates and went upstairs. Before we left, though, Rochelle grabbed Raina again, and spoke in a hushed voice that all of us could hear. "Now you and your mother should come over to eat sometime before Curtis leaves for college next week." She leaned in closer. "Girl, Curtis is a real good cook."

  Kim and Paula laughed loudly, and Claudia just a little; Raina freed herself and we both went up the stairs.

  "I guess she don't know about you, huh?" I said.

  Raina shook her head. "I guess not."

  The phone rang, and Raina went into her room to answer it; from the way her voice softened and her body cradled the phone, I knew that it was Toni. Since I had nothing better to do—and since I wanted to see what Claudia was like away from my father—I tiptoed back down the stairs and into the living room, just out of the range of sight from the table. I got there just in time to hear Rochelle say, "Girl, that Wendell is one good-looking man."

  Claudia laughed. "Thanks for the stamp of approval."

  "I've got to admit," said Kim, "he's grown on me. Not that way," she said when Rochelle laughed. "He's not my type at all, you know that. I mean, I just like him better now. He's done right by you, Claudia, and this house is a hell of a lot nicer than that place you were staying before."

  "Yeah, you got yourself a good one," said Rochelle, sounding like her mouth was full of food. "And Kim, you do too—you and Don are about the only happy married people I know. How long's it been now, twenty years?"

  "Eighteen," Kim replied. "And it's been hell sometimes, honey. But between the restaurant and the kids, we're just too busy to have problems between us."

  "Damn," Rochelle said softly, and I heard silverware clink. "It's been too damn long since I had a steady man. Almost three years since Christopher. And Paula, hasn't it been almost that long for you?"

  "Two years since Alex," she said. She sounded much more at ease now that the rest of us were gone. "And you're right, girl, it's been too damn long."

  "Well, do either of you have any candidates?" asked Claudia.

  Rochelle cleared her throat. "Well, there was this fine lawyer that Paula and I met at the barbecue on the Fourth of July . . ."

  Paula finished: ". . . but the line for that brother was about a mile and a half long."

  Kim laughed. "Rochelle, what about that banker you tried to set Claudia up with before she met Wendell? He was all right, Claudia, wasn't he? Good-looking? Steady income? Smart?"

  Claudia snorted. "Yes, he was perfectly nice," she said. "But Rochelle neglected to mention to me the minor fact that he was married."

  "Oh, shit, girl," said Paula, laughing. "You didn't tell me that."

  "Well, so what?" Rochelle said. "Most marriages end. Except for you, Kim, we can all attest to that."

  "Mm-hmm," agreed Claudia. "But I don't want to be responsible for speeding up the process." She sounded different away from us kids, I noticed—less careful, more relaxed. She wasn't a parent now, just a woman hanging out with her friends. "And speaking of divorced people, what happened to that detective y'all met at Sandra's party last month?"

  "Well, I thought he was cute," said Rochelle, "but he only had eyes for Paula."

  "He was all right," Paula said. "But I wasn't interested. I'm suspicious of any brother who's a cop."

  "Do you have anyone we could meet, Kim?" asked Rochelle. "Shit, you probably see more black men in a single night than the rest of us see in a year."

  Kim laughed. "Sure, we got a lot of brothers coming into the restaurant, take your pick. As long as you don't mind that they're real young, and that a lot of them dress in blue—Crip blue."

  They all laughed. "Well, I guess I'll just keep trying my luck in the professional world," said Rochelle. "Hey, do you think there'll be any men at the conference?"

  Paula laughed. "Well, considering it's called 'Black Women in the Workplace,' I can't see them showing up en masse." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded serious. "One thing I know, though. Whoever I finally end up with, you can
be sure he's going to be black."

  Rochelle made a noise somewhere between agreement and protest. "Well, I'm looking too, honey, but there ain't that many black men our age who aren't married or nasty or gay."

  "I know," Paula said. "But I still think it's better to hold out for a brother than to settle for something else."

  There was a silence, and even from where I stood, I could feel the mood in the dining room shift.

  "Are you trying to tell me something, Paula?" asked Claudia quietly.

  There was another silence. Then Paula said, in a hesitant voice, "I don't know. I guess I am. It's nothing against Wendell personally."

  "Girl, you being a fool," said Rochelle. "I've been alone for so damn long I'd take any man who treated me well."

  "No, I know what she's saying," Kim put in. "And I agree with you, Paula. To a point. I didn't really approve of Wendell, either." She paused. "But look at him—he's got a good job, he treats Claudia right, and he's raised a child by himself. Wendell's a man, Paula, and there ain't a whole lot of men around anymore, in black or in any other color."

  "I know that," said Paula. "I do. But I'm still not comfortable with him."

  I heard Claudia put her silverware down and sigh. "Paula, I can't believe this. I mean, what do you want me to say? You're my friend, and I shouldn't have to explain myself to you."