by Pearl Cleage
"Then one day, I hadn't seen her for a couple of months, she called and asked if she could come over. Said she missed me and just wanted to say hello."
He shook his head, clenched and unclenched his fists slowly. I had said tell me, but now I wasn't sure if I was ready to hear it, whatever it was. He had said death energy, and I swear, I could feel it in the room.
"So she came over and started hugging me and asking me did I have any coke around since her old man didn't have anything coming through and she sure wanted to get high. That was music to my ears. I'd been hoarding big drugs for this drought, waiting for it. I intended to sell what I had for top dollar and move on. I didn't know where, but 1 figured if I brought out the coke I had now when people were crazy for it, I could buy myself a little time to figure things out. Now, without meaning to, Sela was letting me know this was the time for me to make my move.
"That's how stupid I was. I thought she just wanted to get high with me for old times' sake, so I let her see me take out the stuff from where I had it stashed and we did some of it together and then some more. We were flying . . . Then, all of a sudden, her old man busted up in my place and put a big gun in my face and told me I didn't work for him anymore. He asked her where the coke was and she hopped off my lap and went over to my stash and gave it all to him like I wasn't even there. "He handed her the gun and dipped his finger in to test it, but she was too greedy and when I saw her look away from me toward what she really wanted, I knocked the gun out of her hand and ripped his throat open before it hit the floor."
I closed my eyes. My mind was saying don't tell me/ don't tell me/don't tell me so loud I thought he must hear it, but he didn't hear anything. He was back there in that room, fighting for his life.
"He dropped the bag of coke all over the floor and when I looked at Sela, she fell down and started pushing her face all up in it, trying to get as much into her nose as she could because she'd been on the street as long as I had and she knew the penalty for turning. She kept saying, just let me get high first, baby, just let me get high first. "So I did."
14
When Joyce got back, I was still sitting on the couch in the dark and Eddie had gone home. I tried to get him to stay, but he wouldn't. I don't even remember what all I said. I think I told him I was glad he had told me and then I got all hung up on apologizing for using the word glad because it seemed so wrong after what he had just said. Glad wasn't in it.
Then we just looked at each other for a minute and I opened my mouth to say I understood, but I didn't. Then I thought I'd say I was sorry, but for what? Or it doesn't matter, but of course, it mattered. People died. But he'd paid his debt to society, hadn't he? He'd learned his lesson and turned his life around and become a good neighbor and a good friend and a good man, hadn't he? Didn't people have a right to change, to grow, to get better?
All that was going through my head and I kept opening my mouth and closing it like a fish flopping on the dock, trying to catch a breath, until he said he thought he'd better go, thanked me, for what, I can't imagine, and walked out through the back door and was gone.
Joyce didn't even see me until she came in to turn on the lamp. Imani was sleeping against her shoulder and when Joyce saw me and jumped, Imani jumped, too, without waking up.
"What are you doing?" Joyce said. "Are you okay?"
"Eddie told me what he did," I said.
"He told you everything?"
I had a sinking feeling. What a terrible thought. What if there was more?
"Sela?" Joyce said, and I felt a flood of relief.
"Yes. Everything."
She sat down beside me.
"Pretty scary stuff," I said, earning myself the prize for >est understatement of the week.
Joyce nodded, rubbing Imani's back slowly in one of hose comforting-to-the-bone mother moves that you are too roung to appreciate when you get them, and too old to ask or when you need them. "He was living a terrible life and he lid some terrible things, but he's not that person anymore. I'd :rust him with my life. With all of our lives."
"He killed a woman!"
"He killed a man, too."
"You know what I mean."
"Listen, little sister," Joyce said, shifting Imani to a more comfortable position and sighing like she couldn't understand what was the problem. "Ain't none of us sixteen years old anymore. We've done some good stuff and some bad stuff, but it's all our stuff at this point. I figure the best we can do for each other is try to understand and move on the best we can."
"I never killed anybody, Joyce."
"That makes you perfect?"
I hesitated. She had me there. "You know, if I wanted to be driven crazy by a bunch of complicated Negroes, I could have stayed in Atlanta," I said.
"You were crazy when you got here," Joyce said.
"So what am I supposed to do now?"
"About what?"
"About Eddie!"
"Why do you have to do anything about Eddie?" Joyce arched her eyebrows at me to announce a trick question, but I heard it, too, and I arched my eyebrow right back.
"I don't."
"Then don't." Joyce shrugged, and then grinned at me.
"Guess what." "What?" "I've got a joke to tell you, but don't laugh out loud because you'll wake up Imani."
I wasn't in the mood for jokes. What was wrong with Joyce? A bad joke was hardly what I had on my mind.
"Ready?"
"Joyce, I don't"
"Come on, now! Indulge me. Here goes . . . Why won't southern Baptists have sex standing up?"
"I don't know," I said, remembering all those Southern Baptist Conventions in Atlanta when downtown would fill up with grim-faced Christians notorious for their bad driving and worse tipping. "Why?"
"Because somebody might think they're dancing."
We looked at each other and started giggling like maniacs. Imani slept on, blissfully unaware of me and Joyce snickering our way into hysteria.
"You win," I said, gasping. "That was pretty funny. I'm amazed."
"Horizontal bop," Joyce said.
That set off another round of giggling until we were both wiping our eyes.
"Now," Joyce said, composing herself after we'd finally laughed ourselves silly. "What are you going to do about Eddie?"
"You told me I didn't have to do anything!"
"I lied," she said.
"No," I said. "You were right. I'm only going to be here for the summer. There's no reason to complicate things."
Joyce laughed so loud at that, Imani did wake up with a start. Her little tiny fingers grabbed Joyce's shirt and her eyes were huge.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," Joyce crooned, immediately maternal. "Auntie Ava is trippin' again, as the young folks say. Come on, darlin'. Let's put you to bed."
She stood up and Imani's eyelids drooped and closed.
"Why am I trippin'?" I said.
"Because, little sister," she said, kissing me good night on her way upstairs, "you're standing in the middle of the Great North Woods and you can't see the forest for the trees."
15
The phone rang just as we were sitting down to dinner. When Joyce answered and then brought me the receiver, I thought it was Eddie, but when I said hello, Aretha's voice answered, instantly apologetic.
"Are you all eating?"
"We haven't started yet," I said, relieved and disappointed at the same time. "How are you?"
"I'm fine." She sounded a little nervous. "I was thinking about what you said."
"What did I say?"
"About me having a good face."
A good face?
"Oh! For short hair!" I said, remembering my offer to give her a cut before she left for school.
"Yeah, well, I been thinking about it and I wondered if you could do it for me."
"Sure," I said. "How short do you want it?"
"Like yours," she said. "It looks good and if it's that short, I can go swimming every day. They've got a pool."
"Good
for you," I said, and I meant it. Most of the black women I know can't swim a lick because in order to learn you had to get your hair wet. "How about Friday?"
"Okay," she said. "Do I need to bring scissors or anything?"
I smiled at that. She'd probably bring some of those little scissors with the black handles they give you in first grade. "Just bring yourself," I said. "And be yourself."
She giggled again and hung up. I couldn't wait to tell Joyce. Once you get that first glimpse of another way of looking at things, you can't get enough. Aretha was on her way.
16
I finally ran into Eddie in town today. He pulled right behind me at the gas station and came around to speak while the bored teenager at the pump earned his summer money lazily wiping my bug-spattered windshield. I was trying to be cool, but I wasn't cool. Pulse city. I hadn't seen him since he told me what he had done. I wasn't sure if he was waiting for a sign from me or I was waiting for one from him, but a week had gone by and that was too long to ignore.
I admit, it was still weird for me to think about what he had told me, but back then he was moving through a world where people knew the risks when they stepped up in it. From what he said, his ex would have shot him first if she'd been quick enough, so I guess they were about even. He had done the crime, and he had done the time, and being sorry can't change a thing about any of it. When you're young, there's a whole lot of stuff you say you'll never do. Once you get a little older, the list tends to get a lot shorter.
I had been doing my morning meditations on the porch, half hoping he'd come by and find me there, peaceful and composed, so we could talk. Instead, here I am in Joyce's un-air-conditioned heap, sweating like a hog with a backseat full of groceries and disposable diapers. He leaned down to smile a greeting and I didn't care whether I was acting cool or not. I was really glad to see him and I said so before I thought to censor it.
"I'm glad to see you, too," he said.
I handed the kid five dollars and looked at Eddie still standing there, leaning on the car, watching me. Your move, I thought.
"Maybe I'll come by later," he said.
I shook my head. "Sewing Circus executive committee meeting at our house. They're plotting on the Reverend Mrs. and the last thing they want is witnesses."
"If you want a place to hide out, I'd love to have some company."
"Okay," I said. "Around seven?"
He hesitated for just a beat. "Do you want me to get anything for you?"
"I'm not drinking for a while," I said, not knowing that until I heard it come out of my mouth.
His expression didn't change, but he nodded. "All right," he said. "Tea it is."
I pulled away, but I did sneak a look at him bending over to pump his gas. It wasn't just when he was doing the t'ai chi. His movements were always effortless and complete, like a dancer.
I know I've got to tell him. I can't keep thinking about seducing him without letting him know what the deal is. If he's going to throw up his hands and run, the sooner I know it, the better.
17
By the time I got to Eddie's that evening, I had figured out how I was going to tell him. I was going to say it all at once and then leave, just like he did when he told me about his past, so he can have some time to think. It's not a test. That way, if the whole idea of us moving to the next level makes him nervous, he can just write me a note or something and I won't have to see it in his eyes. I can't take that again.
The house was full of candles even though it was just getting dark and the smell of incense was drifting out of the open door. Eddie was playing Marvin Gaye, "Wonderful One," and when he looked up and saw me standing there, he grinned and spread his arms wide and bowed low like he was greeting the queen.
He was teasing, but something in the way he did it made me know he'd been thinking about me these last three days, too. Then he walked up to me and stuck out his hand like the guys used to do at the dances where we'd be on one side of the room and they'd be on the other until some brave soul took that long walk and extended himself to one of us with enough courage to say yes.
I took his hand and listened to Marvin seducing every woman within the sound of his voice, no matter how long he's been gone:
Being near you,
Is all that I'm living for . . .
Eddie put his arm around me and started that slow, easy rock that begins a bop. I had grown up dancing with Joyce and Mitch, so even though my generation is not known for its bopping abilities, I'm good at it. I could see that Eddie was surprised at how easily I followed him. When he tried a fancy turn that doubled back on itself before ending in a slide, a mini dip, and that easy rock again, and I executed it flawlessly, he grinned at me like I'd been keeping a secret worth telling.
"You're too young to be bopping like that," he said.
"Mitch and Joyce used to dance all over the kitchen every time a Motown record came on the radio," I said. "I learned in self-defense."
The next song on the album was "Forever," a slowdown classic guaranteed to get you in trouble if you ended up dancing to it with somebody else's boyfriend. We looked at each other for a minute, but it was too soon for that kind of risk.
Eddie lifted the tone arm and indicated his collection. "What's your preference?"
"How about some more of those birds and bells you were playing last time?"
"You're not just trying to be nice, are you?"
"I'm not that nice/' I said.
He put on the music and poured some hot water into a beautiful Chinese teapot, which he then deposited snugly into a basket whose brightly colored, upholstered interior had a hole cut in the center of it for that purpose.
When he closed the top and carried it over to the low table in front of where I sat, it looked like an ordinary basket, but when he opened it, the delicate, flowery smell of the cham-omile tea he had brewed rose up in a cloud of fragrant steam that mixed perfectly with the incense. I had seen pictures of tea cozies, but I'd never known anybody who had one. Eddie poured us two cups and then sat down beside me.
"You know why they don't put handles on the cups?" he said.
I shook my head. I had always wondered.
"If it's too hot to pick up, it's too hot to drink."
That made a lot of sense to me. I guess when your culture's been around for five thousand years or so, you have time to figure out stuff like that.
I took a small sip of my tea and looked at Eddie. He smiled.
"I appreciate you telling me all that the other night,"
I said.
His smile faded quickly and I could see him waiting for my reaction.
"I didn't really know how to react to it," I said. "I probably still don't, but I think I understand."
He nodded and took a sip of tea.
"Now it's my turn," I said.
He smiled a little and waited for me to explain. The man didn't seem capable of rushing or trying to make me rush.
"I want to tell you something." I sounded serious as hell and a flicker of something crossed Eddie's face. He put his cup down slowly and let the smile go its own way.
"All right."
I tried to remember my speech. All the stuff I was going to say to prepare him, to explain, to make sure he'd understand, but nothing came to me, so I sat there, looking at him, looking at me. He had paid his debt to society. It was my tab that was still running.
"I'm HIV-positive," I said. "I've known it for a year and I feel fine . . ."
His face hadn't registered any emotion at all and I was trying so hard to read his mind, I thought I was going to have a stroke.
"I just wanted to tell you because ..." I couldn't say, because I want to make love with you, so I just stopped again.
Eddie was looking right at me and even though his expression didn't change, something in his eyes did. Then he reached over, picked up my hand, turned it over, and kissed my palm. His mouth felt warm and soft against my skin. His hair was brushing my wrist and I could hear my hear
t beating steadily in the room like the Wallers' original rhythm section when they'd been smoking serious ganja and Bob was in a good mood. It seemed as if all the nerve endings in my body had gathered together right there where his mouth was pressing against my hand.
His voice was very gentle. "Is that it?"
"Yes."
When he looked up at me, I felt like I could see every mistake I'd ever made in his eyes, but no judgment, no anger, no shame, no questions except one: "Do you want to be with me?" His voice was neutral.
"Yes." Mine was not.
"So that means we have to use a condom, right?"
He made it sound like the simplest thing in the world. I was so relieved, I wanted to fall into his arms and ask him if he would please kiss my palm like that for about three days,
* but we had to finish talking business first. I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm.
I told him yes, we always had to use a condom and there was some other stuff, too. The speech they give you at those Living with HIV workshops came back strong and I started reciting the rules like it was the first day of safe-sex summer camp.
"We can't exchange any body fluids. All noninvasive touching is okay . . ."
He was still holding my hand, but now he was moving his finger lightly around in the small circle where his mouth had been.
"What does that mean?" he said.
"It means you can't put your fingers inside me."
"Except for your mouth?" He leaned over and ran his index finger lightly around the outline of my lips.
"What makes you think I want your fingers in my mouth?"
"Do you?"
"Maybe," I said, then I thought fuck it. "Yes."
But I hadn't finished the rules, so I started up again with the dos and don'ts until he interrupted me.
"How about instead of telling me what I can't do, you tell me what I can do and I'll concentrate on that."
I hesitated. That sounded wonderful, but I didn't want to fool myself. I wanted to have it all on the table. There's nothing like pulling out some unexpected latex to ruin a romantic moment if you're not ready for it.
