Something Real

by J. J. Murray

  I just hope I can figure out what to do about it.

  I don't want to move even my pinkie toe in the morning, but I have to go for my walk and then go to Avery to flirt with Dewey through his son. I know that's twisted, warped, even foolish, but how else am I going to get to that man? I could invite Dewey to church, but I doubt he'd come. Everyone would remember his last visit. I could ask him out, but where to? What do redneck country boys do for fun that doesn't involve hay, killing a defenseless animal, or cars driving in circles? Maybe I can simply offer to baby-sit for him. I don't want to stalk this man by walking by his apartment every day, but I don't only want to see him for a haircut every three weeks either.

  Lord, help me out here. If there have ever been two people who need each other, it's me and Dewey. Those children need me, and I need those children. I know that's selfish, but at this lonely time in my life, I have to be selfish. Just give me an opening today.

  I prop myself up on my arms, swivel my hips out of bed, and stand. So far so good. Both knees cuss my ass, so I cuss 'em back. I take small steps to the bathroom and turn on the hot water. Cold water comes out for five minutes before I give up. So glad the cost of the hot water is included with the rent. I soap up a washcloth and scrub every place on me that has odor, dry off, and look at my hair. I have turned into a Rastafarian overnight.

  Today is hat day.

  I stuff as much hair as I can up under a visor, ease into some jeans and a blouse, and put on my walking shoes. They're still wet and will have to remain that way. I had them propped up against a fan all night, but Calhoun is just too humid. I eat a bagel for breakfast (no butter, no jelly, no cream cheese ... no flavor), drink my first eight ounces of water (and only seven more thrilling glasses to go), and leave the apartment, my knees creaking more than the stairs.

  I walk as fast as my body will allow, but I'm still an hour late to Avery. I enter the office to sign in with Mrs. Holland. "Dee isn't here today," she says.

  "What?"

  "Tee's here, but Dee isn't."

  "Did you call home?" Mrs. Holland always calls every absent student's home. It's another one of her many perks.

  "Not yet" She writes a number on a slip of paper. "Why don't you make this call for me?" She waves me around the counter. "Dial nine first"

  I dial nine and pause before dialing the number because ... Here's the opening! That was quick, Lord! I'm about to talk to Dewey, if he's there, and now I'm nervous. Should I be professional about this? I want him to know I'm concerned, but I don't want to gush. I close my eyes. You with me, Lord? I dial the rest of the number. After two rings, Dewey answers. "Hello?"

  I take a breath. "Uh, hello, Mr. Baxter. This is Ruth Borum from Avery. How are you doing today?" Damn, I sound so white!

  "I'm all right."

  "I'm calling about Dee. Is he sick today?"

  "No. He has a doctor's appointment."

  "Will he be attending at all today?"

  "I'm not sure. I'll try to get him there if the appointment ends early."

  "Okay. Thank you, Mr. Baxter."

  "Thanks for callin'." Click.

  Oh, that went well. Dewey is a man of few words, and I'm a woman of too many.

  I look over at Mrs. Holland, who is flipping through a file. "Says here that Dee has all his shots. Has to have 'em to be able to attend. Had a checkup less than a month ago." She closes the file. "But I'm not supposed to tell anybody that, so you didn't hear it from me"

  "Urn, Mrs. Holland, does that file say how old Dee's daddy is?"

  She peeks inside. "Maybe"

  "Well?"

  She writes on a Post-It and sticks it to the counter. "You didn't hear it from me °"

  I look over and see a ... question mark. "You didn't write a number."

  "How old you think he is?"

  "Thirty, thirty-five."

  "Close"

  "Thirty-seven?"

  She smiles, and my heart leaps a little. A ten-year age difference might be too much, but only three? I can handle that-"Thirty-four."

  Six years. Hmm. Gonna have to think on this. The man needs me, if only to be more punctual. Those kids need me, him dressin' them like he does. Got to shine them little pennies. Dewey ain't too good lookin' for me. Just my size. And I bet he'll be potent. Bet he hasn't had none since before Dee was born. Whoo, a little bump in my hump, a bunch of buff in my stuff, will make me feel at least six years youngerand then we'll be the same age practically. Ain't that why older women go to younger men? Yes, Lord, I'm an older woman in need of a little fountain of youth. I need me someone to wax this booty till it shines ... This big booty of mine, Dewey's gonna make it shine, this big booty of mine-

  "Ruth? You still here, girl?"

  "Sorry. Just doin' the math" Dag, my upper lip's sweatin'. I definitely still want this man. My upper lip ain't sweated in years.

  Mrs. Holland giggles a little, then squints. "Wonder what kind of doctor's appointment that boy's having. You have any ideas?"

  Plenty. "He's probably taking Dee to see a psychologist."

  Mrs. Holland nods. "Yep. You're probably right. That's what white folks do when their kids aren't functioning properly."

  Some black folks do it, too.

  "Just hope they don't drug him up. All this ADD and ADHD and Ritalin is just too much, if you ask me. I have a regular pharmacy locked up in the drawers of my desk. Children just need more healthy, continuous, strong doses of love."

  I agree. "Well, I best be gettin' to Mrs. King's class." I wince as I move around the counter.

  "You walkin' like you need to be oiled, Ruthie Lee. You okay?"

  "Took a bike ride last night, and I'm a little sore."

  "Well, you go on home"

  "I'd like to do nothing better, but I'm here to volunteer."

  She shakes her head. "How can you today? Your `class' isn't here. You were supposed to spend all day with that boy, right?"

  "Right"

  "He isn't here, so there's no reason for you to be here. I'll call you if he shows up, okay?"

  "Okay." I sign out. "My knees thank you"

  I pass by the playground and see girls jumping rope, doing double Dutch and singing out the rhymes that never go out of fashion:

  "Cinderella, dressed in yella, went upstairs to kiss a fella, made a mistake and kissed a snake, how many kisses will it take?"

  I count along with them, and that little girl, who couldn't be more than six, is still counting it out as I walk away.

  I could always jump me some rope; I mean, I only had to get an inch or two off the ground, right? Just because I was big didn't mean I didn't have the rhythm necessary to jump in. Oh, and I could turn me some rope, let me tell you. Used to go so fast the skinny girl at the other end would complain I was hurting her arms. Kind of took a little pride in trippin' up some of my scrawny friends. I got me some rope-turnin' arms, yes sir. And jumping rope ain't that hard. It doesn't require much skill, just timing.

  And a high ceiling.

  My apartment has a high ceiling.

  I could jump me some rope to lose me some weight. I look back at all the skinny girls bouncing off the pavement. I could jump myself skinny.

  But what about the folks below me? They are sure to complain once the plaster starts snowing down on them. But if they're not at home ... like now ...

  Wait. Forty-year-old women do not jump rope. They don't even think of jumping rope. They watch. They say the rhymes. They count. They clap. They don't jump in. Their knees just can't take it; their flat feet just will not accept jumping up and down repeatedly. Jumping rope is just too childish.

  But like a child, I take a bus out to the mall, go into one of those sporting goods stores, and walk out with a brand-new jump rope and a little jump rope workout guide that says I can burn ten calories a minute doing crossovers and ankle touches. That's three hundred calories every half hour.

  That bike seat is never gonna bite my ass again.

  I'm-a gonna jump my weight off
, and if the folks downstairs don't like it, they'll have to kiss my ... toned, muscular ass.

  Wine

  After changing into some maroon sweats and moving the couch, I center myself in the sitting room and start to jump, nice and slow, crunching my butt between swings of the rope. I have to change that "Cinderella" chant just a bit:

  "Cinderella, dressed in sweat pants, waited years to get some romance, made a mistake and kissed a snake. How many more years will it take?"

  I fall out laughing on the couch and try to think back to something less depressing, and all I can remember is "Teddy Bear":

  "Teddy bear teddy bear turn all around, teddy bear. Teddy bear, teddy bear touch the ground, teddy bear.

  Teddy bear, teddy bear, tie your shoes, teddy bear. Teddy bear, teddy bear now how old are you, are you one, are you two ...

  I only make it to seven-I wonder if I'll ever make it to forty-but I'm surprised I can still do this, and after five minutes, I'm feeling it all over. My knees still cuss and fuss, my calves are crying out, and my shoulders burn, but I'm still turning the rope, my stomach and titties bouncing up and down. Didn't have this tittie problem when I was little. I'm about to give myself a black eye. I'd give myself two if the left tittie was as big as the right tittie. I need to invest in a tight sports bra. And sweat? I closed all the windows and the blinds before I started, and the apartment is an oven. I may need to put some towels on the carpet to catch my drips. The workout guide, which has pictures of a Nubian princess with a six-pack stomach and come-hither thighs going through the moves, says I only have to jump five minutes a day, three times a week to "stay in shape" I think I can spare an hour a day every day and burn at least three thousand calories every week. And all it costs me is fifteen bucks while Tonya and Naomi spend that much every week at that gym. Don't need the fancy clothes. I can wear what I want and work out when I want (as long as the folks downstairs aren't around, that is). Don't even need any of them fancy machines. I am my own machine, thank you very much, and I don't need to wait in line to use me.

  I'm taking a break in the kitchen with my second glass of water when the phone rings. Oh shit. I'm all stank, and Dewey's brought Dee back to school. "Hello?"

  "Hello, Ruth? This is Junie Pruett. How are you this blessed day?"

  I cover the mouthpiece of the phone and curse Jonas. He's so impatient for an answer that he's got his new wench calling. I uncover the mouthpiece. "I'm fine, Junie."

  "That's good, that's good. Just wanted to call and ask you if you've decided yet"

  I've had no time! "Jonas told me I had till the end of the month to decide, Junie. He only told me just last night."

  "That can't be right. He told me he had talked to you last month about this."

  He's lying to her already. But ... They've been engaged for over a month? The ink on the final divorce decree was still drying! "Trust me, Junie. The first I heard about any of this was last night."

  "Why would he tell me ... Oh, well. So you haven't decided?"

  "I'm still praying about it, Junie"

  "I want it to be a beautiful wedding, Ruth, and with you playing, it will be beautiful. Every wedding I've been to at Antioch has been beautiful, and you played at them all." Except for one. Guess my wedding wasn't beautiful. "I just want my day to be so perfect"

  I grip that phone like it's Jonas's scrawny neck. "I know you do, Junie"

  "Is there anything I can do or say that will help you in your moment of decision?"

  My moment of decision? This ain't no altar call! Well, I guess it sort of is. "Like I said, I'm praying-"

  "Perhaps we should talk, you know, woman to woman. Are you free this afternoon?"

  I check the clock. It's almost noon. I doubt Dee will be going back to Avery. My first visit to Dr. Holt took four hours. "I'm free now."

  "You are? Wonderful."

  After giving her directions to my apartment, I open all the windows to air out some of my funk, wash the few dishes in the sink, and make my bed. Then I wait by the window overlooking the street till I see Junie coming down Vine dressed like she is in church: black skirt, black hose, blackand-white-striped blouse, black purse. The kids at Antioch have nicknamed her The Virgin Widow, but I know that Junie has never been married. Maybe we should be talking outside on the porch. What would folks think about that? Do I want folks to know that Junie Pruett, my ex-husband's new bitch, and I are on speaking terms? Should I care? I sniff the air in the apartment, decide it's still too funky, and meet her on the porch.

  "Thought we'd talk out here, day as nice as it is."

  "Certainly," Junie says, sitting on the edge of one of the lawn chairs. I sit in a chair next to her, and we say absolutely nothing for three solid minutes. I don't start the conversation because I am only here to respond. Junie fumbles with her hands and looks out toward the street often, occasionally smiling my way.

  "Well," she says finally, "let's talk."

  "Yes"

  "I'm sure you, um, have mixed feelings about all this. I certainly do" She has doubts? Good for her. "I have always considered you a friend, Ruth. I have so few friends, you know, and you've always been friendly to me, always spoken to me. I ... I just ... I just want us to remain friends. I don't want any of this to come between us"

  "It already has"

  She jumps a little. "Yes, I know, I know, and I can't say that I know how you feel-"

  "No, you can't," I interrupt.

  "Well, certainly, of course. But ... Look at me, Ruth. I'm almost fifty-one, and ... and I've never ... I've never .. "

  "Been in love before?"

  "Yes" She smiles at her hands. "Yes, that's right. I've never been in love before"

  It's beginning to sound like an old, familiar script. Jonas finds the loneliest woman in the church, wins her heart, and makes her see a golden future that will surely tarnish at the first signs of a storm.

  She looks at me with two sad eyes. "I don't know why I never ... married. I had a few offers. I just wasn't ... ready. I'm ready now, at least I think I am. Do you understand?"

  I nod. I can't hate this woman. I can pity her, though. I rub the callus on my ring finger where my wedding band used to be before I put it in the offering plate. "Has Jonas told you why we divorced?"

  "Oh, no. That's none of my business. That's between you and him."

  And the other woman. And the other man. And the church board. And God. "Aren't you the least bit curious?"

  "Well, um, no" She doesn't want anyone to burst her bubble. "I heard the rumors about it like everybody else."

  This should be good. "What exactly did you hear?"

  "Well, that you had become, um, mentally unbalanced." She shoots a quick look and a smile at me. "But I didn't believe those rumors. Anyone who can glorify God like you do at that organ can't be mentally unbalanced."

  I smile. "Thank you"

  "I just ... figured it had something to do with .. " She stops. "I want you to know that I cried for every one of your children, Ruth. I grieved, oh, how I grieved. I am not ... able to have any children, and, in a way, I was hoping ... maybe to be Aunt Junie or something. I don't know."

  Aunt Junie? If I had any children, she'd be stepmama Junie in a few months. "It wasn't about the children, Junie"

  "It wasn't? I was so sure. Why, then?"

  Should I tell her? Jonas won't. Do I have a right to? Yes. Ex-wives are supposed to badmouth their ex-husbands. Is it a divine right? Probably not. Lord, give me the words because I simply do not have them. "I'd be wrong if I told you that the loss of those babies didn't affect our marriage. It did. But the marriage survived that" And a slutty church secretary. "I don't want to worry you about Jonas, but ... Jonas is a very complex person"

  "Oh, I know. He's so intelligent."

  That isn't the word I'd use. Confused, controlling, contemptible-anything that begins with "con" I sigh. "Yes, he is an intelligent man, but that's not what I mean by complex. He has some ... issues." This is not going well. Where are t
he rest of my talk-show words? "Junie, I don't want to be the one telling you any of this. You should be talking to Jonas about it."

  "What issues? I want to fully know the man that I'm marrying."

  I blink. Who wants to know everything? The less you know ... will have you ending up like me. I stare her down. "How much do you want to know, Junie?" I ask in a deadly tone.

  She literally shivers. "Um, well ... I'm not so sure I want to know now. It's something bad?" I nod. "Something unmentionable?" I nod again. "Oh. Oh, my."

  I hear Naomi's words echoing in my head and say them: "I'm sure he's asked the Lord for forgiveness, Junie, and I'm sure the Lord has forgiven him."

  "Have you forgiven him, Ruth?" Junie asks in a shaky voice.

  I have to be honest. "No" I watch two teenaged boys across the street throwing rocks at each other. Don't they have anything better to do? Where are their mamas?

  "Why not? Why haven't you forgiven him, Ruth?"

  I stand and go to the railing. "I don't know." I forgave him the first time, but that second time ... no. I haven't forgiven him for that. But if I forgave Jonas for that ho, why can't I forgive him for the "other man"? Is it because I could have gotten AIDS? Or is it something else? Lord, why haven't I forgiven Jonas for sleeping with that man? I know sin is sin, but come on now. Some have to be worse than others.

  "Well, if the Lord has forgiven him. . " Junie says, and I cut her off with a stare. "I'm sure Jonas prayed about it. He is one praying man"

  And a preying man, too. Am I supposed to warn her here, God? Is this where I rescue her from Jonas? "Yes, he's a preying man all right."

  "Do you think the Lord has healed him of his affliction?"

  A spotted leopard jumps into my head. "You'll have to ask Jonas about that"

  She stands, her hands clasped in prayer in front of her. "Indeed, I will." She looks directly at me, but those sad eyes give her away. She won't ask him. She's afraid, like I was, to know the truth about Jonas. "Thank you for talking to me, Ruth. If I was in your position, I don't know if I could."