Another Kind of Madness

by Ed Pavlić

  She reached the back room door on her right. A piece of paper was tacked to the door, written on the paper in wide, red marker:

  STOP! THIS IS NOT THE RESTROOM.

  THE RESTROOM IS BEHIND YOU.

  Cass must be on edge, she thought. She entered. There he crouched, changing the sour line. Again. The three tabletops from the front leaned against the wall, a dozen table legs placed next to them. Six chairs stacked up to the side. Cass didn’t check to see who’d opened the door.

  –This is the last bottle of sour. After this the hip kids can get on down to Greensboro for milkshakes or they’ll take their whiskey neat.

  Cass looked back and nodded openly, tipped a hat he wasn’t wearing.

  –You’re right on time, Your Royal Ms. Shamefulness.

  He turned back to resume his task. Ndiya nodded at his back.

  –How’s it in there?

  –Well, it ain’t Ramsey Lewis at the Starlight, but it’s mine. Or was.

  –People come out?

  –People? Let’s call it gumbo. But hey, they out. I’ll give ’em that.

  The hum of the ice machine canceled the music in the back room. All Ndiya could hear in there, or feel in there, was a slow, walking rhythm of bass chords. Actually she felt it more than heard it. She wondered if Cass had put a mic on the piano. He finished with the nozzle. Ndiya was busy knocking the snow from the rims of her boots and putting the cuffs of her jeans back inside when Cass bowed in exaggerated formality.

  –Come on, let me show you to your seat, m’lady of Shame.

  –I’ll stand by the bar.

  –Not tonight, no room. There’s a perfect seat open, though. Come on.

  They stepped beyond the drone of the ice machine and into the sound of triplets over a minor chord. Each phrase repeated with shifts in the accent that altered the tone in the air. It sounded like someone trying to spray-paint wind. There’d be five cycles of triplets, a pause, a new chord answered with a first inversion of its mirror. The mirror then broke into arpeggios, another right-hand color wheel of variations. Ndiya stood still a moment thinking, if you could spray-paint the air a rainbow of colors, and then you swung an old hammer through the painted space, that’d be about it: the look of that hammer after its path through the cloud of color. They both stood still for a minute in the hallway. Cass stared at Ndiya’s profile. Ndiya faced the door to the front.

  –Could you wait here, Shame-bolina? I better wash my hands.

  –OK, Cass. And could you rest the Ms. Shame-shit?

  –Fair enough.

  Cass turned to the door.

  –Shame-o-nisha.

  Ndiya felt a strange lace of hope that she was joking with Cass. It blew through her, she noticed, and she was surprised. This was new. He liked to mess with her, of course, and, somewhere, she knew she enjoyed it. She knew he did too. But tonight it felt different. One of them was clearly enjoying this more than the other. Was it in what he said? Or was it in what she heard? She didn’t know. There was a new edge somewhere in this hallway. Or maybe a new space with no edge?

  Something was changed. She felt heat collecting in and around her waist and around the back of her neck under her scarf. Something was thick and sculptural in the voice of the air. Maybe it didn’t have to do with either of them. Maybe it was just the crowd. She told herself this, but she knew she didn’t believe it. It felt heavy. Then she recognized a weight, an exile, that she’d felt just before, when she was standing outside in the street. Cass came back, motioned “this way.” Ndiya followed him into the empty weight of the near future. How easy to step into the future; how impossible to step back once it has become the present.

  On Monday, at about ten in the morning, a few hours after Pearlie had dropped off her twins, an unfamiliar knock interrupted Ndiya’s twin discoveries that, one, Va-Nessa and La-Tessa didn’t appreciate diminutives.

  –Um, Ms. Grayson, we feature our real names—

  –Well, certainly, ladies. Excuse me.

  –You’re excused.

  –Ah. OK, but don’t push it.

  –Yes, ma’am.

  And two, the twins made it clear that they would attend to the pre-algebra workbook in the fullness of time. They had their own work to concentrate on. To feature, no doubt, Ndiya thought. She was right.

  While the twins dealt with unambiguous directions, ones addressed to their real names, that they complete lessons one and two before turning to their own work, a decidedly forthright knock broke the eye-rolling, tongue-swishing, lip-pursing silence of a nascent compromise. Debating with herself about calling this “progress” with the twins, Ndiya heard a voice from out in the hallway.

  –Ndiya?

  –Yes?

  –Um, is that Ndiya?

  –It is.

  –Yes, OK, Shame said you’d be here. I’m here to take his painting to the gallery for authentication and appraisal.

  –Painting? OK.

  Ndiya opened the door to find a brightly smiling woman with her hair pulled tightly back into a pony-tail, black and gold sunglasses riding like a crown atop her head. She wore a loose coat, open, and a scarf over an army-green work shirt. She had on tights and a pair of certifiably liberal flats on her feet. In her right arm she held a very large plastic tube.

  –Hi. I’m Colleen. So nice to meet you.

  –Likewise. I’m Ndiya, which you already know. Come in, meet the girls.

  –La-Tessa and Va-Nessa, meet … sorry, what’s your name?

  –Oh, hi girls, I’m Col—

  –No, sorry, your name.

  –Name? Oh, Morgan, Colleen Morgan.

  –Girls, say hi to Ms. Morgan.

  Colleen felt something mildly abrasive in the formality. La-Tessa and Va-Nessa, both, without looking up, in the voice of rote recitation:

  –Hel-lo, Ms. Mor-gan.

  Colleen looked at Ndiya with a twist of “and that works?” and “good luck with that” in her face. Ndiya caught this and felt the impulse to close up the shop of her face and slam down the gate. She thought, “Please don’t come up in here with that ‘we in this together’ mess.” But she didn’t do that. Instead, she glanced back openly, her eyebrows up in the nothing-from-nothing setting, and smiled. Ndiya felt salt collecting in the glands of her throat. She knew what to expect. “Just see what she wants, or what else she wants, and get rid of the white trick,” she thought.

  Without saying anything or making a gesture, she turned and they walked across the room. Ndiya stopped at the far end of the table near the painting and paused before turning around. She’d been on this walk before. She knew the woman would either be lost back there by the door, not knowing what to do, as if the path forward led atop the heads of crocodiles, or she’d be all up on her heels, in Shaggy and Scooby position, like the room was full of ghosts.

  Instead, Colleen had stopped at the near end of the table. When Ndiya turned, Colleen shifted her gaze from the painting to Ndiya’s face. Ndiya noticed a warmth. It felt like the sun had come from behind a cloud.

  –I think it’s a great piece. It might be an important piece.

  Ndiya was shocked to find a real neutrality in Colleen’s voice and in the way she stood midway in the room, in her own space. But it wasn’t neutral. It was focused. Colleen wasn’t worried about crocodiles and ghosts. She’d been on that walk before, herself.

  –I like it, yes. But what do you mean by important?

  –Oh, an early piece by a now-famous painter. Balanced but without strict symmetry, playful but laced with something ominous. It’s an early piece, but it’s not an apprentice piece at all. Possibly the first mature work by this painter … so that’d be important. And it’s also totally unknown. So …

  –I see.

  Ndiya could now feel very clearly that Ms. Morgan wasn’t going to deliver her expectations, at least not right away. Like allergies, Ndiya noticed that her expectations of white folks could sometimes be a little late in arriving to new locations. Still, she hinted to hers
elf that the woman of her expectations likely wouldn’t knock on this door at all. A voice whispered in her ear—“She ain’t no Jehovah’s Witness.” Nonetheless, Ndiya wasn’t going to fall for whatever it was all at once. For all she knew, after she had no more magic stunts up her sleeve, she’d be on about the Art Institute and don’t you just love Chicago? She probably lives “up near Wrigley Field!” Ndiya held her ground. With no ground to hold, she knew, she’d be the patronizing one.

  Ndiya turned to face Colleen across the length of the table.

  –So, now.

  –Well, a few weeks ago, I ran into—

  –Ran?

  –You know, it was a Saturday, I think, and I bumped into—

  –You bumped?

  –Ah, oh-kay, well … and I saw Shame standing on the corner up near where I live. I think I was coming home from the gym. And I had stopped at the Jewel … yes, that’s right.

  –Oh, so you saw—

  –Right, Shame said you were in a store around the corner and he was waiting for you.

  –Right. Now, I remember. So that was you … an “old friend” he’d seen while I was inside. I see. And you didn’t wait? In a hurry?

  –Well, I had groceries, I was a mess from the gym, and, if you remember, it was cold and looked like it might rain that night. So I was really on my way home.

  Ndiya couldn’t tell if she really meant these little barbed midterm exams she was spinning like tops down the length of the table at Colleen. She did admit to herself how much she admired Colleen’s way of not dealing with them by not dealing with them. But somehow still dealing. The woman was precise, give her that, and she seemed to be standing where she was standing. Still, Ndiya had known a few good test takers. Colleen continued,

  –I guess he remembered my interest—

  Dealing without dealing, Colleen paused just a half beat to almost acknowledge Ndiya’s opportunity to interject something, and then went on,

  –in this painting. He said I should come back by his place and take it to the gallery. I work at a gallery west of the Loop. Halsted and Madison. The first time I came over here, I was shocked to see it and I suggested that he have it verified.

  –Authenticated.

  –Pre-cisely.

  As if she’d been reading Ndiya’s mind, Colleen pronounced “precisely” with a kaleidoscopic twirling in it, recently threaded eyebrows up in the “something we share” position. She’d also mentioned, twice, being here before.

  –That means having its origins confirmed. Checked against technique, biography, etc. He told me he’d won it in a raffle—of all things—in Miami years ago.

  Ndiya said nothing. She held her face aggressively neutral and thought, “Let’s see what she’ll do with this much rope.” After the frozen pause, Colleen allowed,

  –Look, I know … I’d have called but Shame has no—

  –Shame?

  –Well, OK, but he also has no phone.

  Aces. Colleen Morgan was either a great test taker or a natural-born something else. Or, maybe she’s a person? It didn’t matter. Ndiya liked her; there was no point in denying it. And she resolved to cease with the midterm exam routine, presently.

  –Did you ever take the LSAT?

  –Me? No. Why?

  –Never mind. How do you plan to transpo—

  Colleen held up the tube.

  –I’ll roll it up. It’s safe. I can write you a—

  –No need. Just give me the phone number to the gallery. I have a phone. And I imagine you must have a card?

  –Sure.

  Colleen opened up the tube, walked around the table, and handed Ndiya her card. Ndiya nodded in the direction of the painting and, just for symmetry, decided on one more quiz. It was a little in your face, but what the hell? She reached for her phone and dialed.

  –Yes, may I please speak with Colleen Morgan? Oh, I see. Do you know when she’ll be back? OK. No, that’s fine. I’ll call back. Thank you.

  She turned back to the painting expecting Colleen to be either staring at her (ghosts) or ignoring her (crocodiles), thinking, “Either one and I’m going to call, ‘Pencils up.’”

  But Colleen was not behind her. Ndiya turned right and found Colleen standing behind the girls. Her face looked like an open quotation mark in search of something to say—

  –Tell Ms. Morgan what you’re doing, ladies.

  –We going to be twin magician-beauticians. We’re going to call our act Fame Us.

  –Well, I’d say you’re getting there.

  Colleen walked over to the wall.

  –May I?

  Ndiya nodded.

  –It’s an important piece. The earliest Bedia, from when Bedia had become Bedia, that is, that I’ve seen. With the signature and the little statement and even with the story about how it was acquired, yes, it’s an important piece.

  –Important?

  –Well, collectible, salable. If it is what it says it is, and I’m pretty sure it is. It’s too strange not to be true. You know?

  –Ah, as a matter of fact, I do. But salable to, collected by, who exactly?

  –Anyone, really. Any gallery who deals at all with diasporic, Caribbean … our gallery, for instance, would buy the piece with an option to show and, at the right time, to sell it at auction. That’s why it should be authenticated. But I’m sure it’s real. Shame should enter more raffles.

  –You’re telling me—

  Colleen laughed. And turned back to untacking the painting, carefully, from the wall.

  –Look, when you’re done packing that up. Do you have time for a cup of coffee or something?

  Now, it was Colleen’s turn.

  –Coffee, sure. Something? Now that depends.

  –Good, I’ll make a few cups … of something.

  –Lovely.

  Colleen sat at the table and looked at the blank space where the painting had been. She didn’t remember much about her first time at Shame’s place, but she most certainly didn’t remember this. She wondered how much owed to him, to time, how much to Ndiya’s presence here. She recalled the former ramshackle barrenness of the place. In her memory, “former” twisted into “formal.” Without the painting on the wall to orient the table, she’d have been unable to recognize the place at all, unable to connect it to the apartment she’d visited, nervously, sixteen months ago. Back then, she couldn’t help viewing the whole apartment like it was a kind of exhibit, an installation. Ndiya entered with a tray.

  –I didn’t know if you—

  –No, black is great. Thanks.

  Ndiya paused for a reaction. Nothing. A shadow appeared in her head and she wondered into it, why the exam questions still? Then Colleen dove.

  –Look, this is probably breaking the rules, but—I met Shame when he used to go up to Earlie’s. He’d play the piano sometimes, way in the back, by himself. This was before anyone began to listen. He’d just be over there by himself, as if he was at home, or so I thought. How wrong I was! I was pretty new to town. New at the gallery. Lonely. I’d had a good six months of the “girl alone in the world” thing, you know, the solitary, uptown, urban-vibrator thing. You know? Enough! I’d had enough.

  Ndiya narrowly avoided choking on a sip of coffee. She put down the cup, glanced back at the twins. They appeared oblivious, which wasn’t true, of course. Ndiya wiped her chin, and, at a loss, came up with:

  –Hasn’t everybody?

  –Well, back then Shame was, um, he didn’t talk much, his eyes didn’t toggle all over the room when he listened like most men’s eyes do, and so I kind of insinuated my way into an invitation to come over here for dinner. Apart from the fact that I didn’t know this part of town down here even existed, when I got upstairs, he’d barely look at me. He was a totally different person than I’d known, or thought I’d known at Earlie’s. It was as if, when I walked in the room, we both realized immediately that something indecent had happened. No one belonged in this place at that time, not even him. I’d trespassed a place
… not a place, a kind of labor, an attempt … it was like …

  –Indecent? How?

  –No. It wasn’t indecent. I was. Or not even me. I was a catalyst, really. It was just not a place for anyone to be. Maybe just him, but I think even that came later. Or maybe me being there made it possible for him to see it and then maybe he was there. But one thing was certain and we both felt it immediately, much as we tried to ignore it. There was nowhere for me to be in that room. No air to breathe, if you know what I mean?

  –Go on.

  –I mean I could have handled private. I expected it. I thought he played at the back of Earlie’s, and even later at the Cat Eye, like he was at home. Everyone thought that. Like he wasn’t performing, you know, like he was alone. As if privacy was informal, casual. I had it all wrong. And I knew it as soon as I stepped in here. I can’t explain it, standing in this place back then, with him, it felt like no one in the world had ever been, or could ever be, alone. Anywhere. Being by yourself doesn’t make you alone …

  –OK, you lost me. Back up?

  But Colleen didn’t circle back to explain, she went ahead. Her eyes drilled into the top of her cup. Ndiya thought, “OK, touché.” So now, she followed.

  –I’d never seen privacy laid out like a diorama. I’d seen that attempt. It always came off like the opposite of privacy, like a peep show, like a window you look at but not through.

  –It wasn’t like that here at all. The place was set up for no one to be in. Until … I mean there were tools piled in a corner. I remember the smell of raw wood. The piano was there. I remember asking him if he played and he stared at the table and said it was kind of all he did but that, no, he didn’t play. He said what he did at Earlie’s wasn’t him at all.

  –He still says that.

  –Well, it was true then.

  –It might still be true.

  –Hm. Well, I don’t know. I was expecting electricity. Sex, you know, or at least the threat of it, the rush of water under the ice. Something. Instead, I found myself loving what I saw like a …

  –Like a friend, perhaps, or like a sister?

  –No, well, of course, that’s what I told myself at the time. There was something very strong I could feel, but there was nothing like arousal. Nothing I recognized as sexual—