Anyway, while lard-ass was in the john, the flight attendant came over and asked whether I preferred the steak or the chicken breast. Now, even though I like me some chicken, I didn’t want to feed in to that stereotype that all Black folks love chicken. I’ve been known to get down with some smoking Harold’s painted with hot sauce, but that’s in the company of my own people. Besides, when was the last or first time they had some kick-ass fried chicken on an airplane? So I ordered the steak.
When my seat mate returned, the flight attendant returned her computer and asked her if the chicken breast would be okay, since I had ordered the last of the steak. Well, you would have thought she had told the bitch that we were on a twelve-hour flight to China and they had forgotten to put food on the plane.
“What do you mean, that’s all you have? I want the steak!” When the attendant repeated herself, the laptop lady got all loud the way only white folks can. “I paid full price to sit in first class,” she yelled. Then she looked me dead in my face and said, “I should at least get the first choice at the dinner selections before all these people using upgrades.” I had to sit on my hands to keep from hitting the bitch upside her fat face, but I don’t hit women. My mama taught me right. I don’t even like calling them bitches, but sometimes what’s a man gonna do? I gave her my most understanding, sympathetic, I’m-so-sorry-God-made-you-ugly, apologetic nod. She thought I was getting ready to say that she could have my steak, but instead I smiled up at the attendant and said, “I’ll have a merlot with my meal.”
Chapter 4
Dwight and I arrived at Leland’s at precisely the same moment. Actually I think Dwight had waited around the corner until he saw me walking down Ohio Street, so we’d just happen to get to Leland’s apartment building at the same time. I don’t think he feels comfortable being in Leland’s apartment alone. I don’t think he’s really homophobic, but Leland’s lifestyle, conservative though it is, threatens Dwight’s manhood. He doesn’t have a clue that he’s not even close to Leland’s type. But I’d never tell him so. We chitchatted in the elevator for thirty-two floors. Nothing serious, just playful small talk. Twice I caught Dwight sneaking a peek at my body, then quickly averting his eyes when he was busted. I didn’t really mind: In fact, I was flattered. Those early morning workouts have gotten the old girl on a roll, sorta like in my early twenties.
“What are you smiling about so hard?” Dwight asked.
“You, Dwight Scott. I see you trying to check me out on the sly. Is that any way to look at your sister? I thought we were like family,” I kidded.
“I was just checking out your new ’do, my sister. It looks good on you. Got that seventies thing going. You don’t mind if a brother admires your natural, do you?”
“Don’t mind at all, thank you very much.” But we both knew his eyes had fallen far south of my hairdo.
When we reached Leland’s apartment, he opened the door on the first ring.
“We’ve got exactly twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds to get to Riley’s,” he announced as Dwight and I stepped inside. Every time I entered Leland’s apartment, I was struck by its orderliness. A place for everything and everything in its place, like my mother tried unsuccessfully to drum into my thick young skull. The apartment reflected Leland’s fastidious personality to a T.
Leland grabbed his jacket and his keys and escorted us back out his front door. As he turned to lock the door, he added, “You know Miz Riley don’t play no CP time!” We laughed in agreement and headed for the elevator and the midafternoon Chicago humidity. The sky was beginning to cloud and threatened a sudden downpour. Whenever the group was to meet at Riley’s place, the three of us would hook up at Leland’s and walk or cab it together. No one wanted to be the first to arrive alone at Chez Woodson, for fear of a poetry reading or concert. We linked arms, Dwight on my right and Leland on my left. Turning from Ohio onto McClurg Court toward Riley’s condo, I got several envious looks from sisters and some brothers we passed on the streets. I didn’t blame them; both Leland and Dwight were good-looking men.
Leland still had the same casual good looks he had some sixteen years earlier in college. He carried himself with an appealing air of confidence that most women and men found inviting. He had close-cropped, wavy dark brown hair and a well-trimmed mustache over full lips. His light brown skin was the color of butter pecan ice cream.
He was, as always, dressed impeccably, wearing not-too-tight white jeans, silk T-shirt, and navy linen jacket that draped casually over well-formed hips. His nails were freshly manicured, and I caught the faintest scent of cologne. Leland had piercing brown eyes and darker brown thick eyebrows that gave the impression he was deeply interested in each and every word that fell from your lips. It’s the doctor in him, people feel safe, like they can tell him anything.
I guess the best word to describe Dwight is “intense.” He is strikingly handsome, though I don’t think he realizes it. His face and body appear to have been sculpted from a block of bittersweet chocolate. His brown bedroom eyes hide beneath long, thick lashes that I would personally die for. There is a sadness and tenderness in his clean-shaven face, especially when he doesn’t know anyone is looking, that make him seem so vulnerable. There is the slightest hunch in his strong shoulders, a litheness to his movements that makes him always appear on the defense. The three of us were as different as our shoes, stepping along in unison, Leland in his reptile loafers with no socks, me in my basic black pumps, and Dwight in his sweat socks and gym shoes. But at that moment we were as close as cereal and milk, thankful for one another’s company and friendship.
A little before three o’clock we stepped off the small elevator directly into the Woodsons’ gray marble foyer. The color reminded me of John’s eyes. That was mystery man’s name, John. He had called me twice and left messages with Monica, who couldn’t stop describing his silky, deep voice. All I could think of were those lips and those gray eyes. I didn’t want to appear too eager, so I hadn’t responded yet. On Friday night, Leland had agreed with my strategy of taking it slow.
Riley greeted each of us warmly with her angelic smile and a delicate hug. She looked great—as usual—in a peach silk pantsuit. And, as usual, I felt underdressed in a black mid-length skirt and black knit top. I always felt the need to wear a formal ball gown just to stand in the Woodson foyer. Dwight, on the other hand, didn’t share my sentiments and wore a red and black Chicago Bulls warmup suit. We followed Riley into her den, where white wine was chilling in a silver bucket on the glass coffee table. The heavy scent of fresh flowers filled the room, and I started to ask Riley if Selwyn had given her the bouquet of gladiolas by the terrace.
“It’s just going to be the four of us, gang. Selwyn is stuck in San Francisco. Ryan is still in New York and Reggie is at basketball camp at Ohio State.” Riley answered my unspoken question.
“What’s Ryan doing in New York?” Leland asked. I suddenly remembered that Riley had asked me to check in with her daughter while I was in New York. But after my Motown experience, I had completely forgotten to call her.
“Didn’t Yolanda tell you? She’s doing a summer internship with the New York City Ballet,” Riley said proudly. I knew and fully expected Dwight to ask why not the Dance Theater of Harlem, but he surprised us all and just smiled politely. I guess he didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with our hostess, at least not yet.
“That’s just wonderful,” Leland said. “I know you must be so proud.”
“Yes, I am. Very proud. I tell Selwyn all the time that we done good.”
Riley’s maid quietly entered, carrying a tray of prawns and cocktail sauce arranged on a bed of watercress. The last time we met here, Riley had a white maid. This one looked Colombian. This is the fourth or fifth maid I’ve seen since the group started. I wanted to ask her why she can’t keep good help, or find a Black maid, but I didn’t. This was Riley’s show, and I didn’t want to put her on the defense. I was certain Dwight would do that soon enough.
The four of us were sitting, eating, sipping wine and catching up on each other’s lives from the previous month, when Dwight broke loose.
“You know, I’m really pissed off at what they did to those brothers.” We all exchanged a what-else-is-new look.
“What brothers are you talking about, Dwight?” Riley asked.
“You know, the brothers they just let out of jail after serving eighteen years for a murder they didn’t commit.”
“Yeah, I’ve been following that in the newspapers. It’s been on all the newscasts,” Leland said.
I didn’t quite know what they were talking about, so I assumed it was something that happened while I was in New York.
“Dwight, you’re watching the news? When did you go back to the mass media?” I asked.
“I don’t watch just anybody. I look when the brothers and sisters are on. You know, like Hosea Sanders in the morning before I go to work, and those beautiful sisters, Cheryl Burton and Allison Payne. That’s it,” Dwight said. “And I dig that sister with the braids on CNN.”
“I think her name is Farai Chideya,” Leland said.
“Oh, so you don’t mind when the brothers and sisters bring you the bad news,” I teased.
“Naw, I still get mad at some of the stuff I hear. Like with these brothers,” Dwight added.
“But they’re out of jail now, Dwight. Aren’t you happy about that?” Riley asked. “Thank God for those wonderful Northwestern students who got them out.”
“Yeah, I’m glad the brothers are out, but all you see on the news are those ‘wonderful’ white students that got them out. Nothing ’bout the brothers. The media probably wouldn’t have even covered the story if white folks weren’t involved. Mark my word, if they make a movie about this, it will be told from the white folks’ point of view,” Dwight said. He was on a roll. A very familiar roll.
“Dwight, come on,” Riley pleaded. “Why can’t you just be happy that the system is working?”
“The system ain’t working! Four Black men just spent eighteen years in prison for a crime they didn’t commit,” Dwight said firmly.
Then Riley said something I wished she hadn’t.
“But didn’t some other Black men actually kill that woman?” Dwight looked exasperated. He was just fixing his mouth to give Riley the what-for, when Riley put her own foot in her mouth.
“You know, Dwight, we all care. I mean, you’re not the only person sitting here who was born Black!”
“Yeah, but I’m the only one who still is,” he said as he grabbed the last shrimp from the tray and rolled his eyes toward Riley.
She pretended not to notice, a familiar pattern. Instead, she asked, “Who wants to read from their journal first?”
“I’ve got something that might change the tone,” I said. Leland and Dwight both gave me looks that could kill. I’d forgotten our agreement on the walk over. We’d make sure Riley read first. Whenever she was the last to read from her journal, she felt compelled to wind up the evening with one of her poems.
“But I can wait, it’s your party, Riley. You go first,” I said. Leland and Dwight nodded their enthusiastic approval, and Riley gave us this month’s version of the same old fantasy. Her kids were great, her marriage was fabulous. She was hopeful that her poems would soon be published. And, of course, her singing career was sure to jump off any minute now. The woman is in complete denial. I mean, her kids barely speak to her. I think they’re pissed off that their mother and father didn’t become mom and dad until after Selwyn finished Business and law school. Her parents really raised them. We haven’t seen Selwyn in months, and as for her writing and singing—I don’t think so! I love Riley. I really do, but I wish she’d pull her head out of the sand. None of us, including Dwight, had the nerve or the heart to tell her we knew better. We didn’t want to hurt her. Riley smiled and closed her journal and turned to me and said, “Your time, Yolanda.”
“I’m trying not to get excited, but I met this really wonderful guy while I was in New York. I know I said I was going to put my love life on hold, but this is one I might not want to pass up. He’s so fine. Light-skinned with sort of winter-gray eyes.” I paused and sipped my wine, but before I could resume, Dwight jumped in.
“Time-out! I got something I want to put in the If This World Were Mine journal.”
The group had started a journal we had named If This World Were Mine. The notebook contained wishes and suggestions on what we would like to see happen in the world. Sometimes they were affirmations and sometimes personal wishes or pet peeves. I knew from the tone of Dwight’s voice that he wasn’t getting ready to add a positive platitude.
“What do you want to add, Dwight?” I asked a little impatiently.
“I want us to stop describing one another with terms like ‘light-skinned’ and ‘dark-complected.’ ”
“I’m sorry, Dwight, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just describing the brother I met,” I said defensively.
“I know. But you know what that does? It continues to separate us when we use terms like that,” he said.
“I guess you have a point, Dwight,” Leland said. “But isn’t that one of the wonderful things about Black people? That we come in so many beautiful colors? I don’t think Yogi meant anything by it.”
“And I’m not jumping on her. We set up the journal so we could wish for things. I know it’s not going to change. I know people will keep doing it. Let’s just not do it here in the group,” Dwight said.
I could tell from the look on his face that he was real serious, and he did have a point. Dwight and I were almost the same dark brown color. I loved my color, and I assume Dwight loved his too.
“I agree,” Leland said.
“I don’t see what the big deal is. Nobody means any harm,” Riley said. “I mean, white folks do it. The only difference is they use things like eye color and hair color. I bet you don’t hear them talking about how that separates their race,” Riley said.
“Well, I think you’re going to lose this one,” Dwight said. “I think it’s three to one.”
“Whatever,” Riley said, and rolled her eyes. “Go ahead, put it in the journal.”
I picked up the journal from under the coffee table and wrote, “If this world were mine, Black people wouldn’t use skin color as a way to describe each other. What a wonderful world it would be!” Under that I wrote Dwight’s name and the date.
“If this ever happens in the real world … then it’s going to make one of my patients very sad,” Leland said with a sly smile on his face.
“What are you talking about?” Riley asked.
“Just this last week one of my clients said his modeling career was taking a major turn because light skin was coming back.” Leland laughed. Riley and I grinned. Dwight didn’t flinch. I guess he didn’t think it was funny at all.
“See what I mean. It separates us,” Dwight said sternly.
“Let’s take a break,” Riley said. We all agreed and headed for the lavish supper laid out in the formal dining room. Riley may not be the poet or the singer she thinks she is, but Lord, Lord, the woman knows how to entertain. The extravagant buffet was all that. We each heaped our gold-edged plates with shrimp, oysters, and smoked salmon. Leland and I praised Riley to the high heavens. It made her so happy to be appreciated. Dwight, of course, shared with us the latest statistics on world hunger.
That’s when Riley ushered us all into the living room, which made the rest of us a little nervous. Anytime she got close to that white baby grand piano, we knew there was a good chance she would feel the need to share one of her latest songs. It wasn’t that Riley had a bad voice, it’s that she just didn’t have the vocal chops to match her formal expressions and dramatic movements. She didn’t know if she wanted to be Eartha Kitt or Jennifer Holiday. I’m sure she would have blended in with a large mass choir. Maybe.
While we finished eating, I finished reading my journal entry. Dwight was noticeably unresponsive, but Riley a
sked for all the details. Dwight shared his latest victory over the white man, and even he had to laugh at Leland’s dashiki-wearing construction worker.
Later we were drinking coffee and admiring Riley’s latest acquisition, a Paul Goodnight painting, when Riley decided to recite a poem about friendship. It was a sweet and simple poem. I sighed with relief. Could Riley’s poetry actually be getting better? It was a rare occasion when we were treated to both a poem and a song. All three of us told Riley what a moving poem it was and demanded personal copies. The woman must be psychic, because she had laminated copies already prepared. This woman really needs to find something to do with all this time she has on her hands, I thought.
“Since this was the fifth anniversary for the group, I had something else special made that I’d like to start using at our meeting. I think it will help us to be closer, and to talk about things that we might not include in our journals,” Riley said as she held out a silver-colored shopping bag.
“What are you talking about?” Leland asked.
“Yeah, whatsup, Riley?” Dwight asked,
“See, I had these cards made. They’re really quite wonderful,” Riley said proudly.
“Cards? Like playing cards?” I asked.
“Kinda.” Riley reached in the bag and retrieved a single card. “You see, each of the cards has a question on the back. Some are serious, thought-provoking questions, and some are really simple. Each of us will pull out one card and answer the question on the back. The rest of the group can then ask the cardholder something about their answer. But we must, as friends, promise to tell the truth even if it’s hurtful.”
If This World Were Mine Page 5
