“I know you’re right,” I said.
“Of course I’m right,” Uncle Doc said.
“Tell me the story of you and James again,” I pleaded.
“Why you want to hear that story?”
“It makes me smile. I need to smile,” I said.
I think Uncle Doc enjoyed telling the story as much as I enjoyed hearing it. Each time he told me a story he added new details, so it was almost like hearing it the first time. When he told me his stories I felt like I was going back in time, like I had lived during the era. Uncle Doc met James Knight in San Francisco, right after he got out of the Air Force. Yes, my uncle, who had been gay all his life, had served in the United States Air Force for ten years. When the gays-in-the-military issue had come up in 1993, Uncle Doc said it was much ado about nothing, since sissies had been in the services since the beginning of time. He didn’t understand all the fuss. He felt the same way about gay marriages. Once Uncle Doc told me he didn’t need a birth certificate to tell him he was born, didn’t need a death certificate to tell him he was gone, and he certainly didn’t need some certificate to prove he had loved.
“Did you know he was gay when you first saw him?”
“Naw, ’cause I wasn’t looking at him like that. You know, we didn’t call it gay back then. We had our own names, like dancers, who were the ones that, you know, like to be penetrated, and singers, the ones who liked giving head. We called the butch ones men or husbands,” Uncle Doc said. “James was dating one of my female friends, Bertha Lee. She was a fine thing, a red bone with a nice shape, but she was wild. We lived in the same duplex. I had a little apartment downstairs and she lived upstairs. Bertha Lee hung out with me and all my friends in the Fillmore section. They didn’t have a lot of clubs for us colored sissies, so we had a lot of house parties. Of course, we could go to the straight clubs if we were so inclined.”
“Did he come to one of your parties?” I asked. I really didn’t remember what he had told me in the past.
“Naw, he was in the Marines, stationed right outside of San Fran. One night his car broke down and he called Bertha Lee to come and help him. Well, that girl didn’t have a car, but I did. But I was a little full, you know, partyin’ and all, so Bertha Lee drove and I rode along. When we got there, I told them to let me look at the car and see what was wrong. You know, my daddy had taught me a lot about cars when he was trying to make me a real boy, but instead he got a tomgirl,” Uncle Doc said as he let out a sound of absolute delight.
“So you were fixing the car, then what?”
“I had on some short shorts. It was summer and I was built real nice back then. I was bending over lookin’ under the hood of his car, when he said, ‘You kinda slung low, ain’t you, Doug.’ ”
“Slung low?”
“Yeah, Boo. He was saying I had a nice behind. Which I did.” Uncle Doc smiled.
“Then what?”
“So I knew then he wanted some, you know, some of my banana pudding, but I told him I wouldn’t as long as he was going out with my girlfriend. To make a low story a high one, he and Bertha Lee had a big fight a couple months later. He was drunk, out in the street callin’ her name. It was about four o’clock in the morning and I went out and told him to come into my place before Bertha Lee or one of our neighbors called the police. Told him he didn’t want them taking him back to the base in his condition. Well, let’s just say that when I gave him a bath and cleaned him up, he pulled me into the tub with him.”
Uncle Doc told me how crushed he was that James married a lady back home in Mississippi when he got out of the service a year later. But how they kept in contact through phone calls and Uncle Doc’s letters. When Uncle Doc moved to Chicago and started his restaurant, James came to visit him at least three times a year. A couple of years later he moved to Chicago to be with Uncle Doc, leaving behind a wife and two children.
“But he always took care of those children, and I helped out too. To this day I still hear from them. Matter of fact, when James died, I was the one who called his wife. She asked me if there was anything she could do for me with his arrangements. When his daughter got married, she asked me to walk her down the aisle. The only one who gave me shade was that nappy-headed son of his. But his ass is in jail for beating up his wife,” Uncle Doc said.
“So his wife didn’t have a problem with you?”
“If she did, she never said anything. You know we never talked about stuff back then. Everything was understood. I think that’s the problem with the children today. They want to talk about everything. Talk too much if you ask me. Put they business up in folks’ faces. We didn’t do that and we didn’t have the problems like today,” Uncle Doc said. “We kept our legs open and our mouths shut. I mean, unless there was something good comin’ toward us,” he said as he slapped his knee and let out a chorus of mischievous laughter.
“So no one ever teased you?” I asked.
“No more than any other kids were teased. You know, for being too Black or too ugly or too poor. The only thing I remember was once my older brother, Leroy, told my daddy, ‘I think Douglas is a little pink.’ ”
“What did you say?”
“I put my hands on my little hips and I said, ‘I ain’t a little pink. I’m a whole lotta pink.’ That shut his mouth up for good.”
“Did you love James?”
Uncle Doc’s face broke into a wide smile.
“Yes, Boo, I loved him a lot. And I knew he loved me. He never said it, but I knew,” Uncle Doc said as he took a long drag off his cigarette. He had a far-off look in his eyes, and I knew exactly how he felt.
Chapter 18
It was Monday morning. Dwight arrived at his office a little before eight to look over his account profiles for his monthly review with management. On his way to the coffee station he bumped into Barry and Kent, in jovial conversation and carrying steaming cups of coffee. When they saw Dwight they exchanged nervous glances.
“You ready for the meeting?” Barry asked.
“As always,” Dwight replied.
“Have you thought any more about the situation at MedMac?” Kent inquired.
“What situation?”
“With the proposal,” Barry said.
“I think I’ve made my feelings about MedMac perfectly clear,” Dwight said.
“Why don’t we take this into my office,” Kent said as he noticed other office personnel strolling into the office. Dwight followed the two of them into Kent’s office and he shut the door and offered Dwight a seat. “I’ll stand,” Dwight said. If this was going to be another meeting trying to convince him to sign the proposal, then Dwight figured it wouldn’t last a minute. He was right.
“So, Dwight, are you going to sign the MedMac proposal?” Kent asked with a skeptical, steel-eyed stare.
“No, I’m not,” Dwight said firmly.
“Then I think you should offer your resignation,” Kent said, not looking at Dwight but at Barry, who was sitting in a chair like a delinquent schoolboy.
“I’ll have my resignation on your desk by noon,” Dwight said.
Barry jumped up and said, “Why, Dwight? Are you sure you want to do this? All we’re asking you is to sign the goddamn proposal. What’s so hard about that?”
Dwight looked at Kent and asked, “Is there anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” he said as he shook his head in dismay.
Dwight walked out of Kent’s office, went to his cubicle, and gathered the few personal effects he kept at the office: A plaque the office had given him at the beginning of the year as the top sales engineer, a picture of his mother and him a few Christmases back, a 1996 Hampton University football schedule, and a Bulls cap with Michael Jordan’s stenciled signature. He threw the items in his briefcase, removed the office key from his chain, and laid it on the desk. Dwight pulled a sheet of paper from his tablet and wrote: Effective immediately, I resign from my position of sales engineer, Dwight Leon Scott. He resisted scribbling some obscenit
y or something smart like See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya. Dwight figured they wouldn’t understand.
Riley was second-guessing herself again. As she finished up the last five minutes on the treadmill, she wondered if she had made the right decision in not going to Hampton with Selwyn. He had convinced her early Monday morning that it made more sense for him to go alone. If Selwyn showed up unexpectedly, the kids might not become suspicious, since they knew he had clients in the area. The two of them showing up at Ryan’s doorstep might signal a lack of trust. Selwyn and Riley trusted their kids, but they were concerned. It hadn’t been that long ago when the two of them were experiencing their first taste of freedom, without parental restraints.
Selwyn promised he would call Riley immediately after he had seen Ryan and met this Perry guy, and if there was any cause for concern, he would withdraw Ryan from Hampton on the spot.
When the two of them sat in the breakfast nook, drinking coffee together, Riley saw glimpses of the man she fell in love with. Selwyn acted like he cared about how she felt, often rubbing her hands gently as he explained why he felt he needed to go alone. His touch was warm and reassuring, and Riley felt needed. He even told Riley that if she felt strongly about going, he would understand, but thought his plan might be better. He knew how Riley loved her children, and neither of them wanted to see them repeat the past.
Selwyn pointed out that Riley had a lot going on in Chicago, with her workouts, charities, and preparing for her Chicago debut. When she pointed out that everything wasn’t final, that Yolanda hadn’t said yes, Selwyn surprised her by saying confidently, “It will come through. This is a break you’ve been waiting for.” A couple of times Riley actually blinked her eyes to make sure she wasn’t dreaming and was actually having a conversation with Selwyn and not some stranger. When he gently kissed her on the forehead before leaving, Riley still wasn’t quite sure it was Selwyn. It had been so long since she’d felt his lips on any part of her body.
After showering, Riley changed in her dressing area, putting on a blue warmup suit she had purchased at Hampton. It wasn’t something Riley would normally wear, not even around the house, but she didn’t feel like getting all dressed up today. Riley’s mother had looked at her like she was a crazy woman when she asked the clerk for the sweatsuit in her size. Riley told her mother it was for her maid, and Clarice looked relieved.
Riley decided to spend the afternoon reviewing mail, finishing up the poem she was writing for her secret admirer, and calling Yolanda for dinner. She needed to know the date of her debut. Maybe she could jump-start Yolanda into making a decision.
Riley was putting back a suitcase she had pulled down in anticipation of her trip, when she noticed a red folder in the inside pocket. She opened the folder and realized it was some of the poetry she had written over the years. Riley could tell from the handwriting that some of the poetry had been written while she was still at Hampton. One poem had Selwyn and Riley forever written along the margin. She smiled as she thought back on those times, when life really seemed happy. In the stack of handwritten poems, Riley noticed one that was typed on some heavy bond paper. The paper was a dingy yellow now, but the grade of paper hadn’t changed. She looked at the date typed at the top, 10/20/77, and realized it was a poem she had written on a magical evening. An evening when she and Selwyn had gone for a ride in his first new car. Riley sat on her bed and read her words as her eyes blurred with tears:
We rode through the indigo of a cool fall evening
Speaking about destinations reached and sought
As slowly steady soul grooves
Played on your stereo
You taught me why JT has seen fire and rain
(I was impressed)
I told you the best lyrics come from the hearts of true poets
Then you crooned for me
Luther’s “Going in Circles”
Not knowing I’m a sucker for a brother who can sing
And you said you were like that wheel
Later, on my couch
When I looked into your big browns and kissed you
With silent deliberation
Out time zones became not so distant
(And my sensibilities waned)
Next we moved to our own beat
(A rhythm too exotic to compose)
And I clung to the promise held by things new and uncharted
I looked to you for salvation
You offered comfortable intensity
So I apologized at my deliverance
With you I see cadences and crescendos
Of delicious melodies
In perfect harmony
You are music gentle warrior
You are peace
Riley felt she would give anything in the world to feel like she felt when she wrote the poem. But now her words felt like little bombs of regret and nostalgia, exploding like Fourth of July fireworks. When Riley began crying, loud sobs jerked her entire body, as if something inside her were lost in a grief deeper than sadness.
Chapter 19
My plan worked like a charm, and Yolanda didn’t disappoint me. The girl is all that and then some. We made love so many times, we discovered new paths to pleasure that surprised us both. Each time better than before. I think I might be in love. But I didn’t tell Yolanda that. It’s not time. It’s too soon. But when I’m with her, and even when I’m not, I think I could love this woman so hard—at times I just want to jump out of my body. I want to run—not walk—out of the tunnel of melancholy I’ve been stuck in and run straight into her arms. It’s that serious. Yolanda has made an indelible impression on me.
Her body is as beautiful as her smile, and her brown eyes are so deep, you could drown yourself in them. Yolanda’s legs are trim and graceful like a dancer—her breasts are nicely shaped like large plums. When she walked across the hotel suite in the nude, it was like paradise in motion. Makes my stuff hard just thinking about it.
I’ve had great sex before. But most times, after I get my nut, I don’t want the person or persons anywhere near me. I don’t want them touching me, kissing me, or holding idle conversation. But I wanted to hold Yolanda forever. I wanted to talk to her and tell her things I’ve never told anyone, because I know she would be listening. I would tell her how she’s the first woman I’ve been with where I feel complete. How I don’t see him when I look into her eyes. I know she would understand and care.
Yolanda shows me one of the things I love about women. Like my aunt Lois, they see more in men than we see in ourselves. They overlook who we really are because women see what we can become.
When she talks—it’s like going to the movies. She told me about holidays when she was growing up. I could see Iowa—even though I’ve never been to the state. I could smell the food. I could see her playing chess with her father, letting him win. I could imagine her helping her mother hang up sheets on the clothesline she told me about, and playing jacks with her sister, Sybil. Yolanda made Iowa sound like a magical place.
She’s confident, but not in a bitchy sorta way. Sometimes I think if I pulled some of my old stunts, like not calling after I’ve gotten the draws, Yolanda wouldn’t care. I mean, she probably would care, but she’d never let me know. She’s not like some of the crazy women I’ve gone out with in the past. Some of them have been so goddamned psycho, I thought I’d have to fake my own death to get rid of them crazy skeezers. I could just hear Yolanda saying, “Later for you, John Henderson.”
When I got back from Chicago, I called my dad and told him about Yolanda. He said he can’t wait to meet her and suggested we meet him in Detroit, for Thanksgiving. When I asked him why Detroit, he reminded me my Uncle Mac had moved there with his new wife. I told him I’d think about it. Uncle Mac isn’t one of my favorite people in the world with his drunk, no-count ass. He’s the original mofo. But you can’t tell my dad that. He thinks his younger brother’s shit don’t stink.
Something wonderful happened with my phone call with my dad. I
t was the first time I can remember when we had a conversation and didn’t talk about football. Not once did he ask me if the doctors had changed their opinion about my chances of playing again. Maybe when he saw I wasn’t going to stop sending him a monthly check, my career didn’t seem to matter. I called my aunt Lois and told her about Yolanda. She said she couldn’t wait to meet her and then told me she was going to Detroit also for Thanksgiving and how she would love to see me and meet Yolanda. I think she was relieved when I told her Yolanda was Black. Aunt Lois never hid her feelings when I dated women of other races, and told me every chance she got how she couldn’t stand my ex-wife, Vickie, partly because she was white. “Don’t give that bitch a penny,” she advised when I got a divorce. I didn’t, but I couldn’t tell my aunt how I had managed that trick.
I’ve talked to Yolanda three times today already. I want to hear her voice again, but I don’t want her to think I’m crazy like in love with her. I hope she will call me because she wants to hear my voice. Maybe she will allow me to get her off over the phone with the things I’d do to her if I was in her bed. Just thinking about what I want to say to her, and I feel my stuff growing longer and thicker against the inside of my jock. I take off my sweater and slide my tight-fitting jeans and jock down inch by inch until I’m wearing nothing but gray and white sweat socks.
I go to my refrigerator and grab a beer. I put on the Waiting to Exhale CD. I walk through my bedroom and slide open the terrace door. A gust of cool and soothing wind greets me as I walk across the terrace. From there I look across the water and see Brooklyn sparkling in the night. I take a sip of my cold beer and enjoy the glittering lights of the city—and the throb of the music. I decide what the hell, and I rush to my bedroom to call Yolanda. Just as I’m preparing to pick up the phone, it rings, and I’m certain it’s her.
If This World Were Mine Page 17
