“Yes, but remember Phillip, the guy from the Eastern Market Gallery we ran into before the holidays?” She can see that Moxie doesn't remember. “The halfway cute one who had his dog with him? He's asked me twice about you. If you want, I could arrange a little dinner, nothing fancy, grilled vegetables, lamb or chicken. Could be a nice hookup . . . never know.”
“No thanks. I barely remember him, but unless he's the reincarnation of Gandhi, Martin, or Malcolm, I don't want a thing to do with him. What is with you and my father constantly trying to play matchmaker?”
Norma removes her sunglasses from her turtleneck collar and places them low on her nose. She looks over them at Moxie and speaks in a mock baritone. “I understand what you're saying, Sister Moxie. But I have a dream today. I have a dream, my sister, that you will walk into the sunset with an upstanding brother who is not only my reincarnation, but the others you mentioned, all rolled into one.” They both laugh heartily, as Norma takes off the sunglasses.
“Norma. I'm serious, though,” Moxie says, reaching across to touch Norma's arm. “This year I just want to be really happy with myself, by myself; I want to be closer to my dad and to Zadi; I want to make a difference in the lives of my clients. And of the utmost importance is keeping Zadi a virgin.”
Norma puts her glasses back on her nose and deepens her voice once more. “I see, Sister Moxie. Let me understand, are you talking about for the rest of the girl's natural life?” They laugh again.
Moxie stops laughing, a little abruptly. “Well, at least until she's in college. I don't think that's too much to ask. Norma, I see so many parents knuckling under the pressure. They hand out condoms to their sons, take their daughters to get on the pill. To me, that's condoning it. And I'm not just being paranoid—I can tell Zadi's thinking about sowing her wild oats. Her body is blossoming like some damn springtime. She walks around with her boobs, bigger than mine, pushed out all the time and jiggling like Jell-O. Never mind that butt.”
“Yeah. She's a brick house. So what? Are you jealous?” Norma's eyes brighten as she smiles impishly.
“I've had my brick-house moments,” Moxie says, pushing her chest forward and placing her hands on her hips. “But she looks a bit too much like prime meat to me.” She glances up at the menu again. “I thought you were going to order.”
“Just don't go overboard with my girl, Moxie, please. Alright? Okay, I'm finally going to get the tea. Want anything else?”
Norma goes over to the counter while Moxie flips through the New York Times sections left at their table. Moxie looks up and notices a black man come in, locked in laughter with a tall red-haired white woman. His arm is hinged on her shoulder while she regards him as if he were the only person in the world. He glances around, Moxie thinks, to make sure all are taking note of their presence. She won't give him that satisfaction, though, and returns to perusing the newspaper. When Moxie looks up again, Norma is engaged in a conversation with a white woman who holds a small child's hand.
“You know so many white people,” Moxie says to Norma when she returns carrying a tray with two steaming mugs on it.
“Oh, she's a parent from Miles' preschool,” Norma says, ignoring the way Moxie's comment pricked through the surface. “I've run into her before. She's one of the few who recognize me outside of the center.” Norma knows this statement will help put her back on track with Moxie. Moxie nods. Often when she encounters white people she knows through work or Zadi's school, they don't recognize her if the meeting takes place in a different context.
After Norma sits down, Moxie whispers, “Why does it feel worse when it's a brother?” She aims her eyes in the direction of the interracial couple.
Norma looks over her shoulder at the couple, then unwraps a muffin and puts a napkin in her lap. “Worse than what?”
“Worse than if it was a sister.”
“Oh, no. Are we going to be subjected to your where-have-all-the-brothers-gone speech again? You know it doesn't bother me. If they're happy together, then so be it,” Norma says, feeling slightly piqued. “What is it—you think he should be dating you instead?”
“No, thank you,” Moxie says, blowing onto a spoonful of tea before bringing it to her lips. “I just wonder if he rejects all black women, and what his mama thinks about that.”
“His mama! I don't believe you. For all we know, she's happy as a clam thinking about those light-skinned, straight-haired grandkids she's going to have.” Norma glances at Moxie slyly, while she swallows a piece of her muffin.
“On the other hand, she might be the type who'd be devastated,” Moxie says without smiling.
“Devastated? Don't you think that's a little strong?”
“Not really.” Moxie frowns as she contemplates her statement. Norma says nothing, but shifts around in her seat. The black half of the interracial couple approaches Moxie's chair from behind, holding her scarf. “Excuse me, miss. Your scarf was on the floor.”
Moxie turns and searches his face but receives only an empty smile. “Thanks,” she says, as coldly as she can manage, wrapping the scarf around her neck. She watches him go back to the white girl. His narrow behind hardly moves beneath his leather bomber jacket.
“So, now did he redeem himself enough for you?” Norma says, leaning forward to playfully tug at Moxie's sweater.
“Just another lost brother.” Moxie waves one hand, dismissively, and returns to her tea.
“That's not fair, Moxie. Remember, even your boy Malcolm X came to the conclusion that all white folks aren't devils.”
Moxie adjusts her fabric hair wrap and peers at Norma. “And I never said they were. I just think it's important not to forget the history of who was the oppressor and who was the oppressed.” She reaches across and tastes a piece of Norma's muffin. “Did I ever tell you what my old roommate used to call them?” she asks in an attempt to relax the conversation.
“Who? Brothers?”
“No, interracial couples.”
“What?”
“‘IRCs.' ” Moxie laughs. “Well, anyway, what's this big thing you want to talk to me about?”
Norma takes a sip of her latte, holding it in her mouth for a second before letting it slide down her throat. Moxie is the main one she has trusted with her secrets and feelings for more than ten years. I'm having an affair with someone who's white. “Moxie,” Norma says slowly, not meeting Moxie's gaze, “I—I'm seeing somebody, a man I met.” She can feel Moxie staring at her, but Moxie says nothing. “I put off telling you for a while because I know what you're going to say—that it's wrong. But you know I've been so unhappy for the past few years, and it's not like I haven't tried to work on my marriage.” She gets it all out without taking a breath.
Moxie backs her seat away from the table. “‘Seeing somebody.' Does that translate into ‘screwing somebody'?”
Norma nods.
“Well, I guess I don't have to say anything, since you already know what I'm going to say. Just hope you know what you're doing, that's all,” Moxie says, feigning indifference. A bulky silence hangs between them.
Norma presses her fingers onto the leftover crumbs on her plate, then to her tongue. Moxie's words pierce the edges of her skin, making her feel nauseatingly warm and embarrassed, as if she were a scolded child. She looks at Moxie, and is not fooled. She sees the judgment shadowing her face. “It's not like I was out there looking for someone. This thing with Woody just happened.” She covers her remaining crumbs with a napkin. “I told you because supposedly friends share things with each other.”
Moxie drains the mug of tea. It's clear from Norma's unrelenting gaze that she longs for something Moxie can't give. Moxie looks away. She wishes she were somewhere else. Friendships change and grow over time, arching and aching along the way, but this one has been the sturdy monument that weathered anything. She thinks about the night she and Norma came into each other's life, how Norma's dormitory room, with Frankie Beverly crooning in the background, became her refuge. It disturbs her
that, at this moment, she can think of absolutely nothing to say that won't be problematic.
Over the surrounding chatter, Norma notices that the coffee aroma seems even stronger than when she first entered. Moxie is drifting from her, and she fears she will be unable to reel her back in. “Things with Lawrence have been bad for a long time, and they're not getting better. You know this. I'm not justifying it, but Woody feels like a badly needed vacation. Maybe I am justifying it.”
“What happened to working on your problems the way most married folk do?” Moxie lowers her voice when she realizes she's loud enough for others to hear. There is a long line of people at the counter. The black woman with the Bible, Norma's white friend and her child, and the interracial couple are gone, but they've been replaced. Almost every table is full.
“I've tried to work on my marriage for the past three years, but where has it gotten me?”
“Your marriage is made of gold compared to some of the ones I see and hear about. He's not beating your ass; he's not cussing you out; he's not trying to sell your children for drugs.”
“Oh, come on. Moxie. You can cut the ghetto melodramas. James wasn't doing any of that to you either.” Norma crosses her arms and holds her elbows, inching forward. “And you all split up.”
“But I didn't start something else before the first thing was finished. And to this day I still have regrets, still wonder whether there wasn't something else I could have done to avoid divorce.”
“My recollection, based on what you told me, is your situation boiled down to the suddenly-socially-conscious sista versus the money-instead-of-the-motherland material guy and never the twain could meet. Those weren't exactly insurmountable battered-wife, alcoholic-husband type issues.” Norma's face is hot, tears threatening at the periphery of her eyes. She picks up her mug, but the latte is tepid and almost gone.
“You're missing my point, Norma. I'm saying yes, we had problems, but I wasn't sneaking around having an affair behind his back, smiling in his face at the same time. I spent my energy trying to salvage the marriage and then accepting when it couldn't be salvaged. I mean, how is this affair going to help you figure out your marriage? Have you thought about going back to counseling?”
Norma looks beyond Moxie for a moment, trying to collect her scattered feelings. “He wouldn't want to go. I wouldn't even ask him.”
“No, I meant you.”
“I don't know if I'm ready to listen to her questions and comments about me seeing Woody.”
“Like you really don't want to hear mine.” Moxie's tone softens. Some relief seeps through, loosening the conversation. “Norma, is it worth it? Is it that damn good?”
Norma rests her elbows on the table, hands under her chin. “Can't you just try for one minute to understand what I'm talking about? All this time I've been laying back, quietly tolerating Lawrence's indifferent lovemaking. Forgetting that I'm supposed to feel something, too. And no, it's not just about sex. Woody and I talk about our work, our children, our lives . . . Something I can't seem to do anymore with Lawrence.”
“Well, I hope you think long and hard about what you're doing to your family. The more you continue, the more chances they have of finding out, Norma. With information like that, Lawrence could take Miles from you.” A spiky-haired employee comes from behind the counter with a dishrag in his hand. He removes the tray and their empty cups and plates.
“Lawrence stopped letting me in on his feelings a long time ago.” Norma sighs. “Maybe it doesn't sound like it, but I do care about Lawrence, Moxie. I never wanted us to end up like this. But I'm not in love the way I was, nose wide open, head all turned around like a broken Barbie doll. He blew it.” An elderly man at the next table, with several medicine bottles lined up in front of him, leans over and asks to borrow the honey. Norma passes it to him. “Moxie, I feel like I'm stumbling around in the dark, trying to figure out my life, and here you come saying ‘wrong move.' Makes me wish I hadn't told you. Can I please find out for myself whether it's the wrong move or not?”
“Sure,” Moxie says. “Absolutely. You're right—this is your life. But don't you want to feel like you're doing your best? Isn't that what's supposed to happen as we get, supposedly, more mature and closer to dying? What about Miles? Have you thought about him?” Moxie refolds her napkin, so she doesn't have to look at Norma.
“Miles isn't even four years old yet—he doesn't know what's going on.”
“You'd be surprised at what kids feel and remember.”
“Oh, here we go. More expert advice from your probation-officer annals? I'm not Zadi, you know.” Norma pushes her coffee cup to one side.
“Norma. I'm trying to help you see the whole picture. What you do affects everybody.” Moxie presses at her temples out of habit. “I never told you this before, but I was in the pediatrician's office with my mother once, when I was around five or six. Dr. Luther, I think his name was, had already examined me, but we waited like two hours for him to finish with all the other patients, and then he gave us a ride home. Because it was raining, my mother said, and we had taken the bus there because she didn't like to drive in the rain. There was something about the way she and he talked and laughed together that struck me even at that young age. I remember he touched her shoulder when we got out of his car. I asked her if she liked him, and she said, ‘Don't be silly.' But I never forgot how strange and a little scary it felt. Somehow I knew not to mention it to my father, even though she didn't tell me not to.”
Norma stares at Moxie. “You never told me this.”
“I haven't thought about it in a long time. I don't think she had an affair with him or anything, but I never forgot it.”
“What happened when you went back to the doctor?”
“We switched pediatricians and never went to his office again. I thought about it several years later but didn't know how to verbalize what I wanted to ask. I never did mention it to my father because I didn't want to bring up something that would cause him more pain.”
Norma nods and crosses her legs against the table. “The way your father talks about your mother, they must have really been in love, though. He makes it sound like they never even had arguments. My parents used to argue all the time, even though my father was in the service and away a lot; Irene and I were always afraid they were on the brink of divorce. But they stayed together, and now they seem very content.”
Moxie takes her car keys from her purse and places them on the table. “It was different, I think, because, my mother was depressed so much of the time. She'd get mad at my father for little, absurd things, and he wouldn't react. I don't know how he did it,” Moxie says. “Anyway, the point of my story is—Miles isn't too young to feel something, even though he might not be able to say what he's feeling.”
They both know it's time to leave. Moxie removes her coat from the back of her chair. Norma stands and retrieves hers from the coatrack. Two white women weave their way purposefully toward the table Norma and Moxie are about to abandon. Moxie, irritated that the women can't even wait for them to move away, that white people always feel so entitled to everything, sits back down at the table and fumbles around in her purse, as if she's looking for something. This contrivance to hold up the two women embarrasses Norma, compelling her to tell them she and her friend are leaving, they're welcome to the table.
Outside the cafe, though, Norma embraces Moxie. Moxie hugs her back but is first to pull away. She stands still and watches Norma walk toward Dupont Circle. Partway down the street, Norma casts a brief glance over her shoulder at Moxie and waves vigorously. Moxie waves back, with less vigor.
Sunday, Jan. 10th
black jean skirt from Lerner
red & blk stretch top
black Banana Republic boots
Dear Sistergirl:
Spent the day doing homework and still didn't finish it all. When I took a break, Ma was watching Waiting to Exhale on TV tonight and laughing like crazy. I like the way Ma laughs when she's reall
y happy and not stressed; it's like a wave that starts out small and gets bigger, and it makes you start laughing with her even when you don't know what she's laughing about. I asked her if I could watch the movie with her, and she said only if I had finished my homework. (I'm probably the only teenager in the world who isn't allowed to have a television in their room.) The usual rule is no TV on school night. I reminded her that it was really still the weekend and that there's something I don't understand in math. I can get it done in study hall before class.
I saw Exhale when it first came out. My favorite part is when Robin is waiting for Troy and he comes over all late and all high and she says, You leather-wearing-in-the-summertime blah blah blah. That shit is so funny. Lela Rochon's hair is off the hook in that movie. I wish I could have my hair like that or like Aaliyah's—all straight. I wonder if she wraps it, like Allegra says she does.
Me and Ma sat under a comforter on the floor, and she made us popcorn. It was fun. I wasn't even bugging when she put her hands in my braids, which usually blows me. When it was over, Ma said her favorite part is the three of them dancing to TLC in Loretta Devine's house, drinking, and talking trash about men. She said it reminds her of when she and Norma were at Howard. They played old music and hand danced with each other once when they didn't have a date. I asked her if she used to drink and get high. She rocked me when she said, To tell you the truth, yes, which is why she hopes I never try it. She said even though at first she liked how she felt, later on she had bad experiences and kirked out and once even thought she was dying. She doesn't know about Norma cause Norma graduated way before her. Then she told me about a girl who drank so much she fell asleep on the toilet and they had to go in there and pull her panties back up and everything. That's so not mellow, like Janet says at the end of Free on the Velvet Rope CD.
Note: No call from Octavius.
Love
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