We Cast a Shadow

by Maurice Carlos Ruffin

  A platter of finger food sat on each flat service while some guests relaxed in the great room smoking and watching girls play chess on the big screen.

  The field behind the house sloped downward to a garden maze on the right and a gazebo on the left. How did Octavia get such a large chunk of the City all to herself?

  The slope ended at the bayou where wooden canoes bobbed. Kids were everywhere.

  “Is this thing over yet?” Penny asked. Her hairdresser had given her partial holiday hair, Bali braids along the left side of her head. She adopted this style occasionally, and I found it adorable.

  “Almost. Just four or five more hours.”

  “Kill me now.” Holding hands, we walked down to the bayou, but away from the hubbub. We wound up in a quiet spot. A couple in a giant plastic duck floated across the water.

  “Thanks for hanging in,” I said. She wiggled her fingers at me, emphasizing her wedding ring. This was part of the marital agreement, wasn’t it? Every married couple has certain terms that they work out between them, some in advance. Kids or no kids? How many? Other terms they negotiate down the line, ad hoc. Who gets the side of the bed close to the TV? Who controls the thermostat? It really comes down to how much shit one is willing to take.

  For example, neither of us liked the other’s friends. Penny’s pals were a grungy lot. They were covered in tattoos of ancient gods or Sanskrit or odd birds. They didn’t bathe often enough. They hit a little too close to home when they called me Geoffrey the Butler or Remus. I just smiled in their presence. My friends were largely people I went to law school with or my fellow firm fiends, such as Paul Pavor. I had ingratiated myself with peers from fine families, people I only saw at functions like this. I remember one guy, my moot court partner. After a long night of drinking with a large group that included Penny, he’d asked what it was like to be born trash. I’d never coldcocked anyone before that night. My hand still aches in cold weather.

  “We should move,” Penny said. “Seriously, what about that job out west?” It was a recurring topic that she only broached occasionally. I never knew what inspired these imaginative flights.

  Nigel walked down the hill. He seemed a bit deflated since the incident at the Myrtles. One of Penny’s crisis counselor contacts had been talking to him.

  “Dad, you’re on TV.” We followed Nigel to the house. In the living room, a dozen people watched Mayor Chamberlain walk across the screen to a desk and sit. Someone handed her a golden pen. I stood in the background, staring into the camera. The woman next to me on screen wrinkled her nose.

  A couple of people in the living room noticed me at the door and smiled, making the connection between the two-dimensional me on TV and the real me. Eckstein, whom I hadn’t seen since the Personal Hill Hospital meeting, leaned against the side of a couch. He threw a pissy look my way. Where had he come from? And why was he there? He’d made it clear at PHH that he hated Octavia and me. And why was it that people you didn’t want to see were always underfoot, but beloved relatives and dead lovers went away for good?

  Penny grimaced, but not because of Eckstein. The mayor rose to her feet on the screen. The audience at Reinhardt clapped. The people in the room clapped. Except for Eckstein and Penny.

  The scene with the mayor shrank to an inset to make room for the national show host and a couple of talking heads.

  “…some critics call these reactions an overreaction. What say you, Mr. Pavor?”

  “It’s a start, but they don’t go far enough. If the City doesn’t have security, then what do we have? Four centuries of savage black imbeciles are enough! When I’m mayor…”

  Dinah would later surprise me—what stake did she have in whether I thought our colleague was a bigot?—by vehemently defending Pavor. The comment was taken out of context, she would say. He was only talking about the bad blacks. In the little video box, I furtively waved at the camera.

  Penny squeezed my hand. Her eyes were closed. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “What?” I asked. I didn’t really want to know what she had to say. I mean, I wanted to know, but in the same way one might want to know how much a fender bender would raise one’s insurance premium. We were outside.

  “They’re going to turn us into a police state,” Penny said. Of course, I agreed with her. But I couldn’t let her know that. If she knew I agreed with her, that would be the end of everything. No more BEG. No more plan. No more saving Nigel. Besides, it’s not like a racist police state would ever affect her. And once I helped Nigel, he would be safe, too.

  “Give me some credit! Do you think I’d be involved if I didn’t think it would be better for all of us? Jesus. Just trust me for a change. Chamberlain isn’t that bad. She’s reasonable. And I’ve known Pavor for years. He’s just playing the game, too. If he wins next month, he’s not going to start shipping people back to the Motherland.”

  “Maybe your mother is right. It’s bad enough you agree with what they’re doing. But do you really have to be the fucking mascot?”

  “I’m doing what I need to do to provide for my family.”

  “Are you really? What does that”—pointing at the house—“have to do with providing for your family?”

  “Everything. It has everything to do with it. You! You told me not to give up. This is what not giving up looks like in the real world. Lord knows if I don’t, you can’t pay the mortgage.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Everything isn’t so easy. You don’t know what it’s like to be me. You act like you have an idea what it’s like to walk around in my skin. You don’t know what it means to be the breadwinner, and you don’t know what it means to be black, Ms. Cornrows.”

  “That’s your final answer?” She stepped back.

  “I can’t win with you. You want both sides of the coin every time.”

  “That’s not even a real saying.” She smiled a little through her frown. I was still always taken aback when Penny found me amusing or lovable. But I knew this fight wasn’t over. Her eyes had taken on the “not cry” look, creeping moisture along the borders, a kind of red tension. In other words, she was so mad or hurt that she would not under any circumstances cry.

  I suddenly became aware that several houseguests were watching us.

  Penny glared. “I’m going to the face-painting booth.”

  “Nigel’s too old for face painting.”

  “Who said anything about Nigel?” Her face was impassive. Completely devoid of emotion. I was in enormous trouble.

  I popped a Plum dry and walked down the slope. Along the way, I swiped a pig in a blanket off a serving tray. A heavily processed version of that dreary Fats Waller song played, and the breeze slapped me with the peppery notes of a quick-seared steak. Eventually I was on the far side of the house. Penny and Nigel entered the hedge maze hand in hand. A sister stood by the opening wearing tuxedo finery.

  “Hold on, baby,” she said. She held a hand to her ear. “Okay. Go on.”

  Inside the maze, I heard the voices of people ahead of me. Every few feet there was a garden gnome or a wrought-iron chair. The hedges were about eight feet tall, so I couldn’t see beyond my lane when I jumped. I wandered toward the center, stroking the sweet-scented box leaves. I plucked a tulip—it smelled of pork. I did a shuffle off to Buffalo.

  “I’ll have my man send you a bill for that.” It was Octavia. “I have those imported from Timbuktu.” She wore culottes. “Each is worth about a grand.” And a sweater draped over her shoulders. She took quick steps toward me and abruptly stopped.

  “You did well at that press conference.” Octavia smiled bigger than I’d ever seen her smile before. It unnerved me.

  “But I didn’t get to say anything.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She flourished a hand. “The optics work, sugar.”

  “But what about”—I looked ar
ound to make sure he was out of earshot—“Eckstein?”

  “I’m not too worried about him.” She grabbed my upper arms. “You getting into that equal rights group was a strong move. Very strong. I have it on good authority already that some of the other heads at PHH like it. Just keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll win Eckstein over in time.”

  If there was one thing I knew about Octavia, it was that she was a genuinely optimistic person. Now she was brimming with good vibes. That was probably why I couldn’t help but ask, “So this means you’re promoting me?”

  She chuckled. “Finish the job. Then we’ll talk.” Octavia squared the sweater wrapped around her shoulders. “And watch out for the Goblin sisters.” She left.

  I wandered for a bit. Somewhere around what must have been the center of the maze, I started to worry that I’d never escape. It wasn’t even that large or ingenious a design, but the hedgerows were thick. I couldn’t just push my way through them. My device buzzed, but I didn’t check it. I’d stuck my fist into a hedge just a few moments before, and something seemed to nibble at my fingers. At my feet was a brick with “Jan. ’77” carved into it.

  I smelled really good weed. “What are you doing in here?” I asked.

  Dinah drew from a joint. I hadn’t seen her in ages.

  A girl in a purple bikini painted Dinah’s cheek with tools from the activities tent. “I’m avoiding my father,” she said. The girl drew her fingers through her long black hair. “And getting away from those creepy guards in the trees. Worse than paparazzi.” She didn’t look away from the design she was adding to Dinah’s cheek. The girl took the joint while Dinah checked her handiwork in a compact. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”

  I tried to place her high cheeks, her supple black hair, the electronic collar around her neck. My mind was in no shape for solving equations. It kept spitting out error messages. A black helicopter swung overhead. We all watched it streak by. A giant man waved at us.

  The girl motioned to me to sit. She dabbed a wet brush on my cheek.

  “Jesus Christ”—Dinah passed the joint to me, but I demurred—“it’s freaking Crown. Catch up.” Dinah looked different. I couldn’t quite place it though. Crown had painted a frog onto her cheek.

  “What happened to your British accent?” I asked Crown. She said the accent had been part of her act.

  “She’s off duty now,” Dinah said.

  “You trying out different eye makeup?” I asked Dinah. She shrugged.

  Crown laughed. “Same thing your boyfriend said,” she said to Dinah.

  “What’s it feel like?” I ask. Crown tilted her head. “Your demelanization. Did it hurt?”

  “Probably not that different from weight loss surgery.” Crown took a drag on the joint. “You know they have to cut all the flabby skin away after you lose the pounds. That’s how I feel. Lighter. I walk around and feel like I’m floating. My old look was just flab for people to, like, be judgmental about. Now I get to judge.”

  “Are you judging me now?” I asked.

  They laughed.

  “Help us figure out something,” Dinah said. Her other cheek was emblazoned with a pink orchid.

  “How to deal with an overbearing parent?” Crown asked.

  “You stand up to them,” I said. “Be honest and direct. Make your position known.”

  “I don’t think that will work here. Daddy’s been insufferable since I came back to the City.”

  “Who’s your daddy?”

  “You met him. He’s the hospital’s CEO.” Eckstein. She was talking about Eckstein.

  Suddenly I felt exposed. Did I look high? If I looked high, would Crown rat me out to Eckstein? But I was being silly. A man under the stress of Eckstein’s position probably dropped a few purr-pills himself. I stooped to sit with the women and awkwardly fell onto my rump.

  My own dad wasn’t exactly an easygoing person. But the older Nigel got, the more I saw why Sir seemed on edge around me. Imagine being given a soft-shelled egg and having to shepherd it through a funhouse.

  “Maybe you should cut your pop some slack,” I said, sitting upright.

  “Why should I? He doesn’t cut me any.” Crown crossed her legs.

  “I doubt he wants anything less than the best for you. Even if he’s not great at expressing it.”

  “He’s fun to be around when he isn’t trying to ruin my life.”

  “He can’t let you ruin it all on your own.”

  24

  A Turkish bazaar in the middle of a snowstorm couldn’t have been crazier than the backstage area of the auditorium in the School Without Walls. Parents like Penny and me had crowded in with their kids, making for a space so cramped that I found myself wishing for the relative roominess of a utility closet. Backstage smelled of young sweat and candy. Ms. Kavanaugh, who normally taught English, squeezed by, sewing the back of a girl’s ripped costume. Another teacher, a black man in thick glasses, darted by carrying a box of programs on his shoulder. One of the vice principals kept peeking in from the doorway and scanning the crowd. I didn’t know how many students were in the show, but there in the space between the curtain and the back wall, it seemed as if every student in the school—and all their siblings—had been enlisted to the cause.

  “How do you feel?” Penny asked Nigel. The family of the lead actor had abruptly left town a few days ago, changing Nigel from second banana to big apple. “Are you up to it? You don’t have to go on if you don’t feel like it.” He wore a plaid shirt and corduroy pants, both oversize.

  “Of course he’s all right, Penelope,” I said. Nigel shrugged.

  Penny licked her thumb and scrubbed something from his cheek.

  “Don’t freak the boy out.”

  Penny cut her eyes at me.

  “Nigel!” one of the parent-helpers called from the door. “Makeup!”

  Penny gave him a wet kiss and a long hug. Nigel was through the door in a flash.

  “Let’s go get our seats before we wind up in the opening number,” Penny said. It was the first full sentence she had spoken to me since the hedgerow maze several days ago. Penny and her self-righteousness! No matter how much I explained my view to her, she would never fully accept what needed to be done.

  I grunted and glanced back over my shoulder as we departed. Nigel hadn’t smiled the entire ride over, hadn’t even spoken when spoken to by his mother. He was an electrified wire, waiting to be plucked, ready to bring down the house in a squall of electromagnetic energy.

  “What is this madness?” I asked. We were walking down a side stairwell, as small girls in white robes ascended the same steps.

  “Oh well, it’s madness,” Mr. Gonzales said. He held a wicker basket of clocks. “The teacher who runs the drama club didn’t show up today, and no one can find him. But the assistant, Mr. Riley, stepped in. He’s a real find. A real find, I tell you.”

  “Pardon me.” A teenage girl hauled a bass drum onto the stage.

  We got seats three rows back and off to the left. They were good parental seats because it was close enough for us to see the action and hop onto the stage in the event of some catastrophe involving our child. But we were out of the main sight line. Nigel, being left-handed, would most likely look to his left, away from us. And perhaps most important: We were so far to the front that the lowest number of observers would see me cry.

  I’d learned my lesson. Through every program and project my boy had been involved in, I always told myself the same thing: Do not cry. It didn’t matter if Nigel only played a culm (as he did to sad perfection in The Lorax) or was a featured performer, like when he played a donkey in that forest fantasy. I started tearing up at his first appearance. Occasionally, I made it through most of a production without the waterworks, but never through an entire one.

  Suddenly and without warning, the stage li
ghts blazed. Some faced out into the audience, and behind me many parents, cursing and stumbling, struggled to find their seats. A short blond girl stood onstage draped in white. She shook slightly, nerves. She was the only child on an otherwise completely bare stage.

  “Once a boy was born into a quiet, lonely darkness, but soon he would bring musical light to the world.” She walked backward, slightly tripping at one point but recovering nicely. I hoped no one else noticed. You root for these kids. You really do.

  A second set of curtains lifted. Waiting there like an army of mercenaries were dozens of boys and girls dressed in white robes oddly cut to show off their white rubber boots. They sang a song about the magnificent man who touched the sun with his voice and piano. It was a little ostentatious, and the chorus was rougher than sandpaper, but so far so good. Two boys somersaulted across the planks. A shadowy figure in all black crossed the stage. I was happy when he went away.

  Everything went dark. A spotlight tracked someone being pushed in a wheelchair by another kid dressed as an old-timey nurse complete with the cute little hat and red cross emblazoned across the front of her dress.

  The kid in the wheelchair’s face was covered in what looked like one of those “drama” masks repurposed with some brown paint. Big black shades over the mask. I didn’t need to see his face though. His arms, legs, and posture screamed Nigel. Penny knew as well. She patted my arm. We grinned at each other in spite of ourselves. A temporary truce was in order.

  The nurse positioned him center stage, slightly facing Penny and me. Could he see us? I couldn’t tell.

  “When I was a boy,” Nigel said, in a creaky, mock-old-man voice that sounded a little muffled by the mask, but they had mic’d him, “I heard music from heaven.” Nigel placed a hand by his ear to imitate listening. “I learned how to play the piano.” He pantomimed working a keyboard. “Then I was the one making the music.” As he spoke, adults dressed all in black crept onto the stage maneuvering instruments into place: a trap kit, a bass, a guitar, and two keyboards. Kids took their places at each one except for Nigel, who limped to one of the keyboards. Each kid delivered one of the following lines with Nigel going last. “It was the 1970s.” “Paisley was the most popular pattern” (tugging at her paisley shirt, polite laughter from the audience). “President Nixon resigned.” “Gas was so expensive you couldn’t even drive.” “Not that I was driving anywhere.” (Nigel, still in the mask, slumped his shoulders, uncomfortable laughter from the audience.)