In order to ensure that all of my suitors met both her social and financial requirements before I even ordered dinner on a first date, I had to ask them certain questions pertaining to what Grandma Lucy called their “pedigree.” “Troy, there is no reason for you to go out into the world and break your behind to pursue your dreams and live with some type of dignity, only to marry some gigolo who wants to spend your money and keep you under his control,” Grandma Lucy had said one night when she called my dorm room unexpectedly. I scoffed at her declaration and claimed I was on my way to the library just to get off the phone. Grandma Lucy was telling me nothing new. I wasn’t dumb, deaf or blind, so I’d already bared witness to much of the surprising divisions that existed between the black folks around me. As sure as I’d learned to walk (without scuffing my Mary Janes), I’d learned that while people hated talking about it, the caste system in India had nothing on high society black folks and their high society class systems. And for gals like me, it all begins with your mother putting you in the right clubs, the right prep school, the right summer camp, and choosing the right vacation spots. I myself was a member of the most elite J&J chapter in the state of New York, meaning I had scheduled play dates with the Cosby children; went to one of the most elite schools in the city, Fieldston; and camped at Atwater, a black camping tradition on my father’s side of the family that dates back to the ’20s. Further, though I grew up on the Upper West Side, where everyone tends to vacation in the Bluffs or Martha’s Vineyard, Nana Rue often insisted that we go down South to Hilton Head, South Carolina, for sunshine and Southern charm. She always said that the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter in the South, but I thought the rich blacks down there were completely different than they were in the North. They had way too many rules, and fitting into their many traditions was an annual fight I had to endure. No one knew my family name, so I may as well have been poor and invisible.
These degrees of social separation became particularly defined when it came to finding a suitor. Point blank, he or she had to have what you had or more. There was no marrying down. The perfect pedigree was the only plausible option here.
All of that went flying fast out the window when I bumped into Julian that day at the bookstore.
I didn’t care about anything but getting with him…. Okay, I confess, maybe I was a bit excited about his little medical title, but other than that, I just wanted to know him, to see what the moonlight looked like in his eyes, to hear his voice before he fell asleep at night.
Julian far outshined any expectations. Instead of carrying his history on his sleeve, he carried it inside like a rare jewel. Like me, he respected and cherished his position in high black society, but he never abused it or used it to separate himself from other people. It was special, it made us special, but not more special than anyone else.
Step Three: Say You, Say Me
When I pulled up in front of the Harambee Theater—approximately fifteen minutes after I was supposed to meet Julian in the lobby (and right on time for my special arrival)—I felt electric. I’d spent the afternoon sunbathing at Central Park with Tasha and my tan skin had turned a light brown, matching my new hair. Tasha loved the look. When I met her at our usual spot on the Great Lawn, she said she would’ve thought I was Beyoncé if she didn’t know any better. I think she was just trying to make me feel good about myself, and it worked.
“No, girl, you’ll be the hot thing tonight at the reception,” Tasha had reassured me. “You already have half of the men here going crazy,” she said, pointing to the steady stream of eyes that floated in my direction. “Imagine what it’ll be like tonight.”
After finding a parking spot down the block from the theater, I stepped out of the car as an updated woman. My toe tapped the curb and I swear I lit up the entire sidewalk. Grandma Lucy was right about the girl at Saks. Jennifer had a great eye. Without asking my size, she’d pulled a silk DVF dress from the rack. “You’ll love the way this makes your skin feel,” she’d said, opening the dressing room door for me. And she was right; I did. The dress fell over my curves perfectly—tight in some places, loose and then looser in others. And the color was amazing. It looked like my skin was painted with red wine.
We’d topped off the dress with matching Prada stilettos, a golden egg clutch, and sexy golden chandelier earrings. The last stop had been at the M.A.C. counter, where I’d purchased my favorite mascara and red lipstick. Then I was off to get ready for my Prince Charming.
I looked at my reflection on the car door and smiled at the sight of myself all dolled up like I was on my way to a first date. I didn’t look like a woman whose heart had been hurt, whose dreams had been usurped by someone else. I looked more alive than I had in months, felt more sensual than I had in weeks. I laughed and blew my-sexy-self a kiss.
It was funny how the update was supposed to be about Julian, his love and attention, but for that moment, standing there alone, it was all about me. Walking up the steps to the theater, I felt like a true diva on a mission.
There were hundreds of beautifully dressed people crowded into the small lobby; however, my eyes took me almost instinctively to the one person in the room who mattered. Julian was standing in the middle of the sea of familiar faces we both knew, smiling graciously as people walked up to introduce this person or that person to the newest doctor in the prestigious James family. He didn’t seem to be paying them any real attention. His eyes kept scanning the room quickly in between conversational pauses. When his eyes almost caught mine, I smiled and waved, but he looked right past me. I headed in his direction with a sophisticated step as I tried to be smooth and calm. “Smooth and calm…smooth and calm,” I kept saying to myself, trying to maintain my balance in the new stilettos. “Just don’t trip!”
When Julian finally looked at me, he squinted his eyes and then smiled so hard I could almost see his wisdom teeth.
“Troy?” he said, moving toward me with his eyes still tight. “Is that you, baby?”
“Stop playing. Of course it’s me,” I said, smiling to show my freshly bleached teeth. He looked amazed—exactly the response I was going for.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“What?”
“You look great,” he said, pulling me into his arms. He hugged me so tightly, I was worried my dress would split in the back.
“Are you ready to go inside?” Julian pointed to the trail of people who were heading into the theater’s ballroom, where the reception was to be held. “I think things are about to start.”
I led Julian into the ballroom, saying hello to old friends and a few of my nana’s former castmates along the way. The place was teeming with Harlem’s old guard. The women, mostly members of my grandmother’s childhood church, St. Mark’s, or the Links, an elite organization Nana Rue was a member of, waved their freshly manicured hands at each other as they strolled along arm in arm with their handpicked significant others. The men flashed French-cuffed shirts with matching cuff links as they handed out verbal business cards and planned golf outings and tennis matches. While I liked to think the event was all about the premiere of Nana Rue’s newest play, the truth was that it was only a small part of the spectacle. This was the place where connections were made, news was dished, and people were introduced or excommunicated for some reason or another.
When we entered the ballroom, I saw my parents sitting at a table toward the front, so naturally I headed in the other direction, toward the bar. I just wasn’t in the mood to deal with them just yet. Things were going great with Julian thus far and I didn’t want anyone to mess it up. My mother was worse than me when it came to my breakups. She took them way too personally. It was as if she thought the men were leaving her, rejecting her, by breaking up with me. She often refused to speak to my exes, ignored them to their faces, and called them all kinds of names behind their backs. I was afraid of what she might do to Julian.
“You don’t want to sit down?” Julian asked. I noticed he was wearing a navy blue sui
t we’d picked out together. He looked great in it.
“Nah, I figured we’d hang out by the bar. You know, avoid the whole family thing,” I said, trying to sound breezy. “Let’s get a round of drinks to celebrate our newfound friendship.”
“Yeah, sure,” Julian said. I saw uncertainty in his eyes. “Look, Troy. I’m not really sure about this whole friendship thing just yet,” he added frankly. “I’m happy you’re doing okay with the breakup, but I really want to take things slow and make sure we’re making the right decision—”
“About us breaking up?” I asked, cutting him off. Warning: I’m about to get my feelings hurt in 1, 2, 3 seconds…
“No,” he said swiftly. “I’m talking about the friends thing. I want to take my time with that.”
“I agree,” I said, signaling for the bartender. I needed a drink pronto. I turned my face away from Julian. I couldn’t believe what he was saying and I didn’t want him to see any signs of weakness on my face. I felt a twinge of uncertainty about my whole plan. The thing was going all wrong. If Julian was so sure about us breaking up, how was it ever going to work? Maybe he didn’t love me after all.
“You smell great,” Julian said, coming up close behind me at the bar. I felt his chin on my shoulder, his breath at the nape of my neck.
“Thanks.” I smiled and ordered a glass of chardonnay for myself and a Maker’s Mark and Coke for Julian.
“So what’s the deal with the new look?” Julian picked up his glass off of the bar.
“What new look?”
“I’m saying, you’ve got the hair all straight and sexy, which you know I love,” Julian said. For the record: I didn’t. “You’re dressed sexy…you just look different.”
“Do you like it?” I crossed my fingers behind my back. He had three seconds to answer or it was a lie (3T Guy Lie List #8).
“Yes,” Julian said in 1.3 seconds. “I love it, but I’m wondering where it’s coming from. Don’t get me wrong. I loved the old Troy.” He put an emphasis on the word loved.
“Well, I just needed a change. A new look to give the boys something to look at,” I said.
“Boys?” Julian recoiled. “You’re dating already?”
“Come on, Ju Ju. I wouldn’t kiss and tell. That’s not ladylike,” I flirted, flipping my hair over my shoulder.
“Troy, we just broke up. How could you be out there dating already?” Julian looked a little perplexed. I wondered if it was the drink taking effect too soon or if he was really jealous—either way, it was a great sign.
“I didn’t say I was dating, Julian. I simply implied that I was working to meet someone new. A girl can’t wait on you forever,” I said, playing with my wineglass on the bar. “So are you saying you’re not seeing anyone?”
“Well, to be honest, baby,” Julian started. Then, before he could get the words out, Christian Kyle from the country club pushed his way between the two of us. My chin nearly hit the bar. I couldn’t believe it. What in the hell was he doing there? I needed backup.
“Hey there, TH!” Kyle said, smiling at me as if we hadn’t just met for the first time the other day. “What’s up?”
I looked at him, trying to figure out what in the hell he was doing in my damn face just when Julian was about to come clean about Miata! He was ruining everything…again. Christian Kyle sure had a knack for bad timing.
“Hey,” I answered dryly. Holy or unholy, I wanted his ass to go away. He was looking fine in his obviously Italian imported suit (I was mad, not blind), but not fine enough to take down the plan.
“TH?” Julian said. He looked completely dumbfounded. That was the name only my father dared call me. Julian knew that.
“Oh, Julian, this is Reverend Kyle Hall, one of my father’s business associates. Kyle, this is Julian, my friend.”
“Nice to meet you, Julian,” Kyle said, shaking Julian’s hand.
“Dr. Julian James.” Julian put on his business face.
“A doctor?” Kyle stepped back, looking surprised. I searched the room for my father. This was his work. “That’s something. Where do you practice, brother?”
“I’m at NYU Medical Center.”
“Oh, a smart brother. I love it.” Kyle grinned. What did he have up his sleeve? “Well, I don’t know if TH told you or not, but I’m the pastor over at First Baptist here in Harlem,” he said, all chummy.
“No, she hasn’t mentioned you at all,” Julian said. Now Julian was playing the game. Wait, was he sizing Kyle up? It was like watching a ping-pong match—only my head was the ball. Julian looked at me and winked. “I know where that church is.”
“Yeah, we’re looking for some new blood, brother.” Kyle pulled one of his cards from his pocket. “You should come to service on Sunday. Check us out. A brother like you could be a great role model in our youth program.”
“Yeah, man. That sounds great,” Julian lied. He wouldn’t be going anywhere near Kyle’s church. While First Baptist was getting attention in Harlem, Julian’s family had been Episcopalian since they had arrived in the city in the 1800s. The Jameses always attended one of the biggest churches in Harlem, St. Philips Protestant Episcopal Church. And it wasn’t going to change anytime soon.
“And I expect to see you in there sometimes, TH.”
I struggled not to toss my drink at him—for fear I might never make it to heaven.
“Yeah, well, you know I have my own church,” I said.
“Well, I think you’ll like us.” Kyle pinched me on the cheek and grinned. “We tend to be a little louder than you Methodists, but the spirit is good all the time.” He smiled. “Well, I must be getting to my seat,” he said, shaking Julian’s hand. “It was great meeting you.”
“Who was that?” Julian said when Kyle finally made his way halfway across the room.
“I told you already. A friend of my father’s.” I signaled for another glass of wine.
“He didn’t look like a friend.” Julian looked at me accusingly. His eyes seemed a bit greenish; I could see images of Kyle’s solid chest still burning in his corneas. “He looks like he wants to be way more than your friend.”
“Let’s not ruin our special evening talking about someone so insignificant,” I whispered into his ear. “Tonight is about us.” I put my wineglass up and we toasted. “And if I can recall, we were in the middle of a little conversation about you seeing some—”
The lights on the stage in the front of the ballroom came up just as I was about to finish my sentence. Rupert Wright, a big off-Broadway director who did most of Nana Rue’s plays, walked up to the stage.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the microphone, smiling as the white on his classic tuxedo gleamed beneath the stage lights. “Welcome to the Harambee Theater.” Everyone in the audience began clap. “And welcome to Harlem,” Rupert went on. The audience, which represented every politician, clergy member, business head, and organizer in New York City, began to clap even louder, and a few whistles rang out around the floor.
The Harambee Theater had opened in Harlem over a year ago. It marked the beginning of what Nana Rue and her friends hoped was a new age of theater in Harlem. They, along with a few Broadway sponsors, wanted to bring classics like Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun and August Wilson’s The Piano Lesson (plays Nana Rue took me to see when I was young), back to the center of African-American culture, providing a way for residents to not only celebrate their heritage but also have the opportunity to pursue careers in the arts.
“This is great, Troy,” Julian said. He stood beside me and put his arm around my waist. “Thanks for bringing me.”
“It’s no problem. I know how much you love this stuff,” I said, wondering when I’d get the chance to bring up the special topic again.
“I think you will all be extremely excited with the preview of what we have in store for you with our next production,” Rupert added, dazzling the audience. The company hadn’t yet revealed what the next production would be, in o
rder to build up industry hype around it. As they had successfully with the last three plays, they only let insiders know who would be starring in the play and provided an “invitation-only” crowd with a sneak peek of the production at the opening reception. While it was a risky move, fans loved it, and even though they had no clue what they were going to see, the opening nights were always sold out. So far, it was working this evening, too. You could see the anticipation rising in the air.
“This season’s production features none other than Harlem’s own Rue B. Smith in the starring role,” Rupert said, introducing my nana under the stage name she’d used since she started performing. The audience clapped louder, and a few people, including my father, got out of their seats. “So, without any further ado, I present to you a preview of the Harambee Theater’s summer production of…” Rupert stopped in midsentence. “I don’t think you folks are ready. I can’t even hear you!” he said, defiantly putting his hand on his hip. The clapping turned to a thunderous roar as people screamed and whistled in protest of Rupert’s playful delay.
Julian and I laughed, clapping our hands as loud as we could. “Come on, you all can do better than that,” Rupert said dryly. “See how bourgeois black folks act when they get all dressed up for the theater!” Everyone laughed enthusiastically. “Now get on your feet, forget about those nice clothes, and get ready as I present to you the Harambee Theater’s summer production of Ma’ Rainey’s Black Bottom!”
After running through a preview of about three scenes from the play, the curtain went down on what I was sure was going to be the theater treat of the summer. Nana nailed it along with the supporting cast, which included two prime-time drama actors, a rapper who was trying to break into acting, and Nana Rue’s assistant, Abby, who was playing her niece in the play. The audience sang along with most of the tunes, and when it was all over, they begged for more.
“Encore! Encore!” they yelled from around the ballroom. “Encore!”
Take Her Man Page 12
