No use rushing things, though, so I waited until Nancy delivered the check before saying anything. “Hi” was my opening gambit.
She gazed at the floor but managed to return the greeting.
“You’ve waited on me a few times,” I said, “so I figured it was time to say something besides, you know, ‘Apple strudel and coffee, please.’”
That got a chuckle, plus an unexpected revelation. “I was kinda hoping you would. Say something, I mean.”
She barely squeezed the words out so I tried to put her at ease by introducing myself. Nancy provided her last name, Allabeck, but seemed to exhaust herself in the process.
I decided to speed things up. “Wanna go out sometime?”
Her expression reflected shock, her words skepticism. “Me? You wanna go out with me?”
Maybe a little charm would persuade her. “Yeah, sure.”
Her eyes glowed, then dimmed.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“I have a curfew.”
“Most girls do.”
“An early one.”
“How early?”
“Eight o’clock.”
She nearly whispered this, so maybe I’d misheard. “Eight o’clock?”
“Uh-huh.”
Why this perverse deadline? To keep her safe from predators? Then why let her out at all? Why not just lock her in the house, or better yet, in her room? I sympathized with Nancy for a second, then realized her absurd curfew would interfere with my plans, so I switched sympathies from her to me.
She must have sensed my concern, though probably not the reason for it. “We could go for coffee. Not here, but somewhere else.”
“We could.”
Can you sense my enthusiasm?
“Wanna?” she asked.
“Okay.”
“When?”
We agreed on Friday, my day off from Harry’s. Nancy finished her shift at five o’clock, so I’d pick her up at Morrie’s and, since she rode the bus to work, drive her home after our date. Maybe this could work. Fifteen minutes traveling to Manny’s Deli on Dexter, an hour or so having coffee and perhaps a sandwich, and a half-hour driving to Nancy’s residence on Boston Boulevard. Once there, we could retire to the Buick’s back seat and, even allowing time for necking, do it and be in her apartment with time to spare.
My spirits rose a notch.
#
My morale fell again on Friday, when Nancy transformed from timid waitress to near-comatose date. She volunteered very little information about herself and offered clipped answers to my questions (so, yes, I got to see how that felt and, no, I didn’t like it). While we sat in a booth at Manny’s I urged her to order a sandwich on the offhand chance a full stomach would perk her up, but she declined because of her diet, which, judging by her rather stout figure, had started that instant.
I checked my watch. Only forty-five minutes had elapsed, leaving more time for other things. I suggested we leave and Nancy readily agreed.
As we drove to her residence I tried again to make conversation, and once more failed. So I told her some boring things about myself and sure enough she looked bored. When we finally arrived at her four-story apartment building I parked in the alley behind it and, figuring action might succeed where words had failed, I reached for her. Unsurprisingly, she shied away. I reached again. Same result.
Now my date seemed on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry. I’m real nervous. I … I don’t go out much.”
I wondered why.
I was about to call it a night when she added, “But sometimes a drink relaxes me. In fact, a drink always relaxes me.”
“Well then—”
“My parents are out for the evening, at a party or something, so it’s okay.”
“What time will they be home?”
“About midnight.”
Perhaps sensing my confusion, Nancy explained. “I visited a girlfriend once and returned past curfew. My parents weren’t home but they knew. I don’t know how, but believe me they knew, because when they got back they yelled and screamed at me and wouldn’t let me go out for a month, not even to a movie by myself.”
Clearly her parents were wacko. Too bad, but tempus was fugiting.
“Let’s go,” I urged, eager for her to relax with a drink.
Nancy stared out the windshield while I waited less than patiently. Finally she said, “The apartment’s dirty.”
“No big deal,” I assured her.
“I mean filthy. You’ve never seen anything like it I bet.”
Not in my house certainly, since Mom had outlawed dirt.
“That’s all right,” I said. “The important thing is, you need to kick back and relax.”
Nancy apparently agreed because she bolted from the car and headed for the rear entrance. I followed at a trot.
She hadn’t exaggerated. While my parents’ home begged for a little anarchy, the Allabecks’ apartment could use some law and order. Dishes fought with newspapers for floor space, a foot of dust covered the coffee and end tables, and the ceiling lights sputtered as if breathing their last. Observing all this was a television set standing against the wall opposite a worn-out couch, on which Nancy motioned me to sit.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.
I shook my head, whereupon she looked crestfallen. So I amended my response. “I’ll take a Coke if you have it.”
“Sure. But we’ve got Schlitz and Jim Beam too.”
I’d tasted alcohol only once before, at Boesky’s, Twelfth Street’s finest deli-restaurant. Over Mom’s objections, Dad had offered me a sip of the one beer he permitted himself at dinners out with the family, and I almost spritzed the acidic drink. I’d never tried liquor, but couldn’t see it tasting much better since its alcohol content was even higher than beer’s. Which left me with two choices: stick with Coke and risk offending my hostess, or take my medicine and risk spitting it out.
Nancy rescued me with a compromise. “How ’bout bourbon and Coke?”
Gratefully, I ordered a little bourbon and a lot of Coke.
She beamed with gratitude. “Coming up.”
After Nancy left I leaned back and closed my eyes to escape my surroundings. Seconds later, it seemed, she’d returned.
“Here you go.” She thrust a glass at me, then settled on the couch with her own drink.
I sipped my beverage while she gulped hers. I wasn’t sure about Nancy’s, but mine tasted a lot like Coke.
“Good, huh,” she said without a question mark.
“Good.”
Well enough chitchat, time to get down to business. I slid close enough for our thighs to touch.
Nancy took another swallow. “Mmmm.”
I sipped some more and agreed again. The funny thing is, I meant it. The liquor gave the Coke a satisfying bite.
Those generous lips turned up in a smile. “I only poured a little bourbon in yours, so I’ll bet you can hardly taste it. Next drink I’ll add more.” Her wink went nicely with the smile.
But would more bourbon go nicely with the Coke? Somehow I doubted it. Most likely the blend would taste more like alcohol. Then again, maybe I’d develop a taste for the stuff. Such things happened, I’d heard.
I was confident, though, that if I ever did become fond of alcohol I wouldn’t turn into a shikker like Uncle Marvin, my mother’s brother and Dad’s favorite whipping boy.
“He’s a disgrace to the family,” my father declared at least once a week. “That drunk can’t possibly be a Jew. As of this moment, I disown him.”
Well, I had enough tsores without being disowned by my family, so I vowed never to become a shikker.
I sipped my drink and Nancy gulped hers again. She smiled more brightly than she had all evening, then brought her face so close to mine I could smell the fumes.
“You ever been drunk?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Figures. You’re a good person, I can tell. But you oughta try it some
time.”
She drew her face away and settled back on the couch. “There’s nothing like it.
When you get high, you don’t give a damn about anything. Whatever troubles you got, like if your parents are jerks or you’re flunking algebra … poof! … they’re gone.” She leaned toward me and licked her lower lip.
An invitation?
Determined to find out, I set both our drinks on the floor, took Nancy in my arms and kissed her. Apparently relaxed now, she returned the kiss and while she was at it stuck her tongue in my mouth. This inspired me to cop the second feel of my life, and, with my other hand, start to unbutton her uniform. I was down to her bounteous chest when the door to the apartment flew open.
Abruptly changing course, Nancy straightened, rebuttoned her uniform and patted her hair while I willed my shvantz to settle down.
Out of sight in the entryway, two people, a man and a woman, exchanged pleasantries.
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you.”
“Fuck you a hundred times over.”
“You wish, bitch.”
“Bastard!”
The lovebirds came into view under the arched entryway to the living room. The Bitch, frowzy and flushed, wore a black dress that bulged around the middle and failed to hide her slip, which showed below the hem. The Bastard, pale and thin, sported a suit whose coat sleeves and pant legs were a foot too short, and a tie that hung slightly askew. Apparently unaware of our presence, the pair continued their lovefest.
“I can’t go anywhere with you,” The Bastard said.
“You mean you can’t go anywhere without turning into a tomcat.”
“So sue me for being friendly, unlike some people I know who leave a party soon’s they get there.”
“Bullshit. We were at the Kents an hour before I got tired of you chasing all those twats.”
“Jealous?”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you back.”
The Bastard glanced around. “I need a drink. Only had time for one at that party.”
“One my ass. You’re a cunt-chasing drunk.”
The Bastard grunted but said nothing. He was on a mission.
After stepping into the room and noticing us for the first time, he did a double take and then peered at me. “Who the fuck’s this?”
“Daddy, this is my new friend, Nate. Nate, this is my father.”
Daddy grunted again, this time at his daughter. “Who said you could have company after curfew? You ain’t been up to nothing, I hope.”
“No, Daddy. We’ve been good. I promise.”
“You promise. Big fucking deal. Never met a woman who ain’t up to something. And if she ain’t, guy with her is. Maybe both of ’ems up to something at the same time.”
He twisted his face into a smile or a smirk, I couldn’t tell which. But there was no mistaking his frown as he glimpsed the two glasses on the floor. Obviously we’d been up to something. Daddy retrieved the drinks, sipped his daughter’s and, with a look of satisfaction, swallowed the rest. Then he took a swig of mine and grimaced.
“What the fuck’s this?”
Before either of us could answer, he pivoted and threw the glass and its contents against the wall, showering the TV with Coke, bourbon and shards.
Enter Mommy, who strode over to Daddy and thrust out her chin. “Fine, destroy the place why don’t you. Why I ever married you I’ll never know.”
She turned and headed down the hall. A moment later a door slammed, rattling both me and the walls.
“Because no one else would have you!” Daddy called out belatedly.
He punted a saucer across the room as he dashed after her, and a few seconds later the door slammed again.
Nancy, who’d remained relatively serene throughout all this, rose from the sofa. “I’ll get us some refills.”
Was she even aware she lived in a war zone?
“I better leave,” I said.
“You sure? You don’t have to.”
“I’m sure.”
She tried to smile but failed. “I don’t blame you. I can hardly stand it myself.” Good, she was aware. “I’m gonna get outta here soon’s I save enough money.”
Nancy squeezed my hand, for emphasis maybe. I had nothing more to say so I started for the door. She burst ahead and opened it, then, as we stood there, her eyes welled up. Finally she kissed my cheek and nudged me out the door, which closed, sorrowfully, behind me.
I drove home feeling like I’d abandoned an orphan. So blue was my mood, in fact, I forgot my virginity was still intact.
By the time I arrived home I remembered, and felt even worse.
Chapter 12
May ranked as my favorite month, not because it was merry, or marked my entry into the world, but because its arrival signaled winter’s departure. I mean, its real departure. Neither the sun crossing the equator in March nor baseball’s return to Tiger Stadium in April guaranteed we’d seen the last of snow and cold, but in May the mercury rose and the snow melted and the flowers flowered, so we could be fairly certain spring had finally sprung. And I, for one, was grateful.
I displayed my gratitude on the first Monday of this particular May by whistling a happy tune (yes, you heard right) as I removed three bags of groceries from Harry’s van and strolled up the flower-festooned path toward the home of Mrs. Ida Weinstein, an ancient widow whose provisions I delivered biweekly. I rang the bell of the old A-frame and waited for the equally old grouse to appear. This often took a lifetime so I was surprised when the door opened right away, and even more surprised at who opened it.
A girl about my age.
A Negro girl about my age.
Not that a black female hadn’t answered the door before on one of my deliveries. A lot of Jewish households used colored help, weekly if they were flush, less often if, like my family, they weren’t. But the help was usually of older vintage, and didn’t look at all like the girl I was staring at now, the one with the high cheekbones, large almond eyes, honey-colored skin and a figure that not even a loose-fitting shift could hide. She wore the kerchief binding her hair like a tiara, and in response to my muttered um-uh offered a majestic smile.
I indicated the three bags of groceries in my arms. “For Mrs. Weinstein.”
“I kinda gathered that.” Her voice was soft, whispery.
I took a step as if to enter but the girl surprised me by standing her ground.
“I’m Amanda Fontaine, the new cleaning lady, in case you’re curious. This is my first day.”
“I kinda gathered that.”
Now within inches of the girl, I could hear her breathe, smell her fragrance. Feel her heat.
Before I forgot where I was and why, she turned abruptly and glided into the house. I followed her through the pristine living room, with its plastic-covered furniture, into a modest kitchen, in one corner of which rested a mop, pail, broom and dustpan.
Amanda gestured toward the counter next to the sink. “You can set them there.”
I did so and asked, “Where’s Mrs. Weinstein?”
“At the beauty shop.”
Something new for the old crank, whose hair usually suffered from neglect.
“And she left you here alone?”
Nice, Nate. If writing doesn’t pan out, you can join the diplomatic corps.
Amanda thrust out a hip and planted a fist on it. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m sorry. I meant, that is—”
“You meant most white women don’t leave the domestic help, particularly the colored domestic help, alone in their home while they’re away. Might steal the silverware.”
Seeing no way out of this hole, I told the truth for once. “Well, yes. I mean, I don’t think that but—”
“For your information, I come highly recommended by one of Mrs. Weinstein’s closest friends … Mrs. Simon? … so I guess she feels she can trust me.”
“Which I’m sure she can.”
“Now how would you know that? You only just met me. I could be a thief, or a kidnapper, or even a murderer.”
“I just know.”
Her voice relaxed a bit. “You just know. You psychic or something?”
“Uh, I’m a good judge of character.”
She came a few steps closer. “Well, Mr. Good Judge of Character, what’s your name?”
“Um … I … Nate.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh, I’m sure.”
“Good. Pays to know your own name. Now, Nate, you’d better get going before your boss comes looking for you.”
In truth, I wasn’t eager to get going at all, and not only because of Amanda’s looks, though they were certainly part of the reason. There was something else about her, something different. Maybe it was her poise, or humor, or brass, or all of the above. I knew only that something besides her appearance held me in place. Or would have, if she weren’t right about my boss. Harry might not send out a search party, but he’d be royally pissed if I were late getting back. So for once I bowed to common sense and made for the front door, this time with Amanda following me.
Before departing I asked, “You here every Monday?”
“Every other, same as her hair appointments. Why?”
“Just asking.” I stepped out the door.
“Uh-huh. Just asking.”
After starting down the path, I couldn’t resist a glance back.
Amanda was leaning against the doorjamb. “Bye now. See you around … maybe.”
For me there was no maybe. I saw her all the way back to Harry’s.
#
Granted, I tended to fixate on things, like the Lions in winter, the Tigers in summer and my virginity throughout the year. But after only one encounter I became so obsessed with Amanda Fontaine my other fixations, except maybe my virginal status, paled in comparison. In a vain attempt to forget her, I kept reminding myself she was a Negro, so even thinking about her was crazy, and the idea of going beyond that even crazier. But I couldn’t help it. No matter what I was doing—taking notes at school, stocking shelves at work, watching TV at home—Amanda Fontaine occupied my thoughts.
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 5
