by Harlan Ruud
'Unfortunately, yes,' she replies. 'In Montreal, Cleveland, and, for a month, in Detroit.'
'Montreal? How did you –'
'Well,' she interrupts, 'I'd rather not talk about it. It's too painful to discuss.'
Slowly shaking her head, she takes a sip of her wine. YaYa and I watch her, waiting. Maggie yawns.
'Oh, Lord,' she continues, 'when I think of that time in my life, it's just so – oh, Lord. The hepatitis, the angel dust, the – the back-alley blow –'
'You have hepatitis?' Maggie asks, grimacing. 'A or B?'
'Well,' Baby replies, sadly, 'I'd rather not talk about it. It's too –'
'Painful,' Maggie interjects, pinching my leg beneath the table.
Baby nods her head.
She proceeds to tell us of her various abusive boyfriends, her life as a topless waitress in Las Vegas, the addiction to heroin, mescaline, acid, and alcohol, and her seven years of therapy.
'But I wouldn't be who I am today,' she explains, 'if I hadn't walked through the fire, you know?' It's like –'
Looking first at her watch, then around the empty restaurant, Maggie interrupts Baby to suggest that we leave.
'You have had such a fascinating life,' she says, smiling sympathetically at Baby, 'and I'd love to hear more about it. But – it's getting late, sweetie, and I want to go for a walk before I go to bed. Okay?'
Baby excuses herself to use the washroom, taking her purse, and totters drunkenly away from the table. Maggie watches her and then turns toward us, frowning.
'Too painful to discuss,' she say. 'Please.'
YaYa laughs.
'Gang-banged by seven of the Harlem Globetrotters!' Maggie exclaims, placing her hands beneath her bosom and leaning forward. 'Can you believe that ho? But ask her if she has hepatitis A or B, and suddenly it's all too painful to talk about.'
YaYa doubles over in his seat, laughing; he is drunk.
'Greasy bitch,' Maggie continues. 'Wearing that over-used snatch of hers like a badge of honor!'
'Damn, girl,' I say, placing my hand on the back of her warm neck. 'Don't hold anything back.'
She looks at me, smiling, and winks, reaching up and putting her hand on mine.
'I'm just playing,' she says. 'But really, that bitch is too much. Like we needed to know the color of the cotton panties she was wearing when that encyclopedia salesman molested her. Please.'
I feel a drop of urine soak into my underwear. I shift in my seat.
'Well,' YaYa says, trying to stop laughing, 'now we have something to talk about.'
'And how now, brown cow,' Maggie replies, giggling.
She takes my hand from the back of her neck, places it on her leg, and then says:
'I bet half of that shit isn't even true. She's probably on the toilet right now, playing with herself, thinking about it.'
Again, YaYa doubles over, laughing.
'Oh, God,' Maggie says, giggling. 'I'm awful, just awful.'
She leans sideways and puts her head on my shoulder. She too is drunk.
'Yes,' I say, 'you are.'
Baby soon returns and, after paying, we leave.
Outside, Maggie suggests we walk to the Medina's ramparts. Though Baby informs us that access is forbidden at such a late hour, we decide to go anyway.
'Who knows?' Baby says, cheerily. 'Maybe I'm wrong.'
Though the entryway leading to the ramparts is, indeed, closed, it is not locked. Maggie and I push the high, iron gate open; slipping through, we run silently up the walk way to the stone parapet. Baby and YaYa are behind us, walking slowly. They hold hands, whispering.
Standing next to one of the huge, rusted cannons, I put my arm around Maggie's waist and look out across the darkened ocean. Far below us, huge waves crash across the rocky shoreline, rolling up against the mammoth stone walls of the rampart, then pulling back into the violent swirl and tide of the ocean. A fine, cool mist rises, as if falling, and then settles lightly upon our bare flesh. Shivering, Maggie moves closer, hugging me. I kiss the top of her head, holding her, and stare into the night.
'I'm drunk,' she whispers.
'Yes, you are,' I say.
'But still pretty,' she replies, giggling.
Somewhere behind us, in the shadows, I hear YaYa Laughing.
'Kitten!' I hear Baby yell.
Maggie squeezes me tighter, gently rubbing the side of her face against my chest.
'I'm glad I found you,' she says.
Looking up at me, she smiles.
'Oh, God,' she says, groaning. 'That sounded corny, didn't it? I'm sorry.'
I rub my hands across her back but say nothing.
'Watch this,' she says, suddenly pulling away from me.
She turns, taking the translucent, white scarf from her shoulders, holding it high above her head, and then lets it flutter, like smoke from a cigarette, in the cool ocean breeze.
'Don't let it go,' I warn.
'Why not?' she asks, letting it go.
Hanging in midair, the scarf begins to fall, then suddenly rise, fluttering as if alive as it drifts slowly into the darkness, visible, then invisible; finally, it disappears.
His hands on the steering wheel, my father stares ahead at the road before us. Occasionally, I turn, glancing at him, but I too remain silent, staring out the opened window at the lush, green countryside.
Somewhere out there, I think, is an elephant.
Earlier this morning, surprising me, my father asked if I wanted to see a movie. After a moment, I replied:
'Sure.'
For the rest of the morning and afternoon, I am anxious, even nervous. At fourteen, I have never been to a movie. In fact, I have never been anywhere with my father not related to duty, to work. Why, I am curious, has he now invited me to both a movie and dinner?
The possibilities are endless.
In the pickup, as we near the city limits, I remember my grandfather as he stood in the doorway to my bedroom, watching me change, get ready.
'Paying good money,' he says, 'to watch rich, white folk pretend to be poor. How pathetic. How sad.'
'I've never been to a movie, Grandpa,' I reply, sitting on the bed and putting on a clean pair of socks, 'but I think there's black folk in them, too.'
My tone is vaguely sarcastic.
'There sure is,' he replies, 'and they're either the first to die or the first to kill.'
I remain silent, hoping he'll go downstairs and leave me alone. Soon, grumbling, he does.
In the theater, my father and I sit side by side, near the aisle. There are approximately twenty other patrons besides ourselves. I am surprised that more than half of them are also black. Why I am surprised by this, I do not know. I am thrilled as I sit there, looking around, eating the licorice sticks my father has taken from his jacket pocket.
'They charge an arm and a leg here,' he says, passing me the soft paper bag of candy, 'for the same thing.'
When the movie starts, I am suddenly disappointed. It is an old movie, filmed in black-and-white, with actors I have never heard or read of. I turn, looking up at my father, who is sitting, his hands splayed on his thighs, and staring intently at the screen.
Resigned, I soon settle into my seat, sucking on a piece of licorice, and watch the movie.
At least I'm here, I think.
The name of the movie is Stormy Weather. Nearing its end, I am pulled from my resignation by the appearance of the Nicholas brothers, two black men in tuxedos who move as I have never imagined possible.
I sit, as if hypnotized, and watch the two brothers fill the screen, side to side, top to bottom, with a force that I am simply unable to define. I am stunned.
After the credits have rolled and the theater's lights have risen, I realize, looking up at my father, that the movie has ended. He stands in the aisle, next to his seat, and smiles at me; it is a smile I will never forget.
'You liked it, huh?' he says.
I nod my head, slightly dazed. He stands, not moving, and looks a
t me. He seems to understand. Abruptly, he turns, looking up the aisle toward the exit, then back at me.
'Well, son,' he says, 'c'mon, let's go.'
I stand and walk past him. As I do, he puts his hand on my shoulder. Though I barely feel it, I will remember it later.
Leaving the theater, we walk across the street and eat dinner at a small Chinese restaurant. We eat in silence at first. Finally, I look up and ask my father if he has seen the dancing brothers before.
'In a movie' I quickly add.
He sets down his fork and, tilting his head sideways, looks over my left shoulder.
'When I was a boy,' he replies, as if lost in thought, 'younger even than you, Dad used to take me to a movie nearly every weekend.'
'Really?' I ask, remembering my grandfather's comments earlier.
'Yes, sir,' he answers. 'Back then there was a theater just for – well, they called us colored back then, and we had our own theater. And out of all the movies I saw there, the one we saw tonight was my favorite. I saw it seven times.'
I watch my father as he resumes eating, and then look down at my plate. It is difficult to imagine my father and grandfather sitting in a theater, side by side, watching a movie. It is even more difficult to imagine them enjoying it. Especially my grandfather.
Bravely, I look up from my plate.
'Dad,' I say.
'Yes,' he replies, looking at me.
'Did you ever – did you ever dance?'
'Well,' he says, after a moment's thought, 'not like the Nicholas brothers, that's for sure.'
'What about –?'
'Ulysses,' he interrupts, 'just get eating; we have a long drive ahead of us.'
I look down at my plate, suddenly embarrassed.
'Yes, sir,' I say, picking up my fork.
Later, as we walk to the truck, my father stops in front of a small second-hand bookstore and looks at the books in the window. Surprising me again, he suggests we go inside.
'But just for a moment,' he says.
Inside, I rush through the aisles, searching for the film section. Hoping to find something, anything, about the Nicholas brothers, I am soon disappointed.
Eleven different books about Marilyn Monroe, but not one about them.
The clerk, an elderly white man with thick, silver hair, is watching me; I ask if he as heard of the Nicholas brothers.
'No,' he says.
I stand between the two bookshelves and look at him.
'They're dancers,' I explain.
He takes a deep breath and points his long, thin finger at the floor by my feet.
'On the bottom shelf,' he explains, 'is a small dance section.'
'Thank you,' I say, kneeling and leaning sideways as I scan the row of twenty, maybe thirty books. I find a book, Black Dance in America. Taking it from the shelf, I stand and smile, flipping through the pages to the index. There, under N, I read, 'Nicholas Brothers, Harold, Fayard, pp. 201-211.'
'Ten pages,' I whisper, shutting the book and rushing to look for my father. Finding him, I hold up the book and say:
'Please.'
He looks at the book's cover and frowns.
'How much is it?' he asks.
'Two dollars,' I reply.
He nods his head.
At home in bed, I switch on the lamp and open the book. After looking first at the three pictures of the Nicholas brothers, I then turn to the ten pages about them; I read the section twice.
The book on my lap, I look up at the darkened ceiling, thinking.
'You better go to sleep, boy,' I hear my father call out.
'Yes, sir,' I reply, looking at the opened door.
I close the book, setting it on the floor beside my bed, and turn off the lamp. Settling into bed, I pull the blankets up to my chest and close my eyes. Soon, I am asleep, dreaming. I am free.
Showering, I listen to YaYa, in the stall next to mine, tell me of his night with Baby. Though I cannot see him, I can imagine the wide grin on his face as he talks.
'She was a freak,' I hear him say, 'a stone-cold freak. You know, I'm not one to talk about, you know, what happens behind closed doors, but, Lordy, was she a freak. Lordy, Lordy.'
'I could've told you that,' I reply, vigorously lathering soap beneath my arms. 'So could've Maggie.'
He laughs.
Lowering my head, I step beneath the lukewarm rush of water, watching as the soapsuds swirl down the drain beneath my feet. In the corner of the shower, I suddenly notice, is a small, lime-green frog. It sits motionless for a moment, then slowly hops away, disappearing beneath the wooden door.
I finish showering quickly, turn off the water, and dry myself. Wrapping the damp towel around my waist, I step out of the shower stall. The frog is gone.
'You going to get something to eat?' YaYa asks, looking at me from above the blue wooden door of his shower.
'Yeah,' I reply, looking at him. 'Maggie's downstairs already. Come down when you're done.'
'Will do,' he says, tilting his head beneath the water and rinsing the soapsuds from his dreadlocks.
It is a hot, sunny afternoon. Maggie and I sit at the outdoor café, drinking orange juice and peppermint tea.
Surprising me, Maggie is wearing neither a long skirt, nor scarf; she is wearing, instead, a yellow T-shirt with the single word, Moshood, emblazoned in red across her bosom. Above her hair, tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, she wears a red kerchief. Two huge, gold-hoop earrings, the sort popular in the seventies, dangle from her ears.
'New look,' I say. 'It's nice. You look pretty?'
'Pretty?'
'Yes,' I reply, smiling, 'pretty. What were you hoping for? Foxy?'
'Well,' she says, folding her slender arms, 'I was actually hoping for beautiful – but pretty will do.'
'I was going to say beautiful,' I reply, 'but I was under the impression that you hated such compliments.'
'Compliments for the sake of compliments,' she explains, exasperated. 'Not truthful ones.'
She winks at me.
'Well, then,' I reply, 'you look beautiful.'
'Too late,' she giggles.
YaYa soon joins us, carrying several folders, a thesaurus, and a stack of papers. Setting it all on the table in front of him, he orders two glasses of orange juice and apologizes for having to write while we visit.
'Some of us have to work for a living,' he says, flipping through the stack of papers as if in search for something.
'Old man river, huh?' Maggie asks, winking again at me.
'Lift that bale,' I continue the joke. 'Tote that barge.'
'House niggas,' YaYa says, looking up at us, smirking. 'Lazy-ass house niggas.'
'Kittens!' a woman suddenly screams.
The three of us turn in unison to see Baby rushing toward us through the crowded tables. She is dressed in a manner nearly identical to Maggie's normal attire: a long, red skirt, a black tank-top, an orange scarf wrapped across her shoulders and over her arms.
Maggie turns toward YaYa and says:
'Kittens?'
He shrugs and smiles.
Acting suddenly apathetic, Baby informs us that her three companions departed for Ourzazate earlier this morning. One of them, she says, is her girlfriend of seven months.
'You're a lesbian?' Maggie says.
'No,' Baby replies, shrugging, 'I'm bisexual.'
'And your girlfriend?'
'Well, she's a lesbian. They all are. That's why they left. They were upset that I never came back to the hotel last night.'
She looks at YaYa, smiling.
'What bothered them most?' Maggie asks, taking a drag of her cigarette. 'That you cheated on your girlfriend? Or that it was with a man?'
'Who cares?' Baby answers. 'Hey, can I have one of your cigarettes? I haven't had a chance to buy any yet.'
Maggie reaches for the cigarette pack; with her thumb and middle finger, she flicks it across the table's surface toward Baby.
'Help yourself,' she says.
&
nbsp; 'Thanks, kitten,' Baby replies, picking up the cigarettes.
'Baby,' Maggie says.
'Yes,' she responds, holding one of the cigarettes between her plump bingers.
Her fingernails, I notice, are no longer red; they are purple.
'Please don't call me kitten,' Maggie says. 'I don't like it.'
Baby looks up at her.
'Unlike him,' Maggie adds, smiling at YaYa, who raises his right eyebrow as if to say, What?
'I didn't mean to offend you,' Baby remarks, lighting her cigarette and taking a drag.
'You didn't offend me,' Maggie explains. 'You irritated me.'
YaYa and I look at each other.
'Well, Maggie,' Baby replies, 'it won't happen again.'
'Thank you,' Maggie says, flicking the ash from her cigarette onto the ground.
Later, leaving Baby and YaYa at the café, Maggie and I wander out of the Medina. Walking along the beach, we watch a group of teenaged boys playing soccer. As we pass, a ball skids alongside us out into the water. Maggie turns and runs after it.
A perfect ass, I think, watching her.
Grabbing the ball, Maggie skips out of the water and onto dry land, and then kicks it back to the group of boys, who stand, as if in awe, watching her.
'Thank you!' a boy hollers.
'De rien,' Maggie replies, waving.
'Come on,' another boy hollers as we turn to leave. 'Come play.'
Maggie looks up at me and asks:
'Do you want to?'
'Sure,' I reply.
We turn and jog over to the group of boys. Maggie kicks off her sandals and rolls up the hem of her jeans. She takes off her earrings and slips them in her back pocket.
The boys watch her, smiling.
'Watch out, watch out,' one of them says with a laugh; the other boys cheer, also laughing.
'That's right, men,' Maggie replies. 'You better watch out.'
Winking at me, she delicately smoothes her hair, pinkies raised, and then, surprising everyone, rushes suddenly at the ball and begins to kick it, unimpeded, across the beach toward two logs of driftwood that are, I presume, a makeshift net.
The boys erupt into cheering and laughing, half of them chasing after her.
By the time we leave, Maggie has made three goals and fourteen new friends. She waves, promising to return tomorrow, and we again wander off along the beach. The boys call out behind us, laughing and talking in Arabic, and soon resume their game.
