“The only thing I ever did to her was get her pregnant” is what I said. “And believe me, if I could take it back, I would. Thus far, it’s been the biggest mistake of my life, bar none.”
She looked at Ben and said, “Maybe that’s why he’s having such a hard time warming to you. Kids pick up on negative stuff like that, you know.”
She didn’t say it in a nasty way or anything, but still, I wasn’t up to hearing that some of the difficulties I’d been having with my son might in part be my own fault. “I didn’t say I didn’t love him or that I wasn’t committed to his well-being” is what I told her in my defense.
“No, just that he was the biggest mistake of your life,” she said, glaring at me through squinted eyes.
Gnawing on the inside of my jaw to keep from cussing, I was quick to tell her, “That’s not what I meant. And anyway, who are you to tell me how to parent, when you don’t have child the first?”
I saw her eyes widen and had it not been for Ben, who came to my rescue with a well-timed squirm and whine, I’m pretty sure a verbal beat-down is what would have followed. But rather than waste another breath in my direction, Faye turned her attention back to my boy. While stroking his face and head she started singing the words to one of the tunes she’d been humming earlier.
It sounded like something from either the motherland or the islands. And don’t you know, little dude took to it like a shot of morphine. He settled right on down. I was impressed, really I was. But rather than come right out and give the girl her props, I went the buster route.
“Hoodoo, huh?” I said, trying to play the whole thing off. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”
Instead of smiling or getting mad, all Faye did for what seemed like an eternity was stare at me, like I was the most ignorant so-and-so she’d stumbled across in a long time. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she laid it out for me. “It’s Yoruba,” she said. “It means ‘God’s work will never be spoiled.’”
HER
Ise olowa, kole baje-oh. Ise olowa, kole baje-oh. It’s just a little something I picked up a couple years ago at a Sweet Honey in the Rock concert. It means “God’s work will never be spoiled.” I don’t know if Carl felt stupid, ashamed, or some combination of the two, but he got real quiet after I told him that.
While he and the kid chilled, I lowered my guard just enough to kick back and get taken in by the room’s decor. I’m saying, it was weird, girl, because not in a zillion years would I have ever guessed Carl to have such an eye for style—especially given the rest of his apartment’s barren state. But eyes don’t lie and in a glance I could tell a considerable amount of thought, time, and energy had gone into the creation of the African safari/jungle kind of ambience he had going on up in there. And before you start thinking tacky, no, I’m here to tell you, girl, the room was laid. I’m talking live plants everywhere, including two big-leaf banana trees and a collection of clay pots, wicker baskets, hand-carved knickknacks, and the whole nine.
But the clincher was the bed. When it comes to what men will sleep on, I thought I’d seen it all, from old, funky futons to foam-rubber floor mats. But, honey, let me tell you, Carl is the first brother I’ve ever run across who actually owns—by choice, mind you—a canopy-style bed. His is a black, towering, single-rail number with two draping sheers that spill into a perfect triangle over the wrought-iron headboard. And then he’s got the nerve to have the entire thing covered in not one but three plump layers of chocolate mud-cloth print pillows.
But before you go getting any ideas, I assure you, the closest I got to the bed or Carl was when it came time to lay the baby down. Carl helped me arrange the pillows around the kid and cover him with a blanket.
As we both stood there gazing down at the little fella, I couldn’t help but comment, “He looks just like you. Kinda acts like you, too.”
Carl smiled and told me that was the same thing the child’s mama was in the habit of saying and he was pretty sure she didn’t mean it as a compliment.
I was headed for the front door and was in the process of advising Carl to get the boy back home to his mama before he woke up hollering again, when I was interrupted by what sounded like a pot boiling over in the kitchen. I followed Carl to the kitchen, just to make sure he didn’t need my help in putting out a fire.
On discovering that it was just a pot of water for some tea he’d put on and forgotten about, I spun around and was two seconds short of being gone when he said, “You’re welcome to join me for a cup. Or, you know, if you’d rather, I could fix you some to take with you.”
Yeah, girl, I know. I should have stuck to my guns and kept right on out the door. See, but you don’t know Carl. He’s got this subtle way of soliciting sympathy that I’m sure draws him a fair amount of play from those susceptible to that sort of thing. And while copping an attitude with him is one thing, I’m slowly learning that maintaining it for any length of time is proving to be quite another. So to make a long story short, even though tea ain’t even my drink, I stayed and let him fix me a hot cup.
HIM
I didn’t really think she’d stick around. It wasn’t until she pulled her cigarettes from the front pocket of her blue-jean jumper and climbed atop one of the kitchen bar stools that I realized she planned to hang for a minute. While I poured the tea, I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t have us right back at each other’s throats. We sat there for the longest, neither of us saying anything, just leaning over the kitchen island, sipping tea and listening to the loud tick-tocks coming from the rickety clock on my wall, until finally she blurted out, “So how long were you involved with Benjamin’s mother?”
At the risk of making myself sound even more morally bankrupt than I am, I took another stab at the truth and just came out and told her, “Technically, all of one night. I met Clarice at this party my cousin Squirrel drug me to. We hit it off, ended up back at her place, kicked a little sumthin’-sumthin’, and, well, nine months later along came Ben.”
She took a moment to digest the information, then blew out a cloud of smoke, smiled, and said, “In other words, it wasn’t a relationship you were interested in with this woman, just sex?”
Since I wasn’t exactly sure where she was coming from or headed to, I said, “Listen, don’t go getting it twisted. That whole Friday-night thing that transpired between us with the videos, the slow dances, and all, that wasn’t just about me trying to get you in my bed.”
“No?” she said, still wearing what looked like a grin.
Personally, I didn’t see what was so funny. I told her, “No, I mean, I just thought, like me, you were having a good time. And I just figured, like me, you’d be interested in having an even better time. I know I’m not the most exciting guy in the world, or necessarily the best looking, but, dog, don’t hate a brother for trying.”
Apparently, that was even funnier to her. She laughed outright and said, “Carl, it’s not that I don’t find you attractive …”
Oh, man, I thought for sure the next thing outta her mouth was gonna be that doggone “why can’t we just be friends?” speech I’ve been hearing from chicks since the seventh grade. So before she could get going good, I said, “Yeah, I know. You just don’t want things to get too physical between us. And hey, like I told you the other night, if you don’t want to get involved, cool. It’s all good.”
That’s when she dropped the bomb. “Actually, Carl, if you remember correctly, what I said was I didn’t want to get emotionally involved. I never said anything about us having a physical relationship. And given the tale you just shared with me in regards to you and Clarice, I take it you’re well aware of the difference.”
When I asked her to come again, homegirl broke it down something like this: “If you wanna play, fine, let’s play. The only thing is, in order to remain an active participant for the duration of this particular game, you have to be willing to abide by my rules.”
Per my humble request, she stopped blowing smoke
long enough to run me down a whole list of things, the most peculiar of which involved her “three times and you’re out” policy. Yeah, man, according to Faye’s golden rules of sexual etiquette, we can bump it once, twice, three times even. But after the third swing, the game’s over and the deal’s done.
At the end of her spiel, I just looked at her and said, “You’re serious?”
She looked back at me and said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I said, “‘Cause it’s pretty darn cold, that’s why.”
Ol’ girl sucked on her cigarette a moment, then said, “Yeah? I bet you didn’t think that when you were out there running around behind your wife’s back, buck-jumping from one bed to another. I don’t get guys like you. Why bother with the pretense of a quote-unquote relationship when all you want is sex anyway?”
In an attempt to steer the spotlight off me, I asked, “Is that all you want?”
She frowned and said, “Carl, I’m a realist. I know from experience that’s about all there is to have.”
Then, man, if that didn’t beat all, the sister snuffed out her smoke, stood up to leave, and said, “Thanks for the tea. And if you decide you still wanna play, you know where to find me.”
After she left, about all I could do was sit there and think, Damn, maybe I ought to just leave that alone. But after having slept on it a couple of nights, I’m not so sure backing out is the thing to do—not now, when it’s just starting to get interesting.
Besides, you ever wonder what a fly would choose if given a choice between sugar and shit? Would it prefer one over the other? Or does it really make a difference? What I’m saying is, I have yet to determine if Faye is something sweet or something foul. And I’m not sure I wouldn’t want her, one way or the other.
HER
The man is moving, all right? So, rather than keep pulling punches, I went ahead and hit him with the truth. I told him point-blank if a relationship is what you’re looking for, sweetheart, I’m not the one. But if it’s only fun and games you’re after, we might be able to work a little something out. So I ran him down the deal and watched as he struggled to hold back his horror.
Don’t get me wrong, I like Carl. If I didn’t, I never would have bothered to give him so much as the time of day. But I should have known better than to think he’d be up to the challenge. After a couple of days passed without me hearing another peep out of him, I figured he’d wised up and decided it best not to mess with what he obviously couldn’t handle.
So along comes Wednesday night, right? After my volunteering gig up at the hospital I decided to stop by the mall and check out the sale going on at the Bad Lady Boutique. I’d made my purchase and was meandering toward one of the mall’s exits when I heard this voice behind me.
“Faye? Margaret Faye Abrahams?”
I didn’t have to turn around. Recognition washed over me like a big ol’ bucket of ice water. Had I been a stronger woman maybe I could have just shaken it off and kept on strutting. But when it comes to this particular voice, and more specifically, this particular man, I’ve always had what can only be described as an irrepressible weakness.
“Scoobie, Scoobie, Scoobie” was all I could say as I turned to face his still super-fine behind.
He spread his arms and, with a smile that was even more gorgeous than I remembered, said, “It’s been, what? Eleven? Twelve years? Don’t tell me after all this time that’s the best you can do.”
And like the simple fool that being around him frequently makes me, I couldn’t help but grin and give him a hug.
He said, “Damn, girl, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again.” Then he had to go and add, “Put on a little weight, though, haven’t you?”
Being that I was considerably smaller the last time Scoobie saw me, I probably wouldn’t have minded the comment had he not been the main somebody to blame for me picking up and holding on to the forty pounds of extra flab. Or if he hadn’t been so compelled to drive the point home by slapping, squeezing, and jiggling my ass in a way that made me feel like a farm animal he intended either to mount or to ship off to market.
“Show a girl some decency and a little respect,” I said. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a public place.”
He ran his fingers alongside my jawline and said in that same soft, sweet, sexy voice that used to make me tremble, “I see the years have made you modest. That’s good, because I distinctly remember a time when there wasn’t much shame in your game when it came to me.”
“Yes, and let’s both be glad I finally grew up” is what I said on backing away from him. “Nice seeing you again, Scoobie. Who knows, maybe our paths will cross again one day when you’re ready to own up to some of that treacherous crap you did to me.”
I know the truth can hurt sometimes, but, girl, had you seen his face you’da thought I’d just hauled off and slapped him upside the head with a hammer or something. “Baby, wait,” he said. “How do you know today’s not that day? The least you could do is give me an opportunity to redeem myself. Have dinner with me tonight. My treat.”
Honey, please. I know all about Scoobie’s treats. In the past a “Scoobie treat” typically involved me paying in the end with money, time, tears, and quite frequently all three. I looked at him like he was crazy and said, “I guess you think we big girls are always on the lookout for an easy meal and a quick bone-jumping. Well, you’d best think again, because I’m neither hungry nor that durn desperate anymore, thank you.”
Really, I wasn’t trying to play hard, I just know this man. My infatuation with him dates all the way back to the summer I turned twelve, and ended the same number of years ago when he borrowed—excuse me—suckered a couple grand from me and used it to treat some other woman to a weekend in the Bahamas.
Dude told me I had him pegged all wrong. Told me there had been a lot of changes in his life since he and I were together, changes for the better. He said, “If nothing else, have a cup of coffee with me and I’ll tell you all about them.”
I told him, “Sorry, maybe some other time.”
He dashed in front of me and said, “Okay, coffee, an admittedly long overdue apology and”—he pulled out a checkbook and a pen and started scribbling—“and this, a good-faith down payment on what I owe you.”
Girl, when he ripped out that check and handed it to me, I was almost too afraid to look. But you know I did and there it was—cha-ching! Fifteen hundred big ones!
I’m sorry, girl, but between my student loans, my car payment, the mortgage, what I owe Nora, what I send to my folks, and every other durn thing that comes out of my paycheck on a monthly basis, my first instinct was to pocket the dough and hit the floor running. Instead I gathered my wits about me, handed him back the check, and just told him, “Look, there’s a Starbucks on the second floor. One cup of coffee. An apology. And no games. Got it?”
HIM
I think I told you about my Uncle Westbrook and his little handyman business, right? And how he’s kind enough to let his two favorite nephews—me and my equally broke cousin Squirrel—earn extra ends by helping him out on different projects? Even though it makes for a pretty decent part-time gig, it can still be kind of rough on an already hardworking brother, especially when it falls on the heels of his regular nine to five.
Anyway, this past Wednesday turned out to be one of those days for me. I had just clocked out of my full-time grind and was on my way home when I got word via my cousin Squirrel that Unc had some floors that needed re-finishing and some walls that needed painting if I was interested. Being that I’ve got bills to pay and a whole host of mouths to feed, I could hardly say no, so I sucked it up like any real man would and went on to make that paper.
Tired, sore, and funky as I was when I finally stumbled in later that evening, about all I had in mind was a thorough scrub down, a few dabs of Ben-Gay, and a long conversation with my pillow. I was in the process of shedding my shorts when I heard a bunch of banging at my door. Turned out to be Nora wanting
to know if I’d seen her ol’ fickle friend Faye.
In between sniffles she told me, “I’ve tried reaching her on her cell, but she’s not answering. It’s just not like her to be out this late on a weeknight without trying to call and tell me what’s up.” Then she grabbed my arm and said, “You heard about that woman that got kidnapped from that barbecue joint up on Third last week, didn’t you? And the one that got snatched a couple nights ago coming out of the library on Poplar? Well, I just heard on the news that they think it’s the same guy who grabbed both of them.”
Rather than buy into Nora’s panic, I opted for the less strenuous role of the concerned yet cautious optimist. Besides, a part of me couldn’t help but feel sorry for the joker who would unwittingly make the mistake of trying to snatch Faye up from somewhere. Hell, he’d more than likely come off better trying to wrestle with a doggone porcupine. I looked at my watch and was like, “Okay, Nora, calm down a second. It’s, what, 9:45? Have you tried calling up to the church?”
Nora screwed her face all up and said, “The church? Carl, what in the hell would Faye be doing up at church this time of night?”
Excuse me? Having noticed Faye leaving outta there round about the same time every Wednesday evening, I’d just assumed that like most good Black Baptists—excluding myself, of course—that her Wednesday-night forays had something to do with midweek Bible study.
But Nora was quick to set me straight. “Carl, Wednesday night is the night Faye goes up to the hospital.”
“The hospital? Oh, so maybe she’s just working some extra overtime or something,” I said, thinking I had it all figured out.
But that only seemed to make Nora all the more flustered. “Look, man, what Faye does every Wednesday night ain’t got nuthin’ to do with work or overtime, okay? And that’s all I’m finna say about it. If you wanna know anything else, you need to take it up with her. All right?”
After The Dance Page 4
