by Pearl Cleage
He didn't make me figure it out. “Verbal harassment and a torn screen don't make a capital crime.”
I relaxed a little. “Now you sound like a lawyer.”
He smiled slowly. “I'm not a lawyer, but I have to be clear about what I'm doing around here. It's too easy to get confused and start thinking the power is mine to do with as I please. If you're not careful in my position, you start using your power to take people out just because they're stupid or sorry or lazy or they got a smart mouth or a mean streak or they exercise bad judgment or they just can't stop lying.”
He looked at me and slowed down the rush of his words. “But that would be wrong. Those are just things thatsomepeopledo, andeverybodyhastodealwithitthe best they can. I have to be sure I only step in when some brother is acting a fool and can't be reasoned with.”
“Then you reason with him?”
“Then I do what needs to be done.”
I took a deep breath. That's what Peachy had said at the party the other night. He does what needs to be done. “And what needed to be done this weekend?”
He looked at me hard then, and his eyes were like a kaleidoscope, shifting colors until they finally stilled. “There is no question you can ask me that I won't answer, but the details of what I do aren't really worth discussing. I have accepted responsibility for the safety of a very small space, and as long as the people who live here want me to continue in that role, I will.”
“What happens if they want to go back to depending on … more traditional methods.”
“Like what?” he asked gently.
“Elected officials, the police. You know what I mean.”
“You were at the growers meeting when Precious spoke?”
I remembered feeling sorry for her powerlessness. In essence, all she could do was tell them to be careful and call the police if anybody got assaulted. “Yes. I was there.”
“And what protection could she offer? None. She's the best there is at what she does, and I respect her, but there's not a damn thing she can do by herself. Even with all the cops and all the programs and all the speeches, she needs some help from the men who live around here. She needs to know we got her back.”
“Does she approve of that arrangement?”
He grinned at me. “She didn't seem concerned about it the other night at the club, did she?”
He was right about that. She was running for governor, and she had accepted a large contribution under the auspices of Blue Hamilton. Their mutual respect had been obvious, and more important than any public acknowledgment was the fact that Precious made her home in West End. She had raised Kwame as a single mother in the same small house she still lived in a few blocks from here. She had chosen to live under Blue's informal protection.
“No, she didn't seem concerned at all,” I admitted.
“And the answer to your question is, if they asked me to stop doing what I'm doing, I would stop. And then do you know what would happen?”
Of course I knew. The predators would return. The crack houses would reopen. The war against women and children would pick up where it left off. West End would become just another black neighborhood under siege. King James and Uncle DooDoo would be in charge. I shuddered at the thought.
Blue saw me shiver and knew he had his answer. “I'm not going to let that happen,” he said quietly.
“Because you used to be an emperor?”
“Because I'm still a man.”
The simple directness of that statement was both its strength and its challenge. The signs the demonstrators carried in Memphis right before Martin Luther King was killed said only i am a man. We all knew what that meant, and we embraced it, endorsed it, longed for it. But something happened between then and now. The definition of what a man is and what a man does has been so corrupted and compromised by a pop culture that will tell you anything to sell you everything that now we have manhood defined by cars and clothes and random sex and money made by any means necessary. Blue's clear, unequivocal declaration was a throwback to a time when manhood was still tied to family and community by ribbons of love and protection and responsibility and caring. I felt myself relax again.
“Good answer,” I said, smiling.
“Was it a test?” He smiled back.
I laughed. “Probably.”
“Well, I'm glad I passed.”
His eyes were doing their trademark twinkling, and even though taking that long look the other night had made me less likely to stare, it didn't completely eliminate the problem.
“I was just going to get some dinner,” I said, reaching for my coat and my keys. “I'd love to have some company if you're free.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“I was going over to Youngblood's. That okay with you?”
Youngblood's R&B Cafe was owned by a popular Atlanta DJ whose radio career was built on oldies and whose restaurant featured photographs of the greats, assorted R&B memorabilia, and a menu featuring items like Aretha Franklin fried catfish and Al Green grouper. It was a traditional black restaurant where the sometimes slow service was forgotten as soon as the fabulous food appeared.
“Do they still have the Gene Chandler T-bone steak?”
“They sure do,” I laughed, heading out the door and taking the arm he offered.
The evening was clear, but Youngblood's was too far to walk and Blue's Lincoln was sitting out front. I couldn't imagine him sitting in the passenger seat of my little car.
“Shall I drive?” He obviously couldn't imagine it either.
“Sure,” I said, glad he had given his driver the evening off and it was going to be just the two of us. Youngblood's had good food and good music, and the night was young. This wasn't really a date, but it wasn't two buddies going out for a beer either. What it was remained to be seen, but there was no rush. Once you start entertaining the idea of past lives, real time becomes a lot less significant. We had all the time in the world.
32
WALKING INTO YOUNGBLOOD'S with Blue was like taking Denzel Washington to the prom. To use one of my father's least genteel expressions, the other patrons didn't know “whether to shit or go blind.” The hostess greeted Blue like visiting royalty and showed us to a corner booth by the window. The young waitress who came to take our drink order was so nervous she dropped the menus on the floor.
I ordered lemonade, and Blue ordered sweet tea. The flustered waitress disappeared to get the drinks while we glanced at the menu. The Gene Chandler T-bone steak was in its usual place of honor among the entrees, and I knew I was sticking with my favorite, the Mary Wells fillet of salmon, so we didn't need much time. The blackand-white photograph above our table showed Al Green at the Atlanta Civic Center, sweating and smiling and singing like his life depended on it instead of just his livelihood. At the edge of the stage women were reaching and swooning, and Al was reaching right back. I decided to come clean.
“I've seen a picture like that of you,” I said.
He smiled, but I could tell he was surprised.
“Lu showed it to me. Actually, she gave it to me.”
His smile got a little wider. “Why would she do that?”
“I found a picture of her father with Son Davis, and when I gave it to her, she gave me one back. Sort of like an even exchange.”
The waitress returned with our drinks, her eyes still bugged out with amazement at who was sitting at her station, and, being so-o-o-o careful not to spill a drop. She took our orders and disappeared again.
“So what did you do with it?” Blue said, sipping his tea.
Why hadn't I anticipated the question and prepared a feasible answer? My mind was a complete blank. I had no choice but to tell him the truth. “I … I put it on my refrigerator.”
He smiled at me in a way that made me feel like I'd been caught with an autograph book in my purse. “Oh?”
“I kept trying to square the guy in the picture with the guy who lives across the hall from me.”
“Not
possible,” he said with a low chuckle.
“It has to be possible,” I said. “You are both of those guys. I saw you at Club Zebra, remember, or was that your evil twin?”
“No twin,” he said, laughing. “But that guy is a creation of my imagination who stimulates the imaginations of a lot of women at the same time. Some of it is stuff I practiced so I'd get good at it, but a lot of it is just something I was born with, like these eyes.”
“Do you think of yourself as charismatic?”
“Sure. Don't you think I am?”
I really blushed then, and he had his answer. “Yes, I do,” I said, trying to sound casual and failing. “That's what made me want to look at that picture Lu gave me enough to put it on the fridge.”
“A place of honor …”
“Always,” I said. “And then after I saw you the other night …”
What was I trying to tell him? That I don't trust the power that charismatic people wield as their birthright? That I don't fault them for it—Shaq didn't ask to be tall— but Beth taught me a valuable lesson and I didn't want to forget it. What you see when you look at people who are, like Blue said, just born with something special, is not always what you get.
I took another deep breath and nodded toward Al Green. “What does it feel like to have that kind of effect on people?”
Blue considered the question. “It feels great,” he said finally. “When it all goes right, it's an amazing exchange. Good sex is the only thing that even comes close, but that's the problem.”
“Good sex is the problem?” I've heard it described as many things, but a problem is not on the short list.
He chuckled again at my shocked expression. “Not exactly. More like the lack of it. I realized that what I was doing with the music was making women feel trusting, vulnerable, open to persuasion.”
He was right about that. A male friend of mine at Howard always said he liked to take women to see the crooners in concert because by the end of the show they were so filled with romantic fantasies and sexual longings that he was practically guaranteed a night of wonderful lovemaking. “Brian McKnight can't take home but one lady,” is how he put it. “All the rest are available.” Blue was talking about the “McKnight effect.”
“Why is that a problem?” I asked, after our waitress brought our orders and refilled our glasses without being asked. Didn't Blue know that those fantasies are part of why we go to concerts in the first place?
“Because too many women were going home to men who used that vulnerability against them. Who didn't build on those good feelings once the show was over. Who didn't understand that there's always supposed to be an exchange going on. That's the beauty of it. The exchange.”
His face clouded, and his food was untouched. The waitress hovered, but she left us alone when neither one of us gestured in her direction.
“But too many brothers don't get it. They're still trying to trick women into loving them instead of understanding that if you make a woman feel comfortable whatever idea she comes up with is going to please you, too.”
That sounded promising. I nodded and took a sip of my lemonade.
“I knew the women who came to see me sing had a lot to give and nobody around to give it to who would appreciate the gift. That's not going to be a fair exchange.”
He sounded like he had been listening to the endless conversations I've had with my girlfriends about this very problem.
“It seemed to me that there were some basic things we needed to get straight among the brothers before we'd even be worthy of all black women were prepared to give us for almost nothing in return.”
“Things like what?” I said, taking a bite of my Mary Wells and trying to stay calm. The idea of a fine, strong, smart, talented man trying to figure out how to be worthy of some black woman's affections made me practically giddy.
“Like the way we talk to you. Like all the hitting and terrorizing of you all that we do. Like the lying and the bullshit. Like the way we treat our kids.”
He was ticking off every woman's secret list of things we'd like to fix in the men we'd like to love. “Is that the other reason you came off the road?”
He nodded slowly, and his eyes looked sad. “It just didn't seem fair. If I was making a promise my brothers weren't prepared to keep, I was as bad as they were.”
The waitress couldn't stand it anymore. She eased back over with a look of concern on her face, her eyes flickering over Blue's untouched plate.
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything's fine,” he said. “Thanks.”
She hesitated, then took a deep breath and went for it. “Mr. Hamilton?”
“Yes?”
“My aunt said you are her favorite singer of all time. She's always talking about how you're the reason she married my uncle.”
He smiled up at her. “And how did I do that?”
“They went to see you at the Royal Peacock, and when he proposed afterward, she said she didn't know if she was saying yes to him or to you!”
Blue laughed. “Is he good to her?”
The waitress nodded vigorously. “They been married twelve years and the way he always sending flowers and kissing on her, you'd think they was still in high school.”
“Well, you tell your aunt I said thanks,” Blue said. “And tell your uncle I said keep doing what he's doing. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.”
She giggled. “I'll tell him. And … could you sign a menu for me to give her?” She thrust one in his direction. “It would mean a lot to her.”
“Sure,” Blue said, accepting her pen and smiling apologetically at me across the table as I munched on my baked potato. “Excuse me.”
“No problem,” I said, smiling at the waitress so she wouldn't think I had an attitude. I was loving it.
“What's your aunt's name?”
“Sweetie.”
He looked at the young woman, the pen poised above the paper. “Her real name is Sweetie?”
The girl looked embarrassed. “No, but that's what everybody calls her and she'll kill me if I let you sign it to Theola Mae.”
Blue chuckled. “All right, Sweetie it is.”
In the empty corner near the desserts, he wrote: “To Sweetie, my number one fan. Yours truly, Blue Hamilton.”
He handed it back to the waitress, who beamed. “She gonna love this, Mr. Blue. … I mean, Mr. Hamilton. Now all I gotta do is sneak this menu out so Youngblood won't try to keep it!”
Blue reached in his pocket and handed the girl a hundred-dollar bill. “Tell him I paid for it.”
She blinked her eyes in amazement. “How much you think a menu cost anyway?” she whispered.
“About a buck and half, tops,” Blue said calmly. “Why don't you keep the change?”
“Oh, my God! Thank you, sir! Thank you for the autograph and for the tip. Thank you, thank you. …” She backed away, still beaming.
Blue grinned at me.
“Sweetie lucked out,” I said. “Does that make you feel any better?”
“I'll tell you what would make me feel even better.”
“What's that?”
“If you would ride down to the beach with me this weekend.”
For somebody like me, who has always wanted to live within walking distance of the ocean, this was like saying, Want to ride down to paradise for the weekend?
I tried to play it cool. “What beach?”
“Tybee Island,” he said. “It's right outside of Savannah. About four hours from here. Peachy's wife's birthday is this Saturday, and I don't want him to spend it by himself. This is the first one since she passed.”
“I'd love to,” I said. “I had a good time with him at the party.”
“He told me.”
“I have to be back for a meeting at the college first thing Monday morning. Is that okay?”
“No problem,” he said, looking pleased that I had accepted his invitation. “We can go up early Saturday morning and be back by Sunday
night if you want. I've got a house down there and there's plenty of room for guests.”
“You've got a beach house?”
He nodded. “It's got four bedrooms, although Lu has got a pretty strong claim on one of the ones downstairs.”
That way, he let me know Flora and Lu had already been his overnight guests. Their past presence certified the place as a woman-safe zone. I appreciated his sensitivity.
“I won't take Lu's room,” I said.
He smiled. “I think I've eaten my fill. Shall we get our strawberry shortcake to go?”
I laughed. “Our waitress will probably offer to carry it out to the car.”
He raised his hand at the young waitress, who hurried over to see what else he might need. Sweetie's decades of devotion were about to be repaid not only with an autograph, but a story she and her niece would tell forever. It would begin with, He walked in just like anybody else would, and end with, And he handed me a hundreddollar bill like it was no more than a five and told me if it ain't broke don't fix it.
The thing about Blue was that the flip side of that also held true. He was about the mammoth task of trying to fix what was broke; of trying to rebuild the trust and rekindle the love, one woman at a time, starting with me. Not bad for a slow Tuesday night at Youngblood's.
33
WHEN PRECIOUS HARGROVE CALLED and said she needed to see me, I agreed immediately. She said she had something to show me and it couldn't wait. Of course, I knew it was about Beth. There was no other urgent business possible between me and the senator. What had Beth done now in her quest for open options and deals with the devil?
We agreed to meet at Soul Veg for a cup of late afternoon tea. When I walked in at just after three, Precious was the only person there. She waved, and I grabbed a cup of peppermint tea and joined her at a booth near the big front windows. It seemed appropriate that we could watch our neighbors going by as we talked. All you can see from Beth's house is trees.
“Thanks for coming,” Precious said as I slid in across from her. Her expression was hard for me to read, but she was unhappy about something. That much was clear.
