Disappearing Acts

by Terry McMillan

  “Not Miss Guru herself?”

  “Go to hell, Portia.”

  “Come on, Zora, cut the bullshit. Don’t tell me you gon’ turn out to be one of these women they write about in New Woman, Today’s Woman, Tomorrow’s Woman, Anybody’s Woman.…” She started laughing. “Seriously, girlfriend. You heard what they been saying about women who want success so bad they can taste it?”

  “What?”

  “When it’s finally staring ’em in the face, they get scared. All of a sudden, they don’t feel worthy and shit, start fuckin’ everything up or doubting themselves so much that they don’t get what they started out to get. Please don’t turn out to be one of them, Zora. Hell, when I first met you, all I heard was, ‘I know I can sing. And one day I’m going to sing to a roomful of people, and folks’ll push me into their cassettes while they’re laying on the beach and driving down the highway.’ Didn’t you used to tell me that shit like it was going outta style?”

  “I guess.” The waitress came to take our order. I was starving, so I ordered a spinach salad and linguini with clam sauce. Portia changed her mind about the scampi and ordered a steak. “It’ll still be a while before we actually go into the studio. It’s just so damn expensive.”

  “So what! You’re worth it, ain’t you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “All right, then. Anyway, back to Arthur. It ain’t nothing, girl. I just feel like being kept for a little while. The man is only five foot six, so you know I ain’t serious. He’s got some nice friends, though.”

  “Where was his wife on New Year’s?”

  “In South Carolina with her family. Her Mama got high blood pressure or something. But who gives a shit.”

  “What a terrible thing to say, Portia.”

  “You always got to be Miss Goody Two-shoes, don’t you?”

  I didn’t answer her. Franklin should be getting home soon, and I’m praying that he’ll have good news. Not about a job. He went to that trade school to talk to a counselor, and I’m hoping it went well.

  “Zora, snap out of it, girl. You seen Marie?”

  “No. She was supposed to stop by for a drink on New Year’s, but I haven’t heard from her.”

  “She’s probably in a gutter somewhere. Maybe I’ll stop by to check on her. We need to do something to get that girl in AA, I swear.”

  “She won’t go. Marie swears up and down that she doesn’t have a problem.”

  “Problem ain’t the word for it! Shit, some nights I’ve talked to her and she made perfect sense. But the next day? She can’t remember shit. I’ll let you know what I find out. What about Claudette—you talk to that bitch?”

  “She had a baby boy.”

  “La-di-ta-ta.”

  All during dinner, I kept looking at the clock. It was almost seven, and rush hour should’ve been over by now. I wanted to call Franklin, to let him know I was on my way. “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” I said. “Be back in a minute.”

  “The phone is right outside the door, girlfriend.”

  Portia makes me sick.

  Franklin answered on the second ring.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Where you at?”

  “In the Village, having dinner with Portia.”

  “What time you gon’ be home?”

  “In about an hour. How did it go?”

  “How did what go?”

  “The consultation at school.”

  “Can we talk about it when you get home?”

  “Sure.”

  “What am I supposed to eat while you eating out?”

  “Franklin, there’s plenty of stuff to eat around there. Did you look?”

  “I thought that was your job.”

  “My job?”

  “Yeah. The way you laid it out to me, you said you’d always do the cooking, or did the rules change?”

  “Look, Franklin, I just called to see how things went and to let you know I was on my way.”

  “Well, consider getting here soon, would you?”

  “Goodbye, Franklin,” I said, and hung up. Why’d I even bother? I went back to sit down, and Portia was eating her salad, which she always saves until last. She looked up at me with disgust. “Well, did he tell you to get your ass home ’cause he was hungry and you his woman and he can’t eat unless you cook, or what?”

  “Go to hell, Portia.”

  “You need to check yourself, girlfriend. Your whole world is starting to revolve around this man. Don’t nobody see you no more, and I’m surprised you was able to sneak out the house today. But hell, you can’t even have dinner in peace without running to the phone to check in.”

  “It’s not like that at all. All I was doing was trying to find out how things went for him at school today.”

  “Sure, Zora. You even starting to fool yourself. You better be careful, or you gon’ start disappearing a little bit at a time, and before you know it, you gon’ be just like them damn Stepford Wives. Won’t even remember who Zora Banks was.”

  “How can you be so presumptuous? You don’t know what my relationship is about with Franklin.”

  “That’s the whole point. You used to share shit with me, Marie, and Claudette. Now everything you do is such a big fuckin’ secret.”

  My temples were throbbing. I hadn’t planned on telling her, but all of a sudden I wanted her to know. “I had a seizure a few months ago.”

  Portia dropped her fork. “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened, girl? Where?”

  “At home, and yes, Franklin knows.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. What did he do?”

  “He took care of me, that’s what. He was a little upset that I hadn’t told him I had it.”

  “And?”

  “And he said he could handle it.”

  “No shit.”

  “He still wants to marry me.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  Portia leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “How soon?”

  Now my entire face was burning. Portia was right. I did use to share everything with her, because she was my friend, but since I’ve been with Franklin, I’ve kept things pretty much to myself. And I know why. Sometimes your friends judge you harsher than anybody else, and I didn’t want her, Marie, or Claudette to get the wrong impression: that I was a fool for falling in love with a man who never finished high school, who worked sporadically, and who was still married. “When he gets his divorce,” I blurted out.

  “His what?”

  “You heard me. Divorce. Franklin’s been separated from his first wife for almost seven years now, but they’ve just never bothered with the paperwork.”

  “You’re bullshitting me, Zora. You mean he’s married?”

  “I don’t look at it like that.”

  “I guess the fuck you don’t. But I ain’t gon’ rub this in your face, girlfriend. At least now I know you ain’t Little Miss Muffet after all.”

  “He is getting it, Portia. He just hasn’t had the money.”

  “That’s the best one I’ve heard yet. Is he working?”

  “Yes, he’s working. What made you ask that?”

  “Don’t lie to me, Zora. If you supporting this motherfucker and busting your ass trying to please him too, this probably ain’t gon’ be the last seizure you gon’ have.”

  “I’m not supporting him and never have.”

  “Sure. Anyway, so it didn’t scare him off, huh?”

  “No, it didn’t. The man loves me, Portia.”

  “Shit, you’re a good catch. You’re pretty, got a college degree, a steady job, and on the verge of getting rich and famous. So you have a little seizure every four years. Gain a few too many pounds once in a while. Big deal. If I was a man, I’d probably be in love with your black ass too. Now the question is, can you fuck?”

  She started chuckling, but I di
dn’t think it was funny.

  “You’ve got tunnel vision, you know that, Portia?”

  “Well, maybe if I got to know the man, I wouldn’t be so prejudiced. But you ain’t doing too bad a job of hiding him either.”

  “Look. I’ll tell you what: Are you free next weekend?”

  “I can be. Why?”

  “Because I feel like inviting a few people over. We can have dinner, play Scrabble, and just sit around and talk.”

  “Sounds good to me. I can bring a date, can’t I?”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “It ain’t too many places I like going unescorted.”

  “You want to know something, Portia?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “If you had a man that was a permanent fixture in your life, you’d understand that when you love someone, it takes a certain amount of compromise and compassion. That was compassion, not passion, which is the only part of the word you seem to be familiar with. And I’m not disappearing, as you put it; I’m just giving what I have to offer.”

  “And what’s that?”

  I stood up and put my coat on, then dropped money on the table. “Love,” I said. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “I’m sure you do,” she said. “I’m sure you do.”

  * * *

  Franklin was eating ravioli out of the can when I walked in, and listening to Stephanie Mills’s “I Can’t Give Back the Love I Feel for You.” I tried not to take it personally.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said back. I prayed that this wouldn’t turn into yet another deep conversation. I need a break. What I wouldn’t pay to come home for a change to a happy man who had had a great day. Who maybe had dinner ready, a bouquet of flowers, some soft music.

  “Before this turn into a long discussion, baby, all I gotta say is, I didn’t go talk to nobody, ’cause I can’t prove I got my GED.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t prove it?”

  “I don’t know where the fuck I put it.”

  “Don’t you keep important papers like that in a safe place?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t have to look for it, would I?”

  “Well, you can call the place where you got it, and they could send you a copy.”

  “That’s the problem. I can’t even remember the name of the damn place. It was some correspondence school in Jersey, and we talking about a few years ago. Look, I’m sorry for taking this out on you over the phone.” He set the empty can on the counter. “But I’ma be honest, Zora. Sometimes when you with your girlfriends and I feel like I need you here with me, I do get a little jealous. But just take it with a grain of salt, baby, would you?”

  “Okay,” I said, relieved. “Would you mind if I invited a few friends over for dinner this weekend?”

  “No. I don’t mind.”

  “Really?”

  “Why you acting so surprised? Damn, you’d think I told you I didn’t want your friends over here. Did I ever give you that impression?”

  “No.”

  “So invite ’em. You know, I been meaning to ask you. What ever happened to that white girl that was supposed to be moving here?”

  “Judy? She’s living in Manhattan.”

  “Well, how come she ain’t been over?”

  “Our schedules just never coincide, that’s all, and with her new job, she works long hours.”

  “Invite her over too. What the hell.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you invite your friends too?”

  “I don’t know how to get in touch with Jimmy, and Lucky moved in with some chick. I don’t know where he lives now.”

  “What about Darlene?”

  “I’ll call her.”

  “Good,” I said. “You feel like a game of Scrabble?” I really didn’t feel like playing, but I thought it might take his mind off things, cheer him up.

  “Not tonight, baby. I need to look through some of my old boxes. One of my biggest problems in life is being too fuckin’ unorganized. If I find it, I can probably start school this summer.” He walked over to the closet. “Ow!” he said, while he pulled a box out into the living room.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My knee.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s swollen, like I got arthritis in it or something. I don’t know. Feel.”

  I went over to touch it through his jeans, but it didn’t feel any different than the other one. “Does it hurt?”

  “Yeah, but it comes and goes. Right now it feels like somebody’s sticking needles in it. I just need to get some of my weight off of it, that’s all.”

  “Why don’t you lie down for a while?”

  “Will you lay down with me?”

  “I really should work on my song for a while. Reginald’ll be mad as I don’t know what if I’m not ready on Thursday.”

  “All I been hearing is you singing from behind closed doors. You mind if I listen while I go through one of these boxes?”

  “No, I don’t mind. Come on.”

  I went and sat down at the piano, and Franklin sat on the floor. I was wondering if his knee really hurt all that bad, considering the way he folded his legs. Then I remembered the first time I sang for him. It was in this room. God, does time fly. I was scared to death of what his reaction would be, but now I’m just glad he’s still in my audience. I sang a ballad I’d written, “Take It or Leave It”—sort of a cross between Joni Mitchell, Patti LaBelle, and me. When I finished, I was drenched with perspiration and tingling. It felt great. Cleansing. If only I could feel like this all the time. I slid the stool away from the piano and looked down at Franklin. He was stacking up piles of paper.

  “Well?”

  “You definitely star material, baby,” he said.

  “You liked it?”

  “Who wouldn’t like it? Those classes is paying off.”

  “Well, I just hope I can get a record contract.”

  I wanted him to say something, but he didn’t. He was too busy sifting through papers.

  “Franklin?”

  “Yeah, baby.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “No, I didn’t hear you. My knee is really killing me.”

  “Well, take a Tylenol.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “Now, what’d you just say?”

  “I said, I just hope I can get a record contract.”

  “Yeah, baby, I hope you do too. Maybe I should lay down for a few minutes. You coming?”

  “In a few minutes,” I said, and reluctantly started folding up my sheet music. Franklin stood up with ease. There’s nothing wrong with your knee, I thought. What’s really killing you is me.

  * * *

  The next evening, Franklin’s wife phoned. It had been a while since Pam called, and I knew he’d be pissed, because the only time she calls is when she needs money. As usual, I was cordial.

  “Franklin!” I called out for the second time. He was in the bathroom, reading the paper.

  “I’m coming, baby.”

  I handed him the phone. “It’s Pam.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and I walked away to give him some privacy, even though this apartment isn’t that big, so voices carry. “Your insurance won’t cover it? I ain’t got that much,” he said. Then I smelled cigarette smoke. Franklin always has to smoke when he talks to her. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow. Yeah. Later.” When I heard the phone being placed in the cradle, I walked back out into the living room.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Derek ran into some little boy on his bike, and the boy broke his damn arm, and Pam’s gotta fork up some cash if she don’t wanna get sued, so you know who’s gotta pay, right?”

  “Is Derek okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s all right.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough so we won’t be getting no car no time soon.”

  “Don’t worry about a car, Franklin. We’ve done without one all this time; a few more months won’t
hurt.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, baby. Every time I get a dollar, somebody got their fuckin’ hand out. A black man just can’t get ahead, can he?”

  “Are you still going over to the school to talk to a counselor?”

  “I said I was, didn’t I?”

  “And you’ll tell ’em you can’t find your certificate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  “What’s so good about it?”

  “Everything. I’m sure they’ll be willing to make some kind of exception, Franklin. I mean, who would lie about something like this? There has to be a way they can verify it through the Department of Education. I mean, really.”

  He reached under the kitchen cabinet and poured himself a stiff one. I wanted to ask if he thought that was a good idea, but I didn’t want to start an argument. Sometimes Franklin does things ass-backward, but I have to be careful about how I criticize him. He’s so sensitive and takes everything as a personal attack. I’ve learned that the best way to avoid confrontation is by keeping my mouth shut.

  I was hungry, even though I’d finished dinner less than an hour ago. I opened the freezer, took out a pint of vanilla Häagen-Dazs, and scooped out two big humps.

  “Still a little hungry, are we?” he asked.

  “A little,” I said.

  “See you in a little while, baby,” he said, and gave me a peck on the cheek. I sat there and ate the ice cream without tasting it. When I finished, my stomach still felt empty. I walked back to the freezer and pulled the pint out again, but this time I didn’t bother putting any into the bowl. I ate from the carton. The next thing I knew, I was throwing the empty container into the trash. At that very moment, it dawned on me what I’d just done. I ran to the bathroom and stood on the scale. One forty-nine. How did I gain ten pounds?

  I felt antsy. I should read something, to relax. But not the newspaper, not Essence and not People and not Rolling Stone. I needed a sustained form of escape. I needed to stop thinking about myself for a while. To simply unplug all the wires that were beginning to short-circuit inside my head. I mean, things had started out so simple between me and Franklin. We fell in love. And it felt so good. But he’s married. And I have fits. He’s got employment troubles. And I would really like to be able to quit my job. There’s a chance I could be a successful singer. And he’s not sure what he really wants to do or just how he’s going to do it. He drinks too much. And I’m starting with the food again. Our lives have gotten so thick that my head is beginning to feel like it’s full of cotton. I just wish I knew how all of this was going to turn out.