* * *
I called in sick.
I took the subway to the Women’s Center in Manhattan and cried all the way there. After the test, I sat in the waiting room with twenty or thirty other women. Some of the men paced. This was the very same place where I’d had my last abortion. No matter how many times I blinked, I kept seeing that table, those white gowns, that IV bottle, and the plastic needle in my arm. My mouth was beginning to taste like gas, and I heard somebody say, “Start counting backward from a hundred.” “I can’t,” I said out loud, and a few people looked at me. I cannot climb up on one of those tables again. I had promised myself that that would be the last time. Besides, how many times can you do it without feeling guilty? Once. Twice. Three or four times? Isn’t it about time, Zora, to grow up and take responsibility for your actions?
“Zora Banks,” a voice called.
I jumped up. My heart was racing, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting in a little beige room. The young blond woman was all in white, and in her hands was a little white dial.
“Have a seat.”
I sat down, I think. I looked around the room. There were pictures of little unborn babies at different stages, and a plastic sculpture of a fetus.
“How do you feel?” she asked me.
“Nervous.”
“Well, I hope I’ve got good news for you,” she said, turning the arrow on the little dial. “Your baby—if you choose to have it—will be born right around New Year’s.”
Be born. Be born. Your baby will be born. I couldn’t say anything. I was trying hard not to cry, and she looked over at me real nice and put her hands on top of mine.
“You’re not happy about this, honey?”
“Did you say my baby will be born around New Year’s?”
“If everything is accurate, you’re about six weeks pregnant, which gives you a delivery date of January first.”
Delivery date. Deliver me. Six weeks. Pregnant. Me. So it was real. Me. Six weeks pregnant. And with Franklin’s baby.
“Do you need some time to think about this?”
Something weird started happening. My heart was beginning to feel lighter and lighter. Instead of my feeling burdened by the whole notion of giving birth to a child by a man I loved, all of a sudden it made perfect sense. It was time for me to do this, and regardless of what the outcome, I was going to do it. I looked at the embryos on the wall and tried to imagine what mine looked like. I was going to have a baby. For the first time in a long, long time, it felt like I was actually going to finish something I had started and would be able to see tangible results.
“Ms. Banks, are you all right? Do you need some time to think about this?”
“No,” I said, feeling a grin emerge on my face. I stood up and looked down at her.
“Well, you’re smiling,” she said.
“It looks like I’m going to be a mother,” I said.
I walked forty blocks before I realized I’d walked at all. Just like that, I had made a decision to bring a life into the world. Me. A mother. My whole life was about to change, by one decision. I stopped at Forty-eighth and Madison and went into a Japanese restaurant. I ate twenty dollars’ worth of sushi. There are plenty of women who sing and have children, I thought. Daddy’ll be happy, once Franklin and I are married. Me married. By the time I paid the check, I felt as if someone had shot me up with laughing gas.
Once I got outside, it seemed like everything that was green was now a bright metallic green. I could actually smell the tiny trees, diamonds bounced up from the sidewalk, people smiled at me, and I just knew that everybody could tell I was going to be a mother. When I got home, I called my neurologist and told him I was pregnant and that I hadn’t been on any medication in over four years. I didn’t mention the few pills I’d taken a while back; I assumed they wouldn’t make a difference, because the last time I went to take one, I noticed they had expired the year before. I told him I’d had only one seizure, after having drunk some alcohol, and he said that there was no way he could predict what was going to happen. Since my disorder wasn’t inherited and because I wasn’t on any medication, he thought it might be in my best interest to start taking it again. Fuck him, I thought. My chances of having a normal baby and even a normal pregnancy were a helluva lot higher without phenobarbital flowing through my bloodstream and into my baby. He suggested that throughout the pregnancy my doctor monitor my blood pressure. That I’d see to.
* * *
The rest of the day dragged on and on. Don’t work any overtime today, Franklin, please. He walked in the door early—it was four o’clock.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said back. Then I smiled at him.
He smiled and his dimples dug into his cheeks. Not saying a word, he walked over and put his hand on my belly and made circles. Then he put his arms around me and pulled me in. His warm lips pressed against my cheek, and then he pulled away and stroked my hair. His eyes were glassy, but he wasn’t crying. He bent his head down and put his lips against my ear. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
18
Zora’s getting fat and lazy. Sickening, really. Every time I look up, she pulling up her blouse, staring at her stomach in the mirror. She’s taking this baby shit a little too far, if you ask me. Her titties is even juicier now, only she can’t stand for me to touch ’em. I got to beg for the pussy too, ’cause if she ain’t too tired to participate, she “just don’t feel anything down there now.” I swear to God, you’d think she was the first woman on earth to ever be pregnant. I’m just glad the whole thing don’t take no longer than nine months; we got five more to go.
I already warned her: “If you turn into blubber after the kid is born, we gon’ have problems.” So far, all she been craving is fruit salad, but like they say, it ain’t over till the fat lady sing. The thing I do like is how much she starting to look like a peach. What they say about pregnant women is true, I guess, ’cause Zora is definitely glowing.
She ain’t said another word to me about the divorce except, “If we aren’t married by the time the baby gets here, we’re going to have even bigger problems. But I’m not going to mention it again.” I took this as a threat. The real deal is, she just worried about what the fuck everybody gon’ think. She must not realize that this is the eighties, and don’t nobody really give a fuck. All the movie stars is having babies and they ain’t got no husband, but she says, “I’m not a movie star.” And all I said was, “Yes, you are, but don’t worry about it, baby.”
She done even put her singing on hold, ’cause she said she’s too worn out after she get outta school to catch the train all the way to Manhattan. Hell, that was one night a week I could count on being by myself. And I miss it.
* * *
“Let’s do something,” she said. We was playing Scrabble, and she was kicking my ass for a change.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like go to the jazz festival in Saratoga. Spend the weekend. We haven’t done anything this whole summer, Franklin.”
“When is it?”
“In two weeks.”
“Get the tickets, then.”
“Are you sure you’d like to go?”
“Yeah. Who’s gon’ be there?”
“Chaka Khan, Gladys, B. B. King, Ray Charles, Pat Metheny, and I forget who else, but it’s a great lineup.”
“How much will the whole thing cost?”
“I don’t know, but what difference does it make?”
“I told you I’m looking for a car.”
“Here we go again with this car business.”
“Okay. So when your ass go in labor, you want me to call a cab, or we can catch the subway—is that how you wanna get to the hospital?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. It’s your turn, baby.”
“We don’t have to go, Franklin.”
“I wanna go. And you right, we ain’t done nothing exciting all summer, and we could stand to break this shit
up.”
“Are you bored?”
“Did I say I was bored?”
“No, but the tone of your voice is hinting at it.”
“I could just use some pussy tonight, if you wanna know the truth.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t wanna play no more. You won. Come on.”
“Franklin!”
I was already getting up. Shit. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said, and started putting away the letters.
I was on top of the covers, waiting for her to do her shit. I ain’t never seen a woman got to go through so much preparation just to give her man some pussy. But I waited.
“Promise you won’t pull too hard or bite my nipples.”
“I promise.”
“And you won’t jab me.”
One more word, and Tarzan was gon’ deflate. “Get in the bed, Zora.”
She got in and put her arms around me. I rolled over on top of her.
“Franklin, you’re hurting my stomach. Move up some.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said, and put all my weight on my palms and pressed ’em against the sheet. I tried to put it in.
“Ouch, Franklin.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not even ready for this,” she said.
“You ain’t never ready. Just be quiet for a minute, would you?”
I licked my fingers and then rubbed them against her. She was still dry as hell when I tried it again, so I got up and went to get the Vaseline and smeared that all over it and Tarzan. This time, it slid right in. She was hugging Tarzan tight, but she wasn’t helping none. So I just took off.
Ten minutes later, I rolled off of her.
“Did you feel anything this time?” I asked.
“You don’t wanna know,” she said.
She turned her back to me, and that’s when I realized she had been crying, ’cause my neck was wet and I wasn’t doing no sweating.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
“What makes you think something is wrong?” She still wouldn’t turn toward me.
“You crying?”
“No, I’m not crying. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Yes, you are. Turn around here.” I reached to turn her toward me, and any fool could see them big crocodiles, even in the dark.
“Talk to me, Zora. What’s wrong?”
“I feel like a piece of meat.”
“Why?”
“Because for the past month all you’ve been doing is asking me to fuck you, and then when I do you just hop on top of me and bang me for a few minutes and then roll off, just like you did tonight.”
“But you said you wasn’t getting nothin’ out of it, so I was trying to spare you.”
“Franklin, you don’t kiss me or touch me like you used to do. Did it ever occur to you that that might help?”
“Shit, every time I put my hands somewhere, you say it hurts. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“Hold me sometimes.”
I reached over and put my arms around her. She was asleep before I knew it. I sat up and lit a cigarette and looked down at her. Is this what I gotta look forward to for the next five months?
19
“You’re what?”
“You heard me—pregnant.”
“Damn,” Portia said. “And you gon’ have it and shit?”
“I’m four and a half months—I guess so.”
“So when you and Franklin getting married?”
“Before it gets here.”
“Well, girlfriend, I think we’re on the same wavelength.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“When’s your due date?” she asked.
“January first—can you believe it?”
“Mine is December eighth.”
“What did you just say?”
“I said, ‘Mine is December eighth.’”
“Wait a minute. Portia?”
“I’m here.” She was laughing.
“I know damn well you’re not telling me you’re pregnant too.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I can’t believe this shit. You, Portia? Miss Never-settle-down herself?”
“Who said I was settling down?”
“Whose is it?”
“Arthur’s.”
“But he’s married.”
“So what? So is Franklin.” I know she didn’t mean to, but it felt like she just slapped me in the face.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Portia. But I mean, tell me the particulars, girl. Franklin’s in the process of getting his divorce. What’re you and Arthur gonna do?”
“I don’t want him to get a divorce.”
“Are you crazy?”
“No. I don’t love him. When I missed my period, I just said fuck it. This time out, I’m going through with it.”
“Does he know?”
“Hell, yeah, and he’s excited as hell. His wife knows too. Simple bitch. He wants to get a divorce and shit, but I told him to keep his little ass right where he is.”
“But what and how…”
“Look, girlfriend. I ain’t gon’ be the first woman out here by myself with a child. Arthur’s loaded. He’s already giving me money. I could quit my job right now if I wanted to. This baby is already paid for; and he’s starting to get on my nerves. I told you he was a fool, didn’t I?”
“So why do you want to have his baby?”
“Because I’m tired, girlfriend.”
“Tired of what?”
“Of running the streets, of getting high, or not doing anything constructive with my life. This is important.”
“I don’t believe this shit.”
“Believe it, girlfriend. And believe that I’m getting the fuck outta New York too.”
“And going where?”
“Back to Nashville.”
“Get the hell outta here, Portia. Why? And when?”
“Because I wouldn’t raise a dog here, that’s why. I’m leaving before Labor Day, that much I do know.”
“Did you tell your parents already?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“They’re happy for me. Big Daddy was ready to take the train up here and kill, until I set him straight. I told him this was my decision, that I wasn’t no damn baby, I was just having one. Simple as that. My Mama been here herself, so she just told me to come on home, where I’d be safe.”
“I can’t believe this. Portia McDonald pregnant?”
“Shit, look at you.”
“I haven’t told anyone except the school. As a matter of fact, I lied, Portia.”
“To who about what?”
“The school. I told them I got married over the Fourth of July.”
“Why? You ain’t gotta lie about no shit like that. Girl, this is the twentieth century. If you wanna have a baby with no husband, that’s your fuckin’ business. They can’t fire you.”
“I know that. It’s just kind of embarrassing. I never planned on having a baby without being married, you know.”
“Shit, I never planned on having a baby, period,” she said.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? That’s what I wanna know.”
“’Cause I wanted to make sure it was too late to change my mind. Friends have a way of influencing you, and I didn’t wanna be influenced. I wanted to make a decision like this all by myself for a change.”
I swear, this did not sound like the Portia I knew. But when she said, “Look, girlfriend, let’s get together and compare guts,” I knew it was her.
* * *
There are some things in life you dread having to do. Facing opposition is one. Or your Daddy. I couldn’t figure out how to tell him over the phone, and I decided to just wait. I couldn’t lie to him about being married. That would be like asking God for something I didn’t deserve or need, so I decided to wait.
* * *
Franklin was working overtime, as usual, and for some reason I found myself sitting in
my music room in front of the piano. I’ve missed my voice classes, even though I’ve pretended I haven’t. What’s funny is that since I’ve been pregnant, it seems like I feel everything two or three times as much. I’ve written at least five good songs in my first trimester alone, and I can’t lie: writing ’em felt almost as good as singing ’em.
I pushed Play on the tape.
I’ve been out on this cliff before
with men who swore they could
teach me how to fly
so I jumped off
while they peeked over
and watched me hit
the bottom from way up high.
Was that really me, sounding like Odetta? I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. “Don’t,” I said aloud, but my heart just refused to cooperate. To tell the truth, I didn’t know why I was crying. I turned off the tape and sat there on the bench. Then the weirdest thing happened. I felt something flutter in my stomach. I was trying to figure out what I’d eaten that might’ve caused this, but before I could think about it, it happened again. I put my hand over my stomach and waited. I felt it move again. At that moment, two things occurred at once. Number one was that there was something coming to life inside me. And number two, I was scared as hell.
20
I took the day off, went out, and bought myself a pair of black linen pants and a good white shirt to wear to the concert. I trimmed my mustache and shaved extra close and wore Zora’s favorite cologne. Even with her little round belly, she still looks pretty. Since I can finally see the evidence of my work, it’s beginning to sink in that I’m gon’ be a daddy again. Ain’t no sense in me lying—I didn’t really plan on having no more kids, but I love Zora and I wanna keep her. I guess this was one way of guaranteeing it.
* * *
I had to help her up the bus steps. She wobbled down the aisle and took a seat by the window, then I sat down. As usual, my legs wouldn’t fit, so I stuck my knees out in the aisle. They don’t make seats on buses and shit for tall people. All the motherfuckers that designed public transportation musta been under six feet.
But we was on our way.
For the first time since we been together, I was paying for everything—the concert, the hotel, food, even this bus ride—and it felt good. Zora fell asleep on my shoulder, and for two of the four hours’ worth of the ride, she squeezed my hand in her hand. Even though she ain’t giving up the pussy like she used to, I still ain’t never been with a woman as sensuous as her. I squeezed her hand back and stroked her hair until the bus pulled into this rinky-dink station. “We here, baby,” I said. And she sprung up.
Disappearing Acts Page 29
