Disappearing Acts

by Terry McMillan

  “I thought that was one of the reasons for joining.”

  “I ain’t never said getting in the union guaranteed me no job.”

  “I know that, but you said it’d be easier.”

  “All I said was it guaranteed they gotta pay you union wages, and you get benefits.”

  “But don’t they look out for you?”

  “Yeah, if you ain’t black.”

  “Don’t start that again, Franklin. You use that as an excuse for everything.”

  “Don’t tell me what I do. I ain’t in the mood for it right now. What’s for dinner?”

  “You’ve already had yours, I see.”

  She held up the empty bottle. I know damn well I didn’t drink all that. But I guess I did. “Look, I’m feeling like shit, baby. I just lost my job, and I ain’t had nothin’ to eat all day. Could you just cook me something until I get my head together, and then I can think straight.”

  She didn’t say nothin’, but went upstairs to the bedroom, came down in my Saratoga T-shirt, and walked over and opened the refrigerator. She took out a plastic container of liver and threw it down on top of the cutting board. Then she snatched a box of rice from the cabinet, filled a pot with some water, and this went on till everything was finished.

  I managed to sit up. “Thank you, baby,” I said, and walked over to give her a little kiss on the cheek, but she turned away.

  “It’s ready,” she said, and sat down on the couch and turned on the TV.

  So she’s pissed. So I’m disappointed. So everything is everything.

  I had just cleaned my plate, when the phone rang. I waited for her to answer it, but she didn’t. It rung about six times, when, finally, I said, “Ain’t you gon’ answer it? You know it’s for you.”

  “You live here too. You answer it.”

  So I picked it up. “Yeah,” I said. It was that faggot she used to hang out with, Eli. The one she had me thinking was her man when I first met her.

  “It’s your old boyfriend,” I said. Her eyes lit up, and she took the phone from me. I went to the upstairs bathroom and ran a hot tub of water. What I needed to do was sweat. By the time I got out, it was damn near nine o’clock, and I still felt like shit, and I looked around downstairs and didn’t see her. She was probably in the bed, so I went back upstairs—one step at a time, which was a sign that I was still fucked up. The liver and rice helped, but can’t nothin’ get alcohol out your system but time.

  Sure enough, she was under the covers.

  “What’d the faggot have to say? He need some pussy?”

  “Spare me, would you, Franklin?”

  “What did he want?”

  “Why?”

  “He ain’t been calling you. Why now?”

  “Reginald’s sick.”

  “So what?”

  “You can really be callous, you know that?”

  “So what’s wrong with him? He got that faggot disease that’s out now, AIDS?”

  “No, he does not. He’s got something called shingles.”

  “What the fuck is that? A new faggot disease that just came out?”

  “It’s some kind of nervous disorder where your whole body gets covered with bumps. Anybody can get it.”

  “So what’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is it can take up to three months for him to recover, and Eli wanted me to know in case I was ready to start my sessions back before he was okay again.”

  “How’d he get the shit in the first place?”

  “I just said it has something to do with nerves. It’s related to herpes.”

  “Figures. Them faggots fuck anything that’ll bend over. God is punishing all of ’em. A dick was meant to be stuck in some pussy, not another man’s ass.”

  “Franklin, you’re the one who’s being punished, for having such a fucked-up attitude. The only person you feel sorry for is Franklin, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, so now you gon’ turn the shit around and put it on me, huh?”

  She lifted the covers and threw ’em back, then started to get up.

  “Where you going?”

  “To sleep downstairs on the couch. I can’t stand this.”

  “I don’t want you to sleep on the couch. I need you here with me.”

  “You need, you need. That’s all you think about is what Franklin needs. Well, masturbate.”

  “I’m tired of masturbating. It’s a shame when a man got a woman and gotta stroke his own dick just to get off. But I didn’t say nothin’ about fuckin’, did I? All I said was I need you.”

  “That usually means fucking.”

  “If you sleep on the couch, I’m coming down there too.”

  “Franklin, could you give me a break for once?”

  “I’m hurting, baby, can’t you see that?”

  “What I see is that you’ve been drinking all day and you’re laid off again and starting to feel sorry for yourself, and I can’t stand it. Not tonight.”

  “Then take your fat ass on downstairs. Go. Now! Get the fuck outta here. I don’t need you anyway.”

  She walked on out, and I heard her grab some blankets from the linen closet. I wanted to push her down the stairs, but instead I laid on the bed and turned on the TV. I picked up Tarzan, but he probably died sometime this afternoon. I couldn’t think hard enough to make him hard, so I fell asleep.

  Static woke me up.

  It was daylight. My head felt better but not good. I got up and went downstairs. I didn’t smell no coffee, nothing. The couch was empty, and wasn’t no blankets on it. Zora was already gone. I looked at the clock, and it was after nine. Damn. I took a quick shower and left for the union hall.

  I got a different story: Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

  So I went down to A Dream, but it was closed. Closed? What the fuck is going on? I knew I was fucking up a whole day, but damn, something was up, and I wanted to find out. I went back down to the site and found Mel.

  “What d’ya want, Frankie?” he asked.

  “Look, I know I was rude and shit, but I wanna know what happened. What’s the real lowdown on why I ain’t going to the next job?”

  “Like I told you. There’s been a lot of shit going down, and it involves jail.”

  “Jail?”

  “Indictments.”

  “The organization got anything to do with this?”

  “Don’t you read the paper, Frankie?”

  “Yeah, but not in the last few days. Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  “Turns out the feds have found out that quite a few of your so-called affirmative action organizations been taking payoffs to keep your kind off the sites.”

  “Get the fuck outta here, man. Kendricks?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I been down there, but it’s closed.”

  “Then that should tell you something. Look, I got work to do. You get on anyplace?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “It’s gonna be hard, I’m telling you that right now.”

  “So you hiring?”

  “No, but what I do have is a hundred bucks.”

  “For what?”

  “So you can stay home.”

  “Where is it?”

  He reached in his pocket and handed me a hundred-dollar bill. I just looked at him, then at the money, turned, and walked away.

  23

  I’m going crazy.

  Here it is the middle of November, and Franklin’s still not working. I’m trying to be patient, and understanding, and all that, but it’s getting too hard. All I do is go to school, come home, cook, watch “Wheel of Fortune,” and then play Scrabble with Franklin to make the night go by. I take a shower and stare at myself in the mirror for a good ten minutes and get into bed and pray he doesn’t want to do it. He’s down to once a week now, and he’s still got that ten-minute problem. I’m sure it’s me that’s causing it, but I’m sorry. I’m pregnant, and there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  And sure
, I’m up to 180 pounds, but I’m not the only one in this house who’s put on weight. Since Franklin’s been off work, I guess he spends a good part of his day eating, because he’s put on a good twenty pounds himself. He can’t even wear his blue jeans anymore; all he wears is sweats. But I don’t say anything about his weight either. Just last night, I was rubbing my stomach and hips with Nivea—like I’ve been doing every night since I first found out I was pregnant—and he walked into the bedroom butt naked. He looked at me.

  “Why you put that stuff on every night?”

  “To keep my skin lubricated.”

  “You think that’s supposed to stop you from getting stretch marks?”

  “It might help.”

  “Every woman I ever knew that had a baby’s got stretch marks, so don’t get your hopes up. You gon’ have to lose about fifty of them pounds to start with.”

  “What about you? How do you plan on losing yours?”

  “This is just from being at home. As soon as I start working out again, I can knock this right off.”

  “I might join a gym myself,” I said.

  “Just don’t join the one I belonged to.”

  “And why not?”

  “’Cause all the dudes’ll know you my woman. If you lose the weight, then they gon’ try to hit on you, and if you don’t, I don’t want them to know you my woman.”

  “You really know how to make me feel good, you know that? Do you get a kick out of hurting me, is that it?”

  “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just telling you how I feel, that’s all.”

  And what did I do after that? Went back into the bathroom, pulled up my nightgown, and looked at my breasts and stomach very, very hard. I didn’t see any stretch marks. I’ll show that bastard. If he thinks I’m going to stay fat after this baby, he’s got another thing coming.

  * * *

  I finally wrote Daddy a letter and told him everything in such a way that he apparently understood, because he called and told me not to worry about anything. He was actually excited about having a grandchild. He also told me that Franklin had told him his whole situation, and when the time was right, Franklin was going to do the right thing. “Just give him some time, and let me know if you need anything—anything at all,” he said. Marguerite sang a different tune altogether, but I wasn’t interested in that melody.

  * * *

  Something’s going to have to break, and soon, because I can’t go on like this much longer. I’ve spent a fortune putting the baby’s things in layaway, because I’m almost up to my limit on my Visa, and besides, some kind of way Franklin’s got to help. I’ve still got a few dollars of my studio money left, but I’m keeping it for that purpose and that purpose only.

  I can’t give up everything.

  And I need to get out of this house. I haven’t seen Marie or Claudette in ages. Portia’s gone already, and I miss her loud mouth more than she’ll probably ever know. Every day when I get home, he’s always here. Once, I’d like to just come home and he’d be gone. Out. Anywhere. But I’m Franklin’s sole source of entertainment. I fill up his social calendar, and what’s so sad is that somehow he’s become the same thing for me. This is not healthy—at least it doesn’t feel healthy. We’re supposed to be happy. Looking at baby furniture together. We’re supposed to be married. But at this point I’m not mentioning it, because I’m not so sure anymore if I want to be his wife. I’m just keeping my mouth shut until the baby gets here and see what he does.

  * * *

  Today when I came home, he was upstairs in the bedroom, laughing out loud. As usual, he was watching “The Love Connection.” The house was a mess. The same dishes from last night were still in the sink. His towel was in the middle of the bathroom floor, and a plate where he must’ve eaten was sitting in the middle of the living room floor. So were the crumbs. Ashtrays were overflowing, plants were drooping; he must’ve been doing his woodworking, because he’d tracked sawdust all through the house.

  I went upstairs, and he was spread-eagled across the bed, with his legs, dirty sneakers, crossed and pillows propped up behind his head. He was eating Doritos and had a sheet of sandpaper and a piece of wood in his hands. On top of my two-hundred-dollar comforter. But I didn’t say anything.

  “Hi, baby,” he said. “This show is a gas. Some of the things these people do on a date’ll crack you up. Come here, sit down. How was your day?”

  Just like that. Like he didn’t have a care in the damn world.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “What’s for dinner, baby?” he asked, lighting a cigarette. “I’m starving.”

  I hadn’t even hung up my coat yet. “Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t feel like cooking tonight. Just what’ve you been doing all day, Franklin?” I asked, looking around. The bedroom was a mess too. His socks and underwear were all over the floor, and cigarette ashes were at the foot of the bed. I saw his empty glass but didn’t say anything.

  “Why?”

  “I just wanted to know if you looked for work today.”

  “It’s too cold.”

  “Yesterday it was too cold.”

  “And it’s too cold today. Probably be too cold tomorrow too.”

  “What about the rent?”

  “What about it?”

  “You think I can pay seven hundred and fifty dollars by myself?”

  “You’re superwoman. You’ll think of something.”

  “Franklin, what’s happening to you?”

  “Nothing. What makes you think something is happening to me?”

  “For the past three and a half weeks, I’ve been trying to be patient. Ever since you got laid off you’ve spent exactly three days looking for work. This isn’t right.”

  “I’m just taking a little vacation. I’m tired.”

  “Tired?”

  “Yeah, tired.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m having a baby, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Ain’t nobody noticed more than me.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit concerned about it? And what about the bills and the rent? Don’t you care?”

  “Yeah, I care, but it just ain’t nothing I can do about it right now.”

  “If you would get up off your black ass and try, you might.”

  “Don’t swear at me, Zora.”

  “Look, Franklin, I’m getting scared. This is all wrong. Everything is all messed up.”

  “Don’t worry. I told you, I’m taking a little vacation, but it’ll be over by Friday. I’ll go out and get a fuckin’ job, and we’ll be back where we started.”

  “Which is where?”

  “You tell me.”

  With that I just turned and walked away. I went downstairs and picked up the telephone. I didn’t even know who I was calling. Claudette answered. But before I had a chance to say hello, Franklin pressed down on the receiver.

  “You ain’t gotta call none of your girlfriends and blab all our business.”

  “I wasn’t about to blab all of our business, and so what if I was?”

  “Why don’t you talk to me?”

  “About what?”

  “Anything.”

  “Franklin, this is getting a little ridiculous. I can’t talk to you. You get on the defensive about everything.”

  “You know, you women are all alike. When I was little, my Moms used to pull this same shit on me.”

  “And just what shit is that?” I didn’t feel like hearing another story about his mother, but if we were going to have it out, I wanted to get it over with.

  “She never wanted to hear my side of anything. I was always wrong.”

  “You’re saying I’m like your mother?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “You’re implying it. Well, let me tell you something, Franklin. I’m about sick of you blaming everything that happens to you on your mother, and I’m sick of being compared to her every time I do or say something yo
u don’t like.”

  “She fucked me up.”

  “I’m ready to agree with that.”

  He went to the cabinet and got a bottle out, but I didn’t dare say anything. I watched him pour. Then I watched him take a long swallow.

  “My Moms stripped me of my manhood before I was a man.”

  “No one can strip you of anything unless you let them.”

  “Do you know what it’s like not to feel loved by your own mother?”

  “Mine died when I was three.”

  “But your Daddy loved you.”

  “And still does.”

  “Well, growing up in a house with all girls, and one who was the favorite and got anything she wanted, and I got treated like shit, ain’t helped me one bit.”

  “You can’t sit here and expect me to believe that your mother never showed you any love.”

  “Why would I lie? What I’m saying is that if she did, she had a fucked-up way of showing it. Do you know how bad that can make you feel inside, knowing that your own mother don’t give a shit about what happens to you, huh?”

  He took another long swallow. I didn’t feel like answering. I wanted to tell him to just grow up. But I didn’t.

  “And my Pops. He’s pitiful. Sometimes I’d like to kill both of ’em. He’s a faggot. Just let her run all over him, let her run everything. Didn’t have no balls. And that’s why I made up my mind a long time ago that I wasn’t never gon’ let no woman run me. Never.”

  “So what has this got to do with anything?”

  “Baby, I got a lotta things going on inside me that you don’t understand, and it don’t seem like you trying.”

  “Like what, Franklin? Like what?”

  “Like not being able to find a job. I been out there at least ten different times. I just got tired of telling you that nothin’ was happening. And yeah, I could get some shitwork, making five dollars a hour, but I’m tired of that. Tired. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got a baby coming—can’t you understand that?”

  “All I’m saying is bear with me. If you love me, then prove it.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing for almost two years?”

  “You’ve done a pretty good job of it—till now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Franklin?”

  “You and your little singing career. Don’t get me wrong, baby. You can sing, and I wanna see you make it. But you put everything before me.”