“Okay, Smash-up. I’ll see you soon. I’m already planning a gala celebration at Caesar’s. You rescued me, child. We’re going to party till the cows come home. I think I’ll invite this cute orderly who works the night shift.”
“That’s a date, J,” I said. “And as long as we’re discussing the guest list, I just want to ask a question.”
“What’s that?”
Time to make my move: “Am I going to be dancing with somebody who thinks my name is Thelma?”
There was silence on his end.
“You called in one last favor since you’ve been in the hospital. Isn’t it true, Justin?”
“I told you to leave things alone, but I knew you wouldn’t. I couldn’t just let you get killed, Smash. I just provided a little extra protection in case Mama Lou fell down on the job.”
I knew there was something familiar about that figure running over the footbridge. I knew who had saved my life that night.
“Lefty,” I said. “You cashed in all your chips with Lefty. And now you owe him big time.”
“One dance with him, Nanny.”
“No problem.”
“Get home safe, girlfriend.”
Safe and sound.
I was hobbling and wincing, but so grateful to be in my own place again that I didn’t care about that.
I got Mom and Aubrey out of there at the earliest possible moment. I needed to be alone.
By nightfall, without those heavy meds, the whole ugly experience had caved in on me. The misplaced trust. The waste. The violence. And the guilt—all kinds of guilt.
I thought I was a big girl, a grown-up. In fact I had been telling myself that since I was about thirteen. Plainly now, incontrovertibly, it just wasn’t true. I must’ve had some driving need to be mothered by Ida Williams. I must’ve needed her to be proud of me. I was showing off. And Ida, whatever wrong she had done in the world, wound up dead. She didn’t deserve that.
I had been a royal pain to Aubrey, and the world in general, trying to get over the Andre thing. I did all manner of self-destructive shit while managing not to face the fact that he didn’t want me anymore. A grown-up woman should know how to accept that and move on with her life. But Crybaby Nan? She turns to a magic doll for the answers.
I am ridiculous.
Still holding on to those dumb resentments over the so-called mistakes my rather clueless pop made. He obviously was never going to be able to tell me how much he loved me until I made the first move. But I was too stubborn to make it.
When the fuck was I going to grow up?
Well, I had wanted to be alone. And boy, did I get what I asked for.
I also felt old. And I didn’t like it one bit.
I wasn’t so old. Not even thirty. But wasn’t I a bit like Jacob Benson? Dismissive, contemptuous of young people like Black Hat. My dedication to the music I love was in some measure my way of respecting my elders. But should I really hate Black Hat’s idols and their young audiences? I didn’t hate karioke fans. Jeez, I couldn’t wait for white people to take over rap entirely so Negroes would have to invent something else to listen to.
Why do old people take things so seriously? Why do they get all fusty and threatened when the young just want to find their own way?
Why don’t you want to go visit greatgrampa? Mom had asked me once. I think I was six then. Because he won’t listen to me, I had said petulantly, and he smells bad.
Once again my thoughts turned to Lenore Benson. Now, there was someone truly alone. If she was lucky, she didn’t realize it.
I unpacked one of the covered dishes my mother had left for me, but I ended up scraping the contents into the trash. I couldn’t even imagine eating dinner.
I stood in the kitchen, dizzy with loneliness.
I felt as if I’d fall off the edge of the earth if I didn’t find something to hang on to.
So I picked up the two dolls and held them.
CHAPTER 21
Something to Live For
The telephone was unplugged. Like it was every night.
As it began, so it would end. Everything the same.
Except for the booze.
Oh, I was drinking some. But not with the same abandon. Not with the tough-mama fuck-you attitude, either. I was just getting through the days and nights, just doing the time. The girls (Mama Lou and Dilsey) and I settled down every evening with a drink, a book, and the CD we were currently obsessed with: Jimmy Scott. He was old now, and that singular, unearthly voice of his showed it. He had turned his talents to an amazingly quirky collection of songs. Like Elton John’s “Sorry.” When I heard him do that one, I had to put my book aside and lie down on the sofa.
One other thing that was out of the ordinary: it was December 24. The rest of the world was caught up with shopping and eggnog and sleigh bells. I had warned every motherfucker I knew: mention the “C” word, just once, and I’ll kill you.
It was especially dangerous to turn on the TV set this time of year. I pulled that out of the wall, too. I knew I’d do an Elvis and shoot out the screen if I happened to land on It’s a Wonderful Life.
Mom was desolate when I told her Aubrey and I would not be coming to the house for dinner and the usual exchanging of presents.
Daddy was hurt and huffy when I turned down his invitation to a gala meal at Aquavit, the beautiful Scandinavian restaurant across from the Museum of Modern Art with a celebrated young black chef.
My music coach, Jefferson, was put out that I didn’t attend his famous Sunday afternoon holiday party, even when he told me that Roamer and Hank, who would be leaving town in a few days, were looking to see me there. I’d declined their generous offer to join them in California. I guess they were pissed at me too.
As for me and Ernestine—we weren’t even on speaking terms. Everybody was furious at sour little Nan. Even sour little Nan herself.
My thoughts about all humankind were so hateful, I fell asleep with a sneer on my lips.
A commotion in the hallway awoke me about eleven that night. First I heard the voice of the woman who lived with a house full of kids at the other end of the hall. Then I recognized the super’s voice.
A minute later there was a knock at my door.
Who would be coming around at this hour—tonight, of all nights? Not Santa Claus. He wouldn’t be dropping in on a misanthrope like me. Not after all the wrong shit I had done.
“Get out of here!” I screamed suddenly. “I’ve got a gun in here. I’m not kidding—I’ll shoot.”
I sat there in the dark gritting my teeth as the tapping went on and on. It had to be Aubrey and Justin at the door. Coming to cheer me up. I had told them I didn’t want to be bothered, goddammit. I did not want to be cheered fucking up.
The super’s voice grew louder as he argued with another man. One of them was calling my name now.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I switched on the light and strode over to the door, snatched it open.
I saw the violin case first.
“Nan?”
At last, the definitive proof that I was no hardass, no Femme Nikita—my eyes rolled up into my head, my legs turned to water and—like the girl I was—I fainted.
It was Andre standing there.
“Can’t you afford to pay your phone bill?”
I reached for him, clutched at him like a blind man falling down the subway steps.
How can it be? What’s going on? Something told me to wait—to hang on—and I did. Dan Hinton wanted me, and Howard, and Lefty. But I was waiting for you. For you. What took you so long?
I wanted to say all those things, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk. When I finally did speak, something insane came out of my throat: “Horace Tapscott was in town, you bastard! Horace Tapscott! Do you know how long it’s been since he was in New York? I didn’t go, Andre! I was waiting for you! And now the poor man is dead!”
My outburst left him, understandably, dazed.
I sat there fuming while he ushered the
super out.
“Let me get you some water, Nan. Where’s the kitchen?”
I pointed. But when he turned to go, I snatched him back. “Oh God … Andre? It is you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Nan, it’s me,” he announced. “Just calm down. It’s me.” He took me by the shoulders. “Look at you. You’re nothing but skin and bones, girl. Are you destitute?”
But before I could answer, he got a good look at my crutches propped against the refrigerator. “Jesus, Nan, what happened?”
“Never mind that now. Just hold me tighter … tighter than that. You can hold me tighter than that. I remember.”
Andre was, if anything, more beautiful than I remembered. I was inarguably a mess. But he did not seem to mind. We made love for hours, careful about my sore leg at first, but then finding a rhythm that accommodated it.
Afterward I hobbled around the kitchen and gathered a few scraps of ham and a stale brownie for him to eat. I made cocoa, spiked it with a little bourbon, and then put everything on a tray and brought it into the bedroom.
I held on to his back while he ate. I wanted to close my eyes, lay my head against him, but I didn’t dare. I didn’t dare blink for fear he would disappear in a puff of smoke.
We finished the cocoa and got bedded down for the night. Nodding off, then waking and arousing each other and making love again.
It was nearly dawn. I was happier than I ever imagined I could be. And so beautifully sleepy. To tell you the truth, I think I might actually have been asleep.
“Andre?”
“What, sweetheart?” he said drowsily.
“First thing tomorrow, will you tell me what Paris looked like when you left?”
“Uh huh.”
“Andre?”
“What?”
“Do you have a gray raincoat? With a tight belt?”
“No. Why?”
“Remind me tomorrow, okay? About Miller. It was Miller.”
“Who?”
“You know what else I just dreamed, Andre?”
“What?”
I giggled. “I dreamed you told me you got married over there. That you have a wife in Paris.”
Long pause. Then, “That wasn’t a dream, Nan. I did tell you that.”
“You lost your hat? I’m sorry, babe. We’ll get you a new one.”
“Did you hear what I said, Nan?”
“Hmmm, Merry Christmas to you too, my love. See you in the morning.”
I kissed him once more, pulled the comforter up, turned on my side, and drifted off.
I slept like a child.
Acknowledgments
Many heartfelt thanks to these good friends and associates: Antoinette Bower, Wesley Brown, Burt Kendle, Frank King, Gloria Peropat, Larry Quails, Joan Ringelheim, Ira Silverberg, Lewis Warsh, Gene Wildman
About the Author
Charlotte Carter is the author of crime novels including the Nanette Hayes Mysteries—Rhode Island Red, Coq au Vin, and Drumsticks—featuring a saxophone-playing street musician and crime solver. Though Nanette is from a solidly middle-class black family, her salty language, boho ways, and irreverent humor undercut her bourgeois upbringing—and often land her in the middle of a murder case. The books have been translated into French, Spanish, German, Japanese, Italian, Portuguese, and Dutch.
A recipient of the Chester Himes Black Mystery Award, Carter has worked as an editor and teacher. A longtime resident of downtown New York City, she has also lived in France and North Africa, where she took writing workshops with Paul Bowles.
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All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Charlotte Carter
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9178-0
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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