by J. J. Murray
She even liked Casablanca.
What I let her see of it.
Diane even “calls in sick” or “gets sick at work” so she can have more time to edit my book.
And give you more time to explore her body.
I like exploring.
You’re so much like Dan Pace now.
Just without all that imaginary sex.
Come on, Jack. Diane is all over you like brown on rice.
It’s nice to be wanted like that.
It’s nice to want someone else like that.
As spring arrives in Roanoke, our relationship grows. I love working together with her. I love hitting every “ethnic” restaurant in town, though Bandini’s is still our favorite. I love when she cooks for me after a long day at the library. I love cooking grilled cheese and tomato soup for her. I love snuggling with her in front of the TV, which we never turn on. It’s all been so…intimate.
Our book, though Diane insists she’s only the “first editor,” is titled A Single Touch, and so far, my editor loves it. I’ve sent Trina six chapters, none with a single sex scene or foul word in them, yet she says, “This is so cutting edge!” It isn’t—it’s just real, normal life—but that gives me incentive to keep writing more. Both Nina and Trina had me redo my professional photograph because I was still too skinny in January, and the final picture has me with a fuller face and gelled hair.
It makes you look younger.
Diane says it makes me look “cute.”
And you do.
Now everything is building up to the tour, which is only one week away. I’ve been interviewed in the Roanoke Times and on local radio, and the Times wrote a complimentary review of Wishful Thinking, focusing mainly on Roanoke’s more “colorful settings.” I’ve set up one signing downtown at Cantos Booksellers for the end of April—
The phone rings. It’s been ringing off the hook for the last few weeks, and not all the calls are from Diane.
“Hello?”
“Jackie, I have some good news!”
Nina. “Yes?”
“Wishful Thinking is already out, and Amazon has already started shipping.”
“That’s great.” I think. “But if they’ve already started shipping, won’t that affect my New York sales?”
“So Amazon jumped the gun. They usually do. But sales via Amazon.com are a teeny, teeny, teeny portion of the pie. Not to worry.”
Who says “teeny” three times to make a point?
Shh.
“But won’t that give all sorts of crazy people time to post reviews on-line before New York?”
Nina and Trina had been unsuccessful in getting Nisi’s review removed, but Diane had written another—and under her own name—that gave the book four stars, to even it out some.
She was basing her review on the rough draft, though.
Who’s going to know?
“Don’t worry, Jackie,” Nina says. “It’s selling, and that’s all that matters.”
It’s selling!
Yeah, it’s selling.
Nothing can harm me anymore.
47
Diane
It has been so nice to have a man, and I couldn’t have picked a better one. Jack is devoted to all phases of my life: my job, my meals, my house, and my body.
Especially my body.
It’s like I have an addiction for his hands on me. I used to consider that sort of thing perverted, but not anymore. It’s a necessary part of my life now. I feel so cold where he isn’t touching me…so I make him touch me all over a lot. I wish he had more hands.
My own hands seem…nervous. Maybe it’s the anticipation of using them on him. I still play solitaire in my spare moments, looking always for red jacks, and I only review one book at a time now, turning the pages slowly and reading them all the way through. I have still found quite a few clunkers, but…I won’t give any book one star anymore, mainly because they’ve kept my mind and hands busy.
What do I like most about Jack? He makes me feel sexy. I’ve never felt sexy before, maybe because of my profession, maybe because of the way I was raised in the church. I’ve been called “cute,” but I’ve never been called “sexy.” He comments on my body as being “so soft,” “so firm,” “so tender.” He touches my skin and says, “Delicious.” As a result, I’m starting to give him more skin to touch, leaving a button undone, a leg uncovered, my neck exposed at all times. I’m even scenting myself in places I never used to scent and paying complete attention when I shave to get every tiny hair. I’m not wearing anything too low cut—yet—and I’m not wearing hip huggers (I have too much hip to hug), but I do have a full set of push-up bras that make my girls rise to the occasion.
And now I am damn sexy for a librarian.
Francine and Kim are warming up to the idea of “Jack and Diane,” though it hasn’t been easy. At first, they stared and shot each other those “knowing looks” white women are famous for: pursed lips, raised eyebrows, slight shake of the head. But once they saw a real, normal romance up close, they warmed up to the both of us. Oh, except for when Jack brought me Japanese food for lunch. That’s not my cup of tea. Uncooked fish is not in my culinary repertoire, and it sure stunk up the circulation desk. Maybe Jack likes sushi because sushi smells like…Hmm.
I like a man who likes sushi.
A lot.
Now, not everything is perfect. Jack is, well, tardy all the time, and he has this habit of “zoning out” for minutes at a time while I’m talking to him. It’s as if he gets lost without even moving. It’s hard to explain. He’s there one moment and gone the next several moments. His eyes don’t glaze over or anything as obvious as that. He just…disappears…though he’s sitting in front of me at a restaurant or lying next to me on the sofa or even talking to me on the phone. At first, I thought it was extremely rude, and I still sort of do. It’s not that he isn’t listening; it’s well, it’s annoying! I must say, “Earth to Jack” at least once a day. No wonder he made Dan Pace such a space cadet. I ask him to tell me where he’s been, and he shakes his head, blinks, and says, “What?”
I wonder if all writers are this spacey.
Because of his inattention, I doubt that Jack will ever pick up all the hints I’ve been dropping about selling my own house so I can move into his house when we get…
Yeah, it’s getting close to that. Whenever we go to the mall, I make him linger longer and longer at jewelry stores. He’s already gotten me a necklace and some earrings, “just because,” he says, and he blew me away at Valentine’s with two dozen long-stemmed roses, a Victoria’s Secret gift certificate, and a box of Russell Stover chocolates. He made the biggest deal out of those chocolates, for some reason. They were all right, nothing special. He just couldn’t understand why I didn’t eat any of the ones with nuts.
I couldn’t yet tell him that nuts, um, well, they sort of curl up in my intestines and constipate me. I am not a nice human being when I’m constipated. We’ve come a long way in our relationship, but that information is a little too delicate to tell him about right now.
I wish all this book mess wasn’t taking his attention away from me. I know the tour is only for one week, but…I’m afraid.
I’m afraid a whole bunch of Nisi’s are going to show up at one of his readings or signings and try to ruin him.
There are so many haters out there who have already posted mean-spirited, “white-men-can’t-write-about-black-folks” reviews at Amazon.com and at other sites on-line. One fusses that Ty is dark skinned, and “What about us fine light-skinned sistas?” And I’ll bet if Jack had made Ty light skinned, someone would be crying, “What about us dark-skinned sistas?” Another cries, “This is another example of the Man getting over on us and taking our money.” Yet another screams, “What about black writers who aren’t getting published because of this travesty?!!”
Yeah, my word “travesty” is coming back to haunt me. Fortunately, my review has moved down the Web page, so it isn’t the first one
people read anymore.
But Jack takes it all in stride, shrugging his shoulders and letting all that hate roll off him. He’ll look at a review like, “Browning can write, just not about black people,” and he’ll take it as a compliment. “See,” he’ll say, “I can write.”
And what he’s writing now…Oooh, those haters are going to eat every single one of their words, and I can’t wait. He is writing about something that really happened—and is happening—between an average sister (neither too light nor too dark for those still hung up on color) and an average white man. They can’t possibly find fault with so much truth!
But in the back of my mind, I can’t help but worry that folks will have trouble even with the truth. And it’s scary, but if Jack were black, he probably would be getting as much if not more abuse from black male reviewers for having an “African queen mess with Uncle Cholly.”
Today, while Jack waits for the dealership to finish his car’s first checkup, I’m home waiting for him, preparing a field green salad with boiled eggs and bacon. I’ve become kind of domestic, I guess, and it isn’t so bad. Although we eat out a lot—and he eats a lot—we’re both minding our weights. I’ve lost ten pounds, and he’s gained twenty, so I have more of him to hold on to.
The phone rings. It must be my “Boo.”
“Hello, honey,” I say.
“Honey?”
Oops. It’s Mama. And the closest holiday was April Fools’ day last week. I hope nothing bad has happened. “Hi, Mama. Is everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay.”
I swallow hard. “Is Daddy okay?”
“Yes, yes. What’s not okay is what’s sitting in my hands. I just bought your boyfriend’s book.”
My shoulders sag. Contrary to what I used to think, some phone calls can be life changing, and this is probably going to be one of them. It was bound to come out sooner or later, but why today? I was having such happy thoughts while making a simple salad for my Boo!
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you, Mama.”
“Dee-Dee, why didn’t you tell me he is white?”
Because I was afraid of this reaction. “You never asked.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask.”
True. “Well, it’s none of your business, Mama. I had my reasons.”
“And what were they?”
I don’t want to get into this, but…“I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
“So if you knew I wouldn’t approve, why did you ever get mixed up with this man?”
“I’m not ‘mixed up’ with this man, Mama. In fact, my life makes a whole lot more sense because of this man.”
A millisecond of silence, and then…“Well, I’ve been telling everybody, and I mean everybody, for the last three months that you were dating a fine black author, even Imogene Blakeney. Dancing with that white boy was one thing, but dating a white man…I may have to change my church membership now.”
“You’re overreacting, as usual, Mama.”
“Child, why did—”
“I’m a grown woman, Mama,” I interrupt. “I’m no child anymore.”
A whole second of silence. “I don’t understand you anymore, Dee-Dee,” she says finally.
Time for a little payback. “But you understand Reesie perfectly, huh?”
“What does Reesie have to do with any of this?”
Time for some brutal honesty. “Mama, Reesie has been nothing but a ho since she turned thirteen.”
A gasp. Good. Gasping is good for Mama’s circulation. “What did you say?”
“Reesie is a trifling ho, Mama. It’s true, and it’s about time you faced the truth.”
“But she’s your sister!”
“I know that, Mama, but she is bad, and she’s been bad since the day she was born. I am the good girl in our family, and yet you treat me like shit.”
Another gasp. “I have done no such thing!”
“Mama, Reesie slept around and got pregnant with three different boys, and the last boy was barely eighteen. She was robbing the damn cradle. She has three baby daddies for the Qwans, she sponges off you and Daddy, she’s never held a job for more than a week, and she and the Qwans treat you like shit. And you just sit back and take it.”
“I will not listen—”
“Yes, you will, Mama. I’ve been good. I graduated high school with honors while Reesie barely got her GED. I finished college with honors, and I doubt Reesie can even spell ‘college’ on a consistent basis. I’m not waiting on any boy for some diapers. I have a man. And, despite what you think, I’m still holy.”
“I don’t believe that for one minute.”
“Mama, believe it. I am still a virgin, something Reesie hasn’t been able to say since she was thirteen.”
Another gasp. Shoot. Everybody in the church knew about it, and I’m sure Mama knew, too. Mama has been living a life of denial for far too long.
And so have I, in a way. But, I have to hear “I do” first.
“Mama, I want to sleep with Jack in the worst way.” That didn’t sound right, but does “in the best way” make any more sense? “I want to, but he’s not ready.”
“What?”
“His wife and son died last July, he has been trying to get his life together, and I’m helping him. There have been times when I have been tempted”—just about every time we’re together!—“but I’ve resisted that temptation, I’ve been good, and all you can tell me about is the shame you feel for me dating a white man. It’s fucked up, Mama.”
The loudest gasp. Mama is getting a phone workout today. “I didn’t raise you to talk that way!”
“You’re not even listening. I don’t know if you’ve ever really listened to me.”
“I hear you just fine, you and that…guttural language.”
“Guttural? You say the word ‘titties’ all the time!”
“Well, that’s what they are!”
I sigh. “Mama, you hear me, but you’re not listening. You’re not feeling what I’m saying. I like Jack, and I may even love him. He’s a good man, a decent man, a kind man, a quiet man. He reminds me of Daddy in so many ways. He just happens to be white. There is no shame in any of this, Mama. None. You should be proud of me for keeping my virginity this long, proud of me for graduating college, proud of me for having a good job, for not sponging off you, for not filling your house with Qwans, for still keeping my faith.”
“Reesie still has her faith.”
“Oh, Mama, this isn’t about Reesie, and you know that girl cries ‘Oh, Jesus!’ to any black boy who will buy her kids Pampers or shoes. When are you going to be proud of me?”
Silence.
“Mama, answer the question.”
“You’re just dating him, though, nothing serious?”
“We are getting serious. We can go to the next level at any time.”
“Engagement?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, Mama. We won’t put our engagement picture in any of the Indianapolis papers.” Or even any Roanoke papers, for that matter. It’s not that I wouldn’t want anyone to know. I just prefer our relationship to be low-key because I believe true love does not have to be advertised.
That thought was such a cliché! Maybe the words in those books I’ve been trashing have been telling me the truth, and I’ve not been listening.
After some static-filled silence, Mama yells, “But you barely know the man!”
This is kind of true. Hmm. I know next to nothing about his family, and Jack never talks about them. “Look, Mama, I know what I like, and you know how picky I am. I want this man. I want to have a little ring on my finger that says I belong to this man.”
Whoa. Did I just say that? I did. Do I want Jack that much? I do.
I do. Two little words I want to say in front of a church holding on to Jack’s hand.
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
“Just…don’t say anything negative about him or me or us until you ge
t to know him.”
Silence. “He’ll probably want to start up another family.”
“And that’s wrong?”
“I didn’t say it was wrong. I just said—”
“Mama, I want to start a family. I want a child. If he happens to be my husband and father of my child, that’s perfect.” Perfect…a bookworm and a writer hook up and have kids who are genetically predisposed not to watch TV! It would be so…old-fashioned. Hmm. But we wouldn’t have a cable bill.
And that would be so cool! “Cool” is one of Jack’s words, and though I don’t ever say it, I’m starting to think it more and more.
“He isn’t right for you, Dee-Dee.”
My turn to gasp. “How can you say that? You haven’t even met him!”
“I’m looking at him right now. What’s up with his hair?”
I take a deep breath. “Mama, why do you have to be so skin-deep about everything?”
“Skin what?”
“Skin-deep. You only look at the surface of people. You look at Reesie, and all you see is an angel, when Reesie is really the devil in a short dress with tattoos over both her titties. You even think that the Qwans are angels as long as they’ve had their baths.”
“I don’t think—”
“And that picture doesn’t do Jack justice,” I interrupt. “He was skinnier when that picture was taken. He’s filled out just fine since then.”
“But blond hair and blue eyes? And he has a nose sharp enough to open a tin can!”
His nose is kind of…severe, but…“I like his nose.”
“And does his hair stick up like that all the time?”
“It’s called gel, Mama, and it was my idea. It makes him look younger.” Though when Jack puts it in, it makes him look like a Marine or a blond Chia Pet.
“Well, he isn’t that handsome, not nearly as handsome as your father.”
My daddy is a handsome man, but…“Jack is handsome to me, Mama, and that’s all that matters. By the way, what does Daddy think about all this?”
“He’s as confused as I am,” she says quickly.
