Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 51

First and heels rained down in buckets. A bone snapped and pain flooded through my right arm. I heard other voices and took more blows as I curled into the fetal position. I closed my eyes and tried to get my mind somewhere else but I didn't make it. I couldn't black out either. Was I dying? Was my clock being punched at the ripe old age of twenty-two? Then, ever so slowly, it began to stop. The voices faded to an echo and finally it all dissolved into darkness. I wasn't happy anymore. I was never going to be happy again.

The Dinner Party E. LYNN HARRIS.

He called it our Great Escape. Since my love for Marc was absolute, I didn't ask any questions when my partner of more than a decade told me we were moving back to his hometown of Sugar Lick, Texas. There is a black-and-white sign when you enter town from the east that proclaims, WELCOME TO SUGAR LICK, CLa.s.s AA STATE FOOTBALL CHAMPIONS 1982, POPULATION, 19,909. I guess the town's leaders would have to change the sign to 19,911.

I knew I would miss our Upper West Side apartment with its friendly neighbors, and its sweeping view of Central Park. I would also miss the smells I couldn't explain from street vendor's carts and the conversations I couldn't understand from people walking the streets of Manhattan. It would be hard not going to a Broadway play at the last minute just because we could.

The first couple of months in the small Texas town were wonderful. We moved into a three-story house a few miles from where Marc had attended elementary and high school. The ladies of the neighborhood brought homemade pies and tomatoes from their gardens and left them on our doorstep with notes welcoming us to the community. Oddly enough, we never met any of the neighbors, just waves from robe-wearing women as they picked up their morning newspapers from the porch.

Not much changed from our regular routine. Thanks to the Internet, I was able to continue my freelance writing a.s.signments.

Marc would come home from his job as a stock broker and skim through the mail, take an evening run with our dog, Simba, and then return home and shower. He would put on his favorite Yale or Stanford sweatshirt with his boxers and then ask me about my day. I loved the fact that after all these years he was still genuinely concerned about me.

There was a lot to love about Sugar Lick; no traffic jams or noise into the wee hours of the morning. I didn't have to face the rejection of taxi drivers who didn't care if I was already late for an important meeting. I fell in love with the sweet smell of the air, crimson rays of sunset and stars that seemed to melt into the silver-edged sky.

Right before Christmas things changed quicker than a west Texas winter wind. I convinced Marc that the approaching holidays would be a chance to show our neighbors our grat.i.tude for their kindness by hosting a dinner party.

I prepared a standing rib roast with miniature new potatoes, sauteed spinach with a touch of garlic, and baked a ham. I made a pitcher of Marc's favorite drink, apple martinis. I had my own special recipe using vodka, triple sec, and Pucker's sour apple. I would garnish it with a Granny Smith apple slice and add a dash of cinnamon.

The evening of the party Marc came home a couple of hours early. He had left his arm behind his back and he brushed his full lips teasingly against mine and then pulled away.

"Come here," I instructed as I pulled him toward me by his suit jacket and demanded he kiss me like he meant it.

"Sometimes my love for you is so strong it overwhelms me," I said softly.

"Me, too. Our guests should be here soon."

Four hours and two pitchers of martinis later, Marc and I sat alone in front of the quivering glow of candles that adorned the perfectly set dining table.

"Why do you think they didn't come?" I asked.

"Maybe we're not their kind of people," Marc said.

"This wouldn't have happened if we still lived in New York," I said, pouting.

"Now be honest. There were times in New York when we walked down the street holding hands and people looked at us strangely," Marc said.

"But we received more smiles of approval than disgusted frowns," I said.

"So do you want to move back to New York?"

I didn't answer. A part of me wanted to scream "Yes!" at the top of my lungs, but I realized how happy Marc had been since we moved. Besides, neither one of us were quitters. We'd faced far too many obstacles to allow a few rude people to alter the path we'd chosen.

Marc pulled me close to him and kissed me on my forehead. I was trying hard not to cry, so I held him tight, as though I was magically pulling the strength I needed from his body. When I finally released him I noticed the blinking green digits on the microwave clock.

It was almost midnight. We started to clear the table when the doorbell rang. Marc raced to the door as I drained the last drops from my gla.s.s.

Marc opened the door and there stood a small, wispy woman who was dressed in faux fur with matching hat. She was also carrying a stick with green-and-gold crepe paper strips.

"What can I do for you?" Marc asked as she walked in like she owned the place.

"Hey, babies. I'm Miz Clara. Patton is my married name, but my husband's been dead for years. I live down the road and I saw your lights were on so I wanted to stop by and thank you for your invitation and offer a little bit of advice. I mean, people wanted to run you two out of town when they got your lil' party invitations," she said as she took a seat on the sofa. Marc and I exchanged puzzled glances while Miz Clara removed her fur. She was wearing a green-and-gold sweatshirt with some wild looking animal on it and had on Kelly green corduroy pants.

"I know it's late but could I have a martini neat?"

"Sure," Marc said as he headed toward the kitchen. When Marc left the room, Miz Clara motioned for me to have a seat as she patted the empty s.p.a.ce next to her.

"Now, Baby, I know y'all are different from folks around here but there are a few rules you must follow if you want to mingle in."

"What do you mean we're different."

"First of all, anyone with half a brain can see that. We might be country but we ain't stupid and we do have cable. We've seen folks like you."

"What rules?" I asked firmly.

"Well, this is Texas. More important, this is Sugar Lick. And n.o.body would throw a party on a Friday night this time of the year. Especially when the Sugar Lick Fightin' Panthers are playing the Salt Lick Bobcats for the State football Championship. It's been twenty years since we made it to the State finals and everybody in town was at the game. You two coulda stole the whole town tonight," she cackled as she hit her knee in delight.

"So, who won?" Marc asked as he walked into the living area with a tray of three martinis.

"Let me take a sip of my drink and then I'll tell you."

Marc and I exchanged quizzical glances with each other as Miz Clara finished her drink with two quick gulps. She looked at me and said, "I know his name 'cause he grew up around these parts, but honey, what's your name?"

Before I could tell her my name was Lisa, Clara shot off another question, "How long y'all been midgets?"

Meeting Frederick.

BY JEWELL PARKER RHODES.

FROM Dougla.s.s's Women.

Late Spring ain't never sweet in Baltimore. Hot, slick. Sticky beyond dreaming.

I was twenty-eight, surviving as best I could. Had me a calico cat. Lena. I'd fan both her and me. Put ice chips in her milk. Ice on my head and wrists. May was as hot as July and there'd be no relief 'til November. Breezes didn't cool no sweat.

Legs itching against cotton. Arms damp, staining crinoline. Beads of water draining into my hair, down my cheek. Nights, just as bad. Laying in my shift, barely breathing, counting the tiniest stars I could see through the windo-top.

I felt drained. Hungry for more water. For something to fill me up.

I'd growed. I wasn't 'Lil' Bit' no more. Wasn't cute no more, either. Just short, round, dark; beyond lonely.

Mam say, "Beauty lives in the heart." But Mam was thirty miles away. Pa now dead, Mam had her own troubles living old. My trouble was forgetting the kind things she said, the words that made me feel special.

Now I was Anna, Housekeeper. Got servant's wages. Three dollars a month. Half sent to Mam. Got food, which I cooked. Milk for the cat. A room: clean but too small for a chair.

Eleven years. Working for the Baldwins. A good position. n.o.body slapped me. Or cursed. Or expected me to bed them. But there wasn't much room for getting ahead. So I sewed and laundered on my off day. Thursdays. Anna, Seamstress. Wash woman. Carrying baskets to the docks.

Baltimore, great city then. Harbor for all kinds of goods and people. French and China silk. Spices. Rum. You need a gold cage for a bird? Baltimore. Sugar cane from Haiti? Bananas? Whale oil? All in Baltimore.

Irishmen, New Englanders, Virginia planters, Chinamen, British, Spanish, free colored men, they all pa.s.sed through that harbor. And women-some dressed fine as queens, some barely dressed-waited for them. Waited for the men to slip them coins. Some folks went off in carriages; some went to the tavern; some got no farther than an alley.

Everybody mated, two by two.

Only new slaves-male and female-kept separate. Each had their own cage at the dock's east end. When I could, I slipped bread and meat to the women (some just children). On Sundays, men with great buckets splashed water at the slave holds. Great buckets to wash away the dirt and smell. Nothing washed away the heat. Except when my mistress ordered it, I kept clear of the docks on the Lord's Sabbath and Auction Days. Kept clear of seeing misery I couldn't fix.

Still. 1835. Baltimore, a great city.

Except for colored folks, everybody a bit rich. Got pennies to spare for colored gals to wash their shirts, pants, and privates. I worked for sailors st.i.tching where a knife sliced, soaking tobacco stains and spit, cleaning where stew crusted on their sleeves and collars. I starched jackets for captains who brung tea, goblets, and Africans across the sea. Some I st.i.tched gold braids for when they got promoted or won slaving treasure. But captains be the worse. Mean. They say your work not good. Insist you buy brand new shirt. After I lost my profit once, I never worked for any captain again.

This May that felt like late summer, I was working for Gardner's men. Carpenters with lots of money and no respect. Their clothes, more grease and sawdust than cotton. Mr. Gardner had a contract to build two man-of-war brigs for the Mexican government. They say July, if Gardner be done, he win big bonus. All the carpenters win bonuses, too. So everybody work hard-black and white-building those great ships.

I made my deliveries at dinner break. Men eating be generous. Less likely to complain: "This not clean enough." "This not ironed right." Foolishness. They complain to make me lower my price. Eating men don't talk much. Some even toss an extra penny.

I'd just finished giving William, the mast-maker, his clean clothes when I looked up and saw this young man standing at the unfinished bow, the ship still on stilts, looking out across the water. Not more than three feet away. He stood there, legs s.p.a.ced, solid. Like nothing tip him over. No waves. No wind. He was pitched on the edge of the horizon. Boat beneath his feet. Orange-streaked sky above his head. Endless water fanning out the harbor. Seem like nothing move him from that s.p.a.ce he choose to be. He could be a colored captain, watching, waiting for some change to happen. Some sign from the birds flying high. Some new streak of color in the sky. Some sweet odor of free.

His pants weren't fine. Brown burlap. His ankles and shins poke out. Shirt gone. His back was broad, rolling mountains. Copper-colored. Trails crisscrossed his back. I knew then he was a slave or ex-slave. No pattern to the marks. Just rawhide struck, hot and heavy. Enough to know someone had been very angry with him. Once. Twice. Maybe more.

I think I fell in love with his head. He look up, not down. Tilt of his head tell me he not beaten. Not yet. His hair curls in waves, almost touching his shoulders. Black strands lay on his neck. Made me want to reach out and feel. Made me wonder what it be like to bury my face in his hair. Would I smell the sea? Smell the oil they use to shine wood?

His hair made me think of Samson. G.o.d's strength upon him. Something else came up on me. Some wave of feeling I'd never felt. Made my feet unsteady. Made my heart race.

"Girl," Pete, the ironmaker call, "Hurry your n.i.g.g.e.r self here."

I scurried like a scared rabbit. So ashamed. This Samson man turned and saw me. Really saw. His eyes were golden, like light overflowing. I knew he saw me as a weak woman. Big. Too fat. Hurrying to this sc.u.m of a white man.

But I couldn't stop myself. Mam taught me, "Never irritate white folks. Do your work. Collect their money." But this one time I didn't want to scurry. I wanted to move slow, sashay my gown, and have this man I didn't know, think I was pretty. No. Lovely. I wanted to be lovely.

Twenty-eight and never had a man look at me with love. Never no pa.s.sion. Desire. Mam taught me not to say those words. But I learned them as a woman. Learned them watching folks at the wharf. Learned them, too, listening to Miz Baldwin's friends-women promised to one man, yet mad about some other. They was mostly sorrowful. Pa.s.sionate and sorrowful.

Mam said G.o.d made special feelings, especially for men and women. She and Pa felt them. I'd never felt one. Never 'til this man, this slave looked at me from the bow of an unfinished ship.

I hadn't enough backbone to tell this white man, "I'm coming. Don't hurry me." I scurried toward him and away from those light-filled eyes.

Head low, I got rid of all those clothes. Quick as possible. Out with the clean clothes, in with the dirty. Collect my money. Just move. Don't think about shame. The colored men were kind. Like they knew my sin. One tried to tell a joke. But it was no use. I hurried to leave that dock. Trembling. Not sure I'd ever come back. Ever hold my head high.

That evening I lay on my bed and cried. Cried 'cause I wasn't lovely. 'Cause this man would never love me. Cried 'cause he couldn't love me. Him being slave. I, being free. Him, young. I, old. Him, handsome. Me, ugly.

I cried and bit my pillow to keep from letting my screams out. I'd never have my own home. My own babies. I'd work my days 'til too old to work, 'til crippled and less than nothing, with no children, surviving on what little I'd set by.

Time makes the world fresh. Seven days, the world created. Seven days, my pain eased. Stopped feeling like a horse be sitting on my chest. Sabbath helped. I remembered the Lord loved me. And while I was singing "My Redeemer," I felt Mam just as if she was right beside me, taking my hand.

Got so I could see my reflection again and think I looked respectable. Clear eyes. Thick lashes. Clear skin. I didn't have to worry about freckles like white women. But it was a sore fault not to have Mam's sweet smile or Pa's even nose.

Lilbeth got Mam's smile and four children. Even mean George, with his trim features, had a family of five. All told, I was aunt to twenty children. Two in the oven. Thinking about my family, I start thinking about this man. Handsomest man I've seen.

Between kneading bread, slicing yams, serving the Baldwin's food, I be thinking, Why this man off by his self? Where his dinner pail? His food? Why this slave be at the shipyard? Why he not sitting with free coloreds? Where's his master?

I think, Charity. I can show him Christian charity.

I keep thinking of his hair too. Light trapped in it. Him standing on the bow, looking like gold glowed about his head.

His daddy must be white. Most likely his daddy be his master. His Mam being white be rare. The grocer on Dinwidde Street had a daughter who visited with a free colored. Not even a slave. When her belly rose up, her folks whipped her awful. She lost the babe. The colored man ran to Canada.

I packed a dinner. Miz Baldwin wanted chicken and biscuits. So I cooked extras. Just a few. Then, I slipped in a piece of banana pie.

Charity was Jesus' blessing. I'd take that man supper.

I was so nervous. I wore my best dress. It was blue and I always felt small in it. Married women seemed small. Delicate and needful, like Miz Baldwin. If I didn't cook and clean for her, she'd fade away and die, resting on her ottoman.

My blue dress had little b.u.t.tons down the front and back. Had lace at the wrists. Shouldn't have been wearing my best dress among those coa.r.s.e men, among that sweat and dust. But I wanted that slave man to see me different.

The trip was all right. Pa.s.sed out the white carpenters' clothes then went to the colored men. They ate off to the side. Gaines, a free colored, who trimmed sails acted shocked. "You almost pretty, Miz Anna." I nearly slapped him. Everybody would've seen me blush if I was less dark. I pa.s.sed out the clean clothes. Collected new ones. William's pants had bloodstains from where a saw nicked his thigh. Everybody working too hard. Making mistakes. But now they was having dinner. I had pa.s.sed out my clothes and if I was gonna meet this slave man, I had to do it now. Had to march myself to the ship edge and holler, "Good day."

I couldn't do it. Too nervous. I stood at the edge of the dry dock looking up. Looking up at this man looking out to sea on a ship on stilts, I started chuckling. Funny. Both of us weren't going nowhere.

He turned, looked down at me. His hand on the rail. He smiled. I did too. I said, "You eat?" His face twisted, puzzle-like. "You eat supper? You hungry?"

"No. I . . . I didn't eat. I am hungry."

My heart fell because he talked proper. Even so, I said, "Come down then." I lifted my smaller basket. "Else I'll feed this here to the gulls."

He smiled and it s.n.a.t.c.hed my breath. He moved, fast yet smooth, down the bow steps, then ran to where it was safe to leap over the ship's rail. He, nimble, swift. He came upon me eager. Widest smile. His beauty nearly undid me. I wonder whether Delilah felt this way when she first see Samson: But he wasn't Samson. No Egypt black man. Seeing his features straight on, I could see more of the whiteness in him. But the drops of whiteness didn't matter. He still a slave. Such sadness undid me. My life was surely better than his. Not handsome, I knew I'd struggle to make a man love me. Pa said my darkness didn't matter but the world taught me it did. Even colored children called me "Afric."

But a handsome man-mixed black and white-might dream a better life. Might wish for genteel society. Hard to have Master be your father. Hard to see white brothers and sisters enjoy privileges not yours.

William catcall, "Better leave that slave alone. Ain't got the sense of a dog."

"Hush," I answered back. "Your sense got cut off with your baby finger."

"That's a fact," said Peter, the nail man.

The colored men laugh and I smile.

"It's true." This man's eyes were lit fierce. "I don't have a dog's sense." Then, his voice fell to a whisper. "A dog will stay where it's put. Or if it won't, a chain will hold him. I'm a man. I won't be held. Chained or unchained."

I kept real still. I knew he was staring at me. Expecting some response. Maryland was a slave state. Words could get me whipped. But here was this man asking more of me. Asking me to agree that holding a man a slave was wrong. I inhaled, murmured low, "That's proper. n.o.body has the right to hold a man."

He smiled sweetly at me.

"Or woman."