Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 80

"Okay, so Pace came by to give me my quarterly review. And then he offered me the plum spot of vice president."

"Which you readily accepted. Congratulations."

"Declined. Know why?" he asked.

"I'm sure this is going to be good," I said, but was not at all surprised when Sean proceeded to tell me he'd be joining a venture capital firm specializing in telecommunications companies. I used to wonder why research didn't bore him more since he was such a risk-taker.

"You're going to love playing with fire every day," I told him.

"That's one way of looking at venture capital. I prefer to think of it as bringing a young company to life. Helping it through its infancy."

"Infancy? G.o.d, you sound like a proud parent. Why didn't you think of this before?"

"Oh, but I did. I had it all planned."

"And I thought you hated to plan."

"That was before." He seemed unsure of what to say next.

"You mean before your recent maturation," I said before he could continue. "The whole, 'But Dana, I'm truly ready to be an adult, now' thing." There was a long pause during which I realized I should get off the phone before the conversation descended into the usual recriminatory bulls.h.i.t. "Look, I should go. Linda's been on me lately."

"I know you must be getting a kick out of this, but I'm really quite serious, about everything," Sean said before I could hang up.

"Just tell me why I should believe you?" I asked.

"There's no good reason," he sighed. "You have no good reason to trust me. You've already expressed that."

I could hear the frustration in his voice, but I didn't care. "What did you expect?" I asked. "For me to drop everything and get back together with you just because you say you're ready to be an adult? Because you think you're ready to commit to me?"

"Just admit it. You still love me," he said. "You know we belong together."

I wished I could tell him, 'No. No, I don't,' and mean it enough so that he'd believe me and leave me alone. But I couldn't. Instead, I asked, "Whatever happened to Maureen?"

"I told you, already. That was just a temporary, meaningless thing."

"And you think I'm permanent?"

"Yes."

I gave a short laugh, more of a nervous snort, "I just wonder what would happen if I called your bluff."

"Then we'd go ring shopping this weekend."

I caught my breath, immediately hoping he didn't hear. When Sean and I were together I'd fantasized about him on bended knee, ring box in hand.

"I can't talk about this now," I whispered. "I've got a bunch of work to do before I meet Will for dinner."

"I won't keep you, then," he said quickly. "Have fun with Will."

"Hey, congratulations on the new job."

"Thanks," Sean said and hung up.

He'd sounded so annoyed I almost regretted letting him go on that note. His calls had been regular enough over the past few months that I'd come to expect them-maybe even depend on them-even though by the end of almost every conversation I'd been p.i.s.sed off, more angry than I'd felt since we'd broken up. After the shock of Sean's betrayal had worn off, I'd found myself reluctantly missing him. I would have even taken him back if he'd groveled just a little bit; I wouldn't have wanted to, but I'd have been helpless in the face of whatever meager remorse he offered. When it became obvious that he wasn't going to come back on his knees, I'd been furious; nothing had ever made me feel so strongly, not even my mother's death. Then, after a long while, I'd felt nothing; that's when I'd thought I was over him, totally safe. Will and I had met just as my anger was fading into numbness and I'd credited him with that final transition. Now that Sean was affecting me so deeply again, I didn't know what to think.

As usual, Will and I met on the street in front of the bank. I loved to see him through the throng of wrinkled suits, sneakered women, and tired faces. Will was always dressed in black. It was his trademark, the monochromatic uniform of downtown chic. Once I'd bought him some bright shirts to wear under a black sweater or jacket-lime, indigo, orange-and he hated them, although he never told me. To be truthful, he was right. Any departure from black-except the occasional brown or charcoal gray-made him look oddly childish; in those loud shirts he'd seemed vulnerable and needy, but in dark colors will looked vaguely gangsterish, someone to be taken seriously-an appearance I liked because it allowed me to pretend there was real toughness in his personality. The bright shirts gradually slunk and slouched to the back of his closet.

I'd met Will a year and a half before in a wine tasting cla.s.s which he, the lunch chef at a well-known Midtown restaurant, was taking so he'd be able to contribute ideas to the wine list. I had enrolled in the cla.s.s looking for a new adventure, something I hadn't yet tried, and against the crowd of white faces and white b.u.t.ton-down shirts, Will seemed to be just what I'd come for. He was wearing jeans, heavy boots and a T-shirt-all black, of course, and in the cla.s.s of thirty, we were the only black people. My mother taught me that if I was somewhere where there were only a few other black folks and you happen to run across one, always be friendly. So, I'd smiled at him-not too hard to do since he was really attractive. Seeing that he wasn't going to make the first move, I introduced myself.

Naturally, Will remembered everything we were taught in that cla.s.s. I, meanwhile, could no longer recall the difference between Pouilly-Fume and Pouilly-Fuisse, any of the wine-making regions of Germany, even the major red and white grape varieties.

During the first few months we hung out he bought me elaborate meals in places where his restaurant colleagues would have the waiters would bring us free appetizers and desserts; he knew romantic spots I'd never been to like the Cloisters and the roof garden at the Met; he lit my cigarettes before his own and tagged along to all my favorite clubs and bars, ordering martinis and looking elegant in his black turtleneck and slacks. And I fell in love, fast. Only later did I discover that he wore black not because of some rebellious desire to look dangerous, but because it was the easiest way to appear "cool," and that what I had mistaken for fearlessness and strength was actually steadfastness and competence.

Will never could reconcile the contradictions in his life: his Daddy's-a-doctor-Mommy's-a-lawyer strict upbringing with his spectator's fascination with downtown culture; his Ivy League education with his desire to work with his hands, to knead bread and ma.s.sage spices onto chicken and de-bone salmon for a living; his black heritage with his mostly white neighborhood, schools, and profession. His hands shook slightly when he met new people and he followed me around when we were in a crowd; he was afraid to challenge himself and refused to pursue opening his own restaurant; he would try his best to avoid any kind of confrontation; and he hated to be alone, would do anything to avoid the emotional demands of silence. I knew I shouldn't judge him so harshly for having become diffident and quiet. It was just hard to comprehend why he seemed to shrink smaller and smaller the larger his world became, why his experiences didn't make him more insightful and diplomatic, confident in most situations instead of unsure.

One hand in his pocket, the other dangling a cigarette, shoulders sloping forward, Will waited-on time, as usual. I stood in the lobby and looked at him-his back facing me, his delicate features and smooth redbrown skin only visible when he glanced sidelong at the doors. I watched him flick the cigarette into the street, straighten the silver buckle on his belt, affect boredom. He projected confidence to the casual onlooker, and seeing this from a distance made him attractive to me. I walked out into Will's arms and breathed in his familiar smell of smoke and cinnamon gum.

The Vietnamese restaurant was nearly empty and the noise we made bursting through the door-laughing, the paper bag that held the wine crinkling, my heels clacking on the cheap linoleum floor-filled the spare room. We ordered a huge dinner of steamed rice crepes with chicken and shrimp, hot and sour seafood broth, green papaya salad with grilled beef, and red curried prawns in coconut milk; Will wanted to sample different dishes because he was looking for one more spice to enliven a coulis he meant to serve over striped ba.s.s.

"I checked out some restaurants on Atlantic Avenue because I thought I'd go North African. You know, use some harissa. But that whole thing's been played out," he said, dipping a spoon into the Banh Hoi sauce. "I was also thinking maybe thyme-so cla.s.sic it's unexpected. Right? But then lemongra.s.s or basil and lime could be interesting. Nice and light."

I watched him, saying nothing, having nothing to say. I'd never been that particular about food. I'd inherited my mother's long limbs, but not her curves; instead, I got my father's fast metabolism along with his terrible eating habits: scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast and a hamburger and fries for dinner one day, no breakfast and cereal for dinner the next. Mom would try to get me to eat better, but I always fell back on my old habits. It wouldn't matter how much I ate, I always looked the same-limber from dance cla.s.s, but way too gangling with no b.u.t.t or b.r.e.a.s.t.s at all, earning me the nickname "firepole" from the none-too-sympathetic boys in my school. Since Mom died I cared even less about food, eating only when I had to, and then efficiently, with little pa.s.sion.

"Good idea," I said.

"Or something totally different," He kept on, oblivious to my disinterest. "Blacken it or maybe pan-fried with garlic mashed potatoes?"

"I don't understand this whole comfort food trend." I took up my knife and fork, cut a piece of broccoli in half. "I mean, why go out for mashed potatoes?"

"People want to feel at home everywhere. Part of the whole coc.o.o.ning thing."

"Well, that's exactly how I do not want to feel."

"Maybe if you ate more." Will gestured at my plate; he'd served me and the beef and prawn were piled dangerously high atop a mountain of rice. "You're so skinny."

"You never complained about my body before."

"And I never would. I just want to feed you."

"Because you're a chef."

"Maybe." He paused, wiped his hands then touched my knee under the table. "Spend this weekend at home with me?"

I'd forgotten to tell him about St. Louis, or maybe was avoiding talking about it. "My stepfather called yesterday at the crack of dawn to say he was selling the house and could I please come and get my things," I told him. "I'm leaving Friday."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I meant to."

"You always say that, and you still don't tell me stuff."

"Whatever, Will." His mannerisms-the constant little shrugs, the way most of his statements ended in questions, the way he jiggled his right foot-suddenly began to get on my nerves. Irrationally, I knew, I was angry. I could always feel myself being impatient and unreasonable with Will, but usually couldn't stop the comments from slipping from my mouth like noxious wisps of smoke. "Look, I'm just a little p.i.s.sed off that I have to deal with this right now."

"Okay, but don't take it out on me."

"Well, don't make everything about you."

Will shrugged again. "You're right," he said.

"I guess, I just can't believe it. I still have a key to that house."

"It has been four years since your Mom died," he said, ripping the tail off a prawn and taking a bite.

"And?" I asked drawing out the word and raising my eyebrow-a warning sign that he should have recognized.

"Why shouldn't he sell it?"

I rolled my eyes and leaned forward to whisper, "Is it so hard to understand that I don't want strangers to live in the house I grew up in?"

Will shrank back a little in his seat. "n.o.body wants random people in their childhood bedrooms, but it's not like you ever go back, or have very much with you from St. Louis, for that matter," he said.

"That doesn't mean I never want to again."

"Maybe Gerald doesn't know that. Anyway, don't you think he has a right to move on?"

"A right to move on? Are you saying that he has a right to sell my mother's s.h.i.t and move to Rio with the money?" I couldn't coax the hardness out of my voice.

"I only meant that Gerald might not be able to get on with his life living there. Why read everything you don't want to hear into what I say?"

"Because you sound just like Gerald."

"I'm on your side, Dana." Will waited for me to say something. "I'll go with you," he offered.

"What do you mean?"

"To St. Louis."

"No," I said quickly and regretted my tactlessness. Will ran a hand over the top of his short hair in the direction that he'd trained it to lie against his head-back to front. There was always a part at the top of his head separating the hair he brushed toward his neck from the hair he brushed forward. Thinking of that vulnerable line of pale scalp, of Will in the morning brushing his half inch of hair flatter and flatter, I couldn't be mad any longer; I was only irritated, and very tired.

"I'm going to be rushing around packing and there'd be nothing for you to do. I'll be fine." I reached for his hand. His skin was soft, his palm vaguely moist, and I curled my fingers through his. Will couldn't come with me. His very presence-solidity and calm fortified by his large stable family, happily married parents, a brother and two sisters and too many cousins, grandparents, and aunts and uncles to name-would be enough to remind me that I was in my childhood home with no blood relatives, packing my things to take away and never return.

"I'm sorry," I said after a minute. "You know how I get when I talk about this."

"No, actually. No, I don't." Will withdrew his hand and called for our check.

The heat settled heavy over the City. Still, I wanted to be outside for awhile. I left Will at a subway station and began to walk west through Chinatown. The twisted streets were filled with shops, open and crowded despite the late hour, and busy restaurants whose names promised "Golden Life" and "Prosperity" or, at the very least, "Lovely Food." I walked by stooped women carrying three and four orange plastic bags of groceries, teenage girls with shy faces and too much eye makeup, and groups of boys wearing black leather jackets and combat boots, until I emerged from Chinatown's convoluted center. The streets widened. Yellow lines on the sidewalk demarcated truck loading areas on both sides of the street as people, shops, and tenements buildings gave way to warehouses and long-closed industrial supply stores secured by locked metal gates. I was at the edge of TriBeCa, about to turn south toward the subway on Chambers Street, when I stopped at a street corner. I felt totally alone, not lonely so much as isolated, and decided that I wasn't quite ready to go back to Brooklyn.

I made a right instead of a left and ended up at the bar of a Mexican restaurant on Franklin Street with a pack of Camels and a margarita sitting in front of me. Some guy two stools down lit my first cigarette. He was no more than twenty years old and looked exhausted and underfed. His hands twitched as he held up the match and I could see his dark-ringed eyes blinking too fast, the pupils only pinpoints. I swung away from him to face the dining room. It's 11:00 on a Wednesday, I thought, I ought to be in bed, covers up over my head. At the same time I was glad not to be waiting in a hot subway station for a train that would take me back to my dark apartment.

The dining room was half full, the tables holding mostly empty plates and gla.s.ses, the diners lingering over one last drink; I wanted to go sit at one of the tables, to blend in with the crowd of people who obviously did not set their alarms for 6:30am every weekday morning. Then across the room a guy wearing a business suit held up a martini in a toast to his dinner companion who I couldn't see from my stool. A st.u.r.dy-looking man with wavy auburn hair, ruddy cheeks, a blunt nose, and broad shoulders. Sean. He'd never ordered a martini in the two years that he and I were together, but it looked like Sean. Though I hadn't seen him in over a year, my stomach clenched and I finished my margarita in one gulp. I reminded myself, almost murmuring aloud, that it was different now-he'd been calling me for the past few months, had even called me today. He wanted me.

I stood up and, pretending to look for the ladies room, wove around the tables toward the man. I drew close and saw the person he was with-a j.a.panese woman with blond highlights unevenly striating her dark hair like veins of fat in a porterhouse. She glanced up at me as I approached, wary at first, but I must have looked too nervous to be threatening and she let out a soft condescending laugh. Then the man looked over and I opened my mouth to say, "Sean, hi! What a coincidence," when I realized that it wasn't him. I registered the difference first in his mouth-it was too thin with mean little wrinkles at the corners; the man's skin wasn't healthy red but martini-flushed; his eyes were green instead of hazel; flesh gathered under his chin and filled out his midsection. I stopped, twisted my head to the left and right as if trying to find something, then turned toward the restrooms. Locked in a stall, heart pounding with adrenaline and embarra.s.sment, I waited long minutes until I had the courage to pa.s.s through the dining room to the street and hail a taxi to Brooklyn.

FROM What You Owe Me.

BY BEBE MOORE CAMPBELL.

The Braddock Hotel was the rich old uncle of downtown Los Angeles. I'd never seen anything as grand in Inez, where the largest hotel was only three stories high and always needed a new coat of paint. Braddock was nearly fifty years old and took up half a city block; the entire front was beige marble, and the entrance was two huge gla.s.s doors. Inside there were fifteen floors and a gigantic ballroom. The lobby was grand, with two huge crystal chandeliers, exactly like the one that was in the ballroom. The walls were the color of cream and the carpet was a swirl of soft rose and green. Plush sofas, comfortable armchairs, and carved tables sitting on a soft rug-it was like a magazine picture. The guest rooms were s.p.a.cious and furnished even more luxuriously than the lobby. Mostly businessmen came to Braddock, and the place got its share of conventions, too.

It was not far from the Hollywood Freeway. I was used to one-lane highways and dirt roads, but LA had the Hollywood and the Pasadena freeways, and more were being built every day, connecting different parts of the city and even the suburbs, which I'd only heard about. From the upper floors in Braddock I could look out the windows and watch cars that seemed to fly along the asphalt ribbon that was divided into three lanes. I'd never seen so many automobiles in my life, and the sight of them, the thrumming sound they made, excited me and made me imagine going places far away from brooms and mops.

By the time she'd been working at Braddock for a year, we all were used to Gilda's quiet ways. Mr. Weinstock put Gilda and me on the same shift. Some days we worked from five o'clock in the morning until two or three in the afternoon. Early morning was the time we washed the linens and towels and folded everything. We mopped the grand hotel lobby, polished all the marble and gla.s.s. Sometimes when I was giving her the ammonia our hands would touch. She had soft hands, and I wondered how long they would stay nice.

Thanksgiving rolled around again. The maids weren't looking forward to the holidays, at least not working them. There were always lots of parties and formal affairs at Braddock during this time. People would get plenty liquored up, and drunk people are not the most fastidious. This was the time of year we had to wipe up vomit and urine that didn't make it to the toilet bowl. And then, too, even though Los Angeles didn't have a real winter like the ones in Texas that could turn your skin the kind of gray colored folks call ashy, people still caught colds. A lot of the maids would stay out sick, and then Mr. Weinstock would put us on double shift. By Christmas we'd be too worn out to enjoy our own festivities. But what else was new?

The first weekend in December, Gilda and I both got put on midday and late shift, which meant we had to come in at one and we didn't go home until after midnight. You wouldn't think that there would be that much to do late at night but that's when Mr. Weinstock wanted us to wash windows, clean the mezzanine bathrooms, and change the big Chinese vases of flowers that were always in the lobby. It took two people to carry those vases. And he liked to have some maids on hand when there were big parties in the hotel. People would stay in bed all day and then go out at night, and when they came back they expected clean rooms.

That Sat.u.r.day night around ten o'clock, Mr. Weinstock told us to go up to the sixth floor. Guests had just left, and two rooms needed to be made up. When we got there, the floor seemed deserted, except for Brewster, who did repairs. He was carrying his toolbox, standing in front of the service elevator when we got off. He smiled politely when he saw us, especially at Gilda. "How are you girls doing tonight?"

"Fine," we both said.

We chatted with him for a few minutes before we made our way down the hall.

I worked on one room and Gilda cleaned the other. They were only about three doors apart. Maybe because I trained Gilda, she and I had similar timing, and we'd end up at the carts together. That's where we were when the man came in holding the boy by the hand.

We both smelled evil at the same moment. The first thing that hit me was that the man was white and the boy, who must have been about seven or eight, was Mexican. He was a scrawny little kid, not dressed for the chilly weather. He was wearing shorts and an undershirt, and he had on sandals. His little legs and arms were dirty. The man was drunk, and the boy looked scared, the kind of scared that means he has to go along with the show because of the money that's waiting when the curtain comes down. I'd seen that fear before at Braddock, in the eyes of young hookers with old johns who stumbled down the hall beside them. I'd never seen that expression on a child's face, and to tell you the truth, I didn't want to look.

They went into the room between the ones we'd just made up. When the door closed, my eyes met Gilda's. She whispered, "He is a bad man." When she said the words her body started shaking, and she had to wipe away the moisture that started popping out on her forehead.

I knew he was a bad man but he was a bad white man, and he was a guest. I thought about calling Mr. Weinstock, but Ole Sweat and Farts wouldn't do anything to help a Mexican street kid if it meant offending a paying customer. I considered contacting the police, but then I'd have to give my name, take them to the room, and by that time the damage would be done. And if Mr. Weinstock found out, I could forget about my job, and my candy store.

Gilda walked right to the room. We could hear the boy crying, soft, pitiful sounds. I knocked on the door and said, "Is everything all right in there?" I tried to sound stern, like a teacher, which is what I would have been if my daddy had had money for college.

Before he could answer, Gilda had pulled out her key and opened the door. "Girrrrrrl," I said, and put my hand on her shoulder to hold her back. But she shook it off and walked in, and I followed her.

The room smelled like sour milk. The little boy was naked, lying on the bed facedown. The man was on top of him with his pants and shorts around his ankles. He jumped up. His p.e.n.i.s was hard and red. His cheeks looked slapped. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing in here?" he said. "Get out, the both of you."

"You stop hurting that boy," Gilda said.

"Get the h.e.l.l outta here." He turned back to the child.

Gilda pulled something shiny out of her sweater pocket. When I saw it was a knife, I opened my mouth and couldn't close it, but not a sound came out. The next thing I knew she was stabbing the man in his a.s.s.