Black & White

by Lewis Shiner

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Robert.” He was amazed the word came out so clearly.

  “Robert. Do you dance?”

  “Yes.” He had to clear his throat and try again. “Yes, I dance. I’m a little rusty.”

  “That’s all right. Long as you don’t have to sit out, you won’t be too bored. Wait here.”

  She made her way through the crowd with a languorous walk that rolled her hips and took her shoulders up and down. The rest of the men in the room didn’t seem to pay her that much attention, maybe out of respect to Howard. To Robert she had the power of a slow hurricane.

  She blew up to Howard where he stood talking to Mitch Antree and the preacher. Robert couldn’t hear any of the words, only saw Howard excuse himself and turn to her. With growing horror, he saw Mercy point to him and saw Howard stare at him with narrowed eyes. Robert held up both hands, miming his incomprehension. Howard shook his head in what looked like disgust and turned to Antree.

  Robert watched Mercy walk past him, and he thought, with a hint of disappointment, that the crisis was over. Then she was back, clutching a white patent pocketbook and saying, “Let’s go.”

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘let’s go.’ ”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “There’s a swing band at the Biltmore Hotel. You are my chaperone.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Like the lawyer said, don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to. Are you coming or not?”

  “I thought you were Barrett’s woman.”

  “You, and Barrett, and everybody else needs to understand that I am nobody’s woman other than my own. I’m not taking you out to fuck me, I’m taking you out to dance with me.” Robert felt his face catch fire. “As long as Barrett don’t want to dance with me, who I dance with is my own damn business. And as long as I’m going, he’s better off having somebody with me that’ll watch out for me. Now, for the last time, as the singer said, is you is or is you ain’t coming along?”

  The Colemans had edged away from him, as if sensing danger. Robert himself did not need a slide rule to do the calculations. There was nothing he wanted more than to go dancing with this woman. Not his job, not his marriage, not his physical safety.

  “As the lady said,” he shrugged, “ ‘let’s go.’ ”

  He followed her out onto the porch. “I don’t have my car,” he said. “I came with Mitch.”

  “We’re taking my car.” She produced a set of car keys in a leather folder and tossed them to him. “You’re driving.”

  *

  She had a brown late model Impala sedan, four doors, white vinyl seats, a family car. “I was expecting a red MG,” he said, opening the passenger door for her.

  “I use this car for work. Which is why you’re driving. I’m tired of it.”

  As he got in on the driver’s side the irrationality of what he was doing hit him like a freezing wind. Antree had specifically told him not to screw up, and here he was. Once the car was rolling, though, the feeling passed. In its place came a sense of unreality, like lying between waking and sleep on a Saturday morning, when fantasies blended seamlessly into dreams and began to play themselves out. He glanced at Mercy, who had coiled into the juncture of seat and door and was sizing him up.

  “Where’d you learn to dance?” she asked.

  “It started with my mother. My father stopped dancing after they got married, so she taught me when I was little. She’d play big band records, and we’d dance on the linoleum in the kitchen. What about you?”

  “Men taught me.”

  Best not ask, he thought, how many. “So where do you work?”

  “Mechanics and Farmers. I’m the head teller.” Next to NC Mutual, Mechanics and Farmers was the most successful black business in Durham. Its offices had always been downtown on Parrish Street, the so-called Black Wall Street, though they had a branch in Hayti.

  “That’s impressive.”

  “Once I finish my master’s at NCC, they’re going to move me into accounting.” North Carolina College, formerly North Carolina College for Negroes, was on Fayetteville Road on the southern end of Hayti. “Then I’m going to get me a nice house in South Durham, maybe on Hope Valley Road, get me a white boy to mow my grass.”

  “You don’t want a family?”

  “What do I want a family for? So I can end up like all my friends from high school? Fat, broke, and miserable, with a bunch of screaming kids? I don’t think so. Park anywhere along here.”

  There were no spaces on Pettigrew, and Robert had to circle the block and park on Dillard. He walked around to open Mercy’s door. She swept out of the car like royalty and left Robert to lock up and follow along behind.

  He could still, at this point, deny any serious wrongdoing. They weren’t having an affair. Howard knew where they were, and Robert had called Ruth from Elvira’s, so she knew too, more or less. When Robert looked into his own heart, though, he saw desire and betrayal beyond forgiveness.

  The Biltmore Hotel was three stories of dark red brick and a striped awning over the main entrance. The music spilled out onto the street, where it had drawn a small crowd, some of them dancing on the sidewalk, some clapping time. Mercy reached for his hand and drew him through the lobby, then shifted impatiently while he paid admission to a man at a card table outside the ballroom.

  The room itself was small compared to the Durham Armory and some of the other local halls. The floor was polished hardwood, and the band had an elevated stage at the far end. There were eight of them, including four horns and a girl singer, all Negroes. They were playing Basie’s “One O’Clock Jump,” and Mercy dragged Robert straight onto the floor, already crowded with forty or more couples, saying, “All right, Robert, let’s see what you got.”

  Instead of the wild energy he’d expected from her, Mercy danced with smooth economy, swiveling on the swingouts and throwing embellishments into her other footwork, yet always showing up where she needed to be, right on time. She followed well, and Robert struggled to come up with new moves to keep her amused.

  Meanwhile, on all sides, he glimpsed dancing like he’d never seen outside of the movies. Women were tossed in the air, flipped into handstands, thrown over partners’ backs and hauled up between their legs. And that was just the flashy stuff. Even the older dancers were hitting the breaks in the music, styling with their hands and arms, throwing out kicks and slides, stomping and clapping, cutting up and cracking up.

  Robert managed to finish with a quick dip. As he brought her back to her feet, Mercy smiled and said, “Who’s rusty?” Robert thought it was perhaps the best thing anyone had ever said to him.

  The band went immediately into “Woodchopper’s Ball” and Mercy made no sign to leave, so Robert picked her up and swung her out again. He kept an eye on the other leaders, and some of their milder stuff reminded him of moves he knew. He sharpened his timing, putting more leverage into his swingouts, more precision on his tuck turns, letting his right hand hover at shoulder level when he wasn’t using it. He felt the dance get better, the balance of pressure and resistance seeming to come straight out of the music.

  By the end he was sweating, exhilarated, and exaggeratedly aware of Mercy’s body. On stage, the orchestra stopped to adjust its sheet music. Mercy showed him her smile again. “Not too shabby,” she said. “Your mama taught you all that?”

  “Not all of it,” he said.

  Then he felt her attention fade. She glanced around the room, as if looking for someone, and Robert felt a pang of rejection. Had he really expected her to dance with him all night long? A moment later a tall, thin Negro of about 60 appeared, wearing a white shirt, bow tie, and newsboy cap, his shirt sweated through to reveal a sleeveless T-shirt underneath. He tipped his cap to Mercy and nodded to Robert.

  “Hello, Bernie,” Mercy said.

  “Evening.” He looked at Robert. “Might I borrow this young lady fo
r a dance?”

  Robert looked at Mercy, caught her nearly invisible nod, and smiled with the best grace he could manage. “Certainly,” he said, and stepped aside.

  He retired to a folding chair along the wall as the band lit into a swinging version of “Perfidia.”

  Bernie began slowly, reeling Mercy in and out, turning in place. Unlike the leaders who hunched low as they worked, Bernie was casual, collected. He barely seemed to move, Mercy responding to the merest flicks of his wrist with big turns and spins. Now that he was on the sidelines, Robert saw how high her skirt flew when she twirled; the entire length of her magnificent legs was on display, all the way to the edges of her white cotton panties. The sight constricted Robert’s breathing.

  As the song went on, Bernie dug deeper. Mercy began to hop as she moved in, first sitting on his bent leg, then letting him swing her around his back. Toward the end, he threw her in the air and caught her on his shoulders. She pushed off and did a split in midair, then landed cleanly, taking his hat with her. She put it on and kept it for a minute or so, then Bernie finished with a dip so low the hat came off again. He snagged it before it hit the ground and put it back on his own head.

  Mercy gave Bernie a hug, and then there was another man waiting. Robert wondered if he’d get another dance. There were more men than women in the room, and no white women at all. He was far from home and had no idea of the rules.

  He finally managed to look away from Mercy and saw Bernie walking toward him. Bernie had a longneck beer bottle in one hand, and he eased himself down into the chair next to Robert. “Lord, lord, lord,” he said, stretching out his long legs. “Getting too old to be dancing like that.”

  “It was amazing,” Robert said. “I wish I could dance like that.”

  “I guess it’s like anything else. It’s not too hard once you get the hang of it.”

  On impulse, Robert said, “That move where you put her over your back. Could you show it to me?” Aerials were strictly forbidden at the dances Robert had been to.

  Bernie looked at him hard and squinted one eye. “I might could. Wait till this dance over, see can we get somebody to help us out.”

  The entire room now knew that Mercy was there. Before the last notes of the song had died out, men were circling her in a feeding frenzy, and Robert worried that they might turn on each other. Bernie waded into the chaos and returned with a slight woman in a yellow sundress. Her slack expression added to the impression of childishness. “What you want with me, Bernie?” Her voice was a high chirp.

  “Going to help out my friend here.” To Robert he said, “Minnie don’t weigh hardly anything. She’ll be easy to learn on.”

  “Don’t want nobody learning on me,” she said.

  “I’m Robert,” he interrupted, offering his hand.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Minnie said, and curtseyed.

  Bernie gathered her up in closed position. “I’ll walk through it once as slow as I can. Thing is, you can’t slow it down too much or you lose your momentum.”

  It took Robert ten minutes to get the basics of the move—the footwork, the lead, the mechanics of the lift, the follow-through. Minnie was stoic throughout. Finally he took her onto the floor and worked the pattern in again and again, having to abort the first couple of times, missing the timing on the next few, then, like a miracle, working it over and over.

  When the song was over she shook his hand and said, “Thank you very kindly for the dance, but I believe you has worn me out.” With great dignity she walked over to the chairs and sat down.

  He went over to thank Bernie, and found him talking to a woman in her forties, heavier than Minnie, and yet not, Robert thought, out of the question for his new move. “This is my friend Robert,” Bernie said. “Robert, this is Audrey.”

  “Hi, Audrey,” Robert said. “Would you care to dance?”

  After that the ice was well broken. He started to ask strangers. A few turned him down, and he smiled and moved on; others, especially the older women, gave him a chance and he felt he was able to show them a good time.

  The band struck up “Moonglow,” one of Robert’s favorites. He was looking for a likely prospect when an arm slipped around his waist from behind. “Did you forget about me?” Mercy’s voice asked.

  He turned to face her. They were both hot, sweating, flushed. “No,” he said.

  She moved into his arms. The band took it slow, and she laid her head against his damp shirt. He smelled the perfume in her hair and the warmth of her body, like fresh-ironed linen.

  “I saw your new trick,” she said.

  “Bernie’s a great teacher.”

  “Something like that,” she said.

  He wasn’t sure what she meant, didn’t need to know. The only thing that mattered was the pressure of her body against his, the music. They danced like old lovers who knew each other’s every breath and heartbeat.

  The reckless feeling that had been haunting him passed in the course of the dance. By the end he felt a quiet determination, something like destiny.

  He dipped her long and slow on the final chord, one hand behind her neck for support. As he brought her up, she held him by the arms and didn’t let go. “Want to show me your trick?”

  “If you’re willing to risk it.”

  “Like the gambler said, ‘What’s to lose?’ ”

  Mercy ignored the two men standing next to her, waiting their turns. The piano player called for Charlie Barnett’s “Skyliner,” “on the tracks.” She took Robert’s left hand in her right and put her free arm on his shoulder. The band took off like a Redstone rocket. Robert got on board. The speed of the music made everyone crazy. Women flew, men hit the floor in splits and bounced up again, couples spun around each other like Tilt-A-Whirl cars. Robert put Mercy over his back and liked it so much he sent her over a second time, which earned him a “Whoooo” from her, nearly lost in the thunder of the band and the cries of the other dancers.

  When it ended they were hanging on each other, out of breath. The piano player said the band would be back in 15 minutes and Mercy said, “Take me outside. I need some air.”

  The night had turned cold. Steam came off the dancers’ clothes as they stood on the sidewalk, pointing at each other and laughing. Robert passed his pack of Luckies around. Bernie and Mercy and a couple of others helped themselves, and he lit them all with his Army Zippo. The talk was about the band, about the NCAA basketball tournament that had ended a couple of weeks before. Robert leaned against the bricks of the hotel and closed his eyes. When he opened them again Mercy was leaning against the wall next to him.

  He tried to think of something conversational to say, then let it go. Ruth felt compelled to fill every silence with talk and it was peaceful just to lean. He knew more or less what she was thinking. There would be songs still echoing in her head, the pleasant hum of fatigue in her muscles, memories of weightless moments above the dance floor.

  When their Luckies burned down, he pushed himself onto his aching feet and felt Mercy slide her arm through his. As they strolled inside, he wondered where he would find the energy to dance any more, at the same time that he knew he would, and in fact did, as soon as the music started again.

  He danced again with all the women he’d danced with in the first set, and Bernie volunteered to show him another move, and Robert learned it, and it seemed like every third or fourth number Mercy was there to dance with him again, and she always found him for the slow ones. He neither sought her out nor questioned his fortune, simply accepted it for the gift it was.

  At midnight the band took another break and Mercy said, “That’s it. My dogs are barking.” She limped alternately on both feet to make her point. I suspect your friend Mitch is long gone. How you going to get home?”

  He hadn’t thought that far ahead, hadn’t thought how it would hit him in the pit of the stomach to say goodbye to her. “My car’s down the street. You could drop me if you like.”

  She gave languo
rous hugs to some of the other dancers on the way out, and a kiss on the cheek to Bernie. She whispered something to him, and he looked at Robert and laughed. “My pleasure,” he said. “Y’all be careful now, hear?”

  They walked side by side to her car, close without touching. Robert was thinking about kissing her. He was pretty sure she would let him. He wondered what those wide, swollen lips would feel like under his. He felt as if he’d been waiting his entire life to find out.

  She stepped into the street, toward the driver’s side, and held out her hand for the keys. Robert passed them to her and waited for her to get in and reach across to unlock the passenger door. She started the car and said, “It hurts to work the pedals.” Robert closed his door. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Fayetteville Street. South of Pettigrew.” He savored their last moments together. He was calm and happy being near her, the way he felt in dreams. She was like one of those negative ion generators he’d read about in Time, that were supposed to make you feel like you were on a beach or next to a waterfall.

  Cars slowly cruised the streets, windows down, radios blaring, young black men leaning out to call to people on the sidewalk. It was utterly unlike the world Robert had grown up in, yet it seemed comfortable, familiar. Maybe it was the fatigue.

  “It’s the black Mercury there on the left,” he said.

  She stopped the car there in the street, halting traffic behind them, and turned to him. “Thank you,” she said. Her tough façade was nowhere in sight.

  “My pleasure.” He saw then that to kiss her at that moment would be predictable, and would thus surrender his only advantage. Still, it was more than he could do to simply walk away. He put his right hand on her cheek, barely touching it, then ran his first two fingers across the fullness of her lower lip. She closed her eyes. He noticed, finally, her earrings, tiny scrollwork hearts.

  “Take care,” he said, and got out into the street. He stood next to the line of parked cars and watched her drive away, half-blinded by the oncoming headlights.

  *

  He laid his sweat-soaked clothes across the washing machine and showered before getting into bed. Unlike the last time he’d stayed late in Hayti, he felt no desire for Ruth as she lay snoring gently next to him. Rather he felt as if he’d wandered into the wrong house, and that if Ruth woke she would fail to recognize him, would scream and call the police.