by Barry Wolfe
“Late for what? “ I’M LATE WITH MY PERIOD,” And her wailing recommences. Now it is my turn to screech.
“WHAT? YOU CAN’T BE! I USED A RUBBER!”
“AND HOW OLD WAS THAT RUBBER?” She asks in a voice awash in tears. The panic that I hear in her voice has no difficulty traveling from her brain to mine. “HOW LATE?” I ask, matching her wailing howl for howl. Through her sniffling, she softly says, “Two weeks.”
“OH MY GOD WE’RE DOOMED!” I cry. In my mind’s eye, I see every dream, every plan for a successful life that I have ever conjured dashed to splinters against the rocks of real life. “Maureen, I will be right back. I put the phone on the bed go into the bathroom and turn on the cold-water spigot. I splash my face and quickly wipe it with a towel. I look into the mirror and see a very young face staring back at me. You, a daddy? Impossible! I begin laughing hysterically until tears roll out of my eyes. Then the tears continue, but now I am crying. The tears stop and I give myself a hard rebuking stare. OK Izzy, let’s be a man about this. “I’m back,” I tell Maureen once I pick up the phone. She has stopped crying, but there is sheer panic in her voice. “WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO, IZZY? WHAT’RE WE GONNA DO?” Maureen asks in a shrieking whiney voice. I reply in as manly a voice I can muster, “You’ll have to get rid of it.”
“What do you mean I have to get rid of it? We did this together. So we decide together. Besides I’m Catholic and the idea of destroying a life makes me sick.”
“Well, are you ready to be a mommy? Because I’m not ready to be a daddy.”
“No, I’m too young to become a mother.”
“Well then, what do you suggest we do?” The more we talk about the possibility of our becoming parents, the more difficult it becomes to believe that Maureen is not pregnant. “Oh Izzy, I think I’m gonna be sick. I’ll be right back.” A moment later, I hear faint sounds of retching and of a toilet flushing. Another moment passes and Maureen is back on the phone. It’s as if she never left. She begins to cry again into the phone and says through her tears, “My parents will kick me out of the house. I’ll have no place to go. Can I stay with you, Izzy?” This requests jolts me back to reality, and I realize we are getting ahead of ourselves. “Wait a minute Maureen, we don’t even know for sure that you’re pregnant.” At this moment, our conversation produces its first intelligent idea. “Listen, I worked the whole summer with one of the world’s leading authorities on human fertilization and reproduction, Dr. Fullmarks. Let me go talk to him. I’m sure he can give me the best information on the likelihood of your being pregnant and maybe some advice about what we should do.” Maureen sounds relieved by the suggestion. “Oh Izzy, that’s a wonderful idea. Call him right away.”
“Maureen, its Sunday. I don’t have his home number and nobody will be at work now. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow morning.”
“OK, Izzy. Call him as soon as you can tomorrow and call me after you speak with him.”
I have no classes on Friday afternoon so I schedule a meeting with Dr. Fullmarks at 3 pm. As I enter his pristine laboratory—a startling contrast to the advancing state of putrefaction and decrepitude of the Howard U. Chem Lab--I see him bent over a microscope attempting to solve yet another mystery within the universe of the cell, I presume. He is the picture of the dedicated scientist, white lab coat, white fringes bookending a balding head, and large round-rim glasses. But when he turns to greet me, he gives me a beatific smile that reflects the true gentleness of the man. “Ah, Mr. White,” he says with a warmth that surprises me. “It is so good to see you again so soon after the termination of your summer internship. I sensed the urgency in your message, but I am in the dark as to what can be so urgent in your young life.”
“Disaster, Dr. Fullmarks. I am facing a disaster.” Dr. Fullmarks motions for me to sit in a nearby chair and he pulls up another chair for himself. I look around at the stark whiteness of the laboratory and I feel momentarily like an inpatient in a psychiatric ward. The heebie jeebies begin to overtake me. “M’ my girl-friend is two weeks late with her period.”
“Ah, I see, and you think she is pregnant?”
“She thinks she’s pregnant and she’s managed to convince me.”
“Well, tell me, Mr. White,” Dr. Fullmarks asks with a piercing but kindly stare. “What is the current nature of your relationship?”
“That’s what is so upsetting. We broke up two weeks ago. We made love once and she thought that meant I would convert to Catholicism in order for her to be able to marry me. I have no intention of converting to any religion, and marriage is a long way off for me. Anyway, Sunday night, I get this frantic call from Maureen crying that she’s late. “
“Let me ask you Mr. White, during this one time you made love, did you use a condom?”
“Yes, but it was a year old. I’ve been carrying it around the whole time in case I found an opportunity to lose my virginity.” Dr. Fullmarks begins to stroke his white goatee. “So this one time you made love with this girl was your first time?”
“That’s right and I wasn’t even planning to, but she insisted.”
“Oh I see. So she held a gun to your head?”
“Well no, but she did grab my hand and pull me into the back seat of my car and began taking off her clothes and mine.”
“Did the condom come off at any time?”
“No it didn’t, and I remember taking it off myself afterwards and looking for holes.”
A smile plays around Dr. Fullmarks’ mouth. “It’s always good to inspect one’s handiwork. “ Dr. Fullmarks chuckles to himself. I smile nervously. “Actually, Mr. White, what you are telling me is quite reassuring. Although condoms are not full proof, they are about 90 % effective. Your post-coital inspection may push the efficacy rating a little higher. Now when you combine that fact with another, the certainty that your girlfriend—Maureen is her name? -- is dealing with not just your rejection but also the destruction of her marital dream; those facts in conjunction suggest to me that the significant stress with which she is dealing is suppressing the appearance of her menses.”
“Are you positive, Dr. Fullmarks?” I ask this with prayerful hands pleading for mercy from a deity. “I can’t be absolutely certain, Mr. White, but if you wait one more week, the probability is very high that Maureen will get her period.” When I clasp him in a bear hug, he at first resists and then laughingly relents. “Oh thank you, thank you Dr. Fullmarks.” I hold on to him tightly while I tearfully sing out my thanks. He gently separates himself from me. “Not at all, Mr. White. Not at all.” I literally dash out of his lab and streak to my car.
As soon as I get home, I call Maureen and tell her the prognostication from my oracle. “Maureen, I think you can help matters by calming down and not worrying about it. I believe Dr. Fullmarks when he says that within seven days, you’ll get your period.” In a dejected voice, Maureen says, “OK, Izzy, if you trust him.” I could hear that she doesn’t trust the information I have just given her. In other words, she no longer trusts anything I say. Well, it wasn’t seven days or ten, but a full 14 days later before Maureen got her period. Fourteen days and 15 nasty, tearful and desperate phone calls from Maureen. In those 15 phone calls, I receive a clear image of myself in Maureen’s eyes: “Cad”, “Gigolo”, “User”, “Manipulator”, “Liar”. But it is the last two epithets that really hurt: “Christ-Killer” and “Nigger-Lover.” Painful, but clarifying! We could never be a couple.
In romantic relationships, the truth is always late.
After the tumultuous summer I have endured, I am happy to return to my classes at Howard. There, at least, professors are more interested in my mind than in my soul. I have finally left behind my two would-be soul-devourers: Elwood, the evangelical nudnik, and Maureen, my teenage succubus. Now I can focus on my new love: Psychology. I guess psychology has always been a secret obsession. I’ve always wanted to know what makes people tick; and like most people interested in psychology I first want to understand what makes me tic
k.
The first day I enter my class on abnormal psychology, I see Desirie. I tremble uncontrollably as I stare at her. She waves and smiles. I am surprised by how grateful I feel that she is smiling at me. I am even more surprised when my legs go wobbly. I laugh nervously and I am sure I look as goofy as I feel. I wave at her like a five-year-old waving at a playmate. Then I suddenly feel such a fire in my loins that it is all I can do to restrain myself from grabbing her and kissing her passionately. She chooses to sit next to me in class and begins chatting away as if we have been in each other’s lives every day for the past four years. I can’t make out what she is saying because of the volume of sounds produced by my physiological responses to her nearness and her beauty. My heart sounds like a base drum and my stomach trumpets its borborygmi so loudly that I’m sure Desirie can hear it. If she does hear the rumbles of my stomach, she does not let on. The cacophony within tells me I’m helplessly in love with her. I finally hear her say, “Okay, I’ll shut up now because here’s Dr. Hicks.”
Dr. Leslie Hicks is probably the most difficult faculty member at Howard to get to know. I think basically he is shy. He stands at the front of the class, 6 feet tall, thin with thinning hair and a cocoa-colored complexion, with a world-weary expression on his face, looking as if he would rather be getting a colonoscopy than having to face and teach us. He stands silently for the longest time before he finally says, “Welcome to Abnormal Psychology. The assigned textbook for this class is Robert White’s The Abnormal Personality. But don’t bother reading it. Just watch me, because I am the perfect example of an abnormal personality.” This brings the house down. Five minutes go by before the laughter dies down. Anyone who is even superficially acquainted with Dr. Hicks knows he is speaking the unvarnished truth.
I couldn’t believe how happy I am in the abnormal psychology class. The material is endlessly fascinating and every class I get to sit next to the young woman I truly love. After each class we have lunch together and talk about the information we have just absorbed and the humorous quirks of Dr. Hicks. Soon we begin to have study dates in Founders Library after which we go to the Kampus Korner for a bite to eat. Without uttering a word to one another about the status of our relationship, we are together again, a couple in love. We share a fascination with the different kinds of mental illness. Every time we read about a new disorder, we are both certain we have it. I am convinced that basically she is a manic-depressive because she blows so hot and cold. She is certain I am obsessive-compulsive. We have a great time making each other laugh as we spell out the various symptoms of the disorder we think the other possesses. She laughs at my tendency to line up my coins according to their different denominations, and I chuckle as I accuse her of being all happy and perky one minute and then down in the dumps the next. We each vociferously deny our assigned diagnosis. But this jocularity could easily slip into hurtful accusations. I become anxious when she accuses me of having a depressive personality, and she becomes depressed when I announce she is a very anxious person.
On a beautiful Sunday in early October, I take Desirie to one of my favorite spots in Rock Creek Park. As we walk, we hold hands and marvel at the coat of many colors of the season-turned leaves. Beams of Indian Summer sunlight break through the dense foliage of the Park. The beauty of the day and our surroundings comfort me and send my mood soaring. I stop and grab Desirie by her shoulders and kiss her with great passion. She kisses me back. Afterwards we smile at each other mirroring our now established feeling between us. Love is in the air of Rock Creek Park. We continue walking for a while and then Desirie stops me. She looks at me with an expression that seems to be a cross between admiration and sorrow. “You know, Izzy, I wish I had your self-confidence.” This revelation astonishes me. “Are you kidding? I wish I had yours. I mean you went on the Freedom Rides and almost got yourself killed.”
“Well, you would have gone if you had learned to control your anger.”
“Yes and the only reason I had the strength to even try to do the training was because of you…because of how I feel about you. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“But you had the guts to come to Howard. Don’t you realize how brave a decision that was?”
“Brave or odd. I’m not sure which. Listen, Desirie, I’ve fought a life-long battle against feelings of inferiority. I live in a slough of doubt. I second-guess every decision. And everyday, I lacerate my mind with questions about my intelligence, my abilities, my looks.” Desirie squeezes my hand and looks into my eyes with such sympathy that I have to fight back the tears. She smiles at me through tears of her own. “I think I must see myself in you because I do the same thing. I don’t think I’m very attractive.”
“My God, Desirie! You’re a beautiful young woman. And you’ve grown prettier since I met you four years ago.”
“Oh Izzy, my nose is too wide.”
“What do you mean? I love your nose. I reached over to kiss it and she pushes me away. “Don’t, Izzy!” Her sympathetic smile of a moment ago is now gone and is replaced by an expression of hostile fear. A moment ago she looks at me with love; now she is looking at me as if I were the enemy. “Is this real, Izzy? I’ve got to know that you really care for me and that you’re not just a college playboy looking for a piece of black ass?” I burst out laughing which seriously offends her. She turns her back on me and starts to walk away from me rapidly. “Desirie! Desirie!” I call after her. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing about what you said. Me? A playboy? That’s hilarious. I’ve only just lost my virginity this past summer.” She turns and faces me and looks at me searchingly.
“Oh so you have another girlfriend?”
“No, Desirie. We broke up.”
“So you got what you wanted from her and then dropped her like a bad habit!”
“It wasn’t like that, Desirie, I swear!”
“Oh, Izzy, how could you?” Desirie starts walking away from me again. I catch her and grab her by the shoulders. “Would you please listen to me? I’ll tell you the whole story. Let’s sit here.” We sit on a giant boulder on the bank of the creek, and I tell her how I met Maureen. What a great dance partner she was. How our infatuation grew. How she got the idea in her head that she would marry me only after I convert to Catholicism and that if I loved her I would convert. How a make-out session led to going all the way in the backseat of my car. How we broke up after I said I wouldn’t convert. How she called me, terrified that she was pregnant. How my meeting went with Dr. Fullmarks. All the nasty things she said about me while she waited to get her period, which, thank the Lord she got. I conclude with, “We haven’t spoken since she got her period.” Desirie’s face registers a kaleidoscope of emotions: a bolus of fear, a flash of anger, a scintilla of doubt, a look of horror, an incredulous smile, a burst of laughter and finally relief. “OK, Izzy, I guess you’re not a playboy.” She is laughing at herself for even imagining the possibility.
We walk for a long while until we find a bench. We sit silently and take in the stunning fall view that surrounds us. Words are few until Desirie somberly begins to speak. “You know, Izzy, what worries me is the gap between our worlds and our experiences. You have no idea what it’s like to live under Jim Crow oppression; what it does to your perspective. In our culture, everything white is good and everything black is bad. Look at our language. Brown is associated with shit, dirt, and mud. Black is even worse. Black is evil. We fear the dark or the dark hearts of people. And a black mood is probably the most awful feeling a person can have. I’ve grown up doubting my looks, not just for personal reasons, but because the culture believes all black people are ugly. Blacks have been compared to apes, gorillas, and chimpanzees. Now look at me. Can’t you see that I’m too dark. I’ve never been able to pass the paper bag test. My nose is too wide. My hair is nappy.” Desirie covers her face with her hands and once again the tears flow. I can’t let her self-deprecations go unchallenged. “Desirie, your hair has always been beautiful.” “Let me finish, Izzy.
You have no idea the work that goes into creating the illusion that I have straight hair-The hot irons; the harsh chemicals; the painful brushings. Men of all races do look at me, and in some way find me attractive I guess, but all they want is to fuck me, not to love me.
“But I love you, Desirie.”
“How can you? You hardly know me. If you really knew me, you couldn’t possibly love me.”
“Why are you saying this? You’re beautiful inside and out.”
“How can you love this dark brown skin, this hair, this nose? And what’s inside doesn’t bear telling.” Her lamentation does bring to my mind the memory of a black maid my parents briefly hired when I was five years old. Her very dark skin—darker than Desirie’s-- made me think of dirt, and it took me a great while before I understood that when she held my hand, I would not automatically become dirty. Later that year, when I went through a TB scare, my parents blamed the maid. They assumed that she lived in a hovel and was therefore a likely carrier of tuberculosis bacteria. At that moment my self-hatred mirrors Desirie’s own self-loathing, and I realize that we are both prisoners of some of the same painful, soul-devouring myths.