I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

  “You know what?” Wanda says, even though it’s obviously not really a question. “This is boring as hell and feels like a complete waste of time.”

  “I was sitting here thinking the same thing. I mean, if I don’t remember some of these guys, then they’re not memorable.”

  “What do you have to eat around here? And please don’t tell me chips and salsa. I can eat that at home.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. I bought some smoked salmon and added watermelon radish and shallots and ginger vinaigrette and stuffed it inside two avocado halves. Take it or leave it.”

  “You have any crackers or anything to go with it?”

  “Maybe. Check the pantry.”

  “When are you ever going to turn on your damn stove and invite somebody over for dinner?”

  “It’s no fun cooking for one.”

  “Then invite some-damn-body over! We all miss that weird shit you used to make. It was amazing. We want to be your guinea pigs again.”

  “Okay!” I say as she picks up her hem and starts heading upstairs. “By the time you get back, I’ll have a list of the ones I had sex with, since I spotted quite a few of them in my phone books.”

  “Do you really care how many guys you’ve fucked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to have a general idea how active I was back in the day.”

  “You were an active whore. End of story. Which is why this feels like a complete waste of time. Let’s watch King Kong.”

  “I wish I could find a man like King Kong.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s a no.”

  “I’m going to get a better bottle of wine while you come up with your long-ass list.”

  “You can’t drive home with this much alcohol in your system, Wanda.”

  “Who said I was going home? I’m sleeping in Frankie’s bed. I want Nelson to wonder if I’ve finally left him.”

  Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen. Their hearts are glued together. And off she goes.

  I grab the yellow pad I brought down here and start writing as fast as possible. By the time Wanda gets back, I think I’m finished. She snatches the paper from me, starts counting softly with her index finger.

  “You slut! There’s like twenty fucking names here. My grocery list isn’t this long!”

  “I’ll bet Violet’s is twice this long.”

  Wanda goes down the list, shaking her head and laughing. “Tell you what. Let’s play a new form of Jeopardy! There’s only one category. We already know what it is, so I’ll say his name and you try to describe him in one word—but no more than three or four—and just tell me why he struck out. Okay?”

  “Nathan.”

  “Shouldn’t have been the first.”

  “That’s five words, Georgia.”

  I roll my eyes at her, stand up, and start walking in circles.

  “Darnell.”

  “First one to break my heart.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Don’t ask me questions! You’re ruining the flow.”

  “Okay! Dennis.”

  “Dumb as a post.”

  “David.”

  “No ambition.”

  “Wardell.”

  “Came in thirty seconds.”

  “James Number One.”

  “Ladies’ man.”

  “James Number Two.”

  “Bisexual.”

  “Brad. We already know he was the thief.”

  “Mark.”

  “Mama’s boy.”

  “Elijah.”

  “Pathological Liar.”

  “Thomas.”

  “Freak.”

  “Good freak or bad freak?”

  I ignore her.

  “Graham.”

  “Arrogant.”

  “Aaron.”

  “Boring.”

  “Abraham.”

  “Well.”

  “Phillip.”

  “Married.”

  “Frederick.”

  “Inconsiderate.”

  “Harold Number One.”

  “Another freak. And vain.”

  “Harold Number Two.”

  “Bad hygiene.”

  “Glen.”

  “Vulgar.”

  “Steve.”

  “Cowardly.”

  “Horace.”

  “No comment.”

  She tosses the list to the side. “Well, that was fun. These crackers are stale, and that avocado stuffing was cute but I’m still hungry. Who is Horace?”

  “The only black man I’ve ever slept with who almost didn’t have a penis at all.”

  She spits out my wine. “Shut up, Georgia.”

  “I couldn’t even call it a pencil dick. It was a cocktail weenie. I felt sorry for the dude.”

  “What’s Abraham doing on this list?”

  “He probably shouldn’t be. He was good at everything. Maybe because we didn’t finish what we started.”

  “And that was a character defect? You’re full of shit. I’m crossing him off,” and she does. “What about that white guy you had a crush on in undergrad?”

  “You mean Stanley?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Yeah. Stanley.”

  “I didn’t have a crush on him. I had sex with him.”

  “Why isn’t he on this list?”

  “Because I didn’t have a relationship with him. I told you back then how he wouldn’t stop flirting with me, so I finally gave in, since he was fine and I wanted to see what it was like to have sex with a white guy.”

  “And you liked it, if I remember correctly.”

  “It was outstanding, and he was very nice, and I discovered the stereotype is just that, but it was a seventy-two-hour tryst I did under the condition that there’d be no strings attached. I tried to act like it never happened and did everything I could to avoid him, but it was hard, since he was in my Afro-American history class. That was one long-ass quarter.”

  “I forgot that’s how you met. Back then a whole lot of white folks suffered from guilt.”

  “Okay, so now my secrets are out in the open. Time to put this list on Facebook?”

  “You better not be serious, Georgia!”

  “I’m just kidding, Wanda. Damn.”

  “Stanley should be on this list,” she says, and hands it back to me.

  I snatch it and scribble his name at the bottom but don’t know what to put next to it except: “White.”

  “So just for the record, would you ever consider dating a white guy now that we’re in the twenty-first century?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it. My daughter seems to prefer white boys, and I’m not mad at her, but you know I love me some black men and especially black skin.”

  “I do, too, but the only thing God made different about us is our skin color.”

  “Duh. You are too deep for me tonight, Wanda,” I say as I toss the list into the trash can and step over the other stuff.

  “All I’m saying is you’d certainly increase your odds if you thought outside that black box, Georgia. A man is a man. What kind of real food do you have around here? I’m starving.”

  “Frozen lasagna.”

  “As a guest do I have to microwave it myself?”

  “Yes, and then go home.”

  “I’m spending the night, remember?”

  I give her the finger.

  She gives it right back to me.

  I greet Amen, whom I really like, with genuine enthusiasm, and Percy, whom I already don’t like, with faux excitement. Amen is smart and knows the Oakland hills like the back of his hand. He lives higher up than I do. Where the fire was. He’s also Greek. Tall. Good-looking. Happily married. Twenty years and counting. Two kids still in college, one on Wall Street. A winter home in Tahoe he’s already offered to let me use this winter. For free! After the appraisal, which was lower than I’d expected, he made it clear that it’s not just my home, it’s all of t
hem. Including his.

  Percy, on the other hand, is irritating. I can tell he doesn’t like me, and I wonder if it’s because he’s not used to dealing with people who have taste—and in my case a black person—or because I’m tall and he’s short. Even with those loafers, he’s about five-six. I’m five-eight. He should think stripes instead of plaid, and those Dockers could stand to be hemmed. His blond hair looks like it’s so full of gel that a tornado wouldn’t move a strand. His big Burberry notepad is pressed against his chest.

  “So,” he says after he walks in like a CSI tech, “are we ready to take a walk and let me share some of my ideas—which, I would like to make clear to you once again, Georgia, you can reject any of if you so choose?”

  “Sure.”

  “Super. I’d like to start in the upstairs bedrooms and work my way down if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  I follow the two of them up and down the three flights and get a kick watching Percy act as if he’s on a game show. He likes to point.

  “So I see your lovely ethnic pieces are still hanging, and I don’t see any of the blue tape I left to indicate which ones you wouldn’t mind storing. Of course, I know you’re a busy person.”

  “It’s on my list of things to do this weekend, Percy. But tell me, seriously, is this so a potential buyer won’t think someone black lives here?”

  “Absolutely not. We just want to think neutral and avoid themes with any cultural implications, because you want a potential buyer to fall in love with the home, not be impressed by your artwork or decorating skills.”

  “Really?”

  I can tell that Amen isn’t buying this bullshit, but he knows Percy’s good at staging.

  “As I said before, personally, I love your taste, but I’m not the one trying to buy your home, and although your decor is interesting and the kaleidoscope of colors is lovely, right now it feels more like a concert, and if you want it to sell quickly, we have to aim for a waltz.”

  Kaleidoscope?

  “And just how do I waltz?”

  “Well, chances are about three-quarters of the living-room furniture will most likely have to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Into storage.”

  “And replace it with what?”

  “Rental furniture. We use reputable establishments that specialize in staging: everything from top-of-the-line bedding to sofas and lighting, plants, and even artwork.”

  I want to say, No shit? but instead I just say, “I understand, but can you at least give me more of a sense of what else you think I might need to do?”

  And this is when Percy becomes almost orgasmic. “We’ll need to dismantle all of the thematic rooms and make them more serene. We’ll get rid of all clutter—especially the knickknacks, as I said before—and replace them with beautiful orchids wherever possible. The dining room needs a more traditional look, not artsy like what you now have. We’ll group the rental furniture so that it’s more musical. We’ll shower the place with lighting—incandescent. I’ve noticed a few cracked windowpanes, broken doorknobs, and things of that nature. All of these items will need to be repaired. We’ll probably have to hire painters and definitely change some of the bright carpeting. And the hardwood floors would do well to be refinished. I’m just giving you a general overview but I’m sure I’ve missed a few minor details, but not to worry. Wait! I forgot to mention plants! Giant areca palms and ficuses can do wonders for any room.”

  “What’s wrong with the plants in here?”

  “Some of them don’t look as healthy as I’d like them to, and if you’re having problems caring for them, I can also bring in artificial ones, which I don’t recommend, or I’m sure the nursery we use would be happy to give you watering tips.”

  “About how much will all this cost me?”

  “I haven’t gotten to the outside yet. But suffice it to say that curb appeal is crucial, because it’s the first thing a potential buyer sees. We’ll probably need to hire a landscape architect to spruce up the flower gardens and around the entire pool area. That should about do it.”

  “So again, how much and how long will all this take?”

  “Staging isn’t cheap, Georgia, if done right, but think of it as an investment you’ll recoup when you see how quickly your house sells and how close to the asking price you’ll probably get. I’m estimating somewhere between ten to fifteen thousand.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He nods as if he’s afraid of me now.

  “And how long will it take?”

  “Again, it all depends on how much you let us do.”

  “Everything you just mentioned.”

  “Anywhere from two or three weeks, providing there are no delays, which almost always happens.”

  “But how am I supposed to live in here when all this is going on, or is that a dumb question?”

  “Well,” Percy says, “do you have a vacation home?”

  I would so like to slap him.

  “No.”

  “Well, with a staging of this magnitude, most of my clients either rent a temporary apartment, check into a hotel suite, or take a vacation!”

  Oh, fuck you, Percy!

  “Are you thinking about where you’d like to live?” he asks. I’m beginning to wonder if Amen is even at this party.

  “I’m not sure. Ideally, I’d love to live in New York, but it’s far too expensive.”

  “Who needs winter?” Percy says.

  “I’m tired of California,” I say, just to piss him off.

  “Everything a person could ever need is in California.”

  “That’s so not true, Percy.”

  “Look, I’m going to have to bid you adieu, as I’m running late for my next appointment. I’ll do my best to e-mail you the detailed breakdown by next week, as it takes time to figure all this out, and then you can let Amen know just how much you’re up for. Fair enough?”

  “Fair. Have a nice afternoon, and thank you, Percy.”

  Amen walks out behind him but stops on the top step. “And you’re absolutely certain you want to sell, Georgia?”

  “I’m positive, Amen. I told you, it’s too much house for one person.”

  “But what if you remarry?”

  I look at him like he’s just asked a ridiculous question.

  “Don’t ever give up on love, Georgia. Keep the faith.”

  He sounds like a talk-show host, but I know he’s being sincere, so I just say, “I have tons of faith.”

  —

  “Mom! We’re here!”

  Oh, hell.

  I’m in my closet, sweating, naked, and frustrated from not having found anything I would want to be seen in at yet another cerebral party that Wanda has talked me into going to tonight, when I hear the sound of little hooves galloping into my bedroom. Before I have a chance to put my robe on, I feel four eyes on me, and there, staring the day away, are two brown midgets in shock.

  “This is what you’re both going to look like one day,” I say while slithering into my terry-cloth robe and tying the sash tight. “But not if you exercise and use cocoa butter on your stretch marks.”

  Both of them start twirling their two thick braids.

  “What are stretch marks?” the one in pink-and-white polka-dot leggings and pink T-shirt asks.

  “They are marks that stretch, Scarlett!” Gabby says with authority. She’s dressed to kill in orange leggings and an orange-and-white striped T-shirt. She looks quite pleased with herself and punctuates her pronouncement by putting her hands on her nonexistent hips. Scarlett looks as if she always believes her sister.

  “Can Granny get a group hug?” I ask, and they run into me and pull on my robe and squeeze.

  “Hi! We love you, Granny!” they say simultaneously.

  “Hi there, girls! Granny loves you, too! Now let’s go find your mom,” I say, gently pushing them out of my closet, but when I try to take them by the hand, they shake loose and charge down the ha
llway. Little female puppies!

  Estelle is standing there in one of two lululemon outfits I gave her for her birthday last year. This one happens to be lemon and black. She used to be a real yoga fanatic, but I don’t think she goes much anymore. She’s also as pretty as I always wanted to be. Looks more like Michael, the mistake I married right after grad school. I give her—or I should say we give her—another group hug. I kiss her on both cheeks and her forehead.

  “You look good, Stelle,” I say, lying through my teeth. She looks tired, thinner than I’ve seen her since college, stressed. She’s one of these educated, New Age, stay-at-home supermoms who does everything, including working at home as a technical writer for Apple. She must do it in her sleep, because the girls are rarely out of her or Justin’s sight line. They do all the things that television shows and books have told them to do to qualify as good parents. They didn’t even trust day care. I’m surprised they trust me.

  “Of course there was traffic, and I’ve only got fifteen minutes before my salt scrub. Thank you so much, Mom. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, baby. Remember this house the way it looks now, because it’s being staged, and in about a month or so it’ll look like someone else lives here.”

  “So you’re actually going to do it?”

  “I am. How are you?”

  “Excellent. Just thinking of going back to work, but I’ll tell you more about that later. Girls, be nice to your granny and do what she tells you to. Do we have an agreement?”

  They nod.

  She hands me a bulging backpack. “Lunch, snacks, books, and DVDs. I should be back by six, if that’s okay. And thank you so much for this!”

  “Okay! Stop! Go! Relax! We go through this every single time! Now, beat it.”

  “Yes, Mom, just beat it!” Gabby in orange says as she chases after Scarlett in pink, both of whom are heading to my off-limits office. I tiptoe down and see them looking through my mother’s scrapbook, and I lean against the door and just watch them.

  “What’s this?” Scarlett asks, trying to see through the yellowing plastic.

  “It’s a picture book,” Gabby says before I do.

  I believe I can now tell them apart. Gabby is the bossy one. Scarlett seems to rely on her for answers, and Lord, does she always have one.