I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

  “And you’re serious now?”

  “Yes. Would you like to dance?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because.”

  “If it’s because I’m still white, that’s just too bad,” he says, and stands up and holds his hand out for me to take it, which I do with some hesitation, and we walk out to the dance floor and slowly begin to move to a beat I can’t hear. I’m nervous because I’ve never danced with a white man before and especially in front of a roomful of mostly black people and especially with my two black ex-husbands staring at us like we’re on Dancing with the Stars!

  Stanley moves a little closer to me, and I back up a few inches, and he moves closer, and I stop, and then his feet and hips begin to swivel like he knows how to dance.

  I almost can’t handle this.

  “Can’t you dance, Georgia?”

  “Yes, I can dance. But I’m having a hard time getting my rhythm right now.”

  “Relax. I didn’t come here to upset you or bring up bad memories. But we don’t have any bad memories that I know of, do we?”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “Seriously, what made you come to my party, and where on earth did you come from? And who in the world are you, Stanley?”

  “Well, I came because about thirty-some-odd years ago I fell in love with this beautiful college student, and her name was Georgia Young, but she was more worried about what other people would think, so I married another woman, who happened to be French, and she died ten years ago. I live in Manhattan, but my family’s in Albany, and if you want to know what I do for a living, I’m not going to tell you unless you promise to have dinner with me.”

  I almost lose my footing.

  The music stops, and Stanley just stands there. Looking down at me. Goddamn, is he handsome and sexy, and he’s Italian, and did I just hear him right?

  “We just had dinner.”

  “That doesn’t count.”

  “How long are you going to be here?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Why should I have dinner with you?”

  “Because you should.”

  “But you don’t even know me anymore.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “No you don’t, Stanley.”

  “All these people in this room tell me who you are. I know what you’ve been doing for a living, and I know you have two daughters and what’s going on in their lives, and I know you’ve been alone too long and that you’ve got two husbands, whom I’ve met this evening, and I also know that our hearts don’t forget who didn’t break them. I’m here because I think enough time has passed and we’re both mature enough and old enough to get to know each other—because what do we have to lose?”

  “I think I need a drink,” I say, and walk off the dance floor over to the bar. I can feel Stanley behind me. When I get to the bar, I turn around, and he’s standing so close that I swear to God if this were a movie, I’d be putting my arms around him and giving him a long, deep kiss.

  And then Stanley bends down and whispers in my ear. “I’m the same man. Only older and wiser, and this time I’m not letting you get away. I don’t care what it is we don’t like about each other. We’ll get to like it. I came here to sweep you off your feet and love you for the rest of your life the way you’ve always dreamed of being loved. And I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  I know he must be kidding.

  And can he read minds?

  “Are you on some kind of medication?” I ask him.

  He laughs.

  “What exactly did Wanda tell you, Stanley?”

  “You can call me Stan.”

  “What exactly did Wanda tell you, Stan?”

  “Enough. But it sounds like we’ve pretty much been swimming in the same sea.”

  I feel myself nodding but don’t mean to, so I stop my head from moving.

  “You know this kind of stuff only happens in the movies, Stan, and I don’t know who you are or what makes you think you can just come to my fifty-fifth-birthday party unbeknownst to me and talk all this historical shit and assume I’m going to act like—”

  “Georgia Young. Now, relax. I’m not here to kidnap you or hypnotize you. I just want to make sure you don’t forget me again.”

  “Who said I forgot about you?”

  “You never bothered to find me.”

  “But you also didn’t try to find me.”

  “Oh, yes I have. But not until Facebook has it been possible, and I admit you took your sweet time getting on it.”

  “So shall we run to the justice of the peace after I blow out the candles and ride off into the sunset or what?”

  “You think I’m not serious?”

  “That’s what’s scaring me. We’re too old for fairy tales.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Because we’re long overdue for one, and please stop with the ‘We’re too old for this’ business, because we’re not. Now, go blow out those candles and give it everything you’ve got.”

  I set my wine down, because my head is already spinning. As I walk over to the table where my big white cake is waiting for me, Wanda whispers in my ear. “Don’t resist, bitch, or I’ll kick your ass on your birthday. I got in touch with him for a reason. You forget I was there back in the day. I saw how much you liked him, and it scared you. But he’s here now, so blow the candles out as if you mean it.”

  And I do.

  —

  I can’t remember the speech I gave. Of course I thanked everybody for everything, especially all the contributions for free glasses and eye exams I plan to donate to those who can’t afford them. This is what I told Wanda I would most appreciate in lieu of personal gifts.

  “Who is that man?” Estelle finally asked.

  “You mean the white one?”

  “I didn’t say it, you said it. And I wasn’t thinking it. Who is he?”

  “An old friend from college.”

  “He’s handsome,” Frankie said.

  “He sure likes you,” Ma said. “And it looks like he made your knees buckle, which we all know is hard to do. Who is he?”

  “I just said it. An old friend from college.”

  “Does he have a brother?” Lily asked after poking her head between my family members. “Happy birthday, Georgia, and…” She blew air onto her open palm to let me know that everything was fine, and she was thanking me for whatever I didn’t do. I crossed my arms across my heart and gave her a wink and a soft smile.

  “Well, where’s he been hiding all these years?” Ma asked.

  “Don’t even bother explaining,” older Grover said.

  —

  Right now I’m sitting in the passenger side of that old friend’s rental car, which happens to be a Prius, because he insisted on driving me home.

  “This is a little weird,” I say after we get onto the freeway.

  “I’d say it’s more like having an out-of-body experience.”

  “You look good, Stan. But seriously, what really made you come all the way out here?”

  “I’ve already answered a few of those questions if you were listening and I can’t answer the rest of them while I’m driving, so I’ll just pull over at the next exit,” he says. And he does.

  As usual, San Francisco is staring at us, and for a split second I feel like a teenager about to make out, but Stanley is not a teenager, he’s a grown man, and a white man, and a man who I don’t know how he’s making my heart turn over when I thought it was dead.

  He turns off the engine.

  “Look, Ms. Georgia. I took the chance of making a complete fool out of myself by getting on a plane and coming to see you. But I had to find out for myself if seeing you would conjure up any old or new feelings, and I’m happy to say that both of those were indeed the case. I didn’t mean to freak you out, but I do know that you ran from me in college. But now we’re older, and…I don’t know,
maybe you’re in love with someone else.”

  “I’m sure Wanda told you I wasn’t.”

  “No, she just said you weren’t in a serious relationship.”

  “So what is it you do for a living? I mean, what did you grow up and become?”

  “I’m a space sailor.” And he smiles.

  “I know you’re not sitting here telling me you’re an astronaut, are you?”

  “Retired astronaut.”

  “Are you bullshitting me, Stan? My bad. I apologize for swearing.”

  “Don’t. I use profanity on a regular basis.” And he winks at me. Again.

  “Seriously. You mean you’ve really been out there—I mean, up there—in space?” I say, looking up like an idiot.

  “I have.”

  “You’re much smarter than I thought you were,” I say.

  “Well, thanks for the show of faith.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re not old enough to retire.”

  “You can if you saved your money the right way.”

  “What do you do with all your time?”

  “I buy homes in run-down neighborhoods to help rebuild them.”

  “Where?”

  “Different cities. The last one was outside New Orleans. Baltimore and D.C. are on the long list, although some parts of East Oakland I’d love to get to.”

  “I must say I’m impressed you even care.”

  “You’ve read some William Kennedy, right?”

  “Long, long time ago. Ironweed is my favorite.”

  “Well, it was William Kennedy’s accurate portrayal of heaven and hell. I’ve been blessed. Everybody hasn’t.”

  “You must work with a lot of people, a company?”

  “We have crews that change. I’ll tell you all about it another time.”

  “Another time?”

  “You heard right. But how about you? You’re going to be giving away glasses and performing free eye exams, which tells me your heart’s still in the right place.”

  “You didn’t know me long enough to know where my heart was.”

  “How soon we forget. I used to love listening to your long but brilliant diatribes in our Afro-American history class. So I do have a clue. And science is a form of altruism, in case you didn’t know it.”

  “But I want to leave optometry.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. We all take a path we thought we wanted to take, and then we find out there are other paths we can still explore. That’s why I started rebuilding homes, and I love it.”

  “I hear you,” is all I can say, because I agree with what he’s just said and it’s also so very refreshing. But I don’t want to gush.

  “So what road are you ready to travel down?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You have to have some idea.”

  “It’s too soon to know,” I say. I’m not about to tell Stan here that as soon as I learn how much of my investment I’m able to recover, it’s what’s going to determine how long I can afford to play designer in my garage or my not-yet studio.

  “Well, give me a hint about what you like doing.”

  “Painting and redesigning and decorating cheap furniture. At least that’s what I’ve been doing in my spare time. I like to sew, but not clothing. I’m just playing it all by ear until I see what happens with my practice.”

  “I like using my hands, too. I just got burned out working for NASA and had enough stints being in space. I like it down here. So how close are we to where you live?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Look, Georgia. To be honest, I can’t believe I got on a plane to come see you, but it feels like I didn’t have a choice. Do you know what that feels like?”

  “I do, but I just didn’t know you felt this way about me back when.”

  “What it felt like was unfinished business. We never had an ending because we barely had a beginning. Which was your fault.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding. You liked me, and it scared the hell out of you.”

  “That’s so not true.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I just wanted to see if you were good in bed.”

  “And?”

  “You were okay.”

  “I’m still good in bed,” he says, and starts laughing. “But I had other qualities I thought you found appealing.”

  “I can’t remember. I didn’t know you that long.”

  “You know what, Georgia? We’re too old to play these kinds of games. If you didn’t feel anything at all or were appalled at seeing me tonight, why am I driving you home?”

  “Because I didn’t want to be rude.”

  “Well, you’re being rude now by lying about it.”

  I almost choke, because he’s just busted me, and how is that possible?

  “Okay. I will admit I was both shocked and surprised to see you at my party, okay? But this is also kind of freaking me out, because like I said to you before, this kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life, where a blast from your past just shows up and you’re supposed to fall madly in love with him on the spot again.”

  “Hold on, now, little lady. Let’s back up. Did I just hear you say ‘fall madly in love with him on the spot again’?”

  “It was a figure of speech.”

  “And is that what I am? A blast from the past?”

  “Well, it’s also a figure of speech.”

  “They can’t both be figures of speech. Which one is true and which one isn’t?”

  “Both,” I say, and start laughing. “But you’re coming on a little strong, like we just broke up a month ago and now you’re back trying to woo me. I have to admit I’m flattered by it all.”

  “Woo?”

  “Yes, woo.”

  “Look. I’m not trying to be pushy, so don’t think it for a minute. I’m still a gentleman.”

  “You weren’t a gentleman back in the day. You were a flirt and a very convincing one.”

  “I know how to imitate my old ways, but hopefully, if you discover you still like me a little bit, we’ll have plenty of time for everything.”

  “This is all kind of otherworldly. Maybe you were in space too long, Stanley.”

  “It’s Stan. Now, point me in the right direction.”

  And up the hill we go.

  What I do know is I am not taking off my clothes.

  At least not in front of him.

  He drives slowly. As if he’s doing it deliberately. I’m feeling nervous and suddenly scared, because men don’t just appear from your past, sweep you off your feet—especially a white one you slept with twice and pretended to forget.

  But I didn’t forget.

  “May I be in your study group?”

  “It’s not my study group,” I said to the fine white guy who’d been sitting next to me two weeks in a row in my Afro-American history class.

  “Well, you seem to be the one organizing it.”

  “So why do you want to be in my study group?” I asked.

  “Because I like the way you think.”

  “Everybody in this class thinks,” I said.

  “Some quieter than others,” he said.

  This was a three-unit course entitled The Afro-American Experience: From Slavery to Selma 1965. That was a lot to cover in ten weeks, and on the first day of class we were advised that midterms were in five weeks. The seminar met twice a week. We were to write an essay on one of the lecture topics up to that point. Of the ninety students, six were white. It looked as if one of them had chosen me to be his go-to person for ten weeks. Lucky me.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Stanley. Stanley DiStasio. Which makes me Italian. But you knew that.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “And you’re Georgia Young.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Because it’s right there on your notebook.”

  “Why are you taking a class in Afro-American history, if you
don’t mind my asking?”

  “What if I did mind?”

  “Then I would just assume it’s out of guilt.”

  “And you would assume wrong, because I have no reason to feel guilty, because I haven’t done anything to feel guilty about. Except forgetting my sister’s birthday.”

  “Are you avoiding my question?”

  “Because I want to understand how Afro-Americans suffered during slavery and managed to survive it.”

  “You could read that in a book.”

  “We’ve got books for the class, if you haven’t noticed. I really want to hear how— Would you mind if I said ‘black’?”

  “I prefer it.”

  “Okay. I want to hear how younger black people feel about it now, including the passage of the Voting Rights Act, which I think is just one more slap in the face.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s going to sound naïve. But after all the hell black people went through, why should they have had to risk their lives just to have the right to vote? And why did they have to have legislation passed to grant them that right when they were already United States citizens?”

  “Well, we’ll be up to the Voting Rights Act before week nine, and you can write your essay about it.”

  “It pisses me off, to be honest.”

  “Well, that would make two of us. My mother couldn’t vote until she was thirty-six, and my father was forty.”

  “This is why I like the Black Panthers, if you want to know the truth. They get it.”

  “They’re not the only ones.”

  “Want to know what I don’t get?”

  “Not really, but I’m listening.”

  “Why do black people call each other niggers?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because it just seems like a contradiction. I thought black people were trying to show their pride.”

  “Not everybody. Some people are ignorant, but that word is meant to be demeaning, which it is.”

  “So why doesn’t it make them angry? But when a white person calls them one, they’re fighting words.”

  “Because it’s racist when they say it. Any more questions?”

  “Yes, can I be in your study group?”

  “I suppose we could use someone with a different perspective.”

  “You mean white.”

  “You said it. Not me.”

  “Wow. And I was hoping we could be friends.”