A Lucky Man
Page 25
She studied the drawing, tilting her head from side to side to assess it. “I love it,” she said finally. “It’s wonderful.”
She stood and hugged him, then stepped back and gazed at him, shaking her head.
“What?” Ellis said.
“I’m just glad to see you, silly man.” Her voice was low and flirtatious, as it had been the day she burned her hair.
Ellis was afraid of how she looked at him, her eyes dancing over his features in the girlish way he’d seen women look at other men. Something was happening that he didn’t deserve, something he’d never had in his life. But he found himself unwilling to stop it from happening. Along with his fear came an awareness that both of them needed this to happen, whatever it was. Speaking the hard truth right now would break the spell and them along with it. I won’t allow it to go too far, he thought, and so settled for a softer, more modest truth: “I’m glad to see you too. It’s so good to see you.”
“Better be more than good if you tryna get lucky tonight.”
Ellis was hushed by this. He couldn’t find a single word.
“Well, I have a gift for you too,” Sadie said. “But it isn’t here.”
“Where is it?”
“We need to go to it. Just wait until you see it, just wait. Don’t worry. It’s not very far.”
“When can we go?” Ellis said, despite himself. He knew he was getting carried away.
“It’s a little early but we can go now, if you want.” Her fingers were right there at his neck, adjusting the knot of his tie. She went to the window and opened the curtains. “There goes the sun,” she said. “Going, going, soon gone.”
Ellis peered out at the darkening sky.
“Do you want to go now?”
Yes, he thought, and for a moment all his fear was gone. Let’s go.
“I can’t wait to introduce you. Some people won’t remember. And some won’t …”
Her face slipped into confusion, almost anger. Ellis could see her looking at things newly spilled in her mind. “Some won’t know anything at all,” he said.
Her face softened. “That’s right. They won’t know a thing.”
“Should we go?” he said.
“As soon as I get myself pretty.” A sly smile formed on her trembling mouth. “Help me with my dress?”
“Oh. No, I’ll just wait here while you get ready.”
“You some kind of gentleman all of a sudden? Ain’t nothing here you haven’t seen before.”
She unbuttoned her pajama top. Her stomach was smoother and flatter than he’d expected it to be, just a small paunch. Her bare breasts hung low and seemed to reach for her hips. Watching her body as she undressed reminded Ellis of seeing pictures of nude young women as a boy. The same excitement and panic overwhelmed him in the face of something he wasn’t ready for but was certain would come. She eased into her clothes and gave him her back. As he helped her, his fingers grazed the skin along her spine. Zipping up her dress felt like the most intimate thing he’d ever done.
“Thanks, baby. Now for my shoes.”
She sat and Ellis held each of her feet as he helped her with the shoes. The skin was hard on the soles but surprisingly soft on top. Her toenails had been painted the same shade of blue as her dress.
“Which reminds me,” she said. “Sorry to say it to you, Clifton, but the ones in the picture are all wrong.”
Ellis was relieved she had said the name. He’d already been envisioning the man, constructing his personality. Now that it had been said, he felt like he could breathe. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said, the way he imagined it would be said. “For staying away.”
“Am I still your fox?” she said.
“Of course you are. My beautiful fox.”
Ellis knew the risks of what he was doing. He was aware of being stared at as he walked with Sadie, hand in hand like lovers, fingers interlocked. He was aware, as Sadie looked up at him—unshy and wondering, her stride steady and elegant—of the lie as it unfurled, and he knew what was likely to happen when they got to the bar. The thing he refused to break in Sadie’s apartment would be broken anyway. But there would be people there who didn’t know he wasn’t Clifton, so there was a chance. There’s a chance, he thought, that the folks would allow her this gift. Maybe they would think of it as a gift for him too. Just for tonight.
The sound of the jukebox could be heard from the far corner of the block, so loud that the music was muffled, impossible to identify.
“Listen,” Sadie said. “Isn’t it beautiful? We used to love this song. This was our groove.”
“I remember. Can’t be an accident that it’s playing right now.”
As they stood outside the bar, Sadie pointed at the sign and shook with laughter. “You see? It’s for you. I knew you’d come back. Oh, I’m embarrassed. Do you think I’m a fool?”
“No, baby, of course not,” Ellis said. Then he shut his eyes and held them closed for a while. None of us deserves to be loved, he thought, and so all of us should be. He opened his eyes, and said, “Let’s go inside. I want to get me a Golden Cadillac.”
“You’re still drinking those too?”
“Not one thing about me has changed.”
“Come on then,” she said. “I want everyone to see you.”
“I want everyone to see me with you.”
He felt the door vibrate as he opened it for her. The song, heard more clearly now, happened to be one he enjoyed, but the loudness of it hurt his ears. Of course Julius wasn’t there to greet them or playfully check IDs—no one was—and, as Ellis knew, Sharod no longer tended the bar. Mr. Edmonds was long gone, and Julius’s lover, Yolanda, had vanished into grief. For a Wednesday the bar was pretty filled, but almost entirely with newcomers. So much more had changed in so little time. Ellis observed Sadie and what she seemed to recognize: the tiny kitchen in the back, the pile of junk in the corner, the Christmas lights wild on the ceiling. Dyson was there, shouting as usual. Sadie seemed to recognize something about him as well. He was the sole neighborhood person there, and only later, long after being introduced as Clifton, would Ellis regret how happy this made him. All of us should be loved, he thought again. No matter what, even if it’s just for one night. He slid his arm around Sadie’s waist, as Clifton would have, and she wrapped him in her arms. Together they watched Dyson, though it was unclear whether he had seen them. His voice got louder, and his mouth became a tense, widening oval. They watched him as if they could hear his words and understand them. As if he weren’t yelling at all, but singing along to their music.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For generous support during the writing of this book, thank you to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, the University of Iowa’s Provost Postgraduate Visiting Writers program, the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, and the Bread Loaf, Tin House, and Napa Valley conferences. I’d also like to thank Kimbilio Fiction, the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop, the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, the Key West Literary Seminar, and the Juniper Summer Writing Institute. Thank you to all the good people I met at these places.
Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Jin Auh, a real pro. She took me into the fold based on scanty evidence, gave me a nudge whenever I needed one, and guided me with brilliance as this book became a reality. Thank you, as well, to Jessica Friedman and Alexandra Christie.
I am so grateful to Fiona McCrae and Steve Woodward, my editors. They read my work, over and over again, with incredible care and acuity. Thank you to Katie Dublinski, Marisa Atkinson, Caroline Nitz, Casey O’Neil, Yana Makuwa, Karen Gu, and all the wonderful folks at Graywolf Press.
Thank you to the editors who took a chance on my work, especially Brigid Hughes. I can’t say enough about how important Brigid and A Public Space have been for me and my writing.
I’ve been blessed with many amazing writing teachers, whose kindness, intelligence, good humor, and high standards continue to inspire me. Anyone who disparages the instruction of writing must not know
that people like this exist: Mat Johnson, Nelly Rosario, Myung Joh Wesner, Nick Dybek, Lee K. Abbott, Margot Livesey, Jim Shepard, Helena María Viramontes, David Haynes, ZZ Packer, Ethan Canin, T. Geronimo Johnson, Kevin Brockmeier, Charles Baxter, and Marilynne Robinson.
Three teachers in particular, all geniuses, deserve special mention. Lan Samantha Chang literally changed my life, through her encouragement, her institutional leadership, and her example in the classroom. Yiyun Li demonstrates unwavering faith in my stories, never hesitates to let me know when the sentences just aren’t good enough, always reminds me of the best questions a writer can ask, and lets me know when I need “more chill.” Finally, no one has done more to make me a better reader and writer than Charles D’Ambrosio. His rigor, depth of insight, generosity, and friendship have been tremendous gifts for which I will always be grateful.
My thanks to Connie Brothers, Deb West, Jan Zenisek, and Kelly Smith, for all that they do at Iowa.
Thank you to more friends, readers, classmates, and fellow writers than can possibly be named, but particularly to these folks for any combination of conversation, comments, kindness, guidance, and good company: D. Wystan Owen, Garth Greenwell, Jennie Lin, Jake Andrews, Alex Madison, Sarah Frye, Noel Carver, Ellen Kamoe, Willa Richards, Novuyo Rosa Tshuma, Nyuol Tong, Catherine Polityllo, Marcus Burke, Carmen Maria Machado, Chaney Kwak, Andrew Dainoff, Sam Ross, Margaret Ross, Kathryn Savage, Jessamine Chan, Phillip B. Williams, Solmaz Sharif, Jamey Hatley, Steven Kleinman, Keith Leonard, Alice Kim, Noah Stetzer, LaToya Watkins, Maud Streep, Kenyatta Rogers, Matt Kelsey, Derrick Austin, Natalie Eilbert, Sarah Fuchs, Marcela Fuentes, Jordan Jacks, Barrett Swanson, Roger Reeves, Brian Gilmore, William Fisher, Vernon Wilson, Marzia Severi Wilson, Nick Bentley, Kaori Miller, Shawn Sadjatumwadee, Tene Howard, Cindylisa Muñiz, Gabriel Louis, Lance Cleland, Julia Fierro, Megan Cummins, Tanya Diallo Welsh, Shivani Manghnani, Karin Davidson, Zahir Janmohamed, K.C. Sinclair, Ploi Pirapokin, Rachelle Newbold, Bryant Terry, Alexia Arthurs, Ayana Mathis, Danielle Evans, Amaud Johnson, Tayari Jones, Victor LaValle, and Kima Jones. Special thanks to Lakiesha Carr for convincing me to bring a story back from the dead.
Thank you to all my New York City people. Thank you to the legendary João Oliveira dos Santos, meu mestre, and to all my capoeira angola people, especially the 36 crew. Thank you to my friends, colleagues, and students at the Double Discovery Center, the Trinity School, the Sackett Street Writers’ Workshop, and the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio.
Warmest gratitude to Jean Ho, for everything.
Deepest thanks to my family.
JAMEL BRINKLEY was raised in the Bronx and Brooklyn, New York. He is a graduate of Columbia University and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. He has received fellowships from Kimbilio Fiction and the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing.
The text of A Lucky Man is set in Adobe Garamond Pro.
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This book is made possible through a partnership with the College of Saint Benedict, and honors the legacy of S. Mariella Gable, a distinguished teacher at the College.
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