Gumbo

by E. Lynn Harris

  I went back to the table we'd been sitting at, picked up a drink I was pretty sure was mine. The other seats were deserted, so I commandeered a dark pocket in the corner, against the wall. For the remaining hours, I sat and played shepherd to the jackets and lighters the dancers left behind. The club made snakebites and the waitress didn't care how many I ordered, as long as she could keep the change from the tenner each time. So by the time the music ended and the only sound was my ears buzzing, I felt prepared for the solitary night bus home. But, as I struggled to get up again, there was Fionna, hopping back from the light to greet me, tugging on my hand once more.

  “Why you come back for me?” I managed.

  “Because we need each other.” Fionna giggled, hugging my waist tightly (or was she keeping a drunken man from falling down?). Propping me against a pillar and hopping back off again to call us a mini-cab out of there. Having the bouncer help me out to the car. Waking me up in Brixton by giving a pinch to my cheek and delivering the words “Christopher, we're home.”

  Sunday, my day-after embarrassment evaporated when Fionna walked into my bedroom, sheet wrapped around her, and said, “Chris, I have a bag of clothes already packed at my last bedsit that I've been meaning to retrieve. Maybe you could pick that up for me?” Immediately, fueled by hope, I was on the tube to Hornchurch, riding all the way out to the East London address she'd given me. The trip took as long as my last flight to Amsterdam, regardless of how close it looked on the Underground map. Maybe, if it was a large bag, she might stay the whole week.

  The landlord was a big woman and a cop, dressed in a uniform when I got there. Her jacket was off and I could see her bra hugging her fiercely underneath the white shirt, her back looking as if it needed to be scratched. Smiling, I said I was here to pick up a bag for Fionna.

  “Well, I'm sure you are, but first, let's see the money. Mind you, I told her that from before.” There was an ATM a mile back by the tube station, so it didn't take me long to gather up the cash. When I got back the lady was standing at the door behind six suitcases, big enough to hide bodies and heavy enough to make me believe they did. I took a cab back to Brixton, paying the driver nearly forty bucks for the ride. From the car I walked to my door with three cases in each hand, letting the handles try to break my bones as the weight hammered my legs with each step.

  At my front door, the odors—fried onions, sausage, hot pepper, and olive oil—all coming from my property. Inside, I stood at the kitchen door, luggage still in hand, looking at the place settings Fi had laid out on my table. “Try this.” Grinning, she came toward me, one hand holding a spoon and the other guarding underneath it. She was wearing one of my T-shirts as if it was a dress; she'd even found one of my ties was a good belt for the outfit. My hands still caught inside handles, Fionna put the spoon's tip in my mouth and lifted it up so it could pour in. It was some kind of chili, I could taste the salt and the crushed tomatoes. When she pulled the spoon away, excess sauce dropped onto my bottom lip, sliding down to my chin. “Sorry,” Fionna told me, and she reached forward and grabbed a dick that was already hard for her, pulling me down to her eye level. Slowly, with the end of her tongue, Fionna retraced the drip's path along my chin up to my bottom lip. When she reached it, Fi surrounded mine with both of her own, catching me in her teeth and sucking my flesh clean again. Oh, to put my hands on her, to hold her to me as hard as she was now biting, but at my sides my swollen hands were now stuck in the luggage handles, which made things even more difficult when Fionna started pulling me down to the linoleum. Her teeth released, and I wasted precious time trying to maintain contact with those lips before I realized that she really wanted my face to drift away.

  “Talk to me,” she demanded, and my words began pouring confessions of attraction, instant love and des—

  “No. Talk to me black,” African woman said to me, and neither one of us thought she meant Swahili, Yoruba, or Twi. Black. And not the black I coveted, not the one I was walking to. The other one. That was her price, the cost of this fantasy. Lady, do you know what you ask of me? Do you know what this payment says about my desire? Take it. So I gave that to her: released the ownership of my tongue to the sound it had been meant for. Oh, and wasn't that sound happy to be free again, eliminating prepositions and conjunctions with its loose grammar and curving my sentences into its drawl? Reveling in its parole and scheming for permanent freedom? Give ear to me, Fionna. Hear the voice of the life I want to smother. Listen to what the niggers on the corner have to say to you. Her fingers traced the moving lips that spoke to her until those same hands went to my neck and pushed my face lower, down to a place I wouldn't assume clearance. Lips to lips once more. “Keep talking,” Fionna demanded as my tongue took on additional duties.

  My hands still stuck in suitcase handles, my arms outstretched above me like a gull in flight, I continued to rap my ghetto garble. As Fionna's moaning grew, I spoke louder. Wet words wandered within her. Fionna's fingers slipped to the back of my head and stayed there.

  Keys in my hand was the best part of the day because there it was, physically, in my hands: David's world, heavy and jagged and multiplicitous, held together by a ring attached to a black plastic duck. Everything he had was contained within its weight and I stood on the street alone with it, unprotected, unguarded.

  I would find the brown, round-head key, slide it in the door, then walk up the stairs to the kitchen where I heard him yell, “Make us a cuppa” which meant pour the old water out of the electric kettle and add cold water for the new. Lay mustard on the white bread and cover that with cheddar and put it in the grill hung above the stove.

  While water boiled and cheese melted and brown man spat and farted in the bathroom beyond; I read the newspaper that Margaret would place on the table after she left for work hours before (always the Guardian and always placed back in order, section within section, without crease or jam stain, just like new although she had surely read it over breakfast hours before). When the sounds of his shower had ended I went back to the kitchen and poured one inch of milk into a mug that held one gray tea bag, then laid the steaming water on top of it. David would appear, in long pajama bottoms and still no shirt but maybe a towel across his thick shoulders or on his head like a frustrated boxer. He would sit hunched over, a few feet from the table, so that his head was nearly level with it as he held his tea mug close to his mouth with both hands. Sipping was the only treble. For bass, he might moan.

  When Red Rose had burnt away the encrusted syllables he might begin with explanations of the night before (“After you left, I really tied one on, got right pissed”) or show me a souvenir of his travels (“See this sign? I pulled it off last night. Right off a stone wall with my hands, right? I was mad, pissed out of my head. I used to chat up this girl that lived on Thorncliffe, number seventy-four. Lovely, you should have seen her.”) or passionately reveal his latest fascination (“Mushrooms are the fruit of the soil. It's like eating the earth when you eat them. That's what it is.”). Then a walk to the third floor. David would get the messages from Raz, and we'd go down the blackboard in the center of the room, figure out the agenda and schedule whatever in-house or client meetings were needed.

  But how long could that last? Particularly when the spritz of lager cans being opened marked the top of the hour better than Margaret's antique grandfather clock (the German one, with the thick oak sides, and the two brass pendulums)? Inevitably there came five-thirty, a time to pick up the downstairs before Margaret came home. A time to pull up empty and half-empty cans and the ashes of fags and spliff, for the list of chores to be executed while David hit the shower again, this time destined to arise with more clothes than his pajama bottoms. Was the work done? No, but as long as people were contacted, meetings were kept and deadlines were met, I could do all the work I needed to do that night, downstairs in my study, complete now with the drafting table, lamp, and file drawers that Fionna'd gotten me to buy, the only distraction being her calling me from upstairs to tell m
e when something good was on the telly (“Christopher, you'll like this one, come.”). As long as David was there every morning, guiding me, massaging the clients, creating the designs, Urgent could keep going. David took care of the business, dealt with the people, I birthed the ideas. I was good at my job. I liked working. I liked working for him.

  If the pre-Margaret chores were quick (get vitamin C, cod oil, and ginseng from Boots, renew the subscription to the Voice, mop kitchen floor) I could make my disappearance before six having taken care of things. If the chores took too long it was just “Do what you can do, I'll take over when she gets here. Wake me when you hear her keys in the door.”

  “Are you going to wipe his arse, too?” Fi asked me. I was late. Only a little, but she had been waiting for me down by the ticket machines in Brixton tube station and that short homeless brother with the busted lip and the lobotomy scar had yelled at her. We had opera tickets for the Royal Albert: I'd never gone and she was excited she was going to show me.

  “You know it's not like that. He takes care of me also,” I told her, going down the escalator.

  “David takes care of himself.”

  “David pays my rent, he pays my bills, everything. He got me here. That's how he takes care of me. He's my boy. Without David I would have nothing.” And without David, I would be nothing. Lady, you don't know it, but without him propping me up, you wouldn't even be standing next to me.

  “That man will suck as long as you let him, and then when there's nothing more he will fly off like a bloated bat. By then you will be too weak to even swat him down.” Fionna stared forward while she said this, as if she were watching this unfold. For a second she wasn't a beautiful woman, someone who looked just the way beauty was supposed to. For a moment Fionna was just a skinny little black girl, hair straightened, lipstick done, trying to look cute in a dress she had no hips to be wearing. She could be from Nicetown maybe, East Mount Airy or Ogontz.

  “Fi, really, don't worry. David is cool. Just because he needs me doesn't mean he's using me.”

  “Chris, who am I? I'm the one who loves you, the one who will always be here for you. I am the woman holding your hand.” Fionna's hand was a light thing, impossibly soft, even at the palm. The thin veins on top could barely be traced without looking. Later, when we got to the show, I held it during the entire performance, letting my hand explore hers as she led me through the sound.

  The opera was a story about an old guy who married a young chick and then she cheated on him, and they all suffered, but that didn't matter; I was a Phillystine and didn't care about that silliness. What mattered was that we sat close enough that you could see the spittle shooting out of the actors' mouths, that the voices of these performers were so strong, their sense of the emotion so complete, that when they sang I could feel their sound upon me, vibrating the hairs in my nose, as loud as when you're waiting for the sub at Fairmont Avenue and the express roars by. What mattered was that here was a plain old Philly boy, costumed in a suit and actually enjoying the sounds of this world. The only one under these ornate ceilings who knew what malt liquor tasted like, what to do when someone starts shooting up a party or how to open a Krimpet without letting the icing stick to its plastic bag.

  Antiquated Desires

  BY CRIS BURKS

  I was practical when I married Mr. Pete, or rather, I felt obligated to marry him.

  Mr. Pete first broached the subject of marriage the summer of Alex's fourth year as we lazed in Mama's backyard on Loomis Avenue. It was too hot to do anything but sip lemonade and watch Alex play with Paris, Mama's cocker spaniel. Mr. Pete and Mama yakked about the good old days when my daddy was alive, and he and Mr. Pete ran the streets.

  “Now, Helen, you know Alex never cheated,” Mr. Pete assured Mama.

  “Humph. Show me a man that doesn't cheat, and I'll show you a dead man,” Mama said.

  Mr. Pete laughed, low chuckles that sound sinister. The shrill of the phone disturbed our tranquillity.

  “I'll get it.” I rose, but Mama flagged me down.

  “It's cranky old Pat,” Mama said. “I told her I was coming over.”

  While Mama was in the house, Mr. Pete and I laughed at Alex and Paris's antics. Paris was so old that he limped as he tried to escape Alex's grasping hands.

  “You know, I always wanted a son,” Mr. Pete said.

  “You and Miss Verna never had any children?” I knew the answer before I asked the question.

  “No, Verna and I was married for almost forty years but she couldn't have children.”

  “Uhmm-hmm,” I said. I was not good company for old folks like Mr. Pete and Mama. The past lived in their heads like old sitcoms, same stories told and retold. Their conversations revolved around things that happened, or should have happened, or shouldn't have happened.

  “Here I am, seventy-three, and still wanting a child,” Mr. Pete said. “A son from my blood.”

  “Well, Mr. Pete,” I said brazenly, “you need a woman for that.”

  He looked at me and laughed. “Maybe you could be that woman? Ain't nobody in the world but me. The house is paid for. Got a few dollars saved, and there's my retirement annuity from the railroad. You'll get that forever.”

  “Mr. Pete, I'm only twenty-four!” I exclaimed. The last image I wanted in my head was that old man humping on top of me.

  “Twenty-four with proof that you can give birth,” he said. He nodded to Alex who chose that moment to look at us with an angelic face.

  “Katie!” He shouted and ran toward us.

  It was one of those storybook moments. He ran straight into my arms with Paris yelping at his heels. Mr. Pete chuckled, and I felt absolutely trapped. Just then Mama came out of the house, and I used her entrance to escape.

  Mr. Pete was on a mission. He wanted a child. After that encounter, I saw him with a few of my high school classmates. The girls were always dressed to the nines with jewelry galore. Fine and dandy. I met James and married him. James and I got a divorce just when LaWanna Jordan, Regina's baby sister, announced her pregnancy by Mr. Pete. Her wedding plans were as grand as the plans for the royal wedding, fifteen bridesmaids, two flower girls, and a white limousine. Mama talked about the affair with distaste and disbelief.

  “Can't believe Pete's letting some twenty-year-old child trick him into marriage. Everybody knows she ain't pregnant by him. Old goat! Thinks he gonna leave a string of children behind. Married to Verna for forty years and never a hint of a baby. Of course, he blames her. Go 'round saying she couldn't have any children, but the man cheated on her left and right. Where're the babies from all those affairs? And Verna? Heaven knows I loved that woman, but why she spent most of her life crying over that dog, I don't know.”

  “Woof-woof,” Alex said from the floor. “Woof-woof.”

  “Stop that, boy!” Mama snapped.

  He and I were watching our Thursday night television lineup, Cosby, A Different World, and anything else that NBC had to offer. Back then I spent Thursday evenings at Mama's house. Every other Saturday, I picked Alex up for a movie and dinner date. Sometimes he spent the night with me. Most of the time he didn't. I was in school at the time, trying to get my master's. It was so much easier for Alex to stay with Mama.

  “You said he was a dog,” Alex pushed his luck.

  “You keep on, and you won't see another episode of Cosby this year,” Mama warned.

  I guess LaWanna would have married Mr. Pete and gone to Vegas for the honeymoon if she hadn't been spooked out of her plans. A week before the wedding, the story goes, LaWanna and Mr. Pete did a walk through his home. She wanted all of Verna's things gone, and planned to redo the house in soft lavender and blue, with sprinkles of yellow. On the second floor Mr. Pete walked past a closed door like it didn't exist. LaWanna insisted on going into that room.

  “Pete, honey, I need to look in this room,” she said.

  “That there is gonna be the nursery,” Mr. Pete said.

  “Well, don't you think I s
hould look inside and make some plans?” she asked.

  Reluctantly he took out an old-fashioned skeleton key and unlocked the door. The room was large and bright. The cream wallpaper had teddy bears holding colorful balloons. There was a beautiful hand-carved oak crib against one wall. A wicker bassinet, draped with netting, stood against another wall. The bassinet and netting were yellowed with age. The third wall supported a changing station and small white dresser. A bamboo rocker sat by a window that overlooked the neighborhood. Scattered around the room were toys. GI Joes marched across the window sills. A Chatty Cathy doll and several Barbie dolls crawled across the lap of a huge panda bear. There were toys out of Burger King and McDonald's gift packs. A family of dead sea monkeys floated in a dirty fish tank. Winnie the Pooh rode a tricycle. Quick Draw McGraw sat on a bicycle. Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble sat on a Big Wheel. A scale model Lionel train set, a go-cart, three racing tracks, and thousands of Matchbox cars ran around the room. There were Raggedy Ann and Andy, Winnie the Pooh, and Barney Rubble stuffed dolls. Posters of Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Underdog, and a rare one of the Little Rascals looked down from the wall. Model airplanes, ships, and a model of the U.S.S. Enterprise from Star Trek dangled from the ceiling on thin wires. There were smaller things like crayons, coloring books, bolo bats, jacks, marbles, a slinky, and a Rubik's cube. Mr. Pete had added to that collection of toys year after year.

  Some said it was that rocker moving slowly back and forth that tipped the scale. Others swear that LaWanna heard Verna humming a lullaby. Still others testified that it was the ghost of Verna that made LaWanna back out that room until she hit the wall in the hallway. LaWanna swore that she felt something tap her on the shoulder. When she turned, Verna scowled down at her from a huge picture. I know that picture well. Verna was not happy that day. In that picture, her eyes were narrow, tight slits, her mouth, a wrinkled pucker. To this day, LaWanna swears Mama Verna whispered, don't touch nothing here. Anyway, LaWanna ran down the stairs, screaming at the top of her lungs, with Mr. Pete behind her calling: