Tumbling

by Diane McKinney-Whetstone

  “Damn you, Herbie. I’m not living down here in a hole-of-a-wall part of the city if it’s just gonna get more and more run-down. Damn you, Herbie. That was you. That voice, I know that was your voice at Ethel’s. I could feel that voice deep in my stomach when you and Ethel were in the other room late at night. I know that was you. How dare you have done such a thing to Noon, then gonna talk about me not having no feeling of family? What about you, Herbie, huh? You were fucking around. What about that, huh? If I want to sell this house, I will. Ain’t nowhere near as bad as fucking around.”

  Liz chewed and spit as she muttered about Herbie. Then she used a butter knife to chip away at stubborn chunks. The crumbs hit the floor with a chinking sound. Liz continued to work, trying to keep the growing hole in proportion, not higher than wider, the headboard still needed to cover it.

  When she was done, she went to her closet and pulled out the gray and black feather duster. She dusted the remnants into a neat pile and then scooped them up and into the shiny metal trash can. They made a whooshing sound as they slid down the piece of cardboard she had scooped them onto. They fell into the bottom of the can heavily. She stood in the middle of the room and waved her hands, trying to disperse the dust that just hung there. She dusted at her dresser, shined her mirror, scraped her nails, and brushed her hair. She pushed her bed back against the wall. She lay on her bed and thought about the new bedspread she would buy, one that would brighten up the room. If she worked all of spring break, she could afford the one she’d seen with the bold peach flowers. That was one of Willie Mann’s favorite colors. She shifted to her side and pulled at her silken pajamas. Noon had told her to always sleep in cotton, cotton’s healthier, she used to say. Liz wondered if Ethel slept in cotton.

  Back downstairs Fannie grabbed her bright orange hooded jacket and headed for the door. “Be there, Herbie,” she said, “’cause I gotta talk to you.” She moved through the March air. The bitter sting of February was gone. The March air was warmer, madder. Fannie moved fast, the way she always moved fast. She couldn’t slow down. She had tried before to walk slow, to think slow, to slow down her feelings, which were always building revelation on top of revelation, like a slide show in fast forward. She tried to make her mind quiet and still. But afterward her thinking would make up for lost time. Sometimes she’d just have to blurt out the thoughts, just say what she was seeing at the moment, just to free up time and space in her head. People would say, “Why can’t she be nice and quiet like the red-haired child?” People mistook it for meanness. Fannie never intended meanness; she just needed to empty her head.

  Fannie tried to smooth at her wind-blown hair as she pushed through the big door into Club Royale. Herbie was sitting at the bar, sipping his gin. Fannie could tell by the way he was hunched that it was gin and not beer.

  She moved through the blue air and was at Herbie’s back. She tapped him on his shoulder and, in a disguised playful voice, said, “Hey, bud, need to talk to you.” Herbie turned around quickly; the muscles in his face gave way all at once and collapsed into a complete smile.

  He had just been thinking about Liz, calling her a brat, she was a brat back then, fourteen years later, eighteen years old going on nineteen, and she was still a brat. He was just thinking that he should have called her on it, right then and there; as soon as Fannie got home, he should have put Liz’s little scheme right out in the open. He was just thinking that Liz didn’t have anything on him. No way can she remember that far back. Shit, can’t her or nobody else say anything about him not doing right by Noon. He was relieved that it was Fannie who interrupted his thinking.

  He grabbed Fannie and hugged her tightly. “What’s up, daughter mine?” he said cheerily.

  “You tell me,” Fannie answered.

  Herbie looked around and saw that Willie Mann was in earshot, standing behind the bar racking wineglasses. “Let’s go where we can talk in peace,” he said as he picked up his drink and led Fannie to a small booth.

  “So you gonna tell me what’s up?” Fannie asked as they settled into the booth’s coziness.

  “Nothing much, I just felt like talking to you earlier. I miss you girls.”

  “Why you run out as soon as I walked in then?”

  “Me and Liz got into a little dispute. She say anything to you?” Herbie looked hard into Fannie’s face for any sign that Liz had told.

  “Nothing, she wouldn’t say anything; that’s what I want to know from you.

  “Nothing, really, it was about nonsense. I don’t even remember. You know how damn sensitive she is, can’t say nothing to her, from the time she was a little thing. Noon never helped matters any, Noon always talking about Liz’s nervous stomach, couldn’t nobody holler at her, chastise her, I just think it’s all left her a little too selfish sometimes for her own good.”

  “Yeah, and . . .” Fannie said, looking at Herbie intently.

  “That’s all, that’s why I left the way I did. Didn’t mean to offend you, but I knew if anybody understood, you would. You been more like a daughter to me than Liz.”

  Fannie waved her hands, trying to wave away Herbie’s words. She always wanted Herbie and Liz to be close. But the balance was off between Fannie and Herbie and Liz.

  “It’s true, Fannie,” Herbie said with emphasis. “You even look like me.”

  “Noon says you feed anything long enough it’ll start to look like you.”

  They both laughed easy laughs.

  “What number you like tonight?” Herbie asked.

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen any numbers for a long time. You on your own.”

  “Well, sit right here, Fannie, don’t move, I’m just going in the back to put mine in, I don’t usually do the night one, but I’ve had this hunch all day, five minutes, give me five minutes, order yourself a Coke, and just be still for a few minutes.”

  Fannie sat back and breathed in deep. The back of the booth supported her back well. She liked strong wood that she could lean heavily on. This back was like the back of the church pew. Must be the same wood, she thought. She felt that if she could lean hard enough against it, it might suck some of her worries right through her spine; absorbent wood, she thought. She breathed in the blue air. The air was not like the church air, though. The air at church was bright yellow, sometimes almost blinding. This air was transparent, like a blue film, everything showed. The number writers, the prostitutes, the slick-haired hustlers did their business out in the open. There was no need for a blinding yellow light here. They were honest enough with their trade. Fannie closed her eyes and took in more of the blue air. She could smell the fish frying in the kitchen. She could separate the ground pepper from the paprika, the lard from the cornmeal. Trout, she thought. It had a fresh smell. Not like the close-to-rotten fish that was sometimes sold to the church. Club Royale after all had connections, front people. Even though it was Negro-owned, they had learned who to send to the docks to do the buying. Fannie pressed harder into the wood. She allowed herself to be lost in the blue air filled with fresh fish. She didn’t see Willie Mann staring at her as he racked his sparkling wineglasses.

  Willie Mann’s nature was filled with contraries, paradoxes, that he should have what he wants and in the having not want it. That his desires so well defined, so sought after, so worked for should suddenly turn on him, switch up, and the thing that he presently wants bears no resemblance to his havings. So it was as he watched Fannie sitting at the small dark booth in the back of Club Royale. That he had just left Liz’s a couple of hours ago did not matter. That he had sneaked out when Herbie came in, saved only by the bang of the window falling as Herbie and Liz argued did not matter. That he had gone against his grain of quick-hit and move-on approach and instead taken his time with Liz, put months into whispering in her ear, lightly tracing her cheekbones, kissing her chin, her closed eyelids, skillfully unfolding her and then backing off until she was of legal age, did not matter. Nor did it matter that he liked his women like Liz: high-gloss, done up
with bright lipsticks and blushes, coiffured hair, and diamond pins. All that mattered to Willie Mann at this moment was the tremendous throbbing urging him on to Fannie.

  Fannie’s nose was long and thin, like her fingers and her arms. Her waist nipped way in to make her slender hips look broad. Her legs curved at the calves, not muscles that jutted but a soft curve. Her hair was dark and wild and woolly and made her eyes look darker, almost magical set far back from her thin nose. Her skin was light with a brownish tint, like unfinished pine with a deep maple varnish to it. Her chest was small, no voluptuous breasts to tempt with. Her eyes did the tempting, her eyes and her lips. Her lips drew the fullness that was missing from her chest. It was her lips that Willie Mann focused on as he smoothed at his hair, and straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and moved for Fannie’s table.

  “Good evening, Liz’s sister,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “What you got against calling people by their given name?” she snapped. She pulled her mind from the slippery shine of the silver trout.

  He held his hand up in mock defense. “Please, let’s not argue,” he said, making his voice go softer, smoother. “Can I sit with you a minute?”

  “Sit at your own risk. I’m waiting for Herbie, and you know he can’t stand your ass.”

  “Ouch!” he said, wincing hard. “You could have dressed it up a little bit, maybe said, ‘He doesn’t particularly care for you, Willie Mann.’”

  “What do you want?” Fannie asked, staring hard at him.

  “A truce is what I want.”

  “A truce,” Fannie said sarcastically. “Now what do you suppose is bringing on this call for a truce?”

  “Actually I’m thinking about Liz. Now I know you know that Liz and I have been seeing each other, we’re trying to keep it low-key, especially since your family doesn’t exactly approve of my, er, affiliations. I just thought it might make it easier on Liz if at least you and me could be on friendly terms. You know this whole thing wouldn’t wear her down as much.”

  “I thought you liked her worn down, you egging her in directions that’s pitting her against her family.”

  “Fannie, let’s not quibble, for Liz’s sake. I mean you’re a good-looking woman, I see Pop’s nephew is hot on your trail, probably at least a couple of other cats nursing an attraction to you. Suppose you happened to like one of them that your whole family hated. And suppose they liked you as much as I like Liz.”

  “Like?” Fannie asked, as if she hadn’t quite heard right.

  “That’s right. I mean, me and Liz have this understanding, it’s not a heavy love thing with us, we’re not losing our head over this. I mean, of course I care about her, I care a lot about her, in fact a whole lot. But it’s probably the same way with you: You wouldn’t want to shut down all your options while you’re still young and good-looking, you know what I mean.”

  Fannie didn’t say anything; she just stared straight at Willie Mann. She knew in fact that it was a heavy love thing for Liz. That Liz had shut down her other options. Turned a deaf ear to the compliments of a whole array of options. Even earned a reputation as “stuck up” at Lincoln. “Thinks her ass weighs a ton,” the college men said about Liz.

  “Furthermore,” he went on, “I got to honestly say that I’ve never been in love, not the head-over-heels variety in the movies. I bet you haven’t either. I bet we’re a lot alike in some ways. Have you, Fannie? Have you ever been in love?”

  Fannie was tilted off center. She’d expected him to come at her with persuasive whispers about the road, how good a thing it was, a blessing in disguise, a way out for people trapped downtown like crabs in a barrel. She was prepared for that. Not this, though. “Not head over heels,” she said flatly. Mad at herself then for even responding, for even giving him an audience.

  He hunched his shoulders in and nodded his head slowly, not even blinking he stared at Fannie so. “Well, like I said, I haven’t been in love either—”

  “’Cept for with yourself, right?” Fannie interrupted, forcing herself to look straight at him as she struggled to get her balance back.

  He rubbed his fingers gently over the match back. “Rough,” he said.

  “Me or the box?” Fannie asked, finding her center again.

  “Not you.” Willie Mann spoke even softer. “You put on a rough front, but you’re not rough. In fact, I do believe you might be soft as silk.”

  “I’m more like cotton. I ain’t slippery and I hold up in the wash.”

  “Okay, then, cotton.” He looked down at the match box, fingering it.

  “So what’s this about?” Fannie asked. “What you after?”

  “You and me being friends, is all I’m after,” he said. “For Liz’s sake. And for your sake, and mine. I think we could do each other good being friends.”

  “Never happen,” Fannie said. “Not as long as you in cahoots with the cronies that’s trying to steal our community, you can’t be no friend of mine.”

  “Okay,” he said, raising both his hands as if surrendering. “It’s no secret I’m into this highway. I think it’s one of the best things that could happen to all the Negroes crammed down here like sardines in a can. You know, they give the people a piece of change for their properties, let them move where they can have more space.”

  “And you get a little piece of change for every little piece of property that gets turned over, right?” Fannie asked.

  Willie Mann sat back against the booth. He still played with the match box. He didn’t look at Fannie. He was rarely challenged by women. Most women were like Liz with Willie Mann, too grateful to have this fine, slick-haired man spreading them wide to challenge him. He imagined spreading Fannie wide. Might even take Fannie to his apartment. He’d never taken any woman to his apartment. It either had to be her place or his couch at Royale. It was simpler for him that way. They tended not to get too possessive. “I swear to you, Fannie, I believe in this project. But even if I am getting paid, say a consultant-type thing, why should that stop us from being friends? One is business; the other’s not.”

  “It’s an honesty thing.”

  “But I’m being honest with you. Probably more honest than I should be. I trust you. Don’t ask me why, but I do. I want you to trust me too, Fannie. I—I like you, Fannie, I like your spunk, you know, I like the way you challenge me. Maybe we could meet some evening and just talk. You could tell me what problems you’re having with this whole highway project. Just you and me, you know, without interruption.”

  “What I look like to you?” Fannie said with her mouth hanging open. “Do I look like a fucking dope?”

  “You gotta do something about your mouth, it’s not ladylike, you look too good to be talking the way you do. Who you look like anyhow? I know you were adopted, but your mother must be a serious looker.” Willie Mann stared at Fannie, to see if she had any idea, to see if she knew, the way he knew.

  “Noon is my mother,” Fannie said quickly. “The only mother I know, the only one I need.”

  He could tell that she didn’t know as he followed her eyes through the blue air to just beyond his shoulder. He sat up sharply. Herbie was back, standing over him.

  “I believe you in my seat,” Herbie said icily.

  “Can’t nobody be in your seat, you be the man,” Willie Mann said as he slid out of the booth, bowed his tall frame, and extended his arm motioning for Herbie to sit. “Miss Lady, please think about what I said.”

  Fannie didn’t acknowledge him. She looked instead at Herbie. His face was as red as Liz’s hair when the sun hit it.

  “Calm down, Herbie, he was just talking shit, he didn’t do anything to me. You all right?”

  “I just saw stars when I saw him sitting here talking to you, and you look like you really listening to what he has to say.”

  “Well, what if I said that he sits and talks to Liz a lot, a whole lot? What if I said that he and Liz are doing more than talking? What would you say to that?”

  “
I’d say that’s a damn shame, that’s what I’d say.”

  “But that’s all, huh, it’s okay for him to talk to Liz, huh, Herbie, is that how that goes? That ain’t equal treatment.”

  “I been suspecting something was wrong with Liz. She’s changing her whole point of view. Okay, he done already got to Liz, already ruined her. It’d kill me if the same thing happened to you.”

  “Let’s be real, Herbie, what can he do to me? It’s not like I don’t know what he’s made of.”

  “I just don’t want him around you.”

  “Well, he’s around Liz.”

  Herbie shrugged his shoulders. “That ain’t gonna last long. He’s just around her ’cause she’s a homeowner. Once he get what he wants from Liz, he’ll be long gone.”