Along the road, the sound of tires, as a car parked far up the road, parking in front of the long line of others: it was David’s Eldorado. I watched as he walked across the field and embraced my granny. He kissed her cheek several times as she fixed a plate for him. He greeted folks, making the rounds of the tables. Loudly told everyone, yes, he was starting his senior year at Morehouse in August, but then there’d be law school, too. That would take another three years.
When he set his plate at our table, my mother asked him, why hadn’t he brought his girlfriend? She was surely welcome.
“Carla had to work,” David said. “But I couldn’t miss a chance at seeing you, Mrs. Garfield. Gosh, you’re so beautiful. Do you even age?”
She snorted. “Boy, you’re full of something, but I won’t say what.”
I ignored him and moved closer to Abdul, kissing his cheek. I fussed with the paper napkin tucked into his shirt, until he patted my hands, saying, all right, that was enough.
David began eating, but the old man wouldn’t let him finish. He began their usual debate: Washington versus Du Bois. Who was the best leader for our people? Uncle Root cited the great scholar’s founding of the social work program at Atlanta University, proof positive that he was the most devoted to our people. David countered with Washington’s publication of Up from Slavery. It provided history about the peculiar institution and a personal blueprint for success. Definitely an important book.
“Yes, it was,” the old man said. “But it was ghostwritten, like all of his published work.”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“I am not, Brother David, and so you must try again. But that trial is for another day, because it’s time for a walk. Sugarfoot, are you and your beau coming?”
We took our pilgrimage to the pecan tree and Uncle Root told Abdul his story. On our walk back, David invited Abdul to the American Legion for a small get-together. That evening, Abdul told me I couldn’t join them at the Legion. This was a boys’ night out, so I had to stay back at the house. My granny had put him in my great-grandmother’s old room, and I’d propped the bedroom door open with a stick. The floor wasn’t level, and every time the door slammed shut, Miss Rose would open it, declaring, respect her house.
Abdul silently rubbed his goatee with a hairbrush, then sniffed under his arms. When he walked outside, I followed.
“But I’m wearing a cute outfit.”
“And you look real pretty, Ailey. Go on back inside now.”
“Come on. Please.”
A supplicant’s note slipped into my voice, but I wouldn’t have been ashamed if David hadn’t been sitting on the porch steps, watching me. He kissed his teeth and rose from the steps. When he started the Eldorado, the strains of the Isley Brothers announced he’d expanded his repertoire. I walked down the front stairs, still pleading with Abdul, but he slid into the passenger seat, closed the door and rolled up the window while I was still talking.
My voice rose into a shriek as I ordered David not to drive away. He moved both of his hands from the steering wheel and put them close to the ceiling of the Eldorado. Showed his teeth in that trademark “everything is everything” smile.
I leaned close to the glass of the passenger window, shouting. Banging on the window.
“Abdul, you better open this goddamned car door, or it’s gone be some trouble! My heart don’t pump no Kool-Aid!”
The screen whined open and my granny emerged, with my mother following behind. Neither were attired for bed. Over their jeans, they wore the reunion T-shirt that declared, WE ARE FAMILY! When my granny asked, why was I screaming? and I explained, Mama folded her arms. I knew she was thinking of her dream.
Miss Rose called to the car and David climbed from the Eldorado.
“Ma’am?”
“Baybay, what you and this Abdul boy done did to my grandchild?”
“Nothing, Miss Rose. It’s just a misunderstanding. I’m gone fix this. I promise.”
“You know you got to be careful with Ailey! You know she high-strung!”
“Yes, ma’am, I know, Miss Rose.”
“Now, y’all take this girl with you to the Legion, and you better be nice. Don’t you let me hear different. Don’t make me call your granddaddy. You know J.W. don’t play.”
“Yes, ma’am, we gone be nice. You don’t have to worry.”
At the Legion, Boukie was waiting, and the four of us squeezed into a leatherette booth. My boyfriend sat with me, but his back was turned. He’d said nothing on the journey into town.
David put his hands on his slim hips. “Here she go: ‘Open this car door or I’ma kill all y’all!’ Partner, I was real, real scared.”
When he threw back his head and laughed, Boukie joined in, saying he’d been knowing me for twenty years, and I came from a family of crazy, low-down women. “This girl got my ass whipped for nothing, back in the fourth grade. Her mama, she crazy on GP. Her grandma? Miss Rose the one who whipped me, plus, she threatened to cut my dick off in the summer of 1989. Her great-grandma, Dear Pearl? She was crazy before she passed on to Glory, God rest her soul—”
“Boukie, are you gone talk about my whole family right in front of me?” I’d drunk two coolers, my anger melting away as the artificial fruit flavors hit my blood. “And you weren’t in fourth grade when I got you whipped. It was the summer before third grade, though probably kindergarten for you, considering how many times you’ve been left back.”
Boukie lit a cigarette, waving at the smoke. “You see what I’m saying? Ain’t no way I’d sleep next to this girl. You might wake up wearing a pot of hot grits.”
I slid from the booth. A quarter in the jukebox and an Earth, Wind & Fire slow jam. Back at the table, I told Abdul I wanted to dance. He jerked his hand from mine, so I turned to David, pulling him to his feet.
Abdul put his beer down. “Oh, so you just gone disrespect me, girl? You’re not even going to ask my permission?”
“For what? Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves!”
I laughed, and David led me to the tiny dance floor, twirling me around slowly. When we settled into a slow drag, our hips fitting together, I remembered our summer. He whispered, I hadn’t changed one damned bit. There was a sad-sweet chord to his words. I looked up and saw that he remembered, too.
I’m Hungry
Abdul didn’t call when he arrived back in Atlanta, though that was our custom. When I rang Abdul’s rooming house, no one answered. His silence continued for the rest of the summer and when school started back, he ignored my waves in the refectory. When I’d knock on his apartment door, Steve would tell me, no, his sands wasn’t home.
It took a month into the semester for him to page me, to meet me in my dorm lobby and ask me to walk to his car. In his apartment, he locked his bedroom door. He told me, there were some things I needed to know, such as, he didn’t share his girlfriends. It was fine to share a hoe with a friend or a frat brother, but not somebody he was in a relationship with.
“Ailey, is something going on with you and that nigger?”
“Who?”
“That guy. David.”
“What? No!”
“You telling me y’all didn’t used to kick it?”
I didn’t look away when I told him David was like my brother. And I took off my clothes, as Abdul directed me. I sat down where he pointed, but when he stood in front of me, unzipping his pants, I turned my head.
“I knew it. You lied to me.”
“Abdul, no, I didn’t. I promise.”
“Open your mouth, then.” He came closer—
I am four. I need to take a bath, Gandee says. If I don’t I will stink like a nasty little girl. He pulls off the pretty dress Nana bought me and the matching panties with all the ruffles. He takes off all his clothes and his underwear and there is a red thing there. He tells me we’re going to get in the tub together in the guest bathroom. We’re going to have lots of fun and he’ll put on my other clothes after our secret. I shouldn’t tattle
on him, because if I do, I will be a nasty little girl and he won’t love me more than he loves my sisters and he’ll kill everybody. I’ll die and my mama will die and Lydia will die and Coco will die and my daddy will die and none of them will go to Heaven and do I want that to happen? In the bathroom, we get in the water. I’m between his legs and that red thing is poking me in the back and his skin is white and there’s no ducky in the water. I have no friends in this water. Gandee comes at me and puts his hand down there. I start crying and I hit him on the arm and he says, be a nice little girl. Didn’t I remember what he told me? Did I want everybody to die? Did I want him to kill me? I look at the squares on the side of the tub and Miss Delores and Nana aren’t coming back but Mama is coming in a while to get me, after Gandee dresses me again. She’s coming and I don’t want her to die—
Abdul tugged my hair. I couldn’t suck dick worth a damn, he told me, so he ordered me to lie on my back. He rolled on top of me, but I squirmed away, protesting, we had to use a condom.
“Like you and that nigger did?”
“I never slept with him!”
“Open your legs if you’re not lying.”
“Abdul! Quit!”
When I kicked and pushed at him, he slapped me. Again. Again. Again. I saw blue and pink sparks, but I kept kicking. He put his hands around my neck, choking off my air, until I stopped struggling. I was dry when he pushed into me, as he kissed my face, begging me, call him Shotgun, move around, do something, but I only lay there, my head turned. Through the walls, I could hear the sounds of Steve walking. He’d confided in me that he had nightmares; it frightened him to close his eyes after dark.
After Abdul was finished, he brought up the holidays, that he wanted to meet my father, like a man should. He wanted my father’s blessing for our relationship, and then Abdul began his cherished story, that his parents had never married, that his father never had been in his life. I knew how sad his story was, but I wasn’t going to comfort him. I let my breath deepen and he jabbed me with his finger. He called my name, but I didn’t answer. When I knew he was asleep, I dressed and left.
* * *
Every day, Abdul called the dorm for me, but I took the pink message slips from the work-study student at the desk and dropped them in my purse. In the refectory, he waved, blowing kisses. The gossips were watching, but I didn’t return his gestures. I didn’t care who was watching, ever since I’d returned from my appointment at Dr. Rice’s office, where Nurse Lansing had told me I had gonorrhea.
I’d called her at home, asking if I could take a pregnancy test. She’d said she’d open the office early on Friday as that was Dr. Rice’s late morning; he wouldn’t be there, in case I wanted privacy. Nurse Lansing said she needed to do a pelvic examination. When she finished, she told me I wasn’t pregnant, I didn’t have a yeast infection, and there were no warts. But my cervix was very red. I had a sexually transmitted disease.
As I cried, her voice gentled. She put her hand on my shoulder, and told me she knew privacy was important, so she was phoning in a prescription for the antibiotics to a pharmacy in Macon. And birth control pills, too. I didn’t have to take them, but the option would be nice, wouldn’t it?
“Don’t forget to call me back,” she said. “You have to get your HIV and syphilis test results. And when you finish the antibiotics, remember to start using condoms, okay? Carry your own, if you can, in case you go back to this boy. Don’t you be embarrassed, neither.”
I’d driven to Macon and picked up my antibiotics, but I hadn’t confronted Abdul. When I called after Nurse Lansing’s deadline, she told me, fortunately, I was negative for the rest of the diseases, but she repeated, don’t forget to use my condoms.
A month later, when she examined me again and gave me the all clear, she gave me the same warning. But I didn’t need it. I continued to ignore Abdul’s waves. I laughed uproariously at the table with my roommates, even when Roz asked, what the hell was wrong with me? Nobody had told a joke. I ripped up Abdul’s pink message slips in the front of the desk monitor, knowing the word would get around. I didn’t open my door when I heard my name in the hallway, telling me somebody was calling. It took a while to tell my roommates what the gossips already had surmised: I’d broken up with Abdul.
One day Abdul paged me. I came downstairs and walked past him as he shouted my name. He didn’t know that day was Lydia’s birthday, that I had awoken with her on my mind. How she would have made me feel better about the mess I’d made of my life. Growing up, my big sister had made me feel as if I was perfect. Nothing ever had harmed me in her eyes.
* * *
At Thanksgiving dinner, my granny told me my face was as long as her arm. She tried to get me to talk, and so did Uncle Root. I left early, even though I’d promised the old man that I’d spend the weekend and do some window-shopping in Atlanta. I didn’t lie when I told him I had a test on Monday but omitted that I’d been studying for three weeks.
In the student parking lot, I sat in my car, listening to the radio. Lydia’s favorite Christmas song came on, and I felt sorry for myself. I considered driving back to Chicasetta, but my people would be lingering over dinner. My granny would hover, then offer her only solution: more sweet potato pie.
When I walked across the yard, there was Pat, sitting on the bench smoking a joint. What a pleasant surprise, he told me. He patted the bench: come sit with him.
“I thought you’d be in Chicasetta. Did you come back to see Abdul?”
“Don’t nobody want to see that asshole. I have a test on Monday.”
“Aw, damn, girl. Shit. It’s like that?”
I plucked the joint from his hand, taking a draw. “Why aren’t you in Atlanta? And how you just sitting in the open, smoking weed?”
He put his arm behind me, on the back of the bench. “I got a test, too, and you know I share with the security guards. How they gone drop a dime when I’m getting them high?”
We passed the joint, smoking it down to the roach, and he lit another. There weren’t many words: we expressed thanks when the joint moved from one hand to the other.
“Ailey, can I ask something?”
The second joint made my throat raw. I had swallowed instead of exhaling, bringing on a coughing fit. I gave Pat a thumbs-up and a backward wave. Go ahead. Keep talking.
“What’s going on with you and Abdul?”
“How is this any of your business?”
“I’m concerned, Ailey, that’s all. You don’t seem very happy.”
“So, you some kind of premarital counselor now? What? You want to listen to me bad-mouth your sands?”
I knew I should be annoyed at Pat, but my high was kicking in. He took the joint when I gestured, smoothly inhaled, then handed it back.
“Yeah, all right, Abdul is my sands, and I guess I love him. You can’t pledge on the same line with somebody and not have love. Especially not for Gamma. We got our asses beat together.”
“Which is, like, a real stupid way to get friends, but I’m not gone criticize. We all have our needs for human companionship.”
He laughed and put his hand on my nape, stroking.
“I don’t understand something, Ailey. How did a gorgeous, extraordinary woman like yourself end up with this hood-rat two-timing you? Can you explain that, please?”
Whether I was high or struck by his candor, the question was hilarious. I was overcome with giggles. I touched his face, pushing gently.
“You’re so snobby!”
He grabbed my hand, rubbing the tips of my fingers over his lips.
“You misunderstand me, Ailey. Nothing’s wrong with being poor. My mama was poor before she met my rich daddy. I’m talking about who Abdul is. He can’t help being poor, but he can help being an asshole. N’est-ce pas?”
I wanted to stop giggling. I wanted my granny’s sweet potato pie, because I was no longer sad, but I did have the munchies. I wanted Pat to keep kissing my fingertips.
“And if that nigger mentions his de
adbeat father one more time.” Pat lifted his voice into a childish singsong. “‘My daddy tried to get my mama to have an abortion when she was carrying me. My daddy didn’t pay the child support. My daddy didn’t come to my high school graduation.’ This nigger always talking about how mean his daddy was, then he kicks dirt in the face of every sister he gets with. But y’all women? Y’all just flock to brothers like that! Mon Dieu! C’est incroyable!”
He had entered a reefer-smoking trance, the arena of deep thought, at least until the high comes down. “What kind of hold does this dude have over you, Ailey?”
“I mean . . . I don’t know . . .”
He scratched the side of his face with his thumb. When he laughed, it came out in nearly soundless puffs. “Oh. I guess he’s laying some serious pipe.”
“You are so nasty.”
“Girl, look. We’re out here smoking marijuana on a bench during a holiday weekend because you’re mad at your cheating man—”
“—I’m not mad! And he’s not my man anymore—”
“—and I’m the one who’s nasty? I tell you something, Abdul might not know how to treat a gorgeous individual such as Ailey Garfield like the queen she is, but I certainly do. Je t’adore, ma reine. C’est vrai.”
I wasn’t so high that I couldn’t recognize a pass when I saw one, the meaning in his French compliments, the touching of my hair, the kisses of my fingertips, or his refusal when I tried to offer him the last of the second joint: “No, baby, it’s all yours, if you want it.”
An hour later, when Pat offered to walk me to my dorm, I invited him to sit inside my car and listen to the radio, but in a few seconds, I pulled him to me and began to kiss him. I was no longer high. I knew exactly what I was doing. I couldn’t get close enough as he whispered how beautiful I was, how sexy. How perfect. I put the brake down to give us more room, but my car was too tight. He apologized for being a big dude, and I asked him, did he want to go to a motel? We could split the cost, but he insisted, no, no, he had it. What kind of gentleman asked a lady to split the cost of a room? Just drive, baby. On the highway, he leaned over, kissing my face. When car lights passed us, I checked myself in the mirror. Was I going to do this? Was I really this brazen?
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 37