by Tayari Jones
“The rest, like they say, is history.”
17
TIME AND A HALF
IN THE EIGHTIES, you could stil smoke in restaurants but only in the smoking section. I don’t smoke, wil never smoke. I even refuse to date smokers because their ashtray kisses remind me too much of my father. Stil , I feel a little pang of sympathy when I see a no smoking sign. The diagonal slash seems heartless, cruel even. My daddy took the ban personal y, said it reminded him too much of Mississippi, but he laughed it off with the same sad joke. “Just when they took down al the signs that said ‘No Coloreds,’ they had to come up with a new way to keep me out. Ain’t that right, Raleigh?” Then Uncle Raleigh would say, “If it ain’t one thing, it’s another.”
“I know that’s right,” I would chime in, thinking not of the smoking bans but of the slew of Sweet Sixteen parties that year. My mother, who had been doing hair for more than fifteen years, had never seen anything like it. Daddy thought it had something to do with Ronald Reagan. Although no self-respecting black person would cast a vote for that joker, Daddy had to admit that the man had a way about him that was infectious. “Carter was a good man, but he didn’t exactly make you want to go out and hire a limousine for your kid’s birthday party. What do you think, Buttercup?”
“I think it’s Dynasty. Everybody wants to be Alexis.”
“Even black folks?” said Uncle Raleigh.
“Everybody,” I said. “Even Diahann Carrol herself.”
“What about Bil Cosby? You don’t think people want to be high on the hog like the Cosbys?”
“Bil Cosby makes you want to buy a hundred-dol ar sweater,” I said.
“Wel ,” said Uncle Raleigh. “I’l admit that I enjoy a nice cardigan, but in general, I am a simple man with simple taste.” He waved his arm to take in our environment, his cigarette making a ghostly trail.
We were at IHOP on North Avenue, kil ing time while Ruth Nicole Elizabeth Grant was having her Sweet Sixteen at the Hilton downtown. Her parents went al out, requesting the limo, the Town Car, and an attendant — which was me. Al I had to do was be on hand in case somebody needed a tissue or breath mints on the ride. Tucked in my canvas pack was a handy bottle of club soda in case someone spil ed something on their clothes and a barrel brush in case there was a Shirley Temple back there that needed twirling. I never had to dab a stain from a dress, although curls always could use a little tending to. For the most part, I was getting paid six dol ars an hour just to ride around. We were even on the clock sitting up in IHOP eating pigs in a blanket.
Uncle Raleigh and Daddy both wore their dress uniforms, but they left the jackets in the car. They horsed around like boys as they sucked down cup after cup of thin coffee, loosened up with cream and sugar. Sitting on opposite sides of the booth, they often looked up at one another and grinned. I always alternated my seat when I went out with the two of them. I don’t know that they ever noticed, but it wasn’t right that Uncle Raleigh should have to be alone al the time.
Women at the Pink Fox wondered aloud why Uncle Raleigh was stil available, and I knew at least three ladies who would be more than happy to do something about it. Uncle Raleigh didn’t come around the salon much, and neither did my daddy. (My mama says it’s just that they don’t want to see where pretty comes from.) Uncle Raleigh kept his visits short and sweet. When he entered the shop, delivering a package or something, the ladies who were already curled and looking pretty flirted outrageously while the ones who were wet and stil nappy hid behind their Ebony magazines, taking interested peeks over the tops of the glossy pages. Uncle Raleigh, knowing his role, complimented everyone, including Mama and me, before leaving with a tip of his hat.
Once he was gone, the speculation began in earnest. They ran through the respectable options first. Had he been hurt by a woman so now he was gun-shy? Was he married to the limo company? Lord have mercy, had he been to Vietnam? (At this point, the conversation could get pretty intense depending on the age of the women getting their hair done. It was always a brother-in-law that they talked about having been driven crazy by that war. It was never a husband or, thankyoujesus, a son.) The romantics wondered if maybe Uncle Raleigh had a woman but for some reason —
like maybe she was the mayor’s wife — he had to keep it secret.
Mama denied al these theories. “He’s set in his ways,” she’d say, or “He’s just waiting to meet the right person.” Sometimes one woman would be brave enough to ask the question that was on everyone’s mind. The asker was either the oldest or youngest person in the shop. “He’s not funny, is he, Verne?”
Mama said no, that wasn’t it at al .
The truth was that Uncle Raleigh wasn’t real y a bachelor. He had us.
Mama told me once, on a Monday, while she was working in my relaxer, that she had seen Uncle Raleigh with a woman before. The woman was dark-skinned, real y dark, like Cicely Tyson, but with hair for days. I had seen the woman, too, but I couldn’t say anything. It was just before Jamal graduated, before I figured out that you can be safe and sorry at the same time. Jamal and I were at Adams Park, in the middle of a school day. We didn’t have anywhere else to go — my mama operated a business out of my house and his mother (as she told anybody that would sit stil and listen) “didn’t have to work,” so she was home al day. So we were stuck with public places. He was eager to get back to the car, which he had parked in a discreet spot near a bank of pine trees. I said that I wanted to play on the swings for a while. It was a lie, I didn’t care anything about the swings, but I wanted him to coax me back to the car, for him to say how much he had missed me al day in school, for him to thril me by pressing my hand to the front of his jeans, for him to say that he worried that he was going to bust the zipper just by loving me so much. I was going to ride the swing, flashing him when the air flipped my skirt until he had to say, “Chaurisse, I am crazy about you.”
I had just settled my hips on the swing and used my tiptoes to push back a few paces when I saw my uncle and his lady friend. Uncle Raleigh and I looked right into each other’s faces. My hand floated up to my nose, the way it did when I was afraid. Uncle Raleigh cocked his head like dogs do when they’re confused. Jamal turned to see what I was looking at and Uncle Raleigh’s lady friend did the same. We were, al four of us, caught up in something, but at the time, I couldn’t say exactly what. Then Uncle Raleigh put his finger to his lips like a watchful librarian.
He never brought his girlfriend around to the house and I never asked. It was simple courtesy, real y, one of the rules of our house. We were a polite family back then. For example, on this Saturday night, no one asked me why I wasn’t invited to Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s Sweet Sixteen, although we lived in the same neighborhood, had belonged to the same Brownie troop, and our mothers took the same dance class at the YWCA.
Not only that, but I’d been to Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s parties in the past, and my mother always made sure I gave her a good gift. Just last year, I presented her with three fluted add-a-beads — fourteen karat. The previous parties had al been held in her big backyard or in their nice finished basement. Her Sweet Sixteen was to be an elaborate catered situation, which was different. Her parents had to pay a specific amount for each guest. If you were going, you had to RSVP, and rumor had it there was a wait list.
Uncle Raleigh struck a match and lit the cigarette dangling from his thin lips. “You want some of this, Jim-Bo?” he said, offering the burning stick to my dad, who leaned his cigarette into the flame.
I asked the waitress for a refil on my Diet Coke.
“Get a regular Coke,” Daddy said, looping his arm around my shoulder.
“Too many calories,” I said.
“Why you and your mama are so hung up on this weight thing? Don’t nobody but a dog want a bone.”
“And even he wants some meat on it,” Uncle Raleigh said.
They laughed and kept eating.
“What time is it?” I asked, with a flip of my hair.
&nb
sp; My dad frowned. He didn’t care for my augmented look. He said it was because I didn’t need it.
“It’s only ten thirty. The event is scheduled to go until midnight,” Uncle Raleigh said.
“It’s a big deal, this party,” I said. “Mama did the hair. Ruth Nicole Elizabeth, her mama, her best friend. We worked on them al day.”
We did, and it had been a pretty miserable afternoon. To her credit, Ruth Nicole Elizabeth never said the word party while I basted her head. She didn’t even complain when I tugged too hard at a tangle behind her ears, removing the soft strands at the root. We final y got them out of the shop at 4:30 p.m. They went home to slip into their “after-five attire” and I went upstairs to put on my blue-and-white so I could go work with Daddy and Uncle Raleigh. For the record, I did own an afterfive dress. It was lavender, with asymmetric tiers and a sweetheart neck, junior size 13. My daddy brought it home late one night; he won it in a poker game.
Even though we were flush straight through spring, my mama was never in a good mood getting people ready for formals. You wouldn’t know it from watching her, but that’s cal ed being a professional. She would be al smiles six weeks later when the girls gave her wal et-sized photos of themselves dressed in Gone with the Wind hoopskirts; above the shampoo bowl hung a corkboard just for these displays. But when we final y closed down the shop, she flopped in her chair with a tiredness that was more than just one day’s exhaustion. “The money is good, but I don’t envy Raleigh and James. Driving those girls around and cal ing them ma’am! Sixteen years old. Help me, Jesus. It wil be prom season before you know it.”
“YOUR MAMA is looking at things al the wrong way,” Daddy said, slicing into his sausages. “Twenty years ago, none of this would be possible.
Your mama can’t see good news when it is staring her right in the face.”
“How much you think a party like that would cost?” Uncle Raleigh asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Four thousand? Five?” Daddy said. “But I am just talking out the side of my neck. I don’t know nothing about this kind of thing. You ever want a party like this, Buttercup?”
“It’s too late for me to have a Sweet Sixteen, Daddy. I’m seventeen already.”
“You could have a Sweet Eighteen.”
“Doesn’t exist,” I said.
“Graduation party?” Daddy suggested.
“Not my speed.”
Uncle Raleigh said, “I was thinking about for Laverne.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “This kind of stuff gets on her nerves. She turned so many spiral curls last week that she had to wear a brace on her wrist.”
“It’s different,” Daddy said. “It’s different being the guest of honor.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She isn’t real y like that.”
“Maybe she is,” Uncle Raleigh said.
“She’s not,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”
“We’ve been knowing Laverne a lot longer than you,” Daddy added, and together they chuckled.
“She hates fancy parties,” I said. “I’m with her al the time. I know how much she hates them.”
Uncle Raleigh said, “By my calculation, it’s coming up on the twentieth anniversary of the Pink Fox.”
“There you go,” Daddy said.
They smiled at each other and turned their faces to me. There was no chal enging them.
“We’l tel her it’s your idea,” said Raleigh
“I thought it was supposed to be a surprise party,” I said.
“She won’t like that,” Daddy said.
“Verne does not like surprises.”
“That’s the truth,” Daddy said.
And there was no arguing. They had been knowing Laverne a lot longer than me. And with the matter settled, they went on to other topics. To Uncle Raleigh, Daddy said, “We could probably make some good money if we could bring back the photography angle to the business.”
Uncle Raleigh poured a little puddle of raspberry syrup on his plate and dunked the tines of his fork. “Nope, Jim-Bo. No. No. No.”
“How come?” I said. “You like taking pictures. Teenage girls like having their picture taken. Their parents like spending money. Seems like a good deal al around.”
“I don’t want to take prom pictures,” Uncle Raleigh said. “I want to be evocative.”
Daddy said, “Evock in your spare time. Think about it, man. People are going to col ege next year.”
By people, he meant me.
“Where do you want to go to school?” Uncle Raleigh asked.
“I’m thinking about Mount Holyoke,” I said.
My father and my uncle looked at each other. “You d-d-don’t say,” said Daddy.
“It’s stil early,” Uncle Raleigh said, more to my father than to me. “It’s stil early.”
AFTER WE PAID the check, we headed back to the Hilton. Daddy sent me in at eleven thirty to see if things were winding down. On the ride up to the twenty-third floor, I straightened my col ar and smoothed the accordion wrinkles from my skirt. The bul et-shaped elevator was glass, al owing me a ful view of Atlanta. The door opened and I looked around for the Magnolia Room. It took a couple trips up and down the carpeted hal way before I ran into Mr. Grant, Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s dad. Tiny comb tracks made roadways in his Bil y Dee waves.
“Witherspoon!” he said, after patting down the pockets of his brain, trying to remember my first name. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair down.”
“Hel o, Mr. Grant. I just came up to see how things are coming along.”
“It’s a beautiful night,” he said. “Go on in and fix yourself a plate.”
“Oh no, sir,” I said, tugging at my hem. “I’m working tonight.”
“Don’t be sil y,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders. Mr. Grant smel ed nice, like good cologne and cognac. I knew that I smel ed like fried food and cigarettes.
“You are such a pretty girl. Such a young lady.” He kissed me on the top of my head and gave me a little squeeze around the tops of my arms.
“Go on in. Enjoy yourself.”
He opened the door of the Magnolia Room, leaving me no choice but to step inside. For a moment, I was queasy with a wave of déjà vu, as this was the setting of one of my nightmares. In the dream, I walk into a fancy party. Everyone else is dressed for prom, but I am fat and wearing a two-piece bathing suit. My stomach sags over the leopard-print bikini and I am afraid to raise my arms because everyone wil see that I haven’t shaved.
When I have this dream lately, I know that I’m dreaming, but this understanding isn’t enough to wake me up. When I’m final y able to open my eyes, grateful for my familiar bedsheets, my body is damp and cold.
In the Magnolia Room, the partygoers were al silver as tea sets, and no one noticed me at al .
The DJ was playing a slow song, “Against Al Odds.” In the center of the dance floor was Ruth Nicole Elizabeth, swaying with her boyfriend, Marcus McCready, home from col ege. His hands rested respectful y at the smal of her back, just above the satin sash. Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s dress, like her skin, was the color of sand. Her hair, glistening from a cel ophane rinse, reminded me of an oily lunch sack. Over the top of her head, Marcus met my eyes and kind of winked. I turned away and rushed toward the food.
The lady serving the cake, old as Grandma Bunny, was dressed almost the same as I was.
“Is it good?” I asked.
“It’s pretty,” she said, sliding a piece of cake onto my plate.
“Thank you.” I headed toward the door even though the plate probably wasn’t supposed to leave the Magnolia Room. On the twenty-three-story trip down, I tore into the lemon layer cake with my dirty hands.
In the lobby, I set the plate on a shiny-topped coffee table. I was tempted to fol ow the signs to the washroom so I could clean my hands, but I couldn’t bear the idea of mirrors. Instead, I set myself on the couch and sucked my fingers like a barbarian.
“Psst, ” someone said from the direction of the bathroom. My mother had told me that a man who doesn’t talk to you with actual words isn’t worth your time, but stil I looked around. When I didn’t see anyone, I turned my attention to my hands. Pale yel ow icing rimmed my cuticles so I stuck my thumb in my mouth, wondering if everything on the twenty-third floor had been engineered to match Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s magnolia-cream complexion. I had busted out of the party before I had a chance to check out the hot-food buffet. I amused myself imagining a pale spread —
cauliflower, baked fish, mashed potatoes. Enjoying these petty, jealous fantasies, I took my thumb out of my mouth and rearranged my hair.
“Ooh,” said a voice. “You got spit in your fake hair.”
“Dana!” I hated the hopeful lilt in my voice.
“Hey, girlie,” she said, strol ing toward me. “Have you seen a security guard around here?”
I shook my head.
“You sure?” she said. “He’s cute, like a DeBarge, but he was hassling us.” Dana looked behind her. At the wave of her hand, another girl appeared. This girl was even less silver than me. Her haircut had a kind of homemade look, like she had trimmed it with paper scissors; her ears were scabbed from amateur attempts with the curling iron. Like Dana, she wore a purple keyhole top and stretch Gloria Vanderbilts. They even wore the same shoes — purple dyed-to-match pumps, the kind other girls wear with prom dresses.
“This is Ronalda,” Dana said.
“We’re best friends,” Ronalda said, as if I didn’t catch the matching outfits.
“Nice to meet you.” I sighed.
Dana and Ronalda sat together on a leather love seat across from me. Ronalda dug into her bag and produced a tube of lotion. She squeezed a little on the tips of her fingers and dabbed the teardrop of skin inside the keyhole of her shirt.
“You so crazy,” Dana said, taking the lotion and doing the same thing. “You want some?”