Blues Dancing

by Diane McKinney-Whetstone

  They were quiet again as they sat in the car of the darkened underground parking lot. They breathed the recycled air and tasted each other’s sighs that were comforting because both were weighted with the same kinds of sadness and regrets—their consequences as they called them. And soon the windows started to fog up though the gray against the car window actually made the car seem lighter and they pulled themselves from their settling breaths that had also acted as a sealant and Johnson said that they could just sit in the car the rest of the morning or they could go up to his apartment though whichever she decided was fine with him because his apartment wasn’t much larger than the inside of this car.

  She opted to go inside and a sudden lightness descended upon them as they stepped into Johnson’s spruced-up temporary living quarters—the management had finally responded to his demands for a decent cleaning service. It changed their moods and they spent the rest of the morning in incessant, friendly conversation moving beyond what had been so tattered, so devil-inspired about their pasts.

  Verdi said that the minuscule one-bedroom efficiency reminded her of the high-rise apartment dorms at the university and their conversation went rollicking after that as they called up scene after scene of how life was once, concentrated in those early college years like air in latex balloons, captured and formed and in need of anchors so that they wouldn’t float away. They ticked off the current doings of Tower and Moose and Cheryl and the rest of their classmates. This one had been featured in Black Enterprise, that one in Jet, alas that one in the National Enquirer. They whispered about those who died, the suicide, the car crash, the violent encounter with police. They drank water from the tap, and munched on grapes and unsalted pretzels and sour cream and onion dip. They found the oldies station on the radio. They faced each other on the tweed couch, Verdi with her feet tucked under her thighs, Johnson with his ankle over his knee; she was out of the jacket to her viscose suit, Johnson had undone his tie. They felt in perfect harmony with each other right now, with the universe it seemed, as if they could go anywhere from here, as if they were on a launching pad strapped into each other’s presence, and the sun or the moon or Alpha Centauri could be as easy to access as Fifty-second Street from the el.

  But reality drifted in around noon and Johnson said he had to go to his meeting, the black clergy were not a group to be standing up, he said. And Verdi said she should leave now too. That actually she was feeling a little under the weather so she’d go home and get good and rested for her workday tomorrow. He grabbed her hand then. The first time they touched since they’d stepped inside his apartment. “Please stay; I’ll be an hour and a half at the longest,” he said.

  “No, I really should go,” she said in a voice that was also dripping with “persuade me.”

  “I know it’s undignified to beg,” he said as he held on to her hand, “but I’m begging you, please, I’m enjoying your company so, I just want to spend the afternoon with you, Verdi Mae, please.”

  She was persuaded then. She relaxed her hand in his and there was so much happening in the air between them that he almost said the hell with the meeting, but then Verdi pulled at her hand and told him to go, go right then and take care of his business, and bring her back a doggie bag because her appetite had gone into high gear.

  She went outside while he was gone and bought fresh flowers, made a centerpiece bouquet for his two-seater dining-room table out of an oversized blue-and-white “Welcome to Philadelphia” mug.

  She repositioned herself back on the couch and went through her case and pulled out some literature on speech pathology to help her with teaching aids for Sage. Immersed herself in the medical histories of children who seemingly out of the blue began to speak, leaving the professional therapists scratching their heads over why. She’d fantasized for several years now about what it would be like if Sage ever spoke her first real words. Maybe it would be around Kitt’s table during one of those meals that made the eyes drool as platter after platter was set in the center of the table. Then after grace was said, maybe they’d be in the process of passing around steaming, browned dinner rolls glazed with nonfat oleo, and Sage would blurt out, “My name is Sage,” and they would all jump up and down and shout hallelujah. She smiled to herself sitting there on Johnson’s couch, and since she was already in fantasizing mode and she was seeing fine detail like the strands of gray starting to come up in Kitt’s locks, it wasn’t such a stretch that she’d see Johnson’s face too, ecstatic, understanding in ways that Rowe never could her tremendous affection for Sage and all that it would mean for her to hear Sage talk. And now that she had gone on and seen Johnson’s face, her fantasy floated off like a dinghy leaving the main ship, left Sage and Posie and Kitt and anybody else privileged to have a seat at Kitt’s table and it was just Verdi and Johnson, unspoiled the way they once were when only promise filled the air between them: no cheap wine to distort their thinking, no good weed to put them in a drug-using bent, no drug dealer named Bug for Johnson to acquiesce to, no Rowe to save her, no Penda for her to betray; she was sinking into the fantasy, she and Johnson like naked cherubs their goodness so prevalent, and then Johnson walked back in through the door for real, saying he was done with the black clergy sooner than he’d expected, that the dry chicken wasn’t worth wrapping and bringing back, that he’d stopped at Larry’s Sandwich Shop and picked up a turkey hoagie and a chicken cheese steak for them to share. Said that’s one of the things he missed most about here, that he couldn’t get in all the cities he’d traversed, a real Philly hoagie or cheese steak.

  And the sight of him with those long sandwich bags, the aroma of fried onions and ketchup in the small temporarily furnished efficiency that could be her one-bedroom apartment in the high-rise dorm, and she felt innocent all over again. She bounded from the couch like a little girl, and rubbed her hands together as he put the bags on the counter. She giggled and kissed him on the cheek; he countered with a smooch on her forehead; she went for his other cheek; he, for her chin; and then it was nose for nose, until finally she and Johnson were almost lip to lip, mouths parted, tips of tongues revealed, their memories swirling all around them like a lasso, roping them in closer and closer, as the sandwiches were patient on the counter staining beautiful circles of grease through the brown paper bag.

  His mouth was against hers and they stopped talking with words, and even though Verdi wasn’t ready to relinquish this sense of innocence that had covered her while she’d waited for Johnson to return, every fiber of her had already yielded to the minty smell of his breath riding up her nose, and she tried now to draw some speck of self-control that was embedded so deeply it had never kicked in before, too embedded because it certainly didn’t kick in now.

  They talked with moans and sighs then as he walked her into the bedroom sweeping her face with his thumbs, kissing her pouty mouth, holding her breasts in the palms of his hands. He could feel her breasts throbbing against his palms like he was throbbing too. And he leaned down and kissed her breasts right through her stark white cotton blouse, he even tolerated the taste of the fabric against his tongue feeling her breasts pulsing and begging for his mouth like that. And she arched herself and moved against him in circles and felt his manhood thickening and finding her pinnacle and was sure she was going to come in a rush standing right in the middle of his bedroom floor. She yanked his shirt from his pants and unzipped his pants and he undid the buttons on her blouse, they pulled at each other until they were both bare and he just kept saying her name over and over. “Verdi, I can’t believe—finally—you, I’m finally with you,” he said. And they caressed and tasted and prodded and squeezed and they were slippery with perspiration and naked and cold and hot at the same time, and open, so wide open they both were, so expandable. They fell onto the bed and thrust and cried out and tried to fill each other up, tried to cross the gulf their twenty years apart had left. And then it was as if they’d never been apart, when their confluence erupted and rained over them and shimmered like the
rivers of sweat traipsing down their legs.

  They were silent afterward. She turned shy and stiffened even as he tried to snuggle her against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and played with the clasp on her gold chain. Walked his fingers up and down her spine. Tried to be congruent, tried to match her breath for breath but her breaths wouldn’t settle into a predictable rhythm. He felt a steady stream of moisture leaking down his chest rushing to find the hollow his navel made, thought at first it was their perspiration mixing and overflowing down his chest, realized then that she was crying. He squeezed her head tighter against his chest, rubbed her back in gentle sweeps, pulled the covers up because she was shaking against him now. He didn’t know what to say, had been so absorbed in the beauty of what had just happened between them he’d forgotten she had such complicated issues, had forgotten about Rowe. Or had he? Maybe he had just purged himself of the twenty years’ worth of vengeful feelings he had toward Rowe. Stopped himself. Told himself it was all for Verdi, not against Rowe, told himself he wouldn’t taint what had just happened between them by adding some dark ulterior motive of his getting back at Rowe as if some sense of vindication increased the pleasure of it all. The hell with Rowe. He wanted to say that. Couldn’t. Too insensitive a thing to say. He’d just rub her back and keep her warm until she was ready to talk.

  But she wasn’t ready to talk. Couldn’t believe what she’d just done, lain down with Johnson the first time they were alone together in twenty years. Got the picture then of two dogs jaunting through a park, and then stopping right in the open to mount and hump, then continuing on through the park as if nothing had happened. She pushed herself deeper under the covers. She’d have to act as if nothing happened when she got home later today though she knew that the glittering remnants of Johnson’s essence would still be flickering on and off like lightning bugs at dusk, would have to look at Rowe and pretend that the earth hadn’t shifted for her just now. My God, Rowe. She’d actually been unfaithful to Rowe. And he’d been so good to her, had been her savior. He deserved better. Much better than the liar and cheater she was. All over again, she was ashamed right now, because here it was happening all over again.

  She was sobbing into his chest and he couldn’t stand it anymore. Sat up, lifted her face from his chest. “Verdi, baby, talk to me. Maybe I can help you sort it out, baby, please, you’re breaking my heart here.”

  “You can’t help me with this, Johnson.” She cried as she talked. “You wouldn’t understand what all he gave up for me. He had a good marriage, he was content, and he gave it all up, his wife, his contentment just to be with me, to make sure I didn’t use.”

  “He wanted to, Verdi. Nobody asked him to leave his wife, did you? I mean maybe I’m wrong but I’m sure he made the first move, or did he?”

  “I told you you couldn’t help me.” She sniffed and tried to dry out her voice.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he said as he squeezed her to him again. “You don’t have to talk. Just lay here and let me hold you, I been waiting for this for two decades, please just let me hold you for a little while.”

  She was seeing that roast beef all over again. The one Penda had cooked for the dinner she’d prepared in celebration of the offer she’d just received from the university for tenure. Verdi had been back in her apartment at the dorm for the past two months mostly alone because Charity had taken the semester off to live on a farm in northern California, and her relationship with Cheryl had been strained beyond repair with all the lying she’d had to do to maintain her habit. Still in all that time she had not used any aberrant substance, hadn’t even taken a sip of wine. And Rowe insisted that Verdi join them for dinner, that they could also celebrate Verdi’s keeping herself so clean, her comeback.

  And Verdi and Penda were in the kitchen and Penda was trying out a brown-’n-bag for the beef, the first time she’d used one, she said, and Verdi giggled, maybe a little inappropriately, she was still shy sometimes around Penda having come to her senses in their guest bedroom the way that she had. And when she finished giggling she said she couldn’t imagine herself roasting a beef with or without the bag.

  And Penda stood up from her lean over the oven where she was poking holes in the bag to let the hot air escape; she looked directly at Verdi then, said, “Well, maybe you should try to imagine it, Verdi. Then you can decide whether or not it’s something you’d like to try to do before actually going through with it. I’m sure you never imagined yourself addicted to heroin. Maybe if you’d seen yourself there in your mind’s eye, shuddered over the consequences, maybe you could have spared yourself a torturous year.”

  Verdi went to wood then, felt as if splinters were peeling from her face. Penda had never been so strident with her, and Verdi understood, knew Penda was right. She’d certainly never imagined herself with Rowe, never foresaw his coming over day after day to check up on her after she went back to her dorm, being so sweet, so gentle, hugging her so close when he got up to leave, so close that she could feel his hardness against her when he told her to take care, be strong, he’d see her the next day. Never imagined that she’d actually look forward to his knock on the door, their secret code he called it, already setting her up for the undercover slant things would take on. As God was her witness she’d certainly never imagined herself responding to him the way she did that night when he sustained the hug, sought out her mouth, parted her lips. Begged her to let him help her forget about Johnson. And she opened herself, her arms, her legs so easily, so willingly, allowing him to move against her, to push inside of her as he whispered that this would do it, God, yes, this would help her to forget about Johnson, she needed to forget about him, he would do whatever it took for her to forget about him, to save her, whatever it took. It was all for her, he moaned, yes, yes, ooh, so young and soft, my God, as he spread her out on that dorm-sized bed, took his time until they both exploded in waves and she surprised herself with the force of the gushing that happened when she came.

  She’d not imagined any of it beforehand, like she hadn’t imagined the electricity when they were together, he was so much older, so patient; an experience, a confidence to his touch, and she found herself encouraging his visits after that. Found that she needed his visits because at times she was just so afraid of facing the day, what if she wasn’t strong enough: she was reading her Bible and praying, was going to the psychotherapy sessions, and was still afraid. And Rowe was so capable in her mind, so strong, and she just needed to borrow some of his strength to get her through until she could make it on her own. He was a distraction for her so that she wouldn’t use, so that she wouldn’t be ravaged again with the physical withdrawal and that hell, so that she could remember less and less of her time with Johnson. And she no way had imagined that just the night before Rowe would tell her that he was falling in love with her, that he had to tell Penda, that he at least owed Penda his honesty, and Verdi begged him not to, said she wasn’t well enough for that yet, could they just pretend around Penda for a little while longer, please just until she was stronger. She hadn’t imagined it beforehand though, not any of it.

  So she just stood there turning to sawdust as Penda split the brown-’n-bag, and slid her carving knife from the wooden knife block and started hacking into the beef, serrating huge chunks. And the beef gushed out its juices all reddish brown and succulent looking and at first Verdi was confused as to why Penda would disfigure the roast like that, and now Penda was cutting at a ferocious pace and right then Rowe walked in sipping brandy from his globe-shaped glass and looked at Verdi and smiled a soft smile that made his face light up as if he were a high-school senior watching his prom date come down the steps, and it almost seemed as if he’d forgotten where he was, looking at her the way he was, as if they were in her dorm room and he was on his way to kiss her fleshy mouth, and she furrowed her brow to get his attention to tell him to snap out of it, but Penda saw his face, not that she needed to see his face for confirmation, she’d already confirmed it as far as Ve
rdi was concerned, and she started hurling the slabs of beef across the room, aiming for Rowe’s face, landing the luscious meat on his face, telling him to wipe that goddamned perverted smile off his face.

  And Rowe left Penda that night, left his home, moved into temporary quarters. And Verdi left too, went back home to Atlanta, took the rest of the semester off to be with her parents. And they were horrified at how she’d gone down, hardly accepted her explanation that it was a bad bad virus, sent her to the family physician who’d been treating her since she was born; he took one look at her and asked when had she last used, she begged him not to tell, persuaded him that she was twenty-one after all, that there were confidentiality issues, that the drug use was now a closed chapter in her life, and to her fortune her blood work showed no traces of heroin, though it did show that she’d contracted mono, her parents knew only about the mono.

  And she promised herself that if God could see it to forgive her for betraying Penda the way that she had, for causing Rowe to leave his wife, for lying to her parents, to Posie and Kitt, promised herself that she’d try to live the rest of her life above deceit, that she’d go into a profession that was of service to someone else, decided then to work with children who had special needs.

  Thirteen

  Johnson held Verdi for more than a little while. Held her until the sun turned orange then red then gave into the dusk and night fell over Johnson’s City Avenue efficiency apartment. Verdi jumped up then, felt like Cinderella at midnight’s approach as she took a quick shower and let Johnson drive her within a short cab ride of her house.

  Rowe was late getting home himself. Had stopped at a travel agent to pick up brochures, was going to surprise Verdi, tell her to pick a spot on the globe, name the time and they’d go. He could cancel classes if her desire was for an immediate getaway. His certainly was, suddenly. He wanted to take her away someplace far. Would take her away tomorrow if she gave the word. Brazil, or the Caribbean, someplace swampy hot where they could taste each other’s sweat; he had a small shopping bag filled with glossily colored possibilities. But the emptiness of the house smacked him in the face as soon as he turned the key in the ornate wood-and-stained-glass door. He felt his stomach tighten, she hadn’t mentioned being late. He hit the answering machine, heard her voice lilt through the kitchen. “Hey, babes, stopping to get my ragged perm touched up, not my scheduled appointment so they’re treating me as a walk-in, hope they don’t keep me in there all night. See you later in the P.M.”