After The Dance

by Lori D. Johnson

  “Tell you what,” I said, seeing that she was on the verge of falling apart on me. “Let me grab a quick shower and after I’m cleaned up I’ll come over and hold your hand, help you call some folks, organize a search party, or whatever it is you think we need to do.”

  I was sincere about that, man. Like I told you, me and Nora are cool. Whatever thoughts I mighta once entertained about trying to ease up on her, I’d long since abandoned in deference to her total lack of interest in a straitlaced, broke-butt brother like myself.

  Anyway, by the time I got over to her place, she’d calmed down considerably. She told me she wanted to give Faye another thirty minutes or more before we called the police or went out looking for a body. I told her “cool” and plopped down on the couch with her to wait. Having never known Nora’s conversation to extend too far beyond the latest dude she’d let dog her, I was kind of surprised when she inquired as to what Faye and I had been doing besides watching videos on all those Friday nights we’d spent together at my place.

  Not knowing if ol’ girl was out to implicate me in Faye’s disappearance or what, I did like she’d done when she thought I was pressing her about Faye’s Wednesday-night routine. I played dumb and kicked the question back to her. “What she tell you?”

  “That’s just the thing,” Nora said. “Me and Faye talk about some of everything, especially when it comes to men. But I’ve noticed when the subject turns to you, she’ll only share so much. I’m starting to think it just might be because she likes you a lot more than she wants to let on.”

  Interesting, huh? I thought so. Didn’t take much prodding to get Nora to feed me a whole host of other juicy tidbits about her friend. Among other things, she verified Faye’s skank-ti-fied “hit it and quit it” credo and put forth as its inspiration some bad-news boyfriend who’d obviously been the major love of ol’ girl’s life. She even showed me snapshots of the sparkling-eyed, slim-figured babe Faye had been before the years of getting jaded and jacked around had taken their toll.

  By the time Faye finally strutted through the door that night, not only had I begun to view her in a different light, but I also knew I wasn’t gonna be satisfied until I’d uncovered whatever else lay hidden beneath the mask she always seemed to slip behind around me.

  HER

  Twenty minutes max was all I’d planned to waste. I figured that would be more than enough time for the Scoob-meister to spin whatever lies he intended to tell me. After ordering a latte and finding us a table in the crowded food court, I sat down, glanced at my watch, and said, “Okay, Scoobie, out with it already. What wondrous series of turns has your sordid little life taken in the years since we both went our separate ways?”

  He laughed and said, “First off, hardly anyone calls me Scoobie anymore.” Then he passed me his business card and proudly proclaimed that most of the folks he dealt with these days referred to him either as “Chef Venard Payne,” or “Chef Payne” for short.

  Wearing the sweetest smile I could muster, I leaned over, fingered what looked to be a real Rolex on his wrist, and asked him to explain exactly how one goes from being too trifling to hold down a job flipping burgers at Mickey D’s to being the executive chef for the dining room of a reputable financial institution like Morris-Morgan?

  He was like, “What? You saying you don’t believe me?” Before I could answer, he wrapped his hand around mine, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, “Faye, everything I have now—from this watch, to the Hilfiger on my back, to the Benz I drive—I earned the hard way. After I left Memphis, I went back to school, busted my tail, and kissed all the right behinds. If you’re anywhere near as ambitious and driven as you used to be, my success is something you ought to be able to appreciate.”

  I told him I was happy for him. I just couldn’t help but think that maybe I’d have a success story of my own to share if someone hadn’t ruined my credit and left me with a bunch of bills before skipping town with what little money I had left. “Did you know I had to file bankruptcy?” is what I asked him. “Did you know things got so bad for me that had it not been for Nora I probably would have ended up dead, strung out, or locked up in an asylum somewhere? Did you ever once stop to care?”

  He had the nerve to tear up, like he was actually fixing to cry, and said, “Faye, I’m sorry for all that I did and all that I should have done. But something tells me I could sit here all night apologizing and explaining until I ran out of spit and wind and you still wouldn’t take me seriously. So come and go for a ride with me and I’ll prove it to you.”

  I couldn’t help but get tickled. Even with the mustache and goatee dude is sporting these days, at that moment he looked so much like the baby-faced boy who’d way-back-when dropped down on his knees and asked me to go with him that I just had to laugh and ask exactly what it was he intended to show me that I hadn’t already seen more times than I cared to admit or remember.

  He pulled out the check he’d handed me earlier and said, “For starters, that I’m more than able to make good on this. And that I will pay back everything I owe you, with interest, even if I have to go into debt doing it.”

  Anyway, girl, to make a long story short, that’s how I ended up taking a late-night tour of Morris-Morgan’s dining hall, the kitchen facilities, and the private office bearing the nameplate of one “Chef Venard Nathaniel Payne.” It all looked too legit to be a lie, as did Scoobie’s demeanor when he started talking to me about church and how he’d been looking for one to attend. Of course, you know, the latter I’m still not trying to believe until I actually see it. But most shocking of all, not once throughout the entire evening did the brother make a single play for the panties.

  Talk about impressed. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Nora. But when I finally stepped through my front door at around 10:45 that evening, guess who I discovered sitting up on my sofa, eating Redenbacher’s and looking like he didn’t have anything better to do than worry the heck out of me?

  HIM

  I know good and well the sight of me all reared back on her sofa, straight-cold kicking it with her roomie, had to have come as a shock. But Faye, as always, played it cool. She even went so far as to extend a nod and a “What’s up?” my way before Nora jumped into the mix with her mad-mama tirade.

  “And just where in the hell were you, Ms. Thang, that you couldn’t pick up the phone and call somebody? Got folks sitting ’round here wondering if some fool done gone and bopped you upside the head and left you lying in a ditch somewhere. And you know good and well I got to be up at the Bulk Mail Center early in the morning.”

  Faye apologized and tried to tell Nora about someone she’d run into at the mall, but homegirl wasn’t having it. She said, “Uh-uh, if you’re not fixing to tell me about an accident, a carjacking, or a death in the family, I ain’t trying hear it. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be in a better frame of mind, but right now, I’m taking me a B.C. and calling it a night.”

  Without further ado, Nora proceeded to make good on her threat, leaving me and Faye alone to face off with each other. I told her, “She was really worried about you,” only to have Faye sorta shrug and saunter off to the kitchen, like she couldn’t have cared less.

  As I fell in step behind her, I was struck by a few things that up until then I hadn’t really noticed before, like the fact that I’d never seen the chick without makeup and how she always looked like she’d just come in from having her hair and nails done.

  While I watched, she puttered around the kitchen, checking her mail, pouring herself a glass of water from the fridge, and occasionally eyeballing me. I wasn’t really leering, I was just, you know, taking note of a few things, like the pantsuit she had on that was hugging and tugging in all the right places. It was one of these beige and cream pinstriped numbers, cut dangerously low in front. And even though I’m not typically what you might call a “boob man” I couldn’t resist the urge to take a visual stroll across the honey-colored terrain laid out so wondrously before me.

  But
when my gaze rose up outta her cleavage only to crash into the hardened glare she was aiming at me, the most I could come up with, man, was a shamefaced “You look nice.”

  She rolled her eyes and, in one of those tired “I ain’t got time for this type of mess” tones of voice, asked if there was something I wanted.

  Realizing I was ’bout to get run off, I said, “Yeah, I want in.”

  She scrunched up her face and said, “Beg your pardon?”

  I’m not gonna lie, man. I had to swallow a couple of times to drive back the flock of butterflies I felt fluttering around in my belly. But once done, I stepped to her again. “The game,” I said. “The one you’re playing. I want in.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  I told her, “Intrigue, I suppose. You’re one big elaborate puzzle to me. I like puzzles. The more difficult, the better.”

  I could tell by the way she raised her eyebrows and set down her glass she didn’t care for my answer. She sashayed that big butt past me, slanging yang all the while. “As much as I hate spoiling anyone’s fun, Carl, I think you’re better off knowing that a hump-buddy is what I’m looking for, not a shrink. And that’s pretty much the big picture, in a nutshell. It’s nowhere near as complicated as you’re trying to make it.”

  Like a puppy eager for some petting, I trailed her to her bedroom, where I pulled up short at the door. I watched for a moment as she removed her jewelry and shoes and started rummaging through her closets and drawers. After summoning the proper amount of courage, I said, “Can I ask you a question? Why’d you proposition me?”

  She stopped moving long enough to say something to the effect of “Because you told me you were moving, and I figured the distance would help circumvent any silly notions you might try to entertain about us having anything other than something quick and casual.”

  I told her, “Hey, I know the deal. And like I said before, I’m game. The ball, sweetheart, is officially back in your court. So do you still want to do this or what?”

  She laughed like I’d really said something funny. Then she walked over to me and was like, “You know, I think it’s time we said good night.”

  Now for all practical purposes she was telling me, “Go away, little boy. You can’t even handle the likes of this.”

  But having already come so far, I wasn’t ’bout to just walk away with my tail tucked. Besides, I figured if some thug-loving was what she wanted, then damn it, some thug-loving was what I’d give her. I told her, “You’re right, it is getting late. But I’m not leaving here until I find out what I need to know.”

  She squinted her eyes and said, “Which is?”

  “This,” I said, making my move and hoping all the while it wouldn’t get me slapped. I didn’t grab her, or pull her against me, or try to feel her up. No, man, all I wanted was a kiss, the kind that, if she cooperated, would let me know whether pursuing this thing was gonna be worth my while. And being that she didn’t do much by the way of resistance, I think she must have wanted it, too.

  Matter of fact, after a quick quivering of the lips and a brief flutter of lashes, the girl held her ground, opened her mouth against mine, and matched me stroke for stroke.

  When our tongues finally came undone, she looked at me and said, “You mind telling me what that was all about?”

  “Oh, like you don’t know,” I said, wanting for all the world to go at it again but figuring it best to bide my time.

  Looking like she wanted to laugh again, she insisted she didn’t have a clue. I played along with her and said, “Yeah, but you liked it, didn’t you?”

  She tried to stop smiling but couldn’t. And finally she said, “If you wanna know the truth … yeah … I did.”

  I backed away from her and in a whisper that was pure “wannabe Wesley,” as in Snipes, I said, “Well, then, let’s just call it a sampling of what’s yet to come.”

  HER

  Had any other brother rolled up on me like that, he would have straight got clocked. I don’t know, bad as I hate to admit it, I guess there’s just something about Carl that appeals to my softer side.

  You’d never suspect it, but as silly and goofy as he is, the brother really can kiss. And ever since he’s shown himself capable of more than just one type of lip service, I’ve been sort of looking forward to checking out some of his other skills. But who knows when that’s liable to happen. Unlike durn near every other fool I’ve invited to play in the park, Carl isn’t acting in too big a hurry to run beyond first base. Matter of fact, he let another whole weekend slide by before he brought up the topic again.

  I’m trying my best to be patient and understanding. And really, given his willingness to accept my terms, it’s only fair I let him set the pace. But, girl, you know I’m most definitely tired of being kept awake at night by a body that’s throbbing from a lack of attention. And as much as I hate the thought of screening and cultivating another potential player at this late stage in the game—a woman has to do what a woman has to do, especially when her needs aren’t being properly attended to.

  Part of the problem, I know, is time and his apparent lack of it. In addition to his regular nine to five, he’s trying to juggle night classes at the university, some kind of part-time handyman gig, and on top of all that, his kids.

  I met his daughters the other day. They’re ten-year-old twins whose gift of gab comes close to matching their motor-mouth old man’s.

  I was leaving my place just as Carl and the girls were piling out of his. He put on the brakes and said, “Ladies, I want you say ‘hi’ to Ms. Faye.”

  After their “Hey, Ms. Faye,” Carl introduced them to me as his daughters, Renita and Renee, better known to their proud papa as Princess Ren and Princess Nay-Nay. The twins promptly followed up their pop’s royal introduction with an all-too-cute curtsy.

  Carl told me they were going out for ice cream and invited me to tag along. Since it was Wednesday night and I already had other plans, I opted for a rain check.

  “That’s right,” Carl said. “Tonight’s the night you go up to the hospital. So what exactly do you do up there every Wednesday night, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Uh-huh, right then and there I knew Nora had been running her big mouth again. But rather than come right out and tell the brother to mind his own, I cut him some slack because of his kids. It wasn’t any big deal, I told him. Just some volunteer work I’ve been doing for years.

  At that point, one of the twins butted in with an “Excuse me, Ms. Faye, but could we get your opinion about something? Do you think ten is too young to start wearing nail polish?”

  Taking my cue from the scowl that flared up on Carl’s face, I said, “I think that depends on what the ten-year-old’s daddy has to say on the matter.”

  Carl clapped and shouted, “Good answer, good answer.” Come to find out his daughters are scheduled to be in some wedding in a couple of weeks and they’ve been hounding him about having their nails done for the occasion.

  You could tell these were girls used to having their way, especially with their daddy, because his negative stance didn’t alter a note in either of their tunes. “Aww, Daddy, you’re so old school. How come we can’t at least get manicures?”

  I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing when Carl said, “A manicure? Please, what y’all need to do is concentrate on your schoolwork. Either one of you need pretty nails to open up a book? No, I didn’t think so.”

  He sent them off to the car and waited until they were out of earshot before offering me an apologetic list of reasons why he probably wouldn’t have time to hook up with me until later in the week—Sunday at the earliest. Then he asked if there was anyplace in particular I’d like to go, forcing me to restate what I’d told him previously about the non-necessity of any prebedroom formalities.

  I said, “Look, Carl, other than someplace that has clean sheets, you really don’t have to take me anywhere.”

  He said, “I know I don’t have to. But I would like to. If it h
elps any, don’t think of it as a date. Think of it as an extended version of foreplay.”

  “Tell you what,” I told him. “Let me get back with you about all that.”

  See, girl, homeboy is trying to complicate matters. My thing is, why waste his money or my time? His best bet is to save the wining and dining for somebody who’s trying to care, because like I’ve already told him, I am not the one. And furthermore, if he doesn’t hurry up and come on with it, I may just have to let him go in lieu of the next acceptable somebody who will.

  HIM

  Nora’s coyness about the quote-unquote volunteer work Faye supposedly does up at the hospital every Wednesday night can mean only one thing—somebody’s trying to hide something. My question is, why?

  When Nora inadvertently gave up some of the goods on ol’ girl, I just automatically assumed the hospital in question was the Veterans Administration where Faye works. Then I got to thinking how the VA is west of where we live and how every time I’ve seen Faye jetting outta here on a Wednesday night, she’s been headed east. Hmm … interesting, huh?

  Yeah, I know it really wasn’t none of my business, but the bloodhound in me wouldn’t let me leave it alone, man. And that night me and the girls bumped into Faye on our way out to get ice cream seemed like the perfect opportunity to slap on my detective’s cap and hit the trail.

  I let her get a good couple minutes’ head start, then after announcing to the girls that we were taking the long route to the ice cream parlor, I set out after her. And guess what I discovered? The trail dead ends at the hospital, all right. Just not the VA. Nope, whatever Faye’s doing involves the folks and the facilities at Baptist Medical Center’s eastern division.

  First I was just curious. Now I’m really starting to wonder what the chick is up to, and all sorts of possibilities have crossed my mind. I mean, ol’ girl just might have some chemical dependency issues she’s trying to work on, could be she’s a schizophrenic, a manic-depressive, or quite possibly some sort of sex addict.