After The Dance

by Lori D. Johnson

  I slowed to a stop on the track and was like, “What detective? What are you talking about?”

  He said, “Our son, Faye. I’m talking about sitting down with this detective and letting him fill us in on what he’s found out about our son.”

  As would be expected, that particular tidbit of information changed everything. On notifying Nora of my sudden change of plans and the why behind it, she got all excited, then said, “If dude keeps this up, I guess I’ll have to go ahead and cut him some slack. Sounds like he’s really trying hard to make up for all those years he dogged you.”

  About all I could say to that was, “Sure sounds that way, doesn’t it?”

  But knowing me as well as she does, Nora was quick to fire back, “So what’s wrong? You having second thoughts about your boy? Or is it finally starting to dawn on you what you could have had with Carl?”

  Not ready yet to own up to either, I told her, “Actually, I’d been kind of looking forward to going to Nashville—if only to hang out with you and get away from it all.”

  Nora said, “Stop lying. If you were looking forward to anything, it was hunkering down over a plate of LeRoi’s barbecued ribs without all the grief and guilt that doing so in front of Drill Sergeant Scoobie is liable to bring on you.”

  Rather than yuck it up with her, I said, “Seriously, Nora. Besides meeting with this detective, which will no doubt be the highlight of my holiday weekend, the majority of my time will be spent standing off on the sidelines somewhere with my stomach growling while I watch Scoobie wield a pen or a golf club.”

  That’s when Nora stepped up and made me an offer I could hardly refuse. “You know, I am scheduled to be in the Atlanta area earlier in that same week. The Bulk Mail Center has me going down there to oversee some employee training sessions. But I’m only supposed to be there until Thursday, which means I could hang around and keep you company if you want.”

  HIM

  Sure, I still think about Faye. Even more, as much as it pains me to admit it, I miss her. I miss the insights we shared, the private thoughts, the laughs, the kisses, the way her legs wrapped around my back when we were … No, but all kidding aside, I do miss very much playing man to her woman—if you can relate to that.

  Just last week when I found myself standing, of all places, outside Baptist East’s infant ward, who do you think was uppermost on my mind? And before you even go there, man, no, stalking the girl was neither my intent nor my primary reason for going out there.

  If you wanna know the truth, I try to stay as far away from baby wards as I can, the one at Baptist East, in particular. Being there stirs up too many memories and mixed emotions. And it’s not like there aren’t some fine people working up there. It’s a great facility, one of the best in the area, I’d dare say. Me and Bet went up there for all our kids—the twins, as well as the other two. Yeah, man, in the years prior to giving birth to our two girls, we suffered a late-term miscarriage on one occasion and on another, had a baby who was with us all of a week before he passed. Those were some rough times.

  And that’s why I don’t hardly blame Bet for tossing my butt out when she found out about Benjamin. I’m sure every time she’s forced to look at him or hear about him, she can’t help but think about the two little boys we had to bury.

  Anyway, man, the last thing I intended to do that night I went out there with my Uncle Westbrook was to wind up in the baby ward, reliving any of that. No, see, me and Unc went out there to visit a friend of the family who’s recuperating from having his prostate operated on. After we’d finished joking and chatting with our friend, Unc asked if I’d mind him taking a few minutes to rap to some ol’ girl he’d met in the infant ward on his last visit. While the old dog trotted off to work his silver-tongued magic, I strolled through the unit until I spied the window with the babies and the women in the rocking chairs behind it.

  From the looks of things, it’s one of those preemie programs where volunteers come in and provide the extra time and attention that for whatever reasons the nurses or parents can’t. But the glow of utter contentment I saw radiating from some of those women’s faces as they cuddled and cooed over the infants in their arms let me know that, for at least a few of them, the experience went a whole lot deeper than simply the desire to comfort a needy or sick child. It made me wonder if tending to those babies fulfills some deeply buried need within Faye’s soul or psyche that she doesn’t want too many people to know about. Why else would she be so intent on keeping something so admirable such a well-kept secret?

  HER

  We flew out of Memphis International late that Thursday evening and we hadn’t been in Atlanta two solid hours when Scoobie started backtracking about the meeting with the private investigator. Lounging in the plush rear seating of one of Morris-Morgan’s chauffer-driven Lincoln Town Cars, we were on our way from the airport to the hotel when Nora called, looking to coordinate our schedules. So I asked him, “When did you say we’re supposed to meet with the detective? Was it Saturday afternoon or after your book signing on Sunday?”

  The brother reached for my free hand and started patting it. I guess it was his way of trying to soothe me before he delivered the bad news. “Actually, sweetheart, we just might have to catch up with Detective Clarke some other time altogether. He called right before we boarded the plane and told me that something urgent had come up on another case he’s working on in L.A.”

  Nora, who’d obviously heard it all on her end, said, “Uh-huh, what did I tell you? But did your ass listen? Nooo!”

  Sensing my displeasure, Scoobie leaned over and whispered into my ear, “Don’t worry, babe, detective or no detective, I’m going to make all of this worth your while, starting with dinner tonight. Just wait, you’ll see.”

  Yeah, right! is what I started to tell him. The only thing I’ve seen thus far is the extreme length to which you’re willing to go to tell a bald-faced lie.

  But no, I didn’t go off, girl. I actually kept my mouth shut for once. After checking into the hotel and freshening up a bit in my room, I went downstairs and joined him for dinner like nothing at all was wrong.

  He greeted me in the lobby with a kiss and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited one of my golfing buddies to join us.”

  Turns out, this golf pal of Scoobie’s, one Jacob Goldstein, just so happened to be a doctor who specializes in cosmetic surgery. At first I didn’t think anything of it. The doc seemed like a nice enough guy, even if the brunt of his conversation never veered too far from his work and the inpatient clinic he runs in Florida. But while I was sitting there striving to be cordial and polite as I sipped ice water and nibbled on the rabbit food Scoobie had taken upon himself to order for the two of us, it started dawning on me that this was no incidental meeting or innocent introduction. All this talk about minor body-shaping procedures, the cost involved, and the average length of stay at Dr. Goldstein’s state-of-the-art facility, all of that was aimed directly at me.

  Yeah, girl, evidently the twelve or so pounds I’ve lost thus far aren’t doing it for homeboy. Apparently, he’s got his mind set on some much speedier results, because when I up and asked him, hypothetically speaking, mind you, just how much work he proposed I get, girl, he started talking lypo, a tummy tuck, a boob job, and the whole freaking nine! Had his surgeon buddy not been there, honey, I’da probably leaped over the durn table and, like Carl, straight started choking the hell out of him.

  Later, after we’d parted ways with Dr. Goldstein and Scoobie was seeing me back to my room, I turned to him and said, “Of all the stunts you had to go and pull, why this one? You used my son to lure me down here just so you could sit me down in front of some stranger and tell me what an undesirable cow I am?”

  He tried to act all hurt and innocent, as if I was the one who’d just publicly humiliated him. “How could you ever think such, much less say it? All I’ve done since we got back together is try and help you. That’s been my only intent.”

  I told
him, “Has it ever occurred to you that I don’t need or want your damn help?”

  He was like, “You know, you can really be one hard-headed, evil Black woman when you want to be.”

  I said, “Maybe if you fed a sister something besides sticks and twigs every once in a while you’d get a more chipper response.”

  Suffice to say, rather than go out like we’d originally planned, we bid each other some right chilly good nights before marching off to our separate suites.

  A half an hour or so had passed and I was sitting on the side of the bed getting ready to dial up room service and order me the burger and fries I’d been craving, when I heard a knock at the door. Yeah, it was him, girl. And he came in talking about, “I don’t want us going to bed angry with one another.”

  “Why?” I said. “You thinking it might throw off your golf game tomorrow?”

  He strolled over, stretched out next to me on the bed, and said, “Come on, babe. Aren’t you at least willing to let me try and make it up to you?”

  “Depends on what you have in mind,” I said, thinking to myself that a little nookie in lieu of a burger and a side order of seasoned fries might not be such a bad trade.

  Unfortunately, breaking his vow of celibacy isn’t exactly what brother Scoob had in mind. He said, “For starters, as far as dinner tomorrow is concerned—how’s a filet mignon, a twice-baked potato, a nice-sized Caesar salad, and a slice of chocolate cherry cheesecake for dessert, all lovingly prepared by your very own personal chef, Venard ‘Scoobie’ Payne, sound to you?”

  I couldn’t help but smile and ask him if the potato came fully loaded and, even more important, if a pitcher of sweetened iced tea accompanied the whole shebang.

  He chuckled and said, “I’ll do you one even better. Why not call Nora and have her come and join us? Matter of fact, I’ll go so far as to set her up in a room here and have all of her expenses added to my tab. I’m serious, babe, I’ll make sure everyone here is informed that you’re both my guests and that you’re to be treated accordingly.”

  And, girl, if that in and of itself wasn’t rich enough, no pun intended, mind you, the brother reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. “And this,” he said, “this is just a little something extra—you know, in case you’re out somewhere and you or Nora see something you really, really like.”

  With that, he leaned over and planted a wet one on my cheek. But before he got up to go he told me, “If you need me, I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen. After all, I do have a cheesecake to tend to.”

  After he left, I got on the phone with Nora and on hearing the deal, the first thing she had me do was count the money. Turns out it was an even grand, all in brand-new, crisp fifty-dollar bills. Nora said, “You know the slick bastard is up to something, don’t you?”

  “Look, girl,” I told her, “we’re here, so we might as well make the most of it and try to enjoy ourselves. Besides, with Scoobie footing all the expenses, it’s not like it’s gonna cost us anything.”

  Nora was like, “Don’t fool yourself, Faye. Everything comes with a price, especially when and where Scoobie is involved.”

  HIM

  I keep trying to tell Ms. Vic I got way too many real kids to clothe and feed to be out here fronting like I got enough extra to spare for the role of sugar daddy. She acts like she ain’t trying to hear me, though. Not only has she repeatedly told me that money wasn’t no thang, she’s even gone as far as to inform me that her last two boyfriends were older than me. I think she said the one dude was on the other side of fifty and the other was in his early sixties.

  I was like, “Dag, girl, is you got a geriatrics jones, or what?”

  Older guys just treat her better is what she told me. She said, “Take yourself, for instance. As long as you and I have known each other and as many times as we’ve been alone together, you have yet to try and work your way into my drawers.”

  And that’s true enough. I haven’t tried. But between you and me, man, there’s been many a night, especially since Faye’s been gone, that I’ve laid up in bed thinking about doing just that and then some. Ain’t no need of me lying, it’s tempting, not to mention extremely flattering to have a young hottie like her jocking me.

  But I don’t know, man. It’s more than just the age thing. I’m saying, in between all the petty bickering, me and Faye actually did have quite a few insightful and stimulating conversations about books, music, sports, sex, Black folks, and the stuff of life in general. Even given the nine to ten years’ worth of age difference between us, I wasn’t always having to stop and bring ol’ girl up to speed when it came to certain cultural references and icons. But with my friend Ms. Vic, it’s a whole ’nother kind of party, and the longer I hang out with her, the more I realize that.

  Take the other night, for instance. She called and asked what I was up to. It was a Friday and I told her I’d just buttered my popcorn and I was getting ready to sit down and watch one of the movie classics I’d rented.

  She was like, “You’re an old-movie fan? See, I told you we had a lot more in common than meets the eye. I’m something of an old-movie buff myself. Elvis’s Blue Hawaii, Jimmy Stewart’s It’s a Wonderful Life, and Doris Day and Rock Hudson’s Pillow Talk are some of my all-time favorites.”

  Now you know I was through at the mention of Elvis and Blue Hawaii but rather than bad-mouth the girl, I just told her, “No, I’m talking the quote-unquote Black classics—like Carmen, Cotton Comes to Harlem, In the Heat of the Night.”

  She said, “Ooh, In the Heat of the Night, sounds pretty steamy. What’s that all about?”

  I said, “You know, In the Heat of the Night, featuring the one and only They Call Me Mr. Tibbs, Sidney Poitier?”

  When all I got back from her was silence, I said, “You do know who Sidney Poitier is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” she said, real sheepish-like, before confessing to the unthinkable. “I sorta know his face, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything.”

  I was like, “Uh-uh, wait a minute. You’ve never seen a Poitier flick? Never? Come on! No Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?! No Raisin in the Sun?! Dag, girl, I mean, what about the stuff he did with the Cos—Uptown Saturday Night? Let’s Do It Again?”

  Shocked doesn’t even come close to describing what I initially felt, man. Try appalled. Pardon me if I come off sounding pompous, but in my book that’s like somebody saying they’re a jazz lover, but they’ve never listened to a single note of Miles or Coltrane.

  She seemed so embarrassed about the whole thing that I couldn’t help but start feeling sorry for her—so much so that when she turned around and asked if she could come over and watch the movie with me, I almost fell for the bait.

  But just in the nick of time, a fuzzy image of me and baby girl naked, sweating and getting straight buck in the middle of my living room, flashed before my eyes and I came to my senses. I lied and told her, “Ah, you know my ex is supposed to be dropping the kids off by here tonight, so maybe we’d best save that for another time.”

  HER

  Even with both of our BS barometers sitting right up there on high alert, don’t think that Nora and I didn’t take full advantage of homeboy’s guilt-laced hospitality. Late Friday afternoon, after having spent several hours running around town, spending dude’s money like it wasn’t no thang, we’d come back to the hotel and stepped into its full-service salon and spa, looking for a massage and a chance to sit in the sauna, when we should bump into who but Tina, that worrisome wench I told you I’d clashed with at Scoobie’s party. And just like the last occasion, she had that wild child Evan with her.

  Actually, Evan is who we bumped into first, and I do mean that in the literal sense. Apparently, after having wreaked a wide path of destruction throughout the spacious lounge at the spa’s entrance, the pint-sized tornado was trying to avoid capture when he came tearing around the receptionist’s desk and collided with us, screaming like a banshee all the while.

 
Nora recognized him first, probably because she’s the one who ended up on the floor with him after having caught a head-butt in the abdomen. She said, “Hey, isn’t that the same little badass who terrorized everybody over at Scoobie’s that night?”

  I was in the middle of scolding homegirl for mouthing off like that in front of a minor when his mama suddenly appeared. “Oh, my dear,” she said, trying to sound like somebody who was sincerely horrified and genuinely remorseful. “I am so sorry. Are you all right?”

  As soon as she saw it was us, she dumped the front and went back to her witch ways again. “My, my. Don’t you two get around?” she said, trying to pass off mean-spiritedness as a playful jab between old friends.

  Rather than pop open a can of whup-ass, I smiled back at her and said, “Nice to see you again too, Ms. Tina. It just so happens we’re here on Scoobie’s invite. And you?”

  The heifer had the nerve to bat her eyes and say, “Oh, you know when you have your own money, dear, you’re free to come and go when and where you please.”

  Nora, who by this time had picked herself up off the floor, grunted like she does when she’s about to dive tongue-first into her ’round-the-way-girl routine. The only thing that kept her from going there was the “slow your roll, sister” warning glance I shot her.

  In true diva fashion, and totally oblivious to how close she was to getting some of that yak hair snatched out of her head, Ms. Tina brushed what looked like a freshly manicured hand over her Diana Ross–like do and said, “In any case, I have some urgent business that needs tending to, so I must be on. But truly, it was lovely seeing you again.”

  At that point, believe it or not, the wench actually leaned forward and extended me one of those puckered-lip, cheek-brushing air kisses. She probably would have treated Nora to some of the same if homegirl hadn’t been standing there wearing an expression that clearly said, “Honey, try that mess with me and I will deck your hainty behind from here, clean into tomorrow …”