Femme Noir

by Clara Nipper

  “Thank you.” I smiled again, and again, got nowhere with it. The woman harrumphed and switched her big ass tantalizingly all the way back to the kitchen.

  “You got the same thing I did,” Sloane observed.

  “Yeah, I figured you would know what is good.”

  “I sure do,” Sloane answered. I got a picture of Max in my mind and thought of the two of them together. A sick wave of jealousy washed over me, and suddenly I wasn’t hungry, in spite of the delectable aromas. My hands itched for a cigarette. I longed to dash this plate to the floor and grind my heel in it. I needed a drink. A strong one. What had Max been drinking? Gin and tonic. My mouth ached for something to pull on. My lips needed to close around something and suckle it.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” Sloane asked, dropping a rib bone.

  “I guess.” I picked up a rib, fat with meat and glossy with sauce. My teeth crunched in the crispy flesh that was saturated with smoke and sauce. The meat was chewy and tender. Ah, yes, this was the Real. The counter woman/cook had thrown in plenty of burnt ends. Mmmm, mmmm, goddamn, this was holy. It felt good in my mouth. I thought of Max’s thighs, as ivory and milky as dogwood blossoms, as pink as fresh roses with a blush, and I tore into the ribs with ferocity, alternating with bites of spicy jalapeno and peppery onion that flared fire into my sinuses and cleaned my tongue. I devoured everything before Sloane had a chance to finish her coleslaw. I looked up, my face wet with grease, grinning big. I threw my last pepper stem into the carnal wreckage.

  “Enjoy that, did you?” Sloane asked with a tiny, wry smile.

  I laughed, suddenly feeling at ease. Darcy was wrong to advise against seeing Sloane. “Sure did. This is some fine shit. ”

  “Funeral is tomorrow,” Sloane said casually, putting a toothpick in her mouth. I cleaned my hands the best I could.

  “Whose funeral?” I lied.

  “Oh, come on, I was there when you saw Max. I know you followed me. I heard you came from LA. Some hotshot coach.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’m telling you. Funeral is tomorrow at the main Methodist downtown. Three o’clock.”

  “Did you know her?” I gulped my strawberry drink, enjoying the afterburn of the sauce and the acid of the bubbles. I wished it were a dry beer that was so cold it would hurt going down.

  “Only a little.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” I mused, still shocked at the mention of Michelle’s funeral.

  “She couldn’t keep herself out of trouble. I helped her out a couple of times. She was staying with me when it happened. I know you’re her ex. I’ve got her parents’ address if you’d like to check it.” Sloane reached into her breast pocket and handed me a slip of paper. “I’ve got some of her sorry shit if you want to go through it. Mostly just trash, though.”

  “Yeah, Michelle said she came from a really poor family and never got over it. She was really into poverty.”

  With an inscrutable expression, Sloane rolled her toothpick from one side of her mouth to the other as she studied me. “Poor? You don’t know shit.”

  “Really terrible, huh? Like South Central? Compton? Worse?” I asked, trying to picture soul-numbing, never-ending poverty in this clean, pretty toy town.

  “Michelle? You got her all wrong.”

  “How’s that?” My mind creaked back painfully to our relationship and late-night confessions and after-sex storytelling.

  “She really sold you a bill of goods, didn’t she?” Sloane shook her head, laughing huskily.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, feeling like kicking something hard. We were together three years. Not long, but long enough to learn a few things about each other.

  “Y’all ever come back here to visit?”

  “No, why would we? She’s from Oakland. I never knew why she came here after our breakup.”

  “Where’d she say she grew up?”

  “Madison.”

  “ Wisconsin? Oh, Lord.” Sloane slapped her knee.

  “What? Sloane, tell me.”

  Sloane got serious. “Listen, I don’t know you and all and I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you, you get me?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, but since you’re here now with all your questions, I’ll do it.”

  I pushed my plate away and leaned forward, tense. A large family entered: grandparents, parents, aunties, uncles, sisters, brothers, and cousins. They were evidently familiar to the counter woman and the cook in the back because suddenly the little house rang with happy shouts. There was much hugging and laughing and slapping. The high-pitched greetings of the women rolled away from them in concentric circles, rippled through Sloane, me, and the other customers, touched all four walls, doubled in volume, and rolled back. Sloane and I watched, Sloane smiling sleepily, me irritated. The family’s order was placed, with a lot more loud joking and joyful patois.

  After a couple of minutes, against my better judgment, I was just getting ready to stand and take Sloane outside when Sloane touched my sleeve. Eventually, the group settled, dragging tables and chairs to form their tribal table.

  In a fever of impatience, I turned back to Sloane to demand information when I saw her rise and throw her trash away and get a refill on her strawberry soda. She sat and took a long gulp.

  “You got a cigarette?” I asked desperately.

  “Don’t smoke.”

  I sighed. “Neither do I. Okay, what don’t I know about Michelle?”

  “More like, what do you know?”

  “Nothing?” I guessed.

  Sloane grinned and touched her nose. “The chick is nasty. She’s a liar.” Sloane let that sink in. “She’s never even been to Oakland or Madison. And she ain’t poor. Her family is one of the wealthiest in town, maybe the state. The McKerrs. Heard of them? Oil dynasty. She disowned them long ago over some scandal and has been grifting ever since. They disowned her right back. I think everybody was after Michelle for one reason or another. I heard she tried her hand at some powerful blackmail. A senator or something. Blood to her daddy. She’s never worked a day in her life, just a scammer. She lived off you, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but she was going to school, she worked part-time, she was gonna—”

  “No, she wasn’t. That’s played. Check it, man. She’s a student who ain’t never spent an hour in class. She fed that line to every girlfriend she’s ever had. She gets some old textbooks on the cheap and she stays gone at the same time every few days and nobody is the wiser. Why did you break up?”

  “She stole from me, I cheated on her.”

  “Nice. Guarantee she cheated on you too. While she was supposed to be in class, she was hooking up and gettin’ her freak on.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Been knowing her and her family all my life. We went to school together.”

  “You went to school together? She’s that rich and went to public school?”

  “No.” Sloane appraised me coolly. “I went to private school. Hated every minute.”

  “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  “You don’t.” Sloane shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t think it’s my place to tell you. But you can always check on what I’ve said and it will hold up. Just like anything Michelle ever told you will break down if you look.”

  “I’m kind of doing the amateur sleuth thing. Is there anyone else who might know more?”

  “A regular gumshoe all the way from LA.” Sloane leaned forward. “What do you think you’re gonna find out? Where your money is? Who she sold your soul to?” Sloane laughed. “Her roommate might have something for you.”

  “Roommate?” My eyes sharpened. “Roommate or roommate? ”

  “What do you care? You broke up. She’s dead, and you’re on to better things. Am I right?”

  “Well…”

  “Her name’s Amber. She works at this freaky bookstore, Light and Love. The landlord kicked her outta her place ’cause Michelle didn’t pay the ren
t, so I don’t know where she’s staying, but you can catch her at work.”

  “I thought Michelle was staying with you?”

  “She was because she had moved out of their place and stiffed Amber, which I did not know. With everything that has happened, my old place gives me the creeps. I won’t live there anymore. Amber is flaky about living quarters, so try her at the bookstore.”

  My head was reeling. But when Sloane stood to leave, I had the presence of mind to grab her solid arm and say, “Hey, I might need to get hold of you again. Can I get your number?”

  Sloane grinned and said, “You can reach me at Max’s.” She patted my shoulder and left. I gritted my teeth. Was this the butch who kept Max? Was Max all hers? Images of their sex haunted me and made me miserable in a million ways and completely oblivious to the large family behind me. I pictured Sloane’s strong, dark hand sliding up Max’s plump, pale, parted thighs. I imagined all the things Sloane would make Max do. Take that off; no, let me rip it off you. Come here. On your knees. Sloane getting a handful of Max’s hair and making her arch until her raspberry nipples reached for the ceiling. Chocolate fist, auburn hair, the colors in my mind were intense. The two of them mixing their colors, blending their palettes, blurring… Max’s soft sighs of surrender, her nails scratching Sloane’s wide ebony back, Sloane growling in triumphant possession. Hers. Max was hers. Oh, God.

  I absently bummed a cigarette from one of the men seated at the table behind me. I put it in my breast pocket without even noticing the brand. I thumbed the match with practiced ease, needing its tiny fire even without applying it to a cigarette. Was Sloane there now, telling Max all about me and how pathetically deluded I was? Then Max would laugh her sultry, tinkling laugh and Sloane would reach for her, her black eyes full of desire. “Enough talk,” Sloane might say. Sloane could park at Max’s without an excuse. She could go into a room with Max and close the door. I crunched ice from my cup to cool my sudden dryness, my sudden anger. Sloane could beckon Max and Max would come. Max would come to her, just like that, anywhere, anytime, in front of everyone. I needed to let off some steam. I would cruise and cruise until I found someone to drown myself in tonight.

  Chapter Nine

  I threw my trash away and sauntered out the door without a backward glance to head back to the bar for some filly fishin’.

  Once in the car, I wiped the sweat off my head and face and looked at my map of Tulsa to reacquaint myself with where I was versus the bar and Max.

  Max’s was so far out of the way to the bar from Tisdale’s, in no stretch of rationalization could I just casually swing by on the way. The barbecue joint was north, the club was south and east, my hotel was downtown, and Max’s was midtown. So I gave up trying to justify it and was grateful I was alone. “If I’d known Max was here, I would’ve moved long ago,” I said, fumbling out of my pocket the extra toothpick I had taken and placing it between my lips. Nothing like a cigarette or a nipple, but it would do. Hell, a leaky ballpoint pen would do.

  I drove off, scattering gravel and grinding the toothpick to soggy splinters as I headed for Utica Avenue and south. Then I lit the bummed cigarette and smoked it as if it were Max.

  There it was, Max’s street. I turned right onto Swan Drive and pulled over immediately to let the full effect come slowly. I hadn’t paid much attention the first time I was here.

  Max’s house was Asian-inspired. It was a long, low, angular deep orange brick house with black accents. It could have been an antique Chinese lacquered box in some precious shop. It had marvelous huge lattice gates, a privacy wall, and its only adornment, a balcony with an awning that flapped invitingly in the breeze. The house, like most on Swan Drive, was set far above the street, so any open curtains were an invitation for the wandering eye to intrude. The house was moody and dark, and mystery clung to it like a mist. Even the way the huge trees that shaded the home rustled in the wind made my heart beat faster. I turned off the car and rolled down the windows. The air rolled in like a steam bath. I could hear the quiet chattering of the ducks on the lake as they swam in the moonlight, creating silver Vs of flashing brilliance. I thought all birds slept after dark, but obviously, I was wrong about so much. I suddenly felt at home with all of this: Michelle’s death, Tulsa, Sloane, Max, and even my own spying. I breathed deeply, enjoying being here in this strange, wet city, on this bizarre errand.

  My gaze sharpened at the turning off of some lights in Max’s house. From this angle, I couldn’t tell if Sloane was there or not and it didn’t much matter. This was my time with Max. I felt an improbable intimacy and bittersweet aching that was mine and Max’s alone. I got out of the car and closed the door quietly, as if Max would be listening and discover my presence. The air smelled so good, I stopped and closed my eyes and just enjoyed the summer scents of cut clover, mown grass, watermelons, and petunias. Sweat broke out on my brow like beads of anger. I let two pedestrians pass before I ambled to the sidewalk surrounding Swan Lake. This was a charming area for a romantic stroll under the old-fashioned street lamps, or for a thoughtful meditation on one of the many benches. There were lots of big trees, flowers, and tall ornamental grasses waving a welcome among the lily pads over which stretched a handsome wooden pedestrian bridge. The lake itself was home to a pair of majestic great blue herons that studied me without blinking as I passed. There were only two swans but they ruled the lake, floating regally from one end to the other. I neared the house and saw with disappointment that Sloane’s car, which had been Michelle’s car, was indeed parked comfortably next to Max’s shiny Lexus. I stood alone on the street, an unrequited Romeo sending darts of desire up to the house.

  I hid behind a tree as I noticed movement on the dark balcony. It was Max, alone and smoking. My mouth watered at the prospect of both. Max paced and finally leaned over the front toward me, her silky robe shimmering and parting delectably.

  With Sloane nowhere in sight, I had to battle the temptation to call to Max. I would rather die than look a fool in front of this woman, so I didn’t. Instead, I tolerated the sweat dripping off my body and breathed the clenched knots out of my knuckles and relaxed into being a voyeur.

  Oh, to be invited in, to be beckoned into the inner sanctum, even if only for a drink and a smoke. Just to be held in her eyes would be enough. The sensual prospect of just stepping over the threshold at Max’s request made me shiver. I stunned myself by realizing I would rather talk to Max first than bed her. I actually wanted to know Max. So far, this had never happened to me. It was always sex first, talk later, and in the case of Michelle, let her move in too soon. In my experience, it paid to fuck first. It was an easy sorting system. I was horrified at the idea of spending hours, days, weeks, or months pursuing some woman chastely, getting attached and involved, and then having a dud in bed. Then I was stuck and it was always a mess to extricate myself. It was so much simpler to clarify the rules in the beginning and start off right. If the woman was good in bed, which I determined ahead of anything else, then I would consider giving more of my time from my mind and my heart. Then would come the dinners and dancing, the movies and parties.

  Max was different. She was a contradiction to me. Because she had hooked me so deeply in her sex and because I breathed Max in like a drug and needed more and more, I wanted to reverse my modus operandi. This was too intense for me not to know Max. I felt an unfamiliar pang of guilty conscience as I remembered the soft femmes protesting with those same words to me, scornful and passion hungry, five minutes before I dumped them. So this is what it was like to be the girl. Maybe all women wanted this? These thoughts whizzed through my fevered mind as I watched Max take the breeze on the balcony. Even Her Majesty’s skin shone wetly. Max was utterly oblivious to the pedestrians who walked by, some staring. Or she knew and didn’t care. She stood proud and indifferent, her diaphanous robe swelling and shrinking with the current. I had relaxed, noticing that Max and I shared the same rhythm of breath. I could see her half-exposed, taut breasts rising and falling as
she sent her thoughts into the night. Mesmerized by those plump globes, I wistfully wished she were thinking of me. Oh, how I wanted to reach up to her, to shout…but that was the kind of thing someone did in high school. And here I was, a respected professional, thirty-five years old, stalking a stranger. Max lifted her heavy curtain of hair and held it with one hand as she fanned her neck with her other hand.

  At the sound of a car coming down the road, Max turned. I was tense too, dreading the sloppy reunion of someone, anyone, arriving, claiming Max, kissing her and leading her inside. In spite of that painful image, I couldn’t tear myself away. Even if a lover fucked her there on the balcony, I could not leave.

  It was just a random car. I sighed. Max sighed. Then she went inside the house flapping the robe for air and I waited to see where she would turn up. I saw a lamp go on in a huge glass room in the lower right corner of the house. Good God, it was her bedroom. My excitement at seeing this was tempered by anger that everyone else could too. How dare she live this way! Not only no curtains on her bedroom, but also walls of glass on a highly trafficked public street. How could she sleep on a stage? My horror deepened as I realized Max probably would’ve had sex in bed too. Lord have mercy, to be such an exhibitionist. To have all the wild, nasty, acrobatic, jungly, tender, sweet things happen under a microscope. Well, that wouldn’t do. No, it certainly wouldn’t. If Max were mine, those glass walls would have blackout draperies installed first thing. I was so shocked by the idea of dominating, taming, and changing Max that I ignored it completely and instead focused on the moment with her. I panted, trying to get a good breath. My eyes filled with tears and I sneezed, surprised by this occurrence like a horse seeing a snake. I was appalled and fascinated as Max removed her robe, slid into her four-poster canopy bed, arranged herself, and picked up a book and began reading. In the heat of my idiocy, I even strained to see the book title. After a few minutes of nothing else happening, I was a little exhilarated to see that Sloane wasn’t joining her. Where was Sloane? Why wasn’t she drinking her fill from the silken Max fountain? Why was Michelle’s car here? I was confused and even more emboldened to climb the wall and knock on the glass. But I didn’t. Like a vampire, I must be invited inside.