Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do

by Pearl Cleage

  The windows of the newsstand were frosted so you couldn't see inside from the street, but next door I could see a few sisters in various stages of the hairdo process. One was under the dryer with her eyes closed and a peaceful look on her face. One was being combed out by her stylist, and two others were waiting patiently for their turns under those little heated caps that put the hot in hot-oil treatment.

  I had never seen a twenty-four-hour beauty salon, and while it seemed like a moneymaking idea, I wondered if the women didn't get nervous leaving at four o'clock in the morning and walking to their cars all alone. On the other hand, if they felt safe enough to do that, maybe these days this neighborhood was the peaceful haven I had been led to believe it was.

  Running off of Abernathy were a series of quiet, treelined streets, some with lovingly restored Victorian homes, some with multifamily dwellings, and a few small apartment clusters that housed the area's more transient populations without seeming to change the surprisingly serene atmosphere of the community as a whole.

  I was strolling down one of those streets whose almost unearthly calm seemed a thousand miles from the bustling energy of the commercial strip. Not that there was no activity here. In fact, there seemed to be brothers in motion all over the place. Over there was a man working on his car. Two doors down was another man repairing a screen door. A little farther on, a man was raking leaves in the yard of a brightly painted cottage with a gaggle of pink plastic flamingos stationed along the driveway like sentinels.

  Several of the men inclined their heads slightly to acknowledge my passing by, but otherwise they were all about whatever task lay before them. I realized how good it was to see men around visible and working. And how rare. When I heard the voice of Bob Marley coming from the open windows of a house at the end of the block, it seemed the perfect sound track for the serenity of the street.

  “Don't worry about a thing,

  'Cause ev'ry little thing gonna be al-right …”

  I love that song. I played it so many times when I first got out of rehab that it's permanently etched on my brain. I stopped in front of the house where the music was playing and listened to it like they were playing it just for me.

  The building was a four-unit gray stucco with a perfectly manicured lawn and a bright blue front door. The large lot beside it had a sign that identified it as one of the neighborhood's many community gardens and boasted three rows of the prettiest winter collard greens you ever saw. Too bad this building doesn't have a vacancy, I thought. This would be perfect.

  That's when the blue front door opened and a man came out wearing a black cashmere overcoat, a black homburg, and sunglasses. He looked like Michael Corleone in The Godfather when the boy finally embraced his destiny and became a sho'nuff gangster.

  He walked straight over to me, smiled pleasantly, and removed his glasses, rendering me temporarily speechless. “Can I help you?”

  It was his eyes! This brother had the bluest eyes I've ever seen in my life. They were even more shocking—and that's what they were, shocking— because he was so perfectly dark. Africa dark. His skin was the kind of soft, velvety black you don't see over here much anymore now that we're all so mixed up and miscegenated like good citizens of the twenty-first century. As if in defiance of the Middle Passage, and despite the complicated racial mixtures that define the diaspora, this brother's skin was original black.

  Did I say he was also fine as hell? He looked like a painting of an African warrior king on one of those black history calendars, except for those eyes. Not baby blue, or gray-blue, or cornflower blue. His eyes were turquoise like the jewelry they make in the Southwest because that's the color of their sky at sunset. Turquoise like the water around the Caribbean islands where all you want to do is drink rum and make love.

  I knew I was staring, but I couldn't look away. I took a breath and tried to collect myself. I don't rattle easily, but I hadn't expected Aunt Abbie's vision to kick in quite so fast.

  “Do we know each other?” He was still smiling.

  “I … I was just listening to the music,” I finally stuttered. “Bob Marley.”

  “My painter is a big reggae fan,” he said. “I hope it wasn't disturbing you.”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. I'm … I'm a reggae fan, too. Old school.”

  His eyes actually seemed to twinkle at me. “Are you new to the neighborhood?”

  “I wish,” I said, wondering when the big black Lincoln had pulled up soundlessly to the curb behind me. “There don't seem to be many vacancies around here.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, which was fine with me because it gave me an excuse to look back. I wondered if those eyes ran in his family. I could just picture them all sitting around the dining room table, twinkling at one another.

  “This place has a vacancy,” he said.

  “It does?”

  He took off his hat and extended his hand. “I'm Blue Hamilton. I own this building.”

  I didn't have to ask why they called him Blue. His hand was cool to the touch, but not rough.

  “Regina Burns.”

  “It's the unit on the left, straight up the stairs. It's freshly painted, reasonably priced, and you'll be completely safe.”

  “How much is the rent?”

  He smiled. “Why don't you take a look at it and, if you're interested, come by my office at the West End News. I'm sure we can work something out.”

  “All right,” I said, remembering the newsstand with the frosted windows. Did he own that, too?

  “Aretha can show you the place and answer any questions you have. If you like it, you can pick up the key this afternoon. How's that?”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “The truth is, I was standing here hoping there was a vacancy in this building just before you came outside, so your timing is perfect.”

  “That's my job,” he said, as the man standing at the curb opened the rear passenger door. “I'm pleased I could be of assistance.”

  Then he bowed slightly, walked over to the car, and disappeared into its black leather interior. The man at the curb closed the door, got in behind the wheel, and eased the car on down the street before I could even say thank you.

  I felt like I had fallen through the rabbit hole and come out into a peaceful place filled with thriving black businesses, industrious black men, a twenty-four-hour beauty shop, and a blue-eyed gangster with a house painter who likes Bob Marley.

  There was only one thing for me to do. Go upstairs and introduce myself to Aretha.

  6

  THE BLUE DOOR LED ME THROUGH a small foyer with four silver mailboxes. The unit numbers were displayed, but no names. At the top of a short flight of stairs were two apartments. The door was open to the one on the left where the Bob Marley concert was still in progress. A woman with her back to me was touching up some detail work around the big front windows with a small paintbrush and singing loudly off-key in the way I do only when I'm sure there's no chance anybody will hear my croaking.

  I hesitated in the doorway, reluctant to startle and embarrass her. I was thinking that whoever named her Aretha must not have heard her sing, when she turned and saw me standing there.

  “Oh! Sorry!” she said, moving to turn down the volume on the boom box in the corner of the room. “I didn't hear you come up. Are you here to look at the place?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I met Mr. Hamilton downstairs. Are you Aretha?”

  “One and the same,” she said. “I'm Regina,” I said, enjoying the strength of her handshake.

  Aretha looked to be in her mid-twenties, tall and pleasantly round with a bright, open face. She wore her hair in a close-cropped afro with three gold hoops of diminishing size in each ear and a tiny gold nose ring. Her small, well-shaped head, delicately balanced on her long neck, gave her the air of a wild swan, serenely confident of its own beauty without taking credit for it.

  “I'm just doing spot finishing,” she said. “I painted the whole place a week ago.” She looked around
with justifiable pride and grinned. “I'm a better painter than I am a singer.”

  She got that right. The spotless walls were a very pale gray, as were the rugs. There was a love seat covered in what appeared to be black suede, two chairs, and a small, round coffee table in the living room. Another small table and two chairs, at the far end of the room defined a dining area.

  “I didn't realize it was furnished,” I said, pleasantly surprised. My plan had been to head for the nearest Aaron Rents, but this place looked like an upscale hotel.

  “Do you have your own furniture?” Aretha asked, opening the front blinds, exposing the large windows on the street side of the apartment. Light flooded the already airy room.

  “No,” I said. “I'm doing a project over at Morehouse, but I actually live in D.C., so this is perfect.”

  On one wall there were three large black-and-white photographs ofsmiling children. Shot close, printed over-size, and hung at eye level, they were such a cheerfully alive presence that I almost expected to hear a giggle.

  “The light is one of the best things about this place,” Aretha said. “I used to come up here and paint sometimes just because I was in love with the light.”

  “You're an artist?” I asked, sticking my head into the small kitchen. With its own window over the sink, it was as bright and cheery as the living room.

  “I'm mostly a painter, but I'm doing more photography these days.”

  “Did you take these?” I indicated the smiling portraits.

  “Yep. Those are my babies.”

  She didn't look old enough to have that many children. My surprise must have been more obvious then I intended.

  “Not my biological babies,” she said, laughing. “These are my friends' kids from home. Meet Diamante, Lil' Sonny, Daryl and Duane, they're brothers; Deena's twins, Kimmy and Karen; and this little pumpkin is my goddaughter, Mavis.”

  She pointed to each little happy face in turn and rattled off their names like a good teacher introducing her class to the new vice principal. Her affection for them was obvious, and it came shining through in the photographs she had taken of each one.

  “They're beautiful,” I said, meaning to praise her work.

  She laughed again. “They look like angels, don't they? With their little bad asses!”

  “Is there an alarm?” I asked, conscious of all those windows and a back door with no bars.

  Aretha shook her head. “You won't need one. There aren't any break-ins around here.”

  “What?”

  She smiled like she had heard this reaction before. “There are no break-ins around here. No rapes either.”

  I looked at her, and she returned my gaze as if to say, Would you like me to repeat it?

  “No rapes in Atlanta?”

  “Not Atlanta,” she said, “just around here.”

  “What's around here?”

  “Here in this neighborhood,” she said. “In West End.”

  “No rapes in West End?” I knew I was repeating everything she said, but that was a pretty bold statement.

  She looked pleased that I was catching her drift. “Exactly.”

  “Well, that's great, but—”

  “Isn't it?” she said brightly. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Mr. Hamilton doesn't let the men act a fool.”

  “Act a fool how?”

  She looked disappointed. “See? That's what sisters always do. I tell you the men around here don't prey on us and you start asking for the particulars.”

  “I didn't mean to doubt you, it's just …” What the hell? Maybe it's true. “It's just wonderful.”

  “I didn't mean to snap at you like that,” she said, smiling again. “I just know what Mr. Hamilton has done for this neighborhood and sometimes people don't get it.”

  “How is he as a landlord?” I said, nudging us back into more neutral ground.

  She grinned. “The best.”

  Down the short hallway, the smaller oftwo bedrooms was also done in shades of gray and was refreshingly empty, almost like a monk's room might be. No clutter anywhere. There was a double bed in one corner, a small dresser, and one straight-back chair. The only homey touch was an antique quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

  “No pictures in here?”

  She shook her head. “We keep this room plain. Mr. Hamilton says sometimes when you're away from home, it's good to have a place to sleep that doesn't impose itself on your dreams.”

  I liked the idea and the room immediately. Camping out here for a while would be a pleasure, not a sacrifice.

  “Are you an artist?”

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  The young mother pointed out the man on the ladder to her child and the man, feeling their eyes on him, waved at the child, who waved back with his free hand and turned to smile at his mother for bringing to his attention such an amazing sight as a man on a stepladder, cheerfully scooping debris from his gutters on a bright, almost spring morning. From where I watched, I could see his mother smile back and shift the groceries to a more comfortable position without breaking stride.

  It begins with you, Beth always tells her audience. A boy who is going to see himself standing on the world stage must first see the world through his mother's eyes. If that world is defined by bad drugs, bad men, and a complete absence of joy, that is what your son will think the world is made of because that is what he learned from you!

  I turned to find Aretha watching me. I had only one more question. “Why did you paint the door downstairs blue?”

  She grinned. “I heard it's considered good luck in some North African countries to paint your front door that color. Sometimes, people put their kids' handprints in the design as additional protection against the evil eye, but Mr. Hamilton wasn't crazy about the hand thing, so I just left it plain.”

  “I think this place will do just fine,” I said. “I think I'll take it.”

  Her smile lit up her whole face, and I was aware again of how unself-consciously beautiful she was. “Welcome to the building,” she said, and shook my hand again as we headed toward the door.

  “Do you live here, too?”

  “Right downstairs.”

  It hadn't occurred to me, but that only increased the apartment's overall desirability. Another interesting woman on the premises is always a plus.

  “Thanks for showing me the place.”

  “No problem.”

  As I started down the stairs, I glanced at the door across the hall from mine. “Who lives there?”

  “That's Mr. Hamilton's place,” Aretha said. “Didn't he tell you?”

  7

  THE WEST END NEWS MADE a great first impression. Well-stocked and well-lit, the place was browser friendly with comfortable chairs scattered around, making it easy to linger and enjoy the smell of fresh coffee in the air. Behind the small counter an old man in black pants, pressed so often they were shiny, and a big white apron was fiddling with a gleaming cappuccino machine. He nodded pleasantly in my direction as a young man reading the South China Morning Post waited patiently for his midmorning caffeine.

  I started toward him to ask if Blue Hamilton was around when a tall, thickly built man came toward me.

  “Ms. Burns?” His voice was a low rumble, but he smiled pleasantly.

  “That's me,” I said. “I'm looking for Mr. Hamilton.”

  “He's expecting you. Would you follow me, please?”

  He sounded like an usher, but he sure didn't look like one. Though his wide shoulders were minimized by the careful cut of his expensive suit, he was a big guy. Bodyguard big. Maybe he was one of the ways my landlord kept the men from acting a fool. He looked like a pretty powerful deterrent to me.

  My guide led me to the back of the store, through neat rows of magazine racks and newspapers that seemed to be arranged alphabetically by country of origin. Down a short hallway, he opened another door with a frostedglass window, and the space sudd
enly opened out into what looked like an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor, without the Ben & Jerry's. There were three tables with four chairs apiece spaced a discreet distance apart, as if to allow for multiple confidential conversations.

  Blue Hamilton was standing beside the one in the middle. He was wearing a beautiful black silk suit, a blindingly white shirt, and a tastefully understated tie. He smiled and came forward to greet me as soon as I stepped into the room, and I found that having already experienced his amazing eyes earlier did not mean I was ready for them this time. In the movies, anybody with those eyes would have been either an alien, or possessed, or both. If he was trying to make sure I didn't miss him this lifetime around, he had sure taken care of that problem.

  “Ms. Burns,” he said, “welcome. Please have a seat.” He pulled out a chair for me with old-fashioned courtliness at the table where he had been drinking espresso and reading the New York Times. The tiny twist of lemon peel was still curled on the saucer under the dainty demitasse cup. The tall man stood waiting for further instructions.

  “Can I offer you a cup of espresso?” Mr. Hamilton asked, his voice working those s's. “Cappuccino?”

  “Cappuccino would be great,” I said, looking around a little.

  The floor was covered in those little white octagonal tiles trimmed in black that are always cool to the touch, no matter how hot it gets outside. The walls were bare, except for six large framed photographs of smiling children. I recognized Aretha's work. The tops ofthe tables were pale pink marble. The tall man glided out the door and left us alone.

  “I'd like to take the apartment,” I said.

  He nodded like he wasn't the least bit surprised, reached into his inside breast pocket, and pulled out two keys.