by Pearl Cleage
“I've actually seen this one,” I said, recognizing Jules et Jim, François Truffaut's small masterpiece about two friends whose lives are shattered when they both fall madly in love with the fascinating but fickle Catherine. Over the course of the movie, she breaks both their hearts, leaves one a widower, and takes the other one with her to the grave. “Want to test your theory?”
“Sure,” he said.
I could see immediately the idea appealed to him. We turned to the screen where Jules was sitting downstairs alone in his rocking chair while Jim makes helpless, miserable love to the faithless Catherine upstairs.
“Two men in love with the same woman,” Blue said immediately. “A tragedy in the making.”
“Always?”
“Always. Two men can't share a woman once they both fall in love with her.”
“And she's married to one of them.”
“That's even worse,” he said, reaching for the remote to replace the movie with a CD of Nat King Cole at his ballad-crooning best, extolling the virtues of Route 66. He adjusted the volume for conversation and then turned toward me from the other end of the giant sofa.
I suddenly had a question, and this seemed the right moment to ask it. “Have you ever been married?”
He took a sip of his cognac. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
I liked that he answered without hedging. Some men seem to think inquiring about their marital status is no different than asking about the size of their penis. Blue didn't seem concerned.
I decided to tease him a little. “Well, you were smoking a cigar on the porch on a chilly evening rather than in the house. That's a married man's habit.”
“None of my wives ever complained about the cigars.” He smiled. “It's something I do for Lu. She's got asthma, and when she comes to visit, cigar smoke triggers it, so I don't smoke in the house.”
“How many wives have you had?”
“Three.”
“Three?”
“Is that too many or not enough?”
“That's a lot. Why so many?”
He shrugged gracefully. “I guess I'm a better friend than I am a husband.”
I was in no position to confirm or deny on either count, so I tried a more neutral topic. “How was your fishing trip? You catch anything?”
He shook his head. “Not this time. My buddy lost his arms a couple of months ago, so he wasn't really ready to go out again.”
“Lost his arms?” I tried unsuccessfully not to sound alarmed.
He grinned at me. “It's a fisherman's term. When you're deep-sea fishing, hooking the fish is just the beginning. Bringing him in is something else altogether. It can take hours for the big ones, and if you don't have the strength in your arms, you can't do it. Last time we went out, Peachy, that's my buddy, had to get somebody else to bring in this big marlin he'd been battling all day. Just about killed him to give it up.”
His sleeves were rolled halfway up his arms, and I could see how muscular they were. Maybe he really had gone fishing.
“Couldn't he go after smaller fish?”
His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. They literally twinkled. “No. The point of deep-sea fishing is to conquer something.”
“I thought the point of fishing was to relax.”
“That's how men relax,” he said, with another charming smile. “But we don't have to talk about fishing. How's everything with you?”
I let him slide on how men relax because I didn't really disagree. I just didn't appreciate his not being more apologetic about it.
“Everything's fine. I've met the other women in the building and found a couple of restaurants close by.”
“Flora told me you two had lunch at Soul Veg last week.”
“That's right. She told me all about the gardens.”
“I'll bet she forgot to tell you about the party.”
“She didn't mention a party.”
He poured himself another splash of cognac. I demurred.
“Some of my associates and I are having a party next Saturday. We do it every year to raise money for one worthy cause or another, but mostly it's an excuse to get together and have a good time. I'm hosting, so I've got to be there early, but I'm sending a car for Flora at eight o'clock, and I'd like to invite you to come as my guest.”
Was he asking me for a date? It didn't sound like a date. More like a group activity. Perfect. I hadn't been to a party in so long, I didn't even know what dances people were doing anymore. This could be my coming-out party.
“Thank you,” I said. “I'd like that.”
“Good.”
“Who are you raising money for this time?” I sipped my drink slowly. The smell of cognac is the real pleasure. The burn of the liquid is just the price you pay.
“Precious Hargrove. She's running for governor next year.”
“I'm an admirer of hers,” I said. “Do you think she has a chance?”
He nodded. “If folks get behind her, I think she can win.”
Somehow I hadn't thought Blue would be involved in politics. There were more sides to him than I could count, and I knew I had barely scratched the surface.
“Brothers better get right,” Blue said. “I keep trying to tell them. Sisters already got the mayor of Atlanta locked down. Now they got their eye on the state house, and they're taking no prisoners.”
“Don't worry.” I grinned. “It's just how women relax.”
He laughed out loud at that and raised his glass. “Well, here's to relaxed black women. They get my vote every time!”
How could I not drink to that? Iswallowedthelastof my drink and set the glass down on the coffee table. Blue did the same. Either the cognac or the directness of his gaze sent a wave of warmth from the middle of my chest down.
“It's time for me to go,” I said, standing up. “Thanks.”
“I enjoyed it,” he said, standing up with me. He was standing close enough for me to smell the faintest whiff of his cologne.
“You know when you said you were going fishing, I didn't believe you,” I said, heading for the door.
“Why would I lie?”
“I don't know. You just didn't look much like a fisherman.”
“I had a few stops to make first.”
Uh-huh. “I see.”
I stepped out into the hallway, and he did, too.
“If it'll make you feel better, next time I'll wear my fishing clothes.”
“I feel just fine,” I said, opening my door, which I hadn't bothered to lock. “Wear what you like.”
He laughed again, and I allowed myself one final question.
“Are you going to sing at this party?”
He didn't look at all surprised by the question. “That's a young man's game.”
“I heard you were pretty good.”
“I had my moments,” he said with a final twinkle. “Good night.”
I'll bet you did, I thought. I'll just bet you did. “Good night.”
13
THIS IS A GREAT NEIGHBORHOOD for walking. It's one of the few neighborhoods in Atlanta that actually has sidewalks. The absence of street predators and loitering groups of hopeless, hard-eyed men took away the feeling of running a gauntlet every time you step out the front door. Around here, even the liquor store had a clean parking lot and nobody outside looking crazy and trying to beg a beer.
The men I see walking through this neighborhood are invariably engaged in doing something constructive or walking like they got someplace to go and a certain time to get there. There're a lot ofsuits and ties and dark overcoats, too. There're a lot of homburgs and fedoras and highly polished shoes. When these guys pass you on the street, they touch their brims and say “Good morning.” They don't actually say “ma'am,” but it's clearly implied.
It took me a minute to get acclimated. I have a lot of protective armor to keep strange men at a distance, as any urban woman with any sense does, but none of it seemed to be necessary around here. After a while, when one of them would nod and say “
Good morning,” I'd nod and say “Good morning” back.
This afternoon, I went to the post office to return some papers to the weasel. He had included a note congratulating me for making my last payment early, which I thought was a nice touch. When human beings drop their insane, territorial bullshit, they can work out almost anything.
The line was moving slowly at the post office, and thereweresixpeopleaheadofme, butIneverfussabout long lines. Waiting gives me an opportunity for some uninterrupted people-watching. As folks pulled up to drop off their mail in the slot outside, I saw Aretha walk into the parking lot and head for the door. I was happy to see her and hoping she was still coming to Flora's brunch tomorrow.
“Hey!” she said, looking as pleased to see me as I was to see her. “I was just thinking I need to come up and see you!”
“You conjured me up.”
“How's everything going? I haven't been playing the music too loud, have I?”
“I haven't even heard it,” I said. “Everything's fine. What did you want to see me about?”
She was wearing a little cap pulled down low over her eyes and six individual earrings without a matching pair among them. “I told you I'm doing a lot of photographs now?”
I nodded. The smiling faces of the children on the walls of my apartment brighten the place up as much as the sunshine.
“Well, I'm working on a project now with some women who are working as strippers.”
I liked the way she said that: “women who are working as strippers.” Not “strippers.” She made stripping what they did for a living, not who they were.
“A photography project?”
“I'm taking two shots of each one. First, they pose in what they wear to work. Hair, nails, makeup. Everything. Then they pose in something that reflects who they are offstage. It's really amazing to see what they pick for their real-self shots. They bring everything from church outfits, complete with hats, to jeans and a T-shirt with their kid's face on it.”
I wondered how many of the women had children and if the men who wanted lap dances ever thought about the fact that they were grinding up on somebody's mama.
“That sounds interesting,” I said. “How's it going?”
“Great. A lot of the women are referring their friends because they really like the pictures, but they don't always get the apartment number right. So if any of them come up to your place, just send them on downstairs. It doesn't matter how late. Sometimes they like to pose when they first get off work.”
“No problem,” I said. “I don't think I've ever met a strip … a woman making her living as a stripper.”
“You probably have. You just didn't know it. When I was at Spelman, there were always a couple of girls earning their tuition at the strip clubs.”
A quick mental scan of my classmates at Howard didn't turn up any likely candidates for secret strippers, but there's ten years between Aretha and me. In that one little decade, thanks to music videos, the character of the fantasy stripper, and her fantasy sister, the sexually rapacious, unapologetically materialistic ghetto goddess, with all the latest clothes and cars and no visible means of support, have emerged and become the dominant symbols of black women in the popular culture.
I don't think this is necessarily a positive development in the ongoing struggle for women's liberation, but it clearly impacts everything from clothing styles to the sexual expectations of adolescent boys who think there is actually a place where women are always perfectly coiffed, scantily clad, and ready for sex. Sometimes they even sing.
The line moved a few steps forward, and so did we.
“A woman came in the other day,” Aretha said. “She was six months pregnant and getting ready to stop until her baby was born, so she wanted me to get a picture.”
The idea of a pregnant stripper was new for me. “Isn't six months kind of late to be stripping?”
Aretha shook her head as we moved another few inches forward. An old woman at the middle window was slowly counting out the money she had been holding in her handkerchief for seven first-class stamps. The postal employee behind the counter was smiling indulgently like she had all the time in the world. Nobody in line seemed to mind, probably hoping she would grant us the same sweet smile when we finally got to the counter and greeted her face-to-face.
Postal workers have such a terrible reputation for being volatile and slow, but I never find them to be anything but calm, efficient, and patient to the point of sainthood, especially when we lose our minds and start demanding that our poorly wrapped packages reach our granny's house in time for Christmas morning, even if it is December 24 and we'd like to send it as cheaply as possible.
“Six months ain't nothing,” Aretha said. “She told me there are private clubs where all the guys want to see are pregnant women, the bigger the better.”
A friend of mine once told me that I would never really understand men because I had no clue about how lowdown they are. Of course, I defended the brothers, by saying they can't be more low-down than I've seen them be, but then I hear this kind of stuff and I think maybe my friend is right. Pregnant strippers and prostituting children are both beyond the scope of my imagination.
“Is that where she was working?”
“No. That's why she's quitting. Six months is the most they'll go at the regular places before you have to take maternity leave.”
“What did she wear for the reality pose?”
Aretha smiled. “She wore a pair of low-slung jeans and a little tiny T-shirt that said ‘baby on board.’”
I was next in line. “Do you think she'll start again after the baby comes?”
Aretha shrugged. “Probably. She makes good money, and she doesn't know how to do anything else.”
The postal worker who had accepted the handkerchief's worth ofcoins beckoned me over as the next in line.
“Your turn,” Aretha said, but that was too abrupt an end to our conversation. “Want to walk back together?”
“Sure.”
We each completed our business and headed back outside.
“I'm actually meeting Lu over at the school,” Aretha said, “but we can walk that far together.”
Brown Junior High School was right on the way, and Aretha and I fell in step easily together, me matching my shorter stride to her longer, loping one.
“I'm looking forward to brunch tomorrow,” I said.
“Me, too. Flora is a serious cook. I think she's going to fry some catfish, and Lu promised to make me some biscuits. She's almost as good a cook as Flora. Almost!”
I tried to keep my voice casual as we strolled along. “Are you going to the party next Saturday night?”
“I wouldn't miss it,” she said. “This will be my eighth year in a row.”
“Eight years? That's a lot of parties!”
She nodded as we turned off Oglethorpe and headed down Peeples Street. “Ever since my freshman year at Spelman.”
“You've been living here that long?”
“Since 1994. I grew up in a really tiny town in Michigan, and when I got accepted at Spelman, my aunt Ava was worried about me coming to the big city all alone, so she called Mr. Hamilton and asked him to look out for me. He gave me this apartment in exchange for picking up his mail when he's out of town and the occasional paint job.” She grinned at me, recalling how we'd met. “I've been here ever since.”
So I wasn't the first tenant to be given a break on the rent. My guess was that Flora and Lu weren't paying much either. I guess when Blue said he wasn't in it for the money, he wasn't kidding.
“He's kind of like my godfather,” she said as we waited for the light at Abernathy. “That's why I'm not riding with you and Flora to the party.”
“Why?”
She grinned at me again, two deep dimples reminding me of my mother's explanation when I asked her what dimples were.
“Angel's kisses,” she had said, unwittingly plunging me into despair because I didn't have any. When I told her this years
later, she laughed so hard she cried. I laughed, too, but I still harbored a grudge at the angels for not considering me worthy of their kisses.
“Mr. Hamilton scares the shit out of most of the guys around here already,” she said. “If I arrive at the party in his car, I'll never get any play.”
Before I could ask her what exactly they were afraid of, a stereo blasted into life down the street just ahead of us. Even from half a block away, we could hear the thumping bass pouring out of the car's open windows. It was a brand-new Lexus with so much gold detailing that it looked ridiculous. A tall young man who looked to be about twenty, in fashionably baggy clothes and a baseball cap, was leaning casually against the passenger door talking to two young girls, one of whom I recognized as Lu. Aretha saw her, too.
“What's he doing out here?” Aretha said, picking up her pace a little, like every second Lu spent in the presence of this guy was one second too many.
Lu and her friend were too busy giggling at something the man had said to see us coming, but he noticed our approach like the gold-toothed predator he appeared to be. His eyes swept over Aretha after dismissing me as somebody's mama, and he grinned a little wider to fully expose his mouth's full set of hardware.
“Well, now,” he said. “We've got company.”
Lu turned just as we reached them. “Hey, Aretha!”
“Hey, sweetie!” Aretha draped one long arm around Lu's shoulder, but her eyes locked on the man like she was memorizing his face for a police lineup. “Who're your friends?”
“You know ShaRonda,” Lu said. “She's in my algebra class.”
Aretha focused on the girl for the first time. Shorter than Lu by about six inches and skinny as a reed, this child's hormones hadn't moved her from girl to woman yet. Seemingly anxious to speed up the process, she was wearing a lot of makeup and an elaborate hair construction that seemed more suited to a nightclub than an algebra class.
“ShaRonda?”
The girl grinned sheepishly. “It's me.”
Aretha laughed and reached out to hug her. “Girl, I didn't recognize you in all that makeup!”
“She look good, don't she?” said the gruff voice of the man leaning on the Lexus. The bass was still thumping, but I didn't recognize the female singer who was directing her lover on what to kiss and for how long.