by Pearl Cleage
Flora leaned forward and opened the small refrigerator where a bottle of that French champagne with the flowers on it was already chilling. “I knew Blue wouldn't forget about us,” she said, draping a white linen napkin over the cork and twisting it out easily as I took two glasses from the tiny rack beside the fridge.
“Remember when we had to pretend we couldn't open champagne bottles without assistance?”
“When was that?”
“Before the women's movement.” She laughed and poured us each a glass of the bubbling, golden liquid. “In the bad old days.”
That made me smile. My mother was forever reminding me of the changes feminism had made in every corner of American women's lives. Whenever she would read one of those articles where some young, highly successful women say they're not feminists, it would make her crazy: “Who do they think made it possible for them to be sitting there behind that big desk, in that big job, acting like they got there by being smarter than every other woman in the world? They ought to read their history and bring their mamas breakfast in bed for a week just to say thank you!”
We raised our glasses.
“What shall we toast?” I said.
“Us,” she said grinning. “Let's toast us in our brandnew dresses!”
We clinked our glasses and sipped our champagne as the limo glided through the dark streets bearing us toward the party. Club Zebra was located on the site of a legendary Afro-Atlanta institution, the Lincoln Country Club. In its pre-integration heyday, it boasted several hundred dues-paying members, a nine-hole golf course, and a clubhouse where they hosted parties that were always the hottest ticket in town.
When integration came, the membership dwindled, and by the time the former members realized how much they missed it, it was closed. It stayed closed for about thirty years, and then ten years ago, some new people bought the land, redeveloped it, resodded the golf course, and opened a nightclub. Aretha had told me the history of the place and compared it to Harlem's famed Cotton Club, and Flora agreed.
“Here we are!” she said excitedly as the limo turned up a winding driveway with small lights leading the way.
The narrow road wound its way through a dense stand of Georgia's famous pine trees and opened out onto a scene right out of The Great Gatsby. Beautifully dressed women and tuxedo-clad men were alighting from cars polished high for the occasion. Even the old cars, of which there were many, gleamed. The pine trees ended at a rolling lawn and beyond the main building, ablaze with lights, you could see the dim contours of the golf course.
Valet parkers, young black men in blue uniforms, were busily keeping the traffic moving. Our driver pulled around the arriving crowd and eased in near a side entrance. As soon as we pulled up, the door opened and Blue stepped out wearing a beautiful tux and a smile of welcome. Immediately behind him were two other guys, also in tuxedos. One I recognized as the big man who led me to Blue's office the first day I went to the West End News. The other one, whom I didn't recognize, was wearing two-tone shoes and dreadlocks that hung below his waist.
The big man stepped up to open the door, and Blue leaned down to offer a hand.
“Ladies …”
“That would be us,” said Flora, easing out daintily, kissing his cheek, and turning to embrace the guy in the two-tones. “Zeke! How much hair are you going to grow?”
Zeke laughed and embraced her as Blue extended his hand again to me. I took it and stepped out with the confidence you feel only when you look like yourself, but better. The dress hugged me in all the right places, but it suggested more than it gave away. I wondered briefly if my seams were straight, but it didn't matter. He wasn't looking at my stockings. He was looking at me.
“I'm glad you came,” he said, taking in my outfit in one appreciative glance. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you,” I said.
He laughed, but beautiful was the word. He was beautiful like a piece of artwork or a reflection in a mountain lake. That kind of beauty isn't gender specific. It just is.
“This place is amazing,” I said. “Is it real?”
“Meet the owner. You can ask him.”
He put his arm around my waist lightly, and we stepped inside and into a small private sitting room that seemed a world away from the people gathering upstairs. The big guy whisked our coats away to some unseen closet, and the four of us stood there grinning at one another.
“Regina Burns, Zeke Burnett,” Blue said. “The lady wants to know if your place is real.”
Zeke shook my hand and smiled. “I'll take that as a compliment.”
“Don't tell him how wonderful it is,” Flora groaned. “Next thing you know, he'll move it all to Buckhead.”
The city's thriving nightclub district was located north of downtown in an all-white neighborhood of milliondollar homes and pricey condos. The people there were still adjusting to the impact of the multiracial clubgoers who invade their neighborhood every weekend.
“Buckhead? Not a chance,” Zeke said, shaking his dreadlocked head.
“And why is that?” Flora teased. “Because you love black folks too much?”
“Loving black folks ain't in it,” he said. “They got too much crime out there!”
We all laughed, and I wondered what the chamber of commerce would think about a black businessman in all-black southwest Atlanta being nervous about crime in an all-white neighborhood that used to boast about its safe streets. I had that feeling again that I had fallen through the rabbit hole and come out in a world where everything was reversed. In this world, we stood in the safe oasis and clucked over the presence of crime somewhere out there.
“Welcome to Club Zebra,” Zeke said. “I'm going to see if I can find a glass of champagne for my favorite gardener here.” Flora slipped her arm through his. “May I leave you in the care of this Negro?”
I looked at Blue. “Can you vouch for him?”
“With my life,” said Zeke.
“Mine, too,” Flora added her two cents, still grinning.
“You can't ask for better references than that,” I said. “I think I'll be fine.”
Flora and Zeke exchanged a look like old friends who've been signifyin' in sync for years and closed the door behind them.
The silence in the small room was so sudden and complete that I heard music from upstairs for the first time. I recognized an old song whose tune was familiar but whose words I didn't know. Blue was watching me like whatever I did or said next would determine his next move. The fact that he was hosting a party upstairs seemed the furthest thing from his mind. I liked that.
These days, we have to compete with so much to get even a second of a man's undivided attention. From video games, to the NBA finals, to his work, to his boys, black men stay so busy you can't hardly get a bead on what they're feeling because they won't slow down long enough to show you. It was a real pleasure not to feel like half of Blue's mind was occupied elsewhere.
“I love this song,” I said.
“Would you like to dance?”
“Here?”
He smiled slowly. “Don't worry. I know the owner.”
I bought these shoes for dancing, so what was I waiting for? I moved into his arms and felt the closeness of our bodies like an electrical charge between us. He held me lightly, and we fell easily into a slow dance that felt like we'd danced it a thousand times before. I closed my eyes. We moved around the room a little, swaying together, but not too close. He seemed to share my belief that anticipation is still one of the most powerful no-side-effect aphrodisiacs around.
People underestimate the necessity for courtship rituals. I know we're both grown and there are no quivering virgins and fumbling first-timers in this room. But the things that moved us then, move us now. Maybe more, because now we understand that nothing is guaranteed. Maybe more, because by now we've all kissed somebody good-bye and not realized it was the last time until they were gone and it was too late to say all the stuff you didn't say. By now we know tha
t everybody doesn't get to fall in love and live happily ever after.
It makes us skittish, knowing all this stuff and recognizing the transitory nature of things, which is why a soothing slow dance with the promise of more to come based on mutual comfort and consent is the perfect way to begin. He held me a little tighter, and I realized we were actually dancing cheek to cheek. It felt wonderful, like a movie scene, and my dress was perfect.
The song ended, and we stepped apart slowly. I felt like if we didn't go join the party before another song started, we never would. I guess Blue felt it, too, because he smiled and took my hand.
“Would you like to come upstairs and meet some of my friends?”
“I would love to.” I slipped my arm through his. “What was the name of that song we were dancing to?”
“‘The Very Thought of You,’” he said. “It's one of my favorites.”
“Mine, too.”
“Maybe I'll sing it for you sometime.”
“How about tonight?” I asked, feeling bold.
“All right,” he smiled. “You got it.”
25
IT WAS LIKE STEPPING BACK IN TIME. An all-girl band was playing grown-folks music on a small bandstand. The vocalist, who couldn't have been a day over twentytwo, was singing the Billie Holiday classic “Miss Brown to You” like somebody had written it just for her. Their director, a sixtyish hipster with a kente kufi and a dark suit wielded his baton like a proud paterfamilias. Aretha had told me Club Zebra often showcased the talents of Spelman College music students, and I took these very serious players in dark evening gowns to be those young women.
Couples were seated at tables around the spacious dance floor while white-jacketed waiters brought champagne without being asked. The men, young and old, were all in dark suits or tuxes, and my outfit fit right in among the women's satin evening suits and silky “after fives.” People were still arriving in a steady stream, laughing and waving to their friends. All shades of the rainbow were well represented under that big African American umbrella. From eighteen to eighty, all gathering in one spot to enjoy themselves and one another. These folks looked good, and they knew it.
Zeke was standing at the door greeting everybody by name so they wouldn't forget this was still their neigh borhood bar, except tonight they had chosen to dress it, and themselves, up for the occasion. I stood beside Blue for a minute and just took it all in. Flora materialized at my elbow as Precious Hargrove arrived at the front door.
Blue turned toward me. “I've got to go greet the senator. I'll see you later?”
“What about me?” Flora asked.
“You, too.” Blue laughed and left us to resume his hosting duties.
I watched him moving through the crowd, greeting people, smiling, shaking hands, and remembered how it had felt dancing cheek to cheek.
“So what do you think so far?” Flora said, grinning at me.
“It's wonderful.”
I was watching Blue greet Precious Hargrove and a tall, handsome young man with a fresh haircut and a suit that looked more Hugo Boss than hip-hop. Precious had on a bright red satin skirt and an ethnic-flavored embroidered jacket that flattered her roundness without emphasizing it inappropriately. She's running for governor, after all. She can't be too foxy.
Blue and the young man were laughing together, and Precious wore her motherly pride like a diamond brooch.
“Is that her son?” I asked Flora.
“Kwame,” Flora said. “Smart, good-looking, and loves his mother. Precious did a good job with him.”
“Where's his father?”
Flora shrugged. “Died when he was a kid. Want to grab a table?”
“Sure.”
We were headed for some empty seats when a small tan man in a white dinner jacket intercepted us with a courtly bow.
“Ladies!”
“Peachy!” Flora said, giving him an enthusiastic hug.
When she stepped back, he looked at her, gave a low whistle, and turned to me. “Last time I saw this woman she was wearing hip boots and driving a pickup truck.”
Flora laughed. “But I clean up nice, right?”
“You clean up very nice. I'm surprised that Hank let you out looking so fine.”
“Stop flirting,” she said, “and meet my friend Regina Burns. Gina, this is Lester Nolan. He's responsible for this gathering in the first place.”
“Call me Peachy,” he said, with another small bow. “Nobody calls me Lester unless they want to sell me something.”
He was a very small man, with a full head of carefully brushed white hair, who looked to be in his early fifties. He was wearing the hell out of that dinner jacket, and he knew it.
“Peachy,” I said as requested. “So nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine. Where is your husband anyway?”
A small cloud passed over Flora's face, but she smiled brightly. “He's in Detroit fighting off the bad guys.”
“Well, if bad guys are what you're looking for, Detroit's the place to be.”
One of Flora's gardeners was waving her over from across the room, and she excused herself quickly to avoid more talk of Hank and left me alone with Peachy. That seemed to be fine with him. He turned to me and spoke as if we were the only two people in the room.
“You know why they call me Peachy?”
I knew he was going to tell me. “No, why?”
“Well, I grew up in a little town called Dublin, Georgia, on a plantation where all they grew was peaches. We had to pick peaches. We had to pack peaches. We had to can peaches. We had to make peach cobbler, spiced peaches, and peach pie. My father even made peach wine. Would you like to sit down?”
“Thanks.”
The band had taken a short break, and I followed him to a table near the stage that had a small “reserved” card on it. A waiter appeared immediately and set down two glasses and a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket. Peachy nodded at the waiter to open it and continued his story.
“By the time I left Dublin, I was sick of peaches. The smell of them made me sick. The sight of them wasn't much better. So I decided to move to the big city and make my way as a musician.”
The waiter poured us each a glass of champagne, left the bottle in the bucket, and disappeared. Peachy ignored it.
“So I saved up my money from pickin' and packin' all those damn peaches and I dreamed about coming to Atlanta. I prayed about coming to Atlanta, and I asked God to deliver me from those peaches. I told him if he could do me that one favor, I would never have anything to do with any kind ofpeaches for the rest ofmy days.”
He was smiling broadly at his own tale since he had the advantage of knowing the punch line. I wondered what kind of musician he was, but he wasn't the kind of storyteller who left air for questions, so I just smiled back. You can't really drink champagne unless you toast first, so I ignored mine, too.
“One day, I figured, no time like the present, walked out to the freeway, and hitched a ride headed for the big city. The guy who picked me up was a horn player who had a buddy who was trying to put together a band. So I told him I could play guitar from hanging around the juke joints, and he took me to the audition with him. That's where I met him for the first time.”
I was getting confused. “Met who?”
He raised his glass. “Our host, Mr. Blue Hamilton.”
He tapped my glass lightly in what I guessed was a toast to Blue, but the story didn't stop there.
“So I played for him on somebody else's guitar, and he hired me on the spot. He sent everybody else home except me and my buddy, and we just started working on some arrangements immediately. Blue liked the old songs and I did, too, so we hit it off right away. When it was time to split, I told him we had just got into town and asked him which way was the YMCA.”
The memory made him chuckle, and he took another small sip of his champagne.
“He said, ‘Aw, nigga, you ain't gotta be stayin’ at the Y. Good as you play, you
can come stay with me 'til you find a place.' So I said ‘Cool,’ and promised not to wear out my welcome. He said not to worry about it, and everything was everything until we pulled up in front of his apartment and the sign said ‘Peachtree Street’!”
He rolled his eyes in such comic distress that I giggled.
“So I had to tell him thanks, but no thanks. I'd go on to the Y until I could find a place.”
“Because of the street name?”
“That's just what Blue said that night, but I told him like I'm telling you, a deal's a deal. No more peaches. No way, no how!”
“So what did you do?”
I spotted Blue over Peachy's shoulder scanning the room, and I knew he was looking for me. I resisted the impulse to wave.
“I carried my no-peaches ass to the YMCA and slept on a lumpy mattress for three dollars and fifty cents a night until I could pay for a place.”
Blue walked up in time for the punch line.
“Because I had integrity.”
“Is this Negro bending your ear with the story of his life?”
I smiled up at him. “He was telling me how he got his nickname.”
“I gave it to him.”
“He didn't tell me that.”
Blue grinned at his friend. “I figured if peaches were the driving force in his life to the extent that he'd live at the Y for a month—”
“It wasn't a month!”
“—that ought to be his name just to remind me that even though he's my ace, when it comes to peaches, his judgment is just a little left of center.”
“A deal's a deal,” Peachy said. “The man upstairs knows why I did it.”
Aretha appeared in the doorway wearing a flowing pair of pale purple evening pajamas with a tight mandarin collar that set off her lovely neck to perfection. Long silver earrings swung in her ears while she chatted with Kwame Hargrove, whose mother was probably circulating and shaking hands. They were both smiling as they headed for a corner table. I thought about Lu's teasing: Aretha and Kwame, sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.