Linden Hills

by Naylor, Gloria;

  “And she’s pretty enough, although there’s a bit too much avoirdupois.”

  “I wouldn’t call her fat.” Xavier narrowed his eyes. “She’s full.”

  “Yes, she’s full now, but you know that most black women have a tendency to let themselves go. Look in any spa or gym and they’re outnumbered ten to one. And believe me, it’s not Roxanne’s fault. It’s an old throwback to the jungle days when they had to store up food like camels because the women did most of the hauling. So what they do now is starve themselves until they get you and then gain ten pounds before the reception’s over. And from then on in …” Maxwell shook his head slowly and shuddered. “But the real question is not whether you can find one who’ll fit into your Porsche, but who’ll fit, period.”

  Xavier stared off into space and thought, But we read the same books, like the same music. We both want to travel. He found himself wishing that Maxwell would shut up and go home. He hadn’t called him here to listen to all this. He had done nothing but cause him to think of all the reasons why he should run out tomorrow and buy an engagement ring, but somehow he didn’t want that. And what he needed desperately to know was why.

  “Look, Maxwell, I find that just a little hard to buy. They’re out there in all shapes and sizes once I’m ready. But maybe I’m just not ready now, you know?”

  “Oh, you’re ready. Ready and raring to go. But the sad thing is that there isn’t a mother’s daughter out there ready for you. And you want to know why?” Maxwell sat on the edge of the sofa. “Because Roxanne Tilson is only the clone of a whole mass that are coming out of these colleges with their hot little fists clenched around those diplomas and they aren’t ready to hear nothing from nobody, least of all you. When they’ve done that four- or six-year stint at the Yales, Stanfords, or Brandeises, they no longer think they’re women, but walking miracles. They’re ready to ask a hell of a lot from the world then and a hell of a lot from you. They’re hungry and they’re climbers, Xavier, with an advanced degree in expectations. Hook up with one of them and whatever you’re doing isn’t good enough, and you’re doing damned good as it is.”

  Maxwell’s knuckles tightened around the stem of his glass. “I’m going to make a confession.” He leaned toward Xavier. “I once thought about marrying a woman like Roxanne and she wasn’t half so attractive, but she had a Ph.D. from Princeton and I was much younger then and could have forced myself to overlook a lot of other things. But when it came right down to the line, I realized that she just didn’t understand me. She just didn’t appreciate the problems I was going through. And if a woman can’t do that, at least she should be quiet and stay out of your way. Remember, a man only lives two places—at work and at home. You and I both know the sacrifices we made and are still making to walk that tightrope out there; it takes every ounce of strength we’ve got. So, can you afford to be drained when you come in here?” He stabbed his finger toward the ground. “Can you afford to be reminded—in five-syllable vocabularies no less—that the rope’s a lot thinner than you think and it’s a lot farther to the ground?” Maxwell’s voice had risen a quarter of an octave, which was his equivalent of hysteria, and it stunned Xavier.

  “But if you feel that way about it,” Xavier almost whispered, “I don’t understand why you were willing to weather all that flack when you promoted Mabel Thompson.”

  “Of course I promoted her.” Maxwell leaned back and smiled, taking a split second to regulate his breathing. “Any fool could see from her résumé that she was overqualified for that lousy job in the bookkeeping department. I brought her into my office and now I have one of the most efficient cost analysts in the eastern division. While all those other clowns were busy looking at her color and sex, I looked at her personnel file. And I knew that any woman who managed to support herself and two younger brothers while getting through accounting school with straight A’s would have to be a tiger. But you know what happens when you try to bed down with one? You get your balls clawed off. And that’s the bottom line, isn’t it?”

  Yes, that was the bottom line. Xavier could never see himself with any woman who wasn’t determined to go somewhere with her life. But he knew that the road was a lot more cluttered for a black woman and a successful journey meant sharpening her spirits to grind away all the garbage that stood in her way. And just maybe when that switch was turned on, it couldn’t tell the difference between his living flesh and anything else. If he needed anything more than Roxanne, he needed those constant reminders hung on him healthy and intact that he could still hang on.

  “Mabel probably needed those claws to survive.” Xavier frowned into his bourbon.

  “I’m sure she did. And I thank her, and my twenty percent reduction in marketing costs thanks her. But let somebody else marry her.”

  Xavier sighed and watched his ice cubes melt away into the amber fluid. He knew that if he watched them long enough, the frozen crystals would lose their shape and edges, become indistinguishable from the mahogany sea that was keeping them afloat. We read the same books, like the same … Just concentrate on the brown liquid that’s dissolving the ice. He didn’t have to get up and find a stirrer, or even rotate the glass. Just sit there and soon, very soon, there would be nothing but a mouthful of watery bourbon that could be gotten rid of in a single swallow with no harm to his throat or stomach, and definitely no chance of heartburn.

  “I understand what you’re saying, Maxwell. But that doesn’t leave much for me, and I’ve no intention of spending the rest of my life alone.”

  “You don’t have to—and it leaves quite a bit for you. And I’m hardly talking about only white women; this whole planet is full of women to choose from if you’re willing to branch out.”

  “Well, I guess I could ask to be transferred to one of the offices overseas—there’s no telling who I might meet on the plane.”

  “Laugh if you want to, but it won’t be a laughing matter when—”

  They were startled by a sharp rap on the back door. Oh God, he’d forgotten all about Lester being out in the garage. Xavier opened the kitchen door on two sweaty and grimy faces.

  “Your aunt said you’d pay us when we were through,” Lester greeted him curtly. “Well, we’re through.”

  “That was pretty quick.” Xavier started to smile at Lester but was stopped with, “Well, there was two of us, so what’s the problem?”

  “No, no problem. I’m just amazed at how efficient you were, because I know how cluttered that garage was.”

  “You can go out there and check if you don’t believe me. The newspapers are bundled and stacked beside the garbage bags and the boxes she left for all that other crap. And it’s all on the side of the house for the trash collectors.”

  “I believe you, Lester.” He turned to the darker boy. “I’m sure you fellas did a great job. I hope the car didn’t get in your way. Please, come in and I’ll go upstairs and get my wallet.” At that moment, Xavier’s conscience called for a great deal of generosity toward anything associated with Roxanne, even her arrogant kid brother.

  “We’d rather wait out here.”

  “Well, I could stand to use your bathroom.” Willie put his foot up on the back step.

  “Sure, come on in.”

  “You know the cold has a way of working on your bladder.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean.” Xavier held out his hand to Willie. “Xavier Donnell.”

  “Willie Mason, but I don’t think we should shake.” Willie turned his palms over. “My hands are pretty grubby.”

  “That’s okay, a little honest dirt won’t hurt me.”

  Lester stuck his hands in his pockets and rolled his eyes.

  Willie was amazed at the softness of Xavier’s skin. It felt like a woman’s hand against his rough knuckles and calloused palm. This guy probably never lifted anything heavier than a ballpoint pen.

  Maxwell, feeling that he had been left alone for more than an appropriate time, appeared in the kitchen door. “Xavier, I’ll hav
e to be going.”

  Xavier turned toward him quickly. “Yes, let me get your scarf.” He didn’t really want to introduce the boys, but felt it would be rude not to. “This is Lester Tilson, Roxanne’s brother, and his friend, Willie—Maxwell Smyth.”

  “Hiya.” Willie smiled.

  Maxwell nodded silently as he looked directly at Xavier. “It seems that this is your day for company.”

  “They’re not company,” he said a bit too quickly, and then turned back to them apologetically. “They’re doing some work for my aunt outside.”

  “That’s industrious.” Maxwell’s eyes swept over them.

  “No, that’s poverty.” Lester leaned against the sink.

  Maxwell seemed surprised—as if a parrot had been trained to answer him back. “Well, I suppose that poverty leads to industry,” intending his remark to be the final word in a useless exchange.

  Willie watched Maxwell’s face and had the strange feeling that this man’s words weren’t really meant to reach across the kitchen toward them. His eyes seemed to stop at the green tiles on the floor in front of their feet. Why, it was the same feeling that you got talking to some white people. He suddenly felt very invisible to this tall, impeccable man and needed to hear his own voice to prove that he was in the kitchen.

  “No, poverty just seems to lead to more poverty if you’re black,” Willie said loudly, and stared directly at Maxwell.

  Xavier looked nervously from Willie to Maxwell. “I’ll get your scarf. You can use the bathroom in the basement,” he said over his shoulder to Willie and started for the door.

  “No, wait.” Maxwell held up his finger. Willie saw his linty pea jacket, frayed jeans, and cheap shoes materialize in Maxwell’s eyes as they made their way slowly down his body. “You know, it’s that sort of an attitude that will keep some people cleaning out garages for the rest of their lives. Being black has nothing to do with being poor. And being poor doesn’t mean that you have to stay that way.”

  “Then I guess it’s just a coincidence”—Willie felt his heart pounding—“that the majority of black folks in this country are poor, have been poor, and will be poor for a long time to come.”

  “Well, I see that you can conjugate verbs.” Maxwell brushed an invisible speck off his jacket sleeve. “And a difficult verb at that. So it’s probably not too much for you to understand that the only reason so many black people are still nothing is because they keep their eyes turned backward toward the times when they could be little else, and are still crying about what they could never do while what they can do is swiftly passing them by. And so, in that case, you’re absolutely right—that type will always be nothing.”

  “First of all, I didn’t say that poor black people were nothing. And second—”

  “You might as well have,” Maxwell cut him off. “Because that’s just what it amounts to. It amounts to a blind, senseless existence due to an inability to take advantage of the progress that’s continually going on.”

  “Bullshit!” Lester’s voice startled everyone in the kitchen. “Man, you’re the one who has blinders on. You wanna know why most black people aren’t gonna move anywhere? Because this man’s government is ruled by the few for the few. And I don’t know how they taught you to spell progress in the school you went to, but on the streets you spell it W-H-I-T-E.”

  “I’m the living proof that that’s a lie,” Maxwell said softly. “And Xavier proves it too. And there are thousands just like us.”

  “Yeah, there are thousands,” Lester said, “in a community of tens of millions which is surrounded by a white community of hundreds of millions. And you know what your thousands boil down to? A handful of raisins in the sun, a coupla jigaboos by the door—and that’s it.”

  “But Lester, don’t you understand?” Xavier frowned. “Those doors are opening—slowly, it’s true—but they are opening. And we have to be ready to take advantage of it.”

  “He’s right,” Maxwell said. “And a perfect example is this month’s edition of Penthouse. You have it, don’t you, Xavier? Would you bring it here?”

  Xavier left the kitchen.

  “Now,” Maxwell said, “I’m a socially conscious man. And if we look at the scale of opportunities, who would really be at the bottom? Why, the black woman. If there were any doors to be shut, there would be more shut for her. I recently promoted a black woman in my office to an executive position and I was proud of that move because she deserved it. But that story is repeating itself all over this country. And you can’t tell me that if black women are moving up, the rest of the black community can’t.”

  Xavier handed Maxwell the magazine. “Now, just look at this.” Maxwell flipped through the pages. “There was a time when you couldn’t find a picture of one black woman in a magazine like Penthouse. And see what the centerfold is this month?”

  Lester and Willie moved toward the kitchen door to look at the pages Maxwell was pointing to. There was an eight-page spread of a lush, tropical forest and a very dark-skinned model with a short Afro. Her airbrushed body glistened between the thin leopard strips that crisscrossed under her high, pointed breasts and fastened behind her back. She wore a pair of high, leopard-skin boots that stopped just below her knees, and she was posed to pull against an iron chain that was wrapped around her clenched fists. Each page offered the reader a different view of her perfectly formed pelvis, hips, and hints of her manicured pubic hair as she wrestled with the chain held by an invisible hand off camera.

  The faces in the kitchen were close and quiet as the four heads followed the camera’s skillful blending of light and shadow that subtly changed female beauty into breathless body. Willie was the first to take his eyes away, and the blood that throbbed in his temples wasn’t desire but a whisper of shame.

  “You call this progress?” Lester’s head was still bent over the photograph. “They’re trying to tell you that black people still belong in the jungle.”

  “But look.” Maxwell flipped to the last page of the spread. The model had snatched the chain and brought its mysterious holder to her feet. One leg was raised in victory on the shoulder of a scrawny white man in a safari outfit, and his thick bifocals had slipped below the bridge of his nose. “That’s the message.” He pressed his finger on the photo, leaving behind a damp smudge. “And I don’t have to spell it out, this picture is worth a thousand words.” He closed the magazine dramatically. “Today Penthouse, my friends, and tomorrow the world.”

  Willie cringed inside when Maxwell called him “friend.” And suddenly he wanted to be invisible to this man again; it had felt much more comfortable. But still something had happened in the last five minutes that seemed to bring the four of them together over more than a magazine. Willie knew he had to leave that room before someone asked him about that picture.

  “Where did you say the bathroom was?” He turned to Xavier.

  “Just down these steps.” Xavier went to the basement door and switched on the light. “You could use the one upstairs”—he glanced at Willie’s grimy shoes—“but the whole place is carpeted.”

  “No problem, I’d rather go down here.”

  Xavier followed Maxwell out of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back, Lester.”

  “Don’t rush, I’m not planning to cop your toaster.”

  Maxwell adjusted his scarf at the front door. “So that’s Roxanne’s brother. I can see why you said she wasn’t a serious contender. That family has one foot in the ghetto and the other on a watermelon rind. There’s no question of your marrying into something like that—you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  Xavier watched Maxwell through the window as he sauntered toward his car. There were still plenty of questions left about Roxanne, but he didn’t have to answer them today. Or even tomorrow. He turned and picked up their glasses from the coffee table. The ice had melted completely into his bourbon and he swallowed it quickly before heading back to the kitchen.

  As Willie climbed back up the narrow
basement steps, it came to him why that photograph had troubled him, and it was more than just the heavy, iron chains. With her dark face, full lips, and high cheekbones, that woman was a dead ringer for his baby sister.

  She sat on the cot across from the shrouded body of her child with Luwana Packerville’s Bible resting open, face down on her lap. Her eyes were watery from trying to decipher the fine, webbed scrawl that was crammed onto the gold-edged tissue paper that separated one book of the Bible from another. Except for the date, 1837, stamped on the cover, there were no dates heading the various entries and no apparent order to the aging fragments of this woman’s mind. Many of the tissued dividers had been left blank while others held entries that were evidently months or even years apart. She had reached the page between Jeremiah and Lamentations when she put her head back against the wall and closed her aching eyes.

  Luther told me today that I have no rights to my son. He owns the child as he owns me. He grew terribly enraged when I ventured a mild protest, and showed me the papers that were signed over to his agent in Tupelo. Foolish creature that I am, I thought my sale to him was only a formality. I thought in the name of decency my husband would have destroyed the evidence of my cursed bondage. But he keeps those documents securely locked away. O Blessed Saviour, can it be that I have only exchanged one master for another? Can it be that the innocent scribblings I sought only to hide from a husband’s amused contempt are now the diary of a slave?

  She thought her marriage would set her free, and it should have. It should have. She massaged her throbbing forehead. There must have been some law in this country that made that so. He was just being cruel and trying to frighten her. And she was so happy about that wedding. Finally free. Freed from those endless luncheons with other lonely women who could well afford the pewter-and-fern atmosphere that accompanied the piano bar and stuffed sole as they talked about all the right things while the real things would have to wait until the second carafe was ordered. Because they could ill afford the reflections waiting at the bottom of their empty wineglasses, that something must be missing if they only had each other across the table week after week. Freed from the burden of that mental question mark on her left ring finger—What’s wrong with you if no one’s wanted you by now?—since she could wear a metal band in its place. And so she had been free to marry a man that she didn’t love because there was no question of asking for love in return. It had been enough that he needed her. Enough to keep her silent when he brought her the gown and veil he had chosen. He wanted her all in white. And she put away the pale blue silk with silver netting and wore his heavy satin with loose brocade panels that hid her breasts and the outline of her waist and hips; the cloudy veil so dense and folded she could barely see out and surely no one could see in. All in white—even her hands were covered with thick kidskin gloves as she carried the ivory roses and baby’s breath. She shuddered at the ghostly image—a strange beginning.