“I can’t argue with you on that one.” I smiled. “Hey, when are you gonna come home?”
“Maybe in the summer—July,” he said. His speech was so standardized now, no hint of the southern drawl. “So, what else is up?”
I thought of telling him about the mess at my school, but decided not to burden him with something that I wasn’t sure would amount to anything. “Same old same old. Working, going to church. What about you?”
“Well, actually, I’ve been doing a lot of reading and thinking and praying. I’m debating on whether or not to reenlist after this term. Maybe Daddy’s lectures are getting to me.” He gave a troubled laugh.
“But I thought you really enjoyed the military.”
“I do. It’s just that—I think it’s time for me to move on. This experience has taught me a lot, and I think it’s time that I took this knowledge and applied it in some other field. Maybe teaching.”
“Are you serious?” I envisioned my little brother dressed in slacks, dress shirt, and tie, standing in front of a classroom full of little black faces, filling them with knowledge and hope. I was proud already.
“Yes. But I’m still praying on it.”
“You’d make a great teacher. And black boys need role models and structure like nobody’s business,” I encouraged him.
“Well, that’s just the thing,” Jonathan said. “It’s a black thing, and then it isn’t. I know that black boys need to see black men doing things.
But by the same token, people need to help people regardless of race, you know? It’s not nearly as much about color as I once believed. At least that’s what I’ve learned in the military.”
Okay, I’m cool with the whole humanitarian thing. But the fact still remained, in my book: black men needed to be in classrooms primarily for black reasons. Jonathan ain’t thinking black and white, because he ain’t in America. “Well, I do hope that you give it considerable time and prayer. We could definitely use you in our field.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Well, speaking of the field of education, I’ve gotta go. It’s Wednesday night—that means tutoring at True Way. It’ll be a madhouse, but I’m enjoying it.”
We ended our conversation with love and promises to talk again soon.
True to my prediction, I was completely swamped at Wednesday night tutorials. We were nearing the end of the three-week grading period, so kids came from miles around to get help. I was almost sweating from the immense pressure and the physical demand of buzzing around the crowded room. At one point, some of the kids became so frustrated with having to wait to ask specific questions that I had to tell them to come back after the service and I’d help them when church was over. I ended up staying another half hour, working with the kids whose parents were willing to let them stay late and get the extra help.
The last student, Reshawn, asked me to pray with her because there was a very good chance she’d end up in summer school if she didn’t pass her next test. Reshawn, her father, and I prayed, touching hands and agreeing that Reshawn would be successful through Christ. They also prayed for me, that the Lord would send me help with Wednesday night tutoring.
I went home and rejoiced. Thank you in advance for the help, Lord.
Thursday morning I rose a little earlier due to the career fair. I put on my best red pantsuit and took time to apply my makeup neatly. Days like these, when our campus had visitors, I felt as if I was on display. I had to represent on so many levels: women, African-Americans, the best that the field of education had to offer. By the same token, it was also my time to shine and to proclaim to the world: “I’m a black woman thriving in a white man’s world. How you like me now?”
I was pleased to find the kiosks already set up when I got to work. Miss Jan had directed most of the representatives to their slotted spaces just beyond the foyer. Some of the presenters were already networking, exchanging cards and talking over coffee. The students weren’t in the building yet, but there was already an electricity in the air.
I wasn’t running late, but everyone else seemed to be running early. I overheard Miss Jan talking to one of the teachers, Miss Gallahan, about one of the presenters.
“Did you get a look at him?”
“Yes,” Miss Jan cooed, “he certainly is good-looking.”
“If I had known that we were going to have centerfolds here, I would have worn my blue dress,” Miss Gallahan laughed.
“Good morning, Ms. Smith.” Miss Jan finally noticed me looking at the papers in my In box, only a few feet away. She handed me a name tag to stick on myself so that the visitors could easily identify me.
“Hi, Miss Gallahan. What’s all this talk about a handsome man?” I asked casually.
“That engineer from Brown-Cooper. He’s a dream. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, and the body of a god. Absolutely gorgeous.” She smiled. Her flaming red hair framed her face in perfect little innocent ringlets.
“Well, what are you doing in here? It’s your conference period—get out there and go learn about the wonderful world of mechanical engineering,” I teased her.
She blew a puff of air that made the ringlet on her forehead flutter. “Like he’d really want me.”
“Don’t knock yourself.” I shook my head. “There is no reason on earth why he wouldn’t want you.” I truly didn’t see anything wrong with Miss Gallahan. She was just as cute as the next white woman in line. And it turned out that there were several.
The women’s restroom looked like backstage at a cheerleaders’ competition: hairspray clouding up the room, perfume clashing, and not an inch to spare in the mirror. I said a quick “Good morning” and then rushed into an empty stall. A few of them joked about all the eligible men present in the building, but the engineer was obviously the catch of the day.
“He is so gorgeous,” I heard one of them say. “I could drink his bathwater.” The other teachers in the restroom laughed with playful shock.
“He’s probably gay,” someone said. “Men that gorgeous are always gay.”
See, Lord, this is why I don’t get involved with white women. All this “oh-my-gaw!”
It never failed—every time I tried to sit down and have a heart-to-heart with a white woman, I could not relate. The stuff that happens to us every day is just life-altering for them. So your husband got a ticket? So your son didn’t get into the college of his dreams? So you didn’t get the mortgage? And? Life goes on—but not to them. They think everything is supposed to handed to them on a silver platter. Maybe because it usually is; who knows? This business of a whole bunch of ‘em crowded up around a mirror to meet one man is just another example of the kind of stuff I can’t get involved with.
I left the restroom, striding confidently into the main foyer of the building. One foot in front of the other, shoulders thrown back like a runway model. My shoes hit the floor with the distinctive pattern of a woman taking sure steps: no dragging of the heels, no short skips. There was too much at stake.
It didn’t take long before I saw this man that they were all making such a big fuss about. As he busily rearranged the brochures at his table, I noticed that there was a picture of him clasping hands with an older black man. He was the Brown of Brown-Cooper Engineering. It was Cooper who was black.
As I got closer to the Brown-Cooper display, I found myself giving this man his props. Okay, he was up there with the best of the white men. He was action-movie fine. Muscles, nice tan, wavy hair. He aught. Then I got a whiff of his cologne. Okay, I had to give it to him—he had it going on, for a white man. To my surprise, I felt my stomach tighten.
“Miss Smith?” he asked, extending his hand.
“Yes,” I said, shaking his smooth hand. Never worked a hard day in his thirty-something years.
“I’m Stelson Brown. We talked the other day. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said.
“Same here,” I said before he released my hand. “Looks like you’re just about finished setting up. Is th
ere anything I can do to help?”
“Oh, no, thanks.” He smiled again. My eyes caught the little tattoo on his upper arm. A small blue lion with a banner underneath bearing the initials S.A.B. What kind of mess is that? I didn’t want him to know that I was looking at it, so I willed myself to stop staring and start talking.
“Well,” I continued, trying to remain strictly professional, “the students should be down to visit the exhibits in about another ten minutes. Be sure to let either myself or Miss Jan, my secretary, know if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Miss Smith,” he answered. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
I moseyed on down the aisle of vendors and continued greeting the businessmen and women who were setting up their kiosks and booths. The displays and handouts were colorful and intriguing, sure to keep the interest of the students—though none of the other representatives were as cordial as Mr. Brown.
Later in the morning, Miss Gallahan came to the exhibit with her class. “See what I mean?” she asked, referring to Mr. Brown.
“You were right.” I played it down. “He is attractive.”
She whispered, “Look at how everyone is just throwing themselves at him.” Though the students were busy visiting every booth and stocking up on freebies, most of the teachers were clustered at or near Brown-Cooper. Fresh makeup, hair released from ponytail holders and clips. It was ridiculous.
I would have been embarrassed, except for the fact that Mr. Brown was so wrapped up in talking to the kids that he wasn’t paying much attention to his admirers. I got the feeling he was used to women flocking around him. Maybe it was in the way he smiled at the teachers casually but engaged himself in meaningful conversation with the students. I was impressed with the way he handled himself.
At a quarter till twelve, the exhibit was officially over. Presenters packed their materials as the cafeteria lunch shifts began. I returned to my office to call personnel regarding a long-term substitute for a teacher who would soon be out on maternity leave.
Just as I was about to make the call, my phone rang once, and then I heard Miss Jan’s voice through my phone’s speaker. “Miss Smith, Mr. Brown would like to have a word with you.”
“Oh, okay. Send him in.”
He knocked politely as he entered. “Hello.”
“Well, how did it go?” I looked up from my paperwork, tapping my pen on my desk.
“It was great,” he said, “I really enjoyed myself with these kids, and I owe it all to you. I’d like to take you to lunch.”
I stopped tapping my pen. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m asking you out to lunch.”
Did this white man just ask me out to lunch? “Um. Oh.”
“I mean, if it’s okay.” He waited for my answer, shifting his weight from one side to the other.
My first thought was to turn him down and let this little white man go on his merry way. I might even let him down easy—tell him that I’ll take a rain check. But something caught my eye in the window just beyond him. There, in a little huddle, was a small congregation of white women “casually” waiting near the exit doors for their handsome Mr. Brown to walk by in hopes that one of them might actually get to talk to him personally. Even Ms. Ash- ton had herself out there on display.
And then it hit me—this was the chance of a lifetime. I had the opportunity, for once, to show white women what it feels like to have one of your most eligible bachelors snatched off the market right before your very eyes. Then maybe they’d tell two friends. And so on and so on and so on, until we got our men back. Well, that was a long shot, but it would certainly feel good.
A stealthy grin spread across my face. “I’d love to, Mr. Brown.”
You couldn’t beat me slinging my coat on to walk out that door with him. “Miss Jan, Mr. Brown and I are going out to lunch.”
Her mouth dropped. “Okay. Okay. Okay.”
The look on her face was priceless. We waltzed past her and on to the main entrance, where Mr. Brown’s newly formed fan club was all smiles until they saw me by his side. My long, proud strides made my hair bounce up and down like somebody on a shampoo commercial. The whole scene went by in slow motion. Elation at his presence. Confusion at mine. Disappointment that Mr. Brown was obviously in my company.
“Thanks for inviting me to lunch, Mr. Brown. I’m starved,” I said aloud.
Mr. Brown, oblivious to the drama going on around him, replied, “You’re welcome. And please—call me Stelson.”
I turned my head just in time to give Ms. Ashton a mouthful of smiling teeth. Unfortunately, that smile also extended to Miss Gallahan. I did feel a little sorry for her— she was a nice woman who was on the lookout for a decent white man. Earlier that morning, I’d encouraged her to approach Mr. Brown, and here I was leaving the building with him. But it didn’t really matter—I didn’t want him. She could have him back later.
“Oh, you can call me LaShondra,” I said casually. Once outside the building, I suggested that we go in separate cars so that he could get back to his business before too long.
“That’s fine,” he agreed. “I’ll follow you.”
I hopped into my Honda and waited for him to pull up behind me near the exit. Stelson followed me in a white Ford pickup bearing his company’s logo, and we were on our way to Chester’s Bar and Grill.
At the restaurant, the lunch crowd was in full swing, and we were told that we’d have to wait a few minutes to be seated. Stelson gestured toward an empty bench, and we sat waiting for our table. Having already achieved the desired effect I wanted with the teachers on campus, my business with Stelson was officially over as far as I was concerned. Okay, I knew it was wrong to use him in my vengeful plot against white women. Forgive me, Lord.
An older white man with white hair and a ranch-style mustache came into the restaurant next and put his name on the waiting list. “Dunley,” I heard him say. He took off his hat, revealing a bald crown with a few lonesome strands of hair combed over the otherwise smooth dome. Then he looked around for a place to sit. He approached the bench where Stelson and I were seated, and commenced squeezing in between us.
“Excuse me.” Stelson stopped him. “We’re here together.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” The man hopped up and apologized again. “I just assumed…”
Stelson took in a deep breath and seemed to be daring the man to say one thing out of line. “You’re welcome to sit beside us.” Stelson slid close to me and offered the empty space created by our close quarters. But the man refused, still offering his apologies. He found a corner and stood.
“Brown,” one of the waitresses called.
On the way to our table, I felt a sensation in my body that felt like attraction. I was a little upset with my body for betraying me, conjuring up this uncomfortable feeling that would be going absolutely nowhere quick with this white man. I convinced myself that the attraction was universal— a boy-meets-girl thing.
I ordered sweet tea, and Stelson ordered a Coke. We took the next few minutes to peruse the menu. I knew that menu backward and forward, but I didn’t have anything to say to Stelson. When the waitress returned with our drinks, we placed the orders for our food. She took up the menus, and there we were. Me and this white man, Stelson. The incident with “Dunley” was just another reminder that I was in the wrong place with the wrong person.
“So’, LaShondra,” he began the conversation, “do you enjoy being a principal?”
“Very much so. And you—do you enjoy engineering?”
“Yes, but I think I might have caught the teaching bug today.” He laughed.
“Well, if you ever decide to change fields, there will always be a place for you,” I assured him.
The women next to us were whispering and glancing our way. The younger woman, a brunette dressed in casual shopping clothes, pointed her pinky finger at Stelson. It was done so carelessly that it was obviously intentional.
“I was so glad you guys called and asked me to be a part
of the career fair. I had my secretary reschedule a few appointments so I could make it. The students were great— nothing like what I read about in the papers.”
I smiled. “You know, Mr. Brown, it’s a well-kept secret that children aren’t much different today than when we were children. They just want to have fun. Problem is, most adults have conveniently forgotten what it’s like to be a kid.”
“It’s easy to block the rough years out,” he agreed.
A black couple on their way to being seated looked us over twice as they passed. The man, short and chubby with a clean-shaven head and a sharp goatee, looked mostly at me—as if to ask, why? And the woman, short and chubby to match, gave me that I-ain’t-mad-at-you look.
I placed the red linen napkin across my lap and mentally ran down the rules of etiquette: no elbows on the table, knife at the top of the plate, short fork for the salad. When our food arrived, the waitress was especially careful to avoid eye contact with either of us. What is her problem? Come to think of it, I was beginning to wonder, what was everybody’s problem? Maybe that weird feeling I had wasn’t attraction but the judgmental vibes from people staring at me. Either way, I didn’t like it and I was ready to leave.
“Do you mind if I say a blessing over the food?” Stelson asked.
I was caught completely off guard. “No. Go ahead.” He offered to pray?
“Father, we thank You for this food that has been prepared for us. Bless the hands that prepared it, and let it be a blessing unto our bodies. In Your Son Christ Jesus’ name, amen.”
“Mmm.” That escaped from my throat before I could catch it.
“What was that?” he asked.
I bit my lip and then answered honestly. What have I got to lose? “I was just thinking, when you prayed, you pray like you know who you’re talking to.”
“I do,” he said without hesitation.
I smiled, pleased to be in the company of someone who wasn’t shy about proclaiming his faith. My shoulders relaxed, and that tense feeling in my stomach subsided, though
I could still feel the butterflies. It was interesting for once, to eat lunch with another professional who actually blessed his food. If nothing else, he put up a good front. I had no intentions, however, of delving beneath it.
Boaz Brown Page 9