Rogue Acts

by Molly O'Keefe

  Well, it wasn’t as if he—and all of her new neighbors, really—didn’t have reason to mistrust her. She wasn’t from here. She looked like change. And they’d already had enough changes here in the last couple of years.

  That complicated mishmash was part of what she’d been trying to acknowledge at the board interview so of course it had come out garbled. Maybe she wasn’t that gentrifier: It wasn’t like she planned immediately on buying cases of European organic mineral spring water at the Whole Foods and calling the cops any time kids hung out for more than 3 minutes on the stoop. She wanted the people who already lived in this neighborhood to be able to stay here, right alongside her. But even if she didn’t want to be intrusive, even with the best of intentions, she was helping to tip some sort of small scale. She was a ripple in the ecosystem—but she hoped that maybe she could offset it, make friends, make ties. She wasn’t chasing fashion and luxury and a few more square feet of space. She was here for the long haul.

  But Monroe Webb couldn’t know that—not when so many people who were moving into the community were certainly doing that while claiming that they meant no harm.

  And so, he didn’t like her.

  She understood his reasoning, but it hurt; she couldn’t really like him much either. She might want to lick the line of his cheekbones, she could envy his style, and his voice could make her melt—but she couldn’t like him.

  That was what she decided as she slowed, sweaty, tired, but still marveling at the trees bowing across the winding paths, the hills leading to views of the city. She hadn’t exactly enjoyed her run, but she did feel happy about finishing and about her surroundings. She was stumping toward a water fountain when she saw him again—and this time there was no doubt that he’d spotted her.

  He gave her a short nod as he sailed past her. His breath even, his stride long and smooth. Unconsciously, she stopped to watch him—admire him—as he rounded the corner and disappeared into the cover of trees.

  Then she shook the sweat out of her hair and made her way slowly back home—back to the stately, solid 1900s building, with the tiny handprints on sidewalk out front, and stone steps polished and worn where so many feet had passed before hers, into the hallway where the scent of cooking—the spices unfamiliar to her and delicious—curled around her and beckoned her to her apartment, her place, her refuge.

  2

  Monroe sat in the hard metal chair at Community Board 10’s weekly meeting. The speaker had been droning for the last 10 minutes and Monroe could feel his patience ebbing. All he seemed to do was go to meetings instead of actually doing something.

  He’d become interested in the meetings, first as a young, concerned father, as a neighbor and homeowner—taking notes with a pad and pen. And then because he soon learned that it was the best way to find out about who was starting up new after-school programs, to register complaints about snow on the sidewalks when downtown had been plowed, and to make sure his corner of the world was heard by the folks at City Hall and beyond. He was present and interested enough that he’d even been asked to run in the primaries for a chance at a city council seat. But back then, he’d had Cal to get through high school and college. He felt like he’d been barely keeping himself together, despite his reputation for cool. More important, and what most people didn’t know, he was a shy man who valued his privacy. He believed in showing up, he believed in people—well, some people—but he preferred to hold his life hidden in his own hands.

  Now he wondered if he’d been wrong to turn down those requests. Maybe he hadn’t done enough. And yet, how much more could he give? He needed just a little bit for himself—a scrap of privacy, of time. Now, as before, he tried to carve that private space out while in a room full of people, tapping notes out on his phone instead of writing with a pad and pen, sitting there as a community liaison as part of his duties as an administrator for the Museum of Harlem History and Heritage. The writing implements changed; the feelings, it seemed, didn’t. Meanwhile, the world went backwards and sideways and any way but up.

  Well, that wasn’t quite true. The crowds were better—his community had shown up. Used to be, there were slow nights, indifference. Lately, every meeting boasted a full house; the mood had been urgent since that November, in the couple of years leading up to it, really. Now he saw more worried, determined faces, more smart, young women, more of everyone feeling every damn thing. He would be proud—he was proud—except he was also angry for everyone.

  And of course, she was there, too. He was a little disconcerted that he picked Annie Wu out so easily, but it was probably because he couldn’t seem to do anything nowadays without seeing her. She was in his park, her sturdy legs clipping briskly along the paths, waving too enthusiastically at his fellow runners. She was at the grocery store, pink lips pursed, eyeglasses perched at the end of her nose as she studied a label. He had to admit to himself, her concentration was, well, cute. But then he’d see her again at the back of the library talking, always chatting with different people at a messy, paper-strewn table. He decided he could never respect someone so loud, someone who thought she was above the rules in a place that should be quiet.

  She was irritating and ever-present. Now she was at this community board meeting, just a few rows away, probably gearing up to object to—he checked the agenda—a street art festival.

  He frowned at his phone and hoped that she didn’t spot him. At least he didn’t have to present today. For some reason, he didn’t want to have to speak in front of her. Not because it was a bad idea. His work at the museum didn’t bring down tyrants, or expose corruption, or strike down bad legislation, but he helped make a space for history, where people could talk about it and celebrate. But if she were sitting in the audience, he knew—he knew—that he would begin explaining to her, asking her for some sort of understanding—and that he’d be disappointed. If she laughed, if she didn’t take it seriously, he didn’t know what he would do. And then he’d have to go home and live in the same building with her.

  Why her opinion of him was so important, he didn’t know. But seeing her around the neighborhood got him used to seeing her—like the way water made you wet, he thought grimly. She made him a little stupid. She made him abandon his train of thought. She made him lose his cool—and in that way, she made him lose a little of himself. Maybe it was because he liked the way she threw her whole body into a laugh—even if it was inappropriate to be loud in the library—her hair flying as she threw her head back, her hands slapping down on her fine runner’s legs and her feet which rose in the air off her chair. She was a woman who gave herself to the moment and that was… seductive. And that was all wrong for him.

  He risked another sidewise glance at her.

  She was wearing a stretchy skirt that covered her legs. A pity. Now he knew her tastes were more athletic than he’d initially expected, but maybe a co-op interview wasn’t the greatest place to gauge someone’s character. Or at least their fashion sense. Hers wasn’t an aesthetic he loved, but he had to admit, there was something compelling about the way she moved and ran—or sat still, listening.

  As if sensing that he was assessing her, she turned slightly and her eyes caught his.

  She nodded, and he nodded back.

  It was only after her attention went back to the speaker that he realized he’d been holding his breath.

  And he’d missed one entire item about parking and street closures.

  It was late when he got out of the meeting. The wide stretch of 125th was relatively empty, although a few vendors selling oils and incense and bootleg DVDs were still out. It was getting cooler and he was hungry. He bought a Jamaican meat patty from a nearby take-out counter and leaned under an awning to eat it.

  And of course, he saw her again—she wasn’t far away at all. Because of course, she’d be walking in the same direction as he. It wasn’t fate or kismet or even his own surprisingly strong curiosity about her. But it felt that way.

  She hurried past a window boasting
a huge screen which abruptly flashed a familiar figure of a man with orange skin. Even as Monroe drew back involuntarily, she barely slowed her pace but turned up both her middle fingers to it, clearly an automatic gesture that still managed to be vehement and crudely sexual.

  It was so surprising, her small figure superimposed against that piece of human blight, that Monroe laughed, so much that he almost choked.

  Then she was gone, vanished around the corner, as was the orange embodiment of all of Monroe’s current fear and rage. And Monroe laughed again, not realizing how keyed up he’d been since that November, not realizing how much he’d needed to laugh. And he just couldn’t feel ashamed of the temporary joy and fearlessness Annie Wu had brought him—nor could he find regret at his inappropriate arousal as he pictured her again, fingers blazing.

  For a month, Annie saw Monroe everywhere. At the grocery store, at the library, at community board meetings, at more and more frequent marches and vigils. He’d be shooting the breeze with friends at the corner of the park or walking briskly to some important destination, always handsome and cool in his crisp suits, even on the hottest days. And every single time she went out to train, she passed him on the paths of Marcus Garvey, his long strides taking him on an opposite course. The fact that they always met while traveling in different directions was probably a metaphor for something. Even when she changed her route she would always encounter the man at least once. He gave her a nod and she tried to try to smile back, although it probably came out as a run-stressed grimace. In fact, she saw him pretty much everywhere—except in the building they both called home. Until, of course, it was time for the building potluck.

  “Monroe, you come here,” said a voice close behind her at the end of the food line. “Got to keep up his strength,” Ms. Hernandez told Annie. “All that jogging. He’s training for a marathon around Marcus Garvey Park.”

  “A marathon,” Annie said. “Are they going to have to run around the park a million times?”

  “Not quite,” Monroe’s familiar voice interjected. How it had become familiar, Annie had no idea. Because all the man ever did was frown wordlessly at her.

  “That would be ridiculous. And it wouldn’t be a million times. Our park isn’t as small-time as you seem to think it is. The race is only a 10k. We’ll run up Madison, then around Marcus Garvey.”

  Obviously, Annie had made everything worse by saying that his park was tiny. Not that it was his. And she had just been exaggerating a little—she knew the mileage! He’d seen her run in it day after day. Those paths were as much hers as they were his.

  But Ms. Gloria Hernandez didn’t seem to be aware of the currents swirling around them. “Ten k, ten l, ten m, ten anything to do with running sounds like too much.”

  Saying so, she retreated gracefully to her lawn chair as if exhausted and let the rest of the residents come to her. Which they did, offering her first choice of all the dishes.

  “Oh, the 10k. I guess I’m entering that,” Annie said, sounding maybe a touch defensive even though she wasn’t sure about what.

  “Figures.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I do see you training. Every day.”

  “Yeah, it’s funny how we seem to bump into each other all the time.”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t think she was doing it on purpose, did he? Wretched man.

  She didn’t know why she bothered trying to appease him. “Well, it’s a great neighborhood. Everyone is friendly.”

  Unspoken was the except for you. But they both heard it.

  There was an awkward silence as the line advanced.

  Annie turned her attention to the food. There were two long tables groaning with full platters, and a phalanx of residents stood helping to serve and to chat with everyone. From where she stood, she saw dark collards, peas and rice, two heaping aluminum trays of glistening ribs, stuffed peppers, empanadas, a platter with a kind of fried rice that smelled amazing, and thick, rich stew that she guessed was chicken and peanut.

  Her heart soared even as her stomach grumbled. She hoped Monroe hadn’t noticed her unruly organs.

  But evidently, he had. “Wait ‘til you see the dessert table. I made a pecan pie.”

  She loved pecan pie. And his was probably particularly delicious because Mr. Ice Man probably had the cold hands required of pastry-making. Monroe likely did everything—running, dressing, baking pie—perfectly. The fucker.

  Not to be outdone, she said, “I brought fried dumplings—the Chinese kind—over there on the far table.”

  She did feel pretty proud of them.

  “Do you cook a lot?”

  “Not really. It’s the only slightly complicated thing I know how to make, and I learned them because it seemed like a good way to become popular.”

  She startled a laugh out of him—an endearing wheeze that he seemed to want to suppress. He ended in a rumble so deep that it made her heels tingle.

  There was another silence, but this time they were staring at each other, her head tilted up, his down. And it was again very, very awkward. Maybe because Annie had forgotten to breathe.

  But they had moved right up to the table and it was her turn to hold out her plate. She summoned a still somewhat dazed smile for Tatyana Williams from the second floor and tried to make chit chat with Mrs. Ali from six.

  It was enough to let her shake off that that moment with Monroe Webb. It was all probably just an aberration. She was happy and excited because it was good to stand in this line with her neighbors. Sure, she wanted Monroe Webb to like her. For one thing, it would be more pleasant, seeing as he lived across the hall and she saw him everywhere. For another, well, he was handsome. And smart. And he had kind of the same interests as her, it seemed.

  And when he smiled at her, it was like the sun fucking rose in the goddamn sky.

  But she couldn’t help being acutely conscious of him next to her. So she let the generous women of her building pile her plate high with every delicious thing—so high that she had to walk very carefully to the nice empty corner at the courtyard where she’d be able to inhale all the food, and hopefully sort out her jumbled thoughts.

  What she didn’t expect, though, was for Monroe Webb to follow her.

  It seemed natural to stick by Annie after they’d filled their plates. She greeted everyone easily, asking about children and grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and pets with surprising familiarity—well, surprising to him. Monroe had lived in the building for years, and he sure didn’t know the names of everyone’s cats.

  Yet another part of him marveled at how quickly she had recovered from their little moment.

  She chose a corner of the courtyard, and they were both quiet for a while. This food was serious business.

  “Look at how we’re organized,” she murmured.

  Monroe glanced around. He wouldn’t say it was efficient—not that a potluck was supposed to be, he thought with an internal grin. Most of the neighbors stood chatting in small clumps while the children played tag. A group of people, anchored of course by Ms. Hernandez, sat near the sidewalk in lawn chairs near a stereo playing Celia Cruz. And the food line inched along because everyone seemed to be talking to each other.

  But Annie interrupted his observations, adding, “It reminds me a little of church—the one I grew up in, at least—the way the women, always the women, automatically take up stations behind the food.”

  “Jamilah Gaines stands behind the mac and cheese so that she can tell people that hers is better—not that she’s ever brought her own to one of these parties.”

  “And people left a chair open for Ms. Hernandez, and see the way she beckons all the new people to her so that they feel comfortable? And how many people have made sure that her plate is always full.”

  She added, “It just reminds me of when I was younger and still went to church. At least that’s how my parents, my husband, how some groups of Chinese and Taiwanese immigrants socialized and how g
atherings would end up looking like this. I was never very good at being a part of it, though, or saying the right thing at the right time.”

  Her face flushed. “I think you’ve probably noticed that tactlessness. But I left that part of the community when I left my marriage. Most of the time it’s okay.”

  He was dismayed to realize that he’d been jolted when she referred to her husband. But of course, he knew that she was divorced.

  To cover up he said, “You miss it?”

  “At times like this, I do.”

  “You know, this may look cohesive, but not all black people have the same ways or go to the same church. First of all, there is an entire history—entire waves of all different kinds of black people settling in Harlem. Just in this building, we have Afro-Latino neighbors, people from the Caribbean, immigrants from Ghana, Muslim African Americans, Baptists, Catholics, and Presbyterians.”

  “Yes,” she said looking up at him. “I know some of that history. I’d like to learn more.”

  They gazed at each other again. It was another moment.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to invite her to come to the museum but… but what? What was this urge he always felt to show her the things that he found important? The things that he loved? Why did he want to be the one to put a look of wonder onto Annie Wu’s face? He thought of his smart-mouthed son suddenly, and how much Cal might enjoy talking to her.

  But he didn’t offer to show her anything—he didn’t ask her out—and in a minute she dropped her eyes.

  They ate in silence for a good long time. There was a lot of food to get through anyway, and all of it demanded to be savored. Monroe tried, but he didn’t taste half of it, not while his companion seemed lost in her own thoughts.

  “You’ve given me ideas,” she finally said after her plate was clean—and his. “I’m going to go stand over there a little off from the dumplings and talk them up. I won’t look nakedly ambitious, but I’ll still benefit from their popularity. It always feels so much better when you get to take home an empty platter.”