The Healing

by Gayl Jones

  Well, I never heard of Isabel Kong till I met you, but then I ain’t into gangster lore. Anyway, all I know is he breeds racehorses now, and that’s the truth, ’cause I seen his farm. And he ain’t a gangster. And he’s got all these security guards. He’s a paranoid fool, but he’s a likable man.

  When the television camera panned the Fasig-Tipton sales arena, you know the tent where they have the sales, in the background, near a post, stood Nicholas. I started to point him out too, but I didn’t. I finished the salad and put the bowl back on the tray.

  When do you plan to see him again? she asked.

  I don’t.

  She chewed.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Who finished seventh in the 1971 Derby? he asked. Tribal Line, I answered, offering him some mixed nuts. You do know your horseflesh, he said smiling, taking some of the nuts and nibbling. I know I do, I said. He counted out ten fives, handed them to me, all the while looking like he’d won. Make her go another round, said his buddy, frowning. He shook his head when I offered him some nuts. I’ve got to catch my train, fellows, I said, putting the bills in my purse. This is the second call. Fifth in 1969, he called as I hurried toward the doors. Top Knight, I called back. Fifth in 1972. Sensitive Music, I called back and waved. He was smiling. His buddy was shaking his head. I settled on the train and took out the new lead sheets Joan had sent. I glanced back out the window and the fellow I had won the fifty dollars from was waving and looking like he was in love, while his buddy stood nearby looking disgusted. I blew them both a kiss, shook some more mixed nuts into my palm, and settled down to go over the leads.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  They were crowding outside the door, there for their daily handout, but Grandmother Jaboti wouldn’t let them in. If they were mine, she said, I’d put them to work sweeping the floor or cleaning my brushes, and then I’d give the bums something to eat after they’d done worked for it.

  She shushed them away from the door, telling them to wait till Cornelia came.

  You would think with all Cornelia’s saints that she’d tell these bums that they’s only to eat by the sweat of they brow.

  They ain’t called bums nowadays, Grandmother Jaboti, I said.

  A bum’s a bum, she said. I ain’t a politician, but I know a bum.

  After a while, we heard footsteps upon the porch, then a jiggle in the latch of the door. Here’s Cornelia now. Watch ’em come running back.

  Harlan, darling, what a surprise, she said as she entered. We hugged and stood smiling at each other and then Grandmother’s bums and Mother’s little Christs came marching in. Now, there weren’t just men among the “bums,” though, but a few women and children.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Cornella, you want to take her or you want me to? Grandmother Jaboti asked.

  Now I should explain here that Jaboti ain’t my grandmother’s real name. She say it her carnival name. That once when the carnival she was working for went to Brazil, to Rio, that one of them Brazilians named her Jaboti instead of Turtle Woman, and so she just kept that name. Jaboti, she said, was a turtle trickster in Brazilian folklore. Me I don’t know whether that’s one of them true lies or not. I just know that everybody call her Grandmother Jaboti like it her true name.

  You take her, said my mother. Mrs. Smoot, the pharmacist’s wife, is due in here in ten minutes, Little girl didn’t make no appointment, did she?

  Naw, just popped her head in the door. Well, I’ve told her she’s come to the right beauty shop because we only use New York and imported beauty products in our shop. We might be local, but our beauty products come from all over the world.

  I didn’t know I had to make an appointment, the girl explained. This my first time in a beauty parlor. She looked about seventeen and timid. She said again this was her first time in a beauty shop, that she’d never had her hair professionally done before. Her timidity reminded me of me at her age, when they used to call me Possum.

  This your first time in a beauty parlor? Grandmother Jaboti repeated, as the girl climbed into the high chair.

  Yes ma’am.

  Lay your head back.

  The girl lay her head back so that it was over the sink. Her hair was carelessly straightened and tied back with a rubber band; it looked dull and damaged, its edges uneven. You could tell she’d never had a professional conditioning or trim.

  When you pull your hair back tight like this it breaks the edges off, said my grandmother. See how bad your edges is. Girl, what is you doing to your head? White gals can wear their hair like this. Colored hair is fragile. You wants a permanent?

  Yes ma’am. I’m going away to college.

  Well, I can’t give you a permanent until I get your hair in some condition. It’s too brittle now. Colored people’s hair is fragile, so you gots to treat it delicate. I gots to get it strong or else it’ll fall all out if I try to put this permanent in it. ’Less you wants to wear it natural. Them Afros is back in style. They ain’t never gone out of style with me, but you know how some folks is.

  No, ma’am, I want a permanent.

  How long you got before you go off to school?

  About two weeks.

  What school is you going to? Kentucky State?

  No ma’am. Bennington.

  Been what? Don’t believe I heard o’ that one.

  It’s in Vermont. I got a scholarship to go there.

  Grandmother took the rubber band off her hair, spread the girl’s hair in her fingers and looked at it. Well, child, I do my best. I wash and condition it this week and straighten it regular, with the straightening comb, and then you put this cream conditioner on it every night and every morning and then you come back next week. Honey, how’d you get your hair in this mess?

  The girl said nothing. I lit a cigarette and watched while Grandmother Jaboti washed her hair with castile soap. While the girl sat under the hair dryer, Grandmother asked, You want me to do you next, stranger?

  No ma’am, I said. I might start braiding my hair.

  She told me my hair looked like it had after the African sun had got hold of it years back, then she gave me a little jar of cream conditioner, and started telling me about some cream that she was importing from Brazil that was supposed to be better than them permanents ’cause it ain’t supposed to damage your hair, it supposed to use some kinda natural relaxer made from some Brazilian plants and herbs. And they say you can even eat it, that it so natural that you can even eat it, that it’s made of natural and edible ingredients. And then she said something again about colored people’s fragile hair. I guess it take them Brazilians to discover something like that for us hair.

  You come and help me wash out my brushes, she said, when I stayed seated at the counter. Acting like these bums that come in here.

  She winked at my mother who was putting a bib around Mrs. Smoot’s neck.

  Got to put this bum to work, even if Cornelia’s bums don’t work.

  Where’d you say you going to school, honey? Mrs. Smoot asked the girl, as my mother greased her scalp with Vaseline, preparing it for a touch-up.

  Vermont.

  Mrs. Rampart’s daughter went up there up North up there to all that cajolery up there. A lot of folks thinks the North is the promised land. I been North. Well, went in that direction anyhow, and ain’t no more promise up there than any other land. My husband started him one of the first colored pharmacies around here. If you’s a colored person in this country you’s got to make your own promise. That’s what other people’s do when they come to this country, they makes they promise. Course, it’s more difficult for the colored man to make his promise than them that can claim white.

  Y’all keep calling us colored. We ain’t colored, they don’t say colored now, said my mother.

  Well, when my husband started that pharmacy we was colored. And some of us is still colored, and we ain’t all black, so how come they wants to call us all black. And white p
eople ain’t all white neither but they calls theyselves white. And I know I ain’t African, I’m American. I’ve been to Africa, and when I was there, ain’t none of them Africans thought I was African. When I first went over there to Africa, though, I thought they would consider me a African from the New World, but they consider me the American that I am. And I’m talking about the true African people themselves. We usedta call usselves race men and women, though. Anyway, that gal I’m talking about, that Mrs. Rampart’s daughter went up there up North and went wild. A sweet girl before she went up there. Them northern gals I don’t think they’s as sweet as southern gals. When I’m up North up there when my husband goes to them pharmacy conventions in New York they refer to me as a southern belle, and me a colored woman, but that’s just ’cause I’m naturally sweet. Well, I hope you stay sweet, little girl. Some little girls go up there up North and don’t stay sweet.

  I lit another cigarette and said nothing. I know she signifying about me.

  When Grandmother Jaboti finished straightening the young woman’s hair, she looked like a photograph out of the 1940s, the war years, rather than a modern young woman. She looked at herself in the mirror.

  It looks nice, she said.

  Well, you put this conditioner on it and get it conditioned and tamed before I can put that permanent on it. And talking about New York, this conditioner is from New York. It ain’t none of this local conditioner, it’s the best conditioner on the market. Course if they send me that Brazilian stuff, I can put that straight in your hair, without even this New York conditioner, ’cause that ain’t supposed to damage it. Them colored people in Brazil supposed to have invented it from the herbs in they rain forest. Supposed to be so sweet that you can eat it. I been to Brazil, and if colored people anywhere can invent condiments for the hair, it’s them Brazilians.

  Ever been to Vermont? I asked the girl.

  No ma’am.

  It’s nice country. The grass is so green. You wouldn’t believe. They say Kentucky bluegrass is green, but that Vermont grass is greener. Only African grass is greener than that.

  And the green in them Brazilian rain forest. At least they say the green in them Brazilian rain forest is green. I just been to Rio myself.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I bet you she gives a good show, said my grandmother. I don’t understand what she singing about, though, but I bet she a real good entertainer. She sounds like she’s a real good entertainer, I mean for that rock ’n’ roll-type music. They’s got this new music rap, you know, and I still don’t understand what these rock-’n’-rollers is singing. They think I’m supposed to understand this rap music and I don’t even understand rock ’n’ roll yet. I bet she’s a real good entertainer, though.

  She is, I said.

  I know what she’s singing, said my mother. I don’t know what all them rappers is singing, ’cept for Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, but I know what she’s singing. That Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince seem like nice boys. They’re not gangsters.

  We listened to another song. It was a ballad, but it had a wild and raunchy edge to it, almost like gangsta rap. I saw my mother in the corner looking disgusted. They make a song out of almost anything these days, don’t they? And that language they use in that music, it ain’t nothing but obscene. Except for Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. And a lot of the good and nice girls get in that show business and even they start singing that obscene-type music and glamorizing gangsterhood and theyselves and getting freakish.

  Now what you know about freakish? asked Grandmother Jaboti. What do you know about gangsterhood?

  She sounds like a nice girl, though, what you tell me about her, but you would think she would sing more high-minded and intelligent-type musk than that. Even them high-minded girls when they get into show business. I guess intelligence don’t sell. At least Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince seem like nice boys.

  They make songs out of any nonsense, though, and somebody said Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince is just bubblegum music. I like them myself, but that’s just bumblegum music, Grandmother Jaboti said. Public Enemy is supposed to be the princes of rap, but I don’t understand nothing of what they’re singing about. I mean, I understand what they’re singing about, but I don’t exactly understand their words. When finally understanding some of Joan’s words, though, she laughed and shook her gray head.

  Yes they do, I agreed. She’s trying to experiment in that song, combining a rock ballad and rap. A lot of the male rappers refer to women as bitches, excuse my French, so she’s sorta signifying on a bitch’s, excuse my French, version of that type of music. It’s supposed to be a satire, you know. On account of so many of the gangsta rap singers referring to women as bitches, you know. So she refers to herself as a bitch, you know, excuse my French. Except, she refers to herself as a darling bitch.

  I like it better when she sings plain, though. She got a voice as sweet as candy when she wants to have one. She sounds like a darling. I don’t like all that embellished fanfare, though, said Grandmother, then she looked at my mother. Reminds you of Jack, don’t it?

  Certain things don’t belong in no song, my mother said. There’s certain things that just don’t belong in songs, whether it’s rap or rock ’n’ roll. Where is all the intelligent music that people usedta sing?

  Grandmother Jaboti popped her fingers. She started to dance. Do she write her own songs? she asked, pausing in the midst of the tune.

  Sometimes.

  Them’s obscure words all right. She continued dancing.

  I hope you ain’t cheating that girl, my mother said as I put on another tape. I hope you’s doing right by her. I hope you ain’t cheating her like I hear some of those stars’ unethical managers do. They tell you all about that in the Enquirer, You’s got to learn how to manage yourself before you can manage other people anyhow. And I ain’t sure you should ever try to manage other people. Don’t manage other people and don’t have them to manage you neither. Of course, when they gets to be a big star, peoples have got to have some kinda manager, but they should still know how to manage theirselves. Some people think freedom is managing other people, but it ain’t. It’s managing yourself. Learn to manage yourself. If you’re a big enough star, you might have to have a manager, but when you’ve got these unethical managers, you’ve got to manage your manager. But you’ve always got to manage yourself even when you’ve got you a manager. So I hope you ain’t cheating her, whether she’s a darling or a bitch, excuse my French, and spending all her money on caviar and champagne. She probably needs one of them entertainment lawyers anyhow. And they say even they cheats people.

  Mama, now you know I wouldn’t cheat nobody. Since when have you started reading the Enquirer?

  Well, I don’t read it, but you can’t help but to read it sometimes peeking out at you in the supermarket. Why, them managers and entertainment lawyers is always cheating people. And it ain’t just the little stars, like the star you manage, but the big stars too. Some people think that freedom is to manage everybody but theyself. Learn to manage yourself. That is the key to freedom.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  After the concert we went back to the hotel and ordered a late-night snack of Swiss cheese sandwiches and grape soda. Joan stood in the middle of the room grinning, purple stains on her front teeth. Then she grabbed her Swiss cheese sandwich and nibbled.

  They forgot to put mustard on my Swiss cheese.

  ’Cause you’re the only fool puts mustard on cheese. Most people put mayonnaise on it.

  Jamey likes mustard on his cheese. I know a lot of people like mustard on cheese. I don’t think we’re all fools.

  I said nothing. I ate a bit of my sandwich. It was the one with mustard. I handed it to Joan. She nibbled some of it, then put it back on the plate. Then she grabbed her liter of grape soda.

  Do you remember that gig we did in Paris in the old days? she asked. When she talked about her performances she’d say we as
if I were up on the stage cutting capers with her. You know like you see them stars giving interviews and they’s always saying “we.” You ask them about theyselves and they says “we.” I don’t think they mean it as the royal we, though. Most of them work with a lot of other musicians and stage managers and shit. And maybe they think that “I” sounds too egotistical, so they say “we.” Joan, though, says it like she mean the royal we.

  Yeah, sure.

  We went to this Moroccan restaurant and I tricked you into eating camel sausage? she asked.

  It tasted good till you told me what it was.

  And you thought the couscous was grits.

  She laughed and sat down, scooting to the edge of the chair. Sometimes she sat the way girls and women are admonished not to sit: with her knees apart, so you could see her panties. I bet you you wouldn’t eat it after I told you what it was, but you ate some more, she said.

  Yeah, I remember.

  You’ve dragged me all over the fucking globe, she said. All over the fucking globe.

  What do you mean I’ve dragged you all over the fucking globe? I’ve got you some good gigs, girl.

  Why can’t a recording artist just record music? How come we got to go all over the fucking globe entertaining people? That would be my ideal, just to record music. Why do I have to go all over the fucking globe entertaining people?

  That makes you a star. And it allows you to be able to record music. Anyway, people who like your music don’t just want to listen to a recording. They want to hear you sing in person. And you give a good performance. Some people sound better on their records. But you, you’re good on your records. But I think people have to actually hear you to really appreciate you.