The Healing

by Gayl Jones

  Show business. I’ve worked hard, and you’ve just enjoyed yourself.

  I’ve worked hard to get you gigs. There’s more people who know who Joan Savage is now than when I met you.

  Just ’cause you’d never heard of me don’t mean other people ain’t. I’ve worked my butt off.

  But you’ve had fun too. You’ve had fun.

  Me, I’ve worked hard. I worked my butt off. I hardly knew what fucking country I was in most of the fucking time. It was all for you, not me. Places you never would have got to go in a million fucking years, if it wasn’t for me. Your husband took you over there to Africa, but you got to travel all over the world because of me. That’s the only reason you stay with me, ’cause you know on your own you—

  You’ve enjoyed yourself too. You enjoyed yourself in Amsterdam. When I got you that gig in Amsterdam, you said Amsterdam? Amsterdam? You couldn’t imagine going over there to Amsterdam to give a performance. But then when we got there, you enjoyed Amsterdam, I don’t think you coulda gotten yourself a gig in Amsterdam. You couldn’t even imagine Amsterdam. The fucking people didn’t even fucking know you when you first sang in that little club in Amsterdam, but they know you now. Some of your best music was recorded in Amsterdam. And you’ve got your own promotion over there. That little promotion company.

  Little promotion company is right. In somebody’s basement, I thought it was a fan club. Promotion company? And I lost my fucking voice in Amsterdam, How could I have enjoyed myself in a place where I lost my fucking voice? I lost my fucking voice in Amsterdam.

  That sounds like one of your songs. Well, you did record that album there, and you got yourself that little promotion company. Then you lost your voice. But then you got it back in Brazil.

  Because you always wanted to go to Brazil. That’s the only reason you got me a gig there. Then whenever we go anywhere you’re always seeking out the lowlifes.

  What lowlifes?

  In Brazil, the slums. What do you call those slums? What did they have crab races there or some shit that you went to. Or is that St. Croix that has the crab races? I know somewhere in one of those countries they have crab races. I don’t know whether they always had crab races or you started that shit so’s you have something to bet on.

  I didn’t start it. It’s an old tradition there. I don’t know who started it. I was surprised myself when somebody asked me if I wanted to go to a crab race. So the crabs had little numbers on ’em, you know. So you picked out the crab that you thought would win. But they weren’t all lowlifes. You had some European royalty staying at that hotel betting on those crabs. At least somebody said they was European royalty. Well, you had all kinds and classes of people staying there. That’s what I like about a little island like that.

  And in Port-au-Prince, for instance. Those lowlifes.

  Oh, yeah. I’d wanted to bet on the cockfights, but they didn’t allow women in. He wasn’t a lowlife. He just helped me get into the cockfights. He escorted me into the cockfights.

  You were hanging all over him, a married man.

  Just a gambling buddy.

  I’d heard that women weren’t allowed at the cockfights, but I’d gone anyway. No women, the man had said, when I’d got to the hut where someone said there were cockfights. I didn’t understand Creole, so he told me in French and then English.

  I stood outside the tin-roofed hut and waited for the proper fellow. When he came, I asked him to place the bet and promised that we’d divide the winnings. He rattled off the names of the cocks that were fighting, and I chose one.

  You ain’t seen the cocks.

  I don’t need to see ’em.

  I handed him the money. He looked as if he’d never seen such a wad of bills before.

  How do you know I won’t run away with it?

  I don’t.

  He shrugged and went inside.

  I stood outside, listening to feathers fly. The man who guarded the hut gave me evil stares, like being a woman I wasn’t only not allowed in the cockfight, but I shouldn’t even be allowed near it. I lit a cigarette and moved away from the hut and waited near a palm tree.

  Some time later the fellow came out waving money in his fists. He paraded in front of me like a bandy rooster himself, and then kissed my jaw, and would have lifted me skyward if he could have. We divided the winnings.

  When Joan saw me “hanging on to him” in the Iron Market it was because we’d won. Joan and I’d been shopping in the Iron Market, and I’d spotted the man who’d bet on the cock for me.

  Sandovar! I yelled.

  We hugged and hugged. Now, he said, with his winnings, he could take his wife and children to another country. He said he didn’t like his country and wanted to emigrate to another one. I asked him if he might come to the States. He said he didn’t like the States much either. He said he might try to emigrate to the Bahamas. I hung on to him. He hugged me too, and tried to lift me skyward again, but like I said I’m a big woman. Joan, standing nearby, just looked at us. She wouldn’t even come near enough to be introduced.

  Am I embarrassing you in front of your friend? he asked.

  No, of course not.

  That’s why I pretended not to know you, he said, glancing toward her.

  You needn’t pretend, I said.

  Anyway, I don’t give a good fuck what you do, Joan’s saying. I don’t know why I put up with you. I mean, a woman so starved to gamble on something that she’ll bet on a fucking crab. A cock, I might bet on a cock myself. I work my fucking butt off, though, and you have a good time. Did you at least bet on the right cock? Did you win?

  Sure.

  I wouldn’t set foot in Port-au-Prince today, even if you could get me a gig there. Talking about getting me gigs. I wanted that gig in New York, and you come talking about Port-au-Prince. Jamaica maybe, or some of them other little Caribbean islands. I liked St. Croix, though. Then when I did get that gig, I come in and the people don’t even know who I am, giving me the bum’s rush, and you’re supposed to promote me.

  Well, when they found out it was you, they treated you like royalty. You should be with me when I’m talking to some of the promoters and agents and club owners on your behalf. Talk about the bum’s rush. Joan Savage, who’s Joan Savage? If you were more famous, it might be easier to represent you. I think you’re ambivalent about fame. You want to be a rock star.

  A rock singer. Stardom is your game.

  Well, whatever you want to be you always sabotage yourself.

  When you and Jamey don’t sabotage me.

  How do I sabotage you? How has Jamey sabotaged you?

  You only get me third-rate gigs, and Jamey. . . . he don’t believe in me.

  He don’t owe you his belief. And I have gotten you some first-rate gigs, they just ain’t in the States, and you think only the States is first-rate.

  A first-rate gig in a fourth-rate little country is a third-rate gig.

  She kicked the bottle of grape soda over, staining the thick beige carpet.

  I got up and went into the bathroom and came back with paper towels. I dabbed up the grape soda, but there was still a stain. I mentioned the damage to the carpet and said her tantrums always made us have to pay extra.

  What? Pay extra? You don’t pay. You never pay. You play but you never pay. I’m the one who pays. Anyway, who’s the man who’s been following us? Another one of your lovers?

  What man? What are you talking about?

  The one who’s been following us. One of your lovers?

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  I tissue makeup from Joan’s round face, then rub in aloe cream. Let’s go to a bar, I say.

  I’m bushed, she says, slouching and hugging her robe. It’s white with large, clownish dots. You think after a show I’m as gamely as you are.

  No. I just want to catch a glimpse of that man. The one you said is supposed to be following us. Else you’re as paranoid as Josef.

  She perked up. Then she looked lazy, but
she was game. Okay. Just put me on a little mascara and do something about these lines. She pointed to her forehead. You know that new cream you got that’s supposed to erase wrinkles. Dr. Leonard’s Facelift at your fingertips. And this stuff for my nails is great. You know, that hoof cream you said they use on horses but that’s supposed to strengthen human nails?

  Where is he? I asked, as we sat at a corner table.

  I don’t see him, she said, looking around. Don’t you know your own lover?

  She wore a dress that was the twin of the robe she’d been wearing. Oh, yeah, there he is. Over there at the bar now.

  He’s looking at you through the mirror. There’s the bogger.

  I stared at the mirror.

  You mean you don’t know your own lover? she repeated.

  No, I don’t know who he is.

  Are you kidding?

  I’d expected Nicholas, Josef’s bodyguard, if anybody, though if he’d been following me I was sure he’d have been as visible as the lines in Joan’s forehead. The man at the bar was nondescript, ginger-colored, in a tweed jacket. He wore his hair longish, more the style of the 1960s or 1970s than the current style. I’d never seen him before. When he caught me looking at him, the man gave me one of those fish-eyed stares. I stood up.

  Where’re you going? Joan ask.

  To find out who the bogger is.

  Naw, girl, that man might be dangerous, I just thought y’all was playacting, like some lovers do. I thought you knew him. He might be some crazy man. Look at that hairdo. He must think it’s still disco. Speaking of disco, you were supposed to order that print of one of Donna Summer’s paintings, the one I told you looks sorta like German expressionism. You know there are a lot of crazies these days.

  There’s always been crazies, I said.

  Yeah, but not like these crazies.

  Up at the bar, I didn’t say anything to the man. I merely stood next to him.

  I’d like a Josef, I said to the bartender.

  What are you talking about, Lady? he asked, toweling off the counter with the end of his apron. What d’you want?

  A drink. It’s called a Josef.

  I never heard of no Josef, ma’am. Must be a local drink. How d’you make it?

  It’s a German drink, actually. And you don’t make it, it makes you.

  Come on, Lady, gimme a break, will ya? What do you want?

  I watched the man’s expression through the mirror. It didn’t change, still that fish-eyed look, but he swallowed his drink, set his money down, and left.

  Well, give me a tequila then, I said. No, a sloe gin fizz. And a bowl of pretzels.

  Lady. . . . He handed me my drink and a bowl of pretzels and I went back to the table.

  So who was he? Joan asked when I sat down, saying nothing.

  I don’t know, I said, nibbling a pretzel. I think that fool I met in Saratoga, that Josef, the African German I told you about, hired somebody to follow me around. He thought I was some sorta spy or something. He kept asking me whether I was some kinda spy. I don’t know what the fool thought. Maybe he is a gangster like you said, Or maybe he’s just some wealthy fool who likes to have his women followed. Or thinks I’m his woman. I don’t know. He thought I was a spy or some shit. He kept saying I was a spy. Then he caught me trying to find some scratch paper—I, er, you know, was having some ideas for some possible gigs and wanted to write ’em down—and he thought I was spying on him. He thought I was sneaking around spying on him. And he’s the one invited me out to his farm. If the fool thought I was a spy, why’d he invite me out to his farm? Can you believe that? Now I think he’s got some detective or some shit checking up on me. I remember joking with him about that. That he oughta hire some detective if he thought I was a spy or some shit. Maybe the fool did that. Seems like I’d’ve noticed him, though. You always notice them detectives in the movies. I think some of those neo-Fascists over there in Germany turned him into a paranoid or some shit. But why’d he think I’m a fucking spy?

  Maybe he just wanted to know if you were telling him the truth about who you are. Or maybe Josef didn’t hire him at all. Maybe your ex-husband hired that detective.

  Naw, Norvelle wouldn’t do some shit like that. I don’t even think it would enter his imagination to hire a detective. Wealthy people hire detectives anyway. People who got something to protect.

  Well, they have detectives now that you can hire to hunt up people, ex-husbands and shit, just dial an 800 number. If Norvelle is still in love with you, he could hire a detective.

  Naw, Norvelle wouldn’t do some shit like that. He wouldn’t have to hire somebody to find out where I am. He knows where I am.

  Maybe he hired somebody to find out how you are.

  Naw, that ain’t Norvelle. He wouldn’t be hiring no detective. It wouldn’t even enter his imagination to hire no detective. If he wanted to know how I am, he could just come and ask me. He knows where I am. I don’t know where he is. I know he’s in Africa, but Africa’s a big continent. His editors don’t even know where he is, I called one of his editors and asked how I could get in touch with him. I didn’t want to actually get in touch with him, I just wanted to know where he was, and they said they didn’t actually have an address for him, they just had a post office box, and they weren’t even allowed to give out that information. Sometimes I’ll read an article of his in one of the journals, you know. Sometimes I’ll get a little money for some of the photographs I took while we were in Africa. Mostly photographs of that Masai woman and some Sonjo spearmaker. I took some photographs of the Moran and some baobab trees. Sometimes the journals and magazines like to use those photographs to accompany his articles, and I get a little money for those. I forgot to order for you. What do you want?

  Nothing. She yawned.

  I drank my sloe gin fizz, nibbled a pretzel and offered Joan one. She shook her head, then called over a waiter, who obediently brought her more pretzels and a beer.

  Suppose he’s dangerous? she asked, dipping a pretzel in her beer.

  Who, Norvelle?

  Naw, fool, the man following us. She sucked on her pretzel, and looked more nonchalant than she sounded.

  Naw, it’s just some fool. I had some fool like that following me when I was in beauty school. This guy came up to me and told me he was following me. They didn’t have any stalking laws and shit in those days. And this some fool that I knew. He worked for this company that made these cosmetics that we used in our classes, this wholesale cosmetics company, and he usedta deliver the cosmetics and was always hanging around the beauty school, and he said he’d see me on the streets of Cincinnati sometimes and would follow me. He didn’t pursue me or anything. He just told me that shit.

  You don’t know. Don’t look like a fool to me. How do you know he ain’t after me? Maybe I should hire a bodyguard.

  You can’t afford no bodyguard. And ain’t enough people that know you around here for you to need none. Maybe it’s Jamey. Maybe Jamey’s checking on you.

  Now I know Jamey ain’t going to hire no detective for nobody, Jamey’s the kind be his own detective if he need to do some detecting.

  But then we’d know who he is.

  We’d think we know who he is. She chewed at her bottom lip. Well, we can at least start packing those stunguns. Order me a stungun.

  You with a stungun? Around me? Are you kidding? Yeah, I’ll order you one. And maybe some of that pepper spray. And one of those little Swiss Army knives, if that’ll make you feel safer. I don’t think I’d trust you with anything else. It’d just be your motivation.

  Back in the hotel room, she sat down on the couch breathing hard. She kept looking out the window to see if the man had followed us, but he hadn’t. I turned on the TV. Mae West and Cary Grant, Maybe I ain’t got no soul, Mae West was saying. Sure you have, said Cary, but you keep it hidden under a mask. Haven’t you ever met a man who can make you happy? Sure, lots of times, said Mae.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

&nbs
p; You’re like your wandering grandfather, my Grandmother Jaboti said, when I came back from one of the tours with Joan. Before going to Saratoga to bet on the horses, I came back to Louisville.

  As for my grandfather, since there were no photographs of him, it made him seem a legend too, like her Turtle Woman tales.

  I followed him, she said, until I turned into a human being.

  The beauty shop wasn’t open yet, and she sat on a high stool, stretching and yawning while I dusted and polished the hair dryers. She was always telling me about my grandfather, always telling me the same story, but I’d listen to it again, as if it was the first time I’d heard the story. But then she never exactly told the story the same way each time. Sometimes she’d add new details, other times she’d tell the same details, but in a different order, in a different syntax.

  He was a traveling salesman, your grandpap was. Sold farm implements mostly to colored farmers, you know, ’cause wouldn’t none of the white farmers buy from him, so he sold mostly to the colored farmers. Some of the farmers would pay him in money, but a lot of them would pay him with the produce from their farms, and the different foodstuffs like honey and molasses and butter and cornpone and then he’d sell some of the produce and foodstuffs and make his other money that way. And a few of them Quakers, now a few of them Quakers would buy from him, because they have always been the true men of God. A lot of them Quakers could make their own farm implements, but they would also buy from him. Them Quakers have always been true men of God. Back in the seventeenth century, though, when they first come to this country, they usedta own slaves theyselves, but then they decided to abolish slavery amongst theyselves, because they believed that they couldn’t be true men of God and own slaves, and after that there wasn’t a Quaker to own slaves, and they would help the slaves to escape from slavery. I seen me some Quakers at the supermarket. I wanted to say something to them, but I didn’t know what to say to no Quakers. A Quaker man and his wife. Cornelia said they wasn’t Quakers, that they’s probably them Pennsylvania Dutch. Did itinerant repair work, stuff like that, your grandpap. Farms all through the Midwest and along the coast, even traveled up North. And plenty more colored farms then than nowadays. The colored people started leaving the farms and traveling to the city, or the white people drove them off of they land, or tricked them out of they land. You have a whole history of them tricking the colored people out of they land, or the colored people fool enough to sell ’em they land or leave the land for the city. Even them bad ole days of segregation everywhere you had more colored people to own and work their own land, though. Anyway, your grandpap, he said he loved me and ’ud marry me but he wouldn’t settle down with me. I run off from that carnival with him, but he wouldn’t settle down with me.