The Healing

by Gayl Jones

  Cayenne’s hair’s in spit curls; she wears a white sweater and a blue, flared skirt. On her feet are tennis shoes. Pink ones.

  I can walk you home when you’re ready, I say.

  No, no, no, no. Not with you.

  Why not?

  Because he told us what you did. He told us how you left him. You stranded him in Africa, and they don’t like you anymore. I like you. But I told you that you’re not a wifeable woman, and I told him so, and he wanted to wife you anyway. I don’t like you, I don’t like what you did at all.

  When was he here?

  Yesterday.

  Is he still here?

  No, he left last night. Back to Africa, where you stranded him. They don’t like you anymore. I like you. But I told you that you’re not a wifeable woman. Neither am I.

  I nod. I think of a witch doctor’s wife I met when I was traveling with Norvelle in Kenya, She was afraid to leave her husband and she was afraid to stay with him, because of his magic. And she was afraid even to tell me of being afraid. Stupidly, I thought of her appearance on one of those talk shows, maybe the Oprah Winfrey show, with a string of modern women talking about their acts of marital defiance, and Oprah urging her on to independence. Imagine being a witch doctor’s wife. Imagine the consequences of a simple no.

  I don’t know why I thought of that while talking to the crazy woman. But I remembered asking Norvelle about her. We were back in one of the tourist hotels, sipping palm wine and I told him about the witch doctor’s wife.

  Who?

  The witch doctor’s wife.

  I don’t call them witch doctors, I call them wizards. But their own name for themselves is. . . . He told me their own name for themselves, some African word I don’t remember.

  But what about his wife, she’s afraid of him.

  What about her? he asked, scratching in his notepad.

  But one of her—Norvelle’s sister’s—curls dangles. She spits on it and rolls it back up. Still it dangles. She looks at me. He went back to Tansamania, she says. I don’t correct her.

  Have you stopped liking me too? I ask.

  I like you. I don’t like you. I always like you. I said I like you. But you’d better go. There’s Daddy Pop.

  I turn to see her father. When he gets to us, he treats me like I’m invisible.

  Come to fetch you home, he says to Cayenne.

  Maybe only witches should marry wizards, I said, as Norvelle kept writing in his notebook.

  You mean wizards should marry witches? he asked. That way you think they’d be equal? Suppose a wizard has more power than a witch?

  But they only want to marry harmless women, I said.

  No woman is harmless, he said.

  Then he started telling me about some feminist anthropologist, whose research was bent on proving, he supposed, that men and women were natural enemies. Man was like a tiger; you didn’t hate a tiger, you just knew what it was, and you took precautions. You, being a woman, that is. He’d just read an article by her about the Lele of Zaire, of the Kasai region. Traditionally, there the women practiced polyandry. Say what? I asked. It meant they had more than one husband. In other parts of Africa polygamy was tradition, the men having more than one wife, but among the Lele of Zaire, of the Kasai region, the women had more than one husband.

  I can’t imagine polyandry.

  You don’t believe it?

  I believe it, but I can’t imagine polyandry. The witch doctor has one wife all right, and she has one husband, but she’s terrorized.

  Her research is shoddy, he said, talking about the feminist anthropologist again. But harmless women? None of you are harmless. And if there are any of you who are, or who think you are, well, I’d recommend a good shrink.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  I can’t remember my dreams anymore, says Joan, waking up, yawning and wiping sleep from her eyes. She’d been drowsing in a hotel room chair in downtown Atlanta while I watched television. A book was open in her lap, The Dancing Wu-Li Masters, I don’t remember by whom. I’d glimpsed two of its chapters—one called General Nonsense, and other Special Nonsense. Joan likes to read shit like that. Me I’m watching the Comedy Channel. A show called Politically Incorrect.

  Say what?

  I said I can’t remember my dreams anymore. When I was a little girl I used to remember my dreams all the time. They were always vivid and in color.

  Mine are always in black-and-white. I can’t imagine high-definition, color dreams.

  Do you remember your dreams? she asks.

  Yes. Always. Well, most of the time.

  On television the Politically Incorrect audience applauds and guffaws.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY

  When I go into Joan’s dressing room, there’s James leaning against the wall. He’s the last person I’d have expected to find there. He looks animated, in conversation, till he sees me; then his look is noncommittal.

  Speak of the devil, says Joan, layers of teal blue mascara on her eyes.

  How’ve you been? James asks, moving a bit away from the wall.

  All right, how about you?

  Pretty good.

  Pretty good, Joan mimics. How about a hug, y’all?

  We keep to our own spaces.

  Did you come to see Joan’s show? I ask.

  Naw, he’s here in Chicago for the ASS meeting—

  AARS, says James.

  AARS, that’s what I said. . . . and just happened to see I was headlining this joint. Our paths just happened to intersect, so he stopped over to say hello. The polite thing to do, you know. But he didn’t see the show, did you, darling?

  No. I couldn’t get tickets.

  I say nothing. I think Joan’ll say something about getting him tickets, but she don’t.

  Maybe the three of us could have lunch tomorrow? he asks. There’s a nice little French restaurant I saw around the corner. I know you like French food, Joan.

  I can’t, says Joan. And I don’t like French food. I like New Orleans food, that’s a little different. But maybe you and the fat lady control freak can have lunch. See how fat she’s gotten? That’s all that camel sausage and couscous and shit. And those sloe gin fizzes. And that sweet tooth of hers. Course she probably just looks pleasantly plump to you. Or is that pleasingly plump? Like those girlies in those old Renaissance paintings when it was in vogue for women to be full-figured, you know. Well, in my business I gotta stay slim myself. Rock ’n’ roll keeps a gal slim.

  James clears his throat, glancing sideways. Would you like to? he asks.

  Okay.

  You can pick her up at the Hyatt Regency, says Joan. Our control freak. What’s a manager but a freak who likes to control other people.

  Say around one? he asks.

  Okay.

  Swingmeakiss, says Joan.

  He bends and kisses Joan’s cheek, nods to me, and leaves. There is an odor like lavender and brandy. Not a heavy odor, a light one. And a hint of tobacco.

  He still presents a fine figure, doesn’t he? asks Joan, eyeing me. Real classy. Classy ’n’ bold. That’s one thing you can say about Jamey is he’s got class. Not everybody changes. Some of us stay the same. Some of us are concerned about our figures. Course they say men age better than women. I don’t think so myself. I just think it’s a power game.

  She mighta said he hadn’t changed. But he’d seemed a new sort of man to me. Or maybe I was a new sorta woman. Somehow I felt less bold in his presence. Either he’d changed or I’d changed. And not just fat. And it’s Joan the control freak. I just manage her career, but it’s her in control.

  Why’d you do that? I ask. Invite us to have lunch with each other.

  Because I know you want to. I know Jamey wants to. You, I can’t always figure you, but I know Jamey wants to. And you like French food. I know you like French food. They’re known for their pastries. Or you might take Jamey to the Montego Bay. They’ve got some good Caribbean food. And then there’s Shy Harr
y’s. I think they just have ordinary American cuisine. But I know you like French pastries. And anyway you’re a bore. That’s my act when I’m offstage, not yours.

  You’re no bore, onstage or off. That’s what James said first attracted him to you. I mean, besides your intelligence—your spontaneity and wit.

  Did Jamey say that?

  Yes. You’re no bore.

  You want to fucking bet? If you don’t have lunch with him, our Jamey, I’ll bore the shit out of you.

  In a French restaurant, we eat Chateaubriand, pommes de terre, haricots verts. I’m looking at the haricots verts but he’s looking at me.

  What’s AARP? I ask, looking up from the plate at him, then I take a forkful of the haricots verts.

  AARS, he corrects. American Association of Research Scientists. I also belong to AAARPS. African-American Association of Research Scientists, Of course, there aren’t as many of us. And fewer women than men.

  I lift another green bean. I think he’s going to say something about Joan wasting her talents, her intelligence. Just another stereotype nigger entertainer, all those things Joan’s told me he thinks about her, but he don’t.

  It’s been a long time, he says.

  Yes. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do this. But you know Joan.

  Yeah, tell me. I feel like I’ve known her for centuries.

  How’s things at the farm? The immigration police been after you? I know a immigration lawyer if you need assistance. Or rather I know of one. I usedta meet all sorts of people when I, I mean when I when Norvelle and I, my ex-husband, you know.

  No. Things are okay. Abio and Carolina went back to Italy, to Rome, not to Sicily. Several East Africans are staying there now, and several Haitians. Joan’s even got a linguist staying up there, ’cause they don’t all speak English. But you know Joan, she’s always inviting strangers up there, so there’s no problem there. A lot of people in the area just think they’re her musicians. Show business people, you know. Anyway, it’s Joan’s farm.

  What about the Haitians?

  What Haitians?

  You said there were several Haitians up there.

  Yeah, I think they’re Haitians. I think that’s what Joan said. I don’t really communicate with them that much, because I’m not as garrulous as Joan, and we decided it’s best I don’t know too much about them anyway. I don’t know what Joan’s ambitions are. I just do my research. . . .

  What university do you teach at?

  I don’t work for a university, actually. I do my own private research. I use the labs of the institute, that’s sort of like a think tank, you know, I’m a co-partner.

  Oh, yeah, Joan told me something about that. That you generate ideas.

  Yeah, we generate ideas and then research them, or other people research them, do the practical research, you know. It’s really ideal. And then I have my own research. It’s what both Joan and I wanted to do when we were young graduate students, form our own research company, not work for some corporation, you know, not work for the man, or even some university. Joan’s always had these ideas about good, you know. I guess as a people, we African Americans have our own ideas about good, you know, the sorts of people we allow to be good, to consider themselves good. That only those who devote their intellect to the race problem can consider themselves good, that solve the race problem. Joan said she dreamt once that she came up with a chemical formula that solved the race problem, and it freed African-American intellectuals to devote their intellects to whatever other people, free people, devote their intellects to. But then after you devote your intellect to the race problem others come asking you, whites and blacks, why haven’t you invented any rocket ships, sent men to the moon and the other planets, developed any new theories of the universe, built great cities. You know, the game. You’re expected to solve the race problem, devote all your energies to the race problem, and at the same time you’re held accountable for not creating anything, for not being an intellect in everything else, making grand contributions beyond race. That’s why I went to Fisk rather than to one of the white schools, although I got several scholarships to them. The beginnings of affirmative action, you know. But I’d scored high on all the tests, felt I’d met the standards anywhere. I went to Fisk. I felt I could be myself. Not be out for myself, but just be myself. And to tell the truth there were more blacks at Fisk with my interests, interests in the sciences, than at the elite white schools. Joanie went to an elite white school, a private college in Connecticut, and said that she was the only African-American chemist there. The others were sociologists or anthropologists or some shit. I think one African-American botanist. I mean undergraduate school. Like I said, we went to the same graduate school. A lot of problems with self-esteem, you know, when she was in undergraduate school. Should she just do her chemistry research or play at revolution? And if she devoted all her time to the revolution, then what about chemistry? You know. Well, I shouldn’t say play at revolution. Some of her classmates from those days are still waiting for the revolution. And one of them, a girl from Colombia, I think, the country Colombia, was in a real revolution. Or maybe from Chiapas. I usedta teach at a university, though. I taught at Fisk for a while, then I taught at a private college in the Northeast. Then I and a colleague I met at the AAARS decided to start this think tank, you know. It’s more ideal for me, it suits my character more.

  What is your character?

  You know me. And I’ll go up to the farm to make sure there’re enough supplies. I know enough to help keep Joan out of trouble, though.

  You’d keep her out of trouble, wouldn’t you?

  Yes.

  No wonder Joan loves you.

  He says nothing. I roll the sleeves of my cotton blouse up to my elbows, all my muscles tense. I breathe in the air of almond croissants and escargots cooked in garlic butter that infiltrates the tiny dining room, I look at the fluted crystal ashtray near his elbow and wait for him to light up a cigarette, but he don’t. There is still, though, the slight smell of tobacco. There’re tiny beads of sweat like dew on his upper lip and his forehead’s shiny, but he ain’t nervous. He don’t seem so. He came in in a rush while I was already seated at the table. I notice that his upper lip is thin while his bottom lip is full. I try to remember kissing them. Norvelle told me once that Africans don’t kiss. The traditional Africans. The detribalized ones kiss. But in Kenya, he said, among the Kikuyu, it had once been taboo to even make love in the daytime. If one did, one had to go through a rite of purification. One had to go to a wizard, a mogo-whatever to be purified.

  Why’d you just disappear? he asks. When I got back to the farm, you weren’t there.

  What did Joan tell you?

  Not much of anything really.

  She did admit seeing us, didn’t she?

  Yes, she said she saw us. Then she said all sorts of sinister things about you. That I shouldn’t expect anything. That you’re rather like an alley cat.

  I make zigzags with my fork across my plate, plowing through mashed potatoes and green beans.

  I started to write you a romantic letter, you know, but I never did. I started to call you, but I didn’t do that either. Actually, I did write the letter, a rather passionate letter really, but I never sent it. Anyway, I wouldn’t have known where to send it, except in care of Joan. And I wouldn’t trust her to give it to you anyway.

  So where are you staying? What hotel? I ask, cutting the Chateaubriand.

  The Sheraton.

  How long will you be in town?

  Several more days. I’m glad you want to know.

  Profiterolles au chocolat. Isles flottants. Tartes aux pommes.

  I prefer Italian food, I comment. Joan says I like French food, but I prefer Italian food.

  They say most Americans do.

  I’d like to come and see you, I said. But Joan and I are flying to Amsterdam tonight.

  He takes out a notepad and scribbles something.

  Here’s my permanent address, not Joa
n’s farm. If you ever want to find me.

  You know where I am, I said.

  Yes.

  Joan said your real name’s Naughton. That it’s Naughton James Savage.

  Yeah. I’ve always sorta liked it. But Joan never has. The AARS has me as Naughton James Savage, though.

  What about the AAARS? I ask, as the waiter brings our isles flottants.

  Professor Doctor the Right Honorable Naughton James Savage, Esquire, he jokes. You know how we are about titles. Don’t ask me about the ASS, though.

  BOOK

  FIVE

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  What brings you here? She is sitting on a couch, her ankles crossed. Then she rests one ankle on the other knee and leans forward. Square yellow shoulders, square yellow eyebrows. Her eyebrows are shaped like the eyebrows of the Japanese courtesans—I think they’re courtesans—in those imake paintings, those scroll-type paintings. I believe she’s even wearing yellow contact lenses, but it’s a long room and she’s half in shadow, and I can’t be sure.

  Well, tell me what you’re doing here? I’ve got all the help around here I can use, she says.

  So you’ve finally decided to fire me?

  Yeah, why not?

  I stare at her yellow nails. Square. I turn and walk down the yellow-carpeted hall.

  It is my first dream in color, not black-and-white.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  I throw a section of the Times at Joan. We’re standing in the entrance of the recording studio, in New York, where I’ve waited for her. Did you know what you were doing?