Disappearing Acts

by Terry McMillan

  “So was it as good as you thought it would be?” Marie asked. I turned my book facedown and looked up. She was wearing a hot-pink one-piece, and since the girl is six feet tall, has the prettiest legs in the world, and curves in all the right places, she looked fantastic. Her natural hair color was a reddish brown, but the sun had already lightened it a few shades and brought out her freckles.

  “I’m not finished with it yet,” I said, even though I knew what she was referring to. It seemed like I’d already told the whole world about Franklin.

  “I’m not talking about the damn book.”

  “You mean Franklin?”

  “Yeah. Now stand up and let me see you. I haven’t seen your fat ass in a two-piece before.”

  I stood up.

  “Looking good, girl. Go on with your bad self.”

  Claudette appeared with a big umbrella in one hand and her baby, Chanelle, in a stroller in the other. Claudette’s one of the darkest, prettiest women I know. Her hair is jet black and hangs down past her shoulders, although she always pulls it back into a ponytail. She likes to swim but hates the sun. As a matter of fact, she had on shorts and a tube top. “So was the cover as good as the book?” she asked, pushing the point of the pole into the sand.

  “I wanna know how many inches it is.” That was Portia, of course, who was wearing a white string bikini. She could put Christie Brinkley to shame on any cover of Sports Illustrated.

  “Wait a minute!” I yelled. “This is ridiculous. First of all, to answer your question, Marie: No. It was better than I thought it would be, which should answer your question too, Claudette. And, Portia, none of your damn business. Let me just say this: It’s big enough.”

  “You bitch,” Portia said. “Just tell me what size shoe he wears, how tall he is, and if he’s got big hands. Gives it away every time.”

  “That shit is not true,” Claudette said, shaking out her blanket, then rolling Chanelle, who was asleep, over on top of it. “Believe me, you can’t go by that. I’ve had enough tall men with big feet and little dicks to know what I’m talking about. My husband, for one, but I’m not complaining. It’s not the engine, honey, it’s the engineer.”

  “Marie, can I have a cigarette?” I asked.

  All three of them looked at me like I was crazy.

  “A what?”

  “You heard me—a cigarette. I don’t need a lecture; just let me have one.”

  “Since when did you start smoking?” Claudette asked.

  “I smoked when I was in college.”

  “So why be stupid and start again?”

  “Because I’m nervous, and when I get nervous I eat, and I don’t want to start gaining back what I’ve lost.”

  “You’re stupider than you look,” Portia said. “Would you rub some suntan lotion on my back?” I picked up the bottle, and Marie handed me the cigarette anyway. When I finished with Portia’s back, I lit it up.

  “You look ridiculous, girl. Turn around and let me rub some of this on your back,” she said.

  I shook my head no. That first puff made me dizzy as all get-out. The second one wasn’t so bad. By the third one, I felt like I was high, so I pushed it underneath the sand.

  “What are you so damn nervous about?” Marie asked. “We came all the way out here to hear about this Mr. Wonderful, and you haven’t filled us in on a single detail, like can he eat pussy—or if he’s even willing. All you have to tell us is that you’re nervous?”

  “All right already. I think I’m falling in love. He’s past wonderful. And he feels like a dream come true.”

  “And that makes you nervous?” Claudette asked.

  “I wasn’t exactly honest with him about a few things.”

  Portia looked at me as if she was ready to ask me was it about the epilepsy, then decided against it. “So what?” she said. “Some things we’re supposed to keep to ourself. That’s what’s wrong with women anyway. Get fucked real good, think we’re in love, then we spill our fuckin’ guts, give ’em our love résumés in chronological order, tell ’em all kinds of personal shit that shouldn’t have no bearing or ain’t got nothin’ to do with them, and what kind of information do they give up? Where they were born, how old they are, and where they work and shit. We need to be more like them. And hell, what he don’t know won’t hurt him.” She looked around the beach. “What I wanna know is where the hell are all the men today? It should be some firemen, policemen—something out here besides all these bald-headed retirees. Damn.”

  “They’re at work, which is where you should be,” Claudette said.

  “For your information, I’m taking a vacation day. Why aren’t you playing prosecutor?”

  “Because when you work for yourself, you make your own hours. What is it you think you should’ve told him?” Claudette asked me, giving Portia the evil eye.

  I got a lump in my throat. The baby made a noise. “That I used to be fat. You want me to check the baby?”

  “She’s fine, Zora. Is that all? Shoot, it looks like you’ve got it under control, so why bother?”

  “Why don’t you just get yourself some diet pills for insurance?” Marie said.

  “Don’t you dare,” Claudette said. “You can get addicted to those things.”

  “That’s a lie. I take one every now and then, especially when I’ve got a show. All they do is help me stay up, but I’m damn sure not addicted.”

  “You drink enough to make up for it,” Portia said.

  “Well, at least I don’t auction my pussy just so I can go on a shopping spree. So shut the fuck up, Portia.”

  She had a point. And Portia was just about to say something, when Claudette cut in. “Guess who’s pregnant?”

  “Not me,” Marie said, and started searching through her beach bag for something.

  “It damn sure ain’t me,” Portia said.

  “You again?” I asked Claudette.

  “Yep. And this is it. We figured we’d go ahead and get it over with. I’m getting my tubes tied after this one.”

  “Good,” Portia said. “There’s enough retards in the world as it is.”

  Claudette didn’t bother responding to this. We both know that Portia’s just jealous, and in spite of the fact that she lives in the fast lane, she’d give anything to have what Claudette has. Steady love and security.

  “I don’t want nobody’s kids,” Marie said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Cause I don’t like ’em, that’s why. They get on my nerves, I don’t have the patience, and besides, I’m too selfish.”

  “They’re a lot of fun,” Claudette said. “Anybody’ll get on your nerves when you see them three hundred and sixty-five days a year. True, kids are definitely a lot of work, but they’re worth it. It does make things a helluva lot easier when you’ve got a husband that helps you.”

  “You just lucked out. They ain’t all like that,” Portia said.

  “I didn’t luck out, sweetheart. I picked the right man, something you know nothing about.”

  “Fuck you,” Portia said.

  “I’ve got a husband who does that, or are you deaf?”

  I swear, the way they argue, you’d think they really hated each other or were sisters. “All right, let’s cool it, ladies,” I said. “We came out here to get some sun, relax, and have a good time.”

  “Okay, Zora,” Portia said. “Now cut the bullshit. How much does he make?”

  “Portia, you are so tacky, I swear,” Claudette said, smoothing the edges of her blanket and wiping the sweat from Chanelle’s forehead.

  “I just asked Zora a simple question.”

  “How much money he makes is really none of your business,” Claudette said.

  “I didn’t say it was my business. I just wanted to know if he’s making any money, or is he as poor as a church mouse?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “If I had a live-in housekeeper and was married to a doctor, I guess I could talk the same shit you’re
talking.”

  “He wasn’t a doctor when I married him.”

  “Yeah, but you knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d be raking in the dough.”

  “You’re aggravating as hell, you know that, Portia? You think everybody in the world thinks like you do, but thank God that’s not true. Women like you give the rest of us a bad reputation. But there’s some of us out here who’ve got more than an overworked pussy to offer.”

  Portia jumped up, like she was getting ready to hit Claudette. “If you wasn’t pregnant, I’d kick your ass, you know that?”

  “I’m starving,” Claudette said. “Anybody want something from the snack bar?”

  “Yeah, me. I need a drink,” Marie said.

  “Keep an eye out on Chanelle for me, would you, Zora?”

  I nodded a yes and glued my eyes toward the tiny brown body on the blue blanket. She was beautiful. One day I hoped to be so lucky. After the two of them left, Portia was eyeballing the beach again. “I can’t stand Claudette, you know? She thinks she’s hot shit. Well, since ain’t nothing happening out here today, I might as well get wet,” she said, and ran toward the water.

  I put my head down and closed my eyes. All I wanted to do was think about Franklin.

  * * *

  After hours of gin rummy and spades, we left the beach about six. My skin looked like red clay, and I was tired. Claudette, the only one with a car, dropped Portia and Marie off at the train station when we got to Brooklyn. And since I was on the route to her house, she took me home.

  “Is that him?” she asked. Franklin was sitting out on my stoop again.

  “That’s him.”

  “Damn,” she said, waving, and he waved back. “I see what you mean, girl. What a hunk. I don’t need any introductions right now. Some other time. Don’t be a fool, Zora. Don’t you listen to a word of advice Portia has to offer. You see what condition she’s in, right?”

  “What condition?” I asked.

  “She can’t keep a man. If this one treats you good and makes you feel good, give him a chance. That’s what it’s all about.”

  “So far, he does and I am.” I pecked her on the cheek, blew the baby a kiss, and got out of the car. “See you soon. Tell Allen I said hello, and congratulations, girl. I hope this one’s a boy.”

  I was glad to see Franklin, but I didn’t like the idea that he was waiting for me.

  “Hi, baby,” he said, without moving.

  “Hi,” I said. “Franklin, would you not do this, please?”

  “Not do what?”

  “Sit out here and wait for me like this.” I just didn’t want him to start taking so much for granted.

  “Why? You trying to hide me or something?”

  “No, that’s not it at all. We said we’d take this slow, give each other some space, didn’t we?”

  He just smiled and whipped out a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. Flowers make me weak. “I just wanted you to have these. You got so many plants up there, and the only flowers I saw was dead. A woman as beautiful as you should be surrounded by ’em.”

  Those dimples were showing, and I knew he knew he was flattering me to death, so I couldn’t help but go along with it. “Why, thank you, sir.”

  “You look like you been to the beach.”

  “I have, with Marie, Portia, and Claudette. That was Claudette who just dropped me off. All of them want to meet you. I’ve told them all about you.”

  “What’d you tell ’em?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Look, baby, if you’re busy, I can see you tomorrow. I just wanted to give you these and tell you that I started a new job today. A hotel in Manhattan. Real money. And this one’ll probably last at least a year or two. I feel good.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I said. I was glad to hear it for his sake, because Franklin had told me about some of the problems he’s had trying to get in the union and just trying to work steadily. I can’t lie: As I stood there looking at him, I started to feel lucky. Lucky that someone was waiting to see me. “Well, I’m not planning anything special,” I said, trying to clean up the fact that I may have given him the impression that I didn’t want to see him.

  “I wanted to take you out to dinner, but these white boys tried to work me to death today. There’s a fight coming on tonight, and I did wanna see it.”

  “You can watch it here if you want to. I was going to broil some chicken, steam some zucchini, make a salad.”

  “You saying you wanna see me?”

  “I see you now,” I said, and unlocked the front door.

  He chuckled. When we got upstairs, it was sweltering inside. I put the flowers in a vase. Gladiolas and baby’s breath.

  “You need a air conditioner, baby. I’ve got a extra one—let me run and get it.”

  Run and get it? “How far do you live from here?” I asked.

  “Right up the street,” he said. “Be back in a flash.”

  That meant he was my neighbor. Before I had a chance to think about how I felt about him living so close, he was back and carrying this gigantic thing. He set it right up, and I was just grateful that it worked. He turned on the TV, sat down on the couch, and pulled a half pint of something out of his back pocket.

  “Can I get a glass of ice, baby?”

  “Sure,” I said. I handed him a glass, then went into the bedroom to take off my clothes.

  “Can I see what you look like in your bathing suit?”

  I had just slipped out of it, but I put it back on and walked out into the middle of the living room.

  “That’s the only bathing suit you got?”

  “Why, don’t you like it?”

  “Yeah, I like it all right. But I don’t know all about you wearing it to the beach and everything.”

  I put my hands on my hips and looked at him like he was crazy. “And just what are you trying to say, Franklin?”

  “What I’m saying is this—No, first answer me this question: Do you consider me to be your man?”

  “I’m beginning to think of you that way.”

  “Then if you’re my woman, I don’t like the idea of you prancing around no beach in no bikini.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Do I look serious?”

  “Yes, you do, but let me tell you something so we can get this straight, right now. First of all, I’m a grown woman. I wear anything I want to wear when I want to wear it. My Daddy lives in Toledo.”

  “Oh, so what you’re saying, then, is that it don’t matter what I think, is that it?”

  “What I’m saying is that you sound like you’re living in the fifties or something.”

  “Let’s drop it, okay? I feel too good to mess up my mood over some damn bathing suit.”

  “You’re the one who brought it up.”

  “Yeah, well, now I’m dropping it.”

  I turned and started back toward the bedroom. Then I stopped and looked back at him. “Is this our first argument, Franklin?”

  He started laughing. “No. This is our first disagreement.”

  “Oh,” I said, and proceeded to the bedroom.

  “You do look good in it, though, baby.”

  I took off the suit again and threw it on the floor. He must be nuts if he thinks he’s going to start telling me what I can and can’t wear. I mean, he’s not dealing with one of these dingbats who can be told what to do. If it’s a bathing suit today, what’ll it be tomorrow? Please, Lord, don’t let him turn out to be a reincarnation of Percy.

  I looked into what I called my piano room. It was empty. Granted, I’m paying less rent, but it’s still going to be a while before I can save up three hundred dollars to get the piano out of layaway. Once I start my voice lessons, it sure would be nice to be able to come home and practice instead of staying after school. I closed the door, then took a shower.

  When I came out into the living room, Franklin was stretched out on the couch with his shoes off. I tightened the sash on my kimono an
d lay down on top of him. He felt better than he did the last time I was on top of him. He put his arms around me, and we watched Sugar Ray Leonard beat up somebody.

  “How about a game of Scrabble?” he asked afterwards. The game was sitting on my bookshelf.

  “The question is, can you play?”

  He just started grinning; those deep black dimples were showing, and I had to bend over and kiss the man.

  “Set it up,” he said, “and cut all this mushy stuff. You getting ready to get a royal ass-kicking.”

  I already knew Franklin was smart; I just didn’t know how smart. He came up with words I’d never even heard of. Most of them were construction terms, which I didn’t think was fair. But some of them weren’t. He put down the letters e-a-r-w-i-g.

  “That’s not a word, Franklin, so pick it up.”

  He leaned back on the couch, crossed his arms, showed at least fifteen of those white teeth, poked his big chest out, and said, “Challenge me.”

  And I did. I looked it up in the dictionary, and sure enough it was in there. I slipped in a few good ones too. Musical terms I knew he didn’t know, and words that could have two c’s or l’s, but I still couldn’t outsmart him. He was too quick. He was ahead by over a hundred points. It was embarrassing, really. But I knew I had him when he put down y-e-t-i.

  “Pick it up,” I said. “I know that’s not a word, and I’ll challenge you.”

  “Wait a minute, baby. Let me look it up for you, since you can’t spell. I know that little pea brain of yours been working overtime, and I can see it’s throbbing, so sit tight. What college was that you said you went to?”

  I went to pop him upside his head, but he dodged me. An abominable snowman? A double-word score. Next came this word xu, which he dared me to challenge, but I was onto him now. I didn’t dare. Triple-word score. He got up to go to the bathroom, and I grabbed the dictionary and looked it up. A Vietnamese coin? Where’d he learn all these damn words?