“Oh, here,” she said, handing me a large brown envelope. “This came in the mail for you today.”
I took the envelope and saw that it was from the Small Business Association. Since Zora was standing there, I felt obligated to open it, so I did. Two brochures was inside: “How to Be an Entrepreneur” and “How to Succeed in Business.” I faked excitement and pretended like I was reading ’em. Zora went to take her shower. When I heard her singing, I threw the brochures on the table. Part of ’em slid off and fell on the floor. I just stared at ’em for a few minutes, then reached inside my jacket and lit a cigarette.
7
Franklin was broke on my birthday. He called me from a phone booth and said he had to work overtime and wasn’t able to cash his check. For some reason, I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t tell him that. He had promised to take me to a movie and dinner in the Village. I could hear how embarrassed he was, so I just told him not to worry about it, and went ahead and offered to lend him fifty dollars. He accepted my loan. Then I felt stupid, because here it was my birthday, and I was lending him money to take me out? And trying not to make him feel bad about it? Personally, I wanted to get dressed up and go dancing. I haven’t heard any live music in so long, and I can’t even remember the last time I rocked my hips or popped my fingers to a beat.
When he finally got home, Franklin smelled like he’d been doing more drinking than working. But I didn’t say anything. “Here,” he said, and handed me a small bouquet of flowers. “Happy birthday, baby—for what it’s worth.” He gave me a dry kiss on the cheek, then went into the bathroom. I put the flowers in water, although I felt like throwing them out the window. I sat on the couch, literally twiddling my fingers waiting for him, and after he finished showering and put his clothes on—which took forever—he walked into the living room and said, “You ready?” I simply nodded my head and got up. It felt like I was going to work instead of out to celebrate my thirtieth birthday.
“You wanna go to the racetrack next weekend, baby?” he asked, as we got on the subway.
“Why not,” I said. I’ve never been to a horse race before. It sounded like fun. The train shook and rattled along. We were both quiet, and this was pretty unusual. Franklin almost always has something funny to say.
“You know”—he sighed—“I don’t know why you wanna see this movie.”
This threw me off. I’ve been talking about An Officer and a Gentleman all week long. Even Portia and Marie said it was dynamite. “Because it’s a good movie, Franklin,” I said. But I felt like saying, “Shit, it’s my birthday, and I should be able to see any movie I want to see.” But I didn’t. The evening already felt like a flat note, and I didn’t want to spoil the rest of it.
“I hate movies about war,” he said. “War depresses me, and since it’s your birthday, I don’t feel like being depressed.”
“It’s not a war movie, Franklin. It’s about two men who’re in the service, but it’s really a love story.”
“Forget I even said anything,” he said. “I need to stop by the liquor store first.”
It figured. “Franklin, the movie’s starting in a few minutes.”
“They always show previews. You won’t miss nothing but the credits.”
He bought a bottle of something strong, and there went eight of our fifty dollars.
When we got inside the theater, the movie had already started. This pissed me off. I hate missing the beginning of a movie. We walked down the aisle, looking for two empty seats, but the place was packed. “There’s two,” I whispered. Franklin knows I like to sit in the back, but he kept walking. He likes to sit close to the front. I followed him. He spotted two seats all the way in the middle, which meant a whole row of people had to stand up so we could get by. “Excuse me,” I said, but Franklin didn’t open his mouth. We hadn’t been seated a minute when I heard the twist of the bottle cap. He put his arm around me for ten minutes, then pulled away. About forty minutes into the movie, Franklin started getting fidgety. When I looked at him, he wasn’t even looking at the screen. He mumbled something under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“This is bullshit,” he said loudly. “I told you I didn’t wanna see this damn movie.”
“Well, I do,” I said, and pushed my behind deeper in my seat.
“Then I’ll wait for you outside,” he said, and got up. The people in our row looked annoyed. I sat there a few more minutes, then I got up too. I was fuming now. The people I had to pass stood up again, and each of them exhaled, then gave me an irritated look. I had to trot to catch up to Franklin, who was now standing outside the lobby door, lighting a cigarette.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I said. He rolled his eyes at me.
“You ain’t never been in the service, having some white man telling you what to do, when to get up, when to go to sleep, how many sit-ups to do, talking to you like you ain’t shit, and you can’t say two words back to ’em or you’ll get your fuckin’ teeth knocked out. So don’t tell me how bad it ain’t.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me this before we spent ten dollars?”
“Because it’s your birthday and you wanted to see the damn movie, that’s why.”
He started walking down the street without me. For September, it was cold and windy, so I fastened all the buttons on my jacket and caught up to him. The heels of my cowboy boots clicked. I didn’t know what his problem was, but I sure wished he’d get over it. I slid my arm through his—as a sort of peace gesture, I guess.
“When were you in the service?”
“When everybody else was.”
“Which was when, Franklin?”
“Look, do we have to talk about this now?”
“No,” I said. I really felt like slapping the shit out of him, and if he weren’t so big, I probably would have.
“Good,” he said. “I hear the train. Let’s go.” He grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me down the stairs with much more force than was necessary. Something was obviously bothering him, but I didn’t have a clue as to what it might be. Then I thought maybe it was Pam or one of his kids. But if he wanted to tell me, he’d tell me. I wasn’t going to beg him for any more information. Not tonight. Hell, it’s my birthday. And so far, it’s the worst one I’ve ever spent with a man.
We got off at West Fourth Street and went into one of my favorite restaurants. There were lots of lush hanging plants and stained glass, even some lively music in the background. We sat by the window. In the summer I have sat in this same spot, but they slide the glass back so you feel like you’re sitting outside. Franklin ordered a double Jack Daniel’s before I could even think of what I wanted. When the waiter came with the menu, I realized Franklin didn’t have enough money left for both of us to eat. I couldn’t bring myself to go into my wallet one more time. Franklin ordered another double. He was puffing on a Newport and looked quite comfortable—like he could sit here all night. My left temple was jumping, fluttering, and I knew I was getting depressed. Something wasn’t right about this whole night—this whole day—but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Franklin,” I said, leaning over the table to touch his hand, but he pulled it away. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’,” he said, looking out the window.
“You’re acting very strange. Is something going on that I don’t know about that I should know about?”
“No. And I ain’t acting strange. You think I’m acting strange? Just because I didn’t wanna see a stupid-ass war movie about a white boy falling in love, you think I’m acting strange? I just had a hard day, and I’m tired. The only reason I’m here is because it’s your birthday. Otherwise, I’da stayed home.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say so? We didn’t have to go out, you know.”
“You been saying we don’t never go nowhere, so I wanted to take you out.”
“Yeah, but look what it’s turned into. And if you were all that tired, why didn’t you just sleep through
the movie like you’ve done before?”
“Look. Why don’t you order something to eat, to keep this celebration going before it goes all the way downhill?”
“I’m not hungry,” I said, and leaned back in my chair.
“It figures.”
“Why’d you say that?”
“You ain’t hungry because you don’t think I got paid today, do you? Tell the truth, Zora.”
Earlier, the thought had crossed my mind, but then I thought about it. Maybe he didn’t have time to cash his check. But why would he bring something like this up if there wasn’t any truth to it? “Shouldn’t I believe you, Franklin?”
His jawbone started twitching. What the hell is going on? I wondered. He’s drunk. That’s it. I’ve never seen him drink like this before, and I don’t like it. And he just keeps picking at me. But why tonight?
“Look, let’s skip the subject, okay. I’m under a lot of pressure at work and just got a lotta things on my mind. I don’t wanna take it out on you or spoil your birthday no more than I already have, so why don’t you go ahead and order something so we can get outta here?”
“We can leave now,” I said, and got up and started putting my jacket back on. I really didn’t need this—really I didn’t.
“Good,” he said, and gulped down the rest of his drink. He paid the waiter and didn’t leave a tip.
When we got outside, we sort of stood on the corner, not moving, and neither of us said anything. The wind whipped around us, and dust flew in my eyes.
“Well,” he said, digging his hands inside his pockets.
I didn’t feel like going underground, didn’t feel like sitting or standing next to him, didn’t want our shoulders to touch—and I especially didn’t feel like talking to him. He had ruined my damn birthday, and I still had no idea why. “Franklin, let’s take a cab home.”
Without saying a word, he walked over to the curb and held his arm out. Three empty cabs in a row pulled over toward him, then kept going.
“You motherfuckers!” he yelled. He held his arm out again—halfway—and stuck his index finger up to hail another one. It passed him by too. He had the most humiliated look on his face—one I’ve never seen before—and after five or six more minutes of the same thing, he looked like he was ready to explode. Finally, he walked over to me. “You try it.”
I stepped down off the curb into the street, held my hand out, and within a few seconds a cab stopped. I opened the door and turned back to Franklin. He looked up into the black sky, then walked over to the cab and got in.
“If you big and black in America, that’s two strikes against you—did you know that, Zora? They think all black men is killers and robbers and that we gon’ cut their throats, then take all their fuckin’ money. Ain’t that right, sir?”
The cabdriver turned around. “I don’t want any trouble, man.”
Franklin slammed the door and leaned back in his seat. A silver sign posted on the plastic partition said, “Thank you for not smoking.” Franklin whipped out a Newport and lit it. The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror but didn’t say a word. I just shook my head and pressed my cheek against the glass.
We didn’t say a single solitary word all the way home.
Once we were inside the apartment, Franklin turned on the TV and flopped down on the couch. I went into the bedroom, took my clothes off, and put on some ugly pajamas—the ones I knew he hated. I was starving, but I was too mad to eat. I just brushed my teeth and got in the bed. I heard him come into the bedroom, and I could feel him standing over me, but I refused to acknowledge him. My face faced the wall.
“Look, I’m sorry, Zora. Really I am.”
I didn’t say anything, but I was thinking, Fuck you, awfully hard.
I don’t know how long he stood there, but when I woke up the next morning, I didn’t feel his body next to me. I sprang up, and his side of the bed was empty. My heart raced, and I was wondering if he had left. I can’t lie: I felt a sense of relief, really, in the thought. When I rolled over to get up, my foot hit something big. I looked down at the floor and saw Franklin curled up inside a nest of blankets. I stepped right over him.
* * *
Franklin didn’t cash his check on Monday either. And now I know why. His friend Jimmy stopped by on Tuesday morning as I was about to lock the front door on my way to work. Franklin had left about quarter to seven, like he always does.
“Mornin’, sweetness. Is Franklin still upstairs?”
I turned down the volume of my Walkman and slid the earphones off. “No. He’s at work, Jimmy.”
“Good. They called him back. Cool. I hate to be around that dude when he’s laid off, don’t you? He’s like a big baby, ain’t he?”
“Sort of,” was all I could say. Laid off? Why didn’t he just tell me? Then I figured I would play along with Jimmy to find out exactly how much he knew. “Well, it’s been—how many days has it been now, Jimmy?”
“Over a week, ain’t it? When I saw him last Tuesday at the bar, his head was all fucked up. Excuse my language, sweetness. All he was worried about was you and your rent. What you was gon’ think—that he wasn’t shit. That you was gon’ realize you was too good for him. A man shouldn’t love no woman as much as he love you, but then again, you ain’t all that bad-looking.” Jimmy let out a wail, and the fat on his forehead wrinkled up and formed rows and creases. His belt hung below his belly. I smiled. I know what he does for a living; Franklin told me. But he’s never brought any drugs to our house, and I’ve never heard him mention any. I guess I just thought of Jimmy as one of those people who hadn’t found his place in the world yet.
After I said goodbye, I caught the bus to work. Kids were swarming around McDonald’s doorway, which was right across the street, and I decided to get one of those breakfast specials. Why couldn’t Franklin have been honest and told me the truth? Why’d he have to lie? He could’ve given me some credit for wanting to understand. I mean really. By now I thought he knew we were in this thing together.
* * *
The hallways looked even longer today. Sterile. Even with hundreds of students moving along the tiled floors, leaning against gray lockers, I felt as if I were in a movie that was running in slow motion. I did not want to be here today, but I walked into my homeroom and sat down. My eighth graders all said the customary good morning. When I went to reach for my attaché case, it wasn’t there. Shit. Where did I leave it? I thought back to the bus. No, I had walked off with it; that much I remembered. McDonald’s. That was it. This is not a good sign, Zora, when you start forgetting simple things. Why does he work construction if he’s constantly getting laid off? Can’t he think of something else to do to earn a living? At least until he goes back to school? I know one thing—I can not handle him taking his frustrations out on me, and I don’t even want to think about popping phenobarb again, just so I can cope with him being all stressed out. No way. And the lying. There’s nothing I hate more than a liar. I’ll just tell him—simple as that. I don’t need this kind of shit, and if we’re going to get through this—through everything—he’s going to have to find a better way of dealing with disappointment. Period.
“Would someone like to do me a big favor?” At least six arms went up, and I pointed to a boy I’d had in seventh grade. Lance.
“I forgot my attaché case over at McDonald’s. Just tell them I’m your homeroom teacher. Here’s a note and a pass.”
“You got it,” he said, and walked out of the classroom, bopping.
“So how is everybody?” I was trying to sound enthusiastic.
“Tired,” they said in unison.
“Whipped,” a few more said.
“I feel great,” a Hispanic girl said. “You look pretty tired, Miss Banks. What were you doing all night, huh?”
Half the class started laughing. I tried to crack a smile, but it wasn’t all that funny. For the past three nights, I haven’t had any reason to stay up.
I took roll, and to my surpris
e, Lance came back with my attaché right before the bell rang for first period. I dragged myself to class. Finally, I had the room I’ve been waiting for. The acoustics in here were excellent. The floors and walls were cement, and the windows were gigantic. A perfect listening room. Beethoven, Brahms, and Schubert sounded magnificent in here. And Leontyne Price? My God, I could sit in here and listen to all of ’em forever. Of course, most of my eighth graders could take or leave this kind of music. But let me play some Bruce Springsteen, they’d go crazy. I liked Springsteen myself, and before this semester was over, I was going to surprise them by bringing in one of his tapes.
“Okay,” I said, sitting on top of my desk. “I’m Miss Banks.”
“We already know that,” someone said.
“Good. Then tell me something I don’t know. Why are you here?” I wondered where Franklin was, and where he’d been disappearing to all last week when he acted like he was on his way to work.
“Because we’re being punished!”
“Because we have to be!”
“That’s not true, and you know it. Anyway, let me just tell you how I run my class. First of all, if you ever get bored, let me know immediately, is that clear?”
“I’m bored,” someone said.
“But not today,” I said, and tried to smile. “I’m going to introduce you to some of the best music in the world.” I just wished it didn’t have to be today.
At least fifteen of the thirty-six kids let out a long sigh.
“Who’s ever heard of Tchaikovsky or Brahms or Schubert or Beethoven?”
About five hands went up.
“Who’s heard of Gladys Knight, Bruce Springsteen, the Doobie Brothers, and—”
Disappearing Acts Page 14