Disappearing Acts

by Terry McMillan

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Franklin, Daddy wants to talk to you.”

  He just shrugged his shoulders.

  “Come on, don’t be such a drag. He just wants to say hello.”

  He got up from the couch and took the phone from me.

  “Hello, Mr. Banks. I’m fine.” I couldn’t believe it, but the whole tone of his voice changed. It went up one octave. “Just going through a rough period here. Yes, sir. Construction work slows down in the winter if you’re not in the union. No, not yet. The Mafia runs it. Yeah, I’m serious. I’m trying to treat her the best I can, considering.” He actually started laughing. “Yes, I do. Yes, I do. I try. As soon as I get on my feet. Christmas? That’s two weeks from now, isn’t it?” “Isn’t it?” he said, not “Ain’t it?” “Yes, sir. I’d love to. I can’t let you do that. Pride, sir, pride.” He laughed again! “Then can we consider it a loan? Yes, I do. I’m looking forward to meeting you. Very nice talking to you too, sir.”

  He handed me the phone. I was grinning. He was grinning. My Daddy always did know how to work magic. “Okay, Daddy. Yep. Tell Marguerite I said hello. We’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Love you too.”

  I hung up, then turned to look at Franklin. “What did he say to you?”

  “He asked me if I loved you, and I told him yes. He asked me if I wanted to marry you, and I told him yes. Then he asked if I was giving it to you every night—”

  “Franklin, he did not!”

  “I ain’t kidding, Zora. That’s what he asked me!” He started laughing so hard he kicked over his glass of rum. I threw him a dish towel and he cleaned it up, then he went to put the bottle under the sink.

  “So what did you tell him?”

  “I told him I was trying like hell! Not really. Your Pops thought the shit was funny. Now I see where you get your spunk, baby. But he talked me into something I ain’t so sure about.”

  “What?”

  “Sending us round-trip airplane tickets to come for Christmas. I told him it would be a loan. You know I ain’t about charity, baby, but I couldn’t tell him that.”

  “Do you want to go home with me for Christmas?”

  “Why not? As long as don’t nobody throw mashed potatoes in my face. Seriously, he sounded like a decent man, and besides, he asked me if I played poker.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah, I play poker.”

  “How about teaching me?”

  “There’s only one kind I know how to play.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “Strip. Get the cards.”

  I didn’t like this game, but we ended up taking our clothes off anyway. And after a week of nothing, tonight we discovered something all over again: that we still need each other. Now I know how Liz Taylor must’ve felt when she met Richard.

  * * *

  Franklin got a job painting walls in a brand-new apartment complex. We were both grateful it was inside, because I can’t stand to see him when he comes home cold. He often looks broken, and I wonder where he gets the strength to get up in the morning. But he keeps doing it. This job was supposed to last through January—maybe even longer—and so far it’s been a whole week. He beat me home today, and the first thing he did when I walked in was kiss me and hand me his paycheck.

  “You don’t have to give me this,” I said. It had been so long since he had had his own money, I didn’t want to take it.

  “I won’t feel right unless I do. You give me twenty dollars, that’s all I need. Enough for cigarettes and maybe a half pint on Friday.”

  “Franklin, this is the first check you’ve had in ages. Keep it.”

  “Look. You been paying for everything for so damn long, lending me—giving me—money, and this little chump change wouldn’t even put a dent in what you done spent. You gotta be about tired of this shit by now, but I give you all the credit in the world, ’cause you ain’t never complained once. Besides, things is looking up. Vinney called and told me they was starting another brownstone, and wants me to be on his crew. He said it should last through the summer.”

  Here we go again with the promises, but I wasn’t about to say anything about it. “What about your kids?”

  “What you mean, what about the kids?”

  “Christmas. I know you plan on giving those kids something.”

  “Baby, I been so broke I forgot all about that.”

  “Well, I haven’t. So that’s what we’ll do with this money.”

  He looked at me and smiled. “You’re a good person, Zora, you know that? I swear, I’m one lucky man.”

  “Well, since we’re both in a good mood, how about we do two things?” I asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “You feel like laughing tonight?”

  “You know I love to laugh, baby. Every morning when I wake up and look at you…”

  “Fuck you, Franklin!”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Anyway, my girlfriend Marie—you remember Marie, don’t you?”

  “I don’t remember what she looks like, but she’s the comedienne, right?”

  “Yep, and she’s opening at the Improv tonight. I told her I’d come to see her. Will you come with me?” I crossed my fingers. Please say yes, for once. We need to get out of this house. We need to do something. We haven’t been anywhere in so long, I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like.

  “Is she really funny?”

  “Last time I saw her she was.”

  “Okay. What’s the other thing?”

  “Let’s go get our Christmas tree.”

  “You mean to tell me you want a Christmas tree, Zora?”

  “Why not? I get one every year. What’s Christmas without a Christmas tree?”

  “But we won’t even be here.”

  “There’s before and after, you know.”

  “You mean I fell in love with a big baby?”

  “You’ve got that right, and I want to sit on your lap right now, Santa.”

  He slapped his thighs, and I went over and sat down between them. “So have you been a good little girl all year?”

  “Yes, Santa.”

  “Well, then, tell Santa what you want him to bring you for Christmas, sweetheart.”

  “I’m sitting on it,” I said.

  * * *

  Franklin looked so handsome. He was wearing my favorite red and black sweater that shows how broad his shoulders are and even those muscles. And blue jeans that made me want to grab his ass. We got a good table, and this felt so good, being out with him and both of us were in such a great mood. We laughed all the way here. He ordered a drink and asked me if I was hungry. I wasn’t. I got a club soda and looked around at all the people. The place was packed. Franklin’s legs were between mine under the table and his hand was on top of mine. This was just great. He even agreed, while we were sitting there, that we were going to get out more often. That’s when this guy came out on stage and we turned our attention toward him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls. Boys and boys. Girls and girls. Whatever. Tonight, the Improv is proud and pleased and blah-blah-blah to bring you, straight from the streets of our very own lower Manhattan, the funniest lady to hit this stage since my sister fell off of it last week: Miss Marie Swan. Give her a big hand. No—two hands. No—three hands.”

  The crowd was laughing and clapping as Marie walked out on stage. I didn’t even recognize her. Marie—who is fairly attractive, six feet tall, and as thin as I’d like to be, and has specks of freckles and natural red hair—was disguised. Her hair was white. Pure white. She was dressed up like an old lady in a housedress, turned-over shoes, and support hose. She even had a cane.

  “Howdy, folks,” she said.

  The audience said howdy back. Then she sat down in this old armchair and tried to cross her legs but pretended like she couldn’t.

  “This always have been a problem,” she said. “Jake used to love it when I couldn’t cross ’em. That’s probably one of the rea
sons he stayed with me for so long, bless his heart. He’s dead and long gone now. And only the Lord knows how grateful I am. Y’all wanna know why I’ve been trying to cross my legs all these years?” The audience yelled out yes. “’Cause when that poor man pried ’em open, he went on a treasure hunt, but he always went crazy once he found the treasure. Of course he didn’t have but three or four inches to work with, but the way Jake went to work, you’d swear he had a ten-inch jackhammer at his disposal. Poor thing. Poor me, really. I always felt like I’d been galloping on wild horses by the time he finished. Hell, to get through it all those years, I just pretended he was Clark Gable. I remember one night I got carried away and even yelled out, ‘Clark, Clark, Clark!’ And Jake said, ‘Who?’ And I had to clean it up real fast, so I yelled out, ‘I meant, Jake, Jake, Jake!’ I’ll tell ya, be thankful times have changed, ’cause if I’da knowed how little he had to work with, and how hard he tried to make up for it, I never woulda married him. Now I can’t even give this shit away. Tell me, which one of you young fellas out there want some seventy-year-old pussy? I know I wouldn’t, and I don’t want no seventy-year-old pecker neither. That’s why God gave us the gift to dream, and let me tell you, Clark ain’t aged a bit.”

  The audience laughed. Even Franklin was laughing. Marie went from one funny routine to another, and we laughed so hard my stomach was hurting. Franklin never finished his first drink.

  “So?” I asked Franklin, afterwards.

  “She was funny,” he said. “She was definitely funny.”

  When Marie saw us sitting at the table, she came over and joined us. “I didn’t think you’d really come, girl,” she said. But she was looking at Franklin. “You sure are one helluva hunk of a good-looking man. How’d you like to come home with me tonight, sugar? I can give you something Zora ain’t never even thought of. What you say?” She leaned over the table, then licked her lips. She was trying hard not to laugh. Her breasts were jutting out over the edge of her leotard, and Franklin was trying not to stare, but he was staring.

  He laughed. Even looked like he was blushing—as black as he is. We talked for a while, and Marie said she’d stop by and have a New Year’s drink with us. On the way home, Franklin said, “I like her.”

  And for the first time since we’d been together, I was actually jealous. Now, ain’t that some shit?

  * * *

  We were at the airport, about to board, and I was thoroughly pissed off. Franklin had been drinking all day. I didn’t want him to be drunk or smelling like liquor when he met Daddy. I wasn’t so much worried about Marguerite.

  “Could you ease up some?” I asked.

  “I’m scared, baby.”

  “Scared of what? My Daddy won’t bite you.”

  “Of flying.”

  “You’re what? Franklin, be serious.”

  “I am serious. I only been on a airplane once in my life, and they scare the shit outta me.”

  “Well, what’d you do when you went to Puerto Rico?”

  “I ain’t never been to no Puerto Rico. I was just trying to impress you. When I went in the service I had to get on one, but I was so fucked up I don’t even remember it.”

  “I swear,” was all I said. In a way, this was funny. By the time the plane took off, Franklin had passed out. His head had dropped to my shoulder, and he had put his arms around me. Eventually, I had to go to the bathroom, but I couldn’t wake him up. “Franklin,” I said, shaking him as hard as I could. “Wake up!” But he was dead weight, and I couldn’t move. By the time we landed, my bladder was about to break. He had drooled all over my shoulder, and when he finally sat up, his eyes were as red as his sweatshirt, and his breath was reeking. “Get yourself together,” I said, and handed him some Tic Tacs.

  “We here already?”

  “No, we’re there,” I said, and worked my way back to the bathroom.

  Daddy and Marguerite were waiting for us at the gate. Daddy looked older. Maybe because he was. His hair was entirely gray, but there was hardly a wrinkle on his face. Marguerite’s hair was blacker now. She looked good. Still hefty, and I never realized just how much taller she was than Daddy. At least four inches.

  Daddy grabbed me, pushed me away to look at me, then kissed me on the cheek. “Just look at you!” he said.

  Marguerite gave me a peck too. “Chile, you need to start eating again ’fore you disappear,” she said.

  “Hello, son,” Daddy said to Franklin, and shook his hand. “Damn, you got some big hands, son. Well, look at this man, Margie. What are you, seven or eight feet?”

  Franklin laughed. “Six four,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Banks.”

  “You can call me Daddy or Harvey, whatever you feel the most comfortable saying. This is Marguerite, but you can call her Margie.”

  “Well, one thing I can say, Zora,” Marguerite said. “You sho know how to pick ’em.”

  “I picked her,” Franklin said, and smiled again. He almost looked sober.

  The house looked bigger to me this time. It was an old wood-framed house, but well kept up. Years ago, Daddy had had it painted white, with blue trim, at Marguerite’s insistence. The front yard was long and wide, and in the summer had the prettiest, greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Now it was white.

  Uncle Jake was sitting in the living room, but when we walked in, he jumped up.

  “Uncle Jake!” I screamed. “What are you doing here?” He was my favorite uncle, Daddy’s only brother. He was smoking his usual cigar, just like when he used to sit me on the couch and tell me all about the blues.

  “Just taking it easy, baby. You looking like a thoroughbred woman now. Ain’t that something? Skinny as a bean pole, but he must be eating what’s left on your plate. Who is this? One of the New York Giants?” He gave out a howl, and his bowlegs swayed.

  “Uncle Jake, this is Franklin.”

  “How do, son. Cigar?”

  “Fine, sir. Sure, why not?” Franklin took the cigar, and I walked through the house, then up to my old bedroom. Marguerite still hadn’t changed the eyelet bedspread and matching curtains. The walls were the same pale yellow, and my bed was stuffed with animals. The first one that caught my eye was that elephant Bookie had won for me at the state fair when I was a teenager. God, does time fly. And on my dresser were the awards I’d won in talent shows. There wasn’t a speck of dust on anything. I went back downstairs, and Daddy was bringing the luggage in. Marguerite was in the kitchen. Franklin was sitting on the couch next to Uncle Jake.

  “You like the blues, don’t you, son?”

  “Yes, I do, sir.”

  “Who in particular?”

  “Muddy Waters for one. B.B. King, Bobby ‘Blue’ Bland…most of ’em, really.”

  “Good to hear it. Listen to this one. Tell me if you know who this is.”

  Uncle Jake put on Slim Greer and leaned back on the sofa. Daddy walked in.

  “What you drinking, son?”

  “Nothing, Pops. I mean Daddy.”

  “You can call me Pops—don’t make me no never mind. So you ain’t drinking nothin’? Hell, it’s Christmas.”

  “I had a little too much on the way here.”

  “Your head bad?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. A cup of hot coffee would sure be nice.”

  “Margie!” he yelled. “Put on a pot of coffee, honey!”

  “You ever hearda Blind Lemon Jefferson or Mississippi John Hurt?” Uncle Jake asked.

  “Afraid not.”

  “What about Sun House or Albert King?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, boy, I’ma give you a education while you here. Colored folks should know all about the blues, you know.”

  Franklin laughed. I plugged in the fake Christmas tree, and boy, it felt good being home.

  “Zora?” Marguerite yelled from the kitchen, so I went in. She must’ve cooked earlier, because all kinds of pots and pans and roasters were on the stove.

  “So how’ve you been, Marguer
ite?”

  “So-so. You hungry?”

  “A little. What’ve you got here?”

  “Some collard greens, ham, corn bread, macaroni and cheese, candied yams, and some potato salad in the refrigerator. It’s your Daddy I’m worried about. His arthritis acting up something terrible. Always in pain, but he won’t admit it. You need to tell him something about hisself, honey.”

  “What can I say?”

  “He’s your Daddy. Think of something.”

  “Has he been to the doctor?”

  “Yeah, but the wrong one. All he do is give him these pain pills that don’t do nothin’ but make him sleepy.”

  “I’ll talk to him. You mind if I have a slice of ham?”

  “That’s what it’s here for, chile. So. How’s the singing coming? Anything exciting?”

  “Well, not really. My voice classes are coming along, and by April, my coach is helping me get a demo tape together.”

  “What’s a demo tape?”

  “It’s a tape of me singing a few popular songs and some of my own that I’d send to record producers, and if they like what they hear, I might be able to get a record contract.”

  “Really? Well, it sounds like something is happening. Just take it like you find it, baby.”

  “You sound like Daddy,” I said.

  “I’m his better half, chile.”

  “Where’s Aunt Lucille?”

  “Home. She done caught Jake with another one of them floozies at some motel, and you know when she put him out, where do he come?”

  “He’s still doing that?”

  “He’s here, ain’t he?” She took a tray with the coffee on it into the living room. We sat there for over an hour, listening to Uncle Jake talk about the blues. Finally, we ate dinner. By eleven o’clock, Franklin and I were both exhausted and went upstairs to sleep. Marguerite followed us.

  “Your room is down here, Franklin.”

  Marguerite pushed open the extra-bedroom door, and Franklin looked back at me and winked. “Good night, baby,” he said. Then he turned to Marguerite. “Is it all right if I give her a good night kiss?”

  “It ain’t my business. If y’all was married, I’d put you in the same room. Maybe next time when you come, it’ll be like that. What you think?”