Disappearing Acts

by Terry McMillan

  I put on my Patti Austin tape, turned it down low, lay down on the bed, and opened the yellow book that was lying on the table next to the bed. I started reading. There were cigarette ashes between pages ten and eleven. Franklin must’ve read it already. How ironic. He reads more than I do.

  My own snoring woke me up. The last thing I remember was that the guy who’d just gotten out of prison for refusing to go to Vietnam was trying to get to his parents’ house, but he got sidetracked by—what else?—a woman. I closed the book and looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. Where was Franklin? He should’ve been back hours ago. I knew I shouldn’t worry. What I needed to do was go back to sleep. There’s nothing worse than facing thirty-six fourteen-year-olds at eight o’clock in the morning when your eyes are burning.

  I heard the front door close softly.

  “Franklin?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, baby.”

  His voice was heavy, which meant he was drunk. When he came into the bedroom, he smelled like a bar. He didn’t say anything, just fell down on me and kissed me. It was disgusting. I tried to push him away.

  “Not tonight, baby, please don’t push me away tonight. I need you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “All I wanna do is go to school so I can start my own business and take care of you so you can quit teaching and sing so you can be a star!”

  “What did they say?”

  “Who?”

  “The counselor at school.”

  “I didn’t make it.”

  “What do you mean, you didn’t make it?”

  “I got sidetracked. I’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Franklin?” All two hundred and twenty-three pounds of him were on me, and I could barely move. I tried to sit up, which caused him to roll down to my thighs. “What do you mean, you got sidetracked?”

  “I’m scared, baby. Scared. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Scared of what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, slurring.

  I wanted to strangle him. “All you were supposed to do was get some information and tell them about your GED. What’s so scary about that?”

  “If I can’t find it, I can’t prove it. To them I’m still a dropout.”

  “So you can just take the test over again.”

  “You know how long it’s been since I been to school?”

  “All you have to do is study and then take a simple test. You’re no dummy, Franklin. And it can’t be that hard.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You got a college education, baby. I can’t even write a decent sentence.”

  “Then we’ll work on it together.”

  “You’re sweet, you know that? And that’s why I love you. Put your arms around me, baby, please?”

  He was so pitiful that I was completely turned off. I put my arms around him anyway, but I didn’t hug him. I could feel him getting hard as a rock.

  “I need you tonight, baby,” he slurred. Then his whole face fell on mine. His lips were wet and foul-tasting.

  “Franklin, I don’t want to.”

  “Come on, baby. It won’t take but a minute.”

  He always says that when he’s drunk, and there’s no way I can talk him out of it.

  “Can I at least take my clothes off?”

  “Let me take ’em off for you.” He started yanking on my slacks until he got them off. Then he pulled up my T-shirt, but it got stuck around my neck and I couldn’t breathe. When he finally yanked it over my head, my chin snapped and I bit my tongue. Instead of taking my bra off, he lifted it up so that my breasts flopped out. Then he pushed them together until they felt like one. He started sucking my nipples as if he was really hoping to get milk.

  “Franklin, take it easy, would you?”

  He didn’t say anything. I don’t think he heard me.

  When he got tired of my breasts, he dropped them. Then he dug his middle finger inside me. I was as dry as a desert, but he jabbed his penis inside me anyway. That’s when I screamed. “Franklin, please! You’re hurting me.”

  “I’m sorry, baby.”

  And off he went to the races. At first it felt like I was in a tractor going over a bumpy road. Then I guess he decided to be a bulldozer. I looked at the clock. His minute was long since up, but of course I wouldn’t dare say that. I still hadn’t moved a muscle, and I decided to help, just to get it over with. Now, when he pushed, I pushed back.

  “Thank you, baby,” he muttered.

  I pretended my body was a roller coaster and moved accordingly—that is, until the combination of his weight, his sweat, his funk, and that breath was unbearable. Finally, I put both hands on his ass and pushed him in as far as he could go and squeezed. This usually works, but I should’ve known better. He moaned but didn’t shiver. Then he fell off of me and rolled over to his side of the bed.

  “Maybe I’m too high,” he said.

  “Maybe?”

  He flopped both arms over me, and within a minute he was snoring. I twisted myself out of his grasp, went to the bathroom, scrubbed his scent off; then I walked into the kitchen, ate six Oreo cookies, standing up, and washed them down with a glass of milk.

  * * *

  “So what’d you think?” I asked Reginald.

  “I’ve heard you sound much better.”

  “I know.” I walked over by his piano and looked down six flights at the traffic.

  “What’s wrong with you today, Z?”

  “Tired, maybe.”

  “Bullshit. You haven’t been practicing, have you?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Your posture is for shit, you’re missing notes—flat from one key to the next—you’re breathing from everywhere except your diaphragm, and you’re straining like hell. Come on, where’s your concentration? This is no time to start slacking off. What’s going on?”

  “What if I don’t have all the money for the studio when it’s time?”

  “There are ways to cut a few corners and still be able to get a good production sound.”

  “How?”

  He explained that we didn’t have to hire musicians for every song. That he’d do the keyboards, lay all the parts for each instrument, and we could use a computerized drum machine, rent a synthesizer to reproduce the bass, horn, and string sounds.

  I started walking around his loft and sat down on his white leather sofa. It was soft.

  “Didn’t you say you’ve already put away five hundred?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I know where we can get a good studio for about fifty an hour.”

  “Fifty dollars?”

  “Some go as high as two hundred, so don’t complain. It shouldn’t take us more than about thirty hours.”

  “Thirty hours?”

  “Well, it’s almost income tax return time. Aren’t you getting a refund?”

  “Yeah, but I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “We’re not under any deadlines, so don’t worry about it.”

  “Have any of your other students gotten nervous once they get to this point?”

  “Of course. But it’s only natural. I mean, you sing your heart out for years in the church choir and then you decide to pursue it on a professional level. It’s different. It’s competitive, and you start having your doubts about your talent. But, Miss Z, you don’t need to worry about that. Come on, get your butt up and over here.”

  I got up from the sofa, and it seemed to take so much energy. I took my usual position, next to the piano.

  “We’re not doing anything until you stand up straight.”

  I stood up as straight as I could.

  “I’ve changed my mind. The song can wait. Let’s do a few exercises to loosen you up.”

  As I lay there on the floor with my palms on my belly, my head began to swirl with the rhythm of the ceiling fan. I couldn’t picture the flame the way I usually can.

  “Come on, Z, stop lifting your chest. Concentrate.”

  I started cough
ing and sat up. “Would you mind terribly if we rehearsed next week? My mind just isn’t on this.”

  “You could’ve fooled me.”

  “I’m just feeling a little confused.”

  “Well, talk to me, Z. If you come in here tense, and your mind is somewhere else, we’re not gonna get anywhere.”

  “I know.”

  “Do me and yourself a favor. Go home. Try to relax. I know it might sound corny, but remember how good you used to feel when you sang in church?”

  I shook my head yes. And I did remember. I felt free. And couldn’t wait for Sunday to get here. I felt replenished after singing a solo. I’d look out at the congregation—in tears, fanning themselves, and shaking their heads up and down. And Daddy and Marguerite, looking so proud. But in those days, singing didn’t take any effort, and I did it because I wanted to, and I wasn’t concerned about going into a studio to make a record.

  “Then surrender,” Reginald was saying, “and let God back in your heart, and you’ll feel the power of every single word you sing.”

  I tried to manage a smile.

  “If you need more than a week, take it. I don’t want to see you in here again until your attitude is more positive, understood?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and got my coat.

  I cried all the way to the subway. As the train rattled along, I took out my Walkman and pushed the On button. I had forgotten that last time I’d put in Joni Mitchell, and it was near the end of “Don’t Interrupt the Sorrow.” I listened.

  This song was too much for me tonight, so I turned it off and listened to the rhythm of the shaking train until I came to my stop.

  * * *

  Everything was perfect. Franklin surprised me and cleaned the whole apartment. He even cleaned the oven and the refrigerator, washed windows, and mopped and waxed what he called “his” floors. He insisted on doing the laundry too, which I begged him not to do—because I’ve seen what happens to clothes that he washes. Fortunately, everything was still the same color when he dumped out the laundry on the bed. Nothing was folded, and everything was wrinkled, but I let him know how much I appreciated it. He’s been trying so hard to be helpful, which is why I decided not to mention the school issue again until he did.

  I spent the morning in my music room, trying to let God into my heart, but He must’ve been too busy or sensed I wasn’t sincere. You can’t fool God—that much I do know—and even He probably knew I sounded lousy. So I gave up.

  I went to the grocery store instead. I started cooking as soon as I got back. I made two large pans of stuffed shells, a gorgeous salad, asparagus tips, garlic bread, and homemade cheesecake. I bought enough wine for twenty people instead of nine. Everybody was supposed to be here by six.

  At five o’clock, the phone rang. Franklin was blasting Evelyn “Champagne” King’s “Love Come Down,” and I had to ask him to turn it down.

  It was Claudette. “We’re not gonna be able to make it, girl. Little George has had a temperature all day, and now it’s up to 105. I’m taking him to emergency. I’m really sorry, Zora.”

  Next was Darlene. “I’ve got cramps so bad I can’t even walk. Tell Franklin I’ll try to get out to see you guys next week, okay? I’m sorry, Zora. I was looking forward to this too.”

  Portia. “Girl, I got a wisdom tooth pulled yesterday, and the whole right side of my face is swollen and hurts like hell. I can’t go nowhere looking and feeling like this.”

  Marie. “I just got your message five minutes ago. I’ve been working in Florida for the past two weeks, and I’m wiped out. Let’s get together soon, though, and tell that handsome man of yours I said hi.”

  Judy. “I’ve got a brand-new presentation to make on Monday morning, and one I’m finishing up now. I’m still proving myself, you know, and I can’t afford to blow it. I’m so sorry, Zora, but do give Franklin my regards. Maybe one day I’ll get to meet him. Let’s try to get together for lunch or something real soon.”

  I hung up the phone, and by the time I told Franklin, the phone rang again. There was nobody left to cancel, so I couldn’t imagine who this could be.

  It was Marguerite.

  “Your Daddy’s in the hospital, chile. He told me not to call you, but he’s crazy. It ain’t too serious. But look like he got a peptic ulcer. He gon’ be in there for a good week, until they finish running tests. Don’t you worry none. I just thought you should know. How you doing? And how’s Franklin?”

  “Fine,” was all I could muster up.

  “Jake is in the driveway, blowing for me. We on our way up to see your Daddy now. We’ll call you soon as he get home. And don’t you worry, he’s in good hands.”

  I hung up the phone and looked at all the food, then at Franklin.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Marguerite.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “My Daddy’s in the hospital, but she said he’ll be all right.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “She said ulcers.”

  “Well, at least it ain’t cancer, or a heart attack, or some shit like that. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “I know you disappointed, baby. You done cooked all this damn food, and ain’t nobody but me here to eat it.”

  I looked down at all the games. Scrabble. Trivial Pursuit. Monopoly. A deck of cards.

  “Well, I’m hungry as a motherfucker. You mind if I eat now, baby?”

  “Help yourself,” I said, and went to find my purse.

  14

  I found my GED, so I went back down to that school, talked to a counselor, and signed on the dotted line. Wasn’t nothing to it. They told me I could go at night, so I can still work during the day. I’m gon’ take three classes. Me. It even sounds funny, but what the hell. I gotta take some kinda English too, ’cause they gave me this test and it was obvious that I can’t write for shit. When I told Zora, she said she would help me. I’m gon’ give her the opportunity too. I can’t start until this summer, but that’s okay with me.

  Why is it that the shit that can change your whole life is always somewhere in the damn future? ’cause right now my so-called constitution still ain’t got a single brick in it. And when you get right down to it, my shit is shaky as a motherfucker, ’cause I’m still in the same fuckin’ position I was in when I met Zora. Which is why I’m trying to speed up this process. Hell, I been watching how she dedicate herself. Damn near every day, she close that door and practice. No ifs, ands, and buts about it. And what have I been doing with any consistency? Pissing, and begging the white man for a job. I can’t keep doing construction, that much I do know. It don’t take no brains to throw bricks and shit, and I got one I wanna use. Besides, this shit is starting to take its toll on me physically and mentally. But hell, for a man who’s been trying to build a life without no foundation, I guess something to look forward to is better than nothing.

  * * *

  I was sitting by the window, going through one of my how-to books, to get some ideas and measurements about a coffee table I’m thinking about making. My black beans and rice was simmering, and for some reason I had put on one of Zora’s lesson tapes and was listening to it. Reginald was talking about her stage presence, and how much fuller her voice would sound once it was recorded, dubbed, and mixed. I keep forgetting that this is what all this singing and shit is leading up to. A record. If my shit is still dragging by the time she make one, where is that gon’ leave me? She gon’ be traveling all around the damn world, staying in fancy hotels, meeting all kinds of people—men—with a pocketful of money, driving Mercedes Benzes, not trying to scrape up a grand to buy a used Chevy. People always change when they get successful, don’t they? Some of ’em forget who stuck by ’em all through their little apprenticeship. You gon’ be one of ’em, baby? You gon’ be ashamed of me when you make it? Well, don’t worry. By that time, ain’t gon’ be no dirt under my fingernails. That’s a promise. You ain’t the only one with a master plan, an
d from here on out, everything I do is gon’ add another brick to my foundation. I took her tape out and put in The Whispers’ “And the Beat Goes On.” I blasted it.

  Every few minutes I saw icicles falling from the roof. It’s about damn time. I don’t wanna make the table outta pine, but shit, I can’t afford the wood I’d love to use. Cherry. Maybe I’ll go ahead and spend a few dollars—get a nice piece of walnut or oak. Zora always accusing me of being a cheapskate.

  I got up to stir my beans, when the phone rang. Don’t nobody usually call here this time of day, and Zora won’t be home for a while, but I answered it anyway. It was Jimmy.

  “What’s up, dude?” I asked.

  “I’m in a jam, Frankie.”

  “What kinda jam, man?”

  “Jail, and you the only person I could think of with a phone that might come to my rescue. Can I count on you, Frankie?”

  “How much we talking about, Jimmy?”

  “Two fifty.”

  “Damn. I ain’t got that kinda cash, and Zora ain’t here right now.”

  “I’m all fucked up, man.”

  “Look, give me till the morning, and let me see what I can come up with.”

  “Frankie, you a real friend, dude. This whole thang is a case of mistaken identity. They done accused me of shooting some Puerto Rican I don’t even know. I’ll tell you about it if I see you tomorrow. I’m in Brooklyn, on Adams—your old spot.”

  “Yeah, right. Check you later.”

  Before I got a chance to hang up and think about how I was gon’ ask Zora if I could borrow two hundred and fifty bucks, there was a click in the phone. I didn’t know if I should tell her the truth or make up something. I pushed down on the dial-tone button.

  “Frankie?”

  “Kendricks?”

  “Yeah, man, it’s me. I don’t care where you working; have your black ass down here tomorrow by seven sharp. We got sixteen spots at that same site with the city. I didn’t wanna call you till it was definite.”