Disappearing Acts

by Terry McMillan

  “Man, for the last few months, all I been doing is shitwork, freezing my nuts off—but at least it’s steady. Kendricks, don’t have me giving this up for no bullshit.”

  “How much you making?”

  “Eight fifty.”

  “Well, Frankie, there’s been some changes going on down here. We done put so much pressure on these guys, man, that this time they came to us. I promised the contractor I’d bring him sixteen good workers, so all I can say is, if you snooze you lose.”

  “Is this union or what?”

  “The contractor gave me his word that if my men came in at thirteen, didn’t fuck up, and proved they could do the work, then you can get your book in less than a month. Will I see you in the morning, man?”

  “Wait a minute. You ain’t told me what’s going up.”

  “You know the old Metro Theatre building?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They through with the demolition and start pouring tomorrow for the Transit Authority’s new offices.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Before I got a chance to get excited, the fuckin’ phone clicked again. What the hell is going on? I shoulda read my horoscope today, and maybe I’da been prepared for all this.

  “Yeah,” I said, in a tone that woulda made anybody wanna hang up.

  “Franklin, it’s me, Darlene.”

  “Well, this is a surprise, Sis. How the hell are you?”

  “Not doing so well, I guess.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “I’m in the hospital.”

  “The what? Where? What’s wrong? What happened? You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve just got a concussion. I accidentally fell off a subway platform, can you believe it? Luckily, a train wasn’t coming, but I blacked out. So I’m up here at Columbia Presbyterian for a few days.”

  “You fell off a subway platform?”

  “My heel got stuck on something, and I still don’t know what.”

  “You call Moms and Pops?”

  “No, and don’t you call ’em either. You’re the only one I want to know where I am.”

  “So you’re okay, then, right?”

  “Sort of. They want me to take some tests.”

  “What for? All you got is a concussion. What kinda tests?”

  She didn’t say nothing.

  “Darlene?”

  “Psychological.”

  “Psycho-who?”

  “You heard me, Franklin. They just want to make sure I didn’t jump.”

  “Jump? Is that what they think you was trying to do? Darlene, is that what you was trying to do?”

  “I said it was an accident, didn’t I? I didn’t think you’d believe me. Anyway, I’m tired. I just wanted you to know where I was, and don’t bother coming up here to see me. I’m gonna be fine.”

  She hung up before I could say anything else. I don’t believe this shit. What kind of fool do she think I am? She did try it again. But why? Things couldn’t be that bad, could they? All I wanna know is, what the fuck is going on that would make my sister jump off a damn subway platform?

  * * *

  Hospitals give me the creeps. I don’t trust doctors and especially nurses. Your fuckin’ life is in their hands. Everybody know that a lot of ’em is racist—all you gotta do is read the Post.

  I found out what room Darlene was in and started following the arrows. Water was dripping on top of my work boots from these flowers I bought her. I didn’t know what I was gon’ say to her, really, but I just wanted her to know she didn’t have to deal with this shit by herself. That’s probably what’s underneath all this—the girl just lonely as hell. Life can be a bitch when you ain’t got nobody—but goddamn.

  Darlene looked like shit when I opened the door. Her Afro was matted to her head, and the whites of her eyes was brown. She looked like somebody had blowed her up, the way her face was all puffed out. She was watching “Family Feud” and wasn’t surprised when she saw me.

  “Here,” I said, handing her the flowers. Then I bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Franklin, I told you, you didn’t have to come.”

  “Well, at least pretend like you glad to see me, damn.”

  “I’m glad to see you,” she said, trying her damnedest to smile. “Thanks for the flowers.”

  I pulled up a chair and sat close to the bed. She crossed her legs under the sheet, but they so long, her feet still touched the foot of the bed. Maybe the fact that she almost six feet tall intimidates motherfuckers, and they don’t know how to move in on her. Naw. It’s that attitude of hers. It’s negative. But I didn’t come all the way up here to size her up, then cut her down. “So how you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m okay, really.”

  “Darlene, I’m not somebody in the street. Tell me what the real deal is, would you? Talk to me.”

  “I already told you, Franklin.”

  I pushed my chair closer. “Look, Darlene, if something is bothering you, you gon’ have to tell somebody, or it’s just gon’ keep doubling up on you till you explode. It ain’t worth it—take it from me.”

  She got tears in her eyes. At least that was a sign of life.

  “Come on, talk to me.”

  “I’m trying.”

  I figured she’d be better off if I didn’t push, so I lit a cigarette, even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to be smoking in here. She dropped her hands in her lap and sat up straight, looked straight ahead and then at me.

  “You always have been able to read me, Franklin.” Then she let out a long sigh, like she’d been jogging or something. “I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m confused about everything. I don’t know what to say. Or even where to start.”

  “It’s okay, Sis,” I said.

  She reached over and got a Kleenex and started wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, but I guess them tears was on cruise control.

  “I’m tired, Franklin. Haven’t you ever just felt tired?”

  “Hell, yeah, but not so tired I wanna die. Life is a bitch—let’s face it—but for every five fucked-up things that happen, there’s one good thing to make up for it. If you was to take a little time and check it out, there’s always another door around the corner that you can probably turn the handle and get through to the outside. You get my drift?”

  “Franklin, that’s so idealistic it’s not even funny. Have you started meditating with Zora, or what?”

  “Fuck you, Darlene.” I exhaled and realized what I just said. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “How old am I?”

  “Thirty-one,” I said.

  “And what have I done with these thirty-one years?”

  I didn’t really know what to say or how she wanted me to answer.

  “Nothing,” she said, before I had a chance to think of a convincing lie.

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

  “I can’t finish anything I start. Can’t keep a job. Don’t have any friends to speak of. I haven’t had a boyfriend in over two years. Haven’t been kissed, touched, fucked—or even noticed—since I don’t know when. I can’t even remember what having a date feels like. When my phone rings, it’s usually a wrong number. I can’t have kids, so I can’t even look forward to that. When I think about my future, you want to know what I see, Franklin?”

  “What?”

  “Pitch black.”

  “C’mon, Darlene.”

  “You don’t know what all of this feels like, pressing down on you day in and day out.”

  “I think I can imagine.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “So ’cause you going through a lonely and miserable phase, you think that’s a reason to say fuck it and just give up?”

  “Who said I was giving up?”

  “Nobody.”

  “I just said I was tired.”

  “How tired?”

  “I don’t know, Franklin, I
really don’t know.”

  “Look. I ain’t no woman, and I’m used to picking up the phone instead of waiting for it to ring, but one thing I do know is that this kind of shit passes. Ain’t you into women’s lib?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Shit, take some initiative. All these women out here going after what they want, they ain’t sitting around waiting for too much of nothing. You oughta try that shit. How long you gotta stay in here?”

  “Two more days.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll be back here to pick you up. You coming home with me and Zora for a few days. We can hang out. Talk shit. Play some Scrabble. Do some boogying. You need to relax, stop thinking so hard about everything, and stop taking everything so damn serious. I think what you really need to do is have some fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Yeah.” I smashed my cigarette out and kicked it under her bed, then stood up. “Look, I just don’t want nothing fucked up to happen to you—you got that?”

  She looked up at me and smiled. On that note, I split.

  * * *

  Wasn’t no sense in lying. It always backfire anyway, so I figured I’d tell Zora the truth. Jimmy was in jail, and he’s my buddy and needs my help. With the new job and shit, she’d know I was good for it. Only she wasn’t home when I got there. I had rehearsed this whole thing too. Wasn’t no voice class tonight, and I wondered where she was. Just as I was about to reach into the refrigerator, I saw her note on the counter: “Spending the night at Marie’s. She’s in trouble. See you tomorrow after school. Call me at 555-9866 if you need me. Love, Z.”

  If I need you? It never fuckin’ fails. Whenever I need you, your girlfriends beat me to the punch. Maybe I ain’t the only one you fuckin’. I took my beans and rice out the refrigerator and put ’em on the stove. Then I caught myself. Don’t do this, Frankie. Don’t even take the shit out this far.

  Jimmy was counting on me. But I wasn’t about to call Zora. Not now. What was the point? While I ate, I was trying to think of who I could call that could lend me some money—tonight. Damn sure couldn’t call Darlene. Shit. And I gotta be down at A Dream in the morning by seven. I was finished eating by the time I thought of Lucky. I dialed information and got the number of the nursing home where he worked. He was there.

  “Hey, dude, what’s up?” he asked.

  “I’m in a jam, Luck. The ole lady ain’t here, and a friend of mine—You remember Jimmy?”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “He’s in jail on a bum rap, man, and needs two fifty to get out. I promised him he could count on me. I start a new job tomorrow—serious money involved—and was gon’ borrow it from my woman, only she’s at one of her lonely-ass girlfriends’ house. You good for it until next week?”

  “I wish I could help you, brother, but I’m thinking about changing my name, ’cause I ain’t had a drop of luck in weeks. My shit is raggedy, and the lady I been staying with is ready to throw my ass out on the street. I know you ain’t gon’ believe this, but I’m trying to clean up my act. I’m thinking about going to GA. I’m sorry, man.”

  “What the fuck is GA?”

  “Gamblers Anonymous.”

  “I hear you, brother. But look, stop by sometime, with a brand-new deck, motherfucker, ’cause I miss kicking your ass.”

  “Go to hell, Frankie. Say, you still with that fine schoolteacher?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is she still as good to you as she is for you?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder about that myself, man. Check you later.”

  I hung up and sat there on the stool, staring over in the corner at my wood. I couldn’t think of nobody else to call. I wasn’t sleepy and didn’t feel like watching no TV. I pulled the stool over to my worktable and picked up the mallet and a gouge. But it wasn’t what I needed. I felt like carving. I picked up my drawknife and pulled it through the wood. When I looked out the window, it was snowing again. I lit a cigarette and took a few strong drags, then put it in the ashtray. The Whispers tape I’d had on finished, and it was too damn quiet in here, so I got up and put on a old Earth, Wind & Fire. The first song that came on was “That’s the Way of the World.” I walked back over and put my hand on a curve of the wood. It was rough. My tool roll was on the shelf underneath, so I picked it up and spread it out, but I was still looking at the wrong tools. It’s too soon to be whittling or even thinking about carving.

  I got up and poured myself a drink. I don’t know what I’m gon’ tell Jimmy. I swallowed the shit, and it burned going down. By the time this tape ended, I had smoked at least ten cigarettes and polished off the pint. It was quiet as hell again. I didn’t feel like putting in another tape. I wish Zora was here. It don’t feel this quiet when she’s here. I leaned back against the refrigerator and kept watching the snow through the window. I wondered if there was really anything I could do to help my sister. Her spirit been broken. And I ain’t had much experience repairing ’em. I swear, I wanted to call Zora and tell her that I needed her here with me more than her silly girlfriend. Hell, I’m her man. But that woulda been tacky as hell. And hearing her voice and not being able to look at her wasn’t gon’ do me no good. I wanted to talk to somebody about everything, but where would I start? It didn’t make no difference noway, ’cause I couldn’t think of nobody. I lit another cigarette, exhaled, and one thing was real clear to me. I really ain’t got no friends.

  15

  Who was I to think I could save somebody else’s life? Shit, my own energy level has dropped so much that with the exception of loving Franklin—and sometimes that alone uses up most of it—everything else I do feels mechanical. From teaching to eating. I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed—or at least he hasn’t said anything—about these ten pounds I’ve put on. I don’t know, maybe I’m just scared. Scared that I’m not as good a singer as I thought I was. Scared that even if I do make the demo, it’ll go unnoticed or I’ll get some mediocre contract that won’t make any kind of splash. That I won’t have affected anybody. And whose fault would that be? I think my whole problem is that I’m too self-centered. If I could just stop thinking so much about Zora and stop doubting myself so much, maybe I’d not only have more energy but have a little more compassion.

  I’ve been trying to prove this to Franklin—that I really do care what happens to him—but I guess it shouldn’t start and stop with him. Besides, Marie is my friend. And she’s in bad shape. Nothing helps you to stop focusing on yourself better than when someone you care about needs you. So when she called, I was grateful for the diversion. She was hysterical and—as usual—drunk. When she’d come home this evening, she said, there was a seventy-two-hour eviction notice stuck on her door. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Z. I can’t handle this shit anymore. I swear to God, I need a fucking break. A woman goes through all kinds of changes trying to get one foot in the fucking door—Tell me something, do you think I’m funny?”

  “Of course you’re funny, Marie.”

  “Yeah, but the men in this business sure know how to cockblock. Let’s face it: I’m not Richard Pryor or Bill Cosby, am I?”

  “No, but you’ve got your own style, which is much better than being a carbon copy.”

  “Speaking of styles—Shit! Hold on, I’ve gotta—”

  When she didn’t come back to the phone after two or three minutes, I decided to get over there to make sure she was all right. Tonight, though, I was not about to play her little game with her. Yeah, I’d listen to her sad story, but as soon as she finished, I was going to cut the bullshit—meaning I wasn’t going to feel sorry for her like I’ve done before. I was going to tell her exactly what I’ve been thinking for the last couple of years. If I had to stay there all night to ram it into her head until she agreed to get help, then that’s what I was going to do. I packed something to wear to work, and was writing a note so Franklin wouldn’t be worried, when the phone rang. It was my Daddy, making kissing sounds in my ears. He was home, and f
eeling like his old self again.

  I stood in front of Marie’s building. Thank God her lights were on. It must’ve started snowing while I was on the train. Boy, was it pretty. I hope Franklin doesn’t get mad about my not being home when he gets there. I rang her buzzer, and she buzzed me in. Maybe she was expecting somebody else. I took the elevator to the fifth floor, and when I got off, I could see that her door was cracked open. I walked in but didn’t see her. How could Marie live in such a tiny place all these years? I’d go crazy living in one room, that much I do know. Newspapers were strewn all over the floor, along with the clothes she’d probably worn the past week. And the smell. A combination of Russian vodka—which was sitting on the cocktail table, open—and packs and packs of cigarette smoke. I tried to open a window, but it was stuck.

  “I’ll be right out!” she yelled from the bathroom.

  I didn’t know where to sit, so I cleared a space from one of her director’s chairs. When I heard the bathroom door open, I looked at Marie but didn’t know what to say. The girl was butt naked.

  “I knew you were coming. I’ve got ESP, Z, did you know that?”

  “Why don’t you have any clothes on?”

  “It’s hot in here. Why? Does it bother you?” She sashayed over to the couch and poured herself another drink.

  “No, it doesn’t bother me, Marie. But you look a little ridiculous, and it was really stupid of you to buzz me in without asking who it was and leaving your door open like that in your condition. Have you forgotten that this is New York City, or what?”

  She flopped down on the couch, right on top of those dirty clothes. I got up and went over to her closet. At least twenty pairs of shoes fell out when I opened it. God, what a mess! No wonder she drinks. “Marie, where’s your bathrobe?”

  “I don’t need it, and I don’t want it!”

  “Fine,” I said, after I found it and threw it in her lap. Then I sat back down. “Okay. So. How much do you need to stop the eviction?”

  “Do we have to talk about that now? I was just starting to feel good. How about some music?”

  “Look, you’re the one who got yourself into this mess, and I came over here to see what I could do to help you get out of it. Do you have any coffee?”