Trading Dreams at Midnight

by Diane McKinney-Whetstone

  “I saw him give a woman all of his money—”

  “He does that too. And I’m like, Come on Bow Peep, word get out on you and you’re gonna have every freeloader in Philly on your corner.”

  “I think he knows who to give it to, though.”

  “Hope so,” Cliff said, thinking now about how Bow Peep had always been a bone of contention between Lynne and him, Lynne once telling him that with all he did for Bow Peep it was as if he, Cliff, had a son whose existence she wasn’t privy to until after they were married. Now he let his eye search for the rectangular scar on the cashmere sweater Neena was wearing to make sure that he hadn’t imagined it. There it was, evident under the soft pink glow of the candlelight, its presence making him realize what it was about Neena that was affecting him most of all. That she wasn’t Lynne was affecting him most of all.

  The vibraphonist was playing “Moody’s Mood for Love” and Neena sang a bar: and then she unleashed that free fall of a laugh, made Cliff laugh too.

  “You’re too young to know that song,” he said.

  “I’m older than I look.”

  “And I’m married.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t mean to sound inappropriate,” Cliff said. “I mean, I’m not coming on to you, at least I don’t think that I am, I’m just, mnh, what am I doing here? I’m just, just saying, you know. I wanted you to know that.” He cleared his throat. “That I’m married.”

  “So I know that,” Neena said, and then she was quiet; they both were as the sounds of the vibes made circles over their heads.

  When the song was over Cliff looked at Neena and raised his eyebrow. He didn’t know what he was asking of her with his raised eyebrow. Neena could tell that he didn’t know. She was mildly surprised by his awkwardness.

  “So does your wife know?” she asked.

  “Know what?”

  “That you’re married?”

  “Ooo, you’ve got jokes, huh?” Cliff said as he watched her pretty mouth unfurl into a demure smile. Then he looked away, down at the globe covering the soft pink of the candle. “Listen, Neena,” he said. “Would you like to get out of here? We could go somewhere. Where would you like to go?”

  “Mnh,” she said, working hard to sound nonchalant. “I guess we could grab a bite to eat. Are you up for something like that?”

  “Always up for something like that,” he said as he extended his hand and helped her up. She reached back for her coat and he held it open as she pushed her arms through the sleeves.

  They weaved around the throngs of donors; many were laughing in earnest now, the alcohol beginning to peel away their facades in layers. They made it to the other side of the heavy wooden door where the night air was the color of smoky silver. They walked beyond the circles of people lighting cigarettes and then stood there as if realizing suddenly that they were strangers. Neena thinking that she hadn’t even gotten to a library yet to google his name.

  “So, Neena, do you have any place in mind?” he asked.

  “No, you choose. I told you I’ve been away for a while.” She avoided his eyes, looked at his mouth instead, his solid rock of a chin. She counted the gray hairs in his mustache.

  “Mnh,” he said. “My buddy’s got a restaurant near South Street. Did you drive?”

  “No. I’m staying not too far from town. Over on the Parkway with my great-aunt?”

  “Well, the place I’m thinking about is five blocks away. You mind the walk?”

  Neena said that no, she didn’t mind the walk, even as her head made its objection known, light-headed from hunger, though she walked anyhow.

  Chapter 12

  THEY ENDED UP at Hugh’s Restaurant. UPSCALE, DOWN HOME was stenciled on the window below the name. Cliff telling Neena that he came here every chance he could because the odds were against black restaurants, particularly in the first two years, and Hugh’s just opened six months ago.

  “Black businesses period,” Neena said, “shoot, a black corner store is hard-pressed to make it.” She thought about Mr. Cook’s store, how he was open from seven in the morning until ten at night, and always did just a little better than breaking even. The race tax, he told Neena.

  “Black corner store?” Cliff said, as he held the door for Neena to walk through. “I thought they went the way of the Buffalo. Do you know where any are? Tell me, I’ll go there.” A white-shirted host met them at the door and Cliff and the host exchanged pleasantries, then Cliff squeezed Neena’s arm and excused himself, he was going to find Hugh, he said, to make sure they were treated right.

  The host took Neena’s coat and led her to a table in the corner near the back of the small room. The tablecloth was white muslin like the young man’s shirt, the walls were peach stucco, matching, she noticed, the color of the sweater she wore. The chair the host held out for her was bamboo with a red and orange flowered seat cushion. A ceiling fan whirred overhead and pushed the warm air down, and then there were the aromas, the air bulged with aromas: mustard greens, turkey wings, bread baking, fruit. Melted candle wax fell into a holder fashioned from a lemon half and added even more complexity to the smells in here. Nina Simone’s voice issuing down from the speakers mounted high up on the wall added complexity too. Neena sighed as she took her seat. Said, “Smells good in here.” The host smiled, then excused himself, leaving Neena to look around. A mixed bag of diners in here: the after-workers still in suits and pretense; the looser artsy type; the boyz from the hood, or at least dressed to impress that way.

  Now water was being poured in her glass, a menu tipped in her direction, and she said thank you to the waiter, though she didn’t actually see the waiter, saw only the row of laminated black buttons down his white shirt because she was too preoccupied with the menu. Everything about her physical being, her eyes, her tongue, her skin, even her feet that she flexed inside of her boots, her tingling scalp, her nose that she feared might be opening and closing now, everything about her intensely focused on the meal as she studied the menu. She’d start with the vegetarian spring rolls, or maybe the fried catfish tenders, she’d ask if the gumbo contained shellfish, then a mixed green salad, the roast turkey with the sage stuffing for her main course, steamed cabbage, okra and tomato, hot buttered corn bread. A dessert of, of what? She turned the menu over. Oh my God, she almost shouted, coconut cake, a five-layer tower of power it was described on the menu. Her eyes were welling up. Wanted to signal the waiter that she’d go ahead and order without Cliff, but that would be unacceptably rude, and anyhow here was Cliff walking back toward the table.

  He sat and unfolded his napkin and put it in his lap. “What looks good?” he asked.

  “Everything,” Neena said, unable to hide the excitement in her eyes, the look in her eyes charming Cliff even more.

  “Then you should order everything,” he said on a laugh.

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “I’d like to.”

  Neena feigned a blush. Though she really felt the need to blush. She kept her eyes on the menu so that she wouldn’t look at Cliff. Now he was excusing himself, said he’d be right back, he had to take a call. Neena looked up wanting to scream out, Please, Cliff, in the name of all that is sacred, please hurry, I’m going to pass out if I don’t soon eat. “Sure, no problem,” she said instead.

  To Neena’s relief, it was a quick call. Her stomach was kicking up a cyclone as Cliff walked back to the table. He walked fast, then stood there. Why was he just standing there? Why wasn’t he seated so that the waiter could come back over, leave a basket of hot bread when he did.

  “Neena,” Cliff said, then paused and she knew whatever it was it couldn’t be good, devastating whatever it was because it would mean yet another delay in her meal. “I am really, really sorry about this,” he continued, “but things are happening all of a sudden. I have an emergency, my mother-in-law suffers from dementia and I just got a call, something’s happened at home and I need to get there.”

  “Oh God, no,” Nee
na said. “My God, I’m so sorry,” and she began paraphrasing Langston Hughes in her head: What happens to a meal deferred, does the hunger sag like a heavy load or does it explode. She couldn’t look up at Cliff. She thought that if she looked up at him she might cry.

  Cliff was surprised that Neena seemed so genuinely distraught over him and his situation. “Will you promise to call me tomorrow? Please, Neena. We could try again for tomorrow,” he said as he pulled the back of her chair out so that she could stand. She nodded as she reached around to the arm of her chair to retrieve her purse.

  “Can I put you in a cab somewhere?” he asked.

  “No, it’s a nice night, I’ll be fine.”

  The host appeared with her coat then, and helped her coat on, followed by the waiter with a black handle bag saying that Hugh insisted that they not leave empty-handed. Cliff handed the bag to Neena. “Why don’t you,” he said. “For you and your aunt. My family drama has made short work of my appetite.”

  Neena called on her restraint so that she wouldn’t snatch the bag. “Only if you’re sure,” she said. Allowing the bag to hang loosely from her fingers. “And I hope things at home aren’t too serious, I hope they’re quickly resolved.”

  Cliff opened the door and Neena stepped back out into the night.

  After Neena and Cliff said their rushed good-byes, Neena turned off Broad Street and walked west. She passed a development of new town houses. She’d noticed so much new construction since she’d been back here, hundreds of thousands of dollars for the square footage of a bread box, it seemed. The development she walked past now had a small park in the making. Unplanted trees with their root systems still wrapped in burlap stood at evenly spaced intervals. She pondered how long the trees could live like that, trying to stay curious about something outside of herself so that she wouldn’t tear into the shiny black bag. Though right now pondering the meaning of life wouldn’t keep her from the bag. A sign pointed toward the builder’s model, behind it a small bench almost hidden by one of the soon-to-be-transplanted trees. She walked along the short cobblestone trail to get to the bench. A security guard on the other side of the minuscule lot smoked a cigarette. Neena pointed to the bench, flashed her hand in a question mark, he lifted a couple of fingers telling her to go ahead. She sat. She slowly opened the bag, praying that it would not contain a seafood gumbo–type dish loaded with shrimp. She gingerly undid the foil on the top plate. Hallelujah, short ribs of beef and string beans and mashed potatoes in the one plate. She picked up the beef by the bone, didn’t know whether she raised her hand to her mouth or leaned her mouth to her hand. The result the same once she bit in. Heaven. Tender, succulent heaven. In between she ate the string beans one by one with her fingers as if they were fries. Licked the mound of mash potatoes as if it were an ice-cream cone. Didn’t even stop to belch before she’d unwrapped the second plate. The second plate the roasted turkey platter. How did they know? How did they know?

  The smell of the turkey rising from the plate reminded her of Thanksgiving, of the night before Thanksgiving really, when Nan’s turkey was slow-roasting in the oven and the dining room table was filled to overflowing as she and Goldie and Sam and Tish and Nan packed the baskets that would be given away to the families in need. Goldie telling story after story that had them hysterical with laughter. The soft aroma from Nan’s own turkey in the oven sifting in from the kitchen, swirling around their heads, smoothing out even the erratic air that most often filled the space between Neena and Nan. She pushed a thick slice of the turkey into her mouth, this turkey almost as good as Nan’s.

  She was drunk by the time she finished the second platter though still she poured into her mouth the contents of the two small dessert cups, one, a peach cobbler; the other, bread pudding. She smacked her lips. She pulled napkins from the bottom of the bag and tried to clean her hands. The napkin stuck to her hands and she peeled it off and told herself not to touch her clothes until she could wash her hands. She scrunched the plates in the bag and with some effort pulled herself to standing. She couldn’t remember ever consuming such a volume of food at one time. Not even spread out over an entire two days had she ever eaten this much. She felt as if she was waddling as she walked back to Broad Street and tossed the bag in the first trash can she came upon. Now she was thirsty.

  She started walking in the direction of her hotel. She was still thinking about Nan as she walked. She was remembering one of those night-before-Thanksgivings when the turkey-scented air in the dining room was floaty and filled with laughter. They had an assembly line working that night. Tish was in charge of the canned cranberries; Goldie, the boxes of rice; Sam, the eight-to-twelve-pound turkeys; Neena, the packaged greens; and Nan, the candy canes taped to her jars of applesauce with a note that contained a Thanksgiving Day prayer. Goldie had just told Neena that maybe they should switch, because greens meant money and she, Goldie, could sure use some money, tight as Sam was with a dollar, said that Sam still had his kindergarten lunch money in his pocket. The dining room bulged with their laughter. Then Sam said, “Well, I must have used my first grade lunch money to buy you that new Bulova watch wrapped around your arm.” They laughed some more, deep, rich laughs as Goldie and Sam went back and forth with their playful banter.

  Then the doorbell rang and Nan looked at the jar of applesauce in her hands, said more to the jar than to the people in the dining room, “Anybody expecting company?” Then she looked directly at Neena. Neena still remembered the expression that had come up on Nan’s face because it so mimicked what Neena felt at that instant. A hope that it was Freeda. A hope that was too large to be contained even though it would have to be contained because if it wasn’t Freeda then the plummeting that followed would feel unbearable.

  It had not been Freeda that night. It had been Cook bringing bagged nuts to go into the baskets. Neena remembered that although Nan joked with Cook that he better just drop his coat right along with the box of nuts and get to loading the nuts in the baskets, Nan’s face had a collapsed look, like an empty balloon waiting to be filled, and Neena could see that the vein in her grandmother’s throat appeared suddenly engorged and she could even see it throb. Neena understood that look too, because again it mirrored what was happening inside of her. It was all that contained hope over it being Freeda at the door just sitting in Nan’s throat with nowhere to go. Neena remembered too that Nan was agitated suddenly with how Neena was packing the greens, said that Neena was crushing them; Be careful, she’d snapped at Neena, or let Tish pack the greens.

  Neena couldn’t believe how warm it was out here for a February night. She unbuttoned her coat. She tried to belch so that she could open some room in her chest and breathe better. She was in the mixed-bag part of town that was part black heading to white, on the fringes of the moneyed part of Center City. A group of young black men transported a set of drums into the side entrance of a church for a night service, Neena thinking that if developers had their way this church would be condominiums this time next year. A trio of teenage girls now went into the church; their jackets were wide open and she could see that they were dressed in navy skirts and white blouses, the youth ushers. They giggled and whispered and pointed at the boys. Neena had been an usher at that age. She’d been complimented often about her posture when she ushered, what a nice straight back she had.

  She wondered if there was a water fountain close to this opened side door of the church, maybe a ladies’ room where she could wash her hands. She walked inside, down some stairs. She followed the ushers through the empty, darkened lower sanctuary, no doubt the girls were headed to the bathroom. A water fountain gleamed at the front of a hallway, a sign marked RESTROOMS pointed down the hall. Neena stopped at the water fountain. The girls’ chatty voices reverberated from farther down the hall. “He crazy if he think he getting some, I don’t care how cute he is,” one of them said. The water was ice cold and Neena drank and drank more, still seeing Nan’s face, now that vein in Nan’s throat, that hope-contained ca
ught in her throat that Neena recognized when she would return for visits in the early years of her leaving. Back then she was holding down a legitimate job as a pharmaceuticals sales rep and was not ashamed to show herself to Nan and Tish. Nan would never say with her mouth, I hope you got news about your mother, I hope you gonna tell me she’s alive and well, or at least alive. Her face said it, though, the skin stretched tight, her throat, the vein that throbbed, even her voice that came out sounding restricted, locked.

  Neena stood from her lean over the water fountain. Something was wrong. A shift had happened suddenly and she felt as if she’d been turned upside down. Now right side up again and the brown ceiling above her was spinning round and round, the floor too, and now all that food she’d just eaten changed its course, headed up instead of down. She held the wall and made it through the dim hallway into the ladies’ room. The young girls were in the mirror combing their hair and putting gloss to their lips. Neena rushed past them into a stall as one of them said, “Ooh, a Gucci bag. I wonder if it’s real.”

  All of it came up then: the cobbler and bread pudding and turkey, the string beans, the potatoes, the short ribs of beef. Came up roughly, as if someone had forced a hand down her throat and yanked it up. Much of it missed the mark and landed on the floor, her boots, the edges of her coat. When she was finished she just leaned against the door and moaned. Empty again. Here she was empty all over again.

  The ushers looked at one another and hunched their shoulders about what to do. They were eleven, twelve, and thirteen; the youngest and oldest first cousins, the one in the middle best friend to the oldest. The youngest, LaTeefah, said, “Eeil, gross.” Her cousin yanked her arm, telling her to be quiet. The best friend tapped on the door and asked Neena if she was okay.