She planted her hand on his belly and said, “Take your cock outta my face.” Oh to have it there in the first place, he thought.
“My name is Dr. Yvonne Lewis,” she said, as he allowed her to ease him away so she could stand. “I heard that you and your friend had a licking to give me over a washer and dryer. Don’t worry, I didn’t come looking for you. I just happened to be doing some work in the area, and I came down here by chance. But when I heard the deejay bigging you up all night, I decided to come and find you. We women need a straightening out from time to time. I just thought I might get mine tonight.”
The words came in a flurry like a series of punches, sending him in retreat.
“Look,” he said, speaking slowly through a daze, “I’m really not in the mood for this. Have a good night.”
He began to walk back to Buju’s stall and she followed him, cursing and spearing him with taunts.
“Is wha de bloodclaat this?” Ian said as Fire came up the street with her.
“She has problems,” Fire said. “That’s all I can say.”
She began to draw a crowd now, and rumors began to spread. “Is him babymodda.” “She ketch im wid a gyal.” “Ah hear seh him give her gonorrhea.”
“You cyaah talk to the big man so!” Ian said from across the table, speaking not to a person but to a symbolic emasculator. Dr. Lewis, whom he addressed in his mind as Hectoring Bitch, was every woman with power over his life: Margaret, his mother, Claire, and now Sylvia—who, it seemed, had pushed him toward the edge of Fire’s life.
Defend the cause, he thought as he glared at Fire, who was standing there looking bored. Just box her down for me. Don’t be pussy now. Act like a man. Grab the gyal and shake her at least.
“Is awright, Ian,” Fire said to him. “Let her run off her mouth. If you talk to her, all she gweh do is get more hype.”
Ian leaned into his ear. “You cyaah make she disrespek you in fronta people like this, Fire. People know you, y’know.”
“Leave it alone,” Fire said. “She not fazing me at all.”
“Well, fuck, she disturbing me. So I gweh deal wid her,” Ian said. “Ay, gyal,” he said to her. “Shut your bloodclaat mouth!”
The crowd fell silent—from excitement, not fear. They wanted to hear the exchange.
“Baldhead bwai,” she said, jabbing a hand in his face. “Shut your ass when big people talking. Because you come inna newspaper you think you’re a big shot. I will never let any man threaten me publicly or privately and get away with it. Too many men feel they can bully women in this country.”
Some women in the crowd began to nod.
Before Ian could reply, Fire grabbed him. “Done it, man,” he said. “Cut out this fucking back-and-forth.”
“I’m not a boy, Fire,” Ian said defensively. “You cyaah deal wid me this kinda way.”
“If you’re a man then act like a man, then,” Fire told him. “Men don’t argue with women. That’s for little sissy boys.”
“Who tell you that,” Ian replied, feeling let down and betrayed, “you battyman father? Why y’haffe gwaan like a pussy all the while!”
The crowd began to whisper and Dr. Lewis laughed.
“Ian,” Fire said through his teeth, “you better say you’re sorry. And you better say it fast.”
“Man, fuck you,” Ian said, as he pushed him aside and stormed away. “You always a-make woman rule you. Sometimes I feel y’is a battyman too.”
Fire turned to Buju; his eyes were pilot lights of rage. “Did you hear that?” he said quietly as he felt his temperature rise. “Now, if ah fuck him up people gweh say ah wicked.”
“Him shouldn’t did say that,” Buju said. “How you fadda coulda be a battyman and bring you? Idiot argument that.”
Fire sucked his teeth and turned away. Buju didn’t know. Didn’t really understand.
As he considered this, there was a jostling in the crowd, and he looked up to see Ian lunge toward Dr. Lewis with a stick. He knocked her to the ground with a chopping blow and her head struck the cobblestones. Then he leaped on her and began to punch her, his fists coming left and right like the horns of a bull that has downed a matador.
“Stop it!” Fire yelled, pulling him away “You outta you fucking mind?”
Dr. Lewis, blood on her face and on her clothes, was doubled over. As two women picked her up Buju ran inside to get some rags to wipe her face.
“Stop it!” Fire said, as Ian kicked and writhed. “Control you fucking self.”
“Awright,” Ian said. “Awright. Just let me go.”
“Let you go and what?”
“And everything will be over.”
“Better be,” Fire said, shoving him to the ground. “Better fucking be.”
He stood there, trembling, hands at the ready, legs wide apart, resisting the urge to stomp him because he was Miss Gita’s son and he wanted her to see him, and she would be coming back soon.
“Is one reason why I doan beat up you bloodclaat, y’know, Ian. Jah know.”
Ian got up slowly, a smirk on his face. “Because you’re a pussy.”
Fire kicked him in the chest, sending him crashing into the crowd, which threw him back to fight.
“So you can fight, pussy,” Ian said, through the pain. “I use to think all you had was words.” Then he stood still and addressed the crowd: “You see this man here, he’s what you call a pussy. Him went to farrin in June and meet a girl, and the girl have a man, and him try deal with the girl and it never work out. The gyal treat him like shit and disrespek him because she tink seh him never have no money. And you know what him do? Insteada deal wid her the right way as a man, you know wha him do? Him write her love letter and tell her how him love her and miss her and how him want her to come to Jamaica so him can eat her pussy and how him gweh go to him bed and masturbate. Now, people, isn’t that the behavior of pussy?”
The laughter in the crowd set off an explosion in Fire and he rushed toward Ian and threw a punch that began as a contraction in his calves and traveled through his thighs along his spine, gathering force before shooting through his shoulders into Ian’s gut. As Ian went down, Fire kneed him in the temple, grabbed him by the collar, and slapped his face back and forth, for all the people whom Ian had used and betrayed and brought so much pain.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Ian screamed defiantly. “Stop or I’ll fucking kill you!”
“Kill me?” Fire replied. “Kill me? Ian, all you think about is killing yourself. You have a sketch pad filled from cover to cover with drawings of yourself committing suicide—hanging from trees, slashing your wrist, falling in front of trains, drinking poison, shooting yourself in the head. You think I’m an ass, Ian? In every single drawing Margaret is watching you and crying. Don’t flatter yourself, Ian. If you should die no one would care … not Margaret, not me, not Claire, not your mother. Do you hear? Nobody. In fact we’ll be happier when you go, because all you do is bring us grief!”
chapter thirteen
Sylvia dispatched Monday’s task before noon. As rehearsed with Diego, she was away from her office when the call came and pretended to be alarmed when Boogie Boo paged her and gave her the news that her mother was ill. Exclaiming soft “Oh Gods,” she closed her door, implying that she was returning the call. Then she emerged with a solemn face.
By the early afternoon, events were developing as engineered. Boogie had spread the news in the break room and at the water fountain, and by the afternoon editorial meeting Sylvia was the object of oblique support—an extra hello here and how-you-doing there.
Virgil asked to speak to her after the meeting, and, following a little small talk, inquired about her state of mind. She said there was nothing wrong, displaying just enough contrary body language to suggest that she couldn’t talk without breaking down.
Virgil began to pry with less subtlety and Sylvia stood her ground, evading his interrogative charges with the arrogance of a matador—courting danger, then eluding it wi
th grace.
She had to be careful though. It was important to not tell an outright lie. A fuzzy lie was more difficult to uncover than a clear one and it was usually considered a lesser infraction. It was also important to seem resilient. She knew that Virgil admired feminine strength and that her time off might actually come as a reward for valor, so she deceived him, radiating grief that made him soften his approach.
“Are you sure you will be okay, sister?” Virgil asked, getting up from behind his desk and sitting on the arm of Sylvia’s chair.
“Yes,” Sylvia said with a sigh. “I’ll be fine.”
Virgil put his arm around her paternally and drew her near. “If there’s anything we can do for you, Sylvia, just tell us. Don’t hesitate … we are family here.”
We, she thought. I didn’t know you considered yourself part of any family except the Holy Trinity.
It was slow in coming, but finally it came. The rest of the week off. Three for vacation. Two to be counted as comp time.
“Listen, girl,” Virgil said just as she was getting up to leave, “I know how you feel. Sometimes I don’t like sharing my problems with others either … but listen, if you ever need to talk, you’ve got a friend here … Virgil Pucci. It hasn’t always been easy between us, Sylvia, and I know you feel that I pick on you at times. But of all the sisters at Umbra, I think you’re the most capable. That’s why I work you so hard. If you ever want to talk, Sylvia, call me, come see me, my door is always open. Here … take my home number. And don’t discuss your time off with anyone. I don’t want them to think I’m playing favorites. Okay?”
“Okay,” Sylvia replied. “Thanks, Virgil. What you said really means a lot to me.”
“It’s all right, sister. I have a mother too.”
Virgil held Sylvia and hugged her tightly. They both dabbed their eyes with tissues when they loosened their embrace.
As soon as she left the meeting with Virgil, Sylvia called Diego to let him know that everything was fine. But although she shared a quiet laugh with him she ended up feeling guilty for the rest of the afternoon. She hadn’t been prepared for Virgil’s show of tenderness.
She had never thought of Virgil as a man with feelings. After all, he never showed them. But after the conversation she knew better. Virgil was not just a living, breathing, thinking person, but a feeling one as well. So, she couldn’t help but feel remorse. I have a mother too.
Mother. Hopefully she would find out more about hers when she went to Kingston.
But just as everything seemed to be going smoothly—right as she was packing to leave the office—she got a frantic call from Lewis. And before she had a chance to say anything, even hello, Lewis shot her a question. “What is this about your mother being dead? Is there something I don’t understand?”
Sylvia sat back in her chair and held the phone away from her face for a minute. Already struggling with her conscience for deceiving Virgil, she felt overburdened by this new development. How did Lewis even know there was gossip about her mother’s health floating around the office? she thought. And dead? How many cycles of gossip did it take to get to death? Shit!
Pissed with herself and the world at large, she answered tersely, “My mother is dead, Lewis. But you’re right, she didn’t die today.”
“Why are you angry with me?” he asked. “I’m only telling you what I heard.”
Her scalp began to itch. She didn’t know what to say. She cursed herself silently. After all, it was her screw-up that was causing this awkwardness now. She should’ve dealt with Lewis over the weekend, she thought. But the right time had just never come. And she had been too annoyed with him to guarantee a civil discussion. And she didn’t want to fight.
“Who … who told you this … this … ridiculous thing, Lewis?” she asked, trying to buy some time.
“Does it matter?” he asked sarcastically.
“Yes, it does,” she replied.
“Why?” he demanded before her answer had fully passed her lips.
Feeling desperate as she found herself getting cornered, Sylvia held the phone silently, trying to make sure that what she was about to say would make sense. She struggled to find a suitable answer, but all she could raise was: “Because I just want to know.”
“Is there something the matter with your mother, Sylvia?”
“I can’t talk now,” she replied indignantly.
“Why?”
“I just can’t! Okay?”
“When can you talk about it, Sylvia?”
“Can we meet somewhere this evening, Lewis?”
“I’ll see you at yours at eight.”
Lewis arrived at Sylvia’s apartment with a prosecutorial demeanor. After a cursory greeting he sat on the couch and demanded the facts. Embarrassed, she did not tell him the entire truth.
“First of all,” he began, “I think what you’ve done is misguided, immature, treacherous, and … just plain dumb. If they find out, you’re outta there. And then what? After you’re fired, will it all have been worth it? Think about it.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand a few things, Sylvia. Like how you could risk your job at Umbra for an assignment on some guy nobody”—meaning him—“has ever heard of for Q&A.” He pronounced the magazine’s name as if it were Shit & Piss.
Sylvia weighed the idea of telling him that A. J. Heath was Fire. Maybe that would somehow help her to make sense to him. But she decided against it, although she didn’t think that he would have made the romantic connection. It just seemed too sleazy to masquerade so close to danger, cavalier, as if the interview were being done for a thrill.
“A. J. Heath, Lewis, is an award-winning writer,” she began. “A lot of people have heard of him. Also, with Q&A I can do the kinds of things I can’t do at Umbra. That’s what it’s all about.”
Lewis listened quietly as Sylvia outlined her frustration with Umbra. He was thoroughly disappointed. Didn’t she realize that white people didn’t play fair and that she was better off sticking with her own? Look at what happened to him. Chosen for an executive training program. Worked his heart out. Late nights. Early mornings. Lunch? Business only. Weekends without prompting. AVP came on time. VP right on target … But then no more. Others went ahead, but not him. And there were no overt signs of discrimination. No patronizing quips. Nothing he could put his finger on without turning it to dust like some relic that had existed since the beginning of time. And it wasn’t as if the ones who got ahead were slouches. They put in just as much as he did … but they got more out. He knew why. But he couldn’t prove it. He couldn’t produce any sort of evidence. Couldn’t patch together any idea that didn’t have a hole. And all it took was one hole for the idea to be invalidated. But he knew why. It took a while to know. But he knew … the way a woman knows when her man is sleeping with somebody else instead of working late. That’s why he abandoned corporate America for the safety of his own people.
“Sylvia,” he said, interrupting her so that he wouldn’t have to hear any more, “why didn’t you talk this over with me? I could’ve talked you out of this.”
She flung her hands in the air. “Don’t trivialize me, Lewis! See … I’m trying to show you how I feel about something that’s important to me … and … and you don’t even wanna hear it—”
“You listen, Sylvia—”
“Lewis, don’t talk to me like that.”
“Like how?”
“In that tone.”
“What tone?”
“That man tone.”
“That’s what I am,” he replied smugly, “a man. I can’t help it.”
“Sometimes I wonder if you really are.”
“You can be such a fucking hard-headed bitch sometimes, Sylvia,” he spat. “Do you know that? Such a motherfucking bitch.”
If a string had been attached to that outburst he would’ve sucked it back into his mouth. And as soon as he said it he began to apologize. But Sylvia cut him off.
“How dare you call me a fucking bitch? And in my own house, Lewis?” she said, her voice descending to a fierce whisper. “Go and never come back. Just go.”
“Look … Syl …” he said as she got up and walked halfway to the door.
She turned around to see if he was following. He was still seated.
“Lewis … go,” she said, her eyes narrowing to cruel slits.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, as he slumped on the couch.
She frowned and turned away.
He walked up behind her and spoke to the back of her head. “I’m only trying to help, Sylvia. I’m sorry for what I said. But you really frustrate me sometimes, I mean, think, Sylvia. What if you lose your job? Would it all be worth it?”
“Who told you about my mother?”
“Does it really matter?” he replied. Gathering a bit of sarcasm, he continued, “And by the way, don’t refer to it as fact. You made it up, remember?”
“Can we stop playing games, Lewis?” she asked, ignoring his jab.
He paused for a second to see if he should tell her or not. After weighing the decision carefully, he did, believing that it would change her mind.
“The same person who told me about the receipts,” he replied.
“Who?” she asked, with an interrogative tilt of her chin. It dawned on her that she hadn’t solved that mystery either.
Lewis paused again. This time for effect.
“Virgil Pucci.”
Sylvia felt her heart explode. What treachery! What deceit! How could he? She couldn’t believe that Lewis had had the low-down, corrupted nature to discuss her business with her boss.
“Get out! Get out!” she screamed.
He tried to calm her down with words, but words were not enough.
“Get out! Get out!”
“What’s the matter with you, Sylvia?” he implored.
She stared at him in amazement, then spun around and threw herself on the couch. She couldn’t believe his nerve … asking her what was the matter with her after he’d just told her that he’d been discussing her with her boss … She looked up at him, her mouth filled with the hurt that she’d regurgitated like bile. How could he? That motherfucker … that bomboclaat!
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