After The Dance (7 page)

I told her, “Hey, I know the deal. And like I said before, I’m game. The ball, sweetheart, is officially back in your court. So do you still want to do this or what?”

She laughed like I’d really said something funny. Then she walked over to me and was like, “You know, I think it’s time we said good night.”

Now for all practical purposes she was telling me, “Go away, little boy. You can’t even handle the likes of this.”

But having already come so far, I wasn’t ’bout to just walk away with my tail tucked. Besides, I figured if some thug-loving was what she wanted, then damn it, some thug-loving was what I’d give her. I told her, “You’re right, it is getting late. But I’m not leaving here until I find out what I need to know.”

She squinted her eyes and said, “Which is?”

“This,” I said, making my move and hoping all the while it wouldn’t get me slapped. I didn’t grab her, or pull her against me, or try to feel her up. No, man, all I wanted was a kiss, the kind that, if she cooperated, would let me know whether pursuing this thing was gonna be worth my while. And being that she didn’t do much by the way of resistance, I think she must have wanted it, too.

Matter of fact, after a quick quivering of the lips and a brief flutter of lashes, the girl held her ground, opened her mouth against mine, and matched me stroke for stroke.

When our tongues finally came undone, she looked at me and said, “You mind telling me what that was all about?”

“Oh, like you don’t know,” I said, wanting for all the world to go at it again but figuring it best to bide my time.

Looking like she wanted to laugh again, she insisted she didn’t have a clue. I played along with her and said, “Yeah, but you liked it, didn’t you?”

She tried to stop smiling but couldn’t. And finally she said, “If you wanna know the truth … yeah … I did.”

I backed away from her and in a whisper that was pure “wannabe Wesley,” as in Snipes, I said, “Well, then, let’s just call it a sampling of what’s yet to come.”

Had any other brother rolled up on me like that, he would have straight got clocked. I don’t know, bad as I hate to admit it, I guess there’s just something about Carl that appeals to my softer side.

You’d never suspect it, but as silly and goofy as he is, the brother really can kiss. And ever since he’s shown himself capable of more than just one type of lip service, I’ve been sort of looking forward to checking out some of his other skills. But who knows when that’s liable to happen. Unlike durn near every other fool I’ve invited to play in the park, Carl isn’t acting in too big a hurry to run beyond first base. Matter of fact, he let another whole weekend slide by before he brought up the topic again.

I’m trying my best to be patient and understanding. And really, given his willingness to accept my terms, it’s only fair I let him set the pace. But, girl, you know I’m most definitely tired of being kept awake at night by a body that’s throbbing from a lack of attention. And as much as I hate the thought of screening and cultivating another potential player at this late stage in the game—a woman has
to do what a woman has to do, especially when her needs aren’t being properly attended to.

Part of the problem, I know, is time and his apparent lack of it. In addition to his regular nine to five, he’s trying to juggle night classes at the university, some kind of part-time handyman gig, and on top of all that, his kids.

I met his daughters the other day. They’re ten-year-old twins whose gift of gab comes close to matching their motor-mouth old man’s.

I was leaving my place just as Carl and the girls were piling out of his. He put on the brakes and said, “Ladies, I want you say ‘hi’ to Ms. Faye.”

After their “Hey, Ms. Faye,” Carl introduced them to me as his daughters, Renita and Renee, better known to their proud papa as Princess Ren and Princess Nay-Nay. The twins promptly followed up their pop’s royal introduction with an all-too-cute curtsy.

Carl told me they were going out for ice cream and invited me to tag along. Since it was Wednesday night and I already had other plans, I opted for a rain check.

“That’s right,” Carl said. “Tonight’s the night you go up to the hospital. So what exactly do you do up there every Wednesday night, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Uh-huh, right then and there I knew Nora had been running her big mouth again. But rather than come right out and tell the brother to mind his own, I cut him some slack because of his kids. It wasn’t any big deal, I told him. Just some volunteer work I’ve been doing for years.

At that point, one of the twins butted in with an “Excuse me, Ms. Faye, but could we get your opinion about something? Do you think ten is too young to start wearing nail polish?”

Taking my cue from the scowl that flared up on Carl’s face, I said, “I think that depends on what the ten-year-old’s daddy has to say on the matter.”

Carl clapped and shouted, “Good answer, good answer.”
Come to find out his daughters are scheduled to be in some wedding in a couple of weeks and they’ve been hounding him about having their nails done for the occasion.

You could tell these were girls used to having their way, especially with their daddy, because his negative stance didn’t alter a note in either of their tunes. “Aww, Daddy, you’re so old school. How come we can’t at least get manicures?”

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing when Carl said, “A manicure? Please, what y’all need to do is concentrate on your schoolwork. Either one of you need pretty nails to open up a book? No, I didn’t think so.”

He sent them off to the car and waited until they were out of earshot before offering me an apologetic list of reasons why he probably wouldn’t have time to hook up with me until later in the week—Sunday at the earliest. Then he asked if there was anyplace in particular I’d like to go, forcing me to restate what I’d told him previously about the non-necessity of any prebedroom formalities.

I said, “Look, Carl, other than someplace that has clean sheets, you really don’t have to take me anywhere.”

He said, “I know I don’t have to. But I would like to. If it helps any, don’t think of it as a date. Think of it as an extended version of foreplay.”

“Tell you what,” I told him. “Let me get back with you about all that.”

See, girl, homeboy is trying to complicate matters. My thing is, why waste his money or my time? His best bet is to save the wining and dining for somebody who’s trying to care, because like I’ve already told him, I am not the one. And furthermore, if he doesn’t hurry up and come on with it, I may just have to let him go in lieu of the next acceptable somebody who will.

Nora’s coyness about the quote-unquote volunteer work Faye supposedly does up at the hospital every Wednesday night can mean only one thing—somebody’s trying to hide something. My question is, why?

When Nora inadvertently gave up some of the goods on ol’ girl, I just automatically assumed the hospital in question was the Veterans Administration where Faye works. Then I got to thinking how the VA is west of where we live and how every time I’ve seen Faye jetting outta here on a Wednesday night, she’s been headed east. Hmm … interesting, huh?

Yeah, I know it really wasn’t none of my business, but the bloodhound in me wouldn’t let me leave it alone, man. And that night me and the girls bumped into Faye on our way out to get ice cream seemed like the perfect opportunity to slap on my detective’s cap and hit the trail.

I let her get a good couple minutes’ head start, then after announcing to the girls that we were taking the long route to the ice cream parlor, I set out after her. And guess what I discovered? The trail dead ends at the hospital, all right. Just not the VA. Nope, whatever Faye’s doing involves the folks and the facilities at Baptist Medical Center’s eastern division.

First I was just curious. Now I’m really starting to wonder what the chick is up to, and all sorts of possibilities have crossed my mind. I mean, ol’ girl just might have some chemical dependency issues she’s trying to work on, could be she’s a schizophrenic, a manic-depressive, or quite possibly some sort of sex addict.

When I made the mistake of peeping my cousin Squirrel to the mystery, he volunteered to pick up the scent where I’d left off, and all for the very reasonable price of a forty
ounce and a hot slab of Corky’s ribs. “Come on, man,” he said. “Ain’t like ‘Big Red’ know who I am. And the building is open to the public. Wouldn’t be no thang for me to follow her up in da joint and find out just what in the devil it is she be doing up in there every Wednesday night.”

It wasn’t a bad plan, except for the one thing Squirrel overlooked—the fact that his nickname fits him to a T. And don’t get me wrong, ’cause I ain’t got nothin’ but love for the brother. Having grown up with the boy, I can readily vouch for his inability to hurt anyone, outside of himself. Yet and still, he’s this scrawny, pinched face, shifty-eyed rat of a dude. The type folks are apt to suspect is up to something, even when he’s not. Shoot, the last thing I needed was for him to go and get his squirrelly tail arrested for stalking on my account.

After having given it some thought, I’ve pretty much decided even if Faye is trying to hide some sort of secret addiction or affliction, I doubt that it’s something contagious. As callous as she comes across sometimes, she just doesn’t strike me as the deliberately malicious type. It’s a gut feeling, if you will, and one I’m content to roll with for now.

But don’t worry, man, I’m not about to let my fascination with this woman or any other wreak havoc on my physical, mental, or spiritual well-being. It’s not like I’m out looking to get hooked, hitched, or hung-up. All I’m after is what ol’ girl said she was offering—a little action, no strings attached. Trust me, first real noose I see, I’m out.

Nora and I haven’t been on the best of terms lately. Did I tell you how hard she tripped after I gave her the 411 on
Scoobie and the new turn his life has apparently taken? Girl, she had the nerve to call me sick, twisted, and hopelessly pathetic. I mean, like she’s really in a position to talk about somebody when it comes to men.

I guess I should have seen it coming, though. Nora never liked Scoobie from day one, a sentiment that over the years has only intensified. “Scoobie ain’t nothing but a user, Faye. You can do better” is what I can remember her telling me as far back as junior high. And she was right, of course. Scoobie was a user and I his most willing and gullible usee. But that was then and this is now.

Whether Scoobie has changed or not remains to be seen. What I do know for sure is that I have—changed, that is—and even Nora can attest to that. My stint with Scoobie, though long and torturous, was a lesson well learned and one that I have yet to repeat with any other canine. Girlfriend, on the other hand, can still be found durn near every other week bad-mouthing and boo-hooing over some new breed of mangy mutt she done let lick and maul her.

But it’s not like I don’t know where she’s coming from. She simply doesn’t want to see me get weak and fall for the okey-doke again. After all, she was the main somebody right there with me through it all—the pain, the tears, the senseless drama, even the time when I thought there’d be no getting back up. The truth is, if anybody’s earned the right to call me on my madness, it’s Nora. But that doesn’t mean I’ve durn well got to like it or take it lying down.

When she jumped in my face about the little bit of time I spent with Scoobie the other night, I told her I was perfectly capable of deciding whether or not I should be dealing with dude and without her help, thank you! Well, after a fairly heated exchange, we both decided it might be best to just stop speaking altogether for a while. That’s why when she marched in Saturday afternoon and commenced to yanking my ear about the importance of being neighborly, I pretty much ignored her.

I was sitting in the kitchen, just as content as I wanted to be, flipping through the pages of my latest romance novel and waiting for the cookies I had in the oven to brown, when Nora busted up in the place talking about, “Guess what? Carl and his girls are throwing some burgers and franks on the grill and they’ve invited us to come over around six and help them eat ’em.”

Skinny as Nora’s narrow behind is, you’d never guess the chile eats like a 280-pound linebacker and is always the first somebody looking to get her grub on. And the way she kept carrying on about going next door, you would have thought the brother had offered to fire us up a couple of filets mignons.

When I didn’t say anything she said, “Come on and go with me, Faye, please. You are going, right?”

Without bothering to look up from my book, I told her, “We’re not talking, remember?”

Rather than move on, she pulled up a chair, sat down, and said, “Listen, I know you ain’t trying to hear this, but I’m gonna say it anyway. Our next door neighbor, Carl? Not only is he a nice guy, but every time I see him these days, you’re all he’s trying to talk about. I’m saying, on the real Faye, I think this boy’s starting to have genuine feelings for you, so maybe you oughta think twice about playing games with him.”

I started to tell her I ought to go if only to keep her big blabbermouth from telling dude whatever there was left to tell about my business. Instead, I just glared at her a second before dropping my head back into my book.

Nora knows better than anyone how I’m only too content to spend an evening entertaining a warm batch of cookies and a good book without feeling like I’ve missed out on anything. Which makes all the more inexcusable her mumbling something about my lack of congeniality (big word for her) when six o’clock finally rolled around and she found herself making the trip next door without me.

Left alone to enjoy the peace and quiet of my own company, I probably would have hung tight there for the rest of the night had it not been for all the racket they started making next door. Wasn’t any use of me trying to read any more. I could barely hear myself think over all the music, loud talk, and laughter leaking through the flimsy walls between our condos.

I drew myself a tub of water in hopes that a nice hot bath would help relax me. No such luck, honey. Even with the door closed, my eyes fastened shut, and the Dianne Reeves I’d put on in an effort to drown out some of the rhythmic thumping sounds coming from next door, I could still hear Nora over there cackling like some kinda crazed hyena.