Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do (8 page)

11

E
VERYTHING WAS GOING SO WELL
, I was afraid to admit it. I'm one of those people who believes that if you show too much pleasure when things are going your way, you run the risk of angering the gods and having them snatch it all away just to keep you humble. This is a deeply held blood memory, in spite of the fact that I don't consciously subscribe to any formal religion and would lean toward Buddhism if I had to pick one. My brain wants to meditate and embrace the middle path, but my heart wants to sacrifice small animals to a vengeful god who spends most of his time keeping track of sins and meting out punishments.

But if I could be sure the gods weren't listening, I would probably indulge myself in a teeny-tiny pat on the back. The weasel called to tell me he received the payment and was moving me from the “dead-beat never- gonna-dig-her-way-out” file over to the “so far, so good, maybe she'll make it after all” file.

Aunt Abbie's keeping an eye on everything at the house. She's also been spending a lot of time over at Howard talking to the women's studies students. They are very interested in the idea of postmenopausal visions, and she's a bona fide postmenopausal visionary, so it's a perfect match. When I told her about Blue, she wasn't as excited as I thought she ought to be, and I told her so.

“It's new for you, dear,” she said gently. “I've already seen it all, remember?”

I couldn't argue with that, and I was in such a good mood, I didn't even want to. Three boxes of Son's papers had yielded a lot of good memories and nothing even remotely incriminating. When I told Beth that news, she was on her way to another speaking engagement in Albany and a week ofworkshops in Augusta. I could hear the reliefin her voice so clearly that I wondered again exactly what she was so worried I might find, but I figured I'd know it when Isawit, whateveritwas, soItoldhertohaveasafetripand promised to check in with her on the road in a few days.

Flora had come up yesterday to introduce her daughter, Lu, and to invite me to brunch on Sunday. I liked Flora, and I accepted with pleasure, mentally disregarding her telling me I didn't need to bring anything. Champagne is always a good neighborly offering, with a bottle of sparkling apple juice for Lu, whose direct gaze showed no sign of a spirit having been broken by her experiences with Detroit drug dealers. She was already as tall as her mother and wore her hair in the beaded braids that Venus Williams took back from the temporary popular-culture custody of Bo Derek. Aretha, whom I hadn't seen since move-in day, had been busy with a photography project, but Flora said she'd be there for brunch, too.

Renting this apartment might turn out to be the best part of this whole thing for me. It had been a long time since I had any friends who talked about something other than who had the good drugs or what they learned in rehab. Being here was making me remember the pleasure of real conversation. While I was growing up, my parents' house was always full of people stating and defending passionate positions about everything. My lunch conversation with Flora had felt as familiar as baked chicken on Sunday.

The only neighbor who remained elusive was Blue Hamilton, which was probably all to the good. I'm not sure I'm strong enough to deal with men just yet, especially men as intriguing as Blue Hamilton. The problem I've had all my dating life is that the guys who drive me crazy sexually never seem to care much about being a part of the righteous forward motion of all peoples of the world toward peace and freedom. This is part of my parents' revolutionary curse. I have to consider politics even in the midst of passion.

This is not a problem during the early stages of a youthful courtship when all you want to do is flirt and make love and flirt some more. The problem comes when it's time for the relationship to progress to real conversation, and the man who can whisper a litany of sexy promises guaranteed to get you where you want to go in bed becomes suddenly tongue-tied or, worse,
boring
.

On the other hand, my more politically advanced boyfriends were invariably lacking as lovers, mainly because they were always too busy bitching about the terrible state of mankind to focus effectively on the woman at hand. Son was the first man I ever loved who had a little bit of both, and you can see I almost lost my mind and my house behind it.

He was sexy as hell
and
seriously committed to changing the way black folks live our lives. It was absolutely intoxicating to be able to segue from an impassioned exchange about our latest voter registration efforts to a night of the kind of lovemaking I had only dreamed about.

After Son and I broke up and I became a dope fiend, my choice of male companionship was based on who had coke to share and who didn't. When I was high, I could tolerate a lot of bullshit from men simply to ensure my place at the table when the drugs came out. That was no longer an option, so I needed a new standard, a new criteria. But what were my choices? I had no idea what I wanted or what I was prepared to give to get it. Until I could figure it out, I thought celibacy made the most sense.

Which doesn't mean I wouldn't like some company sometimes.
Like now.
I had done a full week's work, and there was nobody around to witness my job well done. It was after midnight, so I couldn't very well pop downstairs and invite Flora in for tea. That wasn't exactly the kind of company I was talking about anyway.

See what happens?
I started out being grateful for a productive and uneventful week and ended up whining about nobody to hold me. The only thing that pisses off that vengeful god I was talking about earlier more than gloating, is ingratitude, so this will never do. I stood up quickly, slipped a shawl around my shoulders, and stepped out onto my small balcony.

It was cool and clear and quiet as a farmhouse after everybody's gone to bed. Was I the only person awake in this whole neighborhood? Even my bad sax player had deserted me. But the sky was clear, and the fresh air felt good against my face. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, stretched my arms high over my head, and exhaled in a long, satisfying
whoosh!

“Working late?”

After I had jumped a foot in the air and come back down, I turned in the direction of the question. Blue Hamilton was standing on his own balcony across from mine. I hadn't even noticed him, but now, in the spill of the streetlight, I could see his outline and the glowing tip of the cigar he was smoking.

“Do you spy on all your tenants,” I said, “or just me?” He stepped forward into the light wearing a white shirt, open at the throat, and no jacket. He smiled pleasantly and blew a thin plume of smoke into the air.

“I can't be spying on anybody. I'm at home.”

Even from here, I could see those blue eyes shining. I pulled my shawl around me a little tighter.

“You startled me.”

“I apologize,” he said. “I'm usually the only one out here this late.”

I wondered how long he had been back from his fishing expedition.

“Would you like to come over for a drink?” he said casually, as if it wasn't almost one o'clock in the morning.

“It's kind of late. …”

I could still see his smile in the semidarkness.

“In Japan, it's already happy hour.”

Still half-hidden in the shadows, I smiled back. Flirting is an art form if you do it right, and this brother was
on it
. “We're a long way from Japan.”

“I've got some very good sake.”

“I don't like sake.” “So does that mean you've accepted my invitation and now all we're doing is deciding on your drink?”

That's the same way he boxed me about the rent, but does it really count as being
boxed
when all he did was ask me a question that allowed me to admit that a drink sounded wonderful and a little conversation sounded even better.

“I guess it does.”

“Good. Then why don't you come on over and I'll see what I can do?”

12

B
LUE
H
AMILTON'S APARTMENT
looked exactly like I thought it would:
a man's den.
The walls were dark, almost navy blue, and so were the blinds. The black leather sectional sofa was huge, wrapped around an equally large glass coffee table. On one side of the room was a wet bar that was as well stocked as any restaurant I'd been to lately, and on the other side was an entertainment center housing one giant television screen, two smaller ones, a DVD player, two VCRs, a multidisc CD player, and what appeared to be an elaborate short-wave radio.

On the largest TV screen a black-and-white movie was in progress. A smiling woman was playing a guitar and singing in French while two men and a tow-headed child gazed at her adoringly.

“I know you don't like sake,” Blue said. “So what can I get you?”

He acted like my stopping by was the most normal thing in the world, but it had been a long time since I had been in anybody's apartment at one a.m., and, I admit, I was a little nervous.

“I'll have cognac, please.”

I'll never do cocaine again, but an occasional drink hasn't been a problem, and it won't be. Cognac is always a good choice when you want to be sociable, but it's important to keep your wits about you. You have to
sip
it, which already imposes a certain discipline on the proceedings.

“Cognac it is.”

While he poured us each a splash in two giant snifters, I took a seat on one end of the couch and watched the woman on the screen kissing one man and going upstairs with the other. Their tender good nights were all in French, but there was no mistaking the longing in the eyes of the man left holding the sleeping child at the bottom of the steps.

“Do you speak French?” I said, accepting one of the snifters and inhaling the rich aroma.

He shook his head. “Not a word. I just like to watch foreign movies sometimes to see if I can figure out what's going on even though I have no idea what they're talking about.”

“How many times are you right?”

“Almost always,” he said, as I tried not to stare at his eyes, which seemed to be glowing in the room's low light. “But then again, how would I know?”

We shared another smile.

“I've actually seen this one,” I said, recognizing
Jules et Jim
, François Truffaut's small masterpiece about two friends whose lives are shattered when they both fall madly in love with the fascinating but fickle Catherine. Over the course of the movie, she breaks both their hearts, leaves one a widower, and takes the other one with her to the grave. “Want to test your theory?”

“Sure,” he said.

I could see immediately the idea appealed to him. We turned to the screen where Jules was sitting downstairs alone in his rocking chair while Jim makes helpless, miserable love to the faithless Catherine upstairs.

“Two men in love with the same woman,” Blue said immediately. “A tragedy in the making.”

“Always?”

“Always. Two men can't share a woman once they both fall in love with her.”

“And she's married to one of them.”

“That's even worse,” he said, reaching for the remote to replace the movie with a CD of Nat King Cole at his ballad-crooning best, extolling the virtues of Route 66. He adjusted the volume for conversation and then turned toward me from the other end of the giant sofa.

I suddenly had a question, and this seemed the right moment to ask it. “Have you ever been married?”

He took a sip of his cognac. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

I liked that he answered without hedging. Some men seem to think inquiring about their marital status is no different than asking about the size of their penis. Blue didn't seem concerned.

I decided to tease him a little. “Well, you were smoking a cigar on the porch on a chilly evening rather than in the house. That's a married man's habit.”

“None of my wives ever complained about the cigars.” He smiled. “It's something I do for Lu. She's got asthma, and when she comes to visit, cigar smoke triggers it, so I don't smoke in the house.”

“How many wives have you had?”

“Three.”

“Three?”

“Is that too many or not enough?”

“That's a lot. Why so many?”

He shrugged gracefully. “I guess I'm a better friend than I am a husband.”

I was in no position to confirm or deny on either count, so I tried a more neutral topic. “How was your fishing trip? You catch anything?”

He shook his head. “Not this time. My buddy lost his arms a couple of months ago, so he wasn't really ready to go out again.”

“Lost his arms?” I tried unsuccessfully not to sound alarmed.

He grinned at me. “It's a fisherman's term. When you're deep-sea fishing, hooking the fish is just the beginning. Bringing him in is something else altogether. It can take hours for the big ones, and if you don't have the strength in your arms, you can't do it. Last time we went out, Peachy, that's my buddy, had to get somebody else to bring in this big marlin he'd been battling all day. Just about killed him to give it up.”

His sleeves were rolled halfway up his arms, and I could see how muscular they were. Maybe he really had gone fishing.

“Couldn't he go after smaller fish?”

His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. They literally
twinkled.
“No. The point of deep-sea fishing is to conquer something.”

“I thought the point of fishing was to relax.”

“That's how men relax,” he said, with another charming smile. “But we don't have to talk about fishing. How's everything with you?”

I let him slide on how men relax because I didn't really disagree. I just didn't appreciate his not being more apologetic about it.

“Everything's fine. I've met the other women in the building and found a couple of restaurants close by.”

“Flora told me you two had lunch at Soul Veg last week.”

“That's right. She told me all about the gardens.”

“I'll bet she forgot to tell you about the party.”

“She didn't mention a party.”

He poured himself another splash of cognac. I demurred.

“Some of my associates and I are having a party next Saturday. We do it every year to raise money for one worthy cause or another, but mostly it's an excuse to get together and have a good time. I'm hosting, so I've got to be there early, but I'm sending a car for Flora at eight o'clock, and I'd like to invite you to come as my guest.”

Was he asking me for a date?
It didn't sound like a date. More like a
group
activity. Perfect. I hadn't been to a party in so long, I didn't even know what dances people were doing anymore. This could be my
coming-out
party.

“Thank you,” I said. “I'd like that.”

“Good.”

“Who are you raising money for this time?” I sipped my drink slowly. The smell of cognac is the real pleasure. The burn of the liquid is just the price you pay.

“Precious Hargrove. She's running for governor next year.”

“I'm an admirer of hers,” I said. “Do you think she has a chance?”

He nodded. “If folks get behind her, I think she can win.”

Somehow I hadn't thought Blue would be involved in politics. There were more sides to him than I could count, and I knew I had barely scratched the surface.

“Brothers better get right,” Blue said. “I keep trying to tell them. Sisters already got the mayor of Atlanta locked down. Now they got their eye on the state house, and they're taking no prisoners.”

“Don't worry.” I grinned. “It's just how women relax.”

He laughed out loud at that and raised his glass. “Well, here's to relaxed black women. They get my vote every time!”

How could I not drink to that?
Iswallowedthelastof my drink and set the glass down on the coffee table. Blue did the same. Either the cognac or the directness of his gaze sent a wave of warmth from the middle of my chest
down
.

“It's time for me to go,” I said, standing up. “Thanks.”

“I enjoyed it,” he said, standing up with me. He was standing close enough for me to smell the faintest whiff of his cologne.

“You know when you said you were going fishing, I didn't believe you,” I said, heading for the door.

“Why would I lie?”

“I don't know. You just didn't look much like a fisherman.”

“I had a few stops to make first.”

Uh-huh.
“I see.”

I stepped out into the hallway, and he did, too.

“If it'll make you feel better, next time I'll wear my fishing clothes.”

“I feel just fine,” I said, opening my door, which I hadn't bothered to lock. “Wear what you like.”

He laughed again, and I allowed myself one final question.

“Are you going to sing at this party?”

He didn't look at all surprised by the question. “That's a young man's game.”

“I heard you were pretty good.”

“I had my moments,” he said with a final twinkle. “Good night.”

I'll bet you did
, I thought.
I'll just bet you did.
“Good night.”