Between Lovers (27 page)

“I called the hospitals, even called the damn morgue, then I called the police station, even drove to her law office on Piedmont Avenue at the crack of dawn, thought she might've gone there, then walked up and down Piedmont, went to Pete's Coffee and Tea. She always goes there first thing in the morning to think and people-watch, but she wasn't there either. Stopped in Piedmont grocery, asked around in Don't Eat the Furniture, none of her friends have seen her.”

She said
her
friends, not
our
friends. The lines are getting thicker.

She says, “Look, I'm at work. Running on fumes. Working overtime on the South Africa compromise, waiting for the database updates, stressing in more ways than you could ever imagine.”

Someone comes in her office and her tone changes, becomes professional, devoid of all personal feelings, and she tells me to have a good signing.

We disconnect.

I cross an intersection on a stale yellow light. Ayanna is two cars behind. The car in front of her stops on the red. That forces her to stop. In the rearview, I see her livid expression. See her nakedness in my mind, her scent so damn erotic and inviting, hear her moan her way to heaven.

All the lots are either full or want damn near thirty dollars for a few minutes, so I end up parking a little over a mile away from the bookstore, and that will still cost at least fifteen dollars for around three hours. It's always colder in San Francisco than it is in Oakland, much colder, above freezing, but with the wind, it's hard to tell the difference.

At every intersection I look behind me, to the left, to the right.

No sign of Ayanna. One more victory.

I pass by super-size billboards of men in CK underwear, all sporting abdominal six-packs, not a love handle in sight. Not all the pressure to diet and look like a superstar is on women, not like they think. Men have to worry about the same physical things, get in groove and get that 24-Hour Fitness look or lose her to a man with better gluts.

But then again, this is San Francisco. And after last night, with my new perspective on the world, that billboard might be a soft-porn offering for other men. Never know.

I check out my reflection in the window at Ming's coffee shop, and then look at the display with my picture front and center, again using the reflection to make sure I look okay and nothing's in my nose before I move through the pack of people getting off the bus and heading inside Alexander Book Company.

As soon as I make my way through a nice-size crowd, I see quite a few holding steaming drinks in green-and-white Starbucks cups, then a few people start whispering.

André is here. I see him as soon as I walk in. Can tell that he's waiting for me. He has on black leather pants, a green turtleneck, black leather coat.

Toyomi is right next to him, dressed in jeans, boots, and a colorful coat. They're holding hands. My fraternity brother is grinning like a six-year-old and she looks like a woman satisfied.

André says, “Just called your room a little while ago.”

Toyomi is so excited that it almost scares me. “I just had to meet you. Again. I had no idea that was you. I just bought all of your books again. I'll give my old ones to my friends.”

I thank her and give her a hug. She beams.

André says, “Now hook her up with some signatures so she don't have to get in line.”

She says, “I can drop you off at the airport and come back—”

“He don't mind. That's my dawg.”

“No problem,” I tell her. Then ask André, “You heading out?”

“For real this time. She's gotta drop me off at the airport right now, then go back to her seminar. Sign ‘dem damn books so I don't miss my flight.”

I step to the side and start signing. Toyomi's talking to me, telling me she has a great story, something about some dude she used to go out with. Crazy shit she thinks I should write about.

People are watching, first looking at the picture on the back of the book, one with my hair much shorter, then at me, still not sure, but easing my way.

When I'm done, Toyomi thanks me, hugs me long and strong.

André and Toyomi head for the door. He's carrying her books and holding her hand. She's smiling wide. He's doing the same. They look like two high school kids.

The owner greets me with a hug and a smile, then leads me to the metal staircase in the back of the room. We vanish before people start trying to get their books signed too soon.

The owner says, “At least eighty people are already here. About twenty of them are men.”

“Cool.” I cover my mouth and yawn.

“You look tired.”

“Long night. Long morning.”

The owner laughs. “I'll get you some tea.”

“Herbal.”

“Always.”

“Thanks.”

The green room is downstairs, through rows of books, non-fiction and fiction, rows of wisdom and knowledge. I salute Ralph Ellison's masterpiece as I pass, do the same for Morrison, Mosley, and McMillan. I catch a view of part of the crowd, people in business suits, BART uniforms, jeans, all of the seats filled, the latecomers standing in the back, some crowding the other stairwell.

As I pull off my jacket, the owner says, “A guy called. Said he was your father.”

I ask if the caller left a name. It's my father's name.

“What did he say?”

“No message. Just identified himself as your father, very polite man, then asked what time the event ended, and I told him it depends on the size of the crowd, no more than two hours.”

I pause, and since my c-phone has bad reception in the basement, I think about heading back upstairs to a phone right then, but look at my watch and see that it's close to showtime.

I say. “I'll call him when I'm done.”

“I didn't know you were the son of an activist.”

“Yep. I'm the son of a preacher man.”

“Eight books and you've never said? You should put that in your bio.”

I smile and shake my head. “Nah. I wouldn't pimp my peeps' good name to sell my books.”

“Shit, everybody else does.”

I say, “Looks like a hundred people will be here before we get started.”

My tone says that I'm more than ready to move on to another topic.

The owner goes on, “Tell your father that he should do a book. That would be so important.”

I leave that at that. Once again, that petty feeling rises, but I let it be. All these people are here to see me, listen to me, shake my hand, hug me, so what I do has reverence.

When the event starts, they all applaud and I walk through the crowd, a big smile on my face, a copy of my latest book in my right hand, and with every step I think of my old man. He never calls me at book signings. Never. I didn't even know that he knew where I had a signing. I hope that everything's okay with my mother, hope nothing has happened to one of my brothers.

My eyes go to the crowd, gain focus, and I almost slow my stroll, some of my smile withers.

Ayanna is on the front row, center stage, no more than six feet away from the podium. Her leather coat folded across her lap. Legs crossed. Ladylike and feminine.

I start to talk, clear a corner of nervousness from my pallet, get my rhythm by doing a stock joke here, get a laugh there, then we're rolling. My hands move when I talk, my words are improvised, but feel orchestrated, not by intent, but by habit. I am my father's child.

It's a wonderful crowd. I talk about writing, dreaming characters to life, activism versus propaganda. Then a few ask questions about copyrights, advances, and then the determined want to talk about the struggles and rewards of self-publishing.

Ayanna stares up at me the entire time.

I say to the crowd, the microphone making my voice seem so large, making me sound so huge, “Let's see. I can either read a character set-up, or something juicy—”

A tall sister in a BART uniform speaks up. “The Jeep scene. You have to read that. I read the sex in the Jeep scene last night. That scene was so good I damn near ran out and bought a Wrangler. My husband sends his thanks.”

More laughter.

I read a five-page section that has bits and pieces of erotica. Those words and phrases make a few blush, a few squirm and grin. Even more make mental plans for later.

And when I'm done, Ayanna raises her hand to ask a question. She's so close, her bracelets jingling, so she is impossible to ignore. I grit my teeth and select her.

She identifies herself before she speaks.

Everyone applauds.

When the thunder dies, Ayanna looks up and asks, “How do you make your sex scenes so vivid? For example, the ones in Paris are so detailed. Almost like soft porn. They sound real. What do you do for research?”

I wink. “I light candles, put on Victoria's Secret, and read your journals.”

More laughter.

“One more question, and maybe you'll actually answer this one,” she says. “There was a rumor. Didn't you get stood up at the altar? Isn't that what your wedding scene was based on? Someone said that your female character is based on the woman you were engaged to. Is that true?”

The room is first consumed by silence, then rumbles and mumbles echo.

She says, “I'm trying to figure out how reliable the narrator is, what parts of the book, if any, are actually fiction.”

She has me cornered. I want to howl in her face, but I have to hold it all in.

One of the brothers in the back, a man with sixteen-inch arms, yells out, “Hell, reliable or not, that's over my head. All I know is that Jeep scene is off da heezy, and I'm driving a Jeep. So I'm about to shake the speezy, so if any of you sisters live in the direction of Dublin and need a ride home, just let me know. We'll get some wine and take the scenic route through San Diego. Ah‘ight? I be out.”

Everyone laughs.

Then with perfect timing, the owner speaks up, “We'll take one more question. Since there are so many of you here, we need to move on to the signing.”

Ayanna nods her head, folds her arms, bounces her leg, sends me a smirk that says she's not done.

I look to my right, search for a hand to be the final question, but when I see the huge man who is standing in the shadows, a man in black slacks and a gray sweater, a long leather coat, his NBA-size hands large enough to palm a basketball, his dark brown eyes looking right at me, I almost freeze.

I look at that big man, a man with graying hair that's always cut a quarter-inch high, has been cut that way forever, and all of my thoughts are derailed for a moment. He moves his weight from one leg to the other, does that out of habit, not out of nerves. That old fellow is a handsome man with a few of the same uncomplicated features I have. His is in a darker shade. Like me, he's sort of bow-legged. One leg is longer than the other, not by much, just like mine, just enough to give his left leg a curve to compensate for that deficiency.

He nods at me. I nod back.

I motion toward him. “I see another one of my old-school fraternity brothers is here.”

I ask him to come up front. Then I introduce him.

The moment I say his name, the room applauds louder for him than they did for me. As we stand together people
ooh
and
ahhh
and cameras flash like lightning.

That tall man with the big hands is my father.

Ayanna sits there with her mouth wide open, her butterscotch skin turning red. She pulls herself together, gathers her things, moves to the back of the room, watches us from the stairwell.

My old man stays to the side, chitchats with people in line as I sign books. People talk to him, take more pictures. He's patient with them all, but I worry about people wearing him down with questions and snapping photo after photo. He makes a simple hand motion that tells me not to rush, that he is fine, to do what I came here to do.

After I sign a few books, I look up. Ayanna's gone.

My father says, “Nicole's mother is coming to Oakland.”

“You're joking.”

My old man tells me that as we bundle up and walk through the brisk breeze. He had walked in the bookstore just as André was walking out. He stopped and talked to André and Toyomi; she was just as excited to meet my old man. More brownie points for André. Anyway, that delay was how I missed my daddy coming in the store. He didn't want to draw any attention, so he lingered in the back.

We step into the Starbucks that's on the other side of Pacific National Bank. We take it slow, because ever since a police dog bit my old man at a protest some forty years ago, cold weather has made his leg stiffen up. He has his good days and bad days. This is a bad one.

He tells me, “Nicole knows. I got her number from your mother and called this morning.”

“How was she?”

“To be honest, I'm not sure. She said she was willing to see her mother, but I'm not sure.”

“Was she willing right off the bat?”

“She's difficult, but not as difficult as her mother.”

We get hot chocolates, sit at a bistro table facing the nonstop foot traffic on Second Street. For a second, when he sets the cup in front of me, I'm a child again. Then that feeling fades and I'm back to being a man. No matter how old I get, the same number of years will always separate us, and I will always be a child in his presence. Will always feel comfort under the canopy of his words.

A tabloid has been left on our table. It's one of the freebies that can be picked up on every corner, this one advertising S&M and bondage, has a picture of a European woman on the cover, a woman with a girl-next-door face, her body strapped in leather. And of course, she lists her two-dollar-a-minute number. I reach to take it away from the table, but my old man stops me, reads the cover, flips through the pages, grunts. His expression says it all as he folds then lays the tabloid on the next table.