Disappearing Acts (20 page)

“Nothing, baby,” I said. “The little spermazoids was all ready to run out and play. They had their beer in their hands, little picnic baskets, their swimming trunks on, but then they heard a voice that said, ‘It’s getting ready to rain, so we better stay in and play today.’ They on punishment, so I’m making ’em sit this one out.”

Zora cracked up. Right now I need to keep her laughing, ’cause that job didn’t come through. Everything is always put on hold for some stupid-ass reason. So all I been doing is working a day here, two days there. But things is getting too tight. Here it is November, it’s getting cold outside, and work is starting to slow up. I been to every organization in town, and it’s the same story. A man can only wait so long for shit to happen.

The phone rang, and Zora was getting ready to jump up to get it. “Let it ring,” I said, and she did. Something told me it was probably Pam. Derek gave her this phone number, and she been calling on a weekly basis, bugging the shit outta me, but at least she ain’t been nasty when Zora answer the phone. Zora even act like she wanna meet the bitch—which
is some sick shit, if you ask me. I told her they didn’t have nothin’ in common, and what was the fuckin’ point. “Because she was an important part of your life,” was what she said. So the fuck what? “You think I wanna meet any of your old boyfriends? To look at ’em and know you used to fuck ’em? Hell, no,” I said. “Franklin, all I know is that she’s the mother of your children. Why should I hate her?” Women.

She rolled over and collapsed on her side of the bed. “Why you move?” I asked.

“What?”

“Why you move? You felt good, baby. Come back over on top of Daddy.”

“I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” she said, and got up.

I was looking out the window, at the wind blowing all the leaves and shit off the trees, and thinking that if I was bringing in some money, this could be just another nice lazy-ass Saturday. We been watching kung fu movies all morning, which Zora hates because the words don’t match the dudes’ mouth when they talk. But it was either this or wrestling, and she think wrestling is phony. We’ve made love twice this morning, and even though my dick keeps getting hard, I’m just fuckin’ to get some of my frustrations out. The shit still ain’t worked yet.

Zora came back and picked up this book she was reading:
Nobody Knows My Name
, by James Baldwin. When I first saw her reading it, I told her that I read that book a long time ago. It was the truth too. I’ve read all kinda books. Shit, if you ain’t in school, it’s up to you to educate yourself. That’s the way I figured the shit supposed to go down.

But for somebody that’s been to college, Zora is one slow-ass reader. It’s been over two weeks now, and she still only halfway through it. I can read a whole book in a night—if I like it. Get me a pack of
Newports and a cup of coffee, and I’ll hang till it’s over. Most writers, I give fifty pages to get the shit moving. If they beat around the bush and shit, I’ll put the motherfucker down. They don’t get no second chances neither. You snooze, you lose, in my book.

I looked over at Zora. She seemed tired. And it’s probably my fault. She been dealing with my bullshit like a champ. “Don’t worry about it, Franklin,” she said. “Things’ll pick up.” But how much more can she take? I know she gotta be tired of me not helping her. She’s paid the rent for the past three months. Bought all the food and insisted on paying for the bets when we went to the track. I don’t think she really know how this shit makes me feel. Which is why I couldn’t come.

“You think I should move back to my room?” I asked. I didn’t plan on saying nothing like this; it just came out.

She looked up from her book, then let it drop in her lap.

“What?”

“Let’s face it, baby. My shit is raggedy. I ain’t paid no rent over here in ages. I can’t help you out, and you don’t really need me here.” Then I thought about what I had just said. I mighta been speaking too soon, ’cause I’ma get thrown outta my room soon. Ain’t paid no rent over there in almost three months either.

“Franklin, we just made love, and we’ve already talked about this before, so why’d you have to bring it up again now?”

“’Cause it’s fuckin’ with me, that’s why.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“You know I don’t wanna leave, baby.”

“So what’ll going back over there prove?”

“It’ll take some of this guilt offa me. I feel like I’m pimping or mooching offa you, baby. I’m used to paying my own way.”

“I
know
you’re not mooching, and you better not even think you’re pimping anybody but yourself. Things may be a little lopsided right now, but it comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Well, I’m hoping things’ll change soon.”

“What if they don’t?”

“I’ve got faith in you, Franklin.”

“I just can’t stand feeling like this—helpless and shit.”

“Look, Franklin,” she said, putting her book down. “As long as I know you’re trying, I can be patient. I love you, and I’ll hang in here as long as you don’t give up. Can we leave it at that?”

She reached over and put her arms around me. Damn, she felt good. It’s nice as hell when your woman holds
you
, and sometimes Zora do it just when I need it. My dick started getting hard, and this time I knew I could come, but I didn’t wanna burden her.

“How about a grilled cheese sandwich?” I asked.

“With tomatoes?”

“If that’s how you like it, baby.”

“You know how I like it,” she said, and winked at me. Damn, do I love that woman. One day, I swear to God, she gon’ be proud that I’m her man.

I went to get outta bed, but she put her hands around Tarzan. She knows how to squeeze him just right, stroke him just right, and suck him just right, but right now, if she knew what was good for her, she’d better let him go. “Don’t do that, baby. Tarzan is tired. He been swinging all day.”

She kissed him on his head. “I hope he’s got one more dance left in him,” she said, and leaned back into the pillow.

Zora thinks she slick. Either she’s one helluva actress, or she really ain’t feeling as miserable about this shit as I am. I know she cleaned out her savings account,
and that was the money she was saving up for her studio rental—among other things. True, it’s a ways down the road, but between the rental and her maybe having to pay musicians to get a demo tape together, we talking about some real cash here. And now that money is gone—because of me. She over the limit on two of her credit cards, ’cause I heard the messages on her answering machine. Some nights, when we both couldn’t stand being in here, she said, “To hell with this, Franklin, let’s go out to dinner.” And she’d whip out one of those cards. I ain’t never had no kind of credit cards, and it’s embarrassing that every time you go somewhere, your woman is paying for it.

She got two checking accounts too, and this month’s rent check was gon’ bounce, so she wrote a check to herself and deposited it in the other account to stall for time. Yesterday morning, when she thought I was still sleep, I heard her asking her Daddy for a loan. And she had called him, ’cause I didn’t hear the phone ring.

I laid in bed and felt like a chump. Laying up in my woman’s apartment, and she gotta call her Pops to ask for money. This shit didn’t make no kinda sense.

I kinda burned the sandwiches, but what the fuck. I took ’em in to her anyway. She put her book down, looked at the sandwiches, then started laughing.

“They taste better burnt,” I said, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“You know, Franklin, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, hell. When you start thinking, that’s dangerous,” I said.

“Seriously.”

“I’m listening.” I lit a cigarette. I already knew I didn’t wanna hear this. I hate anybody doing my thinking for me, and something told me that was gon’ be the case now.

“Have you ever thought about doing some other kind of work?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. There’s lots of things you’re good at. I mean, aren’t there other things you can think of to do to earn a living, while you’re waiting for school or something else to happen?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” She got up and stood by the window.

I hate this shit.

“All I know how to do is construction, baby.”

“That’s not true, and you know it, Franklin. You can fix anything, build anything. Why don’t you put an ad in some of the local papers and put up some fliers.”

“Why don’t I do what?”

“You heard me. It doesn’t sound so farfetched to me. Who knows what might happen?”

“Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me to leave, Zora?”

“Because I don’t want you to leave, Franklin. I’m just asking you to look at your alternatives.”

“Right. Okay. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll take out some ads and get some fliers printed up on Monday.” I dropped the rest of my sandwich on the saucer, then lit another cigarette. “Who’s gon’ pay for all this shit?” I asked, looking at her hard.

“Me.”

I knew she meant well, but Zora just don’t understand nothing about timing. Three whole weeks went by, and not a single person called. Not only had my constitution not even gotten off the ground yet, but as I walked up and down the streets of Brooklyn ripping down them fliers, it felt like what little foundation I thought I had had just fuckin’ disappeared.

My period is late.

It was due two weeks ago. I wanted to tell Franklin, but I couldn’t. The last thing we needed right now was a baby. And besides, I’m not even his wife. I just imagined what he would say if I told him, “Franklin, guess what? We’re having a baby.” He’d probably look at me and say, “A what?” It wouldn’t be like it is on TV, that’s for damn sure. He probably wouldn’t throw his arms up in the air and say, “I’m gonna be a Daddy? Hot damn!” No. He probably wouldn’t be all that thrilled.

He’s been going through a lot of changes as it is, trying to keep Pam at bay, and last month, when Derek turned fourteen, Franklin didn’t have any money to buy him a birthday present. I asked him what did he think Derek would want? “Nikes,” he said. “What size?” I asked. He told me elevens. I spent thirty-nine dollars on a pair of high-tops—since Derek plays basketball—and gave them to Franklin. “Take these over to him,” I said. “Baby, you didn’t have to do this. He ain’t even your kid.” My kid. “I know he’s not
my
kid,” I said, “but he’s
your
kid, and I want him to know that his father didn’t forget his birthday. Can’t you forget your stupid pride for once? Don’t disappoint him, Franklin.” Derek never has had
too much to say to me, but the last time he came over, he was smiling and wearing those sneakers. I felt like we were finally making progress. All I wanted to do was get to know Franklin’s kids.

My Daddy would have a fit if he found out about
this
—him being in the church and all. And Marguerite is so old-fashioned, she’d probably persuade Daddy into talking me into coming home and having it anyway. I’d have to listen to them condemning me for getting involved with a married man—which is what it boils down to—so I can’t tell them either.

I swear, I don’t want to have another abortion—really I don’t. But what other choice do I have? Franklin’s job situation is so iffy, I’d probably end up taking care of all three of us. I couldn’t handle that. Lots of women are having babies these days without being married, but I never imagined myself giving birth without having a husband to go along with it. I can take feminism only so far. We’ve never even talked about having kids. What if he
doesn’t
want any more? But what if he does?

Any way I look at it, I’m still scared.

I’m also starting to feel like shit. When I wake up, Franklin’s cigarette smoke—especially those disgusting ashes—makes me feel like I want to throw up. The other day, I was cleaning out the bathtub, and the Comet made me feel the same way. It seems like I smell everything twice as much now, and the scents pass through my nostrils, land in the pit of my stomach, then work their way back up inside my throat and stay there. I should’ve known something was up—the way I’ve been eating these past few weeks—but with all the other things I’ve got on my mind, I haven’t slowed down long enough to think about it. This morning, the scale told the truth—I’d gained six pounds. I looked at the calendar on the bathroom wall, then stuck my finger between my legs. I was
hoping to see red. My fingers came back the same color, and I panicked. I knew it wasn’t coming, because every twenty-eight days it arrives like clockwork. Shit.

Ironically enough, Claudette’s on her way over here with the baby. Why does she have to be six months pregnant? I know it was stupid of me to invite Portia and Marie too, but I wanted them all here. I had to tell
somebody.
And I can’t keep this to myself. Not this time.

Franklin was at the gym and was spending the day with his kids. His kids. When I heard the buzzer, I started to run down the stairs like I always do, but something rushed to my head and made me feel dizzy, so I walked. Portia and Claudette were standing there together.

“Hurry up, girl. It’s cold as hell out here,” Portia said through the door.

“Where’s Chanelle?” I asked Claudette.

“Home with her father. She’s got a little cold, but I felt like getting out of the house. So can we come in, or what?”

I unlocked the door, and we went upstairs.

“So, girlfriend, what you gon’ do?” Portia asked.

I walked over to the sink and got out the coffee cups. I took the croissants from the refrigerator and slid ’em into the oven. For some reason, I wasn’t hungry. “I really don’t know,” I said.

I heard the door buzz. “Claudette, would you let Marie in, please?”

When Claudette got up, the only thing I noticed was her big belly. I put my hands over mine and rubbed it. Why now, God? I wondered. And why me? It wasn’t as if I didn’t use anything. Should I be reading this differently—that I’m
supposed
to go through with it? That things happen for a reason? This would make three abortions. Three times that I stopped a life. But
having it would be stupid. Where would it sleep? We’d have to get a bigger place, which would mean more rent; pay a baby-sitter—
everything
would change. I’d probably have to stop my voice lessons, and how would I learn to juggle my time so I wouldn’t have to give up singing altogether? What if my seizures flared back up and I’d have to get back on phenobarb? I’d be taking a chance that my baby could be born with something besides ten fingers and ten toes. I don’t want to take that chance. Not right now. Not until I can trust science more. You’re just being selfish, Zora. All you’re thinking about is yourself. No, I’m not. Yes, you are. If
I
don’t,
who
will? Of course I’ve read about women whose seizures had long since stopped, and they had perfectly normal pregnancies and healthy babies. But it’d be just my luck to have fits for the next nine months. And Franklin would find out before I had a chance to tell him. Maybe he’d feel deceived and leave me. I do not want to be a single mother, that much I do know.