Disappearing Acts (9 page)

“You want a beer?” she asked.

“Sounds good to me.”

“I’ll run to the corner and get one.”

“Wait a minute—you don’t have to do that. Some ice water’ll do.”

“No, I don’t mind, really.”

She went into her bedroom and came back wearing some tight cutoff denim shorts. Her ass didn’t even shake. And she had on this bright-orange T-shirt that said “It’s Better in the Bahamas” on it. Her titties looked juicy underneath that sunrise. “You been to the Bahamas?” I asked.

“Yep. You been there too?”

“Nope. Puerto Rico—that’s about it as far as the Caribbean goes.” I was lying through my teeth. First of all, I’m scared as hell of airplanes. Even when I went in the service, I was pissy drunk when I got on. Passed out and don’t even remember the ride. And second of all, I ain’t never had enough money left over from a paycheck to be thinking about no vacations. Franklin, why you trying to impress this chick? My shit was crisscrossing like a motherfucker. If I was the praying type, now would be the perfect time to beg for guidance, strength, willpower, common-fuckin’-sense—all of it—I swear to God. “You trust me in your house alone?”

“Aren’t you trustworthy?”

“Very much so,” was all I said.

She left. I found some toggle bolts in my toolbox and finished putting up the shelves. One two three. I started on the stereo. Nice system. The woman didn’t penny-pinch when it came to spending money on the music. And she knew what to buy, that’s for damn sure. Akai. Bose speakers. When I get my shit together,
this is the kinda system I wanna get. I was trying to find WBLS on the radio when she walked back in.

“You didn’t put that together already,” she said, in a genuinely surprised voice.

“I do this kind of stuff all the time. It’s nothin’.”

She opened a beer for me, and I took a sip, then lit a cigarette. “So you gon’ join me?”

“I don’t drink,” she said.

Good, I thought. I been around enough lushes to last. “Well, you wanna put your books up now or later?”

“Later.”

“You might as well get it over with. I know you can’t reach up to the top, and I don’t see no ladders around here, so why don’t you use me?”

“You want me to use you, huh?” she asked.

I was trying to stop grinning. “Yeah, you hand me the books, and I’ll put ’em up there for you.” Shit, now that I was here, I didn’t wanna leave. I felt comfortable around this woman. The next thing I knew, she was looking at me suspiciously, like she knew there was gon’ be some kind of payoff, which she probably thought was between her legs. Women ain’t used to men just being nice; they always think we want something in return. They usually right, but I wasn’t waiting for no payoff. I was just curious.

It took us over a hour to get all them damn books on the shelves. I thought I had a lotta books, but she got me beat. She got books about everything: philosophy, foreign cookbooks, medical books, poetry, and novels—and not that Jackie Collins shit. I was impressed. Then she handed me this picture of a fat, but good-looking, woman. “Who’s this?” I asked.

“My mother.”

“She’s almost as pretty as you are. Where is she?”

“She died when I was three.”

“Sorry to hear that. Really. Where you want it?”

“Right next to this,” she said, pointing to
Their Eyes Were Watching God.
That book was on part of the shelf by itself. When we finished, we sat down on her purple couch. The place was shaping up nice.

“So now what?” I asked. I still didn’t wanna leave. The way I was feeling, I coulda stayed here with her forever.

“What do you mean,
now
what?”

“All I meant was, is there anything else you would like me to do since I’m here?”

“Nope. I’m wiped out. Aren’t you?”

“Not really. I’m used to working much harder than this.”

Then the damn telephone rang.

She got up from the couch to answer it, and I watched those juicy red lips open and close. “Hi, Portia! You finally got my message, huh? Yes indeed. I’m in here. You’re in Brooklyn? I don’t believe it. Sure, come on over. Boxes are everywhere, girl, but I’ve got some music! Okay. See you in a few minutes.”

Well, just fuck me, then, I thought. I got up off the couch, put my tools back in the box, and stood in the middle of the floor like another unwanted dog at the ASPCA. I ain’t used to this shit.

“Franklin,” she said, after she hung up the phone, “I really appreciated your help, and when I get good and settled, I’ll invite you over for dinner. How does that sound?”

“Can you cook?”

She walked over, grabbed my free hand, and pushed me out the door. I was glad. Relieved, really. Most women woulda done anything and everything to keep me there. But Zora was definitely different. She didn’t act like she was starving for no man, which in and of itself was a new one on me.

When I got home, I put my tools away and looked
at that tree trunk for a long time. Finally, I picked up one of my gouges and slid it in the wood. It felt soft, just like I betcha she feels. Franklin, can’t you hear that train coming, man? But all I wanna do is touch her. Just once. A sliver of wood curled and fell on the floor. That’s all, just once. I musta pushed that gouge through that tree at least a hundred times, ’cause the next thing I knew, my feet was swimming in chips of wood. Shit, I didn’t feel no railroad tracks underneath ’em, so I kicked most of ’em off and fell across the bed.

“Honey, if he don’t have at least two major credit cards, a modern car, a one-bedroom apartment, and a college degree, I say leave his ass alone—he ain’t going nowhere in life. How old is he?” Portia asked.

“He looks like he’s in his early thirties. And, Portia, so
what
if he doesn’t have all that stuff? You’ve met hordes of ’em with it, and where has it gotten you?”

“Off the hook, honey,” she said, which was a lie. First of all, Portia’s got so many men calling her that she’s afraid to answer her phone. Some people have normal hobbies. Portia’s is juggling dates.

“Yeah, well, this man is nice, not to mention sexy as hell.”

“That means he’s over six feet tall and halfway good-lookin’. So what else is new?” she asked, and flopped down on the couch. Just looking at Portia, you’d get the impression that she’s this innocent little thing. She calls it femininity. She doesn’t take into account that walking down the streets of New York City in loud, tight halter dresses with bronze cleavage diminishes her demure. But she’s a clothes freak. She lives at Saks and Bergdorf’s. Portia flaunts everything she wears, and being a perfect size seven, she can get away with it. And even though her skin is flawless, you’ll never catch her without makeup. She always looks like she’s ready to party.

“He doesn’t do drugs,” I said.

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“And you believed that shit?”

“Why would he lie?”

“Most of ’em’ll tell you anything to impress your ass. I swear to God, Zora. You’re just as gullible as some of these twenty-year-olds out here.” She got up and went over to the mirror and started brushing her hair, even though it didn’t need it. She’d just gotten it done into one of those Chinese blunt cuts, and there wasn’t a hair out of place.

“Well, let me put it this way,” I said. “Do you know how rare it is to meet a man that makes you nervous?”

“What kinda work does he do—if any?”

“Construction.”

“Construction? Pa-leeze. You know what that means?”

“No. You tell me, Miss Know-it-all.”

“It means he’s probably a ex-criminal and probably can’t read or write.”

“You make me sick sometimes, you know that, Portia? I’ll tell you this much. He’s a hardworking man, which is more than I can say for some of ’em I’ve met, and for me it means he’s got potential.”

“Potential is in the future, honey. We talking about right now.”

“When will you realize that money isn’t everything?”

“You can keep on believing that shit if you want to.”

“Well, let me put it this way. I’ll take happiness and love over money any day.”

“Then you know what that makes you?”

“What?”

“A fool.”

“Kiss my ass, Portia.”

“Look, girlfriend, I’m just telling you to quit now while you’re still ahead.”

“Portia?”

“What?” she asked, inspecting my apartment like she was thinking about renting it herself.

“You know what your problem is?”

“No. Tell me what my problem is.”

“You’re too much of a skeptic, you don’t have faith in anybody but yourself, and you place too much value on the wrong things.”

“Oh, is that so. Well, I’ll tell you something, Zora. You’re too much of a fuckin’ dreamer. You’d think by now you’d learn. These floors are gorgeous, girl.”

“
He
did the floors.”

She just raised her eyebrows and kept strolling through the place. I swear, I love Portia like a sister, but sometimes I wonder why I feel the need to get her approval for everything.

“Don’t go in the bedroom—that floor’s not dry yet.”

She turned back. “He ain’t one of these men still living at home with his Mama, is he?”

“No. He’s got his own apartment,” I said, even though I didn’t know anything about his living situation. He hardly struck me as the type who lived with his Mama, though.

“Well, that’s a relief. So many of ’em still living at home and
still
don’t wanna spend no money on you. It’s pitiful, really. Well, what does it look like? Old or new furniture?”

“Give me a break, would you? I haven’t seen his place yet. I just met the man.”

“It figures. He’s probably too embarrassed. That’s a sign, you know. He wants to hang out at your house but won’t let you come to his. Is he married? That’s probably it.”

“Look, all he did was hook up my stereo, put my shelves up, and put my bed together.”

“You fucked him, didn’t you?”

“No, but I wish I did. I can’t lie: Something magical happened between us, girl. He likes me. And even though I tried not to act like it, he knows I like him. I swear, it was this unspoken kind of thing.”

“You’re meditating too much, Zora. What kind of car does he drive?”

“How the hell would I know!”

“Probably travels on foot, like most of ’em that live in Brooklyn.”

“Portia, most people in New York don’t have cars. You don’t have one, so shut up.”

“What you got to drink around here? We’re supposed to be celebrating, girl. Hell, this is your new apartment. Makes mine look like a dump.”

I got up to get her a glass of juice.

“This is the strongest stuff you’ve got in the house? Not even a wine cooler?”

“We can walk to the liquor store if you just have to have a drink.”

“I don’t have time. I’ve got a date tonight. I just wanted to stop by and see the place.”

“Portia, you should see him. He’s so fine. Looks like he’s been dipped in dark chocolate, girl.”

“Here we go again with this shit. You don’t even know if he can afford you, and you’re already fantasizing. You’re gonna get enough of this falling-in-love-with-love shit. Be out there on Gilligan’s Island by your damnself. Don’t I remember—and correct me if I’m wrong—but this is the same shit you were talking when you met Dillon and, lest we not forget, poor Percy!”

“That was different. They were both cases of bad judgment.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know enough about this one yet to be judging him. So slow down.”

“I
am
slowing down. I haven’t
done
anything yet.”

“You’re just never gonna learn, are you?”

“If you mean pretending not to feel something when I know I feel something, then I guess I haven’t. Do you know how rare it is to feel a trickle of anything when you meet a man?”

“This is true, but you ain’t gotta jump ship just ’cause you think you might be sinking. You get my drift, girlfriend? Just be careful. I hope you’re still coming to brunch Sunday after next. So don’t go getting yourself all strung out on this—what is he? A construction worker? I swear. Didn’t I tell you wasn’t nothing in Brooklyn but blue-collar workers?”

“You know, Portia, you’ve got a lot to learn about people.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Zora. All kinds of lawyers, doctors, accountants, and other
professional
men’ll be there. No telling who you might meet that can help you with your career. And hell, we all know it could use a lift.”

“Eli just referred me to a voice coach.”

“You mean that faggot you met at Bloomingdale’s?”

“Why do you have to make such a big deal about him being gay?”

She started laughing. “They’re probably lovers, and Eli thinks he’s good because he makes him scream when he bends over!”

“Portia, stop it. For your information, he’s already got a reputation and is doing me a favor by squeezing me in. He’s coached some of the best.” I didn’t feel like telling her that I’d sent Reginald an a cappella tape, that he’d said I was a “brilliant songwriter” and that my voice was “powerful and had a host of possibilities,” but he wouldn’t be able to fit me in until after Labor Day.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve gotta go to the bathroom something terrible. My fuckin’ period is coming. I feel
it.” She went into the bathroom and closed the door. A few minutes later she walked out with the strangest look on her face, and she was holding a prescription bottle.

“What’s this for?” she asked me.

Shit. I could’ve sworn I’d put all the phenobarb in the bottom of my trunk. Should I play dumb or go ahead and lie? And just what was she doing in my medicine cabinet anyway?

“What is it?”

“Phenobarbital, Zora.”

“Oh. That.”

“I was looking for a Tylenol, just in case these cramps hit me later, and I thought maybe this would be something for pain, but this ain’t for no kind of pain—that much I do know.”

“I thought I told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That I’ve got epilepsy.”

“You’ve got
what?
”

“You heard me.”

“You mean you foam at the mouth and fall down and shit?”

“Not really. I used to have convulsions and then black out.”

“Get the fuck outta here, Zora! You’re putting me on, aren’t you, girlfriend?”