Drumsticks (9 page)

I stood inside the gate watching him come closer and closer in his deep green overcoat. Burberry's. I knew, because when we had our Christmas get-together last year, his Mrs. had just presented it to him. He wore no hat and I could see the nice ripple of gray growing in at his temple. Funny, I never noticed before, but I have his forehead. His mouth, too. I'm not a stick. But I am his. I'm his child.

Would he notice me?

Nope. He kept walking.

“Hey, Pop.”

He stopped abruptly, just inside the gate, wheeled.

“Nanette. There's my daughter.”

We embraced for a minute and then he held me away from him, taking me in. “You're looking well, daughter—nice and trim. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure? I used to try to get you to visit the school—”

I cut him off. “Shouldn't we go inside?”

I had hold of his arm, but he would not be moved. “Is something wrong?” he demanded.

“No. I'm okay. And so is Mom,” I added before he could form the question.

He nodded. “All right. Let's go in.”

Introduction to his faithful secretary. Not the faithful secretary I had met years ago. This one was under forty, had a very hip haircut, and wore khakis with her DKNY turtleneck. But, as the old one had done, she stood and grasped my hand warmly in both of hers, in that “Oh, you must be little Nanette” sort of grip.

Inside his office, I recognized the pen holder I had given him one year, and the silver picture frame, which held a photo of himself and a now-celebrated former student at some school event.

“Do you by any chance have the student yearbook for ninety-six, Daddy?”

“Our yearbook? Of course. Why?”

“I'd like to look at it for a minute. To show you something.”

I flipped through the book until I found what I was looking for. He had no particular recollections of Felice Sanders, but did recall that she had been a scholarship student.

“Why are you interested in this young woman, Nanette? Is she a friend of yours?”

“Not really. It's not worth explaining now, Pop. I just need to know if you remember her … if you knew anything about her personal life or maybe heard from her since she graduated.”

I could see his mind working. Of course he wanted to know more, of course felt entitled to ask more.
But on the other hand
, he was thinking, the child does have a history of some fairly scarifying behavior. She's managed to stay in one piece without my knowing too many of the particulars. Probably best not to open the door to something I'm going to regret having asked about.

It almost made me laugh to think what he'd say if he knew I owned a gun. I thought, too, of my mother's hatred of him, still white-hot after all these years. I had an image of her waiting behind that iron gate instead of me. It would have shaken that super-dignified bearing of his to see her there with my piece pointed at his heart. I blinked those thoughts away.

“We'd have Felice's home address in the records,” he said. “And maybe a family income statement. Grades and such things. Will that help?”

“Whatever you have.”

“Actually,” he said, “there is someone around who'd know a bit more about what she was like.”

“Who?”

“Dan. Dan Hinton. He teaches English and doubles as a kind of guidance counselor—not officially—we have a bona fide school counselor. But Dan does have a degree in psychology as well, and the children like him. He seems to know how to talk to them, bring them out.”

Oh brother.

There was one at every school. A man or woman closer in age to the kids than the average faculty member. Always thought he or she was “in touch” with what adolescents really needed. Dressed too young for his age. Tried to keep up with the music the kids listened to—track the pop culture idols as well as the current drugs of choice—master the latest slang. Thought of him or herself as an excellent listener. Sickening stuff.

I remained with my father for another fifteen minutes. Actually it didn't even take that long to exhaust our usual list of discussion topics—how was Aubrey; did I need any money; was I managing to save any money; did I still study music with Jeff; how many students did I have in my French class. And from my side: how were the renovations on the apartment going; read any good books lately; where were he and the Mrs. thinking about vacationing next summer.

I kissed my pop good-bye and promised to join him and the Mrs. one night at the opera. Which was about as likely to happen as his plan to come by my apartment one day so that I could make one of my “famous upside-down cakes” for him.

As I walked up to the third floor, I amused myself with predictions about what Dan Hinton would look like. The gaunt and rumpled grad student look, or would he be a tad out of shape with a premature bald spot? Glasses or not? Nerd or phoney charm boy?

I nearly collided with the skinny ash blond kid, his pants riding dangerously low on his hips, who was turning out of the classroom. Just over his shoulder, I caught my first glimpse of Dan Hinton.

Aha. Well, he didn't wear glasses. But he was real ugly. That is, if you think the young Harry Belafonte was ugly. D'ya think Denzel's ugly? Brad Pitt? Laurence Fishburne? Dan Hinton was in that league.

How was he dressed? Who cared? I admit it: I was beside myself. Until he said, “Nanette, right?” and stood up, and exhibited those shoulders.

When he did that, I was stupefied.

And he knew my name.

“I'm not psychic,” he said, in a gravelly voice from heaven. “I saw your photo at Eddie's apartment when he and Amy asked me to dinner once.”

Eddie?
Nobody called my father Eddie.

“Are you looking for him?”

What? Who? Oh, that's right, I hadn't spoken a word yet. Okay, Nanette, pull it together, girl.

“My father, you mean. No. I've already seen him. He said you might be able to answer a few questions about a former student of yours. Felice Sanders. She graduated in ninety-six.”

“Did something happen to Felice?”

“No. I mean, I don't really know. I just thought she might be able to help me track down a friend of mine—and hers—a mutual friend. But now I'm having trouble locating her as well.”

He appeared to take in that addle-brained fib for what it was. “Uh huh. Well, it doesn't surprise me that you're having trouble catching up with Felice.”

“Why? Have you kept in touch with her?”

“Off and on. By the way, wouldn't you like to have a seat?” He pointed to one of the kidney-shaped desk-chair combinations.

“Thanks. Are you sure I'm not keeping you from your work?”

“That's okay. It'll keep.”

My my, Mr. Hinton. Such white teeth. Such a mouth.

I sat down, crossed my legs, and wondered if his glance lingered on the legs of all the young missies the way it lingered on mine. Stephens was much too progressive to require student uniforms and I bet their skirts were a deal shorter than mine.

“You were saying … about keeping in touch?”

“Yes. Felice does sort of keep in touch. When she was at Stephens, she wasn't technically my student. She needed somebody to talk to. Like a lot of kids. She never seemed to click with many of the other students.”

“So she didn't have buddies that she always hung out with? Was there maybe another girl that Felice might be rooming with now?”

“I doubt that. The other students liked her well enough, I think. But she tended to keep to herself. She's a nice girl. Talented. She wants to be a dancer—or did. The last few times we spoke she was out of focus—all over the place. Depressed. Angry. Kind of lost.”

“Over her boyfriend's death?”

“You know about that then.”

“Not really. I just heard her boyfriend was killed.”

“It just about did her in. She loved Black Hat.”

“Did you know him, too?”

He shook his head. “No. I just knew she seemed to genuinely love him. She was a junior when they met, when they fell in love. It did wonders for Felice. She's an adopted kid. Troubled background. Her adoptive father died. One bad thing after another. But after she met this boy, her life seemed to open up. By the time she graduated, she was talking about marriage. I hate what happened, to both of those kids. It was stupid—wrong.”

Was this the guidance counselor for the millennium, or what? Not only does he get you through the ordeal of high school, he keeps track of you for life.

And as for dinner at Eddie and Amy's, what was up with that? A little ass kissing?

“What did you mean,” I asked, “when you said you weren't surprised that I couldn't locate Felice?”

“Well, without breaking any confidences, I'll just say that since Black Hat died she's been kind of out of control. She's lonely and not—not so resourceful. What I mean is, she's vulnerable now and doesn't make the best choices.”

“Choices of men, you mean.”

“That's right. And the last time we spoke she mentioned a man I don't like the sound of. Obviously he's much older than she is. She moved out of her mother's place, but wouldn't say where she's living now, and … listen, like I said, I shouldn't be discussing her personal life with a stranger. No offense. I know you're Eddie's kid and you'll be discreet, but …”

“I understand. Privileged information.”

“No, she's not my patient. She's—”

He stopped there. I wondered for a minute, maybe more than a minute, She's not my patient, she's … what?

The fortyish Hinton seemed too responsible, too smart to be a casual seducer of students. But perhaps, once Felice Sanders was no longer a student, there had been something between them. Would that be unethical of him? I didn't know. I did know with every fiber of my being that, depressed or not, if I were eighteen and “lost” and had someone like Dan Hinton interested in me, had him to talk to, lean on, whatever, I'd be in his bed like a shot.

But what was it about this guy? Was it just that he was too good to be true? A strong, intelligent, drop-dead gorgeous black man with a steady job who likes and respects children. Looks more like a daytime soap star than an English teacher. So what was it?

Oh, I knew what it was—I didn't like him.

“By the way,” he said, “I'd like to ask you something.”

“Me? What?”

“You know that poem of yours—the translation—in
Transfer
?”

I must have turned green at the mention of that name. Oh Jesus. He knew about that?

About ten years ago I did have a poem accepted in a toney little art magazine with that name. For a hot minute I had been a celebrity on campus. My father must have kept his copy all these years, shown it to him during that little dinner party. Yikes!

“What about it?” I asked.

“It was kinda crap. Do you still write?”

I burst into unbridled laughter. What
was
it about this guy? The bastard had insulted me and here I was cracking up.

Smooth as a milkshake, he was. Maybe the kids did think he was cool. Maybe he was.

“So that was the extent of your relationship with Felice?” I asked a minute later. “Dutch uncle—nothing else?”

I didn't fu—I never—” he stumbled, “slept with Felice.”

“That's okay, you could have said ‘fucked.' I won't tell Daddy.”

He grinned.

A silence fell then. Not a particularly uncomfortable one. He turned his gaze fully on me and I didn't look away, not once. After a few moments of that, I saw him glance down at his watch.

I got to my feet quickly. “Thanks for your time.”

“No problem. Look, I don't know much more about Felice than what I told you. Just that she didn't apply to college. She planned to marry Black Hat and thought she might continue with her dancing. Oh, yeah, I once asked how her family looked at her marrying a black man, and she said she thought if there was going to be any trouble about that, it would come from his family, not hers. Does that help you? I mean, help you with whatever it is you're doing.”

“I don't know yet,” I said. “Maybe. But thanks anyway.” I turned to leave.

“I liked the
end
of the poem.”

“Please—you don't have to say that.”

“I know. I'm not lying to you. I really liked the end. And I thought a little flattery couldn't hurt, when I … when I asked you—”

“What did you want to ask me?”

“Out.”

What was going on? I thought, half-giddy as I walked across 9th Street. What was happening here? Since when did I start spewing out come-hither pheromones to fine men all over New York City? And who was going to hit on me next—the butcher?

Been trying to find a good man, girlfriends? Fuhgeddabout it. I've got them all.

I caught up with Leman at the pizza stand on University Place, just around the corner from the building where he was headquartered. He was busy and had to forgo the barbecue joint that day. It was three o'clock and he was just grabbing a quick bite.

I reported on my visit to Stephens while he demolished three slices with meatballs and peppers.

Red sauce glistened on his chin.

“What other kind of crap did this Hinton dude lay on you?” Leman asked disdainfully.

“You don't buy what he told me?”

“You mean you do? Ain't it a little funny that a teacher would know so much about Felice's business? I wouldn't be surprised if that slick son of a bitch was getting his …” He broke off there with a salacious grin. “You educated niggers,” he said, chuckling. “Always think you know it all and couldn't find a fly on horseshit.”

That again. What old resentments was he stewing about now? What uppity little girl had shot him down in eighth grade? Us bougie niggers always had our way in life greased, while poor prole Leman Sweet had to fight for every break he got, right?