I Left My Back Door Open (2 page)

I nodded to the security guard in the downstairs lobby. Freddy's chocolate, moon-shaped face greeted me with a smile. His front gold tooth gleamed in the fluorescent light.

Freddy wiped his bald head and leaned against his desk. “Have you met the new dude in management yet?”

Dude
. I cringed. Freddy was still stuck in the seventies. “We don't have any new manager,” I answered.

“He was wearing a suit,” Freddy informed me. “And he was with y'all's station manager. Rob told me he ain't need to sign in, he was working wit' y'all.”

“Oh! You must be talking about the mediator.”

“You met him yet?”

I shook my head. We'd only exchanged memos. But I'd agreed to meet with him next week. I figured that the mediator just wanted to touch bases with me about Jade's sexual harassment case against one of the engineers. Bill had made a crude pass at her after she performed a belly dance at the Christmas party last year.

When Jade told me about it, I confided that Bill had made a few sexually improper remarks to me about a year ago. Such as, he liked his women the way he liked his coffee—hot and black. When Bill's comments had gotten raunchier, I had put him in his place. And that had been the end of it.

Jade said she had explained to Bill that belly dancers were not sex objects. She had told him that belly dance was a disciplined art form with a spiritual base, that it had originated as a dance of empathy by women, for women in labor. But Bill had refused to be enlightened. He'd continued to hit on Jade, well into the new year.

Last month, Jade had decided it was time to complain to management. She'd asked if I minded her sharing my experience with Bill, in order to strengthen her complaint. I'd told her that would be fine. I'd even offered to go with Jade, so they could hear my story firsthand.

While listening to our accounts with a poker face, Rob had rearranged his chunky frame several times in his desk chair. Finally, he'd pulled down on his Cubs baseball cap and assured us that Bill would be ordered to stop harassing Jade immediately.

Rob had gone on to say that he liked to think of the radio station as a family. “My definition of a dysfunctional family is one in which the important stuff doesn't get talked about,” he'd said. He asked us if we'd be open to mediation. Jade said that if Bill agreed, she'd go along with it. Rob had said that Bill wouldn't be given a choice. I'd told Rob that I didn't have a need to mediate with Bill. I'd simply shared my own experience to establish that this guy had a problem with more than one person, so that Jade didn't come off looking like some feminist nut.

“Anyway, I put in a good word for you,” Freddy said, interrupting my thoughts.

You really have delusions of grandeur
, I thought.
Like management cares what a security guard thinks
. Freddy folded his arms and sat on top of the desk.

“Thanks, but I don't think I'll need it,” I answered politely. “Like I told you, he's not a manager. He's a mediator.”

Freddy looked like he didn't know what the hell a mediator was. But it was safer for me not to go into an explanation. Freddy had loose lips. I couldn't talk about the sexual harassment case to him, or anyone else at the station. There were even rumors floating around that this conflict resolution guy had been called in to run diversity and tolerance workshops. Some of the white guys at the station were jittery, even the so-called liberal ones.

“Don't be naive,” Freddy insisted. “There's always reason to worry. Don't forget, you in a business. You think they hired that Negro for nothing?”

“He's black?”

“Yeah, he's one of your people.”

Freddy had recently disowned his race. He was robbed at gunpoint last winter. Two gangbangers were waiting outside his car after he left a church bingo game. They took Freddy's winnings and pistol-whipped him. Freddy was hospitalized for a day. There was even a small write-up in the
Defender
, Chicago's black daily newspaper.

“I forgot, you don't consider yourself one of
us
anymore.”

“'Cause y'all don't know how to act. Y'all act right, I might consider coming back into the fold. But I'm still in
your
corner, Dee Dee. 'Cause you a credit to the race.”

“A credit to the race,” I repeated. “I haven't heard that one in a while.”

“Anywho, I ain't saying they gon' go country/western or nothing like that. Although I did put in a word for disco,” he said, rubbing his chin.

“Disco! Don't even go there.”

“Well, I do smell change in the air.” He sniffed. “Mark my words.”

“We're such a unique station, though,” I protested. “And that's what makes us special. Why would anyone want to mess with that?”

Freddy raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Money, that's why. Unique and special don't pay no bills.” He shook his head. “I just hope you'll be playing the blues instead of sanging 'em.”

“Don't worry, I won't quit my day job.” Actually, my day job really involved a lot of evening work. I facilitated consumer focus groups for product advertisers. It paid the mortgage, but my heart was in radio.

I ducked under Freddie's arm as he held the heavy glass door open for me and caught a whiff of the masculine odor that seeped through his deodorant. I thanked him as usual and headed for my car.

Even old steady Freddy was taken, I mused. He and his wife were going on a long-saved-for cruise in August. I fantasized about weekend getaways and a cruise on the Love Boat myself. But I was a single occupant in a double occupancy world. And, although I'd mastered eating meals alone in restaurants and going to movie matinees by myself, I certainly wasn't brave enough to sail solo.

I steered my Honda Accord out of the parking garage. My window was halfway down and the radio was on. The warm breeze played with my braids as I headed north on Lake Shore Drive.

Everybody tells single women that there are plenty of decent guys out there. We just have to be willing to compromise.

For example, “Don't judge a man by what he does or how much education he has. Sista, just 'cause you head of the E.P.A. don't mean you should reject the brotha who cleans the toilets. Don't be no snob. Black women have
always
had to marry down.”

And how about this one? “You say you a lawyer. Damn, you in the catbird's seat. You must come in contact with a lot of eligible criminals. And don't overlook death row. Hey, most marriages don't last as long as the average condemned inmate's appeal process. You could have a lot of years of matrimony ahead.”

And sistas have even said to each other, “Girl, you can
always
get sex.” And we nodded our hot-combed, permed, afroed, braided or dreadlocked heads in agreement. Because we believed it was true—a woman
could
always get sex. And although we might take comfort in that knowledge, we made it clear that we would never settle for
just
sex. No self-respecting woman under forty-one would. And I had been no exception. I convinced myself that I had a little black book chock-full of men's names who would gladly answer my “booty calls.” That is, if I were to make them, which of course I never would, because I wasn't that kind of girl.

But this morning, when I woke up alone at the age of forty-one on my expensive Swedish mattress, it occurred to me that there wasn't one special man that I could just casually call up and ask if he wanted to have sex. Except nerdy-ass Bill, the engineer, I chuckled grimly. Of course, I did have admirers who called my show and sent me fan mail. But I tried to maintain a separation between my public persona and my private dilemma.

Most of the men who I actually knew were either married, involved or church types who would trip out if I made such a brazen request. In other words, I was too well-respected.

I imagined that even if I phoned my philandering ex-husband, which I never would, he would gloat, “I knew that one day you'd eat humble pie. But it's too late, you know I have two kids to consider. Where are your family values? I'm trying to be faithful in
this
marriage.”

Of course, then I'd recall that Wendell cheated on me less than a year after we said, “I do.” When I confronted him about his overnight absences and sudden interest in buying new underwear, he came clean, so to speak. Wendell explained that it was easier to cheat on a woman without a uterus, who wasn't a complete woman anymore, as he put it. You see, I had to have a hysterectomy because of fibroid tumors. And six weeks of abstaining from sexual intercourse while I healed from major surgery was more than poor Wendell could manage. I had to grieve the end of my marriage and the loss of my womb at the same time. It wasn't a good year.

If I called Randall, an ex of mine who'd recently moved to Washington, D.C., and asked, “Do you wanna get funky with me?” he would delicately remind me that we were just “good girlfriends now.”

We'd broken up when he came out of the closet. But if Randall were straight, I'd be willing to fly to D.C., especially if it were cherry blossom time.

Who else could I call? I imagined dialing my last boyfriend, Cedric. But he would clear his throat and ask, “How much weight have you lost?” After all, he dumped me because fat was a turn-off. I tried to lose weight, even occasionally vomiting for love, but in the end, my five-foot-five-inch frame was still hovering at twenty percent over my ideal weight. And, according to Cedric and the American Medical Association, that qualified me as overweight. Cedric couldn't commit to somebody who couldn't commit to fitness. And as of this morning, my treadmill was still being used as a clothes rack.

I sighed as I zipped past the expensive high-rises along Chicago's Gold Coast. I knew that I could gap my legs open somewhere and get sex. But that's not what I wanted. I wanted a special man in my life. Was that too much to ask? Books and movies always showed women dealing with mess. But they almost never told you that there were lots of women who didn't even have any mess to deal with. Women who can go for a whole year without even being asked on a date. This is not unheard of; I know women like that. They are not ugly or bitchy or stanky with bad table manners. They're just invisible. I know, because I'm afraid I'm becoming one of them. It wasn't always like this. When I was younger, men wouldn't leave me alone.

“Belly dancers at home, here's music to undulate to.” Jade's husky voice on the car radio interrupted my thoughts.

I imagined Jade's listeners moving themselves in wavelike motions to the haunting music.

“Open and close your whole bodies,” she instructed.

I glanced at the water, lapping sensually against the shores of Lake Michigan in the dark. I pretended that I was rushing home to undulate with my man.

When I opened the door to my artsy-fartsy-rehab condo, my talkative cat greeted me as usual. I imagined that my orange and white fur child was cussing me out for not being there to feed him at the exact moment that he wished to eat. I set his bowl on the glazed countertop.

“Have no fear, your spinster's here,” I said, even though technically I wasn't a spinster, because I'd been married before. It didn't matter to Langston, just so long as I was reaching for the cat food.

I sighed, glancing at the copper pots and pans hanging overhead. “Langston, sometimes I envy you. It's hard to be black and female.”

My cat's unsympathetic green eyes seemed to say, “I'm not in the mood for a pity party.”

After feeding Langston, I checked my voice mail. The first message caused me to drop the bills and birthday cards that I was sorting through. It was Dr. Hamilton's British accent informing me that there was an opening in the incest survivors' support group at my HMO. Would I please give her a ring back?

I felt my body tense up at the mention of the word incest. I didn't want to think about it, let alone sit in a group and discuss it. I'd called the hospital at a weak moment, right before Christmas. I was having nightmares again, and the holidays were harder than usual. My stepfather was in intensive care in a St. Louis hospital. I was debating whether to confront him about what he'd done, before he died.

It was also almost ten years since my mother passed. Last Christmas, my younger sister, Alexis, was busy with her son and new husband in Philadelphia. And my older brother, Wayne, and his family were tucked away in Matteson, a Chicago suburb. Although I was invited to three parties, I still felt very much alone.

I never got the deathbed confession that I fantasized about. My stepfather died the morning that I was scheduled to leave for St. Louis. He left this world without ever admitting to me that he used to come into my bedroom at night, blowing his whiskey breath in my face, whispering that he needed to check my oil.

It gave me a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, just thinking about it. But I didn't know why Dr. Hamilton was still bothering me. I told her when she called in March that I was no longer in crisis mode, that I wanted to put the past behind me.

Dr. Hamilton had accused me of being in denial. She insisted there was a time bomb ticking away inside of me and that one day it was going to go off. I told Dr. Hamilton that if and when that happened, I'd give her a call. And hope she could fit me in.

The only other message was from my best friend, Sharon. She was returning home after a sabbatical year. She'd resume her college teaching position here in the fall. But girlfriend had the whole summer to play. She left her flight information on my voice mail, and added that she had something to tell me when she saw me. She hoped I wouldn't wig out. Her voice didn't sound excited, but it didn't sound sad, either. I wondered what it could be. Maybe it had to do with her fifteen-year-old daughter, Tyeesha. But if T were pregnant or something, Sharon would be much more wigged out than I would be.