After The Dance Read online

  Heck, yeah, I accepted—though out of curiosity more than anything else. I think deep down a part of me really wanted to be there when she morphed back into Dorothy’s wicked witch of west Tennessee. But no, she was cool. We even chit-chatted a bit—general stuff like car repairs, the weather, our jobs. And get this, man, I was helping the sister take her things inside when I noticed the “Dr. Abrahams” name tag pinned to the front of the lab jacket she’d given me to carry. Come to find out ol’ girl is a pharmacist, of all things. She’s only been out of school a little over a year and she works up at the veterans hospital. The fact that she deals with old and crazy, doped-up vets on a daily basis might certainly account for her funky little mood swings, huh?

  Anyway, I followed her inside, had a couple tall glasses of lemonade, and had more than a few slices of some of the best carrot cake I’ve ever had in my mouth. But not wanting to overstay my welcome, I got up to leave after twenty minutes or so. I was in the living room and almost out the door when I realized I’d left my videos in her kitchen. While she went back to get them, I mosied on across the room and started browsing through the bookcase that housed a huge CD and album collection and covered one of Faye and Nora’s living room walls. Now as you well know, what a person listens to says as much about them as what they read. So I’m busy trying to figure out how all these Al Jarreau, Cassandra Wilson, Dianne Reeves, and Rachelle Ferrell numbers fit in with Nora’s round-the-way-girl personality when Faye comes back in with my package of videos. Completely forgetting my previous musical misinterpretation, I say right off the top of my head, “Nora’s got quite a selection of music here.”

  Faye gave me one of those looks sisters are famous for around the world and said, “Those aren’t Nora’s. They’re mine. And if you look closely I’m sure you’ll notice there’s not a Millie Jackson, a Lil’ Kim, or a Foxy Brown in the bunch.”

  So to get out of it, what did I do? Quite naturally the next fool thing that comes to mind, which for some reason was to invite her over to watch the flicks with me. Of course she promptly refused with one of those “thanks, but I don’t think so” lines and ushered me out the door. But get this, man, later on that evening when I was going through the tapes trying to decide which one to watch first, I noticed my porn flick was missing. Now, what do you make of that?

  HER

  Yeah, I took his ol’ nasty flick—Wanda Does Watts—just to even the score and show him that two can play that game. Now I’m wondering what he’s got up his sleeve to do next. I told you about his latest ploy, right? How he’s been inviting me over to watch videos with him?

  You know, the first time he asked, I didn’t take him too seriously. Videos? I mean really, hasn’t everybody with an extra ninety-nine dollars to spare gone out and bought themselves a DVD player? Still, I figured he was just trying to be nice and what have you. But then he asked a second time the following week, and again I politely declined. Well, last night he up and asked again. He was like, “Check it out, Faye, it’s gonna be a Spike Lee night tonight—I’m talking classics like She’s Gotta Have It, Do the Right Thing, Crooklyn—better join me.”

  Girl, please, who wants to sit up and look at all that old, tired mess? It’s not that I’ve got anything against Spike. I’m just saying, if the brother had really been out to tempt a sister he would have skipped the Forty Acres and a Mule section altogether and come at me with something along the lines of a Taye Diggs, Boris Kodjoe, and Morris Chestnut kind of sampler. You know what I’m saying?

  Anyway, I told dude I had laundry to do—a couple of loads, as a matter of fact. He gave me one of those “Yeah, right, tell me anything” looks and said, “Well, showtime’s at eight if you change your mind.”

  Really and truly, I had no intention of going. But it just so happened that Nora came home that evening in one of her Friday black-and-blue moods. Walked in the door reaching for the vodka with one hand and my Aretha albums with the other. Yeah, I could tell by the looks of things it was going to be another one of those “Ain’t No Way,” “Chain of Fools,” “The Thrill Is Gone” nights—and I was most definitely not in the mood.

  See, what you have to understand about me and Nora is—even as night-and-day different as we can sometimes be—we’ve been hanging with each other since durn near kindergarten. Over the years, not only have we seen each other through the good and the bad, but Nora was once there for me when I absolutely had nowhere else to turn. And for that alone I owe her and will forever be truly grateful.

  So sure, I tried to be a friend in this particular instance and talk sense to the girl, but to absolutely no avail. Between the sniffing and the snotting, she started telling me about these three gray hairs she found the other night. And I was like, three gray hairs? So what’s the big deal?! Hell, we’re both well within that thirty-and-over age bracket. It’s not like we’re still teenagers or anything. But before I could get my lecture off the ground and to the podium, she said, “Not just any three gray hairs, Faye. Three gray pubic hairs.”

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Nora like a blood sister, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sit around with her crazy ass and discuss pubic hairs—much less count them. I poured sistergirl another drink and told her she needed to get some professional help and quick, because there wasn’t a thing I could do for her. That’s when I decided to go next door and ask Carl if his invitation was still open.

  HIM

  I almost fell out when I opened the door and saw her standing there. Even though I had invited her over a couple times, the fact that she might actually take me up on the offer was something I hadn’t really banked on. The shock must have registered on my face, because she asked if I was expecting someone else.

  “No, no,” I said. “Come on in and have a seat.” And all the while I’m thinking to myself—now that I’ve got this chick over here, what am I going to do with her?

  You know what a creature of habit I am, man, and how I hate being forced to make a sudden change in plans. Not that I had made what you might call major plans for the evening. These days a typical Friday night for me is one where I kick back with a video or two, pigging out on popcorn, chips, and soda or beer until I conk out in front of the tube. Yes, sad but true. And I’ll thank you to save your snide commentary concerning my social life until you’ve signed over your share of triple-digit child support and alimony checks.

  Anyway, I’d sort of halfway planned on watching She’s Gotta Have It that evening. That was my first choice, simple reason being that it was the sole one of the bunch I had only seen once as opposed to a couple times already. But being that Faye was my guest and all, I went ahead and let her choose which flick we’d watch. Naturally she said she’d watch anything but She’s Gotta Have It. Anything but that.

  “Hold on a minute, Faye,” I said. “You mean to tell me you actually wanna pass on a movie that deals with the exploits of a sexually liberated Black woman?”

  She looked at me like I was a fool and said, “Liberated?! I guess that depends on how you choose to define the word. Rape is not exactly my idea of a liberating experience. And lest you’ve forgotten, that is unquestionably what happens to the female lead at the end of this quote-unquote funny, lighthearted flick. Man, you and Spike both need to quit. She’s Gotta Have It wasn’t nothing new. The message is essentially the same ol’ mess we’ve been hearing since the day y’all stumbled outta the caves and realized you’d lost a rib.”

  See, a lesser man might have tried to hurry up and move on to another topic. But me? I couldn’t resist. I had to ask, “And what message would that be?”

  Without so much as a blink of an eye, she said, “That any woman who dares to exercise the same sexual freedoms taken for granted by men is honor-bound to ‘get it,’ whether figuratively or literally, ‘in the end.’”

  Well, need I say the conversation took off from there? Yeah, man, we got into this real heavy discussion about Black filmmakers, pop culture, the depiction of women and minorities in various media—
all kinds of heady-type stuff—and ended up not watching anything. I found out the chick is capable of conversing quite intelligently on a whole range of issues. Not that I was in total agreement with everything she had to say. But still, it was kind of nice talking to a woman whose worldly knowledge and educated opinions extended beyond whatever happened to be in Jet or on Entertainment Tonight this week.

  And if that wasn’t tough enough, man, toward the end of the evening, I even got her to slow dance with me. Now, tell me I ain’t smooth! No, I’m not going to get into any of the dirty little details. A brother’s got to keep some things to himself. I will say this, though—much as I hate to admit it, we actually had a pretty good time. Really. Or maybe I should speak for myself.

  HER

  Far as I can tell, Carl’s pretty much your typical middle-aged divorcé, with a rapidly receding hairline, an old school rap, and a smug, settled look about him. And his personality fits somewhere in that tight space between nerd and intellectual. But on the other hand, he’s got a boyish quality about him that’s almost, I don’t know, charming, I guess, for a lack of a better word. And keep in mind, I said almost. The jury is still out.

  The first thing he did that night I went over to watch videos was introduce me to his cat. You know how I feel about pets, especially cats. And this Negro’s got the audacity to have one named Sapphire. Yeah, girl, and I know he was just waiting for me to make some kind of comment or inquiry as to why this silky black feline with her sadiddy, cattish ways was called Sapphire. Huh! I let him keep that trip all to himself. His comments concerning She’s Gotta Have It told me all I needed to know about his level of enlightenment when it comes to Black women.

  We never did get around to watching any videos. We talked most of the night. And while I deliberately steered around his repeated attempts to get me to talk about myself, he was quick to volunteer all kinds of info about himself. I found out he’s a manager in one of FedEx’s courier divisions, he’s a couple semesters shy of earning an MBA, he’s divorced, and he has three kids whom he absolutely adores.

  At some point during the course of the evening, the topic got around to music—that seems to be a particular favorite of his. When I asked what kind he liked, he told me he was into love songs. Or as he put it, “Those old, slow dance tunes we used to bump and grind to when we were kids.” Then he jumped up, put on “Baby, I’m For Real” by the Originals, and said, “Now, tell me that doesn’t bring back memories of sweaty palms, bangs gone back, and youthful nights of innocent pleasure?”

  Then, girl, he turned his back to me, wrapped his arms around himself, and launched into this solo slow-dance routine that was absolutely hilarious. After he’d finished tripping he looked at me real funny-like and said, “That’s nice. You oughta do that more often.”

  I said, “What? What are you talking about?”

  He said, “You know, smile. Something happens to you when you smile. Your personality, your whole aura softens when you smile.”

  After he laid down that line, I figured it was about time to call it a night. I said, “Yeah, well, it’s getting late, Carl. I think I’d best be going.”

  But before I could make a clean getaway, he said, “Wait—I bet I’ve got something you’ll like.” He fumbled through his records while I stood there thinking to my-self—if this man puts on some Millie Jackson, we’re going to fight. And get this, girl, he put on some Luther. And not just any ol’ Luther, mind you, but one of my personal all-time favorites—“Make Me a Believer.” Uh-huh, tell me about it, chile, Luther V. know he be sanging that song!

  Then Carl did something that totally threw me—he asked me to dance. Yes, dance. And, well—I did. But don’t go getting any ideas. Dance is all we did and dance is all we’re ever going to do. Carl’s just not the kind of guy I’d want to get involved with. I mean, we’re neighbors, for goodness’ sake. It’d cause too many problems. Anyway, I haven’t decided whether he was actually trying to come on to me or whether he was just trying to see how I’d respond. You know how some guys like to see just how far you’re willing to go. It’s one of those male ego things. The trick is to only give them so much. They want a mile, you give them an inch or two—a yard if you’re feeling generous. So sure, I gave the brother some leeway and the benefit of the doubt. And when he asked if I was going to join him next Friday, I told him maybe. Maybe …

  HIM

  Maybe?! Get out of here! She knew as well as I did that she was coming back. Come next Friday, she was at my door, eight o’clock sharp, cradling a bottle of wine and trying hard to deny me the pleasure of her smile.

  Yeah, but see, I was ready this time. Having taken extensive mental notes on the occasion of our last conversation, I knew Glory and Training Day would be safe and mutually appreciated choices. We’d both had nothing but praise for Denzel and his Oscar-winning portrayals. And being that I’m undeniably a man starved for female company, I wasn’t about to let another bad video choice muck up what thus far had all the makings of a pretty good time.

  I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m actually starting to take a shine to ol’ girl. To tell you the truth, in a lot of ways she reminds me of Betty, my ex. Yeah, man, slim as Bet is today you’d probably never guess it, but back when I married ol’ girl she was more than just a few pounds heavier than Faye is now. And talk about feisty! Hey, being a preacher’s daughter ain’t never stopped Bet from speaking her mind, especially if you get her mad.

  But what I like most about Faye, man, is that unlike a lot of these Memphis chicks who’ve educated themselves and managed to get a handful of change in their pockets and some little title before or after their names, she’s not always up in a brother’s face flossing, flaunting, and trying to pull rank. You know the type. First thing outta their mouths is “I’m Director So and So. I belong to such and such sorority, alumni chapter, civil rights organization, or civics club. I’ve got a Jag, an Expedition, a ski club membership, and a summer home in Martha’s Vineyard.” And ol’ girl is coming at you with all this, man, in an accent so thick you’d swear that instead of having lived most of her life deep in the heart of North Memphis, she’d just jumped off the boat from England after having spent years hobnobbing with the likes of Tina Turner or somebody.

  And don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to hate on a sister for having “come up” and then gone out and snagged herself a nice chunk of the American pie. It’s not like I myself don’t have a liberal arts degree, a managerial position, and a healthy appetite for the nicer things in life. All I’m saying is, I have yet to buy in to the notion that being a card-carrying member of the Black middle class means I’ve got to be out here 24/7 wearing my upward mobility like another doggone layer of skin.

  Far as I can tell, Faye comes from a similar school of thought. She’s the kind of woman who knows how to bounce between the King’s English and Southern Black street vernacular without getting bogged down on either side. That’s the kind of down-to-earth flavor and versatility that a hardworking brother like myself can appreciate—so much so that I’m willing to go ahead and invest what little free time I have in getting to know her better.

  ‘Cause the real of it is, man, just when I think I’ve got ol’ girl figured out, she goes and whips something new out the hat on me. Take the other night, for example. She was scanning the shelves at my place and complimenting me on my collection of books (most of which I either borrowed or outright stole from Dr. Tucker, my literature-teaching baby sis) when right off the top of her head Faye starts reciting lines from two of my all-time favorite poems—Langston’s “Dream Variation” and Margaret Walker’s “For My People.” I’m saying, I’d been under the impression that Harlequin was the extent of her literary repertoire. But no, come to find out ol’ girl is extremely well versed in the African American literary canon and no doubt could hold her own in Doc Tuck’s class.

  Yeah, just like the time before, me and Faye did a lot of talking. Matter of fact, we didn’t part company until way u
p in the wee hours of the morning. And this time around, in addition to being much more relaxed, the conversation was also much more personal.

  At one point she asked me straight out about my marriage and the reasons behind its demise. And I came right out and told her. I told her how I strayed one time too many, and ended up getting someone other than my wife pregnant. Told her how at age ten, my twins, Renita and Renee, knew more than I wished they did about things like affairs, mistresses, and divorce. Told her about the pain, man, the pain of having destroyed my family, of having betrayed the trust of my children, of having hurt so many innocent people unnecessarily. Even told her about the other woman, Clarice, and the other child, my son, Benjamin, and how strange it felt to be a man with two families, but no place to really call home.

  After all that emotional retching I should have ended the evening with some soul-cleansing music—some Johnnie Taylor or some Bobby Womack—but instead I opted for a smoother sound—the Friends of Distinction and their “You’ve Got Me Going in Circles.”

  Yeah, she danced with me again that night, man. And I held her a little closer than the last time. Close enough to feel her heartbeat. Close enough to smell the faint traces of the cologne she must have put on earlier in the day. And all the while we danced, her eyes never left mine, her facial expression never once changed. I don’t know, man. I don’t know if it was gratitude, temporary insanity, or just the wine gone to my head, but something made me want to kiss her. And before I could even think twice about it, I had.

  HER