After The Dance (19 page)

I looked out the window that overlooked my folks’ backyard and tried to imagine my son out there laughing, screaming, and acting a fool with the rest of his cousins. The only image I own of him is the one that burned itself into my subconscious on the day of his birth. All I have to do is close my eyes and within seconds I can see him—a big, pretty baby with an upturned nose and a headful of jet-black curls. According to Nora, who was right there with me, front row center through it all, he looked just like my daddy.

Of all the decisions I’ve been forced to make in my life, giving up my child has thus far been the most difficult and the one I’ve come to most regret. Not even the passage of time has helped ease the pain. Actually, in a lot of ways it’s only made it all the more intense. Not a day goes by where I don’t stop and think—if only I knew then what I know now, boy, would I have done it all differently.

On the way back home Nora insisted on taking the wheel and appointing herself the designated driver. And to tell you the truth, with all the ribs, spaghetti, potato salad, homemade ice cream, watermelon, and what have you stuffed in my gut, not to mention the homemade hooch swimming
around in my head, I was only too happy to take the backseat and let the womenfolk commandeer the front. Once I got settled, I went so far as to pull a Faye and let myself cop a snooze. A couple times I even woke myself up snoring. I was caught up somewhere in that dreamlike space that exists between sleep and nod when I overheard a few snatches of the whispered conversation Nora was trying to have with Faye.

“Does he know about Oklahoma?”

“He who? Carl or Scoobie?”

“Either or? If you ask me, they’ve both damn well got a right to know.”

“Well, ain’t nobody asked you. Besides, this is neither the time nor the place to be getting into all of that. You know good and well every shut eye ain’t sleep.”

As far as what that particular exchange was really all about, man, your guess is about as good as mine. But what I heard lurking just beneath the surface of their words left me with the feeling that either something wasn’t quite right or, worse yet, was on the verge of going horribly wrong.

But when we got back home, rather than press Faye for answers that I knew she’d only be reluctant, if not outright refuse, to give, I pulled her aside and told her that I’d only been kidding about all that stuff I’d said earlier about her coming over that night. I told her, “I know you’re probably tired and I’m not out to sweat you. I want you to feel comfortable with your decision, not rushed into it. So when you make up your mind, just let me know.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

“Of course,” I said. “If you could tell a brother something by the end of the week, it would be nice.”

She grinned and shook her head at me, like I was a lost cause, before she said, “I’ll be in touch, Carl. End of the week at the latest. You’ve got my word, okay?”

Wednesday night is usually when I put in my volunteer time up at Baptist East. But this past Wednesday evening I changed up and did something a little different. I went up to New Hope to assist in the weeklong career fair some of the elders had put together.

Since I’d already been informed that I was scheduled to be the first speaker for the night, I didn’t even bother to look at the program that had been printed up and passed out for the event. When the deacon moderating the event introduced me, I just got up, went to the podium, and launched into the “So you want to be a pharmacist” spiel I’d prepared for the ten or so minutes I’d been allotted.

Anyway, I’m standing there with my VA lab jacket covering my conservative work garb and my reading glasses clinging to the end of my nose, doing my best to simultaneously engage and inspire the twenty-five to thirty youths who’d assembled themselves in New Hope’s small basement auditorium, when in strolls who but my old friend Scoobie.

Rather than come in and pull up a chair, he found himself a nice spot against the wall in the back of the room, where he stood with his arms folded across his chest and with this
look
on his face. You know the
look
I’m talking about, girl, don’t you? Umm-huh, that goofy-ass one our prez, George W., likes to aim at his girl, Madame Secretary Condi Rice, when he’s got her standing up in front of folks, doing his dirty work? Yeah, well, that’s the way Scoobie was staring at me and even though I’m sure he meant it as a compliment, there was something right yuck about it.

At the end of my presentation I went back to my seat only to nearly fall off of it when I heard the moderator announce that the next speaker would be none other than
my boy, Chef Venard Nathaniel Payne. Honey, what you talking about? Before the brother could even climb up on the stage and open his mouth, I had all but made up my mind to find some kind of fault with both him and whatever it was he was fixing to say.

But the world has a funny way of turning on you sometimes, don’t it, girl? Rather than maintain the level of evilness required to sit up in my church’s basement and straight-up hate on the brother, I went ahead and lent him the fair chance and open ear I would have extended to just about anyone but him. And wouldn’t you know it, before long I found myself slowly but surely being captivated and enthralled.

I kid you not, girl, Scoobie gave one of the most moving presentations I’ve ever heard, not only about his current position as Morris-Morgan’s chief executive dining room chef, but the long, hard struggle he’d waged to get and stay there. I think it helped that in addition to touting the usual, such as the benefits of networking and the importance of seeking out mentors and internships, he openly addressed some of his own personal issues, including how he’d pretty much been forced into putting aside twenty-some years of bad habits (e.g., being lazy, trifling, and a womanizer) in order to achieve those things he wanted out of life. But I think the high point of his speech was when he went into the difficulties he’d encountered in trying to care for his ailing mother while pursuing his dream of becoming somebody’s head chef.

At some point, during the course of Scoobie’s talk, I caught a glimpse of the bright, charismatic, good-looking boy I’d fallen head over heels for way back when, and before he’d finished, I was all but fondly reminiscing about all those things I’d once adored so much about him. Lord knows I never could have imagined that the day would come that I’d be somewhere staring up at the likes of Scoobie and experiencing what can best be described as an
immense feeling of pride. I can only hope that I hid it well and wasn’t sitting up there with that dumb-ass look plastered across my face.

After the applause for Chef Payne’s stirring presentation died down, a brief intermission was called. I was in the church’s dining hall, sampling some of the refreshments that, come to find out, had been provided courtesy of the budding celebrity in our midst, when I felt him next to me and heard him say, “Chef Payne and Dr. Abrahams—it has quite a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

With a big slice of German chocolate cake in one hand and a fork, poised to do damage, in the other, I swiveled toward him and with a smile said, “You could have at least warned me you were going to be here.”

He laughed and said, “What? And give you an opportunity to make plans to be elsewhere? Besides, I was hoping to surprise you.”

“That you did,” I admitted to him. “And in a good way, no less.”

He soaked up the compliment and went fishing for more. “You’re not actually giving me your stamp of approval, are you?”

Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to let the brother have his moment, I told him, “You were incredibly impressive, to say the least.”

With that bit of encouragement, I guess he decided the time had come to up the ante. He fingered my name tag and was like, “You’re quite a hard act to follow, Dr. Abrahams. How could I help but pull out all the stops?”

Not about to let him rattle me, I took a step away from him and was all set to stuff my face full of cake, when he eased both the utensil and the plate out of my hands and said, “Ah, ah, ah—not until you tell me whether or not you’re coming to my book party on Friday night.”

“I don’t know” is what I told him. “I can’t say I’ve really given it that much thought.”

“And why is that?” he said, jabbing into my dessert. And then, girl, on securing this itsy, bitsy piece of cake, devoid of so much as a lick of frosting on the end of the fork, he held it out for me to sample.

While I mouthed the stingy morsel, he kept talking. “You do want to see the inside of the house, don’t you? And if I’m not mistaken, some small part of you very much wants to see if I am in fact the changed man I claim to be. Right?”

So I asked him, “Can I take that to mean you wouldn’t be terribly upset if I brought someone with me?”

He gave me a right puzzled look and said, “You mean Nora?”

I laughed and told him “No, that’s not exactly who I had in mind.”

He was like, “Frankly, Faye, I was hoping you’d come as my special guest. There are a lot of things that still haven’t been said between us.”

“Huh, you got that right” is what I almost told him as I watched him dispose of my cake only to turn around and hand me a small saucer full of some ol’ nasty dried fruit, bran, and granola mix.

All right, man, it’s confession time
.
There’s this chick I haven’t told you about. Victoria’s her name, but Ms. Vic is what I like to call her. She’s in my marketing class and before Faye came along, I’d been entertaining thoughts of hooking up with her.

I’ve known her for well over a year now, but it’s only been in these last two semesters that we’ve actually started hanging out. Initially, it was me, her, and a bunch of other
students getting together after class to study every now and then. But in the past couple of weeks, it’s just been me and her. And as of late, I’ve sorta gotten the impression that baby girl’s highly interested in enlisting my services for some after-hours research of a more hands-on nature, if you know what I mean.

Now, back in the days BCAB—you know, “before Clarice and Benjamin”—I wouldn’t have bothered to think twice about stepping to the honey and telling her to come on with it then. To be quite honest, I don’t know too many brothers, married, single, or otherwise, with the wherewithal to “just say no” when it comes to some pretty young thing who’s eager to put the naughty on ’em.

Yeah, man, baby girl is one of these young, hot fillies with legs and face for days, the type liable to put an old dog like me in permanent traction, trying to keep up with her ass. She kinda puts you in mind of a tall Lauryn Hill. Yeah, the chick that used to sing with the Fugees. You know, same ebony coloring, deep, expressive eyes, the same slim figure and petite frame, only much more statuesque.

So what’s stopping me? Besides this thing I’m trying to cultivate with Faye, you mean? Come on, man, like I’ve told you on more than one occasion, I’ve just about had my fill of being out here trying to kick it with some of La-Dee, Da-Dee, and Everybody. At my age, I’m supposed to have enough sense to be cautious, if nothing else. And as pretty, book-smart, and mature-looking as Ms. Vic is, she’s still a youngster. I’m talking at least twenty-some years my junior. And like I said, BCAB I wouldn’t have had a problem with it. But having gone through my share of changes with Clarice, now I know, man, these young girls out here ain’t nuthin’ to play with.

Anyway, the other night after we finished up the project we’d been working on for class, I let her talk me into going with her and a group of her friends to this club that caters to the thirty and under hip-hop crowd. Yeah, in retrospect,
I guess I should have known better. But see, she lured me in by telling me that it was a real tame, afrocentric kinda clientele that frequented the joint and that on that particular night only poets and spoken-word artists were scheduled to perform. So I told myself,
Hey, why not? It’s something different. And who knows, I just might like it.
Besides, quiet as it’s kept, I tried my own hand at a little poetry back in the day.

Man, I wasn’t up in that joint five minutes before I knew I had made a mistake. I’m saying, for all the noise, crazy-looking outfits, jacked-up hair-dos, and folks high on dope, I could just as well have spent a couple hours locked up in the high-risk ward of the nearest insane asylum. Maybe I am just getting old, but what I thought was gonna be a soulful showcasing of thought-provoking self-expression came off as little more than an opportunity for a bunch of depressed, disgruntled, dysfunctional types to holler, cuss, and act a clown in front of an audience of pseudo-intellectual wannabes. Hell, for less than half the price and none of the aggravation, I could have kicked back on my sofa with a bag of chips, a couple of cold brewskis, and my trusty remote and watched me some daggum
Comic View
on BET. Funny thing is, though, the entire time I was there I kept wondering what my girl Faye would have had to say about the whole scene.

Yeah, man, I’m not gonna lie. As long as Faye’s in the picture, Ms. Vic don’t hardly stand a chance. Earlier in that same day I’d been hit with this idea to do a li’l some-thin’ for ol’ girl to let her know I’d been thinking about her. So after making sure my last paycheck had made it into my account and I had a few extra bucks to spare, I went out at lunchtime and pulled it all together.

Wasn’t anything major, mind you, just a li’l somethin’ with a hint of strawberry that I’m hoping will make her dimple-up in all the right places—if you know what I mean.

I have to give it to him, girl, the basket was a nice touch. I found it parked in front of my door when I got home from church later that night. Almost immediately I recognized it as the same basket Carl had served me croissants from that Sunday morning he’d coaxed me into missing service. Only this time when I peeled back the cloth napkins covering the top of the basket, I found it chock-full of some of everything from candles to bubble bath, oils, potpourri, even a couple of those miniature jars of jelly and jam, and all of it strawberry related, whether by flavor, scent, or design. Wedged between the chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of strawberry-flavored juice spritzer, I found a note the brother had scribbled on a strawberry-shaped pad, no less.
Look here, girl, stop playing and call me. You know you want some more of this …
is what it said.