Disappearing Acts (6 page)

Shit. I turned to the driver of the truck and explained the situation to him. He got out to open the back, and I put my hands on my hips and looked up at my windows. “Well, I’m here,” I said, to no one in particular.

Frankie just kept on smoking.

When I’d hired the guy to help me move, he’d told me there’d be two of them, but this morning only he showed up. I’d asked some young guy who happened to be passing by if he wanted to make a quick forty dollars, and he jumped at it. Of course I didn’t want him to know where I was moving, so I didn’t ask him to come to Brooklyn. I had carried enough boxes myself, and now I was tired at the thought of hauling all this stuff upstairs. “Moving sure is hard labor,” I sighed.

“Yes, it is,” Frankie said, and took a sip from his beer. I thought maybe he’d at least offer to help, but he didn’t.

“Would you mind giving me a hand?”

“I don’t work for free.”

Not only was he a handsome creep, I thought, but he was nasty. Even so, I couldn’t carry all those heavy boxes up the stairs. “How much?”

“Not much,” he said. He flicked his cigarette about three feet away and at the same time jumped off the stoop. For the next hour, I watched him lift and pull things off the truck. Those muscles kept popping up in his arms and shoulders, and he was sweating like crazy. And every time he walked past me, all I could think about was that I bet some woman loves to roll over into those arms at night.

It took close to two hours for us to get everything except the trunk upstairs. It was full of records, and I
knew it was too heavy for one person to carry, so I offered to help, but Frankie refused. He slung it up in the air, balanced it on one shoulder, then walked on up the stairs like it weighed twenty pounds.

I paid the driver and ran upstairs. Frankie was busy pushing the larger things against the living room wall. Boxes were stacked everywhere, including on top of the couch. I walked back to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. Sunlight was streaming through the windows, and the floors looked like strips of gold. When I felt his presence behind me I turned around, and my nose grazed those soft black trees on his chest. My lips felt moist, and my heart was about to jump out of my chest. I inched away from him and almost stepped onto the wet floor, but Frankie grabbed my elbows and pulled me back into the hallway.

“Don’t you mess up my floor,” he said.

I was nervous, but I willed my mouth to talk. “You did a fantastic job on the floors, Frankie. Really. I didn’t expect them to turn out this beautiful.”

“Thanks,” he said, turning back down the hallway and winking at me. “I try to do everything good.”

I guess this was supposed to be his way of flirting. It must’ve been working, because all the air in the place seemed to be disappearing. I took a deep breath and prayed I could say what was necessary without sounding like I was going through any major changes. “How much do I owe you?”

“How much did you pay the white boy?”

“I gave him a hundred dollars.”

Now, why did his eyes light up like that? “Was that too much? All the movers in the
Voice
asked for about the same.”

“Naw, that wasn’t too much.”

“I’ve only got about thirty dollars in cash left, but if there’s a cash machine in the neighborhood, I can go get more. I really appreciated your help.”

“Keep your money.”

“No, really. You earned it, and you said yourself you didn’t work for free.”

“I know what I said. A little charity every now and then won’t kill me. So tell me, are you a Miss or a Mrs.?”

He sat down on a box and crossed his arms. Before I could tell him it was none of his business, I blurted out, “A Ms.”

“Oh, so you one of those feminists?”

“What if I am?”

“I just asked. Does that mean you like women?”

“Give me a break, would you? Do I look like I like women?”

“Looks don’t mean nothin’ in this day and age. But to answer your question, no.”

“Then you’ve got your answer.” I started looking at box labels, to see which one had the dishes in it, not that I really needed a dish right then. He was making me nervous. Shit. Talk about being direct. I had to do something—anything—to keep moving, because he didn’t act like he was getting ready to leave, and even though what he just asked me was tacky as hell, I didn’t want him to leave yet either. “Can I ask
you
a question?”

“Only if it’s personal.”

“Is your real name Frankie?”

“No. It’s Franklin. Why?”

“You just didn’t look like a Frankie to me.”

“You can call me Franklin if you want to.”

Had I already given him the impression that I planned on seeing him again? Men. Not only are they presumptuous, but this one here can read minds.

“You ain’t never been married?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

“No,” I said tartly, and started looking for something he could use for an ashtray.

“Don’t get so touchy. I was just curious. What you gon’ do with all this space?”

“Put it to good use.”

“By yourself?”

He
would
have to make it sound like I’m a damn spinster or something, wouldn’t he? “Yes,” I said, and handed him a rusty can I found under the sink. It already had ashes in it, which meant it was probably his.

“How?”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it seems awful funny that a single woman would pay this much rent with all this space and live here by herself, that’s why.”

“I sing and play the piano, and I need all the space I can get. And compared to Manhattan, this is cheap. Does that answer your question, Franklin?”

He smiled at me. “A singer, huh?”

“Yes, a singer.”

I spotted a box that looked like whatever was in it would look like I needed it. As I went to lift it, Franklin jumped up to help me. Damn, even his funk smelled good.

“What’s your name again?” he asked, putting the box on top of the counter.

“Zora. Zora Banks.”

“That’s a helluva name. Suits you. I know you heard of Zora Neale Hurston, then, right? The writer?”

As much as I hated to admit it, I was becoming more impressed by the minute. “I was named after her.”

“You recorded any albums? I’m pretty up on all kinds of music, and your name don’t ring no bells.”

I knew one thing—his grammar was terrible, but everything else seemed to be compensating for it. “Nope. No albums yet. I’m working on it.”

“Well, what kind of music do you sing?”

“All kinds,” I said.

“Is that what you gon’ tell a record producer? That you sing
all
kinds of music?”

“You know, you sure ask a lot of questions.”

He smiled. “How else you suppose to learn things if you don’t ask?”

God, his teeth were white. “Well, to be honest, that’s exactly what I’m working on, developing my own style.”

“I always thought it was about feeling the music. Sing me a few notes.”

“Sing you a few notes? Be serious. First of all, I’ve just barely got inside the door of my new apartment, I don’t even know your last name, I’m not in a singing mood, and I’m tired.”

“My last name is Swift. I can understand you being tired and everything, but I’d like to hear you sing one day. I don’t meet many singers.”

Swift
was putting it mildly. He stood directly in front of me. He was doing this on purpose, I just knew it. Probably just wanted to see how long it would take me to melt. He was much too good at this. “So you’re assuming I’ll be seeing you again after today, is that it?”

“I can guarantee it,” he said, walking toward the door. “We getting ready to start on the building two doors down.”

Then he was gone. I stood there looking at the door like a fool, as if I was in a trance or something. I swear I couldn’t move. I felt affected. And that door kept opening and closing, and each time it opened he would just stand there, looking right through me. To snap out of it, I had to shake my head back and forth until the door stayed closed. Then I went over to the sink and dangled my fingers under the water until they could feel that it was too damn hot.

I wanted to unpack my books, but I needed toggle bolts to put the shelves up. I’m terrible when it comes to doing things like that. There are some things I really don’t want to learn how to do. I couldn’t put
my stereo together, because there’s too many wires. Which means I’ll have to pay somebody to do it, just like I’ve always done. The phone company was supposed to have been here by now, but of course they’re late, so I couldn’t call anybody. And last but not least, I was starving.

I walked down the dirty stairs and noticed that the door to the first-floor apartment was cracked open, so I peaked inside. I saw a disgusting shade of yellow tweed shag carpet. I’d been told two women were moving in tomorrow. “Dykes probably,” Vinney had said. “Don’t bother them, and they won’t bother you.” I walked out the front door and locked it.

The heat was piercing and the humidity thick. I was trying to decide which way to go. When I looked far to the right, I saw lots of traffic, which meant businesses, so I went that way. At the corner was a fish market, where I bought half a pound of scallops. Right next to it was a produce stand that sold everything from vegetables to Pampers. I bought broccoli, fresh mushrooms, scallions, a large bunch of flowers, paper towels, toilet paper, and white grape juice.

I decided to walk home around the block, to get a better feel for the neighborhood. Some gay guy was standing out in front of this gorgeous little gourmet shop, trying to entice people to come in.

“Free coffee samples to celebrate our grand opening,” he said. “You look like a lady with good taste. Come on in, honey. Try some. It’s divine.”

“Thanks. Maybe another time.” I’d only taken a few steps when the rich scent of coffee lured me back. He handed me a finely printed piece of peach-colored paper that described the store’s specialties. All kinds of delicacies, imported foods, breads, every kind of cheese you could think of, dried fish, and pickled everything. I went inside, and staring me in the face were samples of white Scandinavian chocolate.

“Go ahead, it’s fabulous,” he said.

My fingers itched with desire, but I said, “No. I can’t.”

“Oh, come on. One little piece won’t hurt. Go on. Splurge.”

The next thing I knew, not only had I eaten a piece, I’d bought a quarter pound (which I vowed to stretch out over a week or two). I also got some dilled Havarti cheese, liver pâtè, some kind of crackers I’d never heard of, and a pound of Vienna roast mixed with mocha Java.

“Come back again,” he said, and I assured him I would.

Most of the neighborhood was still run down, and even though there were scaffolds everywhere I looked, it would be years before this area was pretty. “You moved here at the right time,” Vinney had said. “In a few years everybody and their mother’ll be flocking to Brooklyn from Manhattan. Who can afford that rent? This is what you call a changing neighborhood. It’s the pits now, but stick around a few years, you won’t even recognize it. You’re getting this place at a steal, you know.”

By the time I got home, I was drenched. I found the box with the towels in it and took a cool shower. Afterwards, I found the box with the cleansers and scrubbed the kitchen shelves inside and out. I didn’t care that they were brand-new. I didn’t ever want to see another roach. Then I pulled out the pots and pans, cooked dinner, and sat down on top of a box to eat. I sure wished I had some music. I put the flowers in water in my coffeepot and set them next to my plate. Lord only knew when I’d be able to afford a dining room set. The piano comes first.

That night, I slept on the living room floor. The couch was buried in boxes, and my platform bed wouldn’t do me much good because I had thrown the
mattress out. I made a pallet of three blankets and flipped one of them over me like a sleeping bag. Sometime during the middle of the night, I woke up. I heard a sound, like movement, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I was afraid to move, so I just lay there as still as I could. This was the worst part of living alone: when you’re scared and don’t have anybody to turn to. The noise was coming from the refrigerator. Please, God, don’t let it be a mouse. Just the thought of seeing a ball of gray fur made my stomach turn. I got up slowly and went and knocked on the refrigerator door. If it was in there, it could run out the way it came in, and I wouldn’t ever have to see it. I waited a few seconds, then opened the door slowly; the only thing inside was my leftover dinner and the things I’d bought. I felt relieved, but to be sure, I opened the freezer. A plastic box was filling up with oval-shaped ice cubes. I had completely forgotten about that damn icemaker.

I lay back down and stared at the white walls, which now looked blue because of the street light shining through the windows. I closed my eyes, but they wouldn’t stay shut. They kept seeing blue. I got up and went over to the counter and broke off a piece of chocolate and lay down again. This is how it always starts, Zora, I thought, then stomped to the bathroom and flushed the entire contents of the bag—including what was in my mouth—down the toilet.

I turned on the fan and stood in the middle of the living room, listening to it oscillate. The blankets felt cool on my bare feet, but it was hot as hell in here. I lay on top of the blankets and tried to go to sleep, but then my breasts started to throb, and I watched them rise and fall. Not tonight, I thought. I don’t have the energy. My nipples hardened. This was their way of letting me know they needed to be touched, kissed—something. Without realizing it, I cupped both
hands over them and started to massage them. I can’t lie: I pretended they were Franklin’s hands. Then a heart started beating between my legs. His hands slid down my belly, stroked the inside of my thighs until my body was electric. I couldn’t help it when my legs flew open. And by the time his hands found the spot, moved in, and pressed down, I felt like a hot wet sponge being squeezed. My body jerked, and I couldn’t stop shivering. I wanted him to kiss me forever, put his arms around me and hold me, keep me warm and safe. I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes tighter so I could keep him there. That’s when I felt the tears easing out from my lids, and my hands dropped to the floor. “I’m so tired of this,” I said out loud. So I wiped my eyes, got under the sheet, and pulled it up to my chin. But I could’ve sworn Franklin said, “Don’t stop now,” so I pulled the pillow inside my arms until it felt like a man.