I Left My Back Door Open

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PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF APRIL SINCLAIR

Coffee Will Make You Black

“A funny, fresh novel about growing up African-American in 1960s Chicago … Sinclair writes like Terry McMillan's kid sister.” —
Entertainment Weekly

“Whether she's dealing with a subject as monumental as the civil rights movement or as intimate as Stevie's first sexual encounters, Sinclair never fails to make you laugh and never sacrifices the narrative to make a point.… What is clear is that Stevie is a wonderful character whose bold curiosity and witty self-confidence—through Sinclair's straight-talking words—make her easy to love.” —
Los Angeles Times

“Heartwarming … Memorable … Told with earnestness and humor … A coming-of-age story with a twist.” —
Chicago Tribune

Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice

“Hard to resist … The freshness of Sinclair's voice makes both the familiar and the unfamiliar an adventure worth smiling about.” —
The Miami Herald

“This tale has verve and readability.” —
The New Yorker

“A hoot … High-spirited and entertaining … A disarmingly upbeat novel about race and sexual preference.” —
San Francisco Chronicle

I Left My Back Door Open

“A
Bridget Jones's Diary
for black women … Readers will respond to this novel's honesty, to its colloquial humor, and to its exacting exploration of Daphne's relationship woes.” —
The New York Times Book Review

“Any sister who has felt unlucky in love will identify with Sinclair's smoothly written tale.” —
Essence

“Snappy, entertaining.” —
The Washington Post Book World

“Sinclair's jazzy new novel is her best yet. Her syncopated rhythms and her cool, bluesy tones make her Ella Fitzgerald's literary rival.” —E. Lynn Harris

I Left My Back Door Open

A Novel

April Sinclair

This book is lovingly dedicated to my niece
,

Lyndsey, and my siblings, Marcia, Byron and Nina
.

one

I am not young, or thin, or white or beautiful. I'm a slightly thick sista, but I know how to fix myself up. And I'm on the radio. My name is Daphne Dupree, and I play the blues.

I liked everything about speaking into a mike. I even enjoyed positioning my mouth in front of one. And I loved the way my voice sounded, so rich and full, when it came out. Maybe I just liked to hear myself talk.

“We opened the set with the incomparable Etta ‘Miss Peaches' James doing ‘At Last.' That was by special request from Dianne, a blue-eyed soul sister who knows that when you make a potato salad, you don't leave out the mustard.

“Speaking of food, we're gonna be broadcasting live from Taste of Chicago, in Grant Park next Saturday. I hope to see some of my listeners. You know I'm gon' sho' 'nuff be tastin', too. 'Cause, honey, there's no such thang as a black anorexic!” I laughed. “You heard it here first.”

I kept right on b.s.in,' 'cause I was on a roll. And I was in control. “Y'all remember, last year, my boyfriend didn't hit me, but he up and quit me? Yeah, he said, ‘Dee Dee you too big,' sho' did. The brotha didn't 'preciate my meat. He wasn't no natchel man. Finally had to tell 'im, I was built for comfort, not for speed!”

I paused for air. “You know, it's funny, there was a time when a skinny woman was almost looked at as deformed. She damn near had to run away and join the circus.” I sighed. “When I was a child, nobody wanted the woman with the skinny legs And don't let her have the nerve to be flat-chested, with no booty, too. You had to have something to shake back in them days.”

I noticed a lighted button. “I got a call coming in on the board. Somebody out there must be feeling my pain.”

“Girlfriend, you need to come on back home to the soulful South Side,” the voice on the line urged.

“It sounds like my friend, Sarita.”

“Yeah, it's me, girl. Anyway, it's plenty of men on the South Side who like full-figured women.”

“Sista, you say I'm just dealing on the wrong side of town? You think that's what it is?”

“I know that's what it is. You drive around the South Side, and you see big behinds everywhere. And it ain't keeping nobody from getting no man, or putting on no pair of shorts, either.”

“Big behinds are all over the North Side, too,” I insisted. “You need to get out more. Big behinds are everywhere now, and they come in all colors. And they're coming to a theater near you.”

“Girl, you crazy! We don't have no theaters around here. I'm calling you from the 'hood.”

“It was just an expression.”

“Anyway, Dee Dee, you need to come on back to church, 'cause, honey, there're plenty of women heavier than you. In fact, they'd run and bring you a plate of food, girlfriend. Try to fatten you up.”

“All right, I'll be in your church on Sunday. So save me some pew. And give some sugar to my play nephew. I just can't help but rhyme, almost every time.”

“Okay, then, you put on Koko Taylor for your good girlfriend.”

“A request for the reigning Queen of the Blues is always good news! But, first, it's time for the tips, and I'll shoot 'em from the hips. If you want your holiday to be a blast, when you barbecue, put your sauce on last. You can baste it with vinegar, you can baste it with beer. But, Koko fixin' to pitch a ‘Wang Dang Doodle,' then I'm outta here! That concludes this edition of Deep Dish Blues on WLUV, 98.6 on your FM dial. And I'm your hostess with the mostest, Dee Dee Joy, born in Alabama and raised in Illinois.”

I'd taken off my headphones and unglued my hips from the one-size-don't-fit-all swivel chair. Jade was at the mike now. I listened to her sultry voice as I sauntered through the air-conditioned state-of-the-art studio on Chicago's waterfront.

“Welcome to the world of Belly,” Jade said mysteriously, in her Chinese accent. “Slip on your finger cymbals. Toreador your veils. Put your camels to bed. We've got two hours of Egyptian pop ahead.”

I swayed to the beat as I entered the spacious but deserted reception area. My ears were filled with the moaning of Egyptians, but my eyes were drawn to the view of the cluster of boats navigating the lake. Outside the picture windows, people strolled along the water's edge or sat in open-air cafés. On summer nights like this one, a jazz band played below a Budweiser sign. Navy Pier was a tourist attraction, pure and simple. But I admired the colorful Ferris wheel lit up against the darkening sky.

Suddenly, I felt someone's presence and my body jumped. I turned around. It was Rob, the station manager. He looked like Mike Moore, the guy who made the movie
Roger and Me
.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” Rob said, apologetically.

“I didn't know you were still here,” I answered.

“Yeah, I'm still pushing papers.” Rob sighed. “Anyway, I got your memo,” he continued. “But, guess what, you don't have to worry about doing that stinking fund-raiser this year, you're off the damn hook.”

“I didn't mind doing it,” I answered. “It was for a good cause. Besides, I can think of worse things than emceeing an event at the Four Seasons. Plus, they've always requested me.”

“Yeah, and all these years you've been a trouper.” Rob patted me on the shoulder.

“Well, what happened?” I asked, confused. “Have they decided not to do it this year? It was always so successful.”

“They're still gonna do it, all right,” Rob assured me. “But this year they just decided to try a different angle, go after a different crowd.”

“A different crowd?” I asked, wrinkling my forehead.

“Yeah, a younger bunch.”

“How young?”

“I don't know, I guess twenties and thirties.”

“Rob, I'm in that age range, more or less,” I said, trying to sound calm.

“How old are you now, Dee Dee, thirty-nine?”

I swallowed. “Close, I just turned forty-one.”

“Ouch, I thought we were the same age. Damn, you're getting up there.”

I sighed. “It's not that serious.”

“You're right. You've got quite a few years left before you'll need dentures. By the way, happy belated birthday.”

“Thanks. So, who are you going to get to do the fund-raiser?” I asked, turning and staring out the window again.

“I'm gonna run it by Jennifer.”

“Jennifer!” I wheeled back around. “But she's just an intern!”

“Yeah, but she's bright and perky. Really perky,” Rob added, making animated gestures. “I think that's the type they're looking for.”

“What am I, iron-tired blood?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“Not at all. You did a great job all these years. Everyone says that. They just want to appeal to the damn yuppies, you know, Wicker Park, Lincoln Park …”

“Bucktown,” I added.

“Yeah, exactly, those types. You understand.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said, trying to sound like a team player.

“Good. By the way, your show was great as always. Now, go home and put your feet up.”

That's not what you would tell Jennifer
, I thought.
You would tell her to party like it's 1999
.

I pressed the button for the elevator. When I was a child, forty seemed older than God. I could more easily imagine myself dying in a car crash at thirty-nine than living to see forty.

But, somehow, I had managed to reach forty. And as if that hadn't been traumatic enough, last week, I turned forty-one. Nobody told me that forty was just a dress rehearsal for forty-one. Now I was
in
my forties. And a whole decade was harder to deny than a measly year. I stepped into the empty elevator. At least on my last birthday, I still had a boyfriend. Now I was all alone, except for my cat.