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
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.
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.
Maybe Sharon had finally found Mr. Right. But why would I wig out about that? Maybe he was white, or half her age. I wouldn’t trip on his color, if he were a nice guy. After all, didn’t Sharon say that any of the black men in Seattle went for white women? I’d heard that was generally the case in the western states. What was a sista to do?
I would be a tiny bit judgmental if Sharon were dating someone young enough to be her son. I’d just have to wait and find out when I picked her up at the airport next week.
I stared at the stainless-steel refrigerator door, covered with picture magnets, comic strips and my niece’s and nephews’ artwork. I was determined not to open the refrigerator. It was always a struggle, but nights were the worst. Langston rubbed up against my leg and purred. Cats are very sensitive. They can tune into your emotions, when they want to. I held Langston up in front of me and delivered my speech.
“If I could only stop eating at night, I could lose some of this behind. If I could only stop eating at night, my bra straps wouldn’t dig into my shoulders to support my D cups and leave painful marks. If I could only stop eating at night, my thighs wouldn’t play patty-cake with each other and stick together on hot days. If I could only stop eating at night, I wouldn’t have to attach a rubber band through the buttonhole of last year’s pants, so I can still fasten them.”
Maybe the day will come when I can even tuck my shirts and blouses inside my pants and skirts, I thought. Naah, that was going too far. I would probably never have a flat stomach again.
“But just maybe I can remove the tire from around my waist.” I sighed as Langston wriggled free and jumped to the floor.
These were my dreams. And I knew that they were achievable if I drank my bottled water and went to bed. But, of course, I didn’t, because I hadn’t forgotten how good cold pizza tasted, especially when you washed it down with leftover birthday cake, potato chips and beer.
two
“Marriage is like flies on a screen!” the preacher shouted, pausing to wipe the sweat from his shiny, brown forehead. “Follow me now,” he instructed.
“Break it on down, Reverend,” an older man in the large congregation shouted back.
I sat with Sarita, her husband Phil and their nine-year-old son Jason in Glorious Kingdom Baptist Church.
“I said, marriage is like flies on a screen,” the minister repeated.
There was a chorus of “Amens” as people fanned themselves in the crowded church.
“I’m gon’ say it again,” the preacher insisted, raising his eyebrows.
“Yassuh!”
“I said, I’m gonna say it one more time,” Reverend Stewart yelled, holding up his index finger. “And this time, I’m gonna say it with feeling.”
“Take your time, Reverend!”
“I’m gonna say it like I mean it!” The minister clapped and danced away from the podium in his black robe.
“Preach, Reverend, Preach!”
“Stick with me, now.” The pastor gazed at the congregation as if we were on the brink of some important discovery.
“Come on, Reverend. Bring it on home now!”
“Marriage is like flies on a screen! Some can’t wait to get out!” The pastor balled his fists and imitated the posture of a runner, twisting his body to one side. “And some can’t wait to get in!” he shouted, twisting to the other side. “Now, can I get a witness?”
Several large, gaily dressed sistas leapt out of their seats and waved their hands. Sarita had been right. Almost none of the women in the congregation looked like they’d ever missed a meal, including Sarita.
“When you build a house,” Reverend Stewart continued, raising his arms to call for the congregation’s attention, “you don’t build it outta sand.” He shook his balding head. “No, because the first high tide will wash it away. And when you build a house, you don’t build it outta straw.” Reverend Stewart shook his head again. “No, because fire can easily destroy it. You build your house outta something strong, something durable, something that will stand the test of time.” He pounded his fist in the air, then added with a smile, “And, by the same token, you build a marriage on something solid, if you want it to last.” Reverend Stewart tucked his lips in and nodded his head solemnly. “You build your marriage on the Rock of Ages.”
The minister cupped his hands as if he were holding a large rock.
“Amen, Reverend, Amen!”
“You build a marriage on faith in God.”
“Preach, Reverend, preach!”
“Because, through God, all things are possible!” Reverend Stewart saluted with his fist.
“Yes, Lawd!”
“Hallelujah now!”
“Let the church say amen!”
“Amen!!!!!!!!”
The organist pounded away and a soloist stepped forward and belted out, “Jesus Is All the Man I Need.” I scouted the room for husband material, just the same. But after you eliminated the probable gays in the choir, the elderly, the married and the ones too homely for words, there wasn’t much to choose from. I turned my attention back to the service.
When visitors were asked to stand, I made the mistake of introducing myself as an ex-member of the church. I didn’t think twice about it, until another woman described herself as a former member, a minute later. I cringed with embarrassment. I was convinced that the parishioners were thinking that I must really be doing the devil’s work, calling myself an ex-member, making it sound like they were a cult or something and I’d been deprogrammed.
What made it worse, Sarita told me that last Sunday, when they asked if anyone had somebody that they wanted the church to pray for, her son Jason had jumped up. And to her astonishment, he’d said in a loud, clear voice, “I’d like the church to pray for my play auntie, Daphne Joy Dupree.”
Sarita said that Phil whispered loudly, “What’s wrong with Dee Dee?” She said that people who knew me shot her concerned looks. They probably figured that it must really be hush-hush, if the child was the only one who had the nerve to speak out.
Jason refused to give an explanation for his strange request. I felt it behooved me to be in attendance this Sunday so that at least people could see that I looked healthy and had a smile on my face. But on some level, it made me nervous, having a child asking the church to pray for me. I hoped that it was childhood innocence and not some psychic intuition of Jason’s.
Other than worrying about looking happy and healthy, my mind was pretty much at peace. There was a feeling of reverence in the church that I’d grown to appreciate. Especially these days, it felt good to be surrounded by people who purposed right. The singing alone was reason enough to come to church more often. But I was especially moved by the testifying. Folks told their stories before the congregation and I felt a sense of community that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. I was all the way home.
After church, back at Sarita’s house, Jason asked me to retrieve a ball that had gotten lost in the tall weeds next door. Neither his father nor his mother would be bothered with such a task. But I agreed, because that was what play aunties were for. However, I did wonder why Jason didn’t just go over and get the ball himself. I knew the house was abandoned and the weeds were waist-high, but I didn’t think there were snakes in the grass.
Sarita and I sat on her plastic-covered sofa, sipping cold lemonade. Phil was draped across one of the chairs. Jason was upstairs, changing out of his church clothes. This living room was so different from mine: full of white, overstuffed furniture, fake marble tables and gaudy art pieces.
“So, Dee Dee, what you driving these days?” Phil asked, standing up. Even though he was past forty, people still mistook him for a basketball player. In actuality, Phil was a barber and Sarita was a dental hygienist. They’d married right after high school. They had two grown daughters who were working and going to college in Atlanta.
“You know, my Honda Accord,” I answered.
“She bought it last summer, remember?” Sarita added,
“Well, if I don’t see it out there, I’ll come back in and let you know,” Phil teased, his eyes twinkling.
“It’s five years old, I bought it used.”
“It might still be out there, then.” Phil winked. “Although they say, business is pretty brisk in the chop shops.”
“Don’t let Phil scare you,” Sarita said, straightening a pillow. The house was immaculate, as usual, but Sarita was always straightening things. “Your car will probably be all right,” she assured me. At least she was relaxed about something.
“Dee Dee!” Jason rushed into the living room, carrying a copy of his Boy’s Life magazine. “Why did Cinderella get kicked off the Little League team?”
“Kids still like riddles. That’s something that hasn’t changed.” I smiled.
“Guess, Dee Dee, guess,” Jason begged.
“We already know the answer,” Sarita informed me.
“I don’t know. I can’t guess. So, tell me, why did Cinderella get kicked off the Little League team?”
“Because she kept running away from the ball!” Jason burst out laughing.
“That’s cute,” I said, chuckling.
“You made me forget to pick up the paper,” Sarita fussed at Phil.
“How did I make you forget?” Phil protested.
“Because I was thinking about it when we were in the car, and you started talking about the grass needed watering.”
“So, I can’t even open my mouth. I’m supposed to be a mind reader.” Phil sighed. “I tell you, it’s rough being a man,” he said, patting Jason’s head.
“I thought you were going to cut Jason’s hair.” Sarita frowned. “You knew I wanted it cut for church. Dee Dee doesn’t see him that often. He could at least look presentable.”
“Sarita, you trippin’,” I said. “I like his little ’fro.”
“So, that’s what this is really about,” Phil said, holding his hands up in the air. “It’s not about the newspaper, it’s about Jason’s hair.” Phil pointed both index fingers. “Or is it really about PMS?”
“Don’t go there,” Sarita warned.
“What’s PMS?” Jason asked.
“Never mind.”
“It’s when a man thinks the conversation is about ABC, but it’s really about MNOP,” Phil said, rolling his eyes.
“You should learn to have the whole alphabet at your disposal then,” Sarita snapped.
“I have a riddle,” Phil said to no one in particular. “If a man says something in a forest and a woman doesn’t hear it, is he still wrong?”
“That’s pretty good.” I smiled.
Jason looked puzzled and Sarita cut her eyes.
“Bring back a Sun-Times,” Sarita yelled as Phil waved good-bye and ducked into the hallway.
“Bring back some ice cream!” Jason added.
I changed into some of Sarita’s old clothes and joined her and Jason in the kitchen. Sarita was shaking chicken around in a brown paper bag.
“Dee Dee, if you’re gonna go over in that yard, watch out for needles,” she cautioned.
“Needles?” I repeated. “No comprendo.”
“Syringes,” she explained behind a cloud of flour dust. Then I remembered that the house next door had been on the verge of becoming a crack house, until Sarita and Phil got the city to board it up.
I waded gingerly into the tall, sunburned weeds and poked around the discarded forty-ounce malt liquor and cheap wine bottles with a broomstick. I soon spotted the football in the midst of the debris.
“I see it! Come on over and I’ll pass it to you, Jace,” I yelled at his skinny figure in the next yard.
“No,” Jason refused, clutching the other side of the chain-link fence. “I ain’t coming over there. I might get kilt!”
I remembered that when I was visiting at Easter, Phil was washing fresh blood off the sidewalk. Unfortunately, sometimes blood came with the territory. Sarita told me that she’d recently become apprehensive about venturing into the business district, even in the daytime. Last month, she and Jason were walking home from the post office, when they heard shooting. They’d instinctively fallen to the ground, like soldiers in a war. I grieved for the childhood Jason would never have. And for all of those like him, who no longer said, “When I grow up …” but, “If I grow up …” I grabbed the ball and hurried out of the yard
This is what Sarita wanted me to come back to. I sighed. She wouldn’t even let Jason play in his own backyard unless she had her eye on him. She was afraid he’d get lured away or run off to explore. Jason should know the freedom of riding a bike against the wind, I thought. He should be out in the alley, playing kick ball, or shooting marbles in the dirt. Jason should be able to play the games we used to play, like Captain May I and One-Two-Three, Red Light. He should be ducking behind trees and garbage cans and hiding underneath porches because he’s playing Hide-and-Seek, not because bullets are flying around with no names on them.
I felt sorry for Jason, even though he had all the latest electronic games. His childhood was so different from mine. We simply asked, “Mama, can we go out?” And she usually said, “Yeah, just be home for dinner.” Or, “Be in when the streetlights come on.”
We played Rock School on late summer nights, when Mama said, “Stay on the steps.” I wondered if Jason had ever balled up his fists and asked someone to guess which one a rock was hidden in.
I knew that there was still some heart left in this community. I wasn’t an ignorant outsider. I was from around here. I knew that the majority of people living in the aging brick two- and three-flat buildings, bungalows and occasional frame houses were decent, hard-working law-abiding people. When somebody died, maybe neighbors no longer filled the family’s home with food and kindness like twenty or more years ago, but some people still looked out for each other. Phil shoveled elderly folks’ walks and put down salt to melt the snow. And Sarita had coaxed shut-ins to open their windows during last summer’s heat wave. Many of the elderly were more afraid of the rising crime rate than soaring temperatures. Too bad people had to live like caged birds. They deserved better, and I remembered better.
Being a loving pretend auntie, I agreed to play electronic Wheel of Fortune with Jason before dinner. I squinted to read a tiny monitor and made my move. Whatever happened to tic tac toe or Monopoly or checkers? I wondered.
Sarita’s voice rang out. “Jason, bring your butt down here! What is this mess from your school?”
Jason backed away from the game and trembled visibly. I could tell by the sound of Sarita’s voice that he was in some kind of trouble. And Sarita was nobody to cross. She could be rough on her son. I’d even spoken to her about it before, but she’d insisted that Jason was the kind of child that you had to let know you were there.
It had been easier for Sarita with her two older daughters. She got lucky with them. They were quicker to mind. And, of course, it was different raising children in the seventies. Yet, it seemed to me that when you named a child Jason, you were asking for trouble. When I think of the name Jason, a bad boy automatically comes to mind.
“I’m scared of her,” Jason whimpered. “I’m scared of her,” he repeated.
I put my arm around his narrow shoulders. His body felt tense and small. “What did he do?” I yelled.
“Tell him to come down here and find out!”
We came down the stairs together, Jason clutching my arm.
“He says he’s scared of you, Sarita,” I volunteered bravely when I saw Sarita holding a belt.
Sarita became visibly angrier. “Don’t make me have to curse on a Sunday, especially after I’ve been to church. If he’s so scared of me, why won’t he mind?”
For some reason, I identified with Jason more than Sarita at that moment. Maybe because I’d never known how it felt to be a parent, but I’d never forgotten how it felt to be a child. And Sarita’s matronly figure looked scary, with her big hair, blazing eyes, flared nostrils and scowling expression.
“What did he do?” I repeated.
“He knows what he did. He wasn’t too scared to call the man a bitch to his face!” Sarita said, holding up a note. “I found this in his pocket. He’s suspended from summer school for three days.”
“It’s a man teacher?” I swallowed.
Sarita nodded. “He clowned all year in regular school. So, he had to go to summer school, just to pass. And now this. According to Phil, there’s a conspiracy against black boys in the public schools.”
“There just might be some truth to that,” I said, hoping to spark a dialogue.
“Hmmph, Jason, you better make sure you’re not part of the conspiracy,” Sarita said, wrapping the belt menacingly around her hand.
Jason turned toward me.
“We work too hard for you to show out like you do. Now it’s my turn to clown! Get over here, boy!” Sarita shouted. “I’m part of the conspiracy against black excuses!”
I felt a lump in my throat. I didn’t want to see Jason get a whipping, even though he’d done wrong. Sarita reached out and grabbed her son. I was struck by how charged the air felt, as I watched Sarita whip Jason to the floor. When Jason’s body cringed against her blows, I felt like I was witnessing a violent act, instead of just a familiar scene from my childhood. Sarita was whipping the boy like he’d stolen something. Jason finally cried out uncontrollably. I instinctively intervened and caught one of the licks on my arm.
“Damn, Sarita, that hurt!” I said, attempting to pull Jason to safety.
“Dee Dee, I don’t allow cursing in my house, especially on Sunday.”
I feared for a moment that Sarita might try to whip both of us. I was afraid that things could really get ugly then, because I would have to defend myself. I’ve never liked being hit, and I could still feel the sting.
I blocked Jason with my body. “Sarita, that’s enough. You were hurting him.”
“I wanted to hurt him,” Sarita answered, looking at me incredulously. “I want him to feel it now, so he won’t have to feel it later.” She stared me in the eyes. “You trying to protect him from me, but you can’t protect him from what’s out there,” Sarita said, pointing toward the street.
“We’re the ones who hear the gunshots at night,” she continued. “We’re the ones who can’t even empty garbage or go outside our door after dark.” Sarita nodded toward Jason, who was cowering in the corner behind me. “This child has never even played in that alley,” she said with a hint of sympathy in her voice. “You try raising a child in the ’hood today.” She sighed, wearily.
“Your child better be scared of you,” she added. “Or else you’re gonna end up scared of him.”
“I understand what you’re up against,” I said softly. “I know there aren’t any easy answers. People like you are trying to raise the next generation under some heavy-duty circumstances. But people like me are going to be affected, whether you succeed or fail.” I turned around and put my hand on Jason’s shoulder. “We’re all in this together.”
Sarita draped the belt around her neck, as if to signal that the storm had receded. “Heaven help us all,” she said quietly. “Heaven help us all.”
When I got home, I hung up the African mask that Sarita had given me as a birthday present. It fit in nicely with my multi cultural decor. At least Sarita knew my taste. I sat down with the Tribune and a glass of merlot and leaned back against my distressed leather sofa. I looked up at my fifteen-foot ceiling. I needed to relax.
If I had pointed out to Sarita that she hadn’t even asked Jason why he’d called the teacher a bitch, she would’ve insisted that it didn’t matter; Jason was simply wrong. What precipitated Jason’s remark was therefore irrelevent. He deserved to get his butt whupped. It was that simple. But was it? Was Sarita saving Jason from the penitentiary or building her own wall between herself and her son?
You see, once upon a time, I told a teacher, “Fuck you,” loudly enough for her and the entire class to hear. I’d buried the incident in my own mind until today. I was a few years younger than Jason and it was 1961. I remember feeling embarrassed and angry because the young white teacher nudged me awake after I fell asleep during class. She wasn’t a bad teacher; she was just trying to do her job. But I couldn’t tell her that I’d been awakened by a nightmare the previous night. I couldn’t tell her that the year before my stepfather used to mess with me. I couldn’t tell her why suddenly being awakened was still scary for me. I couldn’t explain my rage at being laughed at by the other kids, just because I’d felt safe enough to finally catch up on the z’s I’d been robbed of the night before. So I said, “Fuck you.”
It was before we moved to Morgan Park on the far South Side. I was living in arguably the toughest neighborhood on Chicago’s West Side. Anyway, just on the surface, you’d think that a child who said, “Fuck you” to a teacher wasn’t any good, wasn’t going to amount to anything. Well, I did amount to something. And I wasn’t a bad kid. I was a hurt kid. I was confused and angry and I couldn’t tell anybody why.
That’s why I could relate to Jason. He was in a rough environment. I’d been in a school filled with graffiti and stopped-up toilets and kids looking for fights. And if you accidently stepped on somebody’s gym shoes or looked at them the wrong way, you’d better be ready to put up your dukes. But at least in my day, scores were settled with fists and fingernails. Rocks and bottles and even pocketknives were the exception.
Still, you had to be tough in order to be respected. Otherwise you were a target. I could relate to being scared inside, but jumping bad on the outside. Sometimes, you said things in order to save face. So, when I said, “Fuck you,” to that teacher, loud enough for the whole class to hear, I gained respect. I was seen as nobody to mess with. And that was worth a whole bunch of woof tickets. Your reputation was everything.
That afternoon as I walked home from school, the toughest girl in the class marveled, “Most kids say shit like that under they breath. But goddamn, you said it loud enough for the whole world to hear!”
I was incredibly lucky that Miss Larson ignored my outburst. It didn’t hurt that she was young and white and inexperienced. She could’ve hit me with a ruler or had me suspended. Looking back, I wonder if she sensed my pain. I heard a teacher say once that sometimes you can look at a kid and tell they’re being abused. Maybe Miss Larson saw something in me that made her cut me some slack. Maybe she just felt sorry for me, because I was a Negro on Chicago’s tough West Side and at 3:15 she was going home to What a Jolly Street. Or maybe she just felt disappointed and defeated after another day of teaching in the trenches. Whatever the reason, I’m eternally grateful. By not sending a note to my mother, Miss Larson saved me from getting one of the worst whippings of my life.
I headed for the refrigerator and stuffed myself with the plate of fried chicken and greens and garlic mashed potatoes and corn bread that Sarita had insisted I bring home. I knew that I wasn’t hungry, but I just needed to feel full.
But then I felt guilty. I didn’t want to pay the price in calories for my comfort food. Food was my friend, but calories were my enemy. So, I did something that I hadn’t done since the holidays. I went into the bathroom, lifted up the toilet seat and stuck two fingers down my throat until the salty, chunky vomit poured down my hand and into the toilet bowl. I repeated the process several times in order to get everything out. I brushed my teeth and washed my face and hands. I looked into the mirror. My eyes were red and puffy and my face looked haggard. But I felt like throwing up was something I had needed to do.
I wasn’t bulimic. I just needed to feel in control of my weight tonight, that’s all. I hadn’t vomited in six months. And I’d done it maybe ten times in my whole life. Maybe eleven, counting tonight. I just needed an outlet, an escape valve, every so often. But I would never make it a habit. I prided myself on my pearly white teeth. I had a smile that could light up a cave. I would never risk ruining my health.
three
I glimpsed my Africanic behind as I hurried past a storefront window near my home. I was headed for Taste of Chicago, where I planned to meet Jade from the radio station. It was Saturday at high noon and already hot. I’d broken out in a pair of shorts. My backfield was definitely in motion, but there was no way I was going back to the girdle-wearing days of my childhood. Especially not on a scorcher like today. Sweat was already pouring down my face.
I felt the warmth of the pavement through my sandals when I stepped off the curb to hail a taxi. A yellow cab pulled right in front of me. That was one of the advantages of living on the North Side. You could get a taxi. You didn’t see cabs much on the South Side, except in Hyde Park, near the University of Chicago and the Museum of Science and Industry. If you were black and hailed a cab in the downtown Loop Area and you were lucky enough to get them to stop, the driver would tell you, point-blank, that he didn’t want to go South.
Some cabbies have a lot to say to you. This one almost immediately complimented my lipstick.
“I like that color, especially on you,” he said, with a foreign accent. The cabbie’s sweaty skin was darker than mine. Perhaps he was East Indian, I thought.
“It’s Royal Orchid by Fashion Fair. It’s my favorite.”
“It’s nice. Are you married?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t in the mood for somebody getting into my business. But then I remembered that I didn’t have any business.
“No, I’m not.”