After The Dance (5 page)

I had her follow me to my bedroom, where I keep this rattan rocker my ex was decent enough to let me take after we split. I stretched out across the bed and watched while my son alternated between fighting to stay awake and falling headfirst into the rhythmic rock and hum Faye was pressing on him.

After a few minutes Faye peeled her eyes off the boy and laid them on me. Having braced myself for something mean-spirited to come flying outta her mouth, I was a bit taken aback when she asked if the drama between me and Ben was always so intense. After a moment of sincere contemplation,
I told her what I thought was the God’s honest truth. “I don’t think he knows what to make of me. His mother doesn’t let me see him that often.”

True to form, Faye shot back at me with, “Why is that? Payback for something you did or something you didn’t do?”

“The only thing I ever
did
to her was get her pregnant” is what I said. “And believe me, if I could take it back, I would. Thus far, it’s been the biggest mistake of my life, bar none.”

She looked at Ben and said, “Maybe that’s why he’s having such a hard time warming to you. Kids pick up on negative stuff like that, you know.”

She didn’t say it in a nasty way or anything, but still, I wasn’t up to hearing that some of the difficulties I’d been having with my son might in part be my own fault. “I didn’t say I didn’t love him or that I wasn’t committed to his well-being” is what I told her in my defense.

“No, just that he was the biggest mistake of your life,” she said, glaring at me through squinted eyes.

Gnawing on the inside of my jaw to keep from cussing, I was quick to tell her, “That’s not what I meant. And anyway, who are you to tell me how to parent, when you don’t have child the first?”

I saw her eyes widen and had it not been for Ben, who came to my rescue with a well-timed squirm and whine, I’m pretty sure a verbal beat-down is what would have followed. But rather than waste another breath in my direction, Faye turned her attention back to my boy. While stroking his face and head she started singing the words to one of the tunes she’d been humming earlier.

It sounded like something from either the motherland or the islands. And don’t you know, little dude took to it like a shot of morphine. He settled right on down. I was impressed, really I was. But rather than come right out and give the girl her props, I went the buster route.

“Hoodoo, huh?” I said, trying to play the whole thing off. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”

Instead of smiling or getting mad, all Faye did for what seemed like an eternity was stare at me, like I was the most ignorant so-and-so she’d stumbled across in a long time. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she laid it out for me. “It’s Yoruba,” she said. “It means ‘God’s work will never be spoiled.’”

Ise olowa, kole baje-oh. Ise olowa, kole baje-oh. It’s just a little something I picked up a couple years ago at a Sweet Honey in the Rock concert. It means “God’s work will never be spoiled.” I don’t know if Carl felt stupid, ashamed, or some combination of the two, but he got real quiet after I told him that.

While he and the kid chilled, I lowered my guard just enough to kick back and get taken in by the room’s decor. I’m saying, it was weird, girl, because not in a zillion years would I have ever guessed Carl to have such an eye for style—especially given the rest of his apartment’s barren state. But eyes don’t lie and in a glance I could tell a considerable amount of thought, time, and energy had gone into the creation of the African safari/jungle kind of ambience he had going on up in there. And before you start thinking tacky, no, I’m here to tell you, girl, the room was laid. I’m talking live plants everywhere, including two big-leaf banana trees and a collection of clay pots, wicker baskets, hand-carved knickknacks, and the whole nine.

But the clincher was the bed. When it comes to what men will sleep on, I thought I’d seen it all, from old, funky
futons to foam-rubber floor mats. But, honey, let me tell you, Carl is the first brother I’ve ever run across who actually owns—by choice, mind you—a canopy-style bed. His is a black, towering, single-rail number with two draping sheers that spill into a perfect triangle over the wrought-iron headboard. And then he’s got the nerve to have the entire thing covered in not one but three plump layers of chocolate mud-cloth print pillows.

But before you go getting any ideas, I assure you, the closest I got to the bed or Carl was when it came time to lay the baby down. Carl helped me arrange the pillows around the kid and cover him with a blanket.

As we both stood there gazing down at the little fella, I couldn’t help but comment, “He looks just like you. Kinda acts like you, too.”

Carl smiled and told me that was the same thing the child’s mama was in the habit of saying and he was pretty sure she didn’t mean it as a compliment.

I was headed for the front door and was in the process of advising Carl to get the boy back home to his mama before he woke up hollering again, when I was interrupted by what sounded like a pot boiling over in the kitchen. I followed Carl to the kitchen, just to make sure he didn’t need my help in putting out a fire.

On discovering that it was just a pot of water for some tea he’d put on and forgotten about, I spun around and was two seconds short of being gone when he said, “You’re welcome to join me for a cup. Or, you know, if you’d rather, I could fix you some to take with you.”

Yeah, girl, I know. I should have stuck to my guns and kept right on out the door. See, but you don’t know Carl. He’s got this subtle way of soliciting sympathy that I’m sure draws him a fair amount of play from those susceptible to that sort of thing. And while copping an attitude with him is one thing, I’m slowly learning that maintaining
it for any length of time is proving to be quite another. So to make a long story short, even though tea ain’t even my drink, I stayed and let him fix me a hot cup.

I didn’t really think she’d stick around. It wasn’t until she pulled her cigarettes from the front pocket of her blue-jean jumper and climbed atop one of the kitchen bar stools that I realized she planned to hang for a minute. While I poured the tea, I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t have us right back at each other’s throats. We sat there for the longest, neither of us saying anything, just leaning over the kitchen island, sipping tea and listening to the loud
tick-tocks
coming from the rickety clock on my wall, until finally she blurted out, “So how long were you involved with Benjamin’s mother?”

At the risk of making myself sound even more morally bankrupt than I am, I took another stab at the truth and just came out and told her, “Technically, all of one night. I met Clarice at this party my cousin Squirrel drug me to. We hit it off, ended up back at her place, kicked a little sumthin’-sumthin’, and, well, nine months later along came Ben.”

She took a moment to digest the information, then blew out a cloud of smoke, smiled, and said, “In other words, it wasn’t a relationship you were interested in with this woman, just sex?”

Since I wasn’t exactly sure where she was coming from or headed to, I said, “Listen, don’t go getting it twisted. That whole Friday-night thing that transpired between us with the videos, the slow dances, and all, that wasn’t just about me trying to get you in my bed.”

“No?” she said, still wearing what looked like a grin.

Personally, I didn’t see what was so funny. I told her, “No, I mean, I just thought, like me, you were having a good time. And I just figured, like me, you’d be interested in having an even better time. I know I’m not the most exciting guy in the world, or necessarily the best looking, but, dog, don’t hate a brother for trying.”

Apparently, that was even funnier to her. She laughed outright and said, “Carl, it’s not that I don’t find you attractive …”

Oh, man, I thought for sure the next thing outta her mouth was gonna be that doggone “why can’t we just be friends?” speech I’ve been hearing from chicks since the seventh grade. So before she could get going good, I said, “Yeah, I know. You just don’t want things to get too physical between us. And hey, like I told you the other night, if you don’t want to get involved, cool. It’s all good.”

That’s when she dropped the bomb. “Actually, Carl, if you remember correctly, what I said was I didn’t want to get emotionally involved. I never said anything about us having a physical relationship. And given the tale you just shared with me in regards to you and Clarice, I take it you’re well aware of the difference.”

When I asked her to come again, homegirl broke it down something like this: “If you wanna play, fine, let’s play. The only thing is, in order to remain an active participant for the duration of this particular game, you have to be willing to abide by my rules.”

Per my humble request, she stopped blowing smoke long enough to run me down a whole list of things, the most peculiar of which involved her “three times and you’re out” policy. Yeah, man, according to Faye’s golden rules of sexual etiquette, we can bump it once, twice, three times even. But after the third swing, the game’s over and the deal’s done.

At the end of her spiel, I just looked at her and said, “You’re serious?”

She looked back at me and said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I said, “‘Cause it’s pretty darn cold, that’s why.”

Ol’ girl sucked on her cigarette a moment, then said, “Yeah? I bet you didn’t think that when you were out there running around behind your wife’s back, buck-jumping from one bed to another. I don’t get guys like you. Why bother with the pretense of a quote-unquote relationship when all you want is sex anyway?”

In an attempt to steer the spotlight off me, I asked, “Is that all you want?”

She frowned and said, “Carl, I’m a realist. I know from experience that’s about all there is to have.”

Then, man, if that didn’t beat all, the sister snuffed out her smoke, stood up to leave, and said, “Thanks for the tea. And if you decide you still wanna play, you know where to find me.”

After she left, about all I could do was sit there and think,
Damn, maybe I ought to just leave that alone.
But after having slept on it a couple of nights, I’m not so sure backing out is the thing to do—not now, when it’s just starting to get interesting.

Besides, you ever wonder what a fly would choose if given a choice between sugar and shit? Would it prefer one over the other? Or does it really make a difference? What I’m saying is, I have yet to determine if Faye is something sweet or something foul. And I’m not sure I wouldn’t want her, one way or the other.

The man is moving, all right? So, rather than keep pulling punches, I went ahead and hit him with the truth. I told him point-blank if a relationship is what you’re looking for, sweetheart, I’m not the one. But if it’s only fun and games
you’re after, we might be able to work a little something out. So I ran him down the deal and watched as he struggled to hold back his horror.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Carl. If I didn’t, I never would have bothered to give him so much as the time of day. But I should have known better than to think he’d be up to the challenge. After a couple of days passed without me hearing another peep out of him, I figured he’d wised up and decided it best not to mess with what he obviously couldn’t handle.

So along comes Wednesday night, right? After my volunteering gig up at the hospital I decided to stop by the mall and check out the sale going on at the Bad Lady Boutique. I’d made my purchase and was meandering toward one of the mall’s exits when I heard this voice behind me.

“Faye? Margaret Faye Abrahams?”

I didn’t have to turn around. Recognition washed over me like a big ol’ bucket of ice water. Had I been a stronger woman maybe I could have just shaken it off and kept on strutting. But when it comes to this particular voice, and more specifically, this particular man, I’ve always had what can only be described as an irrepressible weakness.

“Scoobie, Scoobie, Scoobie” was all I could say as I turned to face his still super-fine behind.

He spread his arms and, with a smile that was even more gorgeous than I remembered, said, “It’s been, what? Eleven? Twelve years? Don’t tell me after all this time that’s the best you can do.”

And like the simple fool that being around him frequently makes me, I couldn’t help but grin and give him a hug.

He said, “Damn, girl, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again.” Then he had to go and add, “Put on a little weight, though, haven’t you?”

Being that I was considerably smaller the last time Scoobie saw me, I probably wouldn’t have minded the comment
had he not been the main somebody to blame for me picking up and holding on to the forty pounds of extra flab. Or if he hadn’t been so compelled to drive the point home by slapping, squeezing, and jiggling my ass in a way that made me feel like a farm animal he intended either to mount or to ship off to market.

“Show a girl some decency and a little respect,” I said. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a public place.”

He ran his fingers alongside my jawline and said in that same soft, sweet, sexy voice that used to make me tremble, “I see the years have made you modest. That’s good, because I distinctly remember a time when there wasn’t much shame in your game when it came to me.”

“Yes, and let’s both be glad I finally grew up” is what I said on backing away from him. “Nice seeing you again, Scoobie. Who knows, maybe our paths will cross again one day when you’re ready to own up to some of that treacherous crap you did to me.”

I know the truth can hurt sometimes, but, girl, had you seen his face you’da thought I’d just hauled off and slapped him upside the head with a hammer or something. “Baby, wait,” he said. “How do you know today’s not that day? The least you could do is give me an opportunity to redeem myself. Have dinner with me tonight. My treat.”

Honey, please. I know all about Scoobie’s treats. In the past a “Scoobie treat” typically involved me paying in the end with money, time, tears, and quite frequently all three. I looked at him like he was crazy and said, “I guess you think we big girls are always on the lookout for an easy meal and a quick bone-jumping. Well, you’d best think again, because I’m neither hungry nor that durn desperate anymore, thank you.”