Disappearing Acts (15 page)

“Yeah, anybody can see that, but I swear. I’d never even heard of this kind of stuff until I moved here.”

“Well, it’ll get worse before it gets better.” I had already said more than I had planned to. And don’t nothin’ piss me off more than talking about something I can’t do nothin’ about. The mood was getting too heavy, and I wanted to lighten it up some. “You feel like a game of Scrabble, baby?”

“Not tonight, Franklin.”

I got up from the couch and pulled her by the hands
to her feet. “What are you doing?” she asked, laughing.

“Just come with me.” I led her to her so-called music room, where I had still yet to hear any. “Sit down,” I said.

“And just where would you like me to sit?”

“On the floor. Where else?”

She sat down like a little girl. Zora didn’t know what the hell I was up to. “Close your eyes and open your hands.”

“What?”

“Just do what I tell you to do, woman, and be quiet.”

She closed her eyes, turned her palms up, and I put three one-hundred-dollar bills on top of ’em. Shit, I felt like
The Millionaire.
When she felt the paper touch her skin, she opened her eyes real wide. “What’s this?”

“You know what it is, baby. It’s three hundred dollars so you can get your piano out. Now you don’t have no more excuses.”

“Franklin, you can’t be serious. You shouldn’t be giving me all this money when you just started working. What about your kids? The piano can wait.”

She went to hand it back, but I wouldn’t take it. “Get the piano, Zora. Tomorrow. I been sending money over to Pam, don’t worry. All I want you to do now is sit right there and sing me something. I don’t care what it is.” She had the nerve to start blushing. “Cut the modest act, and sing.” I sat down on the floor, next to the doorway, and crossed my arms and legs. My feet touched hers.

She took one deep breath after another, like she was nervous or something. Then she closed her eyes. The first sound that came outta her mouth shocked the shit out of me. She sounded like a husky but purring cat. Zora sung this song I never heard before.
Damn. I was so wrapped up in the power of her voice that I only heard the words here and there: “I flew so high over those lakes and valleys to get to you…You gave me juice and honey, crawled into my heart inch by inch and got struck by lightning twice…The phone rang, and my heart fell to the floor, broke like a piece of china…You promised me it wouldn’t hurt, said, Baby, it never hurts, but you lied. Yes, you did, you lied.”

When she finished, she opened her eyes but still wouldn’t look at me. She just kept looking at the floor. My baby can sing, all right. Anybody that can sing a cappella like
that
can sing. Her voice put me in the mind of a few people I really like. Sweet Honey in the Rock, but with twists and turns like Sarah Vaughan and Nancy Wilson. She’s definitely got range, ’cause she hit some notes I ain’t heard nobody but Aretha reach. If she’s as serious as she say she is, once she get into her lessons and everything, my baby’s got the kinda voice that
could
make it to a record.

I looked at her hard and pictured her onstage with people screaming and shit ’cause she had just tore the roof off the place. Then I started wondering. Where would that leave me? Her man, the construction worker who couldn’t even be sure if he was gon’ get paid every week or not. Fuck it. Ain’t no sense worrying about my damn ego now. “Whose song was that?” I asked.

“Mine,” she said, still not looking at me.

I slid across the floor and put my knees up so I was directly in front of her. “Look at me, baby.”

Finally, she met my eyes.

“That was beautiful. I mean it. I didn’t know you could sing like that. And I didn’t know you was no poet either.”

“That was an old song, really,” she said.

“I don’t care if it’s old or new. You wrote it. And it’s your song. Damn. I didn’t know you was gon’ sound that good.”

“You mean that, Franklin?”

“Yes, I do, baby.” And I did. My instincts was telling me that she definitely got what it takes to make it—talent and drive—and I do wanna see her make it. I just don’t want her to turn out to be no fuckin’ overnight success.

“Really?”
she asked again.

My answer to that was putting her head on my shoulder and holding her like I might lose her one day. We sat there for a while, without moving or talking. I was worrying for nothin’, ’cause right now she was wrapped inside
my
arms. This was perfect, I swear it was. And during the next hour, you couldn’ta told us wasn’t no carpet on that floor or no piano in that room, ’cause somebody was playing the hell out of it.

*   *   *

Most of my clothes was at Zora’s now, but I figured I should at least go home and feed my damn fish. Clean up the place, check the mail, even though I don’t hardly get none. Ain’t got no bills, and don’t nobody write me letters—everybody I know lives in New York. The place was a mess, as usual. I didn’t clean up from the last time I was in here doing some woodworking, which felt like a long time ago. Love makes time fly, no doubt about that shit. I looked around this little dingy room. Compared to how clean and pretty Zora’s place is, now this room gave me the fuckin’ creeps. Painting it white still didn’t help.

Since she got that piano, the woman is obsessed. She sits in that little room and pumps out some beautiful shit. I try not to bother her when she’s in there, but if I’m cooking dinner and can’t find something, I tap on the door. Sometime she don’t even hear me. I’m the same way when I’m doing my woodworking,
so I understand. We been a everyday thing since we been seeing each other, and I figured both of us could use some space, so I told her I needed to get some things done over here and that I might not see her till tomorrow—
if
I can wait that long.

I sat down on top of my bed, which wasn’t nothin’ but two mattresses on the floor. I noticed a envelope with my footprint on it at the door. Jimmy. I opened it, and sure enough, the twenty dollars I loaned him almost two months ago was in it. He slow, but sure. I saw mouse turds on top of some sawdust over in the corner by my fish tank. I swear to God, them motherfuckers’ll eat anything. I poured myself a stiff one, turned on the box, and sat down at my worktable. This unit didn’t look so bad today. I need some more sealant and box nails, but when I finish it, I’ll finally have a place where I can store all my tools and books so I can see ’em.

I was sweeping up when I heard the buzzer. I hope it ain’t Jimmy. Wouldn’t mind a quick game of dominoes with Lucky, but I ain’t seen him in weeks, which mean one of two things—either he won at the track or he in love. I ran downstairs and almost broke my damn neck on the steps ’cause the light musta just blew out. I opened the door and couldn’t believe who I was seeing. My Moms and Pops was standing there like that old man and woman on that cornflake commercial. Every now and then, they do this kinda shit. Pop up and surprise me like this. What the fuck. I let ’em in.

“Franklin,” my Moms said, moving her face toward mine for a kiss, which I didn’t wanna give her but I gave her anyway—on the cheek. She didn’t even crack a smile. I know it was Pops who talked her into driving all the way over here. Even though he ain’t never came right out and admitted it, the man miss me. This is just his way of making sure I ain’t dead, fuckin’ up,
in jail, or strung out on dope. He keeps forgetting that I ain’t sixteen no more, but thirty-two years old, and don’t do that silly shit no more. But since I ain’t never been big on sending them no forwarding address whenever I moved, this must also be his way of making sure I can still be found.

“Hello, son,” he said. He shook my hand and gave me a hug at the same time. My Pops never hugged me till I was in my mid-twenties, but I liked it; I liked it a lot. Right now he was grinning, and I knew
he
was glad to see me. After all, I am his only son. I’m about a inch or two taller than he is, look almost just like him. The only other difference between us is that my Pops is a punk and I ain’t. He been going along with my Moms’ program for so long, I don’t think he even know if he ever had one of his own. I guess I love him, but on a scale of one to ten, my respect for him is about a four. And my Moms, I can’t stand her. She shoulda been a drill sergeant, ’cause all she ever been good for is telling people what to do. My Pops obeys her, which is why, together, they make me wanna throw up.

“Why’s it so dark in this hallway?” she asked.

“The light just blew out. Come on up,” I said, and turned and ran up three steps at a time. Fifteen more minutes, and the damn place woulda been clean. I closed the door behind ’em.

“So what brings you two all the way to Brooklyn?” I asked, firing up a Newport.

“We were having dinner at Junior’s, and since we haven’t heard from you in so long, we just took our chances that you still lived here. What’s it been, Jerry, a year?” he asked, turning toward my Moms, who was scrutinizing the whole damn room. I knew it was disgusting to her, and now I was glad the place was a mess.

“I don’t know, Felix. I can’t remember. Franklin, one of them fish is dead.”

Just like her to notice.

Pops reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a Kool. I think every shirt he owns is plaid. I was gon’ light it for him, but he whipped out his matches and gave me a thanks-but-no-thanks look. He took a long, hard drag, exhaled like he had just made a decision, then looked at me. “How’s life treating you these days, son? You’re looking good.”

“Not so hot, if you ask me,” my Moms said before I could answer. “You still living in this little-ass room. When you gon’ get yourself a real apartment, Franklin? Jessie and Christine just bought a new house. Four bedrooms. Brick. Right around the corner from us. It’s real nice. They ask about you from time to time, but I really don’t know what to tell ’em. And the boys getting just as big. All four of ’em play a instrument, you know. You used to love the drums—remember, Franklin?” She was killing a roach that was crawling up the wall, but kept on yacking. “Naw, you probably don’t remember.”

“Yes, I do. I remember you made me get rid of ’em because you said they made too much noise and gave you migraines.
That
much I do remember.”

“You just banged on ’em to piss me off. That’s why I made you get rid of ’em. If you gon’ tell the truth, at least get it straight.”

I didn’t feel like getting into American history with her. I turned to Pops. “Anyway, I’m doing pretty good. Just started working on a hotel in Manhattan. Finally making some decent money. This one should finally get me into the union. Wanna get myself a car, you know. I even met myself a nice lady.”

Pops looked interested and was getting ready to ask me something, when my Moms said, “How’s your wife and the kids doing?”

“Pam ain’t been my
wife
in over six years. The kids is fine. I saw ’em on Derek’s birthday, last month.”

Pops leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms,
then his legs. The creases in his khakis was coming out, which probably meant he’d been crossing ’em all damn night. He let out a sigh, took another drag off his cigarette, and crushed it out. He still didn’t say nothing, but I understood why. He’s a chump.

“So do that mean you finally got your divorce?” she asked.

“I’m working on it.”

“Uhn hun, I bet you are,” she said, rolling her eyes up in her head. One day I hope they get stuck up there.

I could tell Pops didn’t feel like listening to her shit, ’cause he started licking his lips, then sucking his teeth the way he always did when he wanted to say something but didn’t have the balls to say it. “It’s good that you keep in touch with your children, son.”

“You want a drink, Pops?” I didn’t dare ask my Moms, ’cause she’s scared of alcohol. Half her damn family is alcoholics. So is my Pops, really, but he ain’t no drunk. He’s one of them quiet alcoholics. Drinks while he’s sitting in front of the TV or when he’s cutting the grass or washing the car. He don’t get rowdy and shit. Just sips all day long and keeps whatever thoughts he got to hisself.

“Naw, he don’t want no drink, do you, Felix?” She wiped some sawdust off my only chair and finally sat her ass down.

“Just a taste,” he said.

“You know how many people a year get killed because of drunk drivers? It’s on the news every single night. If I’ma die, I damn sure don’t want it to be like that.”

What I wouldn’ta paid to tell her I wished she was dead now, over there floating with that fish. I poured him a tall one, and when she got up and touched the corner of my wall unit, he looked at her like she was bad news, then drunk the whole damn thing in one swallow.

“What’s this thing?”

“It’s gon’ be a wall unit.”

“You making it from scratch?”

For a minute there, she sounded like she was impressed, but I knew it was too good to be true. “Yeah. I designed it and everything.”

“I saw something just like this at the flea market.”

“Yeah, well, I make all kinds of things. This is just something I’m putting together to store my tools and books. It ain’t supposed to be no work of art.”

My Pops walked over and looked at it. “What kind of wood is this?”

“Pine. It’s too soft, really, but since it’s just to store my tools and stuff, it’s okay. Usually, when I’m experimenting with a real piece, first I make a model of it using particleboard or plywood, ’cause they’re cheap, then I fix any mistakes and make the same thing over but using better wood.”

“Where’d you learn how to do this?” he asked.

He couldn’t remember all the shit I used to bring home from woodshop? “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just something I do.”

“Well, it’s good, son,” he said, and then looked bored.

“I’m trying to get into this trade school in January to learn how to start my own business. It
might
be in carpentry, but I gotta check it all out first.”

“Really?” was all he said.

“Takes a whole lotta money to start a business, Franklin,” my Moms said. She had turned on the TV but was obviously not watching it. I wished my Pops hadda came by hisself. We coulda got drunk and had a man-to-man talk—something I been wanting to do with him since I was sixteen. I don’t know what I mean by “man-to-man,” except maybe, with my Moms not being there listening to every fuckin’ word we say, we could cut the bullshit and just be men—father and son—for once. I’d really like to ask him how he’s tolerated
her ass all these years. Didn’t he ever just feel like leaving for work one day and never coming back? And I always wanted to know if she could fuck, or had he just got used to it? I’d like to try to explain what was happening to me when I was messing with the drugs and shit. Tell him how confused I was back then. Why I got discharged from the navy. Why I left Pam, and what I think my whole struggle is all about. Maybe we’ll get that chance one day, I don’t know.