Disappearing Acts (16 page)

I looked at my Moms and strained my voice to stop from raising it. “I know how much money it takes to start a business. You think I’m going into this blindfolded?”

“Did I say that? Where you supposed to get all this money?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Son, she’s your mother, don’t forget that.”

He didn’t even say it like he meant it. And I’m getting sick of all this “son” shit; I wish he would call me by my damn name.

“I ain’t hardly worrying about it,” she said, folding her arms the same way she used to do when she was cussing me out for something I did or didn’t do, which was usually right before she got the extension cord and beat my ass. “You gon’ be forty before you know it, and talking about starting some business. Who you think gon’ lend you that kind of money, is what I wanna know.”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

She grabbed her purse and stood up. “Felix, let’s go. Now. This boy still got a nasty mouth and no respect. One day you gon’ wish you hadda listened to me. That’s why you still living in a dump, like some old black widow man. You ain’t gon’ never have but one mother and father in your life. Remember that shit when you start
your fuckin
’ business.”

“All right, Jerry, that’s enough. Franklin, apologize to your mother.” He tried to look like he was pleading, but I knew it was just another front. His whole problem has always been trying to do the right thing.

“Not this time, Pops.”

“I’m asking you to, son.”

“She was out of line, and somebody need to let her know it.”

“That’s my job, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

I looked him straight in the eye and wanted to say, You ain’t been able to do it in thirty-two years; where you think you gon’ get the balls to do it now? But it wasn’t my place to make him feel like less than a man, especially when she been doing a pretty good fuckin’ job of it. “Yeah, Pops, that’s your job,” I said. “Sorry,” I mumbled to the floor, which musta been good enough, ’cause he stood up. Now he looked shorter. He reached for my hand and shook it. My Moms was already standing in the doorway.

“Why don’t you bring your lady friend out for one of the holidays? It’d be nice if we could count on seeing you at least two or three times a year.”

Father Knows Best. I swear to God. “I’ll see, Pops,” I said, and he patted me on the back. He ducked when he walked through the doorway. My Moms waved her hand toward the floor to say goodbye. I pushed the door closed and hoped they didn’t think I was gon’ walk ’em downstairs.

*   *   *

I was hauling a load of bricks, when the foreman came over to me. “You can put that barrel down, son.”

I dropped the grippers on the handles and took off my work gloves. “What’s the problem?”

“The masoners and concrete people are haggling about some details in one of the contracts. We’re not lifting another finger until this thing is worked out. It’s about paperwork.”

“How long do you think it’ll be before we can start back?”

“I don’t know. Could be today, next week, or the week after. Who knows? I’ll be in touch with the guy at A Dream Deferred, one way or the other. He’ll let you know when to report back. For now, go on home. Sleep late for a few days. Bang the ole lady before ‘Good Morning America.’” Then he started laughing. This shit was a joke to him.

Sleep late. Ain’t this a bitch. I walked into the shanty to change my work boots. A couple of other brothers from A Dream was in there too.

“This is bullshit, man,” one said.

“Tell me about it,” I said. “And they say niggahs don’t wanna work. One day I’m gon’ tell all of ’em to kiss my black ass.”

Another dude spoke to both of us. “Y’all bloods know what the deal is, don’t you?”

“No,” I said.

The other dude shook his head.

“We been bought and sold.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, man?” I asked, even though I sorta already knew.

“Check it out, brothers. Look who’s being laid off. Us. The men with the black skin. They talking that contract shit, but that ain’t it. A Dream got too many of us on this site. They nervous ’cause we costing ’em too much money. Why pay us twelve or fourteen dollars a hour when they can hire some Spicks or Chinks or Polacks who just got off the boat, who most likely can’t even read or write, and willing to—
happy
to—work for five or six dollars an hour? Y’all figure it out.”

I couldn’t say nothin’. This is the kinda shit that makes you wanna kill somebody—’cause you powerless. And you can’t do nothin’ about it ’cause it’s the kinda shit you can’t prove. I kicked off my work boots and put on my sneakers.

“A black man just can’t get ahead, can he, man?” the other brother said, as he walked out and slammed the door. The whole shanty shook. I swear, if I could do something else that paid me this kinda money, I’d be doing it. But strength is my biggest skill, and you don’t need no college degree to sling bricks or dig holes. All you need is muscle. And I always hear ’em thinking, That nigger looks like Paul Bunyan. Take him.

I put on my baseball cap, said, “Later,” to the other dude, and left. I caught the subway home, and it seemed like it was full of black men who looked mad at the world. I know I musta looked just like ’em.

Shit. Next Friday is Zora’s birthday. Yeah, I gave her the money for her piano and shit, but I still ain’t paid for a morsel of food or helped her with the rent yet. I
owed
her that piano. She still practicing every night too. That’s what I call dedication. And I love listening to her. It’s like having a live concert in your house every night. I wish I could say we was living together, but we ain’t made it official yet. I’m gon’ have to do something, though, ’cause paying rent on a room I hardly ever sleep in is getting to be a little fuckin’ ridiculous.

I still would like to get her something nice for her birthday. No cheap shit, ’cause she know the difference. I reached into my pocket and counted how much money I had. Eighteen dollars. What the fuck can a man buy his woman with this? I ain’t closing no more savings accounts, though, not this time out. Hell, I was counting on putting money
in
the bank on Friday. It don’t pay to project, I swear to fuckin’ God it don’t.

Instead of going home, to Zora’s—or our—house, I decided to go on down to Free At Last, another organization like A Dream, but I changed my mind. Hell, it was quarter to eight. If you even halfway serious about working, they expect you to be there by at least seven if you wanna be part of the shape-up. Shit.
Zora had already left by now, I knew that. I guess teaching takes a lot of preparation. I know one thing—it do feel good to have a woman that’s doing something constructive instead of that fleeting kinda shit. Hell, any way I look at it, her future is planted in cement.

But look at her man.

I had to do something, but what? When I got off the train, I just started walking down the side streets, smoking one Newport after another, but this wasn’t getting it, so I stopped in a liquor store and bought myself a half pint of Jack Daniel’s. I needed something. I took a nip every now and then and kept walking. I wish I had some alternatives. I turned the corner at my street and went up the steps. I heard music coming from Lucky’s room, so I knocked on his door. He cracked it open.

“What’s up, dude?” he asked, peeking out.

“Nothin’, man. What’s happening?”

“Got a little company,” he said, grinning.

“Sorry about breaking and entering, man. I’ll catch you later.”

I went on upstairs and polished off the rest of the bottle. I still felt edgy and didn’t wanna spend no more time thinking about my situation than I had already, so I went back to the store and bought another bottle. When I came back, I didn’t feel like sitting in this room, so I went over to Zora’s. I used my keys. I sat down on her purple couch, and the whole room looked like a picture in some women’s magazine. Everything in here was so pretty, and nothin’ was outta place. Except me. Who was I kiddin’? I didn’t belong here. Wasn’t nothin’ in here mine. And ain’t no place in here for no sawdust.

I stood in the middle of the room and felt filthy, like I shouldn’t touch nothin’, and I didn’t. I was scared I might break something. Smudge it. Smear it. Something.
It’s already got to the point where I leave my work boots in the hallway when I come home. Sometimes I even drop my jeans out there too, ’cause they usually caked with dirt, dust, or mud.

I finished the rest of the bottle, took my clothes off, showered, and laid across Zora’s bed. I could smell her on the pillowcases, and I pushed my nose deeper into it. I fell asleep. When I woke up, I didn’t wanna be here when she got home. I couldn’t tell her I was laid off, ’cause then she’d probably think that this was gon’ be a regular thing. I didn’t want her to think that, even if the shit was true. Hell, what woman want a man around that turns out to be a fuckin’ liability instead of a asset?

I found myself standing at the top of the subway entrance. I decided to call my sister Darlene, just for the hell of it. I ain’t seen her in damn near a year, so I knew she was gon’ be shocked to hear from me—if she was home. She don’t go nowhere but to work and school, the grocery and liquor stores. She answered on the second ring, in her usual monotone. “What’s up, buttercup?” I asked.

“Franklin?”

“You know anybody else with a voice as sexy as your brother’s?”

“Please,” she said, in the same monotone.

“What you doing?”

“Nothing much,” she said dryly. She depresses the hell out of me sometimes, and why I picked up the phone and called her, why I was about to get on the train and ride all the way up to the damn Bronx to see her, I don’t know. Maybe ’cause she’s all I got besides Zora.

“I wanna stop by. What you drinking?”

“The usual. Franklin, I’ve gained about fifteen pounds, the place is a wreck, so don’t come up here criticizing me. Could you bring your drill and screwdriver?
I’ve been waiting months for you to call, so you could put up my track lights.”

“Why can’t what’s-his-name do it? Or is he history?”

“He’s history.”

“Well, I don’t have access to my tools right now. I’m already at the train station. But if you got a few dollars, I’ll pick up a screwdriver and a cheap drill at the hardware store.” She agreed to it. Darlene usually cries broke if you wanna borrow some money, but let her want something for herself, ain’t no such thing as she broke and ain’t nothin’ she want too expensive. She keeps a stash in the bank too. I should’ve known the only reason she wanted to see me was to get some work out of me. That’s another reason I ain’t got no phone. People used to bug the shit outta me. Everybody know I can fix or build damn near anything, and they tried to use me up. I got tired of that shit.

I forgot. I didn’t have enough money on me to buy no damn tools, so I went over to my place, got the stuff, and trotted back to the train. After I bought tokens, I had exactly five dollars and some change left.

When Darlene opened the door, I was shocked. Not only had she put on weight, but a few strands in the front of her damn hair was gray. I kissed her on the cheek. “Well, they say more is better, right?”

“Fuck you, Franklin. I asked you not to say a word about how I look, so please. I’m depressed enough as it is.”

“I wasn’t saying nothing but hi, damn. I see you still got your sense of humor. What you depressed about now?”

“I got fired.”

“So what else is new?”

“This is different, Franklin. This was a good job at an electronics company, and they were paying my tuition. I don’t know what I’m gonna do now. I don’t
have the energy to start looking for another job, I swear I don’t.”

“So why’d you get fired?”

“Because of tardiness. Shit, I can’t help it if the trains are always late.”

“What you got to drink around here?” I asked. I knew exactly where she kept her stash, and as quiet as it’s kept, I know Darlene is a closet alky. That’s why she probably got fired. Couldn’t wake up in the damn morning. All she do is sit up here in this overpriced apartment, watching sitcoms and reruns all night, sipping on White Label, eating junk food, and feeling sorry for herself. Don’t nobody come visit her except me. She ain’t got no friends, at least I ain’t never heard her mention none. In a lot of ways, she’s like me. Stick to herself. But this little miserable-ass world she keep living in is getting old. The girl done had more jobs, registered and dropped out of more colleges in the last two years—I swear, I can’t keep up no more. So to hear that she just got fired ain’t no surprise to me.

And men? She can’t keep one. She always end up finding so many things wrong with ’em that the minuses outweigh the pluses, which makes ’em “intolerable,” as she put it. Darlene wouldn’t know a good man if one was staring her in the face. The real deal is, she don’t trust nobody, except me, and even that’s questionable. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t sleeping with women. She got all the symptoms of a lesbian. And hell, although I don’t go for that kinda shit, she might be better off. I just don’t want nothin’ fucked up to happen to her. The girl
is
suicidal, she done proved that already. And the way she sounding, like she ain’t got nothing to look forward to, and the way she looking, like walking death, maybe I need to come see her more often. What’s sad about all this is that underneath all that pain, my sister
is smart, and pretty as hell. This is just the end result of all my Moms’ love.

Darlene sat down on the couch. “So you heard from Ma and Daddy?” I knew she knew I had. She talks to Christine all the time, who talks to my Moms every day, and Christine repeats everything she hears, only she adds shit to it so that she ends up telling a different version from the way shit really happened.

“About a week ago, I guess. They stopped by—can you believe that shit?”

“They’re good at surprises. Ma tell you about Christine’s new house?”

“You know she did. The bitch. You think she could stand not rubbing that shit all in my face? Be serious, Darlene. You know Moms better than that. She ain’t changed.”

“I’m not going out there for Thanksgiving or Christmas. You?”