Disappearing Acts (18 page)

“Franklin,” I said, leaning over the table to touch his hand, but he pulled it away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” he said, looking out the window.

“You’re acting very strange. Is something going on that I don’t know about that I should know about?”

“No. And I ain’t acting strange. You think I’m acting strange? Just because I didn’t wanna see a stupid-ass war movie about a white boy falling in love, you think I’m acting strange? I just had a hard day, and I’m tired. The only reason I’m here is because it’s your birthday. Otherwise, I’da stayed home.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say so? We didn’t have to go out, you know.”

“You been saying we don’t never go nowhere, so I wanted to take you out.”

“Yeah, but look what it’s turned into. And if you were all that tired, why didn’t you just sleep through the movie like you’ve done before?”

“Look. Why don’t you order something to eat, to keep this celebration going before it goes all the way downhill?”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, and leaned back in my chair.

“It figures.”

“Why’d you say that?”

“You ain’t hungry because you don’t think I got paid today, do you? Tell the truth, Zora.”

Earlier, the thought had crossed my mind, but then I thought about it. Maybe he didn’t have time to cash his check. But why would he bring something like this up if there wasn’t any truth to it? “
Shouldn’t
I believe you, Franklin?”

His jawbone started twitching. What the hell is going on? I wondered. He’s drunk. That’s it. I’ve
never seen him drink like this before, and I don’t like it. And he just keeps picking at me. But why tonight?

“Look, let’s skip the subject, okay. I’m under a lot of pressure at work and just got a lotta things on my mind. I don’t wanna take it out on you or spoil your birthday no more than I already have, so why don’t you go ahead and order something so we can get outta here?”

“We can leave now,” I said, and got up and started putting my jacket back on. I really didn’t need this—really I didn’t.

“Good,” he said, and gulped down the rest of his drink. He paid the waiter and didn’t leave a tip.

When we got outside, we sort of stood on the corner, not moving, and neither of us said anything. The wind whipped around us, and dust flew in my eyes.

“Well,” he said, digging his hands inside his pockets.

I didn’t feel like going underground, didn’t feel like sitting or standing next to him, didn’t want our shoulders to touch—and I especially didn’t feel like talking to him. He had ruined my damn birthday, and I still had no idea why. “Franklin, let’s take a cab home.”

Without saying a word, he walked over to the curb and held his arm out. Three empty cabs in a row pulled over toward him, then kept going.

“You motherfuckers!” he yelled. He held his arm out again—halfway—and stuck his index finger up to hail another one. It passed him by too. He had the most humiliated look on his face—one I’ve never seen before—and after five or six more minutes of the same thing, he looked like he was ready to explode. Finally, he walked over to me. “You try it.”

I stepped down off the curb into the street, held my hand out, and within a few seconds a cab stopped. I opened the door and turned back to Franklin. He looked up into the black sky, then walked over to the cab and got in.

“If you big and black in America, that’s two strikes against you—did you know that, Zora? They think all black men is killers and robbers and that we gon’ cut their throats, then take all their fuckin’ money. Ain’t that right, sir?”

The cabdriver turned around. “I don’t want any trouble, man.”

Franklin slammed the door and leaned back in his seat. A silver sign posted on the plastic partition said, “Thank you for not smoking.” Franklin whipped out a Newport and lit it. The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror but didn’t say a word. I just shook my head and pressed my cheek against the glass.

We didn’t say a single solitary word all the way home.

Once we were inside the apartment, Franklin turned on the TV and flopped down on the couch. I went into the bedroom, took my clothes off, and put on some ugly pajamas—the ones I knew he hated. I was starving, but I was too mad to eat. I just brushed my teeth and got in the bed. I heard him come into the bedroom, and I could feel him standing over me, but I refused to acknowledge him. My face faced the wall.

“Look, I’m sorry, Zora. Really I am.”

I didn’t say anything, but I was thinking, Fuck you, awfully hard.

I don’t know how long he stood there, but when I woke up the next morning, I didn’t feel his body next to me. I sprang up, and his side of the bed was empty. My heart raced, and I was wondering if he had left. I can’t lie: I felt a sense of relief, really, in the thought. When I rolled over to get up, my foot hit something big. I looked down at the floor and saw Franklin curled up inside a nest of blankets. I stepped right over him.

*   *   *

Franklin didn’t cash his check on Monday either. And now I know why. His friend Jimmy stopped by on
Tuesday morning as I was about to lock the front door on my way to work. Franklin had left about quarter to seven, like he always does.

“Mornin’, sweetness. Is Franklin still upstairs?”

I turned down the volume of my Walkman and slid the earphones off. “No. He’s at work, Jimmy.”

“Good. They called him back. Cool. I hate to be around that dude when he’s laid off, don’t you? He’s like a big baby, ain’t he?”

“Sort of,” was all I could say. Laid off? Why didn’t he just tell me? Then I figured I would play along with Jimmy to find out exactly how much he knew. “Well, it’s been—how many days has it been now, Jimmy?”

“Over a week, ain’t it? When I saw him last Tuesday at the bar, his head was all fucked up. Excuse my language, sweetness. All he was worried about was you and your rent. What you was gon’ think—that he wasn’t shit. That you was gon’ realize you was too good for him. A man shouldn’t love
no
woman as much as he love you, but then again, you ain’t all that bad-looking.” Jimmy let out a wail, and the fat on his forehead wrinkled up and formed rows and creases. His belt hung below his belly. I smiled. I know what he does for a living; Franklin told me. But he’s never brought any drugs to our house, and I’ve never heard him mention any. I guess I just thought of Jimmy as one of those people who hadn’t found his place in the world yet.

After I said goodbye, I caught the bus to work. Kids were swarming around McDonald’s doorway, which was right across the street, and I decided to get one of those breakfast specials. Why couldn’t Franklin have been honest and told me the truth? Why’d he have to lie? He could’ve given me some credit for wanting to understand. I mean really. By now I thought he knew we were in this thing together.

*   *   *

The hallways looked even longer today. Sterile. Even with hundreds of students moving along the tiled floors, leaning against gray lockers, I felt as if I were in a movie that was running in slow motion. I did not want to be here today, but I walked into my homeroom and sat down. My eighth graders all said the customary good morning. When I went to reach for my attaché case, it wasn’t there. Shit. Where did I leave it? I thought back to the bus. No, I had walked off with it; that much I remembered. McDonald’s. That was it. This is not a good sign, Zora, when you start forgetting simple things. Why does he
work
construction if he’s constantly getting laid off? Can’t he think of something else to do to earn a living? At least until he goes back to school? I know one thing—I can
not
handle him taking his frustrations out on me, and I don’t even want to think about popping phenobarb again, just so I can cope with him being all stressed out. No way. And the lying. There’s nothing I hate more than a liar. I’ll just tell him—simple as that. I don’t need this kind of shit, and if we’re going to get through this—through everything—he’s going to have to find a better way of dealing with disappointment. Period.

“Would someone like to do me a big favor?” At least six arms went up, and I pointed to a boy I’d had in seventh grade. Lance.

“I forgot my attaché case over at McDonald’s. Just tell them I’m your homeroom teacher. Here’s a note and a pass.”

“You got it,” he said, and walked out of the classroom, bopping.

“So how is everybody?” I was trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Tired,” they said in unison.

“Whipped,” a few more said.

“I feel great,” a Hispanic girl said. “You look pretty
tired, Miss Banks. What were you doing all night, huh?”

Half the class started laughing. I tried to crack a smile, but it wasn’t all that funny. For the past three nights, I haven’t had any reason to stay up.

I took roll, and to my surprise, Lance came back with my attaché right before the bell rang for first period. I dragged myself to class. Finally, I had the room I’ve been waiting for. The acoustics in here were excellent. The floors and walls were cement, and the windows were gigantic. A perfect listening room. Beethoven, Brahms, and Schubert sounded magnificent in here. And Leontyne Price? My God, I could sit in here and listen to all of ’em forever. Of course, most of my eighth graders could take or leave this kind of music. But let me play some Bruce Springsteen, they’d go crazy. I liked Springsteen myself, and before this semester was over, I was going to surprise them by bringing in one of his tapes.

“Okay,” I said, sitting on top of my desk. “I’m Miss Banks.”

“We already know that,” someone said.

“Good. Then tell me something I don’t know. Why are you here?” I wondered where Franklin was, and where he’d been disappearing to all last week when he acted like he was on his way to work.

“Because we’re being punished!”

“Because we have to be!”

“That’s not true, and you know it. Anyway, let me just tell you how I run my class. First of all, if you ever get bored, let me know immediately, is that clear?”

“I’m bored,” someone said.

“But not today,” I said, and tried to smile. “I’m going to introduce you to some of the best music in the world.” I just wished it didn’t have to be today.

At least fifteen of the thirty-six kids let out a long sigh.

“Who’s ever heard of Tchaikovsky or Brahms or Schubert or Beethoven?”

About five hands went up.

“Who’s heard of Gladys Knight, Bruce Springsteen, the Doobie Brothers, and—”

Every hand in the room went up, accompanied by screams.

“Okay, okay. This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to hear
all
this kind of music, and more. I want to teach you guys how to listen. We’ll learn the fundamentals of music reading, so you’ll be able to understand basic notes, and you’ll even get to write and record your own song. Music has a history, and I’m going to try to make it as interesting as possible.”

“We’ve heard that before!” someone yelled out.

“Do I look like a boring teacher?” I asked. I had deliberately worn a straight denim skirt with a hot-pink blouse and sandals and big earrings. I don’t like to look threatening.

“No. You look pretty hip to us. How old are you anyway, Miss Banks?”

“Why?”

“None of our teachers tell us how old they are. You know how old we are. What’s the big secret?”

They had a point. “I’m thirty years old.”

“You don’t look that old.”

I was flattered. I can’t lie: Sometimes these kids help me take my mind off things I’ve been thinking too hard about. Thank God.

I looked down at my notes, so I wouldn’t forget what I was supposed to ask next.

“What kind of music do you normally listen to, or should I even ask?”

“Rock!” was what I heard the loudest.

“Rap!”

“Soul music!”

“How many of you like to sing?”

Only a few hands went up.

“How many of you play a musical instrument?”

Not a single hand went up.

“How many of you would like to learn to play an instrument?”

About half the class raised their hands.

“That’s good,” I said. “Now, does anyone know what a concerto is?”

No one said anything.

“How about an overture?”

There was more silence.

“A symphony?” A few lazy arms went up. I exhaled. My level of enthusiasm was dropping. “Well, today let’s just start by listening to a few strings.” I looked at them, then down at my lesson plan. I swear, I didn’t feel like being a teacher today, so instead of listening to fifteen minutes of Beethoven and delivering my speech about music as a living art, I took George Benson out of my Walkman and pushed him into the big recorder. They looked surprised, then grateful. The next thing I knew, they were leaning forward in their seats, rocking their shoulders and popping their fingers to the beat.

*   *   *

I had already rehearsed my speech, and when I heard Franklin’s key turning in the door, my heart started pounding real fast.

“Hello,” I said. I was hoping my formality would give him a clue that something was wrong, but he was grinning.

“Guess what, baby?”

“What,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.

“I’ll probably be starting a new job in a day or two. One that’s gon’ put me where I should be. No shit. The city’s already been given the go-ahead for a office building—right in downtown Brooklyn. We shaping it up in the morning. The money looks good. Real good.
Let me make your birthday up to you, baby. Name anything you want. Anything. Go ahead, baby, name it!”

I didn’t realize it at first, but I was grinning too. Franklin looked so happy, like the man I had fallen in love with. His dimples were even more pronounced, and I hadn’t seen them in over a week. The longer I looked at him, the clearer it was that it wouldn’t do either of us any good for me to let on that I knew about him being laid off, so I kept my mouth shut.

“What about the racetrack?” I said. Franklin walked over and put my arms around his waist. Then he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me up against him.

“No problem,” he said. “You tired?”

“No. Are you?”

“Come on, baby, be tired. Don’t you feel like taking a little nap with me?”