Disappearing Acts (47 page)

I just nodded, and he left. I looked around the remainder of the place, and then ran to my music room and opened the door. It was still intact, thank God. I guess he hadn’t gone completely nuts. But he’d taken all the books off the shelves and strewn them on the floor. I went to the kitchen, and he’d unscrewed a plastic rack he’d put up and left half of it hanging from the wall.

“This motherfucker was a sicko, Zora. Be glad he’s gone.”

I went into the bathroom. The shower curtain was hanging off the pole, and half of the plastic cylinder that we had bought for a dollar to cover the ugly and fading gray pole was missing. That motherfucker.

“We better get started cleaning this shit up,” Portia said.

“I can’t right now. I swear to God, I can’t.”

“Well, I ain’t leaving here till you get these locks changed, girl.”

While Portia looked through the yellow pages and found a locksmith, I noticed that some of the albums on the floor had been cracked in two. He had disconnected the stereo and cut the cord on the television. I guess this was all my fault. I had turned against him, just like everybody else.

Portia started cleaning the place up, so I began to do the same. By the time the locksmith showed up and changed the lock—which cost me close to a hundred dollars—I was exhausted.

“I think I should spend the night,” Portia said.

“No, you don’t have to,” I said. “He’s already gotten his rocks off. He won’t be back. Franklin does not like jail.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. The locks are changed, and there’s no way he can get in here.”

“What about Jeremiah?”

“I don’t want him in here tonight. Not until everything is back to normal.”

“Normal?”

“You know what I mean. I’ll stay here tonight, and when I wake up, if nothing’s happened, then I’ll go get him.”

“You sure? I think I’ll feel better if I just stayed. Arthur won’t mind. And I don’t want nothing to happen to you, girlfriend. This motherfucker is crazy.”

She called Arthur, and I flopped down on the couch. Why did you have to do this to us, Franklin?

*   *   *

I was glad Portia stayed. That was the only reason I was finally able to fall asleep.

“You call the police if he shows up, you got that?” she said in the morning.

“I will,” I said, and meant it.

After she left, I went to pick up my son. I can’t lie: I was scared as hell, because I kept thinking Franklin might be hiding between buildings, just waiting for me. I looked over my shoulder until I got to Mary’s house. He hadn’t showed up there. Jeremiah was happy to see me, which helped. I picked him up and hugged him and rubbed my cheeks against his.

“If you need to leave him over here again anytime, you just let me know,” Mary said. “This don’t make no kinda sense. You’d think he would at least think about his baby.”

I couldn’t say anything to that.

*   *   *

Living alone—without him—took some getting used to. The first few weeks were the worst. Every time I walked into the apartment, I kept hoping he’d be there, just like he’d always been, watching “The Love Connection.” I looked for stray socks on the floor, but there weren’t any. No sawdust was tracked through the house, no coffee stains were on the counter; there were no towels on the bathroom floor, no overflowing ashtrays. I didn’t have anything to complain about now.

Some nights, after I put Jeremiah to bed, I’d take a hot bath and wait for Franklin to walk in to wash my back or stick his hands in the suds and rub between my legs. My breasts would throb and harden at the thought of his tongue licking them, but I’d look down and see my own hands. I’d glance up at the mirror, hoping I could watch him shave, just one more time. I’d dry off and sit on the couch and look around the room, which felt much bigger since he’d been gone. Too big. I wanted to tell him to take his dirty boots off while he lay on the couch, but he wasn’t there. I wanted to run my hands through the hair on
his chest, but he wasn’t there. I wanted to rub my cheeks against his cheekbones, but he wasn’t there. I no longer had a man to cook for; I cooked for a family of three anyway. In the mornings, I still brewed a large pot of coffee and had to stop myself from yelling to him that it was ready. I no longer had anyone to play “Wheel of Fortune” with, so I stopped watching it. I started to throw the Scrabble game in the trash one day, but something told me not to. I truly hated living without him. And even though Jeremiah helped me get through many a day, it still felt like someone had a shovel and was digging in the middle of my heart.

It was usually dark by the time I picked up Jeremiah at Mary’s. And for the longest time, I felt like someone in the Mafia who had a contract out on her. I was forever looking over my shoulder. I had nightmares that Franklin hated me so much he crawled through the fire escape window and was standing over me in the middle of the night. I’d wake up sweating and walk into Jeremiah’s room to take him back to bed with me. I was always cold and needed something warm to touch me. Sometimes I would lay Jeremiah on top of me, just so I could feel his heartbeat. When I’d try to go back to sleep, the hissing of the radiator would mesmerize my ears, and I’d listen to it for hours. I often thought I heard a key turning in the lock, but I knew it was my imagination.

Right before Christmas, I was downtown, doing some shopping, and I saw a tall, handsome man coming toward me. It could’ve been Franklin. I was about to cross the street and run, but something told me not to. I was going to have to face him sooner or later, and at least we were in public, so I stood there, grasping the stroller handle tight and letting the cold wind whip me in the face. My heart was thumping hard,
but by the time he was close enough to identify, I realized it wasn’t Franklin at all.

I felt disappointed.

*   *   *

Christmas was bad.

I was a month late with the rent, but said fuck it. I bought a five-foot tree, and even though it had been raining outside for two days, I was determined to have a nice holiday without him. I had dragged the tree up two flights by myself and spent half the night decorating it with blue and gold bulbs and a hundred tiny blinking lights. Jeremiah pulled at the tinsel and was hypnotized by the lights. I bought him seven toys, some corduroy coveralls, his first pair of blue jeans, shirts, pajamas, and some red slippers that zipped.

On Christmas Day, as I watched Jeremiah tear up and try to eat the wrapping paper and cardboard boxes, ignoring the toys, I kept waiting for the buzzer to buzz. But it didn’t.

On New Year’s Eve, I baby-sat for Portia and Arthur.

I put Sierra and Jeremiah in the big four-poster in the master bedroom and pulled the white comforter up over them. Walking into the living room, I sat at the window. It was so quiet in here it was scary. So I turned the radio on to WBLS, and Angela Bofill was singing “I Try.” The words worked their way through me, and I started singing right along with her:

I reached over and turned the radio off, then walked back to the window and opened it almost all the way. There was a wet cold outside, and the air felt good. I sat at the window for almost an hour, listening to the cars speeding in the distance on the expressway, watching the tiny people hurrying to get wherever they were going before midnight. The sky was navy blue, and snow started falling in miniature dots.

I got up and put on my pajamas and poured myself a glass of ginger ale. Then I looked at the clock. It was five minutes to twelve. I walked back into the bedroom and turned on the TV. Outside, I could hear firecrackers. They were already starting the countdown in Times Square. Four minutes till the New Year. A new year.

This hurts.

I watched the snow again and clinked my ice cubes.

Three minutes to go.

Together forever, but here I am again, all by myself.

Hundreds of firecrackers were going off now, and they sounded like they were all coming from inside this building.

Two minutes to go.

I straightened the comforter under Jeremiah’s chin.

One minute.

I heard screaming and yelling coming from the television, and then I saw the big red ball drop.

I turned toward my baby and saw two tiny black eyes staring up at me. I lifted him out of bed and squeezed him against my chest. I whispered, “Happy New Year, Jeremiah.” He closed his eyes again so I laid him back down, though I didn’t want to let go of him. I needed to hold something. I needed someone to hold me. Sierra didn’t budge.

I tried to fall asleep, to undream everything that’s happened, but it was no use. I raked my fingers through my hair, thinking I could scratch away this pain, but I couldn’t. That’s when I noticed the moon through the clouds. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I looked at it so hard that it seemed to split wide open. It let light in, and that’s when I collapsed and said out loud, “Fuck this shit.”

I swear, I saw every single one of their faces. Not just Franklin’s, but Dillon’s and Percy’s and Champagne’s and David’s—all of ’em. All the men that I’d let consume the past ten years of my life. How many times have I let myself deflate and crumble inside their hearts, dived into their dreams and made them my own? How many times have I disappeared into the seams of their worlds and ended up mourning, just like I’m doing now? Just how much are you supposed to give? When do you know it’s time to stop? And what am I going to do with this ton of love in my heart? Is there a man out there somewhere who will welcome the weight? Who will savor it and love me right, for once? And what about the passion that’s freezing in my bones right now? What am I supposed to do with it? Wait until someone else comes along and thaws me out? How many more broken promises will I have to endure? Is there a man out there who can keep a goddamn promise?

Franklin.

Didn’t I make you float? Didn’t I give you spring in winter? Didn’t I show you rainbows and everything else that moved inside me? I gave birth to your child because I loved you. I stuck by you when you were broke, because I loved you. I stuck by you for
everything
, because
I loved you.
So tell me, goddammit, wasn’t that enough?

I fucked up royally this time. Of all the sneaky-ass ways to make her point. Calling the white man on me. Zora knew that would do it—set me off. She always knew how I felt about ’em. And after I hung up the phone, the whole room just caved in on top of me. Yeah, I had threatened her, but I didn’t mean that shit. Couldn’t she see that I was just in pain? Naw, ’cause she didn’t look. And yeah, I had told her I was leaving, but all I wanted her to do was ask me to stay. But she didn’t. She was tired of my shit, and I was tired of hers.

I sat there in that empty-ass apartment, looking at all the stuff I made, and just like somebody had wound me up, I left. I stopped at the liquor store and bought a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and drank it while I walked all the way to Just One Look. Why she have to do this to me? All she think about is herself and that kid. Is this what you do to somebody you supposed to love? I thought this shit was about thick and thin, hanging in there, getting through the rough parts, but I guess I was wrong. When I got there, I sat down on the barstool and waited. Sooner or later he’d be coming in here, I just knew it. When I felt somebody thump me on my head, I knew it was Jimmy.

“Who beat you up?” Terri asked.

“Everybody, and I hope not you too.”

“I’m here to save you,” she said, and bent down to kiss me on my cheek. This time I couldn’t afford to resist. I was so fucked up that I pushed her face around and kissed her right there in the bar.

She stepped back. “Frankie? What’s happened to
you?
You woke up from the dead, or what?”

“I’m in a jam, Theresa.”

“And?”

“I need someplace to stay for a few weeks.”

“And you asking me?”

“I know I was in a shitty mood the last time I saw you, but things have changed.”

“Look, Franklin, let’s not kid ourselves. You look like that woman just broke your damn heart, and ain’t no sense in you trying to pretend like you want me. If you need a place to stay, you’ve got a place to stay, all right?”

I looked at her. I ain’t never gave her enough credit.

“Thanks, Theresa. I appreciate this.”

“So when you wanna come over? Now?”

“Naw, not now. I got something I gotta do first. What time you leave for work?”

“I’m on vacation for three days.”

“Then look for me sometime between tonight and tomorrow.”

“You black motherfucker!”

Now,
that
was Jimmy.

I turned to look at him and couldn’t believe my damn eyes. Jimmy musta lost thirty, forty pounds.

“Hey, Jimmy. How you been, man?”

Theresa tapped me on the shoulder and said she’d see me later.

“You blind or something? Good, man. Damn good. What about you?” he asked.

“I need something,” I said to him.

“Get the fuck outta here, Frankie. Like what?”

“Anything and everything. The works.”

“You must be losing your mind, man. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, man. You got anything or not?”

“It’s that woman, ain’t it?”

“Maybe, maybe not. The world don’t stop because of no fuckin’ woman.”

“She broke your fuckin’ heart, is that it? What’d you do to her, Frankie? Huh?”

“Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. I’m outta there.”

“Well, what happened? Talk to me, Frankie. Goddamn.”

“She called the white man on me, man. Can you believe that shit?”