Disappearing Acts Read online

  Praise for

  Disappearing Acts

  “Full of momentum…a pleasurable, often moving novel.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “A down-to-earth portrayal of love, yearning and self-preservation…. Disappearing Acts is brimming with energy and the hard facts of life.”

  —The Kansas City Star

  “Beautiful and easy to get lost in.”

  —Cosmopolitan

  “Gripping and moving…intensely realistic…Terry McMillan demonstrates one of the fiction writer’s most impressive skills: the ability to create and inhabit very different characters with absolute authenticity.”

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “With Disappearing Acts, McMillan firmly places herself in the same league with other acclaimed black female writers such as Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, Gloria Naylor, and…Zora Neale Hurston.”

  —Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

  “An abundance of flash and energy…a gritty slice of life…an edifying experience.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An authentic portrayal…with a wholesome freshness…speaks not harshly of one sex, but honestly of an often-strained bond between men and women—love.”

  —The Baltimore Morning Sun

  “Wonderful…The talk is frank, but the emotions underneath the story…strike honest chords throughout.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “McMillan has her own voice and her own stories to tell…. McMillan gives us ordinary people discovering what love is and what it requires…. Disappearing Acts is wonderful.”

  —The Seattle Times

  Praise for

  A Day Late and a Dollar Short

  “A glorious novel…A moving tapestry of familial love and redemption, A Day Late and a Dollar Short transported me into Terry McMillan’s fictional world and, like the best fiction, helped illuminate the corners of my own heart. [It] dared me not to laugh, cry, and shout upon recognizing this glittering, complicated portrayal of African-American life.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Reading A Day Late and a Dollar Short, you may…head for the freezer for a pint of Haagen-Dazs to complete your self-indulgent bliss. By the last pages you’re weeping. You’re laughing. You’re hooked. It’s oh-so-good.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “A delicious family saga…poignant yet hilarious. McMillan has an uncanny ability to render family conflict with both humor and compassion. In A Day Late and a Dollar Short her skill is honed to a razor-sharp edge…. An affecting and life-affirming read…[which] constantly surprises as it enlightens. A triumph.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “[McMillan] in top form…moving and memorable.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Terry McMillan…has a true comic gift. Funny, finely crafted, profound…contemporary African American naturalism at its best.”

  —The Village Voice

  “Terry McMillan’s slam dunk of a novel should nail cheers from her longtime fans and fill the rafters with delighted new ones. This book is a gift.”

  —New York Newsday

  “A touching and funny portait.”

  —People

  “McMillan’s writing effectively illustrates strong emotions such as grief, rage, and vulnerability. No one captures the speech patterns of working-class black folk and middle-class strivers better than McMillan. [She] takes private pain and fashions it into a document that both entertains and enlightens.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Terry McMillan does a first-class job of capturing the complex and dynamic tension of [family] relationships. The characters are powerful and real, and the theme of family dissension masking a hard-fought love is universal. McMillan is both a superb storyteller and a woman possessed of a clear musical magic with words…. Fully engaging, funny at times, sad at others, and well worth reading.”

  —The Denver Post

  “Riveting dialogue, vivid characters, and gut-wrenching humor. A Day Late and a Dollar Short hallmarks the struggles of a modern black family.”

  —The Chatanooga Times

  “The novel is all about family. Not just a contemporary, black middle-class one like the Prices but everyone’s. With side-splitting candor, McMillan tells the story of just about every household from Seattle to Miami. Her characters…are real and complex; we relate to and root for all of them.”

  —St. Petersburg Times

  “A moving and true depiction of an American family, driven apart and bound together by the real stuff of life: love, loss, grief, infidelity, addiction, pregnancy, forgiveness, and the IRS.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Great storytelling with…McMillan’s trademark earthiness and wonderful dialogue. This bestselling author has a rare gift for creating living, breathing people on the page.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  More praise for

  A Day Late and a Dollar Short

  “An ambitious, redemptive novel. The story of the Price family transcends race. A Day Late and a Dollar Short is about family, its power to build us up and at the same time, as Mama would say, ‘get on our last nerve.’”

  —The Arizona Republic

  “Nobody does it better…sassy, inventive, humorous, and wise. She can make me laugh out loud, but she is just as capable of moving me to tears. As in Waiting to Exhale, A Day Late and a Dollar Short embodies McMillan’s belief in romantic love as the most profound expression of one’s humanity.”

  —The Toronto Star

  “[McMillan] knows how to write with honesty, insight, and humor about love, family, and relationships. Live with the Price family for a day or two. You will learn some important life lessons as you read a novel that defines the essence of this author’s work.”

  —Tulsa World

  “Characters that readers can embrace.”

  —The Buffalo News

  “A page-turner…even better than Waiting to Exhale.”

  —The Post and Courier (Charleston, SC)

  “A portrayal of African-American family life that could only be told by Terry McMillan. A Day Late and a Dollar Short is a phenomenal book…both entertaining and in your face. I loved it.”

  —The Tennessean

  “[A] hope-filled and uplifting novel of a black American family trying to find and hold onto the American dream.”

  —Calgary Herald

  Praise for

  How Stella Got Her Groove Back

  “A cast of likable characters, funny lines, smart repartee, and a warm…ending. Irreverent, mischievous, diverting…will make you laugh out loud.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Terry McMillan is the only novelist I have ever read who makes me glad to be a woman.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “Rich in detail…leaves you feeling like you’ve just had a gossip with your best girlfriend.”

  —Mademoiselle

  “A down-and-dirty, romantic, and brave story told to you by this smart, good-hearted woman as if she were your best friend.”

  —Newsday

  “A liberating love story…tells women it’s okay to let go, follow your heart, take a chance, and fall in love.”

  —The Orlando Sentinel

  Waiting to Exhale

  “With relationships between African-American men and women in the spotlight as never before, here comes McMillan’s report from the front…bawdy, vibrant, deliciously readable. A novel that hits so many exposed nerves is sure to be a conversation-piece. It has heart and pizzazz and even, yes, the sweet smell of a breakthrough book.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  DISAPPEARING ACTS

  TER
RY McMILLAN

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in Viking and Washington Square Press editions.

  First Signet Printing, April 2002

  Copyright © Terry McMillan, 1989

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-65772-0

  A portion of this book first appeared in Esquire as “Men Who Are Good with Their Hands.”

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint excerpts from the following copyrighted works: “You’ve Changed” by Carl Fischer and Bill Carey. Copyright Melody Lane Publications, Inc., 1942, 1943, 1947; copyright renewed. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission. “I Try” by Angelo Bofill. Copyright © Purple Bull Music (BMI), 1974. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For Solomon, years from now

  …You say it’s good we love again. The acts the houses, the abyss vary insignificantly

  Only plants grow by specific will

  “implacable,” but without knowledge when they fail.

  —The Field for Blue Corn Mei-mei Berssenbrugge

  I am grateful to the National Endowment for the Arts and the Rockland Center for the Arts for their financial assistance; Gilbert H. Banks of Harlem Fight Back, Ralph C. Thomas III of the National Association of Minority Contractors, and Myron Lampkin for their technical advice; Tilly Warnock, Marie Brown, Doris Austin, Debbie Gadlin, and Dr. William Cleveland; my sister, Vicky Zenno; my agent, Molly Friedrich; and my editor, Dawn Seferian, each of whose support helped make the writing of this book possible.

  Table of Contents

  Franklin

  Zora

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

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  21

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  23

  24

  25

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  27

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  29

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  31

  32

  33

  34

  Franklin

  All I can say is this. I’m tired of women. Black women in particular, ’cause that’s about all I ever deal with. Maybe a fine Puerto Rican here and there, but not much. They’re all the same, that’s for damn sure. Want all your time and energy. Want the world to revolve around them. Once you give ’em some good lovin’, they go crazy. Start hearing wedding bells. Start thinking about babies. And want you to meet their damn family. They make you come and you’d swear they struck gold or somethin’. And the prettier they are, the more they want. Well, I don’t play that shit no more. I try to make it clear from jump street. I ain’t serious. I got enough on my mind right now without getting all hung up and twisted up with another woman.

  Every time I turned around, my phone was ringing off the damn hook. “Hi, Franklin,” one would say. And I would sit there and try to guess which one it was. “Whatcha doing?” What a stupid-ass question to call somebody up and ask. It oughta be obvious that I wasn’t thinking about her, or else I’da called her, right? But naw. It don’t work like that. They hedge. “You feel like some company?” And don’t say, “No, I’m busy.” All hell’ll break loose then. “You got somebody over there?” I wanna say, “None of your fuckin’ business,” but that would be too cold-blooded. They wanna know what you doing every fuckin’ minute of the day you ain’t with them. Can’t just be by yourself. They always think if you don’t wanna see them, then it’s gotta be another woman.

  And I’ve been out with some of the stupidest women. I swear. Usually don’t find this out until after I’ve fucked ’em. What was her name? Gloria. Yeah, Gloria. This chick had a ass like butter, moved like a roller coaster, but when it came to brains, she was missing about sixteen cards. Worked at the welfare department, but she shoulda been a case herself. I shoulda known better when all she talked about was getting her nails done and was forever blowdrying her fuckin’ hair. She couldn’t even figure out the easiest puzzle on “Wheel of Fortune.” I remember one night we’d had a pretty serious session, and I had to go to work in the morning, but since it was election day—Koch was running again for mayor—I got up extra early so I could go vote. I looked down at her. “You voting today?” I asked. “I ain’t voted in years, Franklin,” she said, just grinning and shit, like she was proud. You stupid bitch, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. It wasn’t worth it. “You gotta go,” I said. “Now.” She acted like her feelings was hurt, but I didn’t care.

  And all this complaining women do about men not knowing how to “make love” is a bunch of crap. A lot of ’em don’t like foreplay and just wanna get fucked. Ten minutes after our clothes is off, and a few kisses later, some of ’em begged me to just go ahead and put it in. Personally, I like to take my time. If all I wanted was some pussy, I could buy some. If I like the woman, I wanna enjoy the whole experience. Coming ain’t everything. Naw, I take that shit back. But it’s a whole lotta women out here who don’t know nothin’ about passion. They do the same shit them how-to and self-help books and Cosmopolitan magazine tell ’em to do, but a man can tell when a woman’s heart ain’t in her moves. The shit feel rehearsed, like she do the same thing the same way with every man she ever been with. This kind of fucking is boring—which is when I usually just take the pussy and run.
/>   One chick, I liked her a lot. Her name was Theresa, and she hated it when you called her Terri. Now, Theresa had something on the ball. Worked at a bank, and not only could she cook her ass off but she liked sports. We used to lay around all day on a Saturday or Sunday and just make love during halftime and watch every game that came on TV. She knew a call when she heard one too. And she gave the best head I ever had in my life. I don’t know who taught her, but I wished he’d give lessons to a lot more of ’em. The only thing about Theresa was she wore a wig and I couldn’t stand to hear her talk. She had this squeaky-ass voice that drove me nuts. It was real high like Alvin and the Chipmunks or something. Sometimes I wanted to say, Would you just shut up! And when the girl came, I swear to God, it was embarrassing. I don’t remember what happened to her, to tell the truth. She just faded out the picture, just like Karen and Maria and Sandy and Amina and all the rest of ’em. All except Pauline.

  Pauline. Now that woman. She was the last one. The one that broke my heart. Don’t never fail. The one you always want is the one that always leave. Pauline was soft and sexy. She had the prettiest titties in the world. They was round and full and stood straight out. She was the only woman I ever met that could come from just me licking ’em. Pauline was a hundred percent grade-A woman. Lived in the projects with her two-year-old son. Treated me like a whole man. She was going to secretarial school so she could get off welfare. That’s one thing I really liked about her. She tried. And Pauline had pride. She never called me, it was always me doing the calling, and I didn’t mind. Some women you just want, ain’t satisfied till you get ’em. Don’t ask me what happened, but a few weeks ago when I called, she said she was busy. Busy? I let it go. The next day, I called back. She still busy. “What the fuck is going on?” I asked her. She didn’t say nothin’ for a minute. My chest was heaving. “Pauline, don’t play with me.” Then I heard her mumble something like, “I met somebody else.” Met somebody else? What? Who? I heard her say some shit like she was sorry, but I just hung up the damn phone. A man don’t need this kinda shit. What kinda dude could she possibly have found that could make her feel better than me? I hate this shit. I wanted to marry this woman. To tell the truth, my head was all fucked up, ’cause I kept sitting around wondering who the fuck it could be. And what he was doing for her that I wasn’t doing. Didn’t do. I kept drawing a blank, ’cause when I love a woman, I try to treat her like she’s the only woman in the world. Sometimes, I guess, that ain’t enough.