Disappearing Acts Page 5

  “You ain’t never been married?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

  “No,” I said tartly, and started looking for something he could use for an ashtray.

  “Don’t get so touchy. I was just curious. What you gon’ do with all this space?”

  “Put it to good use.”

  “By yourself?”

  He would have to make it sound like I’m a damn spinster or something, wouldn’t he? “Yes,” I said, and handed him a rusty can I found under the sink. It already had ashes in it, which meant it was probably his.

  “How?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because it seems awful funny that a single woman would pay this much rent with all this space and live here by herself, that’s why.”

  “I sing and play the piano, and I need all the space I can get. And compared to Manhattan, this is cheap. Does that answer your question, Franklin?”

  He smiled at me. “A singer, huh?”

  “Yes, a singer.”

  I spotted a box that looked like whatever was in it would look like I needed it. As I went to lift it, Franklin jumped up to help me. Damn, even his funk smelled good.

  “What’s your name again?” he asked, putting the box on top of the counter.

  “Zora. Zora Banks.”

  “That’s a helluva name. Suits you. I know you heard of Zora Neale Hurston, then, right? The writer?”

  As much as I hated to admit it, I was becoming more impressed by the minute. “I was named after her.”

  “You recorded any albums? I’m pretty up on all kinds of music, and your name don’t ring no bells.”

  I knew one thing—his grammar was terrible, but everything else seemed to be compensating for it. “Nope. No albums yet. I’m working on it.”

  “Well, what kind of music do you sing?”

  “All kinds,” I said.

  “Is that what you gon’ tell a record producer? That you sing all kinds of music?”

  “You know, you sure ask a lot of questions.”

  He smiled. “How else you suppose to learn things if you don’t ask?”

  God, his teeth were white. “Well, to be honest, that’s exactly what I’m working on, developing my own style.”

  “I always thought it was about feeling the music. Sing me a few notes.”

  “Sing you a few notes? Be serious. First of all, I’ve just barely got inside the door of my new apartment, I don’t even know your last name, I’m not in a singing mood, and I’m tired.”

  “My last name is Swift. I can understand you being tired and everything, but I’d like to hear you sing one day. I don’t meet many singers.”

  Swift was putting it mildly. He stood directly in front of me. He was doing this on purpose, I just knew it. Probably just wanted to see how long it would take me to melt. He was much too good at this. “So you’re assuming I’ll be seeing you again after today, is that it?”

  “I can guarantee it,” he said, walking toward the door. “We getting ready to start on the building two doors down.”

  Then he was gone. I stood there looking at the door like a fool, as if I was in a trance or something. I swear I couldn’t move. I felt affected. And that door kept opening and closing, and each time it opened he would just stand there, looking right through me. To snap out of it, I had to shake my head back and forth until the door stayed closed. Then I went over to the sink and dangled my fingers under the water until they could feel that it was too damn hot.

  I wanted to unpack my books, but I needed toggle bolts to put the shelves up. I’m terrible when it comes to doing things like that. There are some things I really don’t want to learn how to do. I couldn’t put my stereo together, because there’s too many wires. Which means I’ll have to pay somebody to do it, just like I’ve always done. The phone company was supposed to have been here by now, but of course they’re late, so I couldn’t call anybody. And last but not least, I was starving.

  I walked down the dirty stairs and noticed that the door to the first-floor apartment was cracked open, so I peaked inside. I saw a disgusting shade of yellow tweed shag carpet. I’d been told two women were moving in tomorrow. “Dykes probably,” Vinney had said. “Don’t bother them, and they won’t bother you.” I walked out the front door and locked it.

  The heat was piercing and the humidity thick. I was trying to decide which way to go. When I looked far to the right, I saw lots of traffic, which meant businesses, so I went that way. At the corner was a fish market, where I bought half a pound of scallops. Right next to it was a produce stand that sold everything from vegetables to Pampers. I bought broccoli, fresh mushrooms, scallions, a large bunch of flowers, paper towels, toilet paper, and white grape juice.

  I decided to walk home around the block, to get a better feel for the neighborhood. Some gay guy was standing out in front of this gorgeous little gourmet shop, trying to entice people to come in.

  “Free coffee samples to celebrate our grand opening,” he said. “You look like a lady with good taste. Come on in, honey. Try some. It’s divine.”

  “Thanks. Maybe another time.” I’d only taken a few steps when the rich scent of coffee lured me back. He handed me a finely printed piece of peach-colored paper that described the store’s specialties. All kinds of delicacies, imported foods, breads, every kind of cheese you could think of, dried fish, and pickled everything. I went inside, and staring me in the face were samples of white Scandinavian chocolate.

  “Go ahead, it’s fabulous,” he said.

  My fingers itched with desire, but I said, “No. I can’t.”

  “Oh, come on. One little piece won’t hurt. Go on. Splurge.”

  The next thing I knew, not only had I eaten a piece, I’d bought a quarter pound (which I vowed to stretch out over a week or two). I also got some dilled Havarti cheese, liver pâtè, some kind of crackers I’d never heard of, and a pound of Vienna roast mixed with mocha Java.

  “Come back again,” he said, and I assured him I would.

  Most of the neighborhood was still run down, and even though there were scaffolds everywhere I looked, it would be years before this area was pretty. “You moved here at the right time,” Vinney had said. “In a few years everybody and their mother’ll be flocking to Brooklyn from Manhattan. Who can afford that rent? This is what you call a changing neighborhood. It’s the pits now, but stick around a few years, you won’t even recognize it. You’re getting this place at a steal, you know.”

  By the time I got home, I was drenched. I found the box with the towels in it and took a cool shower. Afterwards, I found the box with the cleansers and scrubbed the kitchen shelves inside and out. I didn’t care that they were brand-new. I didn’t ever want to see another roach. Then I pulled out the pots and pans, cooked dinner, and sat down on top of a box to eat. I sure wished I had some music. I put the flowers in water in my coffeepot and set them next to my plate. Lord only knew when I’d be able to afford a dining room set. The piano comes first.

  That night, I slept on the living room floor. The couch was buried in boxes, and my platform bed wouldn’t do me much good because I had thrown the mattress out. I made a pallet of three blankets and flipped one of them over me like a sleeping bag. Sometime during the middle of the night, I woke up. I heard a sound, like movement, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I was afraid to move, so I just lay there as still as I could. This was the worst part of living alone: when you’re scared and don’t have anybody to turn to. The noise was coming from the refrigerator. Please, God, don’t let it be a mouse. Just the thought of seeing a ball of gray fur made my stomach turn. I got up slowly and went and knocked on the refrigerator door. If it was in there, it could run out the way it came in, and I wouldn’t ever have to see it. I waited a few seconds, then opened the door slowly; the only thing inside was my leftover dinner and the things I’d bought. I felt relieved, but to be sure, I opened the freezer. A plastic box was filling up with oval-shaped ice cubes. I had completely forgotten abo
ut that damn icemaker.

  I lay back down and stared at the white walls, which now looked blue because of the street light shining through the windows. I closed my eyes, but they wouldn’t stay shut. They kept seeing blue. I got up and went over to the counter and broke off a piece of chocolate and lay down again. This is how it always starts, Zora, I thought, then stomped to the bathroom and flushed the entire contents of the bag—including what was in my mouth—down the toilet.

  I turned on the fan and stood in the middle of the living room, listening to it oscillate. The blankets felt cool on my bare feet, but it was hot as hell in here. I lay on top of the blankets and tried to go to sleep, but then my breasts started to throb, and I watched them rise and fall. Not tonight, I thought. I don’t have the energy. My nipples hardened. This was their way of letting me know they needed to be touched, kissed—something. Without realizing it, I cupped both hands over them and started to massage them. I can’t lie: I pretended they were Franklin’s hands. Then a heart started beating between my legs. His hands slid down my belly, stroked the inside of my thighs until my body was electric. I couldn’t help it when my legs flew open. And by the time his hands found the spot, moved in, and pressed down, I felt like a hot wet sponge being squeezed. My body jerked, and I couldn’t stop shivering. I wanted him to kiss me forever, put his arms around me and hold me, keep me warm and safe. I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes tighter so I could keep him there. That’s when I felt the tears easing out from my lids, and my hands dropped to the floor. “I’m so tired of this,” I said out loud. So I wiped my eyes, got under the sheet, and pulled it up to my chin. But I could’ve sworn Franklin said, “Don’t stop now,” so I pulled the pillow inside my arms until it felt like a man.

  “Come on, baby,” I heard him say. “Give it all to me.”

  And that’s exactly what I did.

  * * *

  In the morning, a knock at the door woke me up. I was lying in front of the stove; the blankets were over by a stack of boxes. I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. I got up from the floor, put on a cotton bathrobe, and opened the door without even thinking to ask who it was. Franklin was standing under the arch. I wiped the sleep from my eyes.

  “You drink coffee?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, and let him in.

  2

  Don’t ask me why I did some stupid shit like that. Ringing that woman’s doorbell at that time of morning. And with a lame-ass line like, “You drink coffee?” I didn’t have nothin’ else to do all day, really. Last night, Vinney rang my buzzer and told me we wouldn’t start the other building for three days. Had to wait for materials. This pissed me off, ’cause I needed the money. I promised Pam I’d bring her a hundred dollars by Friday. Once again I’ma have to look like a chump. I’m sicka this shit. Pam swears the reason I don’t help her with the kids more than I do is ’cause it’s my way of getting back at her. But that’s bullshit. You can’t give what you ain’t got.

  This morning I got up around six, did a few sit-ups and push-ups to get my adrenaline going, and walked to the corner coffee shop—like I do every morning—and ordered black coffee. But something told me to order two. I didn’t even know if the woman was up, if she would have a heart attack and shit seeing me, but I decided to take my chances.

  When she opened the door, she looked like she’d had a rough night. She was still pretty, though, even with no makeup. Her skin looked like Lipton tea. I saw them thick nipples sticking out through that pink bathrobe, and I felt Tarzan rising.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “Of course you did. Is something wrong?”

  “Naw. I just figured you probably didn’t get a chance to unpack everything, so I thought I’d be a gentleman and bring you over a hot cup of coffee. Help you get your day started, that’s all.”

  “Are you on drugs or something?”

  “I don’t do drugs, sweetheart. Outgrew it. Besides, it’s a dead habit. Jack Daniel’s and Heinekens I like. You looking kinda rough this morning—what kind you on?”

  “Thanks a lot. I always look gorgeous when I haven’t brushed my teeth or washed my face.”

  She turned her back to me. She definitely wasn’t skinny, like most of these women running around here trying to look like fashion models. They really think they look good, but to me they look like they starving. Any man’ll tell you they like a woman with some meat on her bones. Zora slid down the wall to a sitting position. Her robe was above her knees and I saw that she had skinny legs. When she realized I was looking, she squeezed ’em together and pulled the robe down to hide ’em.

  “Thank you for the coffee,” she said.

  “No sweat.” Damn, in the morning her voice is deeper than mine. I betcha she can sing. She ran her fingers through her short hair. Those curls looked like they was hers and not them nasty-ass Jheri-Kurls everybody’s wearing. She took the lid off her coffee. I walked over to sit down next to her, and she didn’t move. A lot of women are scared of me ’cause I’m so big; they don’t think big men know how to be gentle.

  “Don’t you have to go to work today?” she asked.

  “I’m laid off for a few days. Materials is late.”

  “Really?” she said, then took a sip of her coffee. “This stuff is really disgusting. I’ll make a good pot.”

  She got up and walked over to the sink. She had to be about five seven, maybe 140 pounds, and she moved as graceful as the gazelles on “Wild Kingdom.” I wish people could be more like animals. Just trust and follow our instincts without worrying about the consequences. If that was the case, I’d be getting up right now, walking up behind her, and turning her around to look me in the eye, and I would kiss her. But since we ain’t animals, I just asked her, “So how was your first night?” She turned around real fast and gave me this piercing look, like I just asked her for some pussy or something. Then she put all her weight on one of them little bony legs and let out a long sigh. “I’m not trying to be nosy. I was just wondering.”

  “Kind of spooky, to tell you the truth. I have to get used to sleeping in a new place.”

  “Where’d you sleep?”

  “On the floor.”

  “Where’s your bed?”

  “Over there, those boards against the wall. It’s a platform bed. I threw out the old mattress and am getting a new one in a few days.”

  “You gon’ put it together by yourself?”

  “Not exactly. A friend is coming over to help me, as soon as the floor is dry. You think it’s dry now?”

  A friend? Why didn’t she just come on out and say her man? Women. Why be so sneaky about shit. I got up to go check the floor. It was dry, all right. “It still ain’t dry yet, and if you don’t wanna mess it up, I’d give it one more day.” When I start lying like this, it means my ass is in trouble. I shoulda went home then, but I couldn’t.

  “Another whole day?”

  “Well, tell your man to come on over anyway.”

  She looked at me kinda weird. “I told you, he’s a friend.”

  Yeah, right, and I’m running for President. Women don’t have men for friends. I don’t know why I felt relieved, though. She didn’t sound like she was lying, and why would she have to lie to me? I swear to God, here I go again. I’m contradicting myself like a motherfucker. I ain’t got no business being here, none whatso-fuckin’-ever. But I still couldn’t leave. My primal instincts always get the best of me. I watch too many damn nature shows is what it is. “What’s in all these boxes? Where’s your stereo? I know you got a stereo, being a singer and everything.”

  “Mostly books. I do have a stereo, but Eli’s hooking that up too.”

  “He must be a good friend.”

  “He is.”

  “Look, I don’t mean to get all in your business, but I’m not doing nothin’ today, and I wouldn’t mind helping you. You got bookshelves, I see.”

  “I need toggle bolts for ’em. Thanks for the offer, but I told you, Eli’ll do it for free.
”

  “Did I mention anything about money?”

  “You’re the one who said you didn’t work for free.”

  “Yeah, and if your memory serves you correctly, I also said that sometimes I believe in charity.”

  “You’re getting a little carried away with it, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Maybe. Look, you got any tools—a drill, a screwdriver, hammer—anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “I shoulda guessed.”

  “Are you always this persistent?” she asked.

  I just looked at her and smiled. Was I being persistent? The truth of the matter was, this wasn’t even my style. Women usually come to me. But there was something kind of mysterious about this one. Ain’t nothin’ like a little mystery to arouse my curiosity. I wanted to know where she came from. What was she doing in Brooklyn? Did she or didn’t she have a man? And if she did, where the fuck was he? Why didn’t he help her? Naw, she didn’t have no man, or she wouldn’ta spent the first night in here by herself. But why should I care? All I wanted to know was if she could really sing, or was this just a front. Some of ’em’ll tell you anything to impress you. But Zora didn’t sound like she was concerned one way or another about what I thought. I liked that shit. And she’s the first woman I met in a long time that ain’t leaning on nobody. I liked her for that alone. We could just turn out to be friends—if I can keep my perspective. But like I said, women don’t know how to be your friend. They either wanna be your woman or they don’t want to be nothin’. I’m just glad I ain’t in the market.

  She handed me another cup of coffee, in some fancy ceramic-type cup. I could tell she had good taste from all the shit I carried up here. She actually got real artwork, not those tacky, outdated posters most of the women I’ve known had on their walls—if they had anything. And she was right—this coffee was good.

  “Look, I’ve got to get ready for work,” she said.

  “What kinda work? I thought you said you was a singer.”