After The Dance (4 page)

Okay, I’d be lying if I said that Faye’s company hasn’t meant a lot to me. Hanging out with her on Friday nights most definitely beats the heck out of spending them alone. I really thought we were starting to connect and I was hoping she felt the same. But lately she’s been avoiding me. For two weeks straight now, she’s given me the brush-off when I’ve asked her about coming over to watch videos.

“Sorry, Carl, I’ve already made plans for the evening.”

Plans, my foot! Who does she think I am, Sam Sausage Head or somebody? I know she’s not doing anything other than sitting over there with her head propped up behind one of those doggone Harlequins. Sure, my feelings are hurt. When was the last time a woman told you that she’d rather spend time with a paperback than with you?

At first I was fairly levelheaded about it. I said, hey, there are plenty of available women in the world. If she doesn’t want to be bothered with me, cool, later for her then. But then it started to irk me. I mean, one day we’re laughing, talking, and having a good time, and the next day it’s back to the curt hellos and cold good-byes, and not a moment to spare for anything in between. I think, at the least, I deserve an explanation.

I know the whole thing is pretty petty, man, but I just can’t seem to get her off my mind. Just the other day when I was picking up around the place I noticed her book,
Jungle Passions,
sitting on top of a small stack of books in my bookcase. It was right there in plain view. And I thought about that night when she had browsed the shelves. There was no way she couldn’t have seen the book, man, not with that cover jumping out at you like the neon lights in front of some strip joint. But she never said a word about it.

Looking back on everything that’s transpired between us, I can’t help but wonder if me laying that lip action on her might have been just a little bit too much too soon. And I’m saying, it’s not like I stuck my tongue all down the chick’s throat or even tried to cop a quick feel. Still, she may very well think I’m out to do a “take the coochie and run” number on her. And granted, once upon a time I might have done just that.

But my days of indiscriminate tail-chasing have long since ended. All that stuff that went down with the ex, Clarice, and the kids made me realize a lot of things—number one being that it’s high time I started searching for that something or someone that will add years to my life, not take them away. I’m tired of waking up and wondering if the chick lying next to me is going to give me crabs, herpes, AIDS, or yet another child to support on my already meager income. I thought I’d already told Faye as much. But then again, maybe it’s what I haven’t told her that’s making her back off.

I don’t know, man. What do you think? Should I go over and tell this girl straight up that I’m digging her and that I’m more than willing to slow this thing down to whatever speed works best for her? Do I sit back and give her a chance to come back around on her own accord? Or, hell, do I just move on and forget about the whole thing?

I could tell the rejection was getting to him, but I never expected a personal confrontation. After two weeks of declining his video invitations and slamming a tight lid on the small talk, I figured he’d take the hint and turn his attention elsewhere. Well, I was wrong. When the third week rolled around, he didn’t ask me over—no, girl, he asked me out—as in date—as in dinner and a movie. And I said no—as in “I’m not interested”—as in “I don’t want to be bothered.”

Girl, you would have thought I called his mama a ’ho or something. This big cloud of fury dropped down over his face and I did what any smart, right-thinking woman would have—I beat a hasty retreat before all hell had a chance to break loose.

That would have been more than enough for most guys. But not Carl, honey. I’m telling you, this is a man who is not easily deterred. Paid me a personal visit that very same evening. I was stretched out on my bed, listening to the jazz station, and trying to unwind when I heard Nora outside my bedroom door. “Yo, Faye. You got company.”

Hell, I thought maybe it was you or Terri or Wilma or somebody. But then Nora poked her head inside my room and told me it was none other than video man himself. I said, “Look, Nora, you’ve got to get rid of him for me. Tell him I’m taking a bath. I’m indisposed.”

“Indi—who?” Nora said with her ignorant self. “Girl, you better stop tripping and bring your fat butt on out here. What you dodging him for? Uh-huh, I knew y’all was doing more than watching videos over there.” Then the cow turned around, went back out, and told the man I’d be out in a minute. Wait and see if I don’t pay her back!

There wasn’t anything left for me to do but go and face
the music. So I went out and said a polite hello, which he, of course, returned. And then there was this god-awful moment of silence as the three of us—me, Carl, and Nora—stood there gawking at one another, before Carl cleared his throat and said, “If you’ve got a moment I’d like to talk to you—in private.” Nora flashed me one of those, “Who?! I ain’t going nowhere” looks, so I didn’t have any choice but to invite the man into my bedroom.

Once there he didn’t waste any time getting right to the point. “So what’s with the cold-shoulder bit? It’s obvious you’ve been avoiding me like the plague for the past couple of weeks, and I think it’s time we cleared the air.”

I said, “Don’t take it personal, Carl, ’cause believe me, it’s not. I’m simply not interested in getting emotionally in-volved—with you or anyone else, for that matter.”

He shook his head and was like, “Emotionally involved? We’ve been emotionally involved, Faye, ever since day one. What human interaction is ever without some emotional involvement? Look, if you don’t want to spend any more time with me, fine, but could you at least tell me where I overstepped the boundaries? Was it the kiss? My breath? Something I said? Was it the way I touched you or didn’t touch you?”

Excusing his breath, it was, of course, all of those things and more. But what was I going to say, and how was I going to say it without doing any more damage to his already bruised ego? I ended up copping a plea—told him I didn’t know exactly how to explain it, but I was sorry if I had hurt his feelings.

Then I stood back and waited for him to spit fire, but he just gave me this little polite schoolboy grin and said, “Okay, Faye, if that’s how it’s gonna be, what’s there left to say? It’s just that I’ll be moving soon and I didn’t want to leave with all of these question marks hanging in the air between us. But since you’re obviously not interested in shedding any light on the situation, I guess I’ll just have to
go through life wondering just what it was I did to earn myself the boot.”

After my soul-sapping encounter with Faye, it seemed like the rest of my weekend went steadily downhill. I swear, it was like a chain reaction or something, man, ’cause all the women in my life just plain started acting a fool.

The very next day I got into this big shouting match with Clarice after I found out she’d been letting my son, Benjamin, call some dude she’s been laying up with “daddy.” I’m saying, man, some gold-toothed runt of a fool named Bull-Dog. I let her know, not only was it not right, but I wasn’t gonna have it. I mean, come on, my son is almost three and has yet to act like he even knows he and I are some kinda kin. But I’m supposed to just step aside and let her slowly poison my boy’s mind against me? I don’t think so.

Man, Clarice went off and accused me of not spending enough time with Ben and being negligent in my duties as a father. Like that’s my fault! She’s the one who won’t hardly let me take the boy out of her sight, which pretty much limits my role to that of a checkbook papa, some dude who rolls through every once in a while to drop off a check, a box of Pull-Ups, and maybe a Tonka toy or two.

Well, the name-calling and insults escalated to the point where I said, hey, enough already. I snatched up Ben—who by this time had joined in with some screaming and wailing of his own—and told Clarice she could call me when she came to her senses, and maybe then we could sit down and figure out some sort of sensible visitation schedule.
Oh yeah, man, she howled up a storm then. Threatened to call the cops and have my butt thrown in jail for kidnapping! But I was way too far past mad to let that detour me any.

Next thing I know, I’m driving around the city with this screaming kid who don’t know me from Santa Claus, when outta nowhere I get this bright idea to run by the ex’s and pick up my girls. After all, it’s a nice sunny, spring day in May. What better way to spend it than with all of my kids? I could take them downtown, treat them to a ride on the Main Street Trolley, show them the Pyramid, zip on over to Tom Lee Park and let them watch the boats on the river … Yeah, man, I went over to my ex’s all ready to play this daddy thing to the hilt—only to have Bet promptly pitch a fit and curse me out for having the “negrified audacity,” as she put it, “to bring that stank tramp’s child” up in her house.

In hindsight, I don’t know what I was thinking. The fact that Benjamin even exists is still very much a sore point between me and Bet. That’s not to say that my ex is at all a hateful woman. Really, for the most part, she’s the sweetest person you’d ever want to meet. It’s just that in a lot of ways Benjamin’s birth was the straw that broke the camel’s back in our already troubled marriage. I keep praying that time will eventually ease some of the pain for her and maybe even one day allow her to forgive me for it. But needless to say, that wasn’t the day.

Anyway, instead of the girls, all I got was a good chewing out. That’s how I ended up back at my place trying to bribe my hardheaded, inconsolable son with a doggone Happy Meal and just about on the brink of bawling some myself.

There’s nothing I hate more than the sound of a crying baby. And this child was over there screaming like his whole little world was about to come to some catastrophic end.

After fifteen minutes of trying to tune it out, I went over and asked Carl if everything was all right, only to have him spit a nasty “Yeah!” at me before slamming the freaking door in my face.

Hump, he can play crazy if he wants to
is what I told myself, but I wasn’t going anywhere until I’d verified with my own two eyes that the kid was okay. So after a couple of deep breaths and a quick count to ten, I banged on the brother’s door again. And this time when he swung it open, I jumped in his face. “Look here, man,” I told him, “if you don’t let me up in here, I’m calling 911 and reporting your behind for suspected child abuse.”

Something must have told homeboy I was more than ready to make good on the threat ’cause he checked the flip attitude, backed his butt on up, and let me in. The first thing I saw on entering the living room was this little boy who was Carl’s spitting image: big square head, pouting lower lip, and all. The kid, who by this time had boo-hooed so hard he could hardly catch his breath, was seated in a thick puddle of what turned out to be strawberry milkshake, he had gobs of mustard decorating the top of his head, and he had a gooey ketchup, tears, and slobber mix setting up a right nice tie-dye down the front of his shirt.

I threw Carl a look, which he obviously interpreted as some kind of accusation.

“What?!” he said. “I haven’t done anything. He’s upset about the stupid toy. It broke when we took it from the package.”

I knelt down next to the kid and on closer inspection saw the plastic doohickey he had in his little balled-up fist. I unsnapped the miniature hourglass I keep on my key chain and held it out to him. “Look, sweetie, why don’t you play with this? What do you say? You wanna make a trade?”

I think for a few seconds there, Carl and I both were holding our breaths. But after wiping his nose on his sleeve and peering around me to sneak a peek at Daddy Dearest, he decided to take me up on the deal.

Figuring my job there was done, I looked at Carl and said, “Well, don’t just stand there. Clean him up.”

I watched in amazement as this fool went and got a couple sheets of paper towel and then tried to dry-mop the boy down.

“Man, please,” I said. I grabbed the child’s hand, led him away from his ol’ crazy daddy and toward the bathroom. I helped myself to a clean towel and a bar of soap, ran the sink full of warm water, and started disrobing the boy.

“Don’t you have a change of clothes?” I asked Carl, who was standing there staring at me like I was the one who’d lost my ever-loving mind.

“No, I don’t,” he said, jumping back into his Mr. Snot-Butt routine.

“Well, find him something to put on ’cause this stuff is gonna have to be washed. You can do that, can’t you?” I said, getting snotty right back at him.

He snatched the baby’s clothes from the floor and disappeared for a moment. When he returned, instead of cutting him any slack, I went in for the kill. “You don’t have a diaper bag? I can’t believe his mama would send him over here without a change of clothes.”

Oooh, girl, that got him good and pissed. He stepped in the bathroom and said, “Hold up a second, okay? You
don’t know me and judging from what you said last night, you don’t wanna know me. So why are you over here trying to be all up in my business?”

He tossed a shirt that must have belonged to one of his daughters at me, then stormed out. So there I was alone with his son, who, frightened by the bass in his daddy’s voice bouncing all off the shower curtains and ricocheting against the tiled walls, had up and started bawling again.

I was down on the floor cleaning up the mess Ben had made and working out my frustrations with the help of a rag and a bucket of water when I heard ol’ girl clear her throat. Before I stopped and turned to look at her I asked the good Lord to forgive me in advance. Why? ’Cause I knew, man, if ol’ girl started talking crazy to me again, I was going straight for the jugular.

But she was cool. All she said was, “He’s tired. If you’ve got a rocking chair I’ll see if I can’t get him to go to sleep.” My boy Ben played up the point by poking his thumb in his mouth and nestling his head on her shoulder.