Again (10 page)

“I already see reason. Between the three of us, I’m the only one who sees just how things truly stand. Another thing I see is that you need to grow you a pair if you want to stay in business with me. Because man, this wavering back and forth mealy-mouth shit isn’t good for business…or for our friendship. You decide.”

He didn’t need to tell Rick to leave. He simply sat down, swiveled the chair to face the window.

He looked at Rick’s reflection in the window, saw the chastised man slink out, heard the click of the door. He stared at the closed door, then let his eyes wander to his own reflection.

He didn’t like what he saw. His brows knitted, his jaw tightened. It was as though he were staring at some stranger sitting where his body should be. The man looking back seemed an alien to him. Someone dour, ill-tempered.

He had been losing it a lot lately. Over small things as well as the bigger stuff that would turn a saint into a murderer. Like just now. He had a nagging feeling, just beneath the surface, that had he been alone with Clarence, or better yet, in some out-of-the-way place with no witnesses, he would have beaten his partner unconscious and just left him there to bleed.

What was happening to him? He’d always been passionate, but never out of control. The other day, someone cut him off in traffic, forcing him to jam on his brakes. For half a mile or more, he had followed the fool with thoughts of ramming the man’s car. Luckily, he cooled down before the deed got done.

Yesterday, he had even snapped at Debbie because he thought she misplaced a file. He later found it sitting on the end of his desk. The file hadn’t even been important. Still, his blood had seethed and his emotions had boiled.

It just seemed as though things kept coming at him. Lack of sleep, although the dreams were fewer now, and a general restlessness. Sometimes, an unsettling feeling of anxiety. Just to be safe, he was avoiding caffeine. He didn’t want one cup of coffee sending him off to jail.

The intercom buzzed and Debbie’s tinkerbell-like voice piped in. “Dave, that fax you were expecting just came in.”

T
yne ordered iced tea while waiting for Tanya, who was already nine minutes late. The outdoor café along the riverwalk was full of noonday patrons smiling and chatting. She easily spotted the tourists sitting among the regular lunch crowd. The tableau of khaki pants and shorts, multicolored polo shirts, and pastel windbreakers always stood out amid the tailored suits and casual business attire. Plus the tourists tended to gape, as they were doing now as two boats moved up the Chicago River. Some pointed, others snapped pictures. The boat rides were popular, and even though today the wind was up, causing small waves to lap hungrily at the rudders, she could see people sitting on the decks listening to the droning docents regale them with architectural anecdotes.

A blast of wind whipped up, and pages from someone’s newspaper lofted on the gust, swirled out into the traffic going east on Wacker. A long cumbersome sheet slapped against the windshield of a Volvo. The car screeched to a stop, and the driver reached out to remove the barrier. The impatient drivers behind him honked their frustration.

“What’s going on?” Tanya stood at the table, looking out at the melee. Tyne hadn’t seen her walk up.

“Just the Chicago wind acting up again. So, why so late?” Tyne asked as her sister took a seat. “You’re usually the one bitching when someone shows up two seconds past due.”

Tanya smiled. “Don’t beat me up too bad. I got caught up with errands and lost track. Sorry. Besides, this is my treat. Just relax.”

“I’ve already ordered iced tea for both of us. I told the waiter someone else was coming, so he should be back soon. Thanks in advance for the sumptuous lunch.”

Tanya’s coffee-brown face glowed with good health, good humor. Tyne could always count on her sister to be there when the edges of her life got a little rough. Tanya was the optimist among the set, the second Mama when things got bad. Miss Picker-upper. She looked particularly engaging, dressed in a dark red blazer and skirt with a tangerine blouse. Her glossy braids hung just past her shoulders. A male passerby craned his head to look back at both of them as he strode up the walk. He winked.

“Gonna try to break my bank, huh?” Tanya said as she settled her purse and several Lord & Taylor bags onto the adjacent seat. “Oh, well. Hey, you know April and Donell get back on Wednesday. I was thinking maybe we ought to get together, go out, just the sisters. Whaddya say? Again, my treat.”

Tyne felt an unexpected twinge of anger. She knew she was being overly sensitive but couldn’t help it. Tanya was being good-hearted as usual whereas Tyne was being her competitive, bitchy self. It was just that she hated being a charity case, and she averted resentful eyes from the Lord & Taylor bags. Lord only knew when she would be able to go splurge shopping again.

“Sounds good,” she said, “but let’s go Dutch, or, if you want, we can split the tab between the two of us for April.”

Tanya didn’t say anything, but looked as though she was making an effort to bite her tongue.

Tyne smiled. “I’m going to be all right, Sis. I’ll get through this.”

The waiter came back and set tall glasses of tea on the canopied table, then took both their orders. Tyne, pride winning out, ordered a Caesar salad and told the waiter to bring separate checks. Even as she told him, she defied her sister with a look to say anything. Tanya shrugged capitulation. Both knew how long they could lock horns and knew better to avoid the unnecessary drama. The waiter left.

“By the way, I may have a lead on a job writing for a magazine,” Tyne said, still somewhat dumbfounded by her good luck.

“That’s great, Tyne. Where?”

“It’s actually a start-up magazine with a focus on Chicago women. That’s about as much as I know right now, but even that little sounds a step up from what I left. I’ll actually get to write articles, have a byline.”

“How did you hear about it? Someone at work?”

Tyne didn’t know where the awkwardness came from. Didn’t know why she wanted to keep David a secret. Nothing had happened, maybe nothing would. Still, Tanya had a way of reading her.

“Are you hoarding the information for some future use?” Tanya prompted. “C’mon, what’s the secret?”

“Nothing. Actually, I got the lead from someone I met at April’s wedding.”

“Aaahhh…I see. Could it be that guy you were dancing with? The one you got all comfy and cozy with? Verrry niiice.”

Tyne nearly spluttered the tea she had been sipping. “How did you—? And, I wasn’t
cozy
with him. He just asked me to dance and then he sorta called to ask me out. But we only went out once and that was it. Then he offered to pass my resume on to a friend, no strings.” She took a breath. “It’s nothing.”

“Convince yourself yet?” Tanya smirked.

Another breath. “You’re making something out of nothing.”

“OK, then, let me go over what you just said so that I know I’m not misunderstanding anything. You met a man at our sister’s wedding, you had what looked like a very intimate dance with him—at least from what I saw—and you’ve already had one date.”

“It was lunch, not a date.”

“Lunch, then. And he’s already offering to help you find another job. Not bad for a couple of weeks’ work. Did I leave anything out?”

“Yeah, the bed-shaking, freaky sex we had,” Tyne shot out, causing Tanya’s right eyebrow to shoot up.

“What?”

Now Tyne smiled. “Got ya. And tell me you don’t think I’m that easy. Skeeza I’m not—yet. But if I get down to my last can of tuna, I may be renting it out soon.”

“Girl, pleeze, stop your fantasizing. But really, who is this guy? As your sister, I retain the right to bug you about your love life.”

The waiter brought their orders, and Tyne waited for him to leave. “Like I told you, there’s nothing. I guess…well, he sorta kissed me but—”

“Sorta? Uh huh. Does sorta involve just lips or tongue?”

Tyne looked around embarrassed. “Please. Doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to happen. I mean, it can’t, especially since I don’t want to feel obligated.”

“Did he say quid pro quo?”

“No, just the opposite. He told me the decision’s mine. Like there’s a decision to be made. God, I just met the man, and he’s already talking like we’ve known each other for years. I’m just a little put off by him.” She took a bite of her sandwich, but it went down dry. Her pulse was racing.

“Put off? Why? He’s not weird, is he?” Tyne could see Tanya’s hackles rising. Creep alert. They all had it when it came to the men in each other’s lives. Tyne hadn’t particularly liked Jason, but he and Tanya were now together for six years, living in peaceful sin. Which kept their mother praying. As she had prayed for April during the Kendrick years.

“No. I mean I don’t know. It’s just there’ve been some other things happening. It’s nothing I can explain.” She had told no one about the dreams. As close as she was to Tanya and April, she had never felt comfortable talking to them about sex. Or specifically the sex she had, wasn’t having, was dreaming about. Maybe she had inherited her mother’s prudishness.

“Um, Tyne, you’re making the kind of sense that’s not. Plain and simple. If he gives you bad vibes, just stay away from him, job or no.”

Tyne took another bite, looked at the sun-drenched street glutted with folks—folks walking, striding, romping. Glowing faces mirrored the brightness of the day, especially the teenagers. A girl, maybe fifteen, sixteen, pink hair, green eye-shadow, doubled over laughing at something her equally punked-out friends just said. Tyne remembered being that carefree—if not exactly that weird—once, or rather that ignorant of the realities of just living on. Uncertainty, unemployment, sadness, loneliness, the proverbial states of being. Offset by hope, which she still had, love from her family, if nowhere else, sometimes a good glass of wine, a good movie, the touch of someone—something she hadn’t had in a long time—except in her dreams. The dreams she had begun to crave even as the fear persisted, even as the lover was fleshed out with thick, wavy brown hair, penetrating green eyes, lips that tasted of mint.

“I can take care of myself. I’m not April, Tanya. It’s—he’s just about business. Besides, I need this job, if I can even get it. I can’t afford to go spending my money like Armageddon’s coming.” She deliberately let her eyes wander over the bags nearly falling off the chair abutting Tanya’s.

“OK, I’m backing off,” Tanya sighed. “I don’t want an argument with you. I know you can take care of yourself. You’re grown enough to know better than to let a man dog you out or to let shit start up in the first place. We’ve been through this mess with April. I guess I’m just paranoid.”

“No, you’re not paranoid. You’re just being a sister. I like the fact that you’ve got my back. If for some reason, I do lose my mind and start acting stupid, I’m counting on you to slap me upside my head.”

Both sisters smiled, their disagreement smoothed over. Tyne sipped her tea, tried to concentrate on the good things coming up: possibly a new job, maybe meeting new people, and best of all, no more Stan. Things could be worse.

T
ime stilled, his lungs burned. Buoyancy gave way to heaviness, but he couldn’t stop. He only had half a lap to go. His goal was set, yet his muscles were at war with him. They wanted to stop, to float away. Still, he was master of his body and mind; he wouldn’t heed them. He turned his head to swallow air, instead pulled water into his nostrils, his lungs. He stopped, tried to break above the water to gasp the life he needed. But the more he tried, the lower he drifted, his lungs bursting.

Reality became liquid blue, a chloroformed world that eagerly welcomed him into its soundless depths. Below in a blur, he saw the outline of the drain, to the sides, the tiles of the pool. He could hold his breath no longer, and began drinking in his death through his nose, his mouth. This was where he would die. Here.

In a last grasp of consciousness, he wondered why his life wasn’t reeling through his mind. His triumphs as well as his regrets. But there was nothing. Just nothingness.

He reached the bottom and waited. It was strange. He could hear music. Faraway, yet familiar. It floated toward him, wafting along the deadly water…

Crystal tears mirrored the myriad dancers swirling below, colors sparkled, diamonds glittered. On the dais, an orchestra played “On the Beautiful Blue Danube.” The strings blended perfectly with the woodwinds, the tempo precise, flawless. He stared at the musicians. They were all Negroes. He stood near the entrance of the hall, awed by the regalia, by the decorum. He hadn’t known what to expect, but certainly not this.

A few years back, he had read an article in the
New York Times
about these colored dances. One of his club acquaintances had snipped it out and passed it around. There were titters and guffaws through the cigar smoke at the sheer thought of Negroes dressing up in finery, trying to imitate their betters. The idea was ludicrous, a caricature worthy of ridicule.

His thoughts had been far from that issue when he came upon the carriages parked in front of the Waldorf-Astoria. He was hurrying along, mindful that he was already five minutes late to his dinner meeting with Barrett at Delmonico’s. Head down against the hat-flapping wind, hand pinning his bowler to his head, he missed seeing the body of green organza stepping out of the carriage. His foot landed hard on the laced hem of the dress.

He looked up with a “Pardon me” on his lips that immediately died when he met the pair of startled eyes framed within a caramel crème face. Tendrils escaped an elegant chignon. Beautiful, he thought. “Negro!” shouted in his head. As soon as the thought whisked through his brain, he banished it.

Her companion—a masculine version of her in a tuxedo adorned with epaulets—tightened his grip on her, coughed his displeasure.

“C’mon, Rachel, let’s get inside. Too many rude folks out here.”

He would have apologized, but the couple swept past him through the doors of the hotel and left him looking after them. He felt like a slow-witted adolescent or worse, an inmate of Bedlam stunned into inertia. He turned to find the coachman looking on him with much the same estimation. He noted with amazement that the man was white. Never had he encountered this scenario. It was too odd by far.

And why he had entered the hotel, then the hall, he wondered even now as his eyes sought out the green organza among the motley of red silk, blue velvet, lavender dupioni. He couldn’t help noticing a map of Cuba hanging just to the right of the orchestra. Obviously, these Negroes were adherents of Antonio Maceo, the audacious Cuban who had come to New York just last year in hopes of raising funds for Cuba’s uprising against Spain.

Eyes turned to him, danced by in expressions of curiosity, indignation, and in some cases, fear. There was not another white face in the whole room. Still, he would not be intimidated. He would not leave until…Then he saw them—or rather her. She had parted with her wraps and stood near a table with the gentleman who had escorted her in. She stood there, a Helen amid the common Trojans, her every movement a measure of grace. The gown was cut off her shoulders, and when she turned he could see the lacy décolletage that concealed and yet teased with the slight impression of cleavage. The dress was demure enough, but inspired a craving to see more.

His legs moved before his mind had decided what he would say. He checked his hat and wrap. Then he circumvented the edge of the dancers, moved toward the table just as the couple sat down. She saw him first, and he couldn’t discern her expression. The man was now watching his approach, and half stood as though preparing for an assault. By the time he neared the table, he could feel the eyes on him, could see that some of the dancers had stopped altogether.

He addressed the man first with a half nod. The black man looked at him warily, his body taut. The man was a head taller and could probably overcome him.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your evening,” he said immediately to allay their worries. “I simply came to apologize. I would have done so outside, but I wasn’t given the chance.” He turned to her, gave her a full nod. “So, madam, please accept my sincere and humble pardon for my bumbling. I hope I did not soil your dress.”

He did not expect a smile. It transformed her features and he saw that he had earlier mistaken her demeanor as that of a shy fawn. Her voice confirmed his new assessment that here sat a lady who would not be put off by any situation.

“I accept your sincere and humble pardon for your bumbling, as you so put it, but I wonder that such a small transgression warrants this production. I mean, it was an accident, was it not?” Her voice was dulcet and tinged with laughter.

He couldn’t believe it. She was actually laughing at him! As was the black man standing near her seat. He could see it in the man’s smirk. How dare they!

He bit back his words, aware that he was outnumbered and that he was the interloper. Embarrassed, his first instinct was to make a quick exit, put this matter behind him. But then he looked into eyes sparkling with amusement and more than anything he did not want to leave her with the impression of a withering coward.

“To know that my apology is accepted, would you honor me with a dance?”

He felt some satisfaction to see both smiles fade, to see the fawn return. She was trapped by decorum. To outright reject his offer would be the cusp of rudeness. She couldn’t even beg tiredness as an excuse for she had only just arrived. To accept his offer would put her in a socially disadvantageous position. No decent Negro woman would be seen dancing with a white man. It just was not done. All this he knew.

Still, she offered him her hand. He noticed that there was no wedding band. There was daring in her eyes now. She rose in one liquid motion.

“Rachel!” her companion warned. “You will not!”

She calmly turned to the man. “Lawrence, would you have me be rude to someone courteous enough to offer amends? Especially when he did not need to.”

“What will people say?” her companion countered.

“What can they say? It’s only a dance.”

The orchestra had finished the “Blue Danube” and was now beginning the first strains of “Viennese Waltz.” The dancers stepped back, creating a berth for the couple. A few women gasped at the sight of his hand going around her waist. There were throat gurgles and indignant whisperings.

But because she looked at him with eyes that dared him to falter, he kept pace with the music, swirling her around stationery bodies. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed comic. Here he was, dancing with a Negro, shirking his dinner with Barrett, who would no doubt call him tonight with exclamations of reproach. But tonight was a night to throw away social recriminations. And it was well worth the small smile that played on her lips. Full and enchanting lips, covered with a rosy hue that played with the contrast of cinnamon…no, he had initially thought her skin the color of caramel. A curl hinged near a brow, toying with her lashes.

“So, whom do I have the honor of dancing with?” she asked. “After all, I am probably wrecking my reputation, as my brother was so quick to point out.”

He couldn’t describe the relief he felt at the designation “brother.” It was a relief ill-founded since he wouldn’t see her past this night. Past these few moments. Past this dance. As it were, he would not be taking the chance if there were a white guest to relay this back to anyone of consequence. Oh, he had no doubt that the Negroes would talk among themselves, but it would not interrupt his world. She would be the one to bear the brunt of tonight. He would simply have the memory of dancing with a beautiful woman.

“My name is Joseph, Joseph Luce.”

She looked startled. “Luce? Not of the Manhattan Luces?”

Now it was his turn to smile. “And how would you know the who is who of Manhattan?”

“And why wouldn’t I?” She appeared indignant.

“Well, it’s not usual that a…a…well…you know…”

“If you finish that sentence this night, and without insulting me, then I will congratulate you on a finesse worthy of the most astute diplomat. Mr. Luce, I not only know about Manhattan society, I also have heard of the Vanderbilts, Carnegies, and Astors. I also know that the present mayor is Edward Cooper, that Hayes is in office, that Mr. Henrik Ibsen has recently written another play. I believe it’s entitled
A Doll’s House
. I plan to read it as soon as I get time. Negroes have an ear to the ground, too.” The coda to this sentence was another smile that competed with the luminescence of her eyes.

“I’m sorry if I presumed.”

“Like you presumed that an escorted woman would say yes to your offer…”

“And why did you?” He felt defensive.

“Only because you looked so penitent and discomfited, I thought acceptance would be a saving grace. Of course, I expect an equally graceful exit after the dance has ended. We don’t want to extend the scandal.”

He smiled now. “And is this a scandal?”

“It is. And you well know it,” she said.

“But as you said, this is only a dance. What more can come from it?” he asked, realizing that he did not want the dance to end, that he did not want to leave if it did. But even now, something was pulling at him. Voices strummed inside his head, joining the strains of the waltz, the murmur of the dancers. She was speaking to him, but it seemed to be from a distance now. She was smiling and beautiful and he thought that maybe his heart might have stopped.

“I think we’ve got a pulse. C’mon, c’mon, come on back…there you go….”

David felt pressure against his chest and an overwhelming need to vomit. He rolled his head on the floor. Water gushed from his nose, spurted from his mouth in small geysers.

“That’s it. Come on back,” said a familiar voice. He opened his eyes to find a man bending over him. Ed, the lifeguard. Standing over them was a woman in a blue bathing suit. He recognized her as a regular swimmer at the club. Her ash blond hair was plastered to her skull.

“Oh, thank God,” she said. Fear and amazement colored her eyes.

The relieved lifeguard sat back on his haunches. “Mr. Carvelli, what were you doing out there? You know you shouldn’t be in the pool before or after hours. You coulda died. Almost did.”

David tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

“No, lay still,” Ed said, pressing a hand to David’s shoulder. “An ambulance is on its way.”

David still couldn’t speak. All he could do was lay there shivering on the cold, wet floor, his only purview the faces of his rescuers and the chipped white ceiling. Incongruously, the thought passed through his haze that for the fees he was paying, they surely could afford to paint the ceiling. He thought about Ed’s words then, and felt nothing. Not fear, not even relief that he was still here. He was numb inside. Ed said that he had almost died. But the lifeguard was wrong. Because he had, in fact, died. If only for a few moments, he had left this life behind. How else to explain the strange episode? He didn’t know how to explain it himself. He had left his body and had—his brain tried to reject it—traveled back in time. The memory was still vivid in his mind. Even now, he thought he heard music in the distance. He could still see her smile.

All of a sudden, he began to feel again. An emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him. A loneliness that was more palpable than the restraining hand on his shoulder, the cold that enveloped his body.

He wanted to go back to her. He almost cried.