Disappearing Acts (40 page)

And sure, I’m up to 180 pounds, but I’m not the only one in this house who’s put on weight. Since Franklin’s been off work, I guess he spends a good part of his day eating, because he’s put on a good twenty pounds himself. He can’t even wear his blue jeans anymore; all he wears is sweats. But I don’t say anything about his weight either. Just last night, I was rubbing my stomach and hips with Nivea—like I’ve been doing every night since I first found out I was pregnant—and he walked into the bedroom butt naked. He looked at me.

“Why you put that stuff on every night?”

“To keep my skin lubricated.”

“You think that’s supposed to stop you from getting stretch marks?”

“It might help.”

“Every woman I ever knew that had a baby’s got stretch marks, so don’t get your hopes up. You gon’ have to lose about fifty of them pounds to start with.”

“What about you? How do you plan on losing yours?”

“This is just from being at home. As soon as I start working out again, I can knock this right off.”

“I might join a gym myself,” I said.

“Just don’t join the one I belonged to.”

“And why not?”

“’Cause all the dudes’ll know you my woman. If you lose the weight, then they gon’ try to hit on you, and if you don’t, I don’t want them to know you my woman.”

“You really know how to make me feel good, you know that? Do you get a kick out of hurting me, is that it?”

“I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just telling you how I feel, that’s all.”

And what did I do after that? Went back into the bathroom, pulled up my nightgown, and looked at my breasts and stomach very, very hard. I didn’t see any stretch marks. I’ll show that bastard. If he thinks I’m going to stay fat after this baby, he’s got another thing coming.

*   *   *

I finally wrote Daddy a letter and told him everything in such a way that he apparently understood, because he called and told me not to worry about anything. He was actually excited about having a grandchild. He also told me that Franklin had told him his whole situation, and when the time was right, Franklin was going to do the right thing. “Just give him some time, and let me know if you need anything—anything at
all,” he said. Marguerite sang a different tune altogether, but I wasn’t interested in that melody.

*   *   *

Something’s going to have to break, and soon, because I can’t go on like this much longer. I’ve spent a fortune putting the baby’s things in layaway, because I’m almost up to my limit on my Visa, and besides, some kind of way Franklin’s got to help. I’ve still got a few dollars of my studio money left, but I’m keeping it for that purpose and that purpose only.

I can’t give up everything.

And I need to get out of this house. I haven’t seen Marie or Claudette in ages. Portia’s gone already, and I miss her loud mouth more than she’ll probably ever know. Every day when I get home, he’s always here. Once, I’d like to just come home and he’d be gone. Out. Anywhere. But I’m Franklin’s sole source of entertainment. I fill up his social calendar, and what’s so sad is that somehow he’s become the same thing for me. This is not healthy—at least it doesn’t feel healthy. We’re supposed to be happy. Looking at baby furniture together. We’re supposed to be married. But at this point I’m not mentioning it, because I’m not so sure anymore if I want to be his wife. I’m just keeping my mouth shut until the baby gets here and see what he does.

*   *   *

Today when I came home, he was upstairs in the bedroom, laughing out loud. As usual, he was watching “The Love Connection.” The house was a mess. The same dishes from last night were still in the sink. His towel was in the middle of the bathroom floor, and a plate where he must’ve eaten was sitting in the middle of the living room floor. So were the crumbs. Ashtrays were overflowing, plants were drooping; he must’ve been doing his woodworking, because he’d tracked sawdust all through the house.

I went upstairs, and he was spread-eagled across the
bed, with his legs, dirty sneakers, crossed and pillows propped up behind his head. He was eating Doritos and had a sheet of sandpaper and a piece of wood in his hands. On top of my two-hundred-dollar comforter. But I didn’t say anything.

“Hi, baby,” he said. “This show is a gas. Some of the things these people do on a date’ll crack you up. Come here, sit down. How was your day?”

Just like that. Like he didn’t have a care in the damn world.

“Fine,” I said.

“What’s for dinner, baby?” he asked, lighting a cigarette. “I’m starving.”

I hadn’t even hung up my coat yet. “Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t feel like cooking tonight. Just what’ve you been doing all day, Franklin?” I asked, looking around. The bedroom was a mess too. His socks and underwear were all over the floor, and cigarette ashes were at the foot of the bed. I saw his empty glass but didn’t say anything.

“Why?”

“I just wanted to know if you looked for work today.”

“It’s too cold.”

“Yesterday it was too cold.”

“And it’s too cold today. Probably be too cold tomorrow too.”

“What about the rent?”

“What about it?”

“You think I can pay seven hundred and fifty dollars by myself?”

“You’re superwoman. You’ll think of something.”

“Franklin, what’s happening to you?”

“Nothing. What makes you think something is happening to me?”

“For the past three and a half weeks, I’ve been trying to be patient. Ever since you got laid off you’ve spent exactly three days looking for work. This isn’t right.”

“I’m just taking a little vacation. I’m tired.”

“Tired?”

“Yeah, tired.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“I’m having a baby, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Ain’t nobody noticed more than me.”

“Aren’t you the least bit concerned about it? And what about the bills and the rent? Don’t you care?”

“Yeah, I care, but it just ain’t nothing I can do about it right now.”

“If you would get up off your black ass and try, you might.”

“Don’t swear at me, Zora.”

“Look, Franklin, I’m getting scared. This is all wrong. Everything is all messed up.”

“Don’t worry. I told you, I’m taking a little vacation, but it’ll be over by Friday. I’ll go out and get a fuckin’ job, and we’ll be back where we started.”

“Which is where?”

“You tell me.”

With that I just turned and walked away. I went downstairs and picked up the telephone. I didn’t even know who I was calling. Claudette answered. But before I had a chance to say hello, Franklin pressed down on the receiver.

“You ain’t gotta call none of your girlfriends and blab all our business.”

“I wasn’t about to blab all of our business, and so what if I was?”

“Why don’t you talk to me?”

“About what?”

“Anything.”

“Franklin, this is getting a little ridiculous. I can’t talk to you. You get on the defensive about everything.”

“You know, you women are all alike. When I was little, my Moms used to pull this same shit on me.”

“And just what shit is that?” I didn’t feel like hearing another story about his mother, but if we were going to have it out, I wanted to get it over with.

“She never wanted to hear my side of anything. I was always wrong.”

“You’re saying I’m like your mother?”

“Did I say that?”

“You’re implying it. Well, let me tell you something, Franklin. I’m about sick of you blaming everything that happens to you on your mother, and I’m sick of being compared to her every time I do or say something you don’t like.”

“She fucked me up.”

“I’m ready to agree with that.”

He went to the cabinet and got a bottle out, but I didn’t dare say anything. I watched him pour. Then I watched him take a long swallow.

“My Moms stripped me of my manhood before I was a man.”

“No one can strip you of anything unless you let them.”

“Do you know what it’s like not to feel loved by your own mother?”

“Mine died when I was three.”

“But your Daddy loved you.”

“And still does.”

“Well, growing up in a house with all girls, and one who was the favorite and got anything she wanted, and I got treated like shit, ain’t helped me one bit.”

“You can’t sit here and expect me to believe that your mother
never
showed you any love.”

“Why would I lie? What I’m saying is that if she did, she had a fucked-up way of showing it. Do you know how bad that can make you feel inside, knowing that your own mother don’t give a shit about what happens to you, huh?”

He took another long swallow. I didn’t feel like answering.
I wanted to tell him to just grow up. But I didn’t.

“And my Pops. He’s pitiful. Sometimes I’d like to kill both of ’em. He’s a faggot. Just let her run all over him, let her run everything. Didn’t have no balls. And that’s why I made up my mind a long time ago that I wasn’t never gon’ let no woman run me. Never.”

“So what has this got to do with anything?”

“Baby, I got a lotta things going on inside me that you don’t understand, and it don’t seem like you trying.”

“Like what, Franklin? Like what?”

“Like not being able to find a job. I been out there at least ten different times. I just got tired of telling you that nothin’ was happening. And yeah, I could get some shitwork, making five dollars a hour, but I’m tired of that. Tired. Can’t you understand that?”

“Yeah, but we’ve got a baby coming—can’t you understand
that?
”

“All I’m saying is bear with me. If you love me, then prove it.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for almost two years?”

“You’ve done a pretty good job of it—till now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Franklin?”

“You and your little singing career. Don’t get me wrong, baby. You can sing, and I wanna see you make it. But you put everything before me.”

“What are you talking about now?”

The glass was empty.

“You done got carried away with these extracurricular activities at school. Everything is the kids this and the kids that. You used to wanna fuck me anytime I wanted it. You used to talk to me. You used to wanna play Scrabble with me all the time. We used to have fun. You used to not mind cooking for me. Now I gotta beg for everything. Just a little attention, that’s all I want. To know that I matter.”

He sounded so pitiful I wanted to throw up. The only reason I’d been staying after school was because I didn’t want to come home. Every time I turned the key in the door I automatically got depressed. But now I was thinking,
had
I stopped doing all those things?
Was
I making him feel like he was just another piece of furniture? I hadn’t meant to. Really I hadn’t.

“Franklin, you do matter. But I don’t know how much I have to do to prove to you that I love you. You’re making it awful hard. How do you think I feel? Here I am eight months pregnant, living with a man who’s not only unemployed but who’s not even my husband. When we started out, you had dreams. I had dreams. You had me believing you would go back to school, get your divorce, and start your own business. And look at you.”

“You don’t have to tell me to look at myself. What you think I do in here all day?”

“Well, the rent’s due in two weeks, and if I pay it, then that means the phone’ll probably get turned off or the lights, or I’ll get behind in my credit card payments.”

“That’s all you can think about is the fucking bills? What about me? You ain’t heard a word I said.”

“What about you! Is that all you think about, Franklin? Look, let’s just stop this conversation, because it’s going nowhere.”

“Yeah, ’cause I ain’t in the mood for no arguing. What about dinner?”

This motherfucker must be deaf.

I got a rinky-dink job that lasted a week. I only took it to shut Zora up. She was really getting on my nerves, and I figured I better do something to break up the fuckin’ monotony. I didn’t know what I was doing, really. All I knew was that I was tired of repeating myself and getting no-goddamn-where. After a while, a man gets worn out, beaten down, and you ain’t got nothing left. No drive, no will, no fuckin’ energy. My dick don’t even get hard unless I talk to it. I ain’t saying it’s all over, and I ain’t saying I’m giving up. All I’m saying is that right now I’m tired as hell. And too many things is coming at me at once. This baby. Zora. Work. My kids. I ain’t got but ten bucks in the bank. What happened to all the fuckin’ money I made this year? Rent. School clothes. Union dues. Groceries. Rent. Sneakers. Light bill. Groceries. Rent. Derek’s dirt bike. His Prince concert. His First Edition concert. Groceries. And rent. And I’m still on foot. It seem like the more that’s expected of me, the less I’m able to do. I can’t take feeling like this either. I swear to God, I can’t.

I’m trying not to drink, but that’s hard as hell to do too. My woman ain’t satisfying me. I ain’t satisfying myself. I’m pissed off at myself, to tell the truth. Here I am almost thirty-four years old, and what I got to
show for it? A $750-a-month duplex that ain’t mine. And some wood and old tools. That’s it, when you look at it straight. Somewhere in my head is my Moms’ voice, saying, “I told you you wasn’t gon’ never amount to nothin’.” And this just makes me grit my teeth. I’ma prove her wrong, if it’s the last thing in life I do.

I know I been a lazy motherfucker. And Zora’s right. She don’t need to be coming home from work to a nasty house. So I decided to surprise her. Clean up the place. Maybe if I put a little more energy into this thing, change my attitude, shit might pick up. We gon’ see.

I tore the place apart. Refrigerator, oven, all of it. Picked up all the plants off the floor and set ’em on the tables, and sprayed the bathroom walls with Soft Scrub. I poured Comet in the tub and sinks, and put in a Maze tape. Them motherfuckers can sing they asses off. “Joy and Pain” was blasting, and even though it was snowing, I had the windows open. It’s hard to clean and party to this kinda music without a shot, so I poured myself a little one. Shit, I was sweating, and I musta played Maze at least three times before I changed it and put on Stephanie Mills. Now, that’s my girl. I ain’t never heard nobody so little hit so many big notes. Zora can learn something from this girl. And I seen her live once. Talk about energy. She runs back and forth across the stage like lightning, and seem like her little feet don’t even touch the damn floor. And them little hips can rock it, I swear to God.