After The Dance (8 page)

Oh yeah, you and I both know it was a deliberate ploy on girlfriend’s part to get me riled. It worked too, ’cause after about fifteen minutes of the carrying on, I was ready to run over and snatch the heifer up by her scrawny little neck. Then I got a better idea.

How’s the saying go? If you can’t win, join ’em and beat the heck out of ’em at their own game. Well, anyway, after I got out of the tub I slipped into some fresh duds, grabbed a few essential items, and mosied on over as if arriving nearly an hour late had been part of my plan from the git.

Carl greeted me at the door with a “Hey! What a nice surprise. Nora said you weren’t coming.”

I swung past him like it wasn’t no thang and said, “Just goes to show you, Nora doesn’t know half as much as she thinks she does.”

Game face intact, I popped the lid on the plastic container I was holding, waved it past Nora’s nose, then handed it to Carl, and in the sweetest voice I could muster said, “I brought cookies. Chocolate chip. Fresh from the oven.”

Honey, you should have seen them. With Carl’s two little ones taking the lead, they pounced on the bait—chewing, smacking, drooling, and whining like a bunch of sugar-sprung junkies who’d been fiending all night for a fix.

I’m trying to figure out what’s up with all the baked goodies Faye keeps feeding me. Remember the carrot cake? Well, the other night it was homemade chocolate chip cookies. In the past when a woman’s given me something she’s crafted by hand and thrown a bit of hip into, I’ve typically read it as a pretty good sign of her affection for me. But with all the changes this sister’s put me through, I don’t know whether to view her sweet offerings as genuine acts of kindness or part of a more sinister plan to fatten a brother up before the kill.

Now, I was down with the sweets. I’ll even confess to having gobbled down the greatest portion of ’em myself. But when ol’ girl broke out the manicure kit she just so happened to have tucked away in her bag, I was kinda slow to bite.

Call me an old head if you want to, but if there’s one thing me and the ex both agree on it’s that our little girls should remain little girls for as long as possible. Having grown up in a house with three fast-tail sisters myself, I’m a firsthand witness to where too early a start in the dolling up and adornment process is liable to lead.

But with the twins “pretty-pleasing” the devil outta me, I was eventually convinced, coerced, corralled, or whatever you want to call it into running the idea by Bet. Feeling for all the world like some poor sap who’d just let himself get talked into bungee-jumping off the Hernando de Soto bridge, I got her on the phone, hurriedly pitched the plan to her, then braced myself for the verbal head-bashing I figured would follow. Yeah, I ended up with my face broke all right, but only because Bet pulled a fast one. Man, instead of launching into a lengthy questioning of my sanity, she did something far worse—she asked to speak to Faye.

Now, you know, those two birds cackling at each other was the last thing I wanted. To be perfectly honest, the thought that a lady friend of mine and my ex might actually be capable of indulging in a civil conversation was, for me, totally inconceivable. But I went ahead and handed over the phone, and to my total astonishment, after Faye got through running down the deal, Bet was cool with it. She even went so far as to okay an application of the clear nail polish the girls had been lobbying so hard for. What can I say, man? Just when you think you’ve got them all figured out, they switch up on you.

I certainly never would have pegged Ms. Faye as the type who’d spend an entire evening at my place playing Scrabble with my daughters, doing their nails, and sitting on the floor between them while they watched some silly kid show on Nickelodeon. But she did. And she seemed pretty content doing it.

Even after Nora skipped out on us to don her managerial cloak for the good folks down at the Bulk Mail Center, Faye stuck around. Actually, I was really digging her company and after I’d sent the twins off to get washed up and ready for bed, I told her as much. But when I asked if she’d decided where she wanted to go prior to the rendezvous I thought we’d tentatively scheduled for Sunday, her answer snatched my happy butt back into the bitter reality.

After lighting up a cigarette and taking a couple of puffs, she looked at me through the smoky haze and said, “You’re still interested in going out?”

“Heck, yeah,” I said. “Matter of fact, there’s gonna be an Al Jarreau concert on Mud Island next weekend. I could get us tickets if you want to go.”

A nice jazz set would be right down her alley, is what I figured. But nooo! Instead of getting bubbly behind the suggestion, she sighed, like just the very thought made her tired. “Carl, I hope you’re not forgetting what I said about
not trying to take this relationship any place other than the bedroom” is what she had the nerve to up and tell me.

I told her, “No, I haven’t forgotten. And the bedroom is ultimately where I’d like to see us end up, too. I guess I’m just operating from the premise that getting there is half the fun. The way I look at it, the only thing the two of us going out and having a good time together is bound to do is make the passion between us all the more intense.”

Now, after a rap that sweet, any other sister would have at least cracked a smile. Not Faye. She just sat there puffing like a chimney and eyeballing me like I’d just passed gas without saying “excuse me” or something. Man, I’m telling you, sometimes it just doesn’t pay for a brother to try and play nice.

Girl, what was I supposed to do, applaud? I just sat there, like most any other intelligent woman would have, and tried to figure out just what percentage of the brother’s rap was real and what percentage was the usual rot.

Something about my silence must have unnerved him because no less than ten seconds into it, he jumped up and said, “Look, if you really don’t want to do the date thing, it’s cool. Sleep on it, why don’t you, and get back with me about it later. Either way it goes, though, I’d still like to see you sometime tomorrow.”

I could tell by the expression on his face I’d hurt his feelings again, which hadn’t been at all my intent. To make up for it, I told him, “Well, you know the early part of my day is pretty much gonna be spent in church. But maybe we can catch a movie or something, sometime tomorrow evening. I’ll check the paper in the morning and see what’s playing.”

Keep in mind, though, I did say “maybe.” It wasn’t like I promised him anything. A wise woman is always going to leave her options open just in case the need for an easy out should happen to arise.

But anyway, about that time Renita and Renee came back in to say their good nights. And you want to know something? Watching Carl interact with his daughters was surprisingly one of the highlights of the evening.

He’s good with his girls. Maybe it’s because they’re older or maybe the high regard in which he seems to hold their mother is a factor, but whatever the reason, it was both nice and a relief to know his relationship with the twins lacked all the tension and drama I’d witnessed between him and his son.

So yeah, girl, despite my initial reservations, hanging out with Carl and his crew wasn’t all that bad. The twins got a real kick out of me doing their nails. You should have seen how big their baby browns got when I whipped out that manicure kit.

Of course, that little stunt only opened the door to a whole ’nother something. Now not only do they want me to do their nails for this wedding they’re supposed to be in, but they’ve also invited me to attend so I can see them all dressed up, looking cute and doing the flower-girl thing.

Carl didn’t waste a second in leaping aboard the bandwagon, but I’ve got some serious reservations about the four of us charging down that particular path together. I don’t know if I ought to be getting in that deep with them, especially since me and dude aren’t even trying to be a couple. The last thing I’d want to do is give him or his girls the wrong impression about the nature of my intentions.

But like I said, the night had its moments, the most memorable of which occurred when it was time for the girls to head off to bed. In the process of saying their good nights and without any prompting from Carl, the twins took it upon themselves to thank me with hugs and kisses
for both the cookies I’d brought over as well as the time and attention I’d given to their nails. Well-mannered children I can appreciate, but I’m not used to being around such touchy-feely types. All the fuss only made me have to go to the bathroom.

While Carl marched the kids off to bed, I headed for the john with every intention of emptying the ol’ bladder before squaring things up with dude and heading on home. But on my way there, I couldn’t resist the urge to stop for a quick peek into the girls’ bedroom. That’s when I caught them, all three of them, down on their knees quietly reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

It’s not like I haven’t seen folks pray before. I’m a churchgoing girl from way back. But there was just something about the sight of this man and his children huddled together on the floor, eyes closed, heads bowed, and hands clasped, that moved me. I was touched, so much so, I forgot all about having to pee.

Even after they’d finished their amens I just stood there and watched as Carl helped them into bed, smoothed their covers, and then kissed one of the girls’ eyebrows, the tip of her nose, and her chin before leaning over and doing the exact same to the other child.

The smile he flashed me when he finally turned and caught me standing there helped alleviate some of the embarrassment I felt at having intruded.

I knew I was busted, plain and simple. I thought he was getting ready to rub it in, so I said, “I wasn’t trying to spy or anything. I just—” But before I could spit out the rest of my defense, he hushed me by placing his fingers against his lips. After he turned out the light and closed the girls’ bedroom door, he looked at me and whispered, “So you gonna stay awhile or what?”

I’m sorry, girl. I know I shouldn’t have, but I let myself get all caught up in the sappy sweetness of the moment
and before it even occurred to me to think about it twice, I’d told him, “Sure, I can stay for a little while.”

It’s probably safe to say that listening to me vent my frustrations about being a father isn’t what Faye had in mind when she sat down and cuddled up next to me on the couch. And hey, it’s not like I didn’t want to give the sister a little play. I just knew I wouldn’t have wanted to stop at a little is all.

And what would that have looked like? Me and ol’ girl getting busy with the twins right around the corner and subject to pop in on us at any second? Oh sure, I could have waited until the girls were sound asleep, snuck Faye back into my bedroom, locked the door, and coaxed her into keeping the moaning to a minimum. Maybe I would’ve, had the understanding between the five of us—meaning me, her, the kids, and my ex—been that Faye was gonna be my lady on something like a full-time, permanent basis. But that wasn’t the case, and wasn’t no good bound to come out of any of us pretending otherwise. Besides, these days I’m all about trying to set a better example for my girls, and exposing them to the sad, sordid details of my sex life is definitely not the road that’s most liable to lead me there.

I took Faye telling me how much she admired my no-nonsense approach to raising my two princesses as a sure sign that she not only understood my position but felt the same way, too. Looking back on things, that may have been where I made my mistake.

Man, an honest-to-goodness, old-fashioned purging is what I pulled on this girl. I let it all out—my feelings of inadequacy
about my son, my fears of having already done irreparable damage to my daughters by virtue of the divorce, and my inability to give as much of myself as I’d like to any of my kids. After unloading all my baggage on her I was too spent to do much of anything but sit there quietly, soaking up bits and pieces of the ten o’clock news.

I bet the only reason she didn’t run screaming from the room is that I’d probably bored her to the point of being too stiff to move. Stupid me, I thought her silence was some sort of indication that we’d finally made a real connection. Man, little did I know that what I thought was the sound of me and Faye clicking was actually the sound of ol’ girl ticking.

To borrow a line from one of the Gap Band’s greatest hits, “she dropped a bomb on me.” I’m serious, man, come Sunday not only did the sister stand me up without even bothering to extend me the simple courtesy of a phone call, but when I finally did catch up with her jive behind, she was flapping her jaws and grinning all up in some other dude’s face.

Carl needs to stop tripping. Why after spending four and a half hours with him and his kids on a Saturday night would I turn around the next day and deliberately leave him hanging? I had every intention of seeing him that Sunday. But the real of it is, things happen sometimes—things over which we often have little or no control.

Girl, please, had anybody told me when I woke up that morning I was destined to spend durn near half my day with the likes of one Scoobie, aka Venard Nathaniel Payne,
I would have called them a bald-faced liar and then crawled back into bed to make sure it didn’t happen.

My first mistake, besides leaving the house at all that Sunday, was arriving at church with a thirst that couldn’t wait to be quenched. So there I was in the vestibule, right, bent over the water fountain getting my drink on, when I felt this presence behind me and heard this gravelly voice.

“My, my, Sistah Abrahams. Aren’t we looking mighty blessed this morning?”

No, it wasn’t Scoobie. Worse. It was old lecherous Deacon Jones, who, though very much married and supposedly sanctified, is always trying to hit on somebody—as if his seventy-some-year-old, ancient behind would even be able to handle it if somebody was crazy enough to try and give him some.

Anyway, when I turned around, I realized he had me trapped against the water fountain with nowhere to run. “Deacon Jones,” I said, acting all surprised. “Isn’t that your lovely wife I see over there?”