Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do Read online

  Jerry and Mattie looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “Who knows what their mamas called them, but they call each other …” Mattie looked so uncomfortable that Jerry picked up the slack.

  “They call one DooDoo and the other one King James.”

  The assembled growers groaned. Precious didn't even bother to write the names down. I had the feeling these guys were both well known to her. So that's what ShaRonda's uncle spent his time doing when he wasn't babysitting. Harassing old ladies in their backyards.

  “We know these two,” Precious said. “We've picked them up before. We can pick them up again.”

  “But they don't keep 'em.” Jerry's voice was almost a whine. These answers were not making her feel any better. “They let 'em right back out and then they even worse 'cause they mad, too.”

  “Hoodlums burned up a woman in Baltimore,” the woman next to me whispered. “She kept callin' the cops on the dealers until they set her house on fire with gas. Burned up her kids and her husband, too.” She shook her head. “What kind of person burns up a family just so they can sell crack on the corner?”

  The question made me shiver because I didn't know the answer.

  “Listen, I know it's hard,” Precious was saying. “And I know they're scary sometimes, but we're going to work with you until we get these guys off the street. That much I can promise you.”

  Nobody said anything, so Flora stepped into the skeptical silence. “As you can see, Senator, we have strong feelings about the safety of our growers.”

  Precious nodded.

  “We appreciate your coming, and we stand ready to work with you to get these guys off the street.”

  There was a smattering of applause. These were Precious's core constituents. They liked and respected her, and, at some level, they knew that what they were asking her to do was an impossible task, even for a smart, savvy, dedicated public servant. DooDoo and King James were just the most visible faces on a problem that runs so deeply to the heart of what is wrong with us that it takes more courage than most ofus can muster to even consider it.

  “Thank you,” Precious said. “I know you wanted more immediate action, but I assure you this will be my top priority until we find a solution.”

  More spotty applause.

  “And I want to thank you especially for calling on me and for not—” Precious chose her words carefully “—for not taking matters into your own hands.”

  You could have heard a pin drop. Even Bea didn't have anything to say to that. Precious picked up her purse.

  “I'll call Flora as soon as I speak to the zone commander,” she said, and Flora nodded. “And, as always, I appreciate your support and your positive presence in the neighborhood where I've spent the last twenty years of my life.”

  The growers allowed themselves to relax into her collective compliment.

  “Stick with me now, okay?”

  “You got it, Senator,” Mr. Charles boomed, beginning a round of sincere applause this time that carried Precious out the door on the same wave of trust that carried her in. I wondered if I should slip out, too, but a plump little woman in a bright orange jacket closed the door behind Precious, like leaving was not an option, so I settled myself on my stool and waited for more adventures in participatory democracy.

  I was reminded of my father's despair at the widespread inability of victorious revolutionaries to translate their passion for change into a willingness to submit to the unremitting tedium of actual governance. Flora and Precious's activism was the kind that required them not to propagate the latest theoretical approach to activating the masses, but to have actual exchanges with real people confronting real problems. They were the people who had to actually translate the revolution into Miss Mattie being able to grow her collard greens in peace.

  The old man who hadn't spoken yet waved his hand at Flora.

  “Mr. Eddie?”

  Mr. Eddie stood up slowly. He was very tall and very thin and eighty years old if he was a day. Although most of the people were casually dressed, he was wearing a dark suit and tie.

  “I don't mean to be speaking out of school,” he said, “but now that the senator's gone, I'd like to know where Hamilton stands on this.”

  There was an immediate ripple among the growers.

  “He's aware of the problem,” Flora said, “but the block we're talking about is not within the West End community.”

  Mattie snorted. “Across the street! That's all! We're one street too far. Is that fair?”

  “It's downright wrong if you ask me,” Bea said. “Either we're safe or we're not. How can I be safe over here if I can't go see Jerry and be safe over there?”

  “Any of us could be next!”

  Flora waited patiently for things to settle back down. “You all know the problem. Mr. Hamilton has committed his assistance to the West End community. He has gone so far as to guarantee our safety within a certain well-defined area. We know what the boundaries are, and so does everybody else. If these guys stay on their side of Stewart Avenue—”

  “Their side?” Jerry's voice was now an indignant wail. “So now I live on their side?”

  Flora looked Jerry in the eye, but her voice was very gentle. “You have been offered comparable housing on this side. Both of you have.”

  “You know I can't move,” Jerry said. “That was my grandmother's house. Then my mama's. Now it's mine, and I intend to grow old in it with my memories to keep me company, and no little wild Negroes younger than my grandchildren are gonna run me off!”

  I don't have to say that that really resonated with me. When is a house not a house? When it's a history!

  There was scattered applause and lots of nods of encouragement.

  “Let's vote,” Bea said loudly, still agitating.

  “Okay,” Flora said calmly. “What exactly are we voting on?”

  Silence. Flora let it sit there for a minute, and then Mr. Eddie stood up again. “I'd like to vote to ask Hamilton to extend himself far enough across Stewart Avenue to cover our two growers who need some help.” He turned toward Mattie and Jerry and his voice was apologetic. “Because me and Charlie are too old to get it done, and somebody's gotta handle it.”

  “Speak for yourself, old dude!” said Mr. Charles immediately, and everybody laughed.

  “All in favor?” asked Mr. Eddie.

  Every hand went up. I watched Flora, but she just smiled. Her role seemed to be more facilitator than leader.

  “That looks unanimous to me,” Bea crowed.

  “All right, Bea,” Flora said. “I'm going to authorize you to convey that message to Mr. H at your earliest opportunity.”

  “Me?!” Bea's shocked surprise elicited another laugh from the group.

  “That's one message he ain't got to worry about!” The woman next to me chuckled. “She ain't got the heart to talk stuff to that man. Trust me!”

  Flora grinned and held up a hand for order. “Just checking, Bea. I thought for a minute you wanted my job.”

  Bea grinned back. “Not if it means I gotta look into Hamilton's cold blue eyes!”

  She got the color right, but I don't remember any coldness.

  “All right,” Flora said. “I'll talk to him.”

  There was more enthusiastic nodding among the growers.

  “Anything else?” She looked around to be sure she hadn't missed anybody. “Mr. Charles?”

  “Don't y'all forget the party on Saturday night,” he said. “I'm gonna have on my dancin' shoes and Eddie's threatening to do the electric slide again.”

  General laughter. I couldn't imagine the dapper Mr. Eddie doing the electric slide, but it was definitely a multigenerational dance open to old people with any sense of adventure, so who knows?

  “Anybody who needs a ride, call me,” Flora said, bringing things to a close. “Who's got the benediction?”

  The tiny woman who had made the early motion to dispense with the reading of the minutes raised her sm
all hand and stood up. The room quieted, and everybody reached for the hand of someone nearby. When we were all connected in our raggedy circle, the little woman smiled and her voice was soft as a child's in prayer.

  “May the Lord watch between me and thee, while we are absent, one from another.”

  “Amen,” we all said together and squeezed one another's hands gently. “Amen.”

  20

  ITHOUGHT AFTER ALL THE EXCITEMENT at the growers meeting yesterday this would be a fairly peaceful day just to balance things out. How wrong could I possibly be? Everything started out fine. I was making good progress on sorting a huge box of photographs. I had dragged it into the living room, where there was a lot of open floor space, so I could spread everything out and look at the photos as if they were scenes from a movie. I have only stills to work with, but I'm a big fan of those Ken Burns specials on PBS. I know if you have enough pictures and enough patience, you can hook it up so nobody even realizes nothing's really moving.

  I had just sorted through a bunch of stuff from a trip to Chicago and reached for another folder when a single snapshot slipped out and floated to the floor. When I leaned over to pick it up, I knew immediately that the woman in the photograph was the one Beth had me looking for. It wasn't hard to figure it out. Looking at her smiling up into Son's face, it was clear that they were in love. Madly in love. My first thought was: Did he ever look at me like he's gazing at her? Did I ever look at him with such absolute adoration?

  The woman was young, maybe mid-twenties, and strikingly lovely with a voluptuous body and a sweet face. She was wearing low-rise jeans and a tiny little T-shirt that said goddess across her breasts. Son was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, jeans, and the biggest grin I've ever seen on his face. They were seemingly unaware of the camera, sharing a private joke as they strolled along, his arm around her shoulders, her hand in his back pocket. In the dictionary under the word lovers, this picture would not be out of place.

  I didn't realize I was crying over it until a tear splashed down and rolled slowly across Son's chest. I rubbed it away with my finger and sat down on the couch. What was I crying about? I looked at the picture again. Who was I kidding? I was crying because I know he never looked at me like that. And because I know I never looked at him like that either, and I was jealous. Not of this beautiful woman, but of her happiness with a man who loved her. And how fucked up is that?

  “Pretty fucked up,” I said out loud. “Pretty fucked up.”

  But I can do better. I can reach for my higher self like they always tell you in rehab and women's magazines. I can try to tap into the best of myself. I can try to think about this picture I'm holding in another way. But what other way was that? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. What did Flora call it? Having our moment of silence. Maybe that's what I needed.

  I tried to clear my mind and calm down. Two breaths, maybe three, and I could feel myself relax a little bit. Two more breaths and then two more and suddenly it hit me. This was what I had hoped for Son. My friend Son. This was what I had wanted to know immediately when I heard that he had died. Had he had a chance to love somebody the way I wanted him to love me? Had he been one of those who had a chance to make a call and tell his beloved to look for him in paradise? I wanted that kind of love for him, and this photograph was telling me he had found it. Was it fair for me to be mad just because he hadn't found it with me?

  I opened my eyes and looked at the picture again. This time, I was able to share that smile. I was able to celebrate the sweetness of that moment and be glad for them. My better self congratulated me for listening to her, and I decided to reward myself with a cup of jasmine tea. For some reason, I carried the picture with me, and everybody knows there's only one place for photographs in the kitchen. I put it on the refrigerator door, right next to Blue Hamilton's performance snapshot, and considered the pair while I waited for the teakettle to boil.

  I knew why those women in Blue's audience were reaching for him with such shameless yearning. Because nobody in their own lives was reaching for them that way, and they didn't want to forget how it felt before they got too old to care.

  And how old is that? said a little voice inside my head. How old is that? But before I could answer, someone knocked on my door. The answer to that question would have to wait.

  21

  IOPENED THE DOOR TO FIND Blue Hamilton standing there smiling apologetically. It was eleven o'clock on Friday morning, but he was dressed, as usual, in a dark suit and tie. I was dressed, as usual, in a pair of faded jeans and an oversize sweatshirt. Makeup and hair drama have never been my thing, but I found myself wishing that just once I could run into my landlord when I looked a little more pulled together.

  “I'm sorry to disturb you,” he said. “Is this a bad time?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Would you like to come in?” “Thank you.”

  He stepped inside, and his eyes took in the paperstrewn living room. Photographs covered the coffee table and most of the floor.

  “Excuse the mess,” I said quickly. “Sometimes it helps to lay everything out where I can see it.”

  “You looking for anything specific or you just looking?”

  “Just trying to bring a little order to things.”

  He nodded, and I realized that was pretty much his job description, too. From the kitchen, the teakettle released a soft whistle.

  “I'm making some tea. Would you like some?” I asked, enjoying the faint aroma of his cologne.

  “Thanks,” he said, stepping gracefully around the piles of paper lying in his path and taking a seat on the couch. He looked so comfortable, I found myself wondering if he had ever sat there before. The kettle's whistle was getting more strident by the minute.

  “I'll get the tea,” I said, heading for the kitchen. “Do you take honey?”

  “I'll take it straight.”

  As I turned off the flame under the teakettle, my eye fell on his picture on the front of my refrigerator. Oh, lord! How embarrassing would that be if he saw it there. I snatched it off and stashed it quickly in the silverware drawer.

  I set the two steaming mugs on the coffee table and took a chair. The sun was pouring in, and the smell of the tea and his aftershave made a spicy blend that any entrepreneurial aroma therapist would want to bottle for sale immediately.

  “I haven't seen you around this week,” I said. “Another fishing trip?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Not this time. I have a couple of other places in the city. I try to have a presence there, too.”

  “Kind of like a circuit rider?”

  “Kind of.”

  I took a sip of my tea. “It sounds like what my grandmother used to say.”

  “What was that?”

  “It's a sorry rat ain't got but one hole.”

  That made him laugh, and laughing made his eyes do that twinkling thing they do.

  “My grandmother used to say that, too.” He took a swallow of his tea. “But I think she was talking about something a little different.”

  “How different?” I tucked my feet up under me and wrapped both hands around my mug to feel the warmth. He had stopped by to tell me something, but he didn't seem to be in any hurry, so I decided not to be in one either.

  He leaned back and laid one long arm across the back of the sofa. His jacket moved with him and rearranged itself in a graceful flutter. “Well, most people need a lot of different places to go, to live, to be, because they are a lot of different people. They act one way one place, one way another. Eventually, if they get enough places so they can let all their selves show, they can relax.”

  Aunt Abbie's voice was a tiny little echo in my ear. He's not who he appears to be. “So how many people are you?”

  “My problem is a little different,” he said. “My problem is that I'm only one person. It doesn't matter to me where I am. I don't change.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me, but it wears most people out.”
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br />   “Flora and Aretha seem to be thriving,” I said.

  “They weren't the one I was worried about.”

  It dawned on me that he was talking about me. What was I supposed to say to that? Since I didn't have a clue, I took a swallow of my tea and waited.

  Blue's grin was worth waiting for. “See what I mean?”

  That made me laugh. I set down my mug. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

  He nodded. “Good. That means it's working.”

  “What's working?”

  “I wanted to give you enough time to figure out what you wanted to ask me before we had this conversation.”

  “Ask you about what?”

  “About me.”

  The idea of having a chance to ask him all the questions I've had since the day we met when Aretha was playing that Bob Marley song was so unexpected I would have dropped my tea if I hadn't already set it down. He was giving me permission to go to the source, and he was right. I had a thousand questions! So, of course, I pretended I didn't have a single one.

  “What makes you think I have any questions about you?”

  “Flora and Aretha both suggested you might have a few things you wanted to clarify.”

  Busted. “Well, I did have one question,” I said. “I was at the growers meeting yesterday.”

  He nodded, but his expression didn't give me any indication of whether or not he had talked to Flora yet about their request for his assistance.

  “Some of the people, two women, are being harassed by some guys and when Precious Hargrove's solutions didn't satisfy them, they wanted to ask you to help.”

  “Flora told me.”

  “What kind of help are they talking about?”

  “They want me to meet with the young brothers and encourage them to behave in a more sensible manner.”