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We walked to the corner of Eighth Avenue and stood there shivering in the frigid air until an empty cab appeared. Paul promised to find Alyssa’s number, kissed me good-bye, and I got in. My thoughts immediately returned to my dream man. Why wasn’t Victor attracted to me? Did he prefer tall women? Light skinned sisters? What could I do that I hadn’t already done to let him know that I wanted him? The questions went round and round in my head, the liquor sent me into a crying jag, and I wept all the way home to Harlem. I should have saved my tears for something more worthwhile—like the two nights I would spend in police custody.
2
ROSA WITH THE CROOKED NOSE
Paul’s older brother, Richard, had recently opened a soul food restaurant around the corner from my apartment. Paul spent a lot of time helping out there on the weekends when he wasn’t sprawled out on my sofa, watching TV and reading manuscripts. He called me the next morning.
“Hello,” I croaked.
“Jackie, your voice sounds like fingernails rasping on sandpaper. Do you have a hangover?”
“Aargh.”
“I’ll come up after the breakfast rush and take care of you, okay?”
“I need water. What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Okay.”
I live in a one-bedroom apartment on 111th Street in Harlem. When you enter my place, you are in the living room. There is a tweed sofa set against the long wall with a wood coffee table in front of it and matching tables on each side that hold my two kitschy Coca-Cola lamps. I have a computer hutch on another wall where my laptop sits and a bookcase in a corner that holds about fifty books.
There is a short hallway on the right. The walk-in kitchen and my bathroom are on the left.
Straight ahead is my bedroom, which holds a platform bed with built-in night tables and two pull-out drawers underneath. I have a framed picture of my boss, Annabelle Murray, and me with our arms around Denzel Washington on one night table. The photo was taken at the National Book Awards three years ago. He was kind and gracious about posing with us, although he did turn down Annabelle’s offer of three million dollars in exchange for a totally candid autobiography.
A television with a built-in VCR sits on a stand with wheels slightly to the left of my bed.
There is a picture of Mama on one living room wall. Otherwise, the walls in my apartment are bare.
I hung up and stumbled into the bathroom, so thirsty that I cupped my hands and drank from the faucet in the sink before washing my face. My face in the mirror almost made me gag. The eyes were swollen from crying and black eyeliner had run down onto my cheeks. The effect was that of a tragic clown.
After swallowing two aspirins and enduring a cold shower, I felt human enough to check my messages. Mama had called. She wanted to know when I was coming to see her. I dialed her back.
“Hi, Mama, how are you?”
“Okay. Are you coming downtown today?”
“I can’t, Mama. I have to work.”
“At your boss’s apartment again?”
“Yeah. I have to be there at two o’clock.”
“Why can’t you come see me when you leave there?”
“Because Craig Murray’s bad writing gets on my last nerve and after three hours of him, I won’t be good company for anyone.”
“Oh.”
The “Oh” was so sad.
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I come over tomorrow and spend the night at your house?”
She perked up immediately. “All right. I’ll make stewed chicken, dumplings, and collard greens. We’ll have a real old-fashioned Sunday dinner.”
“It sounds wonderful, Mama.”
