Notes from a Black Woman's Diary Read online

She was always underfoot turning herself into a smoke screen of nervous faults and failings, a weeding ground that we could rake and pull.

  She was always underfoot in the heat of battle she would fight on both sides help the terrified Letitia to her feet pummel Roland’s advancing body with her tight little fists.

  She was always underfoot a squirming reminder of dead memories and dreams.

  Then one day she burst. Her little legs flew apart her stubborn little arms took to the sky her head rattled and shook her overworked eyes fled from their sockets a sudden restless wind was blowing her apart too many wars had been fought on her soil too many wars had been fought on her soil she would not be still. Together they must pin her down. The pretty lady with the stiff eyes the warm daddy connected backward in time. Together they must pin her down their uneasy union will jell in her body.

  “Nina Simone”

  She came in while I was recording and asked to listen to every Nina Simone album in the house. I was just about to introduce the next side: “How ’bout a little Herbie Hancock now, with George Coleman on tenor sax, Ron Carter on bass, Tony Williams on drums, and, of course, Herbie on piano . . . that’s right: ‘Maiden Voyage’ . . .”

  Which puts us around 1965. And puts her in a pageboy with bangs. Light-skinned. Nice eyes.

  I took her to lunch at Frank’s. Found out she was a Pisces, too. Nice eyes. Nice teeth. She was writing an article on Nina so we talked a lot about that, how much she dug her and all. Then she walked me back to the studio and I told her I’d put together all the albums we had.

  The next time she came I picked up something childish about her and I knew she was married white. Something too wide-eyed. She helped me put together the albums for my show and we joked around a lot. She had good legs.

  She sat through my whole show laughing at the way I signal the record start, so I almost missed a lot of cues. She had a heavy laugh almost out of character with that naive face. We had a good time.

  She drove me home and I asked her to come in.

  My husband and I had been together almost a year and a half when I decided to become a writer. I thought I should start with essays and articles because that would be the best way to develop a style. I was a real Nina Simone fan so I thought, Why not do an article on Nina Simone? I’ll go up to Harlem to the big jazz station and do my research and try to sell it to one of the music magazines. I was very excited and went up to the station the next day.

  I ended up in one of the recording studios by accident. And he grinned at me. It was such a broad grin, while all the time he was reading from the back of a record cover—“. . . and, of course, Herbie on piano . . . that’s right: ‘Maiden Voyage’ . . .”—and his finger seemed to glide through the air to signal the man in the other booth to start the record.

  “What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked in that same smooth voice.

  I told him that I was doing a story on Nina Simone and that I wanted to listen to every Nina Simone album in the house. He grinned. And soon after we were walking up 125th Street to lunch. I was starving. He asked when my birthday was and we found out we were born a week apart. His voice was so smooth. I told him I was married. But I didn’t tell him my husband was white.

  He told me to come back on Saturday and I could listen to the records.

  It was raining the next time I came. He was busy selecting the albums for his show, so I helped him. He teased me a lot. I was wearing a yellow mini with new sandals and I felt very free. Until I thought about my husband; then I felt uncomfortable.

  I sat through all of his show and teased him so much that several times he almost said the wrong thing or almost forgot to make an announcement on time. It was fun.

  When I drove him home he asked me to come in.

  I didn’t like being married but I was happy with her. Color never had much part in it, I don’t think. She was very fair anyway and very middle class in her attitudes. But there wasn’t anything pretentious about her. She radiated a beautiful kind of enthusiasm for life.

  She had this great idea to do a piece on Nina Simone. I’d always encouraged her to write and I thought it was great she was beginning to start projects on her own. I suggested she go up to Harlem to the jazz station and get hold of all Nina’s records.

  When she came back she was so excited and described in great detail how she watched this smooth dude run his show, how he took her to lunch and promised to dig out all Nina’s albums for her.

  We’d been together about a year and I don’t think the idea of another man had ever entered her head. She was very idealistic and believed in love as something exclusive. I know I was like a god for her.

  But this little encounter had awakened a kind of friskiness I’d never seen before. You could almost see her wagging her tail. It was very cute and appealing, and I fell even more in love with her.

  Then one night she came home looking odd and jumpy.

  I was sharing a friend’s apartment at the time. My wife and I had just split up. My friend was watching the ball game in the living room, so the only place for us to talk was in the bedroom.

  I looked through a stack of records I had in the corner, trying to find some more old Nina Simone albums, while she sat on the bed and watched. She had on a cute mini. She kept looking at me. We kept looking at each other, really. I started teasing her about how all Pisces can read each other’s mind because we’re the most far-out people in the zodiac. She smiled.

  I looked at her . . . And I wanted her so bad. It came down on me like that.

  I told her that the best person for a Pisces was probably another Pisces, because we are impossible people to understand, being that we are basically mystics and know more about life than most people. She smiled.

  I knew she could feel it. I could tell. Her eyes got too wide and she couldn’t stop smiling.

  A big fat man was watching television when we came in. He was stripped to the waist and his stomach was hanging out.

  We went into the bedroom where there was a white bedspread. He started looking through his album collection to see if he had any more of Nina’s old albums. I sat down on the bed.

  He told me that I had Pisces eyes. Even off the air his voice was still this wonderful smooth thing.

  He found one of her early albums and handed it to me. I looked at him. And then this feeling took over my vagina. I couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t be feeling this for someone else. I wanted him really badly. My insides hurt.

  I wanted to know if they’d made love. That’s all I wanted to know. It was killing me. She looked so lost and uncertain. I just wanted her to tell me if they had or not. I reassured her that it wouldn’t change anything, that I wouldn’t love her any less, but would she just please tell me what happened.

  Finally she did. And it was nothing, really. She admitted wanting to and how that had really surprised her that she could want anybody besides me. She was still pretty shook up over it. But she ran before anything could happen.

  I know that’s when I began to love her less. I’d wanted her to have him. I’d wanted her to come back all frisky and playful and let me take her after him. But she ran before anything could happen.

  Pretty soon after that it was over for me.

  “Raschida”

  She was tall and thin. Her face reminded you of violet orchids on a thin gauze party dress. Her eyes never moved and her lips barely parted. She lived on the first floor of a Brooklyn brownstone near Prospect Park. Alone. Making quilts and cooking Brunswick stew.

  You came into a roomy sit-down kitchen with windows overlooking a backyard. Trees. Sunlight in the afternoon. A hardwood floor. Oval windows facing a Brooklyn street. A corduroy couch. Two wicker chairs. A floor-to-ceiling three-way light fixture. A rubber plant. A Princess telephone.

  The chicken was melting. The tomatoes were peeled. Hot peppercorns floated in the cool potatoes and the okra sputtered its seeds into the hot oil. Twelve ears of corn waited to be shaved. She made good Brun
swick stew. She had just finished a black-blue-maroon quilt. She was nineteen.

  “Raschida, there’s this new boy here from Kenya. He wants to fuck me. Can we use your bed? Leave some ice cream. He likes to eat ice cream after he fucks.”

  She shaved the corn and thought about Domilie. She would beg him to be gentle, saying she had a soft womb. Then she inserted it herself. Carefully. And instructed him how to move . . . come in low . . . keep coming . . . there . . . don’t move. Then she would lift her legs and pull him in farther. Don’t move. Her legs made circles in the air. Push. Her legs were like scissors cutting the air. Push. Push. Her legs and arms began to flail. Beating his back. Push. Straight ahead. PUSH. PUSH. PUSH. A hail of screams shook the air. Her legs collapsed. Pushing him out.

  She finished shaving the corn. Deposited the mass of wilted tomatoes, wilted potatoes, sputtered okra, and peppercorns into the boneless flesh of the chicken.

  She had an 11:30 appointment at Les Joy Coiffures. They were going to cut her hair short with long bangs down to her eyes . . .

  On the way home she passed Norma Jean’s Outlet and bought a pair of maroon shorts and a lavender silk blouse. She came in looking furtive. And expectant. Her eyes peeping out from under the bangs.

  “Raschida, you cut your hair! You don’t look the same. This is Gerard. The stew is very good and the quilt is beautiful. We just used it,” she said. Giggling.

  “Gerard just arrived today, from Kenya. Do you want some ice cream? We just had ours,” she said. Giggling.

  “Where did you get that blouse and those shorts? I didn’t know you liked clothes. We ate two quarts of banana marshmallow. There’s another quart in the refrigerator. Maybe Gerard will eat some more,” she said. Giggling.

  Raschida took out the ice cream. Gerard smiled. Raschida began to eat. Gerard smiled. He was angular and bony.

  “Your hair looks good. Who did it? Caroline? She cut it well. And whose idea was it to give you those bangs? I think Gerard wants some more ice cream,” she said. Laughing.

  Raschida served him and they finished off the last quart of banana marshmallow.

  “Gerard liked your Brunswick stew. He said it tastes like Kenyan food. He ate two bowls. Before . . .” she said. Laughing.

  “How many quilts have you made? I told Gerard this was your tenth quilt in a year. You’ve been here a year, right? And I’ve used every one of them,” she said. Laughing.

  “Show them to Gerard. Come on. They’re all stacked up in the closet. Take them down. Look, Gerard, look at that one all covered with roses. Oh, that goes back a long time. I remember that one, and the old one covered with daisies. Like you were doing it in the grass. Where’s the winter one, Raschida? With all the snow and the little fireplaces in velvet. And where’s the summer one, with the little pools of water all over it? All blue. Can’t she make quilts, Gerard?”

  “Lie down on this one, Raschida. See how it matches your blouses. Lie down next to Raschida, Gerard. What was that noise? Did I fart again? I farted? I’m sorry. It must be all the Brunswick stew on top of the ice cream on top of . . .”

  Why don’t you make a love quilt, Raschida? Show her how to make a love quilt, Gerard. Take your thing out and show her how to make a love quilt. No, Raschida. He’ll take off your pants. Let him take off your pants. And your blouse. Doesn’t she look cute with those bangs, Gerard? Oh, Raschida, you’re tiny! I didn’t know you were so tiny! Look at those little nubs on you. Little rosebuds, Gerard. Aren’t they like rosebuds? How do they feel, Gerard? Like little rosebuds? Oh, Raschida, I’m shivering. What was that noise? Did I fart again? I’m sorry. Isn’t he big, Raschida? Look how big he is. Oh, Raschida. I’m shivering. He’s so big. How did he ever get inside me, Raschida? Did I put you inside me? How is anything that big going to get inside you, Raschida? Oh, Gerard, I’m shivering. Don’t touch her like that. She’s wet, isn’t she? Oh, Raschida, your hair looks so cute with these bangs coming down to your eyes. She’s wet, isn’t she, Gerard? And her little nipples just fit between your lips. Oh, Gerard, I’m shivering.

  He wants to see if you’re moist enough, Raschida. Relax. He’s very big. You have to be moist or else it will hurt. Oh, Gerard, are you going to put it in now? Take it in your hands, Raschida. Make him take his time. Hold it. Put it in yourself. Make him take his time. Put the tip in, baby. Feel the tip? Just put the tip inside a little bit. Oh yes, Raschida. Isn’t that nice? I’m shivering. Relax your hands, Raschida. Let him move in now. Don’t push, Gerard. Oh, please don’t push. Oh, Gerard, look at your ass moving into her. Open your legs, Raschida. Open them. He’s coming in now. Oh, Gerard, your ass is tightening up. Let him move in now. Let him move in now, Raschida. Don’t try to stop him, Raschida. I’m shivering. Don’t try to stop him. Don’t stop him. His ass is tightening up. Push, Gerard. Don’t stop, Raschida. Take him. Oh God, I’m farting. Excuse me. I’m farting. Raschida, take him. Raschida, he’s moving fast now. Raschida, take him, take him, take him. Oh God, take him, woman. Oh God, I’m farting. Excuse me. I’m farting. He’s there, isn’t he? Look at your legs, Raschida. He’s in so far you can’t control your legs. Oh God. Oh God, Jesus. Let him have you. Let him have you. Oh, Gerard. Oh, Gerard. Oh Jesus, Gerard, I’m coming with you. Coming with you. Oh Jesus, Gerard.

  II

  Novel Excerpt: “Lollie”

  Excerpt from an Unfinished Novel: “Lollie: A Suburban Tale”

  ANDREW BEGINS

  I met Lollie on a clear day when you could see forever. R brought her to the house. She was his chosen demo queen. The best, he bragged. She could make a good song suck pussy and a bad one piss gold, he boasted with extravagant noises, a lot of finger-popping and strutting around the room (behavior, by the way, that he exhibited only around us). If you met R in the street you’d swear he was the last of a long line of bourgeois Negroes, a tightfisted little brown man out to prove himself to the world. He even dressed the part: spiffy bow tie clipped nattily in place, oxford shoes polished to a highfalutin shine, hair slicked down via the old stocking cap, of course glasses—thick-framed myopic lenses that only the nearsighted can’t live without. They take me for a scholar, he would boast, speaking of the world in general, his public, a ghostly army of folk he felt he should impress for no precise reason other than that it was the colored thing to do: impress folk whoever wherever whatever they may be. This unwritten code of black living he obeyed like a soldier trained to salute.

  Lollie shook everybody’s hand, a formal gesture that was one of her signatures. She reached out, held your hand firmly, just long enough to communicate that she lived on unflinching ground. Then she smiled. Let her eyes light up the rest of her face. And waited for someone to make the next move. Which Marsha did, or Emma, or Janice. I can’t recall. I just remember that she was swooped away in a minute, led out of my sight faster than I could bear. That I hung back on the steps indecisively. It was not my policy to mingle openhandedly in the racket and noise of family goings-on. I stuck pretty much to my study until around dinnertime, when the call of gossip and intrigue got the better of me.

  Just as I was climbing the steps she came back for her pocketbook. I need a cigarette, she said (out loud, though not especially to me). Music makes me want to smoke, she added. Then smiled. And walked sloppily out of my sight with an awkward gait that I recognized as one of her signatures—a zigzagging through space as if she were avoiding bumping into things . . . felt things that crowded the air and kept her from walking a straight line. It was then that I knew she could sing. Not because of R’s boastful prelude, not because I knew shit about music, but because of the way she walked, treading a line that said life can get out of hand, go haywire and blow up in your face. I could read in that precarious zigzagging across space the uneasy notes that would make her voice something distinct. It was just a feeling. A writer backing an artistic hunch. I went upstairs and shut the door.

  Few sounds reach as far as my tower in the sky, where I alone preside over one eccentric room. Books lie
about in stacked piles, a gray metal desk sits in the middle looking broad and ugly. Cardboard boxes abound. It’s a dumb room. I apologize for describing it—descriptive writing is not my cup of tea. But that room was a source of much family contention: Janice especially mocked it for its lack of atmosphere. She wanted it lined with wall-to-wall bookcases, mahogany furniture, paintings—all of which would add a musty odor of authorship to the place. The room angered her, much as I anger her with my flabby stance. Oh God, she’s likely to exclaim, don’t get me started on his muddled way of doing things, it makes my blood boil and spurt. For instance, take his homebody thing. He thinks that staying put is wisdom. It’s one of his serious but confused notions that one gets to the same place by not moving at all! Oh God, it makes me want to send a swift one flying up his ass. All this driveling he does about home and hearth! His whole artistic stance is built on failures, characters who never evolve, a host of shlimazl-like types who never get anywhere. In his menagerie, there are failed writers, failed blacks, failed husbands, failed lovers, failed TV producers. Failure reeks from every page! And then he turns these specimen into heroes as if failure were a kind of hip Sony Walkman that the loser takes out while he strolls aimlessly along, making fun of those who play faster, coarser games with life. At least they play! The wimp! How can I stand up to life and admit I married a wimp! And she’d collapse in a fit of laughter, struck down by my inertia hovering and laying claim to her energy.

  By the time I came down Lollie was gone. To rave reviews. To all of them oohing and aahing on her behalf. You should have heard her, Janice said, poking me in the arm, you should have come down for once from that dumb tower of yours. It’s not often that a voice like that comes knocking at our door, and where were you but hiding up there dissecting words. She’s the best.

  Andrew, R threw in for good measure, she makes my songs shine, and he speared another lamb chop, greedy and high on his tunes.