Authors: J. J. Murray
Y
ou are so smooth when you want to be.
I wasn’t trying to be smooth. I was scared to death!
Fear works for you. You can put the phone down now.
Oh, yeah.
I put the phone in its cradle and wiped my hands on my pants. I had to switch hands several times during the conversation, they were sweating so much. I felt like such a kid.
Was I babbling? I was babbling, wasn’t I?
It takes a while for you to get going, but once you do, you flow out loud, too.
Geez, Bandini’s. I hear it’s good.
Just don’t wear white to an Italian restaurant.
Yeah. What
do
I wear?
The same thing you’ve been wearing. Be casual.
But I’d be wearing the clothes Noël picked out for me on a date with another woman.
So?
There’s something…wrong with that.
Look, unless you do some laundry, the only clothes you have that are clean are—
Okay, okay.
Just don’t iron them this time.
I don’t even know if I have any clean underwear.
Go “cowboy,” then.
No way!
You’re changing, Jack. You’re getting better. Live a little.
Without underwear?
How will she know?
That’s not the point.
I’ll
know. It’ll be cold tomorrow, and I know I’ll feel a draft.
So, do a load of whites.
I’ll do a load of whites.
Ten minutes later, I realize something: I have a lot of “off-whites” to wash. Why is it that whites don’t want to stay white? Maybe the entire universe works toward color or something.
Nothing white can stay, either.
You said it.
I am shin deep in six months of unwashed clothing in the laundry room, none of it Stevie’s or Noël’s, thankfully. She must have done the laundry that day….
You’ve let them pile up for far too long, Jack.
I know, but…how can someone live this way?
You weren’t really living, Jack. You were just getting up in the morning for lack of anything better to do, wandering around the house, and drinking yourself to sleep. But now, you have a purpose.
And that is?
To start over. You have a woman coming over tomorrow morning to drive the car. She sounded pretty on the phone.
How…Just because her voice sounded pretty doesn’t mean—
“Pretty choices made by pretty voices.”
Will you quit quoting that…novel I don’t want to think about anymore?
I’ll bet she’s hot. Mustangs are babe magnets.
Noël drove the Mustang.
And she was a babe.
You’re talking about my wife and Stevie’s mother, now. “Babe” isn’t used to describe—
It
should
be, especially by her husband. You still thought she was a babe, especially when she pulled up in that Mustang the first time you went down to Smith Mountain Lake.
Yeah. She was a babe that day. The Mustang
is
a babe magnet.
Right. It’s a muscle car.
I have no muscles, but that’s not the point. I can’t pick up Diane in that beat-up old truck! I’ll have to take the Mustang.
You’re going to pick up Diane in your
dead wife’s
car in the clothes your
dead wife
picked out for you? Gee, Jack, you’re pushing the envelope now.
I can’t sell that car, and not because I think Diane will like it better. It’s…it’s a link to my past.
And now you’ll use it to link to your future.
Something like that.
The best of both worlds.
Or the worst.
I dump as many whites (and plenty of grays) as can fit in the washing machine, dump in a full scoop of Tide, and pour in at least a quart of bleach. I turn the right knob to the longest wash setting—
Use hot water, Jack.
I turn the center knob to “hot,” set the left knob to “oversized load,” and pull out the right knob. Water streams into the tub, splashing up on me.
After six months collecting dust, it still works!
Yeah.
And so do you, Jack. So do you.
S
o…I have a date.
I keep saying it over and over again in my head. I even say it to the cake, to my glass of iced tea, to my reflection in the mirror, to my toothbrush—
I’m so glad I live alone.
I’ve been kind of floating through the rest of the evening. I’m even actually watching TV while ironing. It’s some reality show or other I’ve never seen before where the kids try to get their dad a new wife. It’s kind of…charming, though I doubt all those women’s breasts or faces are real. What some people will do for love.
Like calling up strange white men, I guess.
I finger through my wardrobe and pick out a burgundy pantsuit. I’ll wear a plain crème blouse underneath and a push-up bra I haven’t had the nerve to wear. The first time I put it on, my breasts…moved. They just…smiled up at me.
The phone rings. Mama? It’s not a holiday yet. “Hello?”
“Dee-Dee, it’s Mama.”
“Hi, Mama.”
“Your father is taking me out on New Year’s, so I won’t be able to call tomorrow.”
That saves me from asking why she called. “Big date, huh?”
“Oh, nothing special. Dinner and some dancing probably. You know your father.”
Knowing Daddy, I am sure it will be more dancing than dinner. My daddy can dance. I used to stand on his feet in the kitchen, and he’d let me feel his “moves.” I wonder if Jack and I will dance….
“How about you? What are your plans?”
I finally have some news Mama will be happy to hear. “I, too, have a date.”
“You…do?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, Mama.”
“I’m not. It’s just…it’s wonderful!”
Ah, now she’s happy. “And I actually have two dates.”
“With
two
men?”
She’s probably clutching her chest. “No, two dates with the same man.”
“You’ve already been on one and you didn’t tell me?”
Yes, this is a bit confusing. “No. I have a lunch date with him tomorrow and a dinner date with him on New Year’s.”
“Oh. What’s his name?”
“His name is David Jack Browning.”
“Does he go by David?”
“No, he goes by Jack.”
“What does he do?”
Mama defines men by what they do, not by who they are. “He is an author of multicultural women’s fiction.”
“What kind of fiction?”
I’ll have to keep this simple. “He writes books for black folks, Mama.” And please don’t ask how skinny and ashy he is.
“A writer, huh? What does he look like?”
Hmm. “Well, he’s tall, about six-feet—”
“As tall as your daddy,” she interrupts. “That’s good. I’m glad I married a tall man, especially now when I can’t reach as high as I used to. The arthritis in my shoulders is acting up something fierce. It must be the weather. I’m taking…”
As Mama lists her “therapy,” I wonder how she can turn my big news into her arthritis. It’s magic. Anyway, it saves me the trouble of describing Jack more.
“Is he a Christian?”
From arthritis to a man’s religion. Mama needs to work on her transitions.
“Yes.” Though I really don’t know, but I can’t tell Mama that. I’ll bet Jack is…a Lutheran. Yeah, there are lots of blond Lutherans.
“Is he single?”
“Yes, Mama,” I say, trying not to strangle the phone. “Of course he’s single.”
“Just checking. Never been married?”
Hmm. “He’s a widower, Mama. His wife and son died in a car accident last July.”
“Oh, how terrible!”
Yet, in the grand scheme of things, that tragedy has brought us together.
“Was he driving?”
I never asked. Why didn’t I ask? “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know?”
“Mama, we’ve only just met. I’m still getting to know him.”
Silence. “And he writes books for black folks.”
“Yes.”
“Which ones?”
“Oh, only one so far, and it comes out in April, but he’s working on a second book.”
“What’s the first one called?”
“
Wishful Thinking
. It’s a romance.” Sort of. “But it’s kind of an adult romance, Mama, not like the ones you read.”
“Adult? So, it has sex in it?”
Oh, yeah. “Yes.”
“And he’s a Christian?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Hmm.”
I don’t fill the silence or even attempt to argue with her.
“It isn’t smut, is it?”
“No, Mama. Look, I’ll send you an autographed copy as soon as it comes out.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t sound too happy. “Is this serious, Dee-Dee?”
It might be, but I can’t tell her that. “Mama, it’s only our first two dates, and I’ve only known Jack for about a week. I’ll let you know, okay?”
“Do you want it to be serious?”
It’s none of your business! “I said I’d let you know. So far we’re just friends.”
“Is he serious?”
Serious enough to ask me out! “Mama, you’ll have to ask him about that.”
“Okay, give me his number.”
She has to be playing, though she
would
call if I gave her Jack’s number. “No, Mama.”
“I’m just teasing, Dee-Dee. Is he nice?”
Very. “Yes.”
“Handsome?”
Well…in a way. “Yes.”
“And he’s a Christian who writes smut?”
She just can’t let it go! “Mama, he writes modern romance, and yes, there’s sex in modern romance.”
“Christians shouldn’t be writing that sort of thing.”
I’m not going to argue with her there. “Well, it’s what he’s publishing, so accept it.”
“I don’t know if I can.” She sighs. “Well, tell me how you met. Was it at your church?”
“No, we met at the library. He just…came up to me, we started to talk—”
“Then how do you know he’s a Christian?”
She thinks she has me. “He
told
me, Mama.”
“He just up and…told you in the middle of a conversation.”
Hmm. “I
asked
him, Mama, okay? You raised me right, remember?”
“Well, you make sure he’s a Christian, okay? A man can say just about anything to get what he wants.”
I don’t respond. Mama considers herself an expert on all men because she’s been married to one man for thirty-five years.
“So, where are you going on your dates?”
“Tomorrow we’re going to an Italian restaurant for lunch.”
“Italian? He likes Italian food?”
Who doesn’t like Italian food? “It was
my
choice, Mama, and it’s one of the nicest restaurants in all of Roanoke.”
“Oh.”
“And as for New Year’s, Jack says it’s a surprise.”
“A surprise, huh? You make sure you take your own car or have plenty of taxi money.”
“Mama, hush.”
“Especially if he’s driving. He doesn’t drink, does he?”
Another thing I don’t know for sure. “I’ve never smelled alcohol on his breath.” Not that he’s gotten that close to me.
“You’ve been smelling his breath?”
Geez! “I won’t let him drink around me, okay?”
Silence. “Well, it’s obvious that you like him.”
“I do.”
“Well, what do you like about him?”
“His eyes,” I say, before I can stop myself. Shoot! Now I’ll have to go into more details.
“Nice dark brown ones, huh, like your daddy?”
Can brown be light enough to appear blue? No. “His eyes are lighter than Daddy’s.” And that’s the truth.
“Has he…kissed you yet?”
“No.” Though the thought of kissing Jack starts my hands sweating again.
“You want him to, don’t you?”
Of course I do! “Mama, that’s none of your business.”
“That answered the question. You want him to.”
“Mama, I said it’s none of your business.”
I hate it when she’s right.
“He’s not too dark, is he?”
I try not to laugh or bite off my tongue. “No.”
“That’s good. The darker the berry, the darker the children.”
Another one of Mama’s sayings. “But what does that matter?”
“I’m just asking questions, that’s all.”
Of all the things that matter to Mama, the “skin issue” takes precedence. Daddy and Mama’s skin tones are almost exactly alike, and she even told me she looked for boys with skin tone similar to hers in high school. Yeah, I have suede parents with dark suede lips so they could have suede children.
“It’s getting late, Mama, and I have some ironing to do.”
“You’ll call me after your first date, won’t you?”
“It’s only lunch, Mama.”
“You can tell a lot about a man by watching him eat. Now your father…”
I have heard this story too often to listen, so I continue ironing. Daddy’s daddy, my grandfather, was career military, and Gran Anderson, my grandmother, thought Emily Post was the solution to every racial problem that existed. “If we all learn to eat
properly
”—meaning “like white folks”—“we’ll be fit for anyone’s table,” she used to say. Naturally, Daddy eats like a perfect gentleman, but only when Mama is at the table. As soon as she gets up, he’s a slurping, talking-with-his-mouth-f man.
“Mama, I have to go.”
“Well, you take care of yourself. Say hello to Jack for me.”
That was nice of her to say. “I will. Bye.”
I hang up and stare at myself in the mirror. Was I being deceitful? No, not really. Mama just wasn’t asking the right questions. What would I have said if she had asked, “Is he white?” I would have said…
I have no idea what I would have said.
And that makes me a little sad.
I
wake up at a reasonable hour, shave, shower, and put on fresh clothes.
For a change.
And I start calling restaurants at 8 A.M. I choose the ones in the phone book that have the biggest ads, some even with full menus, assuming that these are the most expensive. By 8:30, I realize something: there’s no one at these restaurants this early in the morning.
Because they’re all open at night, Jack.
I’ll have to call later.
What will you tell Diane?
What I’ve already told her: it’s a surprise.
To both of you.
And that doesn’t bother me in the least. Surprise, at least recently, can be a good thing.
A little before nine, the phone rings. “Hello?”
You’re not even checking the Caller ID.
Just inviting more surprises.
“Hi, it’s Jenny.”
I smile. “Good morning, Jenny.”
And you suddenly have phone manners?
“I’m here for my test-drive. I hope I’m not too early.”
I walk into the living room and part the drapes near the Christmas tree. I see an old Crown Victoria parked behind the Rodeo on the street. “You’re already here?”
Jenny gets out of the car, still talking on the phone. “Yeah. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She’s hot
.
“No, Jenny. I’ve been up for a while.”
Long, flowing blond hair surrounds a classic pale Nordic face of high cheekbones and red lips. She smiles up at the window. “So, what do you think of my mom’s car?”
“I can see why you want the Mustang.”
She walks behind the Crown Victoria, and she seems to…dance. No, that’s not right. She…bounces.
That girl is toned to the bone.
She wears a light blue sweat suit that leaves little to the imagination.
She’s a babe.
“I’ll be right out,” I say.
“Okay.”
I get the keys for the Mustang, throw on a Windbreaker, and go outside.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” she says, extending a hand.
I shake her hand, though I feel awkward doing so. She has such small hands, and they aren’t smooth at all. “I’m Jack.”
She must work out.
“And now I have a face to go with a voice,” I say.
Smooth.
I hand her the keys. “Thank you,” she says.
She opens the door and gets in, then immediately adjusts the front seat and all the mirrors.
Why are you just standing here? Get in!
“Aren’t you getting in?” she asks.
Green eyes. A few freckles on her nose. So young!
“I trust you,” I say. “There’s plenty of gas. And you can take it out on the interstate if you want to.”
“You don’t want to come along?”
You’d be crazy not to, Jack!
“How’d you hear about the car? I didn’t advertise it.” For that matter, how did she get my phone number in the first place?
“Oh, a friend of mine up the street saw it, knew I’d love it, and took down the information from your sign.”
“Oh.” I blink. “But there’s no phone number on it.”
“She knew your name, and I looked it up in the phone book.”
“Oh.”
Quit thinking so much!
She pats the passenger seat with one of those small hands. “Get in.”
Yeah, Jack, get in!
I get in the Mustang, and for the next thirty minutes, I learn everything there is to know about Jenny Dwyer. She’s fresh out of college with a psychology degree, hasn’t found a job to match her degree, so she works as a fitness instructor at Gold’s Gym. Her family has lived in Roanoke for “ages,” she’s thinking of pursuing a master’s degree in child psychology, she loves working with children, she used to be a lifeguard, and she just loves the car “to death.”
She’s…perfect.
She’s young. She couldn’t be a day over twenty-two.
“Your sign didn’t mention the price,” she says once we finally pull into the driveway. “That kind of scares me, you know. I want this car, but I’m worried it will be out of my price range.”
How do you put a value on your wife’s “baby”?
“I looked it up on the Internet, at the Blue Book site, and I have a feeling you’ll want at least four thousand.”
Is she pouting?
She’s pouting.
She’s trying to manipulate me with her fresh face, body, and pout.
Is it working?
Not quite.
“I’m asking forty-five hundred.”
Jenny’s head drops, her chin pressed to her chest. “I was afraid of that.” She turns to me. “I don’t have that kind of money right now, and I doubt any bank will give me a loan since I owe so much for college.”
Worked her way through college, needy, hot, cute as a button. A babe. Cut her a break.
Let her talk.
Yeah, she has the cutest voice, too.
“But…I can put some money down and maybe pay you monthly?”
You’ll get to see her again and again
.
Unless she mails it.
So, make her deliver it to you in person. Imagine how she’ll look this summer in tight shorts and a tank top
.
“I don’t know, uh, Jenny. I was hoping to be paid up front. It makes reassigning the title easier.” Which reminds me that I still have to get that title fixed.
Ask how much she can put down
.
Why? It’s obvious she doesn’t have enough.
Just ask her. She looks so sad.
It’s part of her manipulation. She is, after all, a psychology major.
“How much were you thinking of putting down, Jenny?”
“Two thousand.”
Whoa! That’s a lot of lunches and dinners with Diane…or Jenny, here.
Shh.
Maybe she can put some muscles on you. She could be your personal fitness instructor for a few months.
“And then how much could you pay comfortably per month?” I ask.
She crunches up her lips, and they touch her nose. It’s a…cute gesture. “My insurance is kind of high. I got a few speeding tickets going to and from school, so I was hoping…a hundred fifty?”
I do some math in my head. Jenny would be paying me for almost seventeen months.
Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
“Hmm,” is all I can think to say. I get out of the Mustang, and she slides out of her side, shutting the door.
“I love this car,” she says, putting her small hands on the car, smoothing out all the yellow on the hood. “I can see myself in this car.”
She is definitely the right girl for this car. She’s…sunny. Jenny is a sunny soul, just like Noël. The car deserves her, too.
“Well, Jenny, I’d like to think about it, at least for a day, okay?”
What are you doing?
If I agree to her terms, she’ll want the car today. I have a date with Diane in a few hours, and I plan to drive this car. And the DMV will be packed today. It’s December 30!
She hands me the keys. “Okay.”
“Um, I have your number,” I say, “so I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
That’s more like it.
“I can give you my cell number,” Jenny says.
Yes! Take it!
“You could call me anytime.”
All the better! Take the number!
Jenny pulls out and hands me a Gold’s Gym business card, of all things, and listed along with the Gold’s Gym numbers are her home and cell phone numbers.
And her e-mail address, too? You are set!
“Thank you.”
She steps closer, looking up at me with a…wistful look? “Please call me soon, okay?”
“I will.”
And often!
Shh.
And that was no wistful look, Jack. That was the look of a woman who wants you.
I doubt that.
I watch her walk back to her mother’s car, get in, and drive away in a car, which swallows her up completely. She looked good in the Mustang and drove it as if she already owned it. Noël would want her to have the car. Noël would say she’s a perfect match for that car.
She sizzles, doesn’t she?
Yeah, Noël could sizzle.
I was talking about Jenny.
Like I said, she’s too young. When I graduated from high school, she was in the first grade, and she was only in the fifth grade when I started teaching.
She has a crush on you.
No, she doesn’t. She just wants the car.
But think of the benefits! Picture this: it’s ninety degrees in August, humidity at 50 percent, and Jenny comes over to pay you wearing the tightest shorts, maybe only her sports bra, and she’s dripping with sweat, and I’ll bet she has a tattoo somewhere sexy and a pierced belly button and—
I should be calling you “Dan Pace.”
Dan Pace has it goin’ on, yo!
I’m not like that. I’ve never been like that.
You could be.
I’m too old to play around like that.
No, you’re not.
What would I look like with a child like that in my life?
Happy? Imagine the
sex,
Jack.
I’m not going there.
You’re no fun. Dan would have lowered the price on the Mustang provided she could get him a discount at Gold’s Gym and some one-on-one, sweaty instruction both at the gym…and in the house.
No, Dan would have said the wrong thing at the wrong time and gotten slapped in the face.
True. But, he wouldn’t have washed his face for a week.
At noon, I leave the house just as the mail carrier arrives. Other than the usual mail trying to interest me in equity loans and credit cards, there is one piece from my agent, Nina Frederick.
The reviews have arrived!
I get in the Mustang, and adjust the seat back several inches.
Jenny was short.
Shh. I’m reading.
The seat’s still warm
.
Shh.
As usual, there’s no cover letter from Nina, just two blocks of type on one page. The first review is from Kirkus: “
Wishful Thinking
, by D. J. Browning, is a promising debut novel,” I read. Promising. Hmm. Not really an endorsement there. “Quirky…blah blah blah…innovative…entertaining; a solid first novel.”
Not a single negative—or true—word.
I read the other review from Booklist. “Blah blah blah surprising social commentary…blah blah blah…colorful characters and warm humor…a sizzling summer read.”
Not bad.
Not correct.
Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s a first novel. You’re allowed to make mistakes.
The whole novel was a mistake.
I toss the reviews onto the passenger seat and drive downtown, find a spot in front of the library, and wait, watching the digital clock change from 12:15 to 12:16 to 12:17….
You’re nervous.
A little.
It’s only lunch.
It’s my first date in seven years. I have a right to be nervous.
At 12:35 exactly, Diane walks out the front entrance, carrying an umbrella and wearing a tan overcoat.
Curvy.
Shh.
I get out of the Mustang, and she smiles.
Nice smile.
Yeah.
I walk around, open her door, and watch as she has trouble getting settled into the bucket seat. She hands the mail up to me.
“Oh, sorry about that,” I say.
“It’s okay.”
I close my door, return to my side, and get in, tossing the mail in the back. “You look nice.”
She looks straight ahead. “But you can’t see what I’m wearing.”
Hmm. “What are you wearing?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
I look in the side mirror and see a jam of cars coming our way. Instead of punching it and racing out ahead of them, I let them pass.
“How long were you waiting?” she asks.
“About fifteen minutes.”
Why’d you tell her that?
It’s the truth.
But that makes you sound desperate!
It makes me sound punctual.
The traffic doesn’t want to end. “Is it always like this downtown?” I ask.
“It’s the lunch rush. I usually walk.”
I turn to her. “Would you rather walk today?”
“It’s supposed to rain.”
“Oh.”
I see a gap in front of a Suburban and hit the gas pedal, and the Mustang leaps out ahead. I glance to my right and see Diane’s hands pressed into the dashboard.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
You’re driving too fast.
I slow down. “Um, where should I park when we get there?”
“There’s a parking garage across the street.”
“Okay.”
I take a ticket on the first level and circle higher and higher until I find a space on the top level in the cold, open air. Diane gets out before I can get my door open.
What’s her hurry?
She only has an hour for lunch, remember?
I catch her looking back at her seat and frowning as she shuts the door.
That bucket seat must not have been kind to her booty
.
Shh.
“Is this your wife’s car?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah.”
She blinks once.
“I’m, uh, trying to sell it.”
Diane only nods.
“I may have found a buyer this morning.”
We walk to the elevator as the first drops come down. I should have brought my umbrella, and it isn’t proper form for a man to share a woman’s umbrella, is it?
You’ll be closer to her.
True.
The elevator doors open, and Diane steps inside. We’re not the only ones on the elevator; another couple stands in the corner. I stand behind Diane as the elevator descends.
Get closer!
We’re being watched.
So? At least make small talk.
But I can think of nothing to say!