Axeman's Jazz

17

I DON’T KNOW all of Montrose, though this is the neighborhood Ariyeh lives in. As I check the rough map I made based on Bowen’s directions over the phone, I think, wryly, how similar this process is to following Mama’s guidance — left here, honey, no right — when she was so addled by anger, denial, hurt, God knows what else, she couldn’t see two feet in front of her. No, not fair. She left you your name, didn’t she? Her quilts? She wasn’t like the mayor, who can erase whole subdivisions, canceling their tax bases with one mighty slash of a pen or by ordering his speechwriters to delete a phrase or two. Mama left a few things behind. The Crisis. C’s letter to Sarah Morgan. Maybe she wanted me to return here, after all. More likely, it occurs to me, she knew I’d come back, anyway, and she didn’t want to be entirely silent when I did.

I make a left at a corner showing growth pangs — a brand-new multistory bank on one side of the street; on the other, a dilapidated house with a bail bondsman’s sign out front, in English and Spanish. A young Mixteca stands on the bail bondsman’s lawn, glancing frantically up and down the block. She yells a couple of names.

On a call-in show on my radio, an angry right-winger blames poverty in America on unwed black mothers. Wonderful. Don’t these guys ever change? My bathtub is smarter than they are. I punch buttons until I find Me’Shell NdegeOcello singing “Soul on Ice.” The song adds to my cheer. I’ve surprised myself: I’m riding pretty high today. No nasty side effects from my one-on-one with Rue. I matched him move for move — because I was determined to — and the sucker probably knows it. As a purely practical matter, the sex has relaxed me a little, as I hoped it would.

Another left, and I’m at the wine bar Bowen suggested, the Resplendent Grape. He’s sitting at a shaded table on the walk out front, his suit coat off, collar and thin red tie loosened just a notch. A wrinkle-free cream shirt. He stands and pulls out a wrought-iron chair for me. I lock my car. “The house merlot here is fabulous,” he tells me. “I took the liberty of ordering you one.” He hands me a tall, wide glass.

“Thank you,” I say, and sit. Sunlight sparkles through the trees, dappling the tabletop, Bowen’s biscuit-colored arms and rolled-up sleeves.

“I’m really glad you called,” he tells me. “I’ve been sitting by the fax machine. So. Do you have a résumé for me?”

“Before you pitch me again … I saw the sign.”

“What sign?”

“In the cemetery across from my uncle’s house. Future Home of Such-and-Such … what is it? Apartments? Condos?”

He smiles. “I explained before — ”

“I don’t know all of Houston’s ins and outs, but I know, Mr. Bowen, just from looking at the site, that you’ll probably have to secure a density modification before you can make a move, and you’ll need to hold a public hearing, which means official notification of the neighborhood, which I know for a fact the neighborhood hasn’t received yet.”

He eyes me appreciatively.

“It’s an old trick, right? Slap the sign up, make it look like a done deal, take the wind out of the neighbors’ sails before they even know what’s happening, before they realize there’s still time to stop it… especially if you’re dealing with a poor, uninformed populace. But I know the trick, all right? And I’m watching.”

Still smiling, he says, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but through our friends at City Hall, we got an expedited process.”

I glare at him.

“It’s all legal and aboveboard, I assure you. Now. Résumé?”

I clutch my purse to my belly.

He sighs, leans across the table. “Nothing’s etched in stone, Telisha. May I call you Telisha? The sign represents the wishes of some of my partners, but we’re still exploring options. One of the scenarios I’m floating, and there’s some interest in it as a PR move, is to renovate not just the graveyard but some of the surrounding houses. Okay?”

I don’t believe him, but want to keep my own options kicking. I reach into my purse and produce my résumé. He takes it from me as gingerly as a man fingering a satin bra. While he looks it over, I glance around: yuppies and buppies from Vinson & Elkins. Brooks Brothers breaking brie with Goldman Sachs. These folks run whatever show they’re part of, or they couldn’t afford to sit here of a late afternoon.

I overhear an elegant black man telling a wavy blonde — a fairy-tale Rapunzel — “White culture is dying in America, baby. Elvis has left the building.”

“Is your planning office in Dallas pro-business?” Bowen says. “No-growthets? Which way do they lean?”

“A healthy mix of both. Slow and measured growth is our mantra, though reality has outrun our plans.”

“Dallas is a mess.”

I agree.

He sets aside my pages, sips his wine, studies me. “Are you used to working with white liberals? Because that’s an animal you’ll encounter often in our circle. ‘Economic conservative, social liberal’—that’s how they like to present themselves, at least to me.”

“Sure.”

“In my experience, white liberals are geniuses at telling us what we need but morons at actually listening to what we want.”

“Like black leadership.”

He laughs. “Exactly. I have a couple of old buddies — warriors from the civil rights days, you know, afros, ‘Free Angela’ buttons, the whole bit — their fire got hot again when Farrakhan organized the Million Man March. They begged me to go with them. I tried to tell them, I said, ‘Ben’s Chili Bowl, the Florida Avenue Grill — how many other black-owned businesses in D.C. can you name? There’s not nearly enough places to feed and bed all these guys, so you’re going to head up there, without women, to crow about yourself as men — and all the while you’ll line the white men’s pockets? Where’s the sense in that?’”

“So Farrakhan — ”

“He’s just a failed old Calypso singer who still craves the spotlight.”

“And Governor Bush?”

“Hey, he lets the dogs run free in the business world, and that’s all right by me. I’ll support him if he decides he wants the White House.” He orders us both more wine.

“What’s your story, Mr. Bowen? How’d you come up, and where? I mean, since you know so much about me …”

“Rufus. Please. Right here. Texas Southern, U of H.”

“Let me guess. You benefited from Affirmative Action, but now you oppose it on principle.”

“I admit the contradiction. In certain individual cases, like mine, probably yours, the program did some good. But yes, on balance I think it’s harmed us, stolen our motivation, made us dependent on social handouts — ”

“Easy to say now from your high perch.”

“Listen, every day I sit in meetings where my opinion is the last one solicited — and I run the damn company! As far as I’m concerned, there’s no perch high enough — ”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not trying to pick a fight, I’m — ”

“My father owned a car repair shop over in Freedmen’s Town, and all my life I couldn’t wait to get out of there. When guys my age moved into the middle class we were turning traitor.’ Now some of my friends sit around their gated yards and complain about the ‘other Negroes’—people like your uncle and your cousin, like Reggie. That’s not me, see. I still have loyalties to the old neighborhood. But I don’t apologize for wanting to lead a more comfortable life. Or for wanting to improve the old stomping grounds.”

“For being economically conservative’?” He laughs. Of course he’s right, I think. This is what being with a man is supposed to be like, nice surroundings, pleasant wine, intelligent conversation. “It was a good thing you did for Reggie, arranging for that computer.”

“I was happy to help him out. He’s doing great work.”

“But I’ve got to ask you — ” I sit forward. “Can I be really candid with you?”

“Please.”

“Natalie. Me. I mean — ”

“What?”

“If I didn’t know better — ”

“Ah,” he says. “You mean, am I just a predator in disguise?”

“Well, no. No, I’m — ”

“Seizing whatever I fancy and nailing up my signs?”

“I’m sorry I implied that.”

“Natalie’s having a tough adjustment, with the child-care and all, but I’ve given her a wonderful opportunity.”

“I realize that.”

“One-two-three: Reggie introduced me to her; she was in need; I saw we could help each other. Purely pragmatic. And she’s going to be fine. I really believe that. Let me turn the tables on you, Telisha. Are you playacting some silly ‘Roots’ deal, or are you serious about becoming part of the life here again?”

I lock on his big brown eyes.

“All right,” he says, settling more loosely in his chair. “Have we faced our demons enough here today?”

“If —,” I say, raising a finger. “If you really want me to come work for you, I have to say, PR’s not my thing. The tax shelters, real estate — future plans?”

“Sure, we’re always looking to diversify our investments.”

“That’s what I can help you with. Land-use planning.”

He scoots his chair next to mine. “And when you don’t agree with the board’s decisions, Telisha — if, say, we go condos instead of historic preservation — you’re cool with that?”

“No. But I’m an adult. And a professional. And believe me, as a city planner, I’m used to losing. As you say, Dallas is a mess.”

“I’m glad we could talk.” He touches my shoulder lightly. “I’ll get the wine. And how about dinner Thursday? I’d like to hear more. You know, how you’d define the job.”

The man knows how to smile. And how to wear his shirts. “Thursday’s good,” I say.

We meet at the River Café, and before I know it we’ve emptied a bottle of pinot gris. He hasn’t officially offered me a job, and I have no clue whether he’s really interested in my ideas. I tell him I’d like a chance, with the help of a corporate benefactor, perhaps, to explore the marshlands near Kwako’s place, see if the city’s running sewer lines out there, and if not, if it might. I’d like to study the possibility of mild grading and leveling, to facilitate sheet-drainage.

“What’s in it for E-Future?”

We kick around investment alternatives: housing projects, shopping parks.

He worries that we’re getting too far afield from the company’s Internet core. Abruptly, he switches subjects, lightens the mood. He tells me about an avant-garde play he saw once in Dallas. He lusted for the white actress. “She was droning on and on in a deliberate monotone, but I didn’t care. ‘God, she’s beautiful,’ I thought, ‘I could watch her all night.’ But, in fact, after twenty grating minutes, I thought, ‘God, how long will it take her to die?’”

I fear I’ve lost my shot at the job — before I’ve even decided if I want it — but from time to time he circles back to my suggestions. I’m convinced, finally, that he is taking me seriously and is simply trying to balance business with amiability.

After the plates are cleared, and we’re sipping amaretto, he says, “So. Is it a stretch for you to trust a black conservative?”

“Still being candid? I don’t have a lot of experience with people like you.”

“You really want to live in Freedmen’s Town?”

“I don’t know. It’s where I grew up. After my mama died … I just … I needed to see it again.”

“Doesn’t Ariyeh work at the school there, where all those kids went missing? The janitor or some crazy — ”

“Yes.” The drink tickles my throat, a pleasing burn. “They’re saying he once tried to talk the city into opening separate schools for black boys. Ariyeh told me this. He felt they were straying, all of them, a whole generation — they needed tough love, hard work. A boot camp kind of deal was the only way to save them. When his proposals were rejected, something in him snapped — ”

“Ah, the famous snap.”

“—and he went around like the Axeman, ‘eradicating’—his word — the community’s ‘evil.’” Surprised at myself, I pull a Kleenex from my purse. Dab my eyes.

“Telisha?”

“I’m sorry. Those missing kids just …”

He takes my hand.

“Shut me up.” I try to laugh.

“No, it’s all right.”

“How could he hate his own people so much … despise those poor kids … I don’t want to believe my mother felt even a smidgen of that kind of hatred — of Houston, of me, but maybe, on some level, she did …”

“How does it go? ‘Love is a struggle … no, love is a battle, love is a war, love is a growing up. No one in the world knows love more than the American Negro.’”

I blow my nose. “James Baldwin,” I say.

“One of my favorites.”

“Truly.” I push my empty glass away. “No experience with a man like you. A CEO quoting James Baldwin?”

“Would you like to come work for me?”

“Am I really needed?”

“You’re really needed.”

“Too far afield? On the fringes of your mission?”

“As I say, I trust my intuition. I know I can use your skills.”

I feel my face flush. Another benefir of the tumble with Rue: I actually feel attractive now. And someone has noticed.

“I’ll get you home now,” Rufus says and picks up the tab.

Outside Some Other Time, with the parked car purring, he leans over to kiss my cheek. I touch his earring, the half-moon slope of his ear. “Business and pleasure,” I say. “I don’t think — ”

He moves away. “You’re right.”

“Not yet, anyway. Okay?”

He smiles.

“I have a lot to think about. But thank you.”

“Two weeks? Can you let me know by then?”

“Two weeks.”

“Good.”

“Rufus?”

“Yes?”

“Are you married?”

A long belly laugh. “No.”

“Just checking all the parameters.”

“As a solid professional should. It’s been a pleasure, Telisha. See you soon, I hope.”

“Good night.”

Once he’s gone, I stand for a while listening to crickets, watching the moon rise; its milky light, through low, ropy willow limbs, casts braided patterns on the sidewalks. On the stairs, inside, I’m startled by a young soldier. No. He’s no ghost. Just a kid dropping dexies, wearing a faded old army shirt — the kind you can get in a secondhand store.

Stuck with duct tape to my door, a torn piece of notebook paper, “Rue” scrawled in runny blue ink. That’s all. I suppose I’m to understand he’s mad at me for not sitting and pining for him. I crumple the paper, stuff it into my pocket.

Blouse, pants, hose — I take them off and lay them all on the bed, wash my face and arms and chest. A baby cries down the hall, then drops into a hurt-dog whimper. Three or four others take up the call. I weave to the window, a little drunk, watch nothing move in the moonlight.

A knock at the door. Jesus. Rue? “Who is it?” I throw on some clothes.

“The night manager, ma’am. Sorry to disturb you.”

I slip back the chain. A skinny kid, identical to the afternoon Star Trek freak. “You just got a phone message.” He hands me a Post-it note:

My face goes numb. So. It’s finally happened. “I see.” A drop of saliva slides from my lip to my chin; I’m too slow to catch it. “Thank you.”

“No problem. You have a good evening, now.” As he ambles down the hall, he snaps his fingers to a tune in his head.

I turn back inside. The room is just as I left it, which somehow surprises me. Dirty, almost empty; except for my suitcase and a few scattered clothes, no sign that anyone sleeps here. I wipe my mouth, grab my keys, and head for the hospital.