I know.
You don’t know as much as you think you know.
You gon let me finish?
I ain’t stoppin you.
Well, this one day, I see EE ridin round and goin slow as hell, and I jus walks right up to her, jus walks right on up to her and say, How you today, Miss Emily? then I whips out my dick.
What?
Straight up. Pop goes the weasel.
I don’t believe you, Porsha said, thinking, Maybe he did.
For real.
You tellin a story.
You know I don’t lie.
Porsha thought about it. Well, what she do?
I’m fin to tell you. I whips it out and shakes it a little, right in her face. I say, Trick fo trick. EE open her mouth and smile at me. Got all this gray shit on her teeth. Like steel wool or somephun. She say, Chillen are such a comfort to the body.
No she didn’t?
Straight up.
What you do?
What you think? I wore my jimmy.
Niggas ain’t shit.
Better believe it.
Fairy tale.
Only fairies tell tales. And you know I ain’t no fairy.
What am I going to do wit you?
All the good things.
DEATHROW WAS BETTER than most of the men she’d dealt with. Trifling niggas. (One boldly told her: Baby, I’m only out for one thang. The pussy and the money.) Especially Les Payne. Fine nigga. Tall and muscular. Honey-brown skin. I got a weakness for these good-lookin browns. The rod of his penis printed against his tight jeans. Eyes you could leap into, singing and splashing. Rolled his own cigarettes (liked her to roll them for him) with Top paper — to make everyone think he fired up joints as normal people fire up cigarettes — and sweet-smelling tobacco. That was during her only year of college — Freeport University, downstate, a stone’s throw from Kankakee County, Decatur, Beulah — a decade ago.
She met him at a Greek Club dance. Ah, remember it. Couples revolved around each other like spheres. Orderly motion. Beneath the long, skinny, white arms of the searching hall lights, she buoyed her way, mapped it out, speaking and receiving many flying words of friendship, her long fingers fluttering in every direction, clawing up cookies, cake, pie, potato chips, punch. Girl, you ate like a pig back then. But the engine was working and you could burn it off. She shone in her best outfit, a gown of polka-dotted tulle with short sleeves and puffed shoulders, a wide red belt cinching her waist. She removed a silk handkerchief from her purse and cleaned her fingers, one at a time. She shot a challenging look around the room. The man she would come to know as Les invited her to dance. Immediately, they were locked in a tight embrace among a whirlwind of incessantly moving feet. She felt so light in his arms. He kept his mouth close to her ear, and his tongue …
I gotta go. They had danced for hours.
Why? The stroke of midnight? His eyes searched her body. Your dress gon turn into rags?
She let slip a laugh. Not quite. Tomorrow’s Sunday. I got things to do. Cooking. Cleaning. Church. Things.
Can I help? He batted his eyes, quick church fans.
She felt the slightest rising of her heart. No.
How bout tomorrow? Dinner at yo house.
Maybe. Give me a call and we’ll see.
Next day, he called. She heard his eyes through the phone receiver, fluttering and flapping. She accepted the previous night’s invitation. Cooked him a down-home meal. Her neckbones were his for the sucking.
They quickly established a lovers’ routine. A fast drive away from the campus, Les Payne’s old Mustang lurching like a gurney. They drove with the windows down, laughing big laughs, cornfields breathing in their faces. A midnight walk through the fields, holding corn-scented hands. Wet moonlight changed the fields into a sea of rippling yellow and green waves. They paused in an open spot, a circle in the corn. Settled down into the blind dirt. Les Payne’s kisses moved like ants over her body. He breathed hard before he entered her, laboring like a steam locomotive. Afterward, they drove down to a quiet spot on the Kankakee River. Let the cold river water wash the manure from their bodies.
He would drive her home every weekend, two hours away. He’s a real showpiece, Mamma would whisper.
Is that all you can ever say? Porsha said.
Okay, I’ll tell you what Beulah always told me. Don’t throw away dirty water until you have clean.
Porsha prepared dinner. Les Payne snapped his napkin taut and folded it across his knees. Cut and ate his food, knife and fork machine-clean and precise. Uncle John trained his loaded eyes on Les Payne’s face. (Porsha had made sure to invite him.) He never touched his fork.
Mamma talked.
I had the easiest time with Porsha. During the pregnancy, I mean. Lucifer got morning sickness. And he standin there in the delivery room, lookin like he bout to pass out. Doctor gave me a cesarian. But with Hatch? Mornin sickness. And he was always kicking. Seemed like with spiked heels. All the pain. I thought it was because I was old. But Beulah said, Sheila, it’s a boy. Yes. It was, too. Ten pounds, twenty-three inches. I thought I was gon die. And the doctor didn want to give me a cesarian. To this day I don’t know why. I thought I was gon die. Lucifer and John stayed in the waitin room. I told em, You better not pass out, tired as I am. And I told the doctor, yes I told him, Sew me up and leave a hole for my husband.
Uncle John raised his fork. Poked words into Les’s face: Them pretty boys got sugar in they blood.
THE CAMPUS PHOTOGRAPHER, Les used his lens like his mouth, an instrument of sweet talk. Baby, let me jus take one more shot of you. God, this lens don’t do no justice to your beauty. Can’t capture all that body. Stroked her breasts, her legs, her butt. You got a bad-ass body. Smokin. Man, wish I had a body like that. He showed some of her photographs (probably in boast) to a professional friend who called her in for a shoot. The photographer put a paper bag over her head—you could weather the insult for the two hundred in cash he’d paid you—and shot her in evening wear—ah, you flushed red with embarrassment, a glowing coal; you sat and the crinoline broke like cinders—short dresses, miniskirts, bikinis, and lingerie. The photographer lined up jobs for her, fashion layouts for black magazines and ads for local newspapers and catalogues. Les Payne had given her a career.
The career made her accept all of Les Payne’s excuses, the many hours he spent at the frat house — or so he claimed — with his frat brothers. Baby, it’s about unity. Togetherness. Brothers trying to get something in this world — batting his eyes the whole time. After all, he had branded the fraternity sign — Delta Sigma Pi — greasy and black on his biceps. Or had he carved it? What troubled her: He had acquired a name for prowess among the women at the university. Couldn’t go nowhere for him winkin at some woman or some coed grinning his name. She took all she could. She asked him, Who squeezin yo lemon?
What?
You heard me.
Baby, that was all in the past. I’m a new man now.
Where the old man you left behind?
He kissed her. Baby, I’m straight. The words rolled out of his mouth like smoke.
That night, she prepared for her weekend trip home. Gave him her apartment keys. He would stay and study, needed book time away from his frat brothers. She loaded up her bags and hit the road. Rode the bus as far as the city line, rolling columns of streetlamps. She exited the bus and caught the next one back to the university. Opened the door and caught Les Payne on a downstroke, doing it in her bed, the moonlight so bright that the two bodies shone yellow against the sheets.
She quit college after her freshman year. Moved back to the city. Found an apartment on South Shore Drive with a generous view of Tar Lake. Signed on with an agency. Things were looking up.