Read Online Dancing in the Dark by Caryl Phillips - Free Book Online
Authors: Caryl Phillips
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like to see the house, or if he would prefer to look at a selection of different properties before signing away their future in this manner, but he simply smiles and tells her that he is grateful that she has taken care of this problem and that he looks forward to the day when they might move out of Marshall’s Hotel and into their own residence. He pauses. “Thank you, Mother.” His voice falls now to a whisper. “Thank you.” Clearly he has said all that he is capable of saying. There is a performance tonight, and she convinces herself that her husband is simply conserving all of his energy for the cakewalking contest at the end of the evening. She rubs and then squeezes the nape of his neck with her gentle fingers. “Would you like me to meet you at the theater after the show?” He smiles again, clearly grateful that she is paying him so much attention, but he shakes his head. “No, Mother. Thank you, but there is no need. I will be fine.”
He falls heavily as he climbs the stairs to their large room at the top of Marshall’s Hotel. She sits bolt upright in bed and then leans over and lights the candle. She can hear him groaning, but she knows instinctively that it would be improper to get out ofbed and witness this spectacle, and so she waits until she hears him drag himself up from the stairs and noisily begin to put one foot in front of the other. She fears that it isn’t just the thought of moving and taking possession of a four-storey house that is punishing her new husband like this. In fact, of late, she has begun to wonder if perhaps his parents put the child in him down too early, thus causing him to labor under what appears to be the burden of excessive responsibility. Again she hears him stumble, and this time she rises from the bed and pulls on her gown, but by the time she reaches the door he is already there, bent double, key poised, his pleading eyes looking up at her. Please don’t be angry with me, Mother. There are things going at I cannot talk about. And George does not understand, brimming as he is with a brashness that makes white men angry and causes colored men to move a little closer to him in the hope that some of his confidence might ease its way out of his short dark body and into their own cautious hearts. But me, they look at me and wonder, Mother—they look at me and wonder why I am what I am. All of this with his eyes alone, and she reaches out and takes his hand and key together, and helps his drunken body across the threshold and sits him down on the end of the bed so that the springs squeal and then fall silent again. She leans forward and gently eases off his shoes. Tomorrow, she says, I’ll show you the house. Four storeys looking out on to Seventh Avenue just above 135th, and it has a grand entrance, and once you pass inside you’ll see there’s plenty of room for all of us. He looks at Mother and moves his shoulders first one way and then the other so that she can slip off his shirt. Your folks can come from California. Don’t you think it’s about time they met your wife? She smiles as she says this, and then she runs a heavy hand back through his nice suite of hair. This really is a capital second husband that she has found for herself, a man solid like a tree butwith the sensitivity of a boy. His partner, George Walker, was no doubt downstairs in Marshall’s Lounge waiting for whatever clench-waisted, high-yellow dancing girl happened by this evening, but he is Ada’s cross to bear, not hers. She knows that a colored woman cannot expect too much out of this life, but Lottie is satisfied with her young man. She has no complaints.
A fatigued-looking Bob Cole passes George the bottle. He waits for him to take another drink before he says anything further. George pours a full glass and then he throws it back in one movement, head, neck, glass, whiskey, all moving as one. George breathes a long sigh of relief and then pours a second glass and passes the bottle back
He falls heavily as he climbs the stairs to their large room at the top of Marshall’s Hotel. She sits bolt upright in bed and then leans over and lights the candle. She can hear him groaning, but she knows instinctively that it would be improper to get out ofbed and witness this spectacle, and so she waits until she hears him drag himself up from the stairs and noisily begin to put one foot in front of the other. She fears that it isn’t just the thought of moving and taking possession of a four-storey house that is punishing her new husband like this. In fact, of late, she has begun to wonder if perhaps his parents put the child in him down too early, thus causing him to labor under what appears to be the burden of excessive responsibility. Again she hears him stumble, and this time she rises from the bed and pulls on her gown, but by the time she reaches the door he is already there, bent double, key poised, his pleading eyes looking up at her. Please don’t be angry with me, Mother. There are things going at I cannot talk about. And George does not understand, brimming as he is with a brashness that makes white men angry and causes colored men to move a little closer to him in the hope that some of his confidence might ease its way out of his short dark body and into their own cautious hearts. But me, they look at me and wonder, Mother—they look at me and wonder why I am what I am. All of this with his eyes alone, and she reaches out and takes his hand and key together, and helps his drunken body across the threshold and sits him down on the end of the bed so that the springs squeal and then fall silent again. She leans forward and gently eases off his shoes. Tomorrow, she says, I’ll show you the house. Four storeys looking out on to Seventh Avenue just above 135th, and it has a grand entrance, and once you pass inside you’ll see there’s plenty of room for all of us. He looks at Mother and moves his shoulders first one way and then the other so that she can slip off his shirt. Your folks can come from California. Don’t you think it’s about time they met your wife? She smiles as she says this, and then she runs a heavy hand back through his nice suite of hair. This really is a capital second husband that she has found for herself, a man solid like a tree butwith the sensitivity of a boy. His partner, George Walker, was no doubt downstairs in Marshall’s Lounge waiting for whatever clench-waisted, high-yellow dancing girl happened by this evening, but he is Ada’s cross to bear, not hers. She knows that a colored woman cannot expect too much out of this life, but Lottie is satisfied with her young man. She has no complaints.
A fatigued-looking Bob Cole passes George the bottle. He waits for him to take another drink before he says anything further. George pours a full glass and then he throws it back in one movement, head, neck, glass, whiskey, all moving as one. George breathes a long sigh of relief and then pours a second glass and passes the bottle back
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