Read Online Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do by Pearl Cleage - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pearl Cleage
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is not among them.
9
I TOOK M R. F REENEY UP ON HIS offer to help me move all that stuff from the campus to my apartment, and the next day, three well-built, but less-than-enthusiastic Morehouse students showed up at my door with a van full of boxes. I had the guys stack everything in the office, but there were so many cartons that I finally had to put some in the living room, too.
Once I tipped them each an unexpected twenty and made their collective day, the reality of what I was getting ready to do walked in and sat down beside me. Part archivist and part private detective, my job was going to require me to walk around, unannounced, in my exlover's life. In the abstract, I had considered mainly the time it would take to do it and the blessing of the money.
Beth's first check was for ten grand. I kept two to live on and sent the rest overnight mail to the weasel, but sifting through Son's life meant sifting through parts of mine, too. I had to get ready for that so I wouldn't be taken by surprise when a photograph or a memo or a journal entry stirred up memories I had worked hard to put to rest.
I also had to be on the lookout for any information that Beth might consider damaging. I wasn't responsible for censoring anything. I was only charged with bringing to her attention anything that might not present Son in the most positive light. That didn't seem too difficult, but it was a level of snooping that made me a little uncomfortable. Son was my friend first , probably my best friend for almost three years before we segued into something else, and I respected him, imperfections and all.
It was a beautiful afternoon and the light Aretha had used as a selling point when she first showed me this place was pouring through the windows. What was I worrying about? Nothing. Everything was going great. I've been here only a week and I've already settled into a great apartment, made peace with Beth, gotten paid, and started working. If there ever was a time to take myself out for lunch to say, Good job, Gina , this was it.
I stepped out onto the small balcony to see whether I needed a coat or just a sweater. It was clear and almost balmy. There were few people out besides the mailman on his rounds, but a few doors down the street, some aspiring sax player was attempting the John Coltrane arrangement of “My Favorite Things” with disastrous results. If this had been a movie, the anonymous sax player would have had club-quality chops, and his impromptu performances would have drawn in listeners, just like hearing Marley had drawn me to this very house. But this ain't the movies, and this may very well be the worst saxophone player I have ever heard.
I stepped back inside, grabbed a light jacket, and headed out for the main drag. I had passed a couple of restaurants on my recent walking tour, and I'll bet one of them has a special that includes the macaroni and cheese I've been craving. As I locked my door, I couldn't help listening for any sound from across the hall. The fish must be biting big time because I hadn't seen any sign of Blue Hamilton since he dropped me off at Paschal's. Not that it was any of my business. Visions aside, the last thing I wanted to do was distract myself with a man. That's what got me in all this trouble in the first place.
When I stepped out of the bright blue front door (which still made me smile every time I looked at it) I could hear wanna-be Coltrane still plugging away. It was so bad I actually stopped to see if I could hear one note that belonged where it found itself.
“Pretty bad, huh?”
I turned to see a woman standing in the garden with her arms full of collard greens. She was about my age with her hair pulled back into two French braids and no makeup on her smooth, cocoa brown face. She was dressed like a farmer: bib overalls, denim jacket, yellow rubber boots that had seen better days. But it was her smile that caught my eye and held it. She had the deeply sweet smile of someone
9
I TOOK M R. F REENEY UP ON HIS offer to help me move all that stuff from the campus to my apartment, and the next day, three well-built, but less-than-enthusiastic Morehouse students showed up at my door with a van full of boxes. I had the guys stack everything in the office, but there were so many cartons that I finally had to put some in the living room, too.
Once I tipped them each an unexpected twenty and made their collective day, the reality of what I was getting ready to do walked in and sat down beside me. Part archivist and part private detective, my job was going to require me to walk around, unannounced, in my exlover's life. In the abstract, I had considered mainly the time it would take to do it and the blessing of the money.
Beth's first check was for ten grand. I kept two to live on and sent the rest overnight mail to the weasel, but sifting through Son's life meant sifting through parts of mine, too. I had to get ready for that so I wouldn't be taken by surprise when a photograph or a memo or a journal entry stirred up memories I had worked hard to put to rest.
I also had to be on the lookout for any information that Beth might consider damaging. I wasn't responsible for censoring anything. I was only charged with bringing to her attention anything that might not present Son in the most positive light. That didn't seem too difficult, but it was a level of snooping that made me a little uncomfortable. Son was my friend first , probably my best friend for almost three years before we segued into something else, and I respected him, imperfections and all.
It was a beautiful afternoon and the light Aretha had used as a selling point when she first showed me this place was pouring through the windows. What was I worrying about? Nothing. Everything was going great. I've been here only a week and I've already settled into a great apartment, made peace with Beth, gotten paid, and started working. If there ever was a time to take myself out for lunch to say, Good job, Gina , this was it.
I stepped out onto the small balcony to see whether I needed a coat or just a sweater. It was clear and almost balmy. There were few people out besides the mailman on his rounds, but a few doors down the street, some aspiring sax player was attempting the John Coltrane arrangement of “My Favorite Things” with disastrous results. If this had been a movie, the anonymous sax player would have had club-quality chops, and his impromptu performances would have drawn in listeners, just like hearing Marley had drawn me to this very house. But this ain't the movies, and this may very well be the worst saxophone player I have ever heard.
I stepped back inside, grabbed a light jacket, and headed out for the main drag. I had passed a couple of restaurants on my recent walking tour, and I'll bet one of them has a special that includes the macaroni and cheese I've been craving. As I locked my door, I couldn't help listening for any sound from across the hall. The fish must be biting big time because I hadn't seen any sign of Blue Hamilton since he dropped me off at Paschal's. Not that it was any of my business. Visions aside, the last thing I wanted to do was distract myself with a man. That's what got me in all this trouble in the first place.
When I stepped out of the bright blue front door (which still made me smile every time I looked at it) I could hear wanna-be Coltrane still plugging away. It was so bad I actually stopped to see if I could hear one note that belonged where it found itself.
“Pretty bad, huh?”
I turned to see a woman standing in the garden with her arms full of collard greens. She was about my age with her hair pulled back into two French braids and no makeup on her smooth, cocoa brown face. She was dressed like a farmer: bib overalls, denim jacket, yellow rubber boots that had seen better days. But it was her smile that caught my eye and held it. She had the deeply sweet smile of someone
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