When something hurts, you scream.
“Look,” I say, switching lanes on the interstate to exit as carefully as I’m changing the tone of this conversation. “Things ended badly between us, and we never really talked about it.”
“Oh, you talked about it. You eavesdropped on one phone call and decided I’m a bitch and you couldn’t be with me.” She pauses, draws a shaky breath. “That wasn’t fair, Canon.”
I heard what I heard and I know what I know. Anyone who would do what I overheard Camille doing, saying, is not for me, but that is not the point to make right now.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
I could have said it—sincerely said it—when we broke up, but maybe I didn’t understand the power of acknowledging someone else’s pain. Not that I would take her back, do it differently, or choose her over Neevah if given the chance, because hell naw. But Camille was emotionally involved, and I knew the break would hurt. Still, I never had this conversation with her. If I had, maybe we could have avoided all the subsequent shit that soured things so badly, so publicly between us.
“You did hurt me,” she says, her voice less sure, less hard. “I thought we . . .”
I know what she thought.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again.
There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to apologize at all. Of course, there is. She hurt me, too. Tried to publicly embarrass me. Tried to damage my reputation. She was in the wrong. At this point, though, I’m more concerned about making things right than I am about being right.
“Are you . . .” She inhales sharply like someone does before they take an icy plunge. “Are you serious? About her, I mean?”
“Yes.” Lying won’t help. “I care about her a lot.”
“So that shit you said, about telling her things you don’t tell anyone else, you weren’t saying it just to get at me? You’ve opened up to her?”
“I have. I do.”
“I always wondered what that would look like,” she says, her voice softening around the edges some, almost wistful. “Canon Holt, open.”
“Do you remember what it was like when you first started, Mille? Before things got this big and before you felt like you were living in a den of vipers. That feeling of just loving the work and being grateful for a shot?”
“Yeah, I remember. It’s been a long time, but I remember.”
“I don’t want to fight with you, and I don’t want her caught in the middle. She shouldn’t be. Your problem, your real problem, was with me, and I’m saying I’m sorry.”
“Because of her you’re saying you’re sorry.”
“No, because of you I’m saying I’m sorry. Yes, I want this to stop, but also, I hurt you and I’m sorry.”
“So I guess now I’m supposed to apologize, too?” We used to make each other laugh, and some of that humor shows in her words.
“I won’t hold my breath.” I chuckle. “But know that when I say it, I mean it.”
“Yeah, well . . .” She sighs, her voice soft if not humble. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Thank you,” I tell her as I arrive at my house and pull into the garage. I park and wait for her next move because I’m out of them.
“So a truce, huh?” she asks.
“I’d like that, yeah.”
“Alright, whatever,” she says, her voice going brisk. “Truce.”
48
Dessi Blue
June, 1939 – THE FRENCH RIVIERA – HOTEL DU CAP
* * *
EXTERIOR – BEACH – DAY
The shore is crowded with people sunbathing and swimming. Dessi and Cal lounge on the sand beneath a large umbrella, both in swimwear typical of the 1930s. Sheet music is spread on the blanket between them, along with a basket of fruit, cheese and wine.
* * *
DESSI
Why you gotta write all these sad songs, Cal?
* * *
CAL (LAUGHING)
Now you know you lying. Look at this one. It’s happy.
* * *
Cal offers her a sheet of music and Dessi rolls her eyes.
* * *
DESSI
Gon’ have them poor folks tonight crying in their champagne. This hotel is mighty fine. I’m glad we’re here for a little while.
* * *
CAL
We’re lucky. The Hot Club, those students from Paris, want to promote Negro jazz. The band seems to love it here, too, so far.
* * *
DESSI (LAUGHING AND HOLDING UP ANOTHER PIECE OF SHEET MUSIC)
The band gon’ get as tired of playing these sad old songs as I am singing ’em. Like this one. “Walk Away?” What made you want to write a song this sad?
* * *
CAL (SOBERING)
“Walk Away” is about a girl who finds somebody else to love. She tells the boy to just walk away or she will.
* * *
DESSI (WATCHING CAL’S EXPRESSION)
And was that boy you?
* * *
CAL
I don’t want to talk about it, Dess. You’re right. We need to sing some happy songs for the people tonight. We’re in France on a beach and got nothing to be sad about. Look at all these white folks. Back home, they wouldn’t be caught dead on the beach with us. I wish every Negro could come here. Could see how it feels to be treated like you a human being.