Something She Can Feel

“And did you see his teeth? I love a man with nice teeth.” I heard one of them say.

“That and a nice tongue.”

“And that hair! Girl, that hair makes you want to just jump rope!”

“Or pull it.”

They cackled me all the way to the car.

Chapter Ten

One of the most annoying things about being married to someone who was so involved with community relations was the waiting. Evan was always late. Everywhere we went. Anytime we were supposed to meet up to do anything. If we weren’t planning to arrive together, I could expect Evan to be late—at least fifteen minutes late. He was held up in a meeting. Lending a listening ear to some parent in the parking lot. Providing a group of constituents with talking points for future engagements. Or just trying to find a parking spot. Because I’m often late myself, I could understand being a bit late on occasion. However, there were only so many fifteen-minutemeeting carryovers, face-to-face confrontations, planning boards, and full parking lots I could take without feeling like I was playing second fiddle to the rest of the universe. I’d sit forlorn in concert halls, theaters, restau

rants, and sometimes at my own dinner table, imagining Evan smiling and charming those around him—not even thinking about where he was supposed to be. What made it worse was that Evan was never late for functions when my father was involved. If we were headed to church or on our way out of town to hear Reverend Jethro Cash speak, Evan would snap into action and sometimes go out and sit in the car early, before I was even ready. And if I had the nerve to be late, he’d shoot his eyes at me and say I needed to be a better planner.

Sitting alone at a table for three in the middle of the dining room floor at the Cypress Inn, one of Tuscaloosa’s top restaurants, I was struggling not to be rude or, worse, a nag. I avoided pulling out my phone and asking Evan where he was and when he planned on getting to the restaurant. When he’d invited Dame to dinner, I remembered that Evan already had three meetings scheduled and needed to complete a presentation for the next day. Thinking he was so excited with the idea of meeting with Dame and milking him for more money for the school board’s plans—another catalyst of his secret plan to someday run for mayor—I called him hours before the dinner to remind him of this and said it wasn’t too late to reschedule or just cancel. “I’ll be there, darling,” he’d said. “Can’t miss it.”

Twenty minutes after our early 7 p.m. meeting, the dining room was filling up and it was evident that I’d have to keep Dame company until Evan showed up—if Dame even came.

The Cypress Inn, with its elaborate outdoor gardens, formal dining setting complete with elegant light fixtures, and a 550-gallon fish tank, was a natural destination for the city’s elite and newspaperready faces. Nestled right along the Black Warrior River, it was the kind of place where dinner served double duty—nourishment of the body and maintenance of social status. Rubbing shoulders, brownnosing, and just general schmoozing was encouraged as $500 wines were sent to tables like bread baskets and bills were often paid anonymously. The governor, mayor, local celebrities from television, college presidents, and even the University of Alabama’s football coach Nick Saban and his wife were regulars.

Even though it was Tuesday night, the place was full by the time 7:30 p.m. rolled around and I decided to text Evan to ask what the holdup was. I was becoming more certain Dame wasn’t coming and wanted to leave. But then, there was the matter of Evan’s corporate account that the restaurant had on file. I could eat alone ... on the county.

Squinting in the candlelight at the table, I texted:

WHERE ARE YOU? I THINK DAME ISN’T COMING.

When I looked up from the phone, I saw two, skinny white women walking toward the front of the restaurant.

“He’s that rapper,” the blond with the too-tight dress said to the other woman.

“With the song ... ‘Get This in You’?” She giggled as they walked arm in arm.

“Yeah, he’s outside.”

“Outside?” someone else said, and I turned around to see other people nonchalantly, yet clearly inching up and craning their necks toward the door.

“Who is it, Tilda?” the round-faced white man with the exaggerated chin said to the woman across the table from him.

“You, know ...”—she smiled sensuously—“the one we listen to when we’re ...”

“Oh.” He patted his mouth and turned toward the door, too.

The windows of the restaurant were being crowded by onlookers, and all I could think of was how most people around the country would’ve assumed that Dame wouldn’t have been welcomed in such a place in the deep South ... and years ago, he wouldn’t have. But watching Mr. Round-Face and Tilda grin at each other as I supposed they replayed his latest raunchy tune in their heads, it was clear that like the Yankees, rap had arrived in the Old South.

Debating if I should go look at the spectacle with the rest of the grown groupies or call Evan to let him know Dame had arrived, I realized that in a minute all of this attention would be coming my way.

“Mrs. DeLong,” a waiter said, approaching me. His voice was dignified and exaggeratedly Southern.

“Yes?”

“We have a table change.”

“A table change?”

“Yes ...” He paused and Tilda and Round-Face looked at me curiously. “Your ... company prefers to sit in one of our more private seating areas. It’s just a security precaution. Please follow me.”

I trailed the waiter to a long table that was tucked to the far right of the back of the restaurant. It was where I’d seen Saban and his wife eating. It was an area I’d never been to.