Something She Can Feel

“I get your point,” I interrupted.

“Then, you’ll see that our good old Evan is the one for you. It’s like when Diana Ross finally got to see the big, strong, all-powerful Wizard for who he was in The Wiz—they pulled back that curta

in and there was Richard Pryor looking like every other ashy negro,” she said, and we both giggled. “I guess the only problem with this plan is that he’s long gone now and there’s no way you’ll ever see him again, until he comes back to Tuscaloosa anyway.”

“Not exactly,” I said, looking away from Billie again.

“There’s more?” she pleaded. “There’s more than Fat Albert’s?”

“Yes, he wants to see me again. He invited me to see him perform in Atlanta.”

Billie looked like she was about to fall over.

“Okay,” she started, pacing back and forth. “We can’t panic. This is the perfect opportunity for you to pull back the curtain and see who he really is.”

“You’re not suggesting I go, are you? Because that’s just bad advice. Because I can’t go. It’s crazy.”

She looked at me all wide-eyed.

“You want me to go?” I asked. “But it’s tomorrow night. It’s impossible.”

“Look, all we need is a plan.”

If nothing else, Billie knew how to put together a good scheme. She organized schemes like lesson plans, blinding the most suspecting participants. And this time was no different. After convincing me that I had to see Dame again to get over what she kept calling my “little crush” and to stop the dreams, she planned for me to ask Evan to accompany me, her, and Mustafa to see August Wilson’s Fences in Atlanta on Wednesday night. It was last minute, but she’d just gotten the tickets and wouldn’t it be so fun? Now, Evan didn’t like Billie, hated plays, and detested Atlanta. No matter how sweetly I said it, he’d say no, and feeling bad he’d tell me to go on my own. It was pure black genius and when I got home and unfolded it to Evan, he bowed out before I even finished my sell.

“Please, I’m not in the mood to go see a play about some man cheating on his wife. You go, and maybe if you’re in a good mood when you get back, we can talk about something,” he said, sitting beside me on the couch as we watched the news.

“About what?”

“Just your going back to school and working at the church.”

“The church? You mean, what Jr keeps talking about?” I clicked off the television and turned to him. “You know how I feel about that. Why would you even bring it up?”

“Well, he’s kind of right. You could do better things with your time and the job will pay well,” he said nonchalantly, but it sounded as if Jr had listed these things for him. “You’re a smart woman.”

“I don’t need either you or Jr to say how smart I am.”

“There you go, trying to argue.” Evan moved his arm from around me.

“I’m not arguing. I just don’t see how you could even think to ask me about that,” I complained.

“Look, I didn’t want to talk about this now, but when the baby comes, I need some help around here and your father and I just think things will be easier.”

“What does he have to do with how we live?”

Evan looked away and I repeated my question.

“He helped me a little when I got the house,” he mumbled.

“Helped you?” I got up. “Helped you how?”

“It’s nothing. I just didn’t have the money and he helped us out.”

“See, I knew we couldn’t afford this.” I looked around angrily. I didn’t like my parents being involved in any of my finances. Even in his best form and intentions, my father used that to control me when I was in college. He chose my major. He said where I could live. He planned everything. When I graduated and started teaching, I immediately started paying my own bills. It was the only way I could claim any independence from them.

“How much, Evan?” I asked. “How much did he give you?”

“He gave us half.”