Take Her Man

“Well, is he for you?” she asked, looking as if most of what I had just said was some foreign language to her. I just said I love him, Lucy. Of course he’s for me, I wanted to yell. But it was no use. Suddenly, the deep, introspective woman who had been sitting next to me a few minutes ago had faded into the atmosphere and the completely traditional side I knew well was coming out. Other than doctor, the other words—handsome, nice, and love—meant little to Grandma Lucy’s complex traditions. By “for me” she meant something very specific, something she’d taught me about how to find a “proper suitor” a long time ago.

“Yes, Lucy,” I said, playing dumb. I knew what she wanted—facts, information, a portrait of Julian’s past that would let her know if Julian was “for me,” but what she wasn’t saying was that “good enough” preceded “for me” in her mind.

“Where did the boy go to school? Who are the parents? Where a

re they from?” Grandma Lucy jumped right in for the elitist pie. The old woman was growing tired of my playing, but I had to let her know that I really didn’t think those things were important.

“Who cares about all that, Lucy?” I asked. “I love him and that’s enough.”

“Little girl, stop your toying.” She frowned again and exhaled in agitation. “Paul,” she said, lowering the window to speak to her driver. “We’ll do lunch at Felita.”

“Yes, Lucy. Quickly,” said Paul. He turned the car around and we were off to a silent Italian lunch where Grandma Lucy would press and probe me continuously for the information she needed. I didn’t falter, however. It was a hard job—especially after a few glasses of red wine—but I wasn’t giving in to the old lady. Never.

Following lunch, I split for a mini shopping spree at Saks, with Grandma Lucy’s credit card, of course. My father would flip out if he saw any new charges on my card. My parents and Nana Rue always said Grandma Lucy spent way too much money on me, trying to make up for the mess her relationship had been with her own daughter. I agreed, but who was I too deny the old lady of my assistance if she really needed it? To balance her financial fun play out, my father put me on a strict monthly budget as long as I was going to school. I was already over my budget for the month. Takeout Chinese and premium dog food really adds up. “Ask for Jennifer,” Grandma Lucy said, talking about her personal shopper. “She’s expecting you.” She slid on her dark shades like the paparazzi were lined up along the sidewalk, slipped into the back of her Bentley, and rolled down Fifth Avenue in style. If only I could be that fly when I grew up—a little less crazy…but definitely that fly.

Walking into Saks, I thought about all of the old rules about men Grandma Lucy had taught me when I first started dating—all of the rules I’d thrown out the window when I met Julian. While I’d played dumb in the car to teach her a lesson, I still remembered everything.

In order to ensure that all of my suitors met both her social and financial requirements before I even ordered dinner on a first date, I had to ask them certain questions pertaining to what Grandma Lucy called their “pedigree.” “Troy, there is no reason for you to go out into the world and break your behind to pursue your dreams and live with some type of dignity, only to marry some gigolo who wants to spend your money and keep you under his control,” Grandma Lucy had said one night when she called my dorm room unexpectedly. I scoffed at her declaration and claimed I was on my way to the library just to get off the phone. Grandma Lucy was telling me nothing new. I wasn’t dumb, deaf or blind, so I’d already bared witness to much of the surprising divisions that existed between the black folks around me. As sure as I’d learned to walk (without scuffing my Mary Janes), I’d learned that while people hated talking about it, the caste system in India had nothing on high society black folks and their high society class systems. And for gals like me, it all begins with your mother putting you in the right clubs, the right prep school, the right summer camp, and choosing the right vacation spots. I myself was a member of the most elite J&J chapter in the state of New York, meaning I had scheduled play dates with the Cosby children; went to one of the most elite schools in the city, Fieldston; and camped at Atwater, a black camping tradition on my father’s side of the family that dates back to the ’20s. Further, though I grew up on the Upper West Side, where everyone tends to vacation in the Bluffs or Martha’s Vineyard, Nana Rue often insisted that we go down South to Hilton Head, South Carolina, for sunshine and Southern charm. She always said that the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter in the South, but I thought the rich blacks down there were completely different than they were in the North. They had way too many rules, and fitting into their many traditions was an annual fight I had to endure. No one knew my family name, so I may as well have been poor and invisible.

These degrees of social separation became particularly defined when it came to finding a suitor. Point blank, he or she had to have what you had or more. There was no marrying down. The perfect pedigree was the only plausible option here.

All of that went flying fast out the window when I bumped into Julian that day at the bookstore.

I didn’t care about anything but getting with him…. Okay, I confess, maybe I was a bit excited about his little medical title, but other than that, I just wanted to know him, to see what the moonlight looked like in his eyes, to hear his voice before he fell asleep at night.

Julian far outshined any expectations. Instead of carrying his history on his sleeve, he carried it inside like a rare jewel. Like me, he respected and cherished his position in high black society, but he never abused it or used it to separate himself from other people. It was special, it made us special, but not more special than anyone else.

Step Three: Say You, Say Me

When I pulled up in front of the Harambee Theater—approximately fifteen minutes after I was supposed to meet Julian in the lobby (and right on time for my special arrival)—I felt electric. I’d spent the afternoon sunbathing at Central Park with Tasha and my tan skin had turned a light brown, matching my new hair. Tasha loved the look. When I met her at our usual spot on the Great Lawn, she said she would’ve thought I was Beyoncé if she didn’t know any better. I think she was just trying to make me feel good about myself, and it worked.

“No, girl, you’ll be the hot thing tonight at the reception,” Tasha had reassured me. “You already have half of the men here going crazy,” she said, pointing to the steady stream of eyes that floated in my direction. “Imagine what it’ll be like tonight.”

After finding a parking spot down the block from the theater, I stepped out of the car as an updated woman. My toe tapped the curb and I swear I lit up the entire sidewalk. Grandma Lucy was right about the girl at Saks. Jennifer had a great eye. Without asking my size, she’d pulled a silk DVF dress from the rack. “You’ll love the way this makes your skin feel,” she’d said, opening the dressing room door for me. And she was right; I did. The dress fell over my curves perfectly—tight in some places, loose and then looser in others. And the color was amazing. It looked like my skin was painted with red wine.

We’d topped off the dress with matching Prada stilettos, a golden egg clutch, and sexy golden chandelier earrings. The last stop had been at the M.A.C. counter, where I’d purchased my favorite mascara and red lipstick. Then I was off to get ready for my Prince Charming.

I looked at my reflection on the car door and smiled at the sight of myself all dolled up like I was on my way to a first date. I didn’t look like a woman whose heart had been hurt, whose dreams had been usurped by someone else. I looked more alive than I had in months, felt more sensual than I had in weeks. I laughed and blew my-sexy-self a kiss.

It was funny how the update was supposed to be about Julian, his love and attention, but for that moment, standing there alone, it was all about me. Walking up the steps to the theater, I felt like a true diva on a mission.

There were hundreds of beautifully dressed people crowded into the small lobby; however, my eyes took me almost instinctively to the one person in the room who mattered. Julian was standing in the middle of the sea of familiar faces we both knew, smiling graciously as people walked up to introduce this person or that person to the newest doctor in the prestigious James family. He didn’t seem to be paying them any real attention. His eyes kept scanning the room quickly in between conversational pauses. When his eyes almost caught mine, I smiled and waved, but he looked right past me. I headed in his direction with a sophisticated step as I tried to be smooth and calm. “Smooth and calm…smooth and calm,” I kept saying to myself, trying to maintain my balance in the new stilettos. “Just don’t trip!”

When Julian finally looked at me, he squinted his eyes and then smiled so hard I could almost see his wisdom teeth.

“Troy?” he said, moving toward me with his eyes still tight. “Is that you, baby?”

“Stop playing. Of course it’s me,” I said, smiling to show my freshly bleached teeth. He looked amazed—exactly the response I was going for.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“What?”

“You look great,” he said, pulling me into his arms. He hugged me so tightly, I was worried my dress would split in the back.

“Are you ready to go inside?” Julian pointed to the trail of people who were heading into the theater’s ballroom, where the reception was to be held. “I think things are about to start.”

I led Julian into the ballroom, saying hello to old friends and a few of my nana’s former castmates along the way. The place was teeming with Harlem’s old guard. The women, mostly members of my grandmother’s childhood church, St. Mark’s, or the Links, an elite organization Nana Rue was a member of, waved their freshly manicured hands at each other as they strolled along arm in arm with their handpicked significant others. The men flashed French-cuffed shirts with matching cuff links as they handed out verbal business cards and planned golf outings and tennis matches. While I liked to think the event was all about the premiere of Nana Rue’s newest play, the truth was that it was only a small part of the spectacle. This was the place where connections were made, news was dished, and people were introduced or excommunicated for some reason or another.