Take Her Man

“Oh, a smart brother. I love it.” Kyle grinned. What did he have up his sleeve? “Well, I don’t know if TH told you or not, but I’m the pastor over at First Baptist here in Harlem,” he said, all chummy.

“No, she hasn’t mentioned you at all,” Julian said. Now Julian was playing the game. Wait, was he sizing Kyle up? It was like watching a ping-pong match—only my head was the ball. Julian looked at me and winked. “I know where that church is.”

“Yeah, we’re looking for some new blood, brother.” Kyle pulled one of his cards from his pocket. “You should come to service on Sunday. Check us out. A brother like you could be a great role model in our youth program.”

“Yeah, man. That sounds great,” Julian lied. He wouldn’t be going anywhere near Kyle’s church. While First Baptist was getting attention in Harlem, Julian’s family had been Episcopalian since they had arrived in the city in the 1800s. The Jameses always attended one of the biggest churches in Harlem, St. Philips Protestant Episcopal Church. And it wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

“And I expect to see you in there sometimes, TH.”

I struggled not to toss my drink at him—for fear I might never make it to heaven.

“Yeah, well, you know I have my own church,” I said.

“Well, I think you’ll like us.” Kyle pinched me on the cheek and grinned. “We tend to be a little louder than you Methodists, but the spirit is good all the time.” He smiled. “Well, I must be getting to my seat,” he said, shaking Julian’s hand. “It was great meeting you.”

“Who was that?” Julian said when Kyle finally made his way halfway across the room.

“I told you already. A friend of my father’s.” I signaled for another glass of wine.

“He didn’t look like a friend.” Julian looked at me accusingly. His eyes seemed a bit greenish; I could see images of Kyle’s solid chest still burning in his corneas. “He looks like he wants to be way more than your friend.”

“Let’s not ruin our special evening talking about someone so insignificant,” I whispered into his ear. “Tonight is about us.” I put my wineglass up and we toasted. “And if I can recall, we were in the middle of a little conversation about you seeing some—”

The lights on the stage in the front of the ballroom came up just as I was about to finish my sentence. Rupert Wright, a big off-Broadway director who did most of Nana Rue’s plays, walked up to the stage.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the microphone, smiling as the white on his classic tuxedo gleamed beneath the stage lights. “Welcome to the Harambee Theater.” Everyone in the audience began clap. “And welcome to Harlem,” Rupert went on. The audience, which represented every politician, clergy member, business head, and organizer in New York City, began to clap even louder, and a few whistles rang out around the floor.

The Harambee Theater had opened in Harlem over a year ago. It marked the beginning of what Nana Rue and her friends hoped was a new age of theater in Harlem. They, along with a few Broadway sponsors, wanted to bring classics like Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun and August Wilson’s The Piano Lesson (plays Nana Rue took me to see when I was young), back to the center of African-American culture, providing a way for residents to not only celebrate their heritage but also have the opportunity to pursue careers in the arts.

“This is great, Troy,” Julian said. He stood beside me and put his arm around my waist. “Thanks for bringing me.”

“It’s no problem. I know how much you love this stuff,” I said, wondering when I’d get the chance to bring up the special topic again.

“I think you will all be extremely excited with the preview of what we have in store for you with our next production,” Rupert added, dazzling the audience. The company hadn’t yet revealed what the next production would be, in o

rder to build up industry hype around it. As they had successfully with the last three plays, they only let insiders know who would be starring in the play and provided an “invitation-only” crowd with a sneak peek of the production at the opening reception. While it was a risky move, fans loved it, and even though they had no clue what they were going to see, the opening nights were always sold out. So far, it was working this evening, too. You could see the anticipation rising in the air.

“This season’s production features none other than Harlem’s own Rue B. Smith in the starring role,” Rupert said, introducing my nana under the stage name she’d used since she started performing. The audience clapped louder, and a few people, including my father, got out of their seats. “So, without any further ado, I present to you a preview of the Harambee Theater’s summer production of…” Rupert stopped in midsentence. “I don’t think you folks are ready. I can’t even hear you!” he said, defiantly putting his hand on his hip. The clapping turned to a thunderous roar as people screamed and whistled in protest of Rupert’s playful delay.

Julian and I laughed, clapping our hands as loud as we could. “Come on, you all can do better than that,” Rupert said dryly. “See how bourgeois black folks act when they get all dressed up for the theater!” Everyone laughed enthusiastically. “Now get on your feet, forget about those nice clothes, and get ready as I present to you the Harambee Theater’s summer production of Ma’ Rainey’s Black Bottom!”

After running through a preview of about three scenes from the play, the curtain went down on what I was sure was going to be the theater treat of the summer. Nana nailed it along with the supporting cast, which included two prime-time drama actors, a rapper who was trying to break into acting, and Nana Rue’s assistant, Abby, who was playing her niece in the play. The audience sang along with most of the tunes, and when it was all over, they begged for more.

“Encore! Encore!” they yelled from around the ballroom. “Encore!”

I can’t lie, I was with them. I just wanted to support my nana and the magic she was able to make happen through her talent. For a second, with my hands clasped over my mouth, I imagined what it must be like to have such an amazing talent and not be able to share it with the world. I wondered what it must have been like for my nana back in the old days when people refused to let her do what she does best just because of her skin color. While she and Grandma Lucy had very different realities in life, I’d bet neither of them were easy. Grandma Lucy had to constantly try to be what society wanted her to be, and Nana Rue had to fight just to be herself. Simply said, diva-dom was no simple task.

“Oh, Troy, I’m so happy you’re here, baby,” Nana Rue said, smiling at my reflection behind her in her vanity mirror. I’d sneaked Julian backstage to meet her before she went into the ballroom to greet her guests. I also wanted to avoid seeing my parents.

“Nana Rue, you know I never miss your performances.” I smiled back at her. While Nana Rue’s driver’s license proved she’d been a senior citizen for a few years, her beauty told another tale. Her enviable, even brown skin looked as if she’d just been dipped into a vat of fresh brewed black coffee. It was taut and still managed to remain soft enough to make other women her age wonder if she’d made some kind of anti-aging deal with the devil. Her wide brown eyes still danced with the enthusiasm of a teenager. She’d clearly seen many things through the years, but let them all roll off her back and managed to keep a smile sparkling in her soul that was evident to everyone who met her.

“Never one, baby.” Nana Rue pulled at the curls on her wig. “And who is your friend?” She turned around in her seat and signaled for the two of us to sit down. “Who is this piece of pie I see in my eye?” Nana Rue asked, flirting with a quick rhyme.

“This is Dr. Julian James, Nana Rue,” I replied, taking a seat on the red chaise lounge she had put in all of her dressing rooms. “Remember the friend I wanted you to meet?”

“Yes, you did mention a friend.” She looked at me and then back at Julian.

“It’s my pleasure to meet such a luminary figure in African-American history,” Julian said, kissing Nana Rue’s hand.