Stateway's Garden Page 6

  “Come on, Tracy,” he said. “I’m standing right here waiting for you. Come on.”

  By the time he and Jacob were already on the platform, both standing arrogantly as though they paid full fares, I would just be beginning. Each time was different for me. I’d stumble while attempting to grip the wall; I could barely balance myself along the top, and climbing the platform to the other side was no simple task either. But what happened the last time we went is what kept my brother and cousin from allowing me on their travels to the southern points of the city.

  Actually, I climbed the concrete wall the last time easily, balancing myself along its top all while gloating at them standing on the platform. That was a mistake, because the moment I took my eyes away, I lost footing on the ledge and fell onto the tracks. My brother and cousin had to have thought my crash into the tracks had killed me instantly, whether from electricity or impact. I was spread there, unable to move, left arm sprawled along the third and fourth rails simultaneously, wondering why my small and dark body hadn’t been entered with enough electricity to power night lights at Comiskey Park. My eyes opened slightly—enough that I witnessed everyone along the platform holding their breath. A young man’s two Dominick’s shopping bags had fallen to the ground, a lighter-skinned girl holding a Wendy’s drink cup began screaming aggressively, and an older woman with a stomach she couldn’t fit under her shirt rushed to the pay phone in the center of the platform, probably with the intent of calling an ambulance or, even worse, the police. I then attempted to move my arm, wondering if it was still a part of my body.

  “Get the hell up, Tracy,” Jacob yelled. I knew he was likely more embarrassed than worried, but when I saw Jameel with eyes widened, mouth slightly agape, teeth showing, and brow lifted, I questioned whether I’d actually died. It was the first time without foliage in his fingers that I’d seen him with expression, or even realized the fact that he really did have cheekbones. He lowered himself to his knees on the platform, and the moment he saw my eyes move he began urging me to my feet, waving his hands and arms.

  About forty-something-feet north on the track I saw the dull and silver-painted “L.” It was stout and broad and not moving.

  “Are you okay, young man?” a bearded guy asked. His face formed a better circle than the centers of sunflowers. He continued to stand over me and moved so close that I could figure the exact brand of coffee he’d drank with breakfast. “Are you okay?” he asked again. He then grabbed my arms, sitting me upright. Although I already felt it firmly against me, I pressed my butt to the third rail, just to make certain I hadn’t lost my mind. “Stand up, boy,” the man said. He wore this neon vest with orange stripes down the front and seemed even angrier with me than Jacob was going to be. “I said, stand up.” I used the concrete wall that not a few moments earlier had been the podium of my greatest triumph to help lift my body. The man began looking as though he were my parent and planned on grounding me for a month. Lowering my head came natural after staring into his frown.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Do you realize you should be dead right now?” he asked.

  I nodded my head yes.

  “Boy, the only reason you aren’t lying there fried on that track is because we were servicing the lines. Thank God the power is shut off.”

  Right then, Jacob jumped down from the platform and began pushing me toward it. “Get your stupid ass on,” he said.

  Jameel continued kneeling on the edge, hands covering his face. By the time I’d been lifted to the platform, several other men in orange vests and hard hats were standing right next to him. Along the glass of the platform were three white police officers. One of those officers approached us.

  “Where you boys from?” the officer said. His shoulders didn’t move as he walked. He was extremely tall, with brown hair, and his dark shades completely hid his eyes. The shades had a long, brightly colored string attached to each arm, which connected around his head.

  Jameel pointed. “We’re from the buildings, sir.”

  “Why you boys didn’t pay to get on the train? You think you can just do what you want?”

  Jameel opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t.

  “Where you boys heading?” The officer then put his pale hand on Jameel’s shoulder, pushing it down slightly. “How old you boys?”

  “I’m thirteen, he’s twelve, he’s eight.” Jameel used his eyes to point but didn’t move his head.

  “You know you can be put in the boys’ home for doing this?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jacob answered for Jameel. His face was reddened.

  The officer turned from us and faced the other two, who were smirking in the distance. When he turned back to us, I looked down. His black boots were freshly polished and shining from the sun’s reflection.

  He grabbed Jameel by the arm. “You ever been to the boys’ home?” The officer put his hand to his weapon on his right side.

  “No, sir,” Jameel replied.

  “You boys remind me of some kids I know. Look, I’m going to just walk you back.”

  We passed the escalator and walked up the stairs to the street: the officer first, Jameel second, then Jacob, with me last. We didn’t take a step the officer didn’t, making certain to never move ahead of him or lag far behind. When we made it to the viaduct on the corner, the officer stopped at the light.

  “Now, head on back over there,” he said. He pointed with his left hand, his right still resting on the weapon.

  I don’t think any of us took a breath until we made it past the viaduct, and we didn’t look back once.

  “We’re not taking you with us anymore, dumbass,” Jacob said the second he felt safe.

  Jameel’s face had gone expressionless again, and he picked up some dirt from the ground, allowing it to pass through his fingers like sand.

  We walked back to our project buildings slowly that afternoon, not noticing the sun shining, or the weeds that grew wildly, or the crackled pavement used for pitching pennies to see who got closest to the lines. We didn’t hear the curse words of early-afternoon drunks, or prostitutes being banged behind buildings, or even gunshots from rival gang members. Jacob used his pretty skin to slip into the buildings with virgin girls. That would make him feel better. Jameel disappeared into the hallway of his own building, climbing twelve flights of stairs he’d grown accustomed to because the elevators never worked. I yelled at him in the hallway as I stood on the first floor.

  “Jameel? Jameel? Jameel, wait!”

  There was no answer.

  “Jameel? You hear me? Jameel?”

  “Yeah, Tracy. I hear you.”

  “Don’t go upstairs,” I said. “Maybe we can find another way to get there. I know we can.”

  “I’m glad you’re not hurt, Tracy. I’m glad for real.” His voice became more and more distant. “I was kinda scared there for a minute.”

  “Sorry I messed things up.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” His voice faded almost to a whisper. “It’s just cool you’re okay.”

  “It’s still pretty early, though. We can make it before the students get out if we go now. The sun will still be shining.”

  “No need to do all that,” he replied. “There’s really no need.”

  “Why not? You and me love being there. We can make it.”

  “That’s probably true, li’l cuz. But I don’t think we should go.”

  “Why not, then?”

  “Because, I’m starting to think we’re where they want us to be.”

  SOLANE

  “Having a baby doesn’t change anything,” Solane said to herself while sitting at the living-room table.

  She’d only said this phrase aloud twice in her life. Two times too many. With nearly each man in her life, Solane had been through the dismal crevices of the world, yet oddly, it seemed she’d be
en nowhere with no one at all. Still, the small and eventually round stomach she rubbed on those late nights kept her hoping for a change for the better, of some kind.

  “How come you’re still by yourself, Solane?” her aunt Renee asked. “You already have two kids. I think li’l Stephanie’s probably gonna end up married and happy before you get it right.”

  “That’s not fair, Auntie. You know it’s not. I just have to find the right man. I need to find the man that won’t leave.”

  * * *

  —

  WILLIAM AND SOLANE met on a blind date set up by his cousin. She knew the cousin from work. She and William hit it off immediately, sitting in a small, greasy-food restaurant. She ordered a cheeseburger—cut in half—with extra relish and a small order of French fries. He ate a Polish sausage with ketchup and mustard—no fries—and a large soda pop with a straw he spent their entire conversation twirling between his fingers. It was his idea to go to this restaurant. Somewhere easy, simple, and inexpensive. William didn’t want to spend large amounts of money on a first date he felt may not be worth it.

  The two of them talked extensively about their lives, their hopes, most of their failures. Yet their conversation always ended up circling back to a similar point: who had better taste in wine. This argument lasted for hours, a playful three-hour debate enclosing many other subjects: politics, family, sex or lack thereof, work, school, poverty, love, and back to wine. When they approached the fourth hour of the date, William suggested they go to another small restaurant closer to his home. Said it would be more convenient, and they could have a couple of drinks there.

  Solane began admiring many things about him during the night. He had a full head of hair, which at thirty-one was quite a feat. He had no children and his light-brown skin was similar to her late father’s. William was just tall enough at five foot eleven, to her five four, that when she wore heels he’d still look manly standing next to her. He had a pointy nose that veered to the left and the most affectionate smile. She even noticed that the eyebrow over his left eye was thicker than the right one. Although he was not the most attractive man, William looked clean for the most part, rested, and his brown eyes were very bright. The more she looked at him, staring at the thick, dirty-nailed fingers of his hand, or listened to him pronounce words as though he were born in Great Britain, all she could think of was that he might be a pretty good catch.

  “No children?” she asked him, repeating the question she’d asked earlier.

  “None.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t found a woman who wants to have a family with me.”

  “I’d have a family with you.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I was joking, but you seem like you’d be a good husband.”

  “Maybe. Hopefully.”

  “Tell me the truth. Why don’t you have a wife, or any children? And why’d you use the word ‘hopefully’? You sound like you really don’t know what you want.”

  “I should be asking you the same. You’re the woman.”

  “You first. I have my own reasons.”

  William took a sip of his wine, which was a deep and murky red. It had a hint of bitterness, just as he liked. He then gulped the rest like it was cough medicine and he was attempting to dodge the taste. After pulling the napkin from the table, he dabbed the corners of his mouth.

  “I just don’t think there are any women out there, women that’d want to have children with me,” he said after gathering himself.

  “Again…” Solane smirked while speaking. “What’s wrong with you? I wanna know up front.”

  “Last I checked…nothing.”

  “Well, first of all,” she said, “you’re not supposed to drink wine like it’s vodka.”

  “Sorry, it’s a habit.” He smiled at her.

  “Answer my questions, William. I like to know things early, because there’s something wrong with all people. At least the ones I’ve met.”

  “Call me Will. Everyone else does.”

  “Will?”

  “Will.”

  “That’s different for William,” she said. “Usually black men named William go for Bill, instead of Will. I know a whole bunch of guys named Bill.”

  “It’ll grow on you.”

  “It’s cool. I can get used to it.”

  “I think it fits me.”

  “How?”

  “Makes me sound serious. I try to stay focused. Guess I’m sort of a perfectionist.” He began pouring another glass of wine. His eyes didn’t move from hers. “And I’m very protective over what’s mine.”

  William noticed that her eyes were not dark brown. They had a greenish tint, one that could only be seen if Solane was sitting directly under light or he stared at her for an extensive time. Her hair was evenly cut and so black it had to have been dyed. That same hair was slicked toward the back of her head, then stretched down and curled around her ears. She continued putting it in place, tucking it neatly behind her earrings.

  “All right, Will, tell me your favorite thing about yourself. Something besides the fact that you think you’re perfect.”

  “Okay. No problem. But taste this first.” William took the glass, highlighted by the restaurant’s dim lighting, and placed it to her mouth. Solane hesitated—she didn’t know him—then leaned forward. Her lips enclosed the rim of the glass and left a slight stain. The moment she pulled away, William drank from the same spot in another swift gulp.

  “It’s flawless,” she said.

  “That’s where I’m trying to get my life.”

  “That’s the kind of man I’m looking for.”

  “I thought you said those men don’t exist,” he replied. “You sure just made fun of me for saying it.”

  “Nah, I didn’t mean anything by it. We’ll have to see.”

  Solane leaned to the back of the wood chair, hoping her black skirt with the small belt loops impressed him. The restaurant’s lighting and large windows showing the busy traffic outside didn’t distract her a bit. In her mind they were sitting by candlelight, and those late-night horn honks were just as welcome as soft music. The other patrons walking by and yelling orders for food didn’t draw her attention nor did the dirty floor with loose onions and used straws scattered about it. The floor probably hadn’t been swept since the day shift. All she could see were William’s eyes as she followed them closely. She didn’t feel the disgust toward him that often overwhelmed her as men ogled and whistled while she walked down Chicago streets. She stared at William intently, under the powerful microscope of a woman’s insecurity, almost begging him to glance at her neck or motion her close for a kiss. They’d just met but she’d grown comfortable, five-and-a-half-hour comfortable, and she needed the validation of his interest. Finally, Solane relaxed enough to reach over the chipped table and straighten his tie and lightly touch the side of his face. She was impressed that he dressed for their date as though he were heading to work.

  “You still didn’t answer my question, Will.”

  “What question?”

  “Why do you want to be perfect? Isn’t being that way stressful?”

  “I’m a banker,” he said, as if that summed things up. “Everything has to add up for us, make sense, be in order, and work well…at least it has to for me.”

  Solane took the first three fingers of her right hand and kissed them. Then, she lifted herself slightly and placed those fingers against William’s lips. The softness of his mouth made her want to do it again. She sat back down in the chair. She was impressed at how calm he seemed, how consistent his demeanor was in the midst of her forwardness. There would be no games to play with this man: no walking three feet away down the street and clutching her purse tightly so he couldn’t hold her hand, no slouching in the chair from contrived disinterest, no waiting until the end of the nig
ht to decide if he was worth a second date.

  “Will I see you again?” she asked. They were standing outside the restaurant.

  “Only if you want to.”

  Solane closed the distance between them. “I want to.” She pushed her hair behind the earrings again and looked up at him.

  William grabbed her hand. “Can I give you a lift home? I have a car at the apartment. It’s close by.”

  “Nah, I’ll just take a cab.”

  “When will I see you?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “I know what that means, Solane.”

  “I’ll call you, William. I promise.”

  Stepping away from him, she turned to the street and lifted her right hand to signal the cab. William took a step forward and opened the door. He didn’t move as she got in.

  “Please call me,” he said as the cab pulled from the curb.

  * * *

  —

  ON THE SECOND DATE, he invited her over for dinner. His apartment was average-size, but to Solane, who lived in a crowded and smaller apartment on the South Side, it was a palace. There were six rooms in William’s apartment, including two commodious bedrooms. It was located on the twenty-fifth floor of a building on Fullerton Avenue. She assumed his rent had to be outlandishly expensive.

  That night, and each time she arrived at his place after, he took her coat with leisure. Each time she left, Solane never believed she would be invited back. Always considered the last occasion they saw each other would be just that: the last. He didn’t make the aggressive passes like men she’d known, nor did he tell her he was interested in building something long-term in an attempt to loosen her up. That statement would have made her nervous because she knew how few men actually meant it. When she arrived at his place, she’d stand on the inside of the door a few extra seconds just for confirmation of being there. Felt as though she should’ve been congratulating herself for arriving rather than feeling the welcome he always extended. Each time, Solane viewed his apartment like it was being shown for purchase, taking in the space in a circular fashion. There were freshly painted cabinets in the kitchen, and he had the most modern appliances: a six-cycle, barely used dishwasher and a new microwave oven with the full-view window and digital settings. In the living room was a twenty-five-inch wood-grain floor-model television that actually worked and a top-loading Betamax above it.