I Almost Forgot About You (27 page)

“This gentleman is my stepbrother, but we've dropped the ‘step.' ”

Saundra shakes his hand like she means it and without looking away from his eyes. She was always a loosey-goosey, and age has apparently not affected her. Something tells me there's going to be a whole lotta shaking going on.

And so the reunion officially begins.

I see groups forming.

The once-pretty, skinny blondes who were cheerleaders are still skinny and blond but not even close to pretty, because they've had too much work done. They're huddled in a tight circle with their arms around one another, hugging and giggling, stuck in time.

I see the same snobs whispering as they move through the banquet hall. They thought they were hot shit then, but they just look like shit now. I'm being mean. They all pretend like they remember me. But they don't. I'm sure they've all looked at the little bios in the catalog and know I'm a doctor. I wonder when white folks will realize and accept that black people are just as smart and as educated as they are and in some cases smarter and more educated and that we don't have to apologize for it and that they should just respect us and accept it, because we now are and always have been equals. So yes, I'm a fucking doctor, and I don't even want to be one anymore. I take a pretend chill pill.

Everybody mingles.

“Really? You were a lifer in the army?”

“You still twirl a baton?”

“You own a McDonald's?”

“You're an embalmer? Wow.”

“Sorry to hear you've been laid off after fifteen years. Yes, the economy is in shambles and scary. And you think it's all President Obama's fault.”

“Of course I'm an empty-nester.”

“Yes, I did end up graduating from college. Twice.”

“You've got prostate cancer?”

“You've got high blood pressure and high cholesterol?”

“You're a breast-cancer survivor?”

“Yes, my mother's still alive.”

“Sorry both of your parents have passed on.”

“You're retired?”

“You lost a son in Afghanistan?”

“You lost a daughter in Iraq?”

“So that's how you met your third husband?”

“And prison wasn't as bad as you thought?”

“You never left Bakersfield?”

“Why would you?”

“You have sixteen grandchildren?”

“This is only your second face-lift?”

“No, I haven't been to Greece, but it's on my bucket list.”

Dinner is tasteful and tasty. Our reunion money was well spent.

I excuse myself and head to the ladies' room. All I do is powder my nose, because what I really needed was to breathe. It's hard being on. As I head back into the ballroom, I hear a man's voice say, “Hello there, Georgia.”

I turn and see an older Bruce Gardner who was in my English class three years in a row. He was somewhat cute then, but he's definitely handsome now.

“Bruce Gardner?”

“I can't believe you remember me.”

“Of course I remember you. You didn't talk in class. I did. We sat next to each other. I think you cheated on a test once.”

“I've never cheated at anything.”

I smile. He smiles.

“You look fabulous,” he says, and without pausing, “So I read up on you, Georgia. You've done well for yourself, not that I'm surprised, and don't freak out, but there's something I've been wanting to tell you after all these years.”

“I'm all ears.”

“I had a mad crush on you in high school.”

I get a very thick lump in my throat.

“You don't have to say anything. I've looked for you at the last four reunions and was very disappointed not to see you. But here you are, and I just thought I'd tell you this, and you don't have to react or respond, because it was worth getting it off my chest and finally out of my heart.”

“Wow.”

“That's good enough,” he says, and bends down and takes my hand and kisses it.

“Hold on a minute, soldier, we can do better than that,” I say, and walk up close to him and drape my arms around him, and he does the same to me.

“Wow, so were it not for racial politics back in the day, you mean to tell me I could've felt you in my arms like this all these years?” he asks as I step away from him.

“Who knows?” I say. “It's really nice seeing you after such a long time, Bruce. And thank you for telling me how you felt. I'm flattered. Hope to see you again in ten.”

And off he goes to sit three tables away from mine, next to a handsome woman I know must be his wife. They both wave, and I wave back. I'm now sitting in Grover's seat, because he and Saundra are engrossed in a conversation.

And then the awards and applause: for longest marriage, oldest child, youngest child, the most grandchildren and best dancer, which I was shocked to win, as I was no Janet Jackson back in the day. We see remnants of the sports teams and the cheerleading squads. They pose for pictures. And then there's the slide show of the twenty-six classmates who've passed away. I recognize almost all of them.

When I hear the announcement that the speaker's going to give his talk soon and I hear them say Bruce's name, I'm quite surprised. I never gave him a minute's attention, and now he's a senator who forty years later tells me he had a crush on me in high school. I'm all ears.

“Well, hello, class of '72! I know you've all been sitting out there thinking you feel younger than everyone else looks. But guess what? Forty years from now, the class of 2011 will be full of old ladies with tattoos. It's good so many of you were able to make it this year. Instead of reminiscing I thought I'd say something about where we are now and how we managed to get here. Wherever we are. Because the fact that we are here means we should be celebrating our lives. I know many of us have had a series of ups and downs. And after fifty we get not only the face we deserve but the life we deserve. It may not be the life we wanted, but we all got the life we have as a result of choices we made. Some of us who haven't been so lucky probably look back at our lives and wish we could put them on videotape so we could get an instant replay, but then others might just want to erase theirs. Don't even think about it, because everything we've done, every bad and good decision we've made is what's shaped our lives and brought us here tonight. Know that we're the only people who knew you when you weren't a father or a mother. We're the only people who knew you when you didn't have a profession or a career. We knew you when you were young and vibrant. Some of us didn't like each other back then. Some of us got bullied. Some of us fell in love but were too afraid to admit it. Some of us got our hearts broken because we did. But I'm here to tell you folks something you probably already know. It's not that complicated. All we can do is aim to leave this world a little bit better than we found it. So let's not listen to that domestic devil. Let's continue to be the change we want to see in ourselves and in the world. And regardless of how many times you've been divorced or if you're still looking for that special someone or you wish you'd chosen a different career, don't give up just yet. If you're still looking for your purpose, don't stop until you find it. Because guess what? For lack of a better cliché, it ain't over till it's over. We've still got some good years left to dance to the song known as our lives at whatever rpm we choose. Some of us like to tango. Some want to waltz. Personally, I still like to rock. I'm just so glad we're all still here, and as my granddaughter likes to say, it's all good! Now, let's party like it's 1972!”

And off the stage he goes. I'm in tears. I'm standing like everyone in this banquet room is. We're applauding Bruce, but we're also applauding ourselves. Our lives.

And then we dance.

To all those songs from the seventies on up to right now.

I dance with Bruce and his wife.

Saundra dances with Grover.

The floor is packed with middle-agers who came here to celebrate and applaud one another. As we head out, everybody says good-bye to everybody, and some of us—people I assumed didn't remember me and whom I didn't remember—acknowledge one another. Some of us hug and squeeze hands, and by the time I get into the car, as much as I didn't think I would, I have to admit I had fun.

I'm on my knees weeding the flower bed when Naomi comes over.

“Hi, Ms. Georgia. How's everything?”

“Everything is everything. And you?”

“Well, looks like I'm single after nine years.”

I wipe my gloved hands together, then brush the mud off my apron and stand up. “You mean you and Macy are splitting up?”

“Split. She moved out.”

“When? I never saw any moving trucks.”

“She left everything with me. Except Rascal. He was hers.”

“I don't want to pry, but why?”

I can tell she's been drinking, but who can blame her?

“According to the headlines, she ran into a blast from her past, and apparently they've rekindled those old flames. I'm sick. Deep inside sick.”

And she starts crying, and the Indian feathers on the front of her red sweatshirt begin jerking around like waves. I untie my wet apron and let it drop to the sidewalk and walk over and give her a motherly hug. I take her by the hand, and we go sit on the steps.

“I'm really sorry to hear this, Naomi. Truly sorry. What are you going to do?”

She shakes her head back and forth, rakes her fingers through her short blond hair, and then starts twirling her small gold hoop earrings with two fingers. “I suppose I have to divorce her.”

I'd forgotten they were one of the first hundred same-sex couples standing outside the courthouse in San Francisco on that June day in 2008 and were lucky to get legal marriage licenses. They were married on the courthouse steps. I saw them on the news and was happy for them. And of course it was all halted months later, and we'll just have to wait to see if the Supreme Court ever comes to their fucking senses and gives these couples the same rights as the rest of us.

“Don't think about that yet. People go through things. Sometimes they come to their senses when they realize what they've lost.”

She shakes her head even more vigorously. “Not Macy.”

“You want to come in for coffee?”

“Sure, if you can put a kick in it?”

“You bet.”

“Wow,” she says after following me in. “This is proof that all gay men don't have good taste.”

“He did his job. But I couldn't agree more. Come.”

And she follows me to the kitchen and sits on a barstool. I step down to the bar and hold up a bottle of Maker's. She nods.

“She was a complete bitch anyway,” she says.

Here we go with alcohol honesty.

“But enough about her,” she says, leaning on the island with both elbows. “Have you gotten any offers yet? If not, mine will be on the market in a few weeks. So they'll have twins to choose from!”

“No offers that've stuck.”

“But say if your house were to sell later today, where would you want to move, Miss Georgia Peach?”

“New York,” I say for the hell of it.

“Don't be ridiculous. Californians don't have the heart or the chutzpah to live in or even appreciate the high octane that New York has to offer, just like New Yorkers don't like living in sunny, picture-fucking-perfect, beautiful, superficial, yes-the-clichés-are-all-true California. Except none of them apply to the Bay Area. We're the East Coast of the West, and we rock!”

She holds her hand up, and I pat it with my palm.

“Face it, you like trees and grass and digging up worms and weeds in your fucking flower bed. You should keep your straight black ass right here and put some money into this fucking 1985-flashback kitchen. Wait until you're like a real senior citizen and then sell this son of a bitch. Hey, you want to come to my divorce?”

“No,” I say, and put her arm over my shoulder and walk her sluggishly down my sidewalk up her driveway and inside her and Macy's very hip and art-filled house, which is floor-to-ceiling glass with a view of San Francisco to die for.

I walk her over to their gunmetal leather sofa and help her sit, and she falls to one side. I pick her up by both feet and slip one of many silk pillows under her head and then take the yellow mohair throw and place it over her.

“You're such a cool neighbor, Georgia Brown. Don't fucking move to New York. You're already home.”

And she's gone.

And she's right.

I finish weeding and clean up, then go to every single art store I want to. I buy paint. Broken glass. Sand. Seashells. Pebbles. Black roses. Black rocks. Feathers. Ribbon. Burlap. Leather. And more. By the time I get home, it's dark. I leave everything in the car until I decide where I'm going to put it. I am happy.

Although it's probably not even fifty degrees outside, I open the door, turn on the pool lights, walk back inside, and grab two folded bath towels from the laundry room, come back and sit on a chaise lounge and throw the towels over me like a blanket. I watch the small navy blue waves flow like they have a destination. Through the fog I can still see the Bay Bridge lit up as if it's celebrating itself. I turn around and look inside my home, my house, then close my eyes and recline.

A chill wakes me up. I walk back inside and out the front door and pull that For Sale sign out of the ground. I can feel the roots applauding. I drop it inside the trash bin that's sitting on the curb, and when I go back inside, the door closes slowly and the whoosh of the air sounds like it's whispering thank you. I go into the kitchen and just stand there. Look around. All the stainless steel suddenly looks cold and old and outdated. Naomi was right. I toss the towels over a barstool and make myself a strong cup of coffee. I turn off the lights that lead down to my office and look over at the fireplace and decide to light it.

I'm tired of waiting. Feeling anxious all the time. Tired of strangers traipsing through my house, tired of hearing what they like and don't like, what they would change. How they would rip out the floors. And why would anybody put concrete and leather on the floor? We'd have to carpet all this. We'd definitely put a real chandelier over the stairwell, and is that a boat? And that metal stairway would have to go; it's too cold and industrial. At least the walls are all white, so we wouldn't have to paint. Not sure if we like that black-bottomed pool, it's too dramatic. Water should be turquoise.

Sorry, Georgia, that family from Seattle couldn't qualify. Sorry, Georgia, the couple hoping to relocate didn't qualify. Sorry, Georgia, sorry, Georgia, sorry, Georgia. Well, I know who does qualify. Georgia. And right now, were I to pay off what's left on my mortgage after I sell my partnership, I'll be free. I can't even believe this. Stupid is as stupid does. I don't know what I was thinking. I didn't even know where else I wanted to go. As I look around, I realize I like living in this house. It's my home. And it wasn't the house I needed to change. It was me.