The Gilda Stories (25 page)

Here she felt smothered by ambition. Recognizing the absence of that in Julius made Gilda smile. She closed the book and went out into the postage-stamp garden. Because most of the businesses closed up shop at dinnertime, and there were few habitable apartment buildings, the area was quiet at night. Gilda's tenement, owned by her holding company, in turn owned by her investment company, was similiar to those around it, except the heat and hot water always worked and the sidewalk was clean. It contained a mix of Americana: Francisco, a Dominican cab driver; Danny, an Irish man who had been the building's superintendent for fifteen years, his wife Tillie, and their stream of grandchildren; Rodney, the black actor who went off to his job at the Transit Authority every morning and returned in the evening with his dance bag over his shoulder; and Marcie, a young Puerto Rican who lived just above Gilda. He was the only actual friend she had in the building. Marcie had invited her up a couple of times and she'd accepted without thinking twice. When she sat on his studio couch, enveloped in the Indian bedspread and fluffy pillows, she realized how difficult his charade was. During the day he was Marc at his job at the telephone company. He had been one of the first male operators and wore it like a badge of honor. But what he wore best were sable eyelashes and capri pants.

“I'm a free man. What I wear is my business!” she heard him shout after slamming his door behind a quickly departing relative. He and Gilda had been on good terms ever since then.

Except for his younger sister who slipped downtown to visit him on holidays, his family had generally stopped speaking to him years before. Gilda knew he welcomed neighborly intimacy as much as she did.

Gilda gazed up at the stars and then turned to look at Marcie's window. The shades were drawn, but she could see a glimmer of red light underneath. He must have company, she thought, and dropped the idea of visiting him. He always went out by himself at the beginning of the evening but inevitably had someone with him when he returned home. In the morning, by choice, he was usually alone again. They had spent many mornings together over the coffee whose aroma enticed Gilda even though she never drank it.

She considered Marcie for a long time when thinking who might want to join her in her life. He was strong, directed, devoted. But Gilda saw him, like Aurelia, too tied to the life of the present. His world was now, not the expanse of time between now and the future. She tried to envision Julius against such a horizon.

Gilda felt impatient with her self-indulgence. Either use the time or leave it alone, she demanded of herself. She couldn't understand why Julius upset her so much. It was certainly not the first time a man had propositioned her. She passed off their suggestions so easily, though, that they usually never remembered they had made them. What was upsetting her then? Gilda found her comfort with women. That was just the way it was. Julius was full of the manufactured responses that men somehow inherit from their dead mothers and fathers. Damn! He still reached out to her through the night air.

Gilda went back inside and slipped into her jeans and T-shirt. She pulled a sweater over her head, relocked her front door, and started walking south. She was seated in Sorel's rear booth before she realized she was going there. Anthony stood formally beside the table looking much as he had when they first met—somewhat pale, wiry, his large hands preternaturally still at his sides. He looked like a student, yet Gilda felt as if she had returned home to her teacher.

“I'm afraid you've arrived much before Sorel. He will not be back with us for a week, perhaps two.”

“I know, Anthony. I just wanted to be here. To see you.”

“Splendid. May I bring you a bottle then? Sorel has been hoarding things for you to try since you've not been to visit us in so long.”

“Only if you'll sit with me for a while.”

Anthony nodded, then turned to the tall door at the back of the pub where Sorel kept his personal favorites stored. As often happened Gilda was comforted by the ease with which Anthony, Sorel, and she had become accustomed to the new manners the world had to offer.

In many ways the mores of this time were much more complex, obscure—there was a great deal of room for surprise. She looked around her. Here she was not an object of curiosity as she had been long ago. Some of those present she knew and nodded to; but they, sensing her desire to be alone with Anthony, remained at their own tables. The sound of the room was much softer than the one in which she first sat with Sorel. Few mortals came here, and there was no gambling room—only a long bar, a few booths, and a billiard table. The bartender raised his glass in her direction, and she smiled in easy camaraderie. Anthony returned and opened a bottle of wine, a burgundy, and described how Sorel had expanded his wine holdings in that region.

“What, no champagne tonight?”

“I've tried to make Sorel understand it's an overrated drink. For years he's humored me, but still he loves those bubbles. I, myself, prefer a hearty drink that stays with you through the chill of night.” With that Anthony poured the dark red wine into wide-mouthed glasses, then sat across from Gilda in the high-backed booth.

They sipped silently, with Anthony only muttering a small sound of appreciation. Gilda spoke before she knew exactly what was going to be said, in much the same way as she had unwittingly discovered herself in front of the club. “I have a friend, a young man, I think I'd like to bring with me to Sorel's homecoming gathering.”

Anthony did not rush in with words but waited for Gilda to continue. She reached across the table and poured more wine for them both.

“I really look forward to Sorel's report from New Zealand. I expect he and Bird have caused quite a stir among the landowners there. I wish Bird were returning with him. Anyway, my friend is a young man a bit at odds with himself right now, but I would really like you to meet him.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. Then she said, “And I'm afraid. I can't have another loss like Aurelia or Eleanor.”

Anthony reached across the polished wood of the table and rubbed one finger across Gilda's hand, whose fingers were wound tightly around the bowl of her glass.

“And this friend has a name?”

“Julius.”

“He takes a place in your heart?”

“As a friend, yes. I feel none of the overwhelming rush of desire that blurred my vision with Eleanor. Nor much of the foreboding that stifled me with Aurelia. But I'm still uncertain. It would be so easy to make a mistake, to cause such horror. I won't do that.” She could feel the fear rise in her throat and knew that Anthony sensed it.

“Did you know that before the end, Eleanor came to see Sorel almost every evening? It was quite sweet, actually. She would sit at his table after you moved east and simply look out with him at the many people who visited the salon. They spoke often of her childhood when they first met. And he talked with her of Europe. She developed a consuming desire to visit just from those conversations. It seemed a refreshing change had set in, for a few years at least. Sorel thought she was trying to find peace. Your stay with us forced her to face something none of us had been able to. Her creation was a mistake, and she continued to contribute to the bitterness that surrounded her. She took no responsibility for her life. I think Eleanor came to see what a waste that was. Sorel was really very happy to spend that time with her.”

“Yet she took the true death.”

“Yes, but not, I think, because of any mistake in judgment on Sorel's part. But rather on her own. She knew she had done a foolish thing with Samuel and his wife. She had set something in motion that would haunt her always, and Samuel would never relent as long as he lived. Her decision to take the true death was a decision not to destroy him. She said as much before it was done. She asked of you on occasion,” Anthony finished in a soft voice.

Gilda felt a nervous chill slip down her back. She took a large sip from the glass of wine. “But Sorel has been devastated by her death. How can you speak of it so simply? I'm sure he's not feeling the easy relief you seem to think.”

“I don't presume any easy relief. Sorel has his grief, as do we all. But he'll not be ended by it. He can live with his mistakes in judgment. If you're not willing to take that chance, then you must reconsider how you will spend the coming years.”

After a while he spoke again. “I imagine you feel some degree of disloyalty to Bird in your desire to bring one among us. This is unnecessary. I'm sure Bird would say the same thing to you if you gave her a chance.”

“You may be right. I still feel stuck, as if I were part of a wheel spinning in place. Knowing the right thing to do…”

“Stop trying to make the perfect move; trust your instincts more. You've been through quite a bit in the past years. I'm sure you're as good a student as you've always been.”

“I can't be a student for all my time!”

“We are students for all our time if we're lucky enough to know it. But that doesn't mean you wait for Bird to grant you some dispensation before you really live. She can be mother, father, sister, lover—but she cannot create the family for you. You are part of our family and you will create others to be a part of it. This is no one's mission but your own.”

“When she came to me in Boston I believed she would stay.”

“Even when she said she would not?”

“Yes.”

“You think of it as running away from you. For her it may simply have been running to other things that are most important. You were on your own, your world set. For Bird the world is travel, pulling together the strands of knowledge about her nation, other people from whom she's been separated. You are a part of her life, but Woodard's is gone; it will never be again.”

“That day in the farmhouse, when I lay in the bed waiting for Bird to come back from Woodard's, my greatest fear was that she would decide not to complete the process, that she'd leave me to the mortal life. I was certain I'd never learn to live in the world I'd come to know. It was the most fear I had ever experienced, apart from the constancy of terror that was plantation life.”

“But she didn't. She knew this life was one in which you would excel, she knew you'd learn to be… as we are, a living history. You don't need Bird at your side to be this. You need only look forward, just as you did the day you decided to escape the plantation.”

Gilda didn't respond. Anthony went on as if she had.

“Since there's no overwhelming reason not to, why not bring this Julius to Sorel's welcome-home party. You're bound to see more clearly after drinking that silly champagne all evening.” The smile gleaming on Anthony's face made Gilda laugh. They didn't speak of Julius anymore as they sipped the wine. Gilda left through the heavy oak door.

She walked east enjoying the coolness of the night air as it invited the morning. When she stood in front of Julius' apartment she looked up at the ancient building adorned with peeling fire escapes. East First Street was almost deserted, and the streetlamps glared and sparkled on the broken glass in the gutters. A
walk-up, no doubt,
she thought.

Gilda easily coaxed the ineffectual lock open and entered his apartment. It was clean and orderly despite the crumbling state of the building. His desk was covered with neat stacks of papers, and books stood lined up in rows. Julius, lying naked under a blanket on a mattress on the floor, shifted uneasily in his sleep. Looking down at him it was easy to see what a child he was. The beard that grew in during the night was soft on his chin, and the whiteness of his teeth was inviting under his partially opened lips. His reverie was of her as she entered the dream.

She glanced at a family snapshot that sat framed beside the bed and at the large posters of Angela Davis, Ché Guevera, and Malcolm X that hung on the walls. She pulled the covers from Julius' body. He stirred, opened his eyes, and she caught him in a gaze he couldn't break.

“The dream doesn't have to end,” she said softly, then lay down beside him, touching her fingers to his skin as lightly as the years touched her unlined face. She held him in her arms and kissed his full lips, listening to his satisfied murmurs. His eyes closed again, convinced this was a dream. She ran her hands across his body making his flesh tingle. Julius held her tightly, his lips seeking hers. His body responded as a man's, and she lay across his lean thighs and chest providing a comforting sensation. Her hands were as hypnotic as her eyes. As the moment approached when his mind provided the gratification his body hungered for, she sliced across the flesh of his neck with her fingernail and watched the blood ease slowly to the surface.

She pressed her lips eagerly to the wound and drew the life from him as his body exploded with the joy of his imagination. She listened inside of him and was surprised to see the image of the snapshot that sat atop the stack of books beside his bed. She stopped as she felt his pulse weaken, held her hand on his chest, and lifted herself away from his body to ease his breathing. He relaxed into satisfaction. She spoke soft, hypnotic words in his ear until his breathing became regular.

“Good-bye, sweet baby,” she whispered.

Gilda was back on the street in only a few moments and inside her apartment so quickly it felt as if she had never left. She slipped out of her clothes and took a quick shower. The running water made her slightly uncomfortable even though she'd lined the walls with the Mississippi earth she carried everywhere with her. The towel felt good against her skin, and she had no regrets. He would wake in the morning satisfied, as would she, and both could still be separate.

She pulled the silk comforter over her naked body; the earth lining the bed frame beneath her felt cool and familiar. Gilda tried to remember what her family had been like. She was Tack's child. She knew that wasn't her father's real name but one they called him because he was so good with horses. He worked in the tack house and had been sold away before she was born. Her mother's face was the only one she remembered clearly. Everyone said that, unlike her nine sisters, Gilda resembled her mother. She had been rather tall, her smooth dark-brown skin topped by a full head of thick hair she was endlessly trying to manage so it would not be an embarrassment to the mistress. She worked inside the house, unusual for a woman of her deep color. Her skills with herbs, in addition to her cooking, made them reluctant to lose her to the fields and the sun.