The Gilda Stories (26 page)

Instead she died from the influenza she caught taking care of one of the endless white women who got sick. Knowing she was now just another slave, likely to be sold away, Gilda had run. She wasn't sure what
sold away
meant except that she would disappear like her father had. She regretted leaving her sisters but knew it would only be a matter of time before they'd be sold away too. That had been so long ago.

Gilda remained as determined to survive now as she had then. She knew about the empires of black people in Mali and Ghana, and although there didn't seem to be much hope at the moment, she would wait and work and move around the world toward the future. As she looked in the mirror, seeing her mother's eyes staring back out at her was comforting. Bird's presence in her walk, the sound of Bernice's laughter in her own, all made the connection to life less tenuous. Finding those she loved within herself eased the passage of time.

Life was indeed interminable. The inattention of her contemporaries to some mortal questions, like race, didn't suit her. She didn't believe a past could, or should, be so easily discarded. Her connection to the daylight world came from her blackness. The memories of her master's lash as well as her mother's face, legends of the Middle Passage, lynchings she had not been able to prevent, images of black women bent over scouring brushes—all fueled her ambition. She had been attacked more than once by men determined that she die, but of course she had not. She felt their hatred as personally as any mortal. The energy of the struggles of those times sustained her, somehow.

Gilda tried to rest now. This was not really sleep, not until that final time when the earth or sea would close around her and the fragments of her body.

She wondered why Julius had no brothers or sisters. Why he'd been left so unequivocally alone in the world. The movements of the sixties had fueled Julius' vision of the future, too, but to Gilda, George Jackson's death this past September signaled the end of that era. Angela was somewhere out there alone now with a cause but no community. The horror of slavery appeared to reap endless returns.

Gilda recognized her repeated attempts to grasp what the right step might be. Her need to shrug off human entrapments was strong, but her bond with the past life was deeper. She shoved the thoughts out of her mind, burying the turmoil they caused by promising herself a trip to the West Coast no matter how she managed it.

The darkness of her room was complete. No shadows played behind the locked door. Everything was still above her as she lay in her restless tomb.
To die but not to perish is to be eternally present.
The words of the
Tao
played in her mind, lulling her into sleep. She succumbed to the silence of dawn while the world around her prepared to awaken.

During a break in rehearsal, one week before the play's opening night, Gilda ran through the words to a song she was writing at the same time as she scanned the production book checking the light and sound cues. She glanced down at the cast milling around restlessly as the director worked to reblock an actor's movement. The route from one chair to another became everyone's focus as they weighed what effect the minute changes would have on their positions. The play was a political polemic full of naive hope and loud music, not unlike many others that were playing the off-Broadway boards at the time.

Denise, the dance captain, was a brilliant dancer and charismatic singer. David, the second male lead, was a born comedian. But the play itself was just a sketch.

The director had been invited by the company partly because of the name he had made directing a popular antiwar musical, and also because word was out that he was in emotional trouble. He had been replaced on a Broadway-bound production the year before. Those were just the qualities that made him irresistible to this anarchistic little group. Gilda sensed him flounder for a second under the pressure to make a quick, clean decision about the moves.

She called out from the booth, “Excuse me, Charles, but Equity rules say they have a break about now.”

There was laughter in her voice. They all knew times when they'd worked hours on end, eating hurriedly only when their characters were not required on stage.

Charles was grateful for the interruption and replied, “Well, if we must bow to the tyranny of the masses, I'll spring for coffee.” Someone took orders for the run to the deli, Gilda untangled her legs from the wires, and Sonia, who worked the sound, climbed down from the booth. Julius stood at the bottom of the ladder, a tentative smile on his face.

“You going out for something to eat?”

“No, I want to talk to Charles about the blocking problem.”

“How about later after the rehearsal?”

“Not tonight, Julius, rain check.” Gilda walked away, cautiously ignoring the look of disappointment on his face.

That night, after the gate had been drawn, Gilda headed downtown, enjoying the brisk air and trying to wipe the memory of Julius' face from her mind. She crossed 14th and walked until coming to West Street. Men's bars studded the neighborhood, sleazy landmarks in the crumbling dock area. Gilda rarely ventured to this part of the City. Its aura of danger—the excitement and pain—was not usually appealing to her. She crossed under the West Side Highway to the piers where young men, most trimly bearded, paraded to entice other men. There was danger in taking blood here: the men's bodies were frequently saturated with drugs and alchohol, and Gilda didn't know with what or how much. But tonight, danger was all that would satisfy her.

She walked stiff and wide-legged with her hands in her pockets so that no one would notice her womanhood. She passed a middle-aged white man who hurried toward the street, tucking in his blue button-down shirt and closing a vest over his slightly bulging belly. He looked backward over his shoulder quickly, as if the man who had just given him pleasure would leap on his back to destroy him at any moment. Gilda saw the young man with curly hair leaning against the pilings, rinsing his mouth with beer from a bottle, then spitting into the Hudson. He poured some beer on his hands, wiped them on his denims, and started toward the street. Almost without hesitation he popped a pill into his mouth, washing it down with the last of the beer. The bottle crashed into the abandoned warehouse building behind him.

As the glass tinkled among the other broken bottles, he noticed Gilda coming toward him. He walked a little taller, eager to check out the new figure. Just as he realized she was a woman, Gilda caught him with her eyes. No, tonight was not a night of love. It was a night of feeding.

Gilda held him in her gaze and wiped his mind clear. His eyes opened wide, unseeing, as she pushed him backward into the shadows of the shell-shocked warehouse. She turned his face to the wall, pulling the jacket away from his back and neck with an easy rip. She pressed his body hard against the rough building and sliced open the skin on his neck. He moaned slightly as he felt the pressure against his body. Gilda took his blood easily, barely thinking of what might be in his mind. A small thing, actually. He wanted to visit a friend who was sick but somehow never found the motivation. He felt guilty. Gilda took her share of the blood, and by the time she released him, his resolve to make the visit was firm. The drug that diluted his blood pulsed through Gilda's veins, light exploded in her head, and her breathing raced dangerously. She didn't care. She just wanted to forget her own indecision and the boy who sold his body on a crumbling dock.

She pulled back and held her hand over the wound. Her eyes were out of focus and her hand leaden with what she was sure were depressants. Reaching into the front pocket of his jeans she found a slender ampule. His breathing was shallow and didn't improve, so she flipped off its cap and passed the popper quickly beneath his nose. His heart rate quickened, and soon his pulse rose. His body stiffened in its struggle to consciousness. She threw the container over her shoulder into the river and left him there, against the building, clinging to life with tenacity. Gilda ran quickly, even though the drug made her feel stiff and uncertain.

Once free of the area she walked more slowly, looking at the people on the street and enjoying the movement of the lights. She could hear sounds coming from the buildings around her as if they were programmed through a stereo in her ear. The music from a penthouse above was as clear as the clink of dishes in the storefront diner. She arrived home, took a shower, and tried to wash away the smell of the city.

Gilda sat outside in the back, watching the stars and listening to the music from Marcie's place, where tonight a blue light glowed. That meant he had more than one guest with him. She heard the laughter and salsa floating down. Gilda wondered if the boy on the dock came home to friends such as these—unexpected and challenging. She watched the stars until they faded and dawn started to take over the sky.

The show opened a week later. So few things went wrong that Charles was triumphant and the cast confident they would run forever. At the cast party they milled around Charles' West 97th Street apartment, reliving special moments, releasing the tension that had been stored for weeks. Gilda sat at a narrow counter watching the young faces. She was pleased with the show—it made a statement and showed off good talent. The group sat stroking each other's egos for getting this far. Critics would be coming in three days, so the edge was not completely off, but they were good and they knew it. Julius came around to the back of the counter and offered to pour her a drink. Gilda declined and turned back to the rest of the group. Night sparkled outside the large uncurtained windows as Julius stood sipping from a large glass of scotch.

“Drinking alcohol is not good for you,” Gilda teased with a little smile. He ignored the remark, and they were silent again. Then Julius said, “I had a dream about you the other night. You came to my pad and woke me up to make love to me. I was…well… happy. But then you left and I couldn't breathe. I thought I was dying. I couldn't wake myself up and kept calling you, begging you not to leave me there, dying, but I couldn't get the words out.”

Gilda sat very still staring past Julius at the photograph of Greta Garbo on the wall behind him. When she caught his eyes they were pinpoints of curiosity. She looked around the room feeling him holding on to her.

“I know you're trying to keep from getting into something with me. I'm not a complete fool, sisterlove. You made yourself pretty clear. But I've got to let you know how it is for me. I can't imagine life without you somewhere near me. If it's as a friend and not a lover, then let it be that. Just don't ice me out.”

Gilda watched him sip from his glass. “Are you so alone in the world that you need to settle?”

“I'm not settling. My mother used to say that one good friend is worth a thousand…well you know. I don't want to lose our friendship when the show's over or the company's gone or I find another job.”

“You don't understand what it means to be my friend.”

“Maybe not, but give me a chance to deal with it. Nothing I do in this business or my career means anything if I spend my life alone. You don't understand that, do you?”

For a moment Gilda heard Skip's voice that evening in the Cape Cod cottage when he assured them he wasn't using drugs, that he had nothing to apologize for. His voice and Julius' became one in their urgency.

“I understand being alone better than you can ever imagine. I've learned to appreciate being alone and how to choose one's companions carefully.” Her words made Julius' brown skin flush pink, showing up the dark freckles.

The life I offer is not for you. I feel for you as I would if I had a brother I loved. Trust that no matter where you are in this world if you ever need my help, it is only for you to ask and I will be at your side. In that we will never be separate.

With these words, Gilda remembered the last time she made this promise. The forlorn acceptance that had shone in Aurelia's eyes was all Gilda had asked for. Julius couldn't offer such acquiescence, but surprised at the outpouring, tears welled in his eyes. He blinked to hold them back, then looked quickly about the room.

No one hears. The words are for you alone,
Gilda said.

It was then Julius realized that her lips had not moved. He had heard her clearly nonetheless. She slid from the bar stool and walked toward Charles, standing alone near the table laden with bread and cheese. She made her good-byes quickly, then left, eager to be rid of the brightly lit room and Julius' need.

As Gilda walked toward Broadway she knew that if it were possible for her to cry, she would be doing so now. She turned downtown looking forward to the distracting sights between the Upper West Side and Chelsea. At 96th Street she was fascinated by the glare of the Red Apple supermarket and the newsstand bursting with publications. Couples speaking in the frenzied Spanish of the City congregated in front of the dance hall located above the heavily shuttered jewelry store. The Riviera and Riverside movie theaters were the only things that stood silent at this intersection.

She didn't stop at 95th Street, only glanced up at the dark marquee of the Thalia. The ubiquitous
Jules et Jim
was playing. Gilda wondered idly how many times she'd seen it. It was on the bill with
Ship of Fools.
It must be Oskar Werner week, she thought, just as Julius stopped beside her, short of breath. He stood in her path, blocking light from the corner liquor store.

“You understand me so well… feel so much for me, but you walk away. I can't accept it,” Julius said, not entirely certain now that he'd heard her earlier words.

“You have no choice,” Gilda said, her anxiety making her impatient. He grabbed her arm. “Please.” The word was simple and plaintive. His hand on her arm was strong and urgent, but she broke his grip with little effort.

“Why can't it be different? How do you know?” His voice was childlike as he faced this complete unknown. The strength in it demanded that she answer honestly.