Walter Mosley - Debbie Doesn't Do It Anymore

“You changed your hair and your clothes,” he said.

“You mean I don’t look like a cheap whore anymore.”

“You always had class, Deb. Even on the worst days you rose above the... the shit.”

Jude was a small man. His hairline was receding but he wasn’t yet forty.

“He loved you,” Jude said.

“As well as he could. He loved you too.”

I luxuriated in the pleasure Jude took in this secondhand emotion. Tears formed in his eyes and I was absolutely sure that no one in the world would miss Theon more than that little man.

“Sometimes I used to hate you, Debbie,” he confessed. “You know, I wanted to be going home with him but he wanted you. You.”

I didn’t know what to say. Jude’s ardor was uncontainable. Theon’s stupid uncalculated suicide brought out feelings from every corner and depth.

“But you were always nice to me,” Jude said. “And I’d go home feeling so guilty because you never treated me bad.

“But he loved you... He told me that you were the woman made for him. It wasn’t just sex either. He said that you were his soul mate. And, and, and I don’t know. In some ways it broke my heart but made me happy at the same time.”

I noticed Rash Vineland staring at us from three tables away. For some reason the sight of him made me reach across the table and take Jude’s hand.

“We both had a place in his life, honey,” I said. “You were one of his only real friends. I mean, he had a lot of acquaintances but when something was important he always called you.”

The gratitude in Jude’s eyes was replaced by something that seemed like guilt. I thought at the time that he was feeling ashamed for his jealousy.

He squeezed my hand and the waiter came up with our menus.

“I can’t stay, Deb,” Jude said. “Right after I talked to you I got this call. I have to go meet with the F-Troop Theatre Company. I’m designing the sets and costumes for their new show.”

“Oh. You should invite me when it goes up.”

“I’ll be happy to. I’ll have them send an invitation to your house for the opening.”

“Um... maybe you should do it by e-mail,” I said. “You have my dot-com address, don’t you?”

“What’s wrong, Deb? Why can’t they send it to your house?” The joy of Jude was his laserlike perceptivity.

“Theon wasn’t the best businessman, hon. He had us in hock up to his nuts. I don’t think I’ll be in that house very long.”

“Didn’t he have a life insurance policy?”

The sound that came out of me was rarer than any orgasm or breakdown. It was so odd... my laughter: high and punctuated, surging up from my diaphragm like some kind of pent-up explosion finally finding its exit.

I leaned over the table and I think Jude was a little frightened. My whole body shook with a mirth that was both light and dark. I lowered my head into cupped hands. It must have looked like I was crying. All I could do was imagine Theon Pinkney, known to the world as Axel Rod, having the wherewithal to plan for something like death, to worry about what he left behind him in the trail of wreckage that was his journey through life. I conjured up the image of the big-bellied man with the lovely naked child at his side, looking like some minor Greek god of the sea emerging with an errant nymph who caught his fancy.

Gods didn’t buy life insurance policies, didn’t worry about money in the bank. Gods were eternal icons of fecundity and desire.

“It’s gonna be all right, Deb,” Jude was saying.

I raised my head, intending to assure Jude that I was laughing — not crying. But there were tears of hilarity in my eyes and I couldn’t speak because I knew that I’d start laughing again. So I nodded and held out my hands to him.

Jude stared at me with intensity. He was worried, inspecting my emotions with deep concentration.

“I really have to go,” he said apologetically.

“It’s okay, Jude. I’m going to stay and have some soup, I think.”

I could see Rash casting glances in our direction.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

I was trying not to laugh, to bury the silly feeling I had about Theon and the future.

“I’m fine, Jude. Better than I can really say right now. It was so sweet of you to call, and... and when I finally make the plans for the service I’d love it if you would say a few words about Theon.”

Jude was shocked by this request. He started and then sat back.

“You mean you want me to come up to the podium?”

“You can’t do it from the pews.”

“I, I, I haven’t... I mean, Theon never really included me in his public life.”

“But you were his friend and you both need this good-bye.”

“I have to go, Deb,” he said. “I have to go.”

He lurched up from the table and staggered to the door. His gait was so odd and pronounced that the waiters and bartender watched warily.

When Jude was gone I wondered about the information that passed between us. He was thinking things that I had no idea of and I was experiencing emotions that he could not understand. Still, we seemed to have shared a profound moment. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made me laugh out loud. It might have been my father, long before he was murdered and I became a whore.

The laughter made me hungry. I ordered veal with escarole and saffron rice. I had a glass of dark red wine that the waiter gave me without naming a vintage. He just said, “I have something I think you’ll like,” and I nodded.

For some time I ate without looking at Rash Vineland. There was a smile on my face and a new world somewhere in the recesses of my mind. The substance around me felt malleable. It wasn’t that I felt comfortable or secure. My dense pubic hair was growing in and I’d crossed a big director in the industry; my husband was dead and I had been pushed past broke into serious debt. But the veal was excellent and I could bring joy into people’s lives without spreading my ass for their inspection and titillation.

“Salad, madam?” the waiter asked while clearing away the dinner dishes.

“Please.”

I turned my attention to Rash and crooked a finger. He got right up and strode the six paces to my table.

“Was that your husband?” he asked while pulling out the chair that Jude had vacated.

“And how are you this evening, Rash?” I replied.

“Uh, okay, fine. How are you?”

I smiled and the waiter brought my salad.

“I like this dress,” he said.

I was wearing a white sundress that didn’t crowd my tits or ass. It accented my figure simply because it fit and I liked the way it made me look — somewhat older and a few pounds over the limit.

“Thank you.”

Rash wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say. His discomfort tickled me. He was shy but not because of the size of my nipples or the sighs I lied with on the screen. He wanted to make conversation, to carve out a place where he and I could communicate — one way or another. His wants were commonplace and predictable, like the plot of children’s cartoons on PBS. The story was safe, nonviolent, and fully dressed.

“The man I was sitting with is a friend of the family,” I said. “My husband died a few days ago and Jude was offering his condolences.”

“Oh.”

“It was terrible,” I said, agreeing with Rash’s unspoken sympathy. “A terrible accident. I’ve been a little thrown off and Jude, who was a good friend of Theon’s, was offering his help.”

“Theon was your husband’s name?”

I nodded.

“I’m really sorry. I can leave you alone if you want.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to be alone. I mean I can be if necessary but you’re nice. You know how to have a conversation.”