Calvin Baker - Grace

“It’s not just black people they give black lives,” he deadpanned, after my brain had flooded through my mouth. He put a hand on my shoulder to shut me up, and told me not to get so weighed down — half my fear was projection, and the other half I created as well.

I asked what he was working on, to change the subject.

“Same as always,” he said coolly. “Getting back for what they took from the Africans.”

He sent Davidson a text message, telling him to come join us, and ordered another round for the table.

“I bet you date a lot of complicated women,” he said when the drinks arrived. “You should meet Estella.”

“Because you think I need complications?”

“Because I know you need fewer.” He whispered close to my ear. The one you think you like is a hot mess. Estella is grounded. Maybe not a supermodel, and maybe not a supergenius, just real good people, which is its own special thing. If I were you, I would take her out and get to know her.”

I was horny and did not want to be alone, but I did not want a relationship and had my eye on the long-legged one who looked like fun. He was talking loudly enough that they both pricked up their ears, laughed, and flowed over to where we were seated. Yoda made introductions, and soon after slipped away and began politicking with Nell about something in next week’s newspaper.

The one I liked was called Anna. She was originally from Texas, had studied psychology, and had just moved East for a new job in branding. She had the wholesome, fresh-faced look of people new to the city, and seemed like a nice girl to know.

“I’d love to see you again sometime,” I said to Anna, after we had been talking awhile.

“Next week,” she answered, over the noise of the club. I promised to call, and looked at my watch, and cheeked her goodbye.

“Or tonight,” she said, wrapping an arm around my neck, and pulling me in to kiss me on the mouth. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“I have an early morning,” I wavered over whether to close the deal.

She leaned in seductively. “Are you certain?”

“Do you want me to take you seriously, or take you home tonight?”

“Why can’t we do both?”

I debated with myself between how much to trust affection that sprang so spontaneously into existence and my desire not to go home alone. I agreed to stay a while longer.

“Yoda was right,” I said, getting up to go to the bar to freshen our drinks. “You’re trouble.”

“Did he say we should be lovers?” she asked.

“I did not ask him.”

“What do you think?” she reached up and pulled me to her again. I had not dated anyone since Genevieve, and had not been looking for anyone — but the feel of her taut body was undeniable. It felt good to have anybody in my arms.

“Maybe.” I wanted to be careful with myself. “I’ll call you.”

She turned her head and smiled as she walked back to her friends, and I returned to the bar.

“That was hot. Did you get her number?” Nell asked, coming over as I waited for the bartender.

“I’ll go out with her next week,” I answered.

“Next week? Honey, that’s a lifetime. Take her home with you. What’s the harm?”

I was fairly lit by then, and as Nell voiced her approval I knew she was just trying to cheer me up, but I was still thinking about what I could not hold, and did not wish to be with someone I did not know. Still I did not want to be alone.

“She is still trying to figure out what the world is about. I do not know if I feel like playing.”

“Got it,” Nell said, turning her alert attention to a commotion that had broken out below.

“Look at that. So typical. So sad.” She pointed down to a pair of suits at one of the tables near the stage, each vying to take the singer home.

“Why?”

“Two bankers fighting over a blonde.”

The bouncers stepped in to break them apart, but the violence spoiled my high, and I slipped out a side door into the fresh night air to smoke a cigarette.

Outside I took out my phone, fingering it like a worry stone, as I thought of texting Devi, until I remembered she had deleted her number. That should have been enough to stop me, but it was not. I sent her an e-mail as I finished my smoke, before slipping the phone back in my pocket. As the phone reached the bottom of my pocket, it pulsed with what turned out to be a message from Nell.

“Where did you go?” she wrote.

“Having a smoke. May go home.”

“Come back upstairs,” she insisted. “The party’s just getting started.” She told me Davidson had finally arrived, along with some others I knew.

I stubbed out my cigarette, and gathered myself to go back inside, as the phone glowed brightly again in the shadow of the street. Devi had sent an e-mail, which I opened, drunkenly hoping she might be willing to come out. “I’m in Jersey,” she wrote. “Painting the house with my new fiancé.”

I headed back inside for what I still hoped to be a jubilant night.

Upstairs I found Nell and the others engaged in deep conversation. She sensed my approach, however, and took me by the elbow, leading me into the circle, where Davidson was holding court. As we all stood there laughing I felt a hand brush against mine, I took it with firm confidence of what I was doing.

“Anna,” I said, “I was afraid you’d gone.”

“I’m right here.” She laced her fingers through mine, moving closer, so I could hear her over the pulsating music. “Let’s go,” she whispered.

I saw Nell smile knowingly, as she repositioned herself in the circle so that I had to move closer toward Anna. I was struck again by the sweet brightness of her face, brimming with an easy American confidence. Even as she told of how frantic her first weeks in the city had been, it was with an upbeat demeanor that seemed honest and light and made me take to her.

The balcony was packed, and as our group continued to expand we were pushed near the wall, where we pressed against each other, and her body felt full in my arms, and her eyes twinkled mischievously with possibility that told me to take her home and feel someone’s arms around me.

Her bare leg brushed against mine as a voluptuous breeze streamed through the taxi window, suffusing us with expectation as we sped along the West Side Highway.

Someone had invited her to an after party in Harlem, which she insisted we go to before calling it a night. It seemed too far away to be worthwhile, but our flirtation had advanced far enough that I went along with her.

We exited the cab and walked up five flights to a rooftop, where all the lights of Manhattan fanned out before us, like a deck of illuminated playing cards. The person who had invited her was not there, and the party was uninteresting, but she seemed to enjoy herself, so I bided my time and took in the view, as she sang along with a rap song I had never heard before.

“Do you think it’s wrong,” she asked, seeing the look on my face as I registered the words of the song, “for white people to say ‘nigger’? Even when they’re quoting black people saying nigger?”

“We can express whatever we wish,” I said, realizing I was wasting my time, “as long as we understand what we are expressing.”

“I agree,” she said, missing the nuance of what I had said, and continued singing.

I excused myself to go downstairs, telling her I was tired and ready to leave. “We can share a cab back downtown if you like. But why don’t you stay if you’re having fun?”

She nodded, her face finally registering the situation. Before I descended the stairs I saw her start to dance with a thugged-out guy, who looked like he had just been released from Rikers that morning. I sighed with relief to be free of her and headed downstairs, stopping in the bathroom before leaving.