Toni Morrison: God Help the Child

I thought he was a predator. I don’t care how wild a dancing crowd is, you just don’t grab somebody from behind like that unless you know them. But she didn’t mind at all. She let him squeeze her, rub up against her and she didn’t know a thing about him, still doesn’t. But I do. I saw him with a bunch of raggedy losers at the subway entrance. Panhandling, for Christ’s sake. And once I’m pretty sure I saw him sprawled on the steps of the library, pretending he was reading a book so the cops wouldn’t tell him to move on. Another time I saw him sitting at a coffee shop table writing in a notebook, trying to look serious, like he had something important to do. It was surely him I saw walking aimlessly in neighborhoods far from Bride’s apartment. What was he doing there? Seeing another woman? Bride never mentioned what he did, what, if any, job he had. Said she liked the mystery. Liar. She liked the sex. Addicted to it and believe me I know. When the three of us were together she was different somehow. Confident, not so needy or constantly, obviously soliciting praise. In his company she shimmered, but quietly kind of. I don’t know. Yes, he was one good-looking man. So what? What else did he offer besides a rut between sheets? He didn’t have a dime to his name.

I could have warned her. I’m not a bit surprised he left her like a skunk leaves a smell. If she knew what I knew she would have thrown him out. One day just for fun I flirted with him, tried to seduce him. In her own bedroom, mind you. I was bringing something to Bride, mock-ups of packaging. I have her key and just unlocked and opened the door. When I called her name, he answered saying, “She’s not here.” I went into her bedroom — there he was lying in her bed reading. Naked too, under a sheet that reached to his waist. On impulse, and it really was impulse, I dropped the package, kicked off my shoes and then like in a porn video the rest of my clothes slowly followed. He watched me closely while I stripped but didn’t say a word so I knew he wanted me to stay. I never wear underthings so when I unzipped my jeans and kicked them away I simply stood there naked as a newborn. He just stared, but only at my face and so hard I blinked. I fingered my hair then joined him: slipped between the sheets; put my arm around his chest and planted light kisses there. He put his book away.

Between kisses, I whispered, “Don’t you want another flower in your garden?”

He said, “Are you sure you know what makes a garden grow?”

“Sure do,” I said. “Tenderness.”

“And dung,” he answered.

I elbowed myself up and stared at him. Bastard. He wasn’t smiling but he wasn’t pushing me away either. I jumped off the bed and picked up my clothes as quickly as I could. He didn’t even watch me get dressed, asshole. He went back to reading his book. If I’d wanted to I could have made him make love to me. I really could have. I probably shouldn’t have come on so sudden. Maybe if I had eased up a bit, slowed down. Taken it easy.

Well, anyway, Bride doesn’t know a thing about her used-to-be lover. But I do.

I don’t get it. Who the hell is he? His duffel bag, which I am determined to trash like the other one, is stuffed with more books, one in German, two books of poetry, one by somebody named Hass and some paperback books by more writers I’ve never heard of.

Christ. I thought I knew him. I know he has degrees from some university. He owns T-shirts that say so, but I never thought about that part of his life because what was important in our relationship, other than our lovemaking and his complete understanding of me, was the fun we had. Dancing in the clubs, other couples watching us with envy, boat rides with friends, hanging out on the beach. Finding these books prove how little I know about him, that he was somebody else, somebody thinking things he never talked about. True, our conversations were mostly about me but they were not the joke-filled, sarcastic ones I usually had with other men. To them, anything besides my flirting or their pronouncements would lead to disagreements, arguments, breakups. I could never have described my childhood to them as I did to Booker. Well, there were times when he talked to me at length, but none of it was intimate — it was more like a lecture. Once when we were at the shore stretched out in beach chairs, he started talking to me about the history of water in California. A bit boring, yes, and I was sort of interested. Still, I fell asleep.

I have no idea what occupied him when I was at the office and I never asked. I thought he liked me especially because I never probed, nagged or asked him about his past. I left him his private life. I thought it showed how much I trusted him — that it was him I was attracted to, not what he did. Every girl I know introduces her boyfriend as a lawyer or artist or club owner or broker or whatever. The job, not the guy, is what the girlfriend adores. “Bride, come meet Steve. He’s a lawyer at—” “I’m dating this fabulous film producer—” “Joey is CFO at—” “My boyfriend got a part in that TV show—”

I shouldn’t have — trusted him, I mean. I spilled my heart to him; he told me nothing about himself. I talked; he listened. Then he split, left without a word. Mocking me, dumping me exactly as Sofia Huxley did. Neither of us had mentioned marriage, but I really thought I had found my guy. “You not the woman” is the last thing I expected to hear.

Days, weeks of mail fill the basket on the table near my door. After searching the refrigerator for something to nibble on, I decide to examine the pile — toss out the pleas for money from every charity in the world, the promises of gifts from banks, stores and failing businesses. There are just two first-class letters. One is from Sweetness. “Hi, Honey,” then stuff about her doctors’ advice before the usual hint for money. The other is addressed to Booker Starbern from Salvatore Ponti on Seventeenth Street. I tear it open and find a reminder invoice. Sixty-eight dollars overdue. I don’t know whether to trash the invoice or go see what Mr. Ponti did for sixty-eight dollars. Before I can make up my mind, the telephone rings.

“Hey, how was it? Last night. Fab, huh? You were a knockout, as usual.” Brooklyn is slurping something between words. A calorie-free, energy-filled, diet-supporting, fake-flavored, creamy, dye-colored something. “Wasn’t that after-party the bomb?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

“You don’t sound sure. Did that guy you left with turn out to be Mr. Rogers or Superman? Who is he anyway?”

I go to my bedside table and look again at the note. “Phil something.”

“How was he? I went to Rocco’s with Billy and we—”

“Brooklyn, I have to get out of here. Away somewhere.”

“What? You mean now?”

“Didn’t we talk about a cruise somewhere?” My voice is whiny, I know.

“We did, sure, but after YOU, GIRL starts shipping. The sample gift bags are in and the ad guys have several really cool ideas for…”

She rattles on until I stop her. “Look, I’ll call you later. I’m a bit hung over.”

“No kidding.” Brooklyn giggles.

When I hang up I’ve already decided to check out Mr. Ponti’s.

I am not allowed to be near children. Home care was my first job after I was paroled. It suited me because the lady I cared for was nice. Grateful, even, for my help. And I liked being away from noise and a lot of people. Decagon is loud, packed with mistreated women and take-no-shit guards. My first week in Brookhaven, before being moved to Decagon, I watched an inmate get smacked across the back of her head with a belt just because she knocked her plate of food on the floor. The guard made her get down on all fours and eat it. She tried but started vomiting, so they took her to the infirmary. The food wasn’t all that bad — corn pudding and Spam. I think she was probably sick with flu or something. Decagon is better than Brookhaven, where they loved to strip-search us at every exit and entrance, or just because. But still, at the second place there was always some prisoner-guard drama and when there wasn’t, when we worked at our jobs, the noise, quarrels, fights, laughter, shouts went on and on. Even lights out just toned it down from a roar to a bark. At least I thought so. Quiet is mostly what I liked about being a home-care helper. After one month, though, I had to quit because my patient’s grandchildren visited her on weekends. My parole officer found me something similar but without children — a nursing home that didn’t call itself a hospice but that is what it mostly was. At first I didn’t like being around so many people in another institution, especially ones I had to answer to. But I got used to it since my superiors were not menacing me even though they wore uniforms. Anything that looked or felt like prison gave me a bad attitude.