Victor LaValle: Ecstatic

When other neighbors peeked they saw me throwing away supermarket circulars as Mom opened the same kitchen door, slammed it even louder, then made the Oldsmobile Firenza’s engine bleat by twisting the ignition key too hard.

— You keep it up, both husband and wife told me.

Rosedale really was a lovely place. Trees grew beside great lampposts. The sycamores caught starlings on their bare branches. This neighborhood was for teachers and tax preparers. One supermarket manager. A family who owned their own meat store; the specialty was goat.

Two branch supervisors for Bell Atlantic phones.

Two bus drivers.

Nurses.

I spent the next hour in the front yard holding a trowel while theatrically grunting through light field work. I did that because neighborhoods expect cooperation from every family. I know it’s dumb to care about other people’s opinions, but I wanted everyone to think highly of me.

At the top of the front steps I checked for mail, but it was too early. My sister had cut my hair to the raw scalp. The cold wind hurt, but I didn’t put on a hat.

Even after I opened the front door my left and right foot refused to enter. Who would give up manhood, honestly? With so many benefits. The world defers to me.

— Pull the door closed! Grandma yelled from the couch. She watched the television news and read a copy of The Globe, too.

I shut the door then slapped down on the standing ironing board.

When Grandma grumbled I apologized.

I remember when she turned around in the green rented car. That whole trip from Ithaca my grandmother only spoke once. She was in the front seat, taking tissues from her bra and handing them to my mother. It was September 3, 1995. Grandma turned to me and said, — We will be fixing you.

They were surprised when I turned down a family cookout. They wanted to celebrate my return, but by cookout they only meant four of us in the backyard turning franks on a tiny grill. In that scenario Mom would be pre-chewing my rice the whole afternoon. No thanks. I demanded guests.

— Who? Nabisase asked.

— These other buildings have people in them, you know.

— Bring neighbors!? Grandma yelled.

Mom walked to the front window just to pull down the shade. — Why would we tell people you were back?

I said, — They won’t ask.

Other folks must have it easier when they’re throwing parties. Invite people and watch them come. But I tried to be objective about my family; we’d have to offer a bribe. I printed flyers and put them on car windows, in mailboxes. I taped them to trees. The two biggest words were the ones that worked: ‘Free’ and ‘Food.’

Even with charcoal blackening the beef and unthreatening soul music on a portable radio, guests wouldn’t enter our yard. I was in the basement waiting to make an entrance when my sister came down the stairs. She said, — They’re on the sidewalk.

— Then open the gate.

— They just keep asking to see you.

Nabisase was Old-Testament-beautiful; wrathful, privileged loveliness. A short girl with long legs and big thighs. Her face was mostly lips and chin. She’d been to forty beauty pageants in thirteen years, but never won or placed. My sister didn’t take them seriously enough to try, just to attend. There were plenty of participation sashes in a suitcase under her bed. She was one of those good-looking women who can be so carefree about their natural splendor that you only want to kick them in the forehead.

Next to her I would have felt insignificant if I wasn’t wearing my purple suit. I’d bought it with my savings. I didn’t have much, but the suit wasn’t worth much. The material was wrinkle-proof. There were washing-machine instructions inside the jacket.

But still I wore the slacks, tie, shoes, everything, because a suit explains a man to his world. It organizes him in a respectable compartment. This formal outfit wasn’t camouflage, it was an announcement.

On the drive back, from Ithaca, Nabisase showed me card tricks. She was practicing for a pageant in November. Even long after getting bored Nabisase flicked face cards around the car just to keep me from becoming maudlin.

More maudlin.

— They want to greet the man of the house formally, I said.

Nabisase nodded. — I’ll send Mom.

Neighbors were on the sidewalk honking at each other informally.

I pulled our gate open, they walked in.

This was on a Saturday, October 7th. A clear day, but chilly because it was winter. People wore coats, scarves, dickeys.

One woman passed me, then two. Like that. Women. Women. All these women and me.

Nabisase tapped my shoulder. — You couldn’t invite shorties? she asked.

— I don’t think there are any other men in this neighborhood.

— What about those two? I can go tell them right now.

Before she could talk I put my hand on her mouth. — They look busy, I said.

The pair of guys were about my age and only twenty feet away, relaxing on a stoop next door. One was muscular and the other was thin, so you can guess why I ignored them. I believed in market dominance, not competition. They waved, but I didn’t. I pulled my sister to the backyard; I had the only ‘y’ chromosome around.

It had been three parched years for me. I don’t mean three years since I had sex; I mean thirty-six months since a friendly handshake. I’d been reduced to brushing past women on crowded elevators; I was that man in the subway car who enjoys overcrowding way too much. When I made it to the back the crowd called my name.

— Anthony! they hailed instinctively.

They didn’t question what I’d done in the world. College, work, armed forces, whatever.

My hands uplifted, they encircled me; the planets continuing their heliocentricity.

I knew what I needed and that was a woman, but my mother had her ideas. After the great greeting I had an appetite, so I went to the tables. We had plastic plates, knives, forks and spoons.

There was a bowl of off-white sweet potatoes, a flat pan of fried chapati which are these flat bread disks originally from India that my mother loved since childhood. A pot of oxtail soup. A pot of chicken in salty brown gravy. A pot of meatballs hand-rolled by Grandma, then fried before being simmered in tomato sauce. A dish of brown rice and another of white. When I list these things it’s to say which items I sampled first. There were nine others that I’d touch on the second round.

When I sat on one of the cheap chairs we’d rented for the party Mom propped herself next to me. — That’s quite a calorie base you’ve made.

It was a diet tip. Mom was full of them, but because I was feeling so special and wearing my purple suit I had thought she was complimenting me on choosing foods well.

— But do you know what’s just as filling as those meatballs?

— The crawfish?

— Broccoli.

What a stupid person. What a colossal wingnut. — No plant tastes as good as meat.

— You’ve never had a shiitake mushroom, then.

I couldn’t lift the first forkful to my lips, though I tried. This seemed odd until I realized my mother was holding my left hand down.

— Eating healthy doesn’t just help you lose weight. It can change your complexion. Your blood pressure improves. So many of your problems could be solved.

She was referring to my mind of course; as if lentils were a natural antipsychotic. Though she’d been on a number of medications she wasn’t pushing them on me. I’m sure Mom gave more credit for her wellness to leeks and various tubers.

— I’m not asking you to become a vegetarian.

I looked at her strangely; I hadn’t realized I was talking out loud. That happened to me occasionally; the blinds between thoughts and words drawn up.