Percival Everett - I Am Not Sidney Poitier

“They will be,” Ward said.

“What’s going on?” I could feel Agnes sitting on the edge of whatever leather seat she’d chosen as the solemn and mocking faces of nature stared dead-eyed at her from every wall.

“He’s rich, okay?” Ruby said.

“Really rich,” Ward said.

“Why should Maggie get him then?” she asked.

“Shut up and don’t be that way,” Ruby said.

“They’re not even serious. She just brought him home to mess with because of his dark skin.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ward said. “Be nice.”

There was a knock at my door and before I could cover myself, Violet came in with some clean towels.

“Lord, have mercy on my soul,” she said, threw the towels on the floor, and backed out, slamming the door. Just as quickly the door reopened, and an obviously upset Maggie walked in.

“I have a feeling Violet didn’t like the look of my penis,” I said.

My words seemed to have no meaning for her as she said, “Was Agnes in here last night?”

Having been generally no good at lying in my life and being apparently too stupid to give it one more try, I said, “Yes.”

“What did she want?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What did she say?”

“She introduced herself and I think she said she wanted to upset you and I think she has.”

“That bitch,” Maggie muttered. “That crazy bitch. What else? What else happened?”

I looked out the window.

“You didn’t,” she hissed.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said. I believed this to be pretty much true. I hadn’t kissed or inserted anything or even fought her off. I’d done nothing. I could not even say that I had had sex with Agnes, only that she had had sex with me. Perhaps if I had moved a muscle instead of having a muscle merely move, I might have remembered a bit or detail of the encounter. But all I was left with was the general impression that Agnes was pretty good at blow jobs.

Maggie stormed out of the room.

I dressed and walked down the stairs to the kitchen where I found Violet beating eggs in a bowl. I asked her if there was a phone I might use.

“Long distance?” she asked.

“Collect,” I said.

“You can use the phone in Mister’s study. Just the phone. Don’t be touching anything else.”

It seemed that none of the Larkins were around, but I knew they were. I cautiously walked into Mister’s study and parked myself behind his massive desk. It felt like a blind from which I might draw a bead on any of the twenty prey that lined the walls and floor. I placed my first call to Ted.

“So, how is DC?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m calling because I needed to hear a friendly voice. I want your opinion on something.”

“Shoot.”

As I looked at the head of the rhinoceros (how could I have missed it before?), it occurred to me that I didn’t know how to approach this subject with Ted, the whole thing about skin color. “I don’t think Maggie’s parents like me,” I said.

“Hell, that dynamic is as old as butter,” Ted said. “Did you know that India eats more butter than any other country? My mama always swore by butter. Never did turn to margarine. Turns out she was right, too. That margarine is bad for you. What’s the weather like up there?”

“It’s cool.”

“Don’t worry about her parents hating your guts. It’s natural. They’re almost required to hate you.”

“Thanks, Ted.”

“Well, I’m off to Montana tomorrow, so I won’t see you when you get back. Just try to relax.”

“Okay. Bye.” I hung up and placed my next call to Professor Everett. I got his number from directory assistance.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Professor Everett, these people are crazy,” I said.

“Listen, you’re calling me collect, so don’t call me Professor Everett. At least not all the time.”

“What should I call you?”

He thought about it, then said, “Call me Sir.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Of course not. I want you to call me Dave.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Seriously, call me Dave. I want you to call me Dave. I could ask you to call me Bill, but what sense would that make?”

I was terribly confused by now. “Why do you want me to call you Dave? That’s not your name.”

“So what? I like it. It’s got that … that … that American thing going on. Dave, please call me Dave.”

“Okay, Dave.”

“See, that wasn’t hard. Not, why the hell are you calling me during my precious Thanksgiving break?”

“I needed to hear a sane voice.” I couldn’t believe I was saying this to Everett, of all people.

“Then I’m glad you called. What’s up?”

“These people hate me,” I said.

“What people?”

“Maggie’s parents. I heard them talking through the vent, and all they could talk about was my skin color.”

“First, why were they talking through a vent?”

“I just heard them through the vent.”

“Your skin color? What about it?” I could hear Everett leaning back and lighting his cigar.

“They think I’m too dark.”

“Too dark for what?”

“For them. For their daughter.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means they’re a bunch of fucked-up people is what it means. It means that I don’t want to be here.”

“Well, if you know that, then why are you calling me? All I can do is tell you that your assessment is correct. What, do you want me to fly up there so that we can present a dark wall of solidarity?”

“And then I found out that they found out that I’m rich, and now that’s all they care about, my money.”

“You’re rich? How rich are you, Mr. Poitier?”

“Very rich.”

“I need three hundred and fifty dollars,” he said. “Just kidding. I say you sit back and have some fun at their expense. I just want you to remember one little thing though.”

“What’s that?”

“You are a bit on the dark side. Not that I care, but a fact is a fact.”

“What are you saying?”

“Have you ever known me to say anything? Well, anything that matters? Listen, just remember that nothing puts you at an advantage like knowing what someone is thinking when they don’t know you know what they’re thinking. Do you know what I’m telling you?”

“No, not exactly.” I paused and thought for a second. “You’re telling me to give them hell?”

“That’s right. Happy Thanksgiving.”

Once off the phone with Everett I sat back and stared at the carcasses around me. Talking to my professor had not been a waste of time, as usually it was, but I was certainly less clear about how I was to exploit the situation than he was. I surveyed the desktop and tried to take it in without feeling that I was snooping; perhaps I was trying to get a sense of the man, perhaps trying to avoid dead eyes. There was a pen-and-pencil set centered on the outside edge of the leather blotter. The pen and pencil were set as two mats on the deck of a brass schooner. The engraving at the base was thanks for support from the Lions Club. There was a leather checkbook set off to one side, but I didn’t touch it. And there was a miniature brass golf bag that contained pens shaped like gold clubs. I was holding and examining the putter when Ward walked in. I quickly put the pen back into its slot. “I’m sorry, Violet told me I could come in here and use the phone,” I said.

“Of course you may, son,” he said. “Of course you may.”

“Thanks.”

“Calling family?”

“A friend.”

“Not a girlfriend, I hope.” He laughed and tossed a nervous glance over his shoulder as he closed the door. He sat on the leather sofa against the far wall and beneath the water buffalo.