He didn’t wait long to call her, only a day. She heard her name called on her floor.
“Lydia Garfield, telephone! Lydia Garfield, telephone!”
She didn’t answer, though she’d already dreamed about Dante. That they sat together on her granny’s plastic-covered sofa. Laughing and talking, like familiar home folk. It scared her, the vividness of that dream.
Dante called again that weekend, but she ignored her name. The Monday after that, she returned from dinner at the refectory, and the desk monitor handed her several pink message slips. She told Lydia, she must have put something strong on that guy, because he’d called the dormitory’s main number three different times. That night when she heard her name on the floor, Lydia went to the phone, but he didn’t sound urgent. Just happy to hear her voice. He’d been thinking about her. Had she thought about him, too?
“No, I’ve been too busy.”
“You lying, Lydia, but I’ma let you slide.” He laughed, an easy sound, and she leaned against the wall, cradling the phone. She forgot the time until he told her he should stop running up his mama’s bill. But he called a few days later, and in two weeks, they had settled into a rhythm: he called every night, and they talked for ten minutes. He told her how much he had been thinking about her, and she avoided saying the same.
Another two weeks after that, he offered to drive to campus and visit her, but she refused. People were nosy. She didn’t want the campus gossips all up in her business.
“You shamed of me, Lydia?”
“For what? You’re not my man.”
“Not yet. Wait a minute. I’ma be right back. Don’t go nowhere, okay?”
There were the strains of Luther Vandross, singing about the night he fell in love. Dante sang along, and his tenor wasn’t bad. Better than Mr. J.W.’s singing, down in her family church, though that wasn’t saying much. Mr. J.W. sure was an awful singer. At the end of the call, Dante invited her to his mother’s church in Atlanta. He went to church every Sunday, and he could drive to fetch her, and take her back. He wanted his mama to meet her, but Lydia told him, no, she could drive herself. Give her the address. She would meet them there.
That Sunday morning, when Lydia drove down the highway on the way to the interstate, she wore a dress she’d sewn herself. A modest frock that covered her arms, bosom, and knees. She was nervous: the road that led to the highway went right past the turnoff to her granny’s house. She hoped she wouldn’t pass anybody she knew along the way. A friend or relative, who’d want to know, why wasn’t Lydia attending her family church that morning? Couldn’t she praise the Lord among her own?
Dante’s wasn’t a big church. It was in a storefront in a strip mall in southwest Atlanta, but his mother was dressed as if it were already Easter. Miss Opal was tall and slender like her son, and wore a purple print dress, and an ostentatious purple hat that looked to be a foot tall. Dante had on a black suit; his tie matched his mother’s hat. When the collection plate came around, he put a twenty on top of the single bills. Weeks later, when Lydia would laugh, accusing him of showing off, he’d quote from scripture. That Genesis said you were supposed to tithe. Second Corinthians, too.
After the service, they went to the apartment he shared with his mother. For dinner, Miss Opal had put on a spread. There were greens and candied yams and macaroni and cheese. None of the dishes had enough seasoning, and the fried pork chops were too greasy. But Lydia praised the food and ate her fill, after Dante said a lengthy grace. His friend Tim was there, in his jeans and sweater and tennis shoes.
After dinner, Lydia offered to wash dishes, and Miss Opal smiled, flashing a gold incisor. No, Lydia was company. Maybe another time, and the three young folks sat in the living room and watched Sixty Minutes. During a commercial, Dante slid over, nuzzling her neck. Come to his room, he urged. Spend the night, so he could make her feel good. Tim was looking at them, smiling, and Lydia flushed. Her temper rose: she could feel her bear shifting in its cave.
“I don’t know what you think this is,” she said. “But this ain’t that kind of party.”
He tried to shush her, a finger to his lips. His mama was right there, keep it down. When Tim laughed, Lydia picked up her purse, and walked in the kitchen.
“I’m headed out, but I just wanted to say, I appreciate the hospitality, Miss Opal.”
Before she took Lydia’s hand, the older woman wiped her hands on a dish towel.
“We gone see you next Sunday, baby?”