“Ailey, I’m very hurt. You promised you would call.”
I looked at him over my new horn-rimmed glasses. “I don’t remember saying that. And anyway, what was I supposed to say to your wife when she picked up?”
“Easy. Just ask for me.” He pulled out one of his cards from his breast pocket and flipped it over to the blank side. “Okay, then. Give me your number.”
“Why?”
“I thought you could come over to the house and have dinner with Rebecca and me.”
“I don’t do dinner, Scooter.”
“Everybody does dinner.”
“Not me.”
“Don’t you eat?”
“No, Scooter, I don’t. Look me up. I’m in the Guinness Book of World Records.”
I looked down at my notes, expecting him to leave, but he pulled his briefcase onto his lap. He clicked the locks and pulled out some papers. We sat there together for two hours, reading. Like Daddy and I used to, him with his patient files and me with my novel.
Whenever Scooter and I met for coffee, he paid. And even though he didn’t like down-home fare—he preferred fruit in the mornings—he’d cover the cost of my grits and sausage links, too. And by early October, he’d invited me to dinner at his house seven times. He’d say that Rebecca was grilling tuna or salmon or shrimp. I should come to dinner that weekend, and I’d told him, no thanks, I was too busy. He’d ask for my number and I’d change the subject.
Some mornings as Scooter and I got wired off coffee, Dr. Charles Whitcomb would stop by Shug’s. During the week, Black folks from the university would offer each other friendly nods. We were family, even when we didn’t know each other. But when Dr. Whitcomb came through the door, bald head shining, he’d smile and loudly call out, “Hey, brethren! Hey, sistren!” It seemed like he knew everybody in town with melanin.
Dr. Whitcomb would stroll through the tables in his pimp-cool, ’70s way, giving out soul shakes to the men and courtly bows to the women. At the counter, he held out his arms for Miss Velma. He gave a delighted noise when she came from behind the counter, squeezing him tightly. And his many different suits were impeccable. Scooter and Dr. Whitcomb dressed like twins, eternally prepared for an important job interview.
This was what I’d taken for granted in Chicasetta and at Routledge: other Black people. Their warmth, the greetings they gave each other, peacocking their bonds. Even as awkward as I was, I’d been so comfortable with my natural self. I hadn’t realized how lucky I’d been, not having to look over my shoulder for white approval.
*
The week before midterms, Scooter showed up at Shug’s with Rebecca. He only gave me a nod as they headed to the line. He’d flung his tie over his shoulder in preparation for a meal.
The sister at the next table tried to whisper. She wasn’t good at it.
“I drive out here on a Wednesday so I can eat in peace. And now these honkies are coming during the week, too? This is just like Harlem. They’re taking over.”
“Gayle, one white person doesn’t mean gentrification,” the other sister said.
They were about my age, graduate students. I didn’t know which program, but I recognized them from the multicultural center. Aside from Shug’s, that was the Black folks’ regular haunt.
“I will give him this: at least she’s good-looking,” Gayle said. “Usually they pick the homely white chicks, and then you’re thinking, Did that nigger need to go outside the race for that?”
“Shh, they can hear us.”
“Yvonne, I don’t give a fuck. What’s that white girl going to do? Bring the Klan up in here? Where’ll they get their ribs, then?”
Rebecca and Scooter stood in line. I hoped they hadn’t heard the conversation, but her face was dark pink, and he turned my way, frowning. He raised an eyebrow at me, and I shrugged. I wasn’t going to lecture two Black women over a white woman who barely acknowledged my existence.
“Honey, I’d just like a salad,” Rebecca said at the register.
“All we got is potato salad and coleslaw.” Miss Velma spoke slowly, her hands folded across the front of her apron.
“That’s not real salad.” Rebecca let go of Scooter’s arm and batted her hands about: the extra-large diamond in her ring reflected sparks. “And it’s dripping with mayonnaise.”
“We got some collard greens. You might like those.”
“But you make those with pork. That’s not any better, now, is it? You know what, honey? Let me have some dry lettuce.”