Part 52 (1/2)

He tilt his head back and laugh. Then he held out his hand. ”Frederick Bailey.”

I forgot I was wearing my good dress and wiped my hand on my skirt. ”Anna Murray.”

”Anna,” he say. My name sounded like a jewel. he clasped my palm good and solid and made me feel like I'd made a friend. Not just a good time friend but a forever friend.

And, just as quickly, the word ”dangerous” flashed through my mind. ”A dangerous friend.” Don't know where those words come from. They just sprung up. As soon as they did, someone struck a bell and this heavy-setlooking man come between us.

”Boy. Hear that bell? Work needs doing. Go on. Get.”

”He needs his dinner.”

”Don't tell me what he needs,” the man turned angrily, causing me to back step As I did, Frederick made a move forward. I held up my hand, not wanting to cause him trouble.

”No, sir,” I said. ”I understand. I just brung chicken. My Christian deed. It's still warm. You're welcome to some. I be trying to get my spirit right. Do a little something for my fellow man. But, next time, I'll come earlier, so I won't interfere with work. Would that be all right? I can bring you chicken too. My mistake this time.”

This foreman looked at me. His eyes squinting as if figuring if I meant what I said. He had a big bushful of hair on his head and face. But his eyes seemed flat, weighing me cold as if we did or did not have a bargain. Then he smiled crooked, spoke tickled yet also mean.

”You sweet on him? Won't 'mount to much. Him a slave and all.”

”I know,” I said as Mr. Bailey said, ”We're acquaintances.”

I felt anger flood me at high tide. But all mixed up 'cause I wasn't sure I was upset at just the foreman. ”Acquaintances” sounded cold. Yet that was us. Barely met. Barely knowing each other.

”I'm simply doing my Christian duty. Seem like his master would want him fed.” I knew I was pus.h.i.+ng too far.

”I'm his master as long as he's working for carpenters, learning how to build s.h.i.+ps. Go on, now. Get.”

”Good-bye, Mr. Bailey,” I said, bowing neatly. Just like at a dance. Suddenly, I felt embarra.s.sed.

”Good-bye, Miss Murray.” He looked at me quizzing, like he don't understand me at all. Then, he bowed at the waist like he had all the time in the world.

”Boy. Come here, boy,” somebody was already calling. Then, there was another cry from the opposite direction. ”Boy. Over here. Brace this beam.” The foreman was shoving Mr. Bailey along. I walked from the place real slow. I still held my baskets. One filled with old clothes. One filled with my best cooking.

I knew I'd return next Thursday. The sky was sheets of red, orange, yellow piled on top of one another. The clouds had turned slate gray. A storm be rolling in from the gulf, the Caribbean Sea. I felt happy and shy. Scared and nervous. My world was upside down.

How to be more than an acquaintance? How to get Mr. Bailey to think well of me? Few words exchanged on a year of Thursdays didn't add up to much. And even if it did-a free woman and a slave? Hah. Don't carry much future. I ain't so dumb I didn't know that.

But little things can add up to big. ”Be special like you,” Mam would always say. I just had to be patient. Take my chance when it comes.

That evening I looked for my cat. She come in late, purring. I turn my back and face the wall.

Thinking of Mr. Bailey, it be some time before I finally sleep.

Eva and Isaiah.

BY VALERIE WILSON WESLEY.

FROM Ain't n.o.body's Business.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20.

When all was said and done, Eva had to admit that any fool with two working eyes should have seen what was coming. It was bound to happen-and sooner rather than later, considering her state of mind. Yet it took her by surprise-just like everything else since that hot June night when Hutch had left. Isaiah Lonesome was more matter-of-fact about it.

”I knew the first time I saw you,” he said. Although Isaiah rea.s.sured Eva that that first time was when he'd picked her up on the Garden State Parkway and not when Charley brought him home, and that his desperate search for a temporary home had nothing to do with where things ended up, Eva was still distressed by his words.

It all started out innocently enough, with a question about his music. Up until then, everything had gone as Eva had planned. So little seemed to have changed in her life, she hadn't even bothered to mention her new living arrangement to Charley or Steven. First of all, she was sure they would disapprove. Besides that, they were both preoccupied with living their own lives: Charlie with working and preparing for her October debut. Steven with Dana. Eva knew that one or the other was bound to stumble upon the truth at some point, and she'd do her explaining then. If she bothered to explain at all. Truth was, it felt good for once not to bother with what anyone-particularly her children-thought about her life. It made her feel free and completely independent.

As for her neighbors, they were neighborly enough to keep any questions they had about her new boarder to themselves. She spotted one or two giving Isaiah curious, appraising glances when he came home in the morning, but they were far too polite to ask her who he was or what he was doing there. Eva suspected that they a.s.sumed he was a college friend of Steven's, which was fine with her.

Things seemed to be going as Eva had planned. That first week they successfully avoided running into each other and that week established their pattern for the next two. Eva left at seven in the morning for the library just as Isaiah was coming home from the club in New York City. He left around seven at night, about an hour after she'd gotten home. She stayed in her room watching TV or he stayed in the guest room doing whatever he did until she was safely out of the house. When they ran into each other on the stairs or in the kitchen or garage, they would exchange a few pleasantries about the weather, the traffic or who would play in the World Series. He did all his laundry and made all of his calls from his apartment in Jersey City while his roommate and his new wife were at work. There were never dishes left in the sink or trash cans left unemptied. When Eva peeked into the guest room, she found that the bed was neatly made, the floor swept, and the guest towels in the small attached guest bathroom arranged on the towel rack in a tidy row. When she got home from work one Monday, she noticed that the lawn, which had begun to resemble hay, had been mowed and the newly repaired water sprinkler was shooting out rainbows of water. He paid two months' rent in cash when he moved in and always replaced any food that he took out of the refrigerator. There were times when Eva almost forgot he was there. But then she picked up his horn.

It happened on a Wednesday afternoon during the third week of his stay, almost two weeks before Labor Day. Because of a power outage at work, Eva's s.h.i.+ft ended two hours early so she'd come home at three instead of six. She heard Isaiah's trumpet the minute she pulled into the driveway. The sound was so pure, she thought at first that it was a recording, but when he repeated the same phrase a dozen times with a new emphasis and a fresher line of sound each time, she realized he must be practicing. She opened the back door, pausing to hear the mellow tones that greeted her, and still holding her bag of groceries, was as lost in his music as she had been the first time she heard him.

He played scales, rapidly gliding through tones that were vaguely familiar, and then dashed off a riff. Transfixed, Eva sat down and listened as he settled into a sensuous, bluesy wail and then a haunting melody that made her feel wistful and melancholy. When he stopped playing, Eva anxiously waited for more. Then she put the milk in the refrigerator and headed to the sunroom, where he had been playing.

There were two entrances leading into the sunroom, which ran the length of the dining and living rooms, and as she stepped through one door he left through the other. Eva suspected that he'd heard her come in and was as anxious to avoid her as she was him. He'd left his trumpet, however, which lay in an open carrying case on a small side table.

The case was made of well-worn brown leather and lined in plush maroon velvet. The horn gleamed as if it were made of gold. Hesitating for a moment, Eva touched it with her fingertips, as if it posed some threat or would snap at her hand. Then she picked it up and examined it. It was heavier than she thought it would be, and she wondered how he could hold it as effortlessly as he did. As if in a trance, she put the instrument to her lips, curious about how it felt and where the sound came from, wondering what kind of skill it took to make music come from it like Isaiah did. For some odd reason, she expected it to be warm like skin.

”Why don't you try it?” Isaiah's deep voice coming from behind her startled her, and she nearly dropped the horn on the floor. She quickly placed it back in the case where it belonged and turned to face him, catching the scent of the lavender soap that she kept in the guest bathroom. She had bought the soap a year ago in Sag Harbor at a tiny perfume store that offered overpriced items for the ”luxurious bath and bed” and had gone through her box in a month, showering and bathing with each bar until it was little more than a silver. Until this moment, she'd forgotten she had any more.

He was dressed in jeans and a royal blue cutoff T-s.h.i.+rt that showed off his smooth chestnut skin and his well-developed arms and shoulders. She noticed for the first time a jagged tattoo high up on his arm that encircled it like barbed wire. Eva hated tattoos but found herself staring at this one in fascination. His short black dreadlocks, which had curled up tightly from the moisture of his shower, still held tiny silver droplets of water, and one drop dripped down the side of his face like sweat. He wiped it away impatiently.

”Go ahead. Pick it up and try it.”

”No. I don't think so.”

”Go ahead.”

Self-consciously, Eva brought the mouthpiece to her lips again, and cautiously blew through it.

”Did you blow?”

”Nothing happened.”

”Try it again.”

She blew again and a squawking sound, somewhere between a note and a grunt, came out. She handed the horn back to Isaiah.

”How do you do it?”

”It's all in the lips and the tongue and the way you work them.” He took the horn and blew a few notes, followed it with a very fast riff and then something slow and moody. Captivated, Eva watched him, noticing how tenderly he held the instrument, almost as if it were alive.

”What were you playing earlier, before you went upstairs?”

”You could hear me?” He glanced at her sheepishly. ”I hope it wasn't too loud. I don't want to freak out your neighbors.”