Shackling Water Page 6

  Well, it's hard, she said, tone chilling. Why did men have to be so intrusive, and why did women let them? A dude could walk up to a woman in a bar and ask her where her parents were from, or if she'd ever kissed another girl, and get an answer every time.

  Still, Mona had to admit, what Latif had said was true. She was far from confident about her work; maybe he'd picked up on that, which wasn't so hard to believe, and he was trying to swing the conversation into something real. Sometimes Mona's asshole-meter was too sensitive. She was trying to recalibrate it.

  I love to paint, she said, voice warming to room temperature but it's not usually something I discuss. Her eyes darted up from underneath thick lashes and thin eyebrows and pinned him to the wall So if you wanna talk to me about it, you gotta be nicer than that.

  Latif held his hands up to his chest, palms out in mock surrender. Point taken. I understand completely. I'm the same way. A seamless segue into the music, he thought, but Mona said nothing. It was a subtle, intelligent move, and Latif appreciated it. She knew she was being cued, that he had pointed her toward Oh, really, what do you do? and she withheld it, let him know where he could stick his conversational agenda. Latif decided not to give Mona the satisfaction of stumbling heavyhanded into what he'd meant; he was looking wack enough already and she was probably as sick of hearing motherfuckers talk about themselves as she appeared to be with fielding their brokenbat questions.

  She beamed a level take-no-shit stare, and surprise that Mona was still talking to him mingled in Latif with odd confidence; she was digging something enough to forgive him his trespasses. Latif ditched his plan, riffed briefly on his words, and banged a rubberburning left into more casual territory. You could get away with anything from speeding to reckless driving to illegal parking if the eye convo stayed hot.

  Same exact way. No doubt. So how do you know Amir?

  Oh, his girlfriend Ada is a friend of mine. We live in the same building.

  You live on 135th Street?

  Does that surprise you? A white girl living on her own in Harlem? Mona put a finger to her lip and curled her drink into her hand. It was a cranberry-and-something and it matched her nails. Mentioning her address had rejuvenated her; it was a badge of independence, raciness, and she wanted him to prove that he could handle all that. She smoothed her black dress around the waist and gave a subtle slight tugdown, so that her breasts rose a bit.

  The only thing worse than white people who avoided talking about race, Latif thought, were white people who couldn't wait to bring the subject up. I don't know, he said. I don't know too many white folks.

  Mona laughed. Did he really have the gall to hit a separatist pose while trying to scoop her? I've seen you talking with a lot of white cats down at Dutchman's.

  Maybe, but I don't know them. She was getting too feisty. He wanted to back her off, scare her, fuck her on his terms. They're business associates of mine. I got nothing to do with them other than that, he said, satisfied with the ominous vagueness of the statement and hoping Mona was too cool to ask him just what business he was in.

  If Latif needed to distance himself from whiteness to feel okay about getting with her, that was fine with Mona. She wasn't overly fond of her race either, and though she didn't want to be one of those corny race-apologetic white people, she found herself wanting Latif to know it. In some fuzzy channel of her mind the fact that he didn't like white folks made him more attractive.

  Green is the only color that counts, right? Mona said. Though not to some people, I guess. My family owns my building, but nobody except me will live there. The rest of them moved downtown in the twenties; you know the routine.

  Latif nodded, stirred his drink. I do. Course, a bunch of white people came uptown then, too. Show me a wellspring of black creativity and I'll show you a line of white folks ready to dive in and hold their breath until they prune up.

  Mona smiled. Some of us breathe better under water.

  Yeah, but y'all tend to piss in the pool. They laughed.

  So do you have lungs or gills? Latif asked.

  I'm amphibious. A frog.

  I happen to remember a thing or two about biology, said Teef, hardly understating the case, and I don't think you are. You know how frogs catch flies? She shook her head. Their brains detect motion and their tongues react. Dangle a batch of dead flies on strings in front of a frog and the poor sucker will starve to death. You strike me as a little more perceptive.

  But maybe there's dead flies all around us and we just can't see them. Maybe we're starving to death and don't know it.

  I was until I saw you. Cuz baby, you fly as hell. He said it in a highpitched leering pimpdrawl and Mona rolled her eyes and gave him a new smile, closemouthed with lowslung eyelids and heavy cheek action. They locked eyes.

  So if I kiss you, Latif said will you turn into Princess Charming?

  It's no fun if I tell you. She stepped a little closer. The question is, how many frogs have you slobbed down looking for her?

  He slid his hands into his pockets. I haven't even been looking. I'm just tryna catch enough flies to survive.

  Mona warmed. She wanted to need, and be needed by, someone like herself: Someone who didn't need anybody. Well, she said you catch more flies with honey . . .

  Teef edged closer. They were standing near enough for him to drop words right into her ear now. I think we've taken the frog thing about as far as it'll go, he said.

  What's the matter? Got a frog in your throat?

  Latif bent his chin to his chest and smiled with delight at Mona's jazz-level riff chops. Mmm. I stand corrected. Come to think of it—he flicked his eyes down her body—I'm experiencing my first craving for frog's legs.

  Is that right? Mona breathed into his chest.

  His nose and mouth were to her hair and he inhaled Japanese musk. That's right.

  And how do I know you're not a scorpion who wants a ride across the pond?

  He reached his hand around and rubbed her back, up down and up, kept his palm between her shoulder blades and pulled away so she could see his face: I won't sting you, he said. I ain't tryna drown.

  They finished their drinks and left the party in a cab.

  Where are we going? Mona whispered in the taxi backseat, curled into Latif. The driver had some rhythm in him; he hit every green light as they moved uptown, toward both their cribs.

  Latif's right hand cupped Mona's left thigh. Disinterest was spreading over him already, now that he knew she was down. It was the pimp in him, rising like steam from a streetgrate, the legacy of all the growing up he'd done on blocks where romance was wargames and the necessity of being in control and the fallacy of trusting women comprised the main rules of engagement. He tore his eyes from the windshield and said, How bout my place?

  I'm more fun at my place.

  Your place it is. He wondered what Mona knew about him; she could have found out plenty at the club. Stay on the low, Say Bro had cautioned. All kinds of fools want something you got now, and want it bad. Fine junkie bitches will fuck you for dope, Phyte. Cats will shake you down or scam you seven ways from Sunday if you let em. It's pretty civilized in here, sweeping a cigar around the club, but don't sleep. The minute you clock Zs motherfuckers will jack you for the entire alphabet. Maybe Mona hadn't asked him what he did because she knew.

  He turned to her. Can I ask you a question? Why did you pay me any mind those nights at Dutchman's?

  Mona let him hook a compliment to cast away suspicion. Because you're beautiful, she said, squeezing his arm. And because you had this energy. I watched you and I said to myself, this dude is working. She declined to add that he reminded her of herself in some younger incarnation, fierce and guarded, a deep well of feelings gurgling inside high stonewalls. She'd watched him and twinged with gut desire to climb to the top and plumb his depths, let him plumb hers.

  Latif jerked up and pulled far enough away to scrutinize her: Working? Whadda you mean, working?

  Mona pretended n
ot to notice his agitation, looped her arm through his and played it off. She knew what he thought she'd meant but she wasn't even going to get into that: Let him know it was a false alarm and keep flowing. You know, like you were thinking something serious. Working something out. What's wrong?

  Latif resettled. I'm sorry. Lately I've had a lot of reason not to trust people.

  Mona turned to whisper in his ear. You can trust me, she intoned, grazing his earlobe with her lips. I promise. It was the kind of thing Mona never would have said or believed a few years back, before she'd noticed how her internal rhythm had come to match New York's, how both she and it were struggling to keep past sadnesses in check by acting ruthless, heedless, needless. She knew Latif wouldn't believe the statement now. Fine. Her job was just to say it.

  Mona's breasts rubbed Latif's side as she whispered and he pulled her to him tight, pimp nonchalance banished by a newsprung Bonnie and Clyde fantasy of us-against-the-world gangster couple solidarity, some ol' my girl strapped with a gat, always got a nigga back shit.

  He turned to lay the kiss down, and she tucked her hair behind her ear in expectation, and the fantasy dissolved. Something about Mona's gesture was too eager and all of a moment he was back on a pimp vibe, disdaining her for wanting him and peeved at her presumption: Girl, who you think you is? He was so preoccupied with the power of dispassion that he almost didn't kiss her, but Latif checked himself, knocked the pimp back to the netherlands of noir and got his mind right. A second later Mona's hand was soft and cool on the back of Latif's neck and her tongue wild in his mouth. Too wild. He touched her chin lightly and Mona eased into his tempo with responsive smoothness; she'd let him lead until Latif forgot about such things. He rubbed his hand between her legs, against her dress, and Mona gasped, then murmured: Her sound was high deep and immediate and Latif loved it, wanted more, imagined concerts built of future notes. The taxi stopped in front of Mona's building and they went inside.

  She led him to the bedroom in the dark and he saw only stacks of canvases against the walls, clothes striped with jags of streetlight, dark outlines of furniture. They undressed on the bed, piece by piece between kisses, and Latif entered her as quickly as he could, after a few wild exploratory handslides down her body; they'd both been ready since the cab. He felt himself engorge inside her and a feeling of control flooded his mind as Mona closedmouth groaned. She writhed beneath him, wrapped her arms around Latif's back, reached her hands under his arms and cupped his shoulders from behind; pulled him up inside her, chest to hers, and waited for Latif to call the tune.

  They began to move together, first in long sweeping strokes, slow tidal back and forths, then fast arpeggios cresting in echoing suspended-animation notes, Latif suddenly wholebody pausing deep inside her. The sweet erratic fast-and-stillness gave Mona body-memories of freezedancing in a club: rhythm cacophony and strobelight madness and then suddenly the DJ lifts the needle from the groove and hits the lights and everybody's gotta hold still, panting and sweatdrenched, exposed just long enough to contemplate the moment, and then zigga-zigga and the music cuts back in on time.

  Latif unfroze, pushed himself up off of her and locked his arms to see her face; Mona's eyes were tightclosed and damp hair stuck against her neck and forehead. She was exhaling in whimpers and he wanted her to scream. He threw his hips harder and she arched her back, opened her eyes; her mouth became an o. He thought about putting his dick in that mouth as he'd imagined in his room and grunted pleasure, past blowjobs swifting through his mind, then bent onto his elbows with his ear next to her mouth. The sounds of sex were what excited him the most. Mona got louder and they moved faster and harder, and he held onto the bedsides for leverage and drove himself into her harder. Mona lifted her legs and color spread over her face, cheeks lips inflamed, mouth splayed. Her low moans rose to loud long ones and Mona screamed shuddered and came, totalbody tension spliced with show-offish ragdoll thrash abandon. Latif watched, pushing back hard, flushed with refracted pleasure and relief, then rode the ebbtide of her body, slowing with her as she poured herself thin and became shallow water. They rocked slow and meditative, Indian raga rhythm, until Latif felt himself tingle and swell. Mona squeezed and undulated doubletime in re-excitement wetness and Latif tensed tightened and exploded quietly, unincredibly, and they rocked slower and slowed down to a standstill and were silent, breathing.

  Latif slid the rubber off his dick and lowered it onto the nightstand like a gold bracelet, then hunted down a cigarette. He tried to feel relaxed. Mona was mellow on the bed beside him and Latif didn't want to sour the vibe with politics but he did it nonetheless, put the truth out there because he needed to and because sex had freed and obligated him. He didn't do it to test Mona, but he knew it was a test of sorts as well. Mona watched his grill open to speak and knew some ugliness was coming. The connectedness of sex either jittered men so much that they had to do more than pull out to reclaim themselves, or it made them feel entitled to say anything. Part of her wished she could tell him how easy it was to make her come. That she could do it with all her clothes on.

  I want you to know I don't usually go for white women, Mona. I'm not one of those cats. He paused. I only bring this up because I like you.

  Mona stiffened, felt old impulses rising. There was a time when she would have said I don't give a shit, cowboy. I'm not white women, I'm Mona, and if you think I'm gonna listen to wet-dick politics from some kid who thinks I'm opening my life not just my legs you can go fuck yourself. Now she crawled playful up the bed and took the cigarette from him. Well, then, she deadpanned I guess I'm flattered. He noticed how delicately she held the filter in between the tips of her first and middle fingers, how crisply the cigarette snapped when she flicked the ash off with her thumb. She was a better smoker than he was. Latif's bowels still quivered if he pulled within a half inch of the filter.

  I don't usually go for black men, either, Mona said, and Latif wanted to palm her face like a basketball and push it far away. He stared at her as hard as he knew how, unsure what angered him more: the idea that Mona didn't usually go for black men or the idea that she did.

  And why is that?

  I don't know. She renestled herself in Latif's armpit and blew a smoke ring.

  Let me guess, Latif said. You never really thought about it much.

  Mona had ignored the hostility in his voice as long as she could, and now she looked up sharply. Dumb bitch, Latif thought. Bout fuckin time you noticed.

  I've thought a lot about it, Mona said. She sat up across from him against the wall, Indian-style with a pillow on her lap, and Latif looked at her eyes and blanched: just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water. You know what motherfuckers on this block call me? Latif waited. Miss Crazy White Girl. I get called Miss and Crazy now cause after a year of listening to them pop the most disgusting shit I stopped and screamed on them for half an hour. Now they act right.

  He scowled. So what?

  So I've had this fuckin conversation before, that's what. If I don't like black men I'm a racist, but if I do I'm some nasty freak, right? This is exactly why I don't get into it. Her hands fluttered, frustrated, and landed in her lap. Am I supposed to be happy I'm your first white woman?

  That's not what I said, and you're not. His voice was a guillotine blade, cold and even. Now Latif was lying in defense of what was true.

  Well, you're not my first, either, Mona retorted, going sullen. She crossed her arms over her chest and Latif reflected that a lot of women would have covered themselves with a sheet. Mona didn't mind arguing naked. He liked that. And the last one was an asshole, she added, staring off ahead of her.

  Well, I'm sorry, Latif said quietly, one part reconciliation over four ice cubes. Mona twitched her lip in receipt. Latif moved closer on the bed, sat side by side with her so that their upper arms touched. A minute ticked by and Latif said, I guess I meant that I like you in spite of your race, not because of it.

  She turned to eyeball him. And I'm sup
posed to like you not because of or in spite of it, right?

  Latif saw that she wanted to battle this one out, and suddenly he lost the will to do so. He wished the two of them were lying still, twisted in bedding and each other's legs, talking about nothing or not talking. He didn't feel like trying to make her understand: for what? She wouldn't get it and he'd wind up questioning himself because he couldn't make it come out right.

  Mona saw him drifting between angry and pensive and took his hand. Don't get mad, she said. I don't mean to sound aggressive. This is just the way I am. I like to go right after things and I don't take offense and I don't expect anybody else to either. So explain to me how you saying you don't usually go for people like me is different than me saying I don't usually go for people like you. Please.

  Latif looked at her for a long moment and saw she was in earnest. He took a deep breath. It's different because every time you and I get into a fight I'm gonna wonder when you'll get mad enough to call me nigger. I'll be wondering how many times you've thought it. It's different because when we make love I'll be wondering whether you're pretending it's the slave days and you're the master's daughter sneaking her favorite darkie into the gazebo to see if what they say about niggers is true. It's different because I'm going to twitch every time you ask me could I please bring you back a glass of water when I get up from bed to take a midnight piss. It's different because when I look at you and think you're beautiful I've gotta wonder to myself if I've bought into some white notion of beauty, I've gotta twist my head around until I find a beautiful black woman just to even out the score. It's different because maybe you fucked me because you like me, or maybe because you hate yourself or you want to get back at your parents or you want to say fuck you to society or you want to be hip or maybe even because you hate being white. It's different for a lot of reasons.