Disappearing Acts by Terry McMillan Read Free Book Online Page B

up the stairs like it weighed twenty pounds.
    I paid the driver and ran upstairs. Frankie was busy pushing the larger things against the living room wall. Boxes were stacked everywhere, including on top of the couch. I walked back to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. Sunlight was streaming through the windows, and the floors looked like strips of gold. When I felt his presence behind me I turned around, and my nose grazed those soft black trees on his chest. My lips felt moist, and my heart was about to jump out of my chest. I inched away from him and almost stepped onto the wet floor, but Frankie grabbed my elbows and pulled me back into the hallway.
    “Don’t you mess up my floor,” he said.
    I was nervous, but I willed my mouth to talk. “You did a fantastic job on the floors, Frankie. Really. I didn’t expect them to turn out this beautiful.”
    “Thanks,” he said, turning back down the hallway and winking at me. “I try to do everything good.”
    I guess this was supposed to be his way of flirting. It must’ve been working, because all the air in the place seemed to be disappearing. I took a deep breath and prayed I could say what was necessary without sounding like I was going through any major changes. “How much do I owe you?”
    “How much did you pay the white boy?”
    “I gave him a hundred dollars.”
    Now, why did his eyes light up like that? “Was that too much? All the movers in the
Voice
asked for about the same.”
    “Naw, that wasn’t too much.”
    “I’ve only got about thirty dollars in cash left, but if there’s a cash machine in the neighborhood, I can go get more. I really appreciated your help.”
    “Keep your money.”
    “No, really. You earned it, and you said yourself you didn’t work for free.”
    “I know what I said. A little charity every now and then won’t kill me. So tell me, are you a Miss or a Mrs.?”
    He sat down on a box and crossed his arms. Before I could tell him it was none of his business, I blurted out, “A Ms.”
    “Oh, so you one of those feminists?”
    “What if I am?”
    “I just asked. Does that mean you like women?”
    “Give me a break, would you? Do I look like I like women?”
    “Looks don’t mean nothin’ in this day and age. But to answer your question, no.”
    “Then you’ve got your answer.” I started looking at box labels, to see which one had the dishes in it, not that I really needed a dish right then. He was making me nervous. Shit. Talk about being direct. I had to do something—anything—to keep moving, because he didn’t act like he was getting ready to leave, and even though what he just asked me was tacky as hell, I didn’t want him to leave yet either. “Can I ask
you
a question?”
    “Only if it’s personal.”
    “Is your real name Frankie?”
    “No. It’s Franklin. Why?”
    “You just didn’t look like a Frankie to me.”
    “You can call me Franklin if you want to.”
    Had I already given him the impression that I planned on seeing him again? Men. Not only are they presumptuous, but this one here can read minds.
    “You ain’t never been married?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.
    “No,” I said tartly, and started looking for something he could use for an ashtray.
    “Don’t get so touchy. I was just curious. What you gon’ do with all this space?”
    “Put it to good use.”
    “By yourself?”
    He
would
have to make it sound like I’m a damn spinster or something, wouldn’t he? “Yes,” I said, and handed him a rusty can I found under the sink. It already had ashes in it, which meant it was probably his.
    “How?”
    “Why?” I asked.
    “Because it seems awful funny that a single woman would pay this much rent with all this space and live here by herself, that’s why.”
    “I sing and play the piano, and I need all the space I can get. And compared to Manhattan, this is cheap. Does that answer your question, Franklin?”
    He smiled at me. “A singer, huh?”
    “Yes, a singer.”
    I