An American Marriage(66)

A few hours later, I was almost ready to close when a good-looking man dressed in a tan wool coat walked into the shop, announced by a jangle of bells. He was 100 percent Atlanta, his shirt still immaculate at the end of the business day. He seemed tired but upbeat.

“I need a gift for my daughter,” he said. “Her birthday is today. She’s seven; I need to get her something nice and I need it fast.”

He didn’t wear a ring, so I figured him to be a weekend dad. I walked him around the shop and his eyes bounced off all the remaining dolls, the cheerful ragamuffins.

“Are you from here?” he asked suddenly. “Are you a native?”

I pointed at my chest. “Southwest Atlanta: born, bred, and buttered.”

“Same here. Douglass High,” he said. “So these dolls, they look kind of ’flicted. Remember when we used to say that? I can’t put my finger on it, but all of them are kind of off. Are these the only ones you have?”

“They are all one of a kind,” I said, protective of my creations. “There are going to be variations . . .”

He gave a little laugh. “You can save that lie for the white people. But seriously . . .” Then he turned to the ceiling like he was searching for words and his eyes landed on the doll boy floating over our heads. “What about the one up there, dressed like an angel?” he said. “Is it for sale?”

Before I could answer, a movement across the street caught my eye. There, across busy Virginia Avenue, stood a Roy-ghost. I had learned to suppress the startle, but this one caught me unaware because he actually looked like Roy. Not Roy when he was young. Not Roy in the future. This looked like Roy would have looked if he had never left Eloe. The never-left Roy-ghost crossed his arms over his chest like a sentry. I kept my eyes on him as long as I could, knowing that if I turned away he would vanish.

“Do you have a ladder?” said the man. “If it’s for sale, I can pull it down.”

“It’s for sale,” I said.

Suddenly he sprang up like a basketball player and brought the angel to the ground. “I guess I still got it,” he said. “You wrap, right?”

The doll favored Roy, like a lot of them do. There are some as well that look like me, that look like Andre, that look like Gloria, and Daddy. As the tall man watched, I laid the doll in a box lined with soft tissue paper. I paused, but the impatient tapping of his keys on the counter spurred me to take a breath and fasten the lid in place. It came in stages, this panic that started at my center and fanned out to the rest of me. I had just cut a length of ribbon the color of clean river water, when I couldn’t stand it any longer. Using my fingernail to break the tape, I opened the box, snatching the angel boy from the paper and held his firm body to my chest.

“You okay?” the tall man said.

“I’m not,” I admitted.

He looked at this watch. “What the hell,” he said with a sigh. “I’m already late. What’s going on? My ex says I suck at emotions.” Mimicking her, he squeaked, “ ‘I can’t teach you how to feel feelings!’ So I want to warn you that I’m probably about to say the wrong thing, but my intentions are good.”

“My husband is getting out of prison.”

He cocked his head, “Is this good news or bad news?”

“It’s good,” I said too quickly. “It’s good.”

“You sound like you’re on the fence,” he said. “But I feel you. It’s always a positive development for one more brother to be free.” He then quoted his favorite rapper: “ ‘Open every cell in Attica, send ’em to Africa.’ You remember that?”

I nodded, holding on to the angel boy.

“Take somebody like me,” he said. “Aside from a couple of knucklehead cousins, I don’t know nothing about that incarceration life. But I know about being married. Divorced people, we are the ones who know. Forget the happy ones; they have no clue. How long has he been gone?”

“Five years,” I said.

“Shit. Okay. That’s a long time. I went to Singapore for six months. For work. I was trying to make a living. She acted like the mortgage was going to pay itself. When I got home, the marriage was shot. Only six months.” He shook his head. “I’m just saying, don’t get your hopes up. Incarceration aside, time is the quintessential mother.” Then he held his hands out. “Can I get the doll? It’s the only good one left.”

I ushered him out, wondering if he weren’t a ghost, too, the ghost of what could have happened but didn’t. He was my last customer for the evening. Foot traffic out front was brisk, but no one else entered the shop or even paused at the fanciful front window. I left a message for Tamar and then I closed the store early, cutting the lights as my watch jerked the minutes away.

I glanced across the street as I lowered the grate. No one was there besides the parking attendant, who pulled his hat down over his eyes.





Roy


When I was a kid, I collected keys. You’d be surprised at how many are lying around once you learn to notice them. I stored them in jelly jars on the top shelf of my closet. After a while, Olive and Big Roy started bringing me keys they found, too. Mostly, my collection consisted of tin suitcase keys and quick-cut keys that could be replaced for less than a dollar at the hardware store. Once, at a flea market, I bought a Ben Franklin key, long-shafted with two or three teeth at the bottom. But I didn’t discriminate, appreciating the idea of holding the means to open dozens of doors. I imagined myself to be in a movie or a comic book. In the fantasy, I would have to unlock a gate and I would try every key in my possession, finding the right one just in the nick of time. I probably kept this up from when I was eight until I was about twelve, when I realized that it was stupid. When I went to prison, I envisioned those keys every day.