The Other Black Girl(92)
Nella tipped her head graciously. Still, she kept her eyes forward, trying to place the scar on the back of this girl’s head, trying to imagine who this person could be talking to. An accomplice? Hazel herself? Reenergized and finally ready for some answers, she descended her stool and strode toward the door. She kept her eyes trained on the scar—until, all of a sudden, the scar was on the move.
Nella paused just inside the doorway of the restaurant, shocked, as she watched the young woman quickly drop her phone into a trash can.
Then, out of nowhere, there was a hand.
A Black hand, attached to what looked like a Black woman, wearing what appeared to be workout clothes.
A Black hand, grabbing the girl’s arm and pulling her from the sidewalk to the street, then, into the backseat of a black sedan.
And then, just like that, the hand, the scar, and the girl were all gone.
Part IV
Diana
October 22, 2018
Locke Hall, Howard University
Washington, DC
For a while, I thought she’d killed herself.
Whether I believed this for her sake or mine, I don’t know. I just know that for months after she disappeared in December of ’83, I had dreams of her doing it wherever she went—off the coast of Connecticut, where Dick was sure she’d gone, or the coast of South Carolina, where she’d always wanted to live. Wherever she’d ended up, it didn’t matter. I imagined water being involved. And I imagined her gone.
My mother would disown me if she heard this, God rest her soul, but I truly believe it would have been easier that way. If she had done it, that would mean she hadn’t seen how much I’ve given up. It would mean she hadn’t read the fluff I’ve been writing, simply because I want to stay not just fed, but well fed. It would mean she hadn’t suffered through that Burning Heart made-for-TV movie that I never should’ve signed off on.
I bent my head backward, considering the news Dick had just given me. So, Kenny was alive and well this whole time. She’d seen me dilute myself and my career. Even worse, she’d read what I’d told that interviewer in ’84, the year after she vanished: “I’ve known Kendra Rae Phillips as a friend—and sister—for years. And while I love her dearly, I truly believe she has severe mental stability issues. Please forgive my friend for any pain or hurt she has caused you all. All writers matter. All stories matter.”
Dick could’ve been wrong. I should call him back to make sure, I thought. But he’d sounded so sure. I might’ve had it in the back of my mind that Kenny had been dead over the last thirtysomething years, but Dick and I had been trying to track her down. It was only natural that we’d eventually find her.
The question was—now what?
A bell rang through my computer speakers. Imani had sent me an email with the subject line LOL have you seen this?
I opened it, in need of a laugh, and snorted when the page fully loaded: Longtime Editor in Chief of Wagner Books Donates Hefty Chunk of Change to Diversity Initiative. Dick was at it again. He had always been concerned about optics. That was the only reason he’d been so insistent upon keeping an eye out for Kendra Rae all this time. She knew too much. She was a liability.
I studied the photo of Dick and that Lead Conditioner we’d redirected from Cooper’s to Wagner not long ago. The two of them looked pretty cozy, and for a selfish second, I regretted not going up to New York for the event even though Dick had begged me to come. He missed the smell of my skin, he’d told me, but what I really heard him say was, Now that your husband finally left you, we don’t have to hide anymore. That was Dick—seizing any opening he could.
I pulled at one of the dry, tiny coils of hair near my ear as I continued to dissect the picture. Dick’s shirt was unbuttoned a third of the way down in the picture, the way I’d told him he should have it whenever he went to social functions because it made him look less like a yuppie. When I first met Dick in the early eighties, he’d had it buttoned so tight he looked like his head might pop off.
Still, I’d felt a tingle when that yuppie told me he thought Burning Heart was incredible, and I’d practically passed out when he said he believed my book—my book—could change the world. Beneath the table, one of his black and positively expensive shoes had rubbed against my bare ankle.
I hadn’t minded it. I’d only pulled away when he’d added, in between sips of his cognac, However, I think it would be better for both of us if you went with Kendra Rae on this one.
Sensing my discouragement, he’d gone on to say how “in” Black authors were. He’d cited Alex Haley and Alice Walker. “Black everything is in. Look what Michael and Quincy did. So why don’t we put you with a Black editor, too?”
It wasn’t just any Black editor they were going to put me with. It was my very best friend—someone I’d known and trusted for years. Still, I’d been skeptical, because I’d cared about optics, too. That was why I had tried so hard to get Dick to change his mind. It wasn’t anything personal against Kenny; it was just that she’d still been so new to the publishing world. Only three books under her belt, none of whose names I remember now. Why wouldn’t I want to go all the way to the top with someone like Dick, someone who became a legend by thirty and knew all the bells and whistles of publishing? Once I got there, I knew I’d be able to bring Kenny right on up with me.