POWER AND THE WORD
by Taria
ONE: "Dark brown girls in blond
men's arms"
__________________
Cleanthe swayed with the motion
of the train, back and forth, back and forth.
The rocking motion was mesmerizing,
along with the endless clack-clack-clack of
the metal wheels on the tracks.
The heat in the car was stifling, between the
excessive steam and the crush
of too many bodies swathed in fur and fleece and
thinsulate.
With a sudden jerk the train lost
all speed and then slid to a halt, its rusted
brakes squealing in protest.
Cleanthe reflexively tightened her grip on the
metal bar over her head and held
on for dear life, releasing her hold only
after the train had stopped.
For a moment chaos ruled in the subway car -- the
lights flickered off, then on;
passengers extricated themselves and their
parcels from the laps of their
neighbors. Then all was quiet, the motionless
attentive silence of hundreds
of people awaiting an explanation for this latest
inconvenience.
After thirty seconds or so the
PA system crackled into life. "Attention,
Passengers -- we apologize for
the delay, and we hope to be moving again
shortly--" The grumbling
began almost immediately. "What the hell does THAT
mean?" "Damn trains, always
makin' me late for work!" In the seat in front of
Cleanthe, a middle-aged black
woman elbowed the passenger sitting next to her,
a solid-looking black man in
a well-worn watch cap. "Won't never see this
happen on them white folks' trains,"
she said. "Think they do this on fancy
commuter trains? Metro-North?
L-I-Double R?" Her companion grinned, yellowed
teeth flashing in a bright grin
beneath a scraggly dark moustache. "'Tis so,"
he rumbled, his voice tinged
with Trinidad and Tobago. "Don' take dem suburb
trains much, though. Not
lately, anyways." The woman beside him cackled
loudly. "Uh-HUNH" she grunted,
as much to herself as to anybody else.
Cleanthe said nothing, her gaze
fixed on the blackness that showed through the
window of the subway car.
In the scratched glass surface of the window pane
she could just make out her own
reflection, smiling in that enigmatic way that
always drove Momma crazy.
"What you smilin' bout there, Girl? I swear,
sometimes you make me wanna look
for canary feathers inside that mouth..." In
the window, her smile deepened.
What you think now, Momma? What you think now
that your little girl all grown
up and made something of herself? Columbia
University, Momma!
Cleanthe felt the warm rush of
pride she always felt when she thought that way.
Damn straight, she thought,
Columbia University. I made it through my
neighborhood, through high school,
getting nothing from nobody, all on my own.
I'm the one takes a bus and two
trains every day, two hours fifteen minutes on
the bus and the D-train and the
1-train till I get to campus. I'm the one
doing all my studying and holding
down my job at University Food Market four
nights a week. I'm the
one with a good GPA in Business and History and English
Lit...
Today's my Lit class, she thought.
Doctor Johnson today. Cleanthe suddenly
felt hot and flushed, and saw
her reflection's eyes widen and her grin fade.
Inside, she felt her blooming
pride shrink and dwindle, contracting in her
center. She felt herself
awash in a flood of guilt and shame mixed with deeper
stirrings. She closed her
eyes, grinding her eyelids together. Bad decision,
she thought, as she felt her
sense of balance slipping away. When she opened
her eyes again she saw concern
in the face of the West Indian man seated before
her. "You OK there, Miss?"
he asked, rising slightly in his seat. Cleanthe
tried to smile and shake her
head No, I don't need to sit, but before she could
speak the train jerked to a start,
its grinding efforts drowning her out. She
gave the man a reassuring look
and straightened up, and remembered.
>From the first moment she'd entered
the room in Hamilton Hall, the class had
been a revelation. There
in that classroom were more black faces than she'd
ever seen together anywhere on
campus. The others felt it too, she could tell.
They were relaxed, at ease,
smiling broader and talking louder than black
Columbia students usually did.
This was *their* class, they said, without
actually having to say so.
African-American Literature was *their* class.
Their eyes were alight with that
knowledge, eager faces fierce as a pride of
young lions. And then the
time arrived and the door swung open one last time
as the Professor entered.
Conversation halted. Every
eye in the room was riveted to the figure at the
front of the classroom as he
casually dropped his overstuffed carry-case on the
desk. From the shocked
expressions of her classmates Cleanthe could tell that
they were all thinking the same
thing: who was this white man? A number of the
students were peering at him
with suspicion, others with open hostility. This
could *not* be Professor Lewis
Johnson, not in this room, not in this class.
No way this white man was going
to step right into their space and violate
their world.
A minute passed, and then another.
The man, whoever he was, was calm and
impassive as his gaze swept across
the room. Cleanthe couldn't entirely
repress a smile. He sure
had balls, this white man. And *so* white, too! His
shock of blonde hair and absurdly
pale skin were nearly blinding among the
brown-and-black hues that filled
the room. An icy chill passed through her as
she realized that he was looking
directly at her. No, it was as if those
piercing green eyes were peering
through her, inside her, seeing deep into her
thoughts. A hot flush rushed
to her cheeks as she looked directly into those
eyes. Can he tell? she
wondered. They say white folks think we can't blush,
she thought. I hope he
can't tell. He can! said a tiny voice in her head.
Hush up! she shouted back.
Cleanthe thought his eyes were crinkling in the
corners, like he wanted to smile
but wouldn't. He opened his mouth, and spoke.
"I've known rivers," he said.
"I've known rivers ancient as
the world and older than the flow of human blood
in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers."
He spoke softly but urgently,
in a voice that commanded attention. His words
unfurled, encompassing the Euphrates
and the Congo and the Nile. With his
words the Mississippi rose up
before him, a deep muddy vision Cleanthe had
never before seen.
"I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers."
Cleanthe was his. The whole
class was his. His voice and his words had
penetrated their shields, gotten
behind their masks. For a moment they were
all naked before him, defenseless
and vulnerable. It was over before it even
started, but it had been there.
They all knew it. He knew it too. "That'll
do," he murmured. And he
reached back into his bag and grabbed a sheaf of
course outlines, and class began.
Afterwards Cleanthe hung back,
waiting for everyone to clear out. As the last
students filed through the doorway
she approached the desk where the teacher
was randomly stuffing stray sheets
of paper into his bag. As she drew near he
raised his gaze and smiled at
her.
"I knew you would come," he said.
Cleanthe knew she was about to
blush again. "Um, I..." she stammered. "I
just..."
His smile deepened. "Langston
Hughes," he said. "The Negro Speaks of Rivers.
Amazing, isn't it?" Cleanthe
nodded, blushing, dumbstruck. "I've always been
overwhelmed by the magnitude
of it all," he continued. "I'm glad you felt the
same way, Miss...?" His
voice trailed off in a question mark. Cleanthe saw
that he'd extended his hand to
her as well.
"Wilson," she whispered in a hoarse
voice. She swallowed. "Cleanthe Wilson."
She shifted her book bag and
moved to shake his hand. He took her hand in his.
It was a soft grip.
Almost caressing. "Cleanthe Wilson," he repeated, his
eyes glued to her face as he
seemed to connect the name to the person in his
mind. "It's a pleasure
to meet you, Cleanthe." He'd pronounced her name
right, first try. Nobody
ever did. Her eyes were locked to his, trapped in
that same penetrating gaze.
He didn't immediately release her hand. She
didn't want him to. Finally,
he let go. The spell broke and he smiled again,
and wished her a good day.
She drifted out of the room and looked at her
watch. She was ten minutes
late to Chemistry.
A jerk and a squeak, and a crackly
voice. "D train to the Bronx. Please watch
the closing doors." Cleanthe
shook her head clear of the cobwebs and looked
out of the window at the platform.
125th Street? Shit! Ruthlessly she banged
several people aside with her
book bag and scrambled through the metal doors
just as they began to close.
*Bing-Bong* rang the door-chime as she wedged
through the narrowing opening.
*Bing-Bong*. *BING BONG*! The doors stuttered
twice and then let her through,
spitting her out into the station. They shut
with a satisfied *click* behind
her, and she watched mutely as the train
rumbled to a start and sped up
as it pulled away.
Cleanthe shook her head again
and slapped it once with her palm. Shit!
Daydreaming again, and now she
had to walk all the way back to Broadway from
St. Nicholas and then over another
nine blocks, and she was late already. Her
reverie was snapped, her bag
felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, and she'd
be late to Dr. Johnson's class
if she ever made it there at all. Funny how she
still thought of him as "Doctor
Johnson," even after everything.
Cleanthe emerged from the steps
onto St. Nicholas and turned east on 125th
toward Broadway. Down the
edge of Harlem, along the border she walked. Well,
she thought, that's what happens
when you get out at the "wrong" subway
station. At freshman orientation
that's what they called it. The "wrong"
station. Don't never get
off at 125th Street, students. Stay far 'way from
that badass neighborhood yonder.
Gotta watch out for them natives, 'cause
they're dangerous in those parts.
As she passed the faded remains of old
nightspots and boarded-up windows,
Cleanthe wondered when they'd started to use
that euphemism. "Wrong,"
they'd said. As good a code-word as any other, she
guessed.
As she neared Broadway Cleanthe
looked further down 125th Street toward the
river. Squinting in the
sunlight she could see, past the shiny red-and-yellow
McDonald's at the corner, more
shuttered buildings and dilapidated structures.
She could see a long skinny sign
attached to one pale ruin; she read the
letters, starting from the top
and going down. "C O T T O N C L U--" The
Cotton Club, she thought.
Back when white folks used to come uptown in droves
for some "local color."
What was it Dr. Johnson said about the Harlem
Renaissance? "When Harlem
was in vogue"? Cleanthe smiled as she turned left
onto Broadway, under the 1-train
tracks. Bet the 125th Street Station wasn't
so "wrong" in those days.
After only the second Black Lit
class she'd already known how much it would
mean to her. How much he
would mean to her. She had come to Columbia to
learn, but she hadn't known what
and she hadn't known how. Dr. Lewis Johnson
had the answers to questions
she didn't even know how to ask.
Their conferences had started
out as office-hour appointments to go over class
assignments and readings.
But in no time their ten-minute meetings were
stretching into fifteen minutes,
forty-five minutes, an hour. Their
discussions expanded far beyond
the limited scope of the classroom. Dr.
Johnson lent her books: Langston
Hughes at first, her consuming passion. Then
he introduced her to Zora Neale
Hurston and "Their Eyes Were Watching God."
She'd read Maya Angelou and Toni
Morrison before, but James Weldon Johnson and
Claude Brown and Nikki Giovanni
had been unfamiliar names to her. She eagerly
devoured them all. She
hung on her teacher's every word. Worlds were opening
up to Cleanthe, and his words
were her keys.
It was only natural that these
conversations soon moved out of Dr. Johnson's
cramped office. At first
she'd only accompanied him directly from his office
to his next class. Soon
they arranged to meet in the Student Union, over soda.
They began to have regular
lunches, at local restaurants or in the food court.
They weren't dates, exactly.
But Cleanthe started to dress up nicer on lunch
days.
Momma noticed, and Devon too.
"Cle's got a boy-frien'," he taunted. Momma
thought so too. But Cleanthe
denied it till she was blue in the face. "I'm
just meeting Dr. Johnson today,
is all," she'd say. "We're doing Richard
Wright and I need some extra
help." Momma seemed all right with that, she
really did. But lately
she'd been acting funny. "You sure do talk a whole lot
'bout that Dr. Johnson," she'd
said that very morning. "You sure he's not
intr'sted in nothin' 'sides your
mind, Cleanthe?" "Momma!" Cleanthe yelled,
scandalized.
Her mother chuckled, and kissed
the top of her head. Then she did something
totally unlike her. She
sat down on a chair facing Cleanthe and looked right
into her eyes, not saying a word.
Then she spoke in a hushed voice. "You be
careful, Daughter. You
hear me? You be real careful that you look at this man
with your eyes wide open."
Cleanthe stared at her, and nodded slowly. "I
will, Momma. But I'm learning
so much! I can't stop now, not with so much
more left to learn! And
besides," she continued, "he's not like that at all.
He's nothing like any of them
boys I been with." Cleanthe barely had time to
notice the strange look that
passed across her mother's face. She was late,
and she had to get to class.
Cleanthe stopped mid-stride.
She blinked, twice, and looked up at the black
wrought-iron gates that led into
the Columbia campus. "Lucky for me I don't
need my brain to find my way,"
she muttered. Almost running now, she hustled
across College Walk, dragging
her weighty bag behind her. "Please let me make
it, please..." she prayed inside
her head. But as she reached the entrance to
Hamilton she heard the first
booming clangs of the big bell outside. Her
stomach sank, and all the way
up the elevator to the sixth floor Cleanthe
berated herself. "Stupid
for waking up late, stupid for daydreaming, stupid,
stupid, stupid..."
By the time she got to class there
was nobody left. When she saw the scribbles
on the blackboard Cleanthe felt
the onset of despair and desperation. Oh, no!
Exam? On what? When?
Had she missed a test? The panic swept over her like a
physical force. Firmly,
she stifled it. What's today? she asked herself.
Tuesday, she answered.
Fine. Dr. Johnson always heads for his office after
Tuesday's class, even though
he doesn't schedule appointments. He's there now.
Get a grip, girl!
Cleanthe reshouldered her bag, breathed in through her
nose, and headed back to the
elevator.
Back down to the third floor she
went. When the doors opened Cleanthe sprang
out, practically bowling over
an elderly secretary in the process. Shooting
apologies over her shoulder she
took off for Dr. Johnson's office door and
grabbed the handle. It
wouldn't turn. And behind the opaque glass, she could
tell that the lights were off.
Cleanthe stood there, frozen, almost in tears.
What would she do? She
couldn't fail, she wouldn't. She couldn't fail him.
She closed her eyes and lowered
her head, and then felt a soft hand on her
shoulder.
"Cleanthe," breathed a soft voice.
He hadn't gone after all. Her relief at
his presence was overwhelming,
and without thinking about it Cleanthe sank back
to lean against the man behind
her. Chuckling, he pulled away and pressed one
palm flat against her back to
separate them. "Sorry, Cleanthe," he said.
"You'll have to stay away for
just another minute. Unless you want to get
coffee all over your back, that
is." He laughed again as Cleanthe gingerly
tried to shuffle out of his way.
"Here -- come on in," he said, unlocking the
door and holding it open with
his free hand.
Cleanthe moved to enter the office,
but in his effort to hold the door open Dr.
Johnson had wedged himself into
the doorway. Cleanthe turned sideways to
squeeze through, but only succeeded
in pressing herself up against her teacher.
For a long moment reality
froze. Cleanthe felt a burning at every single
point along her front where their
bodies touched. The peaks of her breasts
were on fire where they flattened
against his torso. Her belly sizzled at the
point of contact with his silver
belt buckle. The inside of her right thigh
crackled with electricity where
she felt the pressure of his leg. They stood
there unmoving for an instant
and forever, their eyes locked together.
Cleanthe could hear his breathing,
and hers, grow ragged. And then his head
moved closer and her lips parted,
and after a split-second of hesitation their
mouths came together in a deep
kiss.
Cleanthe moaned from the depths
of her body and soul into his mouth as the kiss
grew deeper and more passionate.
Through a thick haze she felt him maneuver
her body inside the office.
If she could trust her ears she would have heard
the door swing shut and the soft
click as he turned the lock behind him. But
all her senses were filled with
him, with his smell and his breathing and the
rough texture of his wool jacket
beneath her fingertips. Cleanthe cried out
softly as he devoured her, his
mouth swallowing her and his hands engulfing her
back, her shoulders, her waist.
As he deliberately walked her backwards deeper
into his office Cleanthe submerged
herself in him, breathing him in her
nostrils and tasting his tongue
and teeth and lips. She felt something hard
jut into her lower back, the
edge of his desk. Without resisting, her arms
still clasped around him, Cleanthe
let him lift her up until she sat perched on
its surface, her legs dangling
over the side.
He undressed her like she was
a child, pushing her open jacket back off her
shoulders, then peeling her turtleneck
up and over her head. He ran his hands
over her body, now revealed:
her naked shoulders, her bare back, the tiny
pinches and folds of dark flesh
at the edges of the startlingly white brassiere
straps. Cleanthe arched
her back at his touch and straightened atop the desk.
With her head back and her eyes
closed she let sensuality wash over her, and
she gasped as she felt his expert
fingers loosen the bra clasps at the center
of her back.
Her breath caught as she felt
the easing tension of the elastic that had bound
her. She shivered at the
brush of the garment against her forearms as it
floated off her body. She
heard a low rumble from the man who had exposed her,
and then felt the touch of something
soft, delicate, and wet. Cleanthe was
utterly transported. She
leaned back on her arms and savored the feel of a
man's tongue as it traced the
curvature of each breast. Other lovers had
attacked her chest with their
mouths and teeth out of hunger and their own deep
need. Those had been teenage
boys, too overcome with their tit-fantasies to
impart much pleasure to her.
But Doctor Johnson was a man, she thought, a man
who knew how to give pleasure
to a woman.
And right now, for the first time
in her life, Cleanthe felt like a woman being
pleasured by a man.
Cleanthe moaned loudly as she
felt suction at her nipple, and nearly shrieked
at the jolt of electricity that
hit her when he lightly nibbled it with the
edge of his teeth. She
peeked down through heavy lashes at the blonde head at
her bosom, at the contrast between
his light and her dark, his pink lips and
white teeth and the dark brown
summits of her peaks. She reached out and ran
her spread fingers through that
yellow mane, pulling him to her and pushing
herself deeper into his magical
mouth. Suck me, she thought. Eat me, gobble
me up. She smiled with
bliss and pleasure and passion, and gasped again at his
oral worship of her.
Dr. Johnson hooked two fingers
into the spandex waistband of her tights and
pulled experimentally.
Cleanthe pushed back on her arms and levered her
buttocks off the desk surface,
pushing her pelvis upwards toward him, in
offering. With a smooth
tug he pulled at the material and Cleanthe's tights
and underwear and socks all fell
off in a heap. Cleanthe sat back on Dr.
Johnson's desk, passive, naked,
afraid and aroused. She stared in wonder as
her mentor sank to his knees
before her.
Her skin prickled and tingled
as Cleanthe felt the firm touch of Dr. Johnson's
hands traveling over her foot
and up her legs. Her breath quickened and then
nearly stopped when he reached
her knees and softly pushed them apart. With a
gasp that was a sob she yielded
to his touch and lay back on the desk, her arms
propping her up. What was
he thinking, down there between her legs? His
fingers moved up her inner thighs,
nearing the juncture of her legs.
Cleanthe felt her panic rising.
She remembered when she'd gone for her first
pelvic exam, and the Doctor had
first shown her what she looked like down
there, in a mirror. It
was so hairy, so ugly and messy. And when he'd spread
the dark flappy folds apart and
shown her the inside she had seen the bright
pink flesh and thought Oh It
looks like a slice, a gaping open wound in the
middle of me. And the boys,
with their snaps about the hair and the smell and
the wet, they wouldn't even barely
touch it at all. They'd just stick their
things in and push push push
until they were through.
Cleanthe squeezed her eyes shut
and tried not to tremble as her teacher's
fingers found her pubic hair
and traced the hidden opening to her sex. He
doesn't seem too disgusted, she
thought hopefully. She cringed at the wet
smack and the strong fragrance
that issued from her as he spread her open with
his fingers. Oh no, she
thought. Oh no...
Nothing.
No recoil, no comments, not even
a change in his breathing. And then Cleanthe
jerked in amazement as she felt
something warm and wet and flexible slithering
up the inner edges of her pussy
lips. Was that his mouth? she wondered in awe.
Cleanthe had heard that
there were men who would do that to a woman, but she'd
never really --
A cry of pure intense pleasure
burst forth from Cleanthe as she felt his tongue
dip unexpectedly inside her.
And then he moved up higher, higher until the
probing pointy tip was at the
top and burrowing in. Cleanthe nearly screamed
as she felt him touch her tiny
button, something no one else had ever done to
her before. He tongued
it and licked it and kissed it, his lips and tongue
working and sucking her clitty,
slowly at first and then more urgently.
The pleasure was too much to bear;
the ecstasy too much to take. Cleanthe's
arms lacked the strength to prop
her up any more so she lay down flat on her
back, scattering a pile of term
papers in the process. As she sank back he
lifted her legs until they were
supported on his shoulders, and then attacked
her even more fiercely with his
mouth. Cleanthe began to groan, and then
scream. Every fibre of
her body throbbed with the rhythm of his mouth and the
waves of incredible pleasure
that emanated from her sex.
As she thrashed about on the desk
and thrust her hips so he could go deeper
harder faster Cleanthe thought
of her wound, and how he was loving it and
kissing it. No, she realized,
It's not a wound anymore, he's healed it, and
then it was too late to think
at all. For a moment everything seemed to stop
and then suddenly undiluted pleasure
filled every pore, every crevice in
Cleanthe and it went on and on
and on and then began to ebb.
Cleanthe could feel the cool sheen
of sweat all over her body and the trembling
of her muscles as the orgasm
petered out. Her throat was raw, and she could
feel trails of quicksilver down
her cheeks where the tears had run. Dr.
Johnson was standing now, looking
down at her with tenderness and concern. She
could feel new tears welling
up and her heart expanding and ballooning, her
love for him at that moment coursing
through her entire bloodstream. At the
bottom of her vision she saw
a movement, and then his pants had fallen and his
pale manhood was pointing toward
her in yearning. "Yes," she said, and again
"yes," and she felt him
push into her.
It didn't take very long.
It was as if he were on the verge of release already
before he was even inside her.
So liquid were her insides that she barely felt
him thrust into her once or twice
before his body shuddered violently and he
collapsed onto her on the desk,
spent. "There, there," she murmured, "mmm,
mmm," as her fingers toyed with
the ends of his hair. They lay there a while,
and she listened to his breathing
as he rested his head on her breast. He was
heavy atop her, and Cleanthe
could feel an uncomfortable tightness across her
back from her awkward positioning,
and her pussy was all sticky and dripping
with saliva and her juices and
his cum. But Doctor Johnson had made love to
her, and he had devoured her,
and she was blissful in his office, in his arms.
Later, when they had recovered
and Cleanthe was getting dressed, he tried to
speak. "Cleanthe..." he
began, but she hushed him, putting a soft fingertip
across his lips. "That's
the first time I ever really made love in my whole
life," she said. "So don't
you go mess it up with talk right now." Her
teacher nodded, slowly.
Cleanthe rose onto her toes and kissed him softly on
the cheek. "Thank you,"
she whispered. As she unlocked the office door and
pulled it open, Cleanthe spoke
in a louder voice. "Thank you for everything,
Dr. Johnson," she said.
"I learned a lot."
She walked down the hall and stepped
into the elevator. As the doors slid shut
Cleanthe smacked herself on the
head with her palm. Damn, she thought. I
never did find out about that
test!
TWO: "That little spark is love,
Dying in the dark"
________________
"Young Negro Girl," he said.
Cleanthe didn't even look up from
the bottom of the bed where she lay all
curled up, brushing his big toenail
with a stubby grey pillow feather she'd
found on the bed. "Thass
me," she responded, and giggled.
Even though she wasn't looking
at his face, Cleanthe knew he was frowning at
her. She could almost hear
his eyebrows drawing together. "I meant the poem,"
he said. Cleanthe puckered
up her lips nice and fat and made kissy noises at
him.
They lay naked on the big queen-size
bed. It was late June, and late June on
the Upper West Side sometimes
felt like August, and they had just made love.
So they were naked. So
much naked usually made Cleanthe frisky after a while.
But she wasn't frisky yet, just
mellow, and mellow was good for poetry
listening. "Don' get mad,
bwana, I sorry. G'wan, read it. Read the poem,
Lewis Lover."
Five weeks of living together
had taught Cleanthe how to judge her man's moods
and what to say to mollify him.
Besides, it was hard to stay grumpy during
afterglow, especially when someone
was tickling your toes with a pillow
feather. His expression
softened, and he started to read.
"You are like a warm dark dusk
In the middle of June-time."
Five weeks now they'd been together
in his apartment in Manhattan, since the
term had ended in May.
For the two months before that they had played a
dangerous game, carrying on a
secret affair on campus. After that first time
in March they'd tried to cool
it, to treat it like a one-time thing. In class
he was cordial, but very professional.
She assumed the air of a bored and
disinterested student who was
only worried about her grade-point. They lasted
a week.
The next Tuesday after class Cleanthe
showed up at his office on some pretense
of discussing a writing assignment
on Countee Cullen. As soon as the door shut
behind her they attacked each
other without a word. On Tuesday after Tuesday
they would meet in his office
and fuck, screwing the afternoons away until it
was time for her to go to work
and for him to teach his evening class.
"When the first violets
Have almost forgotten their names"
Their weekly tryst made for a
good arrangement. Because it was so limited,
Cleanthe found that she wasn't
messing up in all her other classes. This was
different from her usual pattern,
because a new boyfriend generally left her no
time or energy or brain cells
for her schoolwork. She also liked the way
once-a-week kept the sex fresh,
so it never got boring.
Like the week after Spring Break,
when it had been two Tuesdays since they'd
seen each other. Cleanthe
strolled into the office in Hamilton Hall ten
minutes later than usual, just
for fun. "Hi, Dr. Johnson," she said casually.
"I hope you had a good break.
I sure did. I went dancing almost every night,
rubbin' up against my friends
at the clubs..."
As she spoke Cleanthe moved sinuously,
rolling her hips and winding her ass as
she looked at him sidewise out
of the corners of her eyes. He could only take
so much, and after about ten
seconds he grabbed her and kissed her violently on
the mouth. Then he spun
her around, pulled up her skirt, and yanked down her
panties with a growl. As
Cleanthe bent low over his desk he rammed into her
from behind, taking her with
a force he'd never shown before. Cleanthe was as
excited as he, and for days afterwards
she tingled at the memory of their
ferocious animallike fucking
and their howling climaxes.
"And the deep red roses bloom."
Cleanthe did feel like she was
blooming. As the term ended she thought maybe
their affair would too, and she
promised herself she would be strong. But at
the Final he asked her to meet
him in his office afterwards, and instead of the
farewell fuck she expected he
asked her to come live with him. She had been
ecstatic and fairly leapt at
him, and so they had the fuck anyway but without
the farewell.
The weeks they'd spent together
since then had been the most amazing time of
her life. After Finals
ended there were no tests to study for, no papers to
write, and no work, either: University
Food Market didn't need her once school
was out. Cleanthe didn't
even miss the money, 'cause in her life with with
Lewis there were no food bills
or rent to worry about. Well, maybe there was
rent. But not the kind
that you paid in cash.
"You are like a warm dark dusk
In the middle of June-time
Before the hot nights of summer
Burn white with stars."
Cleanthe rested her fingertips
on his ankle. For a long moment she closed her
eyes and opened her senses to
everything around her: the heat of the apartment,
a faint breeze stirring under
the slow circling of ceiling-fan blades; the low
hum of life outside the apartment
window, traffic and neighbors and people down
below on the sidewalk; his downy
leg hairs tickling the tips of her fingers.
It was perfect, just as the past
weeks had been perfect. Neither of them had
any pressing responsibilities.
They could do as they pleased, and frequently
they did. They read innumerable
books, together and separately. They talked
endlessly, about writers and
styles and messages. And they made love, over and
over in a myriad of ways.
They tried everything, and after that they tried it
again.
Cleanthe was as happy as she could remember.
"Read another," she said.
"Read your favorite." He made an indesciperable
noise, and Cleanthe realized
he might've been falling asleep. "Read another,"
she repeated. "Humph,"
he grunted, stirring. "Let's see... Here we go. This
one has always been the most
evocative for me." He held the book up, and began
to read.
"Have you dug the spill
Of Sugar Hill?"
Cleanthe was mildly surprised.
She'd expected "The Negro Speaks of Rivers."
That one was special to her,
although that might just have been because of
where it had brought her.
If that poem had never been written, she might not
be in this bed today.
It was that voice that had done
it, she decided. Even now, so soon after a
lovemaking session, it still
turned her on. She slowly unwound from her
curled-up position and ran her
hands up his outstretched legs, starting at the
ankles.
"Cast your -- hey! What're you --"
"Shhh," she murmured. "Don't interrupt. Just keep reading, Lover."
"Er-hmm," he cleared his throat,
and then his eyes popped wide as her hands
reached his crotch. He
distractedly flipped the pages of the poetry book he
held, and started over.
"Have you dug the spill
Of Sugar Hill?
Cast your gims
On this sepia thrill:
Brown sugar lassie,
Caramel treat,
Honey-gold baby
Sweet enough to eat."
So far so good, thought Cleanthe.
That just about suits me. She closed her
hand around the base of Lewis'
cock and was rewarded with a throbbing
thickening as it responded to
her touch. Cleanthe decided to add a little more
incentive.
"Peach-skinned girlie,
Coffee and cream,
Chocolate darling
Out of a drea--Ummmmm..."
Obviously the sucking was getting
to him, Cleanthe thought as she continued to
move her mouth up and down Lewis'
now-erect organ. She sucked a little harder,
and then added her squeezing
hand to the base for good measure. Hand and
mouth, nice and tight, she thought.
He was sure to like this.
"Ummm... Yeah, baby... Where was I...
Walnut tinted
Or cocoa brown,
Pomegranate lipped
Pride of the town.
Rich cream colored
To plum-tinted black,
Feminine sweetness
In Harlem's no lack... Oooo..."
Cleanthe started to pump a bit
faster with her hand and mouth, and moved her
other hand beneath to gently
cup his balls.
"Aaahh...
Glow of the -- ummm -- quince
To blush of the rose.
Persimmon bronze
To cinnamon toes.
Blackberry cordial,
Viginia Dare wine --
All those sweet colors
Flavor Harlem of mine!
Oh, yes... Oh, baby, that's so incredible..."
Cleanthe flicked her tongue over
the tip and underneath his ridge, circling it
with the broad edge of her tongue.
Then she inhaled him as fully as she could
and, with her other palm, squeezed
his balls tighter and tighter. He gasped,
and she wondered if he'd even
make it to the end of the poem.
"Wal -- Ah! -- Walnut or cocoa
Let me repeat:
Caramel, brown sugar,
A chocolate treat."
He was speeding up, trying to
finish the words before he exploded. Cleanthe
intensified her pumping and sucking
and squeezing, going all out.
"Molasses taffy,
Coffee and -- oh, yes! -- cream,
Licorice, clove, cinnamon
To a honey-brown dream.
Ginger, wine-gold,
Per -- AH! -- simmon, black --
Oh, yes, oh, yes -- Hah-huh-huh-UNGH--"
Cleanthe could feel his penis
jerking in her mouth and his leg muscles
clenching as he started to cum,
and she pulled her mouth back until only the
tip of his cock was still inside.
As his stuff shot out she sucked harder, her
lips milking him, drawing his
juice out of him and into her mouth. He yelped
and his whole body shuddered,
the poem all but forgotten. As the storm passed
he quieted, and Cleanthe raised
her face away from his slick wet cock and wiped
her mouth surreptitiously on
the coverlet. It wasn't that she hated the taste,
exactly, but she wasn't about
to swallow all that every single time, either.
Smiling, Cleanthe reached up and
snared the book out of his limp fingers, and
found the place. In a husky
voice, she read:
"Ginger, wine-gold,
Persimmon, blackberry,
All through the spectrum
Harlem girls vary --
So if you want to know beauty's
Rainbow-sweet thrill,
Stroll down luscious,
Delicious, FINE Sugar Hill."
Cleanthe frowned, and read the
poem again from the beginning -- she hadn't been
paying much attention earlier.
As she wrapped her eyes and mouth around the
rich, luscious images she had
to admit that it was a very evocative piece. She
also liked the way it found so
many different ways to describe the beauty of a
black woman, whatever the shade
of her skin. But something about it bothered
her. Maybe it was the title,
"Harlem Sweeties." Or maybe it had something to
do with Lewis, and why he liked
it. "Lewis?" she said. A snore was the only
response. He was asleep.
That had been happening more and more often lately.
Cleanthe swung her legs off the
bed and got up. All of a sudden she felt grimy
and unclean. Her breasts
were clammy and pendulous, her body thick and slow.
As she stood there looking down
at her lover something strange swept over her,
a feeling of disconnectedness,
of not belonging. She looked around the
apartment, his apartment.
A vague disquiet took hold of her, but she couldn't
quite identify its source.
Perhaps a shower would help.
She stood in the tiled shower
and let the water course over her. Maybe some of
the magic is just wearing off,
she thought. Maybe it just gets dull after a
while. But that wasn't
quite right. She still felt as passionate as she had
before the summer, maybe more.
Then again, she wasn't the one snoring.
Cleanthe shut her eyes tight and
raised her face into the shower spray,
enjoying the stinging sensations.
Was he bored with her already? How could
that be? He seemed so interested
in her, in sharing his books and his ideas
and his knowledge with her.
He shared so many interests with her and they
communicated on such a high level;
how could this be anything less than
satisfying?
Cleanthe had no easy answers but
she was waterlogged, so she shut off the water
and climbed out of the shower.
She grabbed a towel and commenced drying
herself, but she was still distracted.
Lewis did seem more distant lately, she
admitted. The sex was the
biggest proof. After they'd moved in together and
she got comfortable Cleanthe
had become more aggressive in bed, sometimes more
demanding. He didn't seem
to react well to that: once or twice he'd gotten all
pouty, and he did seem to be
falling asleep afterwards a lot quicker than
before. They were arguing,
too. Cleanthe had spoken her mind once or twice
about some black writers who
she felt were too timid or not daring enough in
their writing. Lewis had
been uncharacteristically angry and almost insulting
to her in response, leaving her
baffled and frustrated.
Cleanthe propped one foot up on
the toilet and rubbed the towel over her inner
thigh and pubis. I need
to talk to someone about this, she thought. I need to
go out and see somebody besides
Lewis and talk this out. Maybe Momma...? No,
she wouldn't even think of talking
to me right now. I know, she thought, as
she hung her towel on the door-hook.
I'll go see Cherise.
She dressed quickly without even
trying not to wake him; Cleanthe knew that he
wouldn't move a muscle unless
a bomb went off in the next-door apartment, and
maybe not even then. As
she left his building with the spare set of keys
dangling from her hand, Cleanthe
felt strangely free and alive. Why do I feel
this way, she thought guiltily.
It's not like I haven't... Well, actually it
was. She really hadn't
been out alone in at least a month. Cleanthe mused
about that as she made her way
down Broadway to UFM.
Cleanthe went in through the automatic
door and basked in the cool air
conditioning for a moment.
She looked around for a minute, and made her way
over to the checkout lines.
Sure enough, there was Cherise, chattering away
with each customer like there
was nothing at all on her mind. In the meantime
her hands were dark blurs, running
barcodes past the scanners, counting money,
packing bags. On her best
night Cleanthe had never been able to keep up with
Cherise, not in her work or with
her mouth. Cleanthe moved closer to Cherise's
register and waved. Cherise
looked up for an instant and then pointedly turned
back to her work without acknowledgement.
Cleanthe was stunned. What
the hell was this all about? She moved closer to
the register, but Cherise refused
to look at her. Cleanthe felt a quick flash
of anger -- who does that bitch
think she is? -- but stifled it, and made her
way around to the cashier's side
of the line. Without comment she moved closer
until she stood at the end of
Cherise's lane. When Cherise still said nothing,
Cleanthe bit back the urge to
snap at her and instead began to bag the
groceries as Cherise passed them
through the scanner.
After they'd rung up three or
four customers there was nobody left on line, so
Cherise turned to look at her.
"So," she said in a challenging tone. "You
back, huh?" Cleanthe looked
at her, letting her hurt show in her face. "Hi,
Cherise." Cherise's eyes
softened, but didn't yet turn completely friendly.
"Six weeks and thass all you
got to say for yourself? 'Hi Cherise'? Well?"
Cleanthe looked down at the rack
of plastic bags. "Look -- 'Reese -- Can we
talk somewhere? Could we
get lunch or something? I really want to talk to
you. Please." Cleanthe
raised her eyes and saw Cherise's stony stare.
"Please," she repeated.
Cherise looked hard at her a moment, and then broke
into a grin. "Aw shit,
baby. You know I can't stay mad at you when you that
pitiful. Lemme get my purse
and I'll take my lunch."
Ten minutes later they sat on
the lawn in front of Butler Library, munching on
chicken-pita sandwiches and eyeing
each other as they ate. Any more of this
silent treatment and I'll go
nuts, thought Cleanthe, and she decided it was
time to take the bull by the
horns.
"Why were you acting like I didn't even exist back there?" she demanded.
"Wrx fgsh mrff rarf!" Cherise
responded, her mouth full of fajita. Cleanthe
punched her softly on the arm.
"Didn't yo mama ever teach you not to talk wit'
a full mouth? Get some
manners, Girl!"
Cherise swallowed. "I *said*,
how you think you treated me every time you came
into UFM with Professor Whitebread?"
She glared at Cleanthe. "You been in
there shopping lotsa times, but
I never heard a peep from you then!"
Cleanthe looked away. "You
looked busy," she said, lamely. Cherise just
looked at her. "All right,
all right," Cleanthe said, dropping her empty
fajita wrapper on the grass.
"I don't know why. Honest, Reese, I don't know
'zactly why I never said nothing
to you."
Cherise looked sharply at her.
"I'll tell you why," she said. "It's 'cause
you was acting White. And
when you's acting White you can't be bothered to
notice the help."
Cleanthe had a shocked expression
on her face, like she had just been slapped.
She stared at her friend openmouthed
and stammered "what... what do you mean by
that?"
Cherise reached over and took
her hand. "Now, now, Girl, I'm not trying to
bust yo ass over this.
But I see this happen all the time with you College
Negroes. While you in school
you acting White all the time. You can't help it
-- you just fitting in.
But y'all is too busy with yo classes, and yo friends,
and yo *teachers*" -- Cherise
stressed that last word and stared fixedly at
Cleanthe -- "to pay no mind to
the rest of us who serves you food and cleans up
after you."
Cleanthe looked down at the remains
of her lunch, unable to speak. "Oh, now
don't you go get all upset,"
Cherise said, laying her hand on Cleanthe's arm.
"I already told you I ain't mad,
so it won't do no good to start crying now."
Cleanthe nodded; the lump in
her throat was too big for her to talk. "Ancient
history," said Cherise.
"Now why don't you tell me all about Professor W --
the boyfriend." Cleanthe
felt the tears well up and tried to sniffle them
back. It was no good, and
they started leaking out anyway. She began to sob
uncontrollably. Cherise
took her in her arms and held her for several minutes
until the worst had passed.
"It's that bad?" Cherise asked,
after Cleanthe had calmed. "Oh, Reese,"
Cleanthe answered mournfully.
"It's so bad I can't even take it, and I don't
even know why." Cleanthe
rose from where she'd been resting on Cherise's
shoulder and wiped her eyes on
a crumpled napkin. "Tell me all about it," said
Cherise, and Cleanthe did.
She talked about how wonderful she'd thought it was
-- the lovemaking, the books,
their life together -- and how empty she'd begun
to feel. She unburdened
herself to Cherise about all the bad stuff, the things
she had tried not to think about:
the huge fight she'd had with Momma when she
moved out, the way she never
saw any of her friends any more, the growing
distance she was sensing from
Lewis. She even told her about the poem that
afternoon and how bad she'd felt
after the lovemaking.
Cherise snickered. "So you
saying that he got off reading that poem to you?"
"Well," Cleanthe said, "I'm pretty
sure I had something to do with that, but it
felt like it musta been intense."
Cherise laughed outright. "Damn! Them
Professors really do like the
sound of they own voice, don't they!" That made
Cleanthe chuckle too. "I
know this one sure does! Then again, that's what
turned me on in the first place,"
she added. "His voice."
"Her master's voice," Cherise
murmured, and Cleanthe felt the blood drain out
of her face. Cherise looked
at her pityingly. "There's your problem, Girl,
and you know it. You fell
for your Professor because of who he was. And he --
he a middle-aged white Professor
with a thang for little -- what you call that
poem?" "Harlem Sweeties,"
Cleanthe whispered. "With a thang for 'Harlem
Sweeties.' And then along
comes you, batting them long eyelashes and moving
all up on him already on the
first day. What you think he gonna do 'bout it?!"
Cleanthe stared at her friend,
realization and horror spreading across her
face. Cherise looked back
at her sadly. "You don't think you was the first,
do you?" She tried to soften
the blow. "This ain't about you, really. I see
this all the time 'round here,
Professors coming in to shop with they young
students, giggling and hugging
and acting like they boyfriend and girlfriend.
Which they ain't, not really,"
Cherise added, shaking her head. "Look at it
this way baby," she said in a
soft voice, "at least he don't have a wife and
kids like a lot of them do.
You have no idea how bad it would have been then."
Cleanthe nodded mutely.
They sat for a long moment, until
Cleanthe broke the silence. "I have to face
him," she said in a near-whisper.
"It can't go on like this. I won't let it
go on like this." Cherise
nodded approvingly. "Be strong now, Girl," she
said, "while you can. Remember
who you are -- you Cleanthe, and you got along
without him before and you will
again." Cleanthe nodded her head, but felt a
tear trickling out of her eye.
"I'll miss what we had, though," she said.
Cherise looked directly into
her eyes. "Maybe you need to think about what you
really did have," she said, "and
not just what you thought you had." Cleanthe
nodded again and hugged her friend
tight. "I know what I have in you, Reese.
And I'm really, really lucky."
Together they cleaned up the remains of their
lunch, and then Cleanthe headed
back toward his apartment.
Cleanthe turned the key and swung
the door open. He was standing there at the
dining-room table flipping through
his mail, clad only in a towel. At her
entry he looked up, frowning.
"Where were you?" he demanded. "I woke up and
there was nobody there," he said,
his tone petulant. "Where did you go?"
"i am in a box," Cleanthe thought,
the words appearing in her mind. "on a
tight string/ subject to pop/
without notice..." She stood stock-still,
staring at him without speaking.
He turned and advanced upon her. "Did you
hear me?" he said angrily.
"I asked you a question!"
Cleanthe dropped the key chain
noisily on the table. She took a deep breath,
put her hand on her hip, and
looked directly into his eyes. "Don't you ever
talk to me like that," she said
in a voice that quavered only slightly. His
eyes widened. "That's right,"
she said more boldly. "*I* will not *permit*
you to speak to me that way.
I am not your nigger, and you had better not
treat me like I am."
She had shocked him, she could
see that. "What's the matter? You don't like
that word? It offends you?"
"Hell yes," he retorted, finding his voice.
"It's an offensive word.
I don't like it, or what it signifies. I have never
understood just how you people--"
Cleanthe stared at him, her eyes big as
saucers. "You people?"
she repeated incredulously. "That's right," he
blundered on. "All those
young blacks, on TV and in the buses and on the
streets, going on with 'Nigga
This' and 'Nigga That.' Don't they understand
that--"
Cleanthe interrupted him again.
"Understand?! I think it's you who doesn't
understand, Lewis. Who
are you to tell me how to talk about black people?
What the hell would you know
about it?" He slammed the pile of mail in his
hand down on the tabletop.
"I know a hell of a lot about it!" he shouted.
"Damn it, I know more about black
literature and history and art and the black
fucking experience than you'll
ever--"
"But you'll never know what it's
like to *be* black!" Cleanthe yelled. "And
none of your precious books are
ever going to change that! You egotistical son
of a bitch -- YOU are going to
explain 'black' to ME?!" He looked abashed, and
so silly standing there in that
towel. "Cleanthe--" he began, but she was too
furious to stop. "You just
remember something, *Doctor* Johnson," she went on
relentlessly. "'Nigger'
isn't some black word, it's a white one. And it's no
good for you to get all upset
and offended about it now, not after you people
-- YOU PEOPLE -- have been calling
black people 'niggers' for almost four
hundred years. It was your
books taught me that," Cleanthe said bitterly.
"Your books that you wanted me
to read so's I could be more educated, more
aware. So," Cleanthe continued,
flinging the words at him, "do you like me
now? Am I everything you
wanted me to be?"
He looked so completely baffled
there in his towel, his damp feet leaving wet
marks on the wooden floor.
Cleanthe found herself irritated that such an
intelligent man could be so dense.
"Don't you see?" she asked, more gently.
"The term's over, Lewis.
We're not in class any more, and you can't be my
teacher forever. I'm not
your student or your protege. I'm Cleanthe Wilson,
and I need you to respect that."
He took a deep breath and held
it for a few seconds before expelling it. They
regarded each other silently,
and then he crossed over the space between them
and took her rigid, unyielding
form in his arms. "Look, Cleanthe," he
murmured. "I do respect
you. I understand now. Why don't we just go back
into the bedroom and lie down,
and we can just forget this whole fight ever
happened. I could read
some poetry -- you like that -- and then we could, you
know..."
Cleanthe pulled back and looked
up at him, tears glistening in her eyes. "You
didn't hear a single word I said,"
she whispered, as an agonizing ache started
in her chest and then spread
to her belly, twisting up her insides. "You just
can't see me, can you?"
She could feel the tears leaking out of her eyes and
running down her face, but she
refused to stanch the flow. "All you want is
pussy, don't matter how you get
it. That's why you come tomcatting 'round the
black quarters in the first place,
to get you some of that young, black pussy.
And when you're through with
one, you'll just go get another."
"Cleanthe--" he put his hand on
her shoulder "--you're upset. Please, let me
help. Do you need more
space? Is that it? I'll do anything you want. Just
calm down." Cleanthe jerked
away from his touch as if it burned her. "Don't
you get it?" she howled, tears
streaming down. "I'm not going to be your
'Harlem Sweetie' any more!
I refuse to be just one more of your
persimmon-sepia-chocolate treats!
Do you really think I don't know about the
others?" He reeled backwards
as her angry words struck at him. "How many?"
she shouted in fury. "How
many young black pussies have you fucked already?
Do you even remember all the
names, or do you just catalogue us by color, like
in your poem, your favorite fucking
poem?!?" He staggered back further until
he bumped into the table, unable
to withstand the force of her temper.
Cleanthe stopped, letting the
red haze dissipate and her rapid breathing return
to normal. Her vision cleared
and she looked at her lover where he stood
opposite her, cringing before
her rage. "Never mind," she said in a voice
filled with sorrow and an aching
weariness. "I really don't want to know
anyway. It's over, Lewis,
over and done with. And no," she said wryly, a
bitter half-smile twisting her
face, "there's not going to be a farewell fuck
this time." He looked puzzled,
but Cleanthe really didn't care enough to
explain.
She walked over to the dining
room table and picked up the keys she had tossed
there before. "I'm gonna
come back for my stuff tonight, about seven," she
said. "I'd appreciate it
if you weren't here while I pack." She jangled the
keys in her hand, staring at
them for a long moment, and then pulled the
apartment door open.
"So that's it?" he said behind
her, pitifully. She turned and looked at him
over her shoulder. "That's
it," she said. "But don't worry. In less than two
months you'll be teaching African-American
Literature again, and I'm sure that
Doctor Lewis Johnson will have
no trouble finding another pretty young student
who's eager to learn."
With that she let go of the door, and she left it
hanging open as she made her
way down the hall.
As Cleanthe left the building
and walked down Broadway a poem unfolded within
her, the poem that she had heard
earlier, during the fight.
everybody says how strong
i am
i would not reject
my strength
though its source
is not choice
but responsibility
something within demands
action
or words
if action is not possible
Cleanthe's head was clear, her
mind's eye bright. The ache in her heart would
be slow in passing, she knew,
but somehow that was all right too. What
mattered now was that the words
were no longer his alone. The words could be
hers as well, now that she had
made it so. She was no longer content to accept
the words of others. Now
it was time for her to express her own words. And
she was finally ready.
i write because
i have to
_____________________________________
END
INSPIRATION:
Langston Hughes, "The Negro Speaks
of Rivers," "Young Negro Girl," "Harlem
Sweeties," "Harlem Night Club,"
"Love." Nikki Giovanni, "Boxes." George
Bernard Shaw, "Pygmalion" (and
the later "My Fair Lady"). Martin Scorcese,
Nick Nolte, and Rosanna Arquette,
"Life Lessons."
Taria no longer has an e-mail address.