But I had to push away these feelings, as I always had, starting the summer after Ethan. I had been even more obsessed with Adriana, a junior counselor who had a tiny tattoo of a butterfly on her shoulder and wore thick white socks that bunched at her ankles. And in college, when I had had a crush on Laura Chin-Loy, the RA in my freshman dorm. And a few years ago, when I had taken the same photography course twice so that I could stand next to the instructor, Genevieve Britton, in the darkroom, our upper arms touching as we dragged photo paper through pans of developing fluid.
All of those feelings had been free-floating and vague, like a nondescript snippet of music, muffled in another room. I let them drift away; they were un-returned, barely examined. But this was stronger, more urgent. A violent, dangerous delight.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, stuffing the flyer in my bag. As I walked away from her too afraid to look back, I clutched the top of my arm and pressed my nails into the soft skin, nearly drawing blood. I am not gay-lesbian-bisexual-questioning. I am a straight heterosexual American. I repeated these thoughts until they crowded out the others.
By the time I slipped into a seat at the back of Keith’s classroom I’d gotten right again. Blinking, I focused on my fiancé, who was wrapping up his lecture. Standing in front of the thirty-odd students enrolled in his “Twentieth Century Black Experience” seminar, Keith lifted his palms from the podium, spreading his arms to make a point. He reminded me of the stately prime minister of a Caribbean island. Keith took a breath, mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and looked at his watch. “We’re out of time for today.” Their heads down, the students noisily began to gather their jackets and backpacks.
“Excuse me.” Keith raised his voice to be heard over the sound of students moving out of black history and returning to present. “Let me remind you that by next class, you should be finished with the assigned reading, The Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys. And remember that the African Diaspora Society will hold its monthly meeting tomorrow at five P.M. in this classroom. I hope to see some of you there.”
I picked up my coat and bag and walked to the front of the classroom. Keith was involved in a passionate discussion about the global mass marketing of black culture with a student. I wished he were just a good friend or even a cousin. Then I could look at him fondly without creeping panic as I imagined myself tethered to this man for the rest of my natural life.
Keith was a good man, really, but secretly, I sometimes tacked on “enough.” He looked good enough, and, in fact, he looked pretty good, compared with other unmarried black men in their mid-thirties who weren’t dogs or players or on the down low. The few others left had pillowy bodies, scuffed shoes and frayed collars. When they looked at you their watery Bassett-hound eyes seemed to say feed me—and while you’re at it, do my laundry, scrub behind my ears, and then tuck me in.
Keith made good enough money with his professor’s salary and fit on the edges of my social circle as my slightly older, straight-laced but cute big-Daddy boyfriend. He impressed my friends by translating the fine print 401K lingo of their employee benefits packages into plain English and explaining why every black person must have a mutual fund in order to move the race forward. And my mother loved him. She nodded her vigorous approval during his toasts at family gatherings, centering on “bettering our people.” My cousins called him Malcolm Gen-X behind his back.
After five years, we fit together like a pair of worn slippers, one stuck inside the other. Each night I felt his belly burrowing into my back, his soft penis pushing against my thigh, and my body softened sleepily against his. He made me feel safe, protected from the feelings like the ones I had had with Caitlin Getty.
“Good lecture, sweetie.” I reached up and placed my hand on his neck and kissed his cheek lightly.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. As he looked down at me and smiled, Keith’s stern Dr. Redfield face faded and the shallow trench between his eyebrows disappeared. I smiled back at him, or at least I tried to make the corners of my mouth turn upward. He was relaxed, in his element and happy to share it with me. I felt suffocated and had a fleeting feeling of wanting to shake things up, make a mess.
As we prepared to leave, the door swung open, and I felt breathless again. It was that Caitlin woman, the flyers tucked under her arm. But something was wrong. Keith had taken a step toward her and was standing uncomfortably close. A vein ran from his jaw down the side of his neck bulging, large, blue and ugly. The purple kente bow tie I had bought him at an African market uptown looked tight around his throat.
“Hello, Dr. Getty. I see you continue to appropriate African-American culture.” His voice was tight and thin as he looked at her coldly, a white woman splashed in Pam Grier.
“Dr. Redfield, you don’t own Foxy, just because she’s black. She’s a woman too, and, if anything, probably a lesbian.” Her smile was mean, and her dimple looked less playful than menacing. The accent was stronger, and she pronounced “anything” like “enna-thing.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Keith seemed to congeal into that spot. Only his fist opened and closed stiffly before he shoved the hand in his pocket.
“So, Keith, what’s new in African-American History? Oh, right, nothing’s new since it’s, um, history, a time way before the present when scientists have determined that biological races do not exist and that race is simply a social and political construct that the world would be better without.” She said it in one sentence, like she was reciting something she’d written. Keith took a step back. The two of them looked like dancers in a vinegary interracial tango.
“Dr. Getty, how’s everything in Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and, what is it, Transgender Studies?”
“Transgender hasn’t been officially added to our department.” She frowned, folding her arms across her chest so they rested lightly on Foxy’s oversize afro.
“Well, I think Transgender should be a part of gay and lesbian studies, and at the next department meeting, I plan to vote for adding it,” he said, leaning toward her, his arms rigid at his sides. “Or maybe instead we should have courses in bestiality or pedophilia. Or we could make it easier and rename the whole department Perversity Studies.”
She rolled her eyes and turned her body away from Keith, toward me. “Keith, you’re so rude—hi, again, Angela.” Staring at me, her eyes a clear gray, the color of a storm, she took my hand. Keith looked confused.
“This is my fiancée.” He pulled my hand away from hers and put his arm around me. I felt his grip hard and tight on my shoulder. “Angela, I see you’ve met my colleague, Dr. Getty.”
“Really nice to meet you, again.” She continued looking at me, giving me a barefaced appraisal. Why the hell was she doing this? What did she see in me? I squeezed myself closer to Keith. Get the message now? I am a heterosexual woman, locked to my better half. Balling my hand into a fist behind my back, I dug my nails into my palm until it stung.
“Dr. Getty, what do you want?” Keith took a step away from me and shoved a stack of papers into his worn, leather briefcase.
“Here, take some flyers to give out to your classes,” she said as she peeled several from her stack and handed them to Keith without touching him. “We want to make sure the turnout at our sex conference is diverse—as you’ve instructed us to strive for at campus-based events.”
“Black people aren’t interested in this.”
He held the flyers with two fingers. “And nice seeing you—good-bye.” He dropped the flyers into the trash can.
“That’s not very collegial, but I wouldn’t expect anything less.” She turned toward the door. “See you at the Humanities cocktail party, Dr. Redfield. And please bring your beautiful fiancée.” As she opened the door, she turned and caught my eye, flashing me her mischievous grin.
“What was that about?” I asked. At that moment, I felt confused by everything that had just happened,