A Natural Woman Read online

  Also by Lori Johnson

  After the Dance

  Published by Dafina Books

  A Natural Woman

  LORI JOHNSON

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Lori Johnson

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Dear Reader,

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  PART II

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  PART III

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  PART IV

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  A READING GROUP GUIDE - A NATURAL WOMAN

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  For my nieces, Paula, Alexis, Roneisha, and Sherry,

  all smart and extraordinarily beautiful children of God.

  Always know and recognize your worth in the world.

  By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth:

  I sought him, but I found him not.

  The Song of Solomon

  Chapter 3, Verse 1

  The Holy Bible (King James Version)

  Dear Reader,

  I have no doubt that the more astute among you will recognize that many of the same elements that mark my debut novel, After the Dance, are very much evident in my second release. I’m sure, within the quick flip of a page or two of A Natural Woman, you will agree that my love of music; my embrace of African American folkways, symbols, and speech patterns; and my playful manipulation of both words and stereotypes are all readily apparent.

  However, upon a more in-depth reading of A Natural Woman there may be those who will wonder why I stepped away from the type of humor that shapes and molds so much of my debut novel, After the Dance. My response may surprise you. But first, allow me to point out, for the benefit of those who might not know, I have long viewed the world through the eyes of a social critic. In a sense, humor is my mask and, whether tongue in cheek or all up in your face, typically, beneath it lurks a subtle, underlying message.

  While the humor in A Natural Woman is admittedly a bit edgier than the humor in After the Dance, I want you to understand that truly the story is meant as an affirmation. Yes, an affirmation, not only of women, like myself, whose frequent adherence to a more natural hairstyle is often questioned, ridiculed, and frowned upon, but also for young women and girls like my niece Alexis, whose unexpected kitchen table confession, when she was barely a teen, “You know the kids at school call me names. They’re always laughing and making jokes about my dark skin,” left me both enraged and brokenhearted.

  The old adage sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying is one I hope you’ll keep in mind as you read A Natural Woman. And as far as the question of why I stepped away from the type of humor that marks After the Dance, well, I don’t think I did. Not really. I simply adjusted my mask a bit before I stepped deeper into it.

  Sincerely,

  Lori Johnson

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks:

  To all of my friends and colleagues whose paths, passions, and peculiarities led them to set up stakes in the ivory tower, Dr. Y. D. Newsome in particular, who so graciously responded to all of my inquiries, even the silly ones;

  To my teacher and mentor, the late Dr. Juanita Williamson, of LeMoyne-Owen College, who apparently saw in me something worthy of nurturing;

  To my grandmothers, Zenna Mae and Ethel V., and my great-aunts from “Johnson Sub” (Agnes, Mamie, Pearl, Viney, and Virginia, aka “Pig”), all of whom have long passed but whose spirits still guide me and whose smiles remain a constant in my life;

  To my “church folks” and Sunday school classmates at East View United Church of Christ (Shaker Heights, Ohio) and at Parkway Gardens Presbyterian United (Memphis, Tennessee) who have been (and continue to be) instrumental in broadening my view of the “Peace of Christ” and deepening my experience of it;

  To my editor, Selena James, and my agent, Janell Walden Agyeman, both of whom have shown themselves willing to take a chance on a new voice with a different style;

  And, finally, to Al and Aaron, who fully embrace the “Natural Woman” in me.

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  Aliesha sucked in a deep breath and pushed open the door. A bell tinkled over her head and seven pairs of male eyes swiveled in her direction. As if on cue, the rhythmic licks and beats of a guitar and a pair of sticks on a set of drums suddenly filled the air. Not more than a second or two later, Johnnie Taylor screamed and launched into the first verse of “Who’s Makin’ Love?” Aliesha exhaled, smiled, and strutted forward. Beneath the surface of her brave mask lurked the hope that she hadn’t just made an incredibly egregious misstep. Today, rather than drive past Wally’s Cool Cuts like she had for close to six months now, she’d decided to stop.

  A white, nondescript concrete building housed the Jackson Avenue–based barbershop and two other tenants. Wedged between a beauty supply store on the left and a pawnshop on the right, indeed, Wally’s Cool Cuts didn’t appear to be particularly special from the outside. Yet for some reason Aliesha’s gaze had routinely gravitated toward the business on her daily treks to and from work.

  Once inside the shop, Aliesha quickly noted that the length, narrowness, and layout of the interior was not unlike that of a shotgun house. On one side, awaiting their turns on cushioned benches, sat less than a handful of customers. Positioned across from them were four separate barber stations, two of them empty and two of them occupied.

  Most of the piercing, fixed stares that had accompanied her entry had fallen away. On having completed their assessment, most had found her unworthy of a linger, much less a leer. Most, but not all.

  The barber closest to the door, a tall, light-skinned man who sported a thick but neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, shut off his clippers and nodded a greeting.

  “Hi,” she said. “Would you by any chance be Wally?”

  “Yup, that would be me,” said the man, who looked to be somewhere in the 45 to 50 age bracket.

  When she reached him, she extended her hand. “I’m Aliesha. Aliesha Eaton.”

  She could tell by the sudden flickering of Wally’s girlishly long lashes that he didn’t know quite what to make of her overly formal introduction or her less-than-casual attire. A man of obviously good upbringing, he nonetheless pressed his palm against hers and returned her smile.

  “Nice to meet you, Miz Aliesha. What can I help you with?”

  She braced herself. “Well, I was wondering if I might be able to get my hair cut. You do take walk-ins, don’t you?”

  The barber’s pleasant expression nose-dived into something more stoic. He t
urned to the barber next to him, a short, husky fellow who looked in dire need of a haircut himself. “Yo, Gerald, man,” Wally shouted. “Turn down that music for a minute.”

  Gerald, who had been busy snipping scissors across the backside of a customer’s head while carrying on a loud, animated telephone conversation, frowned at the sound of his name. He muttered an obscenity before reaching over and lowering the volume on the ancient-looking boom box that sat between his and Wally’s workstations.

  For a few uncomfortably long seconds, Wally eyed the thick, black, unchemically treated hair crowning Aliesha’s head. Finally, with crinkled brows, he said, “Yeah, we take walk-ins. But to tell you the truth, I don’t generally do women’s hair. You might want to talk to my man Gerald here. Hey, Gerald, Miz Lady here is wanting a haircut. Think you could help her?”

  Gerald rolled his eyes and shouted into the phone, “All right, man! All right! Come on down then. I gotta go.”

  After shoving the phone into the front pocket of his work smock, Gerald stared at Aliesha, but spoke to Wally. “Sure, I can take her. Might be a while though. I just got done talking to Sam Junior. Said he’d be over in ’bout ten minutes with them badass twin boys of his. Before them, though, I gotta finish this one here and take that one over there.” He pointed toward the bench directly across from his barber’s chair, where a slightly disheveled-looking man sat, nodding and fighting sleep.

  Aliesha glanced at her watch. It was only 12:30 and her next class wasn’t until 2:00. After the cut, she’d hoped to run by her house in order to wash her hair, change her clothes, and if possible fix something to eat. She sighed and, like Gerald, looked at Wally. “Maybe I’ll come back another time. Do you take appointments by any chance?”

  He shook his head. “Me and Gerald both are strictly first come, first served kinda guys. He gazed toward the rear of the shop. “You could check with Dante,” he said, suddenly speaking in a much louder voice and with extra emphasis. “He’s on break right now, but I fully expect him to be back on the job by 1:00. Got that, D?”

  Aliesha followed Wally’s gaze to the dark-skinned man stretched over the long bench at the back of the shop. An open-faced book rested atop his chest, his eyes appeared closed, and the wires of iPod earbuds trailed from either side of his head. Even though he raised a hand to his brow in mock salute and acknowledgment of Wally’s spiel, he didn’t bother to sit up, open his eyes, or remove his earplugs.

  Wally turned back toward Aliesha. “Then I got a barber by the name of Yazz, who, as of late, has been clocking in around three or so. Both D. and Yazz generally stay till pretty late in the evening if you want to call and see about setting something up.”

  Before Aliesha could respond, the older-looking man seated on the bench across from Wally’s chair said, “Appointments?” He laughed and widened his already-spread legs. “You not from ’round here, sugar, are you?”

  “No,” Aliesha said, trying her best to ignore the notes of condescension she’d readily detected in the man’s voice and demeanor. “Not originally. I’m from Chicago.”

  “Chicago!” said the curly-headed man seated next to the old guy. “The windy city, huh? What on earth would bring a smart-looking girl like you all the way down here?”

  “A job,” Aliesha said. “I’m a professor at Wells.”

  “Is that right?” the curly-headed guy said, sounding impressed. “I guess that would make you one of them fine, educated, highfalutin Northern gals my poor Arkansas-raised daddy used to try to get me and the rest of my boneheaded brothers hitched up with back in the day.”

  Aliesha laughed and said, “Well, I don’t know about all of that. The truth is—”

  “Psst,” the older man spat with a dismissive wave of one hand. “The truth is, ain’t nuthin all that special ’bout Chicago. What’s it got besides a lot of racism, some poor, proper-talking Negroes, and a bunch of raggedy-ass streets? Hell, when you get right down to it, Chicago ain’t too much more than Mississippi moved north.”

  Had it not been for his outright hateful tone, Aliesha might have voiced at least some partial agreement with her antagonist’s harsh assessment. Instead, she said, “So, when was the last time you were there?”

  The gray-haired man dropped his arms and leaned forward. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Chicago? How is it you know so much about it? Tell the truth, I bet you haven’t been so much as within a 100-mile radius of Chi-Town in, say, the last fifteen years or so—have you?”

  A scowl narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “What difference do that make? I ain’t never ate shit neither and don’t rightly think I need to in order to say I don’t think it’s something I ever want to make a meal of.”

  Aliesha shouldered up her purse and took a step toward him. “You know what—”

  But before she could tangle with him, a deep, barrel-toned voice rang out, “Say, yo! Miz Professor!”

  Aliesha redirected her glare at the now-standing barber she’d seen lounging just a few seconds before. Momentarily captivated by her unobstructed view of his skin’s rich ebony hue, she watched as he stopped shaking out a plastic cloak and draped it over one of his tight, muscular forearms.

  He looked at her and said, “I’ve got an open chair back here if you want it.”

  She raised a hand to her hip. “I thought you were supposed to be on break.”

  “Yeah, I was, and now break time is officially over.” He grinned and spun his chair around. “So, you gonna allow me the honor of taking care of you or what?”

  The playful tease in his voice and the wide smile stretched across his dark face took some of the edge from her anger. Her nostrils still flared, she cast one last evil look at the gray-haired instigator before sashaying past him.

  Rather than back off or at least turn his attention elsewhere, the old guy grunted and said, “And I’ll tell you another something about Chicago . . .”

  “All right now, Ray,” the dark-skinned barber said, his smile replaced with a look of dead seriousness. “I’d really hate to see you slip up and get knocked down over some ole foolishness.”

  “Meaning what?” Ray said.

  “Meaning, ain’t gone be no more of that. You’re either gonna respect my customer or else you’re gonna step outside with me and take the ass-whupping you got coming like a man.”

  The old guy turned toward Wally. “You heard that, didn’t you? I’ll be damned if I ain’t been coming up in here and giving y’all my money for close to ’leven years now. Since when do you ’llow your boys to speak to your regulars just any ole kind of way?”

  Wally stopped lining his customer and looked up with a frown. “Ray, man, you started that mess. Don’t even think about trying to drag me all up in it.”

  “Oh, oh so it’s like that, huh?” Ray leaped from his seat. “Fine, then. Later for all y’all tired, backward-ass, pussy-whipped Negroes,” he said, prior to stomping out.

  Before she sat down in his chair, Aliesha looked directly into the eyes of the man who’d spoken up on her behalf, a man whose athletic build and dark magnetism reminded her of the singer-turned-actor, Tyrese; the pretty-boy model, Tyson Beckford; and the lyrical front man for the Roots, Black Thought, all rolled into one. “I could have taken him, you know,” she told him in a quiet voice.

  He nodded and without the slightest hint of amusement in his voice said, “Uh-huh, in a Chicago second, I’m sure. But is that really what you came in here for?”

  CHAPTER 2

  A decent haircut was all she really wanted . . . all she’d really come in there for. Rather than speak her mind, she stared at the dark-skinned barber’s reflection in the mirror attached to the wall behind his workstation and said, “So is it D. or Dante?”

  “Depends,” he said, while standing behind her and tying the cloak around her neck. “Which do you prefer?”

  She studied his face and said, “Personally, I like Dante.”

  He shrugged. “So, for you, Dante is who I’ll be.” He swiveled her a
round in the chair and smiled down at her. “Now, tell me how you want it cut.”

  Before she could respond, he reached out and buried the fingers of one hand into the hair above her left ear. Startled by the unexpected wave of pleasure that rolled off her scalp, ran down the length of her torso, and landed square in her lap, she jumped.

  He withdrew his hand. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? Don’t tell me you’re tender-headed.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not.” She reached into her purse, dug out a comb, and started picking out her hair. “If you could just even it out for me, that would be great.”

  “It’s pretty,” he said, taking the comb from her and starting to fluff where she’d left off. “Healthy, too.”

  Was he flirting or simply affirming aloud what she already knew to be true? She couldn’t tell. What she did know from thirty-three years of having lived in the world was that men like Dante didn’t typically bother to look twice at women like her—dark-skinned Black women who avoided, elected not to, or simply outright refused to straighten or chemically alter their natural hair.

  “So, Miz Professor, what is it you teach?” he asked.

  “Anthropology,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah? Interesting,” he said.

  She waited for him to come back at her with some version of, Come on, do you honestly think humans came from monkeys? Or else the always popular in these parts, An anthropologist, huh? Guess that mean you one of them atheist who don’t believe in God?

  After several minutes passed without him asking either, she wondered if he truly lacked a sense of curiosity about what she did or was simply too clueless about her field of interest to even pose the most basic of questions.