Red Panties by Bernadette Adams Davis
Someone found Victor slumped over in his truck in a parking lot on the eastside. At a sushi bar you’ve passed by on your way to the beach.
That’s all the doctor told you. He said they are still trying to figure out why your husband is unconscious.
You would be able to see him soon, the doctor promised. Victor is in transit from the ER to some test and then to a room on the fourth floor of another wing.
A nurse pressed a bag into your hands – “these are his things” - and gave you directions to his soon-to-be room.
You make a wrong turn. Maybe you should have taken the first elevator. Instead of patients or worried families you see double doors with slim panels of stained glass.
A chapel. You’re sure the founders weren’t thinking about Buddha when the room was designed, but you walk in anyway.
The bag is marked with the hospital logo, a teal blue swan. You remember blue is supposed to calm and try to do your yoga breathing. The chapel is quiet and the three red covered pews are pristine. There is at least one tissue box on every piece of furniture.
You open the bag with his things and reach into his jeans pocket looking for Victor’s wallet. He bought the jeans last month after you told him to rethink his wardrobe. He looked middle aged you teased, in his faded, tapered jeans. They were fine 15 years and 30 pounds ago. You showed him a photo of a hip photographer shooting a forgotten pop star in one of your magazines with the dark, straight leg jeans that pair with leather and over-priced t-shirts.
His wallet is inside the pocket, under a pair of panties.
You sit in the chapel with the crimson lace in your hand, wondering. Then you remember to check the wallet.
All of his cards are inside. License, insurance, credit, movie, university, work, coffee, copy, casino, and parking. You think hard and wonder how the size 12 panties got inside, on top of the worn leather. And why there are only two tens and four dollars in his wallet. Victor never traveled without at least 50 dollars cash.
Or with red panties stuffed into his pants.
You don’t wear anything red.
White people think red makes Black people go crazy, according to Pauline T. Mays, who raised you to recognize myths that keep brothers and sisters down.
Pauline’s list of dos and don’ts echo in your head.
Don’t wear red.
Go to Sunday School.
Don’t eat watermelon.
Get your education.
Don’t be a street hound.
Be twice as good.
You are wearing black bikinis, size 8. You left the dryer running on delicate at home with lavender thongs, kiwi boy cut briefs and other ridiculous lingerie tumbling incessantly.
You stuff the panties into the bottom of the bag, under his socks and shoes, hoping they don’t show through the plastic as you walk to his room.
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About the Author
Bernadette Adams Davis
Born: Gastonia, North Carolina, USA
Now Resides: Orlando, Florida, USA
Online: www.blackbooks.blogspot.com
Bio: Bernadette Adams Davis is a native South Carolinian who now lives in between alligators and strip malls in Florida with her family. She is co-author of The Whirlwind Passeth, an historical drama about the Ocoee, Florida massacre of 1920. Her essay, “Worshipping in Color”, is included in The Thinking Girls Guide to Enlightenment, edited by Angela Watrous (Seal Press, 2002). Her writing credits include Black Enterprise, Family Digest, Modern Fiction Studies, and The Dictionary of Literary Biography. This piece was featured on Lisa Hsia’s art and writing blog. I met her at the VONA workshop in San Francisco, a wonderful space for writers of color. http://satsumaart.wordpress.com/2010/08/20/open-mic-friday-featuring-bernadette-davis/
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image by Pointer-du-doigt.
